UPDATE 9/20/2014: THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS ARE NOW COMBINED AND UPDATED. THIS IS WHY THE CHAPTER COUNT HAS CHANGED!

Thank you for your patience!

Epíphantos

Chapter Three:

Rationed Awareness

It was the stricken look on Sam's face that sent Tucker running to her. She had seen it herself in the mirror that morning as she'd readied herself: violet eyes glassy, her face an ashen white. Unable to find her brush, she'd simply pulled her shoulder-length hair into a messy tail at the back of her head. She also hadn't slept a wink since her fateful encounter with the infamous Phantom that night. As soon as her bedside clock had reached an acceptable hour, she'd dashed out of her apartment, ignoring her mother's side remarks about her appearance. She needed to find Tucker.

Upon reaching the cafeteria, she'd seen him instantly. He'd been grimacing at the meager amount of food on his plate, making his away over to the table he and Sam had recognized as theirs—the one at the very back corner of the cafeteria. He'd looked up and noticed her, a smile barely touching his lips before a frown suddenly set in. He furrowed his brows in worry, abandoning his plate at the table and made a beeline across the room to meet her.

"Sam!" he exclaimed as he reached her. He grabbed her shoulders roughly, effectively and abruptly stilling her. "What happened to you? Are you alright?" His voice had risen, panic evident as he evaluated her.

Unable to formulate an intelligible response, Sam merely shook her head rapidly. Really, what could she say? How does one begin to describe the events that had transpired when she herself could barely understand it? The words evaded her completely. "I met him, Tucker."

"Who?" he asked, clearly confused. People around them began to stare, curious as to what had overcome the Warrior girl and her Inventor friend. Whispers surrounded them. Tucker looked around briefly, slightly annoyed, before he leaned in closer, his lips almost at her ear. In a lower voice he asked her, "Who, Sam? Who did you meet?"

Sam ducked her chin to her chest, shaking her head. She struggled again to find the words. "The goggles, Tucker. They work. And I met him. I met him."

Tucker's grip on her shoulders tightened into iron fists, twisting the fabric of her shirt. "Sam, what are you talking about?"

"Phantom. I met Phantom. Last night. I—went out. And I met him. He's here—in Amity."

Tucker's eyes had widened and his jaw had dropped. Suddenly he was dragging her towards the exit of the cafeteria, pulling her roughly along the blank corridors of the Compound. "We need to find the Fentons immediately," he shouted at her.

Once the pair reached the lab, Tucker threw the doors open and barged in furiously. Even though it was Sunday, the day that was dignified as the supposed "day of rest," the Fentons could still be found diligently working away in their lab. And today had been no exception. Once the doors had swung open, Maddie Fenton, startled, looked up immediately from the wires she had been soldering with Jack hovering over her shoulder. It had taken the briefest of moments for her to evaluate the expressions on their faces before she was barreling towards them, her maternal instincts hitting overdrive.

"What's wrong?" she asked seriously, pulling out chairs and nearly forcing them to sit. Jack joined them, dark brows set in worry. Seeing Sam's face, Maddie's hands were at her cheeks, coaxing Sam too look up and meet her eyes. "Sam, dear," she tried again, "can you please tell me what is going on. Are you alright?"

Tucker jumped in for her. "She encountered Phantom last night, Mrs. Fenton. She's an idiot." He was scowling, utterly furious. "Went and used those goggles last night. Guess they work, huh, Sam?"

Sam was shaking her head despite Maddie's grip. Shame settled heavily on her shoulders as Maddie's expression hardened at Tucker's words.

"Sam," she said. "Is this true?"

"Yes." She looked away from Maddie's scrutiny, staring instead at her shoes.

Tucker's voice rose again. "She's lucky to be freaking alive!"

"Tucker," Maddie scolded, just as Jack had suddenly grabbed the nearest weapon and charged it to life. "Jack," she amended, just as irritable. She turned to glare at her husband.

Jack's eyebrows rose in confusion. "What? Let's waste that disgusting ecto-spook." He raised the weapon, imitating an overzealous battle stance with his face scrunched in anger. "Nobody touches our Sammy and gets away with it, even if it is that molecular failure, Phantom." He swung the weapon in his enthusiasm, causing his finger to slip and accidently depress the trigger, releasing a blast of energy that arced wildly about the lab before fizzling out in a shower of green sparks.

"Jack!" Maddie exclaimed in horror. "Put that thing away!"

But it was too late.

The room erupted into a chaos of noise and flashes of light as the lab reacted to the ectoplasmic charge of the weapon. Safety alarms blared to life, drowning out Maddie's frustrated curses at her husband. Jack struggled to reach the cancel switch on the wall before him, but tripped over one of the lab chairs in his path and fell abruptly to the floor. The weapon he held fell from his hands as well, clattering across the linoleum, but not before releasing yet another powerful blast of light.

