Chapter 5: Avengers… Disassembled (for Now)
In which I question Naruto's logic, compare my best friends to comic book characters, and try not to fall asleep in class.
You ever try having a full-blown psychic argument with an ancient ninja spirit while pretending to pay attention in biology class?
10/10, do not recommend.
Mrs. Randall was droning on about photosynthesis, which—ironically—was actually relevant for once, but my brain was way too full of superhero metaphors, impending doom, and Naruto being cryptic again.
"What are you planning to do with Sam and Tucker?" I asked in my head while doodling a stick-figure ghost on the edge of my notes. "I thought I was supposed to be the hero. Why are you trying to recruit my friends too?"
Naruto's voice piped up in that casual, annoyingly calm tone of his.
"Because the world's on the edge of disaster, genius. You're gonna need help—lots of it. Think Justice League. Or the Avengers. Or, you know, any competent team of heroes ever."
Great, I thought. So now I'm Nick Fury? Awesome. Can I at least get the cool coat?
I stole a glance at Tucker across the room. He was pretending to listen but was clearly working on something on his PDA under the desk. Probably a video game mod. Or hacking the school vending machines again. Honestly, fair.
"Tucker's a great hacker," I said, "but I fail to see how that helps against, I don't know, ghostly space kaiju or world-ending evil. Unless we're planning to DDOS the apocalypse."
"You're forgetting something important," Naruto said. "My world? Yeah, it advanced into sci-fi levels you can't even imagine. I can teach Tucker how to build real tech. Think Iron Man with a side of Tokyo drift."
I blinked.
Wait… Ironman Tucker?
I looked at him again. Still slouching. Still smirking. Still wearing that hat that made him look like a tech-savvy chimney sweep. But now I imagined him flying around in a souped-up power suit firing off wrist lasers and screaming "NERD RAGE!" and suddenly I didn't hate the idea.
Okay, fair.
"What about Sam?" I asked. "I mean, she's rich, sure, but she's not exactly Batgirl. Unless she's been taking night classes in ninja combat when I wasn't looking."
Naruto chuckled.
"You completely missed it, didn't you? Sam has deep knowledge of plants, chemistry, ecosystems... not just goth rants and soy burgers. That stuff? Extremely useful. Poisons, antidotes, biological warfare—you name it."
"Wait, so she is Poison Ivy now?"
"With a conscience, yes."
Okay, I'll admit, I was starting to get a clearer picture now. Sam in a lab coat mixing herbal explosives, Tucker flying around with jet boots, and me—the half-ghost team leader still trying to pass Algebra. Sure, we were still a couple steps below "Earth's Mightiest Heroes," but it was a start.
Then Naruto dropped the big one.
"Eventually, I'll give you all a kind of energy—chakra, or something similar. As your core traits develop, so will your powers. You'll grow into them. Your strength will reflect your spirit."
I froze mid-scribble.
Oh no. That sounded like character development. And training arcs. And—ugh—responsibility.
I slumped back in my seat, groaning inwardly.
"So let me get this straight: you're turning my life into an anime, giving my best friend a mech suit, my crush botanical bombs, and me a destiny?"
"You're welcome."
I sighed.
Mrs. Randall was still talking about chlorophyll, but I was already thinking about assembling Team Phantom—and wondering if Sam was going to be mad when I told her Naruto wanted to give her actual ninja plant powers.
Also, what kind of energy drink do I need to survive all this?
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Here's a fun high school fact they don't put on the brochure: getting slammed into lockers by a guy built like a vending machine with anger issues is, shockingly, not as fun as it sounds.
I was just walking down the hall, minding my own business, probably daydreaming about lunch or planetary doom—y'know, regular teen stuff—when I heard it.
"Hey, Fen-turd!"
Yep. There he was. Dash Baxter. King of Dumbbell Mountain. Captain of the Meathead Patrol. A human tank with a punch that could probably register on the Richter scale. And next to him were his three favorite hobbies: intimidation, mockery, and protein shakes.
And right now, I was the unlucky target of all three.
"Heard you messed with Paulina. Did you eat crap or something? Who gave you the courage to spout that nonsense, huh?"
So, fun story: I may have accidentally grown a spine recently. And that spine may have included telling Paulina she wasn't as amazing as she thought she was. (To be fair, she really needed to hear it.) Unfortunately, Dash took that as a personal insult. Because, of course, the only thing more fragile than Dash's ego is his understanding of boundaries.
I froze mid-step. My instincts screamed "RUN," but Dash was faster, stronger, and fueled by rage and muscle milk.
'Show no fear,' came Naruto's voice, calm and cool in my brain like some kind of ghost therapist.
