Quote:
You have a near miss that almost kills you (maybe you almost got hit by a car, the plane you were supposed to go on ended up crashing, you narrowly dodged a falling piano, etc) and you're thanking your lucky stars that you're alive...until you realize that no matter who you talk to, no one responds to you. Strangers don't hear you on the street, friends don't return texts or calls and no one answers the door when you knock. It's almost like you're a ghost….for the next twenty-four hours, you appear invisible to every other person on the planet but then suddenly, out of the blue, it's like nothing has changed and none of your friends know what you're talking about when you explain the odd phenomenon. Was it all a dream?
WC: 2018
WC: 2018
Ghost
Pythia Adler (Imbrium)
Pythia's Friday started much like any other. Promptly at midnight she had gone to bed. Her alarm clock went off precisely six hours after that, and by 15 after the hour she was stepping into her shower, closing the curtain and scrubbing at her flame-hued hair, using her favorite sugar scrub to exfoliate, and running through her full morning routine. By half after six, she was stepping out again, blowing her hair dry, dressing, putting on a little makeup, and wandering to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. At 15 til the next hour, she had brushed her teeth, and was locking the front door, making her way through the darkness. It was a predictable routine, if not the most enjoyable from time to time.
Cars were not always as careful as they should be, in her neighborhood, and liked to speed. Pythia had to be careful on their behalf, and make certain that she wasn't in their way. The rules and responsibilities of being forced to be a pedestrian, until she could afford a car. The lights were fair warning of the behicles careening their way around the corners, and she stayed on the sidewalk as much as possible, though she shied away from a few places where the woods had strayed close to the concrete, branches dripping over the concrete like hungry fingers, grabbing at the hair and clothes of passer-by. Had it really been over a year ago that she had become Imbrium, with all the ghostly and ghastly Halloween drama that had come with it?
She stepped around a branch hanging over the sidewalk, trying to avoid it clutching her hair, and then stepped back up onto the concrete, dodging far-too-quickly out of the way of a passing car. One that was coming a bit too close to the sidewalk, his wheel hitting the curb with a pop before he caught the wheel. The driver was clearly startled. honking, with Pythia skipping backwards- and then falling backwards, into the trees, tumbling down the hill- down, and down, and down, and... down. Her body landed stiffly, limbs splaying out at an odd angle, and lay there for a moment, cataloging her injuries. Soreness, mainly. All limbs seemed to be functioning, once she found the energy to move them about. Her neck hurt a bit, but she rolled her shoulders and that went away soon enough.
Her clothes were less fortunate, her pale suit stained with grass and mud. She pushed herself up carefully, grimacing at the unsightly stains, and then up the hill, where she would have to climb, should she want to go home and get changed, or... go anywhere else. Her side and middle hurt, and she groaned, pulling a stick out of her shirt, then looking around her. It was wet, and gross, and there were probably alligators or crocodiles or some s**t like water moccasins or man-eating boas, with her luck. She grunted unhappily, running her mucky fingers through her hair- another shower was in order anyways, after that fall- and she began the grunting clamber up the hill, finally pulling off her shoes halfway up and half-crawling up the rest of the way.
She staggered out onto the sidewalk at last, her face contorted into an uncomfortable (because it was covered in sticky, stinky mud) mask of fury, and she made her way home on bare, aching feet, carrying her high heels in one hand and her bag in the other. No one seemed too bothered by the sight of her, staggering along, because not one of those car-driving arse-holes took a moment to pause and see if she needed any help, or a ride, or anything. None of them even slowed down as she passed them, to take a look at the foul, marked curiosity of her. On a normal day, she would be relieved at their apathy, but today was the one day when she might have appreciated a little caring. That, unfortunately, was one thing she did not receive.
Neither parent even answered the door when she beat on it, too tired to dig out her keys. Both of them were home- she could hear Ophira's sniping, and Arolon's tired, rumbled replies back. Something about the loan, again, and- she'd fixed that. Why was her father so completely incompetent when it came to finances? And her mother, so damn proud. She reached down and dug out her key, muttering oaths, and slammed the key into the door, shoving it open and loudly stomping her way into the home. As per the usual, Pythia's mother didn't greet her, but today her father didn't give her his usual warm, tired smile, instead keeping his back stubbornly to her and her mother both as he rummaged the cabinets.
