Danny Phantom 1. Chapter 1

A/N:

So, I've been really sick and I needed something to cheer me up. This was more for myself than anything else, because this is a fantasy of mine I've always wanted to translate into writing but have never had the time due to other stories. Either way, I decided to post it because it might prove entertaining for the most part, although it might be a bit disturbing, even though it's not yaoi.

Please let me know what you think, and if you'd like the next chapter posted.

~REALLYSICKPERSON

* * *

When my parents decided to take a trip around the United States for the sole purpose of invading every supposedly haunted landmark known to man to determine whether or not it actually housed ghosts, and, if so, to hunt them down, I was relieved to know that I wouldn't be going with them. At least I was _then._

I guess I had thought that being away from them for the entire summer would not only give me unlimited freedom but reduce the chance of being discovered as my alias, Danny Phantom, by one hundred percent. So when they told me I'd be staying home, I was, of course, elated, that is, until they told me that I wouldn't be staying home _alone. _And since Jazz had already left for college, that meant I wouldn't be staying _here._

"I don't need a babysitter, guys," I protested, even though I figured it was probably pointless. "I'm almost fifteen. I can take care of myself."

"Danny, I'd still feel more comfortable if I knew you had someone watching over you," Mom sighed. "It won't be as big a deal as you think. I'm sure he's going to give you plenty of space."

"Who's _he_?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

My dad then said the worst possible thing he could have, something that made my heart sink in my chest but a feeling of horror rise in my stomach:

"Vladdy offered to watch you," he said cheerfully, and it took everything in my power to keep from fainting.

And despite the five consecutive days leading up to the date they were to leave of begging them to reconsider who would watch me or even to take me with them, I still ended up here, standing on Vlad's door step, clutching the handles of my bags tightly in my moist hands as I watched my parents speed away, leaving me to what I already knew would be three months of hell.

Vlad greeted me at the door with an all too cheery smile plastered on his face.

"Well, hello, little badger," he said as he placed one hand on my back and began to usher me inside the castle, taking my bags from me and carrying them with the other. "Please, come in. Here, let me take those for you."

When we were inside, he shut the huge doors, almost slamming them shut, which didn't seem impossible considering his strength. Then, he turned and flashed me a grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. And he certainly did resemble a cat, a cat that looked as if it had found its newest pray and planned to pounce any moment. And boy, did I feel like a helpless mouse.

"Vlad," I hissed, struggling to make my voice sound low and threatening, "whatever you're planning, I'm not falling for it. Let's just get that straight."

Vlad chuckled and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Oh, Daniel, you're so paranoid. Relax."

Shrugging his hand off my shoulder in untamed disgust, I snarled at him, trying to appear intimidating even though I felt very scared, because I realized that I truly was at his mercy for the next three months—I did not, of course, have any other place to retreat, and residing with him would give him ample opportunity to extract his revenge upon me, to initiate any plans he had in store for me or test out any new inventions that would hinder me. And even though it seemed very unwise to advertise myself as anything other than passive, because it may prompt him to adapt an attitude similar to my own, I also thought that it would be best if I established now that I would not spend my whole summer following his orders like a slave because I could do nothing other than cower in fear.

"Why would I be anything other than paranoid?" I hissed, and my fists began to clench. Of course, I thought I should at least be granted this. I would not ask him what he had planned, or why he had chosen to take me in for the summer—these things I already knew. But I was genuinely ignorant to this, how he thought I could come to his castle by order of my parents and not feel the slightest tinge of fear in doing so. It wasn't as if our relationship was as it had briefly been when my family had first come to his castle for the infamous reunion; if it had been, this would feel awkward, yes, but there would be no fear, no anticipation that I would wake up after curling up in bed strapped down onto an examination table in the depths of his lab. And I was certainly anticipating this now, because I could not overlook our past encounters, and I was not willing to do so, no matter how he might present himself now. Was this selfish of me? Closed-minded? Maybe, but if you had been in the same predicament, you would have felt similarly. "After everything you've done to me…"

"Daniel," he said sternly, and his lightened expression left. In its place there was a seriousness—really _wholesome _seriousness, something that looked very foreign on his face. For a moment his lips were pursed tightly, so much so that they turned white, as he stared at me with eyes that were cool and calculating but also very irritated, and because he seemed to be genuine, I could tell he was offended by my disbelieving nature. "I don't have any _evil_ plans in store for you. I knew you would behave this way, and so I'm going to make that very clear to you right now."

"Oh, sure you don't," I snapped, because even though my eyes told me he was being completely honest my _heart _didn't—after all, as I made clear, it isn't all that easy to walk into the house of your enemy and be able to completely let your guard down.

"It's going to be a long three months if you continue to think in this way," Vlad said quietly, and his expression continued to cool, but it never lost its authenticity. "I know it is in your nature now to associate me with darkness and such, but I've told you before, I am not a villain."

"I know," I said, rolling my eyes, and mimicking him, I continued, "All you ever wanted," I paused for drama's sake. "was love."

Seeming to ignore my spitefulness, he said levelheadedly, actually managing to form a small smile, "Yes, that's right, Daniel. And that is why I am going to enjoy the next three months with you."

"Oh, really? You think I'm going to love you?" I scoffed, staring at him in sickened disbelief, wondering just what he really meant by this, although it wouldn't be fair to say I hadn't the faintest idea.

"Well, I believe sincerely that this is going to give us an opportunity to make amends. I'm going to change those beliefs you have about me, Daniel, and I think that by the time your parents return, you aren't going to _want _to leave." His smile grew a bit, and now it was more genuine. His expression also seemed to be warming a bit, as if his hope for the reversal of my poor attitude outweighed the irritation the attitude itself evoked.

"Oh, I doubt it," I said, and rolled my eyes again at how farfetched his little theory actually was. In truth, if he'd had a chocolate fountain that rose to the ceiling of his castle and every game and gaming system ever created (and he probably did) I wouldn't have stayed, and hoping it would get my point across, I voiced this thought.

