A/N: Yikes! Over a month since the last chapter! Regardless, I hope you will find the wait worthwhile!
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Then he laughed. He wasn't Danny anymore. Leave the surname to Fenton: he was the real Danny - only a human should have that human name… Yep, he was just Phantom.
With that decided Phantom went intangible and flew out of the lab, a dark shadow among the shadows of smoke from his burning home.
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-Chapter 3-
-SUBTERRA-
FOUR YEARS LATER…
"Bernie, if you think I'll fall for that sappy face of yours, you figure me wrong. Raise you twenty," two crumpled bits of paper landed on the pile of watches, IOU chits and other miscellaneous junk.
The sniveling man named Bernie unconsciously fingered the edges of his cards, a motion that did not slip by his opponents. The stranger next to Bernie indifferently matched the bet, "I agree Jackie; he just doesn't have it."
The unearthly dark grey gloves the mysterious player wore shimmered, disconcerting to the other players at the table: there was something not quite right about them. The gloves' owner was concealed for the most part in the gloom of the basement, a grey baseball cap brim over his face and the collar of a navy blue leather coat pulled up to his ears. To the other players, the only discernable feature was a silver ponytail sticking out the back; they figured people these days did weird things to their hair, bleach an' stuff.
"My–name–is–not–JACKIE!" the first player growled, "Why I didn't bounce both you out, I dunno. Come'on Berns, one of us has gotta fold and we all know it's gonna be you," he glared at Bernie, whose watery eyes darted around the room like a trapped rodent.
There wasn't much to sightsee. They were playing in the basement of some store long abandoned to lee-hour poker games like theirs. The naked lightbulb hanging from an extension cord over their heads swayed with the vibrations of a subway train. All the players absently grabbed the edges of their flimsy poker table until the grumblings of the train died down.
The gloved dealer nonchalantly tossed the top card of the deck into the discard pile, and flipped the fourth community card face up next to the flop. The three players stole glances between their hands and the new "turn" card, looking for the best card combination.
Somehow despite glares from the burly Jack, Bernie had enough nerve to stay in and hesitantly deposited two dinner vouchers to some restaurant, though it was nearly impossible to determine which, the two coupons looking like they had been crumbled several times and covered in slime.
Jack tossed a Rolex from his jacket pocket onto the table. He regularly played poker with Bernie, winning by intimidation as much as skill. As much fun it was to have a stupid opponent, when the shorter, mysterious player had appeared earlier in the evening fully loaded, he relished the new blood.
"A hundred, though I doubt that fake watch is worth that much," the grey-gloved dealer sent another barb in Jackie's direction (who getting more riled up by the minute – the bloke who couldn't see the manipulation deserved to be called 'Jackie'). He didn't bother looking in Bernie's direction, evaluating him as an incompetent and cowardly player, therefore not a threat. Of course, 'Jack' and 'Bernie' were most likely pseudonyms – not even a dim a bulb as 'Bernie' would use their real name in front of strangers, the city wasn't 'secure', to quote the legal security forces.
Without prompting, the silver-haired player 'burned' the top card of the deck again, and flipped the fifth and last community card next to the others.
"That's it!" Bernie dumped his cards on the mound of doodads and slouched on his fold-out chair.
"Praise be Jack o' the Ripper, the whiner is out!" Jack crowed as he tossed another bill on the pile. "Hello Mr. Franklin!" he leaned back, grinning smugly; today he felt particularly lucky.
The gloved player raised his head, green eyes piercing his opponent's from under the brim of his hat. Inwardly he sighed, why do I even waste my time? He tucked his cards in one grey-clad palm and held a hundred dollar bill in the other. "Call," he turned his palm face up and let the rolled up bill roll off the tips of his gloves into the pot.
Jack's greedy, thick fingers nimbly spread out his cards. Queen, 2, 7, Ace; all spades.
Without prompting, the silver-haired player laid his other palm on the table, covering his cards. He cocked his head and flashed a feral grin before his glove spread them out: Jack, Jack, Jack, 10, 10.
