Edited February 2008

Pits
A Danny Phantom FanFiction by Cordria

Page 6

It sounds like something out of one of my friend Tucker's comic books, but it's a true statement. There is great evil inside of me.

I met it face to face a few months ago during a trip to the future and I've been fighting it ever since. Denying it. Promising everyone that would listen that I would never become that person.

But deep inside my own mind, I've always wondered. That evilness… it is in me. I know it is. It'll always be there, hiding in the darkest recesses of my spirit. It's like a race. A race for my soul.

Yesterday… yesterday… I think I started to loose the race.

Somewhere, locked in my head, a monster woke up.

I sat in my cell after my fight, staring up at the two ghost lights that shimmered and danced on the ceiling. My hands were behind my head, cushioning my aching head from touching the rough walls. Gazing around room 143, I contemplated everything that had happened. It had happened so slowly, agonizingly slowly, but yet it had blazed by, not letting me get my head around everything.

I hated thinking about everything that had happened; it made my stomach boil and twist. Up until now I'd just let things go… I'd think about them later… I'd be grateful to just exist. But this time I forced myself to continue. I needed to put this behind me; I needed to accept everything that had been going on.

My fight would be over if I didn't think about it.

My eyes settled on the scorch marks on the walls. Even though I was firmly in human mode, a burst of cool power flickered over my hands at the thought of what had happened. I had been so mad at the thought of my friends dying that I had lost my temper. I had destroyed everything in my anger.

I dragged my knees up to my chest and buried my head in my folded arms. My breath was rasping in my lungs, unsteady and shallow.

The very thought of me acting so… evil, so... ghost-like was like a punch to my stomach. I hadn't just incinerated Sam's and Tucker's clothes. No, I hadn't settled for that. I had gone on a miniature rampage, destroying everything I could get my hands on. And then taking it a step farther and actually killing.

I shuddered, instinctively veering away from the thought of having killed. I had to kill that ghost, I didn't have a choice. Blinking away tears, I could easily picture what remained of my cell in my mind. The hard cot was gone, mere splinters and burnt rags scattered around the cell. The door was visibly singed, a good layer of charcoal on the wood planks. Even the remaining ghost lights trembled in the far corners, staying well away from me.

But the worst part was the photograph of my family. The picture was curled and burnt around the edges, my father almost completely cut out of the photo. I had managed to rescue it from a small puddle of water after being shoved back into my cell after that fight, and now it was resting by my foot next to the burnt, purple scrunchie.

My eyes burned. I don't know what I would do if that got destroyed. It was my only link to the outside world – to my family. I kept my head buried deep in my arms and fought against all the thoughts that were trying to enter my mind. One thing at a time… one thing at a time…

I don't know how long I sat there, repeating that phrase to myself, fighting against the depressing thoughts. All I do know for sure is that my breathing slowed and steadied, my brain's twistings and spinnings became unhurried, and – somewhere along the line – I fell asleep.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't as surprised as I should have been to find myself in the Pits with Ember once again. Nightmares have a tendency to come back and bite you for a second time.

Her haunting melody floated through the air as she stood in the center of the muddy pit and strummed her guitar absently, eyes closed. "I don't like being your psychologist," the battered rock star sang softly. Letting a dissonant chord hover in the air around her, she reached up to brush some of her blue hair out of her face.

"Then why do you?" I leaned back against the wooden slats surrounding the pit, not quite about to relax around the ghost – even if she was just a figment of my dreaming mind.

"I got conned into it," she muttered darkly. "Apparently, we have something in common."

I quirked an eyebrow at that, letting the dream take its course. It was stupid and implausible for Ember to be here and actually care about me. "Something in common?"

She glared at me, her emerald eyes flaring in the dim light. "Don't ask me," she snapped, "it's your head, dipstick, not mine."

We were both silent for a few minutes before she started picking a melody out on her guitar again. With a start of surprise, I realized that it was a lullaby my mother sang to me when I was little. I just stared at her from my spot slouched against the wall figuring that made a tiny bit of sense: this Ember was created out of my mind and probably had my memories as well. "I don't want to kill anybody," I blurted.