To which he responded, his smile widening further and chuckling a bit, "Unfortunately, I don't have a chocolate fountain. I have plenty of games, but I also have something better in store for you, little badger."

"What would that be?" I asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow as I stared at him, my arms crossed over my chest defiantly.

"Come upstairs with me and I'll show you," he offered, putting a gentle hand on my back to lead me there as if I couldn't walk or was too dumb to find the staircase that encompassed over half of the foyer.

"What are we looking at?"

"Your new bedroom, of course," he said swiftly, and led me to the stairs as he had inside. "Come with me."

Before I had a chance to protest this action, we'd already arrived at the top of the stairs, and I was left wondering _how_, exactly, I'd managed the climb, because it was all a blur, smudged by my thoughts of what might lie in store for me throughout these three months; before I had much time to mull _this _over, however, he was already leading me down a candlelit hallway quickly, not so much walking as sweeping over the floor, and my walk with Vlad Masters had a trance-like quality to it that reminded me of that of Christine Daae's with the Phantom in that tired musical Mr. Lancer had first made us read, then watch, then study for its impending test.

We passed a door, and briefly Vlad said, "That is my bedroom if you find you need something in the middle of the night."

We came to the last door on that side of the hallway, one directly to the right of Vlad's. And while it appeared to be very similar to the others on the outside—all the doors were a dark wood with knobs of some tarnished metal—I had a good hunch that this was not so on the _inside_, because this room was not like the room I'd stayed when we'd come for the reunion. There was no large, elevated bed, no regal purple curtains, no candles as the only source of light.

Instead, it was a nursery. A baby's nursery. And upon looking at Vlad to verify if this was as genuine as his previous emotions, my worst fear was confirmed: he was serious.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, I was too stunned to talk, and I thought that if I hadn't been, I would not have known what to say. In that moment as I laid my eyes on the baby-blue bedroom, complete with a crib—it wasn't like any crib I'd ever seen, though; it was the size of a twin-sized bed, and so were the light blue sheets, the fabric of which printed with little yellow ducks—, a play area and toy chest, a rocking chair, and (it gets better yet!) a changing table, stocked with diapers and bottles of unknown substances, my previous cool—or so I'd tried to appear—demeanor vanished and it began to show. My palms and face were sweating profusely now, and my throat became very dry. My mind began to race, because no longer did I believe I knew what Vlad had in store for me; my perception that he would chase me around the castle until he caught me—which might have been fun, because I'd actually begun to _enjoy _the adrenaline and endorphins my fights with ghosts conjured up—at which point he would attempt to clone me again or brainwash me or something along those lines had completely vanished, and it seemed that everything I'd ever been told was right was suddenly making itself known as being wrong; it was, in reality, like a revelation, one that is so unexpected it shakes the very structure of your mentality until you are left staring into space, bug-eyed and dripping drool from your mouth. I felt as though I did not know what to believe any longer—I mean, would _you _feel confident about the sanctity of your thoughts when you were presented with the idea that…?

That _what_? Of course, I knew what it was, and clearly, too—though my mind was racing and my thoughts were fleeing in all directions, I was not ignorant to what he planned to do to me. It did not involve a brainwashing device or a chamber my half-ghost clone "cousin" would strap me into, although now I would have welcomed it, probably getting into the thing myself if I could. The fact was, I knew what he was going to do but I didn't think I could really _comprehend_ it; but, hell, I don't think anyone in my situation would be able to grasp the idea that their arch enemy, the person who had tried to kill them time and time again, planned to treat them like a…

The speakers inside my head did not want to advertise this, however—I would not let them. Though it seems crazy, and maybe it was, it was so much easier for me to believe that my enemy planned to kill me and my father and rape my mother—do things so disgusting they become unspeakable—than…do what he _really _planned to do, because this would undoubtedly involve a lot of given affection. And affection was not a term that suited Vlad Masters, not in the least, so of course I could not simply turn to him now and say, "Yeah, okay, I'm down for this. It's better to be babied than shot at, I guess", because such an idea was so farfetched even _I _couldn't believe it_,_ and in general I'm open to accepting a lot of farfetched things, so I've been since gaining these powers of mine. Rather, it actually seemed _safer _to buy into the idea that Vlad was always plotting against me, attempting to work things so that my dad and I would end up dead in a gutter somewhere and my mother would end up in his arms; the idea that Vlad could actually _care _for me was really very foreign feeling, especially in that I lost all sense of self, seemingly losing the ability to distinguish good from evil, right from wrong, and causing me to question my decisions in the past, wonder what I could have done better. If I simply believed what the jumpy little man inside my head chanted was correct, I would not have to venture into this unfamiliarity, and therefore danger.

But how _couldn't_ I now, faced with the sight of a baby's nursery which Vlad had said to be my bedroom as he'd led me up the stairs? How could I simply go about believing that Vlad really intended to hurt me as he…did whatever he planned to do, because, of course, I still didn't really _know. _But, of course, I had a really good idea—no, I had a _certainty_, because why else would Vlad had shown this to me if I wouldn't have any connection to it? In fact, why would Vlad even _have _a nursery in his house? Some part of me—the shaky little man who liked to play things safe—was broadcasting that Vlad had perhaps lost a baby and wife to some tragedy before the nursery could be filled and was showing me as a way of displacing his sadness. But of course, I knew this was incorrect—at least, this is what the rational guy told me, the one who longed for adventure and uprootal—because Vlad loved my mother and my mother alone, and when we'd arrived here for the reunion and my parents had been downstairs catching up with Vlad, I had been touring the castle using my ghost powers, and of the rooms I'd seen—all of them, I thought—not one had been a nursery. So he had to have just added it. But why? For Danielle? Of course, Mr. Rational was shrieking in response Shaky's theory, because what type of sense did that make? Dani was only a few years younger than me, and on top of this, I'd heard Vlad say it himself—she was a mistake. Though I did not feel this way about her, Vlad cared for her about as much as he cared for my sister—like a pawn—and I doubted if he would go to the trouble to build a _nursery _for her, of all things. No—I _knew _he wouldn't. So what was _this_?

