There were exactly three things that Johnny 13 feared.

One: Kitty when she was mad. Two: the thought of losing Kitty for any reason whatsoever (his own dumb-assery included). And Three: his Dad. Specifically, his ghost dad. Who was the fucking warden of a prison, didn't possess a sense of humor, and had muscles that could crush someone's spine.

Yeah. . . that was a Thing.

Still, Johnny needed his cam-chain looked at – fuckin' Harley and its stupid hydraulic Twin Cam engines – and he just didn't have the willpower to fuck around with Bullet. That asshole still hadn't forgiven him for the whole "fake hitting on his wife" thing. It was a joke, dude, get the fuck over it. But no. Bullet was a petty-ass bitch.

So here he was, motorcycle touched-down on the lawn and Shadow refusing to come out as he looked up at the front door. It was so fuckingfuckin innocent looking, that red door with a cross on it. Like something out of a catalogue.

But to Johnny?

That door could open up and pour out fear. . .

Johnny growled to himself, stubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of the boot, and swung off the bike. This was Pops – yeah, sure, he'd grumble and be a general dick about it, but he'd help. Pops always helped. Even when he didn't actually want to.

Didn't make him any less fuckingfuckin' scary though.

"Nut up or shut up, Johnny," he muttered to himself.

He knocked on the door three times and waited. It wouldn't take long – Pops may not've used powers in the house, but he moved quick for someone so big – so he didn't really have time to regret his decision.

Then the door swung open, Pops looming over him like some incarnation of Pissed-Off, and Johnny regretted waking up that morning. And choosing to keep his Harley. Well, the latter lasted for like half a second because his bike was almost as precious as Kitty. Which was saying something. And, oh shit, he'd forgotten the Patented-Look of "Johnny, you fucked up" that Pops had. It'd been a while since that one had come out.

"Johnathan Walker, y'all know dang well to let me know you're comin' beforehand!"

Well, Pops wasn't wrong. But he seemed to underestimate the bullshit that Bullet liked to put his eldest through, thank you very fucking much. So, this was one rule that could be bent. A little. Sometimes. . . Christ, he wished Pops would get worse at dirty looks, because this was fucking uncomfortable.

"Aww, c'mon, Pops!" Johnny tried to ignore the twisting in his guts with nonchalance. "You know I don't mean nothin' by it! I think the cam-chain is going out in my Harley, and I thought you could help me take a look at it real quick."

Pops let out a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Wait, what? Johnny took a closer look and realized that Pops was wearing, like, normal-people clothes. No suit. Just a t-shirt, red-checked button up, and jeans. Barefoot. Barefoot. Pops never went barefoot for anything. Except. . .

"Johnny, I've got a new arrival and he's. . . sensitive."

Fucking shit. Of all the rotten luck. . .

In the back of his mind, Shadow chuckled low in his ear, and Johnny had to mentally smack the little shit down. He rolled his shoulders, scratching anxiously at the back of his head.

"Aww crap, Pops, I'm sorry! I didn't know. . .!"

Pops was not what Kitty liked to refer to as a "social butterfly." He kept to himself, intensely private, and Johnny could understand that. When you're the big, bad Warden, it wouldn't end well if one of your inmates to figure out you fostered a bunch of fucked-up little kids.

Speaking of big, bad wardens. . . Pops had pinched the bridge of his nose, brows meeting in a big line. Then he stepped back. and jerked his head towards the living room. "That's why yer supposed to let me know, Johnny." He sighed and jerked his head towards the living room.. "C'mon in. I'll take a quick look an' see if I can salvage that hunk 'a junk."

Ouch, Pops, that was harsh.

Johnny tried to fight the scowl working its way onto his face and pushed into the living room. Pops was grumbling on his way out, as was per the norm. This time, Johnny grinned. Well, at least that hadn't changed since he'd left. The grumbling was like a staple for Walker sanity. He didn't bother taking off his boots – they were clean, Pops, honest – and stumped into the living room. Maybe he could catch a few Z's on the couch. . .

Or maybe not because Spectra was taking up all the room. And there was a little kid on her lap. Clinging to her for dear fucking life.

Jesus Tits, had he entered the Twilight Zone on accident?

"Penny? What're you doin' here? I thought you an' Bertrand had some sort of scheme goin' at Casper High?"

Okay, so fucking around with Penny was much less scary than facing down his Pops. Because she might've been a misery-sucking bitch, but goddamn if she couldn't take as good as she gave. Penelope glared at him. Which was comical, considering she was in leggings, sitting cross-legged with a kid on her lap. Speaking of the kid, he was shaking pretty badly, even though he was wrapped up in a blanket. Face buried in Pen's clavicle. She'd cupped a hand to the back of his head, rocking back and forth.