Ember's tune drifted into silence. "Then don't," she muttered.

"Then I'll die. And my family too."

She shrugged, then glanced up at me from her guitar. "It's still a choice you're making. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. It's not exactly a new concept."

I sank down onto the ground, ignoring the slightly damp feeling of the sand. "So it's my fault. I'm a murderer."

The siren sighed, her bruised eyes meeting mine. "You don't look like a murderer to me."

"How would you know?" I scowled, "I killed that ghost. I didn't even care."

"Yes, you do," she said softly. "Or else you wouldn't be here talking to me." Her head tipped to the side. "Do you know how I died?"

I shook my head, watching her closely. If I didn't know… how could she?

"I was murdered," she said softly. She let go of the guitar, letting it fade into oblivion. Her bruised hands came up and removed her choker. A thick, dark line circled on her pale skin. "After being beaten, I was strangled. I remember the guy that did it." A shudder slid through her body, and Ember closed her eyes, clutching the choker in her fist. "Oh yes, I remember him. Cool, cold, emotionless. He didn't care that I was dying. He reveled in the blood that flowed around his fingers. He loved it." Her voice trailed off.

I didn't know what to say. I just sat there, staring at the image my teenage foe, trying to figure out how she – a piece of my own mind – knew something I didn't.

"My life meant nothing to him. I could see it in his eyes. He was dead to the world before I was." Ember's eyes flickered open; she stared at me across the pit as I shivered. "I looked into the face of a murderer; I know what one looks like."

I rested my chin on my folded knees and sighed. "I killed him without thinking; I didn't even try to fight it. I'm just like him."

"You think too much." Suddenly I felt a cold wave breeze through me. I glanced up – Ember was sitting next to me, completely relaxed. She shot a glance at me, her mouth flickering into a grin. "Dipstick, you're no murderer. You despise what you did. It's eating you up on the inside."

"So?"

Ember actually laughed, her musical voice echoing in the empty pit. "You may have killed," she hesitated, "you may have even murdered that ghost, but you're not murderer. You're a survivor."

A flicker of fury brushed against my nerves. Pushing myself to my feet, I paced across the deserted pit, my eyes flickering with green lights. "I killed him. He's dead, and it's my fault. I murdered him!" I was startled by the energy pulsing around my hands. I hadn't realized I was that angry. Why was I this angry?

Twisting around, Ember was on her feet with her guitar in her hands. Her bruised arms strummed downwards, blasting a wave of energy towards me. The pulse swept me up, tossed me into the mud, and knocked me dizzy. Ember straddled my body, her hair flaring with cold energy. "I get it," she snarled. "You killed. Boo-hoo. Poor baby."

I stared up at her for a second before pushing my hands into the muddy sand and trying to sit up. Ember's platform shoe pressed into my chest and slammed me back down into the mud.

"Did you enjoy it? Did you feel a sense of pleasure watching his blood spill all over the ground? Do you dream about your next fight? Of slowly slicing open the guy's neck and drinking in the intoxicating feeling of terror that bellows off of him?"

I shivered, twisting to try and get out from under her shoe. She pressed down mercilessly, leaning over to pierce me with her stare.

"Is it exciting – this feeling of power over life and death? A bit of control in an uncontrollable situation? It's your choice who lives and who dies, isn't it?" Her nose was inches from mine, her eerie, jade eyes glowing into mine. "Have you given up your soul, ghost-boy?"

My arms trembled as I stared up at her, unable to do anything but feel the tears well up in my eyes. I tried to keep reminding myself that it was all just a dream, but it felt too real. Licking my lips, I couldn't find anything to say.

After a few moments of silence, Ember let me go, walking back across the pit, strumming her guitar. "I don't see it in you, that cold heartlessness."

"But it is in me," I whispered.

She shrugged, fingers dancing vaguely on the strings. "You'll have to square with that, kid. But until you do, take my word for it. You aren't a murderer."

