Kay, this is a oneshot by sundaysundaes, I'm just continuing it. First chapter's her's, the rest are mine.


You got the call a few minutes ago, and you fly through the skies at breakneck speeds—she sounded nervous, she must've been in trouble. When you phase through the roof of the gymnasium, you're still only worried about her safety, about saving her and beating the crap out of whatever ghost currently terrorizing her.

It doesn't take long to find her, standing in the middle of the room with her head hanging down. You fly towards her as you scope the area. Your brow wrinkles in confusion—your ghost sense hasn't gone off and she seems to be alone—but you quickly dismiss it. As you walk towards her, you start to think this is more of an emotional emergency instead of a ghostly one. Your heart goes out to the Goth in front of you.

"Sam?" you ask. Permission to step closer. Permission to let you help her.

She lifts her eyes off the ground and you're more than surprised to find tears swimming in those amethyst eyes you've fallen in love with.

You close the distance in a heartbeat and mumble her name again. An assurance that you're right there.

You're too busy looking into her eyes that you don't notice something sneaking at the corners of your vision. You don't notice the white flash that means the end of your freedom. All you feel is the sharp sting of the dart as it lodges itself in between your shoulder blades.

Black clouds your eyesight and the world starts to go blurry. But you manage to catch sight of two glowing lavender eyes gazing back at you. You don't know the expression that surrounds the eyes, but you start to hope against hope that it's horror instead joy. The eyes blink and she talks to you for the first time since you came to "rescue" her.

"I'm sorry."

You barely catch it; the darkness is encroaching. You'll never be sure if you heard it right. You'll never be positive that she was ever sorry at all.

Finally, you realize that you can't fight off the numbness in your body any longer and let it constrict you, allowing yourself to tumble into a barrel of unconsciousness.


You don't want to open your eyes.

You've been bordering on conscious for a few minutes now and don't want to face what might be behind the familiar dull red of your eyelids. The memory of your last conscious moments has come out and you don't want to accept what it might mean.

You hope somehow all of this links to a good ending, and not to what you're forbidding yourself to think. You paint a picture in your head of a surprise party planned by all your friends and (somehow) drugging you being the only way they could think of so you wouldn't complain. That they did it because they love you and wanted you take a break from all your hard work.

But that's fools hope and you know it.

When you are able to start processing smells again, you've almost come to grips with what you're sure has happened to you. The too-clean smell floating around is only a confirmation to those fears.

After an eternal moment, you dare to open your eyes. You want to close them right back up and pretend you're not seeing what you are.

Everything is white. The walls of the small square room. The door. Your bed. Your clothes. Your blanket. The dresser in the corner. Everything.

You immediately reach for the cold corner of your mind, hoping to fly madly away from this evil place and never look back. Nothing happens.

You try again and focus your energy. Ectoplasm roars underneath the surface of your skin, molten, begging to be released. But it stays in place. You look at the small bracelet that covers your right wrist and groan. Of course they wouldn't let you keep your powers.

The door slams open and you cringe away from the two men that enter your room. One of them is holding a small box with a button on it and you instantly know what it does.

You glare at them, dealing them with your worst glower minus the glowing green eyes. With the anger boiling in your system, a small spark of emerald energy fizzles out of your curled fingers. You don't notice, but the man with the box certainly does.

He pushes the button and suddenly your world is nothing but pain.


When they first drag you into the pristine, white laboratory, you struggle as much as you can, even make escape attempts once or twice. Every time, the guy with the box shocks you and knocks stars into your brain.

They strap you to a table and you scream. You shout. You do anything to make them stop what they're about to do.

They continue on like if they hadn't heard you.

When the doctor makes the first incision, you flail around instinctively, recoiling away from the sharp scalpel they are pressing into your abdomen. The doctor barks for guards to hold you still.

You can't move against their strong hold. You're trapped.

They poke and prod inside of you for thirteen eternities, and all you can do is let the tears squeeze out of your eyes from the unbearable pain.

After that, you continue to struggle against their attempts to experiment on you, but never as hard as the first time.

Eventually, you just stop fighting it. This is your miserable life now, and you have to learn to accept that.

You stop crying. You stop screaming. You stop trying to struggle. You just let it be.

At first, the doctors congratulate you, admiring the progress that you have made. You don't talk to them. But then, they start to worry for you, and you can't even summon the emotion to smile halfheartedly at the irony of that.

They try to get you to talk, and they tone down the experiments for a few days. The meals become more regular and they actually make an effort to keep you healthy.

You still don't care.

They have a plan to get you out of your shell. It starts out the same as any other day. The two men come into your room, though it's more of an escort now that they don't have to drag you out of your bed kicking and screaming.

When you pass the dissecting room, a tiny trickle of confusion makes it past your barrier of emotionlessness. Today is Monday. Mondays they open you up and take a look inside you to see if anything has changed.

You immediately slam down the confusion and continue to walk. You don't care.

The two men lead you into a room you've never been in before. You can't help but raise an eyebrow, though that's more out of habit than actual feeling. The room is gray, a deep contrast from the white that has inhabited your life for the past year, and there's a table and two chairs in the center. It's an interrogation room.

