Say hello to the deuteragonist everybody! :)

If memory serves I worked on the majority of this sequel during NaNoWriMo, which means a lot of writing by the seat of my pants with the intention of sorting out the B-plot stuff later. Guess what never happened! So there's the beginning of some threads in this chapter that aren't going to be resolved, specifically how Amity Park handled ghost attacks without Phantom, the fallout of Vlad's nefarious plots, and what Valerie's deal is. Honestly this chapter is where the story begins to fray, though it'll become far more apparent in a couple chapters. Still, I hope you all continue to enjoy what there is of it all! Your reviews have been so incredible. You're all great. 3


It's a cold night, frost bleaching dark stretches of lawns and parks white and crisping. There's a high chance of snow this week too, and with how the wind whips through her armor like a cold knife scraped across bare skin Valerie's keen to believe it. She doesn't mind though. There's nowhere else she'd rather be than up here where the air thins and the city twinkles far below. She can stay out as late as she likes tonight too, since tomorrow's Saturday. Even if she did have school tomorrow it's not as if she's got a curfew she needs to worry about. Her daddy's worked night shifts so long he'd never know if she came home at six p.m. or a.m. She can't remember the last time they ate a meal together, the last time they had a real conversation. He's always so tired nowadays. She doesn't want to bother him.

Only a few months left until graduation. Then she can kiss her dead-end job goodbye and tell her daddy the truth. About Mr. Masters and her ghost hunting, about all the money she's saved up. Her paychecks from the Nasty Burger have helped with the bills, sure, but even that's just been breaking even. As soon as she's graduated—well, she'd wanted to quit as soon as she turned eighteen, but Mr. Masters convinced her to at least earn her GED—she'll move her daddy out of that dump of an apartment and into a house of his own again. A nice one, with a big backyard and a shed he can putter around in, and she'll fill it up with all the nice things they'd had to sell after he lost his old job and everything fell apart. Once she graduated she'll work for Mr. Masters full-time. Only a few more months until she won't have to hide anymore.

In the meantime? The night is young, and there are ghosts to hunt.

Her mouth twists with disdain. Ghosts to hunt? Guppies, maybe. The biggest she's seen in the last month was a paltry three on the GIW's threat scale, and that was only that stupid mutt Cujo. Manson had intervened when she'd tried to put it down for good, as per usual. One of these days she'll get even with that damn dog. In the meantime, all she can do is zap the local pests too weak to put up a satisfying fight. All the big ones that used to be worth fighting have all got clearance to travel in and out of Amity Park, or are locked up somewhere, or are licking their wounds in the Ghost Zone. Hunting may be the best thing she's ever done with her life, but it's almost gotten boring—

Her scanner pings. It pings big. A seven easy, maybe even a smoldering eight, lurking near Casper High. If Desiree weren't currently doing time in Walker's prison, Valerie would almost think the wishing ghost had learned how to read minds. Still, not like she's going to complain. A level seven. There hasn't been a ghost that strong in Amity Park in ages.

She picks up speed, expecting to see the light show before the ghoul. Malevolent fire staining the night sky evil shades of red, the football field a smoking crater, the school so much rubble. She expects to see the silhouette of something vast and jagged, something with claws that brush the stars and teeth like scimitars. She's itching for a fight that will prove once and for all that what she's doing out here is worth the misery of her daylight hours.

But there's nothing there.

She hovers a scant fifty feet above the chain link fence marking the edge of the school grounds. She can see the football field, the red rubber track, the baseball diamond, the tennis courts. There are a few squares of light burning light in the main school building; nondescript fluorescents that teachers or janitors forgot to turn off. Everything is as it should be at this hour; dark, quiet, and calm.

She almost misses the ghost floating above the goalpost.

It's small, human-sized and human-shaped—if she ignores the eerie ribbon of its tail, anyway. It glows like a lantern in the otherwise dark field. Her visor stains its colors red, but she's learned to pick out the variations over the years. This ghost is a binary of snow whites and pale greens, and all the more unearthly for it. From even this distance she can pick out the flicker of ethereal fire atop its head.

She swoops closer, still keeping high in case it's feeling frisky, yet even with her V-board in stealth mode the ghost glares at her. A zoom of her visual feed brings its face into stark, crimson clarity. As she expected from its level it straddles the line between humanoid and monstrous, unable to make up its mind which one it might prefer. Ghosts like that are all the more dangerous in their confusion, eager to take out their frustration on human bystanders. Oh yeah, this one's going to be fun.

