Good morning everyone. Or evening. Or whatever word applies to the time of day that you're reading this.

First of all, I must thank everyone who took the time to review my work. Your critique has given me so much inspiration to help me with my writer's block. If it wasn't for you, this little novella of mine might never have come to light. Thanks a bunch!

Also, I've been watching the teaser commercials for The Ultimate Enemy, and it looks simply spectacular! Eric Roberts as Danny's evil future self seems to be a brilliant move on Butch Hartman's part, and I'm sure David Carradine of Kill Bill fame will do a great job as the time-controlling spirit Clockwork.

Look at me here; I'm getting off track.

Anyways, I've also changed the summary. Hope you like it!

Now, let's get going!

Chapter Six: Ecto-Transfusion

Danny awoke to the monotonous, rhythmic sounds of various forms of equipment. As he groggily opened his eyes, he saw two aquamarine orbs staring right back.

"Jazz?" he groaned.

"Danny!" his sister cried. "You're alright!" She then proceeded to encase her brother in a bone-crushing hug. Danny's ribs began to burn again.

"Quit it!" he shouted with a pained expression. Jazz released her brother and sat back down in her chair.

"Where...am I?" asked Danny.

"You're in the hospital, Danny." answered Jazz. "You've been comatose for about eight hours. Mr. Manson said that one of the golf course workers found you unconscious on the 11th hole this morning."

Danny sat up in shock, only to feel that burning sensation in his chest again. As he looked down, he realized that heavy bandaging covered his mid-torso area and his left arm was suspended in a sling.

"Don't do that," said Jazz. "The doctor said you have four bruised ribs and a dislocated collarbone. He couldn't explain why your skin is like that, though."

"What about my skin?"

Jazz took a small mirror out of her purse and gave it to her brother. As Danny looked into it, he could see what his sister meant: his skin was not its original, flesh-colored shade; rather, a pigment more akin to old paper. It also seemed tightly stretched across his muscles, as little, pulsating veins could be easily seen underneath the surface.

"Danny?" asked Jazz. He had been so absorbed in examining his injuries that he almost didn't hear her. "How did this happen?"

The image ran through Danny's mind again: The Phantom, gripping him by the collar of his shirt, glowing his ghostly glow while Danny felt as though he were being filled with ice water...

"I don't remember," he lied.

Jazz realized what was wrong instantly.

"Oh, I see. I'm gonna go get some coffee, alright? Be back in a minute." She planted a kiss on her brother's forehead and walked out of the room.

A thought then entered Danny's mind: what did the Opera Ghost do to him? He decided to test it.

"I'm going ghost!" he cried. The halos of light appeared at his midriff and started to travel along his body.

When they reached halfway up, however, they stopped and receded.

Danny tried the process again, with the same result. A third attempt; no change.

"Why can't I go ghost?" he asked himself.

As if in response to his question, a letter suddenly materialized on Jazz's chair in a wisp of blue vapor. Danny eyed it with suspicion for a second, knowing that mist and its source. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached for the letter with his good arm and found it unsealed at the seam. His eyes then rushed back and forth as he began to read the neat, tiny script:

Dear Mr. Phantom,

If you're reading this message, it means that you are still alive and that my associate's process did not quite achieve its intended results.

I believe it is my duty to explain: you have just been the victim of ecto-transfusion, an ancient and powerful technique that allows its user to absorb the life energy of another living being. That energy is then transferred to the user, hereby increasing his or her power and presence. The victim, drained of its life force, often dies instantly.

You, however, being half-ghost, seem to have a resistance to this process. The ectoplasm that flows in your veins enabled you to survive. It also provided my associate with a few pleasant additions to the energy he drained from you. He thanks you for your cooperation and hopes you will take your time to heal.

We have no plans to call on you as of yet. You are no longer in any shape to stand in our way and are therefore no threat for the time being. However, if you insist on you or your friends' interference, the consequences will be as lethal as it is within my power to make them.

I'll be here when you get back.

Your old pal,

Penelope Spectra, PhD.

Danny crushed the note between his fingers, throwing it with surprising force towards the doorway. The resounding pain in his chest was acute and concentrated as he growled with frustration.

It was then that Jazz walked back in the room, a cup of coffee in her hand.

"Danny–"

"Leave me alone!" he snapped viciously.

Jazz stood with a hurt expression for a while before she responded.

"What's wro–"

"GET OUT!" The entire room seemed to shake with the force of his yell. His sister hurried out of the room, genuinely frightened of what was going on, when she heard a crunch beneath her feet.

Jazz picked up the crumpled piece of paper and read the message on it. Her brow furrowed with anger and disgust.

Not exactly the mistress of subtlety, are you, Spectra?

Eerie light from the waning moon illuminated the darkened halls of Casper High. It was understandable why no one, not even the custodians, liked to work here at night. There was an otherworldly feel about it, like a house filled with memories of residents long past.

A heavy tap echoed through the halls with repetitive ubiquity. The noise was soon accompanied by a dark figure, holding a five-foot long staff with a brass skull that gleamed with a sinister light, stalking through the halls.

The figure turned, arriving at the office of Dr. Spectra, who sat quietly at her desk, filing her nails. A small desk lamp was the only source of illumination in the bleak, cold room. The doctor's eager green eyes wandered to the figure, not a hint of surprise in them.

"Hello," she said cooly.

The figure stepped into the light. It was that of a young, thin man of about twenty years of age. He wore a form-fitting black hazmat suit with white gloves, boots, belt and collar. On his chest was an insignia: a ghostly combination of D and P that tapered off with a spectral trail. He had messy, jet black hair and paler skin than most people. His eyes, however, were unusual: the left was a vibrant glowing green; the right one was darker and sparkled like a well polished emerald. Most noticeable of all was the white half-mask that covered the right half of his face.

"Good evening, madam," he responded in a masterful tone.

"Did the letter get to the hospital safely?"

"I observed its delivery personally."

"Excellent. The first part of my plan–"

"Of our plan, you mean."

"Right. The first part of our plan is a success. May I see the results?"

The man removed the porcelain mask from his face, letting it clatter to the floor. Underneath was perfect, pristine skin, no different from that of a normal person. His nose, which had been completely obscured by said mask, was now neat and perfectly placed.

"Oh, you look so handsome, Erik!" Spectra squealed.

Erik produced a glowing blue mirror with a wave of his hand and gazed into it with a smile.

"If a bit like the ghost boy," he stated. "But I'm sure I can fix that."

"Alright," said Spectra, her tone now business-like. "Now that you've gotten what you want, I believe you have a job to do for me."

"How could I forget, my dear?" And with a whirl of blue mist, he vanished, leaving Dr. Spectra alone in her office once more.

There we go!

I probably will take some more time with the next update; partially due to my writer's block and partially to my busy schedule. However, I do plan to add the next chapter as soon as I can.

In the meantime, keep the reviews coming in! I might adapt any ideas you give me into the storyline I've designed. Don't hold back, I can take the criticism! No flames, though!

Now, to quote Vlad Plasmius: Until next time.

Your sincerest regards,

Monsieur Caracal.