#deathday

Celebrating the day you died is a bit weird… but oh what the heck Danny’s just gonna go along with this shit.

Danny didn’t realize the date at first, didn’t even clock it at all. Honestly, for it being the day that it was, you would have thought there’s no way he wouldn’t remember. But at the same time… why would he want to go out of his way to remember this day of all days? The world very clearly thought he absolutely should remember it though, it started small.

His alarm clock goes off at three seventeen a.m. for no reason, a.m. as in well before the ass crack of the ass crack of dawn, buzzing like it had beef with him specifically; which clearly it did if it was waking him up this early. When he smacks it, the numbers flicker into a skull emoji for half a second before snapping back. Then his bedroom door creaks open all on its own, just a polite little hellooo, entropy has RSVP’d. Danny already knowing this is gonna be some goddamn bullshit. Danny muttering into his pillow, “cool. Love that for me”, he rolls over and freezes.

There’s… there’s a fucking banner strung across his ceiling. Not taped, not hung, just… existing there, slightly translucent; aka clearly ghostly and clearly a goddamn problem.

‘HAPPY DEATH DAY, PHANTOM!’

Fuck his entire existence. Fuck it so completely and utterly. Ugh. Dragging his blanket up over his head like that would legally erase the supernatural, and screaming lightly into in. Sighing and dropping in loudly from his face, “…nope”.

A beat passes and then… confetti. Cold. Glowy. Whispering confetti. As in actually whispering, whispering gibberish but still, it’s confetti and it’s whispering. It drifts down through the blanket, landing on his skin and feeling like pop rocks candy. Danny shooting upright, swatting at a piece that hissed softly as it dissolved against his hand. Him snarling, “okay! Okay, we’re not doing this today! ClockWork, I swear if this is you being a tit about me calling you time baby yesterday-”.

“Not me”.

Danny yelps and nearly backflips off his bed; he wasn’t expecting an actual response! He never does! Because he basically never gets one! Putting a hand over his chest in offence and turning his head towards the voice. ClockWork’s there, hovering in the corner, arms folded, expression doing that timeless thing where they look both mildly amused and deeply tired of everything, “you remembered to check the date, didn’t you?”.

Danny blinks, “uh…”, grabs his phone, it’s April thirtieth… which… that… right. That. Wheezing a little breathlessly, “…oh”. There’s a long pause where the weight of it settles in a little more. It’s… not heavy heavy, just… strange. Like realizing your birthday cake is made out of razorblades and questionable life choices and lemon curd that’s just a touch too sour. Inhaling slowly, “my death day”.

ClockWork gives a small nod, an understanding one. It’s gentle and factual, but not necessarily comforting. “Anniversaries have… momentum. Especially ones tied to significant transformations. Even more so when they are bound to powerful entities, influential ones”.

Danny rubs the back of his neck, he didn’t really like thinking of himself as ‘influential’ or ‘powerful’. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan to celebrate the day I got electrocuted into a glowstick and dunked into inter dimensional ectoplasm soup”.

And as if on cue, his mirror ripples, and they started pouring in; they being ghosts, because of fucking course. The Box Ghost popping into existence holding a stack of gift-wrapped packages, “THE BOX GHOST BRINGS… PRESENTS! FEAR MY WRAPPED SQUARE DOOM!”, immediately tripping over nothing and scattering them everywhere; one managing to stab Danny square in the eyeball. Danny should cover all of the corners in his room with balls to systematically make his entire bedroom more circular, purely to spite this specific douche canoe.

A couple of smaller ghosts phase

through the wall carrying what looks suspiciously like a cake made of condensed ectoplasm. It wobbles like it might achieve sentience at any moment; and considering Danny and his parents luck with food becoming sentient that just makes Danny more annoyed. Danny glaring, “is that… safe?”.

ClockWork humming, “depends on how fast of an eater you feel like being”.

“Cool”.

Sam and Tuck burst into the room seconds later, both breathless. Tuck putting his hands on his knees and wheezing, “Danny dude, we saw the ghost traffic spike and- whoa”, pausing and staring at the banner, “Dude. You’ve got a whole afterlife birthday party going on”, making a face, “almost offended I wasn’t invited”.

