Call For Backup
(wrong number)
3
Nothing smelled right in the dark.
This made sense; the absence of sunlight causes an absence of heat, air molecules slow, smells become less intense. Still, Tucker felt as if there was more to it; as if the nature of things changed in the dark. Take, for example, the mess hall. Only hours ago it smelled like floor soap, mud, and wood that had been painted so many times the smell of the paint became the wood and the smell of the wood became the paint. But now…
He detected hints of sap, oak, a memory of trees in the distressed wooden tables. In the twilight hour, the cafeteria smelled sweeter. That must be what's wrong, Tucker decided; nothing in the absence of light becomes inviting, so the nature of something more inviting during the night must therefore be suspicious. If it weren't for the ghost shield, Tucker wouldn't consider this a safe place.
Yet.
Here he was.
Helping Dash into the kitchen.
He found a spot against the wall and pointed. Dash sank. They had washed as much blood from his face as they could, but his hair had cracked dry splotches dotted inside of it. Dash's camera, the journal, and the thermos were nowhere to be found on the beach. Dash left his red-stained letterman's jacket inside the lake, unable to stomach rinsing it. Now all he wore was a thin Beatles t-shirt featuring Ringo and the Millennium Falcon.
Tucker considered trauma duty his best contribution to team phantom. He had a knack for turning himself into a calm presence for people, without Sam's intensity or Jazz's psychoanalyzation. Usually, Tucker enjoyed helping victims.
Usually.
"We can sit at a table when Danny gets back. He knows where in the cafeteria the shield ends, so…" He trailed off. Tucker usually stopped when he started to explain things, for fear that he might someday explain too much. Dash didn't pick up on it. He didn't pick up on much of anything, just sat on the floor in a mound of dust and stared at empty yogurt boxes across the kitchen. Tucker withheld his misgivings and got to work. The kitchen had exactly one light that didn't flicker when he turned them on; this was the only light allowed to stay on. Tucker rifled through shelves that were neatly arranged on the side of the kitchen opposite to the appliances and fridges. The shelves contained the following: enough pancake mix to feed an army. More packs of gatorade than necessary. An entire shelf of marinara sauce. Boxes of granola bars. Pickled vegetables. Canned vegetables. Miscellaneous crates of produce. One stray bag of potato chips.
What type of disappointing food did 17-year-olds who summoned spirits for fun deserve? Tucker considered a box of granola bars.
Oatmeal raisin. Perfect.
Tucker searched his pockets for his Swiss Army knife and cut apart the box. He took six granola bars; two oatmeal (for Dash) and four chocolate (for the idiots putting up with Dash). Raisins were a capital punishment in his book; reserved for meatheads who summoned irresponsibly and teachers who never actually wanted to be teachers.
Granola wasn't comfort food. It would taste dry and go down very poorly, if consumed at all. Tucker usually gave the traumatized something of more value.
Tonight was not that kind of night.
Tonight, he was putting up with events which could have been prevented by someone who should have known better. He could still be head of trauma duty if he took one small revenge.
Tucker considered Dash, with his arms wrapped around his knees and the countenance of someone so completely lost they couldn't tell what was an emotion which should be felt and what was a memory which should be forgotten. Tucker sighed. He needed to think. He checked all the doors from the back of the house to the front, making sure every lock was turned; save for the side door, for Danny. He looked through all the windows, going so far as to stare at the trees until they filled him with nervous anticipation. When he returned to Dash, his intentions were in a better place.
Tucker joined Dash against the wall and placed a granola bar in his hand. Chocolate, the taste of mercy. Dash should have known better but it didn't change anything. He sighed loudly, the kind of sigh that hopefully conveyed all of his frustration and disappointment.
Dash dropped the granola bar.
He didn't seem to notice he'd been holding it.
Tucker waved his fingers in front of his face. "Hey." He chewed on his lower lip and reminded himself to be patient, calm, and to worry about Danny (the usual trauma duty emotions.) "So, uh… guess you're not as much of an authority on ghosts as you thought, huh?"
Dash's hands were the type of hands with scars, scratches, and callouses that meant he did some kind of hard work when he wasn't in school. Labor of the type that Tucker couldn't guess. Those hands balled up into fists. Tucker nodded, but understood little. "It's gonna be fine. Danny's got a lot of experience - with his parents being, you know, hunters. I've sort of learned this ghost stuff on the side. Picked it up, I guess. We'll find out what's out there before morning and then we'll - "
"Shut up."
"What?"
Dash's fists shook. He clenched his teeth, unable to process what words needed saying. He spoke, voice thick with frustration. "Quit acting like you know what to do, Foley. You don't know shit!"
On the occasion that Danny joined Tucker for trauma duty, his inert sense of psychic empathy made him difficult to surprise. He'd use his ghost powers to influence calm in people. The occasion was exceptionally rare as Danny had to be really stable to soothe other people; but on a good day he at least made a good warning system for unexpected anger. "Give me a little credit?" Tucker wasn't sure where to go with it. He couldn't go into detail about how much he knew about the supernatural, so he tried for vague comfort. "This is normal for us. I mean, I don't know if you noticed, but ghosts ruining our vacations is a certified trademark of Amity Park. It's on our postcards."
Literally. Tucker turned the A Ghost Just Ruined My Day! postcard into a wallpaper and covered Danny's entire bathroom with it. The Fenton parents approved. Danny laughed so hard he cried, then he started crying for real; Jazz had to spend three hours locked in her room with him calming him down. Despite all that, Danny insisted on keeping it. He claimed it made him laugh and cry; a true hallmark of great art.
Dash dropped his head against the wall, eyeing a shelf of cleaning supplies with suspicion. "It wasn't a ghost," he mumbled faintly.
Tucker had an enormous grasp of the supernatural, more than most humans would ever have privilege to. He knew things that Dash didn't. He knew that despite Dash's interpretation, it was a ghost. He also knew it must be powerful, enough to trigger a psychic dread in Danny when he'd been shorted out. Tucker knew, and Dash didn't, that every supernatural occurrence ever - everything to ever go bump in the night - was at the sole hands and responsibility of ghosts. There were only ever ghosts; ghosts, humans, and the very few caught in between. "It's a ghost. Maybe a big one, maybe really ugly, but a ghost is a ghost, and we know how to handle them."
Dash snorted.
It was not in the usual template of Dash Baxter to disagree in silence. Tucker had no desire to start a fight, but at the same time he fought a rising pity. Dash was dumb. Irrational. He did a lot of stupid things. But he was still the victim and Tucker still had trauma duty. "I've fought more ghosts than you know," he put in real effort to be sincere, "I'm actually pretty good."