Still, the look in her eyes probably could've frozen the Hell over.

"We did. And then Bullet came and tied me in a sack. So here I am."

Ah, Bullet! The crowned prince of jackasses! Johnny couldn't help but snicker a little bit. He stopped when Penny's glare got scarier – there were lines, and he didn't want to cross them, because she could kind of, sort of still kick his ass if she really wanted to. So he'd just stick to the obvious questions.

"This the new kid?"

Johnny remembered what it was like when Youngblood first formed. Poor little guy was missing a right arm and leg. Had nightmares like a motherfucker. But the kid would still talk, still play games and engage even though his brain was still trying to adjust to being, you know, fucking dead. But this kid. . . Little guy went stiff when he was referred to. As in stock-still, rigid, rigor mortis stiff.

What the actual fuck?

Penny was staring so hard into him, it was actually a wonder his core hadn't exploded. Like, literally fucking exploded.

"Johnny, keep your voice down," she near-growled. "He doesn't do well with loud noises."

Well, now. . .

He took a couple steps forward to get a better look. Only, he had to stop because the kid fucking squeaked like he thought he was about to die. And held tighter to Penny, of all people. It was like he was trying to disappear in those blankets. Johnny couldn't help it. He had to know.

"Seriously, Penny? You don't even like kids – why're you helping Pops with this one?"

Penny rolled her eyes and snorted. "I'll give you exactly three guesses, Johnny. Why the hell do you think I'm helping him?"

Sassy bitch. Johnny knew why she was helping Pops. Because there was exactly one way that Pops worked: his way. Either do what he said or face the consequences. Meaning. . .

"He threatened you, didn't he?"

"It was either help him or a thousand years in solitary." She said it so matter-of-fact, like this was a mild threat instead of something that could potentially cripple her.

"Jeezus, that's harsh, even for him."

And it was. Pops could be. . . strict, on certain things, sure. But he usually wasn't out-in-out vicious. He left that to the guards. Or Bullet. Who was a prick. A thousand years for someone like Penny, though. That was just plain cruel. Even if it was happening to someone like Penny. Who was a bitch.

Still. . . Kitty liked her, so she couldn't be all bad, right?

Shrugging, Penelope fixed him with a bit of a dead-pan stare. "Yeah, well, he's stubborn as hell and wasn't going to let me leave even if I'd wanted to. Doesn't really matter now, anyway. I can't just leave Danny with him. Warden Jack-ass would lose his mind if I did that."

Okay, bitch, there were lines. Pops could be a bit hard-nosed, but he wasn't all that bad. Scary as fuck, sure, but not bad. Still, he had to keep in mind this was Penny, who once thought it was great fun to convince Klemper it was a good idea to hug Prince "I'm a Dick" Aragon. Outside the annual truce. Her definition of a jackass – someone who forced her to behave herself – probably had a picture of Pops next to it.

Some movement caught his eye, and Johnny realized that the kid was looking up at him. He smiled at how the brat's fluffy white hair covered most of his face.

"Danny? That's a pretty cool name for such a little dude."

It kind of was. Danny – probably short for Daniel – was a much cooler name than Johnny. Shit, he wasn't paying attention all that well again. Pops would be having a fit. So Johnny looked at the kid a bit closer. . .

And. . .

"Holy shit!"

The kid didn't have any eyes. He didn't have eyes! Like, what the actual, literal fuck?! All that stared up at him were big pits of ectoplasm, weeping down the kid's skinny cheeks. There were cuts all around the sockets.

And, okay, so he could've been a little bit more sensitive. But, come on, how the shit does someone react when all that's sprung on them?! Poor kid looked fucking terrified, and he shook so hard it was a miracle he didn't vibrate right through Penelope. Who thumbed the ectoplasm from his cheeks and held him tight.

Yeah, Penelope not being as scary as Pops was a fucking lie. Vicious, dirty lies.

"Shhh!" she hissed. "Are you trying to get us both an earful?!"

Pops was going to shit a brick but. . . "What the absolute hell happened to his eyes?!"

That might've been a mistake.

Penelope's eyes flashed red, bloody and vicious, and her lip curled up in a snarl. There were black veins creeping across her face, down her neck, like evil spiderwebs. Which was horrendous because spiders were evil to fucking begin with. And then Johnny caught sight of the poor kid, Danny. He was hyperventilating, clinging so tight to Penny that his body had begun to shake. Little fingers clawed at her, desperate, and he was rocking.

