Onto the next thing, will ya’?!

Someone asked me if I could do art for the Gothvincible AU, so here you go! Have some redrawings!

(Sorry if they suck. My art skills genuinely stink 😂)

The first rays of sunlight peeked through Danny’s bedroom curtains, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room. The ghost-boy-turned-half-asleep-teen groaned softly, the distant sound of birds chirping mixing with the soft hum of the heater.

He blinked once. Twice. Then let his eyes fall shut again. There was a weight against his chest, light and familiar. Warm, even through the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

Valerie Gray.

She was still asleep, her breath slow and steady as she lay curled up beside him, head resting lightly against his chest.

The night before had been an impromptu sleepover—Valerie had swung by for movie night and never left. Somewhere between popcorn and their fourth horror movie, they’d both knocked out cold.

Danny smiled lazily. He liked moments like this. Quiet. Safe. Not haunted. Just… normal.

Except, of course, nothing about them was ever entirely normal.

Valerie stirred. Her brow furrowed slightly, and then she shifted, nuzzling closer before suddenly pausing.

“…Huh,” she mumbled, just barely awake.

Danny glanced down at her, amused. “Morning to you, too.”

Valerie propped herself up slightly on her elbow, still clearly half-asleep. “Your chest is… kinda flabby,” she said bluntly, squinting.

Danny stared at her for a second, then broke into a laugh—a soft, snorty kind of laugh that made Valerie blink at him like what did I say?

“Val,” he said through his chuckling, “those are my boobs.”

Valerie’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again. “…Wait, what?”

Danny rolled onto his back, arms behind his head, still smiling. “Yeah. I’m trans.”

A moment passed, like the silence was giving the words time to breathe.

Valerie blinked, eyebrows raised, but her expression was calm. Curious. Not shocked or judgmental.

“Oh,” she said after a beat. “That… actually explains a lot.”

Danny snorted again. “Yeah? Like what?”

“I dunno,” she said with a shrug, eyes narrowing teasingly. “Your whole ‘I’m wearing ten layers in July’ vibe. The locker room evasions. That one time in PE when you tripped and refused to let anyone help you up like your life depended on it.”

“Okay, okay, point made,” Danny said, hiding his face behind his hands with a groan.

Valerie gave him a small, amused smile. “You wear a binder or something?”

“Nope,” Danny admitted, sitting up a bit. “You know how bad does it feel? It’s stiff and kind of sucks. It’s like strapping cardboard to your ribs.”

She tilted her head. “You ever think about surgery?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. 

“Not really. I dunno… it just doesn’t feel right. I don’t hate what I’ve got. And I don’t wanna cut off a part of me just to fit some checklist, you know?” His face turned serious. 

Valerie nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

Danny looked at her, still a little wary. “You’re… okay with this?”

She met his gaze, eyes soft. “Danny. I fell asleep in your arms. If I had a problem with who you are, I wouldn’t have stayed the night.”

His heart did a quiet little flip. “…Thanks, Val.”

“Anytime,” she said with a grin. “But seriously, your chest is flabby.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “You're never living this down.”

Valerie just laughed and ruffled his hair, and somehow, everything felt just right.

Chapter 47: Parental Despair 

The Wilkins household had seen its fair share of strange evenings—with Eve’s powers, that has unfortunately turned into an everyday occurrence. 

But tonight… tonight was different.

Tonight, Adam Wilkins willingly agreed to watch a parenting documentary. The living room was cast in a warm, suburban glow. Adam sat uncomfortably on the couch, a remote in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other like this was supposed to be entertainment. Beside him, Betsy Wilkins crossed her arms skeptically.

On screen, a calm-voiced narrator was saying:

“When parenting a moody teenage daughter, it’s important to recognize the warning signs: sudden changes in wardrobe, dark music choices, eyeliner usage beyond 3mm thickness, and recurring themes of existentialism in casual conversation.”

Adam grunted. “Well that checks all the boxes.”

Eve, lounging across the arm of a recliner in her ripped black sweater and pink plaid skirt, rolled her eyes. “This is pointless.”

The narrator continued:

“It’s critical to recognize the bad influences in your daughter’s life. Often, these come in the form of enablers—friends who encourage behavior outside your control.”

Chapter 48: Morbid Antisocial Youth 

And as if summoned by the dark, twisted gods of irony, Mark Grayson dramatically kicked the front door open.

“EVE!” he called out in glee, his sleeveless, silver-studded leather jacket gleaming with the afternoon sun and the branded offensive swear words written in scraggly black letters on his white shirt almost mocking them. “I got the new Morbid Antisocial Youth CD, limited underground pressing! Only three in the state!”

Eve shot up, face lighting up in a way her parents hadn’t seen since she was in middle school and won that chemistry competition. “No way! You actually found it?!”

Mark smirked and tossed it to her like a magical relic. It clattered on the coffee table, its cover showing a shadowy figure crying blood over a pile of broken guitars.

Adam stared at the cover. Then at Mark. Then at Eve. Then back at Mark. At his jacket, offensive shirt, ripped black denim jeans and black chucks; and his matching black nail polish and smokey black eyeliner being almost identical to hers. 

Or rather, hers being almost identical to his. 

Chapter 49: A Bad Influence Has Been Discovered! 

“…You,” he muttered like it was a declaration of war, “you are the bad influence.”

Mark blinked, confused. “What? I didn’t even do anything yet.”

Eve held up the CD proudly. “He got me Morbid Antisocial Youth, dad. That’s everything.”

Betsy sighed and rubbed her temples. “Eve… honey… he’s wearing a choker with a steel lock dangling from it..”

Mark shrugged. “Pain is part of the look.”

Adam turned off the documentary with a dramatic click. “That’s it. From now on, you’re only allowed to see him during daylight hours.”

Eve crossed her arms. “Then I guess we’ll just hang out under umbrellas.”

Mark gave a mock bow. “Preferably black lace.”

Adam groaned. “This isn’t helping.”

Betsy, muttering under her breath, finally said what had been simmering for weeks. “…I miss when her biggest rebellion was dyeing her hair pink…”

And in the background, the narrator of the paused documentary stared frozen mid-smile, still blissfully unaware of the true goth chaos unfolding in the Wilkins household.

Chapter 44: A Very Serious Meeting

Immortal stood with arms crossed, jaw clenched so hard it could've cracked stone. In front of him sat Cecil Stedman, barely awake, sipping a large mug of black coffee that might as well have been motor oil.

“I’m telling you, Cecil,” Immortal grumbled, “this goth thing is getting out of control. Half my team looks like they’re about to start reciting Edgar Allan Poe in the middle of battle.”

Cecil took another long sip. “And?”

