Chasing Phantoms

Part I: Mad World

Chapter Eight: Who You Are

Sam sat in Lancer's office, flipping idly through the notes she had taken in the past three years of her research. She was impatient and tense today, trying to get out of the building as quickly as she could to see Casey. The man that she had seen when she got on the train looked so much like him, and it made her ever the more anxious to see him. I wasn't like her to actually have someone to talk to other than the man who sold organic coffee on campus and Lancer. She fiddled a bit with the strings on her plain black corset and adjusted the sleeves of her loose, violet v-neck sweater. It was still sort of chilly.

Sam wasn't really sure why she had worn her usual going-out clothes just to see Casey. It was technically a school day, even though all she did was help Lancer and work on her thesis. But, this Casey had been the only person she had met in New York since high school that took the time to talk to her. He almost seemed to have made it his mission to see her smile.

She banished the thought as soon as it came to her. He wouldn't do that. He didn't even know her. But, then again, not many people did. Sam wasn't exactly friendly or warm, and had been shoving away people that only wanted to be friends with her to get close to the Manson family and climb the social ladder. She never wanted to have fake friends like that – she never wanted to even be a part of the society her parents were so involved in.

Lancer sat behind his desk, waiting for her to address him. I was an early Wednesday morning, a couple minutes before his freshman Psychology of Literature class was supposed to begin. Finally, Sam found what she was looking for, and slapped the thick packet onto his desk.

"Gulliver's Travels! You have finished your graduate thesis?" he asked her, his eyebrows raised.

"Almost. I feel like I am missing something, but I don't really understand what it is, or perhaps who it is. Perhaps I am being too much of a perfectionist, but something seems to be off. It is not really quite optimistic."

Lancer flipped through the stapled packet, skimming its contents with a look of interest on his face.

"You have remarkable observations here Miss Manson. It is really quite interesting how you have taken such a broad subject such as personality and motivation and turned it into what you have here, 'The Human Spirit as Determined by How We Respond to Great Upheaval.' It is quite brilliant. If you believe it is not finished, I will leave that up to you alone. I think I will let you have the day off again, Miss Manson, seeing as we are beginning Romeo and Juliet. My favorite! And you enjoyed it as well, if I remember correctly. You always did have a taste for the tragic."

Sam laughed dryly, but her face was bright.

"Thanks Lancer. I was kind of counting on a day off."

He suddenly looked up at her, as if remembering something important. Sam stopped in her tracks and groaned.

"What did you forget this time, Lancer? Its February for God's sake! Couldn't you take the time to remember that they moved the materials you need to a storage room downstairs from the ones around the corner?"

"I'm an aging man, Miss Manson! I can't carry those books all by myself!"

She was distressed, yes, but he really had no choice.

"Miss Manson, those are valuable course books and as my Teaching Assistant, I trust you alone to help me give them out to the students and the book register updated. I can't have any of my precious books stolen from me like when you were in my class almost seven years ago."

"Fine," she spat irritably in his direction.

It was already half past seven, and she had promised to be at Casper's at eight. Factoring in the fifty minute commute, Sam was going to be really, really, late to see Casey.

Casey woke up at 5:30 just like usual. He pulled on the sleek black trousers and crisp white dress shirt Casey always wore, followed by a sweater vest. It was a little balmier than usual today, but the rain from the night before had left everything quite dreary. Casey was out the door at half-past six, his black wool jacket zipped up tight, and a plain hat pulled over his ears. He rounded the block and made his way through the throng pushing their way down the stairs to the W 86th Street Station, hundreds of commuters punching in their fare cards, cramming through the doors of the subway.

Frustrated, Casey pushed against the crowd on the stairs, using his weight as an advantage. His sleek black shoes were muddied by the people scrambling like animals to catch the next train. The subway at the bottom of the stairs whooshed away quickly; the rush of warm wind causing his eyes to tear behind the glasses that he didn't really need to wear.