Taylor used to do that when he had a panic attack.

Shit – he'd fucked up again.

"Okay, jackass, if you can't be trusted to keep your goddamn mouth shut, then go outside and leave Danny alone! You being a moron is not helping him in the slightest."

He understood Penny to a degree. She was The Bitch, tended towards narcissism on a good day and sadism on a bad. But when she cared about something, it was hers. And Danny, apparently, was hers. But Johnny had always been shit at keeping his mouth shut. Especially when someone pushed the right button.

And, Jesus Christ, was Penny good at pushing the right buttons.

"Says the one swearing in front of the kid!"

As soon as he said, it. . . regret. So much regret. All the fucking regret.

Penelope's glare was absolutely fucking demonic. How the hell had he never realized how fucking scary this bitch was?! It was like his core was freezing from the inside-out. Like he was stuck in a tar-pit and he couldn't get out of. Sucked into an ecto-vortex of fucking evil. The veins got darker, deeper, shading across her cheeks and creeping into her hairline.

"Get. Out."

Well, he didn't need to be told twice.

Johnny Walker had never been known as a paragon of bravery. He fucking booked it, trying desperately to get a grip. Because holy fuckin shit that was just so many levels of Not Okay. Thankfully, he remembered not to slam the door because Pops was still elbow-deep in his Harley on the front lawn, grease smeared across his knuckles.

"So when were you gonna tell me that the kid didn't have any fuckin' eyes?!" Johnny exploded. "And Penny?! Christ, Pops, what the hell?!"

Oh, there was the Patented-Look of Extreme Disapproval. Otherwise known as the Glare of Pissed-Off.

"Watch your mouth! It ain't punctuation, brat, don't use it like it is." Ahh, the growl – Johnny could always count on Pops to be somewhat the same. "And what're you goin' on about?"

Johnny stomped over and slumped down into the grass, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes felt like they were about to fall out of his head. "Pop, why didn't you tell me that the kid was that bad?! I made a complete dick of myself in there. Like, I gave the kid a panic attack."

Pops sighed and smeared grease across his face when he scrubbed at it. "Dang-it, Johnny, you know better. You remember what Taylor was like."

"Yeah, I remember," Johnny huffed. "But at least Tay had some damn eyes when he looked at me. I looked down and here was this little kid with, like, pits in his head and I just kinda panicked? I dunno, but I'm pretty sure Penny's gonna find some way to rip my spine out."

Pops actually snorted. "Kid, that woman's 'bout twelve different kinds of crazy. She's gonna ruin you one way or the other – just'a matter a time."

That. . . that did not make him feel any better. Like at all. In the slightest. In fact, he felt like Death was breathing down his neck again.

Johnny gulped and moved to help change out the cam-chain. "Why did you let Lieutenant Jack-Off kidnap her? Penny's not exactly known for being eager to help."

The look on Pop's face told its own story. "Son, I've seen things that'd make the hair on the back 'a your neck stand up. But I ain't never seen anything like Danny. I had no idea what to do. So I found someone who did."

God, that must've felt like pulling out a rotten tooth. Johnny could practically see his dad's pride chaffing. Still, he managed a grin, nudging against Pops as they worked.

"I heard you threatened her. A thousand years in solitary, Pops, really? That's just uncool."

Pops rolled his eyes and grunted. "Woman's stubborn as a mule. And 'bout three times as mean. It was the best way to get her to say yes. 'sides, it ain't like she don't deserve it."

"Well, you're not wrong. Did I ever tell you about the time she made Technus cry?" Johnny couldn't keep the laughter at bay. "It was during the damn truce and she'd gotten tired of him going on about his technology, so she just kinda unloaded on the poor SOB. Pop, the poor guy cried for, like, twenty minutes, and I'm not exaggerating."

Pops tightened a bolt with the flick of his wrist, muscles bunching up in his forearm – the one with the skull tattoo – and sat back with a quick chuckle. "I believe you. She's got a mean streak wider than her backside. Like to have bit my head off yesterday when I wouldn' say she could stay with me."

Johnny froze. Did. . . did he just hear that right? Penny? Living here? With. . . with Pops of all the fucking people?!

"Holy shit, Pops, you're letting her live here?!"

"Watch. Your. Mouth." Pops was wearing a dangerous expression, hard and closed-off. "I won't tell y'all again, Johnathan Walker."

Johnny tried not to wince.

"Sorry, Pops," he muttered. "You know, for a Jarhead, you're awfully conservative with the whole language thing."

