#wrwritings

Thirteen days.

Seven hours.

Thirty-six minutes.

It was somehow both longer and shorter than he’d expected.

It was also a weight off his shoulders, at least in the beginning. It wouldn’t happen any earlier than the date Clockwork had recounted that night. Thirteen days of freedom. Peace. Liberation.

Because if he thought too much about the length of thirteen days, how three-hundred or so hours wasn’t enough time— it’s not fucking FAIR —he would be swallowed by the crushing anxiety that made its permanent home in his stomach.

So there was that.

He didn’t bother telling his friends. They were already all on edge, but if he could act like all was well he could ease their worries. Because ultimately they were just worried about him, and if he was fine they would be too.

He did, however, make contingency plans. Farewell videos on a USB drive taped to the underside of his bed.

He wanted Clockwork to be wrong. Some nights he laid awake, trying his damndest to find a way off this track. This self-fulfilling prophecy. But there was nothing. That moment had already passed with that stupid news broadcast that had glued him to the couch, shaking, as his parents had shouted and jeered at the screen. Dismissive. Furious. Invested.

They hadn’t noticed when he pushed himself off the couch and stumbled, shaking, to the bathroom to purge the contents of his stomach.

It was a miracle he’d only gotten a two-day suspension for slugging Wes in the face in front of the whole cafeteria. Even more so that no one had pieced it together from that.

No one saw him. But they would. When it was too late.

He couldn’t stop it. But as he didn’t acknowledge it in the waking world it wouldn’t exist. So he reserved his existential crises for when there was nothing to distract him from the looming, inevitable deadline.

He wished he could tell Mr. Lancer that whenever he was given detention that afternoon.

On the night of the twelfth day, he didn’t sleep a wink. No amount of coffee could keep his head above his desk that morning, and so, Danny spent his final hour in detention. He considered skipping. Detention was not the place for everything to come to an end.

But wouldn’t leaving—deviating from his normal routine—up the chances of putting events in motion?

Avoidance was his specialty, after all.

Jazz could write a paper on his coping tactics alone if she hadn’t already. 

At nineteen minutes Mr. Lancer stopped in front of his desk. It was only him and Valerie today, and she sat somewhere three desks behind and to his left of him. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, loose yellow sleeves draped over her hands. The bags under her eyes rivaled his own, even though he was sure there hadn’t been too many ghosts in the past week or so—but then again, he’d not been the most attentive to things on the ghost front lately. It was probably his fault she was here at all. 

“Mr. Fenton,” Lancer said. He forced his head to turn, a feat much more difficult than it sounded. His head felt full of lead. “Is everything alright at home?”

Danny forced himself not to cringe.

“Uh.” He ignored the sound of Valerie shifting in her seat behind him. Great. An audience. “Yes.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been getting much less sleep of late, is all.”

Now this was a load of shit. Danny’s sleep schedule was normally trash. This current existential crisis was no more taxing than his normal night activities.

Lancer continued. “And your parents have—” he paused, eyes flitting somewhere behind him. “—in light of recent revelations, I just worry, Mr. Fenton.”

Hm.

Did he know, then?

Was this it?

Danny stared stupidly for a moment, forgetting to shut his mouth. And then shrugged.

Falling back on ignorance.

If he was honest, he hadn’t quite expected Lancer to be the one to put it together, but it also made sense. 

Lancer’s mouth thinned. “I know they can be intense, especially with the scrutiny placed on our school now. No one should feel scared to come to school. Or go home,” he said, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “This is a safe space.”

For a moment all he could hear was the drum of his heart in his chest. And then behind him, Valerie cleared her throat.

“With all due respect, Mr. Lancer,” she said, “nowhere is safe with that putrid ghost hiding among us.”

Danny didn’t turn around. Lancer’s reaction was subdued, but there was a protective fire in his eyes that confirmed Danny’s suspicions. He wondered how long ago he’d put it together.

“Ms. Gray,” Lancer said, “I see your point, but I’m just trying to ease tensions.”

Danny checked the clock.

Seventeen minutes. 

Maybe he should’ve skipped detention after all.

(No escaping the inevitable. No do-overs this time.)

Valerie scoffed. “So what? We let our guard down?” he chanced a glance behind him, and Valerie’s eyes were red-rimmed—from lack of sleep or otherwise he had no idea. “Someone here is a walking weapon and we’re supposed to ignore this? Fenton at least knows he’ll be safe at home, but what about the rest of us? We don’t get to go home to ghost-hunting parents—we have to hold our own.”

