As always, I do not own DP. I do own Pyrrha, though.
Each chapter shall contain 10 drabbles of approximately 100 words each. I'm trying to work in some diversity with genres and ideas, so any inspiration is appreciated.
The world will burn. The world will live. Blood will soak the fields. Only mine, and only in the defense of my people. No, my peoples. Both of them. Everyone you love will die. Not for a long, long time. That stupid little sign you're so proud of? It's a symbol of despair. Only to you, Dan.
Yes, because this symbol, this DP Sam made for me- I've seen it on your chest. I know what it can become… and what it is.
Red-tinged ichor trickled down his cheeks, his arms, his chest. He was bleeding in too many places to count. He didn't even try.
The ghost cocked her head, blinking green liquid from her otherwise colorless eyes. "When will you submit?"
Her opponent bared his teeth. "I should ask you the same question."
She frowned. "You are wounded, little halfa. There is no way you can survive."
Green eyes narrowed. "It's not about survival, fulling." He pushed himself up, back into a battle stance.
She shook her head, hair flowing. "You can't possibly win."
Danny threw back his head and laughed. "Pariah Dark said the exact same thing."
Danni loop-de-looped, laughing for the sheer joy of being alive- or at least, as alive as she'd ever been.
The Ecto-Dejecto hummed in her veins, making her laugh again. The worlds were so beautiful, so wonderful, and for the first time in her short half-life she could really truly experience them. She'd never have to worry about disintegrating again.
An ecto-blast grazed her shoulder. Danni yelped.
The ghost looked like a giant lobster, only with more pinchers. The halfa gulped. There was no way she'd be able to fight it without de-stabilizing-
Oh. Right. She was stable.
Clockwork had always loathed the age-shifting. It was extremely awkward and uncomfortable, changing from child to youth to elder every few seconds.
Most of all, though, he despised his child form. No one ever took the bucktoothed eight-year-old seriously (except Daniel, who was so absurdly grateful that he wouldn't have cared if Clockwork shifted both age and gender).
Still, the shifting was a necessary evil if he wanted to be Master of All Time. Over the centuries, he'd gotten used to it.
Then he met Jazz Fenton, and suddenly he had a whole new reason to hate his child and elder forms.
"You can't do this, Great One," Frostbite shouted, pounding on the doors.
"I can and I will," was the irate response. "I'm sick and tired of you two hating each other just because of some centuries-old war. You're staying here until you've worked out a peace treaty."
"But-" began the other prisoner.
"No buts," Danny snapped. "You're both my friends, and I refuse to choose between you, which is exactly what will happen if this war continues. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for math class."
Incredulous, Frostbite turned to Pyrrha, queen of the Burning Lands. She stared back, flame-red eyes bulging.
Actually, the yeti realized, she wasn't that bad-looking. At least, not for a fire elemental….
The kingdom was disintegrating around him.
Pariah Dark scowled, clenching his oversized fist. Fright Knight tried unsuccessfully to hide his flinch. The ghost king's lips quirked, the closest he ever came to a smile.
In the Golden Age, things had been different. His master had been a good king, beloved by all his people. Where had those times gone? Fright Knight wondered morosely.
And Pariah's sickness (that was the only way he could describe it) had spread. The once-united nation had divided into smaller city-states, each as uncivilized as the rest. The entire Ghost Zone was in rebellion…
…but once his master had defeated the thirteen Ancients, that would change.
Danny stared in wonder at the sword.
He hadn't meant to take it from the Buddhist temple, but somehow it had ended up in the Specter Speeder, traveling with him and Sam and Tucker across time and space. That, of course, was the problem. Who knew what detrimental effects taking it, even accidentally, had had on the timeline?
But still, he mused, swinging it through the air, what was done was done. The sword was his.
Dash shoved the smaller boy against his locker. Mikey whimpered. "I'm sorry, okay?"
"Not good enough!"
"Leave him alone, Dash."
The bully spun around, blue-purple eyes narrowing. "Make me, Fen-toad."
Any other day, the hybrid would have walked away (though only once the unfortunate Mikey had managed to escape). That day, though, he'd been burnt, bloodied, bullied, and barricaded into his room- and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet.
"Sure thing, Dash." He trotted forward and squeezed the jock's shoulder. Dash fell over, totally unconscious.
Dead silence echoed through the calls of Caspar High. Then the cheers began.
The Ghost Writer's fingers rapped furiously away on the keyboard, pausing only to think of new and better words. This was what he- not exactly lived- existed for.
Admittedly, Christmas poetry wasn't exactly his forte, but every author needed to branch out at some point. Besides, it put him in the holiday spirit- pun not intended.
The poem was already three pages long, a simple quatrain describing how even the gloomiest shops lit up at Christmastime. He smiled slightly, remembering his own childhood, how the snow had covered everything so gently, how his father had always chopped down the most perfect tree in the forest.
He had almost finished when Phantom came.
"Come back here, you worthless sub-sentient ball of ectoplasmic slime!" Maddie's fingers convulsed around the cannon's trigger.
Phantom dodged. "Y'know, I'm not trying to hurt you. Maybe we could sit down and talk?"
The huntress threw an ecto-grenade. "We don't need to talk, ghost. All your kind are evil, lying scum." Her face twisted in hate.
"But how do you know that?" Phantom demanded. "I mean, you've never actually sat down and- hey! What was that for?" He clutched his bleeding arm. "What have I ever done to you?"
"You're a ghost."
The halfa's retort was almost inaudible. "Yeah. I love you too, Mom."