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It starts with a tugging feeling in his very core.
Danny Fenton pauses. If there's one thing he's learned in the last year, it is not to ignore random things that are definitely ghostly in origin. He has just enough time to place his pencil on the desk from where he had dutifully been doing his homework—for the first time in two weeks, mind you—before his vision goes white, a snap is heard, and suddenly he's not in his room anymore.
For a moment, he's weightless, lost in the feeling of falling. Then, his body jerks, and he has just enough time to think, oh fuck, before he's slammed hard enough to the ground that all the air is forced from his lungs. His knees buckle under the unexpected weight, and he goes down, clumsily, trying not to throw up what little he'd managed to eat between homework packets.
"Ow," Danny says into the concrete floor.
He lies there, just for a moment, taking in the cool ground underneath him. He tries to steady his breathing enough so his mind can process what the hell just happened in the last thirty seconds because Danny's had a lot of misadventures over the years, but homework doesn't usually knock the wind out of him.
He's still blinking stars from his eyes when he hears the hushed whispers echo around him and a heavy pair of footsteps approaching him.
A gruff, questioning voice asks, "A child?"
"Oh, man," Danny says because that definitely does not sound good. He forces himself to his knees and looks up.
The first and foremost thing Danny notices is that he's not alone. He's on some sort of altar, elevated a foot or so above the ground. A group of no more than a dozen people surround him in a semi-circle, faces all covered by tattered cloaks are standing a couple of feet away from him. Another cloaked figure, dressed in much more formal robes with gold trimming, waits on the platform just in front of them.
Danny hastily gets to his feet. He shifts a little into a sloppy fighting stance, just in case things are about to messy.
The dimly lit warehouse room and the headcovers don't give much to work with in the lighting or facial feature department, but he's pretty confident that none of them are ghosts. Clues mostly from the fact that none of them are glowing and/or ranting about how much of a pain in the ass he is, but it still pays to be wary. Especially when Danny's situations tend to quickly dissolve from bad to oh my god, ghosts are loose in Amity Park and he maybe-sort of-possibly died in the process.
This brings him back to his next brilliant deduction; he's definitely in ghost form. He definitely was not in ghost form before this. It's rather apparent, considering he sticks out like a glow stick in the darkness of the warehouse. He doesn't even feel the need to check his hair color this time, but that's more due to the fact that he doesn't want to take his eyes off the weird people who managed to summon him from his bedroom and force him to change into his ghost form.
(He desperately hopes that they hadn't seen him change—weird warehouse people are not people that Danny generally associates with secret-keeping.)
Wait. Back up. Freeze frame. Most normal people are not sending their evenings dressed in clocks and standing in dark warehouses.
"Is this a cult thing?" Danny asks before any of them can speak. He takes in the white line that surrounds him and the red liquid (which he very much hopes is not blood) used to paint runes and symbols that circle him and their weird cloak-like robes, and says, "This is definitely a cult thing. Oh my god, did you summon me? Seriously—"
"Silence, beast," the robed man snaps in front of him snaps.
Danny zeros in on him and immediately deduces him as the leader from vibes alone. And, y'know, the gold trimming on his robe. It very much screams leader of weird cult that summons ghost kids.
"I—okay, you know what? That was just rude," Danny says. He points to the white line that surrounds him, "Is that cocaine?"
Danny has a feeling he doesn't want to know the answer to the mysterious red liquid and unreadable symbols, so he doesn't ask.
"It's salt," one of the other cloaked figures answers, like it should be obvious.
It's not actually obvious and actually leaves Danny with more questions than he started with. Mostly in the realm of how did a group of cultists summon him with salt. He knows salt is supposedly an anti-ghost measure. Still, Danny is pretty convinced it has little to no effect on him, considering the number of Nasty Burger fries he's consumed hasn't taken him out yet.
"Salt," Danny repeats. He pauses, then awkwardly tags on, "That's good, I guess, because drugs are bad. Uh, don't do drugs."
A cultist quietly, and a little slowly, answers back, "We, uh, don't."
"Right," Danny says. His eyes catch another section of weird in this already odd, cultist warehouse. At the altar's base sat a variety of bones, so fresh that some flesh still held on. "Are those bones? Oh my god, did you sacrifice someone? That's not cool! Murder isn't cool!"
"Those are goat bones," another follower says.