"Is that why we're hiding in a kitchen? Waiting for your stupid boyfriend?"
Pity gone.
"Yup."
He did not add you arrogant ghost-summoning toad. He did not acknowledge that Dash struck a chord, that the list of insults Tucker could handle was legendary up until a very specific point. Dash didn't know there was a hurt or a reason or a fear all buried down underneath one simple assumption.
"Well?" Dash demanded. "Where is he?"
"My boyfriend? Or Danny?"
Don't hit him.
"I'm being serious."
"Me too."
Dash rubbed at his hair, touched the dried spots of blood and immediately retracted his fingers. He glared at the opposite wall, the floor, anywhere but Tucker. "You and Fenton are a thing, aren't you?" The way he said it. An accusation on a scalding tongue, overflowing with revulsion.
His hand shook. Tucker pressed it to his chest. That didn't stop the shaking. "What? Me?" Don't hit him. Don't hit him. Don't. Hit. Him. "I'm taken, actually. Dating a ghost."
"You're a goddamn liar, Foley!"
"I'm a solid catch, is what I am." Fury boiled right under his skin. A piece of him thought he should calm down. He didn't want to. "Oh, and it'd be really gay too, if he wasn't dead. Mostly our dates consist of me watching horror movies and trying to get a decent connection through the ouija board."
The tension in his chest was so thick he could hardly breathe, his jaw ached, and no tiny voice in the back of his head would convince him he was overreacting. Dash, in a similar state, dropped his arms. He wiped at his eyes, changing, and snorted. Then - probably for the sole purpose of throwing Tucker off - he laughed. Not a real laugh, the kind of laugh required for the situation; a short-lived bark of sound imitating what a laugh might be if someone had never heard one before. It dissolved, melting from fake joy into a very real sob. Dash's entire body shook, throwing up his hands over his face. He didn't stop. His breathing turned rapid, crying without any semblance of control.
Tucker wanted to take satisfaction out of it.
He couldn't.
Tucker had, more literally than most, seen far too much death. The rage in his chest drained, pity all that remained. "...Sorry."
Dash shook his head, trying to get a hold on his breathing. He made sounds, fragments of words that broke midway. Tucker, trying, gave his back a couple pats that would have been awkward, if he knew what to feel. Dash pushed his hand away and rubbed at his very red eyes. "N-no." His breath hitched, he paused until his lips stopped shaking. Then he swallowed and tried again. "No, it was funny. ...Thanks."
"I wasn't trying to be funny."
"I noticed."
Tucker pulled out his phone. 11:45 pm. He swiped by the password and scrolled through a wide collection of games, landing on Zig. It's impossible to win. Tucker started. He let Dash watch.
"So," Dash stretched his legs out, finding a way to sit that wasn't an upright fetal position. "What are you and Fenton? I mean… really. In all, uh, honesty?"
Tucker lost every few seconds. It wasn't hard to pause. He didn't. "We're best friends. Really."
"What's that mean?"
"We're not a couple."
"You act like one, though. I get it if you don't want anyone talking about it. Obviously."
Tucker abandoned his phone. He lifted his eyebrows. "Obviously as in you're the one to understand that feeling?"
"No!"
He let it go and told himself it was because he couldn't risk Dash crying again. "We're not a thing. Not all people are interested in dating other people, Baxter."
"You are."
"Danny isn't."
"With anyone?"
A soft thud halted Tucker's almost heated response. He paused.
"Not with - ?" Tucker held up a hand, silencing him. He got his feet beneath him. Another sound, like shuffling, wood creaking. Tucker drew an antique lipstick tube from his pocket, dented with age, but polished to shine. He brushed his thumb over the side; it buzzed in response, emitting a low emerald glow.
"What's that?" Dash whispered.
"Shh!"
He edged to the gap between kitchen and cafeteria where a swinging door once existed; only the evidence of hinges dented a split frame. Tucker leaned against it, wood creaking under him. The side door was a grey windowless slab of wood with a brass handle which turned clockwise. Tucker lifted his blaster. The door opened.
Danny stepped inside and dropped his backpack on the wooden floor. He turned and slid the lock from vertical to horizontal then immediately pressed his back to the door, sinking against it with eyes firmly shut. Tucker aimed his miniature ecto-weapon, unrelenting. "What's my favorite movie?"
Danny winced, rubbing his head. For a flicker of a moment his eyes glowed, but the color left so quickly Tucker wasn't sure if he imagined it. Danny stepped off the door and for a moment wobbled like he wouldn't remain upright. He stooped, recovered his backpack, and stood solid. "Horror or other?"
"Horror."
"Nosferatu."
Tucker returned the blaster to his pocket. He regarded Danny's differences; as exhausted as always, holes in his jeans, and without a jacket. He could apparently deal with cold again. "You look like death."
Danny cracked a smile. "Well, I am…" He trailed off. "Dash is still with you, isn't he?"
On cue, Dash filled the doorway behind Tucker. He didn't cry pretty; his face still a little puffy. "What took you so long?"
"...Nice to see you too." Danny didn't linger on Dash's red cheeks. "I brought you something." He opened his backpack and pulled out a black bolt of fabric and held it out. His arms were lighter than usual, freckled with thin white scars that vanished under the yellowish light from the kitchen. Dash unfolded the cloth, scowling at the thick black sweatshirt that couldn't replace the aristocratic value of a letterman jacket.
"It's got Phantom's sigil on it?"
Danny blushed. "My parents hate it."
"They hate it?"
"They hate ghosts."
"Phantom's a ghost hunter," Dash muttered, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. It clung around his shoulders and pulled tightly over his chest, but he seemed pleased to be able to pull a hood over his filthy hair. "They shouldn't hate him."
Danny's flush deepened. "Y-Yeah, well. Anyway. Whatever we're up against might see that and think twice, you know?"
"Or maybe it'll be a big red target," Tucker added sullenly.
Danny bit his lip, shifting from foot to foot. "So, you feeling okay?"
Dash put his hands in his new pockets, testing how far they stretched. "He's been talking," Tucker supplied.
"You left me alone with Foley."
"Foley's cool." Danny slipped his backpack on over his shoulders. "I couldn't find anything." He gave Tucker a significant look. "Not my 'extra' Fenton Thermos I thought I had. Or… anything. Not a trace." Danny looked down at his empty hands, his exhaustion evident, but he shoved it aside and focused on Dash. "Okay. So, you. We need to talk about what happened in the woods."
