The months passed far more quickly than Vlad had truly expected. Or, in actuality, wanted.

It was a steep learning curve. He would be the first to admit that – although, his audience would have to die after the confession was made. Not that Jasmine was an unruly child. Far from it, in fact. She was polite and intelligent, almost frighteningly eager to please, and could hold a conversation with far more aplomb than many adults he'd come across. It was a fact he'd been quite eager to impress upon his more annoying business associates, particularly by having Jasmine sit on his lap during meetings following school

No. . . the learning curve came into play regarding the nightmares. And the flinching. And the rare but absolutely terrifying shutdowns, where the beautiful little girl would sit and stare into nothing for minutes – no, hours – on end.

They reminded him of the early days. Those long, eternal hours spent in isolation wards where physician after physician ran tests on his person. Strapped to a bed. No friends Maddie and Jack had forgotten him and no family Mother would never be back. Nothing but four walls and sterile beds and the smell of his own blood in his nose.

Ectoplasm smelled like honey, actually – it made him lose his taste for it.

So Vlad did what he did best. He learned, took the information acquired, and adapted. With a few. . . not quite minor realizations along the way.

Most of this time was spent learning the right words, the right motions and phrases. Distinguishing what brought out that shy smile from behind its clouds or what put Jasmine into a complete breakdown. She was quite advanced for her age, always asking questions and trying to figure out the world around her. After reading the ancient ghost stories, though he'd probably read "The King and His Queen" twenty times in the first week, they'd progressed to more advanced works. Jasmine, it turned out, was particularly drawn to fantasy. Smith had chastised him for reading The Hobbit as a bedtime story to a six-year-old; however, Jasmine seemed enthralled, regardless.

The scent of alcohol always made her shrink away from him, though. Raised voices made her flinch. When he dared ask what prompted a question, Jasmine would wither, like a flower in a desert. It was a difficult field to navigate. One moment, they would be happily discussing the outcome of a Packers' game (though he wasn't entirely sure Jasmine actually enjoyed watching football). The next would find him holding a near-comatose child, speaking softly to bring her back from whatever Hell she'd dropped down into.

He'd make Jack's death painful. It was a promise.

Mr. Turner had recommended one Dr. Spelka to help aid the transition. A psychologist with nearly forty years of experience, who specialized in childhood trauma and PTSD. Vlad didn't trust the man God he hated doctors but there was something oddly familiar about him. Something in the way his head tilted, the shape of his eyes, the way his greying hair tinted red in the right lighting. It itched. But Vlad was not able to focus on that.

Not when the nightmares kept him (and Jasmine) awake at night. Week after week, each night blurring into the next until it was nothing but a blur of raw eyes and shaking hands. He didn't blame Jasmine. There wasn't a bone in his body that really could. Not when she looked up at him with those eyes of hers, big and violet and scared Maddie never had those eyes as she pleaded "just one more night, Uncle Vlad, I promise, I'm sorry" until the words swirled in a watercolor. He didn't think that Jasmine had really slept more than three nights in a row without a nightmare.

And if it wasn't her, it was him sitting upright and screaming.

The Behemoth proved more challenging than expected. It was a hellish beast. Honestly, it reminded him of some Lovecraftian horror, always shifting form, mammoth in proportion and vicious in temper. He'd spent the better part of April trying to figure out a way to circumnavigate the cursed thing, to find the treasure it guarded so selfishly. Sleepless nights where he did nothing but formulate algorithms and run simulations in between soothing Jasmine back to sleep. It was a tricky thing, balancing the two. But he managed because this was what he did best.

He learned. He adapted. He overcame.

Still, there was something in the back of Vlad's mind that niggled at him. A tinge of worry, of anxiety, that spread through him until it became an all-consuming terror. What if. . . what if Jasmine found out? What if she thought him a monster? What if that sweet little girl, who looked up at him with stars in her eyes and cuddled into his chest when she was sick, who was learning to speak Russian so quickly it made his head spin. . . what if she found out his secret? After all, many of their joint sessions with Dr. Spelka the ones where he refused to fidget and stared straight ahead and blocked out every memory of white ceilings and the stench of antiseptic and needlesscalpelsanesthetic involved the discussion of the Fenton's ghost obsession. Some of what she'd told them was downright disturbing.

And though every fiber of his being was screaming that there was no way Madeleine would do such a thing, that the queen he'd been playing this endless game of chess so desperately to conquer was no monster, each puzzle-piece began slotting into place. Madeleine had always had a tenuous grasp on morals. When they were children, he'd once found a bird with a broken wing. Maddie had manipulated the appendage harshly, eyes bright as she watched the damaged bones move under the feathers, completely oblivious to the poor thing screaming.

