He was late. Danny stuffed the now-occupied thermos through his locker door and sprinted back toward the classroom. He was more than late; class was almost over. Lancer would be furious.

If he'd been paying more attention Danny might have noticed the eerie quiet that was more than a lull between classes. He might have heard the sirens in the distance. He might have seen the splinters in the doorframe where someone had kicked in the door. But Danny was in a rush, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Nothing could have prepared him.

As he stepped inside, somebody screamed. Something came flying toward his head and it was only a year of ghost fighting that let him duck. The chair splintered against the wall. Danny stared in disbelief at the ashy-faced quarterback who had thrown it.

"It's Fenton," someone called out. A whisper of noise passed through the room, as if everyone had been holding their breath, and a few heads popped up over the desk to stare at him wide-eyed.

Danny's mind finally registered the state of the classroom. Desks piled up haphazardly in one corner like a barricade, a shattered window that let the cold December air swirl in and pierce his sweater, the blood—not ectoplasm, but real, red, human blood that streaked the floor as if something had been dragged through it. Terror shot through him.

"What happened? Who's—" Danny hesitated, but forced himself to ask. "Who's hurt?"

Dash dragged a hand through his short blond hair, like that would hide the fact that his fingers were shaking. "Some guy with a gun came in and started shooting. Mr. Lancer, and Foley, and Star...Star, she's—"

Danny stopped listening. He vaulted over the desks and into the huddled mass of his classmates. His eyes darted around, meeting the scared gazes of the other teens, but where—

Mr. Lancer lay just behind the desks, gray and covered in sweat. His arm hung at an odd angle, wrapped clumsily in a scarf that was quickly turning dark read. Paulina sat against the back wall, cradling a limp and glassy-eyed Star. And Tuck—

Danny shoved aside a hysterically weeping girl to find his best friend lying in the middle of it all. He was resting on Dash's letterman jacket, eyes closed and unmoving. Nathan, the skinny freckled kid who sat behind Tuck in class, was on his knees, pressing Tuck's beret against the boy's throat, which barely seemed to slow the bleeding.

"Tucker!"

Nathan started at Danny's call, blinking up through puffy, tear-streaked eyes. "I've tried to stop it—but I don't want to choke him and I don't know if it's helped and there's so much—I might kill him, and—" One word crashed into the next on his stuttering lips.

Tuck, his best friend since forever. The other teenager was still as stone. He skin was putty-grey and waxy, almost like he was already...no. Not going there not yet. Tuck was not dying, would be just fine, though he'd hate the hospital and that his favorite hat was ruined, but—

Danny took a deep breath, grasping for that calm that seemed so easy to find as Phantom. "You're doing fine, Nate. Keep it like that. Don't let up." He glanced around for the least panicky face. Jay, another redhead but tall and muscular. He was an eagle scout and on the football team. "Jay, Mr. Lancer needs a tourniquet, do you know how to do one?"

"Well yeah, I read about it, but—"

"Do it. Use his belt. Has anybody called 911?"

"Paulina did."

"I told them about Star," Paulina added anxiously, pulling the girl closer to her. "What can I do? Can I help her?"

An awful silence fell over the other students.

Danny swallowed hard. "Just—just hold onto her, Paulina. Just like that." Anyone could see that Star was already dead.

"Her hair's a wreck," Paulina mumbled, stroking the matted blonde strands. "She's going to be so upset, poor chica."

Danny gritted his teeth and jumped back over the desks.

"Where are you going?" Dash's voice barely slowed him down.

"I'm gonna get that guy." He didn't care that as Danny Fenton he ought to be weak and submissive. He didn't care that the guy wasn't a ghost.

Biceps as thick as Danny's waist wrapped around him. "That's suicide! I'm not gonna let you get yourself killed, you stupid geek."

"Dash. Let go." Anyone with an ounce of sense would have backed down at that tone. Dash just gripped him tighter.