Immortal blinked. “And? Not even Darkwing was this dark when he was alive!”

Cecil shrugged. “Different times. Kids have flair now. As long as they’re not dying on the job, I don’t care if they dress like they’re headlining a vampire opera.”

“They're brooding mid-fight, quoting Bauhaus lyrics between punches, gliding,Cecil. Some of them are gliding.”

Cecil leaned back, calm as ever. “Still winning, aren’t they?”

Immortal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rudy is wearing fingerless gloves and keeps building gadgets named things like Soul Ripper Mark II. Amanda practically floats now and whispers cryptic one-liners. Rex has a choker, Cecil. A choker.”

Cecil raised a finger. “Technically, that’s a spiked collar. Important distinction.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I’m taking it seriously. Just not for the reasons you want.” Cecil cracked a smile, just enough to hint at amusement. 

Chapter 45: Maybe I Like It 

“Truth is, I like it. They're efficient, they’re more focused, and when a villain sees a bunch of black-clad freaks with eyeliner and combat boots coming at them like a Tim Burton fever dream? They run.”

Immortal’s face twisted. “You like it because they’re scary now.”

Cecil smirked. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t like it when the goth kids said I looked like an epic vampire hunter. ‘The scars... the thousand-yard stare... the soul hardened by bloodshed...’ What was it Amanda called me?”

“‘A grizzled Van Helsing who traded stakes for scalpel-sharp pragmatism,’” Immortal recited flatly.

Cecil leaned forward, smug. “Tell me that didn't slap.”

“…It did a little.”

Cecil tossed a folder across the table. “Bottom line: I don’t care if they show up in black lipstick and fishnets as long as the job gets done. This world isn’t saved by dress codes.”

Chapter 46: The Great Emancipat-done

Immortal picked up the file and sighed. “Fine. But if Rex paints a coffin on the side of the jet again, I’m blaming you.”

“Let him,” Cecil said, waving a hand. “Morale's never been higher. They’re finally having fun.”

A beat.

“…Also, tell Amanda I appreciate the black rose bouquet she left in my office. It really tied the room together.”

Chapter 40: Domestic Darkness

The Grayson household, though relatively normal from the outside, had become something of a split between suburban warmth and creeping shadow. Ever since Mark fully embraced his goth persona (both in and out of costume), and since Oliver started following his big brother’s bat-winged footsteps, mornings had become… dramatic.

Very dramatic.

Chapter 41: War Crimes Forgiven 

Curtains yanked open.

Sunlight poured in like holy fire.

Mark didn’t even flinch.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Debbie called sweetly, fully aware of the havoc she was unleashing.

Mark, buried under a mountain of black blankets with only a pale hand sticking out from the top, just gave a long, suffering sigh.

“I accept your war crimes, mother.”

Debbie snorted and walked out. “Love you too, Nosferatu.”

Mark slowly poked his head out, eyeliner faintly smeared from sleeping in it again. He blinked at the light and groaned like a gothic cryptid before sliding out of bed with a practiced slouch. “Another day of darkness under the tyranny of the sun…” he mumbled, trudging toward the bathroom in his oversized Sisters of Mercy t-shirt.

Chapter 42: Why So Purple? 

Now this is where things got noisy.

“NOOOOOO!”

Debbie raised an eyebrow from the hallway. “Here we go…”

She opened Oliver’s bedroom door—and was immediately met with a pillow flying past her face.

“Mother!” Oliver shrieked, flopping dramatically across his bed like a Shakespearean ghost. “The light! The cursed radiance! It scalds my skin and fractures my soul!”

Debbie pulled the curtains open anyway, cheerful as ever. “C’mon, baby bat. April’s about to arrive.” 

Oliver yanked a black hoodie over his wild dark curls and flopped back onto the mattress like a man defeated by fate itself. “I’m too brooding for learning! Let me dwell in despair!”

“You have a math test.”

“Math is a tool of the oppressors!”

“You asked for vampire stickers last week for your planner, Ollie.”

“That was before the light found me!”

Mark passed by the open door mid-shuffle, toothbrush in his mouth, eyeliner still smudged, and offered a sleepy thumbs-up. “Nice commitment, little dude.”

Oliver reached out from under his comforter like he was dying. “Teach me to suffer with dignity, brother of night…”

“You got it, buddy.”

Debbie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, but couldn’t help smiling. “I’m raising two living Halloween decorations.”

And in truth—she wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter 43: Breakfast and Brooding

The kitchen of the Grayson household smelled of pancakes and barely concealed sarcasm. Sunlight filtered through the blinds like it had something to prove, casting long golden streaks across a table currently occupied by two extremely different but equally goth brothers.

Debbie flipped a pancake with the casual grace of a mother who’d long accepted the aesthetic chaos of her children. Her house was full of black nail polish, band posters, and incense that smelled like funeral homes—and yet, it all still felt like home.

Mark, dressed in his usual faded black hoodie and chipped nail polish, leaned over his plate, eating with the slowness of a vampire who wasn’t entirely sure if pancakes were food. Across from him, Oliver—now finally confident in his own unique brand of middle-school goth—drank orange juice like it was a chalice of forbidden nectar.

His look? Impeccable.

Black cargo shorts, a tattered flannel around the waist, black and red striped socks with scuffed-up skate shoes, and a black snapback hat with safety pins along the brim. His pride and joy was the oversized black tee that read “I WANT TO BELIEVE” in dripping neon green letters—his tribute to both alien conspiracies and his own extraterrestrial roots. He even had a little chain clipped to his belt.

Debbie smiled at him fondly as she poured syrup onto his stack. “You know, just a few months ago, you were still toddling around in footie pajamas.”

Oliver groaned. “Mother… must you remind me of my time before enlightenment?”

Mark smirked. “You mean when you used to throw mashed peas at the TV and scream whenever ‘Sesame Street’ came on?”

Oliver hissed like a very offended possum.

Debbie chuckled and leaned on the counter, nostalgia flickering in her eyes. “I still remember how Mark used to calm you down. You were having a meltdown, crying so hard, and he just walked in holding that plastic skull rattle.”

Mark chuckled. “RIP Skully. That thing was metal.”

“Oh, you were mesmerized,” Debbie went on, smiling warmly. “It had tiny bones inside that clinked. You’d just stare at it in awe while Mark shook it like some kind of cursed baby bard.”

Oliver blinked. “Wait… that was real? I mean- I know I have incredible memory and all, but I honestly thought I dreamt that.”

“Nope,” Mark said between bites. “You drooled on it so much it started flaking paint.”

Debbie rested her chin in her hand. “That’s when I knew. He wasn’t gonna be a soccer kid. He was gonna follow in your creepy little footsteps.”