"I think this game is over," the basement echoed.
"How-how di'you…" Bernie stuttered, "You cheated!"
Jack surged up and towered over the winner, "I don't care, but get outta here!" He cracked his knuckles.
"Excuse me, is that a threat?" The target of Jack's anger yawned, and tightened his ponytail.
"GET OUTTA HERE BEFORE I BASH YOUR BRAINS IN!"
The soon-to-be-pummeled poker player then proceeded to play with the seam on the edge of his gloves, indifferent to the death threats being issued over his head. With a sixth sense he dodged the fist thrown in his direction.
This stirred him to actually get off his stool, "Sorry dudes, gotta collect what's mine." Again he brandished a cocky grin, which only enraged Jack further. Not standing such insolence, Jackie cracked his knuckles intimidatingly and stepped forwards, winding his fist back for another punch.
Neatly, he was done in by a quick karate-like chop to his collarbone. Before he knew what was happening Jack was picked up by the back of his shirt by the shorter guy and was introduced to the flaking plaster of the basement wall.
"No interruptions please," the shadowed figure said softly.
Slowly Bernie came to the conclusion he didn't want to be here anymore and darted for the steps leading up to the store's backroom. Impossibly, the silver-haired man was already perched on the top step, "I meant all that is mine." The back of the weakling's neck moistened and he rubbed his hand over his dripping face.
"Why not get this over with? I get you, I hand you over, I get paid. Nice and simple. Whaddya say?" the gloved man peeled off his shimmering grey gloves, revealing a set of fitted white ones underneath.
Bernie looked back at Jack, who had slid to the bottom of the wall. He shifted his attention forwards to the stranger and flicked off his sunglasses, "I say no!" Green eyes flashed as his incisors and nails lengthened and his rodent-like ghost nature revealed itself.
"Finally showing the ratty ghost you are?" his opponent taunted. "Whew! Smell like a sewer alright!"
"You'll pay for that!" Bernie spat out drops of puke-green ectoplasm, failing to notice the silver-haired man's glowing eyes.
"Oh?"
Bernie, or the Rat Ghost that called itself Bernie, couldn't stand such calm retorts and launched himself forwards, nails extended and dripping with more puke-green ectoplasm. As he bounded up the steps, his intended victim of ratty ghost-fury stretched and yawned, the leather coat gaping to reveal a skin-tight black suit underneath. Not being very bright, Bernie he didn't register the hardened muscle under said bodysuit. The Rat Ghost also didn't note that his target noticeably hovered several inches off the ground. With a rabid snarl, the rodent-ghost slashed at the bared chest. The silver-haired figure effortlessly phased out and the claws passed through him.
Ugh. If any ectoplasm can be called disgusting, this has got to be it. Looks like spew, and matches the ghost perfectly.
Off balance from his clumsy attack, Bernie fell onto the railing. He started to phase through the floor, but his opponent kicked him in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back, and punched him twice in the gut.
"Who are you?" was all the Rat Ghost could squeak.
"Do you really want to know?"
Bernie didn't have a chance to consider his reply because a white-clad fist bashed his face in. Vision filled with pretty stars, he instinctively lashed out again with his claws but was stopped mid-stoke by a vicious chopkick to the chest. Having lost his balance completely, Bernie landed in a stinking heap at the foot of the stairs.
A white boot pressed against his neck, and he looked up and saw for the first time a very dangerous man – or ghost, for only a ghost could have glowing green eyes. More than the other's fighting capabilities or the foot on his neck, those eyes terrified him: they were merciless.
"Do you still want to know?"
Knowing a predator when he saw one, for he was the Rat Ghost after all, the Rat Ghost sweated even more, if that was possible. With a little bit of increased pressure from the boot and under unblinking gaze of his better, Bernie for once chose the best course and promptly fainted.
