By, A Person with Time On Their Hands
Summary: Danny meets the great No Life King.
Order 1: Going, Ghost, Going, Gone
Alternate dimensions. There are countless clichés a fellow could use to describe the phenomenon and the process of birth. The butterfly effect: the slightest difference in the past rippling into the future and changing the future colossally. Layers of an onion: all the same world but separate pieces. Same story: different versions, all are true. The list goes on. Now, the grand majority of these dimensions are sequestered in seclusions with no way to leap the border into neighboring existences. These dimensions are often blessed with inhabitants that can hop through worlds as if jumping through bead curtains.
On the flipside there are dimensions with enough holes in them to be colanders.
These holes can manifest as literal soft spots in walls, rocks, the ground or even a puddle. Perhaps they're a rabbit hole at the base of a tree, or one could be made artificially by an ingenious mind. The holes could even be something as conventional as doors. In the case of our hapless protagonist, an ongoing stream of doors drifting in green, dead space. Now in our protagonist's defense, we cannot wholly blame him. He was only doing his job, chasing down a particularly nasty, homicidal witch of a specter who had nearly killed every girl in Casper High School in a bid to use their combined youth to "feed" her for the next year. Two being Sam and Valerie, and a third being Jazz.
Had this not been the case Danny might have let the demonic shrew go on her merry way, escaping into the Ghost Zone. But the incorrigible leech of a woman had sought out to murder his friends and sister not once, not twice, but three times. Third time was the charm and Danny Phantom was going to chase her down to whatever roost she called home in the Ghost Zone, blow it to pieces and--, "—rip you into pulp and feed you to Cujo! Then I'll burn his crap and dump it out the Bermuda Triangle!" Spectra kept a steadily rising speed as she glanced over her shoulder, red eyes narrow and insectile.
"Ooh, the scary ghost boy's making threats now! I must have gotten you extra riled, hmm? Or," she smirked fit to make Vlad Masters blush, "are you just getting frustrated that you can scarcely protect the ones closest to you after all this time? It's unhealthy to go projecting your feelings of impotence on others, you know." Cue lilting giggle. She was rewarded with an ecto blast the size of a monster truck tire's hubcap hurtling to her head. She just ducked in time to have it scorch off the wisps of her ethereal hair. The would-be-murderess hissed and resisted the urge to turn tail and give the punk a taste of his own medicine. She gritted her fangs and shot on, forcing a mocking smile to stay in place. The plan had come too far to blow it on a tantrum. And besides, if, when, she pulled it off it'd be worth dumping the supernatural brat into the Carnivorous Cavern a million times over. That and her rep in the Ghost Zone would skyrocket. Back to business now.
"I've been handing your ancient butt to you for the past two years. I'd say you're the one with issues: have you ever considered joining Dried Up Old Hags Who Demand Botox I.V.s Anonymous? Or a cat? The nutjobs with bad Dracula 'do's just love the cats." There was a thread of the halfa's usual snark in that tone and for a moment Penelope Spectra worried he might just devolve into good humor. The sudden blistering shot of cold hitting her spine spoke otherwise. Around them the ectoplasmic realm was blessedly free of distracting ghosts, with the shifting green rapidly losing its neon hue. The doors were just ahead. Spectra could have grinned her face in half. Over her shoulder she saw the ghost boy gaining on her, his eyes still emerald sunbursts in their sockets.
Just to keep the hackles raised she tossed back: "You mean Vladdie, don't you? Tall, rich, powerful fellow who's played you and your friends—well, especially you—like a fiddle since you first met? You know I've met him once or twice and I have to admit you two are nearly spitting images of each other. Much more than you and that fat lard who claims he's your father. If I were you I'd look into a paternity test to see if Mama Fenton didn't sleep around in her younger yeeeeeeEEOW!" That blast had nearly taken off her arm. Now she had him hooked in so deep she doubted seeing a nun carrying a pregnant woman carrying a newborn puppy trapped in a burning building would sidetrack him. Both apparitions kicked it in to high gear and the darker ghost had to tick her eyes back and forth at hummingbird speed
The atmosphere of ectoplasm had dimmed to the darkest of jungle greens and the doors had shifted from your standard viva-bright purples and jades to more…eccentric designs. Eccentric in the sense that each new door looked progressively horrific as they flew on. This one looked like the door to a sanitarium cell, that one looked like the drawbridge to a Transylvanian castle, the next one looked like the door to the cage of some hungry Old God wanting a new mind to ravage. All were tantalizing in their promises of pain for their visitors, but she had one specially picked out for the occasion. One that was at the peak of its existence and, by its countenance, had every reason to blink into nothingness to save any passerby the temptation. Appropriately enough, it was the last door in the row.
Had it been clean it would be mistaken for any strong-bolted door to any holding cell. Simple handle, plain gently rusted steel. Oh, and there were the red stains, more than a few shaped like hands. And the various dents and scratches in the metal hide. A few things that might have been arcane symbols before age faded them to inventive squiggles. All the lengths of chain and knots of locks had been stripped away by her claws and before setting out on her "sacrifice the young maidens" gimmick she'd left it the tiniest crack open. Whether something new had escaped or entered was of little consequence so long as the door was there for the next ten seconds. Just one more barb before it came. Just one more. Her internal stopwatch screaming Spectra turned around 180 degrees and halted before the expiring portal. That second seemed to be awash in molasses with every feature moving in its own slow sanction of time.
Her black tail taut and twisting.
His face set in a mask of hate with his teeth bared between snarling lips.
White gloves scalding her retinas with building luminescent energy.
Violet lips curling up like wallpaper.
Violet lips opening to say, "Be sure to send a postcard dear!" The second passed and everything shot forward at once. The ghost child surged forward, blind and deaf with determination. Penelope Spectra dodged away with a millimeter to spare between her head and his blazing hands. Daniel Fenton, alias Danny Phantom, alias the bane of ghosts spanning half the Zone, blundered headfirst through the open door. Spectra was at the handle in an instant, sinuous fingers clamped around the bar like a vise. Danny Phantom cast one bewildered, realizing look at her before she pulled the door shut with a nearly orgasmic SLAM!
Half an instant later the door was gone.
Danny Phantom was gone.
G-O-N-E, M.I.A., left the way of Jimmy Hoffa.
"Gone.", she giggled, "He's finally gone! I did it! I did it and that little freak is gone!" Shrill banshee cackles reverberated off the remaining portals and made distant offshoots of ectoplasm quiver like gelatin. The laughter subsided and her smile melted into a slim, wondering line. "He really is gone, isn't he? No one left to defend Amity Park. His little gaggle of girlfriends will never see him again or hear him laugh. His family will be just…just desolate. They might never get over the trauma. …Ha-ha-ha-ha-HAA!" Now she even had a free buffet waiting for her, ready and willing to patch up her wounds and stroke her ego--. "Oh. Oh, disgusting, what is this?" A thin trickle of viscous slime had trickled onto her temple and refused to stop. Then she heard the growl. She looked up to see the waiting maw of the biggest florescent green dog she'd ever seen. The tag on the collar read, Cujo.