Oliver beamed, pride blooming across his face like the shadows of a gothic rose. “I am the legacy of angst. A child of darkness. A brother of brooding.”

Mark gave him a proud nod. “My boy.”

Debbie sipped her coffee. “You’re still have that math test from April today.”

Oliver groaned. “The light returns to torment me again…”

Chapter 38: The Vampiric Wake-Up of Rexsplode

The Guardians HQ wasn’t exactly known for its style, but Rexsplode’s room was… something else.

Half of it looked like it belonged to a goth band’s bassist who exclusively drank Red Bull and journaled in fake Latin, and the other half looked like a college dorm room that had lost a battle against a tsunami of pizza boxes, energy drink cans, and mismatched socks. Posters of punk and goth bands clashed aesthetically with beer pong trophies and an empty bottle collection that served no purpose other than vaguely impressing teenage interns.

And there, tangled in black sheets and half-dressed under a blanket printed with tiny skulls and flaming dice, was Rexsplode. Peacefully asleep, eyeliner faintly smudged from the night before. A stuffed bat plush named "Boomer" nestled under one arm.

Then—

“Rise and shine, Rex!”

The curtains were flung open with the fury of a Disney princess on a mission.

A beam of morning sunlight sliced through the darkness like a holy blade—and struck Rex right in the face.

He shrieked.

“HISSSSSSSSS—GAH! WHAT THE HELL, WOMAN?! I'M BURNING!”

He flailed like a vampire tossed into a church. His black blanket was thrown over his face like a shroud. A pillow launched itself at the general direction of the window but missed wildly and hit a lava lamp instead.

Shrinking Rae, standing at full height this morning with a fresh cup of coffee, sipped unbothered. “You told me to make sure you didn’t miss breakfast today.”

“I DIDN’T MEAN—IN THE LIGHT OF DAY, RAE!” Rex wailed, clutching the blanket like a Victorian widow. “MY SOUL IS NOT READY FOR THIS!”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You look like you were mid-emo seance when I walked in.”

“I was,” he muttered dramatically, peeking from behind the blanket like a raccoon in eyeliner. “Boomer and I were communing with the darkness.”

She gave Boomer a gentle pat on the head. “Well, Mr. Darkness has twenty minutes to eat eggs and look semi-presentable before mission briefings. You goth kids really are dramatic.”

Rex slowly sat up, hair a total mess, eyeliner now looking like war paint. He rubbed his eyes and yawned like a cryptkeeper.

But then he cracked a lazy, lopsided grin. “Yeah, yeah. But you still came in here to see me.”

“Please,” Rae said, sipping again. “I came for the comedy. You look like Dracula’s unemployed cousin.”

Rex gasped. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And as she left the room, letting the door close behind her, Rex flopped back on the bed and mumbled to Boomer, “Next time she wakes me up, I’m gonna fake my death. Real goth hours, baby.”

Boomer, of course, said nothing. But Rex knew he agreed.

Chapter 39: Gothfast (The Most Brooding Meal of the Day)

The Guardians of the Globe sat around the breakfast table at HQ, basking in the most cursed kind of silence—morning silence.

A flickering overhead light buzzed like the last thoughts of a dying star. A faint Joy Division track played from someone’s phone in the distance, just loud enough to feel intentional.

Rexsplode was the loudest thing in the room. He munched aggressively on a bowl of knock-off sugary cereal that clashed horribly with his gothic sensibilities. His spoon scraped the bowl with the intensity of a spiteful cat.

Every crunch of the cereal was a personal attack on Shrinking Rae, who sat across from him sipping her herbal tea with a smug grin.

“You good over there, Count Snackula?” she teased.

Rex didn’t look up. “Oh, I’m great, Rae. Especially after getting blasted with the light of a thousand suns this morning by someone who clearly has no respect for the nocturnal elite.”

Rae smirked and leaned back in her chair. “You’re welcome.”

Amanda sat beside them, swirling a strange concoction in a chipped black mug. No one really knew what was in it, but the fumes alone could peel paint. She took a long sip, eyes closing in pure satisfaction.

Rex blinked. “Are you drinking… vinegar?”

Amanda opened one eye. “And alcohol. I call it Dissociation Tea.”

Rae made a face. “You need holy water.”

“I am the unholy water,” Amanda replied.

At the far end of the table, Rudy was hunched over a second cup of black coffee that looked more like a science experiment than a beverage. His eyeliner was slightly smeared, his man bun was sagging like a defeated samurai, and he had visible circuit schematics drawn on his forearms in black marker.

“Did you sleep?” Amanda asked.

Rudy shook his head. “Sleep is the enemy of innovation. I was perfecting my new cloaking harness. It uses synthetic shadow particles to blend into ambient despair.”

“…So goth invisibility?”

“Precisely.”

Immortal finally walked in, eyes narrowing immediately at the entire tableau. He looked like someone who’d tried to hold onto order with trembling fingers—and failed.

He looked over the table, gesturing broadly with both hands. “What the hell happened to this team?”

Rex, mouth full of cereal, raised a single finger. “It’s called personal expression,man.”

Immortal’s voice dropped into that dangerous dad-who’s-had-enough tone. “This team used to train before sunrise. Now it’s like I’m hosting a Hot Topic staff meeting at 10 AM.”

Amanda raised her mug. “Cheers.”

Rudy looked up, genuinely interested. “Would you like to learn about the sociocultural roots of goth expression in the postmodern era?”

“No.”

“I have slides.”

“No.”

Rex slurped his milk loudly and lazily slung an arm over the back of his chair. “Lighten up, old man. You could use some black eyeliner. Maybe a chain wallet. One of those mesh shirts.”

Immortal inhaled sharply like he was this close to launching someone into orbit.

Rae snorted into her tea. Amanda tried not to laugh but failed. Rudy was already writing notes on mesh shirts.

Even the ones over at the "normal" side of the breakfast table - Dupli-Kate, Black Samson, Bulletproof and Shapesmith - looked like they were trying not to laugh as well. Well, most of them did. Shapesmith just looked confused. 

And thus, breakfast at Guardian HQ began, like every other morning: with existential dread, mild sarcasm, and just a sprinkle of supernatural angst.

Chapter 37: Dawn of the Goth

Eve was sleeping like the undead—peacefully entombed beneath layers of black silk sheets and a comforter patterned with crescent moons and softly faded skulls. Her room, once bright and saccharine, had been thoroughly gothified: the pink walls now a dusky mauve, black lace curtains, candles melted down to waxy stubs on every surface, and a velvet bat plush resting next to her head like a loyal gargoyle.

A soft snore escaped her lips as she lay motionless in her bed, the faint sound of The Cure still playing from a speaker on her dresser.

