7:01 AM Central Time

Wednesday, September 8th

2010 Anno Domini

Wednesday dawned and frankly, Danny could care less.

He was beyond exhausted – so much so that he wanted to ask his new English teacher, Mr. Lancer, if there was a word to more accurately describe a feeling of tiredness so strong, it was like being dead.

Not only was Danny bone-tired despite having just slept for twelve hours, but his memories of yesterday afternoon and last night were… frustratingly hazy.

The freshman could only recall snippets: like Tucker's expression of shock and disbelief after he made it out of his parents' archway, and the feeling of sheer relief when he finally collapsed face-first onto his soft, unmade bed.

With a pang of hunger, he realized he had missed Fenton Family Taco Night.

(Little did Danny know, but his parents had also missed Taco Night, in favor of spending all evening in the library-lab, their passion reignited by a mysterious new development.)

Still only half-awake, Danny's thoughts drifted back to his dreams from last night. He frowned, sensing it was important that he remember them, but it was like trying to grab onto a fistful of mist: impossible to hold. He could recall only a few tantalizing feelings here and there: some worry and panic mixed in with a healthy dose of fear.

One thing that Danny knew without a doubt, though, was that in his dreams last night, he had been in pain.

It stuck out because, at least for him, his subconscious was typically an escape. For Danny, his dreams had always been a refuge from everything else going on in his actual life: like pig-headed bullies or inattentive parents. He rarely had nightmares. In his dreams, more often than not, Danny was flying, or simply suspended in space, surrounded by stars.

As Danny considered these usual nighttime occurrences, his eyelids felt weighted down, the heaviness growing and growing…

Fog rolled in along the pavement, sliding between towering buildings like a possessed snake. Danny followed the fog swiftly, realizing belatedly that he wasn't walking or running. He was floating over the fog somehow, trailing it from above. Danny pushed the realization aside; after all, this clearly wasn't real. Instead, he relished the weightlessness, the ability to cheat gravity out of its normal rules.

The nighttime streets were oddly empty, despite the feel of a big city.

Suddenly, the moving fog paused in front of the mouth of a narrow alley. Nearby, a flickering streetlamp blinked a few more times before it sputtered out, leaving behind a suffocating darkness. Strangely, Danny could still see; it was like every line of the buildings and the streetlamps was illuminated by a thin thread of gold. Floating closer toward the alley, a sense of dread threatened to swallow Danny whole, and his feet touched down for the first time against hard cement.

He inched closer on foot, before horror washed over him at the grisly scene he'd stumbled onto.

There had clearly been a flight, a bloody struggle, although the amount of red blood was weirdly minimal. There was another white substance, though: a liquid that seemed to almost glow, albeit faintly.

And worst of all, two mangled bodies were spread out on the ground, with limbs at unnatural angles. He could tell it was a man and a woman from his vantage point toward the opening of the alley, but their faces were pointed away from his, facing the grimy bricks.

Curiosity getting the better of him, as it often did, Danny moved closer and closer to the bodies. With his strange new vision, he could see that there was something placed on top of each victim's chest. Peering over them, he puzzled over what it was: a singular feather, outlined in gold.

Taking a deep breath, Danny shifted his position to look at the face of the man…and screamed. And screamed and screamed.

His own face, complete with dead, unfocused, amber-colored eyes, stared back at him.

Danny's blue eyes snapped open.

-XXX-

After Danny had more or less calmed his racing heart from the early-morning nightmare, he checked his phone. Jazz had texted him three times, and Tucker, who was in his first class, had messaged once.

Chauffeur going once, Jazz messaged first with her signature perfect spelling.

Danny, I yelled your name for like 15 minutes. I'm leaving, Jazz had followed up only five minutes later, continuing her trend of impeccable grammar.

Tucker's message came next, after he evidently realized Danny wasn't in Lancer's first period English with him: Dude u comin? Lancers pissed. It's only day 2!

Finally, Jazz had sent, I hope you're OK, little brother, ending her message with a manually entered sad face (because Jazz never used emoticons in her text messages, which Danny found funny for some reason).

Danny let out an exaggeratedly long sigh.

At this point, he might as well just miss the rest of Lancer's English class and try to make it on time to his second period: gym.

Although…, Danny thought briefly, biting his bottom lip as he considered skipping gym altogether and just starting his day off with third period Social Studies.

No, I should really go, he conceded to himself begrudgingly and with an eye roll, his moral compass winning, not for the first time.

To be honest, the teen was already mortified enough that he'd missed first period on his second freaking day of high school and figured that any excuse he might be able to fabricate wouldn't work half as well for two periods.

Danny couldn't help but beat himself up for sleeping so late, and not even seeming to care about school when he woke up.

Loser Fenton, he grumbled to himself dejectedly.

-XXX-

Despite running late, Danny decided to shower. He just felt…not quite right, and was hoping a shower could at least help. He did some of his best thinking in the shower.

Don't judge.

As the hot stream of water hit Danny's back, he breathed out contentedly, closing his eyes. In the wake of his nightmare, he'd forgotten – at least for a little while – about the soreness in his back and shoulders. Luckily, the shower was working wonders on that front. Danny just stood there, letting the water pressure hit his back repeatedly.

