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recurring-polynya · 3 years

Note

For the AU request, whichever one(s) you prefer (for RenRuki of course):

the X-Men universe

the Mafia/criminal underworld

the circus

as FBI agents (the X-Files world perhaps)

So, I got this ask, and I immediately wanted to go for X-Files, because I was hugely into X-Files when I was a tween/teen, and I think that my actual first published work of fanfic on the internet might actually be X-Files. (I didn’t even post it myself, I was like 12 and I didn’t have the internet at home, but a friend of mine posted it on Usenet for me, I have no idea whatever became of it). Anyway, I was going back and forth in my head who I wanted to be Mulder and who I wanted to be Scully, and then I got this ask:

@ulkoilla said:

I though the 10 would be full in about 1 microsecond so I didn’t even try :D This is maybe not AU enough for the purpose but I'd love to see your take on Bleach world where the shinigami work among humans as if they were in gigai -> they'll have to balance the supernatural, perhaps violent elements of their life with the modern day laws and such (like in Supernatural). Renji and Rukia have ofc gotten in trouble with the non-supernatural law (meet: Detective!Aizen?) and are on the run…

It suddenly occurred to me, What If: X-Files World, but Renruki are the cryptids. And it suddenly popped into my head exactly who I wanted to be Mulder. Anyway, I am sorry missrambler, if I messed it all up, I hope you like it anyway.

Also, I somehow thought that I would save myself some trouble by combining two prompts, but then it ended up… really long. (Forty! Eight! Hundred! Words! Go to Talks-Too-Much-Jail, Polynya!!)

PS: This takes place in D.C. because it’s X-Files and also because I am familiar with D.C. and I never get to write about places I know about. A half-smoke is a local delicacy that’s halfway between a hot dog and an Italian sausage. They are delicious.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

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Ichigo Kurosaki had known that an office with a view of the Smithsonian might be too much to ask, but he had not expected to take have to take two separate elevators down to sub-basement C, and walk past a storage room, two broom closets and a weird old vending machine full of brands of snacks he swore he hadn’t seen since he was a child.

Maybe Agent Inoue has a huge lab, he told himself. Maybe it needs to be 50 meters below ground because she collides large hadrons down here or so that her work can’t be picked up by spy satellites.

He had to turn sideways to get past a rack of wire shelves full of banker’s boxes, but there, on the other side was a door sporting a handwritten cardboard nameplate reading “Special Agent Orihime Inoue.”

“Come in!” a voice called inside, just as he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Ichigo blinked twice, and then went in.

The office was cluttered, mostly with more cardboard boxes, but books were also stacked precariously on top of boxes on top of books. The walls were plastered with maps and graphs and photographs of hazy blurs in front of staircases. There was a large poster showing a UFO, with the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” in block caps below it.

A woman with long chestnut hair twisted up into a bun and held in place with three pencils was hunched over a metal box full of diodes and transistors and other things you would buy at Radio Shack. Or rather, that other people would buy at a Radio Shack. Ichigo had never set foot in a Radio Shack in his life.

“Er, good morning,” Ichigo said, as the woman looked up and blinked at him owlishly. “Agent Inoue? I’m Ichigo Kurosaki. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

“To spy on me, you mean,” Agent Inoue corrected, cheerfully shaking his hand with great vigor.

Ichigo bristled. Yes, he had been directed to ‘provide additional documentation on Agent Inoue’s activities,’ but that hardly counted as spying. She was known to be somewhat scatterbrained, and having an organized person around would probably be a great benefit to her. “If you have any doubts about my qualifications or motivations--”

“Oh, don’t take it personally!” Inoue replied, slotting a lid onto her electronics project, and attacking it vigorously with a jeweler’s screwdriver. “Just because you’re a spy doesn’t mean you aren’t a nice person. Also, I read your file, you have a very interesting background! Degree in literature with a focus on folk legends. Teaching at the academy for the last few years while working on your book.” She took a momentary break from her screwing to fix him with her big, soft brown eyes. “Tell me, Agent Kurosaki, what do you think happens after you die?”

Ichigo froze. “I would be buried? Maybe there would be a funeral first?”

Inoue started laughing so hard that Ichigo was sure he caught a tiny, adorable snort. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t clear!” She sniffed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Do you believe in continued existence after the death of the body? An afterlife, religion-based or otherwise? The existence of ectoplasm, cold spots, spirit photographs, EVP?”

“Are you talking about… ghosts?” Ichigo asked hesitantly.

“Yes!” Orihime replied with a nod. “Ghosts.”

“We-elll…” Ichigo drew out. “I believe that people believe they observe certain phenomena, as part of the cycle of grief and--”

“Just say ‘no’ if you don’t,” Inoue interrupted him.

“Er, no. I don’t.”

“That’s okay. Are you good at carrying heavy things?”

“Am I... I guess?”

“Perfect!” She shoved the box into his arms, and Ichigo’s knees almost buckled under the weight. “Let’s walk and talk, I want to go get a reading over near Franklin Square before 9 am. We’re gonna pass a really good half-smoke cart on the way, do you like half-smokes?”

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“Take a look at this,” Inoue said, her cheek half stuffed with sausage, jabbing a finger at the LED read-out of her mysterious box.

It was rather hard for Ichigo to see, because he was holding the box and the readout was on the other side, but he did his best to crane his neck around. “What am I looking at? The squiggles? I’m sorry, it looks like nothing to me.”

“Exactly right!” Inoue announced, waving her half smoke in the air. “Not a sniff of spiritual residue!”

Ichigo pressed his lips together. “Um… is that good?”

“It is interesting,” Inoue corrected. “Five days ago, a sixty-four year old woman had a heart attack while sitting in that bus shelter.” On every day since, I have been able to record EMF fluctuations, and on Sunday, I was able to get a voice recording that sounded like a woman reciting a grocery list. But this morning, nothing! Nada!”

“Well, uh, ghosts gotta move on eventually, right? Otherwise, just about everywhere would be haunted, right?” It’s not that Ichigo had suddenly started believing ghosts or anything, but there was something about Agent Inoue that just made you want to go along with her and see where all this panned out.

Inoue shot him a finger gun. “Or, they get moved along.” She shoved a folded paper map at him. “You can put that thing down.”

Ichigo eased the Spirit Detect-O 9000, or whatever it was called, to the grass and accepted her map. It was a street map of DC, meant for tourists, emphasizing all the local transit routes and popular attractions. There was also a great loop marked on it in orange highlighter, zig-zagging back and forth through the city. There was a little ‘x’ marked on Franklin Park, with “Tuesday, early morning” written in a bubbly hand.

“What is this?” Ichigo frowned. It didn’t seem to match up with any of the metro or bus lines. It didn’t even match with the sidewalks, it appeared to cut straight through large buildings like the convention center.

“As far as I can tell,” Inoue said, her brown eyes very solemn, “that is the patrol route of our local grim reaper.”

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“So I actually got interested in grim reapers,” Inoue explained, once they were back in the office, “while I was investigating violent ghost phenomena.” She was eating a bag of corn chips that she had gotten from that ancient vending machine by punching it and then shoving her own arm up the chute. (She’d gotten Ichigo a bag, too, but he was too afraid to eat them.)

Ichigo was sitting at a cluttered table that Inoue had told him “could be his desk.” Half of it was taken up by a large aquarium full of rocks and a water bowl, but no life forms that Ichigo could detect. The other half was covered with back issues of “Ghost Hunter Technology” magazine. “You mean like poltergeists?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Poltergeists are noisy, but they aren’t usually able to kill their targets.”

“Kill? Ghosts can’t kill people, aside from, like scaring them to death,” Ichigo scoffed. “I mean, folklorically speaking. As we established earlier, I am not a ghost-believer.”

Inoue tipped her head to the side. “They do, actually, it just tends to get blamed on something else.”

“By ghost-non-believers.”

“By everyone, really, and that’s what’s so strange.” Inoue pulled a fat binder from a stack of seemingly identical ones, and tossed it open in front of Ichigo. “Edison, New Jersey, 2014. An elderly woman dies ‘of a broken heart’ a week after her husband dies of cancer. Coincidentally, a telephone pole falls on her house the same night and rips a hole in her house.” She turned a page. “Norfolk, Virginia, 2017. A young woman dies in what the police rule as a suicide, despite the fact that she made a 911 call 48 hours previous, expressing fear of her ex-boyfriend. Three days later, the boyfriend is dead of mysterious causes. Coincidentally, his apartment complex suffered significant damages from ‘a wild cougar.’”

Ichigo squinted at the pictures. The walls of the building were scored with what did appear to be scratch marks. “Hell of a cougar.”

“Exactly! And I’ve got dozens of these historic cases. But about four months ago, I was able to investigate one myself-- a young man named Joe Wallace. He lives here in the city, over near Dupont Circle. Wallace had cut off his toxic dad years ago, and refused to visit him in the hospital as he was dying. Four days after his father’s death, a truck crashes into his house in the middle of the night and then drives away before the police can arrive.”

“And he died.”

“No!” Inoue held up one finger. “Scratches and bruises, but he doesn’t die!”

“Okay, great. So what does he remember?”

“He remembers a truck crashing into his house.”

Ichigo scratched his chin. “I am confused.”

“Look at this!” Inoue stabbed a finger at the pictures. “These are claw marks, not vehicular wreckage! There’s damage on the second story window! Wallace had scratches and defensive wounds, as if he had been fending off an animal! And look here, at the damage to the walls of the bedroom!”

“What am I looking at?” Ichigo asked, squinting at a photograph that looked like it had been blown up past the point of recognition.

“There were cuts and slashes in the walls and bedding as though someone had been fighting with a sword.”

“Like a Medieval Times sword? Was the guy a Medieval Times enthusiast?”

“More consistent with a katana. Do you like Medieval Times?”

“No one likes Medieval Times.”

“I like Medieval Times. You’ve probably never even been. But back to the ghost! Why would Wallace remember a truck crashing into his house, when nothing about the scene is consistent with that story?”

“He was...lying?”

“His memories were replaced.”

“His memories were replaced,” Ichigo echoed.

“Yes.”

“By… aliens?”

Orihime heaved a deep sigh. “By a grim reaper.”

“A grim reaper with a samurai sword.”

“How on earth did you come to this conclusion?”

Inoue raised one eyebrow. “Because when I placed him under hypnosis, Wallace didn’t remember anything about a truck. He did remember a monster with batwings and a mask made of bone and his dead father’s voice who tried to kill him, except that he was saved by a tall man dressed in black. The man had bright red hair and fought the monster with a sword that was also a whip and then he wiped Wallace’s memories.”

Ichigo stared at her. “You can hypnotize people?”

Inoue gave him a long-suffering face. Ichigo had the sudden flash that he was going to be seeing that face a lot in the days to come. “Yes, I am a certified hypnotist.” Inoue’s phone suddenly started playing “Tubular Bells”. “Oops, that’s an alarm. Come on, we have a meeting with some important people. Do you like diners?”

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Agent Inoue apparently did not care for public transit, but she walked very quickly. Ichigo was concentrating so hard on keeping up with her that he nearly collided with her back when she stopped very suddenly.

“You don’t mind if we make a quick stop, do we?” Inoue asked.

“You said the meeting was with important people.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them!” Inoue pursed her lips. “You see that bodega right there?”

They were in a part of downtown that was mostly mid-to-upscale restaurants and government buildings and FedExes. But sure enough, there was a dingy little bodega nestled between a Mexican-Indian fusion place and an Au Bon Pain, the windows stuffed with t-shirts from the last administration and a variety of cell phone chargers. The overhead sign read “Urahara Shop.”

“Y...eah…” Ichigo replied.

“That place is a hotbed of supernatural activity.”

“Is it?” Ichigo asked.

“I am almost positive that it is a supply point and meeting place for grim reapers, monster slayers, cryptids, alien hunters, and lycanthropes, but the owner is on to me.”

“I see,” Ichigo said levelly.

“Can you go in and pretend to be a customer? They have lots of good candy you can look through. Inoue dug in her purse and came up with a fiver. “Here. Buy a scratch ticket or something.”

“I’m not buying a scratch ticket, they’re a scam.”

“If the big guy is working the counter, he’ll glare at you until you buy something, so be prepared.”

As Ichigo pushed open the door, he realized he’d never actually agreed to any of this. Agent Inoue’s secret hypnosis powers, once again. Whatever. It was a bodega, there were a thousand of them in DC. They all had the same Nats t-shirts and coffee mugs with pictures of the Washington Monument on them. Ichigo pretended to be interested in a rack of comics. He tended to prefer indy comics over the big publishers himself, but even so, he didn’t recognize any of the books. Maybe they were by local authors.

Up at the front of the shop, a tiny, dark-haired woman was giving whatfor to the man behind the counter, a tall fellow with pale, straw-colored hair sticking out in tufts from under the saddest hat Ichigo had ever seen, a shapeless, battered bucket, striped green and white.