And then—

“Good morning, sweetie~!”

The sunlight exploded into her room as her mother cheerfully yanked open the blackout curtains like a monster summoning the apocalypse.

Eve let out a tortured groan as her face was assaulted by the merciless rays of the morning star.

She flung an arm dramatically over her eyes. “Mother, please—” she croaked. “I am a creature of the night. A cursed soul. An immortal of shadows and despair. You can’t just—” she winced—“do that.”

Her mother, utterly unfazed, smiled brightly. “It’s such a beautiful day out! Thought you’d want to start it off right. Maybe go for a walk, see the sun—”

Eve peeked from beneath her arm like a vampire fearing death. “Sunlight is death, mother. Death and eye strain.”

“You sound just like your father,” her mom laughed, oblivious. “He said the same thing when he tried cutting carbs.”

Eve groaned again, dramatically rolling over to bury her face in the pillows. “Doomed. I am doomed to dwell among a family of morning people.”

“Do you want eggs?”

“…Yes. But in a brooding way.”

Her mom giggled. “Coming right up, Miss Doom & Gloom.”

As the door clicked shut and the light continued to blaze, Eve hissed softly and whispered into her pillow, “One day… I will replace the sun with an eternal eclipse.”

She knew she wouldn’t, of course. But a goth girl could dream.

Chapter 38: Breakfast and Betrayal

The kitchen smelled like coffee, burnt toast, and suburban tension.

Eve sat at the breakfast table in full indoor-goth mode—sunglasses on, hair artfully disheveled, wearing a hoodie that proudly read “My Soul is Blacker Than This Coffee” in bleeding red letters. She dramatically pushed her eggs around on the plate, occasionally sighing as if each yolk were a lost dream.

Her father sat at the other end of the table, watching her like he was trying to solve an algebra equation he didn’t like.

Her mother, ever the optimist, placed a pitcher of orange juice on the table with the grace of a sitcom mom from the '80s. “So, Eve,” she began, too chipper for 8:32 in the morning, “I was going through your old closet and found the cutest pink sundress from when you were fourteen! Still looks like it’ll fit—how about you wear it today?”

Eve didn’t even look up. Her fork stopped moving, and her shoulders tensed like a hunted animal. “…What?”

Her mom was already holding it up like a proud museum curator. The pink was so pastel it nearly blinded her. Tiny embroidered flowers danced along the hemline like taunting little demons.

“I figured it would brighten your day! And it’s going to be sunny out, and—”

Eve slowly lifted her shades just enough to glare over them. “I will wear the sundress,” she said coldly, “after I make some adjustments.”

Before her mother could protest, Eve raised a single hand and snapped her fingers. A gentle hum of pink energy filled the air as particles shimmered around the offending dress.

The transformation was swift and brutal.

The innocent pink sundress turned midnight black in the blink of an eye. The skirt shortened into a sharp, elegant mini. The lace trim deepened in color to match, and a single frilly pink bow cinched around the waist like the last remnant of a defeated past.

Her mother gasped like Eve had just spat in a church. Her hand flew to her chest as if personally betrayed by fashion.

Her father’s jaw clenched. “You used your powers to commit a fashion crime.”

Eve tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Her mom stammered, “B-but it was so cute!”

“It still is,” Eve said coolly, standing and slipping into the newly transformed goth-glam dress. “In a ‘I-might-summon-a-demon-at-Starbucks’ kind of way.” She gave a spin for dramatic effect. “See? Compromise.”

Her father stood abruptly. “We’re going to talk about this. You can’t just—”

Eve cut him off, sliding her sunglasses back down. “I already told you, Father. I am reborn in darkness. I have shed the chrysalis of capitalism’s gendered expectations and emerged a Goth Queen.”

“…It’s a dress, Eve.”

“Exactly.”

Her mother sighed, defeated but intrigued. “Well… I suppose the bow is cute…”

“Thanks, Mom.”

And with that, Eve walked out of the kitchen—heels clicking like thunder on the tile floor, dress swishing with attitude, and dignity very much intact

Summary: Wild Intoxication, Nanite Exception

——————————————————

One day, during an otherwise completely regular afternoon, Rex came to César with a very serious question…

Can he, as the Revolutionarily Evolved Xeno-organism, get drunk? 

César taps his chin thoughtfully, genuinely intrigued by the question. "You shouldn't be able to, considering your nanites regulate and filter toxins... but theoretically, if you consume enough alcohol at a rapid rate, you mightoverride their processing speed."

Rex grins. "So you're saying there's a chance."

César’s eyes gleam with scientific curiosity. "Only one way to find out! We can design an experiment—test different alcohol types, monitor your vitals, observe your cognitive functions under various levels of intoxication—"

Rex groans. "Dude, I just wanna drink."

César claps his hands together excitedly. "Yes, yes, but for science , Rex! Imagine the breakthroughs! What if we discover an entirely new effect of your nanites?"

Meanwhile, Six, overhearing the conversation, rubs his temples. "You do realize you’re encouraging this, right?"

Bobo, sitting nearby with a beer in hand, snickers. "This is the best idea you’ve ever had, Doc. Let the kid live a little!"

Rex smirks and pats César on the back. "Alright, big bro. Let’s get me wasted in the name of science."

César grins back. "For science!"

Six sighs. "This is going to be a disaster."

——————————————————

César, his cheeks flushed from the wine, dramatically waves his glass in the air. “Did you know , Rex, that I am the smartest man in the world?”

Rex, equally red-faced and slurring, gasps. “No way! That’s crazy! I thought Iwas the smartest man in the world!”

César blinks at him, then gasps just as dramatically. “That means… we are the smartest brothers in the world!” 

He reaches out and shakes Rex by the shoulders. “Do you understand the significance of this?”

Rex nods solemnly. “Yeah, yeah… it means… uh… we gotta… build a robot .”

César slams his fist on the table. “YES. A huge one. A mega robot. With… with…” He squints as if trying to think.

“Lasers?” Rex offers.

César gasps. “With lasers!”

Across the room, Bobo is trying so hard not to burst out laughing, while Holiday is covering her mouth to stifle her giggles. Six watches impassively, but his shoulders shake just slightly.

White Knight, on the other hand, looks absolutely done. “This is exactly why we don’t let them drink,” he mutters, arms crossed in irritation.

Rex suddenly slaps the table. “CÉSAR! YOU’RE MY FAVORITE BROTHER.”

César wipes a fake tear from his eye. “And you, mi hermanito, are my favorite test subject.”

There’s a pause. Then they both howl with laughter.

Bobo finally loses it and falls off the couch, cackling. Holiday wipes away a tear, shaking her head. “This is adorable .”

Six just sighs. “Tomorrow morning, they’re going to regret everything .”