"Do you like it?" he asked softly, drawing me out of my thoughts and the brief period of speechlessness they had evoked.

It took a moment or so, but I did manage to talk, although my voice came as a harried croak rather than a powerful, commanding tone as I'd desired before. "What _is _all this?" I gasped, staring at the room with eyes that could not have grown wider if zombies had suddenly broken through floorboards and windows like the music video of Sam's favorite—actually, _only_—pop song, Thriller. I sure did _feel _like Vlad's eyes would suddenly turn that eerie moon-yellow, and I really wanted to cower in fear with my hands over my eyes like the girl Tucker could swoon over for hours, watching and re-watching the video just to stare at her body until his eyes were bloodshot. Making this parallel, I realized how much I really missed Sam and Tucker, and that no matter how this all turned out, it was going to be one painful summer. That was a for-sure.

"Your bedroom," he repeated gently, and suddenly one of his warm, moist palms was pressed against my forehead.

I stumbled backward a little and I almost fell, but Vlad's other arm wrapped around my waist to steady me and I realized dimly that he was…_holding_ me. And upon looking into his eyes, I saw immediately that he looked bemused, but beneath this there was something else. Something underlying that was unmistakable but I could not believe—he was concerned.

"You feel warm, Daniel. I think we'd better take your temperature," he said, brushing the locks of hair from my forehead as he removed his hand.

"No," I protested, and pulled weakly away. "I'm fine."

"Come here," he said, and held his arms out to me. The concern had not left his eyes, but I could tell he was growing frustrated but trying to remain patient even still. "You need to lie down for awhile."

"It's two o'clock!" I protested, my mouth agape in disbelief at what I was hearing. Of course, it wasn't as if I never took naps—I actually loved them—but there was something inside me that did nottake kindly to the idea of someone _else_ telling me when and where to take them. I guessed it was some hormone that has to deal with masculinity, the desire to be the alpha-male, or something—I fell asleep in health class once too often to know for sure—, because the idea of Vlad putting me in bed to sleep in the early afternoon was almost as bad as if _Sam _were to do it.

"You'll be taking a nap at this time every day, Daniel," Vlad said softly, and then he continued, as if he'd only casually mentioned my need for new socks rather than this upsetting revelation—to Shaky, that was—Rational seemed to excite at it—, "Now, come _here_. I need to take your temperature."

In those outstretched arms of his, I could see my fate with such undiluted clarity it sent chills up my spine. Staring at him now, an image came to mind that just about summed it all up, and it was not one I particularly cared for but could recall the humiliating moment in my past with the same clarity. It was one of the pictures Tucker had taken of me after Spectra had forced me into a diaper and top hat with that stupid sash. I could hear the laughter and I could see my dulling features.

Vlad had started to say something else, but I wouldn't hear it.

Instead, I turned and bolted down the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

In my haste to escape whatever sick intentions he had in store for me—Shaky still seemed to be vying for the possibility that Vlad was scheming for my death, but Rational knew better, and had started the little engines in my feet so I could escape the unfamiliar fate I would soon be met; if Shaky had been right this time, as he seemed to always be, I would not have ran, but rather whipped out my witty quips and prepared for a battle with a confident smirk on my face—my judgment seemed to lapse and I was did not think to morph so that I could turn intangible and fly out of the castle with little trouble; instead, I barreled down the candle-lit hallway of his castle, my worn sneakers (so bad my little toe poked through a small tear in the side of the shoe, but my father refused to purchase another pair, saying that if it was so important I should get a job and pay for them myself) slapping on the carpeted floor and resonating with a sound that made me feel strangely suffocated and claustrophobic—I can't explain it, but who fully can their odd quirks? I suppose my reasoning had been impaired by the thoughts of what impended, thoughts which raced with the quickness of a lion after an antelope; my thoughts were pulling me in all directions, some focused on the what if—he captured me, that was—and some trying to put two and two together, to make some sense, but few were focused on escape as they should. And above all, overlying everything else, there was the image of myself standing in the middle of the hallway a year ago while kids crowded around me and laughed at my _outfit_, if it could even be called that. Along with this, I could see the nursery in its entirety, its baby-blue walls and soft carpeted floor but strangely metal and adult-sized crib, could smell the overpowering scent of baby powder and taste it in my mouth. I passed a few mirrors throughout my headless-chicken run (I call it that because I really was _not _thinking of fleeing so much as knowing in Vlad there was an evil I needed to escape and the animal part of my brain—limbic system, I'd defeated Tucker and Sam early the night before playing our favorite computer game and had gotten enough sleep to stay awake in health class for the lesson—simply translating this message into blind action while my higher brain struggled for clarity) and I got a glimpse of my face—pastier than I'd ever seen it, even as Phantom, my mouth agape, my eyes wide in horror, the light in them dancing wildly—and later I would come to realize that I had never been so completely helpless when subjected to Vlad's insanity, because once that image came to mind and coupled with the scene of the nursery, any chance I'd had of escaping that situation went flying out the window.