The chaos ended when a fist suddenly slammed against the override switch, causing the room to fall into a heavy silence. Jazz Fenton stood with her sea-green eyes wide, taking in the situation before her. "What is going on here?" she shouted at them, utterly incredulous. She stormed over to her father and helped him to his feet, then reached for the large ectoblaster that had started it all, angrily switching off the power and reactivating the safety. Finally, she approached Sam and Maddie, her gaze flitting between the two of them in concern. "Is everything okay? What happened?"

Sam found herself swallowing as everyone's eyes were suddenly focused on her. She turned, letting her eyes meet Jazz's, and understanding instantaneously flashed between them. Jazz nodded once, imperceptibly, before she turned to her parents.

"Mom, dad," she said, addressing them in voice that one would usually address a child with. "I don't know what's going on here, but you're obviously making Sam uncomfortable. How about we all pull out some chairs and talk about this as respectful and rational adults."

Jazz took the lead, redirecting everyone so they were all comfortably sitting adjacent to each other, a shape that was near ovular. Her composure seemed to imprint itself onto her parents as they, too, visibly relaxed, despite the anxiety that still lingered like a storm cloud over the impending conversation.

When everyone was seated, Jazz also took her seat next to Sam. With one leg crossed over the other, she took a moment to unleash her steady gaze on each person in their circle, meeting their eyes briefly. Finally, with a silence that saturated the air like poison, she took a deep, calming breath.

Jazzmyn Fenton had always been a sort of enigma. Schooled under her parents and then furthering her education in the psychological sciences, she was every bit the Fenton brain as her parents were. With long, auburn hair that fell to her waist and the seaside eyes she shared with her mother, she was the epitome of elegance. Of serenity. She was beautiful, a feat that was not hindered by the deep, garish scar tissue that distorted the left side of her face and neck. The scars merely served as reminder of her survival, that she was the only living Fenton child, and thus the pride and joy of her mother and father.

The look in her eyes that fluctuated between each member of their party was a look that belonged someone much older that her years of twenty-two. Having witnessed the death of her twin siblings as a child, she'd promptly planted her roots in psychology, determined to understand the demons of her memories and help others overcome theirs as well. It was for this reason that Sam was so well acquainted with her, as she'd spent much of her youth in Jazz's company.

The two girls shared another empathizing look, Jazz taking note of Sam's small smile of gratitude. The slightest of smiles tugged at the corners of the older girl's mouth before she again set her attention on the group before her.

"Now," she said in a voice as calm as her demeanor. "Can someone please tell me—calmly"—she snapped as Tucker, still visibly furious, stood up abruptly to interrupt her—"what happened?" Her gaze was cool and emotionless on him until he sat back down with a huff. If Jazz was triumphant about their battle wills, she didn't show it.

Sam did her best to imitate Jazz's composure, drawing herself together in order to hold her head high. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath as Jazz had moments before.

When she spoke she stared at her shoes. "Last night I left the Compound. I wanted to try out the goggles Mrs. Fenton gave me…I now know why there are no ghosts in the central part of the city . . ." It had only been hours since the fateful encounter, though her memories seemed distant—almost otherworldly in essence, and dreamlike. Her hand lightly touched her sore forearm where he'd grabbed her, eyes slipping higher to trace the dark bruises that wrapped vicelike around her arm.

Finally, she said, "Amity has been claimed by Phantom."

The only indication of Jazz's surprise at Sam's words was an abrupt arch of her eyebrows, eyes slightly widening as she processed the information. She considered it momentarily, before nodding once. She was about to speak when her mother abruptly interrupted her.

"Did it hurt you, honey?" Maddie asked, worry pinching her brows together. She leaned forward in her chair, wanting to take the Warrior girl in her arms as she would her own daughter. Ghosts were dangerous creatures, after all.

Sam shook her head. "The goggles rendered his existence perfectly. It startled him though and he challenged me. I fired a shot at him but it didn't do anything—I don't even think he was affected by it!"

Maddie frowned at this, glancing over her shoulder to her husband who was glaring at the floor. She bit her lip in thought. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Our weapons are only equipped to handle ghosts that range at about four or five on the ecto-scale. Phantom was well into the seven range the last time we got a reading on it."

"Wasn't that the only time Phantom was ever seen?" Tucker questioned. "Or at least one of the few?"

Maddie nodded. "Phantom is a very recent addition to our archives. Very allusive, usually nondestructive, but extremely powerful. The only documented sighting in our world was during the whole Guys in White fiasco. And even then we're still not sure what exactly happened. Aside from that, the only information we have on it are rumors our subjects have dispelled."