Sam crossing her arms, scanning the room, “It’s clearly not a birthday. It’s a death party. Which is objectively more goth”.

Danny points at her, “thank you. That’s exactly the vibe I’m not emotionally prepared for”.

Another ghost zips past and hangs streamers that drip like liquid light; Danny’s left eye twitches but he otherwise is choosing to ignore them in hopes they’ll get bored and stop this. Will they? No, obviously not. Will that change Danny’s current plan? Also no.

“Okay but”, Tuck lifts up a finger, already pulling out his PDA, “if we monetize this, we could invent a whole new holiday. ‘Death Day: Celebrate Your Worst Decisions’. It’ll be huge”.

Danny groans, “by the Ancients, do not brand my accidental self-electrocution”.

ClockWork floats closer to him and hands him a gift; It’s… a cracked piece of his old hazmat suit. Danny blinking, “oh”, the room feels overly quiet, too quiet.

“Momento”, ClockWork hums, “you straddle two worlds. As do your milestones”.

Danny turns the piece over in his hands. The tear in the fabric lines up exactly with where the portal blast had hit. Him wincing a little and his friends studiously ignoring the definite emotional turmoil he’s absolutely trying not to feel. “I almost died”.

“You did die”, ClockWork corrects gently.

Danny looks up to them, “…yeah. Guess I did”.

Then Tuck claps his hands, “okay! Emotional reflection achieved! Time for cake that might scream when you cut it!”; and the room snaps back into chaotic life, Danny glaring at Tuck a little for wrecking the peace.

Danny huffing out a laugh despite himself. Pushing himself out of bed and transforming, “alright, fine”, floating up slightly, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right”, white hair catching the weird glow of the decorations, “welcome to my Death Day”, gesturing grandly, “please don’t destroy my house, my parents are already suspicious of literally everything”.

The Box Ghost salutes and Ember jumps out from behind him and fires off a streamer canon… a streamer canon that explodes immediately after releasing its streamers.

The cake… fucking giggles.

Sam smirks, “you’re taking this surprisingly well”.

Danny shrugs, a crooked smile tugging at his face, “I mean”, glancing around at the bizarre, glowing, impossible party filling his room, “it beats ignoring it”, scratching his head, “…also if I don’t celebrate it, I’m pretty sure they’ll just celebrate me instead”.

Skulker turns his head and grins very maliciously right at Danny. Danny glaring back, “yeah see? Skulker absolutely would. And imagine if Pandora was here?”.

Both Sam and Tuck wince immediately, if that Amazonian was here the entire neighbourhood would be able to hear her.

ClockWork allows themselves the faintest smile as the room fills more and more with noise, laughter, and the faint, eerie hum of something that wasn’t quite life… but wasn’t the end of it either. And somewhere between the confetti that whispers and the cake that definitely blinks when no one is looking, Danny finds this rather didn’t feel like mourning. It felt like… marking the moment the world got weirder; and he got to be part of it.

Danny should have known the party wouldn’t stay contained to his bedroom.

It starts with a toast. Johnny raising a glass that looks like it had been sculpted out of frozen lightning, “to the whelp who died and didn’t stay that way!”, then muttering under his breath, “and won’t let any of us forget that goddamn fact”.

Danny sighing, “for fucks sake, please stop phrasing it like that-”. Then the room begins to fold. Folds, like reality was a piece of paper and someone got bored and made an origami mistake. Danny, feeling that familiar yank behind his ribs, like a hook catching on something half intangible. “Oh no”, already halfway transparent, “no no no- guys, if this is a field trip, I did not sign the permission slip- fuckmylifefuckmewhyiseverythinglikethisya’llsuckdonkeytits-”.

Sam grabs his arm, Tuck grabbing his hoodie.

The portal tears open anyway, green light and wind that smells like static and old storms, a chorus of distant howls that sounded suspiciously like cheering. The portal forming and within seconds they’re all deposited into the ghost zone. But not out into an eerie, empty stretch of open sky or on to a barren land mass, the kind Danny was more used to.

This was… lit, in both meanings of the word.

There’s nein ecto-lanterns floating like jellyfish. Platforms drifting in impossible layers, stitched together by bridges made of glowing bone and humming energy. Music pulses through the air, something between a heartbeat and a rave. A massive sign blinks overhead:

DEATH DAY AFTERPARTY

Danny stares, “…I hate that I have an afterparty”.