It did not, of course, take him very long to catch up to me; in fact, I was only left in my crazed, senseless and conflicting stumble throughout the halls of his home for perhaps thirty seconds, but I had managed to crash into one of the mirrored tables at regular intervals throughout the corridor, and not only did I render the piece of wooden furniture into sharp splinters, some of which ended up in my face and arms, but I also managed to destroy a metal candle sconce as it crashed to the ground, along with a horribly ugly but very expensive-looking vase, one that had probably come from a foreign country. The vase lay on the floor in a similar fashion as the table, and the chunky white pillar candles that had rested in the sconce rolled out and in all directions. One was still lit, but before it could set the oriental carpet ablaze, Vlad Plasmius's gloved hand came into view and effortlessly pinched the flame out, and though my mind was still racing like the chase of predator and prey, I knew he didn't even flinch. Simply, he dropped the extinguished candle onto the mess that I'd made and kneeled beside where I lay on the floor, dazed, staring up at him with eyes that were wide and horrorstricken but so far-gone they did not _see,_ like the eyes of a corpse who has been discovered to have been buried alive and passed away whilst fighting to claw their way up from the depths of the earth. This state was perhaps as brief as my running, if not shorter, because almost instantly his voice, calm and unbelievably soft, drew me out of it as he stared down at me, his eyes dimming with something that resembled compassion (but who could say, really, when it came to Vlad Masters?) and mingled with an indulgent, bemused quality.

"Where did you think you were running off to, my kit?" he said, and touched my face.

Immediately startled out of my haze, I cringed away from his hand—one that was surprisingly gentle, unexpectedly so—and clambered backwards through shards of glass and wood and pieces of sconce and some splinters of wax. Though they were tearing into my skin enough to draw blood, I did not feel it; again, it seemed that I had lost all sense of my body and was simply concerned with my mind, my thoughts tugging at the weakening structure of my brain, contending for my attention. Weakest was the thought of escape, but it did manage to speak loudly enough that I could just barely decipher the message—go ghost and get out!—but before it could continue it was knocked unconscious by the strongest of the bunch, the thought-group that was concerned with the what-ifs, and to finish it off were those who were struggling to find the _why_, the question that would undoubtedly haunt me for the next three months and whose answer would grow more and more complex as time drew on. And with the limbic system seemingly removed from the picture, I could only gather the strength to cower in the wreckage of the dresser in a fashion similar to that of my human half as it stared up at my ghost half—the _evil _half, of course, but that is never very easy to wrap my mind around. My body had started to shake as my mind raced increasingly quickly, more thoughts joining in in the mêlée, a group that scavenged for solutions to the consequences of my capture and, the weakest yet, a group that groused unaccommodatingly about the decision my parents had made in bringing me here.

Upon seeing my reaction, and probably realizing that I was too terrified and confused to speak, his gaze softened further—at this another army of thoughts poured in through my ears and nose, some questioning if the expression was genuine, others, if so, what it meant, others in disbelief, and my confusion furthered—and he began to speak again. "Oh, my poor boy, there's no need to be afraid. You really shouldn't go about making assumptions as you so often do—they will only cause you more strive."

It seemed as though my thoughts had finished their battle, and concerned-with-what-ifs had seemingly arisen victorious, because suddenly I blurted, almost unconsciously, because even though this thought had been granted the control of my lips, the others had never left, and they still swarmed in my head, fighting for the next chance to maneuver the muscles in my face, "So you're not going to treat me like a baby then?" It came out in a gasp, and there was no certainty in the voice, but rather a dim hopefulness, like the voice of a little poor child hoping for a dinner on the holidays…something from the Christmas Carol, but I sleep in Mr. Lancer's class, too, so what that is, exactly, I wouldn't know.

For a moment Vlad regarded me silently, his face remaining mostly sullen…but then, he dissolved into a fit of soft laughter, although it was not so much directed at me rather than the suggestion itself. "Oh, Danny, why would I have taken you in if I weren't?"

Of course, I wanted to send Shaky in to assassinate the winning thought with a double-barrel, because thanks to it my worst fear had been confirmed, and this did not, naturally, sit well in both my mind and my seemingly defaulted body; I actually _vomited_, but rather than cringe away Vlad pulled me swiftly into his arms. Why, you ask? Well, I have no idea, because after this everything became a blur, but before falling into sweet unconsciousness, I heard him assuring me he'd make me feel better…and although the S-man would have liked to pass it off as the work of Mr. Rational alone, I could have sworn I heard him say something about diapers.

* * *

A/N:

Review and I will post again tomorrow.

~DM/P


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter's vocabulary (you will be tested on this!):

Kit: a baby badger

Parietal lobe of the brain: is responsible for temperature, pain, pressure, and touch sensory

Opium and ecstacy: some real good shit (Nah, I'm just joshing you kids, don't do drugs)

* * *

Consciousness returned to me slowly in soft waves that lapped at the shores of my unconsciousness, drawing me gently back into its lively sea; upon returning from my journey of dreams—and they were not particularly kind, for I was not frolicking through meadows with Sam or Paulina or acing a science test; rather, I was laying on a changing table while my mother changed a diaper I wore, and standing beside her, watching with dancing eyes and a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, was Vlad Masters, one hand on her shoulder. Some of it is a blur, but I can clearly remember him saying something like, "Isn't our son beautiful, my dear?"—my head began to pound with a fierceness that was extremely foreign, because I didn't get headaches much—I was usually too doped up on the painkillers I took to cope with the injuries in the aftermath of my battles with ghosts to notice—, and my eyes were clouded. Naturally, I did not remember much of anything, as is always seems to be the case upon waking from an unwilling sleep (and that mine was), and for awhile I floated in a comforting emptiness, one that was safe and warm and did not include the idea of being diapered and babied or the image of myself in such a condition and the nursery in which these things would take place. And I would have given anything to remain in this state of nothingness—although it was more than that, because it wasn't like being deceased, for I knew who I was and for what I stood but was filled with nothing but euphoria—for the remainder of my days, but it truly was like one of the too-good-to-be-true drugs (things like opium and ecstasy that make you feel on top of the world during your high but leave you feeling like you could vomit up your intestines the morning after), because my buzz didn't last long, for I was drawn out of it by the soft voice which was seemingly coming from above me, along with a hand that touched the side of my face gently, the fingers stroking the cheek gingerly.

