A/N: Do not ask me why I call my interludes intermissions. Just don't. And don't ask me why I did this, either, I have no clue. But it is necessary . . . slightly . . .
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any characters/plots associated, not am I making any money off of this.
Intermission
. . . I really can't believe it, you know. That he's gone. Tucker says he might not come back. I wouldn't even begin to know why'd he think - say - something like that at all. The Fentons said he called. Three times. One for each month he's been missing. If he's alive, why wouldn't he come back? He has to come back. Danny, no matter how many bruises and broken bones he has, he always comes back. He's always okay. He's always Danny. That might be why I fell in love with him. Even if he doesn't want to, even if his secret is out and everyone knows, why wouldn't he? He knows we're his family. And besides, if I never see him again, how can I tell him that I love him? . . .
- - -
Sam Manson stared angrily up at the sky. Why, she wondered, did it have to be same color as his eyes? The exact same shade. It didn't even deserve it, she realized, as she looked down at the sidewalk and began walking again. Nothing and nobody deserved to resemble Danny in any way, shape, or form.
Which is why she was a hypocrite for keeping her hair black and taking out her lilac-tinted contacts and wearing normal, clear ones so that her eyes would be somewhat closer to the blue his had been. Aquamarine was more similar than purple.
"One foot in front of the other," she muttered to herself. "One step at a time." Who could blame her for wanting to look in the mirror every morning and see something of Danny? Who could blame her for wanting a little more of Danny than pictures and souvenirs and that one awful newsreel that would forever remain in her VCR slot, waiting to be played over and over and over again.
So she walked down the street. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
- - -
. . . Why did I promise him I wouldn't tell his parents and Sam where he was? Man, if the Guys in White have him - well, I can't break my promise. It was what he wanted. It was the last thing he wanted of me, wasn't it? Even if he is alive (the GIW are messing with the Fentons, I'm sure of it), he isn't coming back. They're the freaking government. They have enough technology available to keep Superman under lock and key. Sam still thinks he has to come back, but I know better. And I have to keep my promise. His life is over. I was his best friend. I have to honor his dying wish . . .
- - -
Tucker Foley stared apathetically at his PDA, which was sitting, nearly pleadingly on his desk. "No," he told it. "You are what's keeping Danny from getting out. Without you Danny would still be here."
Technology had betrayed him, there was no doubt about it. His love for it had evaporated the moment he realized, about a month after Danny was captured, that technology was what was keeping his best friend from getting free. The Guys in White had plenty of it, he was sure. They were using it to keep Danny strapped to a slab God-knew-where . . .
"I can't think like that," he said to himself as much as his PDA. "You're the one driving me up the wall."
Even if his love for tech had evaporated, his obsession, well . . .
But Danny came first. He always would. Danny was the one that had pulled him out of Lake Amity four years ago; not any amount of technology. Danny was the one that had saved his life countless times since; not his infernal PDA. Danny was the one who'd been through hell, most certainly not his collection of gadgetry.
Danny was his best friend. And even if he was dead, or being tortured or . . .
"I hate you," he told the palm pilot forcefully and stood up.
. . . Or anything else, Danny came first. Danny wanted what Danny wanted, that was true. He couldn't tell a soul where he was. But he could do his part. Giving up a lifelong love was worth it, for Danny.
- - -
. . . Danny, oh Danny, why'd you have to go? Jack and I don't care that he was half ghost, or even the ghost kid. We love him too much for that. Running away wasn't the answer. Where could he have gone, anyway? Everyone knows about him now, he has fans world over - there'd be nowhere to hide. But I guess he's always been a smart kid, and no telling what kind of disguises he's capable of. I don't have the slightest clue what he's capable of at all. Phantom, he always held back too much in our battles. Looking back, I can see that now. Oh, we love him so much. He has to see that, someday . . .
- - -
Maddie Fenton stared helplessly into her java. Even talking to Danny hadn't helped lift her glum mood; if anything, it had sunk them. He had told her that he wouldn't be coming back. Ever.
Was it a lie? Might've been. Anything was possible these days. Next Vlad might call up and say he was the Wisconsin Ghost. That'd almost be funny.
"Why'd he run away?" she asked herself for the millionth time. "Could he honestly believe that we wouldn't love him anymore? Jack, Jazz and I would never . . . And I'm sure neither would Tucker and Sam . . ."
Months had passed and nothing had changed. Sure, they'd stopped the TV appearances, and the buzz had died down . . . Somewhat. But no one felt any better, and there was still so much murmuring when she or Jack passed by a crowd.
