Back to Tucker again, and I do apologize for the wait. I admit that while this project is a lot of fun, it's a bit low on the priority list. However, this spring's gonna be a busy one, so I wanted to push something out. We've definitely reached a point where a lot less of every chapter feels salvageable from the original NaNo draft; I ended up rewriting just about the whole thing this time, and the next chapter will need the same love.

This still only covers a small portion of most of a day spent at Tucker's again, so while there are quite a number of topics that are likely to come up as Tucker, Sam, and the first Amity Park ghost to find out about Danny all get more comfortable asking him questions, pretty much none of it gets covered. Everyone's so leery of stepping on Danny's toes, so not much is revealed and there is, once again, the frustrating feeling of having painted myself into a corner with the addition of every new character who finds out about Danny.

Sam texts Tucker way too frickin' early to ask if he'd be cool with her bringing Danny over first thing. He can't even pretend to be fake-pissed about it either, because he's wide awake when his phone goes off. Wide awake, staring at the blinking patterns of LED lights dotted all around his room, a hundred and one Fenton-Foley ghost gadgets stacked in haphazard heaps and tangles of cabling. Wide awake, thinking about Danny and the unyielding blackness he's trying so hard to walk confidently through. Wide awake, recalling how Danny had gotten sick of all the shouting, had tried to storm out of the kitchen, and ended up banging his hip on the counter. He and Sam had both clammed up then, stricken by how his face had gone waxy with fear and fury and grief.

Later that night that same fear had sunk its irrational teeth deep into Tucker's throat as he'd tried to sleep. He kept—checking. Stupid, stupid, stupid and unbelievably shitty of him, but he had to keep checking he could still see all the little lights blinking around his room. Every time the night grew too heavy he had to shake himself awake and just—check—that his own eyes hadn't up and ghosted on him too.

So. Yeah. Not a great night's sleep. Hence being awake at ass o'clock to see Sam's text. She's the polar opposite of an early bird, so it's a safe bet she didn't get much sleep either. He sends back an affirmative, then when he actually registers the godawful time it is he tacks on: Don't go over there until eight. Like the EARLIEST eight. And call first like a sane person while you're at it. All she texts back is a bunch of grumpy emoticons, which means she knows he's right but doesn't want to admit it.

As Tucker drops his phone on his chest his eyes once again find the lights around his room, and once again his stomach tightens with guilt and relief. He's a coward. He's always known he's a coward, and honestly he's never much minded it. It's one of those things you test the edges of when you're one of the front men for a fucking ghost-hunting militia, sure, but knowing when to run away from toothy ghouls the size of minivans to get some backup or bigger guns is what's kept his ass alive. Without Danny here—

And that's a thought of its own, isn't it? How Danny's mouth had thinned every time the militia had come up in passing. It had sprung up not long after Danny had been taken, when all the ghosts threw a party that brought Amity Park not-so-metaphorically to its knees. Tucker had wanted to ask what he thought of it, sure, but he'd shelved that conversation for later. He'd been too busy reeling over how his best friend since kindergarten had sprung up to commit murder when his eyes had still been melting out of his face.

Fuck, but he knows there's no way he would've walked away from—from whatever Danny's survived.

Three years.

A part of him still can't believe it's been three years. Already been? Has finally been? He doesn't know which to phrase it under. The days dragged their feet and the weeks crawled along on their hands and knees, but then one day he blinked and three years had flown right by.

Any angle he looks at it, it's been a hell of a long time. There's no way they can expect things to go back to the way they'd been just because Danny's home. He's different now, so different there might not be enough of him left to—

Tucker cuts that thought short with a grimace. No way he's gonna ride that train of thought to the end of the line at ass o'clock in the morning. He's developed a strict policy of not making any sweeping generalizations about people, places, or dubiously cursed things until he's had at least one cup of coffee. He can pick at that particular mental scab later after another few hours spent with Sam and Danny might improve whatever's festering underneath.

The giddy, wordless ! of Danny being home and alive hits him again as he tugs his phone off the charger and hops out of bed. He'd never given up hope of seeing Danny again, one way or another. It felt like a betrayal somehow, to think otherwise, and a denial of how strong Danny was even before the accident. The fact Danny survived some twelve metric tons of bullshit thanks to the likes of Freakshow and Lydia and came home alive is worth whatever baggage he might have brought with him.

Like blindness and murder, which for all Tucker knows is the tip of the iceberg.

Ugh.