It had been an incident he'd forgotten until now. . . or, rather, blocked out.

Everything in his life was a game of smoke and mirrors, and something in Vlad's chest cracked at the thought of Jasmine being victim to it all.

She was such a sweet child, his little kiska.

Vladimir Masters considered himself a hell of a chess player, but not even he could've anticipated being so thoroughly wrapped around the girl's tiny pinky finger.

And that was how he found himself. Brooding over the existence of a single, six-year-old girl as he downed liquid jet-fuel and ignored how good her favorite breakfast smelled. French Toast with cinnamon and syrup. His stomach was growling at the thought. But he didn't need sugar – facing the Behemoth loaded down with carbohydrates was a bad idea. A jittery mind was unfocused, reckless, something he couldn't afford.

Then Jasmine came stumbling into the kitchen, hair a tangled mess and bruises stark around her eyes. Vlad thought, just for a moment, that perhaps she'd fallen ill again. Dr. Spelka had said it wasn't uncommon for some traumatic stress responses to end in consecutive illness. But. . . something in his gut told him that wasn't right. The bruises were dark from restless sleep, it seemed, and her eyes were red-rimmed. But they were also wet and exhausted and miserable. She'd been crying.

That simply wouldn't do.

Breakfast was generally a light-hearted affair. Vlad enjoyed sitting and reading the paper or sifting through research while Jasmine ate, mostly because the little girl was always asking questions about what the day would bring. Is Mr. Hashimoto coming to talk about the merger again, Uncle Vlad? What kind of things do the people at your company make, Uncle Vlad? Do you think that we'll ever have flying cars like in cartoons, Uncle Vlad? Are you coming to pick me up after school, Uncle Vlad, because you were up really late last night.

But this morning? It was entirely too quiet. Jasmine sat quietly. Not locked in her own mind, not in the midst of a nerve-seizing panic. Simply contemplative and sad, obviously trying not to cry but afraid to say anything. She sat and fiddled with her breakfast, legs dangling listless from the stool she'd perched on. The French Toast was reduced to mush and shoved around her plate. Not a bite was taken. He watched for a long while, patient. Because the one thing he'd learned after all these many weeks? After all the panic attacks and horrific dreams and sleepless nights?

Quiet patience made Jasmine open like a flower.

"It's Danny's birthday," she finally confessed, murmured in accented, childish Russian. "I miss him," followed in English.

His heart seized. The police had kept him informed on search efforts, and he'd seen the toll her brother's loss had taken. There were pictures of the two of them tucked away in a file-folder for a rainy day, their gap-toothed smiles infectious. Happy in a way he'd only been able to witness on rare occasions. The frames were cracked. Glass fractured.

It mirrored the look in Jasmine's eyes.

Vlad took another sip of his coffee and relished the burn as it slid down his throat. His physiology had morphed since the accident. Temperature no longer seemed to bother him, particularly heat. It soothed him, this kind of burn, this sensation. A stray piece of silver hair fell into his eyes, but he resisted the urge to fidget and push it away.

"I'm sorry, malyshka," and the words tasted stale, weightless, meaningless. "The police are searching for him, though, so we'll be sure to think happy thoughts for him on his birthday."

That was another trick of his mother's. They were destitute when he was younger; however, Vlad did not remember his childhood as being particularly sad. Because even in those moments when they had next to nothing, he could still remember his mother turning to him with a smile, saying that they should think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, she had said, give even the worst situation hope.

And to think, he'd forgotten the sentiment until now.

But there was just. . . something about Jasmine's expression that soured in his stomach. Made his chest seize uncomfortably. He'd seen that look before. It stared out from the mirror on particularly rough mornings. Haunted, angry, resigned. All the things that have been scarred into the heart of a thirty-year-old man. All wounds seeping from a tiny, tender six-year-old heart.

Then. . . .

"They aren't gonna find him."

She said it with such certainty, such resignation. As though she'd known the answer for years but had resigned herself to the fact it would never come to light. Jasmine looked at him steadily. Her eyes were wet, red-rimmed and tinged with fear. But there was something dampening it, something dead, something cold. It made his throat squeeze in agony.

"Why ever would you think that, Jazz?"

Vlad felt himself speaking, but the heat in his chest had reached a fever-pitch, an ache building deep in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't right. He'd known this for a long while now. Ever since February, when his little goddaughter woke in the night shrieking, begging for her mother to stop. That she was sorry. That she'd be good. But Maddie would never do that, right, Vlad? Not your lovely queen, your Madeleine with her bright eyes.

