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Violent cracks run through Danny’s helmet, splintering what was once smooth black plastic into disjointed fragments. Ectoplasm leaks from the cracks, drip drip dripping down his once-sterile white suit onto the bathroom floor. Danny stumbles further into the bathroom, making a wet sloshing sound as his feet disturbs the viscous puddle of neon green on the floor. He kicks the door shut and steadies himself on the sink, leaving green marks on the door, on the floor and wall, on the counter, on the sink, on the everywhere the world is a prison of neon and he cannot escape—
A soft clink, as Danny’s helmet rests against the mirror, leaving an imprint of ectoplasm on the glass. Danny sighs, the sound coming out as a mess of static through the two-way radio of his suit. He feels the sink, solid beneath his hands, though he cannot feel the smooth porcelain through his gloves. He breathes, and exhales again, emitting pulses of static that steadily become rhythmic.
Stupid. Danny is an idiot. It isn’t like this was the first time it happened, and yet—Danny barely made it to the bathroom before his human façade crumbled, leaving behind the hazmat suit that has become the shell containing the monster in him. He just…his calculations were off. He thought he had more time, before he must consciously return to his monster form lest his body make the choice for him.
Another burst of static as Danny sighs again. He lifts his head. The ectoplasmic stain on the mirror distorts Danny’s reflection, but it isn’t like his appearance in the mirror can become more monstrous. Raising his hand, ectoplasm dripping from his fingertips, Danny traces the cracks that run through the reflection of his helmet. His fingers smear more neon green upon the mirror, smudging his reflection until it becomes an indistinguishable blur of black and white and green. Only then does Danny allow his hand to drop to his side, leaving a trail of neon droplets behind.
The ectoplasm will disappear once Danny is stable enough to return to his human form, he knows from experience, but that knowledge does not quell the fear that his family will stumble upon him, discover Danny in all his monstrous glory, dripping ectoplasm across the once-clean bathroom tiles. He shouldn’t have done this at home, he shouldn’t have put off transforming for so long in the first place, he—crud. He forgot to lock the bathroom door.
Danny lungs for the door. His boots slip on the puddle of his ectoplasm, sending Danny falling forward. A loud crack echoes as his helmet slams against the door, sending vibrations across Danny’s skull. He can almost hear the cracks on his helmet widening, spreading like rot. But his hand has already been raised, so Danny slides the lock shut with what remains of his willpower before crumbling onto the floor in a heap.
He lies on the floor, staticky breaths accompanied only by the dripping of ectoplasm from his helmet. It is—this is—
All at once, the hazmat suit feels far too restrictive. Danny’s lungs rattle in his chest, his ribs feeling as if they are about to be crushed by the rubber material. He needs—he needs this off, now.
In a panicked haze, Danny scrambles for the release to his helmet. His gloves find the cracked material of his helmet, and Danny’s grip tightens, preparing to pull.
But.
His fingers freeze. Danny’s breaths echo in the bathroom in short, rapid bursts of static. He needs this helmet off now, he cannot breathe, but he can’t bring himself to pull it off. Because—because…what lies beneath this shell of rubber? He has bones and muscles and nerves, he has been beaten and battered enough times to know that, but having a body doesn't mean having a body that is right. He begins dripping ectoplasm whenever he is agitated, and that much ectoplasm has to come from somewhere, doesn't it? Danny imagines a grotesque mannequin of sinew and bone, held together by radioactive green blood, and only resembling a human body in the way a haunted doll resembles a person. He retches dryly into his helmet.
He does not manage to throw up. This body has nothing in his stomach for him to expel. (Does he even have a stomach in the first place?)
So Danny sinply lies there, breathing, trying to convince himself there is nothing wrong with the shape of his lungs. Seconds, then minutes, then what must be hours. And still the cracks in Danny’s helmet
drips
drips
drips
Eventually, the constant dripping of ectoplasm slows, then stops. Danny inhales, then exhales, two steady streams of static echoing in the enclosed air.
His ghost form has finally stabilised.
Danny almost sobs in relief, but crying will only destabilise his body again, trapping Danny in this form for another few hours. Instead, he reaches into himself, for the core of energy thrumming in his chest—or what feels like it, he has no idea whether this is metaphor or if there is an actual sphere where his heart should be, but that hardly matters. Danny cradles the sphere-core-heart in his mind, and tugs.
All at once, his monstrous ghost form recedes. Glowing white rings spiral from his abdomen, deposing Danny’s human form into reality. The rings suck away the pool of ectoplasm on the floor, as well as the the neon green stains Danny has smeared across the bathroom. The mirror and tiles become as pristine as they had been before Danny stumbled there in a panicked haze—grimy from a teenager slacking on his chores, but lacking the radioactive green scars Danny’s terror left behind. That is all he can ask for.
Danny is left lying on the floor in his teenaged human body. His face is pockmarked with acne, his limbs long and gangly and sorely lacking the muscles his more athletic peers possess, but his body is beautifully, painfully human. He is human, with all the flaws a human body possesses, lying on a bathroom floor infested with who knows how much bacteria and wearing clothes that ought to belong in the laundry basket, but Danny is human and he has never been so happy to have a heart that beats.
Danny sits up. His shirt is rumpled, yes, but only because Danny has never been one for ironing his clothes. He brushes his hand across the fabric, half-expecting his palm to come away stained in neon green, but of course the clothes on his human form are unmarred by the time his ghost body spent lying in a puddle of his own ectoplasm. Danny breathes out shakily.
His phone is still in the pocket of his shorts. Pulling it out, Danny glances at the screen. It has barely been thirty minutes since Danny rushed into the toilet, feeling his human form slip away. No text messages, no missed calls. Good.
He pulls himself onto his feet, using the toilet seat as leverage. Danny catalogues his teenage face in the mirror, then does a once-over around the bathroom. There are no lingering traces of Danny’s…episode, other than what remains in his mind. He has survived another incident with his ghost form. Nobody found out, and nobody is going to.
Habitually, Danny flushes the toilet, washing his hands in the sink. He unlocks the bathroom door, returns to his room, and sits back down in front of his desk.
Time to start on his math homework.