She circles above the ghost, coming closer with each tight loop. She's in no hurry to antagonize the thing, not without an idea of what it might be capable of. It might even be halfway intelligent, seeing as how it hasn't charged her yet. She might get lucky tonight. She might just be able to coax it back to the Ghost Zone without any property damage at all.

Yeah, sure. With her luck? She shakes her head, rolling her shoulders in anticipation. She's got to be careful now, no sudden movements. Let it make the first move.

The ghost looks away—uninterested? Unimpressed?—and goes back to...

Doing a handstand on the goalpost.

It's. Doing a handstand. On the goalpost?

If she wasn't wearing her suit at the moment Valerie would pinch herself, because seriously. What? This level seven, maybe level eight ghost, this nightmare creature that looks like something a kid might describe as the monster hiding under their bed, is doing a bit of gymnastics. What's its game?

Maybe it's trying to throw her off. Then, when she's not expecting it, it'll go for the kill. It's certainly toothy enough to be that cunning and cruel. She stays put high above it, preferring to let it at least think it's going to have the first move. She tamps down the urge to strike first, to keep her weapons out of sight. Pink light still sparkles at her fingertips. She has to hope she's far enough away that it won't notice how eager she is.

Its tail flaps and flutters, then splits down the middle. With a flicker of diffuse light at its waist it sprouts legs, scarecrow-skinny and ending in fierce-looking hooks. Its hands, too, have something seriously sharp going on with them, though it still manages a tight grip on the metal bar as it walks hand over hand to the far side. Its legs sway as if it needs to fight for balance, as if gravity could even affect it if it slipped.

The ghost walks upside-down there and back again, then in a practiced motion twists so that its handstand is parallel to the bar. It stays there for a moment, motionless, then swings forward, spinning once—twice—three times—the entire goal post shaking with its exertion. It catches itself upside down again, its arms shaking as if it can actually feel the strain of muscle failure.

This surreal show is what her life has come to. What a night.

"You just gonna watch or are you gonna toss a few quarters down?" The ghost's voice is hoarse, lacking any real ire. Valerie blinks. She hadn't actually expected it to talk without prompting.

"Depends," she shouts down. "You just bored or looking to join the circus?"

The ghost laughs, two bright bursts of noise that echo across the field and set her teeth on edge. It lets go of the bar, free-floats in a lazy half-circle so it can crouch on all fours and crane its muzzle up at her. "Oh man, no," it chuckles. "I did my time in the circus. I'm good."

Another surprise. The ghost's got jokes. With the way it looks she was expecting a lot of snarling and gnashing of teeth, maybe a death threat if it happened to feel particularly inspired. "Sorry, but I left my wallet in my other suit."

"Shame." Its toothy mug quirks like its got something to be smug about. "And I was all set to put on a show for the famous Valerie Gray."

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, I can't say I'm happy to hear how far my name's traveled through the Ghost Zone. I wear the helmet for a reason."

"I thought it was to protect those fragile human brains of yours." It grins widely. Eesh. She's got her feed zoomed in far enough to see its got far too many rows of teeth for comfort. She can pick out the huge fangs stretching his humanoid face into a skinned, hyena-like muzzle; smaller, squarer teeth behind them in two crooked rows; and bristling among the lot are the needle-thin fangs of some deep sea fish. It ought to chew its own tongue off just talking. That's ghosts for you though.

She rolls her eyes, plays it cool. "Funny."

"I try." It readjusts, plopping its skinny butt on the bar and letting its legs dangle. Seems it's committed to trying to put her at ease. "I'm afraid I can't speak for what's said on the spectral grapevine. I haven't been through the Ghost Zone in years."

"Yeah? Then you must have a really good hidey hole, 'cuz I've never seen you before."

Its bat-like ears twitch. "You sure about that?"

"Trust me," she says. "I'd remember seeing something like you creeping around."

It blanches, but a second later its face has smoothed again. Pretending she hadn't struck a nerve. So it's got vanity issues? Good to know.

The ghost shrugs, sinks into a languorous heap, stretching like a satisfied cat in a sunbeam. Even its legs melt away, the long white tail curling 'round and 'round the bar he balances easily on, almost hypnotically. Its a boneless creature, literally, but it moves in serpentine coils when it isn't hard angles. It moves like something with twice as many bones as it pretends to have. "What can I say? I've had some work done."

"Must've been some face lift," she deadpans. That earns her another staccato burst of laughter, too loud, too shrill. It laughs like a parrot mimicking humor it doesn't wholly understand.

