[center][b]Ghosts[/b][/center]

"Hey there, kids! It's me, Kazara the Masked Magician."

[i]Oh really? Maybe if this actress put on fifty pounds and had a beer in her hand I'd believe her.[/i] 

"Y'know, sometimes, when I'm out fighting for truth and justice,-"

[i]For fuck's sake. Seriously? 'Truth and justice?' I bet Mom came up with this bullshit.[/i]

"I get awfully thirsty. So, when I'm feeling parched and need a quick boost I reach for a delicious-"

[i]Be still my beating heart. What, beloved cultural icon Kazara, do you reach for when you're feeling parched?[/i]

"Kazarade! That's right. Now available in Strawberry Shadow, Banana Blaze, and Mango Mask flavors. Try all three and you could win a brand new-"

[i]Okay, I think I'm done now.[/i]

Samantha Raynor, who now went by Kelsey Smith, shook her head in disgust and turned off her television, plunging the main room of her apartment into total darkness. Thanks to her innate umbrakinetic gifts, however, she almost felt more comfortable in the darkness. Things always seemed so much simpler when the lights were out for some reason. Burping quietly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the stocky brunette set down her empty can of Floret's Finest Brew and chuckled to herself. There was a time not so long ago when she would've thrown a fit at that commercial's horrific use of her heroic alternate identity. She probably would've gone so far as to throw something expensive against a wall for no adequately explained reason. That was one of the benefits of being a psygen celebrity beloved in two nations. You didn't need a reason to do stupid shit. Now, however, "Kelsey" just felt sad and faintly disappointed. Was her mother so unimaginative and greedy that the only use she saw for Kazara, besides as the lead character in a summer blockbuster, was to make her a sports drink saleswoman? It seemed a little pathetic, and Sammy was something of an expert in that particular field. 

Sighing as she heaved her bulk off the threadbare, blue-and-red checkered couch her father bought at a local yard sale, Samantha trudged into the apartment's grimy kitchenette. Everything seemed to flicker and swirl mockingly around her, which meant she was well on her way to getting smashed. Fan-fucking-tastic. At least the nightmares weren't as terrifying when she was blootered to the umpteenth degree. Maybe she'd actually get something close to a full night's sleep. Probably not, though. Sammy went to put her hand on the kitchen counter to steady herself only to feel the delightful sensation of sticking her hand into a pot filled with what smelled like week old pasta and tomato sauce. She really needed to clean this damned kitchen. She'd promised her father at least four times last week that she'd handle it. It was the least she could do, after all. That quiet, unassuming man snoring contentedly in the master bedroom was the only thing standing between Samantha and the streets right now.

And she still didn't know where he'd put the damned Dr. Grime Cleaning Wipes. Of course, she'd never asked.

After deciding to rectify this situation tomorrow, Sammy opened the fridge and was swiftly reminded what her priorities in life were. The top shelf, which was her father's domain, groaned beneath a veritable garden of fresh fruits and vegetables, several containers of something called quinoa, and a few bottles of orange juice. Sammy's shelf, on the other hand, contained mostly beer and boxes of takeout. Jesus, she needed to start taking care of herself. Maybe she'd start eating healthier tomorrow or something. Right now, she was buzzed and in the mood for something salty or sweet. Possibly both. Samantha opened the box closest to the front of the fridge...and immediately closed it. A few more days and the moldy thai food inside would probably start asking random strangers if it had a soul. Since she didn't feel like dying tonight, the portly Floridian reached for a dark blue beer bottle with an inviting red cap instead. The cap even had a neon yellow smile on it. How cheery! This was Sam's last bottle of the worryingly named Glasgow Smile beer she'd brought home with her after her last visit to the Crowley Estate...no. No. Shaking her head like a dog trying to dry itself, Samantha closed the fridge door a little harder than necessary, flinching as she remembered her father was sleeping in the next room, and savagely twisted the cap off her beer. 

No use in stirring up ghosts tonight. 

Yawning, the bulky psygen found a clean spot on the kitchen counter to lean against as she took a long drink from her bottle. Oh yes, it was icy cold and as bitter as a celebrity everyone had forgotten. Perfect. Sammy briefly considered making the sojourn back to the couch, but she decided against it for now in favor of trying to figure out what time it was. In light of how many cans of Floret's Finest Brew were strewn all over the sofa it was difficult to tell for sure. The only clock in the apartment's "living room," a cat-shaped disgrace which meowed every hour on the hour, had stopped working several weeks ago. Well, she could normally down two or three cans of beer in half an hour, and there were at least seven cans on the sofa and more underneath. Whistling softly and shaking her head, Samantha took another sip from her imported beer. Math at this probably late hour? Fuck that. Now, she could recall waking up sometime around four this afternoon and searching her sty of a room for something that fit. Her goddamn wardrobe couldn't keep up with her waistline. How awful was that? Sammy also remembered, after apparently finding something tolerable to wear, driving to Bosco's Bar down the street around five thirty and staggering back out a little after nine. Somewhere in that mess a nap happened, though a rather unpleasant nightmare ended that pretty quickly. Too many fucking tentacles. So many goddamn tentacles. Shivering and sipping at her Glasgow Smile, Sammy finally remembered taking a shower and sitting down on the couch just as her father walked in from work. She'd said "Hey, Dad. What's up?" and he'd grunted in that reassuring way he had before vanishing into his room. Samantha belched and drained the rest of her beer as she came to the conclusion that it was probably a little after midnight. That sounded about right.

