Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

Thanks to Namara Jane Knight, Cindy M 19, Starlin's Ghost, Puppy von Wolfenstein, DannySamLover20, solstar16, Sara lovelymusic, Phantom J. Ryder, bookworm23821, RoseAnna1177, AngelaLove072101, realsky, and Specter14 for reviewing last time! I really appreciate your praise, constructive criticism, and support. You're all amazing.

Desperado

Chapter 15: Rise of the Phantom

Jazz's heart skipped in fear as it pounded. She held her hands up in a line along with the other women as the band of Confederate soldiers held their muskets up. Behind them, the hospital roared with flames that soaked them all with sweat. Before them, a woman—Lucy—bled out on the ground. Her white dress was splattered red as she gasped for air.

"Oh my god," Jazz whispered shakily to herself, eyes wide and face streaked with tears. She was going to die. They were going to all be executed. "Oh my god."

And then she saw one of the soldiers, a man with blond hair and a strong physique, eye them with a dark expression. His gaze unashamedly roved over a woman on the end of the line, and he lowered his musket.

Lucy had stopped gasping and now was silent on the ground, eyes open permanently in the awe of death.

It hit Jazz then that any solider willing to set a peaceful hospital on fire and shoot his own—the bodies of many Confederates hung from windows—had no honor. His eyes further suggested that one or all of them would become spoils of war, and likely any who resisted would be shot.

And then his gaze landed upon her, and his head tilted as he beheld her wild, red hair and shadow of her curves beneath her white clothes.

Her breath hitched, feeling even more exposed now in her un-layered sleeping shift. He's looking at me, she thought in terror. She suddenly couldn't stop her tears. He's walking this way. What do I do? What do I do?!

The Confederate soldier carried himself with the arrogance of a man who thought himself a god. "You," he called out to Jazz, his handsome face twisting with a demonic pleasure. "I'll have you."

She knew no one was coming to save her. She knew she had to think fast to save herself and everyone remaining. And so she turned herself into an airheaded, blubbering mess with an exaggerated southern accent. "Oh, thank tha' good lord," she cried out, reaching for him in forced joy. "Ya here to save us! Ya here to save us!"

As that was not what he was expecting, he nearly back-stepped in surprise, unbalanced by her weight jumping onto him. "What?" he said incredulously.

"They been keepin' us here like prisoners," Jazz sobbed, pitching her fear and anxiety into her act. "I was so a'feared. You came to get us out, right? Right?"

The other women began to pick up on the ploy, and they sobbed and fell to their knees, all of them wailing on in southern accents. The Confederate nurses graciously forgave them of their caricaturized speech and wailed along with them.

"Well, then," he murmured, still a bit dazed by the fiery woman clinging to him. She had peculiarly strong hands that were now wrenched at the back of his neck. He somewhat liked it. "Commander Dashiell Baxter. At your service."

"Oh, Commanda' Dash!" she pleaded, her teal eyes wide and innocent. "We're ev'a so grateful for ya." She unlocked her hands from his neck to run fingers down his strong, broad chest. "Take us away from here where they been keepin' us. And I promise—" Her lithe fingers hooked into his belt, shaking a little— "I'll pay ya back in any way I can."

Above the sight, one invisible and intangible solider raced toward his sister, only to stop short as she—threw herself at the Confederate? And made over him like some kind of savior?

The other women soon followed, and it was then Danny realized Jazz was trying to save their lives. No doubt, she'd recognized some kind of weakness in the soldier and was exploiting it. But that did not mean she was out of trouble. Dash's men still had weapons on them—and the way Jazz was throwing herself at him suggested a compromise of a darker nature if it played out entirely.

Likely, she was banking on the nearby town seeing the fire and slipping away from the Confederate soldiers when they were too busy avoiding townspeople.

Danny hesitated for only a second, still split on if he should intervene or turn to rescue Sam. "I need to be in two places," he breathed, heart pounding "I need two of me."

And then, as he surged forward again, the air warped around him.

And suddenly, he was two.

Sam's eyes burned with tears and the pain of ashy smoke. The hospital had long since begun to burn around her. She'd holed herself up in a room, unable to make it to the soldier's wings. "I'm s-sorry," she whispered dazedly to the dark air, almost delirious. The door and walls had begun to flicker with flames that ate through wallpaper. "I'm sorry…"

She had some kind of awareness that she was dying. Her heartbeat was erratic. She was sitting up on the floor, her back leaning against the wall. Her short hair was plastered with sweat, her skirts twisted in an unladylike bunch. But the smoke inhalation had sedated her, and so death was simply a thread in her mind.

Some part of her just didn't care. There was only regret.

"Danny," she breathed, her voice hardly even a whisper. She was wheezing. She tried to reach out into the haze, only to realize she hadn't lifted her arm at all.

It hit her then that perhaps Danny had already died—or perhaps he'd managed to escape. She would never know. The roar of the fire was so great, she could hear nothing but its crackles. There were no screams, no cries for help. She did not think anyone had heard her either.

