Chapter 8: Meatloaf, Ghost Gunk, and the Pressure of Being a Fenton
—In which I learn my parents are actual ghost-slaying heroes, dinner is awkward, and Naruto gets deep.
You know that moment in a movie where the heroes sit around a campfire, eating canned beans, making s'mores, and laughing before the final boss battle?
Yeah, that was us. Except our "campfire" was a half-eaten bag of veggie chips, Tucker's glowing tech tablet balanced on a shoebox playing low-fi beats, and Sam low-key judging us both every time we dipped into her organic hummus without asking.
Still, it felt like a campfire moment. The kind where you kind of forget that in less than twelve hours, you'll be trying to do things your body was absolutely not designed for—like pull-ups. Which, by the way, are an abomination against gravity.
We talked for about an hour. Not about ghosts or missions or Naruto's weird flex about toddler bootcamps—seriously, that guy has a messed-up definition of childhood—but about normal stuff. Like what we'd eat if we survived training (spoiler: Tucker voted for chili dogs, Sam threatened to riot), or which Avenger we'd each be (I got Spider-Man, obviously), or what we'd do if one of us actually did gain super strength from this madness.
Tucker said he'd use it to carry all his tech gear without back pain. Sam said she'd smash the patriarchy. I said I'd finally move the couch by myself during vacuuming so my mom would stop calling me weak sauce.
Laughter echoed around the room—real, belly-aching stuff. For a moment, it didn't feel like we were gearing up for a two-month death march toward fitness. It just felt like us. Friends. A little older. A little weirder. A lot more determined.
Eventually, the snacks ran low, the yawns came in, and the playlist looped back to the first song. We all stood, stretched (which, turns out, is just groaning with extra arm movement), and exchanged those sleepy, "see you in the morning unless I die in my sleep" kind of goodbyes.
That's when Sam leaned in and kissed me.
Just like that. No warning. No dramatic slow-mo. Just a quick press of lips to lips—firm, familiar, and definitely better than any hummus.
My brain short-circuited. Not because it was the first kiss. We'd kissed before. But because she did it so casually—like we were already a thing, like it was normal. Like we were normal.
"Goodnight, Spiderman," she whispered.
I managed a nod and a strangled "Yeah. Totally. Goodnight, Super… uh… Girl." Nailed it.
She smirked. Tucker gagged dramatically behind her. "Ugh, hormones. I'm going to bed before this becomes a rom-com."
I floated—literally floated—back to my room, my feet not touching the floor. Okay, not because I was in love or whatever (I mean, I was, but that's not the point), but because sometimes flying is easier than walking when your legs are jelly from pre-workout squats.
Back in my room, I collapsed face-first onto my bed, still fully clothed. My arms felt like cooked spaghetti, and my core was already filing a formal complaint with the United Nations.
We hadn't even started the real training yet. This had just been the intro session. A warm-up. And my body was already acting like I owed it an apology.
I closed my eyes, groaning.
"I'm gonna die," I whispered.
In the corner of my mind, Naruto laughed. No, you're just finally living.
Easy for him to say. His toddlers probably wrestle wild boars before snack time.
But despite the aching muscles, the mild heart attack from The Kiss, and the creeping fear that I was about to become some kind of ghost-powered fitness junkie, one thing was clear:
We were in this together. We had a goal. A mission.
And with friends like Sam and Tucker by my side, maybe—maybe—I could survive ten miles of running without projectile vomiting on someone's lawn.
Maybe.
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There are three things you can usually count on in the Fenton household:
The food is either amazing or slightly radioactive.
Something in the fridge might try to eat you.
My parents are loud enough to shatter glass… probably on purpose.
So when I heard them hollering, "DANNY! DINNER TIME!" from three floors below, I knew two things immediately. One, Mom had probably made meatloaf again. Two, if I didn't respond soon, Dad was going to send the Fenton Grappling Spoon™ to yank me out of my room.
Unfortunately for them, I was mid-nap—curled up under my covers, drooling a little, dreaming about not dying during tomorrow's workout. But their voices could pierce through walls, dreams, and even the afterlife.
Grumbling, I rolled off the bed and floated—okay, dragged—myself to the bathroom. Washed my face. Blinked.
That's when I saw it. Not in the mirror, but when I glanced downstairs as I headed toward the kitchen.
There was this… shimmer around them. Barely visible. Kind of like heat waves off a grill or the after-image you get when you stare at a light too long. It wasn't ghost energy. Not exactly. But it definitely wasn't normal.
I stared. That's when Naruto spoke up in my head.
"That's spiritual residue. You've got the chakra now—you can sense it. They've been near real spirits. Fought them."
Oh. Okay. Cool.
So apparently, my parents weren't exaggerating.
They actually fought ghosts. And not just in the "Oops-I-tripped-over-my-own-gadget-again" way.
Which meant… they were heroes. Real ones. Not the punch-a-villain-in-the-face kind. But the fight-creatures-from-another-dimension-and-still-make-it-home-for-dinner kind.
And I was their son.
No pressure.
I sat down to eat and immediately regretted it. Not because of the meatloaf—though it did have a suspicious green glow on one corner. No, it was the silence. The kind that builds up in your chest when you suddenly realize you owe someone an apology. And maybe your whole personality.
Naruto, of course, picked that moment to drop some ancient ninja dad wisdom:
"Even if a parent doesn't say it, disrespect from their child cuts deep. You should say something. Be honest."
Ugh. Fine.
I waited until Dad stopped inhaling meatloaf like a vacuum and Mom finally looked up from her data pad.
