Chapter 5:

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Mostly, though, he found a place that avoided everyone, and if he was still enough, they would ignore him in turn.

Danny's days moved in a blur. Slow, but not so slow that he lost track of time. He knew how many days he had been in Gotham, ever since his accident, and each new sunrise earned a single scratch mark on his precious shopping cart.

Sometimes, while taking shelter under a bridge to avoid Gotham's rain, he recounts the marks. Danny would run his fingers over the marks he created with anything sharp- usually a rock- wondering if his family still searched for him. If they thought him dead. If they thought about him at all.

Two hundred forty-three days. Eight months.

That was how long Danny had been here, in Gotham, as part of her homeless citizens. Where he had landed after he foolishly thought himself invincible, because he was the ghost in the town's most famous ghost story. The hero of the tale.

But there was one thing he never considered about ghost stories. They only survived if people told the new generation about them, and even then, only if the new generation believed them. Ghost stories were meant to be cautionary tales, sometimes just something to pass the time around a campfire, but when people grew bored with them, they became irrelevant.

Disgarded.

Forgotten.

And that was what happened to Danny. Because of Phantom, people's memories of Fenton began to fade. Not in an obvious way, but slowly it became noticeable. Danny's teachers would trip over attendance because they couldn't remember who Daniel Fenton was. His friends would forget little things like what he was allergic to, why he hated changing in front of others, and what movies he loved.

His family would have dinner without calling him down because they had forgotten he was home. His mom would come into his room, shocked to find a bedroom and not a broom closet like she had thought his closed door was. His dad would proudly call himself a father of one until Danny cleared his throat, and he had to correct himself that he had two children.

His sister would forget why she had so many scrapbooks about Danny Phantom, asking the household at large, only for her eyes to land on Danny in the living room, and she realized the reason.

But what really caught his attention was the day before his accident. Danny had woken to his house being silent, his sister leaving without him, despite always driving him to school. His parents had left a note on the table, addressed only to Jazz, telling her they were going out for the day to pick up supplies for the lab and that they would return late in the evening or early the next morning.

His parents always asked Danny if he wanted to go, knowing the boy adored shopping for lab supplies on their rare trips, only because the drive was six hours and was next to his favorite NASA store. They always let him miss school for it, but this time, they left without notice. His phone had no messages from Tucker or Sam, despite the group chat being utterly active every Friday morning and the night before; he was the last to post in it.

His friends left him on read, something they had never done before.

The morning had been odd, but Danny figured he would go to school. He figured there must have been an explanation for it all, maybe both Sam and Tucker got grounded at the same time and lost their phone privileges. Maybe Jazz had a big presentation she was nervous about and left in a rush as her anxiety tended to leave her scatterbrained?. Maybe his parents figured his grades couldn't handle any more missed days and chose to go out without facing him, knowing they would cave if he begged?

Danny didn't know, but he got dressed, made himself breakfast, and walked to school.

When he reached Casper High, that's where things really took a turn for the worse. Dash and the A-listers were at the entrance, meaning Danny's already off morning was about to become a painful one. He had steeled himself for whatever cutting comment they would throw at him, even prepared to run if Dash was feeling extra cruel that morning, but when Danny walked by the chatting group, no one spared him a glance.

It was the first time since second grade that they ignored him.

When he got to his locker, Tucker and Sam were nowhere to be seen. He would have tracked them down to ask what was going on with the A-listers, but the bell rang, and he had to run to class. Danny's walk to school and a slight sleep-in had meant his sense of time was off, so he arrived late to his first period.

Mr. Lancer usually didn't allow students into the classroom without a good excuse, and Danny was fearing today would start off with a cursed tardy sweep. When he got to the door, his teacher was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, listening to another student desperately explain why she had been late.

Danny got behind her, ready to beg as he didn't want to spend the first period in detention, but the moment Mr. Lancer saw him, the older man nodded his head to let him pass. "I understand a new school can be confusing. I'll let it go for the first week, but try not to make a habit of it, Mr...?"

It took Danny longer than necessary to realize Mr. Lancer was asking for his name. "Um, Fenton? Mr.Lancer, are you alright? It's me, Danny Fenton."

Before his teacher could respond, the other student once again attempted to appeal to the strict teacher, and Danny was forced to move on. Inside the room, heads turn to stare at him, more curious than mocking looks that he was used to. Sam and Tucker were in the back, but his usual seat next to them was taken up by Micky.