Right. Easy for him to say. He probably roundhouse-kicked his bullies into volcanoes.
Still, I did my best impression of someone with guts and forced a smile.
"Hello, Dash. Surprised to see you here."
Cue the hyena laughter from his backup dancers.
"He's gone loco!"
"Fenton can't afford crazy!"
"Does delusion come with a coupon?"
Look, if insults were a sport, these guys would have a varsity letter in it. But before I could even roll my eyes, Dash grabbed my shirt and slammed me into the lockers like bam!—full WWE special.
Pain shot through my back like someone had replaced my spine with a wet noodle. My feet left the ground. His fist drew back.
And for the first time in forever, I didn't flinch.
'No fear. Fight back. He's just human. You won't die until I allow it.'
Okay, creepy Naruto-voice, but also, kind of inspiring?
So I did something incredibly dumb.
I punched Dash in the face.
Yep. Me. Danny Fenton. 5'6" on a good day. Punched Dash "I bench press actual cars" Baxter.
It was not a knockout. It was barely even a knock-wobble. But Dash stopped. His eyes widened. The entire hallway went silent like someone had hit the mute button on reality.
Then Dash hit me back.
His punch landed square on my jaw, and I'm not gonna sugarcoat it—I saw stars. Whole constellations. Maybe a few alternate realities.
I stumbled but didn't fall. Probably because the lockers were the only thing holding me up.
The crowd murmured.
"Did Fenton just fight back?"
"Is he crazy?"
"This is better than gym class!"
Dash must've realized he was drawing too much attention, because he let me go with a scowl.
"You're not worth it, Fenton. Stay out of my way, or next time, you won't be so lucky."
Translation: "I am confused and mildly embarrassed and will now exit before someone uploads this to social media."
As he stalked off, I sagged against the lockers, feeling like I'd been steamrolled. My jaw throbbed. My ribs ached. My pride was somewhere between "wow" and "what did I just do."
But you know what?
I didn't cry. I didn't run. I fought back.
Sure, I had a black eye. But I also had something else.
Sam. She was mine now. Somehow, against all logic and reason, I had a girlfriend.
So yeah, the pain was bearable. Especially if it meant that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't Danny Fenton, the loser anymore.
Maybe I was starting to become something else.
A hero.
(With a mean right hook, apparently.)
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Let me just start by saying: if you ever find yourself thinking, "You know what might be a good idea? Punching the biggest jock in school right in his smug face," don't. Just… don't.
Unless you've got a death wish. Or a mysterious ninja voice in your head that talks like a motivational drill sergeant with emotional issues.
So, yeah. That happened.
I was hobbling down the sidewalk like a zombie after leg day, with Sam beside me playing the role of a concerned nurse-slash-girlfriend-slash-person-trying-very-hard-not-to-call-me-an-idiot. One of my eyes was swollen shut, my back felt like it had lost a fight with a dump truck, and I was pretty sure at least one of my ribs was considering early retirement.
Sam, of course, looked completely fine. She was the kind of goth that made combat boots and sarcasm seem graceful, even while helping a human punching bag like me limp down the street.
"Does it hurt?" she asked gently, looping her arm around my shoulder to keep me from tipping over like a sad domino.
I glanced at her. Or, well, tried to. My left eye was protesting by staging a sit-in.
"Of course it does," I muttered. "Just look at my eye. I look like someone Photoshopped a raisin onto my face."
She winced in sympathy. I winced in pain. Bonding!
What I didn't say was that the worst part wasn't the bruises. It was him. The guy in my head.
You see, ever since Naruto—yes, that Naruto, long story—decided to hitch a ride in my brain like some kind of ghost life coach, my internal monologue had gotten a serious upgrade in the sass department.
'Why couldn't you have chosen someone better?' I grumbled mentally. 'Mike Tyson? My dad? Literally anyone who doesn't get nosebleeds from gym class?'
'You'll understand when the time comes.'
He always talked like that. All cryptic and calm, like I was supposed to be training for some secret destiny instead of struggling to survive high school. It was extremely annoying.
I sighed—like, audibly. Sam shot me a glance.
"Still hearing voices?"
"Nope. Just trying to breathe without my spleen filing a complaint."
We walked in silence for a few minutes, the wind cold against my face and my brain buzzing with what-ifs. What if I'd done something differently? What if I hadn't punched Dash? What if I was just… normal?
'Just make it harder for them to bully you,' the voice said again, sharper this time. 'You've made yourself an easy target for years. Learn from your sister. No excuses.'
Ah, yes. Jazz. My older sister. Smart, focused, confident. Basically everything I wasn't, in one convenient genius-shaped package. She was the poster child for "Parents' Favorite," even if they were too distracted by ghost traps and ectoplasm to actually say it.
