Chapter Three: Painted Black
The works of Edgar Allen Poe were far more suited to this place than a Shakespearean comedy.
Vlad quietly drifted up the neglected stairwell that took him to St. John and his newest client's chamber, pausing a moment to glance out of the one window that wasn't being suffocated by heavy velvet drapes.
Outside, not much to be seen other than a barren, gloomy courtyard, and the trees outside Danny's sector were stripped of their flora and fauna, looking little more than enormous heaps of barbed wire shuddering ominously in the evening gale. The tyrant made a mental note to commission a new, grand garden planted outside by tomorrow at the latest; Daniel's once rare good behavior awarded him trips outside. He might as well have something pleasant to see, although he probably didn't even know what he was looking at, anymore.
Shaking his head at the preposterous ideas spilling into his head, Vlad finally reached Danny's enormous door, and hesitated a moment; he'd learned by now that it was better not to go in when his new child was having a screaming fit.
But thankfully, and unfortunately, silence. The man strode in without knocking, fingering through his collection idly:
You take my life when you take the means whereby I live.
A peaky-looking specter barely glanced up from his desk as Vlad came in, eyes glossed over with boredom as he scribbled impatiently on a clipboard; Vlad had to irritably clear his throat before the ghost paused in his work, and looked up.
"Did you need service, my lord?"
One of the many things Vlad liked and disliked about St. John de Sica was that the apathetic, centuries-old physician was so cynical concerning his own existence that he feared no one and nothing; not the Romans who had captured the doctor when he was still alive and nearly fed to starving lions, nor the Black Plague, which had decimated a great deal of his patients, nor Pariah Dark, who had forced the ghostly physician under no uncertain terms to serve as his own private surgeon in his prime. He also quite obviously didn't fear his new master Plasmius, because if he had the opportunity to endure and continue his work, fine; if not, then that was fine, also. The man had been so hardened after countless years of treating people and ghosts alike who could afford his services (emaciated, burned, mutilated, or horrendously ill all) that few things ceased to surprise him or capture his attention for very long.
The only thing that did occasionally capture his interest, however, was a challenge, and Vlad had one. And so the doctor had not really needed much prompting to become the boy's new caretaker after he'd gotten a glimpse at what he'd be working with.
Vlad glanced at the double doors behind St. John in the simple chambers where Danny's bedroom lay. Still no sound.
"Is he sleeping?"
St. John idly began to polish his eyeglasses with his sleeve.
"Last time I checked, no. He had a little milk and honey this morning, however, which is a good sign. That oversized flea basket of his is still fussing over him like a mother hen; occasionally he can get a stir out of him, but it tends to be brief."
Vlad made a face; one of his new, groveling lackeys-Walker-had mentioned the relationship between the convicted werewolf and the young ghost hybrid a fortnight ago in conversation. Considering the state Danny had been in after Vlad had finally realized what was going on in the White Room, even the former billionaire's heart had been softened (Or whatever you might call it) enough to send out his soldiers in pursuit of the fugitive.
He wished he'd left those sniveling brats Samantha and Folley alive. As much as it had pleased him to squash the two like insects, they would have been so much better for the décor than that awful, snarling fleabag.
Animals came with a price tag: That wolf had needed to be declawed to keep it from opening dimensional rifts between this world and the spectral. The thing had whimpered so piteously through the procedure (No anesthetic was applied) that Vlad had needed to disappear three stories upwards-with a pair of headphones.
Now, the sorry creature spent most of its time shuddering outside, chained with a variety of fun little accessories that Walker and his troupe had been all too willing to supply: All shackles, meant to shock, burn, sting, or otherwise render their poor captive immobilized.
Wulf had tried on at least six occasions to murder Danny's better father, which didn't necessarily endear him to Vlad, but after a few choice threats (And some rather enjoyable electrocutions), the thing seemed docile enough, even while hostile. St. John had noted that Danny seemed more himself when around his old friend, even if he still didn't say or do much.
Vlad sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefingers, and went on:
"Any seizures today? Any screaming fits?"
St. John's cold gray eyes scanned the paperwork before him.
"None. Blood pressure still relatively low, but stable. Temperature also stable."
"Did he sleep last night?"
"Not much. I came in around one or so in the morning and found him still staring at the ceiling. I gave him something to help him sleep after that-he woke up around eight or so."
Vlad frowned.
"That's all well and good, but when exactly will he out of bed-speaking, reacting, functioning like any normal human being?"
"The boy isn't a normal human being, good sir," said the doctor.
Vlad flashed him an evil look.
"When will his cognitive abilities be restored to what they used to be? That's what I want to know."
"I do not know, sir."
Aghast, Vlad colored.
"What do you mean, you don't know? You're to discover what's ailing the boy, and to make him better! That's why I hired you, you imbecile!"