Dash pulled the strings of his hood. "...No."
Danny frowned, in full investigation mode, and Tucker didn't need a brighter light to see the way Danny's eyes creased or the way he grew stiff. He knew that Danny was about to try and pull authority, as if he had any, as if Dash might know the context in which that authority stemmed. And Tucker knew that wouldn't work. He took the floor between them. "You've had a rough night," he reasoned, "but knowing more about what happened out there is going to make it easier to - "
"No!"
Tucker blinked.
"You're not the authorities," Dash explained. He folded his arms, a trick of the light made his eyes seem hollow and empty. He shifted, the light fell over his nose, his stubborn glare revealed itself, "and you still don't know what you're doing, or what we're up against! You want to be in charge all of a sudden? After you abandoned us in the woods? No. We need real help, from someone who actually knows what to do!"
Danny didn't have the energy to hide his deadpan sarcasm. "Yeah, Dash. Let's call the police. They know what to do."
"No! I'm calling the Amity hotline!"
"So, my parents."
Tucker put a supportive hand on Danny's shoulder. "Dash, even with Jack Fenton driving, that's two hours we don't have."
Dash glared. "You're idiots," He stated with the calm certainty ignorance granted him. "You're not a search party. You're not the authorities. You're not even real ghost hunters. Do you know what happens to us if we go after this thing? How many horror movies have you seen?" A lot. Danny had a minor addiction. "Not enough, clearly! You don't know what happens when people don't call for help! We're going to get killed!"
"It doesn't have to be 'we'," Danny replied, stoic. "No one's keeping you here."
"I know what happens to the hot blond when they get separated from everyone else, Fentina." Dash rumbled. "And I'm not going down first. I'm getting help. Real help."
"From who?"
"Danny Phantom."
Danny didn't even blink, but Tucker's hand flew up to cover his mouth before he burst.
Dash pressed on with what could only be described as a verbal trainwreck. "The Amity hotline has a direct link to him," a rumor posted in the Spectral Spotter, Amity's ghost-gossip zine. The press conference called by the Fentons to abate the rumors only made it worse, and it really didn't help that said rumors were technically true. "Phantom's gonna fix what you two can't!"
Oh boy. Tucker recognized the instantaneous change; the room shifted from mildly cold to downright chilling; a wrongness dropping into Tucker's stomach and filling up his lungs until his head spun. Tucker blinked rapidly and turned around, putting his hands on Danny's shoulders and intentionally blocking Dash from seeing the hot green filling Danny's eyes. "Get a grip," he whispered. The creeping feeling of knots wrapping around his gut tightened and sucked all the air out of his lungs.
He took Danny firmly by the arm and dragged him across the room, fighting for the strength to take every step. Dash remained behind, frozen by Danny's stifling environmental anxiety. Tucker put his back to him and gently took each of Danny's hands in his own and rubbed his thumbs over his palms. The tactile warmth usually reminded his best friend that they were human beings with heartbeats and feelings and didn't need to be buried in six square feet of the heebie jeebies. "Ugh." Danny shivered, his intensity fading, ghostly hold falling off. It made them both dizzy. "Tuck, I'm…"
"Being an ass?"
"Tired." Danny hung his head, electric sparks in his eyes popped and faded. "I forgot to get your sunglasses, and I combed the woods like six times, and I couldn't find anything, not even the blood; I followed our entire path, I tracked Dash's trail from the lake, I couldn't find a single ectosignature..."
"Forests eat ectosignatures. You know they don't linger in nature."
"Dash is being rude."
"Dash is reacting. It is, typically, more annoying than him not reacting, but it's healthier." Tucker squeezed his hands. "Next?"
Danny took a deep, reconciling breath. "I don't know what we're up against," he admitted, "by now it usually pops out of a bush or tries to eat my leg or… but, Dash… I thought he was dead when we found him." The dark skin under his eyes made his cheeks look hollow. "I'm the one who left him there to die. If he gets killed, it's my fault that I couldn't find the source in time." Tension spread from Tucker's fingers and swept through his muscles - a buzzing hot-cold that struck panic into the unsuspecting.
Tucker upped his game and started rubbing Danny's arms until the ghostly spilloff faded. He clenched his teeth and tried to keep his head somewhere positive. "Danny. Whatever happens now is not on you. It's not your responsibility to stop people from doing what they want to, and it's definitely not your job to babysit an idiot who decided to summon some random goop from the depths of the Zone. It's not your job."
"It is my job. That is the definition of my job."
"No," Tucker admonished. "We are damage control. When something goes bump in the night, we fix it. We have no power to control what people do. You know that's too much for one person, right?"
Danny rubbed his eyes and shrugged limply. "I don't know."
"Yes you do."
Tucker let him go. "Remember what I said earlier? About your emotions… changing?"
Danny shoved his hands in his torn up jeans. "I'm fine."
"You're glowing."
"Still fine."
Tucker produced a packet of fruit snacks. Fast-sugar solutions for low humanity. "Eat," he ordered, knowing this is what Danny needed most. "Those are Scooby-Doo fruit snacks, and they're only sold in October. So. Precious cargo."
"These are from October?"
"What'll it do, kill you?"
"Point."
Danny popped a couple into his mouth. Tucker nodded with satisfaction and turned to address the Second Disaster In The Room. Dash. However, the cafeteria was empty. Confused, Tucker checked the kitchen. Also empty. "Danny?"
"Dash left." Danny explained through a mouthful of gummies.
"You saw him go?"
"Well, I…"
"Seriously, Danny?!" Tucker threw open the side door and leapt off the porch, Danny clumsily stumbling after. A victim can in a moment become a threat to their operation, someone who would make a stir, call the police, flood the forest with witnesses, put people in danger - a whistle blown in a covert ghost hunt made life intrinsically complex.
Only one cabin still had windows glowing against the black sky. Tucker squinted. Sure enough, there he was - the black sweater did him a few favors, but Tucker made himself an expert at spotting shadows. Dash stood at the door to the counselor's cabin, poised to knock. "Baxter!" Tucker barked, breaking into a run. The door swung open, Tucker helplessly far away. He pumped his legs, his chest ached; it's okay, just a little farther. He huffed. The porch was too far until it appeared under his sneakers. Tucker crashed against the doorframe in front of Dash, gasping. His head spun. He fought his own lungs to breathe in an attempt to act casual, but nauseating smoke assaulted him in a thick haze. Tucker went over the edge; his asthma triggered, his lungs constricted, and he sank against the door.