When it's finished it asks, "Why haven't you attacked me yet?"

"Because you haven't done anything to make me think that'd be the right thing to do. Least, not yet."

"Huh."

She huffs. She's heard that kind of huh before, in and out of classrooms, in and out of her hunting suit. Judgmental little shit. "Did you want to start something, ghost?"

This time when it laughs it almost sounds honest, softer in its disbelief. "I'm really out of touch with the spectral grapevine if the infamous Valerie Gray doesn't shoot first and ask questions never nowadays."

Yeah, yeah. Like she hasn't gotten ribbed by plenty of others for being dead last—ah-hyuck hyuck yuck—to sign the treaty. "You seem to know an awful lot about me. I'm not sure I like that."

"Easy, now. I'm not stalking you or anything. I really did just get back to town, scout's honor."

Back to town. Not here for the first time, but back. This ghost doesn't look like any she's gone toe to toe with in the past, but then again some ghosts change their appearances like she changes clothes. The core of them, their obsessive, obnoxious, overwhelming shtick though; that doesn't change. At the end of the day ghosts can't change what they are. Monsters to the last. But she doesn't recognize this one based on that premise either. Truth be told she's hardly held conversations with ghosts that often. A handful of times at most, and reluctantly at that. Should that narrow it down? Should she be relieved that it doesn't?

She chooses to keep playing it safe. Pick the creepy little thing's brain a little. "Guess you must be out of the loop on how a lot of things work around here these days."

It grimaces. At least, she thinks it does. Its skeletal face doesn't do well with subtlety. "I... I heard the humans who made the Portal are interested in playing nicer."

That makes her grimace, and she's glad her visor's dark enough the ghost isn't likely to notice. "Don't talk to me about the Fentons."

It jerks back a little, surprised. "Well. Guess I touched a nerve there. Mind if I ask?"

Permission. It's asking permission? What is this thing's deal? "The only reason we've got a ghost problem in Amity Park at all is because of those kooks. They should've been locked up years ago for endangering so many people. The attacks, the damages, lawsuits, the injuries; and that's nothing to say for the long-term effects of exposure to ectoplasm!"

It grins crookedly at her. "Hey, what's wrong with ectoplasm?"

"Nobody knows," she retorts. "No one's been inundated with the levels we get here, let alone for as long as it's gone on. Raw ectoplasm alone can kill a guy if he's in the wrong place at the wrong time. I've seen it happen. Then there's all the wild things some of these ghosts that come traipsing through here are capable of. At the rate we're going we're all probably going to die of some really twisted cancer in ten years if we're lucky."

It's definitely not subtle about how unimpressed it is. What a little shit. "Uh-huh. So what you're saying is, you're some kinda environmentalist?"

"Please. I just want their damn Portal taken out of their hands and into someone more trustworthy. But the Fentons made a deal with some government agency so it's all smooth sailing for them—"

Well. Well.

"—I mean," she falters, and curses inwardly for that. Never show weakness to a ghost! "The Fentons and I used to see pretty eye-to-eye on the important things, up until their son went missing. After that they pulled a one-eighty. Now they're too scared to do more than slap a few wrists and hand the real nasty ghosts over to Walker."

"So you want to hand their Portal over to 'someone more trustworthy.' Guess that means Vlad Masters, huh."

"Of course." She floats a little closer, daring to hover over him directly. Fifteen feet is still plenty of space, if she needs it. "Working for Mister Masters has been the best decision I coulda done with my life. He's a good man and a brilliant scientist. Amity Park would be a whole lot safer if he were controlling the one reliable way in and out of the Ghost Zone."

"Damn," the ghost sighs. "And here I figured—"

"You figured what?" She growls dangerously. Do it, freak. Say one bad thing about Mr. Masters. That'd be enough for her.

It sits up quickly, holding out its hands. "Never mind. Not my place to say, I guess. Sorry."

She blinks.

Did it—

Did it really back down that easy?

"Huh," she says, and puts a smile into her voice since her visor's obscuring the real thing. "Smart for a ghost, aren't you?"

Its grin is practically playful, all those teeth aside. "I've been known to rub a couple of brain cells together now and then."

She leans back on rear heel, lets her board drift down until she's level with it. Still far enough away to get the first shot off though, if it chooses to get bite-y. But the longer she talks to it, the less she finds that likely. This level seven, potentially a weak eight, has sat and talked with her of its own free will. Even knowing who she is, it's joked with her. It's been friendly, and though she's loath to admit it, friendliness from any corner has been hard to come by for—well. A long time.

