A/N: This has been several years in the making due to various real-life issues. But here it is. This is based on Cordria's "Guillotine" prompt (which she gave me permission to rewrite a long time ago). I made changes to the story however, as the prompt apparently was "medieval torture devices." However, the guillotine is not a medieval torture device. It was a product of the French Revolution in the early 19th century. As a modern, supposedly humane method of execution. Being in the early 19th century makes it a product of the modern era, running from 1500 (or 1450, based on the traditional periodization that places the end of the Middle Ages as the Fall of Constantinople) to the present. So, I replaced the guillotine with the hanging, drawing and quartering, the traditional British punishment for treason.

"In man's most dark extremity
Oft succour dawns from Heaven."

-Sir Walter Scott, 1st Baronet FRSE, FSAScot (August 15, 1771-September 21, 1832) Scottish novelist, playwright, and historian. The Lord of the Isles

Chapter One

Richard stared at the object of his demise with weak knees. The giant wooden scaffold seemed to almost be on fire, flushed red by the setting sun and the blood that had been spilled in the long, hellish months that had led him from his home to this place. A chill wind was blowing - not that he really felt it - but the few remaining spectators shivered and pulled their thick woolen coats closer to themselves.

He was the last of his small group of 'traitors' to die. The executioner gestured for him to mount the steps and walk forwards onto the platform, the noose blowing forlornly in the breeze, but the man's knees locked painfully, keeping him in place. Despite the large soldier behind him that would poke him with the point of his bayonet if he didn't get moving quickly, the man found nothing in his body able to move. The hands bound tightly behind his back wouldn't clench, his eyes wouldn't blink, and there was no way on God's Earth that his feet were going to move. His entire being was focused on the solid wooden frame and the noose that his surviving friends had met their ends on.

I haven't done anything to deserve this, his mind complained quietly as the expected jab of the sharp bayonet pierced the skin between two of his ribs. His body was shocked out of its frozen state by the sudden flash of pain and he stumbling forwards a few feet, placing his feet uneasily on the wooden steps and slowly making his way up to where the executioner was standing, face impassive.

Two steps from the top the man's foot slipped and he crashed to the ground, his nose hitting the wood hard. Spitting blood and unable to hear the laughing spectators due to the fear pounding in his heart, he staggered back to his feet and stepped onto the top of the platform.

"Charles is the true king," he whispered dazedly, suddenly nauseous at the taste of blood in the back of his throat and the iron tang in the air created by the spilled blood of the people that had died before him. At least it'll be quick, he thought. They'll let the noose kill me before they cut off my balls, disembowel me, burn my entrails, behead me, and quarter the rest.

"For the crime of high treason against George the Second, by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith," the executioner intoned, his voice a little hoarse from speaking loudly for the first dozen or so deaths, "you are hereby sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered. May God have mercy on your soul." The executioner paused for a moment, seemingly waiting for a cheer to erupt from the slowly freezing and not-so-interested-anymore crowd, but then continued. "Do you have any last words?"

The man blinked at the executioner for a moment before quietly shaking his head, determined to not make a fool of himself like several of the others before him had. He was terrified; he was being repaid for his loyalty to the true king of the House of Stuart with death, which he knew was always a possibility but still... but he would not drop to his knees to beg for his life. It was not his head that deserved to rest on the chopping block today - but it was his that would.

His arms - still bound behind his back - were grabbed roughly and the thick ropes holding his arms together were cut. He rubbed at his wrists, thankful for the momentary reprieve, but knew that his death was only seconds away. The muskets carried by the redcoated soldiers of Chalmondeley's 34th Regiment were fully loaded; their bayonets were sharp. Getting away was impossible.

Prodded forwards by the uncaring hands, he made his way across the wood that was slippery with spilled blood and stopped before the large wooden block. A few faces, the remnants of the crowd that had long since started to disperse, stared back at him. A sudden kick to the back of his knees dropped him to the ground, kneeling before the block, and a hard hand to his back had him half-lying on the block, his neck outstretched.

"May God have mercy on your soul," the executioner said softly as he moved to pull the noose around his neck. The man had never thought himself brave and at this moment he had no reason to want to change that. His eyes were shut tight, holding his breath against the wind, tears burning trails down cheeks that were already wet with the blood still pooling out of his nose. It was a good thing he'd had nothing to eat the past two days - he'd have made a mess due to the fear racing through his system otherwise.

There was an odd buzz - a faint jangling against his nerves - even as he heard a crashing noise at his feet. He had just enough time to register that he was hearing the trapdoor giving way below him before pain slammed into his mind and blackness overtook him.