“Well, I can sell you a new battery for your phone, Miss Kuchiki, maybe that would help.”

“Not if it only lasts as long as the last one you sold me! I really need to get in touch with my partner, except that even if I could get my phone working again, his battery is probably dead because everything you sell is the same crap!”

“Ah, that’s too bad! You know, I think Mr. Abarai was in here a few days ago… I wasn’t in at the time, but Jinta said he came in, asking about…”

The man trailed off, and Ichigo glanced up to see the shopkeeper looking directly at him.

“...metrocards. But as you know, we don’t sell metrocards anymore.”

The woman made an aggravated noise. “You’re so useless! If I write him a damned note, will you give it to him if he comes in?”

“Oh, of course! Anything for you, Miss Kuchiki!”

The conversation trailed off as the woman hunched over the counter to angrily scratch out a note.

Ichigo stuffed the comic he was flipping through back on its rack. He skipped the enormous display of bedazzled flip-flops and started perusing the surprisingly extensive selection of gum.

“Here!” the woman finished and shoved her note at the shopkeeper. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Have a wonderful day!” the shopkeeper tootled, giving her a little finger wave.

Ichigo felt bad for the woman. “Er, excuse me?” he said as she passed.

She turned to scowl at him. For such a tiny person, she seemed to contain a remarkable amount of rage.

“Do you need to call someone? You can use my phone, if you’d like.” He held it out like an offering.

The woman blinked at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy! You were just kind of loud and you sounded worried about your, um, partner.”

“I’m not worried about him, I just need to find him.” Her face softened. “Thanks, Mister, but I can’t reach him on a regular phone. Don’t worry, I’ll track him down eventually.” She turned to leave, then stopped to jab an accusatory finger at Ichigo. “And that’s professional partner, not… you know! Whatever!” She stomped out.

What a strange, tiny person.

Ichigo selected a gum and walked up to the counter.

“Oooh, dragonberry lime, good choice!” the man trilled. “Anything else I can get you? Bottled water? Fanny pack? Spare phone battery?”

“I’ll pass,” Ichigo replied dryly.

“I imagine it’s against FBI policy to let a stranger use your cell phone,” the shopkeeper said sweetly.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed. “This is my personal phone. And how did you…?”

The man gave a chortling laugh that sent shivers down Ichigo’s spine. “Because headquarters is three blocks away and only an FBI agent would wear a suit that square.”

Ichigo took his change and his gum and shoved them both in his pocket. “Yeah, well, your hat sucks.”

The man laughed harder. “Doesn’t it, though?”

Once he was outside again, Ichigo handed Inoue the gum and her change. “The owner of that place is a creep.”

“The guy in the green and white hat?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Urahara. You’re right, he’s the owner. Were there any other customers?”

“Just the short lady. You must have seen her come out. She was ripping Urahara a new one for some dodgy cell phone battery he sold her. I think she must have been NSA or something. She said she was trying to get ahold of her partner, but she needed a special phone.” As he said it, Ichigo realized it would be pretty odd for an NSA agent to be buying cell phone batteries from some shady bodega.

“No one came out,” Inoue replied.

“She definitely did! I heard the bell over the door ring.”

Inoue regarded Ichigo very seriously. “Agent Kurosaki. I was standing here the whole time. You were the only person who went in or out.” She looked at the gum. “Ooh! Dragonfruit lime! Do you want some?”

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They were late to the meeting.

Two men were waiting for them in the back corner booth. One of them had pinched, pointy features and piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His chin-length haircut was pretty dramatic, but not as dramatic as his pure white trench coat. A cup of black coffee sat on the faded Formica table in front of him, but it didn’t look like it had been touched.

His companion was an enormous, good-looking Latino who was shoveling pancakes into his face.

“Inoue,” the dramatic guy said. “Who’s this?”

“This is my new partner, Kurosaki,” Inoue replied. “Kurosaki, this is Uryuu Ishida,” she indicated the white trenchcoat guy, “and Chad,” Mr. Pancakes.

“Also known as the ‘Lone Archers,’” Ishida specified. “We are apolitical actors who are interested in revealing the truths that are regularly hidden from the general populace by secret forces that conspire within the machinery of the American government.”

“You can just call me Chad,” said Chad.

“Good morning!” the waitress said. “Can I get you folks anything?”

“Oh, yes! I’m getting mozzarella sticks! Do you like mozzarella sticks, Kurosaki? They’re so good here!”

“So’re the pancakes,” added Chad.

“I’ll just have a coffee,” Ichigo announced. He glanced at Ishida’s cup. “Black.”

“Double mozzarella sticks, please!” Inoue chorused. “And a cherry coke!” She leaned over to Ichigo and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll give you a mozzarella stick.”

“Do you want some pancake?” Chad offered to Ishida. “I never think to offer.”

Ishida waved him off with a hand. “Agent Inoue. At great personal peril, I was able to obtain a sample of the item we discussed.” He slid a small paper packet across the table. “There are two tablets inside, but one should be sufficient for your purposes.” Ishida leaned forward, his mouth set in a firm line. “I was cautioned very strongly against using this, unless one had a firm plan for handling the… consequences.”

“I understand,” Inoue replied, stuffing the envelope into her purse.

Ichigo wanted to ask more questions, but the conversation shifted very quickly to some USGS floodplain maps that Ishida wanted Inoue to obtain for him that were apparently not available from the public webportals, allegedly because of filesize. Ichigo could practically hear the air quotes around the word “filesize.”

“We’re going to look for Jersey Devils next weekend,” Chad explained, sounding pretty excited about it.

“There’s only one, Chad,” Ishida corrected. “It’s just ‘Jersey Devil.’”

“There could be more than one,” Chad shrugged.

Thirty minutes later, they departed. Inoue had an order of mozzarella sticks in her purse. Ichigo had an armload of backissues of the Lone Archers’ ‘zine, which was, conveniently enough, titled The Lone Archer. There was no doubt in his mind that at least Ishida was completely off his rocker. The jury was still out on Chad… he struck Ichigo as the sort of guy who just went along with Ishida’s nonsense because he was a good friend and also liked taking camping trips and doing layout for ‘zines.

“So what was that thing they gave you?” Ichigo pestered. The idea of that little paper packet had been burning a hole in his brain the entire time.

“You busy tonight?” Inoue asked, raising an eyebrow slyly. “Between 10 and 11?”

“What are we doing?” Ichigo asked cautiously, wondering if he would be able to charge his time.

“We’re going to try and attract an angry ghost.”

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“Are you… sure this is… a good idea?” Ichigo asked for the sixteenth time, as Inoue focused the thermal camera on him.

They were in an old, abandoned lot that had formerly served as a Metro service facility. It was pretty spooky all on its own, filled with train cars too dilapidated for salvage.

It was 10:25pm. Inoue had set up no less than 17 different pieces of ghost detection equipment. Ichigo was questioning his life choices.

“You told me you don’t believe in ghosts. If ghosts don’t exist, then what could possibly go wrong?” Inoue posed.

“Well… that’s true,” Ichigo granted. “And, for the record, I still do not believe in ghosts. But in the Pascal’s wager sense of things, I am considering the ramifications of what happens if there are ghosts that exist, regardless of my belief in them.”

“And?” Inoue asked.

“Well, you said that these ghosts have hurt and killed people before. It seems like trying to attract one without having any method of, um, fighting it, seems kind of… irresponsible?”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve specifically picked this time and location to coincide with the grim reaper patrol routes I’ve been mapping out. Our friendly neighborhood psychopomp ought to show up just on schedule to fight the angry ghost for us. We’re doing them a favor, as I see it.”

“How so?” Ichigo exclaimed.

“It’s not like we’re creating an angry ghost out of nowhere. We’re just attracting an existing one to our location. We’re saving the grim reaper the trouble of having to hunt it down.”

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was it so difficult to argue with Inoue? Possibly because she was so incredibly earnest in all her beliefs, and all her arguments were in completely good faith, it’s just that her logic came from some other dimension. This woman has solved multiple, high-profile murders, including several that were ice cold, Ichigo reminded himself. So she’s quirky. I am sure I can learn a lot from her.

“Okay, everything is in place!” Inoue announced, placing her hand on her hips. “Go hide behind that pile of moldy seats!”

Inoue took Ichigo’s place at the center of her recording equipment. “Agent Orihime Inoue speaking,” she said, for posterity. “It is 10:28pm. I am crushing one tablet of a substance called ‘Hollow Bait.’” She crunched the little white tablet, which looked an awful lot like an Alka-Seltzer, between her fingers, and then made a flying leap for the rotting pile of damp, orange upholstery that Ichigo was crouched behind.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Ichigo started. “How long would we have to wait, theoretically, with nothing happening, before we would declare this a bust?”

Inoue pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Usually, I would give it about two hours, but if you’ve got somewhere to be, I don’t mind if you leave early. It is nice to have company for a change.”

“No, I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Ichigo replied. “I mean… sleeping, I guess.”

Inoue gave a charming little laugh. “I don’t sleep very well. And hunting for ghosts is more interesting than most of the stuff on Hulu.”

The way that she said it gave Ichigo the distinct impression that Inoue was, well, lonely. But that didn’t seem correct. She was weird, sure, but she was also friendly and talkative, and, er, well, she was extremely cute. Surely she had tons of friends.

“How’d you get into ghost hunting, anyway?” he tried to be conversational.

“Hmm,” Inoue hummed noncommittally. “Let’s just say there was an incident in my teen years, where my memories don’t match up to the property damage.”

Oh. Ichigo wondered if he should apologize, when suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine and a sound like a roar echoed in his ears, except he didn’t actually hear anything. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

“It’s the EMF detector,” Inoue nodded, scrambling for the reader and Ichigo realized he could hear a faint beeping.

“No, not the beeping, it was like a… a… scream…”

“You heard a scream?”

“I didn’t exactly…” Ichigo trailed off as he heard two more, coming from different directions. “There’s more than one. Monster screams. Not human screams.”

Inoue stared at him, eyes wide. “I don’t hear anything. Have you ever been tested for latent psychic ability?”

There was a sudden change in the air pressure, and a fetid, rotting smell, even worse than the Metro seats. Ichigo grabbed Inoue by the shoulders and rolled out of the way, just as the pile of junk they had been crouched behind compacted like it had been through a car crusher. Or smashed by a giant foot.

“Whoa!” Inoue exclaimed, trying to push Ichigo off of her so she could see what was going on.

Ichigo blinked through the night. He couldn’t see anything, but there was an area of space that looked thick and hazy, like it wasn’t refracting the harsh glow of the sodium street lights quite correctly.

“We have to get out of here,” Ichigo gasped.

“Can you see it?” Inoue asked, her eyes wide and excited.

“Not-- not really,” Ichigo replied, pulling at her arm. The air blurred, and Ichigo had the sense the thing was jumping at them. He could tell it was fast, but he couldn’t see it, he didn’t know what to--

“Howl, Zabimaru!”

It was both there and not quite there, a liquid blade made of glass and starlight, that snapped through the air at the invisible thing. The monster bellowed, and whipped around, charging at a dark figure standing atop one of the old Metro cars.

“Pick on someone your own size, ugly!” the man bellowed, and as Ichigo squinted, he realized that their savior was dressed all in black. He was tall, and his hair was pulled back in a spiky ponytail. It was bright red. He was also wearing sunglasses, even though it was the middle of the night. They were pushed up on top of his head, to be fair, but Ichigo had a feeling this detail would stick with him.

“You can see that guy, right?” Ichigo asked Inoue desperately. “The guy who’s fighting the ghost? The guy that looks just like the guy in your report?”

“There’s a guy?” Inoue asked. “No. Where is he? Can you usually see ghosts?”

“I don’t even believe in ghosts!”

“Well, maybe you don’t believe in them because you can see them and you don’t want to, did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t think now is the time to interrogate my personal traumas!”

Suddenly, there was another drop in pressure, and Ichigo had the sense of heavy breathing and sharp teeth. “Inoue. I think there’s another one.”

“Well, can you get the guy to come fight this one, too?”

“He seems busy,” Ichigo squeaked.

Something black flashed by his vision, and there was a loud crack and a sound of something screeching in pain. A second dark-clad person had arrived, landing softly on sandaled feet. There was the same unreality to her, a sense that she wasn’t entirely there, as well as a certain familiarity that Ichigo couldn’t place. Her sword was bright in the darkness, like moonlight reflecting on snow.

“Oi, there you are, you big dummy!” she shouted at the first man and Ichigo realized with a jolt that it was the angry woman from the bodega. “I’ve been looking for you for four days!”

“I had a problem with my gigai and maybe you should check your texts once in a while!” the tall guy shouted back. Ichigo refused to think of him as a grim reaper. A grim reaper would not wear sunglasses.

“My phone died!”

