AU — OOC
TW: Strong Language — Emotional Distress
~ Phantom In My Head ~
Echo all the words you said, how can someone so very close to me
Make me feel so sad, make me hurt so bad
- Jessie Paege
Was Danny in a GiW facility? A lab? Or was he trapped in some restricted area like Area 51 by the GiW? The questions swirled in his mind, each one sharper than the last. Did only his mother know where he was and what he was—or did they know too? The thought sent a chill through him, colder than any ghostly power ever could.
And how did he even get here—there? How was he being captured? Why was everything such a big blur? The memory was a void, swallowed by confusion. Everything felt so horribly messed up, his mind a tangled blur of fragmented thoughts and hollow sensations. A thick fog clouded his brain, suffocating every attempt to make sense of it all. Every answer slipped through his grasp, leaving only the suffocating weight of the unknown.
As long as he could still think, it meant he was alive. Right? That had to be true—didn't it? If he was alive, then his mom hadn't taken his core. The one thing keeping him alive, keeping him whole. But had it all really happened? Or was it just a nightmare?
It felt too real. This isn't real. It can't be real… can it? The question repeated in his fractured mind, circling endlessly as he clung to the faint hope that it was all just a horrible dream. But the agony—the unbearable, searing torment—it was too vivid, too raw to be imagined.
His body still felt numb, unresponsive, and his eyes refused to open, as though they felt like they were stitched shut. Panic churned in his chest as the questions clawed at him. What the fuck is happening? His mind screamed, desperate for answers. Was he still in the lab?
Everything was so confusing, a maddening blur of fragmented thoughts and memories that refused to align. He felt trapped in his own body, a prisoner in the darkness, unsure if he was even still himself.
Was he human Danny? Or was he Phantom, in this very moment? He couldn't tell. Everything felt so disconnected, blurred. Was his heart still beating? Did he have a pulse? Was his core still purring softly beneath his ribs? He didn't know—he couldn't feel that part of himself anymore. The only thing he felt was cold. Ice cold.
Is he even alive? The thought clawed at his mind. Or is his human side… gone? And is he just Phantom now? Or maybe—the lther way around?
But then, a dull ache spread across his chest, growing heavier with every passing moment. The cut. The sharp, deliberate incision his mother had made—it was still there. He felt it. The pain was raw, searing, undeniable. That had to mean something. It had to mean he was alive. Right?
But what had happened? His thoughts spiraled, tangled in confusion and panic, searching for answers in a darkness that refused to give any.
How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? Days? Maybe even weeks? He couldn't tell. Where was he now? And why couldn't he open his eyes? It was as if they were glued shut, trapping him in darkness.
The more awareness crept back into his mind, the more panic began to take hold. His breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, as adrenaline surged through his veins like wildfire. His chest rose and fell uncontrollably, the cold grip of fear tightening around him. What's happening? The question echoed in his mind, but no answers came—only the suffocating dread that something was horribly wrong.
He had to try something—anything. Summoning what little strength he had, he tried to raise his arm. Relief flooded him when he realized he wasn't restrained anymore. Thank god. Finally. But the question still clawed at him, Why can't he open his eyes?
As he moved, he became painfully aware of the heavy collar still fastened around his neck. It was a harsh reminder that he was still a prisoner, still captured. But at least he could breathe now—no longer bound to that awful, ice-cold dissection table.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain shot through him—a new agony he hadn't experienced before. It radiated from the left side of his head, burning into his left eye like a fiery needle. He gritted his teeth and tried once more to open his eyes, desperate for clarity, but it was useless. What the fuck?
Instinct took over, and his trembling left hand shot up to his face, searching for answers. His fingers brushed against something coarse—a bandage, tight and unforgiving. His eyes… stitched shut?
"What the actual fuck?" he rasped, his voice trembling with panic. His core purring, each purr hammering against his chest as the reality of his situation sank in. The panic clawed deeper, spreading like wildfire through his mind, leaving him spiraling in a haze of fear and confusion.
"Ah, you're finally awake," a mocking male voice said suddenly, cutting through the haze in Danny's mind. The words sent a jolt through him, making him flinch in alarm. Startled, he instinctively tried to push himself up, his hands scrambling for leverage on whatever surface he was lying on.
He didn't care what it was or where it was—right now, all that mattered was the surge of adrenaline driving him to react, to move. But his body betrayed him, weak and trembling under the weight of his panic.
"Who said that?" Danny shot back, his voice hoarse and raw, ignoring the fact that he couldn't pinpoint where the voice was coming from.
"Right, I almost forgot," the voice replied, dripping with mockery. "You can't see very much at this moment, can you?" The sound of a cold, mocking laugh followed, echoing in Danny's ears like nails on a chalkboard.
Danny's chest tightened, and a surge of anger bubbled deep within his core, burning colder with each word. His hands clenched into fists, trembling as his frustration and rage collided with his helplessness. He didn't know who this was, but he was already ready to fight them. If only he could see…
As the voice lingered in his ears, a sudden wave of unease washed over him. There was something hauntingly familiar about it, like a shadow of a memory just out of reach. The realization gnawed at him, teasing the edges of his mind, but he couldn't place it—couldn't bring it home to anything concrete.