One thing that was odd - he thought, even as he descended into that eternal darkness - is that the pain seemed to be in his feet rather than his neck. Not that it really mattered. He figured he was dead either way - neck or feet be damned.

The whole problem with being dead is that one expects to remain dead - at least for a while. After a life as well-lived and troubled as his, the man was fully determined to be dead for a matter of time greater than his troubles in life. Even if it was nothing but blank nothingness, it had to be better than false accusations of treason and executioners smiling at you, knowing your life is worth nothing more to them than a new pair of boots.

Thus, it came to his rather dismal surprise that he was opening his eyes again after doing what felt like little more than fainting. His toes still hurt, for crying out loud. Could he not have stayed dead long enough for his toes to have finished hurting at least? After all he had been forced to endure during his life, he decided he deserved as much as that.

Opening his eyes lead to a few surprises beyond the simple fact that a dead man was opening his eyes and continuing to breathe. One was the fact that he was in the forest - trees arced high overhead. Apparently, during his short stay in the realm of the dead, his body had been dumped in the woods and nobody had bothered to bury him. This struck the man as rather hateful. Surely, he deserved at least to be buried.

The second big surprise was the large blue object hovering in front of him. He blinked a few times and sat up, gingerly feeling his neck for blood where the noose had sliced into it (finding none) and watching the blue object float. It was sort of man-shaped, transparent and tinged with a dreary cerulean tone.

Perhaps it's an angel, the man thought, his eyes widening in surprise, then flinched when the blue man turned around to blink at him in confusion. "Who are you?" the angel asked, his voice echoing in a way that caused a shiver to run down the man's back.

"I'm Richard," the man answered. "I was wrongly killed by men who sought power and I am glad to be in Heaven."

The angel gazed at him forlornly for a moment. "I am the BOX GHOST!" he said loudly, putting his hands in the air in what seemed to be an attempt at an intimidating pose. "Master of all things cardboard and square!"

The man - Richard - thought that was an odd name for an angel, but decided that arguing with one of the Heavenly choir on his first day being in Heaven would not endear him to God and thus pushed it from his mind. "It's nice to meet you," Richard enthused, slowly getting to his feet.

"BEWARE!" the angel yelled before abruptly vanishing.

"Indeed," Richard whispered. His bare feet stung as he stood on the sharp grass, looking around and trying to decide what to do next. If he was truly in Heaven, perhaps he would be able to find some of his more holy ancestors. He had to have a few of them in his family tree - somewhere.

Heaven was truly a spectacle, he decided as he looked around. The trees were all green and lacking in dying limbs, the grass was all cut to a short length and glittering in a sea of emerald, and there were children playing all around. The thick blanket of dark smoke and soot that layered his home city was missing and the sky seemed to glow like a giant, clear sapphire. Huge, shining structures - cathedrals made of silver and glass, he assumed - rose in the near distance like beautiful mountains. What a wonder Heaven was.

"Box Ghost!" came a shout as another angel appeared before him. This one was much younger, dressed in a stately black uniform, his white hair over-long and mussed, his unearthly green eyes scouring the landscape. "I know you're here; give me back my homework!"

Richard stared at the boy, more convinced than ever that the boy was an angel based on his eyes. "Angel!" he called, taking a few unsteady steps forwards. "I am Richard, and I greet you!"

The angel didn't appear to notice him at first, but when Richard called for a second time, the boy looked down at him. "Angel?" the white-haired angel asked.

"Certainly," Richard said. "For I am dead and this is Heaven and surely you are an angel, come to meet me in my first day in the afterlife."

Landing on the ground a half-dozen feet away, the angel tipped his head to the side, his eyes wary. "Are you okay, mister?"

"I have never been better," Richard said, pleased. "The Lord God has seen true to my heart and has raised me up from my tortured life to exist in peace amongst the angels. May I ask your name, young angel?"

"Um... it's Danny..." the angel hesitated.

"Daniel? The great prophet Daniel from the Lord's Bible?" Richard grinned. His first day in Heaven and already he was getting to meet with one of the great figures of history. Then he blinked, suddenly worried that by called Daniel 'young' he had insulted the powerful prophet. Perhaps that was why Daniel was acting so hesitant around him.

"Suuure..." Danny murmured, taking a step backwards. "I'm gonna... ya'know... go."

"Do so," Richard said. "I will see you around, great angel." He smiled pleasantly, then decided that if he helped the angel, perhaps Daniel would forgive him his sin of mistakenly calling him 'young' earlier. "The angel you are seeking, the one known as the Box Ghost, was last seen over there." He pointed helpfully towards the tree he was lying under when he woke up in Heaven.

