Chapter 3

There was no school Monday. People who had yet to hear about the death assumed it was a snow day. Danny knew better.

Around noon, after several hours of alternating between dozing and wallowing, Danny Fenton stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, making up new constellations in a forced game of connect-the-dots. It wasn't a very good distraction.

His face and throat were heavy with mucous and his body temperature was erratic. Right now he felt too warm to be wrapped up but too vulnerable to be exposed, which meant that he was constantly fidgeting with the blankets.

His door creaked open, spilling some light into the room. He'd never turned on any lights and had very carefully closed the curtains. That in combination with the clouds which were presumably hovering outside left him in an uncomfortable gray area of darkness. His eyelids fell shut in response to the new stimuli. Jazz must've decided it was lunchtime, but his stomach was too upset for food.

A new weight on the mattress only served to annoy the teen.

"How are you feeling?"

"Mom?" he croaked, choking a little on the mess in his throat. Man, I sound horrible.

The scientist put a hand on Danny's head. "Hmm, you don't feel feverish."

He took a deep, raspy breath; he ran cold.

"Is your throat sore?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. It was indeed sore, but it also gave him a reason not to say much.

"I brought you some soup."

Danny exhaled now. He'd have to respond somehow, to accept or decline the soup. His first instinct was to grunt noncommittally, but he stopped himself. The more sick he was, the more his parents would worry. And pay attention. So soup it was.

As soon as he tried turning over to face his mother, he became aware of how bulky his body was. When had he gotten so tall, so clunky? His skin felt hyper-sensitive, turning his sheets suddenly into sandpaper on exposed skin, and he regretted changing into shorts and a t-shirt that morning.

"Oh, honey," his mom cooed sympathetically as he struggled. Do I really look as pathetic as I feel?

After setting the soup bowl down on a nightstand, his tired mother gripped her son's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. It was only mildly terrifying. For two full seconds the boy was sure he'd been cast for real into a recurring nightmare.

A vision of a lab flashed across Danny's mind's eye and he tensed up. Was she holding him down?

Was she holding him down?

Was she holding him down?

He remembered vividly how it felt being captured by Vlad. Latched to a table, at the mercy of a malicious mad scientist. This had happened to him before, but this time he deserved it. Maddie's shadow was easily imposed on the fruitloop's.

Mama mia, mama mia, let me go.

Shuddering, he stomped that image down. She was just helping him sit. That was all.

"Can you eat?" She was holding the soup again. Chicken noodle, it smelled like. Classic. But his stomach….

Danny shook his head weakly, enjoying the semi-darkness his eyelids provided. Did he have a headache now too?

"Look at me, Danny." Do I have to?

He cracked his eyes open sadly and blinked until his mom's face came into focus. Her lips were pursed, but her violet eyes were wide with concern. It was the details in her appearance that alarmed Danny. Her pale face had yellower undertones which became purple under her eyes. Her hair was flat and tangled, even a little frizzy, and her blue hazmat suit was inexplicably wrinkled.

Of course she hasn't slept, he thought.

"You know you're safe, right?" she reminded him tenderly, brushing some stray hair out of his face.

He closed his eyes again. He didn't know about that. He wasn't safe—not safe from harm, not safe for others to be around. Not safe at all.

There was a bang from downstairs, a sound that had ceased to surprise the Fenton children long ago. Yet it jarred Danny a little more than usual this time; must've been the headache.

"Maddie!" Jack shouted from below, "I think it works!"

She looked up at the door then back to her son. "Try it, okay?" she asked, handing him the bowl. He got a good grip on it and nodded slowly, but by the time he looked up she was gone.

Lifting up the spoon for the first time, Danny tried to shove away thoughts of what invention might have his dad so excited. Couldn't be good for him.

The soup was warm, and the warmth was pleasant. He hadn't realized how hungry he'd been, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. The first sip of noodles went down easily, but it did little to soothe his throat. He broke into another coughing fit and focused on keeping the soup bowl steady. Some chicken broth fell onto his blankets, but he couldn't find it within himself to care.

'Is this some sort of spectral punishment?' he wondered grudgingly. It entered his head as a joke but left a bad taste in his mouth. Pushing those thoughts away too, he swallowed another spoonful of noodles.