Sam shuddered at Maddie's casual use of the word "subjects." Not many ghosts that invaded the human world retained the ability to verbally communicate on a level humans could understand. Most were odd reincarnations of human emotion, ravaging and attacking anything still living, lusting for the kill. There were a few, however, with cores that were much different and stronger than the aggressive wisps, ones that were able to communicate. Some had even been able to rationalize.

It was these ghosts that Maddie based her studies on. After their capture they would begin to speak, begging mercilessly to be set free. Many spoke of terror in their world, of more death and repression, and wanting to escape. But in the end, no ghosts could be trusted, and after their experimentation was over their cores were harvested and used for the ecto-devices Jack developed. The ghosts that were harvested usually ranged within the class three through five areas, which is why most ectoplasmic-based weapons were only effective on ghosts under or around the same level.

Sam tried not to shudder under the implications, but couldn't help herself. She hated ghosts—they all did—but there was something utterly wrong about having to listen to a creature, even if it was a ghost, beg for its life mingled within its cries of pain and suffering. She couldn't help but wonder why a ghost would beg for life if it was already dead in the first place. Ghosts couldn't feel pain, as they did not possess nervous systems, musculature, or any of the anatomical requirements to do so. At least that's when she'd always been told.

Lost in her thoughts, Sam didn't notice when Maddie had asked her another question. It was when all eyes were on her and Tucker's exasperated exclamation of "Sam!" that startled her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Maddie's worried expression.

"Sam, dear, are you alright?" she asked. "I asked what happened to you out there. How did you escape Phantom? Did it attack you?"

Sam released a breath of air that lingered heavy in her lungs. "He did at first—"

"That's it, I've had!" Jack interjected loudly, jumping from his seat. "It's time we take the fight to the enemy! No use lying around like smoked sausages! I—"

"Dad! Would you shut the hell up and let Sam talk!" Jazz snapped, the first breach of her professionalism. Jack fell to his seat, grumbling obscenities, with heavy arms that folded themselves across his chest. After he was seated, Jazz sniffed and returned her gaze expectantly to Sam.

Sam found it hard to meet anyone's gaze, but was too proud to continue staring at her shoes like a shamefaced child. Instead she focused her gaze behind Maddie on the photograph of the deceased Fenton children, finding comfort in the blueness of their eyes.

It was then that Sam was finally able to relate to them what truly happened between her and Phantom. As she spoke, she would often notice the widening of eyes and the startled gasp. Intelligible exclamations and murmurs that she couldn't quite catch. She told them the gist of it, an unemotional rendering of the events that transpired.

She had skipped over the eerie and compassionate glint that had been in Phantom's eyes, the intense curiosity that existed between the pair as they regarded each other in the darkness of night, illuminated by the spherical ball of energy emanating from his palm. They were things she knew she should say, but had no idea how to go about saying them. Things that went against her morals as a Warrior and everything she stood for. They were forbidden truths that were meant to stay hidden.

So she buried them.

Finishing her tale, however, was met with absolute silence. Even Jazz's composure had waned slightly, the surprise dominating her face.

Maddie was rapidly shaking her head. "It let you go?" Her incredulity pitched her voice an octave higher than usual. She rose from her chair, walking—nearly sprinting—to her research desk, booting up files. She entered the archives, pulling up Phantom's file. The file was merely a paragraph long, sparse in its detail. There were a few lines of recorded sightings since the incident, though they were random and nonspecific. "It must have some sort of ulterior motive. There must be something it has to gain from not killing you. As glad as I am you're alive dear, but I just don't understand it." She was nearly hysterical as she read and reread the information before her.

Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The best way to unravel a Fenton was by disproving one of their genius "and meticulously thought out" theories.

"Who is Phantom, anyway?" Tucker suddenly asked.

Looking at the screen, Maddie said, "It says here that four years ago it was involved in a human and ghost skirmish at the old Guys in White facility in Wisconsin. Four operatives were killed, and the other ghosts involved escaped. Supposedly, Phantom was intent on removing captured specimens from their experimentation facility. It doesn't specify which ghosts, nor are there any details involving them. I suspect they were part of the same clan." Her eyes squinted as she focused on the numbers. "From what I can tell about Phantom's ectosignature reading, it was in the high sevens in terms of class at the time. Almost an eight."

Tucker's face was pinched in confusion. "The Guys in White? Who are they, anyway?"

"Some top secret ghost research organization that had been funded by the government at the time," Maddie said. "Supposedly disbanded after that. This is the last recorded documentation in their records."

Tucker scoffed. "What I don't understand is if there were no survivors, how was it even recorded in the first place?" Pushing the glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, his eyes met briefly met Sam's before looking away again to Maddie. "How is that even possible?"

Frowning, Maddie once again reread the information. It was when she glanced at the article's author that she gasped.

"What is it, mom?" Jazz asked, just as Tucker jumped up to join Maddie, reading the screen over her shoulder. Suddenly, he was gasping as well.