The stronger ghost raised his boot off the heap of puke-emitting Rat Ghost, and shook it to the side, spraying sweat everywhere. Disgusting. A muffled groan from the far wall drew his attention: Jack had woken up and was on his knees. The ghost whirled and sneered at the human, finding no threat from that quarter.
"What, wha' did he do to tick you off tha' much?" the human unconsciously backedpedalled from the very dangerous ghost. It wasn't that he had hadn't seen ghosts before, but the mysterious player wore power like a tangible cloak.
"He owes me… in a way," the victor of the rather one-sided scuffle flicked some more of the putrid ectoplasm off his white glove.
"You… you're tha' one… the…" Jack breathed, "The Phantom." Uttering the name, he blanched at his audacity.
Not bothering to reply, Phantom turned back to his prey. Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled out a pair of glowing green ectocuffs and professionally had Bernie trussed up in seconds, hands bound to ankles. There was no way that pathetic example of a ghost was going anywhere anytime soon.
"At least they got my name right somewhere," Phantom muttered under his breath, as he collected his grey gloves from the top step. He remembered the stupid name they gave him, back at... He mentally recoiled from the thought, which scurried away like a rodent towards the distant fortress in his mind.
In this city, Phantom was respected, feared even, because whatever he set out to do, he did. And he was good at it. He was in control, the job done perfectly without a scratch. No one could accuse him of being an incompetent coward like Bernie the 'Rat Ghost'.
Except Danny…when…
That traitorous silent whisper was viciously and personally chucked over the fortress' walls by Phantom himself. He wouldn't – or maybe couldn't, another whisper suggested before flitting away - stand insubordinate leaks getting in the way of what he must do.
Phantom focused his attention outwards once more, to his stupefied audience.
"Feel free to keep the pot, this pile of ectoplasm is worth more than trinkets," he nodded to the rickety poker table.
He then hefted his prize up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, turned halfway to regard the room and fired a bolt of ectoplasm over his shoulder at the lightbulb. Before the pieces of broken glass tinkled to the floor, Phantom was gone.
Leaving in the basement one petrified human and a swinging extension cord...
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A/N: shivers Not exactly a cliffie – I was originally going to have one big chapter, but they segmented themselves neatly in the planning stage. And then I looked over this chapter again and decided to renovate (not quite a rewrite, but close) Good News: In between a summer course, exams and life, I plotted out the next two chapters (and the final one)! Bad News: the next chapter won't be up 'til August. ducks out of the room Ciao!
Next chapter: We get to know what on earth is going on: why does Phantom have a ponytail (the all important question), what has he been doing and where is he since he left Amity Park, and why did he beat up poor Bernie? (a few flashbacks thrown into the cocktail, shaken, and voila: a new chapter!)
Green Phantom Queen:
Ah, the great mystery… the shroud shall rise slowly…
Anne
Camp aka Obi-quiet: More answers next chapter! (and more hints
g )
EvilRobotZombieLoofaOverlord: Thanks!
Phantom is hardly perfect, but he is cool
Mako-Magic:
Phantom didn't dump Danny in some ditch, don't worry (though
it would be interesting…) Danny's there, somewhere: they're not
separate, sorta (whoops, did I say that? closes mouth with
ducktape ), as to why/how… my lawyer says to stay
quiet.
Phantomgirl515: Won't have to wait too long
(coughAugustcough)! Um…
bluish black dolpin: head
spinning Thanks!
rikagirls: Thanks! Listening
to Evanescence (and getting plot/art bunnies) got me revvin'
again!
ghostymangarocker: polishes executioner's
axe If I killed off my victims, where would the fun be? Next
chapter will have some 'explanations' which should answer your
question.
Reviewer
Challenge:
Brownie points to those who can name the type of
poker game played in this chapter!
Extra points to those
who can guess correctly the significance of the grey gloves! (Look
back in the previous chapter for some hints).
Questions/Comments/Beefs? – I'll take any comments gladly! (and flames, for they shall be perfect for boiling some tea which I can certainly use for my sore throat)