Pops finished attaching the new belt with an easy twist, one that could've easily snapped every bone in Johnny's forearm. "I was a Marine in the '20's, kid. Rough language then was different. 'sides, makes ya sound like an idiot, which y'aren't. But I think I gotcha all fixed up."

It was true. The belt was new, pristine – much easier to work with machinery when you could just phase through shit – and his Harley was ready to ride. Shadow was practically vibrating in the back of his mind. Johnny grinned. Only for it to fall when a massive, grease-covered hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to make him want to die again.

Fucking shit, why did nothing ever go right for him?

"Like I said, I gotcha fixed up," Pops warned quietly. "But don't go showin' up without askin' again. Danny ain't ready for visitors."

The curse of "Johnny Can't Keep His Fucking Mouth Shut" struck once more.

"I kind of figured that, considering he had a damn panic attack in front of me, Pops."

More pressure. Fight or Flight might've, sort of, kind of gone into overdrive. Because Pops was a nightmare. A nightmare who didn't swear, but a nightmare all the same.

"Don' get smart with me, boy. I put up with a lot from you – don' dig yerself a hole."

Johnny gulped and tried not to panic. "No holes. Got it, Pops!"

Pops had this kind of smile that made Johnny's insides twist. Something like a cross between a feral snarl and a knowing grin. It spelled trouble. Lots of trouble. All the trouble in the entire fucking Zone.

"Good thing, brat," Pops growled. "Now, git on outta here. I got enough trouble without you an' that dang Shadow runnin' around here."

Johnny couldn't help but grin a little at that. "Dang, Pops, if I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like Shadow all that much."

Pops scowled. "That dadgum thing ain't nothin' but a pain in my rear. I'm pretty sure it hates me."

Shadow chuckled in the back of Johnny's mind, and he could practically feel the ink and malice dripping down his neck. "Yeah. . . you might be right about that last part. But c'mon, Pops! It's not like I hate you or anything."

"Y'all did at one point, brat."

Johnny sobered.

Yeah, he had.

Because there had been literally no one in his life that'd been any good. And when he'd gotten here, when he'd fucking died because of his shitty, shitty luck, he hadn't expected anyone else to be any good either. So when he'd met Pops – hard-assed, humorless, rule-obsessed Pops – it had been a hell of a new paradigm. There was lots of hatred. Real hatred. But then he'd come to the realization that Pops actually cared, dig? Underneath all that Texas bullshit and macho bravado was someone that wanted to help. That believed in him.

So, no, Johnny didn't hate his Pops anymore – but that didn't mean that being reminded of a time when he did didn't hurt.

"That was cheap, Pops," Johnny muttered.

"Maybe, kid. But if ya forget where ya started at, what kinda progress can you make?"

Shit – he was being all wise and shit. Which Johnny had no time for, thank you very much. So he did what he did best – swung over his Harley, lit up a cigarette, and gave his Pops a lopsided grinsuch nonsense.

"Thanks for everything, Pops!" he called. "I'll hit you up if I need anything else, 'kay?"

Pops rolled his eyes. "Whatever, brat, just git on!"

So he did.

Johnny kicked his bike into gear, let Shadow fly loose, and as he flew off to meet Kitty for some burgers, he tried to ignore the pit of guilt gnawing at his insides.

Y'all did at one point, brat. . .

~*O*~

Be Jazz Fenton.

You are six-years-old and have red hair, two pigtails tied with blue ribbons, and all your teachers call you "gifted." Mommy calls you her fighter and Daddy calls you princess and Danny called you Jazzy the kids at school call you know-it-all. The house where you live has a sign that says Fenton Works and you know because you've learned how to read, taught yourself when Danny needed a story Mommy and Daddy were too busy to do it for you.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And the house is no longer warm. It is cold and quiet, and Mommy cries a lot and Daddy always smells sour, like that weird brown water he's always drinking. You are six-years-old but no one has ever called you stupid. There is something wrong and you know it, but no one will tell you anything. So you go to school and ignore the other children putting paste in your hair and read and read until the words form stories, until the stories make sense.

Except. . .

Except nothing makes sense anymore. You are tired and alone, and not even Bearbert Einstein can make things seem bright anymore. Mommy used to laugh a lot, used to make cookies and give kisses and cuddles. She taught you some karate. And now all Mommy does is cry and sleep, and if sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night with her wrapped around you, holding way too tight and crying big ugly tears into your hair, then you're not allowed to say anything about it – Mommy doesn't usually remember.

