#The Phantom Speaks review

[spryfilm]

Blu-ray review: “The Phantom Speaks” (1945)

“The Phantom Speaks” (1945) Horror Running Time: 69 minutes Written by: John K. Butler Directed by: John English Featuring: Richard Arlen, Stanley Ridges, Lynne Roberts, Tom Powers, Charlotte Wynters and Jonathan Hale Critical Commentary “The Phantom Speaks” is a cinematic masterpiece that continues to captivate audiences with its enigmatic storytelling and timeless allure. Released in…

[stealingyourbones]

Never will I stop with the steadfast notion that folks in the DPXDC fandom should interact with at least some form of canon DC media.

There are comics, tv shows, radio dramas both old and new, podcasts, movies, magazines, so much shit that intentionally avoiding the media is simply preventing yourself from spawning new ideas and gaining a new appreciation for a fandom that you’re already in.

The Superman Radio Show has episodes 11 minutes long. A lot of the TV shows don’t have episodes that surpass 30 minutes and most are nearly fully clipped on the official DC YouTube channel. The amount of fan made motion comics is astounding. The amount of fanmade animations is equally as incredible.

[tarmac-rat]

Sir does this look like a Wendys to you

[blossomingbooks]

Taylor Swift eras as books

Whether you're a fan or not, you definitely know about Taylor Swift's massive The Eras Tour, a show conceived to homage each "era" — that is, each album — from the artist's discography.

With that in mind (and because I am, in fact, a Swiftie), I thought it would be fun (that is, I couldn't resist) to connect each of those "eras" to a book that I've reviewed here on the blog.

After much deliberation and trying to think of the albums conceptually, lyrically and aesthetically, here are the conclusions that I came to:

1. "Taylor Swift" — Anne of Green Gables

For her self-titled and debut album, I tried to think of the most naïve narratives I had read, and so I naturally gravitated towards children's literature. From all that I've read in that genre, Anne Shirley seemed to me like the most fitting character for this album. After all, Swift's debut work is not only permeated by her inexperience and innocence, but also showcases some of the most intense emotions one feels, unfiltered, in one's youth. The song "Picture To Burn" could easily have been written during one of Anne's most raging fits, while "A Place in this World" perfectly describes L.M. Montgomery's orphan:

"I'll be strong, I'll be wrong, oh, but life goes on Oh, I'm just a girl trying to find a place in this world"

2. "Fearless" — Romeo and Juliet

Taylor Swift's sophomore album was an easy one to compare to a work of literature: romantic, brave and hopeful, it instantly transports one to the setting of a love story. And that is, of course, the title of one of the main singles of the "Fearless" era. In the well-known hit "Love Story", Swift directly references one of the most famous romances in the history of literature: that of Romeo and Juliet, the titular characters in William Shakespeare's most famous play.

"Little did I know that you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles And my daddy said, 'Stay away from Juliet'"

3. "Speak Now" — Little Women

Swift's third album is her declaration of independence as a songwriter. Completely self-written, the lyrics are imbued with an intimate, confessional tone about the highs and lows of coming of age. Through this train of thought, it made sense to me to relate it to Louisa May Alcott's most famous novel, Little Women. The story of the four March sisters spans 10 years of their coming-of-age, much of it through the perspective of Jo (a very autobiographical character), the one who wants to become a writer and who eventually writes about their lives. "Never Grow Up" is a song that reminds me of this story:

"Take pictures in your mind of your childhood room Memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home Remember the footsteps, remember the words said"

4. "Red" — The Scarlet Letter

"Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly"

These lyrics from the album's titular song are a perfect summary for the affair between Hester Prynne and Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Apart from the obvious color parallelism, Swift's fourth album "Red" also deals with an intense and destructive romance. The story of the adultery committed by a married woman with a minister, which is considered sinful by the Puritan society which they inhabit, is very much "Sad Beautiful Tragic":

"And you've got your demons, and darling, they all look like me (...) What a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair"

5. "1989" — The Age of Innocence

Swift's fifth album brought a paradigm change for her music — just like Edith Wharton brought a paradigm change with this novel by being the first woman to ever win the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction. 1989 is where Swift starts to address the repercussions of fame, which recalls the social performance and pressures of New York aristocracy in the Gilded Age. That's the setting for this novel, in which Newland Archer starts falling in love with Ellen Olenska, his wife's cousin. Seen by society as a "'Slut!'", Ellen is a very progressive free-spirit and their affair is very similar to the lyrics in "I Know Places":

"You stand with your hand on my waistline It's a scene and we're out here in plain sight I can hear them whisper as we pass by (...) Baby, I know places we won't be found"

6. "reputation" — The Phantom of the Opera

The rollout of Swift's sixth album was the most dramatic of her career. After a hiatus prompted by media scrutiny and celebrity feuds, she mysteriously blanked out all of her social media and created suspense by posting videos of snakes. The aggressive sounds and overall themes of rage and revenge in this album recall none other than "The Phantom" of the Opera himself, whose reputation precedes him. In Gaston Leroux's famous novel, the mystery of the Opera ghost keeps everyone on their toes, including singer Christine Daaé, who is haunted and kidnapped by the titular character.

"Knew he was a killer first time that I saw him Wondered how many girls he had loved and left haunted But if he's a ghost, then I can be a phantom Holdin' him for ransom"

7. "Lover" — Emma

In this Jane Austen novel, matchmaker Emma Woodhouse plays cupid for everyone around her but wants no romance for herself. Described as high-spirited and “an imaginist”, her lively personality matches the bubbly and dreamy aesthetic of Swift's seventh studio album. Containing some of her funniest lyrics, Lover is very fitting for this 19th century comedy of manners. Emma's ultimate self-discovery, about her feelings for long-time family friend Mr. Knightley, turns her into the one thing she never expected to be: a lover.

"I've been the archer I've been the prey Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?"

8. "folklore" — Circe

Reading this book was a wild experience, because so many parts of this Greek mythology figure's story kept reminding me of folklore lyrics. It got to the point of me creating a Circe playlist with 12 tracks from the album, arranged in the order of where they fit in the narrative. It starts with her parents, Helios (personification of the sun) and the naiad Perse, and it spans thousands of years, including Circe's exile (!) to an isolated island (which in turn feels a lot like "the lakes"). Later, I couldn't help but listen to "august" and "cardigan" through the lens of her relationship with Odysseus. But it's "my tears ricochet" that resonates most perfectly with her plotline:

"We gather here, we line up, weepin' in a sunlit room And if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes, too (...) I didn't have it in myself to go with grace And so the battleships will sink beneath the waves"

9. "evermore" — To the Lighthouse

This Virginia Woolf novel is as melancholic and introspective as Swift's most wintery album. In the first part of the narrative, I couldn't help but think that Mrs. Ramsay would find some catharsis in the lyrics of "tolerate it"; while, parallelly, unmarried young painter Lily Briscoe does her portrait. In the final part of the narrative, on the other hand, "happiness" would echo in my mind, for reasons I won't spoil.

"I sit and watch you readin' with your head low (...) I sit and watch you I notice everything you do or don't do (...) Use my best colors for your portrait"

10. "Midnights" — Madame Bovary

This was the hardest album for me to choose a book for, probably because I find it to not be as thematically cohesive as the others. However, Gustave Flaubert's anti-heroine quite literally fits Swift's lead single for Midnights: Emma Bovary's actions are heavily scrutinized by her judging provincial neighbors. Moreover, the "antihero" trope was popularized by Romanticism, a movement embodied by the protagonist herself in this Realist critique.

"It's me, hi. I'm the problem, it's me At tea time, everybody agrees I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero"

11. "The Tortured Poets Department" — The Yellow Wallpaper

Ironically, for Swift's longest album I chose the shortest book of this list. That's because Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story perfectly encapsules the trope of the madwoman, which is the starting point of this album. The music video for its lead single, "Fortnight", portrays Swift in a mental facility, while in the album's prologue she mentions a "temporary insanity" and a "manic phase". The Tortured Poets Department also has some of her saddest, most heart-wrenching music; fittingly, the protagonist in "The Yellow Wallpaper" starts the narrative with a nervous depression that slowly turns into madness:

"You don't get to tell me about sad (...) You don't get to tell me you feel bad Is it a wonder I broke? Let's hear one more joke Then we could all just laugh until I cry So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream 'Who's afraid of little old me?'"

[cywatcheshorror]

Phantom of the Mall: Eric's Revenge

Personal rating: 2.5/5 ⭐

Release year: 1989

Watched: on personal Blu-ray

Content warnings: Fire trauma, sexism, eye horror, gore, animal attacks (snake), sexual assault, capitalist greed

Summary: For high school sweethearts Eric and Melody, love's going dream turns into a nightmare when Eric apparently dies in a fire which engulfs his family home. One year later and Melody is trying to move on with her life, taking up a job at the new Midwood Small along with her friends. But the mall, which stands on the very site of Eric's former home, has an uninvited guest—a shadowy, scarred figure who haunts its air ducts and subterranean passageways, hellbent on exacting vengeance on the mall's crooked developers. (—taken from case summary on blu-ray)

Review and thoughts below the cut:

This movie really was in love with its own pyrotechnics. Whoever did that work on this film deserved to be paid well, because they had their work cut out for them and the final product looked decent in that regard.

This is about the extent of what good I have to say for this film. The other point is that Suze and Buzz, Melody's side character friends, are honestly the most fun characters in the movie with the most heart. Everyone else? Not so much.

I'm ultimately not sure what this movie wanted to be. An homage to the Phantom of the Opera (particularly aspects of the stage musical,) yes. But the film's runtime is so packed full of other things that the elements drawn from or inspired by PotO tend to feel very surface-level, as the movie wants to be a slasher while going for a whodunit vibe. The whodunit isn't about the "Phantom" at all, we're informed even before we go into the movie of what's happening there. That entire aspect of the plot is more about understanding the capitalist corruption behind the mall's creation, and the movie does its best to make sure these plot points are cohesive to one another. Certainly they are on a logical front, but the two still tend to feel very separate at times, and it can lead to everything feeling disjointed.

This movie wasn't terrible. Certainly I've seen worse. But it felt very lackluster, which is sad to admit for a movie intended to be campy "modern" (read: 1980s) take on PotO. Perhaps I got my hopes up a little too high, but I'd heard a lot of good things about this and I'm sorry to say it wasn't for me. Time to look into rehoming my copy.

[astatia-ghast]

Pspspspsps

@jackdaw-sprite bait

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x dc AU: the watchtower gives out very strictly limited passes for visitors. They don’t need the world knowing that their HQ is in space after all, but sometimes family needed to visit.

