Chapter Text
The ballroom in Phantom’s Keep is alive with voices for the first time in centuries.
Danny breathes deeply from behind the curtains that separate the outer Keep with the more homely inside of the castle. He can hear the music, a waltz full of swaying strings and eerie vocals, and the sound does nothing to calm his nerves.
“Your highness?”
Danny exhales sharply. Being addressed as royalty still sits uncomfortably, but he’s trying to get used to it. He shakes his head and turns to meet the gaze of Clockwork.
The Master of Time’s appearance is different from usual: his usually plain cloak now has a myriad of tiny clocks, displaying different times at different rhythms. They dangle from the edges or drag soundlessly behind him over the polished obsidian floor. Clockwork now looks like a man nearing his sixties, long white hair spilling out from underneath his hood in a complicated-looking collection of braids.
“I’m fine, ” Danny says, stepping away from the curtains.
His mentor looks like he doubts that, which stings more since Clockwork now looks like a very-fancily dressed eight-year-old, complicated hairdo and all. Getting sass from a little kid is the ultimate emotional hit.
Within one blink and the next, the time ghost now looks like he’s in his early twenties. He gently lays a hand on Danny’s shoulder.
“Seriously, I’m fine!” Danny exclaims, praying that his nervousness isn’t slipping into the cracks of his voice. “I just have to go and meet a few ghosts, yeah? Just talking to a couple hundred new people, no big deal!”
“Phantom,” his mentor says, his voice gentle, the constant ticking of the grandfather clock in his chest a comforting sound. “If this is troubling you so much, we can reschedule this ball–”
“No!” Danny exclaims, quickly composing himself again and ignoring how his ears have flushed bright green. “No. I can do this. I will do this.”
Danny’s determination brings a smile to Clockwork’s face. “Well said, your highness.”
“Let’s go,” Danny says, shooting his mentor one of his signature troublemaker grins. “We can’t arrive late, that would ruin your whole reputation!”
Clockwork smiles enigmatically. “You’ll find, Danny Phantom, that we are precisely on time.”
As if on cue, the ballroom quiets, the music drifting off peacefully.
“In peace may he reign, Crown Prince Phantom!” chorus the Observants as one.
Clockwork steps back, assuming his position as Danny’s watchful shadow. Danny has a second where his nerves take advantage of him before the curtains open and all of the Realm’s nobility have their eyes on him.
He faces the room, head held high. It’s always been in adversity that Danny has found his courage, and it’s only in this moment when the fear flees and he can face the crowd.
The ballroom is a star-filled place, no floors or ceiling to speak of, just the vast expanse of space painted with nebulas and galaxies. Balconies, daises and tables float peacefully around the room, all made from delicately carved marble and silver detailings, trailing glass stars that dissolve slowly in their path. Not all of them face upwards, but in the Realms, where ‘up’ is subjective and gravity is optional, eating a banquet on an intricate table while upside-down is nothing more than a good time. The boundaries of the ballroom are marked by a lattice of silver and glass panes, giving the impression of watching the night sky through the roof of a greenhouse no matter where one looks, be it up or down.
Ghosts of all eras, cultures and species are greeting him with respect, be it the polite curtsies of medieval royalty, the neat bows of the Chinese empire, the gentle mental brushes from the Martians or the open palms of the Kryptonians. All of them have shaped their ectoplasm, their deathblood bodies, into the most intricate of appearances fitting for meeting the future King.
Danny can’t do that yet, his body always wants to return to his normal self, but Pandora advised him to use that to his advantage. Make it a statement that he’s not trying to show off his power or prowess, just show who he truly is.