The certainty didn't fade. Not in the slightest. But there were faint tremors running along Jasmine's arms, fingers shaking horribly around her fork. The fear sharpened; however, it was still muted. Deadened. As though he was looking at his girl through a pane of leaded glass. Jasmine was such a sweet child. At one point, she must've worn her heart on her sleeve. But now it was hidden away, only coming out in select moments, like a sunflower turning its face to the sun. Vlad found, for the first time in forever, that he was beginning to lose control of his powers in the face of emotions.

"I don't think it, Uncle Vlad," she whispered. "I know it."

And there it was. The fear. The uncertainty that came rushing along her face anytime the discussion of either Jack or Maddie was resumed. At first, Vlad had wanted to believe it was only Jack. Jack Fenton, who had taken his youth and his love and his dreams and crushed them beneath a fat foot. Jack Fenton, who plagued his daughter's dreams and had relegated himself monster under the bed. Who bruised her arms and scarred her mind. Except, it wasn't Jack that Jasmine was so afraid of.

It was Maddie.

Her mother. His love. Maddie, who told Jasmine she was stupid. Dearest Madeleine, who told Jasmine she was worthless. Maddie Cat, who browbeat and belittled and physically assaulted this precocious little girl until a quiet, bruised shadow of a child remained. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. But he was a scientist. Vlad Masters knew the value of knowledge, that if you knew something, you could use it. Twist it to your advantage.

Vlad took a breath to steady himself, attempting to relax his white-knuckle grip around his coffee mug. Except his hands wouldn't cooperate. The porcelain was groaning, micro-fractures against his palms. It was scalding. His skin should've been blistering. Boiling. Bubbling into welts and sloughing off against the material. Except all it did was itch and burn and the whine in his head grew louder, more insistent. Break them burn them make them bleed make them suffer they've taken so much now take something back how dare they how dare they HOWDARETHEY

"And how do you know that, darling?"

His voice was far more stable than his mind, and Vlad had to force himself not to shake. Trembling like a child was inexcusable. Jasmine was frightened. He could see it in her face, in the way her fork clattered onto the plate of uneaten French Toast. But her eyes were glassy, far away and dead. It was a terrible expression for such a precious girl. She looked at him. . .

But Vlad wasn't entirely sure she was seeing him.

"Because the little ghost had Bubby's eyes."

The mug in his hand shattered.

Jasmine flinched, a scream ripping its way from her throat, and nearly busted her head on the marble tile in an effort to escape him. Vlad regretted his moment of temper immediately. Ignoring how his flesh was slowly sealing itself, he rushed to soothe the little girl. She was hiccupping around fat tears, trembling head to foot as she fought back sobs. Dr. Spelka said that she had a dreadful problem with anxiety, that she was convinced the slightest mistake would spell disaster. But Vlad hadn't thought it would be quite this severe. She flinched away from him, curled into a ball on the cold floor as though he would strike out.

Jasmine was afraid of him and that made him want to vomit.

"Hush, kiska, you're alright," Vlad soothed, and he scooped his girl into a bear-hug. "I just lost my grip on the mug, that's all. You've done nothing wrong. Everything will be just fine."

Jasmine buried her face into the crook of his neck and sobbed. "I'm sorry, Uncle Vlad! Please don't send me back! I don't wanna go!"

"Shush, dear one. No one's going anywhere." Vlad could feel his core throbbing angrily, hot with ectoplasm just beneath his breastbone. "You will always be safe with me. Hush, my darling girl."

She was shaking terribly, trembling head to foot. The force of her sobs rattled through his bones. But Vlad held tight. He'd lost many things in his life. His parents, his dearest love, his youth. All things precious spent and wrung dry until his bones were dust.

But Jasmine?

Jasmine was going nowhere.

"Smith!" And perhaps it was more a bark than was needed, but really, who noticed? "Smith, I need you to call the school. Jazz won't be attending today."

His butler, ever-present and ever-listening, rounded the corner a moment later. "Sir? Is she alright?"

There was genuine concern in the dear man's expression. A rarity – Smith was a man of many talents, and empathy had never really been one of them. Loyal, dedicated, and efficient to a fault though he was, human connections tended to elude him. But Jasmine – quiet, sweet, studious Jasmine – managed to worm her way into his good-graces in that gentle way she had.

Vlad knew his expression was likely unpleasant. But he could feel the anger crawling under his skin, fire ants in his veins, whispering injecting venom into his veins until everything was heat and anger. Because how dare they damage this child? How dare they?!

"No, it's not alright. However, we will not be requiring your assistance further today," Vlad answered, cordial as he could manage with a sobbing girl wrapped about his torso. "After you contact the school, you are free to return to your home."