His mom had left the door open, and he didn't have the energy to get up and shut it. He didn't have much energy at all, in fact. As a trial measure, he put the bowl in his lap and raised his right hand. He'd been getting better lately at using his ghost powers in human form. First he turned it invisible, then intangible. The next obvious step in the check was to summon a bit of ecto-energy, but as soon as a hint of green flashed in his palm he stopped. Suddenly the muscles in his arms were frozen and his breathing halted.

This only hurt his throat more of course. More coughing was on the way and he slumped backward in his bed. He couldn't think about that

The roiling in his stomach was back again. And that was too bad; the soup had been delicious.

….

Damn thermos, Sam thought, scowling as she stared at the containment device, Stupid Spectra. Stupid Bertrand.

She was back home now. Her driver had showed up to get her from Tucker's shortly after Danny left. That's what Tucker said anyway; she'd missed him.

Stupid parents, stupid rules. Danny needed her, she knew that, but she wasn't allowed out of the house. Her father had been on the phone with supposedly important government officials all morning, complaining and yelling at anyone unfortunate enough to pick up. Her mother, on the other hand, had been trying to contact the school. When those efforts gave her only voice-mails and "no comment" comments, she moved onto prospective tutors and private schools.

So yeah, she wasn't going to be allowed to leave. Which meant that a) she couldn't see Danny and b) she couldn't do anything with Spectra and Bertrand.

Suddenly rock music was blaring from her nightstand; her cell phone.

"Hello?" she answered quickly, not bothering to check the Caller ID in her haste.

"Sam?"

She smiled in recognition, but there was a twinge of disappointment in her chest. "Tucker?"

"Yep, it's me," he replied, "Have you gotten ahold of Danny at all today?"

And her smile left. Leaning back on the bed, she sighed, "No. He hasn't been answering my calls, and my parents won't let me out of the house to see him—or do anything for that matter."

"Maybe he's still in bed," Tuck suggested, "You know how he sleeps."

Like the dead.

The unspoken joke fell flat. Everything felt flat today, flat and sad and messy.

"Yeah," she acquiesced, "Maybe."

There was a moment of silence between the friends. Sam was staring at the thermos again. She could just push the release button and rip that lid of right now; Danny often said that kicking ghost butt helped with anger management. This wasn't even misplaced aggression. It was directed exactly where it should be.

"So," Tucker began again, "I think I might have a plan."

She sat up again. Spark.

"Samantha!" came her mother's voice from downstairs, "Samantha?"

"Just a minute, Mom," Sam groaned loudly before returning to her phone conversation. "Okay, what is it?"

"Alright, so we go to the lab—"

"Samantha," her father called in a warning tone, "Listen to your mother."

"Is there someone up there with you?" her mother accused.

Ugh. "No, I'm just on the phone with Tucker—"

Who was still talking. She only heard a few words here and there. "The Fentons….Ghost Zone….fix it…"

"Tell the nice boy you can call him back please," her mother commanded, voice strained.

"Samantha Ann Manson." Now her dad was mad. Crap. Not that it was unexpected, but crap anyway.

"Tucker, I'm going to have to call you back."

"But the longer we wait…"

"The more likely my parents are to kill me."

Also not funny.

She could hear someone coming up the stairs now. She had to hang up, she had to hide the thermos. "Sorry!"

…..

Tucker stared dolefully at his phone. No help then, alright.

Well, maybe not no help. There was still one viable number he hadn't tried, and that wasn't because he was saving the best for last. If Sam was on lockdown and Danny was unresponsive, there was only one person left he could contact.

"Tucker?"

Why is everyone always so surprised?

"Hi, Jazz."

"Danny's asleep—" she stuttered.

"Is he though?" Unintended acid dripped into his tone. Then he shook his head; Jazz had done nothing wrong.

There was a pause. "Probably not."

"Are your parents in the lab?"

"They haven't left."

He'd expected that. They could talk incessantly about ghosts and their obsessions, somehow without ever noticing how much they had in common with the ecto-entities. "Do you think you could get them out for a while?"

"Well," she replied, "That press conference is starting soon; I'm pretty sure they're going to that. Vlad's probably going to have a lot to say."

"It starts in half an hour, right?"

"Supposedly."

"So they should be leaving soon?"

"Yeah?"

Tucker grabbed his bag and headed for his bedroom door. "I'll see you soon."

He climbed down the stairs and found his parents watching television. "Are you going to watch the press conference with us?" his mom asked.