Lancer nodded. “I understand. I just think that it’s very frightening for all of us, ghost hunters or not.”

Danny’s voice cracked when he spoke. “Yeah.”

Valerie’s expression softened. “I didn’t mean to make light—”

“No. No, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not safe with Phantom as a student here. Whoever he is.”

She sighed. “Danny, I don’t know what it’s like with your parents, but—”

“But what?” he cut her off. “Because they’re ghost hunters they’re automatically the safest people in the room?” He lowered his voice. “You would think that.”

She froze. “What does that mean?”

Hm. Whoops.

“People don’t know what it’s like, I guess.”

Danny turned back around. Lancer’s stare was dripping with sympathy.

Fifteen minutes.

There was a scrape of a chair, a thud of feet, and a warm hand on his shoulder. Valerie released him just as fast. When he met her eyes, they were as wide as saucers.

“D—Danny,” she said with a note of panic. “You’re cold.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

She took a step back. He hadn’t seen her this scared since they’d been stranded on Skulker’s island together. He could see the realization dawning. 

“Val,” he said, knowing full well what was going through her head, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s not you,” she said, a desperate plea. “I can’t be this stupid.”

He sighed and Lancer stepped between them.

“Ms. Gray,” he said, “now let’s not jump to conclusions—”

“No!” she shook her head. “No, no, no! It doesn’t make sense. You’re—your parents hunt ghosts. Hunt Phantom.”

Danny crossed his arms.

“So do you.”

Lancer looked between them like Danny had announced that he liked eating golf balls. “What.”

Tears welled in Valerie’s eyes. “I trusted you!”

The minute hand inched forward.

Fourteen.

“You trusted me to what?”

Valerie clenched her fists. “Don’t do that! Don’t play stupid!”

“Ms. Gray—”

“I’m not playing.” Danny turned sideways in his desk, facing her head-on. “Tell me what you think I’ve done, Val.”

“Mr. Fenton—!”

“You replaced him. You replaced Danny. How long have you been pretending to be him? To be alive? How can you live with yourself, going home everyday and seeing his parents and—and—acting like you’re still—” she choked on her tears. “You terrorize this town, Phantom. I won’t let you take anything else from me, or anyone.”

Lancer’s eyes were wide. He’d never seen the man so shocked, in such foreign territory.

Valerie, on the other hand, was resolute. There was as much determination in her face as tears.

“I’m still me,” he said. “I died, but I came back. I never replaced myself, however that works. I am sorry, Val. There’s a lot that—”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! ”

“—that I didn’t mean to happen.”

Lancer slammed his hand on Danny’s desk.

“Can we all settle down!”

It all happened in a matter of seconds. The clock in his peripheral kept him tethered to the moment. 

Valerie reached behind her and pulled a blaster.

A flash of red—

(The minute hand moves.

Thirteen.)

—and a burst of hot pain through his side.

He crumpled forward, his head meeting the linoleum floor with a SMACK and somewhere above him a distant shout.

Everything from his side to his cranium THROBBED and it wouldn’t fucking stop.

(He’d taken hits from Val before. This shouldn’t hurt so much. Why does this—?)

Iron pooled in his mouth. 

Oh right.

Ectoplasm was thicker than blood.

Danny tried to push himself up from the floor but the world spun and his arms gave out below him and he slumped back down to the cold, hard floor.

The floor felt better.

Maybe he would…

Stay here for a while…

***

The television clicked on. A rerun of the six o’clock news.

He didn’t let Jazz turn it off.

“According to a recent report, there is speculation that our local ghost vigilante Phantom might be living among us. Care to tell us more, Lance?”

“Yes, Tiffany.” Lance Thunder’s stupid blonde hair was polished and perfect as usual and he wanted to wipe that stupid half-smile off the bastard’s face. “A ghost ID’ed as Walker —” at this, a crude picture that was mostly just a white blur appeared on the screen “— has publicly announced that our hero is a student at Casper High fooling us, flying under the radar.”

“And as far as we understand, tips from ghosts aren’t verifiable…?”

“Normally, yes, but there is evidence to suggest that—”

“This isn’t good for you,” Jazz hissed. “I know that it’s scary, but—”

“Exposure therapy,” he snapped back. “It’s gonna be the talk of the school anyway.”

She slumped back down onto the couch. “Take care of yourself.”

The door to the lab was thrown open. His parents marched through the kitchen and into the living room, perfectly eclipsing the TV.

“—telling you, Jack. The DNA scans are inconclusive at best. Their so-called ‘experts’ are out of their depths.”

“We’ll show them once and for all. If we can find out which student it’s using as cover—”

“—we’ll expose Phantom for the monster he is!”