Ever since he accepted that he’d died that day, his ghostly traits had started surfacing. Now, his skin is the light blue-purple of a frozen corpse, little white freckles glowing over his nose. His death scar, the Lichtenberg figure going up his hand and climbing over his neck and through his eye, now glows softly white and shows up even in his eye, shattering through his pupil. His hazmat suit got a few upgrades, armored sections over his joints and on his chest, when he finally accepted that he was the town’s superhero and not just a kid pretending to be one. Though… his suit has always been a bit big on him, not like the skin-tight ones his parents wear, because he was supposed to grow into it. But now, two and a half years later and six inches taller, it’s still just as loose. He died in that suit and he thinks it’ll stay with him for the rest of his half-life.
It’s still nerve wracking to stand there in his regular Phantom appearance, surrounded by veritable works of eldritch, eerie art, but Danny gathers himself and bows back to the crowd.
The music starts again at a quieter volume and groups of ghosts begin approaching him to talk. Okay, now’s the important part. He’s just gotta be himself, right? Just gotta talk.
The hours blur by. He has a few wonderful conversations with the Tamaranean representatives and gets an invitation for him and his friends to a friendship festival. The Martian delegation notices his trepidation around mind control (curse ghost-speak for being so emotion-focused) and offer him mind-shielding lessons. Youngblood prances up, followed by his cohort of pirates, and promises a few playdates in his ship, followed by the Pirate Queen jokingly challenging him to a future sharp-shooting contest.
This is the ball’s true purpose. Letting the nobility meet him and ingratiate themselves by giving the sorts of gifts that truly matter for ghosts: permission to enter another’s Haunt, the opportunity to be taught new skills or the promise of aid.
Danny’s finishing up a conversation with the Inca delegation, as a ghost with hair made out of colorful knotted chords cheerfully offering their skills as the next royal accountant, when hushed whispers bloom around the ballroom.
He turns.
Arriving fashionably late is a ghost wreathed in shadows. Her skin is porcelain, white and delicate, cracks marring the surface where she bleeds wisps of darkness. A wide-brimmed hat sits on her head, a veil dragging behind her from its brim and enshrouding her completely. The only feature that breaks through the dark are her eyes, a glowing, solid white in an odd shape.
The dress itself is a simple gothic dress in a wine red so dark it’s almost purple, but as the skirt flows down it becomes a patchwork, the pieces ranging from blood-stained bandages, to ratty felt, to imported silk, to crushed velvet and everything in between. It’s almost as if it had been torn and then repaired time and time again with what was at hand. The patches are joined by embroidery the same color as the dress, creating the illusion of a stained glass window made of cloth. Dark tendrils of shadow peek from her torn sleeves and the ragged edges of her dress.
The low neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves draw attention to a striking red necklace that looks as if her porcelain neck had been slashed open and the wound had been left to bleed red pearls.
Danny leans back, whispering to Clockwork as quietly as he can, “Who is she?”
“That is Lady Gotham, your highness,” he answers, a knowing smile on his face.
“No fucking way,” Danny breathes, turning back to watch her so fast he gets whiplash. Now that he knows it’s so obvious that she has Batman’s eyes, just in a different, clearly inhuman shape, almost like the eyes are two halves of a bat symbol.
It’s also obvious that it’s a duplicate created by the true Lady Gotham and not the original; the emotional aura around her is a bit too faint. Sending a duplicate to a royal ball would be rude, if it wasn’t for what Pariah Dark did in his own coronation ball. Half the attendees are duplicates and Danny can’t blame them.
Is she coming this way??? Oh fuck, act cool.
“Greetings, Prince Phantom. I am Lady Gotham, but of that you are already aware,” she says, doing an elegant curtsy. She shoots an amused glance towards Clockwork. She absolutely heard Danny’s ‘no fucking way’.
“Crime Capital, USA, huh?” Danny’s voice says without his permission. His already bright blush turns a few shades greener when he realizes what he said. “No offence meant! Every city has its charm! ”
“You are correct in what you said, young prince,” she answers. Every time she talks, cigarette smoke rises from her mouth. It smells like smog. “My city may be dangerous and chaotic, a fighter through and through. And yet, it is home. My city will welcome you with open arms.”