“Can we-- ow! -- discuss this later? I’m glad you’re okay, I missed you. Why are there so many Hollows in this train yard?”

“You’re such a sap! And the Hollows are here because some stupid humans got ahold of some Hollow bait.” The woman turned, and glared at Ichigo. Her eyes burned with blue flame, like the burner of a gas stove.

That would have been the last thing Ichigo remembered, if he had actually remembered it, or any of the things that came before it.

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Ichigo was sitting at his desk.

Inoue was sitting at her desk.

The sun was streaming in the window. The clock on Ichigo’s phone read 7:12am.

Inoue frowned. She examined a coffee cup on her desk. She took a hesitant sip, and then made a face. “Why are we here?” she wondered softly.

“I hate to pull an all-nighter,” Ichigo said, stretching, “but it sure does feel good to be caught up on paperwork!”

Inoue regarded him. “Kurosaki,” she said, “how long have you worked here?”

Ichigo frowned. “Well, I guess this is my second day.”

“Right. So… how much paperwork did you have to catch up on?”

Ichigo blinked. He very distinctively recalled working through the night-- his hand cramping, the incredibly spicy Thai food they’d ordered, Inoue’s seemingly infinite Boy Bands of the 90’s playlist. “I… was helping you, I guess?” Come to think of it, why was he filling out paperwork by hand, anyway? His laptop sat next to him, the lid closed. It wasn’t even plugged in.

Inoue’s fist slammed down onto her desk. “Gosh darnit! They wiped my memories again!!”

#wacky au requests #my writing #in my youth i shipped mulder and scully so hard #and now it's like...girl #you could do so much better #it is not possible to do better than gillian anderson

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datawyrms · 4 years

Text

White Glow

Dannymay Day five: Moon Walker was infuriating. A bully used to getting his way, with an explosive temper to match. It had been foolish, trying to help the stuffy warden out.

At first he would simply sniff out natural portals, guiding any curious ghosts to them if they wanted a quick look at the human world, then dart back home before the gateway shut. It made ghosts happy, just for a short jaunt. It didn’t really matter where the portal led when you had no plans to stay.

Walker decided little trips were ‘against the rules’. So he rolled his eyes and offered to take the self proclaimed warden out the next time. He accepted, they went the next time he located one stable enough, and Wulf thought that would be the end of it.

Perhaps he’d been a ghost too long, to forget some people couldn’t be happy with something freely shared to them. No, they had to own and control it. Foolish, when it wasn’t even restricted.

Word started to spread about the ‘moon crazed wolfman’. Portals were easier to track down when the moon showed its face brightly in the human realm, and the black furred ghost would not deny he enjoyed gazing upon it when visiting. Yet the crazed part did not make any sense. He could not recall anyone he had attacked or otherwise offended. He was not interested in territory, he was not one to start fights, and he wasn’t a particularly powerful ghost.

It was more annoying than anything, with some ghosts considering Esperanto ‘animalistic gibbering’, but most would get over it after a few mangled phrases and disapproving looks. He was their only safe way to the human world after all.

Walker doubled down with a bounty on his head, for what Wulf didn’t know. The crime of being good at something and appreciated? Likely.

He was not a fighter for a reason. The blasts that seemed to come naturally to so many others mystified him completely. He was quick, he was strong, but incredibly limited. Close quarters was practically mandatory. His only real trick was his claws. No matter what a ghost did, the glowing green weapons would dig into his foe as if they were made of flesh. Which just made anyone wanting the bounty learn fighting at range was the only real option. Running and hiding was rapidly becoming the wisest option.

A ghost he took mentioned that the warden was furious that ghosts respected some ‘half feral mongrel’. Wulf considered this very stupid, and tried to put it out of mind. He did not need every ghost to like him, and Walker had enough ghosts on his side to make even considering a fight foolishness of the highest order.

He didn’t really know when it became a ‘fact’ that he was a dangerous, mindless beast. Ghosts would no longer approach him, and his afterlife became a lot more solitary than he ever thought it would be. It was a nice change at first, being able to cross over and simply enjoy being there, marveling at things both natural and constructed. To watch the ever present moon and how it seemed to glow with a calming white light instead of needing to shepherd ghosts back home before the portal would trap them on the wrong side. Then it just became lonely. It was more enjoyable to share his ability than to use it completely alone.

Attempting to confront Walker about this was a catastrophe. He was quite clear that he would not rest until Wulf was in chains like the ‘dog he was’, with all the ghosts sent after his fleeing tail. More importantly, that was the time Wulf discovered where the majority of his ghostly power lay. Back to a wall, fur singed and wounds oozing he tried to dig through a wall with his claws, foolish as it was.

Instead of ripping rock, he tore reality itself.

He didn’t question it, he bolted through and escaped his baffled pursuers. Nowadays he wondered if it simply would have been better to have not escaped that day. To have not discovered the ability that suddenly became the only thing anyone cared about concerning him.

This was a very rare and valuable ability. To be able to make your own path through dimensions at will, that was the sort of skill one whispered of in legends. He was resented. ‘A mindless animal had a power like that’, and could not make use of it in a meaningful way. ‘Clearly they should have that power’, he didn’t appreciate it. Yet he was also feared. ‘You cannot fight that ghost, he’ll throw you out of the zone and you’ll fade to nothing with no ectoplasm to restore you’.

Vile rumors and assumptions. Yet almost none could truly track down and catch him now, so he simply made do. He took more time watching humans, getting to see more of the world at different times. Still, something in him ached and longed for the moonlit sky. Things had been easier then. He’d been a happier ghost then.

So of course he fell for Walker’s trap. He should have realized he was practically a legend in the zone now, more like Clockwork than an actual, knowable being. No ghost would be seeking him out for his old little service of sniffing out a portal.

He’d hoped it had been someone that had used it before and had not realized Wulf was the reality ripper. He only used his nose back then, after all.

He was attacked at once, reduced to howling in pain in seconds. His claws ripped through the ‘guards’ as he tried to make a way out, ectoplasm weighing down on his fur as he tried to scramble through the ghost that was now experiencing the pain of having a hole in the world ravaging your insides.

Walker had been chasing him a long enough time to expect that. It didn’t matter if he had a bolt hole if he could not reach it. Too many bodies, too many hands wrenched him backwards, blasts hammering at his skull until he could no longer keep his grip on reality, the world a foggy painful blur that he couldn’t interact with.

The world was that sad, confusing place for a long time. Weight that meant nothing, a mess of colour that meant nothing, and sounds that should be words were just a passing distraction. When he realized he had a body, he didn’t move it much. Movement was weird, movement was an action, and actions did not make sense. Claws and chains. Something was wrong with that.

At first he thought the bright white ghost might be a friend. The glow, the starkness of the light was comforting, familiar. His tail wagged at the recollection, but stopped when the electricity ripped through him, only managing a pitiful whimper.

The light was mad at him, and that didn’t match his hazy memories at all.

“Power like that should be in the hands of someone who can use it, Wulf. We’re going to have a nice chat until you understand that.”

He did not like this ghost who imitated the kind light. He did not like how it tricked him and shocked him for trying to use his claws, he desperately wanted to bite him. They did not understand the words he spoke, but he was certain they were words, despite what they said. Just not the ones they insisted on using.

The world was starting to make sense again, but he almost wished it didn’t. He was trapped here, a prisoner over someone’s ego.

So when they said he had a job to do, his eyes narrowed and ears flattened at the probable lie. Yet the promise of freedom was too much to ignore. The target looked like a child, not a criminal.

His eyes were drawn to the white hair, discomfort settling in as his freed claws tore out of the world. He would...find this one, hope they were more like the moon than Walker was. Try not to hurt him much, only go along until he could get free. If he could. The collar seemed to burn even when it wasn’t shocking him back to senselessness.

The kid would be easy to track. They smelled so much like a portal it was almost unnerving.

His hesitation was showing too much, and pain sent him forward. Perhaps he was more a dog than anything now.

#dannymay2020 #Danny Phantom #wulf #walker #my stuff #moon is a hard prompt #it was this or lancer is a werewolf #but the angst demon came #tomorrow is probably gonna be late #since i usually do these before work #cant do that tomorrow

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kinglazrus · 4 years

Note

i saw that post and thought of this yesterday but my brain was unreasonably shy but here it is now usdygbhjn: “It’s three in the morning.” danny @ dash

Milky Way

Sometimes Danny hates living in the city. Actually, most of the time he hates it. Not because of the noise, or all the people, or even the ghosts, but the stars. Or the lack of them, at least.

Danny was ten years old when he realized the sky he saw every night was a lie. He had seen plenty of pictures of the night sky taken from different parts of the world. At that age, he just assumed that’s how the sky worked. Some places had less stars than others, he was unfortunately born in a place with very few stars overhead.

Until his sister got him a big astronomy textbook for his tenth birthday and he learned the city was to blame. All the city lights polluted the sky and kept him from seeing the sky for what it truly was. For weeks, he tried to convince his parents to move, to pack up all their things in the RV and drive out far away into the middle of nowhere, where there was no people and no light pollution, and he could see the stars in all their glory every night.

He never got that wish, but nowadays Danny doesn’t mind it so much. Now, if he wants to see the night sky as it should be seen, all he has to do is fly up, up, up beyond the clouds, just past the edge of the mesosphere.

There, he floats along the Kármán line, the boundary between Earth’s atmosphere and space, and he can see everything. It’s beautiful. He can’t help but think of every childhood drawing he made of the stars and how wrong he was.

The sky isn’t an endless expanse of black peppered with bright white spots. It’s a gorgeous mix of blues and purples, and even some pink in the Milky Way itself. Every inch of the sky is covered in stars. There are so many he has trouble picking out the constellations he knows better than his hometown, but he manages.

The familiar cup of Ursa Minor, Draco’s lithe body winding past, Hercules’ crooked form by the dragon’s head.

Danny traces the familiar lines with his softly glowing eyes and feels as empty as the space between the stars. Even though that distance looks so small from here, he knows how vast it really is.

Tipping back his head, he stares back down toward Earth. Cities make their own constellations across the dark surface. The sixty-two miles between him and the ground right now is not enough. He wants to fly higher, way out into space, and get lost in its cold comfort. But he can’t, because he has a city to protect, friends who depend on him, and a family who loves him.

At least he thinks they love him.

Danny reaches for his phone and goes to check the time, but the screen doesn’t turn on. He frowns, tapping the screen, and even shakes the device a few times. And then he remembers how cold it’s supposed to be up here, something he can’t really feel anymore, and it probably killed the battery.

He’s just lucky it isn’t iced over. At this height, it should be, but he probably has the radiation from his ectoplasm to thank for that.

Grudgingly, Danny tells himself he should probably head home. He flips over, head to the ground, and starts flying.

He takes his time, it’s still barely more than hour before he’s back in Amity. Just before diving through Fenton Work’s roof, he looks back up at the sky. It’s empty and sad.

The first thing Danny does when he’s back in his room is plug in his phone. He considers transforming; it’s dangerous to stay in ghost form while his parents are home. But after staring at his blank phone for a few long seconds he decides against it. He doesn’t really want to be human right now.

Curled up on his bed, head against his pillow, knees pulled up to his chest, he waits for his phone to charge enough to turn on. Those five minutes feel infinitely longer than his flight back from space.

“Screw you, Clockwork,” Danny mutters. It’s not really Clockwork’s fault, but it feels good to have someone to blame, and the ghost of time is a ripe target.

The moment his screen lights up, Danny reaches out and snags it off his bedside table. He notes the time, quarter to three, then goes through his notifications. Some spam emails, a couple game notifications, but no texts or calls. Which makes sense, it’s the middle of the night, who the hell would be up right now besides him?

As soon as Danny thinks that, his phone buzzes and a message appears at the top of his screen.

From Dash: [image]

Another quickly follows.

From Dash: was that u?

Eyes heavy, Danny stares at the texts for a long moment before clicking them. The messaging app is bright and glaring compared to his dark home screen and he squints when it lights up his room. He clicks the image Dash send, feeling instant relief when his screen gets significantly darker.

It’s a shot of the sky from Dash’s bedroom window, the corner of the next building over cutting through the image. Just above that is a bright white speck. If Danny didn’t know better, he might have mistaken it for a star or a planet.

Closing out the image, Danny types back: yeah, it’s me.

He hits send, turns onto his back, and sets his phone down on his chest. He’s not expecting a reply, although he has no reason not to, so it startles him when his phone buzzes not even a second later.

From Dash: thought so. What were…

From Dash: Patrol?

Danny pulls himself up, opening his phone once again, and reads the full messages.

Dash: thought so. What were you doing so high up?

Dash: Patrol?

Hunched over his phone, Danny doesn’t so much stare at the screen as he does zone out in its general direction. He knows what he wants to type in response, but he can’t seem to get his fingers to move.

