A/N: Just thought I'd point out I've added chapter titles.

Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any characters associated, nor am I making any money off of this.

Chapter Thirteen

Ten minutes later, when, for the second time in my life, I was gagged, shackled, and being dragged off by the GIW after a rather short-lived fight (they'd obviously gotten better while I'd been gone. Either that, or I'd lost my touch), I was not so sure that remembering was the greatest thing in the world.

Toby watched me, a half-smirk, half-sympathetic stare on his face when they shoved me back into that infernal van. I miss Tucker, I thought as it started to pull out. He'd gone and nearly got himself killed trying to save me - I almost wish he hadn't been there.

Had he told my parents they'd captured me? If he had, it hadn't made much of a difference. Of course, there was a difference between Mt. Ivory and the Guys in White, it seemed, so the knowledge wouldn't do much.

But I'd been on some strange 'they'll-hate-me-if-they-have-to-worry' mindset at the time; desperation does some strange things. Of course, I hadn't quite figured out at that point that me being gone would cause them worry. But cut me some slack. Basically, my whole life had been shattered and the developing . . .

Whoa! Flashback. Back to the point. The GIW, formerly some of the least competent ghost hunters in the world, neigh, the universe, were dragging me off to who knew where. Was this the final straw, I wondered. Was I finally going to wake up and be dragged off and tortured like I thought I was, way back in the beginning?

The trip was a long one. I struggled fervently against my bonds (a pair of glowing manacles and a pair of shackles) but to no avail. It was just like last time. Once again, I couldn't escape, once again, I was wracked with guilt - though over two completely different things, I'll admit - and once again, I had no idea what was going to be there when they reopened the back of the van.

Although, in retrospect, maybe it was slightly worse. I'd rediscovered my raison d'être, the reason I'd gone so many nights without sleep, the reason I'd let my grades get swooped down the toilet, and, finally, the reason I would condemn myself to a life of being chased down by the GIW if it meant being able to live it again.

Three months ago, hey, I felt it. It never entered my mind there was the possibility of quitting. But getting nine months' worth of feeling back made me realize just how important it was that I keep doing it; it was a completely overwhelming emotion. I had to escape. How, I didn't know. When, well, I'd try for soon.

But I'd do it. It was what I was here for. And only an idiot would think that I'd been electrocuted in an explosion of dimensional-fabric ripping ectoplasmic energy, an event that was certainly more than a little painful, and given ghost powers, only to end up locked up in a five-star nut house. Or tortured to death by the Guys in White. Whichever.

So when the sunlight came pouring into my dark space, I didn't kick and scream. My ghost powers were shorted out; it would've been pointless. I was going to wait. The people of Amity Park, and Millsville, and Andromeda Springs, and Goldview, and Humingburg, needed me alive. Or as alive as I come.

- - -

"Care to explain, Danny?" Jane asked, peering at me as I sat calmly in the dentist chair they'd strapped me to. "I'm here to listen."

"I remembered my life, Ms. Redd. The Box Ghost attacked - I think I mentioned him in our sessions - and I had do something."

She raised an eyebrow, and chuckled. "You also said in our sessions this Box Ghost is harmless, right?"

"When I'm there."

She stepped back, and looked me over. "And what's this about you remembering your life? Who says you forgot it?"

"Everyone here knows about the fact they've forgotten, you know. No point in trying to keep the facts invisible - that's my job."

"Hmm. You've changed, Danny, since we last met."

"No kidding. I'm glowing, for crying out loud - another side effect of the complacency compound?" At this, she gasped, and held up a hand to her mouth.

"How did you . . .?"

I chuckled, this time, darkly, but didn't say anything. Jane pursed her lips and pulled out a cell phone.

"The evaluation's complete, Mark. He's obviously gone malevolent. I recommend high-security solitary confinement and a much higher dosage of the CC . . . yeah. Of course; don't worry about that."

I felt my eyes widen, all pretenses of coolness washed away. "What - no - you can't -"

"Security purposes." I watched her move behind the chair I was strapped to. "Now relax, Danny, this is a tranquilizer; catered entirely to your specific needs. You'll be asleep within seconds . . ." A mild pinch in my arm later and I was out cold.

- - -

I woke up in a dimly lit room, lying on a hard cot that had a clock facing it from the ceiling. Several new puncture wounds made my left arm tender in seven different places, and, attempting to sit up, an extreme soreness became apparent on my right. Pulling up the sleeve slightly on my shirt, I looked. The sight that greeted me was not a happy one.

99325718, my Mt. Ivory prisoner ID, had been neatly tattooed on my forearm. I recalled vaguely lessons on the Holocaust back in junior high. Groaning, I leaned back into a horizontal position and stared at the clock above me. 1:02 AM, 03042005, it read.

A tattoo? Mom and Dad are going to kill me . . . I laughed hollowly to myself. So this is what happened to the people who didn't act like good little freaks and just live out their lives 'contentedly.'

I wondered briefly if it would make sense for the good guy to burn this place to the ground . . . At least after everyone was out of the building.

Then it occurred to me that I simply wanted to get away as quickly as possible. So, standing up, I went to inspect the room. A toilet, a sink, and a small shower unit stood in the corner directly opposite from my bed, and that was all. In the dim light I could see the vague outline of a door. Beyond that, there wasn't an opening anywhere, and I was pretty sure that they weren't stupid enough to not ghost-proof the walls and floor.

I walked back over to the bed, I lay down. It was one o'clock in the morning, for crying out loud, and I wasn't exactly feeling perky. So I drifted back to sleep.

- - -

The horrified look on Tucker's face was enough to tell me that Mom and Dad did not need to see me when they were done with me. Ever. The growing bruise on my shoulder would be gone soon enough, probably within a couple of hours, but it still stung. Most of the minor injuries I'd sustained would be gone quickly - they always were, for whatever reason. If they didn't disappear so quickly, my secret would've gotten out a long time ago. But I was fully aware that looked far more torn up than I actually was.

Tucker, the (usually) impeccably loyal friend that I could count on - well, at least when some ghost-related whatever didn't cause him to go power mad - was sitting in the dirt, a long gash showing through a rip in his yellow sweater. He looked helpless as they grabbed my arms and started pulling off.

"Don't tell them, Tuck. I don't want them to worry," I said quietly. He looked up, and bit his lip. "Mom, Dad, Jazz, Sam - they don't need to know. It would tear them up inside, and they wouldn't be able to get me back." He stared at me for a moment, and, just as they clicked the manacles onto my wrists, he nodded. Then I couldn't see him anymore, and I was gone.

My reasoning for making him promise something so incredibly stupid? Heh, I knew they'd love me. But I was afraid that if they saw what the risks were for being my parents, they'd keep away out of fear. The GIW could hurt them like they'd hurt Tuck. The ghosts could hurt them. Vlad could hurt them. I could hurt them.

And then . . . Well, I woke up. It was strange. That was the first time I'd replayed the time in which they captured me in a dream. I'd re-watched Tiffany Snow's most famous broadcast, seen my parents' faces over and over again, and just generally relived the terror of knowing that this time around there wasn't anything I could do to repair my life. At all.

Seeing it only served as another reminder of what had to be done.

At 6:32 AM, I looked back up at the clock again and stared for a minute before yet another memory resurfaced.

That day, the first I spent in solitary confinement, was the first anniversary of my accident. Ironic how these things turn out.