Danny was in a tight spot.
He'd been in some doozies, but never had he been stuck in a chess piece. (He's sure he could win a game of Never Have I Ever, all things considered).
Danny had never been good at chess. He could never remember the pieces' moves. Plus, Sam and Tuck always smoked him.
Inside the rook was dusty, rocky ground. Rock and dust and air. Nothing else.
Except for the moon. Huge. Full. Very close. And it had a mouth. Danny was still confused about that. The moon would intermittently laugh at him (again, how it does this is beyond Danny).
After Moon McLaughs-a-Lot cackles, an immeasurably heavy something drops onto Danny's shoulders. He can't see whatever it is. He can't lift it. He can't budge it from his shoulders. All he can do is hold it, for somewhere deep, deep in his heart, he knows that if he lets it crush him, he'll never survive it.
But he wants to. Survive. Sam and Tucker and Jazz and everyone else is still back home.
Danny just needs to find his way back to them.
. * . * .
Tucker was going on his way out of his mind.
Ghosts had breached the Penitentiary. Check.
Danny, Jazz, and Wes were missing. Check.
Vortex had blown the roof of the Penitentiary clean off. Undergrowth had attached his mind-control vines to every last citizen, save for those who'd, somehow, found one of the many Ghost Zone portals which had, miraculously, mysteriously, been in many of the tunnels.
The only remaining (and accounted for) from Amity Park's number were as follows: Tucker Foley, Sam Manson, Valerie Gray, Vlad Masters, Paulina Sanchez, and Dash Baxter. Half of the group hated each other. The other half thought they were better than the others.
"Oh my gawd, ew ew ew ew!"
"Paulina, calm down! It's just seaweed, or grass, or something. Not a snake!"
"Get us out of here!"
"We're trying.
. * . * .
She watched from a secret place, a hidden place, an in-plain-sight place no one would look. She would succeed if it was the last thing her ectoplasmic existence ever accomplishes.
Nothing would stop her. Not fire, not alcohol, not monsters, not space people hellbent on making existence miserable.
She saw gold and it would be hers. But first, she needs to do something.
. * . * .
Wes woke from a dream he could no longer remember. His heart raced in fear and confusion, but he woke gently. It was dark in the Doorless Room. Sleeping on the tiled floor was like sleeping on a slightly inclined rocky hill: Unpleasant but doable.
A repetitive sound of cracking and thumping, crack then thump, crack then thump, reached his ears. Jazz was opening books with abandon. When they did not bite her, she thumped them onto the table. If they did, she heaved them across the room.
Wes was dismayed to see how many more were mimics than tomes. Out of maybe a hundred books that had been on the shelves, Wes counted a mere seven!
"Jazz, are you sure all of those were mimics?"
"Yes. Each of them attempted to bite me." Jazz nursed one of her hands in the other.
"Are you hurt?" Wes asked, trying to see it. She moved away, frowning.
"Yeah. It's nothing. Just a scratch. I'm fine," she said, looking anything but fine.
Her skin was pale in the candlelight. She swayed on her feet.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Wes asked.
"Yes!" she snapped. But she was not. She fainted. Wes caught her barely before her head could smack the floor.
. * . * .
"Vlad, I swear to god, if you get us killed in here, I will personally haunt you for the rest of time."
"Samantha, I'm sure I can lead us to safety. You know my credentials, I believe."
"You better not be making the joke I think you're making," growled Tucker.
"Would you two shut up and let Mayor Masters be?" Val said curtly.
"Yeah, he is our mayor for a reason," agreed Dash. Paulina said nothing, filing her nails and pointedly ignoring anything "ghostly" or "annoying".
. * . * .
Her hiding place has been discovered. Abort, abort.
Invisible and undetected, for now, but- she is now trapped.