His jaw tightened as frustration bubbled beneath the surface, and he gritted his teeth, the pressure almost painful. Who the hell is this? The question burned in his thoughts, but the answer remained maddeningly elusive. But he had to ask, right?
"Who the fuck are you?" Danny snapped, his irritation cutting through the air like a blade.
"Language, boy," the voice replied, dripping with condescension. "Soon, those eye patches will be removed. Don't worry about it. And don't even think about trying to remove them yourself—it's for your own good."
The words were laced with a cruel amusement, the faint sound of a mocking laugh trailing behind them, as if the speaker was enjoying Danny's frustration and confusion far too much.
Maybe Danny needed to ask different questions—maybe later. Right now, his mind was still too fogged with confusion, too overwhelmed by the unknown. He tried forcing his legs to move, but they felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative. Trembling, his legs struggled as he shifted them to the side of whatever he was sitting on.
It didn't feel like a bed—nor the cold, sterile metal table he dreaded. The texture beneath him was unfamiliar, foreign. He couldn't place it, couldn't bring it home to anything in his memory.
He felt along the edge of the surface with his bare arm, the smoothness confirming its boundary. An uneasy realization crept over him: his skin was exposed. He was still naked. Wasn't he? The thought made him freeze, his breath hitching as shame and vulnerability collided with the panic already flooding his veins.
With the weak strength he could muster, Danny eventually slid his feet to the ground. The cold touch of concrete sent a chill through him, grounding him in his grim reality. Concrete. That could only mean one thing—he was probably back in that prison cell from before, wasn't he? The strange 'bed' beneath him felt different, unfamiliar, though he couldn't see it. Not that it mattered much. He sighed heavily, each breath shallow and strained.
"Don't act like you can breathe, Phantom. We all know you're fooling us," the voice sneered, laced with mockery.
Danny froze. What? So he was still in his ghost form—Phantom. That was… good, right? It has to be.
"I'm not… fooling anyone," Danny bit out, his voice tight and pained. "Believe what you want—I don't care." But no sooner had he spoken than a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his chest, stealing his breath and making him wince.
That pain. It confirmed everything. It all did happen—everything with his mom, of course it did. The incision, the torment. No. No, it can't be real. His mother wouldn't do any of that if she knew, right? Or did she?
He didn't dare lift his hand to his chest, didn't dare let his fingers feel the stitches, the raw wound, the new scar that would mark him forever. A scar for life, he thought bitterly. Or… for half a life.
"Oh, and uh—I'd like to apologize for that… inconvenience mark. That wasn't planned. We didn't know that would happen," the voice said, its casual tone sending a chill down Danny's spine.
"Really? So, if you thought it wouldn't happen, why the fuck did you even—" Danny began, his voice rising in frustration, but he stopped mid-sentence.
A sudden image flashed through his mind—vivid, painful, terrifying. Panic surged as he raised his left hand to his head, his temples pounding with an unbearable sting of pain. He clenched his teeth, trying to will it away, but the memory lingered, raw and unrelenting.
"I'm not talking about that, Phantom," the voice continued, cold and sharp. "You ruined our son, so we had to."
Our son? Danny's thoughts reeled. What is he talking about? I didn't ruin anyone's son—A wave of confusion hit him, his chest tightening. A child? A kid? A young adult? It didn't make sense.
"What? Who's your son? I didn't hurt or ruin anyone, except… the bad guys," Danny said, his voice filled with confusion as he let his hand drop from his head.
"Was my son bad to you, then?" the man shot back, his voice rising with accusation. "Was he so bad that you had to ruin his life? That you took over him? Possessed him like he was yours, like you were him? Was all of that worth it?"
"What the fuck are you talking about, man? I didn't do anything wrong! I didn't—" Danny's voice faltered, the realization crashing down on him like a tidal wave. The man wasn't talking about some random kid—he was talking about him. Danny Fenton.
He thinks he possessed his son. He thinks he possessed himself. Funny.
His father's unwavering belief that Phantom was a parasite—an invader in his own son's body. He felt a mix of anger, sorrow, and helplessness clawing at his insides, leaving him raw and exposed.
Guilt tightened its grip on Danny's chest as the weight of the accusation settled. His voice softened, trembling slightly as he spoke. "Dad?"
"Ha! I am not your father, you evil ghost kid," Jack spat, his voice dripping with anger. "You might think you are because you're possessing him—because you took over his human body!"
"Really, Dad?" Danny said, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the tension. "Are you really going to believe that too? Just like Mom does?"
"Just give us our son back," Jack said, his tone shifting, tinged with desperation. "It's the only thing we're asking from you. The attempt to, uh… take out the core was almost a hard failure. That's how you got that scar on your face."
Danny's stomach churned as the words settled deep into his mind. A scar? What scar? On his face? What was his dad talking about? And why wouldn't they just believe he was their son? Why couldn't they just... accept?
Ha! I don't have anything to say. Just they're having a father-son moment.
Or wait, maybe I do, maybe I do not. Did it feel difficult to write this part? Yes. Why? I don't know. Don't ask.
Sorry if this feels rushed. I don't know if it's rushed. But it was more about the thoughts, feelings and dialogues, because—surroundings to see, it's kind of difficult to write down if Danny's eyes are patched up, his vision pure darkness of a black space, seeing nothing but noise dancing like dust around.