There's only the first touch of gray seeping in through the windows, but whatever. If he keeps laying there all he'll earn himself is a headache, so he bullies himself downstairs for a passable workout—muscles even Danny can appreciate don't come cheap—then upstairs for a shower, then downstairs again to drum up breakfast. Somewhere in there his stomach woke up and decided scrambled eggs sounded bomb, and there's enough bacon left to make a whole mountain to split between him and Danny. If memory serves that weird vegan bread Sam likes is still good, and he's pretty sure there's raspberries—yup, and they don't look all gross and melty-rotten either. It's not much, but if Sam wants more than that she knows to bring her own meal prep over to desecrate the Foley house with.

He's got his hands full when he hears the front door, so he just hollers, "Kitchen!" over his shoulder and hopes they hear. Not like the smells and sounds wouldn't be obvious clues once they're inside, but—whatever. Just because he's been acing his way through the home ec curriculum since freshman year doesn't mean he's figured out the secret to multitasking without burning shit.

He hears the door open and shut, and a moment later the heavy tread of boots come into the kitchen. "Somebody's busy," Danny remarks lightly. "Lemme guess, you're gonna offer me a twelve-egg omelette and a gallon of orange juice, and if I say no you'll hit me with a frying pan."

He tuts. "You are overestimating my culinary skills, man. It's scrambled eggs, and you're only getting half of what I'm making 'cause I'm starved." He nods at Sam, who's watching Danny make his careful way to the dining table. Oh goody, she looks miserable again. "You eat yet?"

"Yeah," Danny says at the same time Same says, "No." They both twitch a little. Danny rolls his neck so it cracks loudly, Sam flinches outright, and Tucker resigns himself to playing middleman again today. Hey, maybe he'll have better luck today.

Ha, as if.

"Well you're gonna eat some of this anyway—Danny," he clarifies. "Dunno if you noticed but you're way too friggin' skinny. I already got a plate started for you, Sam. It's in the fridge. No OJ, Danny, but I made coffee and there's milk of the normal and horrible varieties."

Danny chuckles, taking the same seat at the dining table as yesterday. "Do I wanna know?"

"It's just almond milk," Sam cuts in, making a point to shoulder-check Tucker on her way to the fridge. He makes exaggerated gagging sounds and earns chuckling from both of them. "What do you want, Danny? I'll get it."

"Coffee, thanks. Black's fine."

Tucker's busy doling out a heap of calories onto two plates, but not too busy to toss an exasperated look Sam's way. "What, to go with the outfit?"

Sam glares at him as Danny says, "Huh? Oh. Funny."

"I'm serious." Still Looking at Sam just so he can make her glare wobble into something that might, if one were feeling generous, be called a smile. "You've out-Goth'd Sam, which is an achievement I hope nobody's handing out awards for at the Skulk 'n' Lurk. If either of you start singing any Nightwish songs we're gonna have a problem."

He turns to deposit the plates on the dining table in time to see Danny's nose wrinkle. "I have no idea who that is."

Instead of overthinking all the other things Danny probably missed out on while kidnapped and mind controlled by a maniacal clown, big and small alike, Tucker fake-glowers at Sam. "Don't you dare."

She just rolls her eyes and keeps vegan-buttering her vegan-toast or whatever mysterious vegan-breakfast she's concocting. Just because he ceded some space in the kitchen for her doesn't mean he's actually got any idea what she does with it. "Here you go, man—shit, wait, forks would be useful."

It's a couple more minutes before they're all settled. Today Sam takes the seat across from Danny, leaving Tucker the spoil of choice of the adjacent chairs. He raises an eyebrow at her. She grimaces back. Danny, of course, notices nothing.

"I hope you didn't do all this on my account," Danny says, dancing his fork along his busted knuckles before digging in. Second breakfast or not, he still eats with gusto. Good.

"Quantity, yes, but eggs just sounded good. Want salt or anything?"

"Nah. Thanks."

Sam's staying quiet again, hands wrapped around her coffee mug to warm them. Tucker leaves her be, more interested in his own breakfast and chasing it down with coffee as fast as he can without scalding his tongue. He watches Danny eat; surreptitiously at first, then bolder as he squashes down the guilt of being able to look freely without getting caught because, well. He feels the same knee-jerk unease as he did yesterday. Something about Danny is just... off in a way he doesn't know how to voice. Sure, he's slouched at the table easily enough, all his weight resting on the elbow of the arm he's not eating with. He doesn't seem tense or angry. If anything he looks twice as bone-tired as Sam does, and he's not even wearing any smudged makeup to excuse the bruising around his eyes. It's not all the black clothes or the earrings or the dumb sunglasses that's putting Tucker on edge. It's not Danny's sunken cheeks and temples or how sharply the tendons stand out on the backs of his hands. It's...