Play it cool, Tuck reminded himself, You're not up to anything.

"Uh, no thanks. I think I'm gonna go to Danny's actually."

"Isn't he sick?" his dad responded.

"Yeah, but he needs the company, and I've already been exposed."

They still didn't seem very convinced. Maybe I should've snuck out after all. But he just couldn't bear to do that to his parents right now. What if they tried to find him and assumed the worst? Well, one of us has to have a good relationship with our parents.

"Are you sure it's safe to go out right now, Tuck?"

"Mom, I'm a senior in high school, and I've been going to Danny's house since elementary school. Of course I'll be fine."

"Mr. Baker was a grown man, and that didn't seem to matter."

Don't worry, I know the ghost boy personally. Actually, we're kinda best buds and we fight ghosts together basically all the time. So it's cool, really.

Nope, that explanation probably wasn't going to do.

Tucker reached into his bag and pulled out a small ectogun and twirled it around on his pointer finger. "Don't worry, I'm armed and dangerous."

"Where did you get that?" his dad asked, with a note of indignation but not a hint of surprise. His mother merely sighed.

"The Fentons. Guy's gotta defend himself, right? It's only dangerous to ghosts anyway." Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to turn on the safety, and this too was an older model of ectogun. It didn't take well to the motion, and a stray shot shattered a glass on an end table, spraying water everywhere and not reassuring his parents in the slightest.

Before either parent could speak, the teenage boy spouted, "Wellseeyalaterbye," and slipped out the door.

By the time Tucker made it to Danny's house, his parents were already gone. He met Jazz in the lab, where she was staring at the closed portal.

"You ready?" he asked, making Jazz jump.

"Oh, didn't see you there," she apologized. She shook her head as if coming out of a daze. "Ready for what?"

Tucker slapped a hand on the nearby Specter Speeder. "We take this techno marvel out, we go see Clockwork, and we fix this mess."

Jazz raised her eyebrows. "You really think that'll work."

"Yup. One hundred percent, totally do."

Not leaving any room for silly skepticism, Tucker hopped into the driver's seat of the vehicle. "Alright," he said, realizing it had been a while, "Now how does this thing work again?"

Jazz slipped into the passenger's seat. "Mom and Dad installed a genetic lock on this too, so…" She stuck her finger on a pad on the dash, and the machine whirred to life. "And a genetic lock for the portal is in here now too." She stuck her finger on another pad, and the swirling green realm was revealed.

Their ride through the Ghost Zone was quiet. The pair had never really been close friends or anything, but they both cared deeply about Danny Fenton. So of course they would do whatever they could to help him.

The only ghosts they saw on the way to Clockwork's were vague, largely formless things. Even those whooshed away when the Specter Speeder zipped by.

While Tuck steered, Jazz navigated with a map and a scanner, which luckily her parents had repaired before they were distracted. The map, though, wasn't as reliable.

"It looks like a cliff of some sort," Jazz remarked, pointing to a squiggly line on the hand drawn sketch of what Danny and crew knew about the Ghost Zone.

"Probably a giant snake," Tuck sighed, "I think I remember seeing one of those around here."

Turns out it was, after all, just a squiggly line. A stray pencil mark or something, a common mistake on these things. Still, going around the imaginary obstacle added several minutes to their journey, and ultimately several minutes onto Danny's suffering.

Clockwork's tower was large and formidable, surrounded in the dark green by large, glowing cogs. The two parked their vehicle by the door and got out.

"Do we….do we knock?" Jazz asked Tucker as they stared at the grand double doors.

"I guess," he replied, "Don't see any ghostly doorbells."

"Do you think he knows we're here?"

"Probably."

"Do you think-"

The teens leapt backward as the doors swung open, revealing the hooded time master. His child-like visage was bored, Tucker thought, though Jazz detected a faint sadness there. For several seconds, no one spoke. Finally, Clockwork started the conversation.

"I know why you're here."

Moment of truth, they both thought. Tuck gulped, Jazz froze. If Clockwork couldn't help, Danny was very truly toast.

It was Tucker who put on a brave face and stared down at the figure, determination evident in all of his features. "Can you help us?"

"Omniscience does not yield omnipotence, young one," Clockwork exhaled as he changed into a man, now towering over the two.

"But you could help us," Tuck insisted, "You've done it before."

"Yes," he allowed, switching his staff between his hands, "I have."