I shook my head sadly, then sighed. "Fine," I murmured, not really convinced, but willing to drop this dream-induced argument. "You know, in real life Ember's not really this nice."

Ember shot me a grin. "True, but then again, I'm not really Ember."

"Who are you, then?"

"You already know," she said cryptically as she glanced over her shoulder at me and quirked an eyebrow.

Suddenly I was alone in the pit, staring at the space where Ember used to be standing. "This dream stinks," I muttered. Wandering over to the side, I dropped into the muck, letting my head thud back against the wood slats.

"Can I wake up now?" I called up into the silence. My own words echoed back at me, twisted by the cold evilness that was flooding into the air.

The door on the other side of the pit squeaked, inching open. My breath caught in my throat as I stared into the blackness beyond the door. Somehow, I knew who would be walking out that door… and it wouldn't be Ember.

I barely got a glimpse of flashing red eyes and flaming blue hair before the lock to my cell door creaked and I was jerked out of my sleep.

Blinking blearily across my rather dim room, I vaguely noted that the two ghost lights were flickering in the corner above my head, barely giving off light. As I took a deep breath and shook the sleep from my mind, the lights flared back to their normal brightness and raced each other around the room several times.

By this time, the door was open. I flinched, half expecting Walker with more bloody clothes and bad news. Perhaps my crimes had grown and I'd murdered my family now or something. I tightened my fist around the bloody scrunchie, waiting for the figure to step out of the shadow.

It wasn't Walker. It wasn't the ghostly warden by a long shot.

The girl who stepped into the room couldn't have been more than my age, lithe and athletic. Fire-red hair curled around her face, chopped almost as short as mine. She had electric green eyes and pale, freckled skin. The girl was wearing the exact same thing I was, dirty and dusty from use. She hefted up a box overflowing with odd-looking tools. "Here to fix your cot."

I just blinked at her from my spot on the floor. "What?" I finally said.

Her smile faded, her emerald eyes loosing some of their glow. "Great, another dim-wit. Here. To. Fix. Your. Cot!" she said slowly, pointing dramatically at where the cot was supposed to be. Then it was her turn to blink in surprise, her eyes sweeping the room, taking in the splinters and burn marks. She whistled. "You really did a number on it, huh? I thought you would just have a screw loose or something." A smile flickered across her face and she arched an eyebrow. "You do not have a screw loose, do you?"

"No," I muttered, tipping my head to the side at her odd way of talking. Precise, clipped words with an odd accent. I'd never heard anything like it.

She grinned. "Wonderful! Let us get to work then." She plunked the toolbox down in the middle of the room and twisted around in a circle, a strange look on her face. Then she sighed. "You are going to need a whole new cot. Hang on." She pounded against the door and relayed a quiet message to the guard standing on the other side. Turning back to me, she grinned and plopped down in mid-air. "Going to take a few minutes."

She twisted her head to the side, gazing around the room. "How did a human like yourself do all this damage?" Her green eyes were back, staring into mine, curious.

I shrugged, still trying to figure out what was going on. This ghost-girl was sitting in my room, working on fixing my cot. After being thrown into pits to fight to the death, being tortured by Walker, and having an argument with Ember… this wasn't too strange. What I thought was odd was that she was wearing a Pits uniform just like mine. Every other person I'd seen that wasn't a prisoner wore other things. Even Former and that prejudiced doctor wore 'normal' clothes.

The ghost blinked at me, apparently put off by my lack of words. "My name is Eloise," she stated shortly. "Do you speak?"

"Yes," I said softly. "I'm Danny."

She tipped her head to the side, eyes narrowing. "Sign said 'Phantom'."

"Yeah," I drifted off, shaking my head sourly. "I'm him too."

Clicking her teeth together, the ghost waited in silence, probably hoping for me to say something more. I wasn't in a talkative mood – I just wanted to be left alone to think. I needed to figure out what that nightmare was about. My subconscious was trying to tell me something.

"I am from down the hall a bit. Room 126," she said suddenly. "I like this hall. The last one I was on smelled of moldy humans all the time. Mostly ghosts on this wing, keeps the smell down."