St. John did not remotely react to the insult. Instead, he simply folded his fingertips, and said, very seriously,
"My team and I have been running consistent EKGs, and his heart rate is at a healthy pace for a boy his age. His insulin levels are functioning perfectly, our chest biopsy revealed that his lungs are functioning, he's not dehydrated, his temperature remains stable, and his blood and bone marrow are just fine. The only reason he gets sick at all is because his fits left him so exhausted that it left his immune system open to attack."
"Then stop the fits."
St. John raised and lowered his shoulders.
"They have. For the most part. But sir, I believe this is a mental conundrum, and not at all a physical one. I treat the body, sir-not the mind."
Vlad's midnight blue eyes narrowed.
"I'm not paying you to give me your doubts."
"You're not paying me at all, good master," pointed out St. John, somewhat dryly. "I have reviewed this boy's case time after time again, and regardless of what anagram I might draw or treatments I might try, I cannot guarantee a selected date when young Mr. Masters will start improving mental habits."
"Then you're obviously not trying hard enough."
St. John continued as if Vlad had not spoken.
"When you first handed over care of Daniel to me, the boy's mind and body were ragged; worn through. His body is as good as new, but his mind, I fear, is still in grave disrepair after what he endured."
"He can still speak!" said Vlad impatiently. "And his mind isn't broken at all-it's only his attitude, and his continued impertinence against me!"
St. John looked at Vlad searchingly for a moment, than pulled out a sheet of paper from his stack, adjusted his spectacles, and read from the report:
"House was seized and destroyed; when Daniel and his sister refused to swear their loyalty to you after Daniel had been shackled with a ghost-proof stabilizer, Daniel had to watch his sister be dragged to the White Room, and his young companions, a Mr. Tucker Folley and a Ms. Samantha Manson, executed before his eyes. For good measure, paid the price of disobedience by having to watch a preschool massacre. Was also left in the care of some of your associates, whom bore grudges against the phantom boy, and consequently disobeyed your orders to keep the torture at a minimum while you were distracted with courting, marrying, and going on your honeymoon with the present Queen Masters. It was only when Jasmine got on her knees and pleaded on the boy's behalf when you returned was he let out."
"He was pale and shaking when he came out, but he still screamed at me-still threw tantrums, still broke things. He certainly didn't act like a vegetable the way he does now."
Again, St. John shrugged helplessly.
"So much of his mental focus went into staying alive in that chamber. The White Room, as your Grace so intelligently named the simulation hall, was designed as a mental and physical torture for interrogators like your Lordship who wished to extract information from their prisoners without causing them bodily harm. When Jasmine was sealed for three hours at a time, she was surrounded by a vast horde of fake, but remarkably real to her-venomous snakes. And she felt the intense pain of being bitten, over and over again, for over two hours every day for three months. From what I've heard of her state after coming out each day-sometimes snakes, sometimes bee hordes, sometimes slow and painful suffocation via quicksand-she was a wreck by the end of her ordeal. However, ghosts like Spectra, who thrive on human agony and hold a grudge, were far more interested in the case of young Master Masters."
It appeared St. John's face had transformed into a sheet of unfeeling marble.
"Stab wounds, watching his family get murdered over and over and over again, infernos destroying his flesh without actually leaving him to die, being buried alive and feeling maggots feast on your eyes, multiple disemboweling, watching himself destroy people and places he loved, having his ghost half melt his body away in a pool of acid-all these things he perceived were happening to him, even if physically, nothing did. The ghosts in charge of the boy's torture were creative, if nothing else."
He sighed.
"I don't think the reality of what he had seen and what had been done to him sunk in until a little after you had your new family placed in the fortress, sir. Slowly, Daniel's sanity started to fail. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner than it did."
Vlad said nothing. St. John went on:
"He'll usually perk up and have a moment of lucidity when he can see his mother or sister, but sometimes, he doesn't recognize them, and hides under his sheets or behind Wulf until the guards take the Queen back to her chambers or Princess Jasmine to hers. Occasionally, he'll go hours without making a sound, snap all of a sudden, and begin screaming. I can recommend a few choice psychologists-"
His cobalt eyes froze over, and the man quickly strode away before the ghost could finish, into the bedroom.
St. John warily looked over his shoulder at his retreating master's back.
A hint of sadness entered his eye, but just as soon as it had come, it had disappeared, and the ghost turned dutifully back to his work.
Infirmity doth still neglect all office
Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves
When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind
To suffer with the body.
A pair of green eyes glowered at him from the bed, and a warning growl reverberated throughout the plain room. Vlad let out a derisive snort.
"You know, if not for the boy's sake, I don't think I could stand you at all, mongrel."