His parents disappeared upstairs for the night, but he could still hear snippets of their vows to destroy him. 

He shot Jazz a tired look. “Easier said than done.”

***

Someone was touching him.

Everything on his left burned. Far above him were LEDs and beige ceiling tiles. He wasn’t sure when he’d been rolled onto his back. But he was now, and someone was pressing down on the spot that burned burned burned—!

Blood trickled down his throat.

How many minutes had it been?

How many did he have left?

There were voices, somewhere, but everything sounded like it was underwater. Maybe it was. Drowning would be preferable to many of the other deaths he’d prepared for. Still terrible, sure, but vivisection lowered the bar considerably. 

“—have you done!”

“He’s—” A girl’s voice wavered, quiet. “He’s Phantom. He’s not supposed to—to—”

Wow. Valerie had the decency to sound ashamed.

At least he could die knowing that his killer at least had a few shreds of regret.

(Is it sad that it’s more than he expected?)

“—little first aid.” The pain came in waves, and all Danny could hear was the rush of his stupid heart in his ears. “—expecting shootings in America, but not from a—” 

Just as fast as it came, the world melted away. His last grasp on consciousness slipped away.

(As fast as the click of a button.)

***

Wes had a punchable face.

But hey—that’s what you get for talking to the press. The accusations were written off as pretty baseless, but the damage had been done. He got inquisitive stares now and again. After all, Wes was a joke, but his interview put Danny’s name on the list of suspects and that was enough to fuck his entire life over.

After his two-day suspension, Danny had little opportunity to survey his work. Honestly, more people asked him about how bad he fucked up Wes’s face than whether or not he was Phantom.

(From what he had seen, it was in a perpetual state of purple and that was enough to curb his anger for now.)

So. He had two days off from school.

Danny went to see Clockwork.

Long Now welcomed him with welcome arms, and he broke down into a fit of whines and gripes about how it seemed like everyone was out to get him, that everyone wanted to put his head on a pike. Everyone wanted to ferret out the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Clockwork shared their sympathies.

“No matter what I do, I just—I’m a wreck. I think someone’s figured it out. That they know, but then I mention it to Jazz or Sam or Tucker and I’m just paranoid and I think I’m paranoid now and—” he groaned. “I don’t know what to do. I’m losing my mind.”

“You do know that it’s inevitable that the truth comes to light.”

He froze. “What.”

Clockwork shifted from senior to adult. “Your paranoia isn’t for naught. It’s a matter of time.”

No. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d figure a way out.

There had to be something.

“I thought nothing was inevitable.”

“Not nothing,” Clockwork hummed. “Often, it is nothing. But not this time.”

Their words shook him to the core. He’d suspected it, sure, but confirmation was—

“I know it isn’t fair.”

“Don’t tell me what is and isn’t fair!” Danny snapped. “Your entire life isn’t—isn’t under scrutiny for everyone. If they know that I’m me, I—”

He pressed his hands to his chest.

He would be finished.

One way or another, someone would find a way to put him on their table.

The government.

His parents.

Maybe someone else out for his blood.

(His body.)

“I can’t see what will happen past them learning the truth,” Clockwork said. “But it is a fixed point. Everything past that diverges, a thousand roads. Timelines. Possibilities. I can’t tell you what to expect. The best, the worst. I cannot offer that reassurance.”

“Oh.”

They nodded. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I don’t want them to find out,” he said in a pathetic whine.

For a long moment, Clockwork said nothing. If not for the constant ticking of clocks, he would have thought they were frozen. But then Clockwork’s expression shifted.

And they asked: 

“Would you like to know?” 

***

…

……

………

Warbled voices were around him again. Different.

But this time more in focus.

“Sir, Ma’am, if you could leave the room—”

“I will NOT. That is my son, and I am not leaving until someone tells me why there is a HOLE in his chest—!”

And somewhere else, a shriek of sobs.

“We’re transporting him to the hospital, you can’t—”

“I did it,” said that same, sobbing voice. “I shot him. I shot him.”

More people were touching him and Danny didn’t like it oh god no no no —

“—get him on the stretcher—”

“—the hell DID you—”

“—Ms. Gray, you—”

“—no! I want to know why—”

“—securing him, just—”

And now time did slow.

The EMTs lifted the stretcher.

And his face lolled to the side, giving him a clear view of the clock.

The minute hand moved one last time.

Just as:

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—he’s Phantom, I didn’t think that it would—!” Valerie, cut off, sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Danny. If you can hear me, I’m so sorry.”