Sam shared a confused look with Jazz, as she too stood intent on seeing what all the commotion was about. She was halted, however, as her eyes met Tucker's steely gaze. His expression was grim.

"What?" Sam asked, slightly perturbed. Perhaps even a little nervous.

"Sam," Tucker began, "the only recorded survivor, the author of the article—is Vlad Masters."

XXX

The proceeding afternoon found Tucker walking Sam quietly to the cafeteria. Having missed breakfast, the pair was famished. The walk had been quiet and strained, each studiously avoiding the other. They walked through the line in the cafeteria, awaiting their portions in silence. It was when they were finally sitting at their familiar seats, trays of food before them, that Tucker finally broke the silence.

"I know you don't want to talk about this, Sam," he said, "but I think we should."

"I know," she replied quietly, nibbling at her salad. She hadn't said much earlier either, for once grateful for the Fentons' lack of attention spans. They'd barely allowed her to speak, intent on unraveling the mysteries of "ghost scum everywhere." Jazz wouldn't press her until Sam was willing to consult her on the matter. Tucker, however, was a completely different story.

She knew he was pissed at her. She could feel his resentment rolling off of him in waves of bitterness, filling his eyes when he glared at her. He was absolutely livid. And as much as she hated to admit it, he had every right to be. Her head was hung with shame, and she refused to meet his gaze.

"I thought you stopped going out there." His tone was harsh, but she knew she deserved it.

Sam merely shrugged. "I needed to breath."

"Needed to—" He was nearly growling now. "Sam. What the hell has gotten in to you? Do you have a fucking death wish?"

Sam cringed at his words, looking up to glare at him. "No!" she cried defensively.

He took a breath to calm himself, closing his eyes briefly to gather his thoughts. "I love you like a sister, Sam. And I care about you. But if you keep this up, I'm going to have no choice but to report you to Grey."

Sam gasped, air hissing through her teeth as she seethed. Damon Grey. Leader of the Resistance. Father of Valerie Grey. If she was to be reported for insubordination she would be pulled from her apprenticeship, forced to live the rest of her life on the sidelines and underground. It would be the end of her freedom.

"You wouldn't." Sam's tone was dangerous, betrayal dancing in her eyes. How dare he? He had no right to threaten her!

Tucker's expression softened slightly as he took her hand. She resisted the urge to yank it away from him. "Sam, I'm sorry. But I just don't want to see you wind up dead. You are very lucky Phantom didn't kill you last night. You're my best friend, and I don't know what I would do if anything happened to you. Someday we will be able to leave this place, but you just have to be patient. You will be able to go Out with the rest of the Warriors on their next mission. Just hold out till then."

Not really believing herself, Sam nodded once, holding his gaze to reassure him. No, she said with her eyes as she always did, I will never do it again—I promise.

That seemed to placate him as he was suddenly smiling at her. "After we eat how about a trip to arcade, eh?" He wiggled his eyebrows. When he spoke, he filled his voice with a deep bravado. "It's time for Goth Girl to get her ass whooped once more by the Almighty Technogeek!"

Sam nodded with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She returned to her salad, nibbling apprehensively as she mulled through her next line of action.

Tomorrow she would have a conversation with her mentor.

XXX

Later that night, after Sam plummeted into the warmth of her comforter, she began to dream.

There is fire everywhere. The undulations are irrepressible, fiery tongues licking and arcing madly. The flames are a bright green with deep hues of madness. People run screaming, many lay dead. Corpses burn, limp and smoking, each in various states of decomposition. The air is thick with calamity.

She tried to stop it. Somehow she did, though she can't remember how.

Ghosts are everywhere. Pariah Dark is at her heels. Laughter echoes, dripping with spite, and causing her skin to prickle with gooseflesh. She whips around, weapon poised as hate for the enemy runs like poison through her veins.

Suddenly, she screams.

Where Pariah Dark had been moments ago is Phantom, green ectoplasmic eyes dancing with rage as bright as the flames surrounding him.

Sam woke with a jolt. Shooting upright from her bed with her hands scrambling madly for her weapon, she then fell back to her pillow with a huff, the ectogun hugged firmly to her chest. She must have screamed, because she heard the frenzied bustling and bumping of her parents in the next room over. Groaning, she did her best to stifle the rapid beating of her heart. Her weapon was cold and metallic on her chest as she panted.

Her door burst open as Pamela Manson, in all her strawberry blonde glory, barged into the room. "Sammykins!" she exclaimed, falling to her knees at the girl's bed. She placed a hand on Sam's forehead, pushing away dark bangs and peering intently into her daugther's eyes. "Are you all right, dear? What's wrong? Mommy's here!"

Sam's father was leaning at the doorframe nursing a steaming cup of coffee. He looked in on the pair and sighed.