Home, technically, was the first guesthouse just adjacent to the manor. However, Vlad saw no reason to leave it empty for the majority of the time, and Smith was his right-hand man. After all, it wasn't as though Vlad Masters the billionaire received many guests. As it was, though, privacy was required for such a delicate matter as his daugh- . . . goddaughter's secrets and stress. They needed the manor to themselves for a while.

Smith nodded, short and sharp. "Would you also like me to contact your assistant, Mr. Masters?"

"If you would, please, Mr. Smith. Then take the day for yourself. I will be in contact should we require anything further."

Another nod and Smith was gone, leaving one final, lingering look over his shoulder. It was too knowing, too cold. But Vlad couldn't focus on that for the moment. There were other things that required his full attention.

Jasmine began hiccupping against his throat, still trying not to choke on her sobs. Her little hands were fisted in the back of his dressing gown, holding too hard. The fabric was delicate, expensive. It would tear if much more force was used. But that didn't matter. What mattered was Jasmine would make herself sick at this rate. Vlad forced himself to remain calm. Or, at least, calm on the outside. His mind raced regardless, calculating possibilities and trying to come up with something to calm her.

He reached one conclusion that was. . .unfavorable but seemed prudent.

Vlad was, not for the first time, grateful for the physical acuity that came with his unique physiology. Jasmine weighed little more than a doll, even after returning to a typical, healthy weight for her frame, and it allowed him to walk smoothly towards his bedroom. She clung to him like a baby monkey, all limbs. A surge of affection rushed through him, despite the precarious situation.

He'd thought bringing a child into his life would be another chess move. A pawn to manipulate the field, to tip the odds. Instead, he'd found that Jasmine was more akin to flipping the board on its head. And then shooting him in the kneecaps. Though, this was considerably less painful than being shot in the kneecaps.

Physically, anyway. . .

The great, heaving sobs that had wracked Jasmine's body had faded into quiet sniffles. However, tension lined every inch of her tiny frame. She was stiff as a board, arms trembling with the force it took to keep hold of his neck. Vlad gently ran a hand along her spine, wincing a bit as the knobs of each vertebrae pushed into his palm. Her physician had assured him she'd returned to a healthy weight, that sometimes children with slight frames simply felt underweight. It didn't alleviate the anger pulsing just beneath his breastbone.

Vlad slunk through the doorway. The room was dim, and though it was May, a fire cracked and sputtered in the hearth. Gently, he untangled Jasmine from his person and placed her down on an overstuffed armchair. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, glimmering violet and half-broken in the dim. Venom hissed in his veins, metallic on his tongue.

"Uncle Vlad, 'm sorry, please don't be mad," Jasmine croaked, voice raw. "I promise I won't tell again. Please don't send me back. I'll be good. I promise."

She was about to work herself up again. Fresh tears threatened to spill, her thin chest heaving, and the tiny hands that had clung so tightly to his dressing gown were wringing in her lap. Vlad knelt to Jasmine's level. He smiled though it felt more akin to a grimace. His skin felt over-tight, stretched along his bones.

"Shush, malyshka," he soothed. "You've nothing to be afraid of. I'm not angry. Now, I'm going to make you a bubbly drink and get Bearbert. Then, we shall sit here and be quiet for a while. Perhaps we'll read a story or two, hmm?"

Jasmine sniffled, and her gaze sharpened with just the barest hint of distrust. She was perceptive, his girl. Vlad felt his smile grow more genuine despite kill them kill them find them kill them take them she's yours the heat that continued to coil in his chest. He ran a hand over her head. Gently, always gently. He was so strong, and she was so fragile.

"You are not in trouble, Jazz," he whispered. "I swear it. Now, would you like grape or orange soda?"

The distrust faded as quickly as it appeared, and Jasmine shot him a wobbling smile. "Grape, please."

It was a rare treat to have soda in his home. Much as he hated to admit spoiling his darling girl, she was rather. . . indulged in certain aspects. However, sweets were usually a hard line. She could have a sweeter breakfast, on occasion, but sugary drinks did not appear outside special occasions. Jasmine, bless her, never complained. Though, he was certain she'd grown up thus far consuming gallons of the stuff.

If only this occasion was a happier one.

Vlad set about tucking a soft blanket about her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of Jasmine's head. Then he set off back down the hall, but not before making sure there were another set of eyes to watch his goddaughter. The manor was dark. Too dark for May. Too dark for day. Too dark for any living thing, really. It rather matched his mood. He was quick to grab the careworn stuffed bear that Jasmine adored so, easily disentangling it from the twisted duvet on her bed.