And then there was silence.

Crushing darkness.

***

If he had any last doubts that his secret was out, they were snuffed out when he woke up in the hospital to the pained faces of his parents. Jazz was in the chair to his left, hair mussed up and asleep. His parents’ eyes were red with tears. In his delirium, he also noticed Sam’s backpack discarded in the corner.

How long had—?

“Two days.”

Clockwork appeared before him in their adult form. They swung their staff, looking rather pleased with themselves. Danny then realized the occupants of the room had been frozen as long as he’d been awake. 

“You’re recovering well, all considered.” Clockwork tapped a clipboard on a nearby table. “I will say, I am surprised that we took this route. It is what you might call a ‘spoiler,’ but it’s kinder than most.”

“Is it,” he said, voice hoarse.

Clockwork waited for him to finish coughing up his lungs before speaking again. “They’re handling it as best they can. I won’t say it’s great, but you’re on the way there.”

“I—what happened, again?”

And as he asked, it came rushing back.

Lancer. Valerie.

And paramedics?

Clockwork gave him a knowing smile. “Your teacher called an ambulance. In his panic, he might have let it slip that you were having a reaction because of a ghost weapon, and your parents were looped into the call.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Danny’s eyes found his frozen heart monitor, time stopped between beats. Below, his mother had tied off the top half of her HAZMAT suit and was wearing a black shirt beneath. He did notice that the contents of her weapons belt were emptied.

He turned back to Clockwork. “How did they take it?”

They shrugged. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“Wait—wait, I'm not ready.”

“How about this? I tell you how much time you have left.” They raised their staff. “Three—”

“Clockwork—”

“Two—”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Children often have simple fears. The Dark, the Hunt, the Lonely—those are big things to a child. But some children are sick, some know loss. Painfully so. And those children belong to the End.”

Despite having known death all his life, it was nothing that Jon particularly feared more than other things. Not even when he died himself. With the Beholding pressed against his mind like an ocean—no not pressed, overrunning was more appropriate—he hated to say he was a little envious.

He did not tell Martin this, of course.

Martin fell silent by his side once more, falling back into a monotonous stride across the hellscape that was the Vast. It will be several days before they leave it, Jon knew already. It was the only way through. He was already tired of the wide, open landscape and valley that welcomed the Eye’s gaze from above like they were at the bottom of a snow globe.

He faintly recalled hearing the term Prairie Madness before and found it an apt description.

He looked at Martin, Trying So Hard Not to Know. And stated (Not Asked—Martin would not forgive him if He Asked): “You want to know what it’s like.”

Martin flinched. “Don’t do—”

“I didn’t. It was a guess.”

Martin looked at him long and hard. “I shouldn’t. That’s—the last one was bad enough.” He breathed in sharply. “But you need another statement, don’t you?”

Jon sighed.

It would be nice. Just one more to tide him over. Because the journey through this domain would be long…

“You don’t have to listen,” he assured. “Or—or I can just wait.”

“It’s fine,” Martin said, and his tone was so thick that Jon couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. Well he Could Tell if he wanted to but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Okay,” Jon said a beat later. He allowed the Eye push him in the right direction and he let the statement begin.

*

Bright lights accost your eyes, always a bit too bright and a bit too intense for your vision to adjust to. It would help if you could sleep in more than fitful intervals that just draw your breath too much, leaving you reaching your hand to your chest as you try to buck off the invisible weight brought down upon it. There’s never anything there. Just the regular tubes pouring out of your body, hooked up to screens with nonsense lines that spell out your doom.

You’ve been left here. Your stupid bright room has another bed by the window, the one you think looks painted on because the only thing it ever shows is that giant unblinking eye in the sky. The sun never sets, and your sense of time has slipped through your fingers like sand. You want your mom. You want your dad. Or Tessa or Uncle Bobby. Your teacher. Your coach. That one lady at the grocery store who always compliments your backpack even though she’s seen it a thousand times at this point.

You’ll take any of them. But you’re forgotten, and you’ll finish life alone because you stopped earning adults’ love the moment you received the diagnosis of terminal.

North Mercy Hospital is a dump. It’s not even in one of the good parts of Amity, folded between the docks and the outlet mall that’s since been repaired since Skulker blasted Phantom through it. It’s not much comfort that the veil runs thin in this town, you’ve never heard of anyone coming from the other side of the Fentons’ portal reuniting with a loved one.