Sam bit her lip and turned away from her mother. She buried her ectogun deep into her blankets with her chin pressed hard on the barrel. With eyes squeezed shut, she tried her best to ignore her mother's hands butterflying over her face and shoulders.

"Sammy, look at me," Pamela said. Her voice was high pitched and grated Sam's ears as she spoke. Her pretty face was creased with worry as she glanced behind her to Jeremey, Sam's father, with her perfectly arched eyebrows high over widened blue eyes. He shrugged in response.

Annoyed, Sam pulled the blankets tighter over her frame and hid her face. "Go away," she growled.

Pamela released a defeated breath of air. "Oh Samantha," she said with her voice barely above a whisper.

Now, as Sam pulled the blankets back and peeked through her fingers at her mother's worried face, she saw an inkling of the former spark that had once been there. The war had affected the Manson family deeply. The loss of wealth and life pulled the sheen away from her mother's once-golden hair. Behind her, Sam saw the distorted gleam in her father's eye that had once been determination, but somehow deepened into a graveness that pulled his face taut and yellowed his teeth.

Once upon a time, in a world that resided atop, they'd been wealthy entrepreneurs, intent on industrializing Amity Park into a glory unfathomable to the surviving cities. They'd charmed and rallied many of Amity's citizens into expanding the city's borders, preserving and restoring the existing infrastructure. Together, their determination had revolutionized Amity into the capital of society, once again reigniting the war-torn citizens into the uncontainable flames they had once been.

Her parents had wanted nothing more than for her to follow in the carved path they'd created, even if it meant dragging her uphill through the footholds left in their wake.

And Sam had fought them the whole way.

Sam loved her parents, just as they loved her, but they would never understand her. Even now, as the war repressed Jeremy and Pamela into the poor mediocrity that was the rest the population, they focused too hard on her differences. Having been fiercely protective of her since she was young, they'd resented both her occupation and her attitude. But, in times like the present, they always found the need to comfort her from her night terrors—as they had since she was the little girl who had faced a monster and lived.

Sam found herself smiling wryly at the irony, just as her mother leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Go back to sleep, my little warrior," Pamela whispered. She then returned with Jeremy to their bedroom, humming to herself the song that had been a favorite of Sam's late grandmother.

XXX

The second time Sam woke that morning was to the intolerant wails of her alarm clock. After she silenced it with a heavy blow from the handle of the gun still cradled to her chest, she groaned and pulled herself to her feet. She showered quickly in freezing water, before lumbering grumpily through her apartment.

Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her head cradled between her hands. Seeing Sam, her head snapped up quickly revealing her cautious blue eyes. "Good morning, sunshine," she said tiredly.

Sam nodded her head once in acknowledgement. Her combat boots echoed on the linoleum of the kitchen floor as she stomped towards the fridge. Opening it, Sam pulled out a carton of soy milk and drank without pouring herself a glass.

Pamela grimaced, but said nothing. She watched her daughter, swallowing hard as the tension stifled her. The silence was pregnant with it, choking her and poisoning her coffee. She took a sip anyway.

Across the table from Pamela was Jeremy, who abruptly cleared his throat.

Sam shoved the carton back into the fridge, pivoting off her heel to send a vicious glare at her parents. She considered them with heavy brows before making her way to the door with loud footfalls. Reaching it, she looked over her shoulder and met her mother's eyes.

Pamela opened her mouth to speak, but the interjection of a door slamming interrupted her. The hefty blow of the door hitting the doorframe, jolting suddenly at the resistance, resonated deep into the confines of her heart—right where the misfortune had already left a scar.

Pamela cried.

XXX

The disorderly bustling of Compound inhabitants ambling through the corridors Monday morning brought with it a sense of normality. From previous lives came the fulfillment of the impending—as well as foreboding—workweek. Trying her best to keep her offending scowl to a minimum, Sam made her way through the tightly wound maze of grey halls and grey walls, packed to the brim with its equally grey inhabitants. In her hands she clutched a tray of steaming coffee cups.

People sidestepped around her, wary eyes trailing after her. It was an unspoken rule among them to avoid the glowering dark-haired Warrior girl at all costs. So they did. And Sam did her best to ignore the whispers that followed her. These people disgusted her anyway.

Biting her lip hard in an attempt to conceal her flaring temper, Sam shoved the door to the Fenton lab open with the toe of her boot. She didn't even try to plaster a smile on her face as she immediately began handing cups of hot coffee to the group of happy faces that had been awaiting her arrival. The grateful smiles did, however, improve her spirits somewhat. If only a little.

"Mornin', Sam!" Jack bellowed in his usual enthusiasm. He swung merrily on his office chair as he drank from his cup, which was a disastrous mix of dark coffee grounds and powered hot chocolate.