And Technus, of all ghosts, immediately slings an arm around his shoulders, “GUEST OF HONOUR!”.

“I don’t- who- no-“, Danny sagging, “ah fuck it”, waving weakly, “hi everybody”; he’s promptly swept up into the crowd.

Ghost drinks were a mistake. A spectacular, physics-insulting mistake. The first one looked harmless. Pale green, lightly bubbling, served in a cup that phased in and out of existence. Danny poking the glass, “what is it?”.

Kitty grins way too wide, “regret with a citrus finish”.

Danny grimacing at her, “…awesome”, and takes a sip. It tastes like cold lightning, mint, and a memory he couldn’t quite place. His entire body flickers. “Oh”, blinking rapidly, “oh that is- weird”.

Sam snorting at him, “lightweight”, sipping something that hisses like acid, entirely unfazed by the drink.

“I am half-dead, I feel like I get a pass-”

Tuck was already on his third, “dude, this one tastes like dial-up internet!”.

“That’s not a flavour!”.

“It is now”.

Three drinks later, Danny was floating upside down, and not intentionally; he just kinda forgot which way gravity was supposed to go. “Ooooikay”, he announces to no one in particular, spinning slowly, “I have discovered a, uh, problem with ghost alcohol”.

Sam doesn’t look up, “you mean besides all of it?”.

“I can feel my soul vibrating”, a small burst of green energy pops out of his mouth like a firework, “…see?”.

Across the platform, a group of ghosts cheer, someone cranks the music louder.

Danny drifts sideways, phases halfway through a wall, then back out again, “okay but also”, pointing very seriously at Tuck, “I think I can taste colours now”.

Tuck tilting his head, “what does blue taste like?”.

“Like… like if math had a smell”.

“…man you’re so totally gone and fucked”.

“I’m not gone”, Danny attempts to land and instead gently bounces off the floor, “I am extremely present in multiple dimensions at once”, trying to walk but his legs have clearly forgotten how to… so floating it was.

Somewhere along the line, he ends up getting dragging into a drinking contest. He doesn’t remember agreeing to it, he does remember the drinks getting progressively more unhinged.

One screamed.

One tried to escape.

One saluted him before dissolving, “FOR HONOUR,” it had whispered.

And all Danny could think to say back was, “why does it have values”, as he was actively already drinking it.

ClockWork appears briefly at the edge of the crowd, watching like a man observing a very predictable disaster unfold in slow motion.

Danny stares, “thiis- tha, feels lick cah miscake”, pointing at his spooky guardian, “ya! Timmie guy! Tim’s guy! Ya cou hop this!”.

ClockWork nods a little, “I could”.

Danny squints, “bruh you woon”.

“No”.

“Respeck peck”, Danny nods and immediately loses balance, drifting into a decorative pillar.

Eventually, absolutely inevitably, Danny hits the peak. The point where he is so utterly turbofucked that he no longer gives a shit and his self control is so trashed that it’s nonexistent. Even his ecto-field messed up, leaving his outline flickering like a broken neon sign. Danny crawling up on a table, “ohey, I ‘av an annecament”. The music dips slightly, like the Ghost Zone itself was curious. Danny points at the crowd, “I doied, seup seup deied”.

And like assholes everyone cheers, fucking cheering over his dumbass kicking the bucket. He wobbly points at everyone and scowls, “I gots bettar”; at least they have the decency to cheer at that too. Danny swaying, eyes glowing overly bright, “agg ow! I ‘a dow THIS-”, and grabs his head, yanking ‘it off’, obviously still connected to him but not really attached, black wispy particles of his body still connecting head to neck. Then he falls partly through the goddamn table, flopping back and landing flat on his back; head rolling around a bit away from the rest of his body. It takes all of two seconds for the entire place to erupt into laughter and applause.

Danny lays there, staring up at the swirling, impossible sky of the Ghost Zone. Muttering as his head, via the wispy attachment, literally snakes its way back to his body, “…I rink I’m tha enerrainment”.

Sam crouches down beside him, smirking, “ya are, ya are”, laughing a little, “always were, you dumb bass”.