Emma from math class told you that there’s a bunch of morons from out of town that come looking for ghosts of their loved ones. It’s the main reason the tourist industry hasn’t collapsed since the Fentons punched a hole through dimensions like the fabric of reality was a punch card at the Silver Spoon. That to say: you’re not hopeful. The screens hooked to your body, which has long since stopped responding to you in full—the most you can do on a day like this is salivate or twitch your fingers—might read nonsense but their purpose is clear enough.

Your time is nearly up.

The thought makes your heart race, because while you’d had so little life and you’d spent it all on stupid things. Pushing Tessa around and leaving bruises on her arms, leaving the front door open and letting Bella run into oncoming traffic, never getting the grades, always making a mess of things, that time you threw a bowl and broke the TV.

Your body wasn’t even cut out to live past twelve, subpar. You just weren’t good enough and even your bones knew it. Down to the cellular level.

You are undeserving. You deserve to die.

But you don’t want to. Even if there’s no one left that loves you, you really don’t want it to hurt. You want to be tucked into to bed at night. You want Mom to make you mac and cheese. You want the lights to go down. You want the machines to STOP BEEPING.

You try to wrap your mind around what it will be like to just stop existing. Everything that constitutes you as a person, everything that you like doing boiled down to its most basic form—just flickering out. Going to sleep and never waking up.

Maybe death is a dream that never ends. Maybe that’s what it means to be a ghost.

You hope so. You’ve never actually thought of the town’s ghosts as dead people before. If anything, they’re larger than life figures. Characters, almost.

The bed on the opposite side of your hospital room shifts. The figure tangled in its sheets slowly brings itself to a sitting position and it takes a monumental effort to even slightly tilt your head over to get a better sight. In the time you’ve been here (such a long, long time) the figure has remained inert. Asleep. Or perhaps it’s always been dead.

From the bed, Phantom looks at you with such pained eyes, which isn’t right. Phantom always wins his fights, always comes out on top. He’s the town’s hero for a reason.

But now Phantom cries. Tears welling in those unmistakable green eyes. His chest shudders almost as much as yours does and you realize what this means.

Oh.

You try to shape words with your mouth to ask him the one last question bearing down on your mind, but you’ve been so sapped for strength that nothing more than a groan escapes your lips. Phantom pushes himself to a standing position, and you realize secondly the wrongness in the action.

Phantom flies through the air. He doesn’t walk. That isn’t a thing that ghosts should do. But Phantom does it now, and stops beside your bedside, still crying. “I’m so sorry,” he tells you, voice thick and hoarse. “It’ll all be over soon. I’m so sorry.”

You know this already. But Phantom cradles a gloved hand to your face and you don’t feel the touch as much as you register the weight of it. The skin of your face is pliant under his grip. “I thought that dying would give me the power to stop this from happening, that I could use it for something,” he tells you, dizzily. “But I was wrong. Dying is meaningless. No matter how hard I try, I can’t change anything. My death was meaningless, and so is yours. Death is an unmovable force that comes for us all. Isn’t that terrible?” His eyes glaze for a moment. “Isn’t it… exhilarating?”

Phantom shakes his head. Behind him, the Eye out your window bears down on you closer and closer and your final moment to shine is upon you both now. You’ll be over in less than a minute.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, withdrawing his hand. He leans forward and pulls you into an embrace. Even though you struggle to feel it, you appreciate the gesture—unlike the screens behind you which have taken to screaming. “All I can offer you now is comfort,” he says.

With the end upon you, you fight to make your lips sound out one last question. You need to know. “Will I… ghost?” you heave, face pressed against Phantom’s shoulder.

His grip tightens for a moment and loosens. Phantom answers. “If you’re lucky, no. I hope not.” You don’t have time to understand what that means before your small heart finally stutters to a soft stop and your last exhale leaves your lips. The world crashes down on you, blackness overcoming your vision and you are no more. 

*     

Jon came back to his surroundings abruptly as always, feeling plenty refreshed and trying not to look at the discomfort masking Martin’s face. It was less brutal than most per se, but no less disturbing.

“That—that Avatar,” Martin forced out. “What—?”

“A child ghost. Well, more like half-ghost. He’s… not that fond of his patron. He’s like I was in the beginning. He doesn’t fully understand what he’s serving.” Jon mentally swatted the knowledge away, trying not to fall too deep into the psyche of Danny Fenton. He needed to be grounded here. Now. “He guides them in Death. Other children.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Martin said, guilt creeping into his voice. “I never learn, do I?”

Jon, walking around with the personal torment of every single person on Earth in his head, thrashing against each other so loud that they all drown each other out until called upon individually, had to give his partner a reassuring shake of the head. “It’s not your fault, Martin.”

It never was.