The phone sits cradled in his hand, his thumbs thick silhouettes against the white screen. The longer he looks, the more he thinks they aren’t his thumbs but just thumbs. Anyone’s thumbs. They didn’t belong to him. He was a hundred miles away, out in space.

Before he can decide if this is a good or bad idea, he hits the call button.

It gets through half a ring before Dash picks up.

“Hey, Danny.”

Dash’s is voice is rough and dry, but it isn’t thick with sleep, reassuring Danny he hasn’t dragged Dash out of partial slumber.

“Danny?”

The call time says it’s been going for over a minute.

Danny swallows. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Dash…” Danny trails off. He rolls his neck. It pops in a way that probably isn’t healthy, but is also so familiar he doesn’t think twice about it anymore. He licks his lips. “Why are we friends?”

That isn’t what he meant to say. He doesn’t know what he really wanted to say, but he knows that wasn’t it.

The call is at five minutes.

“Because Paulina and Sam are dating.” Dash chuckles.

Danny thinks he should be chuckling too, but the sound doesn’t come. It’s a joke they’ve made a hundred times, as familiar as the crick in Danny’s neck, but it’s not the answer he wants right now.

“I’m friends with Tucker because… because we’ve always been friends. I can’t imagine not being friends with him,” Danny says. He takes one the hands—his hands, he has to remind himself—away from the phone and turns it over. Is it really him doing that?

“Sam kind of made herself friends with us. But we always thought she was cool anyway, so, we wanted her.” Danny rubs his hand on his thigh, stopping to grip his knee. He can feel the pressure, but he can’t really feel it. “We hate each other.”

Ten minutes.

“We used to, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really hated you. Just, stupid high school stuff.”

“Stupid high school stuff,” Danny repeats. He glances at the time at the top of his screen. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you up at three in the morning?”

“Why are you?”

Danny sucks in a sharp breath. “Just. Couldn’t sleep. Yeah.”

“Yeah? Same.”

This time, Danny chuckles. He can’t figure out why it’s funny, but it is. Dash? Having trouble sleeping? People like him aren’t supposed to have Danny’s problems. They’re supposed to date the head cheerleader, and have tons of friends, and get some big football scholarship that carries them through college, and be famous. Or something.

But the head cheerleader is dating Sam. Dash only has a handful of people he talks to regularly. He told Danny last month that he doesn’t want to play football in college. He wants to be a social worker, like his mom, and not be famous.

Danny laughs again.

“What’s so funny?”

“S-Sam,” Danny says between giggles. “Sam stole your girlfriend.”

“She really didn’t.” Dash sounds amused, a humorous lilt in his voice.

Danny can’t figure out what he finds so funny. It’s Dash’s life that isn’t going how it’s supposed to. Sucks to be him, thrust into a set role the moment he became quarterback in freshman year, stuck with a path he doesn’t want, that he doesn’t quite seem to fit. What kind of high school king is he?

The next time Danny laughs, it sounds closer to a sob. He sniffs and rubs his nose on his sleeve, the thick, rubbery material of his jumpsuit irritating his nose. The suit smells vaguely of burnt flesh and sulfur. No matter what Danny does, he can’t seem to wash it out.

Twenty minutes.

“Danny, I think you should go to sleep now.”

“’M fine,” Danny insists.

“You’re really not.”

“That’s kind of rude.” Danny drags his hand through his hair. It never feels like normal hair in his ghost form. Too wispy and light, like a silk veil.

“I can call you in the morning if you want. Or I can get Paulina to text Sam, or Tucker. I think I still have Jazz’s number somewhere.”

“Don’t hang up,” Danny says softly. He fells forward, curling onto his side around the phone, sticking his feet under his pillow.

They’ve been on the phone for well over half an hour now. Danny’s pretty sure they haven’t talked enough to fill out all that time. He wonders how much of it Dash has spent just sitting there, waiting for Danny to answer. It makes him feel like a bit of a prick.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Danny can tell Dash doesn’t know what the apology’s for, but he appreciates the acceptance nonetheless.

“You won’t hang up?” Danny asks.

“I won’t hang up.”

Danny nods, even though Dash can’t see it. He wishes he could. He wants someone here right now, but not Sam, or Tucker, or his sister, or his parents who maybe hate him, but he can never be too sure because they don’t know they hate him and he’s too afraid to tell them. Without all those other options, he supposes Dash will do.

He falls asleep, eventually, and wakes up human and cold, his phone still on beside him.

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phantomphangphucker · 5 years

Text

Ectober Day 5: Radiation - Septicemia

Ectoplasm isn’t exactly known for being safe to handle. But Danny handles that problem like he does everything else, with a dose of humour and ignoring it.

"Goddammit”, Danny looks down at his vertically sliced open arm, bone slightly visible. Speaking thick with annoyance, "why, out of all ghosts, did it have to be the Box Ghost to give me my first serious injury?". Coming to float just slightly above the ground in an alleyway, pinching closed the wound, as Sam and Tucker come running towards him. Tucker sidestepping and gagging at the little splashes and one large puddle of Danny's ectoplasm. While Sam just steps over it, not really giving a shit.

Danny looks up at the two as they plop down on the ground next to him, giving the two of them a loose smile, "took long enough huh?". While both of them frown at him, clearly unimpressed.

Sam digs in her backpack, pulling out the mini-medi kit they had all decided all three of them should carry around. Handing Tucker a cloth and little water bottle to clean off the wound while she sets up a needle with ectoline.

Danny gives his arm to Tucker while Tucker responds, “would have preferred it never happening, dude”, smirking slightly as he wipes off the wound, “but with your terrible dodging of course it did”.

Danny flips him off with his other hand, “hey fuck you Tuck. It was going to happen eventually because I am constantly getting into fights. It would be weird if I constantly came out of getting thrown around, sliced, bitten and whatnot, with nothing more than bruising, small cuts and scrapes”.

Tucker rolls his eyes as he goes to ball up the cloth only to yelp and drop it. Green steam coming off his hand slightly, making everyone look at him worriedly.

Danny squints at him, “what’d you get on you? Obviously ghostly, but don’t think we’ve seen that before”.

Sam just grabs Tucker’s hand, grumbling all the while, “gimme that”, before inspecting his hand. Nodding mostly to herself, “it’s an ecto-burn”.

Danny looks around for a source, “but from what?”.

Tucker just frowns and looks back to the cloth and scrunches it up in the same hand, only to drop it; having been burned by the contact again.

All three mutter, “weird”.

Danny clears his throat, hoping his guess is right, “well it is one of my parents specially made cloths, so maybe it has some weird reaction with ectoplasm”.

Sam snorts, “well here’s what we get for thinking your parents crap would be better to use than regular shit”. While both Danny and Tucker laugh, before Tucker goes about treating his ecto-burns.

Sam motions for Danny’s arm, and grabs his wrist. Resting her forearm on his elbow to begin. Only to jerk away from him after getting some of his ectoplasm on her forearm, the ecto-burn visible. All three stare at it, before Tucker mutters, “dude, it’s you. it’s your ectoplasm”.

Danny clears his throat, pushing down the mild horror and grasping for another reason, “well, I mean, it could be from wiping my arm with the cloth?”. Sam grabs his other hand and pricks his finger crudely enough to get him to bleed. Touching the bubbling droplet only to hiss and cringe. Wiping her finger off on the ground and inspecting the ecto-burn. Looking at Danny and shaking her head.

Danny groans, ruffles his hair with the same hand, “great, that’s just great. So my folks are right on ectoplasm not being safe to have skin contact with. Wonderful. I’m fucking corrosive or some shit”. Meanwhile, Danny is really really damn glad that he’s not hurt by his own ectoplasm.

Sam digs in her bag, looking for gloves, but frowns. Looking back up to Danny, “no gloves. No way I can fix you up then”. All three groan and Danny motions for her to give him the needle with a sigh, which she does.

Danny grunts, “has to be done though”, as he clenches his teeth and gets to work. Sam and Tucker patting his shoulders in comfort and support. Though Tucker occasionally cringes and can’t watch. Tucker talks while looking at a wall, “guess spandex gloves are something we need to carry from here on out”, poking Danny, “too bad we can’t just borrow yours. Being attached to your suit and all”.

Sam rolls her eyes, “pretty sure ghost clothing is made of ectoplasm, Danny’s suit included”. All three pauses and Danny looks from his arm to where his friends are touching his suit. They exchange confused glances before collectively shrugging.

Danny grumbles as he gets back to work, “the stuff inside me must be more concentrated”.

Danny hands back the needle after wiping it off on his leg and Sam wraps his arm, maintaining a safe distance to avoid getting any ectoplasm on her. Tucker gets up and starts mopping up the spilled ectoplasm on the ground with his foot, none of them wanting anyone to get burnt by it or for his parents to find and collect it. Frequently having to change what part of the cloth he’s touching with his shoe, as it steams from the ectoplasm contact. But after a while he starts feeling rather nauseous, the acidic lemon-lime scent starting to feel overpowering. Coughing and gagging before having to walk to the other side of the alleyway. Putting his hands on the wall and dry heaving. Pointing towards Sam and Danny, who are staring at him with concern from their spot on the ground, “dude, ugh, I think it might be more than-”, heaving again, “-just unsafe to touch”.

Sam pauses in her wrapping and leans over Danny’s arm to sniff at it. Getting hit by a wave of nausea after a bit. Sitting back and giving Danny an apologetic frown. Clearing her throat and shoving down the desire to gag, “he’s right. It’s probably because ghost ectoplasm sheds off free-floating ectoplasm”.

Danny nods with a frown, it made sense, “so inhaling that is bad”, speaking with sarcasm, “gReAt. I JuSt LoVe ThIs. PeRfEcT”. Both of them send him sympathetic smiles while Sam goes back to wrapping and Tucker continues cleaning up, just with his arm sleeve over his mouth and nose. Which just serves to make Danny feel guilty. His ectoplasm was basically toxic and corrosive for everyone in town. There was no way he wasn’t going to wind up getting his ectoplasm spilled on things, or get hurt badly again. He was actually going to have to make sure to clean his bed sheets more often now. He knew for a fact there was ectoplasm smeared on them.

Sam clips the end of the bandaging before the two get up, bags repacked, and Danny wraps his arms around his friends. Looking at Tucker, who has Danny’s injured arm around him, “you good? Not burning you?”.

Tucker smirks, “you’re good dude”. Making Danny smile as he floats up and takes the three invisibly to his house.

Flopping down on his bed after transforming back. Tucker lays across his legs and pokes him, “bleed again”.

“Um, what?”.

Tucker snorts, “dude, don’t you always have a little ectoplasm running through your veins? That shit’s in your blood too”.

Danny blinks into a blanket, “oh fuck”, before sticking his hand out towards where he can smell Sam, sitting in his desk chair. Who pokes him with a pin he had lying on his desk, smearing his blood on her wrist. Nothing happens for a bit but then she cringes and wipes it off with a Kleenex. Glance at Tucker while Danny grunts, “you’re being awfully quiet”.

Sam glances down at the mild ecto-burn, it took longer and was much more minor but it was an ecto-burn all the same, “sorry Danny”.

Danny can tell by her tone that she’s not apologising but instead feeling slightly bad for him. Which obviously means she was ecto-burned. Lovely. Danny groans into the blanket, before turning his head to actually look at her, “goddammit. So my blood’s an issue too”, Danny snorts, “Ancients fuck, it’s like everyone’s allergic to me”.

Sam and Tucker exchange a glance, Tucker poking him again, “you probably should pass it off as that actually. If anyone notices that Danny Fenton’s blood burns people”.

Danny squints at Tucker, give him his best ‘are you fucking shitting me?’ look, “and how would that even make sense Tuck? No one's allergic to just one cat or just one bee...or just one human. That’s not logical”.

Sam sighs as she sits down next to him, “blame ecto-contamination, it’s covered all the other general ghostliness. Wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say it poisoned your blood”.

Tuck smirks and gives him a pat, “or made it a poison”, shrugging, “just make a habit of not bleeding”.

Both Sam and Danny stare at him incredulously before all three start laughing. Because as if that would ever happen!

Tucker pats Danny again, “but for real, just don’t bleed on people. It’s not like people make a habit of touching other people's blood, in-fact people emphatically avoid doing that. And it’s only the ghosts who are actively out for Fenton’s blood”.

Danny pushes himself up slightly, going a bit wide-eyed, “guys, Dash”.

“Oh shit”.

Tucker shrugs awkwardly after a while, “well, at least he doesn’t make folks bleed. When he does it’s usually on locks and shit, not on himself”.

Danny sits up fully and slices his wrist, smearing the blood on the wooden side table. Sam grunting, “that’s one way to do gothic home decorating”.

Danny points at her, “also would have scared the crap out of anyone if they had happened to walk in”, pausing and turning his head back to the table as it starts faintly smoking. Danny groans and tilts his head back, “goddamnit”.