But they have nothing to interrogate you for. They've already sat you down and forced you to tell them all your secrets and weaknesses. There's nothing else to tell.

You walk into the room with the guy with the shock box, leaving the other man to close the door behind him. Kyle—as you've found out his name is—leads you to a chair and tells you to sit down.

You don't even think about objecting. You just do it.

Kyle goes to stand into the corner and stays there. You meet his eyes for a second and he smiles at you.

You don't shudder, like you used to when any of the doctors used to smile at you. Kyle has grown to be someone you would've liked, if you ever cared about making friends in this hellhole. He actually seems to have a heart and only shocks you when you do something drastic. He hasn't shocked you in almost three months.

You don't even try to return his smile; you simply turn.

Your fingers start to tap—another habit you haven't been able to break—as the minutes tick by.

When the door opens, you barely glance up—but what you see makes you want to cry and suddenly, you're fighting against a wave of the emotions you thought you'd banished.

She walks into the room behind a guard, who leaves promptly once she's seated.

You're still frozen.

She's changed from the last time you've seen her, of course she had. Her hair is slightly longer, and she's grown out of her pretty features and into a beautiful woman.

But you don't care about what she looks like; you'd grown out of that shallow thinking long ago, before you'd even been captured.

"Hi, Danny," she whispers.

With her voice, you're able to find leverage again. Your heart lifts and a genuine smile actually tries to play on your lips. But that's easily squashed down by the roaring fire that's lapping at your veins.

"Sam," you say, clipping her name, setting your jaw into that emotionless mask you've worn for a little less than a year now.

She flinches and you take sick pleasure out of that.

"H—how have you been?" she asks unsurely.

You can't help it; the question is just too funny. You laugh.

She leans away from you, as if that reaction was the last thing she was expecting. Hell, maybe it was. You still don't care though.

"How have I been?" you growl, and you're totally satisfied when it comes out sounding a bit maniacal around your laughter. "How have I been? That's what you ask?" You shake your head and a twisted smile lights your face. You're kind of glad Kyle can't see the expression from behind you. "You turn me in to the Guys in White, and you ask how I've been?"

"I—I," she stutters. More words try to make it past her lips, but you don't give her the chance to keep talking.

"How do you think I've been?" you snap. "They ripped me open and dissected me! They turned my brain into mush! I turned myself into a freakin' zombie!" You breathe in—out—try to stop the anger that's shooting into your veins like liquid fire. But the dam's been broken and there's no bottling up your emotions anymore.

There are tears in her eyes, but you couldn't care less. Let her suffer. Let her have a small taste of you've had to endure for all this time, feeling unloved and being mutilated every other day.

You're too focused on calming down your breathing and staring down into those pools of watering purple that you don't notice the molten magma of your ghost half swimming just underneath your skin. It is feeding off the fire of your anger and slowly pulsing in a very familiar way.

You haven't felt like this in a long, but you hardly notice, only chalk it up as a side effect of letting yourself feel again, especially as she starts to talk again.

"I'm so sorry, Danny."

The magma rolls inside of you. "You're sorry," you say flatly, still struggling with your breathing.

She nods.

"You're sorry!" you shriek, having lost the battle to contain your swirling anger. "You let me rot in here for a year, and you're sorry?! Hah! If you'd been sorry," you twist the word, making it into the worst blasphemy ever uttered, "then you wouldn't have turned me in, in the first place!"

Her tears have fallen over. "You don't understand," she tries to say. "I needed—"

"You needed what?" you bite. "Oh, please tell me what the little rich girl needed so badly, she turned in her best friend for it."

Her mouth moves, but no words make it out.

The chair crashes to the floor as you stand up. "You don't deserve to live," you whisper, and you're shocked that the words even made it past your own mouth. But once you hear it out loud, you realize it's true, that she doesn't deserve to live after all she's put you through.

The magma of your ghost half roars underneath your fingers, green lighting curling into existence around the cuff that had neutralized your powers ever since you'd been here.

Sam's eyes widen and you vaguely hear it when Kyle tells you to calm down, the threat of pushing the button of his box hanging over your head.

You barely notice when the bracelet on your wrist cracks in half at the power you are pushing into it. You barely take note of the fact that Kyle has started to call for backup and Sam is currently shying away from your angered form.

The world is spinning red, and for just a second, your eyes return to that ghostly green they haven't been in for far too long. But the green is easily crashed down by the crimson that fills every corner of your mind, telling, begging, you to step forward and make the little witch that put you through all this hell pay.

You take a step forward and a sharp bolt of crimson energy smashes into the table. You're out for blood. You want revenge. And now you're free to get it.

When she starts to scream, all you can do is laugh, letting the supernatural wind you created slap your hair away from your face. You take another step forward and let the crimson of your power flow through your fingertips. You laugh again, delighting at how the temperature has dropped.

For the first time since you've entered this prison, you smile happily. With another twist of your wrist, a cracking sound fills the room and her lifeless body falls to the floor.