Malcolm hung on the doorframe, hidden behind a buggish pair of sunglasses. The buzz of an aerosol can went off behind him; it did nothing to mask the throat-burning scent of cheap marijuana. Malcolm's lips were parted and dry, his dark skin cracked and peeling with an unexpected sunburn. He stared open-mouthed at the two of them like a fish out of water. "What're you doing up?"
Tucker waved at Dash to hold back. He took a deep breath and set off coughing.
Admittedly, not his best distraction. Dash easily pushed him aside to state his case. "We're under..." Dash dropped his arms to his sides. His face went blank, as if he forgot what he meant to say; a sick horror sank into Tucker's stomach. Just as quickly, Dash flushed, life filled his face and he glared with sudden fire, "The campsite is under attack and we need to call for backup."
The aerosol can hummed behind Michael. Tucker gained enough control of himself to form words.
"Call?" Malcolm repeated slowly, tasting each word. "Caaaaaall. Oh man. Who you gonna call? I know this one, it's…" He scowled. "You're not going to call the cops, are you? It's just a lake monster."
"Lake monster?"
"That's what got Troy. Ate his mind, dude."
Tucker tried to decide what type of high Malcolm might be: paranoid, unconcerned, docile, or batshit crazy. It was a strange kind of luck, Tucker realized that they might just get away with redirecting the flow of conversation. "Oh. So I guess the best thing to do is to, I don't know, go back to bed? If it's only in the lake."
Malcolm shrugged. "Past curfew. You're lucky you're not in trouble."
"We are in trouble!" Dash argued. Was it the light, or were his cheeks thinner? "We need to call a professional! Ghost hunters, a priest, a - a - why… are you laughing?"
"You're such a big dude," Malcolm snickered, covering his mouth, "and your little voice! It's so-hold on, hold, on, Jace? Jace! You hearing this guy?" A lazy finger indicated Dash's unmoving chest.
Jason burst through the door armed with two cans of aerosol spray. His gold-rimmed sunglasses glinted, his red hair stood on end, a sandal sheltered his right foot while the left remained naked. Unlike Malcolm, Jason was wound up like a coiled spring. "You're violating curfew," he accused, "you need to go to bed. Right now."
"Listen to him talk," Malcolm insisted.
"We. Need. To. Use. Your. Phone." Dash ground out. Someone snatched Tucker's elbow and pulled him back. Danny hid just out of sight of the light, his body a weird almost-transparent shadow. "Bad vibes," he whispered.
"Dash?"
Danny frowned. He inspected Dash, his shoulders lifted and fell; no clue. Danny squeezed his arm. "Follow my lead." He vanished without further instruction, the transparency of his body increasing until Danny became empty air and a cold breeze. Tucker cleared his throat, uncomfortable and very slightly annoyed. "Look, guys, we just want to use your phone." He licked his lips, all eyes landing on him. Or, he assumed as much; the counselors were admittedly harder to read. He shifted. "Just for a minute."
"To call the cops?"
"No, no." Dash stiffened. He straightened to his full height and stood as tall and foreboding as a monolith. Overshadowed. Tucker pressed on, trying to find a solid lie in the heartbeat they had. "My buddy here is just freaked out from the, you know? The attack. He's keeping everyone up. He wants to call his, his, his… girlfriend." That could work. "She's always mad when he doesn't check in, and nobody has a signal up here, so we thought you might, you know… how that is, right?"
Malcolm grinned. "He's whipped."
"Correct."
Tucker could cry crocodile tears, lie on a dime, and name an alibi on a usual day; he hadn't pulled such a robotic acting routine in months. The real miracle was that Malcolm bought it. He deliberated, touching his chin. "Thought you were gonna call some fucking cops?"
"We're not," Tucker insisted, "we thought you'd let us use the phone if we were really scared."
"That's entrapment," Jason insisted.
"You don't know what entrapment even means, Jace." Malcolm waved him off. He stepped aside. "You can call your girl, big dude. Solidarity. Just be fast, I could get in big trouble for breaking the rules like this."
Apparently, hotboxing the counselor's cabin wasn't such an abysmal crime. Tucker went in, followed by Dash/Danny.
Jason scrunched up his nose. "Where's the other one?"
"Other what?"
"The other kid?" Jason popped his head out the door. "Weren't there three of you?"
"...No?" Tucker checked over his shoulder. He feigned a search of the campground. "Just us."
Malcolm laughed. "You're seeing shit!"
"I am not!" Jason snapped the door shut. "Bet it was the lake monster."
Malcolm's very dark skin went ashen. "Dude. Don't even joke."
Dash/Danny picked up the phone, hesitating over the keys. Tucker frowned. Dash's fingers trembled. Tucker rarely noticed Danny overshadow people anymore; had Dash built up a tolerance? A quiet dread filled him. Oddly green-glue eyes turned to Tucker. "Sam's number?" He relayed it and watched carefully. Danny struggled to maintain control, his hands slipped on the dialer. Tucker covered his nose to stifle the combination smells of marijuana and febreeze, his throat tightened, but he had a feeling it wasn't the smoke throwing him off.
A ring on the other line of the phone echoed faintly.
Tucker tensed.
The phone, cream-brown. Dash/Danny pressed it to his ear. It glistened, or reflected light, something white and fuzzy that was and wasn't a reflection.
A click, no louder than the sound of a lock sliding into place.
The lights flickered and shut off, tossing them into the dark.
Well, mostly dark.
Having a hell of a time convincing himself to appear human, Danny lit up like a nightlight. All of Dash's exposed skin glowed translucent, his eyes a neon ethereal glow that erased his pupils. For a moment, nobody moved; the counselors stood like statues waiting for a punchline. For a moment, it was like they were alone. For a moment, Tucker admired the unsettling beauty of Danny's strange magic.
Moments never last.
Malcolm screamed. His shrill screech shattered the peace; Dash/Danny dropped the phone to cover his ears. His skin dimmed, he closed his eyes, but the damage was done. "It's in him!" Jason cried, throwing himself against the wall. Their third and final counselor lifted his head from his bunk and frowned. He relaxed back on the blankets and only grunted when Jason yanked a pillow from under his head and held it up like a shield. Malcolm screamed and ran into the table, moaned, and fell over behind a chair.
"Get out!" Jason lifted his arm; a small glass pipe, still reeking from its former purpose, shone against the brighter glow of Dash's overshadowed eyes. He threw.
The pipe slammed into the wall above their heads. Tucker lunged, grabbing Dash's arm and dragging him to the door. Time to go.
