A/N: This is a one shot based on the story 'Pits' by Cordria, in fact this is my entrance to the contest she's holding. You don't really need to read that story for this one, but it'd sure make it easier to understand what's going on. So go read 'Pits'. This is a small side story of what it looks like to the spectators, it's based on chapter 12. I'm doing a story because I can't draw to save my life, I never got past the little stick figures.
It didn't turn out quite the way I had intended, but it'll have to do because I don't have time to change it into something better (I'm leaving first thing tomorrow morning). What I originally had in mind did have something to do with the title, hence the title.
Sorry about the spelling, I've had no chance to run it through a spelling checker so there's bound to be mistakes.
Edit 8/10/2007: Fixed the spelling.
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom
Epic
I did not want to be here. I dislike crowds, their obnoxious bumping into me – oh, sorry, excuse me – the noise, the lack of space. Especially the lack of space. I like to be able to move around at a speed that is usually faster than the ghosts in the crowd deem necessary and they seem to be making a special point in suddenly stopping right in front of me so I bump into them and I have to say "Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me." I try to avoid crowds at all cost.
And yet here I am, pushing myself through all those ghosts, mumbling apologies and every now and then trying to see through the crowd to determine the direction I should take. Someone tugs at my sleeve and I look down irritably at the reason we're here: Youngblood.
"Pit 2," he squeaks, excitedly jumping up and down, if you can speak of jumping when you're floating.
I frown at him and continue pushing us through the crowd until we reach the line standing, floating, before a door with a huge 2 above it. It is a very long line and I look suspiciously at the tickets I'm holding, guaranteeing us a seat in there. It must be a very large arena. The doors are still closed and two very burly blue ghosts are standing in front of it with their arms crossed, intimidating the front of the row.
Then the doors open and the row of ghosts clogs together, in an attempt to get in as quickly as possible, useless in my opinion, because it's only going to take longer this way. If there's anything that I hate more than crowds it's rows.
We finally enter the indeed large arena and after some pushing and shoving – excuse me, sorry – and squinting at the row and seat numbers written on the tickets I let myself sink into a chair somewhere in the middle of the grandstand. Youngblood sits down next to me and then stands up again to look over the heads of the ghosts in front of him.
"It's gonna be great, Writer, you'll see," he says, eying the door on the far end of the arena, as if he was expecting it to open if he just kept staring at it hard enough.
I had been a fool to listen to him of course. He had come to my library when I was happily typing on my old typewriter, words flowing through my head onto the paper, forming sentences of an epic story... no, I was agonizing over a poem that wouldn't come together and was in a very bad mood.
For some reason every now and then Youngblood shows up and starts annoying me until I participate in one of his games. He only comes back if I kick him out, so I always end up giving him what he wants so he'll leave me alone afterwards. Of course every time I give in makes it harder to refuse him the next time.
"No." I said to him when he told me what he wanted.
"But it's gonna be great!" he yelled, "You have to come! Please?"
"So go by yourself."
I kept my gaze steadily on my typewriter, but the urge to write had left me, at the same time dissipating the vague idea I had about the ending of the poem.
"I can't," he whined, "They won't let me in, I have to be accompanied by an adult!"
"Well, then I'm sorry. Why don't you go do something else? Like for instance launch yourself as a living cannonball."
"I already did that," he sulked, "Besides, it's no fun if you're not alive to begin with."
He floated to one of the bookcases and started to pull out books randomly, flipping through them and then throwing them on the ground.
"Hey, stop that!" I yelled at him and took the latest book he had grabbed away from him and placed it back where it belonged.
He grinned at me and Youngblood's grin can be very evil. Very unbecoming for such a young ghost. At that point I already knew I had lost the battle, but I wasn't going to give in that easily.
"Come on Writer," he said, "It's going to be epic. It'll be a great inspiration. Don't you want to write about epic battles, you know, Beowulff, The Charge of the Light Brigade... Phantom in the Pits..."
He had been paying attention to my attempts to teach him after all and he was using it against me. He had a point too, I could use some inspiration.
"Alright," I said to him and his eyes lit up, "But afterwards you'll have to leave me alone for a year."
"A month," he said happily.
We haggled and of course settled on six months of him leaving me alone.
"And," I added wickedly, "If I see you before that time, I'll put you in a nursery rhyme for a hundred years."
He blanched at that and shook his head feverishly.
So now I'm sitting here, ten rows from the front, staring at the clean sand in the arena while Youngblood is engaged in a mock fight with himself, earning him hateful glances from his neighbor.
Suddenly the crowd starts roaring and several ghosts in front of me stand up so I can't see. Youngblood next to me starts screaming at them to sit down and when they finally do, I see Phantom, standing in the arena, perfectly still, watching the crowd and having a surprised look on his face. On his arms are strange, shining blades that sparkle in the light and every now and then blind my eyes when he moves his arms a little.
Then I hear a loud "Beware!" and I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the all too familiar form of the Box Ghost, who starts ranting about his boxes. The crowd is going insane at that time and I hear myself canting "Phantom, Phantom" with them, as if we're at some kind of game. Only it isn't a game, I realize, as I fall silent while the crowd around me, including Youngblood, is screaming madly at the ghosts in the arena, screaming for their blood.
The atmosphere is buzzing around me, the noise pounding against my head, a rhythmic drumming like a heartbeat. I no longer look at the ghosts in the arena, I watch the crowd. Their eyes are glowing madly, green or red, blood thirst plainly visible on their faces. They act as if they are one being, without reason, it's single purpose urging Phantom on, telling him to kill. I feel left out somehow, like I should be with them, I want to be with them, but I can't. Instead, I notice the green cloaked figures on the other side of the arena, standing perfectly still, like me.
I am staring at them with such intensity that I totally miss what is going on down on the ground and I start when I hear Youngbloods ecstatic scream beside me. I quickly shift my gaze down, just in time to see Phantom cut through the Box Ghost with his blade and the blue ghost slumps against him, leaking a sizable amount of ectoplasm. Then he dissolves.
The roar of the crowd dies down somewhat and Phantom just stands there, staring into the crowd, right at the green cloaked ghosts. Then he screams that he won't fight anymore and the crowd goes oddly quiet. I look down at Youngblood and his mouth is hanging open as he gazes at Phantom being dragged out of the arena, leaving a trail on the ectoplasm stained sand.
I hadn't wanted to be here, I still don't want to be here, but now that I'm here, I can no longer ignore what's going on. I scowl at Youngblood one last time and shove him out of the way, ignoring his indignant "hey!". I have no sympathy for Phantom, as far as I'm concerned he deserves a hundred years in a nursery rhyme, but this place is wrong.
Purposefully I stride towards the green cloaked ghosts.
OK, um, hehe, so I dislike crowds...could you tell:-)
It's so hard to write in present tense, I keep slipping back to past tense somehow.