The New Kid
Ectoberhaunt 2023 Day 3: White Crow
Summary: Danny continues to mind his own business whist freaking out everyone around him with his mere existence.
A short "Cryptid Danny" fic, with a twist.
Words: 509
CW: mild horror, mild body horror
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"White Crow": a member of a group who is different from the rest. Elaya vorona (бе́лая воро́на) in Russian, kalāg-e sefīd (کلاغ سفید) in Persian. Similar to English's "Black Sheep".
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The New Kid was exceptionally unnerving.
Friendly enough, if one got the chance to talk to him - which was kinda rare. He was territorial and kept to himself which, fair enough. But he never really seemed interested in getting to know anyone.
But despite being, on the surface, a pretty normal New Kid, there was something very wrong with him.
No-one could put their fingers on it at first. And no-one liked to talk about it. Because how could you talk about…that?
His eyes, for one. A nice, normal, luminous green for the most part. But when he was tired, or distracted, they would… they’d dull. Lose all traces of light, and just go empty. They’d flicker back on as soon as you’d caught it, and one might chalk it up to a trick of the light. He’d smile a normal smile, and you’d forget you’d seen anything. Or maybe, try to forget.
His teeth, too. A perfectly average maw of razor-sharp fangs. But he covered his mouth with his hand when he smiled or laughed. If one looked beyond that, they might see - or rather, sense - a jaw of blunt, flat, incisors and molars. Prey’s teeth. Mortal teeth.
But prey shouldn’t fill you with such discomfort. Should it?
He was probably just developing his shapeshifting skills early. That was probably it.
Youngblood swore he’d seen him drift through a wall, once. In the Ghost Zone.
Youngblood was hardly a reputable news source.
All the same.
Then, then, there was his voice. How sometimes (always when he was tired or injured or distracted) he’d talk and his voice would just… dampen. Vanish into nothingness. No echo, or reverberation through the ectoplasm around him. Nothing to carry his words through to other ghosts. And, once, again, everything would reset, and he’d be a normal ghost.
There was a theme - moments of flatness, dullness, of disconnect. Moments of mortality.
The worst one was when he would breathe. He wouldn’t even hide it. After a territorial spar (which he took way too seriously) he’d float there, victorious, and his chest would expand and retract like some wet, dying thing. Bodies weren’t meant to move like that. Not after death.
And it wouldn’t be so bad if he was weak.
Freaks came and went. There was enough variety amongst ghostkind that any one, or even multiple of these things, could be brushed off.
But the New Kid was strong. Stronger than any of them. He’d been around for no time at all and defeated every one of them in combat, even the strongest of them. His abilities were coming in fast, too fast, and he had too many. No ghost should have a portfolio that large, and know how to use their new powers so well.
He got better with every fight.
They were training him, without realizing. Feeding him.
But there’s the rub. To back off, to withhold from indulging in one’s Earthly Obsession, to bow to his obscenely large territory? The thought alone was obscene.
And what would be the repercussions?
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