Sam nodded and dropped heavily into an empty chair next to Tucker. Across from her, Jazz raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Everything's great," Sam responded dryly. She then looked over at Maddie, and with a voice laced with the upmost seriousness she asked, "What do we have?"

Maddie nodded at once and pushed her wheeled chair into the direction of the supercomputer a few feet behind her. She briefly ran her fingers across the screen, bringing it to life in front of the four others seated before her. Her fingers were a blur as they flew across the screen, pulling up colorful tabs and charts teeming to the brim with scientific data. The corners of her mouth were pulled downwards, brows pinched together as she quickly skimmed the information in preparation for the debriefing.

"Ectoplasmic contamination remains at a steady influx. Though from what I can tell, it won't be much longer before there's more ectoplasm than air out there." Maddie enlarged the current tab of her interest. It was a jagged chart symbolizing environmental stability. Fed constantly—or as long as the current probes remained active—with live data, the jagged line encompassing the screen was slow in its impressions, but the line was nonetheless in its leisurely arc upwards.

Sam nodded briefly. "What's the ratio of organic life out there now?" she asked.

"You know that just as well as I do, Sam. Since the last batch of probes went down there's no way to tell the exact rating, but from what I can see with that straggler out there it's not good, I'm afraid." Maddie frowned. "The ectoplasmic radiation levels have been exponential. In recent numbers, all of Amity's current organic life has decreased to about twenty percent. Occasionally the probe picks up ambient body heat of small creatures—cats, mice, that sort of thing."

"What about the ghosts?" asked Jazz.

"Quiet as ever," Maddie responded. "I get a few readings here and there, but nothing too substantial. Then again, the receptors aren't equipped to overcome the contamination. I can barely tell the difference between dirt and spook."

Sam found herself chewing on her lower lip as she mulled over the information. Then again, she found herself doing this nearly every Monday after she made the habitual morning trek to the Fenton lab. It had become their routine, one that had set in merely a few months after the great defeat. First it had been a meeting of comfort and reconciliation. Now, it existed as a means of action and understanding. As a Warrior and closet environmental enthusiast, Sam found herself in need of scientific justification. It gave her the drive to fight, to overcome fears and face the monsters that stood before her. Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to her.

"What about when the goggles rendered Phantom's ectosignature?" she asked. "How was there not an initial spike in chart readings, especially since it completely fried my gear?"

The older woman shook her head. "I'm assuming it's because the probe was not in the area when you encountered Phantom."

Sam frowned, nonetheless peeved.

"Jack and I have made modifications to a new set of probes," Maddie said, pointing towards a corner of her lab where various metal exoskeletons resided with wired guts still protruding from them. "As I understand, Vlad and Damon intend to deploy a small Warrior unit into the wastelands just beyond the city's borders in a couple of weeks." Her eyes met Sam's. "I'm willing to bet you'll be out there. As will that Valerie girl."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. Another raid so soon? The last one was only a month ago . . .?

"Anyway, the objective is to gather ghostly cores as well as a few stable subjects for scientific evaluation and extraction." Maddie stood from her chair and made her way to Sam, who was currently repressing a shudder at Maddie's choice of words. Placing her hand on the girl's shoulder, Maddie remained quiet until lavender eyes slowly slid upwards to meet her steady gaze. "I know you're still a bit shaken up, dear, but I assure you, I've already spoken with Damon about the situation. He intends to take the necessary precautions."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, dubious. She doubted anything could be done about her situation, as Maddie had called it.

"Honey, your little gun may be powerful, but the Compound always saves the best for themselves."

"Those lousy good-for-nothings!" Jack growled angrily from behind them, causing both Sam and Maddie to jump. "Always taking my best work and stuffing it up their asses." With his coffee cup now knotted in his hands and the dark, chocolaty liquid running down the length of his arm, the large man suddenly began to sulk like a child.

Maddie placed a calming hand on her husband's arm before extricating the cup from his hands and tossing it into a nearby waste bin. She then retrieved a paper towel and began the process of cleaning his mess. "I'm afraid he's right," she began. "In the past, apprehended wasteland specters have been rather powerful. Once harvested, their cores have enabled the advancement of our weaponry. Fortunately most ghosts encountered are low in class because the government whisks our most powerful inventions away, even before we've had a chance properly profile them."

"Wait, wait, wait," Tucker exclaimed, forcefully pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose as if his astonishment were a fault of poor visibility. "The class rating on Sam's blaster is a high five. How powerful are we talking here?"

"Quite a few sixes and a small number of sevens," Maddie said as Tucker's jaw unhinged in amazement. "They do have a stash of equally powerful cores as well, which I've convinced Damon utilize on Sam's blaster. The crystalline structure of the gun you developed for her will enable it to be repowered by a higher class core without damaging it or making it unstable."