She takes a better look at it, a proper look. Past the snow white memory of clothes and hair. Past the mockery of a skeleton, as hunched and wrong-angled as Wulf's. The predatory claws and teeth, the batlike ears and nose, the empty sockets where eyes should glow. She's been thinking of it as an it, but ghosts are no good at subtlety. The broad shoulders, flat chest and skinny waist, and the comparative deepness to its voice are all cues that it's less of an it and more of a he.

"What's your name?" She asks.

Its—his—long ears lay flat against his head. "You... seriously?"

"I don't got all night, ghost," she teases, and marvels at herself for that. The ghost, too, seems to realize how rare an interaction this must be. Is he really so out of the loop as he's pretending?

"You can call me Dee," he replies, and something in his voice is softer than before. He sounds the age he might have been, once upon a time.

"You sure this isn't your first time on this side of the Portal? That's not even a little intimidating."

"What makes you think I want to intimidate you?"

She snorts. "You look in a mirror lately?"

In one eerily fluid motion, in one blink of her eyes, the ghost uncoils from the goalpost and closes the distance between them. Too close. Way too close. Its long, long arms hover around her loosely, its long, long claws surely only inches from her shoulder blades. No time. There'd been no time to react at all. Now she's stuck. Trapped. This close, he could gut her in one blow. This close, he could make her suffering last.

He rasps, "How do you fight ghosts?"

"Wh-what?" Damn it, don't show fear! Don't ever show fear! She clenches her fists, feels the soothing prickle of energy begin to race under her skin. "I don't start the fights," she growls out, and with most ghosts she'd leave it at that. There's one or two exceptions, sure, but somehow one conversation has been enough to add this one to the list. It sticks like glass in her throat, but she says it anyway. "Not anymore."

"But you finish them."

"I protect this city! I protect the people who live here. I do what it takes to keep the evil leaking out of the damn Fentons' Portal at bay, what nobody else has the guts anymore to do! Mister Masters—"

"—has been good to you," he finishes smoothly.

"You—!"

He backs off.

Not far. Not half as far as she'd prefer. But he lowers his claws, gives her space to breathe. "Don't defend yourself to the likes of me. What do I know? I'm just some evil thing you'll hand over to Vlad if I try to bite the hand that's feeding me. Right?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," she snarls.

"Tell me I'm wrong then." His skeletal grin turns menacing. Is she imagining it or are there even more teeth jammed into his snout now? "One little ghost did your dad wrong, so now every single ghost you come across has gotta pay?"

She gapes. "How did you—?" No, never mind. That's not important. Be angry. Be righteous. "How dare you!"

Dee leans in again, waggles his claws like he's not impressed by the crown of pink energy sparking silently above her head. "You never got even with Phantom before he vanished, so now you take out all your senseless aggression on ghosts just trying to blow off a little steam. And let me guess, when good old Vladdie asks you to deliver a particularly nasty ghost, you oblige without asking any questions. Right?"

When she eases her board back to gain even a few inches of distance, Dee follows. He still hasn't done more than the typical scare tactic, the kind of shit that from any other ghost—from any ghost she knew—would just make her roll her eyes. But she doesn't know this ghost. He's faster than her. He's got a grudge against Mr. Masters. Is that enough? Does she want to escalate this? Her scanner's not wrong. Dee is a strong level seven, maybe even a smoldering eight. If she starts this, she's sure she can finish it. But she might see the skyline burn for it.

"Mister Masters studies ghosts," she says tightly. "To find your weaknesses, to stop you from hurting humans—"

Dee stretches, bonelessly bridging the gap between them until his snout is so close a mimicry of breath fogs across her visor. What little expression his face can muster twists into something bitter she can't name. "Vlad's a monster," he hisses. "No better than I am."

That's enough.

A flicker of thought is all it takes to call a trio of power cubes above her shoulders. She fires before he can move, demanding as much output as they can muster. The cubes are little more than popguns to anything above a five, but he's still a small and crooked creature. It's enough to shock him, a warning shot to back off. That's all she meant it to be. Use the cubes as a distraction, gain enough distance to pull out something he'll have to take seriously, then figure out what actions he's thinking of taking against Mr. Masters. Easy.

But the ghost cries out, recoils like she hit something vital, and plummets like a sack of bricks to the AstroTurf below. She's left staring down at the bright light of him a dozen feet below, blinking stupidly at the slivers of white light flickering around his fetal shape.

That shouldn't have happened.