She knew at some point, after the fires had raged and the smoke had taken its toll—they would find her here. They would know she went back in to save lives, and that she gave her life in the attempt. It wasn't much of a consolation, but it calmed her rapid heartbeat in an odd way as she closed her eyes.

And then, something happened.

A cold hand touched her cheek, and from out of the darkness came a voice. Male, panicked. "Sam?"

It sounded so far away.

"Sam, please." The voice strained as fingers suddenly pressed into her neck, searching for a pulse. "Please open your eyes."

She didn't like the feeling of his fingers pressing so hard into her skin, and so she groaned. She cracked open her eyelids to see a glowing man kneel beside her. His hair was white as the clouds, his eyes a strange color of green—as if they were too green. They sparked with some kind of energy.

She blinked at that. Nothing registered in her gaze.

His panic kicked up again. "No, no, Sam—focus." His cool fingers touched her sweaty face. Her skin was burning up. She managed only a weak cough, like a wheeze.

That did it. "Come on," he begged her. "I'm going to get you out of here. I need you to trust me." He began moving around her, pulling her to him.

Her head bent forward unsteadily, her black hair straggling with sweat. "Ngh," she whined hoarsely into the soft cotton of his white shirt. It hurt to move, to breathe. Whatever this being was, she wanted him to know that she was cooperating only because she didn't have the energy to disagree. She half-wondered if he were an angel, but then he was strangely so corporeal…

"G-ghost," she whispered, some spark of recognition striking into her. This being was a ghost. His clothes felt like those worn by Union soldiers. Like Danny.

He lifted her carefully, as if she were a broken doll. She burrowed her sooty and tear-streaked face into his chest, in awe of his coolness. He was not ice—but instead like a cool fall day. Light. Something about him was light. The angles of his broad shoulder, and the lithe muscles beneath, felt oddly familiar.

"Hold on," he warned, and the world seemed to surge into shooting stars. The oxygen-deprived Sam stared out in awe as she struggled to breathe and cough. Her entire reality shifted into some kind of strange universe.

She wondered if this was really death.

If it was, she thought, then maybe it wasn't so bad. She could go with this. It'd be alright.

His cool hand caressed down her face, streaking the soot. "Stay with me," he told her. His voice echoed, but something about the tone was so familiar. His face, blurred in her vision, seemed familiar too.

Some measure of time passed—how much, she didn't know. But she felt it when the raging fires disappeared into the cold night, and the roar disappeared into the sound of crickets and of her rescuer's rushed breath.

He set down in an empty field far away from the fires, his boots landing softly in the grass. He kneeled with a bit of an awkward attempt not to jar her, and he loosened his grip beneath her knees. She felt the grass dew slip against her bare legs where her skirts had ridden up. The phantom still held her against his chest, keeping her upright as she wheezed for oxygen. The cold air struck the sweat that dripped from her body, and she chilled, her skin goose-bumping even further.

She realized then, as her eyes closed, that the phantom was crying, his green eyes watering.

How odd, she thought. She had not expected ghosts to be so altruistically concerned for her.

He pulled her closer, hiding his face in her sooty hair. "Please don't die," he begged her. "This is all my fault—please stay with me—"

His hands felt familiar against her body. One had ridden up high on her back, his fingertips pressing into her side where her breasts began to swell out from her ribs. "Th-then don't g-get so friendly," she whispered hoarsely, her weak lungs clenching into a cough. Her breath was a small puff against his neck. "And m-maybe I'll s-stay. Here."

The phantom flinched for a second in surprise, as if shocked by himself. He gently reset his hands, then caressed the side of her face, and a weak, relieved laugh came over him. "Of course," he said, his touch slipping away from her. "Of course."

The cold grass beneath her felt good as she coughed, struggling to breathe in the air. "I don't…usually need saving," she coughed, her whole face twisting in pain as her throat throbbed.

"I'm just here to help." The phantom's voice was so familiar, so concerned. "Hold on while I get some others to look after you. I can't stay for long."

The others he'd managed to rescue—Confederates and Union soldiers, were all huddled together a short distance away. They coughed and leaned on each other, still in a daze about the odd phantom who had saved them. A weary and soot-covered Dr. Ravenstorm limped forward, a bloody rag wrapped around his ankle. He'd been grazed by a bullet but had managed to drag himself back into the hospital enough for Danny to see him and get him out.

Now, the doctor coughed into his hand. "Sam!" he gasped, face twisted in pain.

Danny looked up in a plea. "I can't ask more of you, but she's struggling to breathe and I—" His entire form wavered, and he winced. "The energy this is taking."

The doctor kneeled down, temples sweating with the pain of his injured ankle. It seemed he was the only one willing to confront the ghost. "It's okay," he breathed, reaching out to Sam, who moaned when his fingers pressed against her throat. "You've done so much."

"I split," he whispered raggedly. "I'm with Jazz too. I can't—"

Dr. Ravenstorm's eyebrows flew up. "—You split?"

"Help her," Danny pleaded as his entire form wavered, his pale face streaked with tears.

