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Clockwork could do little but watch as the council completed their summons.
He was required to be here, of course. It wouldn’t be an example without his presence. But when the carefully-drawn pentagram in the middle of the dais illuminated with thin strobes of spectral light that seemed to shine out of the ground itself, he could barely resist the sorrowful chime that his core ached to create. The suppression ground his gears ever so slightly, and he pressed his lips tightly together, willing his machinery to fall back into rhythm.
Daniel materalised in the middle of the light, bound in the circle by the successful summons. “Really?” he drawled, in a tone far too facetious for the situation as he rubbed his eyes. “You couldn’t have just sent me a text? I wouldn’t have ghosted you.”
Not that he would have known the proper way to act when summoned to the Ghost Zone’s court, but it was still disappointing, and would not help garner him any pity.
The assembled ghosts made a smattering of quiet sounds, most with disapproving tones.
Daniel looked around at them. His prison was ringed by figures swathed in dark robes, their faces and any other identifying features obscured. Behind each of the figures hovered an Observant.
It was an intimidating sight, and from his forced place as the lone audience member at the edge of the space, Clockwork wasn’t surprised that Daniel didn’t notice him right away. Not when Daniel’s sentencing was to be carried out here, on one of the most remote fragments of the ancient judgement-sites from when the Ghost Zone was still new.
There were no walls here, only scattered, decaying pillars that stood in relief against the backdrop of the green and blue swirls of the spectral world.
Clockwork leaned slightly forwards anyway, unable to do much else. The light from his own, smaller binding circle veiled his view slightly as well, and he knew Daniel would be experiencing a similar effect. He’d been summoned in the middle of the night, anyway. The contrast from his dark bedroom to the brightness of the circle had likely dazzled him somewhat.
So, Clockwork could do little but watch. He could have called out, and perhaps drawn Daniel’s attention to the severity of the situation. To the danger he was in, and the hopelessness of the sentencing. But that would have done nothing but add to the child’s panic, and prolong his misery. There was no escape from either circle until freed, and so it was futile to call out now.
So he stayed silent, and watched as Daniel’s bravado faded, the smile slipping from his face as he realised how thoroughly surrounded he was.
Clockwork could have closed his eyes. He could have removed his mind from this, revisiting thoughts or memories from ages past. But no. This was as much his doing as the boy’s – he would watch, and witness, so that Daniel would not endure alone.
The dark-robed judges spoke as one. “Daniel James Fenton Phantom. You are hereby decreed to be a risk to the stability of the timeline and all who dwell therein, and are to be obliterated.”
Daniel’s eyes went wide. “H-hang on,” he stammered, turning in place to beseech each figure in turn. “I… I’m no longer a threat. Clockwork said-”
“Clockwork failed in his mission to destroy you,” they responded collectively. “That resulted in a resurgence of the threat. The mistake shall not occur again. The timeline cannot afford recidivism.”
Daniel shook his head, holding out his hands. “Wait-”
His pentagram was engulfed in flames. Daniel didn’t even have the chance to scream before he was consumed entirely.
Clockwork cried out as the fire sprang into being, surging forward and pressing against his own prison even though contact with the light made his essence bubble and burn.
The assembled ghosts didn’t spare him so much as a glance. They watched the fire steadfastly, ensuring the completion of the sentencing in its entirety.
The flames were so strong that it took only moments. They dissipated as quickly as they had come, and the figures melted into the aether as the lights from the pentagrams went out.
Clockwork pitched forwards, heedless of his burning skin as he flew to the dais. The ground shone cherry-red, the lines of the binding circle now black and etched into the stone. In the very center there was a small pile of ash, with splintered fragments of blackened bones.
Clockwork lay on the ground and wept, his clock chiming with sobs and his tears stinging his burned face. He cried for the first time in a long time, and now that the tears had come, they felt as though they lasted for an age. By the time he stopped, the ground no longer radiated heat, the stone dark with the scorch marks of the burning.
He curled over the mound of what had been Daniel, ripping a corner off his cloak and carefully scooping the mixture of ash and bone into the scrap of fabric. The ruling, though objectively fair, stung so deeply that he simply could not allow the final vestiges of the child he cared about to scatter into nothing.
So, he returned to his tower. Slowly, painstakingly, so as to not lose a single mote of Daniel’s remains. When he arrived, he sequestered himself within, barring the doors and shutting down the time screens for now.
It would not do to dwell on distraction. Not when Daniel’s final sparks fluttered so faintly in the cloth clasped in his hands.
Of course, Clockwork had known of the possibility of such a turn of events. He had prepared, as he was wont to do. It was moreso a choice of which receptacle to use, rather than the decision to make a new body.
It could not be living. Not when the sentence had so thoroughly burned away Daniel’s life. To do so would be a direct violation of the judgment, and Clockwork did not wish to entertain the risk of the futures where Daniel’s new form was obliterated again, this time so perfectly that there was nothing left to re-create.
So he perused his options, walking through a gallery of children made of glass, wood, stone, and all manner of clever contraptions. All empty vessels, prepared carefully in case Daniel ever needed them.
He would have liked to give the child a choice, of course, but there was no consciousness to ask right now. So Clockwork had parsed the future as he’d made each construct, watching Daniel’s reactions and trying to gauge which one his child liked the most.
Eventually, he settled on what really was the obvious choice.
The body was incomplete, and Clockwork laid it carefully onto the workshop bench. “Daniel,” he whispered, breathing essence over the form as he slotted the shards of bone into their waiting spaces. They dotted the mechanisms of the automaton boy like inlaid gems, and he polished them until their unevenly-scorched surfaces gleamed in flashes of white and black.
“Phantom,” he breathed, pouring the ash into the slim container in the center of the child. It closed with a click, seamless and locked, and Clockwork pressed his hands to the cylinder and engulfed it in energy. The sudden influx of power into the specially-built chamber infused the ash with ectoplasm, and the dying fragments of Daniel’s soul ignited. The powder of his previous form dissolved into the ectoplasm, and a new core burst forth, pouring sentience and identity into the child once more.
Daniel opened his clockwork eyes with the faint whir of machinery, blinking in a disoriented manner. He sat up slowly, frowning and looking down at his hands.
He flexed his fingers, clearly uncertain, before looking up. “Clockwork?” he whispered, voice clearer than it had ever been when in the flesh, but now bearing the fragile crispness of his new form. “Did you… fix me?”
“As much as I could.” Clockwork held out a hand. “I am sorry that I could not stop the sentencing.”
Daniel made a strangled sound, and flung himself into Clockwork’s arms. “You saved me,” he warbled. “You remade me.”
Clockwork stroked his smooth hair, comprised entirely of metallic nanowires. It was so fine as to still be soft to the touch, and white and shining as it should be. “I will always save you, my Little Star. Always.”
Danny nodded, but clutched Clockwork harder anyway. Clockwork hugged him back, unbothered by the prolonged embrace.
They had all the time in eternity, now. And there was no way he was ever letting Daniel experience harm like that again. He’d make sure of it.