Batman was the one to install the day pass system back when Dick was Robin- he needed the excuse to send Dick home to Alfred after a certain amount of time has passed and it just stuck. Unless you were a full time member, day passes were the best you got. Engineers and other supportive staff that weren’t members weren’t afforded day passes however- but Jazz is determined to be the one exception.

Jazz Fenton has been a psychologist for the JL for a year now (she just had a very productive performance review, thank you very much) and it’s been killing her to not tell Danny her office is in space. They do weekly dinners that he portals in for, and he knows that she takes a Zeta tube to work, but he’s technically not allowed to know that her office is a satellite. So, she sets a meeting with the man who started the system in the first place.

Batman is hard to read for most but she’s been his therapist for a while now, and she can tell he’s at least considering her request. Dinah couldn’t speak more kindly on Jazz and she’s been an asset to the JL in many ways since she was hired. Jazz’ arguments aren’t preposterous either- she’s submitted all of his identification papers, his background check, his job description and all of his friends names. She assured him that Danny will be able to keep a secret but when pressed she doesn’t reveal if he has any of his own.

Turns out, months of back and forth and negotiations were going be basically worthless- the second Danny got his little wrist band day pass, made it up via the zeta tube and got presented the view of Earth from the observation deck: he immediately transformed. Like zero caution, just went ghost and hyper fixated on the stars.

“You could have mentioned your Brother being Phantom. He’s been an ally to us for a while.” Batman grumbles in the way that only his family and she can tell through his deadpan.

“Yeah, I just thought that would’ve been a second visit conversation.”

[ouiouimochi]

We should kiss

pairing/s: jiro kirisaki x reader

genre/s: romance, comedy(?), plot of convenience

wc: 800 ish words

warning/s: wonky phone format, no beta we die like zenji sigh, plot holes but you pretend you don't see it, medical shit I say here may or may not be true— but pls do not immediately believe it, PC never catches a break, itty bitty minor spoilers up until episode 9, characters may be ooc

note/s: ngl if yuri sees this, he'd call me a quack and make a point that studying in the med field as I am now just proves how much of a quack I am— 🦆

sigh I should be reviewing but then inspiration struck me

⁠ *✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧*

You stood there absolutely confused as Yuri continued yapping about… something. What the actual fuck was he actually saying? The teal-haired male kept droning on while using fancy scientific and medical jargons.

You just nodded every now and then to show you were listening, but you were just doing it out of courtesy if you were being honest. You understood a few but couldn't piece together what he was trying to say.

All you could make of his blabbering was “saliva”, “immunity”, and “Jiro”.

Speaking of which, the other male cut in— you were unsure if it was for your sake or it was just his nature to do so, but you were grateful nonetheless. Until you visibly grew even more perplexed at the stoic male’s words.

“He means to say that we should kiss.” Jiro’s garnet eyes gauged your expression as a barely noticeable smirk crept itself up on his lips. Whether he meant to rouse certain reactions from you or not, you were sure he was snickering behind that deadpanned countenance.

Yuri makes a very disgruntled noise, “That's oversimplifying things, but as concise as always— nevermind that, I've hypothesized this would greatly improve Jiro's overall health.”

You weighed your options, however the Captain of Mortkranken was not yet done as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Consider the debt you owe us paid when you participate.” His use of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’ solidified the case that you didn't have a choice in the matter at all.

It didn't help that a phantom presence made itself known to you.

“My dear, a loveliest lady such as yourself shouldn't be forced like this even if he's my little brother…” Zenji’s voice dripped with concern, but it made the decision to decline even harder since you kind of felt bad.

You sighed and shook your head, briefly making eye contact with the ghost to reassure him before meeting the eyes of the Mortkranken ghouls.

“Fine.”

Jiro calmly approached you and immediately rested a hand on your lower back. Before you know it, you were eye level with his tired and attractive face. Your eyes widened in surprise.

“Wait, now?—” You last heard a dramatic gasp from Zenji, getting cut off as the tall, usually apathetic purple-haired man just casually locked his lips with yours.

Time slowed as his tongue slipped in to take advantage of your shock— you were just too stunned to kiss back even if you wanted to. You were just screaming on the inside at what was happening.

“Jiro! Jiro!! What on earth are you doing?!?!” Yuri's flustered response echoed loudly in the room, basically screeching at the taller ghoul.

“Is it not optimal to immediately test out a hypothesis when created?” Jiro voiced out logically after pulling away from the kiss, still holding you closely as his eyes looked at his captain’s before locking with yours. You swallowed a lump in your throat.

Your mind was swirling, your whole face basically heating up in embarrassment. You did not expect him to do that at all— in front of an audience well he didn't know zenji was there no less.

Jiro had the gall to laugh, allowing his normally unbothered personality to crack as he enjoys making fun of you as if it became his favorite pastime now. He licked his lips.

“Y-you heathen! Get a room and don't include me in the hypothesis testing!!!” The teal-haired ghoul expressed his distaste of the blatant display of intimacy right in front of his face.

Yuri turns away to pinch the bridge of his nose as he clicks his pen, pointing it at you still in Jiro’s arms— you didn't know why he was still holding you. Any longer, you feared you might grow comfortable.

“You, out. We have reports to record.”

And such you find yourself absentmindedly walking back to your dorm. Your fingers ghosting your lips, remembering the kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft. The way he held you wasn't uncomfortable either. And his tongue—

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thoughts.

‘It’s just another experiment.’

Too bad you actually enjoyed it.

⁠*✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧⁠*

sigh

taglist: @ryescapades (hi wifey even if u dunno this fandom *cri*), @minasfwoopyponytail , @akiakabane18 , @rottenzombrainz , + anyone else who wants to be added

[ghostchems]

phantom of the paradise - papa emeritus iv x reader

you go to a special screening of “phantom of the paradise” and end up being taken with the strange man who introduces the film

a/n: listen. i love awkward copia, i really do. but i also love seductive, mysterious, otherworldly copia and that is what this is. there’s just uh kissin’ here. also maybe this is me trying to get Ghost fans to watch this movie bc there’s so much ghost dna in it MAN. 3.7k words ao3 link.

Going to the movies alone never bothered you. In fact, over the years it's become one of your favorite pastimes. You can see whatever you want without worrying about finding a companion. Your taste is… well, it's your taste. Not everyone appreciates experimental '70s films or rock operas, which is exactly what you have planned for today. You've managed to snag a ticket to a rare showing of Brian De Palma's "Phantom of the Paradise" at your local independent theater. You first came across the film a few months ago, watching it nestled on your couch. From the moment it started, you knew it was something special.

You find a seat in the theater's center, perfectly positioned for the screen. Settling in, you cross your legs and place a notebook on your lap. Your pen taps rhythmically as you await the film's start, ready to jot down thoughts for your future Letterboxd review. The theater gradually fills, buzzing with excitement for this cult film on the big screen. You sigh deeply, relaxing into the plush seat. This feels like a well-deserved treat after a long work week, a chance to escape the real world for an hour and a half of drug-fueled musical numbers.

The lights start to dim and the chatter subsides. A man walks out on the stage, immediately capturing the theater’s attention. His appearance is nothing short of ghostly. His face is painted like a skeleton, with stark white bone-like features contrasting against the dark hollows of his eyes and cheeks. What's most striking, however, are his eyes - one a piercing white, the other an eerie green. He's dressed in a stylishly tattered suit jacket paired with a vibrant blue cravat at his neck. You glance down at your notepad and write:

Spooky ghost man.

He approaches the small podium and adjusts the microphone awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak with a hint of an Italian accent, his captivating tone immediately drawing in the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, 'Phantom of the Paradise' isn't just a film to me." He pauses, his mismatched eyes scanning the crowd. "It taught me about the power of music, the price of ambition, and the beauty of the bizarre. It inspired me to embrace my own uniqueness." His words hang in the air for a moment before he concludes, "I hope it moves you as deeply as it moved me. Enjoy the show." His lips quirk into a barely perceptible grin as he taps his notecard against the podium. There’s scattered applause.

The lights dim further, signaling the film's start, yet your gaze remains transfixed on the ghost man, his stark white skull paint a beacon in the darkness. As you attempt to redirect your focus to the screen, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. The ghost man has silently glided into your row, settling a few seats away. Throughout the film, his presence lingers beside you, more aware of him than you would like to admit. His reactions prove oddly charming—a soft chuckle punctuating comedic moments, a subtle lean forward during tense scenes. What captivates you most is his quiet humming along to select musical numbers, his voice a barely perceptible whisper that, surprisingly, enhances rather than detracts from your enjoyment.

His enthusiasm is palpable, and you can't help but feel intrigued. As "The Hell of It" plays during the end credits, his soft singing drifts to your ears. The haunting melody lingers in the air as you find yourself unconsciously tapping your foot to the rhythm. When the lights slowly come up, you turn to catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost man, only to find his seat empty. Blinking in surprise, you shift your gaze to your notebook. You realize there are more notes about the him than the movie itself.

Gathering your belongings, you linger in your seat for a moment, still processing the film and the man’s lingering presence beside you. You make your way to the lobby, your eyes scanning the crowd, searching for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Without thinking, you’re already stepping out onto the street, the cool afternoon air hitting your face. You pause, unsure of what you're looking for or why. That's when you spot him—a flash of white and tattered elegance disappearing into an alley behind the theater. Without thinking, you follow, your footsteps quickening as you approach the narrow passage.

You round the corner, you catch sight of him walking away, unhurried and almost graceful. You hesitate, torn between calling out to him and silently observing this strange, captivating figure as he moves further into the shadows. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks. Without turning around, he speaks, amusement in his voice. "Are you following me, friend?" There's no accusation in his tone, just a gentle question. He slowly turns to face you, his mismatched eyes twinkling with an odd sort of understanding. "I suppose the film wasn't quite enough for you either, hm?" He chuckles softly, seemingly at ease with the situation.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "I... I really liked your introduction," you stammer, feeling a bit foolish. "I'm sorry for following you. I don't usually do this kind of thing."

The ghost man's painted lips curl into a smile. "No need to apologize, tesoro. I tend to have this effect on people. Though, not typically from my film introductions." He takes a step closer, his eyes studying you with curiosity.

"Thank you," you say, offering a small smile. "I thought your introduction was really nice. It added something personal." You hesitate for a moment before continuing. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... your appearance. Are you like dressed as a character from something?”

The ghost man's smile widens. "Ah, always the question, isn't it?" he says, running a hand through his graying brown hair hair. "This is… eh, me in a way. It’s a long story." He chuckles softly, the sound echoing in the alley. His expression shifts, a hint of shyness creeping into his demeanor. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be easier if I showed you," he says, his eyes searching yours. "Would you like to see?"

"How could you show me?" you ask, curiosity and caution in your voice.