And Daddy used to be very loud and give lots of hugs, used to shout about ghosts even though "ghosts aren't real, Daddy, everyone knows that!" Except now all he does is sit and stare into nothing, like some of those zombies you once saw on TV even though you were supposed to be asleep, and he smells funny. Sometimes he yells and throws things and you can't understand what he's saying, but it's loud and scary and he doesn't always stop when it makes you cry.

Sometimes crying just makes it worse.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and know that something isn't right and that someone is missing.

Miss your little brother, Danny, who is four-years-old – he'll be five in May, you remember – and follows you around like a baby duck. Danny, who has big blue eyes and loves space, has a teddy named Bear Aldrin after his favorite astronaut. Danny, who gives the biggest hugs and always tells you that he loves you, even after a big fight and you were mean, and has hair that falls into his eyes when he giggles.

Danny, who went into the lab when he wasn't supposed to. . .

Danny, who turned on something that made the house go "boom!" and rattle and everything went bright like the inside of the Sun. . .

Danny, who came up from the basement with white hair and green eyes, crying that he'd just wanted to play spaceman. . .

You watched as Mommy and Daddy screamed at Danny, who was still crying, and shot him with one of their grown-up guns. Cried because Danny was crying, pulled at Daddy's arms and beat on Mommy's legs until your hands were bruised and they had to put you in time-out for hitting. Cried and cried and kept crying until Mommy came back up from the lab and wrapped you in a big hug, explained that it wasn't Danny that they had shot, that they had dragged limp and scary-quiet down to the basement. Explained that it was a ghost, who only looked like Danny, who wore his face but wasn't actually a person.

Mommy had said that they would get the ghost to bring Danny back.

You are six-years-old, but you know how to count – all the way up to twenty! – and so you counted four rounds of twenty waiting for your bubby to come home. You asked your teacher, Mr. Pendergrass, what four twenties were.

Four twenties, he said, was eighty.

Eighty is a very big number for a very small girl.

Danny has been gone for eighty days and you are six, but not stupid. Mommy keeps crying and Daddy doesn't want to play with you and Danny has been gone for eighty days. Sometimes, you sit at the top of the basement stairs and stair at the big door, cry some more because all you have to do is open it. You can open the door. Because it isn't locked, has never been locked, but you just. . .

You can't open the door.

Mommy gets a scary look when she sees you sitting there, when she hears you knock and call for Danny, yells at you until she cries and you have to hug her. Daddy just pushes you away and his hands aren't gentle like they used to be, too big and too rough against your arms. Everything is confusing and hurt now.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Sit in your bed every night and listen to Mommy and Daddy fight. Listen to shouting, the sounds of things breaking on walls, and hold onto Bearbert until your fingers go white. Sometimes, sneak into Danny's room and lay on his bed, the one with rocket sheets. Grab Bear Aldrin and cry into his fur and wish wish wish that Danny comes home tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, soon. So soon.

But you must also know deep down that Danny is not coming home.

Because you are Jazz Fenton, six years old, and you know that the boy with white hair and green eyes, the one that had looked at you and called you "Jazzy" was Danny. He was the boy who screamed lots during the night, the one you could hear saying "please, Mommy, I'm Danny, no, I'm sorry!" and he was Danny. He was a boy with green eyes not blue and white hair not black and he was Danny.

You don't know how that could even happen.

But Danny has been gone for eighty days and the house is starting to smell bad, like that rat Daddy once pulled out from behind the oven, and you know that Danny. . .

Danny was downstairs and Danny was screaming and you know things but Mommy says you can't say anything to the nice policemen because they might take you far away, where you'll never see home again. . .

Be Jazz Fenton.

Sit as other kids throw mud in your face at recess and say nothing until a boy named Dash asks where your "freak" brother is. Feel the blood rush in your ears and your heart beat in your chest and scream at this boy, who calls you names because you are smarter than him, smaller than him, and watch as his eyes get big. Run at him and punch him with every ounce of anger your tiny fists can make. Keep hitting until he's crying and Mr. Pendergrass is yelling, lifting you away from this mean, small little boy.

Fight until you can't fight anymore and then cry until you get sick.

Sit in the plastic chair outside the principal's office and listen to Mommy yell some more. Daddy is very quiet and Principal Hawthorne is usually a very nice man, but now he sounds angry, like something is wrong because it is. Scuff the toes of your butterfly sneakers on white tile and sniffle, glance at Dash out of the corner of your eye as his daddy the fireman scolds him with serious eyes. Feel your heart hurt because that little boy called Danny a freak and. . .

Wince when a hand lands on your shoulder, squeezes too tight, and let Mommy march you out of school. Be ready for more yelling. Even though it makes your tummy hurt and your chest ache. Know you can't cry because that only makes it worse.