"Not a chance, Fentu—"

They both froze as two distant but distinct shots rang out, followed by faint screams—then three more shots. Danny couldn't stand it. That guy was still shooting—people were dying and this jerk had to— Danny phased out of Dash's grip and ran for the door. His feet had barely met the hall's linoleum before he phased into ghost form and flew toward the sounds. Danny found the classroom just in time to see another teacher fall.

The gunman was a tall, thin man in back with a long-barreled gun. He kicked aside the woman's body and stalked toward the closet in the back of the room, the only hiding place for the students. Danny slammed into him, knocking the man off his feet and sending the gun flying.

Danny drew a dense, powerful ball of energy into his hand and hovered over the fallen shooter. "Don't move," he growled.

The man looked up in surprise at the undead teenager. Then he smiled strangely, pulled a second gun out of his coat, and shot himself in the head.

Danny drifted to the floor. He phased back to human. Blood pooled around his sneakers, but he couldn't tell if it was the teacher's or the man's; the murderer or the victim. He was still standing there when the SWAT team burst in seconds later. He might have stood there forever if someone hadn't put a blanket around his shoulders and led him away.

Year one, end.

"Tardy again, Mr. Fenton?" The teacher paused, and sighed, leaning on his cane. "Well, I suppose none of us wanted to come to school today. I'll overlook it this once, so take your seat."

After a year, some form of normalcy had to set in. But it was a new kind of normal, one where nobody met eyes in the hallway. If people acted strange, it was a shared strangeness.

Danny wasn't the only bleary-eyed student as he slid into his seat and Lancer began his lecture. None of them had slept much this year. Danny shifted so he was leaning the ribs that weren't cracked against his desk and dropped his head onto his arms. He didn't even bother taking out his notebook. Lancer wouldn't call him on it. Not today.

Nobody asked Nathan why he washed his hands until they were raw and chapped. No one commented when Paulina came to school with unbrushed hair half the time, looking dazed and puffy-eyed. No one questioned it when Sam shaved her head and let it grow back in awkward half-stages, or Dash's sudden aversion to red Letterman jackets. Nobody asked why Danny wore the same sneakers every day, summer and winter, until the rusty stains had long faded and they were shapeless and gray. Nobody had to.

Sam pushed a note onto his desk, just inches from his nose. He ignored it. She jabbed his elbow with her pen. He shot her a glare and opened it.

You're hurt again, aren't you? This has to stop!

He fished a pen out of his backpack and jotted back, I'm fine.

Sam scowled at him. Don't lie. I saw the news.

I helped.Danny underlined the word so hard the paper tore a little.

You can't fight ghosts and humans too. Let the police handle it.

No time.

You don't know that.

Sam had been in that other class, hiding in the closet and listening for gunshots. She'd seen the bodies, just like everybody else. If she had nightmares about that she never told him, but her smoky makeup was never quite enough to hide the shadows that had grown under her eyes. Still, she hadn't been in the line of fire, not like most of the kids in this class. She hadn't seen the look on that man's face, the one that to Danny was always just behind his eyelids.

I was there. I had to do something.

You're taking stupid risks!

Someone from his left snagged the note and scribbled a line underneath. Listen to Sam.

Danny glanced up at Tucker. The stylish turtleneck he wore hid the scars from the bullet holes in his neck. All the doctors had gone on and on about how lucky Tucker was, how nothing vital was hit. But the chatty teenager's vocal chords were beyond repair.

Tuck saw where he was looking and irritation flashed in his eyes. He scribbled a long line on the paper and shoved it back.

Stop with the stupid guilty eyes. Not your fault. End of story. No taking it out on yourself vigilante-style either.

Danny scowled again. He was the hero. What else was he supposed to do? Let more people get shot? Last year he'd learned the hard way that the worst threats in Amity Park weren't supernatural.

I'm getting the bad guys.

No, they're getting you.

Sam grabbed it back and added, This is too much.

Danny had yet to decide if this was a lucky seating arrangement. Being flanked by best friends meant there was no escape.

Who else—He found himself writing on his bare desk as the paper was snatched away.