His ghost man's eyes brighten. "There's something not far from here that will explain better than my words ever could," he says, gesturing down the alley. "It's just around the corner."

A part of you suspects this could be a trap. You're reminded of the film—how Leach's initial trust in Swan led to his downfall. Yet, despite the warning bells in your head, you find yourself nodding. "Alright," you say, surprising yourself. "I'll come with you."

The ghost man's painted face softens. "Thank you for trusting me," he says quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice. "This way, per favore." He turns and begins to walk deeper into the alley, his movements slow and deliberate. Your eyes fall to his pants, tattered just like his coat and tight. You trail behind him, notebook still in hand as a sense of unease begins to creep over you. The dimly lit alley seems to go on forever. Where could he be taking you? Why not just explain himself?

After a few minutes of walking, you find yourself standing before a small chapel tucked away a few blocks from downtown. There's something unsettling about its appearance—the weathered stone seems to absorb the dim streetlight, and the windows are dark and opaque. Your gaze falls to a few lone gravestones in the yard. The ghost man gestures towards the entrance.

"After you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. You swallow a breath before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The interior is dimly lit, black flickering candles casting long shadows across the walls. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you gasp. Directly across from you stands a large stained glass window, its center dominated by a portrait of the ghost man himself. The inscription reads 'Papa Emeritus IV'. The window depicts him in all his skeletal glory, a coy look on his face, a barely perceptible smiles. The craftsmanship is exquisite and with vibrant colors, namely the bright blue robe adorned with intricate yellow and black designs that cloaked him. You turn to Papa, questions forming on your lips, but he's already moving towards the window, his eyes fixed on his own image.

He reaches out, his gloved fingers tracing the outline of his own face in the glass. "This is who I am," he says, his voice echoing in the empty chapel. Papa's finger traces further down to the script on the window: Avē, avē Antichriste! Avē Satana! A shiver runs down your spine as you recognize the Latin phrase. It reminds you of "The Omen." As you absorb the stained glass and the chapel's eerie ambiance, you're struck by how much Papa resembles the Phantom—not of the Paradise, but of the Opera. You can't help but draw parallels between the two figures, especially given that he's all but lured you to his secret lair.

Lost in your thoughts and the mesmerizing stained glass, you fail to notice Papa's approach. You feel his presence behind you — a chill runs down your spine as you feel his breath on your neck. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Papa's voice is soft, almost wistful.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Your heart races as you feel Papa's gloved hands gently come to rest on your shoulders. The touch is light, almost comforting, but it sends a jolt of electricity through your body. The stained glass before you seems to shimmer in the candlelight, Papa's painted face both mesmerizing and unsettling. You remain frozen, unable to speak, as Papa's fingers give your shoulders a gentle squeeze.

His touch lingers for a moment before he steps back, allowing you to breathe again. "Tell me," Papa's voice is low, almost hypnotic, "what do you think of my little sanctuary?"

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "It's... nice," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like something out of a dream...” Or a nightmare, you think to yourself. You turn to face Papa, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Why did you bring me here?"

Papa's lips curl into a warm smile. "To show you a glimpse of my world," he replies, his voice a low, melodious purr. "As I mentioned, I have an effect on certain people—those with open minds who might be receptive to an offer, perhaps... or simply to satisfy their curiosity."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious, the theme of this encounter. "An offer? What kind of offer?" Your jaw clenches as you recall the film, half-expecting Papa to produce a contract like Swan did with Leach.

Papa's grin widens, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth. "Ah, curious, aren't we? Well, cara, I represent a rather... unique congregation. We're always looking to expand our flock, so to speak."

"Congregation?"

"Yes," Papa nods and a gust of air makes the candles in the room flicker. "I'm part of what you might call the Satanic church. But, eh, not to worry," he adds quickly, noticing your expression, "it’s not what you think. We're about celebrating individuality, embracing the unconventional, and most importantly... music."

You blink, struggling to process this information. "Music?" The connection suddenly clicks. "That explains why you sponsored the film."

"Oh yes," Papa says, his voice taking on a passionate tone. "Music is at the heart of what we do. It's how we express ourselves, how we connect with each other and the world around us. We have a band of ghouls and I am the bandleader — eh, but that is not my only job. It is my favorite part, though. Other than sponsoring cult films, of course.”

You hesitate, your eyes darting around the small chapel. There's an undeniable allure to Papa's words and presence, but a nagging voice in your head warns you this could be a trick. Yet, something about his sincerity and the passion in his voice when he speaks of music resonates with you.

"I... I'm not sure," you say, your voice wavering slightly. "All I had planned for today was to see a movie… not this."

Papa's expression softens. "I saw you in the theater. Your passion for the film, your openness to the unconventional. I, eh, thought you might be someone who could appreciate what we offer. Someone who might want to... explore a bit further." His words strike a chord within you, resonating with a part of yourself you didn't know existed. Your heart flutters, excitement and nervousness coursing through your veins. As if sensing your stress, Papa reaches out, his gloved hand gently cupping your face. His thumb brushes along your jaw, the touch electrifying and soothing.

"There's no need to decide right now," Papa murmurs, his mismatched eyes locked with yours. "But perhaps... a taste of what we offer?" His painted lips curl into a soft, inviting smile.

Your heart races, feeling trapped. Is this really happening? You know the smart thing would be to leave, to get far away from here and forget this ever happened. But, you find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his piercing white eye.

"I... I think I'd like that," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the hushed chapel. A burning curiosity has taken hold of you, one you can't shake. Papa's otherworldly aura envelops you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His hand drifts from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. With his other hand, he takes your notebook—the last barrier between you—and tosses it over his shoulder.

Your breath catches in your throat as Papa leans in, his painted face drawing closer. As his lips meet yours, time seems to slow. The kiss is unlike anything you've ever experienced—soft yet electrifying, tender yet passionate. The gentle pressure of his lips sends waves of heat through your body, each one more intense than the last. You find yourself leaning into him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tattered coat. Papa's arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer until you're pressed against him. The scent of incense, candlewax, and a hint of brimstone envelops you, making your head spin.

His lips move against yours with increasing fervor, and you feel yourself getting lost in the sensuality of the moment. The kiss deepens, and you taste a hint of something sweet on his tongue. It's intoxicating, addictive, and you find yourself wanting more. His gloved hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue explores your mouth with skilled precision. Your knees weaken, and you cling to him for support, your fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. The kiss seems to last for an eternity, stealing your breath and leaving you dizzy with desire. When Papa finally pulls away, you gasp for air, your chest heaving. Your lips feel swollen and sensitive, tingling with the lingering effects of his touch.

His appearance is noticeably more disheveled now, his painted face slightly smudged and his tattered coat askew. His mismatched eyes gleam with a wild intensity, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, mirroring your own breathlessness. It's clear that the kiss affected him just as profoundly as it did you. His gloved hands still rest on your waist, his grip firm yet gentle.

"My, my," he purrs, his voice husky and low. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?" A sly smile plays on his lips as he regards you with a mixture of admiration and desire. The candles in the chapel seem to flicker more intensely, casting dancing shadows across his painted features. “May I kiss you again?” When he asks so politely, how can you say no?

"Yes," you breathe, barely audible even to yourself. "Please."

Papa's eyes flash with desire as he swiftly lifts you, his surprising strength catching you off guard. He sets you down on the altar, the cold stone a stark contrast to your heated skin. His lips crash against yours once more, hungry and demanding. His gloved hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You arch into his touch, lost in his enveloping presence. He draws your lower lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth along it, eliciting a gasp from you.

He plants a few kisses to the corner of your mouth, then drifts to your jaw and further down. His lips trace a tantalizing path along your jawline, each touch sending shivers down your spine. As he reaches the sensitive spot just below your ear, you feel his hot breath against your skin, causing goosebumps. Papa's kisses become more insistent as he moves down your neck with soft, feather-light touches and more passionate, open-mouthed kisses. Your breath hitches as he finds a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck and you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin.

You can't help but wonder if you've crossed a line you can't come back from — but do you really care at the moment?

Papa lifts his head to meet your gaze, his face paint now thoroughly smeared. You wonder if any has transferred onto you. He leans in, his strong nose brushing along your cheek as he presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly, the candles flicker out, plunging you both into darkness—save for the ethereal glow of the stained glass window. He rests hands resting on either side of you and his chest heaves with each breath. His ghostly eyes, glazed with desire, lock onto yours as he watches you catch your breath. "Will you consider joining my flock?" he asks, his voice husky.

You struggle to catch your breath, your mind still hazy from the intensity. "I... I'll think about it," you manage to say between gasps, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his offer hangs in the air.

Papa's lips curl into a grin, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Take all the time you need, tesoro," he purrs. "When you're ready… I'll find you." He leans in, his painted face mere inches from yours. His gaze searches your face, a flicker of softness in its depths. With careful gentleness, he presses his lips to yours. This kiss is vastly different from his other kisses — tender, almost romantic. As he pulls away, you feel a pang of loss. Papa's smile returns as he takes a step back, his gaze never leaving yours. "Until we meet again," he murmurs.

You watch as he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the small chapel, growing fainter until they fade entirely. Left alone on the edge of the altar, you're surrounded by flickering candles and the lingering scent of incense. A part of you considers calling out, asking him to stay, but something holds you back. In the end, you let him go. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. Your legs feel shaky as you slide off the altar, adjusting your clothes with trembling hands. The cool air of the chapel hits your flushed skin, bringing you back to reality. Eye scan the dimly lit space, searching for your notebook. You spot it on a nearby pew, right where you must have dropped it earlier. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, you fumble for your pen. Your hand is still unsteady as you begin to scribble down the man’s name and the Latin on the stained glass, a reminder of the otherworldly encounter you just had.

With one last glance around the empty chapel, you clutch your notebook to your chest and make your way towards the exit. The outside world feels startlingly normal after what you've just experienced. Your feet hit the ground with renewed purpose as you head back to your apartment.

Your mind wanders as you walk home. You can't help but wonder if Papa's offer is similar to Swan's - a large contract signed in blood that would bind you to him until death. Perhaps you’re being dramatic. He seemed to model himself after the phantom, but you're not so sure of his intentions. There's something more sinister about Papa that sets him apart. The way he moved, the intensity of his gaze, the power of his touch - it all hints at something beyond human. You shiver, remembering the electrifying sensation of his kiss, the intoxicating taste on his tongue. Part of you is terrified, but another part is thrilled by his allure.

You approach your apartment but you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Papa's striking figure materialize from the shadows. The memory of his touch lingers on your skin, and you can still taste the sweetness of his kiss on your lips. You unlock your door with trembling hands and quickly close it once inside, leaning against it with a slow exhale. Your eyes fall on your laptop, and a sudden urge overtakes you. You rush to it, opening a new browser window. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before you type: "Papa Emeritus IV”.