"That's it, my kit," the voice drifted into my realm with the ease of a knife being slid into Styrofoam. "Come on—show me those beautiful blue eyes of yours."

Groaning, still in my half-sleep, I shifted, pulling away from the prodding hand. Vaguely, I could feel the softness of some sort of fabric—fleece, I guessed—shifting with me, and unconsciously I tugged these covers tighter around my person, struggling to cherish the buzz but knowing it wouldn't last much longer. I could feel myself being pulled into this sea of wakefulness, where problems and memories return, where death and pain are prevalent, unjust ringing always true, but I tried to make it last, like one will a ride they've waited an hour to get on or a performance they've pored themselves over in preparation for the big night for weeks. However, this was not the easy task, not with the voice and the hand that worked with it dragging me into the depths like a monster of the sea, the Loch Ness or a sea-serpent or my favorite—though I would never be able to explain why, exactly—perhaps it was because the idea was so much more bone chilling, which is attractive to me—, the Kraken, might an unfortunate victim. And I sure would be…or maybe already _was_.

"Danny," the voice said again, still very light and filled with encouragement but growing a little sterner, and if I'd been more conscious, I might have made a connection to my sister, who woke me up every day so she could drive me to school so as to avoid the embarrassment of being taken by our father; at first, her voice would be sweet and cheerful, but by the third time she needed to ask me to get up she would have taken up a very irritated tone. "Nap time is over. It's time to wake up now or you won't be able to sleep tonight."

I groaned again, more loudly this time, feeling myself slipping further away from the cherished euphoria, and for a moment I felt like a newly discorporated soul gazing down at its dead body as it is torn from it and snatching handfuls of air in a useless attempt to remain there where it can thrive—but it was, of course, useless, because if you are one who believes in God—although I'm not; in fact, my whole family practices atheism—you will know there is no resisting what he wills—Tucker's, however, is not, and I can assure you that my parents were not happy when I returned home from his house one night after having been read passages from the Bible by his parents, which is why I know these things…but that isn't the point. The point is, I was being pulled into consciousness quickly and with it, my memories and the ideas I could infer from their context—specifically that my fate might lie in the walls of the baby blue nursery—were returning swiftly. And I can tell you, I was not happy about this, because now my world was not simply filled with child-like contentment and was rapidly darkening, my anger returning swiftly; now, I was able to scoff in the sanctity of my mind, _Who is this asshole who thinks he can tell me when to get up?_

And there were other everyday things that I'd lost in my high now returning; it seems as though my parietal lobes were functioning again—as I said before, for this lesson of health I had managed to remain conscious—because now my headache was not a dull and distant thud, but rather a sharp stab of pain on the left side of my head, and there was something else, too. I had not felt it before, of course, and neither had I anything else, but it was there, and as I sunk deeper into this sea I would come to realize that it was—

"_Daniel_," the voice came again, now penetrating the sanctity of my brain with the obscurity of a knife to a plate of bone as it slices through skin effortlessly. He was clearly irritated now, and this, because it was such an out-standing quality, along with my newly increased alertness—but perhaps it was most apparent in the voice itself, aside from all emotion—provided identification of the man who wielded the voice, though my eyes were still shut in poor attempt to surface in the waters of Conscious' sea where the breeze would carry me into sleep once again. However, upon hearing the voice once again and realizing to whom it belonged, exactly, my eyes snapped open with the abruptness of the hero in a horror movie after a moment's pause upon sensing the presence of a monster.

I will put this lightly—I don't think I've ever woken up to a more disturbing sight in the entirety of my life, because what I saw was not Jazz's smiling face, disgusting it may have been, or my father gazing down at me intently in hopes I'd help him with a new ghost-hunting weapon he'd devised or clean the lab; rather, I saw that I was surrounded on all sides by tall metal bars, my vision obscured by the Green Bay Packers mobile—it had little teddy bears wearing jerseys and football helmets with a football in the center—that hung above me. Upon pressing my chin to my chest to stare at my body, I saw that I was covered about a forth of the way up with the blue and yellow duck blanket I'd seen earlier, along with one that was printed repeatedly with the Green Bay Packers logo. I wore a pair of pajamas—the kind that cover your feet—sporting a similar design, and as I stared with eyes that were still bleary from sleep but flooding rapidly with horror, I realized what my parietal lobes were sensing before; between my legs, there was a soft thickness that was flush against my crotch and ass…and that was wet.

But what was perhaps most horrifying of all was the man who stood over me, smiling down at me indulgently, the face very calm and appearing very pleased, the eyes shining with an incredibly uncharacteristic love. Vlad Masters said, "Good afternoon, kit. Did you enjoy your nap?"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Please review and I will update within the next two days

* * *

There was a small moment that was similar to that at the door of the nursery upon first glancing into the room; I was silent, unable to formulate a response in the depths of my mind that would do anything other than further my predicament but rather than improve its condition as I would have liked, but it was not as if this was something I'd encountered before and should have been prepared to rebuke. What, in reality, _can_ be said after obtaining the knowledge that you've been stuffed into a diaper and baby clothes and stuck in a crib by the person you've come to know as your trouble-maker, the person who strives to cause angst in your otherwise peaceful life? But perhaps more to the point, what brain is so advanced that it can prepare a rebuttal to something of such monumental proportions? How does a brain even go about _dissecting_ this information into pieces that can be more easily comprehended? These questions, and others, had now mounted the landscape of my mind which served as the battleground for all warring emotions on their horses and were now throwing blows in hopes of rising to the front of my mind; the thought-group which had fixated on the _what-ifs_ of my capture were deemed irrelevant, of course, but the thoughts of escape—once weakest of the bunch, now _weaker_—were now battling these newcomers with that same limitation my disregard for them had brought upon. Easily to defeat them however was another survivor, one stronger, this one pouring itself over the question of _why? _and very intent on receiving an answer, so much so that these new thoughts—those concerned almost childishly with formulating a "cool" response to throw back at Vlad and wondering how the mind might go about doing so—stood little chance against its power and were, too, overtaken with similar ease.