I wrinkled my forehead, confused by that line of thought. "You're in one of these rooms too?"

"Yes," she nodded, grinning at my question, hoping to drag me into a conversation.

It clicked in my head. She was a prisoner like me. "Wait," I stared at her in surprise, "how do you get out of your cell?"

With a bang, the door slammed open. Eloise dropped out of the air and sent a smile at the guard lugging timber into the room. The guard snarled at me as he dropped the wood to the ground.

"Thank you," Eloise smiled, leaning over the pile of wood and metal, her eyes flitting over the bits and pieces. Before the door was even shut, she was yanking pieces out of the pile and throwing them to me. "Hold these," she muttered. She grabbed a long, metallic pipe, sighted down one end with an annoyed frown, the tossed it over into a corner. "Stupid guards bend everything when they're delivering it."

Snagging a green hammer out of the box of odd-looking tools, the girl yanked the wooden timbers into position, leaning some of them up against the wall. "Grab this," she ordered, letting go of the standing board. It clattered to the ground. I hadn't moved.

She turned to me, raising an eyebrow. "Do you wish to sleep on the floor?" she demanded.

I shook my head.

"Then you will help. Grab that board," she nudged it with her foot, already grabbing the metal pipes, "and hold it."

I stumbled to my feet and grabbed the board, bringing it back into place. Eloise shot me a grin before leaning down to tighten bolts. "I don't understand," I said slowly, asking my question for a second time now that I had her attention, "How do you get out of your cell?"

"My room is not locked," the ghost said, sending me a short grin. "It has not been locked for nearly two years now." She grabbed a blue screwdriver out of her toolbox and examined it closely. "This is not mine," she muttered, but then just shrugged and turned back to the half made cot.

"You've won that many fights?"

She laughed. "Are you kidding? I have only been in a pit fight five times."

"Why only five?" She brushed me away from the cot, so I crouched down next to her toolbox, watching her closely as she set the screw in place.

"Rules say we only have to fight every six months…" she trailed off as she bit her tongue, concentrating on getting the screw to turn. "Stupid screwdriver," the tool bent like a piece of cardboard when she pushed it against the cot, "whoever stole my good one is going to pay."

"But…" I stared at her in surprise, "I've had to fight everyday!"

"You are a fighter and Walker is the warden, that is why," she finally got the screwdriver to turn correctly. "The gloriousness of the Pits has been tarnished by his rule." She sighed, then turned to me. "However, if you do not want to fight, find a job. Former is nicer in his assignments if you are helpful."

I was silent while the ghost struggled to tighten three more screws. When I finally found my voice, it was raspy. "Former decides who fights… and how often?"

She raised an eyebrow, sending me a short glance. "What, did you think that Walker wastes his time figuring out every fight?"

I sank to the ground, my legs weak. "I thought Former was nice," I whispered, "but he's the one putting me through this?"

Grunting as she twisted the last screw into place, she was quiet. Settling back on her heels, she turned to me and sighed. "Do not jump to conclusions. Former," she hesitated, "Former has more issues than you can possibly imagine. Walker's hold over him is…" She shook her head, "it is large." The ghost stood up, dropping the bent screwdriver into the box. One hand picked up the toolbox and the other grabbed my shoulder for a moment. "Do not judge him too harshly. In the end, he is nothing more than a prisoner." She blinked a few times, thinking. "Perhaps even more so."

Sitting there, I digested that. Eloise walked over to the door and pounded on it harshly. "One more thing," she said suddenly, "do not break this cot. I highly doubt Walker will give you another." A grin crossed her face. "It has been nice talking to you Phantom Danny. I hope to do so again."

I dropped onto the newly made cot, kicking the bundle of thin blankets out of the way. I sat cross-legged on the hard boards and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. My mind was spinning violently, unable to stop on any topic, barely able to comprehend its own twistings. For some reason, the thought of Former being the one putting me through all of this made everything begin to cascade through my head.

Everything I had pushed aside, everything I had hoped to forget, everything that my dream version of Ember had brought up that had made me so angry, everything I feared to think about. They all crashed through my brain. But instead of whole thoughts, all I got was fragments.