There he is, Papa Emeritus IV, in all his ghoulish glory. The images match perfectly with the man you encountered in the chapel - the skull-like face paint, and his haunting white eye. You scroll through countless photos, some showing him in the tattered suit you saw today, others in the more elaborate robes depicted in the stained glass window. Your heart races as you dig deeper. The Satanic church he mentioned? It's real, though perhaps not in the traditional sense you might have imagined. It's more of a theatrical rock band called Ghost, with Papa as the frontman. Their music videos and live performances are a spectacle of occult imagery and rock opera grandeur, reminiscent of the very film you just watched.

Everything Papa told you checks out. The band of ghouls, his role as the bandleader, the emphasis on individuality and unconventional expression - it's all there, laid out in interviews, fan forums, and official band statements. You even find mentions of their penchant for sponsoring cult film screenings, just like the one you attended. As you lean back in your chair, a mix of emotions washes over you. Relief at him telling you the truth, confusion at his theatrics. Your fingers unconsciously trace your lips, remembering the electrifying kiss.

You can't help but wonder: what would joining his "flock" truly entail?

[astatia-ghast]

I’ve always enjoyed the ghost speak AU and have read a few fics like this before, but what I really like about your version is that it’s implied that ghost speak sounds terrifying. That raises a question, too: is the class terrified because they know what ghost speak sounds like and know that’s what Danny and Tucker are speaking, or does ghost speak just sound terrifying?

Either way, this was a great read! It’d be wonderful if you had more to add to this story!

when he's really tired, danny sometimes slips up and starts talking in ghost speak. the only ones who can understand him when he gets like this are tucker, sam, and jazz (because they're Liminal). of course, none of them realize this until danny slips up in public

Tucker hated English. The whole language was a confusing, contradictory mess. Honestly, the world would be a much better place if everyone just stopped talking and writing and only communicated using Timerio, preferably with several screens between them.

The blank word document stared back at him, mockingly. The sounds of his classmates typing away at their own projects – typing, normally his favorite sound in the world, how dare the project turn it against him! – filled the room. The clock in the corner of his screen told him they had twenty more minutes left in class; twenty more minutes until lunch, where he could at least enlist Sam’s help.

He wished she shared this period with him and Danny, but she was taking AP Lit this year. Tucker glanced over at his other best friend. His best friend, who was staring off into space, not even bothering to pretend to be focusing on the assignment.

Glancing up to make sure Mr. Lancer wasn’t looking, he risked asking, “Hey Danny, what are the odds of a ghost attack happening in the next thirty-five seconds or so?”

Danny barely moved, but Tucker watched him squint, like he was trying to read something far off and blurry.

“Pretty unlikely. Unless we’re still counting blob ghosts as threats.”

Somewhere in the background, the sound of typing stopped.

Tucker hummed, “yeah, that’s about what I figured.” That was ghosts for you, never there when you needed them, never gone when you didn’t. “What if you, ya know,” Tucker raised his eyebrows repeatedly, staring intently at his best friend.

“no.”

“Aw, come on!”

Danny rolled his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “Dude, if I attacked the school just to get out of the last quarter of English, I’d never hear the end of it from Sam and Jazz.”

Tucker opened his mouth, about to present the very reasonable argument that what Sam and Jazz didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, when he felt someone tap his shoulder. Turning around in his seat, he met the wide, terrified eyes of Star. She was glancing between Tucker and Danny, face pale.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but uh…” Her voice trailed off, and in the pause Tucker was suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become.

Glancing around, he saw that everyone – including Lancer – was staring at him and Danny with varying levels of confusion and fear. Tucker considered himself to be pretty smart in most areas, maybe even a genius when it came to tech. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d missed something important.

Danny, the absolute dick, had slumped forward onto his desk. He was out cold. Dead to the world, and definitely not available for backup.

Kwan cleared his throat, and Tucker saw that his face was ashen.

“What are you two fucking talking about?”

[yuurei20]

I've noticed Epel keeps adding 'kana' to the end of his sentences. What does it mean?

Hello hello! Thank you so, so much for this question, I have always wanted to mention this.

“Kana” can be a multitude of things in English, such as “probably,” “I guess,” “I think,” “I wonder,” etc. A basic explanation would be, “a word used to express uncertainty,” but like most things when it comes to language, that is not the only thing it does.

A quick review of Epel: from his first day at NRC he has been under order from Vil to “speak more politely,” as he tends to use informal speech with his senpai.

As you point out, Epel often adds “kana” to what he is saying, and that is because one of the things that it can do is ‘soften’ something that you’re saying in order to make it sound less direct, and thus more polite.

Examples: Epel telling Kalim that his assumption is wrong, telling Vil that he disagrees with him, saying that his Phantom Bride look is weird, etc., these are all sentences that he is awkwardly gentling via “kana,” often after several ellipses or a comma, as though it is not a part of his normal speech pattern.

This gets into cultural differences: When Ace assumes that Epel is dedicated to a certain brand of apple juice, for example, an English-speaking Epel could probably respond, “That’s not actually the case!,” without sounding rude. But that could be interpreted as a little brusque in Japanese.

In order to soften the expression Epel adds “kana” at the end, which sounds more like, “That might not be the case,” “I’m not sure that is exactly what is going on,” etc., in English.

Even though he knows for 100% certainty that he is not actually dedicated to a certain brand of juice, he is still using “kana” in order to not sound too straightforward.

(screenshot from maggiesensei.com)

(This can and does cause issues when moving in between languages: a Japanese learner who only knows that “kana” means “I think” might not add it onto sentences where they are certain about something, and thus risk annoying their Japanese-speaking colleagues, for example. In contrast, an English learner may say “I think” too often, leading their English-speaking colleagues to wonder why they don’t seem to actually know anything. It’s all part of the joy of language and culture!)

While there are several words in Japanese that can be used to soften your phrasing, Epel seems to have latched onto “kana” in particular, possibly because it is an easy word to add on to the last part of what might otherwise be a rude sentence in an attempt to avoid a reprimand from Vil. 

Other times Epel will belatedly add “desu” onto his sentences, also in a bid to sound more polite than he is used to speaking.��

If you are a language learner I would not recommend using Epel as an example of when to use “kana,” as he will sometimes shoehorn it into places in an unnatural way (as a part of his character).

EN is doing its best to recreate Epel’s “kana” by including things like “kind of,” “not sure” and “maybe” in his dialogue, but as sounding uncertain doesn’t necessarily mean you sound polite in English, this may not be having the same effect. And I have no idea how they would go about recreating this habit of Epel’s in a way that can properly portray what is happening in English—it might just be one of those things that gets lost in translation :<

Bonus: The Japanese language has four different alphabets (kanji, katakana, hiragana, romaji), and katakana is the alphabet used for foreign loanwords. 

Whereas other characters who use honorifics have “-kun” and “-san” written in hiragana in their dialogue, Epel’s dialogue uses katakana. This is possibly meant to symbolize how using honorifics in these situations is foreign to him, and he is not used to it.

(When he does shift into using honorifics in hiragana, it is only when he is talking to people from his own village: people he is used to!)

[omamorens]

a while back you said something akin to “inkblade college au.. (head full of thoughts)” !! would you be so kind as to open your head and share them? i am begging you on my knees…. spare inkbkade college au.. pls…

dear anon you dont have any idea of the floodgates im about to open but!!! im imagining two main routes for this college au. bear with me with this long answer!!

the ‘met-again at college’ au:

In this version of the events, the Rat Grinders probably broke off to do their own individual thing after finishing junior year and their redemption quests.

Oisin would probably distance himself away from Elmville but still pursue wizarding school elsewhere. Probably at the Bastion City University.

This time, he does it correctly with no cheating.

Though if he was being honestly, still having access to the full benefits from the school of conjuration was probably an unfair advantage.

So he always pushed himself to do harder, to excel beyond expectations. He’s a chronic over-worker and just wants to do things right for once.

Oisin never gets into another adventuring party again and instead studies to be some type of wizard scientist, developing new spells and technology probably.

Adaine, by this time, is already a world-renowned adventurer and top divination wizard of their age, in her own right.

She’s already established somewhat of a mark to history at the young age of 24? 25? probably younger, honestly.

Oisin hears about her from time to time— they do occupy the same wizarding circles and its kind of hard to avoid mention of the Elven Oracle.

But she was a famous figure now, literally beyond reach from a lowly college student like himself.

Imagine his surprise when he sees her walk into his class one day, but not as a student, no.

Adaine was a guest speaker and was about to discuss to them the very interesting topic of the Cosmology of Extraplanar Realms and Studies of Divinities

Oisin blanked out most of it.

Too starstruck from seeing Adaine again and oh… his chest was hurting again, phantom-pains from the shatterstar that never really left his mind.

Or is it?

Before he knew it, the session has ended. He thinks it ended too soon but the topic was actually discussed for two hours.

But his professor has an announcement to make? He stayed back to hear it out.

“Miss Abernant will be conducting research in the university for some time, and she has graciously granted the Wizard Department the opportunity for a student to take up an internship role for the duration of her team’s stay. Interested students may submit a form to me and the decision will be passed to Miss Abernant’s team after careful deliberation. That is all, thank you.”

Oisin has spaced out again, reeling from the thought that their paths would probably cross even more now that she’ll be at BCU indefinitely.

“Mr. Hakinvar? Oisin Hakinvar?” his professor called for him, and he addresses her, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Ms. Abernant, this is the top student of the Wizarding course, Oisin Hakinvar. I would speak highly into considering him for the role…”

Oisin has drowned out the noise again, because Adaine was staring at him, a twinge of familiarity setting in on her features. And of annoyance.

“Oh, I know of him.” she says tersely, “Top student, you say? No unfair advantages to speak of?”

Oisin’s brow twitched at that, answering the question himself, “None at all. I’ll make sure to send in my form for the internship role.”

Because he was prideful more than anything, and the subtle mocking comment made at him was baseless.

Adaine doesn’t know him, not the way that he is right now. Not after he’s pushed himself over and over to prove that he is worthy to be here.

“Very well! I’m sure Miss Abernant will be pleased to review your form.”

“Trust me, I am very good on both paper and practical application.”

Adaine shouldn’t even care for him at all, but she was curious. After Oisin and his adventuring party disappeared off Elmville, she always wondered what they were up to. Maybe more evil plots? Maybe they died somewhere off Spyre? Who knows.

Now she does, and the kindling of curiosity was highly-flammable, the worst of all motivators she could have.

And yet.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” she says to him, like a challenge. Oisin was set on meeting her to it.