He knows Danny's half-ghost. Obviously. But before he was taken, there was nothing overtly ghostly about Danny in human mode to out him, especially once he got a better handle on his powers. He was just... Danny, an average kid who could become a superhero in a bright flash of light, take down the ghost of the week, then change back in time for school. Now though, Tucker finds himself fighting the urge to lean away from his best friend in case—in case of what? Danny wouldn't hurt him. Danny can't even fucking see him. But there's this klaxon bell going off in his head that he can't get to shut up. If he could just figure it out—

"You're both awfully quiet this morning," Danny says.

Tucker and Sam duck their heads in unison. Caught in the act.

"S-sorry," Sam stammers. "Just—y'know. Thinking."

"Uh-huh," Danny says. He swaps fork for coffee mug, fumbling only a little for the handle. Steam fogs his sunglasses as he downs half the mug in one go. "Hey, what do you guys look like?"

Tucker looks at Sam, who looks about as depressed by the question as he feels. He loves it when they're on the same page. God. "Uh."

"I remember what you looked like when we were fourteen, but help me out here. I know you've grown your hair out, Sam. Tucker, you're a couple inches taller than me, yeah?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"He's growing his hair out too," Sam says. "It's still pretty short, about as long as yours is, and he's got it in—what's it called? Twists?"

"Yeah," Tucker says. "Sam's got a green stripe in hers. Ghost green."

They go back and forth a bit, trading descriptions that make Danny light up softly, and some of that unease backs off enough that Tucker can almost forget the funny squeeze around his heart. They tease each other a bit but keep it positive overall, and Sam goes the extra mile to describe Danny's parents for him too. She finishes up, then tightens up, then asks, "Anything else you wanna know?"

Danny hums. "Nah, not right now. Thanks though. Really."

"Can I ask you a question?" Tucker hazards. "About when you were—gone?"

"You can ask whatever you like."

Which is another way of saying go for it, but don't expect shit in return. Fair enough.

"Can I—I mean, what happened to your hands?"

Sam outright mimes what the fuck at him, but come on. There's no way he's gonna sit here and not ask Danny about the last three years. He can start with something obvious, can't he?

Danny chuckles, wiggling his chewed up fingers in their direction. "I know, I know, they're ugly. My speedy healing's a lot slower than it used to be, but they used to look worse. My whole pinky was missing for a while there."

"Dude," Tucker whispers, appalled.

"Uh-huh. That was a juggling accident. I fucked my thumb up when I was cutting up horse meat for the big cats. That was a hard one to cover up since I bled ectoplasm all over like, fifty pounds of good meat. Broke my fingers a few times with setup and teardown, but those always healed pretty quick." He presents the web of dark scar tissue on his right palm, raised and knotted, clustered thickest at the heel of his thumb. "No idea what I did here, but my whole hand's dead now."

"Dead?" Sam echoes, looking nauseous. Danny answers by cracking his hand hard against the table, rattling plates and spilling coffee.

"Numb," he clarifies.

"O-oh."

For a moment, Tucker's glad Danny can't see his expression. He can't even feel guilty for thinking that. It's just... Jesus. He knew he wasn't going to like the answer—there's no good way to spin losing bits of your fingers—but Danny's doing his best to pretend like it's not a big deal. Like, oh whatever, having ghost powers means minor regeneration, apparently, so what's the use of crying over missing fingers?

Maybe it's not a big deal because this isn't the first time he's lost fingers.

Jesus. Okay. That's—Tucker is not physically capable of downing the amount of coffee necessary to face that. He firmly skips over wondering just how far Danny's had to test spectral healing or whatever the Fentons are calling it now and decides to keep shoveling the hole he's dug for himself. "Juggling, huh."

"Uh-huh," Danny says, dropping his hands so he can go back to leaning on one elbow and nursing his coffee. "It wasn't all robbery and shit. That stuff just made it easier to get legitimate work in whatever circus or carnival that was hiring."

"We never found any sign of Freakshow or Circus Gothica after Lydia kidnapped you," Sam says, wary.