Former

…evil

me

…murderer

pain

…blood

No, I'm no murderer. I didn't want to kill. Leave me alone!

Crusher

…pits

Walker

…murder

Sam

…dead

Sam, please, you can't be dead! Help me Sam, I can't take it anymore. Rescue me.

ripping

…insanity

laughter

…evil

I'm not evil. I'm not crazy! Stop!

murderer

…death

It was too much. My brain couldn't take any more fighting. It sputtered to a stop, leaving my brain black and empty.

For the longest time, I sat there, curled up, hands pressing against my eyes, fingers digging into my scalp. My breathing was slow and regular, my heart beat settling into a simple pattern. It was like sleep, this blankness that I found myself in. I felt no desire to move, no desire to try and think, no desire to do anything. I was calm, collected. Any small movement would break that tenuous feeling and restart my brain.

Finally I slowly raised my head, letting a small smile cross my face when the meditative-like state stayed with me. My eyes flickered open, gazing around the empty room. Moving slowly, I unwove my legs and stood up, almost floating across the room. Reaching the far corner, I picked up Sam's scrunchie and the burnt picture of my family.

I didn't think about them, not now. Sam, Tucker, Mom, Dad, and Jazz were just little flies buzzing around outside my head. I grinned, moving back across the room and setting the items on the cot and stretching. This blank feeling was wonderful.

Nothing mattered. I didn't have to care about anybody but me. Who cares if Former is some evil ghost? Why would bloody eyes haunt my nightmares? So I killed, so what? Who cares…

I collapsed to the ground, slamming my fist into the hard, stone floor. Of course I care! My blank state of being vanished, memories slammed back into my brain, overloading, frying, freezing. This time, however, I didn't fight the thoughts, I let them come, swallow me up, spit me back out.

If these memories wanted to destroy me, they could. I didn't want to fight it anymore. Perhaps it was better to go crazy and get it over with. That way I wouldn't care what happened to anybody. It wouldn't hurt so much to think about it. I opened up my mind, the memories and twisting thoughts coursing through me…

And found, rather to my surprise, that I could handle it.

My eyes gazed down at my fist, still slammed hard into the floor, a few cuts from the stone floor bleeding sluggishly and leaving an interesting pattern on the rock. I picked my hand up, turning it over to watch the blood well out of my skin and dribble down my fist in warm rivulets. Sitting there, watching the red blood flow, I felt a smile grow on my face.

"I killed Crusher," I whispered to the room. My words echoed back at me, confused and shaky.

"I killed Slasher," I said a bit louder, the words echoing back more confident.

"I killed Doric." Overhead, one of the ghost lights stopped its crazy twirlings and held still, seeming to watch me.

"I killed that other ghost, whatever his name was." The other ghost light slid to a stop on the other side of the room. Together, they were like a pair of eyes looking down at me from the ceiling.

I stood up, my gaze fixed on the red blood slipping down my arm. "I killed, and I will again," my voice was back to a whisper, the pain of my mind making it wobble and crack. The fingers of my other hand came up, touching the blood tracing my arm. Sticky and warm, I clenched my bloody fingers and grinned.

"I am not a ghost, I will always care. It will always hurt. I will never enjoy it." The ghost lights over my head seemed to agree with me, suddenly jumping into life and spinning like crazy Saint Katherine's wheels.

"You hear me Walker," I hissed, "you are never going to win."

I nodded sharply, opening my fist to look at the strange patterns my bloody fingers had left on my palm. "This I vow."

The purple scrunchie was hidden in my fist as I was shoved into Former's room. Wincing when the door slammed shut behind me, I slid the blood-splattered scrunchie onto my wrist. I didn't really know why I brought it with me to the fight… I should have left it under the pillow with my family's picture.