Tucker pats his shoulder, “well, that’s a check on you having to clean up any bloody messes with the level of haste that’ll make you seem like you’re some kind of clean freak”.

All three look around Danny’s horribly messy room and start laughing. Danny parting Tucker as they laugh, letting the guy know Danny’s thankful for the little cheer up.

Sam hops over to the bed, “though really, it’s more like you’re radioactive than just corrosive or toxic. Cause you seem to affect everything, with or without direct contact”.

Danny hits her with a pillow while Tucker doddles a little radioactive symbol on Danny’s neck, earning him a hit from the pillow as well. Even if it’s more humoured than genuinely bothered.

——Cut to tomorrow at Casperhigh——

Danny closes his locker with a slight smile before turning to his friends, “guess what son of a corpse actually got to sleep the night away?”. Both of them give him high fives with Tucker near shouting, “fuck yeah dude!”.

“What the Hell do the losers three have to be happy about?!?”. All three groan at the sound of Dash’s voice. As they turn to look at him slowly.

“What do you want Dash?”.

Dash shrugs before smirking, “my brother’s visiting the school today, gotta impress”, digging in his pocket, “and since you’re so cheery”, Dash menacingly flicks out a switchblade knife, “you get to be my target”.

Danny just looks at Tucker, highly unamused, “I hate you, I really really hate you”, before booking it. Sam and Tucker quickly following after him. Tucker grumbling, “I fucking jinxed it”.

However, in a rare show of intellect, Dash had planned for the fleeing and really was going to target Danny anyway. But it wasn’t any fun if he just jumped, didn’t instigate the chase. Scaring the crap out of people was half the fun, which is why Danny pisses him off. Dash damn well knew what fake fear looked like, and faked fear was the only kind he ever got from Danny. The ghosts didn’t even seem to scare the loser, and they absolutely did scare Dash. And that was an insult that Fentailbone wasn’t getting away with. Dash smirks devilishly as Kwan, Dale and Todd corner the three pathetic losers.

Danny makes a point of covering his friends with his arm and body, as the three jocks smirk and stare down at them. Danny turns his head slightly behind him, seeing Dash walking up slowly with a smirk and flipping around the blade. Danny grumbles, “asshole”, before trio back up against the lockers, Danny in front.

And really, that just annoys Dash more. The weak loser acting all protective, like he’s really capable of anything. HA. It doesn’t take much for Kwan and Dale to get the goth and geek pulled away, while Todd basically holds Danny against the lockers. Dash doesn’t even have to look around to know James is watching in one of the small doorways, smoking out of sight from any teachers.

Danny glares at Dash, not even bothering to pay attention to the knife. It was a small thing and Danny had accidentally stabbed himself with larger things. Hell, the thanksgiving turkey attacked him with bigger knives. Plus, stab wounds weren’t all that bad so long as the blade wasn’t jagged. It was Dash who was the actual threat, obviously looking to do some real damage for a change. Instead of just generalised aggression and trying to humiliate.

Dash waves the knife in Danny’s face, “now to skin the rabbit”.

Danny snorts and rolls his eyes, “wow, you actually made a somewhat intelligent joke for once”. Todd squeezes Danny’s shoulder, hard, for that. But again, Danny’s gotten worse from his own house. So he ignores it entirely.

Dash meanwhile frowns, this is exactly what he’s talking about. The clear ‘go ahead and hit me, I don’t give a damn’ attitude, even if the little loser covered it up with fake fear half the time. “If you want to play it so tough then maybe I need to give you a mark to show who you and this school belong to”.

Danny snorts, “kinky”. Which Dash instantly punches him in the gut for, before slice his cheek and stabbing him in the shoulder. Grabbing that shoulder and squeezing the wound, as he slams Danny back upright and into the lockers.

Danny coughs, completely ignoring the injuries but forcing them not to heal, “wow fuck, you actually did it huh? Good for you Dash”, smirking up at Dash, “you proved you’re old enough to play with knives”. Dash punches the lockers next to Danny’s head while Danny forcibly rolls the injured shoulder, “missed the bone, try harder next time”.

Tucker grumbling, “I actually forgot how much more witty he is when he’s not sleep-deprived”.

Dash side-eyes the geek, “you think he’s witty huh?”, looking back at Danny, “well maybe he should cut that out”.

“Wow, two jokes, you’re on a ro-”, Dash shoves the knife into Danny’s mouth and makes a point to cut up his tongue before pulling it out. Making Danny cough again, he was going to spit at the ground but blinks, remembering last night's bullshit.

As if on cue, Dash jerks his hand off Danny’s shoulder, steaming green and with a forming ecto-burn. Danny, spotting the green steam on the knife, uses the jocks shock to snatch the knife and book it. Though unable to resist a joke as he does so, “yoink!”.

Sam, being more of a planner and ballsy enough to do said plans, maneuvers around Kwan, whose startled enough by everything to have pretty well lost his grip, and punches Dash in the face. The guy might be a bully but he’s one of those fuckers who ‘won’t hit a girl’, but also doesn’t expect a girl to be doing the hitting. Taking Dash’s furthered shock to wipe off his hands with her jacket, “the only person you can impress by trying to beat up Danny, is Danny”, before elbow him in the back of the head and running off. Catching Danny running backwards and waving the, cleaned off, knife at the jocks, “thanks for the knife! Pleasure doing business with ya!”.

Which only pulls Dash out of his shock, “FENTON!!!”, and gets him chasing after them.

Now what Dash didn’t know was that Danny liked the chase and hunt just as much as Dash did. Expect Danny got far more fun out of the ‘getting away’ part. Danny chuckles from their hiding spot inside the stairs, “getting out from under the wolves teeth and taking a tooth as a trophy prize”.

Sam uses a medical cloth from her bag to wipe off her jacket before it gets burnt, while Tucker elbows Danny, “maybe you should sleep less”.

“Fuck you Tuck”.

“Dude, you were treating him kind of like a ghost”.

Danny rolls his eyes and huffs, “well excuse me. Normally ghosts stab me, not humans”, shrugging, “besides, wit’s kind of my knee jerk reaction”.

Sam sighs as she starts wiping off Danny’s t-shirt, which is noticeably smoking and has a patch of the shoulder slowly burning away, “you can’t be fighting back against Dash, Danny. It’s too risky. Mocking him is practically the same thing”.

Danny waves her off as he takes the cloth and wipes off his cheek. Choosing to just swallow whatever’s in his mouth and letting those wounds heal up. Course he can’t do that with the cheek or shoulder. Y’know, in case Dash checks. Plus other people saw the cheek shit.

Tucker holds up a bandaging kit, “what ones you want? Space for your face?”.

Danny snorts but shakes his head, “it’s not deep and I’ve already cut off the bleeding. Having a bandaid on my face would just make Dash happy”.

Sam grabs one of the large square ones, “well regardless, your shoulder’s getting this”, before motioning for Danny to take off his shirt; which he does.

Sam seals the bandage around to stab wound, which normally would have been healed up in half an hour or so, while Tucker sticks a bandaid on Danny’s face; reading ‘Thy wit’s as thick as Tewksbury mustard’.

Danny glares at him and pulls out his phone to see what one Tucker put on while Tucker speaks, “we can see muscle in the wound dude, it should logically be bleeding”.

Danny rolls his eyes, “well I can’t let it, now can I”, point at the bandaid, “and really? That one?”.

Tucker smirks, “you deserved it”.

Danny snorts as he pulls back on his t-shirt, glaring at the obvious burn hole, before digging in his bag and pulling out a patterned dress shirt and throwing it on; leaving it unbuttoned though.

The three get up and Danny makes them intangible and invisible, before flying them out and into an empty hallway.

Dash, meanwhile, gave up on chasing the weird loser. Instead going to the bathroom with a huff and staring down at his burnt? hand. Seriously wondering how and when that happened. There’s no way the little loser had done that, was there? Hugging and glaring at the mirror, “maybe Fenton’s more of a freak than a loser. A freak loser, even worse than the rest of those pathetic weaklings”. Before leaving the bathroom.

Danny can’t help but give Dash a shit-eating grin as the trio spot him while leaving the school. Pausing all three’s walking and tossing up the knife a few times. Grinning even more shit-eatingly when Dash clearly notices the knife.

At first Dash smirks at seeing the noticeable bandaid, talk about embarrassing, until -due to wanting his damn knife back- he gets close enough to read it; which Fenton obviously wanted. “Why you little freak!”, chasing after the three as they all run off. Only to lose them near instantly. It was really starting to piss him off how good the little freak loser was getting at escaping him.

Danny laughs in the alleyway, patting Tucker’s shoulder, “Tuck, you do realise I was insulting his ‘wit’ earlier and you put on a bandage that insults a persons wit!”.

Tucker smirks, knowing full well he’s about to be an asshole, “well you know what I realised? You could kill or destroy everything just by bleeding everywhere”.

Danny smacks him over the head as he stops laughing, “fuck you, you’re right and that’s horrifying, but fuck you”.

Sam smirks, “maybe you should get dePhantomed again so I can add a radioactive symbol to your back as a warning”.

Danny blinks and tilts his head at her, “you know...that would actually look kind of cool”.

“...I was joking”.

Danny just gives a shit-eating grin.

“Danny no”.

Danny gives the most shit-eating smug smile he can possibly manage. Effectively making it clear he won’t actually do something like that while also being a Jack ass.

Over the next few days, Danny wore an assortment of different insulting bandages and wound up getting a mild amount of respect for getting cut and stabbed but seemingly shrugging it off. While Danny just made a point to clean up after himself more and his two friends always had industrial-strength gloves on hand.

End.

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quirkwizard · 5 years

Note

OKAY PEOPLE ENOUGH ABOUT VILLAINS USING THEIR QUIRKS FOR HEROISM. What if heroes where villains? I talk mainly about the pro-heroes we know but it's fine if you also rant a bit about the students. Love to hear your takes on those subjects.

So this is a bit difficult to answer. The first is that, while there limited ways to be a hero, there are many more ways to be a villain. The second, in most cases, why someone is a villain is personal. So instead of someone being suited to their job because of their Quirk, most would adapt their Quirk to fit the job. Plus, all the crime that isn't a means to an end like it is with so many of the villains can be boiled down to murder and robbery. And third, there are a lot of pro-heroes, so I will just be limiting it to the main staff of UA plus a few more.

Endeavor: Murder and removing evidence. Maybe robbery if he can burn through something without harming the money.

Hawks: I can see him being a good pickpocket, using feathers to fenagle wallets out of pockets. If not, the feather's use as hearing devices could make him a good spy or he can just be a good getaway "driver" like it’s Lord of the Rings.

Eraserhead: Hero prevention, just stopping the heroes from interfering with whatever the villains are doing, via erasing their Quirks.

Present Mic: Torture. I'm not even joking. His screams would be so painful to the human ear that it would make for viable method to get people to talk. He could also be a distraction, but that relies on him getting caught.

Midnight: Considering she can knock people out instantly, kidnappings and robbery would be her forte. Along with other unsavory crimes I refuse to mention... jaywalking.

Vlad King: I don't see him being that effective of a villain, outside of just being muscle because of his appearance and unsettling Quirk, as he wouldn't have the equipment need to get easy access to his own blood.

No. 13: I can't see her being all that helpful. Yes, having a black hole in your fingers can help with a lot. Removing protection or evidence, general havoc, or just killing someone on the atomic level. But she would lack the control of that would come from years of honing it as a hero, meaning it would be just as much of a hinderance as it would be a help.

Ectoplasm: He would make a pretty good villain. He could make for a one man robbery, run interference, set up a spy network or just establish a good alibi.

Snipe: Murder, but now with sweet trick shots. However, getting his hands on a gun would be much harder in Japan without his hero connections.

Cementoss: I can actually see him being a pretty dangerous villain, especially with how control he was over his environment. Getting pass walls, covering his escape, uprooting buildings.

Power Loader: His whole kit relies on the equipment he has so we don’t know the full extent of his Quirk. But maybe he could use it to dig around or through stuff for robbery.

Hound: Like Vald, their isn't really any benefit to having dog features in villiany. Not unless he's going to sniff out treasure. Maybe he would be good at debt collecting, just standing there and looking scary, or even as a lookout.

Recovery Girl: Underground hospital. That or a sort of wandering sage that demands extreme amount of money for care.

Nezu: Due to his immense intelligence, and ability to hide as an animal, I could see him excelling in most forms of crime. But let's be honest, he would be a better mascot. Hey, villains need to make a brand and Nezu can make a killer toy.

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shipaholic · 4 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 4 Part 2

Oof, I just finished this in time for my Sunday deadline. Er! Probably a bit more first-drafty than usual. Welcome to my extra-unfiltered brain-drippings, I guess?