Danny snorts. "Course not. He was smarter than that. Had to be, to run the kind of scams he loved. Flaunting the truth for a whole crowd of humans who were happy to hand over their wallets to swallow the lie they told themselves so they didn't see the monsters right in front of them. It was just the three of us for ages, and any money he'd squirreled away before I landed him in prison was spent getting us out of the States as quick as possible. Things got easier once he found the medallion. More ghosts under his control meant he could throw his weight around more with any troupe we stayed with. More say in the acts, where we went, how the money was split. Things were better when the ringleaders minded him too."

Well. That klaxon bell is going off again and this time Tucker's 100% on board with it. Danny sounds—wistful. Like for a moment he is sorry Freakshow's gone after all, but for all the worst reasons. He sounds like he's gone full-blown Stockholm. Tucker clears his throat. "I don't—"

"Juggling," Danny cuts in, shaking his head a little. "Right. Yeah. Did a lot of stuff outside the big top in the beginning. He didn't let me in on any of the acts until he trusted I wouldn't wriggle out of his control and bail home. It took him a while to really realize just how solid a control on me he really had."

Tucker has to clear his throat to bully his voice into cooperating. "You said yesterday he made you forget everything—"

Whoa, okay, that gets Sam waving her hands in as firm a shut the fuck up as she's ever done at him when she thinks he's about to stick his foot right in it. He shoots a guilty look at Danny and gestures what'd I do wrong? Danny, natch, notices none of this. "Yup. Sam and I were talking about that again on the way over here, actually."

Sam's eyes widen and she crosses her arms in an X. Nuke the subject, pick another. Yeah, well, too bad for her, Tucker's more interested in why she's flipping out while Danny's cool as a cucumber. "Oh yeah? What—"

His cellphone has the audacity to go off then. Danny twitches, nearly dropping his mug. Tucker hisses an apology as he goes to mute it, but— "Shit, it's my mom."

"I'm not here," Danny says in a tone that brooks no argument.

"Uh. Right. I'll just... be right back." He ducks out of the dining room and hovers by the coffee table, too agitated to collapse dramatically across the couch as he suffers through another checkup and stern reminder about the list of chores he'd been tasked with before his parents left town. He keeps it quick—too quick, really. He can hear the suspicion growing in his mom's voice, but she's either thinking he's thrown a party or there was an attack that didn't make the news, both of which are so far off it's almost hilarious. Danny's here sits bitterly on his tongue, a secret knocking insistently against his teeth. He's unused to secrets. His parents know the truth about Phantom, and everything that went along with that too. The worst he's lied to them since Lydia took Danny has been about his grades.

"Short of any surprises we'll be home around three," she says.

"Cool. Look, I gotta go, okay? Sam's over."

He endures some teasing—he really wishes both his parents would figure out he and Sam are not and never will be a Thing, but he'll have better luck seeing a ghost pig fly before that happens—promises to take out the trash, and wishes them both a safe trip home. Call finished, he puts his phone on vibrate—Danny had twitched bad when it'd rung—and trots back into the dining room with a fake smile on only to stop short in the doorway.

"Whoa—! Hey-y-y, ha. Uh. Danny, what's uh, what're you doing?"

Danny looks exactly as spooked as a blind guy busy juggling three burning balls of ectoplasm ought to, wedged next to the fridge with his shoulders hunched high and his arms moving jerkily. He still manages to raise one eyebrow in a way that makes Tucker feel two inches tall and half as stupid. "What's it look like?"

"Let me try that again. Why?"

"She asked."

Sam's leaned as far away from Danny as she can be short of abandoning her chair entirely. "I didn't ask for a demonstration."

"Would you relax? I'm a pro at this."

Tucker bites down the urge to point out that juggling really seems like the kind of thing that ought to be left to pros who can see what they're doing. It doesn't take a genius to know that wouldn't go over well. And, well, Danny certainly seems confident, busted hands and eyes and all. Still. "If you set my kitchen on fire I'm pretty sure my dad will ground me until graduation."

Danny grins as the balls freeze in mid-air, then rush to his palms in a bright flare as he claps his hands. When he brings them apart green light trails in the space between like knotted Christmas lights. He twists his hands and the light bends like hot metal into a fat spiral that vanishes in another flare of light as he presses his hands together. When he brings them apart there's nothing left of his lightshow but a thin green smoke trailing along his fingers. "You don't have to worry, Tuck. I know exactly what I'm—"

He breaks off, inhaling sharply. Very, very slowly, he cranes his head up to look at the ceiling. When he breathes out there's an unmistakable blue mist, something Tucker wasn't sure he'd ever see again. Oh, shit.