"It's here for us! We're dead! We're dead, man!" From the floor Malcolm got ahold of the telephone and was plugging in 911 over and over. The dead phone gave no response. Jason picked up a chair, his eyes full of cold determination. Tucker pushed Dash through the front door and into the open air, close behind him. The heavy, thick legs of the chair brushed by his ear as he hurried down the porch; it broke into pieces on the lawn. Tucker leapt over the remains and ran out across the field; the door slammed shut behind them, but Tucker wouldn't look back. He overtook Dash/Danny, only deciding as the words fell from his mouth. "Woods!" He announced. He started panting, making a wide turn with his legs pumping and lungs tightening. "Get to - high ground - " Short, fast breaths didn't supply enough air, breathing faster didn't stop the dizziness in his head. Coils wrapped around his chest and yanked - hisboot hit a rock. Tucker went flying; the ground met him in a cloud of sand that scraped his palms and got into his ears, his glasses departed from his face and he rolled. He shook. The feeling of wrongness remained heavy in his stomach.
His chest grew too tight to breathe.
He threw his arms up over his head, gasping.
A foreign pressure against his knee. "Tucker." Danny's soft, very human voice too late to help. He unzipped Tucker's only orange-lined pocket and pulled out Tucker's rescue inhaler, shaking it for him and pressing it into his hand. Tucker grasped it and took his first puff of freeing air. I am reason, I am logic, I am in control…
"Are we - " Tucker gasped and rolled onto the ground, breathing slowly. He made out the vague outline of Danny above him. "Followed?"
"No."
"Dash?"
Danny checked over his shoulder. Dash laid on the ground, a lump. "It felt really weird. Something in his head - " He shifted and leaned over, reaching past Tucker's shoulder and picking something up. He dusted off Tucker's glasses and gave them over. Tucker searched all of his pockets for a cloth to clean them with, found none, and used his shirt. He wasn't sure if he was on the verge of vomiting or if the bad taste of his inhaler was getting to him. Danny continued, "When the lights went out, something was - I'm not sure. Singing?" He bit his lip. Tucker nodded, waiting until he was certain of his own recovery to talk.
Dash moaned and dragged himself upright. He stretched his legs out and slumped, looking around blearily. "Ugh," Dash rubbed his head and stuck out his tongue, then sniffled and braced his hands on the ground, "not again."
Dash lowered the hood of his sweater. "How long was I...was it...?"
"Like twenty minutes." Danny breezed over with a smooth, easy lie. Or not a lie, technically. Danny had a knack for very misleading not-lies. "There was a ghost in the counselor's cabin. Took out all the lights. Spooked them, too, I… don't think we'll be allowed back in there."
"It used me to scare them, didn't it?" Dash pitched forward, covering his mouth. "Ugh. My mouth feels like cotton."
Only a year ago Dash reacted to overshadowing by throwing a tantrum equivalent to a two-year-old. The ghosts in Amity changed him, like they changed everyone. Danny had once vowed to stop overshadowing people, that was only a year ago too. Tucker wasn't sure what to make of the change; he sat up and pulled his phone out to check the time.
Nothing.
He frowned. Pressed the button again.
"Whatever took out the power drained my phone." Tucker considered his lungs recovered but the thought of sitting upright made his stomach flip. "It's probably drained everything in the camp." Danny turned to the mess hall. Tucker couldn't see the shield, but he felt better when Danny relaxed. "Not everything."
Bless the Fenton inventions, the true technology of the apocalypse.
Danny helped him up, Dash following suit. They gathered in a loose semi-circle, nobody really suggesting what ought to be done next. Dash nudged a pebble with his shoe. Danny observed the stars.
Tucker contemplated. "Well. Looks like phone calls are a bad idea." Why? Ghosts don't typically bother with phones. If it was taking out the power in response to their actions, there had to be something about making a call which threatened its survival. Maybe that old standing theory that some types of ghost were overwhelmed by too much human life meant something. Maybe it was threatened by a search party livening up the woods, with lights and noise and life… or if it knew to be afraid of Amity, if it knew about hunters…
Tucker cleared his throat. "If. If this thing doesn't want us calling anyone, um, shouldn't we?"
Dash nodded, but it wasn't his approval Tucker sought. He needed to convince Danny. "There's a ghost that's difficult to track, we can't just comb the woods all night, and it's clearly not going to show its face unless we…"
Tick it off.
"Get expert help," Dash cut in, grave. "That's what I've been saying."
Danny slipped his hands in his pockets. His unnaturally pale skin too bright for his dark hair in the starlight. His skinny arms, torn clothes, and empty half-dead eyes painted a picture of an unhealthy, sickly teenager. Despite that, Danny had confidence in the set of his shoulders. Constantly relaxed, he moved with the graceful balance of a jaguar. The juxtaposition of this Danny to the warm, excitable but clumsy Danny without his powers was vast. "It might be a good idea."
"It's my idea."
"Dash, you summoned it." Danny glared. "I'm not in the mood to put up with your dumbass ideas. We're doing what Tucker said."
Dash scowled. "Oh, and how are we going to call anyone? Have any ideas for that? The power is out." They were silent. Dash folded his arms. "There's a gas station down the road. It'll have a phone. Probably power."
Still, silent. Tucker rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Hey, Danny, what if we go down the road and look for a gas station or something? That should have a working phone."
Danny nodded sagely. "Another good idea by Tucker Foley."
Streets out in the middle of nowhere, leading to the middle of nowhere, did not require lamps. The moon provided light to see by, but with shadows and clouds blocking it out, Tucker found himself tripping on invisible things. His adrenaline rush hadn't kicked in yet - it usually didn't until something tried to eat him - and all he could think about was how much each step hurt. It was Danny's turn to grab his elbow and steer him around potholes and road debris. Unlike Tucker, Danny had stopped being 'tired'.
The difference between 'powers shorted out' Danny and 'full hybrid' Danny was night and day. The shadows under his eyes grew stark, almost-scars flashed and vanished on his skin, only visible in the dark. He became almost translucent, almost unreal. Ectoenergy picked up in his system, like a backup generator, but the more he relied on it the more ghostly he became. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, it was the human half which sustained the ghost half; if Danny didn't sleep or eat enough his core would drain out - starved of human resources and distanced from the Ghost Zone. He'd become the ultimate grouch, deprived of a food not of this world. Despite that, Danny could hardly bring himself to eat enough, hardly ever let his eyes close, and constantly lived with the threat of running out of steam.