Still swaying slightly, Rex blinks blearily at César. “Wait, wait, wait… so you’re telling me…” He leans forward, nearly toppling off his chair. “That I was always meant to be the cure?”

César nods slowly, as if the movement takes all his concentration. “ Sí, sí… your nanites, mi hermanito , they are… how you say…” He snaps his fingers clumsily, searching for the word. “Perfect.”

Rex snorts. “Ha! First time I’ve ever been called that.”

César wags a finger at him. “No, no, no, listen—your nanites, they’re the only ones that work exactly as we designed. All the others, they… unstable. Dangerous.” He sighs dramatically. “Like, ah, a beautiful experiment gone terribly, terribly wrong.”

Rex frowns, the alcohol making him unusually contemplative. “So that means… I was built to fix the mess you guys made?”

César ponders this for a moment before nodding solemnly. “Sí.” Then he hiccups. “But also, you were adorable in your tube.”

Rex chokes. “What?”

César claps his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Adorable, Rex! You were so tiny, all floating in there with your little oxygen mask!” He gestures wildly. “Like a little, uh… baby astronaut! ”

Rex groans, running a hand down his face. “Oh my God, stop.”

But César is already on a roll. “ Ay, que lindoooo! I used to tap on the glass to see if you’d react, but you just floated there! My little baby blob !”

Rex throws his head back and howls with laughter. “BLOB?! I was a blob?! ”

“Yes!” César exclaims, nearly knocking over the wine bottle. “A tiny , little, squishy blob!” He presses his hands together as if cradling something. “And I thought, ‘Wow , I made the cutest little biochemical weaponever!’”

That’s it. Rex is gone . He slams his hands on the table, wheezing with laughter, barely able to breathe. “I hate you! I hate you so much! ”

César, equally drunk and delighted, wipes at his eyes. “No, you don’t! ”

Across the room, Bobo is rolling on the floor in hysterics. Holiday is barely holding it together, her face buried in her hands as she shakes with silent laughter. Even Six has the ghost of a smirk.

White Knight, however, has never looked more exhausted in his life . He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear, if they ever drink again—”

Rex, still gasping for breath, waves him off. “Nah, nah, I promise, next time we’re also getting you drunk, Jefe.”

White Knight scowls. “Over my dead body.”

——————————————————

Rex wakes up feeling… perfectly fine. In fact, he feels great . He stretches, cracks his neck, and hops out of bed like it’s any other morning.

César, on the other hand? A complete disaster.

Slumped over the kitchen table, his face buried in his arms, César groans like a dying man. “Dios mío…” He flinches as if the sound of his own voice hurts. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

Rex, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, smirks. “Dude, you were the one who made it an experiment. I just wanted to see if I could get drunk.” He takes a long sip, perfectly refreshed. “Turns out, nope. Total bust.”

César lifts his head just enough to glare at him. His bloodshot eyes are framed by dark circles, and his hair is sticking up in every direction. “How are you fine?”

Rex shrugs. “Nanites, man. Apparently, they make me immune to hangovers.” He grins. “Sucks to be you, though.”

César groans again, flopping back down. “I hate science.”

Bobo, munching on a banana, snickers. “This is the best morning ever. ”

Holiday walks in with a bottle of water and some painkillers, placing them in front of César. “Drink. You’re severely dehydrated.”

César barely musters the strength to grab the bottle. “Gracias, mi ángel. ”

Holiday smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

Meanwhile, White Knight walks in, takes one look at César’s pitiful state and Rex’s annoyingly chipper mood, and sighs deeply.

“I told you both this was a bad idea.”

Rex just grins, taking another sip of his juice. “Totally worth it.”

Chapter 34: Goth Rudy Rises

Rex stood back, admiring his work like a painter appraising a newly finished masterpiece. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… Goth Rudy."

The Guardians—Mark, Kate, Amanda, and Black Samson—watched as Rudy awkwardly adjusted the black choker around his neck, looking unsure about his new aesthetic.

His usual oversized shirt and khaki pants look was completely replaced. Now, he wore a black band tee under a dark forest green jacket with a light brown fur collar. His dark gray jeans and black fingerless gloves added a grungy touch, and the black chucks tied it all together. But the real kicker? The black eyeliner framing his eyes and the small chunk of his shoulder-length hair pulled into a tiny man bun.

Rex crossed his arms. "So? What do we think?"

Kate tilted her head. "Honestly? Not bad."

Black Samson gave an approving nod. "You actually pull it off."

Mark blinked. “Yeah, I hate to say it, but… you don’t look terrible.”

Amanda smirked, arms crossed. “You don’t look totally ridiculous.”

Rudy’s eyes widened slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “That is… the highest compliment I could receive.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s all it takes?”

Amanda shrugged. “It’s Rudy. That was basically glowing praise.”

Rex clapped Rudy on the back. “Alright, my goth apprentice, welcome to the dark side.”

Rudy sighed. “I am already regretting this.”

Amanda chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”

Rudy exhaled, glancing at his reflection in a nearby window. “…I suppose I don’tentirely dislike it.”

Rex grinned. “Hell yeah, you don’t.” 

Chapter 35: The Gothification of Amanda (The Origins) 

Rudy adjusted his choker, still feeling a little out of place in his new goth attire, before glancing over at Amanda. “So,” he said, “what led you to adopt this particular aesthetic?”

Amanda leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, you wanna hear my goth origin story?”

Rudy nodded. “If I am to embrace this look, I wish to understand how one fully commits to it.”

Amanda chuckled. “Long story short? I asked Eve.”

Mark, who had been listening from nearby, blinked. “Wait, Eve got you into goth?”

Amanda shrugged. “I wanted to reinvent myself. I was sick of people looking at me and seeing a little girl. Eve was already in the middle of her own rebellious streak and suggested I go goth. Next thing I knew, we were in her room going through clothes and makeup like a whole damn makeover montage.”

She gestured to herself, showcasing her fully realized look—dark gray blouse under a fitted leather jacket, a sparkly black skirt, black high socks, lace-up black boots, and fishnet gloves. Around her neck hung a silver rosary, and her eyes were framed with black eyeliner that made them look sharper than ever. 

But perhaps the most striking change was her hair, now bleached platinum blonde, almost white.

“After that, I stuck with it,” she continued. “And you know what? It works. Nobody looks at me like I’m some little kid anymore.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “You do look kinda badass.”

Rex gave her a thumbs-up. “Certified goth queen.”

Rudy studied her appearance before nodding thoughtfully. “I see. A reinvention of self, symbolized through a carefully curated aesthetic. A fascinating social phenomenon.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Or, you know, I just like how it looks.”

Rudy smirked slightly. “Yes, that too.”