Great. Fantastic. Because Pythia Adler, in her bloody, mud-stained, and quite frankly probably ruined suit didn't have more to worry about than- ugh. Her parents were the actual, ignorant worst. She snapped her own greeting to them, was ignored by both Arolon and Ophira (to no one's surprise, least of all Pythia's), and made her way back down the hall to her room, opening and closing her bedroom door with a slam. Her mussed clothes off, thrown across the room, and she took another shower, making it as long and thorough as she possibly could. She was going to miss the first bus anyway, so to hell with sanitizing herself anything less than thoroughly. She cleaned her scrapes, scraped drying mud off far too many parts of herself, and then decided that she needed to put on makeup. It looked like her face was going to have a nasty bruise by midday, and the last thing she could deal with was questions.
The bus driver, when she finally made it there without incidents, almost closed the door in her face. He didn't even blink an eye at her scowl, instead shifting the bus into the next gear and moving before she was even sitting down. How. Rude! She cursed, glaring at the woman who slid over and filled part of the space she had been intending to sidle into, leaving Pythia to squeeze herself between a shaking old man and some bearded biker man who kept scratching his own crotch and staring through Pythia's head. Great.
Insult was added to injury when her seat was stolen even as she walked towards it. “Excuse you,” she said at last to Carol, her voice carrying the strident notes of no small amount of frustration, “You KNOW that is where I sit, right? EVERY class session since the beginning of the semester?” But Carol ignored her, and the professor began to start class-- with Pythia standing right there. Pythia's bright red head swivelled, eyes widening in shock and irritation. This professor had held the class up for five solid minutes, before, going on a tirade above incompetent students who couldn't even be sitting in a timely manner. And yet here she went, just toddling along getting attendance for the session as if Pythia wasn't right there.
“Pythia Adler?” the teacher called, staring at her usual seat. Pythia gestured to her own suit-clad person, indicating clearly as she possibly could that she was right here, thank you, and the yet professor frowned, as if something was confusing in the gesture. “Pythia Adler.” The Professor's head swiveled to look over the other side of the class, and the young woman thought that she could almost feel her blood run cold at the blatant lack of acknowledgement. The connection of to many coincidences was just- the entire world couldn't be in on the 'screw Pythia over' day, could it? While anything was possible, this was just... too much. And with the morning that she had so far endured...
“I'm right here!” Pythia could feel her voice erupting from her throat as a half-strangled shriek, and no one in the area around her so much as flinched- and the redheaded Squire could feel the demi-panic continue welling up inside her. This was not acceptable and she dropped her hands on the professor's desk, scattering papers all over the floor. Yet the professor didn't seem to so much as notice her doing so, instead sighing and going to collect them. “I am right here!” she tried again, feeling that desperation clawing its way up her throat, trying to tear its way out of her chest. “Don't you dare ignore me, Professor! I have never missed a single one of your lectures, and you damn well will mark me as present for this one too!”
The professor didn't, however, react at all to yelling, or shouting. No one blinked at her foot-stamping and panic. No one in the hall seemed phased as she shoved her way past them all in a panic. Had she died? Was her body left behind in that pit she had tumbled into, thanks to that idiot in his car? Would anyone notice she was missing, or find it odd? If she was dead-- If she-- No, no, that was ridiculous. But what was more ridiculous? That she had died then, and her body was laying decomposing in the muck two hours in the past and an hour's walk away from where she was, or that the entire city seemed to be electing to ignore her existence?
No- it made too much sense that she was some sort of a ghost. Her father's response, her mother not having turned to berate her for missing the bus and interrupting her argument with Pythia's father. The cars not stopping to ask if the girl covered in mud, much, and blood needed any help. The bus driver, now, and his ignorance. The people there. The fellow students, who had dropped doors at her. The... The snack machine that hadn't taken her money. Nausea welled in her throat, teal eyes widening, and she fell against a locker, grabbing at it with her hand. Digging into it violently, her nails half become claws as she shrieked her frustration into the full, bustling hallway. And still, no one moved. No one flinched. No one so much as looked at the woman who was usually composed, slamming her fist against the wall over and over.
She made her way out of sight, dropping her things on a desk in an empty office, and focusing on powering up. Imbrium, Squire of Castor- she would surely be able to get someone's attention that way, right? But the magic did not come. There was no familiar warmth that settled over her bones, her suit didn't vanish. No tiara settled on her head, no armor to her shoulders, no sandals replaced her heels. Her wonder remained eerily silent, present but disconnected all at once. Present, so she couldn't be dead, but non-responsive, so... what had become of her? Shaking, she gathered up her things, and moved dully out of the office.
Dully, she made her way home. She walked, because the bus didn't wait for her when she picked up her pace. And she didn't want to know if someone could sit on her. Or would. She stopped, by the place that her body may lie, watching people drive by it ignorantly. Her parents were gone, now, and she dropped into her room, passing out face down on her bed, her brain numbed, and unable to think of... anything, apart from... could dead people have hobbies? Was that a thing? Would she pass over? Would she even wake up?