Once upon a time Tucker thought needing food and sleep but not wanting it was a normal half-ghost thing. That was until Vlad came into town; Tucker didn't have a lot of time to observe him, but every time he did nothing matched up. Vlad never turned his nose up to a meal. Tucker visited the Fenton's once and discovered Vlad napping on their couch. He seemed to actually be eating and sleeping more than normal humans, constantly fueling his ghost half with human energy. Danny… didn't. He might have, when it all started; at least Tucker sort of remembered Danny eating a lot. Tucker couldn't bring it up; comparing hybrid logistics and daring to say Vlad appeared healthier was a recipe for disaster.
Tucker did his best to help. Kept food on him at all times. Offered to keep watch when Danny slept on his desk. Got in more trouble than he needed to. No matter what he did, he continued to be consumed with a feeling of inadequacy. His best friend only ever seemed to get worse. Tucker zipped his coat up to his neck, frowning. Danny coughed. He put his arm around Tucker to lead him around broken glass in the road. They followed Dash down a thin lane framed by a wall of trees; without GPS Dash fancied himself their guide to this supposed gas station. Tucker rubbed his eyes and leaned on Danny.
"You tired?"
"No."
"We can stop."
Tucker shook his head. Dash paraded on ahead, a brave voyeur in the haunted night. Tucker sensed something had gone unsaid, that something was wrong, but he couldn't pin down what it was. Danny seldom responded to conversations about vague unease; he was himself an icon of unease, often the source of it. He didn't like to be told about that kind of thing unless Tucker could reasonably articulate it. The dizzy, fuzzy sensation of staying up way too late after having got up far too early interfered with his reasoning.
Movement helped activate his second wind, but it also emphasized how much his feet hurt. "Danny?"
"Hmm?"
"Your arm is nice." Danny squeezed his shoulder in thanks. Tucker licked his lips. "But you're kind of colder than the arctic."
"Oh." Danny dropped his arm; it dangled awkwardly between them. He kicked a rock along the road, followed to where it landed, and kicked it again. He repeated this until the rock disappeared off the road. "I'm sorry."
Tucker could ask. Could bring it all up again, could get into the deep nitty-gritty emotional conversation about how his best friend is sort-of dead and sort-of not incredible at coping with it. They could spend hours in theoretical conversation about what was 'wrong' with Danny now that his heart only beat when it wanted to.
Or they could focus on the mission.
"Have you sensed anything?"
Danny shrugged. He scanned the woods, but by the set of his frown Tucker already knew the answer. "Nope. Not even little ones."
"Think they were scared off?"
"Maybe."
"That's weird, right?" Tucker chewed his lip. "I mean, you've got really good at noticing ghosts and stuff," Danny claimed it was his most developed power, "unless it's not a ghost."
Gravel crunched under their feet. Danny scrutinized him until Tucker grinned, the fake sort of grin he only used when he didn't want to put up with ambient gut-wrenching ghost moods. "I'm only saying, you know, could be a werewolf. Full moon's in two weeks. A bi-weekly werewolf."
Danny snorted. Tucker relaxed; he shouldn't have worried. Danny's fine. Danny's not upset. Danny's... "Or it's a vampire. They're about 80 percent real."
"Only if you're Vlad Masters."
Danny smiled. "Good one. Very funny. A-plus."
Danny's a lot of things. Cheerful at the right moments is only one of them.
"Hey! Lovebirds!" Dash stomped his feet. He stood at a bend in the a road with his index finger outstretched towards a soft yellow tucked behind a mask of trees. "I told you there was a place out here!"
"Would you look at that," Danny muttered. "Dash was right."
"I feel like it doesn't even out all the times he's been wrong."
They caught up to Dash. A squat building huddled behind a thicket of elm trees, dim light pooled from broad square outside walls, once yellow, were brown with age. A neon sign over the single swing-door entrance only half-functioned, and the parking lot contained a simple wide propane tank. "This is clearly a diner," Tucker announced. The Nasty Burger had been styled in a more 'modern' fifties throwback diner, but this was closer to the real thing. A pickup truck sat in the parking lot, gathering rust. They approached.
"Eerie."
"Huh?"
Danny nodded to the red sign over the door. Merry Marie's was still legible with half the letters burned out, spelling errie. Tucker got chills. "I already have a bad feeling about this."
"Don't be a wimp, Foley." Dash boldly pushed the front door open. A bell rang, hollow. "We're getting that phone."
All the hairs on Tucker's arms stood up. He exchanged glances with Danny and nodded. "It's why we're here, Tuck," Danny whispered. "Nothing we haven't done before."
The diner had a scratched up and worn checker-patterned floor, faded red-and-white squares resembled dust more than a pattern. Surprisingly, the floor was the only old thing about the place; a pristine chrome and red counter guarded a small kitchenette, coffee area, and silver kitchen door. Red booths lined the windows and a burgundy jukebox hummed static in a back corner.
Cozy. Cozy and empty. Cozy and empty and creepy. Not cozy.
Dash leaned over the counter and peeked behind stacks of white mugs and classic espresso machine. "Hello?"
His voice echoed on spotless appliances.
"Just sit down, Dash." Danny chose a red booth and sank into it. Dash inspected the counter, swiped away crumbs that didn't exist, and resigned himself to the booth with Danny. He slumped against the table and regarded the wall of Chevrolet photographs behind the counter with suspicion.
"In my experience it's usually the espresso machine that comes to life." Tucker sat down next to him. "Ghosts in portraits is an overrated cliché."
Dash grunted; he picked up a glass salt shaker and started spinning the lid on and off, white crystals sprinkled on the table. Danny pulled out the tableside menu and started skimming. His fingernails had a collection of black and purple stains underneath them. Tucker looked at his own hands; in the light they were equally as filthy. Seemingly oblivious, Danny chewed on his thumbnail while he read the menu. "There's only like four things on here," he announced. "Who writes out a new line with the same price for different styles of eggs? And why is hard boiled like, ten cents more…"
Dash started tapping the table. His foot joined on the linoleum. "Nobody even eats hard boiled eggs, do they? Not actively. They just kind of appear in places and you just, you know, eat them because they're there." Danny considered the existential consequences of egg preferences. Dash started rapping his knuckles against the table, every hit more violent than the last. Salt bounced with each tap. Danny flipped the menu over. "I don't even know if I want eggs."
"How," Dash's incessant tapping manifested into a small orchestra of knuckles and feet and a salt shaker, "can you be thinking about food?"
Danny set the menu down, having the most curious expression of someone who only just realized he still had company. He frowned, inspected Dash, and just held up his hands; showing they were empty, innocent. "A guy's gotta eat."