Chapter 36: The Immortal vs. Goth Rudy

The Guardians had gotten used to Mark being a goth. They had begrudginglyaccepted Eve and Amanda’s transformations. They had even managed to tolerate Rex’s commitment to the look, despite the fact that his version of goth was just an excuse to dress fancy and talk shit to authority.

But Rudy? Rudy going goth? That was where the Immortal drew the line.

Standing in front of the team, arms crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed, he stared Rudy down. 

“I expected this from them,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the others. “But you? The smartest one? The one who’s supposed to be mature?”

Rudy, unfazed, adjusted his black choker. “There is a fundamental misunderstanding of gothic culture at play here. Allow me to elaborate—”

The Immortal groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

Rudy ignored him and launched into a full-on lecture. “The goth subculture originated in the late 1970s as an offshoot of post-punk, embracing themes of romanticism, existentialism, and melancholic beauty. It has historical influences dating back to the Gothic period, particularly in architecture and literature, with figures such as Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe shaping its aesthetic and philosophical—”

Rex, lying across the couch, cut in, “Or—hear me out—Rudy just wanted to shake things up a little.”

The room fell silent for a beat.

Rudy frowned. “That is an oversimplification.”

Rex smirked. “Yeah? Well, let’s simplify it some more: dude used to be a literalglob of flesh floating alone in a tank. Let him live a little.”

Rudy opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated. “…That is not entirelyaccurate.”

The team stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “But, yes. That is an acceptable summary.”

Mark snorted. Amanda grinned. Even Kate was hiding a smirk.

The Immortal, meanwhile, just sighed. “I hate all of you.”

Rex patted Rudy on the back. “Welcome to the goth life, dude.”

Chapter 31: Blood Raspberries & Goth Rudy

Mark didn’t know why he decided to tell the Guardians of the Globe about his band’s new name. Maybe it was because they had a lull between missions, or maybe it was because he was so hyped about it that he had to tell someone else. Either way, the moment the words left his mouth, he was met with a mix of reactions.

Chapter 32: The Guardians React

“Blood Raspberries?” Dupli-Kate repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Mark nodded proudly. “Yup.”

Black Samson smirked. “That’s… definitely a name.”

Rex, sipping an energy drink, snorted. “Sounds like a failed fruit experiment.”

Monster Girl—Amanda, now fully embracing her own goth aesthetic—grinned. “I kinda love it.”

Rudy, ever the scientist, just had to start explaining. “Actually, there is a distant variation of raspberries that could be classified similarly to ‘blood raspberries.’ A subspecies of the Rubus genus, commonly found in specific temperate regions, produces a darker red juice when crushed, which—”

“Rudy,” Mark interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I promise we don’t need a science lesson right now.”

Kate sighed. “Yeah, man. Just let them have their goth band name.”

Rudy frowned. “I was merely providing relevant context.”

Chapter 33: Rudy’s Goth Aspirations

As the team moved on from the topic, Rudy turned to Rex with an unusually serious expression.

“I wish to go goth.”

Rex nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

Rudy nodded. “Amanda has already transitioned into a gothic aesthetic. I wish to match her in solidarity.”

Amanda rolled her eyes but smirked. “Rudy, you really don’t have to do that.”

Rudy crossed his arms. “But I want to.” He turned back to Rex. “I require assistance in adopting an appropriate goth look.”

Rex blinked, then grinned. “Oh, dude. You came to the right guy.”

Mark groaned. “No, he didn’t.”

Rex ignored him. “Alright, first thing’s first—you need a sick goth wardrobe.” He eyed Rudy’s usual attire. “That oversized shirt you’ve been wearing since day one? Out. We’re talkin’ black leather, silver accessories, maybe some mesh if you’re feelin’ bold.”

Rudy frowned. “Mesh seems impractical.”

Rex waved him off. “Details. Next, the hair. We gotta figure out if you’re gonna slick it back, let it fall all emo-like, or—”

Amanda chuckled. “This is gonna be interesting.”

Rex clapped his hands together. “Alright, Rudy. We’re gonna make you goth as hell.”

Mark sighed. “This is either gonna be amazing or a total disaster.”

Rex grinned. “Why not both?”

Chapter 28: The Birth of Blood Raspberries

Mark, Amber, and William sat in the dim glow of William’s garage, surrounded by their instruments, a nearly finished pizza, and an unreasonable number of crumpled-up name ideas scribbled on napkins.

For the last hour, they had gone back and forth over what to call their goth rock band. The only thing they had unanimously agreed on? It had to have “Raspberries” in it.

And now, finally, after what felt like an eternity of debating, arguing, and one near friendship-ending moment where Mark suggested "Raspberry Oblivion," Amber had blurted out two words that stopped everything in its tracks.

“Blood Raspberries.”

Chapter 29: The Moment of Truth

There was a long, silent pause as the words sank in.

Mark blinked. “…That actually kinda slaps.”

William nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s weirdly disturbing, but in a good way.”

Amber smirked. “Exactly. It makes people uncomfortable, but also intrigued.”

Mark rubbed his chin. “It’s like… why are the raspberries bloody? What happened to them? Did they kill someone?”

William grinned. “See, now we have lore.”

Amber held out her hands dramatically. “Blood Raspberries.”

Mark clapped his hands together. “Blood Raspberries.”

William nodded. “Blood Raspberries.”

And just like that, it was official.

Chapter 30: Planning the Aesthetic

William leaned forward, already deep in thought. “Okay, okay. Album cover idea—imagine a bowl of raspberries, but the juice is, like, dripping down like blood.”

Amber smirked. “And our band photos? High-contrast black and white, except the raspberries are the only thing in color.”

Mark grinned. “And for our first music video, we perform in a haunted Victorian mansion with flickering candlelight.”

William snapped his fingers. “And we all wear ruffled goth poet shirts.”

Amber frowned. “Okay, you can wear the ruffles.”

Mark shrugged. “I dunno, I could pull it off.”

William grinned. “Bet.”

Amber rolled her eyes, but the excitement in the room was undeniable.

Blood Raspberries was real. And they were going to make sure the world never forgot it.

There’s a weapon Danny rarely unsheathes.

It’s not because he can’t use it—no, far from it. In the few instances he has, it ended fights so quickly, so absolutely, that it left whispers in the Ghost Zone. But for Danny, this weapon is different. It’s not for common skirmishes or petty ghost turf wars. It’s a blade for moments that matter.

An ecto-infused katana—its steel forged in both spectral energy and old-world craftsmanship. The blade hums with a low, haunting echo when drawn. Its glow isn't blinding like his pistols or flashy like his energy blasts. It’s soft. Controlled. A sickly green that whispers of precision and finality.