For a moment, a vision of Sam floated into my head. She was laughing, her silky hair flying in a light breeze. Something… something was wrong about the picture. But I couldn't place my finger on it. Sam's hair grew more focused, the sunlight setting it aglow. My mind was trying to tell me something…

"Phantom," Former grunted, snapping his fingers in my face, breaking my concentration. In a heartbeat, the vision – and that vague sense of what was wrong – was gone. "Wake up."

"I'm awake," I muttered, blinking up at him. His caramel-colored eyes gazed into mine for a second. This is the man that made me kill Crusher. And Slasher. And Doric. And that last one. Somehow, I just couldn't fit that sort of evil into the concern that was leaking out of his eyes.

He sent me a short smile. "You ready?"

I nodded slowly. No, I wasn't ready. How can anybody be ready to be thrown into a fight-til-you-die match? "Who do you have me fighting today?" I asked, fitting as much sarcasm into my voice as possible, hoping to see his reaction.

Nothing. Former had already turned around, rummaging through the shelves, apparently not caring about my question. My fingers clenched in irritation.

"Former," I snapped. "I know you're the one putting me through all this!" I just about screamed when he didn't do anything. I ground my teeth together, fuming. Former was ignoring me. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He just continued to move things around, and he actually grinned when he found what he was looking for. Former twisted around, holding a book in his hands. He froze when he saw the angry expression on my face, tipping his head to the side in surprise.

Surprise? I blinked at him, words dying in my mouth. Surprise?!?

"Phantom," he said, wrinkling his forehead, "what's wrong?"

"You…" I trailed off, trying to figure this out. "You didn't hear me?" It was clicking in my head, connections coming together. How he watched my lips. Never answered questions. Seemed to ignore me…

The thick double-doors leading to the pits slammed open. "Phantom," one of the guards snapped, knocking the almost-thought out of my head before it could fully form.

I glanced at them, then back at Former, who was watching me with a growing expression of comprehension. He knew the answer, I needed it. "Hand on a second," I said, taking a step towards Former.

The leather collar flared to life, sending a sharp zap of power racing through me. I screamed and dropped to my knees. The guard with the control box laughed softly. "Come on," he growled.

"No," I snapped. "I need to know!"

With a yelp, the collar sent another burst of energy through me. I collapsed onto the floor, letting the momentary tingle wear off. "Move it, prisoner." It barely filtered through my ringing ears.

"No," I whispered hoarsely. Without a second thought, I triggered the transformation. Silver light danced off my blades as I pushed myself to a crouch, then onto my feet. The two guards actually took a step backwards at my glowing glare, both of them raising their collar remotes. "I need to know." I need to know if he's evil. I need to know what he knows!

Former's book dropped to the ground with a dusty crash as his hands went limp. He was staring at me wide-eyed, his brown eyes fixed on my face. I felt his surprise shiver lightly against my nerves. "That's why…" he murmured softly. "I understand."

"I need…" I began, but was cut off by another, longer zap of electricity from the collar.

The two guards wrenched my still-twitching form off the floor and pushed me towards the door.

"Former?" I called, twisting against them as much as I could with my half-numb muscles. He looked at me, grinning, and gave me a double thumbs-up before the doors slammed shut behind me.

As I was pushed forwards along the ramp towards the pit, I felt it. It tingled against my senses, making my fingers twitch and curl. For a split second, my green eyes half-closed as I took in the delightful feeling. It felt vaguely like someone lightly dragging their fingernails along your inner arm: a ticklish and thoroughly enchanting sensation.

But then I realized what it was and slammed down on the feeling. A shudder of revulsion swept across my spine. Fear. I had been feeling pure, unbridled fear.

Ghosts feed on emotions – most notably the strong, easily aroused ones like terror and rage. Being half-ghost, I'm just as aware of those floating feelings as any other ghost. I made peace with the fact that I get energy from human emotions long ago. I refuse to enjoy it, however. As soon as I figured out what that prickling energy was, I stomped down on the feeling, cutting it off, and swallowed heavily against the dizzy nausea that always accompanied doing that.

Two steps later, I had gotten my head back in order, and was gearing up to fight the ghost down in the pit. That strong fear still pinged against my brain, but I ignored it and took another few steps.

That's when it sunk in.