Tucker nodded in agreement. "As it should considering I designed it that way," he said proudly. Sam had to roll her eyes at the visible swelling of his ego.

"Don't they have a stash of ectoranium as well, mom?" Jazz asked. She was absentmindedly tracing the scars on her neck in small repetitive motions, a habit she refused to admit to though nobody ever made the point of calling her out on it, anyway.

"A small amount," Maddie confirmed. "I have a few samples. Amazing stuff. Its composition is extremely complex, though it seems to have a high content of a salt-mimicking compound I've yet to identify. Point is, it works extremely well at repelling and disintegrating ghosts." She smiled at the thought, falling back into her seat. As she did, a loud noise suddenly rung shrill about the confines of the room and the corridor outside. Everyone inside jumped.

"And so the week begins!" Tucker said in a voice of mock enthusiasm, eyes plastered to his wrist watch as if willing time to move faster.

XXX

Sam began her Mondays with the typically boring statistics lecture, one that was told by that habitually boring William Lancer. She tried her best to remain studious as the balding man paced the confines of the small white room, occasionally offering a view of his back as he took a moment to draw some indiscernible scribbles on the touchboard behind him. On the current tab of her smartbook were scribbles that very much resembled those on the board before her, except hers happened to be random ghostly caricatures.

Two hours later and released from the hell of a lecture that Sam hated almost as much as the man who taught it, she joined Tucker in the cafeteria for lunch. Reminiscent of the morning's lecture, Sam did her best to remain active in their conversation as he animatedly spoke of the impending horrors of synthetic meats once the organic reserve ran out "in a couple years"—which she rolled her eyes at in response to, much too his chagrin. Frankly, she didn't give a shit.

For the first time since the Compound was instilled as the dominant—perhaps even tentatively permanent—means of habituation, Sam was eager for what lay ahead after the lunch bell rang. So much so it was all she could do to keep the soles of her boots on the floor, her eyes eagerly darting to the clock—to and fro, to and fro. She was swimming, positively full to the brim with excitement. So much so that she didn't even flinch at Tuker's quip about an imminent date.

"Jeez Sam," he'd said with a single eyebrow arched higher than the other. "Got a steamy hot date you didn't tell be about or something?"

Tucker's awaited response, much to his astonishment, was the sight of Sam's back as she nearly sprinted for the door the second the signaling bell rang, loud and clear, through the cafeteria. He sat there for a few moments afterwards with his mouth agape, amazed, and slightly offended. Then he said to himself, "Well that was rude."

But Sam didn't hear him. She hightailed it, allowing the familiarity of her destination guide her through the winding halls until she reached the entrance to the Warrior's Training Faction. Finally she slowed, permitting herself a respite long enough to catch her breath and still her nerves.

When she entered, Masters was there, exhibiting an expression that was grimmer than usual. "You're three minutes early," he said.

Without even bothering with her customary greeting of respect for her superior, she instead offered a reproachful glare. One that would probably make Tucker wet himself if he ever had the misfortune of seeing it. But Masters retaliated with one of his own, and it was in that instant that Sam realized just how mutual her hatred for the man actually was.

"You have questions?" he guessed through tight, smiling lips. His smile was carnivorous. So much so that Sam envisioned him with fangs instead of teeth.

"Tell me what you know about Phantom," she responded with her arms crossed firmly over her chest.

Masters' face darkened considerably. He squared his shoulders, effectively giving him the illusion of having drawn himself taller. Looking down at her over the bridge of his nose, he said in a voice as sickeningly sweet as the color pink: "What is it you'd like to know, my dear Samantha?"

Just then, Valerie must have decided it would be a perfect time to make an arrival as she appeared in the entryway. She gauged the situation briefly, probably sensing the animosity growing between the pair. After a moment of silence, she seemed to make a decision because she was swiftly stepping between them and facing Sam with a glare of her own, as if to protect her beloved mentor from the dangerousness that was Sam Manson. Sam almost laughed out loud at the hilarity of the situation.

No, scratch that, she almost hurled.

Valerie looked between the two once more. "What's going on here?" she demanded.

"Oh nothing, my sweet, just having a jolly good conversation with our dear Miss Manson." He waved offhandedly, allowing a smug smile to pull at the corners of his mouth. "What was it you were asking me again?"

"Don't play games with me, Vlad." Sam's temper was flaring. She'd woken up pissed, therefore lacking the capacity for handling bullshit. Especially Masters' bullshit. "Four years ago. Wisconsin. Guys in White. Phantom. Tell me what you know." She was close to yelling. Valerie took a step forward, readying herself to spring whenever necessary, as if Sam was the most dangerous being in existence.

Masters only laughed. Big. As in threw back his head and released a series of annoying guffaws. When he sobered enough to speak, he said, "Your audacity is commendable, however feeble and annoying. May I point out that a Warrior apprentice delving into the archives goes against protocol and accounts to insubordination?" He placed a hand on Valerie's shoulder, causing her confused gaze to meet his own. "Valerie, my dear, you may leave. We will resume training later."