Everything makes it worse.

Sit in bed for one more night and it's been eighty and one days since Danny has been gone and pray, over and over and over again, for someone to bring him back. Because Danny is your baby brother. With a happy smile and bright blue eyes and he is smart and nice and your best friend because you're not so good at making them with other kids. Other kids think you're weird and a freak but not Danny, and he's gone and you just. . .

You don't understand why Mommy and Daddy didn't see?

Because they say that ghosts are bad, ghosts are evil, ghosts don't feel like people do they just pretend, live in the land of make-believe. And they say that the screaming is an act and that the ghost will tell them, they just have to run tests, do experiments, keep pushing until they find Danny. Except you try to say that it is Danny, that he is on the table and that he is screaming, except Mommy and Daddy just sigh like you're dumb, smile like you're stupid, and they explain slower.

You are six.

Why would grown-ups believe you?

Nothing is like it was before and you just want to go back, rewind like your Magic School Bus tapes. The house is cold and it smells like dead things and you don't know exactly what a ghost is, but even though Mommy says they're bad there must be some good ones? Because that little ghost who was Danny wasn't bad. You could tell. He'd had eyes that were scared, not bad, and sometimes scared things bite back. Like that time you accidentally startled the neighbor's little dog and it bit your fingers.

And the house is quiet now, you haven't heard screaming in three whole days, but something deep in your tummy knots because of that.

Is Danny okay?

Will Danny come back?

Are you too small? Too stupid? Too weird?

Mommy and Daddy are different now, and they don't listen. Nobody ever listens, but this is Danny, your bubby, with his big eyes and his bigger heart, and you have to try. But Mommy yells anytime you ask and Daddy shoves you away, yells mean things that make you cry. So you sit in your room and think back to when Danny was here, hold your bear and wish wish wish upon the stars above that someone will bring him back. Give him back. Make him safe and happy and here.

The basement door doesn't make noise anymore.

So remember, Jazz Fenton.

You are six years old.

You have red hair, pigtails, and a friend called Bearbert Einstein.

Your Mommy and Daddy took Danny to the lab and said he was a ghost.

Danny has stopped screaming.

~*O*~

"Here – y'all look like you need it."

Walker offered Spectra the cup of coffee gently, making sure not to startle either her or Danny in the process. She took the mug from him without a word, and he noticed how her fingers trembled around the ceramic handle. Her face was pale, knuckles white as kept a firm hold on the little boy sleeping in her lap, almost like she was afraid he'd disappear if she didn't. Her top was stained green with ectoplasm.

It had been three hours since Johnny had left.

Danny had fallen asleep – passed out from exhaustion, more accurately – only twenty minutes ago.

He sat a fair distance from the pair, close enough to intervene if she needed him to but far enough away to give them both some space. But Spectra still hadn't spoken a word. Walker never thought he'd see the day, but he kind of wanted her to talk to him. Even if it was to spout off something vulgar and sassy.

"C'mon, sugar, spit it out," Walker knew that his nudges were more like mental shoves, but he didn't have it in him to be tactful. "You're thinkin' awful hard to be this quiet."

Spectra turned. Slowly, like it hurt to move – which it probably did, considering she'd been curled up around Danny for the better part of three hours – her head twisted until they could look at each other fully. There were shadows in her eyes, more serious than he'd ever seen the snarky, irreverent witch.

"He kept asking what was wrong with him," Spectra rasped.

They were ghosts, but she sounded haunted, and Walker knew exactly what she meant.

Danny's panic had been different this time. It wasn't just rocking and trembling, teeth chattering in his tiny head coupled with hyperventilation. The kid had cried his little heart out, big heaving sobs that shook every bony inch of his frame. He'd sobbed and screamed and begged for answers, asked the same question over and over again until the words had bled together. Until everything was unintelligible desperation.

What's wrong with me?!

Walker scrubbed a hand over his face, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "I know. I ain't seen anythin' like this, Spectra. He's just so. . ."

He couldn't find the right words. They just wouldn't come, heavy and metallic on his tongue. Trying to talk about how screwed up this little four-year-old was tasted like a mouthful of blood. Hurt like someone had punched him in the gut and twisted up into his ribs.

Spectra pulled Danny closer. Walker stared as the kid's chest rose and fall in a heavy sigh, bony frame slumping into her when fingers brushed across his head. He needed a haircut. Because the hair he had might've been thick, fluffy, but it was damaged and brittle and far too long. But this little boy was covered in scars and terrified of everything, everyone, and. . .