Just a ton of weird body horror in this one. Why did I turn Crowley into a ball of black ectoplasm? Who knows, man.

btw the horse is a girl now. I’ve edited the last part to reflect this.

Onwards! On the quest for Hellfire to stick poor Crowley’s gem back together.

Link to next part at the end.

(last part)

(chrono)

Chapter 4, cont.

The route was ordinary, until it wasn’t.

On a damp country road indistinguishable from the mile of damp country road they’d already passed, Aziraphale nudged the horse towards a point where reality was slightly thinner than it should have been.

It was like a smoke hood snuffing out a candle. The wan sun vanished as though it had never existed. The soggy fields disappeared behind a curtain of fog.

Crowley bubbled to himself. He was slumped on the horse’s neck in a heap of misshapen armour. The horse, using horse logic, reacted to this by speeding up to get away from him, so they were now bouncing down the path at a nervous trot, jingling like a cutlery drawer.

Aziraphale leaned forward. “How are you holding up?”

“Ggggggggn.”

Crowley gave a long hiss, like steam escaping. Black tar oozed down the back of his neck. Patches of what looked like scales had broken out all over his face, like a teenage skin complaint. His right cheek was still swollen from the horse’s kick, and his broken gem was dull under the swirling fog. His eyes were unfocused. For a time, they had grown closer to passably human; now they were as snakelike as they ever had been.

Aziraphale contemplated him, his poison-yellow eyes and the creeping scales that covered his face. The thought occurred to him that demons had forms that were. Well. On the bestial side. Covered in bats or flies. Sometimes mould, if they couldn’t manage anything better. Crowley was the only one he knew of who looked, until now, mostly human. Mostly.

He thought about Crowley, straining with the effort of staying in one piece. Perhaps he had no energy to spare towards the little maintenance miracles he normally did without thinking about it. Like ensuring his hair was always perfect. Or that his clothes always hung just so. Or…

Or holding back some of the more obvious evidence of his nature. Aziraphale considered that what he was seeing now - the scales, the eyes - was what Crowley was meant to look like. How he looked in Hell, after the fall.

He said he disliked shape-shifting. But he still did it.

Aziraphale let this line of thought play out. Then he folded it away, for good. If Crowley wanted to look more human, that was nobody’s business.

The horse was far less generous. Her eyes rolled in a way that suggested everyone should brace themselves for an abrupt relocation. Aziraphale suspected the poor thing might have reached her limit, no matter how much serenity he projected at her.

A hiss came from within Crowley’s armour.

“Ssss… zsss… Aziraphale.”

He had to force the words out. Aziraphale leaned closer to catch them.

“You ssshould. Discorporate me.”

Aziraphale felt a cold swoop in his stomach.

“Don’t say that. Whatever for?”

“Horse. ‘Sss about to bolt.”

Aziraphale gripped the horse’s sides with his legs as they all almost jolted out of the saddle.

“Not at all,” he lied. “She’ll quiet down, eventually. She’s used to riding into danger for God and glory.”

“Don’t kid yourssself. If I’m in my gem, the damn thing ssstops freaking out. Jussst do it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Stop it, Crowley. It’s not going to happen. What if you can’t reform?”

Crowley made a noise that could have been a sigh.

“Either the Hellfire heals me or it doesn’t.”

Aziraphale thought about it. Drawing his sword and… dispatching Crowley, for the first time since Eden. The first time ever on purpose.

He had suggested it earlier. But that was before Crowley lost form, and speech. Back when he thought they could solve this problem by popping Crowley’s gem in the post.

If this was the last -

If this was the last time they -

He couldn’t do it.

No, he refused to do it. He’d find another way. If Crowley wanted to argue, too bad.

“Angel, did you -”

“I heard you,” Aziraphale snapped. “The answer’s no. And I’m steering, so you’ll have to like it or lump it.”

Crowley undulated sulkily. “Gnnnggg.”

“Same to you. Now. Are we there yet?”

Crowley peered off into the fog. He took a deep sniff. Tendrils of mist curled into his nostrils.

He raised a dripping, gelatinous arm and shakily pointed left.

Aziraphale nudged the horse. They jingled on.

Aziraphale could swear the ground was flat, but it felt like they were somehow sloping down, down into the murk. Fog pressed in like shadows, dissolving the world. He could only guess the swooping sense of vertigo he felt was not in his imagination.

Then, from up ahead, came a deep, red glow. A sinister, hateful glow. A glow that wanted to envelop everything before it, then snuff it out.

The fog billowed as though stirred by wind. It rose, pulled back like a curtain, and revealed with a flourish the sweeping landscape before them.

A colourless sweep of grass led to the shore of a lake. The lake was small, but the waters were endlessly black. None of the fog, swirling at head-height, trickled down to brush the surface. The air above the water was dead. Aziraphale suspected if he tried to breathe it, he would find himself unable to.

In the centre of the lake was a tiny island, and on the island was a cave with a glowing red mouth. It was as red as Hell in a storybook.

On the shore sat a rickety wooden boat. It was big enough for two, if one was feeling generous. Someone had tossed an oar onto the seat.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. All the scene was missing was a few skulls and a flock of bats to really set the mood. Call it snobbery - and Lord knew Heaven wasn’t any better, what with the robes and the head-pounding light and the choirs of angels that knew no dynamic markings beyond fortissimo - but he found this kind of thing embarrassing.

He dismounted and helped Crowley down after him. The horse perked up as soon as she was rid of them. Aziraphale gave her an absent-minded stroke, and put the route back to the castle in her head. She gave the snake a dirty parting look, and trotted away with a flick of her tail.

There was nothing to do but get on with it. Aziraphale guided Crowley to the boat. Crowley walked like an empty suit of armour, its inhabitant long-deceased, now puppeted by something that didn’t quite get how people were supposed to move. From time to time, he flickered, and his entire body turned off. It happened too quickly each time for Aziraphale to feel the sting of panic until Crowley had already reappeared. A quiet roar of static emanated from him, intermittently, like a faulty connection.

They reached the boat. Aziraphale poured Crowley into the bottom, like black tar. He glooped like a cauldron and spilled between the pieces of his armour. He looked like a quagmire with the drowned remains of a knight floating in it.

Aziraphale settled across from him, dubiously, onto the half-rotted seat. He picked up the oar and pushed off.

The boat glided out in total silence onto the lake. There was no sensation that they were floating upon anything. They drifted, perfectly level, as if on casters. Aziraphale had no intention of putting his hand in the water to check what was there. Maybe they were sailing across sheer void, and if he looked down, the spell would break and they would plummet forever into empty darkness.

It might be dangerous to use a miracle to get to the island faster. This place was steeped in demonic essence. It would be like putting opposing magnetic fields together. Or possibly it would just cause an explosion.

He rowed. His oar passed through whatever was beneath them with no resistance. The boat glided forward at an even pace.

The island loomed. Crowley was a lumpy puddle at the bottom of the boat. More of him spilled over the top of his armour, submerging it like an oil slick. The snake’s smooth dark head swam on the surface, the only part of him that kept its form.

Then, like a sauce thickening, he suddenly expanded, bursting the bounds of his armour. Aziraphale jerked backwards, pulling his feet up onto the seat. There was suddenly twice as much of Crowley as before. Appendages that could be presumed to be arms and legs erupted from him like wet, black roots. He had outgrown the boat before Aziraphale could react. Crowley tried to pull in his spiralling limbs, and accidentally punched a hole in the side.

Black water rushed in. It was nothing like water at all.

A forsaken feeling washed over Aziraphale. It was as though his essence, the part of him that rang in tune to Heaven, had gone cold. The water moaned, and his heart wrenched out of his chest.

Crowley hissed like a kettle and scrambled away as though the water was scalding hot. His limbs gored more holes as he went, and the boat began to list. The terrible cold rose from the bottom and crept through Aziraphale’s body, numbing and burning as it went. He gripped the oar with frozen hands and rowed faster. The island, which had seemed in reach minutes ago, was now a distant speck. They weren’t going to make it. They were going to break apart and fall away into the endless dark.

Clammy hands brushed Aziraphale’s ankles. He gave one of them a smack with the oar. When he looked back up, the island was right there, spilling its angry red glow from the cave onto the grey sand of the shore.

The boat broke in half as they reached it. Aziraphale didn’t look down. He grabbed Crowley and leapt off. For an instant, he was treading water that wasn’t water. The cold of it stopped his brain and heart. Then his feet were churning up wet sand, and he staggered up a pale, dirty beach, the last tendrils of the waves sighing as they unstuck and let him go.

Aziraphale kept moving, although he couldn’t feel his body. He could only feel Crowley’s hand, clutched in his, oozing and damp and not hand-shaped at all, but warm, the only warm thing in the world.

When they were a safe distance from the water, he bent over, put his hands on his knees and gasped for a minute. Crowley sunk into a puddle beside him. It was hard to read his body language, but Aziraphale guessed he was also collecting himself.

They only took a few moments. Crowley’s hand wasn’t a hand any more, and they needed to find what they came here for quickly.

Aziraphale turned and faced the cave. The mouth of it glowed like an oven. He felt the hellish heat radiating out, waiting for him to step into its radius.

He mustered a smile for Crowley. “At least we’ll dry out.”

Crowley made a motion that Aziraphale interpreted as a grim nod.

There was nothing more to say. Aziraphale walked, and Crowley oozed, towards the cave. They stepped into the circle of searing light. It was hot, but it didn’t burn. It was more like the close, miserable heat of a sweaty little room crammed with people who know they can never leave. They went further, past the threshold, all the way inside.

The cave swallowed them up. They kept walking.

---

(next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #oof it's a creepy angsty chapter of my *checks notes* romantic comedy... yes #rebecca sugar said recently that one of her unused ideas for steven was #what happens to a gem that's left in the dark too long #I feel like the answer to that question is definitely contained in this cave #I would have liked to include an exchange between Aziraphale pooh-poohing Hell's Very Scary lake of the damned #versus Crowley sticking up for the old firm and the old cliches are beloved for a reason ANGEL #but Crowley was too non-verbal by that point #I like Aziraphale being a snob about stuff like that though #deep down he feels if he were a demon he'd manage to scrape together something less hacky than THAT

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kitanoko · 7 years

Note

Not sure if it has been done yet...but if it's not to much could you make a HC that Todo is about to get shot, and out of nowhere our fabulous Momo jumps into save him by splitting the bullet with a katana

This is actually really cute; I have soooo many angsty asks sitting in my inbox so I’m gonna write this one first HAHA I’m actually gonna turn this to a short fic kinda thing…enjoy!!~~~To speak frankly, Todoroki accumulated immeasurable fighting experience within a short period; from the sports festival, to the final exam which he passed, to Stain, and then finally back to the license exam in which he failed. He had the villains to thank for their tactical raids somewhere in between (his judgement of time was not to be trusted), one after another. For a first year UA student whose father was deemed as the No.2 hero for the past decade, it was horribly intense.

But now he found himself having second thoughts on the power of the villain alliance. Stuck in between two concrete walls, Todoroki realized that his career as a hero will never get any easier.

He’s accepted it. Life is nothing without a challenge and he’ll greet them with open arms.

He was also lucky that today was the first time he had to deal with guns and bullets. Todoroki’s chest rose with each new potential strategy that sprung within his mind; he couldn’t settle on one. Ectoplasm wasn’t present. A false move could mean a life lost. And it could be his own.

The villain alliance now had 3 branches. The main branch with Shigaraki, one with Toga, Twice and the Yakuza, and a smaller unit that Todoroki was to investigate right now with Ectoplasm. This branch, nicknamed “Unit C” was tasked with petty crimes like robberies and money laundering, which according to Midoriya, most pro heroes wouldn’t take over because it was way below their paygrade.

Hence why they sent Todoroki, a normal but promising young hero under supervision.

It wasn’t until the mission began to head south when Unit C was suspected of committing human trafficking and drug dealing with quirk erasing drugs did they raise Todoroki’s mission difficulty to S class, last minute no less.

“Where are you, you little bastard,” a wicked voice rang to his right making his nerves twitch. Muffled footsteps sounded among Todoroki’s steady heaves, his arm outstretched, ice crystallizing at the perimetre of his palm.

Not now. Watch first.

Todoroki suppressed the last ounce of his power, goosebumps raised. 3 minutes ago he still had his radio in hand, now with nothing in possession. Shattered and gone, he had no other means of calling for help.

His brow knitted together in vexation. Slow blood, dripping along his thigh, its smell pungent and revolting, causing him to be slightly nauseous.

Think, think.

He heard faint whispers; if he didn’t act, the sensor of the group will hunt him down within seconds.

A random thought emerged.

What would Yaoyorozu do?

Todoroki didn’t move a muscle, eyes cut towards the opening of the alleyway to once again run across shadows that were drifting closer. Their movements became frantic.

He needed to clear his head.

“Yo, I think…I sniff something over here…”

That was undoubtedly the man with the canine ears and teeth; Todoroki gulped, mind wrestling to a conclusion.