Shaky, the timid man who had once lived somewhere in the regions of my brain, had gone silent, and I'd come to believe that the shock of this revelation and everything it would instill had simply caused the guy's weak heart to give out and to slip away while I'd been drifting in sweet unconsciousness. Rational, on the other hand, was absolutely ecstatic—of course, there was _no_ part of me that liked the idea of Vlad Masters undressing me while I slept and redressing me in baby clothing, but the R man could not have craved the thrill of change more, and he would take what he could get, it seemed. In my mind, I could feel the little guy jumping up and down at the idea that our time would not be consumed with some terribly uninteresting fight but rather a kinky session of roll-playing…or whatever the hell he intended to do now that he had me where he wanted me, because as I said, that _why? _had won my attention—sadly, because I would have rather focused my energies into solving a book of math problems than allow myself to fixate on this rather unpleasant inquiry and all it implied—and god knew I was allowing it to consume me. And vaguely, I had the idea that Rational and the _why? _had combined their efforts to destroy their competition and explore the possibilities of Vlad's actions together in unending bliss.

And along with these things which had survived the battle on the gummy landscape of my brain, there was something else, something which had timidly watched and had not participated for it was never anything other than a given; the fact that I _had _to reply—it was not concerned with how I might go about doing so or struggling to piece together information that would allow for such a thing—would never leave my mind, no matter how the other emotions around it, stronger and smarter they may be, crippled it with blows…and so they _didn't_, because they knew there was no point, only energy wasted. And so with Mr. Rational observing with a bowl of buttered popcorn in his hands and the question of _why? _now burning strongly in my center of my forehead, _need _would also ascend to victory with it and beat on my temple with its hammer, one which served like an alarm clock, until I addressed it.

And I _did_, because I could not handle the pounding that lay behind my eyes, one which possessed a pain that was nothing like I've felt before in the entirety of my life (all while feeling very alarmed at the control these rather hastily composed emotions had developed over my brain, mind you), and though I recognized the weakness I must hold in doing so, I could not have been more relieved to remove that pressure from my undeserving temple. And because I was appeasing this desire without much regard for my own well-being, simply to alleviate my headache, I did not consider my words closely before they slipped out of my mouth—this thought had been knocked out, of course, and now lay in shambles on the battlefield of my mind—and I said the first thing that came to mind and sounded remotely good but could have been twice as effective if I'd taken a minute—"A-are we roll-playing?" My voice was notably weak, and the words were not easily formed.

Vlad smiled softly down at me and chuckled slightly, and as he reached down to ruffle my hair that indulgence I'd seen shining in his eyes since I'd arrived, really, brightened to that of a flare, so much so that it seemed to repel his eyebrows, which shot up slightly momentarily. If I hadn't been fixating upon the state of his eyes like the stages of the moon, I might have bothered to dodge his blocky hands, but I suppose it became very reassuring—or _slightly_, because it only raised more questions, or warriors—when I saw how soft his touch was.

"I suppose we are, kit. Although I am afraid I will have to deny you any sexual pleasure if that's what you're looking for," he said, and his voice possessed the same indulgent quality as his eyes—like something tasting the way it smells.

Because _need _was still tapping, I murmured distantly, "No."

"Good," he said, and began to fiddle with the lock on the side of the crib. "That will never be my purpose, Daniel. And _roll-playing _is a much too informal term, because for the next three months you are going to be my kit, and if you act anything other than the baby you _are_, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?"

Unfortunately, it seemed that Mr. Rational was still not satisfied with our performance, because suddenly I found myself murmuring in acute disbelief, as if simply trying to stir things up a bit, "You're fucking crazy."

However, his face did not suddenly twist in anger or his hands shoot out with the intent of strangling me to death, and I thought I'd been spared in my helpless state…but behind those smiling eyes there was an underlying hatred that was unmistakable, a maliciousness that would define the bulk of my time in his care, and gazing into those crystalline pools sent tight shivers up my spine, and understandably so.

"Well, Daniel," he said levelheadedly, his smile now appearing to be very unnatural, forced—in fact, I saw the corners twitching as if he were struggling to retain this pose his lips had adapted. "If I'm fucking _crazy_, then you're fucking _dead_."

I was lucky there was a teddy bear in the crib with me—I desperately needed something to clutch onto for comfort.


	6. Chapter 6

His anger at my insolence—rather unintentional it may be, but insolence nonetheless—evaporated quickly, and surprisingly so, because I'd come to realize that when it came to Vlad, any antipathy cultivated became embedded deeply into his way of thinking and remained there until something which conjured up greater rage presented itself. I decided, however, that this also proved true with other emotions, because that indulgence returned—I guessed because he saw my look of terror, and could probably recognize as well that I would have clung to the teddy bear complete with a Packers jersey (66, Ray Nitschke) and plush football if I'd been in the presence of anyone else—and this alone was enough to distract him so as to change his whole demeanor. The smile, so unpleasant and unfitting in its softness, surfaced in the pool that was his face once again, and his eyes lightened. I could not wrap my feuding brain around such a thing, because I had rarely, save in the presence of my mother, seen a change in his favorite emotion—that being of anger, of course—and I thought it impossible that he could not only display _happiness_, but display it _after _he'd appeared to be so infuriated. That, however, did not change the sense of relief that flooded me, because no matter how puzzling, I was instilled with the knowledge that he would not blast me while I was in such a helpless state.

