A/N: Wow. I am humbled by the overwhelming response to this. Thank you; thank you to every one of you.
"Wait, so that means it took you—three hours," managed Tucker between laughs, "to fight the Box Ghost? Dude, I think you're losing your touch. Oh, oh, man…"
He continued laughing until Sam elbowed him in the ribs.
"Ow! What was—what?" He started slightly, confused by his friends' expressions.
"Quiet, do you want the whole school to hear?" asked Sam irritably. "And let Danny finish."
Ignoring Tuck's interjection of "Lo-o-ovebirds," Danny carried on with his account. "One, he was at least ten miles away, and I was flying at about negative four miles per hour. Two, he was underground, trying to save some stupid box that someone buried. In dirt. Underground. Do you know how impossible it is to fight while inside of something?"
"Hey, what's wrong with dirt?"
"Dude, I don't think it's possible for you to fly at—"
"Wait! Since when does your ghost sense extend that far?"
Danny rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly? I don't know. If I can do night watch while lying in bed, I'm the last person you'll hear complaining."
It was the beginning of lunch hour. Sam and Tucker had met Danny outside of the Biology room ("Dude, what happened to your stuff?"), and after a quick detour to his locker ("Danny, why even bother keeping these things?"), they were headed to the cafeteria. As they approached the double-doors, Tucker experimentally sniffed the air.
"Ah…meat," he exhaled. Another sniff. "Possibly"— he drew in a deep breath—"oh-ho, steak!"
"Ugh. Can you detect a veggie burger in the vicinity?"
"Sam," said Tucker as though addressing the subject of Jack Fenton's bunion-afflicted feet, "meat connoisseur. I do not waste these finely-tuned senses on soy-based substitutes."
They stepped over the threshold, and before Sam could cite the virtues of tofu, Danny stalled his friends. "Hey, guys, I think I'm going to find a nice, hard lunch table and rest my eyes for awhile." As though to prove his point, he yawned widely.
"Sure, Danny."
"Yeah, dude, you need it. No offense, but you look terrible." At that comment, Sam chose to re-acquaint his foot with her combat boot. "I mean—yeah, go ahead, Danny! We'll wake you up when the bell rings!"
Danny felt that there was a logical flaw in that, but he didn't care enough to sort it out. He sat at a corner of the first empty table he saw. As he dropped onto the bench, he sank his head into his hands and readily accepted its relief. Sounds began to reel in and out of focus, and he slowly succumbed to the lethargy of sleep.
There were precious few factors that sheltered Danny's dual identities from public knowledge. The delicate balance between an ignorant majority and doubtful minority, carefulness on Danny's part and minute differences in appearance constructed a partial, capricious guard. The ultimate distinction between Phantom and Fenton existed in an area of his mind that was conducted by rational thought: the difference between a dubitable hero and definite loser, between situations that cried for deliverance and ones that urged avoidance, between enemies that were threats and enemies who were effectively harmless—enemies to whom he had learned to play victim in order to preserve the shallow depths of his façade.
Instinct, however, bore no such discrimination, and it was instinct that governed his actions in the muddled moments between sleeping and waking, wherein Danny suddenly found himself being lifted by the collar of his shirt. His body performed as it had been conditioned for months to do. Between sleeping and waking, Danny faced his enemy with the might he had learned as Phantom.
His hand shot up and dislodged his attacker's; then, in one fluid movement, he gripped the arm to which it was attached and twisted it, using it as leverage to throw its owner into a neighboring table.
Within three fatal seconds, the action was complete, and several feet away lay the crumpled form of Dash Baxter.
A hush fell around him, rolling in a single wave, progressing from one person to the next as it caught the students of Casper High mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-gesture, mid-breath. The shock of the instant was preserved in time so perfectly that Clockwork himself might have intervened.
Slowly, Danny raised his head, information being processed in scattered bands. The crowd had stilled around him, yet it blurred, working and roiling like seething water, at once seeming to press in upon him and retreat. He spotted Sam and Tucker—Sam was pale, a hand over her mouth; Tucker was mouthing words that were lost to him—and registered a shout of "Great Gatsby!" before his world exploded in pain and darkness.
A/N: Oh, the dreaded cliff-hanger. I feel like a horrid person.
I am aware that the pacing was a bit off, that there was little build-up to the "fight" and that it was very brief, but that was intentional. It was meant to be sudden; I plan to devote more time to the aftermath and consequences.
Also—no, Dash is not dead. That would be darker than I am willing to go with this, and it would be rather unfair to kill him off on his first appearance in the story!
Typhex: I prefer Christina, but you may call me by any derivative of my username that you like. :)