Warning: There is one (1) swearword in the following chapter.

When seen from above, the Far Frozen seemed like a disaster zone. The once pristine snow was now a smattering of glowing green on rusty red slush. Slowly evaporating corpses of the resident yetis lay in heaps around what appeared to be a half crumpled tank. The ghosts flying overhead knew better than to land there, instead skirting about the edges like skittish rabbits who know a hawk is in the area. Whoever had done this, was not a thing to be trifled with.

At ground level, Norman could have affirmed that this was a place to be avoided at all cost. But with the Specter Speeder wrecked, there was no way they would be getting out of it anytime soon. He closed his eyes, and pressed the button on the side of the Fenton Phones again. "Anybody listening?"

He was met with a crackle of static on the other end. Norman opened his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration, and tore the phones out of his ears, throwing them across the ectoplasm stained snow. They landed barely four feet away, floating gently like they were underwater. He watched them fall with mixed satisfaction.

Sam had said they were on their way almost an hour ago. He and Tucker were running out of time. Norman had done his best to patch up the gaping hole in Tucker's arm, but the first aid kit in the Speeder had been on fire when he found it. The only parts that had survived had been a few assorted band-aids and the warped remains of a melted needle that had probably once been used for stitches.

Norman had never taken first aid lessons, but even he knew that that wouldn't be enough. He huddled in on himself, drawing his knees into his chest. "We're going to die out here, aren't we?"

Tucker didn't answer. He'd passed out hours ago. The only outward indication that he was even still alive was the shaky rise and fall of his chest. The air in the Ghost Zone was killing him as much as the loss of blood. It was killing them both.

Norman didn't get up to get the Fenton Phones out of the snow. His head felt uncannily heavy, and he honestly just wanted to lie down. The fact that he might not wake up was the only thing keeping his eyes open at this point.

He took a shaky breath and released it, watching cross-eyed as the muddled green air swirled around his nose. Then a hand landed on his shoulder and he nearly leapt out of his skin. A tired, deep voice spoke into his ear. "You don't look like you belong here."

There used to be a man in the waiting room of Amity Park Mercy Hospital who never left. He sat in his blue plastic chair, reading a magazine advertising products that were discontinued years ago, eyes silently sliding over words he'd read a thousand times before, waiting. He'd been waiting for years. That's what waiting rooms were for, he supposed.

Occasionally, this man would take notice of the people walking around him, but as time went on, these times became less and less frequent. Their eyes slid over him, and the faces started to blur together. Their faces all looked the same; bloodshot eyes, mouths curled downwards into frowns. Even his twenty-five year old magazine had more variety.

The man knew he should move on, just leave the waiting room. But he never could bring himself to walk out the doors, into the open air. It never felt right. This was the place he had died, after all.

Once, he had encountered someone who could see him. An old woman, her iron hair wrapped up in a tight knot in the back of her head, who had sat beside him and looked him in the eye, and told him straight that he needed to leave. That if he stayed for too long, he wouldn't be himself by the time he left.

He had politely told her to shove it and leave him alone. She hadn't come back, and he hadn't felt the urge to talk to anyone since then.

But today, that teen with the frantic look in his eye that said he had seen a bit too much, and the skinny kid holding his sister's hand who had locked eyes with him; that had been something else. But he'd found himself getting a bit too interested, and had buried his face in the out-of-date magazine again. It wasn't his problem.

But when a weight settled down in the seat next to him, and he'd felt that half forgotten tingle on the back of his neck that meant someone was watching him, he'd sighed, and folded his magazine between his knees. "What do you want, Lucille?"

Her hair had a little more white in it than it had three years ago, but her face still had that disapproving look on it, and her glare hadn't softened with age. She looked him in the eye. "I see you didn't move on like I asked you."

The man made a conscious effort not to roll his eyes. He failed miserably. "I never asked for your advice. However, I do remember telling you to shove off."

"You know she'll be okay if you're not here."

The man's fingers itched towards the magazine between his knees. "What do you want, Lucille?" He repeated.

Her gaze was just as piercing as he remembered. "That scrawny boy, the one who came by this afternoon. Did you see him?"

The man stared at the wall across from them sullenly. "No. I didn't see a boy come through here."

Lucille pursed her lips. "You're a lying ass, you know that Hank? You see every man, woman, and child that comes through those doors, so don't you for one second pretend you don't know who I'm talking about."

The man rolled his eyes again. "Fine. I saw him. What of it?"

"The kid's in danger."

"So?"

Lucille uncrossed her legs and leaned towards him. "That boy may be the most talented medium I've ever come across. And right now, we need him."