At precisely 8 am the next day, her alarm went off. She opened her bedroom door, blinking out at her mother, making coffee in the kitchen area. “Well,” her mother said snidely, “look what the cat dragged in. Where were you last night, Pythia? I do hope you're being responsible with yourself, and don't stay out like that again. We pay for you to sleep in your room, not just anywhere.” For a moment, the redhead stared at her mother, lips thin. And then she closed her bedroom door, quietly...
And went back to bed. Nope.
Cars were not always as careful as they should be, in her neighborhood, and liked to speed. Pythia had to be careful on their behalf, and make certain that she wasn't in their way. The rules and responsibilities of being forced to be a pedestrian, until she could afford a car. The lights were fair warning of the behicles careening their way around the corners, and she stayed on the sidewalk as much as possible, though she shied away from a few places where the woods had strayed close to the concrete, branches dripping over the concrete like hungry fingers, grabbing at the hair and clothes of passer-by. Had it really been over a year ago that she had become Imbrium, with all the ghostly and ghastly Halloween drama that had come with it?
She stepped around a branch hanging over the sidewalk, trying to avoid it clutching her hair, and then stepped back up onto the concrete, dodging far-too-quickly out of the way of a passing car. One that was coming a bit too close to the sidewalk, his wheel hitting the curb with a pop before he caught the wheel. The driver was clearly startled. honking, with Pythia skipping backwards- and then falling backwards, into the trees, tumbling down the hill- down, and down, and down, and... down. Her body landed stiffly, limbs splaying out at an odd angle, and lay there for a moment, cataloging her injuries. Soreness, mainly. All limbs seemed to be functioning, once she found the energy to move them about. Her neck hurt a bit, but she rolled her shoulders and that went away soon enough.
Her clothes were less fortunate, her pale suit stained with grass and mud. She pushed herself up carefully, grimacing at the unsightly stains, and then up the hill, where she would have to climb, should she want to go home and get changed, or... go anywhere else. Her side and middle hurt, and she groaned, pulling a stick out of her shirt, then looking around her. It was wet, and gross, and there were probably alligators or crocodiles or some s**t like water moccasins or man-eating boas, with her luck. She grunted unhappily, running her mucky fingers through her hair- another shower was in order anyways, after that fall- and she began the grunting clamber up the hill, finally pulling off her shoes halfway up and half-crawling up the rest of the way.
She staggered out onto the sidewalk at last, her face contorted into an uncomfortable (because it was covered in sticky, stinky mud) mask of fury, and she made her way home on bare, aching feet, carrying her high heels in one hand and her bag in the other. No one seemed too bothered by the sight of her, staggering along, because not one of those car-driving arse-holes took a moment to pause and see if she needed any help, or a ride, or anything. None of them even slowed down as she passed them, to take a look at the foul, marked curiosity of her. On a normal day, she would be relieved at their apathy, but today was the one day when she might have appreciated a little caring. That, unfortunately, was one thing she did not receive.
Neither parent even answered the door when she beat on it, too tired to dig out her keys. Both of them were home- she could hear Ophira's sniping, and Arolon's tired, rumbled replies back. Something about the loan, again, and- she'd fixed that. Why was her father so completely incompetent when it came to finances? And her mother, so damn proud. She reached down and dug out her key, muttering oaths, and slammed the key into the door, shoving it open and loudly stomping her way into the home. As per the usual, Pythia's mother didn't greet her, but today her father didn't give her his usual warm, tired smile, instead keeping his back stubbornly to her and her mother both as he rummaged the cabinets.
Great. Fantastic. Because Pythia Adler, in her bloody, mud-stained, and quite frankly probably ruined suit didn't have more to worry about than- ugh. Her parents were the actual, ignorant worst. She snapped her own greeting to them, was ignored by both Arolon and Ophira (to no one's surprise, least of all Pythia's), and made her way back down the hall to her room, opening and closing her bedroom door with a slam. Her mussed clothes off, thrown across the room, and she took another shower, making it as long and thorough as she possibly could. She was going to miss the first bus anyway, so to hell with sanitizing herself anything less than thoroughly. She cleaned her scrapes, scraped drying mud off far too many parts of herself, and then decided that she needed to put on makeup. It looked like her face was going to have a nasty bruise by midday, and the last thing she could deal with was questions.