The katana isn’t a weapon for combat—it’s a weapon for resolution.

Every time Danny wraps his fingers around the hilt, it’s a vow. A quiet one. That he’s not here to fight. He’s here to end things.

The few who’ve seen him wield it often say the same thing afterward: “He looked like a ghost himself. Not a boy. Not a man. Just…death in motion.”

In close quarters, the katana is a blur. Danny moves like Phantom used to—fluid, dancing, impossible to follow. There’s almost something sacred in how he uses it. Every strike is deliberate. Every cut meaningful. No wasted swings. No showboating.

He once used it during a mission in Kyoto, when a ghost warlord fused with a corrupted shrine spirit and went berserk. Guns weren’t enough. Fists weren’t enough. So Danny unsheathed the blade.

The fight lasted all of eight seconds.

Afterward, Danny cleaned the blade with the same care someone might show a memory. He sheathed it slowly. Respectfully. Then vanished into the night.

To this day, ghosts tell stories about the boy with the glowing sword. The one who fights with sorrow in his eyes.

And silence in his swing.

Tales of Danny Fenton’s katana spread like whispered rumors across realms—both living and dead.

No one truly knows its origin. Danny himself doesn’t talk about it. And that silence? It only adds to the weight behind every slash the blade delivers.

Some say the katana was once a relic from Princess Dorothea’s personal armory. A gift, given in quiet thanks after Danny helped free her kingdom from her tyrannical brother. They say the blade was dull and broken when she offered it—symbolic of her past—but Danny reforged it, melting it down and infusing it with ectoplasm and willpower. What emerged from the forge was something new. 

Something his.

Others claim a more divine origin. That Pandora, the Ancient warrior of the Ghost Zone, bestowed the blade upon him in solemn recognition. It wasn’t a gift—it was a rite. A warrior’s acknowledgment of another. They say it was forged from a piece of her own armor, the ones she uses to fight against the worst of the worst. That’s why it resonates when Danny draws it—it knows what it means to hold back evil.

But perhaps the most chilling story—the one even ghosts speak of in hushed tones—is the one tied to the Soul Shredder.

They say after the fall of the Fright Knight, Danny recovered pieces of the infamous sword. A weapon that once fed on fear and nightmares. A blade that burned with spectral wrath. But instead of destroying the remnants, Danny did the unthinkable—he purified them. Tempered them. Reforged them not into a weapon of terror, but of balance. He stripped away its hunger and filled the empty steel with purpose.

That’s why the katana hums so softly. Not because it’s docile.

But because it’s restrained.

Each origin is wilder than the last. And yet, in every tale, the ending is always the same:

When Danny Phantom draws that katana, something ends.

Whether it’s a threat, a reign, or a nightmare—it ends. Cleanly. Silently.

Some ghosts speak of seeing it once in their afterlives and choosing, wisely, never to see it again. Others obsess over it. Want it. Fear it. Worship it.

But no one dares question it.

Because that sword, whatever its true origin may be, isn’t just a weapon.

It’s a reminder.

That even when stripped of his other half, the Lost Hunter still cuts deep.

There was one time Danny came face-to-face with a rare breed of spirits—Wrath Ghosts. Vengeful, volatile beings born from the pure, unfiltered rage of the dead. They were fire given form. Every movement cracked the air with fury. They howled. They shattered buildings with roars. Their hatred bled into the atmosphere like poison, infecting the air, twisting it into something almost unbreathable.

They fed off anger. They wanted him to scream, to lash out, to lose himself. That’s what they thrived on—unrestrained fury, violent emotion, chaos.

But Danny didn’t give them that.

He was quiet.

He stood still as they lunged at him, eyes glowing not with fire—but with something colder. Sharper. His wrath didn’t explode; it simmered. It focused. He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse. He didn’t even blink.

Because Danny’s wrath wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It didn’t burn like the Wrath Ghosts.

It cut.

Controlled. Precise. Unforgiving.

Each ghost that came for him was struck down with calm, surgical force. Not an ounce of wasted movement. Not a drop of mercy. There was something terrifying about it, something that made even the Wrath Ghosts hesitate. Because Danny’s fury wasn’t about revenge or petty hatred.

It was grief sharpened into a blade.

It was love lost and never found again.

It was ten years of silence, ten years of staring into mirrors and seeing someone else’s face. Ten years of hearing Phantom’s laughter only in dreams. Ten years of being half a soul without its twin.

They called themselves Wrath incarnate.

But Danny showed them what real wrath looked like.

Not screaming. Not chaos.

Just a man with steady hands, a shattered heart, and the discipline to never let it show.

Until the moment he had to.

And then? Not a single Wrath Ghost was left standing.

Chapter 25: The Goth Trio’s Dark Symphony

Mark should’ve known he couldn’t keep his secret from William and Amber forever.

He had tried. Really, he had. But the moment he first showed up as Gothvincible, dressed head to toe in his gothic superhero attire, trench coat billowing dramatically in the wind, they knew.

Chapter 26: The Unmasking

It happened at band practice, of all places.

Mark had barely plugged in his guitar when William leaned against his keyboard and deadpanned, “So. You’re totally Gothvincible, right?”

Amber spun a drumstick between her fingers and smirked. “Yeah, dude. It’s so obvious.”

Mark nearly choked. “What—? No, I—”

William raised an eyebrow. “Mark. Come on.”

Amber nodded. “Be for real right now. Who else would be extra enough to become an epic goth hero?”

Mark hesitated. “…That’s fair.”

Amber grinned. “Knew it.”

Mark sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Alright, fine, yeah. It’s me.”

William smirked. “Kinda figured when we saw you on the news, looking like a vampire from an anime.”

Mark groaned. “Ugh. Is it that obvious?”

Amber shrugged. “Not to normies, but we know your whole deal.”

William grinned. “And honestly? It’s so metal.”

Chapter 27: Goth Band Practice

With Mark’s secret out, they moved on to more important matters—like band practice.

Every Wednesday, William’s garage transformed into their personal goth rock sanctuary. The walls were covered in band posters—The Cure, Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees—lit by dim purple LED lights and a strategically placed fog machine (because of course they had a fog machine).

Mark strapped on his guitar, adjusting the mic. “Alright, what are we playing first?”

Amber twirled a drumstick. “Children of the Night or Eternal Eclipse?”

William cracked his knuckles over the keyboard. “I vote Eternal Eclipse. That synth intro is sick.”

Mark nodded. “Alright, let’s run it.”

The moment they started playing, the whole world faded away.

Mark’s deep, velvety voice carried through the mic, the melancholic melody laced with just the right amount of brooding intensity. Amber’s drumming was sharp and precise, keeping the heartbeat of the song alive, while William’s eerie synthwork added the perfect atmospheric touch.