The overweight Floridian adjusted her gray sweatpants into a slightly less uncomfortable position and plodded back to the couch, taking great pains not to sit on one of her discarded beer cans as she lowered herself down. She'd done that before and didn't care to repeat the trick. Maybe she should just go to bed. Lying on her lumpy mattress was at least marginally more comfortable than sitting on this horrible couch with the television off. In the dark. Like some sort of creep. Or idiot. Besides, she'd finally heard back from the local Stop N' Shop after submitting her resume' to them on no less than five separate occasions. It was the most exciting thing to happen to her in months. Apparently, Stop N' Shop wasn't too picky about who they hired to run their registers, and they'd deemed her worthy of coming in for a job interview tomorrow. At eight in the fucking morning. Luckily, if it was indeed a bit after midnight, this gave Samantha enough time to sober up, find something decent to wear, and drive over. No problem.

Sammy's computer, which was perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table in front of the television, beeped quietly and a mechanical voice said, "You've got mail."

Unusual. Sam hadn't accessed her AOL account in years, because it just so happened to be the one she'd used before AW1. Just thinking about it was enough to make the brunette tremble and she reached for the nearest beer can, hoping against hope she hadn't finished it. But, as White Hat had told her once when he was high at a party in London, hope was for idiots and poor people. Placing the empty beer can back on the coffee table and picking up her hot pink Dell laptop, Samantha set the computer on her lap before opening it and clicking the AOL icon. Once she was in her inbox, the psygen's blue eyes scanned past the colossal amount of death threats and hate mail she'd gotten over the last few years from members of the Sixth Division, each one accusing her of being a coward and leaving her teammates in Adventbrook to die. And then she saw it. There was an unopened email that wasn't from her good friend the deposed Nigerian prince. The email address listed was Stabby8008@imail.com. Samantha's mouth went dry and something between a whimper and a groan slipped through her lips. What the fuck was this all about? Was someone impersonating Dante Stabbington and emailing her more death threats? Maybe this was her punishment for not cleaning the fucking kitchen. Part of her wanted to delete the email without opening it, but another part, the same part that'd convinced her to drunkenly kiss Dante one night many years ago, wanted to see what her former drinking buddy had to say. Biting her lower lip, Sam clicked the email and read the following message:

[i]Samantha,

I know we haven't talked in a while, but I'm reaching out to our old friends. Trying to see how everyone is doing. I guess I just want them to know I'm here and I'm available if they want to talk. They can reach me at this email address.

Dante[/i]

Slightly disappointing. Alright, monstrously disappointing. There was no indication Dante wanted to talk to her specifically, which bothered Sammy a lot more than any shitty commercial. He was just "reaching out to our old friends" and "trying to see how everyone was doing." Everyone, not her. Samantha understood she was technically included in 'everyone,' but the way he'd phrased it didn't make it sound that way. What a crock of shit! She got all worked up over nothing? Pursing her lips and trying to think of something scathing to type back, Sammy finally just wrote: 

[i]Doing fine, Dante. Thanks for the offer, though.

Samantha[/i]

She clicked the 'send' button and practically threw her laptop back on the table, only to realize the loud thud might wake up her father. Cursing under her breath and admitting it might be time to call it a night, Samantha tried to haul herself up...only to immediately fall back down. A burning coal of self-loathing flared in the heavyset psygen's gut as she struggled to her feet like an old geriatric woman without her walker. Life didn't pull any punches, did it? She was a walking goddamn stereotype. The sexy, skinny blonde who'd devolved into a dumpy, pathetic brunette. It was like something out of a drugstore gossip magazine. Sneering at the thought and making another mental note to clean the kitchen after her interview, Samantha was about to open her bedroom door when the doorbell rang. The harsh, metallic sound nearly made the psygen lash out instinctively with her abilities. She hadn't done that in years! Taking a deep breath and trying to regain her composure, she started walking towards the front door, her eyes narrowed as she thought about who might be on the other side. This was a pretty decent part of Orlando so this sort of thing didn't happen much, though every now and again groups of idiot kids would show up to mess with people on the weekends. Today was Tuesday, though. Still, Sammy didn't want the ringing doorbell to wake up her father so she pressed herself against the door and called out, "You do realize it's after fucking midnight, right? Piss off!"