"Did you notice how he called himself a ghost this morning?" Walker didn't know where the question came from. "At breakfast? He said that he was a ghost and his mama said so."

There was a line creasing Spectra's forehead, and something in her eyes burned. Bloody red around the pupils as her temper rose. But she was exceedingly gentle with the kid, handled him like glass, like something precious. Walker felt something in the back of his mind itch.

"I don't think he knows he's a ghost, though," Spectra muttered, tasting the words before she spoke them. "The way he talked. . . it was like he'd been brainwashed. Told that he was a ghost over and over until he accepted the fact that he was."

Walker frowned. He plucked his own cup of coffee from the table and took a swig. Black, bitter, like a caffeine slap.

"What'dya mean? How could he not know?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Spectra gave him a look that spoke volumes about her evaluation of his intelligence. Which was fair. Because as soon as the sentence left his mouth, Walker realized how ignorant it sounded.

Danny was four. What four-year-old understood the concept of death? Abstract and all-encompassing ideas like death weren't something kids processed like adults. They understood only what they were capable of. And Danny – who had been beaten and verbally battered until his mind lay in pieces – just wasn't able to handle that.

"He's four, dumbass," Spectra hissed, condescension dripping from each syllable. "Most kids don't understand the permanence of death until they reach at least seven. And even kids who experience death younger than that take several months to fully comprehend that it's not temporary. I doubt Danny even realizes that he had to die to get here."

Walker thought back to the prison, when Danny had clung so tightly to Spectra's neck and repeated you real like a prayer. The kid had thought someone being decent to him was a dream. Tension started to creep along his jaw and hands, and he had to set the coffee mug down before he accidentally shattered it. This one had been a present from Ember.

He couldn't let a temper tantrum ruin that.

"Watch yer mouth," he muttered half-heartedly. "We just got the kid to sleep, don' go wakin' 'im up with your swearin'."

But, dear Jesus, he was tired.

He leaned back and sank into the cushions of the couch, tossing the edge of an old throw over his lap. Spectra watched him cautiously, like she was afraid he'd reach over and snatch Danny away. Which was stupid. But the woman was a pain in the neck when she wasn't exhausted, hungover, and very obviously upset. So he'd let it go.

Again.

He was being soft again and had there been any fight left in him for the rest of the day, he would've protested such a thought. But here they were.

"Where do you think we should go from here?" Walker asked quietly. "The little punk obviously knows somethin's up. How're we supposed to explain that he's a ghost? Won't that just make things worse?"

Breaking the news to a new arrival that they were no longer living was a skill that Walker had acquired through many years of trial and error. Many, many errors to be honest. Johnny had lost control of his dadgum shadow and took out nearly half the guards before he'd been subdued. Ember had blown out the entire west wing of the prison. Taylor had stared at him for a long moment, all big eyes and bucked teeth, and sat down to cry.

That had been one of exactly four times Taylor had ever cried, and the thought of it still made his chest clench.

Spectra blinked, gnawing on her lower lip as she thought. Walker could practically see the gears in her head working to come up with a solution. She ran her fingers through Danny's hair like the kid was a dang worry-stone.

"I think," she started, quiet but firm as the pieces came together, "that we should start by trying to correct his perception of ghosts. Right now, he thinks that ghosts are bad, and since he'd been brainwashed into thinking that he was a ghost, that cements all his self-deprecation. Ghosts are bad, he is a ghost, therefore he is bad."

Walker nodded. It made sense. The kid seemed smart enough, but anyone would've cracked under the amount of stressed he'd obviously been through. Made sense that he'd make a connection, if only to give himself some sort of reason behind the abuse. Still, something just didn't sit right. Like a ragged edge or a hang-nail.

"He said somethin' awful this mornin'," he blurted.

"Oh, like what he's said since then has been sunshine and kittens?" Spectra rolled her eyes. "Come on, Tex, just about everything Danny says makes me want to punch someone in the damn face."

. . . he'd asked for this. He'd actually asked for her to be sarcastic not five minutes ago.

His Momma would've slapped him upside the head and called him a glutton for punishment.

"If you're done bein' a smart-aleck?" Walker growled. "This is serious."

Spectra was trying to glare a hole through the back wall, eyes bright red as they took in the wood paneling. "I know. There's nothing about this entire damn situation that isn't serious. Just let me fucking cope, jackass."

Why? She was so much smarter than this – why did it always have to be filtered through profanity?"

He'd let it go. Again. For the third dadgum time.

"I startled him when he woke up this mornin', had to talk 'im out of a panic attack."