She got a scholarship to some Ivy League tech fortress. Built her own robot in eighth grade. Could probably cure hiccups with a screwdriver and a meaningful glare.
And then there was me.
'I'm the odd one out,' I thought miserably. 'The family failure. The ghost of potential that never materialized. At least now I match the family aesthetic: everyone else is amazing, and I'm just here for comic relief.'
"Danny," Sam said softly, as if she'd heard every insecure thought leaking out of my ears. "You know you were brave today, right?"
I blinked. Well, half blinked. One eye was still striking.
"Brave? I got beat up."
"You stood your ground. That's more than most people ever do. You didn't let Dash win. Not really."
She smiled a little, and I felt my stomach do a weird flip. Not from the bruises this time—though those were still there—but something else. Something warmer. Something that felt kind of… okay?
And just like that, I remembered something very important: I had a girlfriend.
Not just any girlfriend. Sam. The toughest, smartest, most no-nonsense goth girl in school who could probably win a knife fight using only her eyeliner pencil. And for some unknown cosmic reason, she'd chosen me.
Which, honestly, made me feel a little less like the family failure.
Maybe I wasn't the hero yet.
But I was on the road to becoming something.
Even if that road included limping home with one eye, a bruised ego, and a snarky ninja voice who sounded like he was one motivational speech away from making me do push-ups in traffic.
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So there we were: me, bruised and broken like a secondhand action figure, and Sam, giving me that look. You know the one. The "I care about you but I'm also dangerously close to reading your emotional state like a BuzzFeed quiz" look.
The silence between us was like one of those awkward middle school dances where nobody knows what to do with their hands. I wanted to say something, anything, but my brain was still rebooting after the day's trauma—and, okay, maybe also because I couldn't stop thinking about the rooftop.
Earlier that afternoon, I'd seen a side of Sam I didn't even know existed. She'd been gentle, thoughtful… still Sam, but different. Like she'd peeled back one of those emotional onion layers and let me see the part that didn't always wear combat boots and argue with teachers about ethical food production.
And I swear, somewhere in my brain, an alarm went off.
'She's cute,' I admitted mentally, immediately wanting to curl up in a locker and die.
Me! Danny Fenton! Thinking about Sam like that. What was happening to me? Was this part of puberty? Because I was not emotionally equipped for this level of realization, thank you very much.
She wasn't even my type. I mean, I used to think I liked girls who were... I don't know, delicate? Like one strong breeze would carry them away. Sam? Sam would beat the breeze into submission and then give it a pamphlet on the dangers of air pollution.
So imagine my emotional disaster when Sam stopped walking, tugged gently on my arm, and said:
"Hold on. Let me make it more comfortable."
My body froze. My heart tapped out Morse code.
Panic. Panic. This is not a drill.
"Wait, what—?"
Too late.
Sam leaned in.
Leaned in.
Her fingers cupped my face like I was something fragile, like one wrong move would shatter me. Then she blew softly on my swollen eye—cool air mixed with a hint of mint and that lavender-y shampoo she swears isn't "girly," even though it 100% is.
And just like that, the universe collapsed.
Her face was right there. Her lips—purple, perfect, and entirely too close—filled my vision. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My thoughts turned to jelly. Sam, for her part, looked utterly unfazed, like this was just something friends did all the time.
"There," she said, pulling back and smiling. "That should help a little."
"Thanks," I croaked, probably sounding like someone who'd just licked sandpaper. "I feel better now. Let's get home quickly."
And then I did what any brave, noble guy in my situation would do: I ran away. Okay, hobbled briskly, but still.
My heart was doing gymnastics. My face was on fire. And the voice in my head chose that moment to not laugh at me, which somehow made it worse.
'A smart move,' it said thoughtfully. 'Not every problem needs to be faced head-on, especially when the timing isn't right. Choose your battles wisely.'
Gee, thanks, Sensei Cryptic. Super helpful.
Sam trailed behind, silent now, but I could feel her eyes on me. I wanted to turn around, to tell her what I was feeling, to ask her if she meant anything by that moment. But I couldn't.
Not yet.
Maybe I was still too afraid. Or maybe I just wasn't ready to risk messing up whatever this was between us.
Behind me, Sam frowned, her arms crossed over her chest as she walked. She could tell something had changed. I wasn't acting like myself. And while the logical part of her brain chalked it up to the fight, another voice whispered doubt in her ear.
'Is something wrong?' she wondered, glancing at me.
Neither of us said anything else.
We just kept walking, two people trying to figure out what had just happened—and what it meant for the friendship that was starting to feel like something more.