He punched in his fare card and pulled it back out quickly, mildly annoyed by the large woman pushing him avidly from behind. He decided not to break his cover and merely pushed forward towards the platform, instead of angrily flashing his sidearm like he would have back in D.C. The lights on the edge of the heavily muddy platform blinked red as the rush of the coming train filled the tunnel. Light appeared from the far left end of the platform as people scrambled to get to the front of the crowd. Many of them couldn't afford to miss the train.

The train screeched to a stop, the doors of the subway miraculously appearing right in front of Casey. The doors opened and a new group of people joined the commuting crowd on the platform. Casey stepped inside quickly and reserved a spot where he could hold onto the rail overhead without getting too jostled.

The subway doors of the car closed just as another train heading in the opposite direction pulled up. Casey looked over quickly; the crowd in that train was probably even worse than the one in his. His eyes widened in surprise, but when he blinked, what he had seen was gone and his train was inching away. He could have sworn he saw a pair of purple eyes staring through the glass of the train.

About twenty minutes later, he was finally free from the stifling interior of the subway. The cool February air cleared his nose of the smell of the train and the smell of hundreds of people, some unwashed. He walked briskly away from the W 79th Street Station and the 7th Avenue-Broadway train pulling away from the platform, pulling his wool jacket closer to his body as the cold, slightly rainy air rushed by in gusts. The small shops passed by him as he walked another two blocks down Broadway Avenue. He fumbled a little with the key to the bookshop. It was still dark out and the old lock was not being very agreeable. He hung up his jacket on the wrought iron coat tree between the door and the curved bay window and tossed his satchel on the leather seat. In the back room, the coffee maker stirred to life.

Casey stood in the doorframe, looking past the shelves over to the music store across the narrow street as he sipped the freshly made coffee. He didn't really like the old man that worked in the store, even though he seemed harmless enough. After all, he was old and short, and moved very slowly as he sorted old records and new CD shipments. What was his name again? Birch? No, that was the name of the store…Barthes? Bert? Casey remembered – Bertrand. His name was Mr. Bertrand, and he always had that lady in the store with him. She worked down the street in the medical center. Everything about her was severe and biting; she was pretty, but still gave Daniel a bad feeling.

The sun had risen and it was quiet on the street. It was almost nine – the mostly residential area was empty, seeing as everyone had already long gone to work. Only Casper's Used Bookstore and Birch's Music Shop were open this early; the three other businesses on the street only worked in the late afternoon and evening hours in the winter.

Sam was supposed to have come already. She said she would swing by around eight to help Casey sort the new shipment of books that had arrived early that morning, but as she was not here, Casey began to mechanically sort the first of twelve boxes himself. At least, he thought, these boxes were pretty small.

He straitened suddenly; he had been putting a book on one of the bottom shelves near the back corner of the store, where the bay window couldn't be seen. He peered around the shelf, wary. People usually didn't leave Birch's at a flat run…at least that was what he thought he had heard: a small shriek and a slam of the store door across the street, followed by the quick patter of small heels on the concrete, and – was there another set of feet after her? Daniel couldn't see anything out of the ordinary when he looked, but then again, the shelves obscured the door the music shop.

Another unearthly scream and a thud brought him quickly from around the shelf. Daniel was horrified and shocked at what he saw. A woman – not young, but perhaps in her late thirties – was being dragged by her feet back through the door she had just exited a second ago by Mr. Bertrand.

"Help, someone help! They're going to kill me1 someone please, call for help!"

Her desperate voice was muffled by the glass in front of Daniel. She was thrashing avidly and desperately, but there was no one to hear her on the empty block. Her clean cut blazer was dirtied from the wet sidewalk and snagged on the doorframe for a second, but was freed with a sinister ripping sound.

The bell of the store across the street tinkled as it shut, trapping the woman in the store. Daniel ran through the front door of Casper's and across the street, the chilly air biting at him through the sleeves of his dress shirt, his shoes smacking the muddy asphalt noisily.

He slammed open the door of the music shop, his eyes trying to find the woman from whim the now-muffled screams were coming from. He was met by the pudgy face of Bertrand, but the man's hands were otherwise occupied. The woman's screams were quieted by a clear oxygen mask, but her pupils were widely dilated and a sinister green power floated through the tube of the mask as she tried to get air – but all she got was the drug aerosolized, biting her lungs and taking hold of her mind.