This AU is definitely tagged as “Enemies-to-Lovers”, constant bickering and challenging looks, academic rivalry too because thats always nice. Maybe a bit of mystery because I do love the allure of putting them in a dark academia setting.

the ‘they got close during senior year and went to college together’ au:

This one is definitely sweeter and idyllic.

If you’ve ever heard of Sabrina Carpenter’s new song “Please, please, please” this is the general theme; its what Adaine would feel like.

Because in this AU, Adaine finally gives Oisin the chance to date her during college.

They’re always together anyway; with both being wizards pursuing academe, their schools of study interact in much more ways than anticipated.

Lots of cute dates in between classes too!!

Going to the newest cafe to try out their menu.

Amusement park dates!! Museum dates!!!

Bastion City is filled with things to do.

And even when they don’t, just studying together was already a date.

Oisin would always have some part of his body in contact with her.

Maybe his tail wrapped around her calf under the table, his free hand on her knee when they read together side by side, or just letting her lean on to him if she gets too tired to sit upright.

Adaine, on the other hand, was a little more paranoid of their relationship.

Was she just lying in wait for Oisin to fuck up? Hopefully not, but the chances are never zero. And she hates thinking of that, because at some level, she does trust and love Oisin, wholeheartedly.

But the past has always been haunting her in some way or another.

And it’s hard to relax when danger has been everything you knew your whole life.

But Oisin was soft with her, caring and understanding, frankly a little possessive and obsessive, but it was just the healthy amount that makes her want to drag him to bed every night and assure him that she is all his.

And Oisin proves to her that he is all hers.

Just imagine. Domestic Inkblade. never thought i would live to see the day that both words are in the same sentence.

Lots of late night cuddles, of assurances, of future plans togethers.

Unending conversations of “i love you” said in the most unconventional ways.

AND OF COURSE this is college. you cant expect me to think of college au without having Adaine live up to her “Party Wizard” title!!!

Adaine definitely lets loose at parties. She has her friends with her, a loving boyfriend, and her life has never been better.

But god she has the worst alcohol tolerance known to mankind.

Oisin is definitely watching over her, excusing himself from drinking too much just incase Adaine goes wild again.

And oh she does.

Thank god Oisin is there to [i will not elaborate what happens here, but god is it in my head; just guess].

And then she wakes up with a raging headache and Oisin is more than happy to care for her (making her hangover food, massaging her sore spots).

Like I said, domestic. Fluff and comfort and so much healing. LIKE SOOO MUCH. this is the answer to the “we could’ve had it all” tag because in this AU, they have it all.

Good for them… good for them!!

Will I write this? Not anytime soon but God would I kill to read it. Someone… anyone… save me inkblade college au save me…

[thecommunityoftrustworthysinks]

You are Morgan Yu. No, you’re not Morgan Yu. You were Morgan Yu. No, you were something else.

The face in your memory—a man. The face in our mirror—a woman? No, you were a woman. You were many shadowy faces distorted in the polished gold of the railings.

You are Morgan Yu.

I am Morgan Yu.

“…and after that, it was over. No one could stop the Typhon. It spread all over earth. So I took my escape pod…”

Alex’s voice drumming in your head. Morgan’s head. It drummed endless hours through a transcribe.

Typhon.

Alex had made you. Alex had resurrected you. Alex created you.

Alex had killed us from the beginning.

No. You shake your head. You are not Morgan Yu. You don’t know what memories are real.

“Morgan?” You look up. You haven’t quite gotten your tongue to form real words yet. Morgan would’ve spoken more. I wanted to speak more. Alex sighed. “I guess it’s a lot to take in. You should get some rest, Morgan.”

He gestures at you, his voice directed towards the operators—your friends. Voices you thought you knew. Drumming again, directed away and bouncing back. “Take it back to its cell for tonight. I don’t want to risk anything reverting overnight.”

You could kill them. You know that. You did it a lot, before.

But you are Morgan Yu. Alex Yu is your brother. Alex Yu watched over you and worked with you.

Your bedroom. Where are you? Your bedroom.

Your voice is speaking to you. You don’t know the words. You don’t know the speaker.

Your bedroom?

You’ve been Morgan Yu. You’ve been a thousand Morgan Yu’s.

Are you Morgan Yu?

We are reading again. The logs of the destruction of Talos. I don’t remember it this way.

“Remember that, Morgan? You gave us the greatest idea that year. Boosted Neuromod reviews in days. Mom and Dad would be proud.”

The escape pods. They didn’t work. They were built that way.

Mikhalia.

Mikhalia.

I said it aloud. It rasped from my lips, scraping my throat on the way out.

“Mikhalia?” Alex. “She’s the operator now, Morgan.” His voice, smooth and condescending.

She was, though, wasn’t she?

You squeeze your arm. We can feel pain. I feel a trembling energy underneath.

“Do you remember her from Morgan’s memories?”

You were Morgan Yu?

Morgan would nod.

Morgan nodded.

“Interesting. You saved her, and then let everyone die instead of letting anyone escape.”

The echo of straps across your wrists and ankles tugs at you.

“You’ve always loved her too much, I thought. Either I was wrong, or you still have too much Typhon left in you.”

Phantoms inhabited bodies of human dead. Human dead did not inhabit phantoms.

Your inky hands scrape into the metal holding you. Where are we? Where is Morgan? I am Morgan!

Mimics. Alex kept several in secure locations, continuing his research. He tells you about them. He tells Morgan about them. The deep purple tissue of the Mimics feels familiar. Familiar from a thousand lifetimes—and familiar from you.

There is a room tonight. Alex locks it from the outside. You’re still at risk of being a monster. Right?

You are Morgan Yu.

Who is Morgan Yu?

A man tells you to destroy it—destroy it all. You won’t like it, it erases your family’s legacy and you will probably have to die too. But it’s the only thing that’s safe.

She says it too. The woman.

The woman?

Something courses through you. Every vein, every neuron, every spin of every atom is alive. It stings it roars it slows the world to a stop.

And everything is at your hand.

Another day, Morgan Yu. Today, tests. “They’re an essential part of an experiment. Just like you did, Morgan. I know you don’t remember—you didn’t remember in the memories either—but you were so committed to those neuromod tests. No one could stop you.”

Alex’s voice rings into our head.

Morgan did the tests. We will do them again now.

The face in the mirror. Broken and dappled in blood, a sliver of silver shone through. The eyes fester with Typhon sinews. You are Morgan Yu.

The failure of a screen. Alex once shut a screen against Morgan, didn’t he? And outside, everything was golden.

Blood streaks the floor. Your leg is split open, your alien flesh bursting out. Alex’s voice throbs at the back of your head as you stumble. A memory, too many memories.

I am Morgan Yu.

[cardinalcanis]

CODEX: The Viridian Phantoms

Summary: I did a thing. Been wanting to write about the custom space marine chapter that has been eating my brain the last few days. The Viridian Phantoms, my loyalist Mortarion successor chapter. They have been SO much fun to write and will totally do more things with them in the future. They are my first ever custom chapter so I would LOVE LOVE LOVE your reviews and opinions about them.

TW: People WAY too comfortable with death.

Word count: 3314

"Can I make my own fanart/OCs/head cannons/fics about/with the Viridian Phantoms?" First of all I will die <3, second of all, of course! As long as you credit me as the og creator of them I have no issue with it!

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @druidwolf21 @wolf-feathers12 @artemisareia @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kit-williams @egrets-not-regrets @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal @moodymisty

@sinistermojo @beckyninja @justallll @ms--lobotomy @pluvio-tea @lemon-russ

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

General information: 

“We are Death, so Humanity may live.”

-Chapter name: Viridian Phantoms. 

-Other nicknames and given monikers (at least the nice ones): Angels of Krieg, The Bone Collectors, Krieger Kites, Jumping Tanks, Climbing Banshees. 

-Loyalty: Loyalist. 

-Homeworld: Krieg. 

-Symbol: A ghostly skull wreathed in chains.

-Colors: Light viridian green accented with black and silver.

Origin: 

“Father, see your children, battle-worn and pale,

Holy Chains and hooks prepared, 

Father, see your children, dead but not failed, 

By their blood may the corruption be cleansed.” 

After the events of Baal and the Plague Wars Belisarius Cawl saw the necessity of having more resistant troops. Capable of weathering extreme conditions, facing bio-monstrosities and gargantuan enemies, and being Immune to plagues and other chaos or mortal-made maladies. 

The Viridian Phantoms were born from Cawl’s experiments, using a modified strand of Mortarion’s gene-seed to create warriors who could endure almost everything. They stand as an act of defiance to Roboute Guilliman’s will in the face of what he considers advancements in the name of the Imperium’s survival, magnificent discoveries that honor the Omnissiah.  Making them only female was the loophole he found to make their existence possible, even though kept in secret for many years.  Recruited and trained on Krieg for their innate resilience and loyalty, these Marines are honed to become the embodiment of human perseverance. 

They possess their gene father’s legendary resistance combined with an aspect of Mortarion not exploited by the previous Death Guard; his untapped psyker potential. The Viridian Phantoms are unyielding assaulters, designed to weather any blow; be it a plague, environment non compatible with life, or physical force. Their combat style is defined by their heavy armor, equipped with hooks and chains, allowing them to latch onto massive foes, scale them, and pull them down into submission so they can be butchered. Despite their heavily reinforced armor, their biomantic prowess allows them bursts of agility, enabling them to jump over large enemies and strike from unexpected angles. Even other Astartes speak about a sense of uneasiness seeing what in all senses is a terminator-like unit swinging in the air and climbing light as a feather. This makes them formidable in melee, where they wield chainswords and scythes with deadly precision. Learning from the Thousand Sons’ mistakes, they do not over rely on their psyker powers, biomancy is meant as another tool in their arsenal. Their uncanny resistance aided by biomantic regenerative capabilities make them the perfect unmovable wall for humanity. 

Made behind the primarch’s back: 

“Father, we are ready, take us if you must.”

Cawl’s unprecedented authority within the Mechanicus and his status as the architect of the Primaris project provided him with enough leeway to conduct this experiment. His known… quirks and disregard for strict Imperial protocol helped him fly under the radar. His projects are already known for secrecy, but even with the trust on his skill and status he couldn’t afford for Guilliman discovering the Phantoms before they were ready. 

The choice of  Krieg didn't only rest on its hardy loyal woman but also for its isolation, secrecy of what truly goes in their underground hives and lack of general scrutiny from the Imperium. Krieg’s conditions allow for secretive experimentation; the people of  Krieg, known for their discipline and loyalty never questioned nor revealed Cawl’s activities, they were ordered not to anyways. It is said that long lines are made to this day for parents to proudly offer their daughters for testing, even though they didn’t know what it was about, the Emperor was looking for female children so they served accordingly. 