Better to surprise them first, as Aizawa would’ve said, seize the upper hand and take the initiative away from them!

“Freeze!” Todoroki strided once, his right arm plunged in front view. The ice danced in glitters and mist as he desired.

“Shit! Scatter!” The leader of the group howled, gritting his teeth in agony, “Shoot him, Sharp, what are you waiting for?!”

The man with slicked up, black hair, was petrified, his gun trembling in his stiffened fingers, procuring enough time for Todoroki’s surging flames to encompass at least half the group.

He had to get out. Secure a position outside of this slim alley was the only way to survive. The situation had Todoroki compromised. Even a child with zero experience can shoot him dead point blank.

He was overwrought and outnumbered. Todoroki huffed and took a step out in the light, and he felt a knot in his throat.

A laser was pointed straight at his chest.

The boy cursed. A draft of wind blew. His eyes squeezed shut and someone pulled the trigger.

“Todoroki-san!”

Yaoyorozu stood in front of him as if magic summoned her, marginally tilted forward, with a katana clutched tight right in the middle of her stance. Her gaze screamed bloody murder. Her muscles contracted with every quiver of her knees.

She was almost like the first gasp of air after a dive.

A stunning scene. Her raven hair like calligraphy in the wind. Her confidence radiating through every frequency of thought.

Todoroki knew she felt overwhelmed too, driven solely by her will to protect.

“Did she just split the damn bullet in two?! What the actual fuck?!” The thrash in the leader’s voice was a pure indicator of his shock, and if Todoroki wasn’t mistaken, a remnant of admiration could be found somewhere within that sentence.

Oh yeah, come to think of it…

The fire and ice hero dropped his gaze, fixed upon two halves of what was a bullet.

“We’ve got them under our guise!” Yaoyorozu exclaimed as if to notify her companion, “ECTOPLASM-SENSEI, NOW!”

A swarm of Ectoplasms’ clones lunged in unison like an ocean’s wave, rendering the opponents nonplussed. Todoroki was just as dumbfounded as Sharp, whose jaw was gifted a punch by a clone after a beat.

He felt chilling fingers encompass his own and a tug.

“Come on, Todoroki-san, Ectoplasm-sensei has it under control, this way!”

Her tone fibrillated him to reality, eyes focused on what’s ahead.

“Yaoyorozu,” He began, satisfied that his hand was still in hers, “when did you learn to use a katana like that?”

He was limping and as the two reached a closed off park, their footsteps gradually ceased to a halt, proximity not withdrawing. He could almost see the moment her pupils recede.

“What’s more important is first aid.”

She eyed the crimson beneath her, numb.

“I forgot how much this hurt,” Todoroki’s lips tugged into a nervous smile, “guess I was too impressed by your skills, Yaoyorozu.”

“Now is not the time to joke around! Let me see that!”

Upon her palm came gauze and scissors. The girl propped his leg above her bent knee, gesturing for him to lean back at the bench at his rear and ran her scissors through the dirt-ridden pant sleeve, cutting it to pieces. She bit her lower lip at the sight. The adrenaline must have kept him from screaming from the pain, she decided. Without a second thought Yaoyorozu winded the gauze around and around his leg, though it was quick to be drowned in red.

Todoroki hissed at the pain.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and recoiled his leg.

Yaoyorozu sighed, crossing her arms above her chest, “You got lucky with this one, Todoroki-san. If Sensei and I came even a milisecond late, you would’ve been as good as dead!”

“I know, I owe you one,” He replied. Somehow with the two of them in solitude, he felt at ease. It certainly helped that Unit C was semi done with.

“I think you owe me more than one!” Yaoyorozu slumped down, facing him and continued, “You’re enjoying yourself with your little jokes, aren’t you?”

Todoroki let out a relieved chuckle as he marveled at the clouds above them, cutting her short of her complaint, “I’ll buy you ice cream tomorrow, my gratitude for saving my life.”

The girl jerked her head somewhat, wondering if she perhaps caught the wrong words.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Todoroki could see her writhe in her seat in the corner of his eyes, and he stood up, pulling his weight towards his left, “ice cream. I always see you buying one from the cafeteria…lipids, your favourite.”

Yaoyorozu watched him, legs dragging a bit as he moved away from the bench, and once again doing the same hiss as before.

“Let’s go now. I’m sure I need stitches.”

“Ah…mmm.”

Yaoyorozu pushed herself up, mentally chiding herself, and draped his arm around her shoulder, supporting his stature with her other arm on his waist.

Todoroki hid the wry smile under the shadows of his duo-coloured bangs, shoulders falling.

Through the scent of fresh autumn rain, he opted to slow down his pace.

He could definitely use this time, with her beside him, to recount the day.

#todomomo #todoroki x yaoyorozu #boku no hero academia #bnha #fanfic request?

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monotype-on-phantom · 7 years

Text

As promised, though rather unexpectedly, here are my thoughts on the big, hairy, ghost wolf who became Danny’s first ectoplasmic amiko.

I already talked about Wulf’s plot significance, but I had mentioned that I wasn’t really sure what his story was. He’s pretty unique among the ghosts we see, and I couldn’t quite figure out if that was just his ghostly form or the result of something that happened when he was alive.

Well, I’ve taken my time to think about it (and talked it over with my sister, ofc), and I think I’ve finally managed to piece some things together.

When I say Wulf’s unique among ghosts, there are quite a few things that stand out to me.

First, there’s obviously his appearance. He’s often referred to as a werewolf, but I’m inclined to think otherwise. The humanlike qualities he has seem to be the most unnatural for him, while the more animalistic ones seem more dominant. He licks people as a sign of affection, sniffs out things he’s trying to find, isn’t the most intelligent, though he’s ferocious and loyal, and he doesn’t even seem to have a native language. He speaks Esperanto almost exclusively.

If he’s the ghost of an animal, though, he’s still strange. Most ghostly animals are…just that. Animals. They might have some unique ghostly features, but they’re still animals. He’s capable of carrying conversations, he walks on two legs, and he wears clothes.

And that’s another thing. The way he’s dressed is certainly strange. They’re all one solid color, tattered, and he even has what looks like the remnant of a shackle on his wrist. That clearly wasn’t put there by Walker, or it’d be attached to something. It doesn’t seem to serve any purpose, though it does make him look like a prisoner.

Which brings me to his powers. Wulf has the ability to tear a hole between the human world and the ghost zone in order to escape. This is likely why he was kept under lock and key. He had his own private cell, and he wasn’t in the mess hall with the other prisoners. They likely didn’t even know about him.

I mentioned before that I think Wulf’s obsession must be his desire to be free, which makes sense given his powers. He has the ability to claw into the real world from pretty much any place in the ghost zone, which would be very useful for an animal who just wants to run free in the wild again.

Combining those powers and that obsession with his appearance, it’s only natural to conclude that he must’ve been kept a prisoner in some place when he was alive. That would make sense with him being a werewolf, since most people probably wouldn’t want a werewolf running loose (and that could’ve been exactly what the writers were going for. I dunno.) I had a bit of a different idea, though.

Of course, I mentioned that his animalistic qualities seem the most natural to him, but the thing that strikes me as the most odd is the fact that he only speaks Esperanto. This may have been just a quirk they threw in for fun (maybe to give Tucker another useful, unique skill), but Esperanto’s an artificial language. It’s not native to any country, meaning there shouldn’t be any people who speak it exclusively. It’s not like it makes sense for it to be the native language of werewolves or anything, either. It was scientifically constructed by humans with the purpose of being an international language.

The only way for it to be Wulf’s primary language would be for him to be taught that language alone in a specific place for a specific reason.

If Wulf really was an animal first who later gained human qualities instead of the other way around, it could make sense for him to be the result of a lab experiment.

Esperanto was created in the late 1800s, while animal experimentation became important for many medical discoveries in the early 1900s. Humans messed with genes of various animals in order to try and create vaccines for diseases that would work on humans.

While most of these experiments were for medical reasons, cloning experiments were a thing in the 1900s as well, showing that there’s just as much scientific curiosity from that time as medical research. Especially if there was an interest with creating test subjects that could test medicines meant for humans without actually experimenting on humans, creating something that’s halfway between human and non-human animal would certainly be considered useful.

Since many animals are bred specifically for experimentation, Wulf could’ve been created in a lab, or he could’ve been a wolf who was captured and messed with. Either one is equally plausible. Regardless, it’s not impossible for him to have been the result of some kind of experiment. It would also explain why he was taught Esperanto, as it’s one of the easiest languages to learn and was intended to be used as an international language. It’d be easy for an animal who’s not used to speaking like humans to learn it, and it’d make him able to communicate with humans from all over the world.

Unfortunately, after being used for an experiment, most animals are euthanized.

If something like that happened to Wulf, it would make complete sense for him to feel like a prisoner (hence his appearance) and desire freedom more than anything (hence his powers). However, Walker hates chaos and wants to keep the ghost zone in order, and if something as bizarre as Wulf showed up out of nowhere one day, of course someone like Walker would want to keep him locked up. That, of course, prevents Wulf from indulging his obsession, no matter how strong he is. At least, not until he gets some help.

It really is very fortunate that circumstances happened in a way that allowed these two to become friends. Despite his distrust of ghosts, Danny’s not the type of person to turn his back on someone in need, so he helped Wulf when Walker’s minions attacked him. In return, Wulf is a simple creature. Like a dog, it doesn’t take much for him to grow attached to someone who’s shown him kindness, so he becomes extremely loyal to Danny (though he clearly likes Sam and Tucker a lot, too).

This friendship ends up being very important to both of them. It teaches Danny that ghosts are able to truly be befriended, and he’s able to help Wulf finally escape and have his freedom.

If my theories are right, that does mean that shortly after this, Wulf would likely move on. His obsession would be satisfied, and he wouldn’t need to remain a ghost anymore.

Of course, you can headcanon what you want. I wouldn’t doubt that Wulf is a Level 8 ghost, and they’re very powerful, so if Wulf wanted to stay to see his friend again or something, that could happen. If you’d prefer to believe that Wulf found peace after this, though, that’s possible, too. After all, Claw of the Wild is the third to last episode, so you can believe anything.

Or you can ignore my theories and believe something else entirely. These are my personal ideas (and my sister’s). It just makes the most sense to me.

#danny phantom #wulf #public enemies #claw of the wild #cast #plot

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ladyaudentium · 7 years

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After all this time—after all Dan Phantom's planning and scheming—who would have known it was this easy?

Assuming a human form and suppressing his ghost signature was all Dan needed to slip through the infamous Ghost Shield of Amity Park. Pathetic. He was disappointed, as Valerie always hyped up the Shield's reputation.

Now here he was, standing in the middle of the street wearing a leather jacket with a white t-shirt underneath and a pair of matching black jeans. People, actual people, were walking past him, and none of them had any idea they were inches away from the entire reason they were living in a bubble.

A couple of girls giggled as they walked by, clearly checking him out. Dan sneered at them from behind his aviator sunglasses. They were insects. Inferior beings compared to him.

Morbid curiosity—to see if he could successfully slip through the Shield—was really the only reason he was here in the first place.

Now, Dan was at a loss for what to do next. He supposed he could wait for dark and then cause as much trouble as possible. A dark smirk curled his mouth upwards. Having a ghost in the system would certainly make things more interesting.

Yes. That sounded like a good idea.

"Come on, chica! We need to get you ready for tonight!" a familiar, high-pitched voice squealed with delight.

Dan's long black hair swished over his shoulder, just barely restrained by the red bandana tied around his forehead.

Sure enough, the Latino Paulina was there, pushing through the crowd and obviously dragging someone with her. Dan almost pitied the vain woman's victim. Or at least he did until he saw that familiar mane of curly black hair, and a grin slowly replaced his usual scowl.

"Paulina, I can't go out tonight. What if Phantom launches an attack? I have to be prepared in case something happens," Valerie the Red Huntress and defender of Amity Park protested.

The disguised ghost grinned widely. He liked how big of a part he played in her life even when he wasn't directly present.

"Girl, all you worry about is that ghost. Can't you at least for one night forget about him?" the eccentric woman insisted and continued to tow the curly haired woman by the wrist.

As they got closer to where he was leaning against a light pole, Phantom observed them more closely.

Paulina looked like she'd hardly changed at all from the last time he saw her. She had matured, but the air of pettiness still seemed to hang around her. She wore heavy makeup complete with what Dan assumed was the latest fashion.

Valerie was the exact opposite with hardly any makeup. She wore a grey jacket buttoned up all the way with a pair of black leggings and ankle boots. Unused to seeing her in anything other than her red battle suit, it felt strange to Dan to see her in this state.

The grin slipped from his face. He didn't like it. Red suited her, and to see her in anything else was… disappointing.

