#A How To Hero Event

[bet-on-me-13]

Fenton, the Ghost Hunter Hero

So! When Danny first saw a Ghost attacking his school, he was still terrified of his parents finding out about his Powers.

He looked exactly the same in his Ghost Form, sounded the same, he even had the Hazmat Suit his parents had custom made for him on as a Ghost. There was no way anybody wouldn't immediately find him out if he tried to stop Lunch Lady with his Powers, it was so obvious!

But he couldn't just leave her there. She had crossed through the Portal that he opened, and was attacking his friends. He needed to stop her somehow!

So he tried, he just didn't use his Powers. He stole a bunch of his parents Inventions, fixed the broken ones so they actually worked, and ran in to stop Lunch Lady as a Human. The battle lasted far longer than he would have liked, but eventually he managed to stop her and shove her into the Thermos.

And from there on out, he just kept doing it. Danny became the Town's defacto Hero, since his parents were too Incompetent and he had the ability to actually beat the Ghosts, he had to protect the people he had endangered.

Soon enough people began to notice his Heroics. Mr Lancer didn't stop him when he ran out of the classroom, Dash stopped shoving him in Lockers, and his parents were Ecstatic when they found out he had gone into the "Family Business".

He still kept his Ghost Form hidden from his parents and the Public though. It was still too dangerous.

He only ever used his Ghost Form while in the Ghost Zone so he could blend in, and avoid being attacked by the multiple Ghosts who he had forced back in there. Danny Fenton was a Ghost Hunter, Phantom was just another Ghost wandering the Ghost Zone.

(Though he did gain some infamy by defeating some powerful ghosts, like Aragon or Plasmius)

Years down the line, Fenton remained the respected Ghost Hunting Hero of Amity Park, his greatest accomplishment being the defeat of Pariah Dark, the Ghost King.

That battle had actually drawn outside attention to the town for a change, and it wasn't long before Danny was offered a spot on the Justice League's Junior Team. It wasn't every day when the evil Ruler of another Dimension was defeated by a non-powered Human, so it actually sparked some interest in the Town.

Unfortunately, Danny couldn't accept the Invitation.

If he joined the Justice League, it ws only a matter of time before one of their multitude of Magic Users realized the truth and outed him as a Ghost. He couldn't take that chance.

He was content staying as a small town Hero dealing with a "minor" Ghost Problem, no need to overcomplicate matters.

That is, until the JL contacted him again a few months later. Apparently, their Time Travelers had warned of an Evil Ghost known as Phantom, who would one day grow so powerful he would destroy the world and leave it in ruins. They needed his help as an expert Ghost Hunter to track down Phantom, for the safety of the world.

Problem. This version of Danny had never actually met Dan, since his history went so differently. Now he is terrified of what event could have led to him becoming the Worst Supervillain in History.

[amaranthdahlia]

art dump of my pookie........ ohboy

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[c00kiesart]

✨👽💖🍩✨

Twitter // kofi

[raineandsky]

#101

It’s six in the evening. The villain knows this from the telltale sound of plastic scraping against the wooden floor. The sound is accompanied by the undeniably incredible smell of food.

They don’t bother turning their gaze from the window—they can see the hero in the reflection anyway. They nudge the tray into the room as far as they dare, lingering awkwardly on the threshold for a moment.

“Finding everything okay?” they ask after an unbearably thick silence.

“Found everything but my morality,” the villain retorts flatly. “Keeping me in here won’t make me a goody two-shoes like you, y’know.”

The villain had expected worse; concrete floors, metal bars. But here they are, in a plush bed, looking out to the beautiful scenery beyond, a goddamn lasagne sitting on a plate for them. 

“Was compassion not a good enough reason to have you in here the first three times?” the hero asks, their voice halfway between confused and joking. “I get the impression you like it though, seeing as you haven’t… left this room.”

The villain scoffs. “Escaped, you mean.”

“Left,” the hero corrects. “You’re not… locked in here, you know.”

The villain finally snaps their gaze from the window. The hero flinches slightly at the speed of it. “What?”

“You’re not locked in here.” The hero shifts on their feet restlessly. “Did you never even try the door?”

It’s too embarrassing to admit that it was too nice here to bother trying to leave. “I like to get my escapes right first time. I won’t try it until I need to.”

“Right.” The hero shuffles again. “Well, there’s a lot of villains who know you’re here and have been wondering where you are.”

“Villains like who?”

The hero smiles, like they’ve fallen into a trap. “Come outside and find out.”

The villain scowls at that. The hero raises their eyebrows expectantly. “Eat your food,” they say casually. “Then come say hi, okay?”

“No.”