And then suddenly, he was gone, his clone fading out under the stress.

During that time, Danny's other self had hovered above the chaos of the wild Confederate commander, who'd pulled Jazz to the side and was ordering his men to grab the other women. The bodies of dozens of soldiers were still in the blood-covered mud of the hospital.

A wave of hate swelled within him and boiled over. He hadn't quite figured out his plan yet, but he figured he'd be able to work one out. Just as long as it saved his sister from the hands of Dash.

"You there!" he called out, deepening his own voice into a boom that challenged the roar of the fire. "The dishonorable Commander."

Dash's entire body froze, as did his soldiers, lowering their rifles in confusion. The air around them began to prickle with something cool and unnatural. "Who said that?" he whispered, looking around.

All of his soldiers gave him a wide-eyed look. The voice had been male, which counted out their prisoners of war.

"Oh, I suppose that's right," mocked the voice. "You're so used to looking down, you've forgotten how to look up."

And so Dash stiffened a little more, his ire growing as he looked up in search of the voice.

Before them, descending from the dark sky, was a figure. A billowing white shirt and dark pants covered the male figure. The lines of his body were lithe but strong. Shock white hair adorned his head, and the green of his eyes could be seen even from a distance. His voice echoed and was distorted by power.

He shined like the moon above him.

"The phantom," Jazz breathed, nearly forgetting her fake-Southern accent. But it wasn't just any ghost.

It was the ghost she'd seen before—the one she'd caught staring at Sam—!

Dash's hands tightened on Jazz, and he narrowed his eyes. "What kind of devil work is this?" he muttered under his breath. He blinked several times, as if to rid himself of the phantom's image.

High above them all, Danny cracked with power. "This was my home," he snarled to the Commander. "These people, my brothers and sisters." He clenched his fist, and his knuckles cracked. Oh, he longed to punch Dash. He was going to punch Dash. Several times. "You've angered the spirits, and now you must pay."

Jazz stared up in terrified interest, realizing that she was between an ethereal power and a violent man. Perhaps this ghost knew that Sam was dead, if he had such an attachment to her. Which meant that the ghost was probably going to try killing the Commander.

Commander Dash suddenly pulled Jazz to himself, likely to protect himself with her body. "What are you?" he hissed. "Some witch's conjuring? A ghost? A demon?"

The ghost tilted his head and smiled. There was no humor in his eyes. "Yes," he said. His palms began to glow green with power.

"I don't believe in those things," Dash growled. And in a blur of a well-practiced skill, he pulled a handheld gun from his belt and shot up.

Danny's body blurred into intangibility, and the bullet sailed harmlessly through his head, not even distorting his image. He re-solidified onto the human plane, heart pounding despite his dark look. "Your weapons are nothing against me," he called. Dash's soldiers had already dropped their rifles, nearly shaking in their boots. "Now you've made me even more angry."

At that, Dash's face paled a bit. His grip tightened so hard on Jazz's arm that the woman gasped in pain.

Danny's green eyes snapped to her.

And she looked up in awe and fear and worry and—

Suddenly, he blurred forward, splitting himself again. He roughly pulled Jazz away, turning her intangible as his clone suddenly grabbed onto Dash from the back, dragging him down.

The Commander gasped at the cold hands around his neck, and he locked onto the fingers, attempting to pull them off.

"You hurt my family," Danny hissed, his echoing voice rough with pain and the memory of Sam struggling to breathe and Jazz in Dash's grasp and Tucker's body jerking in a spray of blood— "And you shot your own. You don't deserve titles or authority."

Dash wheezed, his purple eyes widening. His shaking fingers pulled away to grab a knife from his belt. He locked onto the hilt and swiped the knife hard behind him. It sunk deep into the clone's stomach.

The clone wisped into nothing with an odd gasp. Dash stood there, attempting to catch his breath as he wildly looked around.

Then the remaining Danny attacked again from the front, knocking the knife out of his grasp. His clone that had rescued Sam had faded out as well, and now his attention was focused solely on Dash. "You don't look too good, Commander," he mocked. "Something out of your control?"

Before Dash could respond, Danny raised his hand. And from his fingers, an electric energy shot forth, slamming Dash straight in the chest and burning into his uniform. It sent the Commander flying back a few feet, where he crashed hard to the ground in a sizzle of smoke. Only a groan indicated he was still alive and conscious.

His band of soldiers flinched, too afraid to intervene and too weak to run.

A short distance away, Jazz pulled herself off from the grass, her red hair tumbling down her sweat-soaked back. And then her heart stopped as she stared at the ghost. He was walking toward the fallen Commander, as if to finish the job. The lines of his body were so familiar. His voice carried a particular tone despite the distortion of his power…

He turned back for just a second at the sound of her rustle, his sharp hearing picking up her movements.

And a shaky, terrified whisper escaped her. "…Danny?"

A/N: Well, so this update wasn't my fastest, but at least it's still better than four years. Haha. Oh man.

Please review with your thoughts, questions, constructive criticisms, and ideas! Thanks!