The bus driver, when she finally made it there without incidents, almost closed the door in her face. He didn't even blink an eye at her scowl, instead shifting the bus into the next gear and moving before she was even sitting down. How. Rude! She cursed, glaring at the woman who slid over and filled part of the space she had been intending to sidle into, leaving Pythia to squeeze herself between a shaking old man and some bearded biker man who kept scratching his own crotch and staring through Pythia's head. Great.
Insult was added to injury when her seat was stolen even as she walked towards it. “Excuse you,” she said at last to Carol, her voice carrying the strident notes of no small amount of frustration, “You KNOW that is where I sit, right? EVERY class session since the beginning of the semester?” But Carol ignored her, and the professor began to start class-- with Pythia standing right there. Pythia's bright red head swivelled, eyes widening in shock and irritation. This professor had held the class up for five solid minutes, before, going on a tirade above incompetent students who couldn't even be sitting in a timely manner. And yet here she went, just toddling along getting attendance for the session as if Pythia wasn't right there.
“Pythia Adler?” the teacher called, staring at her usual seat. Pythia gestured to her own suit-clad person, indicating clearly as she possibly could that she was right here, thank you, and the yet professor frowned, as if something was confusing in the gesture. “Pythia Adler.” The Professor's head swiveled to look over the other side of the class, and the young woman thought that she could almost feel her blood run cold at the blatant lack of acknowledgement. The connection of to many coincidences was just- the entire world couldn't be in on the 'screw Pythia over' day, could it? While anything was possible, this was just... too much. And with the morning that she had so far endured...
“I'm right here!” Pythia could feel her voice erupting from her throat as a half-strangled shriek, and no one in the area around her so much as flinched- and the redheaded Squire could feel the demi-panic continue welling up inside her. This was not acceptable and she dropped her hands on the professor's desk, scattering papers all over the floor. Yet the professor didn't seem to so much as notice her doing so, instead sighing and going to collect them. “I am right here!” she tried again, feeling that desperation clawing its way up her throat, trying to tear its way out of her chest. “Don't you dare ignore me, Professor! I have never missed a single one of your lectures, and you damn well will mark me as present for this one too!”
The professor didn't, however, react at all to yelling, or shouting. No one blinked at her foot-stamping and panic. No one in the hall seemed phased as she shoved her way past them all in a panic. Had she died? Was her body left behind in that pit she had tumbled into, thanks to that idiot in his car? Would anyone notice she was missing, or find it odd? If she was dead-- If she-- No, no, that was ridiculous. But what was more ridiculous? That she had died then, and her body was laying decomposing in the muck two hours in the past and an hour's walk away from where she was, or that the entire city seemed to be electing to ignore her existence?
No- it made too much sense that she was some sort of a ghost. Her father's response, her mother not having turned to berate her for missing the bus and interrupting her argument with Pythia's father. The cars not stopping to ask if the girl covered in mud, much, and blood needed any help. The bus driver, now, and his ignorance. The people there. The fellow students, who had dropped doors at her. The... The snack machine that hadn't taken her money. Nausea welled in her throat, teal eyes widening, and she fell against a locker, grabbing at it with her hand. Digging into it violently, her nails half become claws as she shrieked her frustration into the full, bustling hallway. And still, no one moved. No one flinched. No one so much as looked at the woman who was usually composed, slamming her fist against the wall over and over.
She made her way out of sight, dropping her things on a desk in an empty office, and focusing on powering up. Imbrium, Squire of Castor- she would surely be able to get someone's attention that way, right? But the magic did not come. There was no familiar warmth that settled over her bones, her suit didn't vanish. No tiara settled on her head, no armor to her shoulders, no sandals replaced her heels. Her wonder remained eerily silent, present but disconnected all at once. Present, so she couldn't be dead, but non-responsive, so... what had become of her? Shaking, she gathered up her things, and moved dully out of the office.
Dully, she made her way home. She walked, because the bus didn't wait for her when she picked up her pace. And she didn't want to know if someone could sit on her. Or would. She stopped, by the place that her body may lie, watching people drive by it ignorantly. Her parents were gone, now, and she dropped into her room, passing out face down on her bed, her brain numbed, and unable to think of... anything, apart from... could dead people have hobbies? Was that a thing? Would she pass over? Would she even wake up?
At precisely 8 am the next day, her alarm went off. She opened her bedroom door, blinking out at her mother, making coffee in the kitchen area. “Well,” her mother said snidely, “look what the cat dragged in. Where were you last night, Pythia? I do hope you're being responsible with yourself, and don't stay out like that again. We pay for you to sleep in your room, not just anywhere.” For a moment, the redhead stared at her mother, lips thin. And then she closed her bedroom door, quietly...
And went back to bed. Nope.