Despite his size he's some kind of monster, cut from the same cloth as any other burning shape that's tried to raze Amity Park to the ground. Her scanner isn't wrong. Valerie freezes, as stunned as she'd been the first time she'd really put the hurt into a ghost. Hurt, she thinks scathingly. As if they can actually feel pain. It's a trick. Of course it's a trick. That's all ghosts are good for. She thought he'd be a little smarter than to try something so obvious on her.

"Nice try," she snarls down at him. "But I've babysat kindergartners who put on a better act than this."

The flickering fades out. He'd sprouted legs again, somewhere between the falling and the landing. He stays where he is, curling up with his knees tucked up tight and his claws shielding his head. "I wasn't going to attack you," he replies dully, his hoarse voice muffled. She can barely hear the otherworldly echo to it.

What a drama queen.

She swoops down, dismisses her board to drop lightly a few feet away from him. "You must think I'm an idiot," she says coldly. "I've never seen you before. I don't know what your game is. For all I know you're planning world domination. Do you really think trying to guilt me into feeling sorry for you is gonna work? That was a warning shot."

"...I didn't expect it."

She scoffs. "I wasn't exactly trying to be subtle about it.

Dee slams one fist against the turf, green embers burning in his aura. "I'm BLIND."

"Wh—"

How was she supposed to know? She's never—he hadn't even done anything yet—

Stop. Don't show weakness to a ghost. It's a trick. It's a lie. That's what they do.

She banishes her visor with a frustrated snarl, stomps forward to kick him hard in the shoulder and press her boot into his chest so he stays down. He growls at her, an inhuman noise that starts out a low rumble in his chest and ends in a hiss like pissed off cat. But he doesn't try to shove her off, doesn't try to make her bleed. He's got the strength to put a crater in the turf without even trying and still he lets her.

There are only empty sockets where eyes should glow, true, but logical anatomy doesn't apply to ghosts. It doesn't. Her visor had saturated the sockets a deep red before. In the pale light of his aura they look a raw, slippery shade of pink that makes her think of raw chicken. She's seen plenty of ghosts without eyes before. This doesn't mean anything. She waves her hand in front of his face, waggles her fingers, flips him off. No reaction.

"Are you done?" He demands.

She jumps back, summoning a short-barreled rifle in a bright flash of crimson and pink. His ears flick at the sound, but he remains sprawled where she kicked him.

"I'm gonna take a guess you've got something fun pointed at me," he sighs. "I'm also gonna guess you're looking at me with some kind of horrified and/or conflicted expression. I mean, you're not attacking me, sure, but you're not saying anything either. You're holding your breath right now. Please feel free to correct me here. I'm not working with all the context clues I used to have, and I'd appreciate not getting shot tonight."

"You—" She swallows to get the damn shake out of her voice. "You're really blind."

"I wasn't exactly trying to be subtle about it."

She opens her mouth to spit out something mean-spirited and defensive, but—hesitates. She lowers the gun. No way she's dumb enough to keep talking to him unarmed. "Okay. I deserved that."

"You sure did."

"I... I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You were just doing your job, right?"

"Don't—!" She stops again, swallows down her anger. It's not righteous now. It's just petty. "I don't need you to make excuses for me. I said I'm sorry and I mean it."

"It'll take more than that to hurt me. I just..." He chuckles softly. "I just wasn't expecting it. Should've known better. If I stand up are you gonna shoot me again?"

"Probably not." She puts a smile in her voice and hopes he believes it.

He floats to his feet, dusting himself off. "Valerie, I—I'm sorry too. For—well." He shrugs. "I'll get out of your hair. No attempts at world domination for me tonight. Pinkie promise."

She eyes his claws warily. "You can keep your pinkies to yourself, ghost."

He holds out his hand as green energy fizzes down his arm. She tenses, expecting an attack at last, but when the smoke clears the long claws and stubby paw have melted away. In their place is a mannequin's hand, shiny and stiff. "Best I can do," he says. "How 'bout we shake on a truce?"

"I..."

She's out of her depths on this one. She's only ever worked with two ghosts before, and those few times were disasters anyway. He could spring-load those claws clean through her arm if he wanted to. Or he could be offering an olive branch because sheer power aside, he knows he's got the disadvantage in any fight they might get into.

"Okay," she says, and takes his poor attempt at a human hand in hers. He jerks back a little, but the corners of his muzzle curl in a delighted smile. "Okay, Dee. I'm gonna give trusting you a shot. Don't make me regret it."

"No promises," he says, and vanishes from her sight and scanner both.