And helpless it was, because not only was I dressed so degradingly—wearing what I decided must be a diaper, and the thought, coupled with the sensation, I suppose, made me blush—but I could not move; try as I might, my limbs felt as though they were frozen, and aside from my fingers and my toes and facial expressions, I probably looked very similarly to a statue…perhaps the oddest you'd ever lay your eyes on. Of course, I didn't have the vaguest idea as to why this might be, because I was not entirely concerned with the movement of my limbs and was rather focused on the new expression that had shaped his face and how such a thing could be. Later, I would speculate that if I had been more concerned with this aspect of our strange encounter, it would perhaps not have made a difference, because there would be no escape in my future and it was probably wiser to focus on developing a sense of understanding rather than to uselessly concern myself with something that would not matter in the end. And it was probably a good thing that I was focusing all my energies now on the prospect of gaining awareness, because I certainly had a long way to go when it came to achieving the magnitude of understanding to which I would have preferred.

But there was something else pulling my attention away from comprehension—the same thing that was making me blush warmly; it was the thing between my legs that had stepped in for my underwear in its unexplained but not totally mysterious absence, something soft and thick and uncomfortably tight. Pressed against my crotch, I could feel the cottony texture it held, one that was unfamiliar to me, because although Spectra had made me don a diaper, it had a been a cloth one, I think, and I guessed that this one—if it _was_ a diaper, that is—was disposable, although I wouldn't know and was frankly glad that I could not look down and confirm for myself—I would be too scared to face what I might see and all the questions it would force down my throat. But while I might try to think positively and assume this thing was simply a very soft pair of underwear, I knew, deeply, that I was kidding myself, because there was no way this thing was anything other than a diaper, because—and, look, here comes more questions—it was wet, and I'd gotten enough wedgies by Dash and his gang of fools to know what wet underwear felt like.

The knowledge of this sensation would not quite sink in—it would not have the chance—because Vlad was already throwing new warriors into the battle that had consumed my mind as he began undoing these ungodly pajamas he'd dressed me in; that is, lord knew how easy it was to focus on something less related while one's arch enemy undresses you with the intent of doing…what? This question had made itself known and very prominent on the battlefield of my feuding brain, but it was already reassured and quickly fading, for I knew the answer with a dreadful clarity as this and the knowledge of the diaper's wetness collided and created one undeniably unfortunate piece of news.

_He's going to change it, Danny Boy_, something inside me whispered easily, and touched my belly with weightless fingers, making it lurch. _He's going to change your diaper, Danny._

A darkness seemed to fall upon the landscape of this battle; it was not an unconsciousness, but it was a period of nothingness in which all the thoughts that warred ceased immediately and there was nothing but the sound of Vlad's lightened voice and his soft fingers, gently tugging at the tapes of the diaper. Simply, it was as if my brain had been so stuffed with these contradicting emotions and questions that it had just _overloaded_—seemingly prompted by this soft voice, which I had recognized to be Rational's before darkness fell—and now I was incapable of all thought and anything such would control. Eerily, this period resembled stepping into someplace where the echoes are well and talking ceaselessly to hear one's voice, because I could hear outside noises, which seemed to bounce off the walls of my head, but could not make sense of them, and I was briefly reminded of the time when I'd been young and I'd had a near death experience in the gloomy waters of Lake Eerie and could hear the sounds of my parents arguing as I floated in a before-death period of emptiness in which my soul began the process of severing itself from my body. I came to believe that the time in which nothingness occurs is as the soul begins to exit the body but has not fully exited yet. This, of course, was my feeling now, and later, upon reflection, not only would I feel conversably disturbed, but I would begin to associate these diaper changes with drowning.

"Don't worry, my kit," I heard him purr distantly. "We'll get you cleaned up and in a nice new diaper."

I would float in this place of between worlds until the diaper came off and I felt his fingers brush my front. This was one of those things that could not be ignored; it sent an electric current shooting through my mind, lighting the neon signs and drawing the thoughts back, away from the lounge.

* * *

Did I just make a Midnight City reference?

A/N:

Forgive me for the long while and my failed promise, but I'll be updating regs.

Thanks for understanding (and if you don't, eat a bag of black licorice and throw it up =()

~VC


	7. Chapter 7

I had begun reaching up with my own hands to silence those of his—those, I was now able to recognize with a complete clarity, that were itching to peel back the tapes of the diaper (because I've stopped kidding myself about what it was, for I knew, and I knew there'd be no escaping its reality)—when my shoulders brushed against something that was encircling my neck; it was metal, and it was thick, kind of like a collar, which was fitted sort of snugly around my neck, although I could breathe and had not, of course, noticed it until this moment. I believe there was a brief pause before I moved my hands off of his—they were warm and slightly moist, and their texture had a sort of comforting quality in that they reminded me of my father's—in which the battlefield of my mind discarded all its previous warriors and in came a series of new ones, all vying for similar reasons as the old but tagged with an entirely different matter. There was the question of what, as in _what the hell is this thing around my neck? _and there was they why, and the how, and then when, and the what will become of me because of this, and there was that ever-present thought of escape, all fighting for my attention. They were still going at it when my hands moved, in a kind of hypnotized fashion in that I don't really remember sending those orders from my brain to the now equally hungry appendages, as if the warriors could not continue in their struggle without solidity in the matter at hand, like martial arts masters refusing to fight without good cause. But it was there, all right, and as my hands gripped it and pulled it forward, I felt the cold metal edges jab into my neck.

Vlad, it seemed, was not so distracted with changing me that he didn't notice.

"No, Daniel," he said, and his hands, too, were up at my neck in an instant to stop me from tempering with the collar. "You mustn't do that. I'll tell you right now that it isn't going to come off and the only thing tugging will do is cut your neck."

I don't think I'd quite come back into reality, because that battle had drawn me so far away from the here and now that I felt as if I were standing in the middle of it, watching those deformed blobs mingle and bounce off one another in the manner in which they deemed to be "fighting," but I think something in me was aware that a response was due, for even if the questions were jumbled, I knew the purpose of everything all too well and it demanded an answer…one which I could only get from Vlad himself. "What?" I sputtered, my gaze directed to the collar although lord knew if I was actually _looking_.