Surprise echoes through the Cores of the ghosts pretending not to eavesdrop. He echoes it too - Lady Gotham is famously territorial, even by ghost standards.
“I wanna clear up right away that I’m not rejecting your offer or anything, but… why? Why me?” Danny says, looking up at her. His ghost-speak echoes with hesitance-surprise-awe.
“I think we’re similar, you and I,” she begins, gesturing with sharp porcelain claws. “Both far too young for the level of power we possess, never using it to its full extent for the sake of the people we protect. From guardian spirit to guardian spirit, I trust you will not abuse my trust.”
Danny can feel the sincerity in every word and he smiles wide. “Thank you so much. I won’t let you down, I promise!”
Lady Gotham smiles, the barest hint of anglerfish teeth glinting through the shadows obscuring her face when–
“Phantom!”
Silence descends on the ballroom like a wake of vultures.
He knows that voice. Fear and anger twine over his spine and into his heart.
“What the hell are you doing here, Fruitloop?” Danny snarls, his fangs and claws growing sharper and longer on instinct.
“Is that the way to talk to your elders, child?” Vlad Plasmius answers, fanged grin on display and posture loose and confident.
He’s changed his appearance for the occasion: the usually white cape is now a deep black. Over his usual white ensemble now sits intricate-looking black armor with silver and red accents that give away the fact that it is just as much made out of ectoplasm as it is one of Dalv.Co’s ghost-proof materials. Danny would bet his entire mini-motorcycle collection that it is a top-of-the line, best-that-money-can-buy, custom-made-for-and-by-Vlad ghost hunting armor.
“What. Do. You. Want.”
Plasmius grins, sharp teeth on display.
“I want the crown.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
“Are you challenging me?” Danny growls, but he relaxes. Fighting is fine. Fighting is something he can do, something he understands, and he’s learned enough that he can consistently beat the older halfa by now. It’s never easy and never painless, but he can do it.
“Why yes, Daniel,” Vlad Masters says, floating over to the dais Danny is standing on. He smirks as he is forced to look up at Vlad and he hates that it underscores the fact that Danny’s a child. “I, Vlad Plasmius, challenge Crown Prince Danny Phantom for the crown by right of conquest!”
Danny freezes. A bit literally too: his Core radiates a layer of frost over his skin in instinctive defense.
If Vlad had challenged him by right of duel, things would have been easy. Just one little fight and it would have been over. But he didn’t.
Right of conquest means doing what he did to win the crown from Pariah Dark: all-out war, with both of them as the generals of their own armies. A battle where the strength of their followers matters just as much as their own strength and Vlad never, ever, plays fair.
“Three months, Little Badger!” Plasmius gloats, shrouding himself in fire. “Three months, and the crown will be mine!”
Plasmius disappears in a flurry of embers.
There is a second of silence. And then ghosts start excusing themselves from the ball left and right, those who are duplicates simply dissolving into the air. The ballroom empties on record time.
“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” says Danny, whirling to face Clockwork.
“Yes,” his mentor says, face unreadable. “As I said, we are precisely on time. You already have the key to your kingdom close, all you need to do is seize it.”
“Very helpful,” Danny snarks, raking his hands through his hair hard enough to hurt. “Right, because I wanted to wage a war! Of course! I–” He lets out a strangled yell into his palms.
“Great One!”
Danny’s head snaps up.
“Great One, are you alright?!?”
Frostbite floats over to Danny in a flurry of snow. He lays his oversized paws on top of Danny’s shoulders and he can’t stop himself from sinking his face into the soft fur. Frostbite might be a ten-foot tall yeti that looks like a cross between a polar bear and a bison but his hugs are the best. The yeti rumbles, a comforting purr that resonates through his chest. Danny answers with a purr of his own, slowly letting his frustration drift off.
When he doesn’t feel like tearing his hair out anymore he steps back, breathing deeply.