"Thanks," Daniel said, vanishing as abruptly as the blue angel had before him.

Richard wondered for a moment if he would be able to disappear in such a fashion. He looked down at his hand and thought about it, but the decided that such a thing wasn't for men such as himself. Continuing to survey himself, he noted, displeased, that he had not been given a new set of clothes upon his arrival in Heaven. His shirt was stained with his own blood and his pants were wrought with holes and quickly sewn patches. He also noted, with a hint of delight, that he wasn't glowing and floating as the angels were. He seemed to be solid and human - just as the others that were running and playing in the large field.

The one thing Richard found to be odd – other than the fact that he had lost his shoes on his journey to Heaven – was that he was the proud owner of a new necklace. He plucked it out from under his shirt and gazed down at the intricate carving, barely making out a strange 'CW' amongst the odd glyphs. After a moment he shrugged and allowed the necklace to stay, assuming it was a gift from Heaven.

Looking around only a few moments longer, Richard finally decided to head off and explore this wonderful new land in which he'd found himself. Perhaps he would be able to find something new to wear - nobody else seemed to be wearing the clothes they had died in - and maybe even find something to eat. He hadn't expected that he would be hungry once he was dead, but he found himself to be mistaken. Now that he was getting over the shock of his death, his stomach was reasserting the fact that he hadn't eaten in days.

Taking a few uncertain steps onto the strange black path that ran through the park, Richard headed towards the town center, unaware that he was being followed by a curious 'angel' with white hair.

"Hey, guys," Danny said over his radio into his FentonPhone earbuds, "I think we have a situation."

"What's wrong?" His girlfriend's voice responded. He looked up to see the oblong shape of the Specter Speeder hovering over him in the park, almost a speck in the distance at five thousand feet. "I'm not seeing anything more dangerous than the Box Ghost on my screens. Who is now heading in the opposite direction from you, by the way."

"The Box Ghost can wait, we have a bigger problem. I'm currently tailing a man, say in his early-to-mid twenties, with no shoes, in blood-covered tattered clothes."

"Oh," Sam's voice edged with concern. "Shit. That does take priority."

"I'm going to follow him, see if I can find out what's going on."

"Roger," Sam said, "We'll be here if you need us,"

"You guys always are," Danny said warmly. "Valerie, you get all that?"

"Solid copy," Valerie said firmly, "I'm coming to you. ETA, ten minutes."

Paulina Sanchez sighed as she sat at the picnic table, fingers tapping on the table. She looked around, her hand straying to her phone on the table. Stop that, she thought, he'll be here. Before putting her hand in her pocket.

"Polly," Starr said, from next to her. The tall, blonde-haired, green-eyed young woman looked at her sympathetically. "Polly, I don't think he's going to show."

"Damn it, he's going to show, Starr!" Paulina closed her eyes, fighting back tears. As yet another guy stood her up. "He has to." Granted she was looking on Tinder, but still.

"You know there's an old Chinese saying," Starr said, "'when the student is ready, the master will appear.' You need to just go out there and live your life and you'll find someone who you can actually have a real relationship with." Who isn't that jackass Roberto going without saying.

Roberto Gomez. Her last boyfriend. This dashing, well-built man…who turned out to be a raving douchebag who lived down to all the patriarchal, controlling stereotypes she could think of. She'd only been with him a month and a half, then couldn't handle it anymore and ran for the exit.

That was six months ago.

Which didn't change the fact that Starr was right.

"I know, Starr," she said, deflated, "it's just hard."

"Yeah, but there are other things you like to do, you know. Do those things and let the rest come back to you in their own time. Who knows, the right person for you could come when you least expect it."

She smirked, and almost despite herself, almost two decades of television and books where the main hero or heroine's soulmate appears within a millisecond of their friend saying that, had her looking around her in all directions. Seeing nothing but the street to her right and the happy kids playing on the equipment to her left she sighed.

"I was really hoping some momentous meeting was about to just fall into my lap," Paulina muttered sotto voce.

"Hey, baby!"

"Goddamn it," she muttered, he turned to see a tawny-skinned man with brown hair. The older guy's muscled frame bulged out of his white wife beater as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Finally, I catch up with you," he said, "if I didn't know any better I'd say you were ducking me for the last five months."

"Because she has, asshole" Starr said, the fair-skinned green-eyed blonde said. "Neither of us have anything to say to you. She's done."

He smirked and advanced towards them, Paulina reached into her purse for her taser. If words weren't going to convince him to leave off, several volts of electricity ought to do it.