By the time they reached the chorus, they were completely in sync.

Amber smirked as she played. “Y’know, if this whole superhero thing doesn’t work out, we could totally go pro.”

Mark chuckled between lyrics. “Not gonna lie… I wouldn’t mind.”

William grinned. “Gothvincible & The Midnight Requiem. Has a nice ring to it.”

Mark snorted. “We are not naming the band after me.”

Amber smirked. “We’ll put it to a vote.”

Just because Danny’s signature weapons are his twin ghost-forged pistols doesn’t mean he’s limited to them.

No. Danny Fenton may have once been a teenage superhero, but that boy died alongside the illusion of safety and simplicity. What remains now is a man forged in the crucible of obsession, loss, and spectral warfare.

And he’s learned to adapt.

Over the years, Danny has made it a point to train with a wide array of firearms—not out of necessity, but out of strategy. Ghosts evolve. They get smarter, stronger, more unpredictable. Some even adapt to his pistols. So he made sure he could pick up anything and turn it into an extension of his will.

Revolvers give him that old-school kickback, something grounded and raw, like a cowboy ghost-hunter roaming the liminal frontier. He’s used them when he wanted to make a statement—one shot, one kill, a single thunderous echo in the night that reminded the ghost world he was still out there.

AK-47s are for crowd control. For when things spiral into chaos and he needs something durable, relentless, and mean. It’s not elegant, but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes, the job’s about survival.

Shotguns? That’s for up-close encounters. The kind of missions where you’re too deep in hostile territory, and every corner might hold something clawed and screaming. The ghost-infused rounds tear through ectoplasm like paper. It’s messy. But then again, so is grief.

And then there’s the AR-15.

His favorite.

Sleek, powerful, and meticulously modified with custom ecto-tech that only Danny himself knows how to maintain. The barrel is etched with protective runes. The magazine feeds with ghost-charged ammo—lethal to both spirit and flesh if need be. The sights are enhanced to detect shifts in spiritual energy. It purrs in his hands like a loyal beast. 

Reliable. Cold. Unforgiving.

He’s named it “Wraith.”

Most ghosts run when they see it. Others just die. Permanently.

People might call it overkill—But Danny doesn’t see it that way. He calls it being prepared. Because he learned the hard way that his powers aren’t infallible. That sometimes, you need more than just willpower and a ghost ray. 

Sometimes, you need firepower that can pierce through dimensions, through lies, through fear.

Wraith has saved him too many times to count.

And in those quiet, empty moments between missions—when he’s cleaning the weapon in silence, the metal glinting under dim motel light—he swears it hums with the same energy he once shared with Phantom. Familiar. Lonely. Tired.

But still fighting.

Just like him.

It was a simple question, one Jazz had asked casually over tea in her apartment.

"What do you imagine it’ll be like… when you finally find him?"

Danny hadn’t known how to answer. No snark, no sarcasm. Just silence and a tight grip around his mug. He’d brushed it off then, changing the subject with a joke and a shrug. But the question lingered.

It stayed with him even as he crossed cities.

It followed him to sleep.

———————————————

In his dream, the world felt softer. The air wasn’t heavy, his bones didn’t ache, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his heart didn’t weigh him down like an anchor.

He found Phantom in a twilight field lit by ghostlight fireflies. The grass shimmered with ectoplasmic glow, and Phantom stood at the center, swaying gently, like he'd been waiting.

No battle. No chaos. Just… him.

Phantom looked older—his age exactly. His hair longer, flame-like and tied back just like Danny’s. His eyes, impossibly green, scanned Danny with disbelief, exhaustion, and then something so painfully tender.

“Dude…” Phantom rasped, stumbling forward. Danny caught him before he fell. “What’s with your hair?”

Danny let out a wet laugh, tears already blurring his vision. “Who cares?”

They both laughed then—honest, unburdened laughter. Like how it used to be.

They twirled like kids at a forgotten dance, and in that movement, Phantom shimmered like mist, his form unraveling like moonlight into Danny’s chest. There was no pain. No struggle. Just warmth. A homecoming.

For the first time in ten years, Danny felt whole.

———————————————

He woke up smiling. Not crying. Not gasping or reaching out to empty sheets.

Just… smiling.

It didn’t erase the hurt. But it gave him something real.

A glimpse of what he was still fighting for.

Chapter 23: Drip of the Damned

Rex stood in front of the full-length mirror, admiring his newest goth ensemble.

Black mascara? Check.

Dark wine-colored dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to be tastefully rebellious? Check.

Black dress pants, fitted perfectly, because even goths needed to respect the silhouette? Check. Loafers, because he was going for refined goth, not just messy goth? Check.

A silver buckle belt, multiple spiked bracelets, and jet-black fingernails? Check, check, and check.

And the pièce de résistance? A black spiked choker.

Rex grinned at his reflection, tilting his head and allowing his copper red bangs to fall over one of his eyes. “Damn. I look good.”

Chapter 24: The Grand Reveal

He strutted into the Guardians’ HQ like he was walking a fashion runway. The click of his loafers on the polished floor made it all the more dramatic.

Mark, still in his full Gothvincible attire, complete with his red-trimmed trench coat, was lazily lounging on the couch with Eve. The moment Rex entered, both of them turned their heads.

Mark blinked. “Oh. My. God.”

Eve just stared. “Rex… what are you wearing?”

Rex smirked, running a hand through his perfectly messy hair. “The next evolution of goth. Call it Vampire Executive Chic.”

Mark squinted. “You look like a goth nightclub owner who overcharges for drinks.”

Eve nodded. “Yeah, or like you should be brooding in the VIP section, dramatically swirling a glass of wine.”

Rex crossed his arms. “That’s the point.”

Mark grinned. “Wait, wait, lemme get this straight—you’re telling me you put actual effort into this outfit?”

Rex scoffed. “Obviously. You think looking this good happens by accident?”

Mark chuckled. “Nah, man, I respect it. But also…” He gestured at the spiked choker. “That thing looks like it’s trying to strangle you.”

Rex adjusted it with a wince. “Okay, yeah, it’s a little tight, but fashion is pain.”

Eve sighed, rubbing her temples. “Alright, fashion icon, what’s the occasion?”

Rex shrugged. “No occasion. Just decided it was time to upgrade my aesthetic.”

Mark smirked. “You trying to impress someone? Maybe Shrinking Rae?”

Rex waved him off. “Nah, man. This is purely for me. Self-care is goth.”

Eve smirked. “I mean… you are kinda pulling it off.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, like, objectively, this is a solid look.”

Rex grinned, pointing finger guns at them. “Damn right it is.”