"Hey… Mom? Dad?"
They paused. Not dramatically, just like—Whoa, our son voluntarily initiated conversation.
"I, uh… I wanted to say sorry. For the way I've been acting. I thought you were just… weird. And over the top. But now I know you guys are the real deal. You're out there fighting things people don't even believe exist. And I never really… appreciated that."
Mom blinked. Dad paused mid-bite. (Yes, he actually paused mid-bite. That's how serious it was.)
"Danny," Mom said gently. "We've always known this stuff was real. It's just nice to know… you finally believe in us, too."
Dad grinned, leaned across the table, and patted my shoulder with his glove still on. "We're proud of you, son. Even if you don't have a ghost blaster yet."
"YET?" I said, just as Naruto snorted in my head.
The rest of dinner was actually… nice. Calm. Like we were a team instead of three people screaming about ectoplasm in different directions.
And okay, the meatloaf might've burned a tiny hole through my napkin. But hey—after everything I'd just learned? Radioactive meatloaf didn't even crack the top ten weird things in my life.
So yeah. I guess I'm the son of real-life ghost hunters.
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You know what's harder than lifting 50 kilograms after doing 100 push-ups?
Talking to your parents. Voluntarily. Without being bribed by food.
But Naruto had this very strong opinion that went something like:
"You can't punch your way through life, kid. You need to talk, connect, understand people. That's strength too."
Says the guy who once solved an international ninja war with a rasengan the size of a building.
Still, he had a point. If I was going to be a superhuman—or whatever I was slowly turning into—I couldn't just grunt my way through emotional conversations like a socially awkward troll.
So that's how I ended up sitting in the living room with my parents… on purpose.
They were both on the couch, still in their jumpsuits, goggles pushed up on their heads, and full-on "we're ready for science" mode, which for them is basically their casual Friday look.
I cleared my throat. "So… uh, can I ask you something about your job?"
They blinked at me like I had just declared I wanted to join the family business. Which, I didn't. Yet.
Mom sat forward. "Of course, sweetie! What do you want to know?"
Dad leaned in. "Is this about the thermonuclear ghost blender I left on the porch? Because I can explain—"
"No! No. Not about that. Just… like… how did all of this start? The ghost stuff?"
Mom's face lit up like she'd been waiting years for someone to ask.
"Well, it all started back in college. We were young, brilliant, wildly attractive—"
"—modest," I added.
"—and we were working on a project about interdimensional particle behavior," she continued, completely ignoring me. "One day, the readings went nuts, and suddenly we were picking up strange energy spikes."
Dad jumped in. "Spikes that didn't match any known physical model! Naturally, we assumed we'd discovered something groundbreaking."
"Which we had," Mom added proudly. "But not in the way we expected. We were messing with dimensional rifts—and we accidentally opened a small portal."
I raised my eyebrows. "Wait, you accidentally opened a portal in college?"
"Midterms were a stressful time," she said.
Dad chuckled. "It was tiny! Barely bigger than a microwave. But something came through. Or maybe just peered through. And then weird things started happening. Shadows moving on their own. Lights flickering. People forgetting entire days."
"Let me guess," I said, "you decided to investigate."
Mom nodded. "Exactly. We built the first prototype of the ghost goggles to see what was going on. And when we put them on—well, we saw them. Ghosts. Spirits. Entities just… drifting around."
"Some were harmless," Dad said. "But others… weren't."
"They were hurting people. Or feeding off them. So we did what any rational scientists would do—we built ghost-fighting gadgets and filed a full report to the Department of Paranormal Research and Containment."
I blinked. "That's… an actual department?"
Mom smiled. "Oh yes. Very hush-hush. They thought we were brilliant. We got official backing, funding, and even helped train hunters who worked for the government. We've been partners ever since."
"So… wait," I said, trying to process, "you're government researchers?"
"Researchers, yes," Mom confirmed. "Not full-time hunters. We usually stay in town, do analysis, develop tech. But sometimes… well, threats escalate."
"Like when you disappeared for a month last year?"
Dad's face darkened a little. "Yeah. That wasn't a vacation. That was… personal."
Mom nodded solemnly. "There was a haunted house. Not your average 'weird noises and floating dishes' kind. This one ate people. Lured them in, digested them, left no trace. We'd lost someone close—an old colleague."
"And we had a score to settle," Dad finished. "Took us weeks to get inside, figure out the pattern, and neutralize the core entity. But we did. And we made sure no one else would ever get taken."
I was silent for a second. The words "my parents are heroes" echoed in my head again. And not in the "they-make-a-great-lunchbox" kind of way. But like, actual "fought an evil house and won" kind of way.
"Told you," Naruto murmured in my head. "Now you understand what kind of legacy you're stepping into."
"Wow," I said quietly. "I never… I mean, I thought you were just… eccentric. I didn't realize…"
Mom smiled gently. "We know, Danny. And we don't expect you to follow in our footsteps. But it means a lot to us that you care."
I nodded slowly. "I do. And I'm sorry I've been so… I don't know. Rude. Disconnected."
Dad grinned. "Son, you're a teenager. That's practically your job description."
I laughed. Then Mom pulled me into a hug that smelled like ozone and coffee and maybe a hint of ghost goo.
"Thanks for talking to us, Danny," she said softly.
Naruto whispered one last thing before I headed to bed.
"Well done. You're learning how to be strong… where it counts."
And for once, I felt like I actually was.
Even if I still couldn't do more than ten push-ups without sounding like a dying seal.