Ghoster Glimpses

[Fractured]

As Ghoster exits the museum, he takes a moment to breathe and enjoy the tranquility of being alone. It had been a whirlwind of a day since his lighter stopped working, and his reflection was cut short when he realized he was still without a lighter.

He walks along until he spies a bodega, buys a new one in cash, and walks out again. He lights his cigarette triumphantly, as though he were Prometheus bringing fire from the gods. He walks slowly, thinking through the next steps.

Gun. I need a gun. There's some crazy people-eating freak out here, eating people my age, and what about that sniper? Where did he come from? Are there gonna be more? Of course there are. I need a flak jacket. I can't believe the others are getting high right now. They must already have guns and jackets. Breathe. Tyria must think I'm a total pervert. Way to go, genius. It'll be fine, won't it? It will. Of course; no one will care about that if you and the others bring down that freak. They'll protect Ryan like they said, right? Of course. Why wouldn't they? He should have placed a Finder spell on the card, just in case. Dammit. Breathe, Arthur.

Then a wide smile spreads across Ghoster's face as he remembers the last lesson Finn taught him before he sent him out west to Get Involved with Something. I know exactly where to get what I need, he thinks, unconsciously tugging on the space on his jacket where he had violently ripped off his name tag. He quickens his pace as he heads to the Sacramento PD to "requisition new equipment."

[Fractured]

Ghoster arrives at the steps of the Sac PD and smiles to himself. This is going to be fun, he tells himself. He ascends the steps, opens the door and finds himself an empty seat in the lobby. Here he sits and watches. He watches how the various office workers, policemen, and detectives interact, their body language; he listens to their jokes, their curses, their complaints.

He feels a sensation akin to someone snapping their fingers across his frontal lobe, and he knows these people, how to be one of them. He walks smartly up to the duty officer's desk, and smiles wanly. "Detective Phineas Finnegan. New transfer from Oakland PD. You get my paperwork yet?" Ghoster lets out a derisive snort. "Of course not, those bureaucrats never get anything right. You believe those bean-counters made me turn in my pistol when I transferred? Said there was a lack of resources, or some shit. Look, I don't need to bother you with this. Just point me towards the requisitions officer."

[Fractured]

The duty officer, a portly, middle-aged man with a thick, grey mustache, looked up at Ghoster's young, face and head full of overflowing blonde curls. "I haven't seen any of your paperwork, Detective, but, ah, I'm sure I heard somethin' about a new arrival…" He trailed off weakly. He had a sudden feeling of something he should remember, like he had left the stove on at home, but no, it wasn't the stove. He realized he was staring at the new, impatient detective, and looked away quickly and coughed.

"I'm sorry to hold you up, sir. The requisitions officer is in the basement, right next to the target range. Walk straight back until you see the stairs to your right. But you don't have your key card yet, do you?" The duty officer looked up into the detective's face, which was curling into a snarl. "But, ah, you can use mine. Please bring it back before you leave, Detective," he said meekly, "the bathrooms are down there, too, obviously. And the coffee, which is, frankly, piss." He pulled out the keycard and handed it to Ghoster, who accepted it by breathing out in a heavy, exasperated way.
"I can see you'll go far, officer," Ghoster said, his voice thick with boredom. What is it I need to remember, he asked himself as he watched the new detective walk away.

Ghoster followed the officer's directions precisely, barely containing the giddiness he felt that this was actually working. He swiped the key card at the door, and found the window he was looking for. Behind the window was a thirty-something, dark-skinned black woman scowling over a stack of official forms. She's cute, he thought to himself, before reminding himself he was in a police station, and he wanted to be out as soon as possible. Ghoster cleared his throat loudly, and the woman looked up impassively. "Can I help you?" she said slowly.

Ghoster repeated the same spiel from earlier, nearly word for word. "So I'm going to need a piece, now, ammunition, and a vest. And, by God, paper," he spat the word, "will not prevent me from my fulfilling my duty to the good people of Sacramento today, will it, officer?" Ghoster raised an eyebrow and gave her a stern look.

"Ah...Of course not, sir," she replied enthusiastically. She liked her job, and wasn't going to jeopardize it by being a stickler for the rules for people clearly in Authority. "Just hold on," she said, and disappeared behind a wall. For a moment, Ghoster was nervous that his magic had stopped working, that he'd been compromised, that any moment police would swarm him, guns drawn…and then she came back, carrying three boxes. "Here you are. Standard Glock 17, a case of ammunition, and a bulletproof vest. Just come back down to sign the paperwork when Oakland sends over your records," she said, smiling at him.

"Thank you, officer. You're an asset to the department," he said as he walked to the bathroom with his packages and found an empty stall. He took off his jacket and slipped the vest on over his shirt, then put his jacket backed on and zipped it closed. I'm not walking around with this stuff in boxes, he thought to himself. He took a moment to admire his new pistol before loading it and shoving it in one of his jacket's inside pockets. He stuffed the box of ammunition into his big side pocket and left the bathroom, back up the stairs, and out to the duty officer.

"Your card," Ghoster said, dropping it onto the desk. It won't do me any good to hold on to it, anyway. They'd probably deactivate it as soon as they know it's missing. " Thanks. You're right about the coffee," he said, making a face. " I'm headed out for some real stuff now. See you soon."

"Sure thing, sir," he replied, watching the newest, youngest member of the Sacramento PD walk out the doors. He doesn't seem too bad, he thought to himself before he turning back to his paperwork. Within ten minutes, Ghoster had been utterly forgotten by all except the security cameras.

Ghoster decided to splurge on a cab back to his small efficiency, unable to remove a grin that stretched across his face. He tipped the cabbie a whole five bucks, and when he got upstairs, he leaned against the door and laughed until his face hurt and tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. Then he put his new equipment away and pulled out his cell phone to call his mentor. Finn'll get a kick out of this.

[Fractured]

The bright morning sun is warm on his tanned skin. The tide washes over his bare feet and it feels cool and wet. His board is dry, sticking out of the sand, and he yearns to paddle out before this perfect morning wastes away, but he's waiting for his son to join him. He reads the time on his digital diving watch and looks around the beach, but no one's there. When he looks back to the ocean, the sky is dark, darker than the night itself. Stormclouds gather round his head, circling like ephemeral vultures. The waves rise, and rise, and continue to rise, until they consume the clouds and sun above. Then it breaks, crying out in fury as it rushes to meet the shore. He shuts his eyes and opens his arms, waiting for the storm to take him away, but all he feels is a slight bump on his ankle. He opens his eyes to see the dark water receding. He looks down at a smooth, pale face surrounded by a haphazard series of pale gold rings and knots, a face he knows very well...

"Arthur!"

Finn awakes wide-eyed and drenched in terror-sweat. He searches through the familiar mess of clothes in the back of his van until he finds his cell phone, and searches for Ghoster's phone number. His stomach twists itself into knots as he waits for his apprentice to answer...