Tuck leaning over, recording, “this is goiong in the ‘chives, by the hay”.

Danny groans, “deleke me”.

“Nev’”.

Later, much later, when the music blurs into a distant hum and the crowd thins into drifting shapes of light, Danny sits himself down on the edge of a random floating platform; the world around him still tilting slightly. Rubbing his hand across his face very roughly, “kay”, groaning a little, “so bee celerating my daath bay in the GZ wit’ haunted ‘rinks was… naw my smarrest id”.

Ember plops down beside him, drink in hand still, “no shite. Buuuuuut it was very on-brand”, elbowing him, “ya got yerself wasted with literal ghosts on the anniversary of becoming one. That’s commitment to the bit”, nodding her head, swaying only slightly, “respect”.

Danny huffs a laugh, rubbing his face again, “…I’mma gonna ‘ave the worse gangover evar, are I?”, glaring at her, “i are ya ‘ine?”.

Ember rolls her eyes, lifting her drink a little, “I’m a rocker, babypop, gettin’ shite faced is my jammy”, smirking at him, “‘nd ya, futura you is gonna hate you”.

Danny stares, “…coolie. Fack me”, tipping backwards, lying flat against the glowing platform, watching the strange sky churn, “…still warth it”, huffing, “…nevar droing it ‘gain”, snickering to himself, “… ‘less they venti a whorest sippy sippy”.

Ember snorts, “I can cheers ta that, you silly little princy”.

“Fack yoooouu”.

And somewhere in the distance, the Ghost Zone pulses like it was already planning next year.

ClockWork does not ‘interfere’, not necessarily; but they do enjoy employing a… little encouragement. Which was absolutely a difference, a very important, extremely defensible difference.

They stand at the edge of a moment, watching threads of possibility spool out across Amity Park like a cat’s cradle built by a nervous universe. In one version of the day, nothing happened. In another, Danny sleeps off a catastrophic ghost hangover and then quietly pretends the whole thing never occurred.

Boring. Very very boring. ClockWork doesn’t particularly care for boring, and really neither does their charge… regardless of his half hearted complaining. ClockWork tilts their head, “…a nudge, perhaps”.

Across town, Jack bursts in through the front door of the Fenton Works lab holding a clipboard, three pens, and the kind of expression that meant science was about to happen at someone. Shouting excitedly, “MAD’S!”.

Maddie doesn’t even look up from her workbench, “if this is about labeling the anti-ghost grenades again, we’ve discussed your… artistic interpretations of ‘organized’”.

“It’s BIGGER than that!”, Jack slamming the clipboard down.

That gets her attention, “what is it?”.

Jack spins the clipboard around, at the top, in bold, slightly crooked handwriting: PHANTOM’S DEATH DAY: TODAY???

Maddie blinks, “I …what”.

Jack jabs at a series of increasingly chaotic notes, “I was reviewing ecto-temporal fluctuations, and there was a spike! A huge one! Ectological event pattern level spike! And then! then! I found this!”. He holds up a printout of what looks like a spectral calendar… with today’s date circled in glowing green.

Maddie narrowing her eyes, “where did you get that?”.

Jack hesitates for exactly half a second, “uh …science?”.

(See, about five minutes earlier, a sheet of paper had simply… appeared in Jack’s notes, without any sound or flash or commotion or anything. It was just kinda… there, suddenly.

ClockWork, unseen, had adjusted a single variable with the delicacy of a watchmaker nudging a gear; laughing silently to themselves).

Maddie straightens slowly, “if this is accurate…”.

Jack gasps, “it means today is the anniversary of Phantom’s creation!”.

“Or death”, Maddie corrects.

Jack gasps louder, “EVEN BETTER”.

“That is not better”.

“It’s a ghost! They totally celebrate death and think it’s better!”.

Maddie’s already moving, pulling up data, cross-referencing readings and dates, “…the energy signatures line up with what was recorded exactly a year ago…”, her humming and tapping her chin, “this is a pattern. Though one year of data isn’t much to go on”, sighing, “sadly we can’t get any readings from before we made the portal”, looking to the portal, “imagine if we could”.

Jack leans in, eyes wide, “we could have back tracked to figured out when It passed”, laughing heartily once, tilting his head at her, “…so what do we do?”.