Her struggle was nowhere near as intense as it was when Daniel saw her fighting to get out of the door. She was giving up. The severe woman that worked in the medical center kneeled on the other side of the helpless mother. A sleek case was next to her, and Daniel could see the glint of a scalpel and other surgical materials within, as well as a quick glance at the name on the ID card pinned to her red suit lapel.

The severe woman stood up and ran towards Daniel when she saw him swing open the door of the shop and lunge towards Bertrand. She met his righteous presence with her own steely, heartless one. Brandishing a pair of surgical scissors, she deftly stabbed Daniel in the side. The closed point of the scissors was dull and punctured his skin slowly and painfully, the hilt hitting his ribs with a thud.

He shoved the vicious redhead aside and she hit a shelf holding old records with a sickening crack. The scissors still in his side, Daniel scrambled towards the dying woman as she now very faintly struggled against the mask and against the old shopkeeper. He ripped out the scissors from his side, blood running freely now over his shirt through the sweater. It flowed onto the floor and covered his hand as he tried to stop the bleeding. Daniel lunged at the old man, knocking him to the ground as he tossed the scissors across the room.

A small, abnormally cold hand grasped him around the ankle and scratched as deeply as it could, the already sinister red nails turning more bloody than the already were from the area above his sock. Crawling on his hands, Daniel grabbed the cord of the register and tried to pull himself up as both the woman and the old man viciously latched onto him.

Another sharp pain stabbed him in the back, quite close to his heart, but a bit below, in his left lung. He gasped for air as more blood rushed into his lungs, letting out a primal yell of pain as the scalpel slit through his shirt and down his back; the woman was trying to help herself up using the scalpel she had stabbed his with as a handle. Daniel pulled on the register cord and the heavy machine fell to the right of him with a thud. The old man squeaked in pain as it crushed his already weak hip and fell back, passing out from the pain.

The severe woman withdrew the scalpel from Daniel's back and teetered a bit as she stood up. He collapsed, but turned himself to face her using his arms. His chest was weak and bloody as he gasped for air, a burgundy stain developing on the green carpet and fine wood counter. The woman lay a few feet away, delirious, but slowly inching her hand towards her pocket. Daniel still had hope – he just had to keep this…this…thing…from killing him long enough for the police and paramedics to come.

She smiled evilly and threw the scalpel at him. Daniel tried to dodge, but it came in contact with his right arm. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth and sinister, like a snake hypnotizing its prey.

"Ha! Ha! You're barely a man! Did you really think you could stop me? Or anyone for that matter!"

She glared at him and stood up straighter. His chest seared with pain at every breath. The hot sticky blood pouring down his shirt, staining it like spilled wine on a white tablecloth. Daniel looked her strait in the eye, his gaze never faltering even as his exhausted lungs did. He coughed again, sputtering blood, but not having the strength to wipe it from his mouth.

"Let her go."

His chest heaved again and more blood came from his mouth. Daniel's eyes were bleary and tired, his face covered in blood and grime from the floor. He never let down his gaze, and she reveled in the challenge. Dr. Spectra let out and audible hiss as she jeered at Daniel.

"Look at you – you so valiantly tried to help, but it looks like you're going to fail after all. Probably just like always. What, did you let another person down? You couldn't help them?"

Daniel's eyes flashed and his dark eyebrows knitted together with as much protest he could offer.

"Ah…that's the trick. You feel like you let them down forever? You think that you're a poor, useless child that never had a real chance at saving this woman. I can see that…you were foolish running in without help, foolish to think that you of all people – barely and adult, for god's sake – could stop this comfortable thing I have going for me?"

"You won't get away with this! Give up, or…or…" his voice faltered as he brought up more blood from his mouth with a heavy, spluttering cough.