At that, Wulf's growl rose to a snarl, and the beast rose from his prone position cradling something on the bed to his hind feet, still-bandaged, bloody hands pawing futilely at the shock collar still encircling his neck. A mocking smirk momentarily appeared on Vlad's face, but it disappeared as Vlad's eyes trailed upward to the small form in the enormous bed beside Wulf.
A pair of opaque blue eyes ghosted over to Wulf, idly drifted off, and then found their friend again. A hint of confusion entered in them, and a bloodless hand drifted out from underneath the covers to awkwardly pat Wulf's elbow.
The monster glanced down at the boy, and Vlad's smirk faded just a little as he approached. Wulf curled instinctively around the teen, poised for a futile fight.
"Get away," snapped Vlad, holding up his control switch. "Butter biscuit, I'm not going to hurt the child."
Now it was Wulf's turn to look contemptuous. But he did reluctantly shift away from the bed, though he kept his eyes fixed on Vlad as he approached.
Listening to his companion snarl, a small raven head peeked out under the comforters. Face waxy-gray and eyes the size of dinner plates, Danny Fenton reached for Wulf's paw, staring dreamily across the room.
Vlad waited, but whatever fantasy or blissful nothingness had captured Danny's attention kept him utterly absorbed, and at last, he impatiently cleared his throat.
"Daniel."
The sound made him start, and Danny's eyes shifted to see who had made the sound. Vlad cringed slightly, expecting a shout or an insult, but Danny's glazed eyes settled on him as disinterestedly as if looking at a stray insect.
Nothing. Deathly silence.
Vlad raised an eyebrow, but thought it best to respond as cordially as possible.
"How are you doing today, son?" he asked carefully, cringing slightly as he noted Danny's nervous twitch at the sound of his voice. "I hope you're feeling be-"
But at that moment, Vlad cut off sharply with a gasp: His eyes had trailed upwards, and he'd finally noticed just what had happened to the walls.
Black. Black everywhere.
The sweet, serene blue of the walls had been splashed with enormous spikes of inky black paint, which in many places had dripped long, dark tears.
It'd been so dark in the room that the man hadn't even noticed. Huffing in irritation, he reached for Danny's hand with an angry frown, ignoring Wulf's angry hiss.
Sure enough, Danny's hands were black as coal dust. Vlad's fingers dug into his palm. He'd punished Jasmine for less than this….
"Where in the world did you get paint, of all bloody things?" the man demanded, pulling Danny's chin towards him until the boy most unwillingly made eye contact.
Danny just smiled gaily, eyes drifting again.
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience.
"Daniel, are you still trying to make me angry? Daniel, answer me!"
But no answer. Danny's senseless blue eyes bore into Vlad's, and the man's fierce expression wavered as he stared into the dim hollows.
It wasn't a child's face at all. A haunted corpse was contemplating him like he, Vladimir Plasmius, seizer of the world, was the most interesting and intricate thing in the universe.
Vlad shivered, and drew back, hatred bubbling up inside him, in spite of himself.
"Madeline. Jasmine."
That seemed to rouse a hint of sense into the boy; Danny shivered, moaned, and tried to curl into a ball. But Vlad seized him by the shoulders, and held him tight.
"Mom. Mom. Mom and Jazz. I want to go home. I want to go home."
"You are home, son," Vlad corrected, struggling to keep Danny from diving underneath the pillows.
Disorientated, Danny looked up at him, slightly dazed.
"But…..I'm not your son. You're not my fa-"
SLAP!
With a howl of rage, Wulf lunged for Vlad's throat, but the man just as quickly flipped the switch, sending a high volt of electricity straight at the ghost's pulse.
Yipping in pain, Wulf convulsed wildly on the floor, green eyes rolling as again and again, he attempted to pry the chained collar from around his neck, hands beginning to bleed afresh.
Danny had fallen on the ground from the impact, face bearing a red mark from where Vlad had struck him, mouth opened in a soundless gasp.
Standing before him was Vlad, his features contorted with rage, chest huffing from the exertion the man was feeling in keeping himself from strangling the boy then and there.
Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content.
Then, after a moment, the man's rigid posture loosened, and a hint of regret entered his features. With a long-suffering sigh, the man carefully scooped up the frozen boy, pulled him back onto the bed, and held him close, while Wulf panted in agony on the floor.
"Dearest Little Badger, I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry. But I do wish you hadn't provoked me."
Danny said nothing. He had been in a field of irises. Then, fire had started hailing from the sky. It had burned his clothes and skin….
Somewhere, a man who could only truly be described as a demon's voice broke out again:
"….really, for your….own good….."
Then, there'd been that girl. The one with the violet eyes and soft hands. What was her name, again?
"Follow….footsteps….all this…seized everything…..all for you….."
Huh. He couldn't remember her name, but he remembered the burning. And the fact that the one kid with the hat and glasses was sobbing, slowly but surely dying had broken his heart….