Maddie pauses and thinks, Phantom… was an ally of the town. It was undeniably a friendly ghost and without It most of the townsfolk would likely die. The last thing they wanted to do with piss off or insult the ghost, and this calendar clearly hints that ghosts do celebrate their own… demises. So, with the slow inevitability of a domino tipping the first in a very long, very unfortunate chain, she sighs, “…we acknowledge it”.

Thirty minutes later, Dash is halfway through loudly not paying attention in class when his phone buzzes, glancing down and seeing this shit flashing across his screen ‘AMITY ALERT: Possible Ghost Event Today- Phantom-Related’, Dash sits up straight in an instant, ‘Phantom’s death anniversary’. “Yo, Phantom’s got, like, a death birthday or something today”.

Everyone in the room freezes, Brittney blinking, “…his what?”.

Dash shrugs, phone buzzing some more, “death day. Anniversary of when he died. My dad just texted me, says the whole town’s buzzing about it”.

Within seconds, phones were getting pulled out; even the teacher abandons teaching to check.

Messages spreading, screens lighting up; and like a spark hitting a field of dry grass… Amity Park lost its collective goddamn mind.

Someone shouts outside of a coffee shop, “it’s Phantom’s DEATH DAY?!”.

“Is that, like, when he’s strongest?!”.

“Or weakest?!”.

“Do we hide?!”.

“Do we celebrate?!”.

“DO WE APOLOGIZE?!”.

“DOES HE LIKE CHOCOLATE CAKE!”.

“OH GOD WILL HE WANT US TO JOIN HIM IN DEATH!?!!?”.

“Why the FUCK would he want that?!? Don’t be stupid Susan!”.

“I’m getting him a FREE SMOOTHIE!”.

“Think he’ll accept birthday kisses?”.

“HOW LONG DEAD OR OLD OR WHATEVER EVEN IS HE!”.

“WHAT KIND OF PRESENTS DO GHOSTS EVEN WANT! THEY’RE DEAD!”.

At City Hall, Vlad calls a meeting, looking both incredibly annoyed and incredibly amused. Making a point to make his sighing not visually noticeable, “we need a plan”.

“A defensive plan?”.

“A respectful plan?”.

“…A festive plan?”.

Vlad stares at everyone, smirks a little, and readjusts his collar, “I propose all of the above”; if only to further confuse young Daniel… and perhaps panic the town a little for the fun of it.

Within the hour, the town has split into factions: Team This Is Dangerous And Stupid, who go with barricades and salt circles and someone even tries to bless a stop sign. Team This Is A Cultural Event, putting up banners and balloons and a poorly designed logo that reads ‘HAPPY DEATH DAY PHANTOM!!!!!’ with far too many exclamation points. Team We Owe Him So Much Holy Shit, with their growing piles of thank-you cards and baked goods and one extremely aggressive weirdly flavoured milkshake stand.

At Fenton Works, Maddie watches the chaos unfold on a tv. Her sighing, “well… this escalated”, shaking her head, “here I thought one or two people might get It presents or just awkwardly congratulate It when It shows next”.

Jack beams, “I’m so proud of the town”.

On tv, Someone unfurls a banner across Main Street, reading ‘THANK YOU, PHANTOM’, and right next to it, another banner gets put up, ‘PLEASE DON’T BE EXTRA DEAD TODAY’.

(Back in the Ghost Zone, Danny sneezes, a small burst of green sparks pop out. Frowning, “…why do I feel like something terrible is happening”).

ClockWork observes it all from their quiet vantage point outside of time.

Amity Park, scrambling between fear and gratitude. Daniel, blissfully unaware and still slightly intoxicated, teetering on the edge of a very confusing return home. ClockWork allows themselves the faintest, tiniest smile, “have fun, young Phantom king”.

All this meaning that, by the time Danny stumbles back through the portal, half-hungover and expecting maybe a quiet nap, the entire town will be waiting.

With cake.

With caution tape.

With deep confusion.

With an ungodly amount of really goddamn weird milkshakes, because everyone knows he likes weird milkshakes.

And, in its own chaotic, deeply Amity Park way… also with something that will look an awful lot like appreciation.

End.