It had only been a matter of time before Denny Phantom pushed things too far... The renegade, the joker, the classic fool. He got too comfortable, too cheeky, and too sloppy. And this time, nobody would be there to catch him when he fell. Who would care for the demise of a mere irritant, a frustrating thorn in the side of every party at play?
And now, Denny had paid the price for this arrogance, it seemed.
The explosive cacophony of it all had been heard for miles around, and undoubtedly was the reason anyone bothered to investigate. But now, all that remained was a battlefield, and a ruined hideout. The ramshackle treehouse he’d once maintained as a hideout was in ruins, burnt and broken. The remains of a few supply crates were smoldering nearby, the contents ruined. And there... There was the cause of it all, the Perfect Clone himself.
He lay in the grass, silent and still. This time, however, was different from the usual lazy dozing... Denny was in human form, and it revealed a grisly reality most could have overlooked before. As a ghost, one might have just thought he looked skeletal and deathly due to being, well, dead, but now... Now the truth was written all over him, tracing his sharp cheekbones and worn, calloused fingers. Much as he’d laughed and chuckled and taunted, this life had been harsh to him. This was not the appearance of someone who had been living comfortably.
Why hadn’t he come to them, all that time? Pride? Disdain? Fear?
For a moment, one might have thought it to already be too late. But, his chest rose and fell with ragged, weak gasps, drawing air into a broken body wracked with pain. Judging just from a cursory glance, many of his bones were fractured, or even worse... Yet they failed to mend, for there was no energy with which to do so.
If he didn’t get help soon, this Halfa may wind up more than just half dead.