Now, there were no assigned seats, but everyone knew the unspoken rule that if you sat in a place the first day of class, that was your seat. Why had Micky broken the rule in the middle of the school year?

Danny had tried to make his way to the back of the room, ready to ask the fellow nerd to move, when Star, of all people, had grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Hi!"

"Ugh, hey?" He replied as she batted her eyes- did she have something in them?

"I've never seen you around before. I'm Star," She introduced, moving her hand to the few A-listers in the class. "This is Dash and Kwan."

"Hey," Dash smiled in an oddly friendly way that made Danny's hair stand on end. Kwan offered his own wave but seemed more comfortable letting Star take the lead as she gestured to an open desk next to them. No one ever bothered to sit there because no one in this class was brave enough to approach them, and the seat had remained open for almost the entire year.

"Sit with us."

"Um,....why?"

"You're cute," Star giggled, and if that wasn't alarming, the way Dash nodded in agreement was. Danny had been shocked; he hadn't been able to refuse when she manhandled him into the seat and leaned in close. "What's your name?"

"Ugh...Danny. Danny Fenton?"

"Any relation to the Fentons who own Fenton Works?" Kwan interrupted. "They're the only Fentons in town."

Danny had never been so confused in his life. He gawked at the bigger boy, wondering if he had a head injury at last night's football practice, but was saved from replying when Mr. Lancer came back into the room- without the female student.

He started the class, and Danny found himself having to spend it by the A-listers, feeling the stares of both Star and Dash throughout the lesson. Then, when the class ended, he didn't get a chance to talk to Sam or Tucker because the school got attacked by a ghost. Danny had managed to escape in the chaos, shifting into Phantom and making quick work of the enemy, but during the battle, his Fenton thermos was damaged, and it not only sucked up the enemy but Danny as well.

Usually, this wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason, Sam, Tucker, or Jazz weren't outside to release him. Since Danny was stuck with an enemy that was doing its best to smack him in their cramped space, he had tried to force his way out.

Phantom has always been a powerful ghost, more than Danny had realized, because forcing his way out of the Thermos had not only been the first time a ghost escaped it, but his power had unintentionally caused an explosion that ripped a hole into the Ghost Zone.

Danny had been blasted into the zone, sent out of control until he actually crashed through a floating door. He landed in Gotham, a dark and miserable place, and the one means of getting back hope was vanishing before his eyes.

Danny knew why. The only means to the Ghost Zone were natural according to doorways, but if they were ever destroyed, that was it. That world was cut off from the Ghost Zone forever, and the only way back was if someone from the Zone created a portal there. Danny was the son of the rare few who could create a portal, but he never learned how.

He figured his friends or family would come for him. But days went by, and with no sign of them, he had to admit what he had suspected for weeks now.

Danny had vanished from their memory. He had no idea why or how, but he was stuck. Days in Gotham also taught him something else, that was that people here also forgot him if he stayed out of their sight long enough. The realization took all motivation away from playing hero, from doing anything really.

Even when he saw crime after crime happen before him, Danny tucked himself away from it all, trying to crawl his way through life when he had no one and nothing to do that for.

Just him and his shopping cart. Maybe that's why it was such a shock when he was sitting on the curb just one away from the diamond distract when a limo pulled up and stopped right in front of him. Thinking this was nothing good, Danny scrambled to his feet, attempting to grab his things to go before an elderly man jumped out of the driver's seat, looking hopeful. "Daniel? Is that you?"

Surprised that someone knew his name, Danny paused long enough for the elderly man to run to him and grab his hand, turning this way and that to look at his face. "It is you! Oh, dear boy!"

"Um?" Danny started confused, wondering why this old British man was talking to him.

"Oh! You're in a new cycle, I see. Forgotten who I am, is that right? I'm Alfred Pennysworth. You helped me fifty years ago, rescued me, and my entire unit from a POW camp." Alfred replied enthusiastically. "You told us that Phantom was a lot like a phoenix, that when it renewed, either the people in your life forgot you or you forgot us. But I never forgot what you did for us. Said to show you this if I ever saw you again."

The man reached into his shirt and pulled out a necklace. Hanging on the chain was the Fenton Works symbol next to a broken Clockwork amulet.

Danny stared, wonderstruck as Alfred threw an arm around his shoulder. "Forgive me, but you look like you have nowhere to stay. You must come home with me."

"Ugh..I don't-"

"Excellent!" Alfred all but threw him into the backseat. "I can't wait to show you, my family! Hopefully, one of them would be immune to your power."