I stopped dead in my tracks, the guards bumping into my back.

That feeling was fear. Fear came from humans. That feeling was, rather distinctly, coming from the pit. Thus… there was a very scared human in the pit.

"No," I snapped, trying to twist around and walk back to Former's room.

"Move," one guard said languidly, his red eyes looking sleepy from the strong emotions roiling through the air.

"I'm not fighting a human," I hissed.

Another guard merely nodded. "You are."

"Let me go!"

Suddenly, my collar zapped into life once again. I yelled at the pain, falling to my knees, my shoulders wrenching behind me when the guards refused to let go of my arms as I fell. Electricity coiled around me, stinging the air with fizzling noises. When it ended, my nerves were numb and twitching and my breath was catching in my throat.

By the time I had blinked my eyes focused and could feel my toes again, I was in the pit. The mud was squelching under the boots of the ghosts that were physically hauling me to the starting line. I was finally getting my feet back under me and starting to walk when the guards pushed me harshly forwards and vanished.

I was there.

In the pit.

With a human.

Talk about terrified. I was crouched on my knees and elbows, refusing to look up and see what was going on. My pale arms were pressed into the muck, and I watched as rivulets of black-red blood trickled forwards and brushed warmly against my skin. My fingers were shaking, fists clenching and unclenching with nervous energy.

It took several seconds of anguished shivering before something odd about the situation filtered through my head. Granted, I haven't been in the pits very often, but each time there were some constants.

Bloody, sandy muck underfoot? Check. Someone to fight? Check. Overwhelming fear and despair? Check. Loud, noisy, insane crowds? …

The silence was pressing down on me. That, more than anything else, was what got me to look up. I glanced over to the side, half expecting to see empty stands. Instead, my blood ran cold.

The crowd was there, pressing up against the rails that separated them from the pit. Many ghosts were floating in the air, getting as close to the pit as possible. Every single ghost was silent, their blue, green, or red eyes focused on the fighters. As I watched, a new wave of terror swept out from the human, danced across my mind, then expanded like a ripple in a pond out towards the crowds. When it hit, ghosts shut their eyes in ecstasy, many of them visibly shivering in delight, more than a few completely falling out of the air.

A sick feeling rose in my stomach. They were feeding off of the human. This fight, they wouldn't be calling for a swift death – they would want me to drag it out. Keep the terror level up for as long as possible.

I let my head fall back to staring at the red-green sandy mud. My own brain felt like it was being overloaded as constant streams of fear flowed through the pit from the human.

"What am I going to do?" I whispered aloud as the full horror of the situation finally fell on me. By not killing the human, I'm doing exactly what the ghosts and Walker wanted me to do. Just by being here, I'm doing their job. But to work against Walker would mean I had to kill a human.

I'm fifteen. As the dilemmas piled up around me, I screamed in my head. Nobody should have to decide this kind of thing – especially not fifteen-year-olds.

On the one hand, not killing the human would result in satisfying those insane ghosts… not to mention the fact that I would die, Walker would most likely enact his revenge on my family, and I would probably spend the rest of eternity rotting in some 'evil' afterlife. This was not my favorite option.

The only other choice, however, was to kill a human. A human that wouldn't stand a chance against me. That tingling ball of terror was so scared that it hadn't moved since I was thrown into the pits.

Which is more important to me? The lives of myself and my family? Or the life of a human I don't know? I curled my toes in my shoes, clenched my eyes shut, and tightened my fists until I felt cool blood trickling from underneath my fingernails.

In the dead seconds that followed, I listened to sound of my harsh breathing, the occasional shouts from the enraptured audience. My ears pricked up – I heard something else. Something I wouldn't have heard in a normal fight.

Crying. And not just any crying… it sounded like…

Despair clouding my brain, I looked up. I locked eyes with my human opponent. Numbness spread throughout my entire body.

It was a little girl in a dirty blue dress.