And, of course, the town was a wreck. Danny had done more than they ever could imagine. The ghosts . . . The ghosts were too much. Jack was out fighting them, as she rested, with that girl in the black techno-suit. The girl couldn't've been older than fourteen or fifteen, Maddie thought, and if she and Jack, who could cover for each other, were sleep deprived, then, well, the poor kid must be dead on her feet.
Possibly literally. Who knew? She might be another ghost-fighting ghost, right? Like . . .
She mentally cursed herself for getting back on the topic of her son. Then she heard the front door open, and Jack's lumbering footsteps. Giving it one last disdainful glance, Maddie chucked her cold coffee in the sink. It was time to catch some ghosts.
- - -
. . . I know I was nosy, I know I was bossy, and I know I butted into his life just a little too much sometimes. But I was nothing like that evil Snow woman. She always looked so perky on the news. Perky, but smart. But then she went and made her career while ruining Danny's life. I'm not even sure how she found out. She's the reason he ran away. I almost wish, well, I almost wish Mom and Dad had never told me he'd called. Knowing he'd run away and then do that to us, give us the horrifying knowledge we'd never see him again was cruel. We never told Sam or Tucker that he said he was never coming back. I think Tucker knew, already, or he's just being pessimistic. But Sam still clings onto that hope that he'll return to us, to her, one day, and I pity her for that . . .
- - -
Jazz Fenton stared stupidly at her American History textbook. One sentence refused to make sense to her. "If it weren't for the media," she read out loud, hoping for some clarification, "the actions of Nixon's allies would've never been exposed and he would have stayed his full four years in the White House."
Eventually, however, clarification offered itself, and she shut the book angrily. Continued American History was an optional course, anyway, she'd taken it for fun. She'd drop it Monday.
How could any respectable intellectual work do anything but condemn the media? All of them - even small-town reporters and anchors - were pompous, self-serving bigots, as far she was concerned. Particularly Tiffany Snow, Lance Thunder, and nearly every writer at the Amity Park Angle.
"I won't have them try to shove that nonsense down my throat," Jazz sighed angrily.
Of course she'd set aside her personal prejudices when, one day, some schizophrenic prime time anchorman came into her office for help; Jazz Fenton had nothing if not work ethic.
But this was a matter of an optional course in her senior-freaking-year, and she couldn't afford to take a class that was built on lies.
Oh, she'd read plenty of books. John M. Ryan's Media and Society: The Production of Culture in the Mass Media, James Stovell's Writing for the Mass Media, and many, many others. All in the span of a couple of months.
But she still couldn't understand. Why had anyone, anyone at all, wanted to do that to her little brother?
"So they're all egotists," Jazz said, and sighed. "There's no other explanation."
- - -
. . . Whether I should feel guilty or murderous is still up for debate. But until that boy comes back, there's no dang way I'm making that decision quite yet. I understand how much this affected his life; I have a secret identity to protect, too. And if he comes back, fully recovered, and gives me reason to believe he was evil, I'm not holding back. He can be as human as he wants to be, but evil is evil. A ghost is a ghost. But if he walks back, still broken, and gives me reason to believe he was the hero he always said he was, I'm going to hug him. Because he took it. He took it all. He complained, sure, but he took it. I'm not quite sure whether or not he was trying to kill me, that one time, now. A ghost was possessing my suit. He might've known. So if he's not evil, I'm going to hug him. Because he took it all and then let me walk away . . .
- - -
Valerie Gray stared, completely focused, on the ghost in front of her. Mr. Fenton had left minutes before this one had shown up. "Oh, child, you cannot defeat me, even in your upgraded form! You have to remember who gave it to you! It was I, Technus, master of all . . ." Valerie managed to get a good blast in to the left side of the ghost's head, singing his mullet a bit.
Dangit, Danny, why'd you have to leave? Because he was worried she'd kill him?
Oh, right. Valid excuse.
Technus glared at her, snapping her out of her thoughts. "I wasn't done yet."
Valerie groaned, tired. She'd managed an hour of sleep last night, which was way better than she'd gotten in the past few months. "I really don't care," she said, dryly, too exhausted for trash talk or witty banter. She blasted him again.
Technus snarled. "So be it, child, I will -"
Another blast hit Technus square in the chest. Technus fell back through the air a bit, before coming back up to glare at her again.
Valerie gasped. She'd hit . . . Phantom . . . In exactly the same way. About five months ago. Technus took the opportunity to start ranting again.
"I will disable you, one part at a time!" Technus began to cackle. "Just like you wanted to do to your lover-boy, right?"
Valerie's eyes suddenly hardened, her exhaustion evaporating. This spook was toast.