Vlad gripped my hands lightly, but firmly so that I would not be drawn to attempt this gesture again, and held them against my chest, which in turn also kept me laying submissively against the soft pad that had been placed in the…the you-know-what. Although it wasn't as if I was present enough in that baby blue room to actually possess the will to sit up, I was dimly aware that even if I had wanted to I probably couldn't have, because I was weak…but why was I weak, I thought as this warrior suddenly seemed to glow with a heavenly light? It drew my eye and kept it there, until a thing I can only describe as being completely bizarre considering the previous battles that had been waged in my brain; in an instant, the glow spread to the entirety of the warriors, and, like an epiphany, the answer to the Great Question came as they all became united as one in that swift moment. And the answer's origin could perhaps be described as a domino-effect, because when I realized my weakness, one that should not, in all truthfulness, be encompassing me now, the answers to each individual question vying came and seemed to inspire the next, until the battle fell silent and my head was filled with a complete clarity.

I could have voiced it, but Vlad had already begun.

"Oh, you know," he said, and I became aware that, contributing to the ever-present strain of his strange behavior, he was, and rather gently, rubbing my wrists as he held my hands in his. He smiled at me, a little distractedly, as if there was a greater matter being fought over in his own mind, or what he was saying was simply uninteresting or unimportant. "I can't take the collar off, Kit, because I can't have you running around trying to escape. I'm sorry if it's uncomfortable, but tugging on it will do no good."

Because I did not have a retort, his focus shifted back to my wet diaper, and I realized this was the greater matter that had occupied his head, dimly, and I say dimly because the freaking diaper was the last thing I had on my mind now, although it was, along with a new set of warriors, vying in my newly occupied brain. They were only slightly different then past sets, because now there were a few shrill remarks in regards to the situation at hand, contending for my attention alongside the regiment of questions, but because you probably get the idea, here's the breakdown:

_This collar is suppressing my strength._

_Why the hell did he put this on me? My life must be going to shit, and quickly, if I have to wear this thing—I mean, if it wasn't going to go down, why would he need to use force to keep me here?_

_Can I go ghost? I don't think so. I can't even move my freaking body._

_What the hell is he going to do to me now that I'm helpless? Kill me? He could._

_How am I supposed to escape? The way this is going I'll be dead before next week if I don't get out!_

Like before, I fell into the haze that my thoughts had induced, but vaguely I could feel those hungry fingers doing just precisely what I'd known they'd do, and I could hear him talking to me, as if from very far away but somehow very softly. He remarked, "Oh, poor boy, you're soaked. Let's take care of that," after he'd opened the diaper, now cold and clammy as I'd been wearing it for what I assumed to be a considerable while, and removed it. And I think I knew I was exposed, because when he touched my inner thigh I felt my leg involuntarily flex, but I don't think I was anywhere close enough to the line of reality to protest these actions; as I've said, the diaper was now not top priority, and that warrior had fallen along with its companion concerned with the situation in its entirety, where I was trapped and was going to be…well, going to be babied of course. The damp thing only served as a small part of the whole equation now, even though a few minutes ago it had plagued my brain and filled me with ideas that had made me want to curl up in a solitary corner and rock back and forth in a removed and rather disturbed fashion, but that didn't mean I wasn't aware of the discomfort I now found myself (distantly) experiencing.

One of his hands were between my legs, in that place parents and teachers stressed should not be touched, cleaning with something cold and moist, probably a wet-nap, and I could hear myself grunt and moan a little as he did. My legs flexed. His free hand began to stroke, with that same uncharacteristic gentleness, where he was holding me and seemingly steadying himself at my side. My belly lurched and I could feel the skin being stretched tightly over the bones beneath it. Later I would reflect that I must have looked like a corpse lying on the operation table of some mad scientist in some freaky movie as it is brought back into the world with electric shocks that make it writhe and twist as the transition into life gets underway, because I knew I was squirming. At one point, in fact, Vlad had to morph into Mr. Plasmius and split himself into two so that one could hold me still while the other, the real one, went about (thoroughly) cleaning my crotch, then dusting it with chalk-white baby powder; of course, I was weak enough that he wouldn't have needed _one _Plasmius to keep me at bay if it were normal circumstances, but I guessed it was hard to accomplish such a seemingly delicate task when everything was moving, and knowing Vlad I knew it was simply too much to give me that small comfort as to wriggle and hope that I might soon make it cease.

I felt the new diaper go on, very snugly, might I mention, and again I could hear myself grunt. Although by that point I had begun to come out of my haze of struggling thoughts, I seemed to be too stunned by the actually sensation of having Vlad Plasmius _diaper _me to think of escaping, and could only hope to cope with the humiliation—although this aspect would not really hit me until later—and discomfort of it. But when his hands were gone, my squirming seemed to cease, and I would simply lay there in the wake of it all, shaking because I felt such violation as I'd never felt before and was not really sure, exactly, how I should go about responding, because now my mind was spinning so wildly I could not make out the individual thoughts, and because this led me to fall into a period where I felt like I sometimes did after my ghost enemies hit me on the head, really hard—in the latter stages of the comforting nothingness where I could not comprehend but could feel and hear and in some cases see and smell. And in this case, I could; I could see him take me into his arms, could feel his moist hands touching my naked back, could smell that domineering baby powder—a scent that would linger around me for most of that summer—and could hear his voice, again, so ungodly soft you'd think you were being talked at by an inexperienced girl at her first prom rather than this hateful and vengeance- and power-driven man whose life had been ruined by your father and you were pretty much constantly denying him the one thing that would reinstate happiness within him.

"Come on, my kit, it's time for dinner," he said, and pulled me out of the crib.


End file.