Dash abandoned the entire concept of logical response and went back to fiddling with the salt shaker. His foot made frantic music on the linoleum.
"Oh! Goodness!"
Tucker jumped. Dash dropped the salt and let out a squawk. Danny replaced the menu in its silver holder by the window. A waitress with strawberry hair pinned in a messy bun and a coffee-stained apron hurried over to them. Her lipstick glinted in the fluorescents, painted the same shade of red as the tables and chairs. "I didn't hear you come in! Now. What's this?" She stopped in front of them and braced her wrists on her hips. "A couple of boys in here this late? You must be wanting something pretty bad."
"Coffee." Danny stretched out. "Some pancakes. Maybe… three eggs, any style." She pulled a pad of paper from her apron and started scribbling. Danny lifted his eyebrows at them. "What about you guys?"
"A phone!" Dash nearly vibrated out of his seat, full of disbelief. "We need to use the phone!"
"One phoooo-n-e." The waitress repeated, pen carefully shaping each letter. She looked at Tucker. "And you?"
She had teeth the same off-white as old porcelain dolls that collected grey dust in their unglazed cheeks. Tucker blinked; her intense stare didn't return the favor. "I'm not hungry." He broke eye contact first, but still felt watched.
High heels clicked against the floor. She walked over behind the main counter and pulled down a mug. Dash was about ready to leap over Tucker. The only thing holding him back was probably the same aftertaste of something wrong that settled down in Tucker's stomach. Danny interlocked his fingers and cracked them. He got out of the booth. "This should only take a minute."
Tucker hesitated. "Heard that one before."
"What are you guys doing?" Dash demanded.
"Getting that phone, duh," Danny smiled, "calm down."
An ice-like soothing peace sank under his skin. Tucker frowned. Dash sank back into the booth and folded his arms, not even noticing his snap-shift change in mood. "Fine." Danny turned around and leaned on the chrome counter. The waitress set a glass mug across from him, full of a thick brown liquid. She wiped her hands over stains on the trim of her apron. "Why are you out so late, dear?" Red lipstick pulled back over her teeth. "Wanting something?"
Danny nodded. "My phone's dead. Can we use yours?"
Her hand rose, fingernails the exact same color as her lips, the chairs, the floors. She pointed to the kitchen door, gaze set on Danny. "We have a telephone in the back." Her hand fell. Danny rounded the counter. "Just ask for the phone, dear," she explained, pushing the door open for him. "He's in the very back."
Danny shot Tucker a furtive glance, and then was gone; the metal door swung shut behind him. The waitress returned to the main counter, pulling cups from shelves and wiping them with a stained cloth.
They waited.
The jukebox hummed.
Dash's foot began a new melody.
Tucker started tapping the table in tune.
The waitress cleaned three cups.
The jukebox hummed.
They waited.
Dash paused. He frowned and started to scan the counter. "Foley," he said, "do you feel...?"
It started in his throat. A tightness bloomed and dropped heavy stones inside his stomach. Goosebumps raced up and down his arms, a shiver ran down his spine. He reached into his pocket for the small lipstick tube with a tiny embossed F on its side. Tucker ran his thumb over two holes in the lining. "Yeah," the blaster warmed in his palm, "that would be a gut feeling."
"Here you are."
Dash jumped. The waitress pushed two plates onto the table; pancakes and three simple hard-boiled eggs. She wiped her fingers down her coffee-stained apron. "Now for you two boys. Who's first?"
Tucker closed his fingers over the blaster, hiding it easily. He smiled up at her. Dash tapped his shoulder. "Oh, we're just waiting on…" His throat went dry. The waitress ran her fingers over the trim of her apron. Dash's tapping grew pointed.
"On?" She said. Her red nails flicked over the trim around a thin brown stain. Underneath her white apron was a wide brown husk, and sprouting from that husk were approximately eight legs. Eight legs, a thick round abdomen; brown, striped yellow. She followed his gaze and flushed. "Oh goodness." The legs shifted and took a small step back. She flicked strawberry hair from her eyes. "Don't mind that, now."
Tucker's stomach dropped right down into his tape-and-glue sneakers. Moist breath filled his ear. "My gut says time to go," Dash whispered, grabbing his shoulders. Tucker dug his feet in and refused to be ejected from the booth like a human shield. "Uh - uh, well." He looked up at her. "Miss. You're, um. You look nice."
She smiled, cheeks flushing scarlet. "Oh darling, thank you! That's just sweet. Can I get you anything?"
Dash became roughly the same color as a corpse. Tucker only nodded, his smile more a show of teeth. "...Coffee?"
She smiled and did not move.
"Or maybe it's not me that needs something," Tucker reasoned. Dash dug his fingers into his shoulders. "I'm really good at helping if you're lost, or have some unfinished… webs?"
"What are you doing?" Dash hissed between clenched teeth.
"My job."
The arachnoid woman laughed, her voice alarming in its honey sweetness. "Oh goodness! No, no, I..." She frowned, all eight of her legs lifted and climbed closer. "There was something. Something I must do." She sighed. "All these thoughts!" She laughed, her eyes as colorful as the void. "I claim what's mine. Ours? Mine."
Simple weapons, miniature ectoblasters. Two small holes in the side of the tube set with sensors directed when to fire, power up, or power down. A swipe from the bottom to the top charged and activated the weapon; a swipe in the opposite direction fired. They packed a big punch, with a bright flash and very little recoil. Tucker directed his palm at the monster and shut his eyes for the half a second it took to swipe his thumb down.
Unlike the electrostatic of a full ectoweapon, the lipstick blaster made as much sound as flicking on a light. One small pop accompanied a dazzling flash of energy; the blast landed point-blank in the face of the arachnoid waitress. Her lips fell open. Tucker threw himself forward, he slammed his shoulder into her stomach to throw her off balance. Tucker fell outside of the booth and rolled away, jumping to his feet as soon as his sneakers found floor.
The half-giant-spider-woman rubbed one of her eyes and frowned. Not a mark on her. "My mascara," she muttered, "it's smudged."
Tucker blinked.
A shot that close was enough to knock Plasmius flat.
Dash, pressed against the window and trapped in the booth, pointed at something beside Tucker. Tucker scanned the counter and couldn't see a damn thing worth noticing. The waitress removed a pin from her hair; it glinted the same chrome as the counters, sharp and long. She smiled at him, her silent feet padding closer. Tucker backed away. He held up the blaster. "St-stay back." His back hit a wall. She shook her head. He fired again; a bright hot flash washed over the creature, catching on all the hairs of her spindly legs with an electric sizzle. The blast dissipated. No effect.