Sam springs to her feet. "That's—! It's okay, Danny." She holds out her hands placatingly, then seems to realize how pointless that is and drops them. "It's not an attack. Seriously, we're safe. You can sit down while Tucker goes upstairs—"

Danny just grins again, a hungrier thing than before. Then he's gone in a burst of speed Tucker forgot he was capable of, bolting up through the ceiling with laughter trailing behind him. Tucker and Sam stare stupidly at each other for a brain-dead eternity—or more accurately three seconds—before it sinks in what just happened.

"Shit," Tucker says.

"Ow," Sam says, pressing fingertips to temples. She shakes it off before Tucker can ask though, bolting for the doorway. "Why didn't you tell him?!"

"Wha—me? When would I have had a chance to tell him? You're the one driving him around!"

"Not Danny!" She whips around the corner, taking the stairs two at a time. "Forget it. Let's just stop them before they blow your roof off."

Oh, his parents will kill him if there's another fight in the house. Tucker hopes, a touch desperate, that Danny's cooled it with the shoot first, ask questions later method of ghost wrangling.

As they hit the second stair landing there's a familiar panicked shriek followed by a crash. Hopefully that wasn't one of the more delicate projects. It's kind of a minefield up in the attic. Never mind, he'll worry about that later. He shoved past Sam to charge up the stairs, coming to a staggered halt as soon as he sees ghost green.

There's Danny, a black paper cutout among all the polished chrome and blinking lights. His posture is all Phantom; shoulders back, head high, pale green light burning in his fists. On the other side of the attic Technus hovers by workbench squeezed between two server racks, a gutted laptop sparking fitfully on the floor.

For a long moment, no one says anything. Tucker knows—knows—Danny's going to assume the worst has happened while he was gone. In too many ways he'd be right to think any ghost on this side of the Portal is an enemy, but things aren't as cut and dry as they were when Phantom was here to be the shield nobody realized they needed until after he was taken. There's got to be a way to talk Danny down, to make him listen to Technus, or if not Technus than one of them. He'll listen to one of them.

Won't he?

Technus breaks the silence first, stunned to disbelief. "Ghost child?"

"...Technus?"

God, Tucker could kick himself. Of course Danny freaked. All he knows is there's a ghost not fifteen feet from him. How could he know it'd be one of the personable ones? At least he doesn't sound like he's going to go in swinging, but then—and Tucker flinches from the thought, but it's true—how coordinated in a fight can he be in his condition?

The light in Danny's hands dims to a soft, hardly-there buzz as he takes one cautious step forward. Then another. Technus remains frozen in place. "You're back? You—you're alive?"

"I'm honestly getting a little offended by how surprised everybody sounds when they ask me that."

"You—" Technus seems to finally notice Tucker and Sam, shooting them a slightly panicked look. "You do know I have an accord with the humans. Don't you?"

"News to me." Danny keeps taking slow, careful steps toward him, hands up at waist-height to feel what his boots might miss.

"I, ah—" Technus clears his throat. His hands sort of flail about, like shooing Danny would've ever worked when he could still see. "W-well, I'm allowed near limitless access to Earth so long as I provide my, ahem, ample expertise in all things technological, assist in defensive actions taken against any invasive or actively malicious spirits and-or entities that wish harm about humankind, and put no effort in developing any malicious plans of my own, theoretical or otherwise."

"Danny—" Tucker dares, but Danny talks right over him.

"Is that so? Sounds like you hit the jackpot." One boot knocks against the edge of a cardboard box brimming over with spare power cables. He hesitates, then steps a few inches to the left. "Does that mean your Ghost Zone privileges have been revoked?"

"N-no, of course not. There are several of us who have opted to make a truce with the humans. There are similar stipulations put to us by the High Council, but..." Technus leans away from Danny's approaching hands, swallowing visibly. "Ghost child... What are you doing?"

"Trying to find you. Quit backing up, would ya?"

"What?"

The glow on Danny's hands fades to harmless smoke as his fingers press against Technus' hip. Or whatever's the equivalent on a ghost with no legs, anyway. Technus looks like he'd love nothing more than to put a few hundred feet between himself and his old enemy, but he stays put.

"Danny?" Sam tries. "It really is okay. He's on our side."

Danny hums. "Sides, huh."

Then he hugs Technus.

Wraps his skinny arms right around him, drags him down so they're of the same height, and buries his head in Technus' shoulder. No big whoop. Tucker's jaw definitely doesn't hit the floor or anything.

"Uh," Technus musters after another incredulous pause. His hands twitch feebly over Danny's shoulders, unsure if he ought to reciprocate or face some kind of new Phantom trickery. "What, ah. What is happening right now?"