He'd felt the thorns sinking into his skin as he tried to dig up where they'd been buried alive, but that wasn't right; they'd died in a fire already…..
He'd been at school, and he'd found himself holding a gun and surrounded by bodies, unable to remember a thing, face soaked in blood and horror…..
No-he'd been trying to save his mother from Plasmius, who had turned into a terrifying monster, bent on raping and eating her…..
He'd been a little boy again, when his parents were obsessing with their portal to the point where he and his sister were shoved to the side. Dad had thrown him into a cabinet, and after a few days, was dying from dehydration…..
^E&%&!*o8&^? JUTFW!*^T*(EY*PTPE&(ISH*T!U(E&*^%^&**(((((76%48945326!
"Daniel? Are you even listening to me?"
Danny felt a pair of arms around him; the fact that they were furry registered in his mind amidst all the chaos in his mind. Furry. Soft. Warm. Safe. The-creature-with-green-eyes-who-had-a-name-but-Danny-forgot-it-and-the-creature-was-kind-and-protective. Not dark-blue-eyes-bad-bad-bAD-BaD-BAD-BAD-BAD-BAD-EVIL-MAN-LIKE-PLA-
He bobbed his head in a yes, though he wasn't sure why, and buried his face into Wulf's shoulder, willing out the rest of the world. His head ached now, and everything was fuzzy.
He could faintly remember this morning, when he'd been able to string out a sane-sounding sentence to a maid asking for black paint. He hadn't been sure WHY he'd done it, but it made him feel better. Safe.
If the world was just one big nightmare after another, with one enormous one waiting for him every time he woke up, why should anything be anything but black? How could there be sickly-sickly sweet color surrounding him when so much other than the wolf watching over him hurt him? The scary bad man what's-his-face, Vlad, and the doctor with the cold eyes, hands, and needles?
It had infuriated him with the injustice. He'd splattered the walls until he was sure they were dark enough, feeling tears of righteous anger and sorrow pour down his hollow cheeks. No color. No blue. Blue had been a favorite of his once, but now, it was just hideous. It meant HIS normal dark eyes.
Red was even worse. He'd smashed a red Ming vase a few days ago…..
"Daniel?"
That was his name. Wearily, Danny turned to look at Vlad, forcing out the words he knew would make him happy, though he wasn't sure why or what he'd done:
"I'm sorry."
Vlad's face brightened somewhat, then the man sighed.
"Daniel, I hate to hurt you. You know that, right?"
It was a struggle to stay in the here and now, and not escape into blissful nothingness. But Vlad had said the names Maddie and Jasmine….
Danny forced himself to nod. Nods were usually safe. Vlad asked him something else he couldn't understand. He nodded again. Then-
"I will permit Jasmine to come and stay with you for as long as either of you two wish tonight, if you agree," Vlad said squarely, hands on either side of Danny's face, "To be on your best behavior tonight at dinner. You WILL speak, and you WILL be polite, and you'll refrain from this foolishness. I have more than enough rooms, my dear boy, but if you wanted to redecorate, all you had to do was blah-blah, blah, blah, heresay, something, something, something, la, la, tra-la-la, something obscure, something boastful, blah, blah…."
Danny forced himself to keep nodding, and planted a large smile on his face even as the man's words turned into gibberish. He felt Wulf's heartbeat from behind him, and felt better.
Now, he just needed to play his cards right, and he could be reminded why he couldn't dive out the window (Which he'd also painted black) and end his misery. Mom. Jazz. Mom. Jazz. Mom. Jazz.
They needed him. He needed to think of an escape plan for them, even if the idea of existing was brutally painful for Danny now. He needed to be Danny Phantom. A hero. Gosh, he wished he had Danny Phantom here right now to save him.
Wait, wasn't he….?
Danny kept nodding innocently, parroting back at Vlad what he had heard: "I promise", "I understand", "Thank you", and, most painfully of all, "I love you too, Dad."
Danny forced himself to take deep breaths when Vlad gasped, and seized him in a limb-breaking hug. The man was trembling. He, on the other hand, was trembling with so much exhaustion that he could hardly bear it. Mimicking was easier, and took less energy than remembering words.
After awhile, Vlad left, with the Shakespeare book on Danny's lap and a tear of joy in his eye, promising that Danny would be wheeled to supper around 6. Danny just kept nodding and even supplied a wave, though his eyes were drooping.
When the door finally closed, Danny felt Wulf pull him close, and start rocking back and forth, growling. After a moment, he spoke in a low rumble:
"Adiaux, evil viro. Via reina will mortigi vi se mia fangs fari ne."
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Amidst Vlad's newfound happiness that evening, Jasmine's despair, and Danny's weariness, someone was taking care to stay busy.
A pale hand unscrewed a small phial of liquid, and carefully doused it on one of the plates being immaculately prepared for that night's dinner, and its owner scampered.