"Oh. Well, I mean, that's still fucked up on a variety of levels, but I guess that's better than murder."
For a second, there's silence. The nature of the interaction is so awkward and oppressing that he almost goes invisible just to save himself from the scrutiny of these random people and get the hell out of dodge.
There's such a difference between humans threatening him and ghosts threatening him and Danny's been threatened by a lot of both but the human interactions are always so strange. On the one hand, weird cultists trump Skulker's lair any day. On the other hand, pure white walls and experimentation tables aren't super high on his To Visit list either. Worst comes to worst—before they sacrifice him to some ancient gods, more likely—he puts on his scary face (and maybe adds a couple of explosions) and slips out before they even notice he's missing. His curiosity is the only thing that holds him back—that, and the fact that he's not quite sure if any of these people are secretly hiding ecto-weapons.
(Danny very much does not want to be shot tonight.)
Danny's eyes flicker back to the lead cultist. He says, "I'm going to be real honest here and say that I have no idea what the heck is going on."
The leader makes no inclination that he acknowledges any word that comes from Danny's mouth. Instead, he brings an old, wrinkled hand up to his face, like he's thinking about some complex problem. The leader circles Danny once, twice, and Danny feels something inside him defensively coil like a spring.
He tries not to be bothered when people treat him as something lesser—it's not, exactly, uncommon for him to encounter. He dealt with being shoved into lockers long before he died, anyway. It doesn't stop his shoulders from tensing just the barest amount. Instead of showing this, he brings his feet up to his chest, crosses them mid-air, and fakes a yawn for good measure. A few of the other cultists gasp in wonder and fear. The leader simply stops his prowling and turns to face Danny.
"So this is the fabled Ghost King," the man says like he expected better.
Danny feels he should almost be offended if it isn't for the tiny detail that these cultists—who summoned him by using salt and goat bones—assume he is the Ghost King. "…Did you seriously confuse me with Pariah Dark?"
The man pauses. “Pariah Dark?"
"Yes! He's like fifteen feet tall, has a huge sword, is a pain in the ass, and has, like, an entire ghost army. I have, I dunno, pre-calc homework in my bag. We are not the same."
"I see," the leader says. From his tone, he does not see. "It doesn't matter. Our book summoned the King of Ghosts. That is you. So you will do as we tell you, and your pain will be lessened."
Some of the followers in the background shift uneasily. Danny bares his teeth in their direction, just to see them squirm. A couple takes worried steps back. Danny barely hides his satisfied grin.
Hey, poke a bull and get the horns. In this case, summon a ghost-teenager and get the ecto-powers.
"Again, I am not the Ghost King," Danny tells him. "And no thanks. I've already used my yearly cult sign up and I can't say I'm thrilled to join another. If you're going to hold an initiation ceremony, at least decorate a bit first. Uh, not courting the goat bones and salt, of course."
"You have no choice. We are the Followers of Infernal. We have summoned you to serve us. You are bound to our will and bound to our grace, as the book foretold. Now bow, demon, for we are your new masters."
"Alright. I definitely failed US Government, but I'm pretty sure that's not legal. Don't you guys need, like, a permit to summon undead beings of mass power?"
A substantial portion of Danny Fenton is convinced any good karma he held in life did not pass with him during his death a mere year ago. An even larger part of him is convinced that these guys are no more severe than the GIW is. Danny does not tell the cultists this.
"It thinks it's funny," the leader's face is mostly hidden by his robe, but Danny can imagine the sneer there from his tone alone.
"Trust me, I'm not the one who's a joke right now," Danny says. He looks back over at the dozen or so followers and grins at them. They don't seem too keen that he's not following their masters' orders and bending to their will. "What's in it for me?"
"What?"
"If I follow you and stuff, what's in it for me?"
The leader pauses. "You will be spared of punishment."
"Hmm, that's not good enough," Danny says. He turns back to the followers and points at one in the middle. "Hey, you! With the cloak. No, not you, the other dude. To the left. Yeah! You. What do you have to offer me?”
The follower looks so startled that he cowers for a second. It takes another moment, but seeing as he hadn't been reduced to a pile of ashes from Danny's gaze alone, he reaches into his pocket. "Uh, I have a paper clip, your ghostliness."
"A paper clip. Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever. That sounds neat."
"You'll submit to us?" the man sounds so hopeful that Danny almost feels bad for being a jerk. Then, he remembers that they summoned him out of his superior, warm bedroom at ass-o'clock in the night and feels significantly less amounts of pity.