"So you'll help us now," Jazz conjectured hopefully, voice shaky. She'd never liked the Ghost Zone. Its mysterious and malicious inhabitants, in combination with its ghastly apparent infinity, disturbed her.

"I will not interfere with these events."

The words fell like iron blocks on their toes.

"What do you mean you won't interfere?" Tucker snapped, "You helped us defeat Dan, you helped us with the ecto-acne incident. But you won't interfere to save a man's life?"

"To help young Daniel, you mean," Clockwork pointed out, transforming into his older form, "It's not as if either of you cares much for the late David Baker as an individual."

"You care about our motivation?" Tuck nearly shouted, "You won't help us because you think we're here for the wrong reason?"

"No," the ghost clarified, "I will not interfere with the time-line because tampering with it is not necessary at the moment."

"So, everything's going to be okay?" Jazz asked quietly.

"I didn't say that, now, did I?"

Tucker switched tactics. "Come on, you've done ten years in the future, twenty years in the past! This wasn't even twenty-four hours ago. Not a big deal at all, just a little blip, a little oops," he persuaded, gesturing here and there for emphasis, "Nothing a super powerful ghost like you can't handle, huh? So what do you say?"

"I will not interfere with these events."

"Please." Tucker's voice broke. "Pretty please, with PDAs on top?"

While Tucker begged, Jazz was thinking. Clockwork had a soft spot for Danny. She'd noted it before, and she could see it in him now. Not that that guaranteed eternal fealty. As an all seeing entity, he had a lot of things to look out for at once. Not to mention whatever hold the Observants had on him. If they were telling him not to, he'd have to be tricky about helping them. If he'd decided not to pull out a magic wand and whisk their problems away, she saw little hope of changing his mind.

"Can you give us any advice?" she requested, desperation coloring her demeanor, "Your opinion, a hint, something?"

Clockwork paused. When he spoke again, he spoke very carefully. "I think you should get home now. You all have a lot to do."

…

"You can't make me go, you can't make me go, I swear you can't make me go!" Sam yelled at her parents.

"Young lady, you do not have a say in—"

"I'm almost eighteen, you know that, right? I can do whatever I want at eighteen, I can move out at eighteen."

"Sweetie," her mom pleaded, sniffing a little. This conversation was taking its toll on her. "We don't have to be that drastic right now. We just want to keep you safe."

"Your idea of keeping me safe is taking me away from everything and everyone I've ever cared about!"

"Don't you care about us, Samantha? Don't you care about your mother and I? Where's your respect for our feelings?"

Sam wanted to calm down. She didn't relish in her parents' misery, their disappointment. But she couldn't let them control her, couldn't let them drag her around like some pretty, expensive toy doll.

"We've put up with a lot in Amity over the past few years," her dad continued, "Ever since your freshman year, it's been attack after attack, always accelerating in frequency and intensity. This is just too much. It's the last straw, and we have to do something."

Everything she did was always too much for them. Too much black, too much rule-breaking, too much interest in the occult. Too many unsuitable friends, too many snide remarks. And she couldn't handle their judgment right now.

"You two are always like this!" There was a hot bubble of anger in her chest. She felt like a frothing monster, a giant lizard roaring and knocking down buildings. "I ha—"

She stopped herself mid-sentence. She couldn't say that. Not now. She didn't hate her parents; she hated the way they treated her sometimes, but that wasn't what she was mad about. As quickly as it had come when her mother mentioned switching schools, her anger deflated, and she sunk into a nearby chair. Tears stung at her eyes and she took a sharp breath. God, I can't cry. I hate crying.

"I'm sorry," she finally sputtered, "I can't talk like this." And without any further explanation, she fled up the stairs back into her room, shut the door, and flung herself onto her bed. There was no pursuit.

After a minute or so of pained gasps and internal 'pull yourself together's, she wiped her face off and sat up. Ew, mascara hands.

That was when she noticed something off. Her closet door was open. She'd closed it, that's where she'd hidden the thermos right before going down to see her parents. Had her mother sent someone to prune the black from her wardrobe again? An all too familiar feeling of suspicion came over her as she crept up to investigate.

Shakily, she crouched down to examine her special loose floorboard.

The thermos… It's gone!

Thank you very much to my readers, my reviewers, and my proofreader WildfireWarrior34! I hope you enjoyed the chapter.