I stared across the pit at the girl, watching the tears trickle down her cheeks. The girl was curled into a crouch, her hands digging into her long, blond hair, whimpering loud enough for me to hear. The two overly large blades strapped to her arms would have looked comical if the situation wasn't so dire. I took a hesitant step forwards, faltering when my blades sent a sparkle of reflected light into my eyes.

Walker leered down at me from his gilded throne up in the crowd. I could almost hear the glee in his mind as he watched this. I can't kill her.

Something almost like a distant memory whispered in my ears over the roar of the crowd. I'd do anything to save my family.

I can't kill a little girl! I argued. I will NOT kill her.

The girl's blue dress was rapidly soaking up the spilt blood and ectoplasm in the sand. She glanced up once at me. Her blue eyes were terrified, punching me straight in the gut. Suddenly she smiled, jumping to her feet and running. "Phantom!" she cheered, racing towards me. When she reached me, she threw her arms around my waist and hugged tight. Her blades sliced into my sides, making me wince, but her eyes sparkled when she looked up at me. "You're here to rescue me!" The roiling terror was toning down, tinged with a heady tingle of happiness.

I'd do anything to save my family… the voice in the back of my head trailed off, waiting to see what I'd do.

Her smile was confident and open; her face showing the complete trust that only a five-year-old would think to bestow upon public enemy number one. No…I can't…

You have to.

I WON'T! The girl blinked at me, surprised by my lack of response. She took a slow step back, but grabbed my hand her hand and held on tightly. The smile she sent me wavered slightly.

You will.

She's just a little girl.

She's going to die anyway. Dying won't win her anything.

I can't… my whole body felt numb, the only thing I could feel was the warm fingers desperately clutching my hand. Never…

Silence filled my mind, the faded memory ceasing its argument.

I smiled down at the little girl. I can't kill her. She returned my smile full force, her trusting eyes glittering in the dim pit lights. A vision of my family drifted through my mind. I'm sorry… I hope you'll forgive me for what I'm going to put you through. But I can't kill her. Not even to save you.

The girl giggled softly, inching closer and closer until she was basically wrapped around my leg. "We'll show them stinky ghosts, won't we Phantom?"

"Yeah," I said quietly.

"And we'll be heroes," she proclaimed.

"Heroes…" My eyes searched the crowd, falling on Walker. He was watching me, head tipped to the side curiously.

"How do we get out?" She tugged on my shirt, repeating the question.

There's only two ways out, the voice snapped from my mind. Dead or a murderer. Which will you pick?

I can't kill her, I sighed to myself.

I don't want to die.

I didn't respond. My gaze fell back down to the little girl clutching at my leg. One of her sharp blades was absently digging into my calf. Her golden hair was dirty and matted from being captured and thrown into the arena. When she looked up at me, I fell into her bottomless blue gaze. I won't kill her. Not for anything.

I don't want to die

Blue swirled around me, an electric green creeping in and taking over. The neon colors whirled in tiny eddies on all sides of me, drifting through me, sweeping my mind away. A splash of red rippled across the surface, but vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

The next thing I knew I was sitting in my cell, wet hair still dripping freezing water into my eyes.

"What?" the young woman hissed. "How could he not… why not… where is…" She snarled down at the simple notebook, annoyed. "What happened?"

She set the notebook down on the hard cot and paced around the cell. Flickering ghost lights littered the ceiling and danced in droves – a huge mass of moving color and light. Just for a moment, she watched them, entranced by the shifting patterns of blue and green. An odd thought crossed her mind, and she sat back down on the cot, running her finger down the page in the journal she had just read. "That's what I thought," she whispered, "he only had two ghost lights."

Flipping back a page, she smiled. "And here he's got one." Her eyes sparkled as she flipped through the notebook, confirming her guess. "Well, there's one mystery down, I guess."

She crossed her legs and reached for the folded blanket at the edge of the cot. As she drew it around her shoulders, something tumbled out of its creases onto the floor. Wrinkling her forehead, the young woman glanced over the bed, staring down at the object. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh… my…" Picking it up with delicate fingers, she set it down on the cot, next to the notebook. Then, with a shiver, she grabbed the notebook, flipped the page, and continued to read…