"No, dude, I'm not being your sack of potatoes for a paper clip. Man, you guys are stupid," Danny rolls his eyes. The other followers shuffle around again, uncomfortable. In front of him, the leader remains impassive as ever. "Where even am I?"
"The lair which you will spend the rest of your afterlife," the leader says.
"Okay, this is definitely a warehouse, firstly. And secondly, dude, I meant what state."
"…Wisconsin," the man allows because, of course, everything terrible happens in Wisconsin.
Now he has to fly a couple hundred miles home and hopes he gets there by morning, all the while avoiding his creepy, obsessed arch-nemesis. He wonders if Vlad is even aware there's a ghost-obsessed cult in his home state. Probably not.
"You chose the worst state to have your crappy lair," Danny tells them. "Nothing good ever comes from Wisconsin. You can take that as, like, ghostly wisdom or something."
"Hey," one of the cultists says, offended. "The Packers are in Wisconsin."
"Nothing good," Danny repeats firmly.
"Enough of this nonsense," the leader says. "It's trying to distract you because it fears control. Briar, bring me the orb."
"Yes, sir," one of them says.
The followers mutter to themselves and teeter around in their positions. The woman who spoke bows and scurries off. Danny watches as she runs through the darkness of the warehouse, footsteps echoing around them until he can no longer see her among the darkness.
"Hey, if they already listen to you, then why do you need me?" Danny asks. The leader doesn't answer, so Danny floats a bit on his side and puts his arms behind his head. "What kind of orb are we talking about, anyway? Like one of those Spirit Halloween ones? Or is it more like orbeeze? I can't say I'm super excited from your ominous it fears control statement, but—"
"Silence, beast.”
"Uh, yeah, okay. You already used that line and it didn't work the first time."
The man ignores him, which, rude. Danny's just about to see how far he can test this guy's patience when Briar comes back, just as quickly as she had disappeared. She jogs through the warehouse and up the steps of the platform. Danny can't see her face, but from the way her hood moves to glace at him every so often, he figures that she's probably nervous. Specifically about him lounging around in a circle full of salt several feet in the air. Y'know, casual.
Briar bows. In her hands is a glowing silver orb. It really does look like a genetic orb one would find in a Spirit Halloween in their props section. His dad might even have one of those in the Halloween decoration closet. Danny'll have to check after he makes the cross-state fly back in the middle of the night.
"Father Jonathan," she says. "The orb."
Father Johnathan gently takes the orb in his hands as Briar scurries off towards the rest of the followers.
"Your name is Father Johnathan?" Danny asks. He eyes the orb for a second but doesn't feel the tingle of ghostly energy from it, so he ignores it. He turns right back to the leader, not able to keep the grin off his face. "Your name is really Father Johnathan?"
There's a sigh. "Yes, creature, my name is Father Johnathan. Learn that name for it shall be the name of your new master."
“Oh my god," Danny says, positively gleeful. "I meet real-life Papa John and he summons me with salt and threatens me with a Spirit Halloween prop."
"Laugh all you want," Papa John says. The nervous air shifts into something a bit more predatory. "You will not be laughing much longer."
The cultists break into applause and talk amongst themselves loudly. They shift forward eagerly as if they want to watch the spectacle up close. They're only a foot or so away from the platform when Papa John waves at them to halt. Papa John holds up the orb. Something inside it starts to glow the barest amount. It swirls, the silver fog inside consolidating and then dissipating.
Danny pauses, just for a second, and watches it. If Danny hadn't already thought of these guys being a joke, he definitely would've been a tad more nervous. As it stands, he thinks nothing of it—no ghostly energy means no control over ghosts.
(Unfortunately, he knows the feeling of ghost-controlling objects quite well. It's not an experience he's eager to repeat.)
The orb glows brighter and brighter, swirling more furiously. The cultists' chatter picks up to the point where they're almost shouting, jeering at him. Papa John draws closer and closer, orb outstretched. He holds it through the salt line and touches it to Danny's chest. The shouting from his followers almost becomes unbearable.
And then….nothing. The orb stops glowing. The fog inside stops swirling. It dies in Papa John's hand.
"What that supposed to do something?" Danny asks.