Cawl carefully controlled who knew about the Phantoms’ existence and purpose, involving only trusted Mechanicus personnel and Kriegsmen who were at a need to know bases of their assignment and sworn to secrecy. Any record-keeping or tracking was obfuscated through a complex mix of bureaucracy and Mechanicus’ religious beliefs, already only revealing the biggest secrets to the worthy in the  Omnissiah’ eyes. 

The Phantoms were obviously kept isolated from other Astartes chapters and Imperial forces to avoid detection. In their deployments, the Phantoms engaged enemies with minimal support, focusing on missions that required little to no backup. Training and conditioning was completed in Mechanicus-controlled facilities under Cawl’s lock and key, keeping them away from inquisitive eyes. He implemented protocols restricting their interaction with other Imperial personnel, ensuring their knowledge and exposure remained minimal.

The Phantoms’ early deployments were limited  remote or particularly hazardous battlefields far from populated areas or Imperial forces, where only the toughest units were expected to survive. These are regions affected by warp taint, plague, or xenos threats, where the survival of any unit would be notable but not easily verified. 

Cawl specifically chose high-mortality missions where the Phantoms could demonstrate their resilience. By deploying the Phantoms to zones where no ordinary Astartes force could feasibly operate, Cawl ensured they’d operate in isolated conditions, where successful missions were difficult to track or verify independently.

Later on he made use of trusted Rogue Traders and Mechanicus explorator missions to test the Viridian Phantoms in the fringes of the Imperium. 

Reports and data on the Phantoms were  filed under vague terms or ambiguous classifications, described in ways that did not reveal their true origin or makeup. Listed as specialized Krieg regiments or other “experimental” Mechanicus units when deployed. These reports kept them concealed, making it appear as if they were simply part of a contingent of the Death Korps or other Mechanicus-approved forces rather than a unique chapter of Astartes.

Physical appearance, chapter culture and personality: 

“Through pain and flame, we fall

And if you can stay, sister, then we'll show you the way

To return from the ashes we call.”

Moration’s gene seed gives the Viridian Phantoms a formidable yet eerie appearance that sets them apart from other chapters. Considered some if not the tallest Primaris Marines, they are built like a block of muscle, needing great upper body strength to hold their full armored weight while hanging mid air. Their skin turns a pale white or slightly grayish hue with visible veins. Their hair typically ranges in shades of white, silver, or light gray. They tend to keep their hair very long and extensively braided. Their eyes are described as a ‘pale gaze’ and ‘lifeless’ or with an almost glassy appearance, people claim that the Phantoms' gaze is ‘detached’ looking through them rather than at them. The intensity of their gaze is increased by how little they tend to blink unnerving those unaccustomed to their manner. All of these add up into giving them their phantom-like appearance they are named after.

They barely speak, when they do, it is done with precision and brevity. There is no room for flowery language or embellishment; they say what needs to be said and nothing more. Their speaking cadence tends to be emotionless and unenthusiastic, not due to lack of emotion but their little interaction with non Phantoms. As very sensible biomancers, they are constantly in touch with the inner processes inside those around them, including emotional responses. Spoken and gestured communication is just a poor mockery of the higher level subtle, unspoken connections they share. This makes them seem distant or even cold to those who rely more on direct communication, this lack of visible emotion could create misunderstandings or discomfort.

The Phantoms struggle hard to connect with outsiders, as they find typical methods of bonding cumbersome or shallow compared to the natural closeness they share among themselves. When interacting with other chapters, they struggle to adapt to more conventional forms of camaraderie, finding it challenging to communicate complex intentions in ways others understand and at the same time making them highly aware of the moods or intents of others. Knowing of the fear, frustration, anger and paranoia they cause first hand; but without the skills to properly address other's concerns. 

This sensitivity fosters deep bonds between the Phantoms, allowing them to anticipate and understand each other in ways that most Astartes can’t. It creates a near-unbreakable trust, as they’re constantly aware of each other's emotional state, intentions, and even physical condition, reinforcing the idea of sisterhood beyond the individual. The electrical discharge in one sister’s muscles ordering to lift a bolter is sensed by the others, copying the same movements, making them capable of reacting to their environment like a well coordinated flock of birds. This gives them an almost meditative focus in battle. Their awareness of their sisters’ movements allows them to coordinate without spoken commands, making them seem eerily calm and united.

Krieg’s women to the core, their loyalty to the Emperor and their battalion is absolute. They see themselves as living tools of the Imperium, willing to sacrifice anything, including their lives, without hesitation. This unwavering dedication makes them reliable but can come across as suicidal, looking for death in death’s sake. Each Phantom believes their existence is expendable if it means the mission succeeds or the forces of humanity are protected. 

The Viridian Phantoms also hold a profound respect for their fallen allies, whether they are their own sisters, other Astartes, or even mortal guardsmen and civilians. They view these fallen as martyrs of the Emperor’s cause. As a tribute, unless the remains are corrupted by Chaos, Phantoms often collect small pieces of armor, bones, cloth, strands of hair, or even rubble from the battlefield and fashion them into beads and charms. These adornments are extensively braided into their hair or hung across their weapons and armor, serving as personal memorials and tokens of respect. Teeth, in particular, are a favored keepsake known among the Phantoms as "flesh pearls," close second to hair which they braid with their own.  

With so much of their time spent among the Mechanicus it is of no surprise that one of the most significant aspects of their culture is the ceremonial tending to their gear and weapons. Each battle-sister sees her armor and weapons as an extension of herself, considering them "bound" to her flesh and spirit. Outside of battle, Phantoms often spend hours in silent preparation, maintaining and blessing their chains, hooks, and weapons in a ritual that reinforces their connection. It has been reported that this strong belief on their gear as part of their flesh has ended into several occurrences where their biomantic powers also restore cracked ceramite or instances where guns keep shooting when it is obvious that the magazine must have been emptied. 

This meticulous care for their gear makes the Phantoms selective about who is allowed to handle it. They permit only trusted Mechanicus priests or highly skilled serfs with whom they have overseen working many times to assist in maintaining their equipment. These chosen few would be expected to respect the Phantoms' many rituals and understand the reverence the Phantoms have for their weapons and armor. These selected few granted the honor of working with the Phantoms' gear have to undergo bonding rites, long meditations and purification rituals to align with each specific Phantom that has chosen them to tend to this sacred part of themselves to the highest of standards. 

The Phantoms’ secret rites, meditations and mantras help them both handle their oversensitivity to all life around them and reinforce their religious adoration for death and sacrifice.  The Phantoms hold pre-battle rituals where they recite personal death vows. These vows are spoken in low, emotionless tones, acknowledging their acceptance of death and pledging to die honorably if it serves the Imperium. Followed by their well known Death Hymns which they sing in ritual and even during battle, Viridian Phantom Death Hymns are the only instance of them raising their voices and carrying emotionally charged statements. They most are directed to a figure they ‘Father’, if it refers to either The Emperor, Mortarion or both is unknown. These chants carry an ominous, almost haunting quality, blending grim acceptance, defiance, and reverence for their purpose. The chants are rhythmic, echoing through the battlefield and unnerving allies and enemies alike with their strange, almost theatrical longing for death. They possess sections where the volume crescendos to shouts or quiets to an eerie whisper, transitioning between powerful declarations and subdued, haunting verses.

Currently, the Viridian Phantoms have no official Chapter Master due to their uncertain experimental state. Leadership has fallen by the battle sisters consensus upon Revenant (Captain) Lena Arendt, a figure respected for her exceptional combat skill and biomantic abilities. She is often referred to as the ‘Ceramite Fae’, due to even amongst other Phantoms her seamless grace mid air while fully armored creates the illusion of effortless flight. A fatal flaw her and many phantoms inherit from Mortarion is how much of a hard time they have at asking for help from non Phantoms, maybe not much out of their gene seed but their desire to prove their chapter is worthy to exist.

Gear and unconventional battle tactics: 

“We are the scythe that reaps the corruption, 

We are the chain that bounds the monstrosity to a kneel, 

We are the knife that carves the names of the fallen onto our enemies, 

We are the Emperor’s unbroken might, 

We are his bleeding sacrifice so we could still have a light, 

We are to fall so the many may rise, 

We are the Viridian Phantoms, 

And we are Death, so Humanity may live.”

As mentioned, The Phantoms hold close reverence to their gear and decorate them extensively with allies’ remains, one of the most memorable are their oracles (librarians) and gravekeepers’ (chaplains) complex teeth veils. Their armor is modeled on the reinforced Mark X, heavily modified for maximum durability. The plating is reinforced to withstand corrosive environments, disease, and warp-tainted toxins, often appearing thicker and more robust than standard armor. It is painted in a ghostly viridian green with black accents on the trim and silver detailing. Their helmets’ visors emit a ghostly pale green glow, most of them are inscribed with small runes or faint biomantic symbols.

Each Phantom carries many sets of chains and hooks designed for their signature combat style. These chains are attached to their gauntlets or armor and can be used to latch onto large enemies, structures, or terrain. The chains have runic symbols carved along each link alongside attached beads and charms, and when combined with their biomantic abilities, they become unbreakable extensions of the Phantom’s will, allowing them to anchor enemies or secure themselves in chaotic battles. The hooks are often engraved with the names of fallen sisters or even fallen guardsmen or civilians whose names they find on dog tags and forgotten personal effects among the rubble. 

The Viridian Phantoms favor chain swords and most importantly scythes for close combat, weapons that symbolize their affinity for melee and their willingness to face foes up close. All of them also have the ability to extend into chain and grappling hooks. Their scythes are heavy, with blade edges honed to a sheen, used for sweeping attacks against larger foes. Made to grab, mutilate and disembowel in single clean swipes. Alongside their melee weapons they can also favor large shields that chained together create shield walls to push back at the latest of waves.

They are no strangers to range weaponry, which even if they aren’t their favored, each is shown equal love and customization as the melee does. Sometimes even consecrating every individual bullet in day or even week long rituals meant for deep meditation and calming their psyker abilities. 

Even though they may be great assets for them, The Phantoms shun the use of chemical and viral weapons of any kind in their fight to distance themselves from their genesire’s legacy and fall into nurgle’s claws. 

Appart to what they are known for, falling gargantuan monstrosities; the Viridian Phantoms' unparalleled resilience, little regard for their own lives and biomantic abilities would lend themselves to shockingly bold, almost reckless battle tactics and strategies. These tactics seem suicidal to other Space Marines and not Codex Compliant at all:

-Shield killbox: The Phantoms would march forward under heavy enemy fire interlocking shields with one another. Using their scythes they would pull and mutilate anything that comes closer, then throw the helpless bodies behind them where other sisters await to finish them up. Functioning as an efficient assembly line of carnage. 