Her smile dropped. "You're going to mess up my hair."
New plan, new plan, new plan - Tucker's fingers shook. His back pressed up hard against the wall. Where's Danny? The spider's legs made no noise as they cleared the space between them. Tucker couldn't find enough air for his lungs. Danny, need Danny, get help. The arachnoid stopped in front of him and considered his neck, doubtless measuring where best her long needle-like pin should strike.
A clatter. Dash climbed on top of the red and chrome furnishings behind the spider-beast, his arm aloft. Oh no. Tucker shook his head. No. In Dash's hand was a glass salt shaker. Bad plan. Dash unscrewed the cap. Nope. Idiot. Idiot. "Die, Shelob!" He dumped the salt all over the beast's round abdomen.
Salt didn't actually work on ghosts.
Except.
Apparently.
This one.
The waitress shrieked. She jerked away, legs spasming violently. Dash met his eyes and pointed to a barstool. "Now, Foley!"
Tucker dropped his ectoblaster and leapt at the stool, wielding it legs-out. The disoriented spider held up her arms. He didn't have time to think about it, striking under her hands and up against what would be a human ribcage. Her many legs shook and she backed away. Dash scooped up another salt bottle and emptied it over her head. The monster collapsed, shrieks turning into a high-frequency wail. Dash shouted. Tucker understood. He slammed the barstool down over her head with all of his might.
The creature made a noise, legs uncurling from the ground and stretching toward him. Tucker panicked and hit her again, and again, bringing the stool up over his head and smashing the bug flat. Dash scrambled off the table, his chest heaving, watching Tucker strike until the giant yellow legs stopped twitching. A black liquid, thick as oil, pooled underneath the creature. Her human torso lay against the worn tiles, her red lips hung open. Tucker clutched the stool, panting, shaking. Her hair tangled loosely around her eyes and nose, smeared with black oil, skull cracked and caved in.
The lights flickered and went dark. A smell like burning hair wafted from the body, and in the moment it took to process the darkness the lights flicked back on. Tucker's arms shook. He could only stare at the human part of the woman, the red blood caked around her head - misshapen, wrong. A corpse framed against the red and white checkered floor. He didn't notice that the diner no longer resembled a diner. He didn't see that the photos of Chevys along the walls became drink coolers, or that the espresso machine turned into a cash register. He didn't notice the booths morph into an aisle of snacks and toiletries.
Dash dropped his salt shaker; it was unchanged. "The...the fuck?"
They stood inside a gas station convenience store. Through the window, a rusting truck sat next to a collection of fuel pumps. Tucker blinked, lifting his head and shaking. He licked his lips, uncomprehending, although he had a feeling he shouldn't look down.
He did anyway.
He wasn't holding a chair anymore.
Clenched tight in both of his hands was a crowbar, curve out. The end was covered in a warm, wet substance which dripped lazily on the coffee-stained white shirt of a woman with a mutilated face and strawberry hair. She had two legs, one of them was bent wrong, her blue jeans torn at the knees. Body limp. A bloody nametag pinned to her shirt.
"Is she dead?"
Of course she was dead. She didn't have a face.
He'd smashed it in.
Tucker dropped the crowbar. More accurately, it slipped from his completely numb fingers and clattered on the checkered floor. He took a step back and his boot slipped on something slick. He hit the ground, stunned. Tucker covered his mouth and shook his head, refusing what he saw. "I didn't - that wasn't, we weren't, she's…"
Dash stared at the remains. He clenched his jaw.
"I'm sorry," Tucker whispered to her. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so…" His throat closed up.
"I told you," Dash said. "It's a demon."
It's a person. Tucker couldn't breathe. The bloody remains of a human being at his feet. Blood soaked into his jeans. He clutched his chest in an attempt to pull the heaviness off. His fingers shook horribly, his vision blurred. He needed to breathe, he needed air, he needed to do something about the dead woman -
Something cold and wet touched his wrist. Blood?! Tucker shrieked and threw himself away, gasping, crashing onto the linoleum and scrambling away. His hands fell into the sticky pools of blood around the body - the dead body, he killed her, he's responsible - Tucker dropped, striking his elbow hard, and scuttled from the body until his back hit a wall made of breakfast. It shook, a rack of fruits on the endcap tumbling to the floor and scattering apples. Spots danced in his vision, black, no air in his lungs.
"Tucker!" He couldn't breathe. "Tucker!"
An icy slap resonated hard across his face. The stars in his eyes subsided long enough to gather the familiar curve of a nose, a collection of three freckles around a curve of lips that only became really prominent in a deep frown. He'd know those freckles anywhere. Danny. Something deep inside of him stilled, a cold, foreign logic settling inside of his head. Ghost-calm. Danny crouched in front of him, his hair matted down and dripping over his eyes and short sleeve v-neck clinging to his thin arms. Tucker blinked. Danny. Danny, here, with him. He spread his lips and pulled in a short breath.
Danny unzipped Tucker's orange-lined pocket. He pulled out an inhaler, shook it, and pressed it to Tucker's lips. It was a pressure, but not a sensation. Tucker felt numb. He took his first freeing gulp of air. It fought against the pressure inside his chest, pushing some of the heavy weight off. After a few more, the coils around his lungs fell and Danny's more invasive and freezing ghost-calm faded, leaving behind a headache.
Tucker clutched his inhaler. His lungs cleared, his head stopped spinning, but the world settling into reality wasn't washing any blood from his hands. It didn't make the scene behind Danny any easier. Danny waited. Tucker cleared his hoarse throat. "...You're soaking wet."
Danny shrugged.
"Why?"
"I was drowning."
"Oh." Tucker zipped up the pocket with his rescue inhaler. "Well, I just killed someone[1]."
[1] A note on violence towards women:
Often what happens in fiction is something reflected in today's realities. Maddison Wood wrote an article responding to the mass murder and tragedy in Orlando, FL in her blog article, I'm Tired, stating that, "Currently on television, 4 percent of characters identify as LGBT. In 2016, about 40 percent of that 4 percent have already died[2]." As it is with violence towards the queer community, violence towards women in consumed media makes violence towards women in the real world a plausible and approachable concept.
I am writing a story about men. To make up for the overwhelming male cast I have made every possible extra character female. The above example is someone who has died horribly. This story is not able to focus on the intricacies of how violence towards women influences our culture, hence this note.
[2] maddisonwood im-tired/
-Catalyst
Up next:
Excerpt 3
Mystery Trio No. 2
This would never happen if we had cell phones.