"As much as I love to see my students writing so diligently, I prefer them to do it when I'm not attempting to lecture." Lancer loomed over them, the incriminating paper fluttering between his thumb and finger. "I don't remember that essay I assigned being a group project, either. Shall we share your conspiracy with the class, hmm?"

"Mr. Lancer—"

"Not a word from you, Ms. Manson. You're one protest away from permanent detention." The teacher's eyes fell on the page. Eyebrows climbed as he scanned their hurried scribbles, irritation turning into surprise, edging on concern. He looked down at Danny.

"Mr. Fenton, what in—"

A shot rang out in the distance, followed by two more.

For one horrible, nightmarish second, no one breathed. Then Danny shivered and a puff of white air escaped his lips. That was all it took for him to understand. From Sam and Tuck's horrified gasps they knew just as well what it meant.

Lancer dropped the paper and ran back to the desk, hitting the newly installed panic button. Steel bolts slid home on the door and iron bars slammed down over the windows. Students pushed their desks toward the back wall. The last row was already scrambling into the jungle of table legs. Everyone was quick, everyone was quiet. They had drilled for this. They knew what to do. Even the shaking, whimpering Paulina was mechanically going through the motions.

"It's not gonna work," Danny said numbly. He hadn't even gotten out of his seat. Blood roared through his ears, making it hard to hear his own voice. Danny knew this feeling. He'd had it right before every one of his worst fights. He felt petrified, like he was turned to stone, but in reality he was waiting, every muscle coiled to its tightest.

Fear sliced through him as Lancer blinked at him stupidly like he'd said something confusing.

"It's not going to work!" Danny shouted, gesturing to the room, the desks, everything. "Don't you get it? He's back! He'll just walk right through all this!"

Lancer's voice had an edge of fear to it, but he remained persistently, infuriatingly calm. "Daniel, you can't panic now, just follow the drill—"

"I'm not panicking! I'm trying to tell you! The shooter's a ghost this ti—" his words choked into nothing as the shooter stepped through the bolted door. The ghost glowed an eerie, sick shade of green. He was still dressed in black. He still carried a long gun. But where his face had been blown away, a black miasma hovered; an awful, conscious, seeing void. He raised the gun, pointed it at the fear-stricken teacher, and fired.

Danny had already launched himself off his desk and toward Lancer before the thought could even form. He slammed into the teacher, propelling them both hard into the blackboard as the ectoplasmic bullet whistled by and smashed the window. Danny heard something crack underneath him and hoped desperately it was the wall.

The shooter had already turned and aimed at Sam and Tuck, the only students still visible. With an an inarticulate yell Danny tackled him, shoving the gun up so it fired into the ceiling. The specter yanked it free, swinging the butt of the rifle down on Danny's head.

At some point Danny must have gone ghost, because the blood that dripped into his eyes made his vision hazy green. He rubbed it away. The shooter was taking aim again, this time at the desks and his hidden classmates.

"Don't you dare," Danny snarled. Energy formed into a massive ball in his cupped hand. He yanked the ghost back by the collar of its black jacket and shoved the plasma ball into that shapeless black mass of a face. Something like a scream came out of the darkness, and the ghost dropped its gun. It fell to the floor and writhed like a skewered snake. Danny hovered over the ghost, building up a second blast. This would finish it.

Alarms blared around them, feet thundered in the corridors. The thing tilted its head up as if staring at the halfa. Danny froze. He could see that strange smile somehow even on its formless face. Then the ghost pulled a handgun out of thin air and pointed at itself.

"No!" Danny threw the ectoplasm in his hand with all his strength. The ghost fired, and its form melted away into nothing. Plasma hit the floor, dissipating with a hiss and leaving a smoking black mark.

Activity exploded around him, people pouring into the room, students getting up, everyone talking. Danny was too busy staring at that scorch mark to notice. The blood trickling down his cheek felt warm, not cold. He must be human again.

Conversation buzzed in and out of focus around him like wandering flies.

"—nny Fenton's the ghost boy?"