"The lady told you to leave her alone," a voice that sounded, to her ear, like it came from somewhere in the vicinity of Appalachia. He looked up to see a fair-skinned man with brown hair, who frankly looked like he'd been through the wars. If he didn't have a massive black eye and his face was covered in cuts and other bruises he'd probably be very handsome. He was also foolishly brave for someone who looked like he had the crap beaten out of him to court another beating like the way he was.

"Butt out of it, asshole," Gomez growled

"I think not," the other man said, "how does a ruffian like you end up in Heaven."

"Heaven," Gomez's repeated, incredulously, "I wouldn't think of this piece of shit town as 'Heaven'. Not that I'm not going to make you eat my fist for butting into something that's not your business."

The man's fist balled, clearly ready for a fight, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped onto his back like a tree falling, moaning softly and writhing in the green grass of the park.

He smirked and grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him up to look in his face. "You look like you've already gotten your ass beat. I don't suppose a few more bruises will matter."

"And I think you should butt out now while you still can," a familiar voice said from above him. Paulina Sanchez

Paulina looked up to see Danny Phantom hovering above them, eyes and hands blazing with green fire.

Flurries of movement in her peripheral vision distracted her as Gomez and his friends scattered in all directions. Like most cowards and bullies, she thought, dull shame flooding her as she remembered being exactly like them. Before the entire world nearly ending forced her and Starr to…reevaluate their social relationships. Phantom landed gracefully in front of their would-be Good Samaritan's unconscious body. He leaned down, putting his fingers on his neck to check his pulse.

"Is he okay?" Paulina asked.

Phantom nodded, his snow-white hair gleaming in the midday sun. "He's alive. I think he's just unconscious." He began to pat down his chest and pulled up an ornate golden medallion with the unmistakable letters CW prominent among all the other glyphs.

"I want to help him," she said determinedly, her worry for the man lying unconscious in the grass running in rivulets down her back. "Until you came along, he was probably the only thing standing between Starr and I and that asshole ex of mine. Please."

For a long moment ghost and human stared at each other. The other took a deep breath. Odd that a ghost should have to breathe, she thought. Though maybe it's just habit from when they were alive.

"Give me just one minute," he said, "then I should have an answer for you."

Samantha Yocheved Manson was buckled into her flight chair, leaning over her console as she kept her speeder level. Information fusion was an interesting thing, once one got used to it. She had seen the contacts her own software identified as humans that scattered when Danny interrupted whatever they were going to do. The sensors she had couldn't read human actions to that level of detail. But she could infer enough. A group of people had been about to harass the guy Danny had wanted to help, and he had scared them off.

"Hey guys," Danny's voice said through her intercom. "There's a slight wrinkle in our calculations. One, it appears that Clockwork sent him backwards or forwards to our time for whatever reason. Though judging from his clothing I'm going to guess forwards until proven otherwise. Two, our friend tried to play hero with a group of guys harassing Paulina and Starr. But his body kinda gave out on him before anything happened. I scared the assholes off. But…"

Sam leaned back in her chair, shocked. She had always known that Paulina had had some integrity.

"But they want to help him," she finished Danny's sentence.

"And if we do that, I don't think we can just give them the runaround like we usually do. This man needs medical attention now. And the fact that our vehicles and people will be involved will lead to…too many questions. Unless we want to forcibly wipe their memories, I think we should seriously consider bringing them in on this.

Sam rolled his eyes, even as part of her agreed that, pragmatically, this was the best course of action. Another part of her yelled: This is Paulina! Ergo a shallow bitch that couldn't be trusted to babysit a six year old, let alone one of the hottest secrets in modern human history.

"You know how this works, Danny," Sam said pointedly. "Once she's in, she's in. We won't be able to just send them on their merry way once whatever this is going to lead to is over. And since Clockwork is involved that could be anything.

"You've been saying for months that we need to start building up our forces, Danny said. "Now's as good a time as any and they're as good as candidates as any."

Sam closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair as she got the instinctively jealous part of her under control. The part that kept insisting that inviting Paulina in meant her inevitably taking Sam's place in Danny's bed. And her heart. Or some kind of poly thing developing. Then she remembered Polly could be seen as the diminutive of Paulina.

This is Danny! She thought. He's not the type to sleep with someone else behind their back.

"Just…wait until we're all in one place, and off the street, before you do this."
"Of course, Sam," Danny said. "Fenton out."

The channel closed and she let out a long breath.

"I'll have an assault vehicle dispatched," Jazz said quietly.

Sam nodded. She had a job to do, and bitching and moaning about Paulina wasn't part of it. "Right. Also order Valerie to cut short her rendezvous with Danny and return to base. I have a feeling things are about to get very interesting around here."