This—this was a good choice, Danny nodded to himself in approval. He could have stayed there all day, just letting the steam envelop him as the water massaged his aching back.

Even though he could've stayed standing there forever, he knew he couldn't, logically.

(Part of him also knew it was counterintuitive to shower before gym class, but he didn't care.)

At this rate, he'd shower ten more times today if it felt like this. He didn't even care about pruney fingers.

Trying to hurry up, Danny reached for the bar of Dial soap on the shower ledge that was just level with the top of his head…and hissed in pain. The soap tumbled down, landing on Danny's foot. Compared to the pain in his back, the objectively heavy bar of soap hitting Danny's toes didn't even register. Steeling himself, Danny started to bend down to retrieve it, just as another lightning rod of pain traveled up and down his spine.

Well, shit, Danny thought, blinking back tears. This is new.

Danny trembled as he tried crouching down once more. This time he was prepared for it, though: the pain. He clenched his teeth, agony overriding his brain.

Finally, though, he had the prized soap in-hand as he straightened out his back.

Now, Danny was scared.

He knew whatever happened yesterday had hurt, but he just remembered being blinded over everything else. He didn't know what on Earth he could've done to hurt his back like this – or at all, for that matter.

Tucker. I'll have to ask Tucker, Danny reasoned.

Danny was so wrapped up in his newfound worry that he felt unbalanced.

He didn't want something to be wrong. He didn't want his (somewhat overactive) imagination to create increasingly terrifying scenarios in his head, like the thought that maybe he was about to be paralyzed.

Danny focused on breathing in and out, like Jazz always tried to have him do. He inhaled on a count of four, held his breath for a count of four, and then exhaled for a count of four.

As he started to feel better, he made a plan. A very rough plan, granted, but a plan nonetheless.

He'd talk to Tucker at lunchtime, since they only had English together in the morning, and Danny had stupidly (accidentally) already missed that.

Then, maybe, Tuck would agree to head back to the library-lab with him this afternoon…if he could distract his parents. And if he were brave enough.

Yeah. He could probably figure something out to get his parents to leave the library-lab. Probably.

And he'd be brave enough to return to the scene of the crime, of course…

Right?

-XXX-

8:22 AM Central Time

Wednesday, September 8th

2010 Anno Domini

Gym class. Danny hated it, always had, even when he wasn't experiencing phantom pain up and down his spine.

Gym had always been a sore spot for Danny. Literally.

They were starting with dodgeball, though, so… not the worst?

Just kidding, it was definitely the worst. Coach Tetslaff clearly thought she was rewarding them with a "fun" game before their first unit of floor hockey. But to Danny, it was his own personal Purgatory.

As luck would have it, though (ha), Dash Baxter was in his gym class.

Dash clearly couldn't let go of a grudge from middle school – his hatred toward Danny outlasted both years and school milestones.

Danny wished he had a friend with him this period, but he was out of luck in that department too. His closest ally was the perpetually frightened Mikey, whose eyes darted all around like his very existence depended on scoping out every inch of the locker room.

Dash Baxter, in his heather-gray Zion High regulation t-shirt, straightened out his gym outfit with self-assurance, teenage muscles bulging.

He huffed as he glanced around the changing area, seemingly challenging anyone who'd been accidentally even looking in his direction. Then, without warning, he shoved Mikey into a nearby line of powder-blue metal lockers.

Danny could've sworn the action left a slight dent.

He must've had some sort of incriminating expression on his face too, because Dash suddenly faced Danny, barking out in his trademark angry-yet-whiny tone, "And what the hell's your problem, Fen-toenail?"

Danny tried to convince himself to bite his tongue, really, he did. But the soreness in his back flared just then, and he simply couldn't stop himself from commenting darkly, "Not in the mood, Dash."

"What was that?" Dash spat out, stunned. He looked so murderous, Danny pictured his head spinning around three times, like in a corny horror movie.

"I said," Danny clarified as he mustered up more confidence, ignoring the way his skin felt far too white-hot, like he was feverish, "Just can it, Dash, okay? Seriously! Don't you have anything better to do, besides just—just wailing on everyone?!" Danny was at the end of his rope. As it turned out, apparently even he had a limit to Dash's bullying and stupidity.

Who knew?

The next thing Danny saw was his own gym shirt balled up in Dash's fist, his face inches away from Dash's own. The bully's hot, labored breathing assaulted his mouth, and Danny almost gagged.

"Fent-wad," Dash snarled in a low tone. "These are the best years of my life," Dash paused, breathing deeply and angrily, before continuing. "After high school, it's all downhill for me. And I will not spend my glory days dealing with your bullshit!" Dash's eyes met Danny's own, and they were fiery.

Then, Dash threw Danny back against the same line of pale blue lockers that Mikey had just faced, before warning menacingly, "Stay out of my way, Fenton," using Danny's actual last name for once.

It was somehow more terrifying than Dash's normal insults.

-XXX-

Wesley "Wes" Weston sighed in frustration. His arm hurt, which was annoying.