However, as he set it on the counter to grab Jasmine's drink, the button eyes seemed to judge him.

Vlad ignored them. Mathematics were required in order to get this right, especially since Jasmine was such a tiny thing. The thought of injuring her, even accidentally, made his stomach knot in discomfort. He poured a small amount of grape soda into Jasmine's favorite lidded cup, dark blue with little crescent moons dotted across it. Then, mentally double-checking his calculations, he grabbed a dropper bottle from the locked overhead cabinet and added the correct dosage for Jasmine's weight and age.

Diazepam solution worked wonders if used properly.

There was something akin to guilt crawling up his spine, apprehension needling at the back of his head. Did he really need to drug Jasmine? Would she notice? Would she blame him? Perhaps he should simply have a talk with her?

Then he pictured the little girl he'd acquired in January. The frail wisp of a child with sunken, shadowed eyes and a stare that haunted. And he pictured tears as they fell over her cheeks, gapped teeth that no longer showed in grins. Nightmares that woke them both in the wee-hours. Gasping pleas for mercy that seemed to go unheard, no matter how often he tried to whisper reassurances.

The murmurs became screams find them kill them END THEM SHE'S YOURS and Vlad placed the lid on her soda without another thought.

His second eyes had watched Jasmine throughout his internal conflict. She'd curled deep into the blanket, staring at the fire. Only an occasional sniffle broke the silence. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were vacant.

"The little ghost had bubby's eyes," she'd said.

Conventional investigation had failed, it seemed. Justice was slow on the uptake. Vlad strode back into the master suite and handed Jasmine both the teddy and her soda. He didn't hesitate to lift her once more, placing her tiny body firmly in his lap. Jasmine was such a tactile child, really. She never turned down a good cuddle.

"Are you settled, kiska?" Vlad questioned, watching as she gulped down her treat. "We should decide what story you want to hear."

Jasmine paused only to tuck her head further into his collarbone. She was still shaking; however, the worst of her earlier panic seemed to have abated. Then she whispered, "I want to hear the one about the Clock-keeper and his brothers again."

Vlad smirked. Legends of the Ghost Zone had quickly become Jasmine's favorites. Fortuitous, in a sense, should any slip-ups occur. He plucked the heavy leather tome from its perch beside them, opening it across their laps to the appropriate page. Whispers echoed from between the pages, followed by the sound of clock gears turning. A metronome of souls. Ever-present, ever-steady, and yet fluid.

Before he could begin, Jasmine's tiny hand grasped at his wrist. "Uncle Vlad?"

"Yes, darling?"

The tiny body tucked into him felt breakable as china, and she sounded just as fragile. "Did. . . did my Mommy kill Danny? I don't. . . that little boy had his eyes."

Everything was white-hot, a steady throb of kill them end them shatter them find it anger under his skin. "I don't know, my love. But we shall find our answers soon enough. Now, let's read a story and try to forget such unpleasant things for now. How does that sound?"

Jasmine swallowed another gulp of soda. The cup was nearly empty already. She nodded. "Okay, Uncle Vlad."

His voice was unerringly steady, weaving the tale of Clockwork and his brothers as he had countless times before. The images swirling in vivid blues and purples above the pages were well-known by now, but no less impressive. It was funny, thinking that ghosts – which were spirits of the dead by definition – had their own forms of creation myths. Clockwork truly was a fascinating creature. A being who could see and manipulate all of time – the thought defied traditional definitions of ghosts as they stood. But the proof was in the being himself, who had once set Vlad in a time loop for tampering with an area that was supposedly "protected" by Time.

As he read, Vlad could feel Jasmine growing lax against him. Heavier and heavier, fingers slackening around her cup, until her tiny body finally succumbed to the small amount of barbiturate running through it. Gently, he plucked the treat from her before it could have a chance to spill. Undeterred, Vlad finished her story regardless, pressing a heavy kiss to the top of Jasmine's head before standing to tuck her in for a nap. The darling deserved a good, long sleep.

Behind him, the shadows roiled, hissed and crooned sweet, bloody lullabies. Outside, a storm was beginning to brew. The sky heavy and thick with moisture. Thunder growled in the distance. It was going to rain. May showers and sunflowers.

Vlad rolled his shoulders then glanced back over one. "Stay with her. Keep her safe. Or there will be consequences."

A nervous chitter. The curtains rustled though the air had grown still. Vlad smiled blandly. "Very good. I shall be back before she wakes."

And with that, he dropped through the floorboards. Down, down, down until he landed on the solid concrete floor of his laboratory. It was quiet save for the low hum of his portal. The air smelt. Whether of ectoplasm or steel, Vlad couldn't tell. His skin was threatening to peel. Sparking. Bubbling. Burning.