The hero sighs, like this is a conversation they’ve had a thousand times. “The door’s always open,” they say gently. “Come see the others when you feel up to it.”

They linger in the doorway for a moment but the villain offers no response, so they simply sigh defeatedly and carefully shut the door. 

Tsch. Does the hero think they’re stupid? They’d open that door and heroes would descend on them.

The day they leave this room, it’ll be as part of their greatest escape yet.

[creakysocks]

I was thinking abt piccolo and gohan talking after the events of superhero and wound up with this interaction between them

[sapphic-luthor]

officially done with the first half of s2!!!! gf’s single main reaction was “why are there so many men” because my god, they really did pack this fucking season full of men. other thoughts include:

“yay to the lesbians, nay to the boys”

her heart still bleeds for poor kelly from last season

she doesn’t have any particularly strong feelings toward lena yet but did immediately believe in her when she was being fake bad and releasing medusa. is currently yelling “FREE LENA” bc everyone has turned against her

believes in her heart of hearts that cat is going to come back and wants her to be like mayor or something very powerful

i personally am surprised how much i fucking despise james as guardian, i don’t remember thinking he was as annoying last time but oh my god. the men’s egos are paper thin in this show god forbid one (1) of them not get to be the hero for three seconds he WILL find a way to make everything about himself

[it-came-autumnally]

the event name wasn't lying, he really did burn his soul (and the people. rip vivid street akito set everything on fire)

(I am joking but some of the phrasing for the fire symbolism is almost comical... out of context it sounds like Akito’s literally starting fires)

[m-for-now]

Does anyone have fun headcanons for some random events that happened at Camp Jupiter during the time of the Titan war? Because we know next to nothing about the Romans but I refuse to believe they didn't have any crazy weird events and quests.

Like, if the Seven were to talk about the time before HoO (or generally any Romans and Greeks) and Percy and Annabeth would go like "Oh and we went through the sea of monsters and ended up on Circe's Island that one time" or "and that's how Percy showed up to his own funeral", sure, that would be a crazy story. But Jason also defeated a Titan on his own and Reyna only ever went to CJ After Percy and Annabeth were at Circe's island, what was the crazy stuff that happened in between?

Also what did the Romans think Caused the Titan War since they obviously couldn't have known it was Luke?

[doodlejoltik]

my favourite writing device is having an un-Rei-liable narrator

[eruscreaminginthedistance]

Tbh the concept that there'll only be three very tangential Inquisition choices carrying over into Veilguard is incredibly shit but also doesn't surprise me in the least.

In 2012, Bioware turned around to tell everyone who had played all 3 Mass Effect games that none of their decisions mattered. It was more important to streamline everything for the casual frathouse crowd.

They're doing the same thing with Veilguard now. It already feels much more like a Mass Effect pastiche than previous installments; I guess now the company is veering fully into action territory, considering DA fans's sales as guaranteed and developing their game for the broadest spectrum of potential buyers

[willfulscarlet]

On the one hand, stop trying to make Hawke happen. The GA name is not the issue here. On the other, I’m so glad Mia was shown to be actively looking out for Connor and that we got an actual character interaction, not just action quips.

Of course Connor’s a bit fucked up at the moment, and is not taking Ollie’s actions well. He’s not had much more than that one evening on the beach to regroup since leaving Lazarus Island, and Mia would notice and not want to let him struggle alone. The Brothers Arrow are so important to each other, but Roy’s got rather a lot on his own plate - and Mia and Connor are family too.

[kacchanot-fucking-deal-with-this]

me: let's just add a small scene to the opening chapter real quick- me: oh fuck oh no oh shit it's twenty pages long now what the fuck

[grimstrawberry]

Saddest dead boy in the world keeps smiling.

[jiilll]

I desperately need celebrity au solangelo like imagine the potential of singer will being at the peak of his career facing his worst controversy and then there’s heart throb actor nico who’s pretty much a star from childhood, they met at an event, and boom LETS GO!! fwb, secret sort of relationship, nico helping will get through the public scrutiny, will slowly realising nico’s kinda hot, will having breakdowns about his feelings and writing 8371838 songs about pining and longing, might as well throw a bit of angsty ‘oh so you’re embarrassed to be seen with me’ accusations because im a masochist…. all i know is by the end when will is thriving again with a new album on tour nico will be fawning and dying as will points to him in the crowd singing love songs, not caring that the live camera caught that, and makes out the whole day after as twitter is in shambles because WDYM WILL SOLACE’S LATEST HEART WRENCHING SAPPY YEARNING ALBUM IS ABOUT NICO DI ANGELO FROM DISNEY CHANNEL???!!!

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”