“I suggest you call the royal Fraid, your highness,” Clockwork says, snapping Danny’s attention towards him. “I’ll call the rest of the Inner Council. Ellie is already on her way.”
“Okay,” Danny breathes. Having a clear thing to do helps with the anger.
He fishes out his Fenton Phone from where he nestled it below his ribs. Now, to call his friends and his sister at nearly three in the morning on a Saturday.
Jazz really loves her brother. She really does. Her little brother is her joy and life and–
She yawns wide enough to make her jaw crack as she carefully decreases altitude on the Speeder. The clunky silver-and-green vehicle is a mix between submarine and minivan, difficult to control on a good day. Her parking this time is abysmal, but she’s had six hours of sleep in the past two days; she can cut herself some slack over some scratches on the outside plating. She’s also having words with her brother about communicating what type of ‘emergency’ this is, because she doesn’t know if she should bring the Boo-zooka or a tub of ice cream.
As soon as the Speeder stops, Sam jumps out of the vehicle carrying a mace. She’s wearing her pajamas, one of those ‘just killed my third husband’ robes in black that were a gag gift from Tucker that she ended up loving anyways, but she hastily threw her chestplate overtop. The effect would be funny if they weren’t so tense.
“I don’t see any fighting,” she notes, violet eyes glaring suspiciously around the entrance of Phantom’s Keep.
Phantom’s Keep is now very different from when it was Pariah’s squat fortress. Now, its delicate spires occasionally have streaks of green-blue-white light running through them, and smooth silver metal framing wide windows. The stone island, once a barren and jagged thing, is now full of vegetation, a river flowing around it and spilling out to the abyss of the Realms, where the ‘water’ mists back into ectoplasm to cycle anew. If she had to describe it to someone else, she’d say it’s as if someone had crossed a fairytale castle with a Victorian greenhouse and then made it sci-fi.
“There aren’t any guests either,” points out Tucker. He’s wearing his hot-dog patterned pajamas, PDA in one hand and an Egyptian amulet in the other. A few braids have escaped his orange bonnet but he doesn’t pause to stuff them back in.
“The party can’t be over this soon, can it?” asks Jazz. She flares out her empathy-sense and sees threads of emotion leaving the doors, even if they are too old to tell what emotions exactly. “No, something happened.”
She steps out of the vehicle. She’s in her pajamas herself– an old pair of teal sweatpants and a black shirt– but she paused long enough to tie her headband around her head and stuff her feet into hiking boots. Her wrist-rays, one on each arm, are fully loaded and the specter-deflector belt is snug around her waist.
“Guys!”
Ellie is a streak of white-and-black over the radioactive green of the Zone that skids to a stop in front of them. The Neverborn’s hair is out of her signature ponytail, fanning around her face like a cloud.
“C’mon, get inside! Everyone’s waiting for you!” she yells before gesturing to the river and making a glob of water rise. Wow, her water-core training must be coming along– wait, is she going to stick them in the water bubble and tug them along that way? Does she remember that living people need to breathe?!?
“Ellie, wait–!” Too late, all three of them are sunk into the bubble and are off. They fly through the open castle doors and past the curtains and through the corridors, keeping their breath as best they can.
Ellie finally bursts through the doors of the Council Room and disperses the bubble.
Jazz immediately starts gasping, while Tucker does the dramatic thing and lays down on the floor.
“ELLIE, ASK FIRST!” Sam shrieks between great gulps of air. “YOU DON’T JUST DROWN PEOPLE OUT OF NOWHERE!”
“Uh, oops?” Ellie says, smiling sheepishly and rubbing the back of her head. In times like this it’s very clear that Ellie is Danny’s clone, her expression and reaction is identical to his.
Jazz takes a second to smooth out her red hair, thankful that Ellie has enough control over her powers to not leave them all wet, before she looks around the room.