"Now. . . where to find my answers?" he muttered quietly.

Find him find him find him kill them all kill them all they took everything they won't take this KILL THEM

The transformation had become easy as breathing, though the pain had never grown less. It was a shock, electricity clawing up his spine until oxygen meant nothing and power flooded his veins. Every nerve, every muscle, every artery sparking like a damaged livewire. His face had always been particularly bad. It was like going through the accident again. . . flesh bubbling, eyes watering, nerves in agony, the smell of cooking flesh.

And then it was over.

And where once stood a man stood a monster.

Plasmius grinned. "Where better to find my answers than with a hunter?"

He blasted through the open portal doorway, relishing in the rush of ectoplasm over his ears and through his hair. The Ghost Zone was a fascinating place, scientifically. Fluid rather than actual space. Were he still human, Vlad would have been drowning in something about the consistency of corn syrup. And electrocuted by the vast currents of untamed energy that sometimes manifested. But as Plasmius?

He felt invincible.

It was a relatively short journey to Skulker's lair, unimpeded as he was by other ghosts. He caught a few lingering on the barest edges of his sight. But a quick, lazy blast of ectoplasm ensured he'd remain unbothered. Well, relatively, anyways. He still couldn't quite make the throbbing pulse of anger in his chest eb. Nor could he silence the vicious whispers that lingered just beneath his skull. Power power power you have it now use it kill them kill them killthem take what's yours don't stop

Still, Vlad couldn't afford to act on the whispers. The barbiturates, while useful, would only make Jasmine sleep for short while considering the small dose she'd received. He'd have to work quickly and efficiently. There would be time for blood later.

Now was reserved for business.

Skulker's Island was a dense jungle, thickly carpeted with trees and underbrush that bristled with traps. Lesser ghosts across the Zone had met their fate here. Cornered like rats in cages. Hunted, then killed. Skinned. Really, it was a wonder anyone dared enter this area of the Zone at all. Skulker may not have been an exceptional intellect, but he was certainly cunning. And vicious should you cross his bad side. Still, he'd been a bit. . . lax as of late. There were rumors his relationship with the McClain girl, the rocker with siren abilities, had softened him. Made him weak.

Vlad landed without care in the middle of the lair and knew this to be true. There wasn't a trap sprung, not an arrow flying his way. No nets, no bullets, no rockets. Nothing but the sound of ghostly wildlife and piercing echoes.

"What are you doing here, half-breed?" It was a savage bark, just to his left. "Leave now, or I might just realize your pelt looks more appealing at the foot of my bed."

Ah – what a charming man.

Vlad picked lazily at some dirt beneath his claws. "Appetizing as that sounds, Skulker, I have need for your skills. I'm looking for someone, and I need verification of their whereabouts. Think of this as a job-offer, if you'd like."

He twisted just enough to catch a look at Skulker's cybernetic-riddled face. It was twisted in disgust warring with caution. He smiled lazily – it paid in more ways than one to build a reputation. Plasmius floated up as though he were sitting in a chair, legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in a position of false casualty.

"What sort of verification are you looking for, Plasmius?" Skulker's tone was harsh as always, but the edges were tinged with something different: apprehension. "I'm a hunter, not some kind of personal detective. I don't work for you."

The placid, almost friendly smile on Vlad's face morphed into a savage facsimile of a grin. "There are other methods of persuasion, Skulker. By all means, allow me to demonstrate them. I've been itching for some fun these last few months."

Skulker tensed, teeth bore in a snarl. Vlad snarled right back, fangs like daggers in the low light of the Zone. It was a stare-down. Ragged. Furious. The air darkened, heavy with moisture. Something smelled of old blood, iron and decay.

"What would be in it for me?"

Satisfaction pulsed in time with the rage. "New weapons, of course. Design what you will, no matter the specs, and I shall take care of the development and cost. I know how. . . taxing it can be to deal with Technus."

After another tense moment, the cyborg settled onto the ground a few meters away. His gaze was sharp, assessing. Vlad smirked at him. For all his talk of "half-breeds" Skulker knew who the bigger monster here was. There wouldn't really be a fight should it come down to that.

"And all you're looking for is information?" he scoffed. "If I must work for you, I would rather hunt."

Kill them kill them hunt them break them welcome to the jungle little mouse hunt them down

"We cannot always get what we want, dear boy." Vlad touched to down again.

This time, Skulker snorted. "No shit."

A sneer curled his lip. "There's no need for such language, Skulker, honestly. A simple agreement would have sufficed." Vlad quirked an eyebrow, flexing his claws just to catch attention. "Now – do we have a deal?"