Literally minutes before Mikey had been crammed into a wall of gym lockers, Dash had punched his own right arm, just for the heck of it, calling him, "Ginger loner freak," before moving onto his next target.

Jerk, Wes thought darkly, rubbing his sore arm as he scowled. It was just his luck that he'd been assigned the same gym period as Dash freaking Baxter. And it was a morning gym period, to boot. Gym in the morning sucked – you were tired and sweaty for the rest of the day.

Honestly, though he didn't really know him, Wes was feeling a bit grateful to Danny Fenton for taking Dash's attention off himself, at least for little while.

As thankful as Wes was, though, he was also pretty confused.

He'd never paid much attention to Danny Fenton, really. Wes had heard he was a pretty nice (albeit nerdy) kid in middle school, sure, but that he was hardly a hero type. And he definitely wasn't the stand-up-to-Dash type.

Wes couldn't help but wonder what changed.

But as Danny faced off against the resident freshman bully, asking Dash if he genuinely had anything better to do (yikes), Wes felt concerned.

Really, what was Danny doing?

After all, Dash had made Danny's life a tiny hellhole too, ever since middle school. And this certainly wouldn't help matters in that department.

When Dash had grabbed Danny by his gym shirt menacingly, Wes had actually almost sighed in relief. It signified that the order of the world – of high school, anyway – was settling back into its natural rhythm.

But the normalcy could only last for so long.

Wes truly had no idea what was in store.

After Dash had thrust Danny back against the same lockers Mikey just encountered, Wes had happened to look back over at Danny Fenton. Maybe it was morbid curiosity. Maybe – as Wes would consider in later months – it was his true higher purpose.

For whatever reason, Wes happened to be one of the only people left standing in the locker room in the wake of the Danny-Dash facedown. After all, it was a pretty interesting locker room moment, one that Wes was still processing. He wouldn't be surprised if it started to spread around the freshman gossip chains.

As Wes considered how long it would take for the news reach his brother, Kyle, he glanced at Danny's face.

And pointed at Dash's retreating back, Danny Fenton's eyes flashed an intense, almost-blinding gold.

-XXX-

As Coach Tetslaff's piercing whistle sounded – which was such a cliché in Danny's mind, the fact that she had a stupid whistle – the two dodgeball teams tensed in anticipation. For better or worse, Danny was pitted against Dash.

Danny braced himself. As he could've predicted, not only was Dash the captain of the enemy team, but he had swiftly developed a strategy. And passed along that same tactic to his team. And the strategy was: attack Danny Fenton.

Danny would be out of luck on a good day, but today was not a good day.

Not only was he hurting physically – and feeling more and more off with each passing minute – but he was also still seething at Dash.

Who did he think he was, anyway?

Then as a sweat-soaked, faded red ball hurtled toward him, Danny tried to twist out of the way—

And the pain prickled, red-hot, down his back. It was like accidentally touching a burning pan on the stove, and Danny wanted to jump away with the same burst of shock. But somehow, he managed to avoid the ball…for now.

He was getting more and more distracted, though.

Because this strange thing kept happening with his eyes: Danny's vision kept changing every time he blinked.

Blink, and his eyesight was normal. There was Dash, signaling him out with a juvenile, mob-boss-esque point of his finger.

(Oh good, I'm still his favorite.)

Then blink, and his eyesight swam as everything was oddly sharp.

Then blink, and it was his regular 20/20 vision, which he'd always been proud of – especially since it was useful for a place like NASA.

But another blink, and everything was ten times clearer, and then suddenly closer, before zooming out farther away.

Good lord, Danny's eyesight swam. It was like an amateur filmmaker had hijacked the reins to his vision, focusing in on the texture of the dodgeball, then zooming out to the ceiling rafters – What was all that dust doing there? – and back out again before honing in on every pore on Dash's face.

That last image made him feel better; at least Dash wasn't immune to blackheads.

With all that happening, it was no wonder that Danny felt like he was going to throw up on the wooden floor. And it was no wonder that a red-colored ball hit him, finally.

But at the exact same time that the rubbery texture of the ball made contact with Danny's skin, something else happened.

Wes Weston, who was nearby, and on Danny's own team, for God's sake, deliberately tripped him.

"Foul!" Coach Tetslaff blared her whistle before bellowing. "Just what do you think you're doing?! That's your teammate, Weston, for fu—! He was out! You're benched." The burly gym coach then turned her attention to Danny.

"Fenton! Join Weston on the bleachers. Sanchez! Switch teams to even things out," Tetslaff ordered.

"But I can't be on the losing team!" Paulina Sanchez, the resident popular freshman princess, emitted a high-pitched whimper. "It's bad for my complexion," she added in a slight accent, batting her eyelashes.

"Sanchez. Don't make me lose my patience. Fenton, you too. Bleachers, now!" Coach Tetslaff growled.

Danny shrugged. He really couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth…or whatever expression his dad usually said that involved equestrians. (Something about always wanting a pony but not getting a pony? Oh well.) Basically, any ticket out of dodgeball – even momentarily – was a gift.

And this way, Danny could pester Wes a little.

After all, he was looking at Danny as if he'd seen a ghost.