Another quirked eyebrow. "I'm surprised you know how to do that, Mr. 'My-Way-or-The-Highway.'"

His teeth were gonna take permanent damage from him trying not to say something he'd regret. "You really think I took care of Youngblood and Ember both without learnin' how to handle a panic attack? Contrary to popular belief, I ain't stupid. Now, if y'all will stop interruptin' me. . ."

Was that a blush he saw? It couldn't be – the witch had no shame. But stranger things had happened, and so Walker took note of the pink spreading across Spectra's pale cheeks as a win in the score-card for him.

"Whatever, jack-hole, just finish what you were saying."

"Fine. Now, as I was sayin', I had to talk 'im down from the panic. After he calmed down a bit, he asked me if we were going to hurt him. Which I thought was normal, considerin' the scars on 'im. An' then he asked me if we were going to do experiments on 'im."

Spectra. . . did not look as shocked as he would have hoped. "Most of the scars along his torso indicated long-term peri-mortem experimentation, Walker. I guess I just didn't think to explain all that to you."

Walker faced a bit more towards her, propping a foot up on his knee. "Yeah, I gathered that. But what got me was why they'd experiment on 'im. What reason could they have for tellin' a four-year-old he was a ghost and run experiments if he was human?"

Spectra's face contorted in a vicious scowl. "Because his parents are psychotic fucking assholes who need to be killed without a second thought? I'm a bitch, Walker, but I'm not a goddamn freak. Why the absolute fuck would I know what the reason behind this was?!"

"Y'all 're missin' the point." Walker leaned in closer. "You ever met Plasmius?"

Confusion lit up in her eyes, and Spectra instinctively pulled Danny in closer to her chest. "Vladdy? We've met before. That man is fucking issues, and that's coming from me. Granted, I didn't help them in the slightest, but still. Why?"

Walker could feel ice creeping down his spine as the idea formed more solidly. "Plasmius ain't just a ghost, though, is he?"

He watched as the information struck. The silence was deafening, two horrified adults sitting with a broken, sleeping boy. Danny sighed in his sleep again, a little hand curling into the woman's ruined top. Dried ectoplasm made the fabric crunch under his thin fingertips. It sounded like gunfire in the quiet.

"Holy shit," Spectra breathed. "You think he was a halfa?! Walker, he's four! Vlad was twenty when he got his ghost powers, and it nearly killed him. How the actual hell would Danny have survived that level of ecto-radiation?"

Honestly, he didn't know how Danny would've survived. The kid probably would've been on the small side even if he hadn't been starved. But there was just something that fit about the whole thing. Why else would two parents turn on their four-year-old? If Danny had somehow become a halfa, somehow managed to survive the transformation into a half-ghost, it would explain a lot of the things that the punk had said. Most so-called "ghost experts" believed that ghosts couldn't feel pain. That they weren't real people, just ectoplasm with imprinted memories and vicious instincts.

If Danny had become a half-ghost and couldn't change back. . .

"Then his parents would have every reason to believe he was a ghost and think it was okay to experiment on him. Jesus fucking Christ. . ."

Walker hadn't realized he'd been thinking out loud until Spectra finished the thought for him. But even with the profanity, he couldn't deny that her conclusion was the same as his. This was sick and wrong and disgusting, the pieces fitting together. It made his stomach tie itself in knots.

He shouldn't have made the coffee.

"Even if this is all right and we're not just crazy assholes trying to explain whatever the fuck nonsense happened to Danny," Spectra growled, "it doesn't help Danny in the slightest. We should come up with something to help him, not spout crack-theories at each other until he wakes up."

Walker stared at her for a long moment.

Penelope Spectra was unlike anyone he'd ever made himself deal with before. She was selfish and impulsive and had a filthy mouth. But she was also intelligent and intuitive and she'd been able to come up with a way to get Danny towards a better place faster than he could've ever thought possible. And as he sat there, staring down a woman who glared up at him just as fiercely – which was an accomplishment in of itself – Walker came to the conclusion that he'd made the right choice in getting her to help him.

"Alright then, sugar. Where do we start?"

"We start with you not calling me 'sugar', Tex."

Now, if he could just figure out what the heck was going on in her head at any given point in time. . .

A/N:

Holy fucking shit, so it's been two weeks? I'm sorry?

Finals were a damn nightmare, and this chapter just DID NOT want to cooperate with me. Not to mention I have a new puppy and a new job. Life's funny sometimes. But I worked really hard on this, and I think it's somewhat acceptable. Even though I was very mean to both Jazz and Johnny. . .

Please don't kill me.

It'll get better eventually, I swear. . .