"It's not really like I have a choice, do I?"

Vlad's placid smile returned, though his eyes gleamed with bloodlust. "No. No, you do not."

"Fine. Tell me what you want and leave. Looking at you makes my skin crawl."

It was a common reaction, he'd found. Vlad was quick to realize that, as uncomfortable as humans were around him, ghosts were almost worse. They had heightened senses, acute awareness of their environment. Because he wasn't quite dead, nor was he quite alive, it seemed his presence rang different in the Ghost Zone. A sort of. . . uncanny valley for ghosts, if you will.

Using it to his advantage had become one of his favorite pass-times.

Vlad shrugged one shoulder, smiling meanly at the other ghost. "As you wish. I have recently become guardian to my goddaughter. Her younger brother was. . . . lost, shall we say, in November. I want you to ascertain his whereabouts."

A sneer of contempt twisted Skulker's metal-ridden face. "I am the greatest hunter in the Ghost Zone, and you want me to find some pitiful mewling whelp." He grunted, fiddling with a locating device on one wrist. "What's his name?"

"Daniel Fenton," Vlad answered succinctly. "He likely goes by Danny."

Then, for some strange reason, Skulker froze. The only thing that moved was the flicker of that absurd fire mohawk. Then, slowly, he looked up to make eye-contact. "What did you say?"

Something's wrong all wrong break them kill them take them she's yours

"Daniel Fenton. Danny, for short." His fingers twitched, claws tapping out a pattern on one forearm. "What seems to be the issue, Skulker? You're typically not this slow on the uptake."

The cyborg regarded him strangely for a second. Then rasped, "How old is he? This welp you're looking for?"

Eidetic memories were such a wonderful thing. "He will be five on May 24th. Rather small. Caucasian, blue eyes and black hair. A rather attractive child, if he looks anything like Jasmine."

if he looks like his mother looks like Maddie beautiful perfect wonderful Maddie

Skulker's expression grew solemn, skin paling beneath his various implants. "Oh shit. . . You said he disappeared in November?"

something's wrong wrong wrong wrong hate them kill them break them end it

Anxiety began crawling up and down Vlad's limbs. His claws dug in, ectoplasm welling up beneath fabric. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "You know something, Skulker."

It wasn't a question.

Nervous energy practically oozed from Skulker. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, shifted from foot to foot, then finishethought d by crossing his arms. In contrast, Vlad allowed himself to go perfectly still. Not a twitch. Not a sigh. He felt a knot in his stomach. Anxiety, rage, despair. Everything that had been festering in his half-dead cesspit of a body for the last decade. It wouldn't. . . he couldn't. . . it wasn't possible,was it?

"Just a hunch," Skulker grunted. It was a hedge. "Walker's got a new kid. . . 'bout that age. New arrivals don't usually keep the same coloring from life. But the timeline kind of fits. I just don't know the details of the – aghk!"

His ears were full of blood. Pumping, rushing, flooding through every cell in his body until everything was washed in red. Vlad welcomed it. After all this time, being angry felt good. It was easy. Easy to fall, easy to allow his heart to bleed black, easy to squeeze while the monster in his skull shrieked. His grip on Skulker's throat was tight. But it didn't impede speech. . . much anyway.

"The devil is in the details, Skulker," Vlad droned, steady and deceivingly calm. "Tell me about the boy."

There was a funny thing about cybernetically-enhanced arms – they were strong. Skulker was clawing at his wrist, gripping it in a vice. Harder and harder, the bones of his wrist and forearm grinding against one another. But Vlad didn't move. Didn't flinch. Pain was an old friend. They would walk hand-in-hand forever, he was sure of it.

"Fucking hell, Plasmius!" Skulker wheezed. "All I know is his name's Danny! And he formed sometime in November!"

The rage built, hissed behind his eyes, but his face remained stone. Vlad squeezed just a little harder. Enough to make it. . . uncomfortable. The need to breathe was nonexistent but most ghosts found it rather disconcerting to be choked regardless. Habits were terrible things to have and wonderful things to exploit.

Vlad hummed, noncommittal. "Do you know why the devil is in the details, Skulker? Why I have succeeded in both the human world and the Ghost Zone?" His claws just barely dug into the soft flesh of Skulker's throat. "Because I make it my mission to know every detail. Knowing details gives me power. So, here is what we are going to do. You are going to gather every last bit of information on that boy you can. Then, when that is done, you will bring it back to me. And if I don't find it satisfactory, you will go into the human world and keep searching until you find what I am looking for. Am I understood?"

The cyborg thrashed, teeth bore in a snarl. Then he rasped, "You're insane, Plasmius."