-Fire on my position: In coordination with allied forces, the Phantoms move into a position where friendly heavy artillery or orbital bombardment is directed. Knowing their unique resilience, they would withstand the controlled onslaught that devastates their foes, emerging from the smoke and flames, most of the time.

-Living bait: Phantoms would feign retreat or send vulnerable looking single units, drawing enemy forces into pre-arranged kill zones laden with explosives. Then, they would walk on the trap while still in the blast radius, relying on their enhanced durability to survive. Phantoms might also herd unknowing enemies into the blast radius of allied tanks. Or charge headlong into fortified enemy positions or into the path of tanks, absorbing fire and drawing attention while the rest of the battalion encircles the distracted enemy.

-Suicide landings: Phantoms generally do not fight alone unless they have a strategic purpose. Like sending one charging (or jumping off flying vehicle) into enemy positions or even the heart of their formations with explosives strapped to their armor, activating them upon impact. This act would be often followed by the surreal sight of the Phantom emerging from the carnage, bloodied but alive. 

-Walking beacons: They do have a unique skill to escort survivors through dangerous zones normal humans would not survive. Making the helpless human stay close to them inside their auras so fire, disease or acid would not hurt them or would not feel the pain and heal quickly. They tend to cover the survivors' eyes and even ears so they feel no fear or run away in the presence of danger, as running away gets them out of the Phantom's aura, which means they will succumb to the factors the are being protected against. And the people's trust and faith that the Phantoms can protect them actually makes it easier to work their biomancy on them. 

Cawl’s secret brought to the light: 

“Hear hear, Father, we're all going to die

Father, we're all going to die

Do not sing me any farewells, for me you must not cry,

hear hear, Father, we're all going to die.”

The Viridian Phantoms' first encounter with Guilliman was intense and deeply scrutinized. After proving themselves time and time again completing dangerous missions in secret under Cawl’s direction, the Phantoms were finally brought to Guilliman’s attention as a fully-formed, specialized force created to withstand the most hostile environments and fight the Imperium’s most monstrous foes. Masking themselves as just another battalion of the Unnumbered Sons, with the help of voice modulators in their voxes making them sound masculine (aside from restricting their vox channels when singing). 

They were deployed alongside his forces in a brutal battle. Observing them, Guilliman noted their resilience and uncanny coordination as they maneuvered in unison, taking down enormous threats with sacrificial tactics. The Phantoms suffered grave wounds but continued to fight, showing an almost eerie selflessness that unsettled many nearby Ultramarines.

After the battle, Guilliman confronted the Phantoms directly, demanding to know their origins. Their leader, Revenant Lena Arendt, revealed their loyalty and their gene-sire without hesitation, asserting their purpose and loyalty to the Emperor, not to Mortarion’s legacy. Guilliman, appalled by Cawl’s audacity, proclaimed that their very existence was an affront to the Imperium and must be erased.

The Phantoms responded by raising their bolters to their own heads, ready to end their lives at Guilliman's command. Stunned, Guilliman halted them. They remain a battalion awaiting Guilliman’s final judgment, will they be eliminated? Given a suicide mission hoping they never return? Will they ever back their birthright as the 14th? The future looks bleak and uncertain for the Viridian Phantoms. But the primarch must hasten as talk is spreading.

[rainbow-pop-arts]

Diary Entry Thoughts: Chrollo’s Childhood

Hiii, so I recently read HxH chapters 395-397 and I guess they upset me so much that I decided to share the review I wrote about it in my diary. (* °ヮ° *)

WARNINGS: Spoilers for ch. 395-397, something messed up happened to an abducted child

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Guess who reached the HxH chapters where they showed the Phantom Troupe’s childhood??? Me!!! Ch 395-397!!

Oh man, Chrollo was such a sweetie and a kid who loved to learn. Pakunoda looked like she had a crush on him.

There was also a girl named Sarasa and another one named Sheila.

(The same Sheila who met Kurapika & Pairo!)

I have a soft spot for kids so seeing Chrollo and the others performed on stage while a bunch of other kids watched them and cheered, I loved it! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

When Sarasa went missing, the other kids actually offered to help find her. Oh, and speaking of her………Oh man. (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

So for full context, since people in Meteor City don’t have any legal documentation, they’re easily targets for abduction, and Sarasa was a victim. Chrollo and the others found her body in a bag and a note that only Chrollo knew what was written on it, but never told what it said.

But the most icky part was that it was implied that Sarasa was tortured to death while being recorded. Made me sick to my stomach and wanna throw up. ( ´ཀ` )

It’s really sad that if she hadn’t died, the Phantom Troupe would’ve been performers instead of murderous thieves.

Written on Wed, 28 Aug 2024

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I have a feeling I interpreted what I read on the chapters wrong, so if I did please let me know! ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

[writedreamlie]

Posted for Badger Cereal Week 2024! Theme: Parallels.

Also under a read-more in case you're not into links~

“Alicia, I just want to speak to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to speak to you.”

Vlad does everything in his power not to crush the phone to bits. It would take time to get another, and who knows if she’ll answer the phone next time he calls?

“Have you even asked him if he wants to speak to me?”

“I have not. Because”—a guttural sound, followed by what he suspects is the woman spitting violently into a spittoon—“I do not have to. Because I know Danny does not want anything to do with you.”

Vlad rubs a hand across his forehead. The headache that began creeping in when he started this call half an hour ago has well and fully set in. “How would you know if—”

“Because I heard more than enough about you from Ma—from my sister, and from what she said, you are not the kind of man I want around my nephew anymore.”

“Alicia, please,” he sighs. “I’ve been around him far more than you over the last few years—”

“Not in a good way.”

“—and so, I know him better. I know more of what he’s been through lately, and I was there when . . .” He can’t even say it. Can’t make his mouth form the words, his lungs expend the air to voice what he’s lost. What they all lost in the explosion. He takes a long, slow breath. “Daniel is going through some things that you simply would not understand. For several reasons.”

“And you would?” she asks, skepticism all but pouring through the phone.

“Yes,” he says. “Without a doubt. And I . . . I want to help.”

There’s silence on the other side, save for some crackling, like her phone is being passed from ear to ear, maybe covered by a hand.

Finally, “Fine. I will ask him. But I ain’t promising nothing more.”

“Thank you, Alicia. That’s all I—”

She’s hung up before he can finish. The cell phone dies the crushing death it was always destined for. He doesn’t expect he’ll get a call back any time soon, but he starts planning to get a new one as immediately as possible anyway. Just in case.

--

The caller ID does not read Alicia’s name for several months. When at last it does, though he’s in the middle of reviewing a document that’s at least 30 pages too long and has a meeting starting in 20 minutes, it only has to ring once.

“Hello?”

“Where is he?”

Vlad flips through the papers, wondering how many he could skim before he has to join the call. The question barely registers. “Where is who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, asshole. Where is Danny?”

That one registers. The papers flop back onto the desk. “What do you mean, where is he? How am I supposed to know? You very explicitly did not want me near him, remember?”

He can hear her teeth grinding before she grits out, “I do remember, but he’s been missing for days now, and you’re the main suspect.”

“What, you think I stole him?” That wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility a few years ago—certainly he’s tried it once or twice—but not recently. He’s been trying to be respectful of the boy’s boundaries. A lot of good that’s done, apparently.

“I don’t think it, I know it. Now, I’m gonna ask one more time before I stop being so nice. Where. Is. My. Nephew.”

“I. Do. Not. Know.”

“Listen here, shit-for-brains—”

“Alicia, if I knew, don’t you think I’d be rubbing it in your face rather than wasting both our time pretending I don’t know? You’re the one that lost him! I told you he’d have been better off here.”

There’s silence on the other line, but it’s a silence that feels like a screeching kettle about to boil over. When she speaks again, it’s with deadly calm.

“If I find out you have been hiding my nephew from me, there will not be a single place in this world or the next that you’ll be able to hide from me, Masters.”

His instinct is to scoff, but something in her tone just about makes him believe it. If anyone outside of the Fenton family was going to find a way to punch themselves through to the Ghost Zone for the sole reason of kicking his ass, it absolutely would be the sister of—

“I have to go. Good luck with the search.” He hangs up before she can retort.

The phone falls to the floor just as he falls through it.

He lands in a corner of the lab and makes his way to the portal, next to which is something that looks rather like a landline phone hung on the wall but which has never once been plugged into anything so mundane as a human phone line. He presses one of three buttons on the device—it’s not meant for a wide variety of calls—and stands with one foot tapping and one hand clenching and unclenching as it buzzes.

Then there’s a crackle on the other end, and the speaker lets through a tinny voice. He makes a note to install something cleaner sounding later.

“Plasmius,” Skulker offers warily.

No time to beat around the bush. “I have a job for you.”

--

“What do you mean, leave him alone?” Skulker demands. “You asked me to hunt down the ghost child, and I have! The next step in that process is usually catching what’s been hunted!”

“Not this time,” Vlad says, bringing a screwdriver to the side of the Zone phone even as he’s using it. The speaker really needs replacing; it’s hurting his ears to listen through it. “Send me your coordinates and keep an eye on him. If he moves an inch, I want to know. But you will not be capturing him. Do not even let him know you’re there.”

“What exactly is the point of this? I could just bring him right to you! I have the cube! He doesn’t even look like he’d put up much of a fight.” Skulker pauses, as if assessing his prey. Then, “He looks . . . sad. Tired. Ripe for the taking.”

Vlad sighs, nearly jabbing himself in the face with the screwdriver as he instinctively moves to rub his head. “Ripe for the leaving alone. Do not touch him. Do not engage. I will be there soon.” He presses the second of the three buttons on the device and continues fiddling with the inner mechanisms until he receives the coordinates from Skulker. Then, he’s gone.

--

Danny lies on a small island floating through the Zone. He is not moving. He is not breathing—he doesn’t need to in his ghost form, but it’s unsettling all the same. His expression is blank. His eyes are unfocused.

And the closer Vlad gets, the worse it looks. He can see dark bags under the boy’s eyes, like he hasn’t slept in some time, and he looks thinner than usual. The latter of these two things is more concerning given how little extra bulk Danny has in general. He’d been building up some muscle over the last year or two, but given all that’s happened recently . . .

Well, Vlad can’t say his appearance is surprising, but it is worrying.

He floats down as gently as he can, not wanting to spook Danny away, but the disinterested teen does not react to his presence at all, even as he settles into the rock right next to him.

“Daniel?” No response. “Danny? Little Badger?” The boy’s arms are spread out to his sides, and Vlad chances a poke to his nearest hand.