Tucker shakes his head, just as much at a loss as the dead egotist getting hugged. Beside him he hears Sam whisper very, very quietly, "The fuck?"

Danny lets go then, stepping aside so Tucker can catch the gleam of that too-sharp grin again. "I never thought I'd say this, but I missed you."

Technus fumbles out a few meek syllables, then looks at Tucker and Sam again. "Is he okay?"

"I have no idea," Tucker says.

"What version are you on now?" Danny asks, blithely ignoring all of them. "I'm guessin' you upgraded again while I've been gone. You've nixed your legs again, huh? And I thought I felt a braid. Did you finally catch on that mullets are out of style?"

"I don't—yes? Jazz, uh, your sister insisted." He coughs, skirting back a few more inches. "I'm—it's 4.3 now."

"A shame I missed three-point-whatever," Danny replies dryly.

Sam pushes past Tucker, tossing an impatient look over her shoulder at him. "No it's not. He looked like a bad Tron cosplayer."

"It was a very durable model, and I'll thank you to remember how difficult a time you all had taking me down," Technus retorts, visibly relieved for even a partial return to normal parameters.

Danny's grin widens as Tucker joins them by the servers. "Now I really wish I'd seen it."

"Ghost child—Danny," Technus corrects. "It's, uh. Don't take this the wrong way. While it's good to see you back in one piece again, you are acting very strange."

Danny slips his hands into the tatty pocket of his hoodie with an exaggerated shrug. "It's just nice to hear a friendly voice, dude. Grating on the ears, sure, but good to hear all the same. Also I'm blind, so y'know. Wasn't sure who you were at first."

"You're—what? The great Danny Phantom, defender of the Fenton Portal and of humankind, blind? This—you're making a joke, aren't you?"

"Nope! So I'm in no way cut out to brawl for old time's sake. If you wanna take a free shot for, I dunno. However our last fight went or whatever, go for it. Well, so long as it's nothin' flashy. I doubt Mister and Missus Foley would appreciate it if we broke their house."

"But—how did you—where have you—what happened?" Technus sort of flutters helplessly. Tucker can relate. "Who did this to you?"

Danny is all smiles. Tucker's not the only one who's getting goosebumps about it, right? His teeth definitely weren't that sharp downstairs. "A human."

"Hey Technus," Tucker jumps in quickly. "You got some time? We can all catch up downstairs, how about it?"

Sam, bless her sometimes, catches on. "Yeah, we were in the middle of breakfast. Don't want it getting cold, do we, Danny?" She knows that look on Technus' weirdly gaunt face as well as he does. He's about three seconds away from awkwardly sticking his metaphorical foot in it with nothing short of aplomb, and with how much they've been accidentally dumping on Danny already, well. Damage control where you can.

"I, er. Yes. I'd be glad to join you," Technus says, sounding anything but.

Danny hums.

One thing that won't be covered in the remaining chapters, 1) because it didn't occur to 2015!me and 2) the framework of how this whole thing is written demands that each chapter's narrator be observing Danny through some/most of it, is that Tucker thinks to ask Danny about where, exactly, Freakshow forced him to perform. Danny, more eager than he or Sam would have predicted (for his own reasons), would provide as much of that information as he can remember. Tucker and Technus would work their magic and dig up a worrying number of news articles about missing persons and strange accidents, which is how they realize Freakshow wasn't finding ghosts as they'd assumed. They'd also find a handful of relevant video clips with Danny in them. Nothing huge, maybe one act where they're sure he's one of the acrobats, a glimpse of him in the background of a local news channel interview, and most definitively, one of Danny in heavy makeup snarling in like, broken Estonian that he doesn't want pictures.

The three of them would come to the conclusion that Freakshow and Lydia killed those people, and in all likelihood not mention any of these details to Danny out of fear of upsetting him. :( It's honestly turned out to be kind of an equal amount of fascinating and frustrating putting this thing together for public consumption, because there's all this stuff we all know and all this stuff Danny remembers better now that his brain isn't scrambled that you all don't, and all the other characters don't want to push him and he's not interested in sharing, so it's this big tangled mess of, well... plot I suppose.

I have no idea how people stick to it with longfic. This stuff is hard, haha.

Anyway! Like I said up top, spring will be busy for me. You won't be seeing any DP stuff for a hot minute, but if you're FMA-inclined I did sign up for a couple events so you can expect to see something from me in the next couple of months one way or another. Thank you so much for reading!