A slow, vicious grin spread across Vlad's lips, creeping like poison. "You may have a point."

Without much effort, he twisted his wrist and sent Skulker flying, the man's body slamming into a nearby tree with enough force to splinter the trunk. He followed in a rush of electric speed. One fist lashed out and grazed his cheek. But it didn't stop him. Didn't even slow him. Vlad snarled, grin exposing each razor-fang in his mouth, and retaliated with a vicious blow to the solar plexus. Skulker crumpled, gasping for air.

Letting him fall to the ground below was easy as breathing.

Plasmius hovered just above the fallen ghost, smiling placidly, and allowed Skulker to claw at the wet earth beneath him. He gagged and gasped for breath. From what he could see, Vlad thought perhaps his eyes were watering. Or an implant was failing. That was a distinct possibility. Wires and plasma. . . it was such a fascinating symbiosis.

"I will reiterate for the singular purpose of getting you to realize that I am not the sort of man who takes cheek lightly." Vlad adjusted the cuffs of his suit, then stomped down hard Skulker's bent leg. "You will find out who the warden's newest acquisition is. You will bring that information to me. And then I will do with that information what I please. Do we have an understanding?"

He'd grown rather good at getting his point across in recent years. Skulker was twitching beneath his boot, the crunch of bone just barely audible under the hunter's scream of agony. Nonetheless, he could see the man's emerald flame-mohawk dance as he nodded. Vlad smiled, pleased with his work.

"Excellent. I shall expect a report within the week." As he turned to head back towards his portal, Vlad called out a warning over one shoulder. "Do not disappoint me."

kill them kill them all this was supposed to be yours how could you what is this it's supposed to be yours take them break them kill them shatter it how dare they how dare they how FUCKING dare they?!

Vlad Plasmius disappeared in a rush of agony in the basement laboratory of a reclusive billionaire.

Vlad Masters took a nap with his goddaughter moments later, wrapped around her and shaking in every limb.

And the whispers that echoed from his lips were, "I'm sorry, kiska. I'm sorry, lastochka. I'm so, so sorry."

The shadows twisted, whispered, then disappeared in a peal of thunder.

A/N:

I LIVE!

'tis been a rough month or so, my guys. This corona thing kicked me in the teeth. I lost my muse for a hot second. BUT! I found it! I don't know if I'll be able to update quickly again until after finals are over, but I shall endeavor to be more frequent in updating the story going forward.

This was such an interesting chapter to write, mostly because it's entirely written in the perspective of Vlad. Who is a psychopath and stupid difficult to write. I hope that I got him true to form. And, before anyone tackles me about him drugging Jazz, hear me out. Vlad has been mostly a good dad the past several months. But he's also still actually a huge sack of fuck. So, in his mind, drugging poor baby so he can go out and kick the stuffing out of Skulker was, you know, a viable move.

He adores Jasmine. He would never do ANYTHING to physically hurt Jasmine. But psychologically?

The man has several screws loose and cannot be trusted to get his shit together, I mean, honestly.

On an unrelated note, I've gotten a couple of reviews and PMs on this story concerning my use of adult language and I thought I'd address it here. I understand swearing is not everyone's cup of tea. It's considered rude, crass, poor manners, etcetera by many. And you know something, that's okay! But I want to say that the swearing in this story and my notes is a personal stylistic choice. Certain people swear more than others. Some people that you would NEVER peg to be prone to blue-language swear like absolute maniacs. Spectra is one such person. Teenagers swear like there's nothing better to do because, to them, there is nothing better to do. It's a great way of thumbing your nose at authority. I swear as a manifestation of my anxiety. It developed in my junior year of high school and has just gotten worse as I've aged.

That was long-winded, but the point I'm trying to make is this: this is my story. It is written in the voices I picture and in the ways I wish. If you don't like the language I, as an author, choose that's great! But don't expect me to tailor my writing style or voice to suit your needs or wishes. I've gotten a couple of those PMs. They are infuriating. It's your choice whether or not to continue to read Danny Died. It's my choice to ignore people telling me what to do.

I apologize if that sounded long-winded or condescending. That's never my intention when I write these things, but I find it really difficult to figure out whether or not that's the way it sounds to others. I just wanted to nip those in the bud before I did something really fucking stupid.

PHEW so that was a shit-storm! Anyways, I just want to thank all of you SO MUCH for your continued love and support. It means everything to me, you have no idea. I also want to extend prayers and well-wishes to all of you across the globe. COVID is a fucking nightmare, and isolation is terrible. But I have faith we'll get through it together. Keep your heads high and your pens steady. I'm here for all of you.

See you in the next one.