At this, Danny’s eyes finally seem to focus, and they roll to look at Vlad, though that’s the only part of him that moves. For several long seconds, they stare at each other, like each is waiting for the other to speak, and Danny breaks first. He takes a long, slow breath in, and on the exhale asks airily, “What?”

“Are you—” Vlad starts out of habit, then stops. Of course he’s not all right. What a stupid question. “What are you doing out here?”

Danny’s arms shift a bit in a half-hearted horizontal shrug.

“Your Aunt Alicia called me,” he says, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone. “She said you’ve been gone for days. Is that true?”

Another shrug. “Has it been days?”

“Do you not know?” Vlad demands.

“Nope. What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Oh. More like a week, then.”

“A week?!” Vlad looks more closely at Danny: the pronounced thinness of his arms, the gauntness of his face, and the pulsing green glow surrounding his form. Not unusual in a ghost, but in a boy who’s only supposed to be half-ghost . . . “Daniel, you haven’t been here that whole time, have you?”

Danny nods, and he blinks several times as if banishing a thought.

It’s almost enough to make Vlad throw the boy over his shoulder and carry him out himself. But on some level, he knows that wouldn’t help. Trying to drag him out now would only make him want to come back again later, and he’d surely make himself even harder to find the second time.

He has to convince Danny to go on his own.

But how to convince an upset teenager of anything at all?

“You know, I really . . . I should have . . . There’s a lot I could have taught you before now. And not in the power-hungry way I usually mean it,” he adds when Danny’s eyebrows scrunch together. It’s a small motion, but even the minor expression is encouraging, so Vlad carries on. “What’s done is done. Let’s start now. Daniel: you cannot spend this much time in your ghost form in the Ghost Zone, for while the ambient energy here fuels your ghost half, your human half is actively deteriorating."

Danny shifts, rolling to one side and then the other before settling back onto his back. “I don’t feel anything wrong.”

“You wouldn’t. Won’t. Not until you change back. I would urge you to do so somewhere comfortable in the human realm, perhaps after eating something substantial.”

“What are you, a ghost doctor now?”

Vlad has to repress a flinch at the phrase. “No. But I do know what I’m talking about.”

Danny sighs and rolls his eyes. “I’ll go back eventually. I just need time.”

“You don’t have time, Daniel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I means—” Vlad clenches his fists, resisting the urge to turn his answer into a taunt. There’s no reason the boy would already know these things. In fact, it would be best if he didn’t have to know them at all. But if he’s going to be stubborn . . . “If you stay in this state much longer, you won’t have a body to go back to. The human body is fragile, Daniel, and dying twice isn’t a pleasant experience.”

Danny huffs. “Like you would know.”

“Yes, I would.”

At that, Danny seems to go even stiller than he had been before, which is a feat given how little he’d been moving up to this point. Then, he slowly sits up, legs still dangling over the side of the rock as his hands come to rest in his lap and his head swivels to face Vlad.

He’s clearly still trying to remain stoic, but curiosity—and a hint of fear—play across his features briefly.

“What . . . What do you mean?” he asks.

Vlad thinks for a moment, trying to decide how best to explain. “You know there are occasionally natural portals to the Ghost Zone, yes?”

“Yeah,” Danny says with a nod.

“Imagine that, in the early days of using your powers, you’d fallen through one. What would you do?”

Danny shrugs. “Easy. I’d get back out through the—Oh.”

Vlad laces his fingers together, the picture of patience he truly does not have much more of. “Yes. Oh. Imagine falling through in the days before you knew fully what was happening to you. Alone. Before any other reliable portals had been established.”

“Uh . . .” Danny goes still and silent again, presumably imagining just that. “Yeah. Yikes.”

“Indeed.” He doesn’t want to get into the gritty details—what he had been doing prior, how afraid he was to turn back into his human form in case the strange world he’d found himself in killed him on contact, the sheer dread at the prospect of never seeing the sun again—as he was sure none of that would help right now. A story for another day, perhaps. “I was fortunate to have found myself here with at least a few provisions I’d already had with me, and even more fortunate that I found another natural portal out before my human half expired entirely. But it was a near thing.”

Danny looks down at his hands, flexing the white-gloved fingers thoughtfully, and Vlad finds himself flexing his black-clad hands in response.

“Maybe . . . maybe that’s for the better.”

“Excuse me?” Vlad demands.

Danny sighs. “If I died, would it stop hurting? Could I just”—he waves a hand at the general vastness of the Zone—“move on?”

Rage. Rage and indignancy like he’s never felt before course through Vlad’s chest, and he turns, one clenched fist slamming into the rock and startling the boy next to him out of his reverie. How dare this whelp—this whisp of a child—think he knows grief? How dare he presume to feel more misery than Vlad, who has lost and lost and lost, and how dare he imply the best way out is to leave him alone again—

The words are flying out of his mouth before he can stop them: “You think you can just die to get away from your problems? What would your mother think?”

It’s almost a relief when the boy’s fist hits his chin, sending him flying backward through the odd gravity of the Ghost Zone. But evidently, that isn’t enough for Danny, as he follows Vlad’s trajectory, both hands glowing green.

“I think I’d know what my own mom thinks better than you would,” he says, letting loose his two-handed attack.

Vlad reorients himself in time to roll out of the way, readying an attack of his own. “Would you, though?” He shoots off a series of ectoblasts, sending Danny on a zig-zag path of evasion. “You only knew her as a mother. I knew her as a person. As a friend.”

“Ha!” Danny laughs once, derisively. “Some friend you turned out to be. Chasing after her like a creep even though she proved over and over that she didn’t love you!” As if to drive the point home, he launches himself forward, fist extended.

“I knew she didn’t love me!” Vlad catches that fist in one hand, then pivots to let Danny’s momentum carry him forward and away. “Even so,” he says, readying a shield for the inevitable return fire, “she didn’t want me dead.”

Danny doesn’t deign to answer this with anything but the expected ectoblasts. Vlad lets a few of these hit his shield before dropping it and disappearing, only to reappear behind Danny. The boy startles but isn’t fast enough to move out of the way before Vlad’s arms are around him, pinning both of his own arms to his sides. He kicks ineffectually, tries and fails to phase out of the grip, then flings his head backward, forcing Vlad to turn his head back and forth to evade while still holding on.

“Daniel, listen to me for once!” Vlad shakes him, a maneuver so silly and unexpected that Danny’s attempts to escape cease momentarily. “Madeline did not want me dead. Me. Someone she did not love, who she probably even hated in the end.” If holding Danny is taking all his physical effort, it takes all his mental effort to push the surge of heartbreak down and away for later. He’s never properly admitted that to anyone, not even himself, even though he knew it. He’d hoped . . . Well, he’d hoped there would still be time to remedy that. But this isn’t about him, not right now. “If she didn’t want me dead, seriously consider: How would she feel about someone she did love trying to end themselves for her sake?”

Danny gives one last half-hearted kick to Vlad’s shins before going limp. Vlad watches for any telltale signs of another attack being prepared, but none come. After several long minutes, the boy in his arms begins to shake, but not like he’s trying to get away.

In a voice thick with emotion, Danny asks, “Then what?”

When he tries to turn to face Vlad, Vlad lets go. Danny drifts away, but not far, and wraps his arms around himself. The tears building in his eyes aren’t surprising, but Vlad still isn’t sure what to do about them.

“She’s not here,” Danny continues. “She’s not here to tell me what she’d want me to do. She’s gone. They’re all gone. I don’t know who I am without them. So what do I do?”

The words are echoes of his own thoughts, reaching across decades to tear open a hole in his chest that he thought he’d long since patched over. They’re gone. I’m alone. What do I do without them?

“You live,” Vlad sighs. “For yourself, if no one else. Although, you have at least a few other people willing to give you a reason if you don’t feel that’s a strong enough one.”

Danny’s hands come up to rub at his eyes, and he seems to be fighting back more tears, wiping them away until—

He loses the fight.

He lets a sob slip free.

They don’t stop, and suddenly his head is pressed to Vlad’s chest, hands still covering his face but not enough to hide the deep, hitching breaths. Vlad’s hands hang uselessly in the air before his brain catches up and he wraps his arms around Danny again, much more loosely this time.

“It’s not fair,” the boy says between sobs.

“No,” Vlad agrees.

“I miss them so much,” Danny says, voice tight like he’s struggling to get the words out.

Vlad nods. What else is there to say?

“I wanna go home.”

That gives Vlad pause. Technically, there’s nothing stopping the youngest Fenton—the only Fenton now—from going back to his family’s home. The Fentons’ effects have been removed, personal items put in storage by Alicia, laboratory equipment largely claimed by Vlad, except for a few items stolen by various research facilities he’s still trying to track down.

But he also knows that’s not what Danny means. He doesn’t just want to go back to the house; he wants to go back to the way things were. He wants to return to a house full of people, noise, life—but he must know that’s something that he can’t possibly do.

Vlad wonders if Danny has gone back at all in the last few months. If he has any of his parents’ or sister’s things to remember them by. Would it help Danny to go back, to see the place where things had once been good?

Would it help either of them?

Vlad pulls Danny away, but only far enough to look him in the eyes. “Do you really?” he asks.

Danny takes a long, wobbling breath and nods. Then, “Will . . . Will you come with me?”

“Of course, little badger.” He offers a small smile as something other than grief worms its way through his chest, a feeling he’s not at liberty to examine just now. “Did you want to go now?”

Danny turns his head to look out into the vast abyss of the Ghost Zone, clearly thinking. Then he decides, “No. Not yet. I, um. I should probably change back and eat something first, like you said. And then maybe . . .”

A weight Vlad didn’t even realize he was carrying lifts, and he can suddenly breathe a little easier. “Of course. If you’d like to come back to my home for a bit, I’d be happy to get you whatever you might be hungry for. On one condition.”

Danny sniffles and straightens, looking more like himself with every passing moment. “There’s always a catch with you, isn’t there? What do you want?”

“I want you . . . to call your Aunt Alicia and tell her I did not kidnap you so she doesn’t send a goon-squad manhunt after me.”

Danny lets out a laugh, brief but real, and it feels like the world rights itself a little bit more. “She would, wouldn’t she?” he asks, wiping the last of the moisture from his face.

“I have no doubt. But if we could avoid that, I feel we’d all be better off. So, food for a phone call. Deal?” Vlad holds out his hand.

“Deal.” Danny shakes the offered hand, then holds it for a second longer as he adds, “And thank you.”

“Yes, yes,” Vlad says, waving both hands through the air as if to dispel the miasma of feelings that’s quite thoroughly surrounded them. “Let’s just get you back in one piece, hmm?” With that, he turns and heads for his portal, not giving himself time to worry that Danny won’t follow.

Danny does. “Always finding ways to save your own skin.”

Vlad does not point out that it wasn’t just his own skin he was worried about saving this time.