Again, Dr. Spectra jeered, but this time she walked up to where he was lying and squatted down to his level. She grabbed his face with her long, manicured red claws and lowered her voice. She stared him in the face and laughed softly as she dug her nails into his flesh. Daniel refused to quit, he refused to let her win. He had a duty to the people…to the woman lying on the floor in a drug induced delirium. But, he felt his resolve waning. His strength, his body, they were both fading away from him quickly with each passing minute she breathed into his face.

"Or what, little boy?" she hissed, her voice tangling around his throat, stopping his breath.

Daniel's cerulean eyes blinked, and he freed his mind from the hypnotizing hold she had on him. In one swift moment he ripped the offending scalpel from his bicep and lunged at the monster in front of him with all if his remaining strength. The ghostly scream and crunch below told him that he had not missed.

"Or this," he finished quietly.

He rolled away from the crumpled body of Dr. Spectra with a grunt and let go of the handle of the surgical blade, his hand covered to the elbow in fresh blood. Moaning in pain he tried to pull himself up, but collapsed as his lungs gave out again and left him short on air. He tried again, this time moving towards the victim, and not upwards. His bloody hand stopped a foot from her and moved no further.

The strange blackness he had entered was strangely colored. He had faded; he was halfway gone. It was strange, this darkness. It was filled with the sounds and colors of the real world, but it was as if they had been ground through a filter. He saw the flash of red and blue light. The police and paramedics had come; maybe, even if he didn't live, at least the woman might have a chance. His body was lifted up, he knew that, but he could feel nothing within it. He was trapped inside his mind, an endless maze. He was trapped somewhere in between.

He smiled a bit; or he would have, but he was not really in possession of a body. Still, a jeering but loving kind of feeling swept through him. There was Kim's voice, commanding and perfect as usual. He was disappointing her – she had counted on him to come back alive. But now, Daniel was not sure where he was – or which he was. He was still thinking - and feeling, right? Then he couldn't be dead…unless…this was his soul, carrying over to death. Was this a ghost?

Another voice cut into the darkness. Whose was it? It was so familiar, so comforting, but he couldn't place it. The voice was important. It was saying something important…or was it angry? Perhaps, it was confused…or hurt? Daniel's own consciousness filled with the same feeling that the voice was giving. Why did it hurt so much? Why wouldn't it stop? Death was supposed to be painless and quick…unless…

He fought with his mind. He fought with every fiber of his being to find his way out of the darkness. As long as there was some shred of hope left in him, he was not about to be left shut in his mind; he was not going to just…whatever his body was doing. His moral resolve strengthened with the pain that he felt, even though he felt that in a normal, logical place that was not his mind that it would not make sense. He was still alive. He was not going to let go without a fight.

"Oh my God, Daniel!"

His eyes opened to meet the face of his superior, tears staining her cheeks. He gave her a weak smile and swore internally at the sheer physical pain of his body. A movement caught his eyes. Glancing up, his cerulean eyes met a pair of exotic violet ones. They were wide and hurt.

"Daniel?"

"Yep…" he laughed meekly.

Her expression clouded.

"What happened to Casey?" she spat avidly before turning to leave the room.

Oohhh... sorry about the cliffhanger. This chapter took way too long to write, in my opinion. Please review. Rememeber to strap in for the ride, i have the next chapter drafted already and will have it polished by next friday. REVIEW. They encourage me to write better, longer chapters.

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Ok, this is getting ridiculous. I have 5 reviews for 8 chapters. Do you know how hard ive worked to get this story written? PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, take the time to REVIEW!

Are the characters making sense? or are they too OOC?

Are the setting and plot elements as they are presented in the story clear enough?

What doesnt seem to make sense when you read it?

This is the first story i posted, and ive been getting good readership, but a measly number of reviews. I really, really, just want to know what you think. I you liked it, all I need is a few encouraging words and maybe some questions. I will ask kindly, if you have favorited or put this story on alert, please make a point to review at least once.

The people who have reviewed or PMed me have given me some reaallllyy good ideas, especially Quantos Prime - i hope you picked up on that little bit in Chapter...six... i think?

Anyways, thank you. You all encourage me to keep writing =]