"—you can say? The shooter's a ghost! We'll never—"

"—think he has a concussion—"

"—was so scared—"

"—yes, he's my student officer, and—"

"—nny, can you hear me?—"

"—no mom, I'm okay, just come get me—"

"—parents here yet? They would know what to—"

"—is it really gone? Did he kill it?"

That last question haunted him into darkness. Of course he hadn't won. It would be back. It would always be back. Danny's dreams were filled with nightmares.

Year two, end.

He was late. Danny yanked the unoccupied thermos through the door of his locker and took off at a sprint. He had found himself fighting some useless ghost on the way to school for the billionth time. He would barely make it.

If Danny was in less of a rush he might have taken note of the parents chatting quietly in the hall, the government agents taking off their sunglasses as they walked away, the faint scent of ozone in the air, but he was focused on getting to the classroom.

Danny yelped and ducked as an ectoblast sizzled through the air and narrowly missed his nose. He glared at Dash, who dropped the weapon, looking shaken. "Sorry, Fenton."

Only then did it register that he was standing in blood. It soaked into the old leather of his sneakers and seeped up through his socks, ice-cold and bright, acid green. Mr. Lancer stood sagging against his desk, the remote to the kill device still clutched in his good hand.

"It's over? Danny said numbly, looking around at the students.

His parents had found a way. Their drive was terrifying when they got behind a project seriously. It had only taken them three months to perfect the design, and two more to make a working prototype. The kill device was utterly lethal. It reset all electrical impulses to zero. Any human caught in its ray would be turned into a vegetable. Any ghost would dissolve into nothing. Permanently.

Danny hadn't realized just how serious that was until he saw them burn the blueprints after it was built. That it would never be used against him was a relief...though it was a risk he'd been willing to take to get rid of the shooter.

Tucker waved to get his attention. Got him, he signed, a huge grin on his face for the first time in forever.

He jerked a thumb at Paulina, who was still pointing her smoking ectorifle into the pile of goo. The cheerleader stared down at the ectoplasmic residue stony-faced, even though twin streams of mascara ran down her cheeks. The short haircut she'd gotten earlier this year left her no less stunning; she made even inch thick Hazmat look good.

Taking up ghost hunting had finally pulled Paulina out of the depths she'd fallen into over Star's death. She'd even flirted with Danny in his ghost form once or twice. There was a flair of expertise as she holstered the ectogun and pulled out a compact, dabbing at her eyes.

"I should have been here," Danny said, heart in his throat. They had all faced it down—again—without him, the supposed hero. "I'm sorry," he said louder, to everyone in the class.

"Don't be so full of yourself, Fentom," the quarterback growled, picking up the the ectogun and stashing it under his desk. "We're not wimps, okay?"

Danny flushed.

"What Mr. Baxter is trying to say," Lancer spoke up, gingerly setting down the remote and straightening his tie. "Is that you were surely needed elsewhere. We're grateful for what you do, Mr. Fenton, but you can't do everything for us. We were ready. It's taken care of. Now if you would please take your seat? I have all of you for another forty minutes and I intend to have every one of you graduate this year."

The other students shuffled back to their seats and started pulling out textbooks. Danny slid behind his desk. He hadn't even remembered to get his backpack, just the thermos. It sat cold and familiar in his lap, unused and unneeded. The ghost was just a smear on the floor now. GIW would run cleanup later. Knowing them, there wouldn't even be a stain.

It felt strange. Surreal.

A sheet of notebook paper and a pen appeared on his desk, Sam's curling script on the first line. Take notes. Rumor has it this next test will be English Armageddon.

Tuck leaned over and scrawled underneath, So what will you do after school?

Sam threw a pen at him. Tucker ducked and the pen clattered to the floor. Lancer, who had been writing on the blackboard, turned to give the three of them a suspicious glare. Danny tried his best to look studious with his single sheet of paper...and no pen. As soon as Lancer turned back around, he snatched Tuck's pencil.

Buy new shoes.

Year three, end.

A/N:

With respect to the victims and survivors of gun violence in schools.

Many thanks to Sarapsys, sapphireswimming, MsFrizzle, and the folks at DA for your thoughts and help on this one.

-Hj