As she passed him, their eyes met for a brief moment. He regarded her with a neutral stare.

Paulina noticed him immediately, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her look him up and down. But he didn't care about her, the only woman he had eyes for was the Ghost Slayer. She was the only one of these pests worthy of his attention.

As the two women passed, time resumed its natural flow, and the hustle and bustle of the crowd carried them away.

Dan thought he could hear Paulina nattering on about something that sounded suspiciously like, "Did you see that hot guy just now?" and he let a self-satisfied smirk curl the corner of his lip.

Causing trouble to Amity Park could wait, he supposed. After all, no alarms had been raised, yet so where was the harm in having some fun first? No one even suspected that the infamous Dan Phantom, Ravager of Worlds, had infiltrated their one safe haven.

Besides, the Red Huntress was always his first priority.

-----

Oh, for fuck's sake. How long were they going to shop?

Dan had been shadowing the two women all day, and now the sun was setting, but they still showed no signs of slowing down. They had gone into clothing store after clothing store and then followed up with makeup stores. Rolling his eyes, he bit into the large sandwich he had overshadowed a clerk for when Paulina and Valerie had taken a break to go for supper.

So he sat on a bench outside waiting for them to finish, one foot perched up resting on his opposite knee. Now that it was dark, he was no longer wearing his sunglasses, so he'd pushed them up on his head to help hold back the unbelievable amount of hair this form had. Perhaps he should cut it?

A quick glance around at the darkened streets and number of 'closed' signs had him doubting that anywhere would be open right now anyways. Guess he'd just have to deal with it for now. Sighing, he ate the last of his meal and then crumpled up the garbage, throwing it into a trash can near by.

"Oh my god, did you see that eye shadow palette? It was like, totally amazing! The gold is going to look so good with that dress!" The high pitched voice of Paulina echoed over the empty streets, "Chica, you're gonna look hot tonight."

"So are we going to get ready now? I just really want to get this over with," Valerie complained as the Latina continued to drag her towards the rather sporty looking car.

"Don't worry girl, you're going to thank me for all the fun we're going to have!"

As they got into the car and drove off, Dan stood from his seat, dusted his pants and went to follow them.

Turning invisible, he flew off, easily keeping pace with the car. He'd found that as long as he was careful not to be seen, he could use his ghost powers as much as he liked. There were no ectoplasmic sensors inside the city. It was really rather arrogant of them, but he wasn't about to complain.

Eventually, they came to a stop at an apartment building and after gathering all of their many purchases, the two girls walked inside.

Having no desire to listen to Paulina's annoying voice any further, Dan opted for waiting outside in the cool night air. The sun had long since set, and now the only illumination was the steady blue glow of the Shield and the street lights. Already he was feeling claustrophobic and more than a little disappointed he couldn't see the stars.

The constellations were a comforting constant in his afterlife. One other thing was too, but that was a thought for another time.

A sudden warmth on his leg made him look down only to see a black cat winding around his calves. Its green eyes stared up at him expectantly. Smirking balefully, he crouched down and allowed the feline to sniff his hand. Apparently deeming him acceptable, the creature head-butted his palm and meowed a very scratchy yowl.

Flopping to its side, the cat stretched widely exposing its belly obviously wanting to be petted. He indulged it and slowly began to massage its underside. A low purr started up in its throat.

Cats had always liked him. Even before he became what he is now, they would often flock to him. Dan suspected it had to do with ghost energy. He'd noticed Vlad had the same affliction during the brief time he'd lived with the man after his…

The air around him suddenly grew colder, and the black cat rolled onto its stomach and quickly scampered away. Scowling he stood up once again and directed his attention back to the silent apartment building before him.

There were several lights on in various windows up the sides, and the ghost vaguely wondered which one contained Valerie. He could always go check, but the only thing he would want to do with that information would be to scare the living hell out of his arch enemy.

A dark smirk split his face. He could just see it now. Him appearing at her window in his current form and then right before her eyes changing to the one she knew as Dan Phantom. Sighing deeply, he savored the horrified wide eyes and the slack-jawed shock that would no doubt adorn her features.

Movement caught his eye as a yellow taxi pulled up to the building, and two girls quickly hopped in as it sped away. Dan winked out of sight and once again followed Paulina and Valerie.

The car headed into the downtown area. Obviously, they were going to partake in the nightlife, and knowing Paulina's interests, it was likely they were heading to a bar or night club of some kind.

Finally, the car came to a stop outside a neon lit building with a glowing sign reading Ghostly Crue.

Horrified and disgusted at the same time, Dan could only stare uncomprehendingly at the name. Never before had he been so tempted to completely lay waste to a building before in his life. He felt personally insulted that they would name a nightclub, of all places, after his legacy!

For a brief moment, his eyes glowed their natural red from the fake blue they currently were, and his canines extended into fangs. Realizing that he wouldn't be able to go anywhere with his current appearance, Dan calmed himself enough to revert back to his human façade.

It was when the lights of a car flashed into his face that he realized, the taxi he had followed was leaving and it was void of its two important occupants. A quick glance around the outside revealed they were no where to be seen. Assuming that they had already gone in, he huffed and with a scowl he trudged his way inside.

Loud music blared through every crevice and the open doors. Already it was hurting his head and giving him a headache but he had come this far, he might as well finish it.

"I.D." the bouncer demanded as Dan approached the door. Eyeing the rather beefy looking man closely, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet he'd obtained at the same time as his clothes. The fake I.D he'd commissioned was in a clear pocket and as he showed it to the guard, when he requested it be taken out, Dan scowled a bit deeper but nonetheless did as he was asked. Afterwards, the bouncer nodded once and directed him inside, "Thanks, have fun."

The Phantom in disguise scoffed. It was unlikely.

The inside was just as loud and obnoxious as he thought it would be. The bass thrummed in time with his power core, making him feel as though he were a drum or a guitar amp.

The décor matched the name of the place as everything was black-lit and a bright ectoplasmic green. Ghosts were displayed cartoonishly all over the walls and dance floor that was packed tight with squirming bodies. White blobs with two black ovals for eyes and nothing but fingerless lumps for hands.

Was this how the last of humanity saw him?

Thoroughly angered and disgusted Dan stomped over to the bar which was bustling with people wanting alcohol.

Scantily clad waitresses wearing white so they glowed milled around the crowd with big smiles plastered to their faces. Their over-joyous moods only soured his even further.

"Heya, what can I do ya' for?" a perky blonde asked energetically as she deftly mixed up a rather fruity looking drink.

"Gin and tonic." One last look at her shirt again revealed some ridiculous image of a smiling happy ghost. "Make it a double," he added, sneering as he slammed the money down on the counter. He decided this was one of the first places he was going to raze once the Shield was down.

"For sure, just give me a sec!" the waitress replied as she finished the colorful, girly drink and set it as well as a beer in front of the guy standing beside him at the bar.

His brown hair was perfectly coiffed and polo shirt collar popped. "Thanks, sweet cheeks," he replied with a wink of his, and Dan could only roll his eyes in response, but not before he witnessed something that made fury run hot through his veins.

The man threw a quickly dissolving pill into the fruity drink.

Before the disguised ghost could react, the man turned and walked away, both drinks in hand. Blue eyes narrowed and watched his path carefully as he casually made his way into the back part of the club where black couches and chairs lay for people who only wanted to socialize.

That was when he recognized one woman in particular sitting on one of the said couches. She was wearing a red and gold halter dress that dipped low in the front revealing a sensual amount of cleavage. It was so short it barely came down to her mid thigh and was even shorter as she sat with her long, bare legs crossed. Her black curls glistened in the strobe lights, and her rich brown skin shimmered with glitter.

Valerie.

Then the waitress snapped back his attention. "There you go, enjoy!" The waitress set the glass down on the counter with a napkin underneath to protect the black wood of the counter. Without saying anything in return, Dan took the glass and followed the man who had been beside him.

Fury turned into rage when Valerie smiled, stood, and greeted the stranger before he held the drugged drink out to her.

Storming over to where they stood, Dan swiped the drink from the man's hand before the young woman could touch it.

"Hey, what are you—?" the man exclaimed, but Dan cut him off,

"I believe you have it wrong. This is your drink, is it not?" A fearsome glare darkened his features and a snarl lifted his lip as he pushed the glass into the potential rapist's face.

"I- I don't know what you're—"

"Then why not take a sip? Or what? Is your masculinity too frail to handle something like this? That wouldn't surprise me if you feel the need to drug women to get them to sleep with you." Finally, at the end of his patience, Dan threw the drink over the man's shirt, earning a surprised gasp from Valerie.

"You son of a bitch!" the other man exclaimed rudely and tried to intimidate the disguised ghost by getting in his face.

Dan held his ground, not moving, and continued to glare at the other man. "Get out of here, before I really make you regret that stunt," he growled deep in his throat. He could feel his teeth extending into fangs once again, but that was going to be the least of his worries here if this developed into something more than just a standoff.

"Why don't we take this outside then, huh? Just you and me?"

"Okay, okay break it up." Valerie shoved her way in-between the both of them, pushing them apart. The young woman put a finger right under the other man's nose, "You, get out of here before I kick your ass myself." He took one last look at Dan, who was still glaring fiercely, before he tried to walk away with as much dignity as he could muster with a ruined shirt. "And you," Valerie turned to Dan with another finger pointed directly underneath his nose, "you didn't have to cause such a racket over this."

"I believe the phrase you're looking for is, 'thank you,'" Dan deadpanned down at her. She blinked once, gold eyeshadow shimmering in the flashing light.

"Thank you?" she repeated indignant.

"You're welcome," Dan replied, smirking devilishly as he took a sip from his own drink. Valerie looked as if she were about to argue only to deflate at the last moment and sit heavily on the couch where she had been previously. The disguised ghost took a seat beside her, discarding his leather jacket over the back of the couch and regarded her carefully. "I would have thought you of all people would be smarter than to accept a drink like that, Valerie. Isn't it the number one rule against being date-raped? Make sure you watch the drink being made to ensure nothing is slipped in?"

Teal eyes observed him very cautiously, "I didn't tell you my name. How do you know me?" Suspicion was heavy in her tone, and Dan inwardly cursed himself for his own familiarity.

"You're Valerie Gray the Ghost Slayer. Who doesn't know you?" he rectified, and the suspicion lifted from her expression slightly, but it was clear she was still being cautious towards him.

"Not many people recognize me out of my battle suit, much less call me by my first name. Usually it's Miss Gray, or Commander Gray." She crossed her legs once again, and Dan couldn't help but follow the action, "But since we seem to be on a first name basis already, what's your name?"

"Anakin," he replied easily redirecting his gaze up to her eyes.

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, "Anakin?"

"Yes, Anakin Skywalker."

There was a beat of silence between them until she started to laugh, "You can't be serious!"

"No, my name is Jake Rainier." Of course, he couldn't go by his actual name. She would recognize it and him in a second, which was the last thing he wanted. Playing human like this was already proving to be quite entertaining, plus he still had plans to carry out.

"For the record, I never intended on drinking anything he gave me. I only agreed in the first place to get him to shut up about it. You wouldn't believe how persistent he was! Like holy shit, he couldn't take a hint!" Valerie exclaimed, waving into the air.

"He seemed like the type who doesn't know when to stop." Dan smirked over the edge of his glass, putting an arm around the back of the couch to face her better. His eyes roved over her dress once more. "So, is there a special occasion for tonight?"

"No not particularly. One of my friends dragged me out here for a girl's night, but I don't usually have the energy for this kind of thing," she admitted, sighing.

"Want to leave? I can't stand this place. The music is giving me a headache, and the design is tasteless." Dan downed the last of his drink. Valerie smiled amusedly at him, and the disguised ghost found himself fascinated. He couldn't remember the last time Valerie had smiled at him with such genuine happiness.

"I think you just described every night club in existence, but you're right. This place is pretty tacky." She glanced around him towards the dancefloor. "But I can't leave without my friend. I don't trust that she'll be able to get herself home safely. I appreciate the offer though, thanks." She smiled again, and he couldn't help but return it with a small smirk as he placed his now empty glass on the table.

"In that case, I shall take my leave then. Goodnight," Dan held out his hand for her to take, which after only a short moment of hesitation she did. Obviously she was expecting a handshake, so when he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, surprise was clearly written on her features. He smirked in reply, "Miss Gray."

After that he stood up, flipped his leather jacket over his shoulder and left without a second glance.

-----

"How was your experiment, master? Were you successful?" the spooky visage of the Fright Knight greeted the true form of Dan Phantom. Having returned to his lair outside the Shield, he had once again assumed his natural form.

Grinning widely the Ravager of Worlds chuckled lowly, "Oh yes and it will be much easier than we originally thought." White hair flickering brightly, he stood straight, "Begin gathering the faithful, for soon we march on Amity Park."

#dan phantom #danny phantom #valerie gray #dark gray #fanfiction

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