The Council Room is an eclectic mix of modern and old; there’s a big round table in the middle, ornately carved, with a big circular screen inlaid in it. The chairs around it are all different and relate to their owners, from Pandora’s extra-large marble stool to Dorathea’s wooden, golden-filigree covered chair. Many bean bags dot the corners of the room and the walls are full of scribbles where people have used them as whiteboards.
Jazz sinks into her plush high-backed chair soundlessly. Tucker sinks into his orange cat-themed gamer chair with a sound of satisfaction and Sam plops herself down in her gothic velvet chair.
“Vlad Plasmius has issued a challenge for the throne,” Clockwork begins, not even saying hello. That sends a shiver down Jazz’s spine. The old time ghost usually finds the time for pleasantries or makes it with his ability. If he’s saving his strength, it means he’s going to need it later. “It is a challenge by conquest and as is tradition both sides will have three months to gather their armies.”
“There is no way Fruitloop doesn’t have something up his sleeves,” snarls Ellie, eyes flashing. “He knows that you have the support of the Far Frozen, Medieval Kingdom and Olympian Greece. If he wants to beat you he needs to do better than that. ”
“That is true, Princess Ellie,” Pandora says, folding one set of her hands in front of her face, while the other interacts with the screen on the table. Her plume of magenta fire presses closer to the helmet it comes from, the flames growing more focused as she thinks. Their files on every major ghost haunt pop up on the screen, filling every inch of it. “However, we are only three haunts out of thousands in the Realms. If Plasmius manages to curry favor with enough of them we could find ourselves at a disadvantage.”
“Who is likely to side with Vlad?” asks Tucker. He has that tone of voice he gets whenever he’s deep in a hackathon.
“Unfortunately, quite a few haunts,” answers Dorathea, beginning to sort through and categorize haunts at a speed that leaves Jazz dizzy. “After the reign of Queen Persephone, having a halfa monarch is seen as a desirable thing, but his highness and Plasmius share that particular advantage. Most of ghost society is concerned over how young the prince is and how it seems that he doesn’t truly wish to hold the crown. While being twenty years dead is not much to a ghost, it’s still better than being only three years dead, and Plasmius most definitely wishes to hold the crown.”
Jazz looks over at her brother. His knuckles are white from how tight his fists are and he’s glaring helplessly at the table.
She knows her brother; being a king terrifies him, though she’s never been able to get exactly why it does.
“But didn’t we have enough people on our side to fight off Pariah last time?” Danny asks, with the kind of tightness in his voice that speaks of hope expecting to be crushed.
“Pariah was an immensely unpopular ruler that barely lasted a century,” Pandora explains matter-of-factly. “The fact that he gathered as big of an army as he did is nothing short of miraculous, and by comparison to past wars it was minuscule.”
“The fact you managed to match it speaks of your prowess, Great One,” placates Frostbite, sending a sharp look at Pandora. “It was a small army for a Royal ghost to command. For a year-old practically unknown ghost? It was impressive.”
“Right, right,” Danny says, roughly running his hands through his hair. Both Tucker and Sam notice and grab one of his hands each, holding them, both keeping Danny from hurting himself and reassuring him. “So what do we have to do?”
“Forge alliances,” says Dorathea.
“Train for battle,” continues Pandora.
“Find out what Plasmius is planning,” finishes Frostbite.
“Focus on making alliances first,” instructs Clockwork. He offers no explanation as to why, not that Jazz expected him to offer one.
All of them watch as Dorathea finishes sorting the files. “I’ve separated into three groups: likely to ally with us, likely to stand against us and undecided. From the ‘likely ally’, the most important one is the Egyptian delegation. We already have quite the advantage since Prince-Pharaoh Tucker has such a stark connection with–”
Jazz catches the second that Danny’s attention wavers. She internally sighs. She’s very aware her brother is not good at sitting still, he needs to be doing, so of course chatting around a table is not going to keep his attention for long. Already thinking of a few ways to make this easier for Danny to pay attention to, she reaches towards his shoulder and–
“Why is Lady Gotham in the undecided pile?” Danny asks, curiously sliding the file out.