Hank sat up a little straighter. "He's a kid, Lucille. Whatever needs doing, I'm sure you can do it yourself."

"I'm old, Hank," Lucille snapped. "And yes, I have the gift. But I've never been good at persuading people, and that's what's needed right now. We need that kid, now more than ever."

The man sighed. "Fine. I'm not saying I believe you, but fine. Why come to me about it?"

Lucille looked down at the clasped hands in her lap. "The boy just happens to be in a place I can't get to. It's only accessible to spirits."

Hank raised an eyebrow at her pointedly. "How do you even know where he is?"

Lucille smirked at him. "Believe it or not, Hank, not all spirits are as irritating as you are. They tell me things. Little things, but I'm good at piecing together the whole story."

Hank rolled his eyes. "And you couldn't get one of them to go get him?"

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs again. "They weren't stupid enough to stick around after I'd warned them to leave. Plus, you're the only spirit I know who'd actually be dumb enough to do something like this."

Hank snorted. "You're not really helping your case here, Lucille."

The facade of carelessness lifted in a minute. She leaned towards him, faster than a viper, her piercing gray eyes fixed directly on his. "This thing? This danger I've been telling you about? If it isn't stopped, it could destroy the entire world.

"And if the world's destroyed, Lisa will be too."

The man's gaze hardened. He folded his magazine into his pocket and stood up, brushing nonexistent dust off the legs of his pants. He looked Lucille in the eye. "What do I have to do?"

Norman whipped around, feet sliding in the green slush. The man behind him simply looked bored, and removed his hand from Norman's shoulder.

He was a short man, only a couple inches taller than Norman, with thinning red hair and wire-rimmed glasses. But the remarkable thing about him, was that the man standing in front of Norman was a ghost. Not an Amity Park ghost, but a proper ghost, like the ones they got in Blythe Hollow.

The man gave Norman a pointed look. "Let's go kid. I'm on a tight schedule, and you got work to do."

Norman's eyes widened. "I… what?"

"Great," the man muttered, tapping a rolled up magazine on his thigh. "Look, you're the medium kid, right?"

"Yeah…?"

"Okay then. Well I'm here to get you out, so you can… go save the world." When Norman simply stared at the man, he sighed again. "Look. Kid. Come with me, and I'll get you out of this place, deal?"

Norman blinked, then his brain started working again. "I can't leave Tucker."

The man rolled his eyes. "I never said you had to, kid. Now hurry it up, this is a limited time offer." He offered Norman his hand.

Norman looked at it for a second, then grabbed Tucker by the elbow that hadn't almost been bitten off. Then he took the man's hand, and the world became a blur around them, the Far Frozen replaced by streaks of green and yellow in the blink of an eye.

And then, it was over and all three collapsed on the floor of the waiting room of Amity Park Mercy Hospital, to the great distress of the young man at the check in table. Several EMTs rushed Tucker into the ER on a stretcher within minutes, and then the waiting room was left nearly empty. The only ones there were Norman, the middle-aged ghost, and an old woman sitting in a blue plastic chair.

The man walked over to the chair beside her and sat down, pulling out his magazine. "I did my part, Lucille. Now, I'd enjoy it immensely if I could get some peace and quiet in here."

The old woman smiled warmly up at Norman. "Don't mind Hank," she said. "He's always been like that." The man beside her snorted, and irritably turned a page of his magazine. She leaned towards Norman conspiratorially and whispered, "I've told him over and over to move on, but he just won't listen."

Norman rocked back and forth on his heels. "Why's that?"

Lucille opened her mouth, but Hank cut her off before she could say anything, never once looking up from his magazine. "My daughter, Lisa. We were both in a car accident a little over a decade ago. She's still in a coma." He shrugged. "I'm not leaving this hospital 'til she does."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Norman said, looking down at his sneakers.

Hank gave him a funny look. "It's not your fault kid. It's just life. Bad things happen." He went back to his magazine with a huff. "You might as well tell him about whatever it is the kid needs to do."

Lucille scowled at the man, and he smirked into his magazine. Then she turned to Norman and gave him a comforting smile. "We've got a lot to talk about, hon. And not a lot of time. So you better get comfortable."

Hi… um… so I can explain the long wait. It's not a very good excuse, but I do have one. So basically, finals week and AP testing combined with every single teacher deciding to have three quizzes every week just left me feeling a wee bit overwhelmed.

But now that finals week is over, I finally managed to finish this chapter and get it posted. (And btw Chapter 2 of MM&CF is finished, I just need to get my beta reader to look over it. Just in case any of you were following both)

And no. The catapult thing did not end well. I won't go into it, but it kinda fell apart halfway through