- - -
. . . Damnit, Fenton was a brave kid. He was scrawny as it's healthy to be, but he was a brave kid. All those times I was wailin' on him, and he coulda just destroyed me, but he didn't. I guess I always respected Phantom 'cause he was just so cool. Then I find out this bottom-of-the-food-chain, so far out of the A-list he's a Z kid, whom I always though was the opposite of cool, was Phantom, and I kinda thought my brain was going to explode. But now I guess I just see he's brave. More brave than I ever thought he could be . . .
- - -
Dash Baxter stared mercilessly at Mikey Kilpear. The nerd before him shivered, letting out a soft whimper. Kwan stood ready to open the locker, then Dash's eyes softened, and he dropped Mikey to the ground. The skinny boy before him stared for a minute before running off, screaming.
Kwan looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "Why'd you let him run off like that?"
"I'm tired, all right?" Dash snapped. "'Sides, couldn't hurt to give the wimps a bit of a break every now and then, right?"
Kwan only nodded hesitantly. There was a pause. "Look, D-man, I think I'm gonna go spend free period in the library, okay? My English grade's failing, and Lancer might kick me off the football team if it goes below a B-. I don't have all those touchdown passes to lean on like you."
Dash just shrugged. "Knock yourself out." Kwan smiled, briefly, before running off as well.
What had Fenton done to him? All the joy he'd gotten out of nerd wailing had completely disappeared, leaving only a driving need to keep up the bully bit and stay 'cool.'
But was he cool at all? Heck, compared to Fenton (Fenton!) he was just as wimpy as Mikey. He didn't quite understand why the half-ghost had run away from Amity Park, but he was sure there was some reason that was just as cool as he was. He was a hero after all.
Dash rubbed his temples, leaning back on Mikey's locker. Nothing made sense nowadays. Half the school was rubble (thanks to some ghost that called itself the Lunch Lady), Phantom was gone, scrawny, wail-able Fenton was Phantom - and he was gone. Not to mention Valerie, the ex-A-lister with the schoolwork Nazi of a father, had stopped coming to school, and Jazz Fenton, Danny Phantom's sister, had actually dropped a course.
And, of course, the boy he constantly beat up and nagged was his idol. His idol who probably could've destroyed him with a thought. Who was now gone. Dash just didn't get it. It was unlikely he ever would.
- - -
. . . I think I'm the only one who actually knows what happened to the Fenton kid. Well, Mother and I. And maybe Paul, the little boy my parents 'adopted' from that governmental holding facility. I don't quite know what to think of it; I'm not exactly for the idea that the town hero is currently up for auction, but at the same time I'm trying to be rather indifferent. Either way, I can't go blabbing off, my parents' reputation is at stake. Mother told me she'd've liked to be able to tell someone, but Father . . . Father is Father. They'd both be tarnished, Father would be fired from his job (he works for the government), and they'd probably be divorced. All that chaos for one boy I hardly know? I'd rather not. But still, I kind of feel sorry for him . . .
- - -
Mikey Kilpear stared at Paul. It was the first time Paul had shown off his ability, and it was the first time Mikey had thought to ask. Something about coming home from school not nursing a bruise or nine had sparked his imagination, he supposed.
Paul had turned into some kind of water-creature-thing, and was currently hanging from the ceiling, his vague face twisted into some kind of smirk.
"Impressed, mister?" Paul asked. Mikey nodded, slightly overwhelmed. Even living in a town inhabited by ghosts, well . . .
"How'd you end up like this, anyway?" Mikey asked.
Paul unstuck himself from the ceiling, cascaded down to the floor, and morphed back into his human form. "I dunno. I'm only eight. Not a scientist, or anything."
Mikey nodded again, still rather agape. "That's . . . cool."
"I know," Paul said. He smiled briefly. "'Course, they never told me that . . . Ms. Zefhel told me I shouldn't do it anymore when I showed her . . ."
"Ms. Zefhel?" Mikey asked the younger boy.
"My therapist." He shrugged. "She told me all sorts of things."
Mikey tilted his head, and didn't ask further. "Did you know Danny Fenton?" he asked suddenly.
Paul looked at him. "The only staff I knew were Mark and Ms. Zefhel, mister," he said.
"Staff? No, he was a . . . prisoner . . ."
Paul's face scrunched up in confusion. "What kinda prisoner has a last name?" he asked.
Mikey stared, and shooed Paul away. I guess he couldn't call Danny 'That Fenton kid' anymore.
He was suddenly very, very glad he was normal.
A/N: Well, I revealed something, and dumped a ten-pound load of angst on your head. Trust me, it won't happen again.