“Lady Gotham doesn’t get involved in wider conflicts,” explains Dorathea, still focused on the ‘ally’ files. “Gotham City is almost as close to the Realms as Amity Park, but the myriad curses placed on its soil has guaranteed that it is as toxic to ghosts as it is to humans. The sheer suffering inside its borders has curdled nearly all of the deathblood, what you all know as ‘ectoplasm’, into death rot. The Lady of Shadows has her hands full keeping rotting ghosts from ending each other or attacking the living.”
“Huh…” Danny says, his eyes flickering across the picture of the Lady on the files. “What if we solved that for her? We could clean up the city a little and that’d leave her free to help us. Maybe we could even break a few of the curses too!”
“It’s not very likely,” Dorathea continues, fiddling a little with her dragonheart necklace. “She’s famously territorial over her city, trying to go into will be met with–”
“She already gave me permission to enter. She even gave me permission to stay.”
Pandora’s plume of fire flares in surprise. Frostbite’s fur puffs up like a furball. Dorathea gapes in a very unladylike manner.
“Is Gotham that really big of a deal?” asks Tucker, looking from one person to the other.
“Yes!” Pandora says, throwing both her sets of arms into the air. “Lady Gotham is already powerful. If the toxicity of the deathblood in her city could be lessened, she wouldn’t have to use so much of her power in curing her own rot! Having her as a fighter would be invaluable and that’s without mentioning all of the powerful ghosts under her command!”
“She could even further help us gain allies,” remarks Dorathea, frantically pulling up other files. “She famously has very good relations with the Kryptonian haunts, since her Knights have kept the last Children of Krypton alive so many times. And just having her open support would do wonders for your reputation!”
“I’m going to a Wayne gala in a week,” says Sam, tapping her black nails on the table. “I could go there and slip away for a while to do some recon.”
“You just want an excuse to not go to a boring rich people party,” says Danny, grinning impishly.
Sam hits him in the shoulder. Danny laughs.
In her streets, her veins, shadows flow. She is the flickering darkness of a dying lightbulb and the curl of the shade cast upon an alleyway. Her heartbeat is the murmur of a mother shushing her child and the weeping of a man bleeding out in a forgotten warehouse. She is Gotham. Her Identity, her Obsession, and her Haunt, all in one.
She spares a drop of her power, the little shadow breaking off from the whole to flit between old brick and forgotten litter. It takes the silhouette of a robin, wiggling underneath the crack of a window and into a shadowed apartment.
The apartment is old and small, but the inside betrays the fact that it is well-cared for. Neatly laid-out and framed weapons line the walls, and an old bookshelf stands proudly in the corner full of alphabetized books. The bed is made, dishes are laid out to dry in the sink.
Yet, there is a plate of pasta long gone cold on the coffee table beside an open can of soda, gone flat. The television is on but shows only static. A mess of paper covers the table and the floor. There are old bloody bandages bundled up in a corner.
Jason Todd lies on the floor, eyes open but unseeing.
The little shadow of a bird lands on his open palm. His heartbeat is so faint it’s almost non-existent and his fingers twitch as if he was reaching for something and didn’t have the energy to grasp it. Jason doesn’t react at all.
The bird flies over to Jason’s chest, softly laying its head on his sternum. The hum of his half-formed Core is quieter than it should be. Rage rises from its depths to try and patch the misshapen parts but it’s not enough. It’s no longer enough.
In a flurry of wings, the bird flies towards Jason’s cheek. A tear, green and bright, drips from where the bird’s eye would be and lands on Jason’s half-open mouth. A spasm of movement goes through his entire body and he blinks multiple times. He starts shaking his head and getting up slowly.
The bird dissolves into shadow before he can notice it.
Wait just a little longer, my child. Wait. Survive. The Phantom is on his way.