Valerie seemed reluctant to leave. Not wanting to disobey her mentor, though, she obliged. But not before offering Sam a lasting glare that said all too clearly: "Watch it."

With Valerie gone, Vlad stepped closer to Sam. He was deadly calm. She hated to admit it, but in the current situation he intimidated her. She balled her fists and met his glare. Oddly enough, she realized she would gratefully repeat the scenario that had transpired between her and Phantom a thousand times if it meant she didn't have to with Vlad even once. Ghosts she could handle. But Masters . . . something just wasn't right about him.

"I don't know what has you howling all of this malarkey but I advise you to step away, Samantha." His tone was dark and deadly. He had his hands behind his back but he was leaning forward, getting right in her face so when he spoke she felt a spray of spittle. "Four years ago is none of your concern. And it will remain that way."

Sam recognized the transparent threat from the latter part of his sentence. She felt it gnawing at her nerve endings and sending chills spider webbing down her back. She tried her best not to show her intimidation, but somehow knew she was failing miserably.

The monster before her smiled. "Good. I'm glad we've come to an agreement." He stepped away from her and looked down at her from the bridge of his nose. "Now. In three weeks, I am being forced deploy a number of you rats out into the wastelands. Damon posatively insists that I send you out there with them. I don't give a rat's palooky what you do out there, but one thing is to remain clear, stay out of the way of Miss Gray. Ta, ta, good day now. Class dismissed." And then he was gone, striding away as if they had just discussed the weather.

In a fit of anger, Sam spun, intent on getting the hell away from there, but as she did she nearly collided with Valerie. The dark-skinned girl was leaning with narrowed eyes at the entryway of the Warrior faction, her fingers tapping rhythmically on her crossed arms. Sam realized she never left.

Sam decided to ignore her and strode off, pretending not to feel the acidic glare burning holes into her back as she walked away.

XXX

She hadn't meant to come here, at least not consciously. The walk began as a way to quell the frothing pits of her anger, before her temper got the better of her and she did something she would come to regret. She hadn't even known where she was going until she was there, her hand resting on the knob of the door and her feet planted on the plushness of a shag carpet.

There were not many people Sam considered worthy enough to bestow upon the golden crown that was friendship. There was a friendship that she shared with Tucker, strongly rooted with the birthday of its second decade. There were friends that had become enemies, a prime example being one of Sam's former best friends, Valerie Gray. There were also the Fentons, a friendship that extended into a sort of family relation that was comforting as well as cumbersome, but nonetheless welcome.

Perhaps the strangest friendship that existed was one that had developed in the past two years since the human race went underground. It was the unlikely friendship, forged on the premise of destruction, and welded together through a mutual understanding of loss and pain.

Without knocking, Sam strode into the small shop that was run by a blind girl, and who was a weaver of art. The blind girl had no real standing within the politics of the Resistance, but her parents were prominent enough to fund her supplies and wellbeing. The weavings were mismatched and strange, but somehow beautiful and surprisingly intricate. Amazing, really, with the contrast of colors that would normally not be found together but here they were.

The moment Sam's combat boot made contact with the carpeted floor, the girl instantaneously recognized her, just by the sound of booted feet striding across the plushness of the carpet. "Hello, Sam," she said in a heavy Spanish accent. "What can I do for you today?" She turned and released a radiant smile. Sightless green eyes stared off into the distance.

In spite of herself, Sam smiled. Despite their differences and history, Sam was always amazed at how close they'd become, and at how much she genuinely valued this girl's insight. She found herself recounting the story she had told only once before of an event that had taken place a mere two days prior. Of a ghost that had let her live. Of the secrets that were blossoming like wildflowers around the ghost. Of a ghost that she couldn't get out of her mind.

Sightlessness has a way of allowing one to see what others cannot.

The blind girl listened silently and intently, her hands continuously working at her weave. Once a shallow princess, the blind girl was now considered to be clinically insane by Compound psychologists. Nobody believed her when she said that a ghost had saved her life when everything went to hell two years ago, claiming that the events leading up to her resulting blindness had set loose a few screws (screws Sam was convinced she never had to begin with). But Sam, now for the first time, was beginning to entertain the idea of believing the blind girl herself.

After all, those who were deemed insane by governmental standards were often closer to reality than anyone else, as their minds unconfirmed and free. So for once, and only in the presence of the blind girl, the traitorous confusion swirling in the pits of Sam's mind now tumbled incoherently from her mouth. The blind girl would understand. And she did. Sam's words would not be falling upon deaf ears.

During the tale, the blind girl, Paulina Sanchez, smiled.

Thanks for reading, everyone!

-Roar