Papa John touches him with the orb again, a tad more forceful, so Danny assumes it's supposed to be doing something. Actually, scratch that—from the panicked whispers around him alone, it's definitely supposed to be doing something to him. Danny's honestly unsure if the outcome is due to him being a halfa or these guys being a joke but, well, given the entire state of their everything, he's willing to bet it's the latter.
"I think you mixed up your Spirit Halloween store," Danny tells him. "Better luck next time."
Papa John stops furiously pressing the orb to his chest. If Danny could see his face, he has no doubts that Papa John's expression is livid.
"You will obey us," Papa John says.
"No, I won't."
"You will—"
Danny swings his feet down so hard that he cracks the very ground he now stands on. Dust kicks up around him as he stands tall even though Danny's at least two feet shorter than the leader in front of him. His eyes burn a brilliant green, and he crosses his hands over his chest in an effort to look intimidating.
It works if the half-step back from Papa John is anything to go by.
"Listen," Danny says flatly. "Get a hobby and leave me alone, or else you won't like what I'm going to do."
He makes his form flicker and the temperature drop in the room, just for dramatic effect.
Some of the followers in the background shift uneasily. A couple take panicked steps back. More than a few look ready to bolt for the door and leave this cult business behind forever.
Danny takes notice and stares at them, smiling wide enough that they can see his slightly toothy grin. He makes sure his eyes flare, just a touch, and says loudly, "Boo."
To say the cultists are startled would be an understatement. More than a few stumble back, a couple falling onto their asses. One trips on their robe and is sent tumbling. Another one yells and cowers. Papa John has no time to reign in the situation before two scatter entirely.
"Peace!" Papa John shouts over the chaos of a dozen panicking followers. Those that remain settle down enough to hear his words. "Stand down! There is nothing to fear. It is only trying to scare you into letting it free. It is trapped while it remains in the circle."
Danny snorts. "I can leave any time I want."
"You cannot leave here, demon—"
Danny raises one single eyebrow and dutifully steps out of the summoning circle.
The warehouse erupts into chaos.
The cultists are yelling now but this time, it's only because of fear. They scatter over each other, running and tripping over their obnoxiously long cloaks. A couple tramples the goat bones to the point where several loud snaps are heard over the pandemonium. It only adds more fuel to the fire as less than a dozen people scramble to get as far away from the platform—and subsequently the ghost-kid—as possible.
"Do better than a paperclip, next time!" Danny calls out to them. They run faster at the sound of his voice.
Papa John is the only one who doesn't run. He stumbles off the platform and away from Danny the second that Danny makes it over the salt line. However, in the disarray, he's been knocked to the ground. His orb lies broken at his feet, and the hood of his robe has been yanked off and left on the floor beside him. He sits, frozen. It's hard to tell if it's from shock or from fear.
Danny takes a step closer to him.
"How…?" Papa John whispers. "We followed the book. We…we took every precaution the book said. We were supposed to have the perfect vassal, bound to our every word. We…"
He's not looking at Danny—only his old, wrinkled hands. He's bald, with brown eyes. He's nothing more than any generic old man that Danny would see at a grocery store on Sunday afternoon. An old man that tries to summon dead beings of mass power, but a plain one at that.
"That didn't work out too well for you, huh?" Danny says and crosses his arms over his chest. "It's 'cause you forgot the dunce cap when you decided to be the class clown."
"Please," Papa John says. "Spare me."
There's something wrong about this—seeing a human beg for his life at Danny's feet. Danny doesn't want to be feared. He's never wanted to be feared.
He presses his lips together and takes a single step back. Some part of him knows that he desperately needs to make his point clear to avoid another situation like this (likely with more weapons next time) even if this situation is starting to cause his stomach to do tiny intestine-flips.
"I warned you," Danny says softly. His voice echoes around the warehouse. The man below him shivers in terror. "Do not summon me again, or I won't be so nice next time." He pauses, just for a second and can't help but tag on, "Papa John."
Danny lets his threat linger and hopes the man takes it seriously enough that he won't get summoned again. He lets the cool strings of invisibility wrap around his body and disappears from sight. Danny takes one look at the man left on the floor before he shakes his head and shoots up into the Wisconsin night sky. He doesn't hear the shouted response of it's Father Johnathan from several hundred feet below him on the warehouse floor.
Danny waits about all of thirty seconds before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
"Jazz? Hey, yeah, I'm fine. Yes, seriously, I'm fine but you are not going to believe what I just went through—"