In The Glass


samara_icon.gif smedley_icon.gif

Scene Title In The Glass
Synopsis Wes thinks he sees a ghost. He's only partially correct.
Date November 21, 2010

Battery Park City

By this time of night, all the good little boys and girls who don't want to be caught by the law are already tucked safely indoors, eating dinner, watching the news, or doing any number of activities that are generally reserved for Sunday evenings. But as the clock ticks closer and closer to that looming hour, Wes Smedley is still out and about.

He walks through Battery Park with his hands in the pockets of his oilskin, the dark brown coat snapped shut at every oppotunity, so that only the ribbed roll of a deep, forest green turtleneck is visible. His hands are shoved into his pockets, but from the left stem two leashes, one leather, one nylon, each leading to a dog, one old, one young. The dogs don't seem to mind the snow, and it takes some doing on the part of the man to keep the younger of the pair under control.

Stepping across the street from the park back into Battery Park City proper, Smedley is one of the few people in the street, making his reflection in the windows of offices and shops stand out quite a deal more than it would at any normal time of day, or any Sunday evening before the curfew was put into place. His gray-green eyes flit from the sidewalk, to the backs of the dogs, to the reflection as he walks, his boots crunching on the small accumulation of snow yet to be cleared or melted away from the sidewalk with salt.

Staccato'd yet floaty steps accompany a certain reflection in those windows. Her love of dogs and random recognition from Pollepel drove her forward in her journey. She's not exactly dressed for the weather; her jeans and grey t-shirt are less than appropriate for the chill that's settled into the New York air. And while her arms wrap around her body, the auburn-haired girl doesn't look cold, even if she does appear, at least moderately, unsettled. Her eyebrows stitch tightly together and her lips are curled downward into a frown.

Samara had woken up not far from here; she'd drifted with the change of wind direction and found herself in a nearby alley. Lost. Alone. And just a little scared. She shivers, but it's that wariness that draws the tremble. Her nights have been more restless lately; pulling her further and further from her proffered home on Pollepel Island.

The dogs, however, draw the slightest of smiles as she bends down towards them. Whether or not the world can see her, animals have a sixth sense when it comes to the unseeable.

Von, the younger of the dogs and by far the more comfortable one when it comes to to harsher weather, given his heritage, mixed as it is, is the first to notice Samara. He looks to her and barks - a habit learned from the older dog at his side, who from the look of him, was bred for warmer weather and to curl up in front of a fire once it got cold. Sounding first one report and then a series, Von turns toward the glass of the storefront and lifts his paws to it, in order to sniff at the girl on the other side.

Carson, his tri-colored companion, isn't so sure about the girl in the glass. His bark has a more wary tone, and he backs away from the window rather than move toward it. The difference in tactics leaves Smedley holding the shorter end of the stick, as it crosses their leashes. Cursing under his breath, which comes out in puffs of hot air between his lips, it takes him a moment before he starts to pull Von away.

That's when he sees her. He blinks, then looks behind him. But there's no one there. He would have known if there was someone there. He squints then, looking back at the girl who might be behind the glass, but…that to is impossible.

Like his near constant cohort of the last fifteen years, Wes Smedley's hackles raise.

The barking prompts a certain ghost to press her fingers to her lips and "Shhhhhh!"— a noise unhearable to human ears. Following which her hands are held out towards the animals; she isn't wanting to make trouble with them, or to inconvenience them in any way, shape, or form. In fact, her entire purpose is to go unnoticed. Yet, the pseudo-invisible woman has never been a spy. Her cheeks flush pale pink as she tries to shush them again, her finger pressed over her lips.

Moments later, she's glancing up to see Smedley looking at her. Oh dear. Her cheeks flush a brighter red as she waggles three fingers at him. It's a simple action, with a simple translation. 'Hi' she mouths. She's been spotted and may as well bask in her lack of invisibility.

Smedley's nostrils flare as he stares at the glass - unable to tear his eyes away from those belonging to the girl's reflection. The girl. Who is a reflection. A lot has happened since he was in Bannerman's Castle, and rather than cling to the memory of the strange man with the Disney Princess mirror, Smedley's encounter with the strange and ethereal Hokuto is among what has stuck with him.

He gulps.


But then he blinks again, his jaw tightening with his frown, and his eyes narrow slightly. "…it ain't you," he says, the words coming out in a choked whisper.

Von has settled by now, seated at the base of the windowed wall, still looking up at the girl. His tail wags, sweeping against the sidewalk. Carson snorts, shaking his head and moving to sniff the air closer to the window, just to be sure.

And the girl isn't in front of the mirror. A simple sniff can tell that much, not that she's particularly easy to locate. She pulls her arms around her again, a defensive move designed to emotionally protect herself. Her grip around her body tightens protectively. Samara's lips press together tightly.

Her lips purse as she studies him studying her. It most certainly is her. But then, perhaps not the her he… no. She's confused. Her face tightens further, the confusion spreading over her face like paint being applied in broad brushstrokes over her features.

Finally she mouths a single word, her voice lost in the wind, much like her body on any given night. 'Who?'

Given the lack of light on the street, even with the lights outside the shop to illuminate the sign and the nearest street lamp, Smedley's eyes dim, as if clouds were drawing across that prairie-sky blue. He shuts them for a moment and shakes his head as he presses his lips together tightly, the lines around his mouth deepening if only for that moment. It isn't to say 'nobody', or even 'nobody important.' Just a brushing off of the question. As if to say, 'no one I want to talk about.'

Smedley lifts his other gloved hand from the pocket of his coat and rubs at his jaw, taking his time in bringing his eyes back to the girl in the glass. But this time, he doesn't look her in the eye. Rather, he looks at every part of her other than her eyes, his gaze darting and searching for something to anchor itself to. "You…dead? Or like…what? Evolved?" There has to be an answer, after all. He isn't crazy. He isn't just seeing the reflections of random women in store windows. If he were crazy, then the dogs wouldn't have barked.


Smedley's reaction brings a discernible twitch of her lips and eyes. Her lips purse tightly together again while she sucks on the inside of her cheek. She's unsure what to make of it, but then even the living have skeletons in their closet.

Samara sucks in a quick breath, her body tensing with the questions. What is she anyways? Brian says he saw her which would mean she's evolved, but…. she's spent four years 'dead'. How can it be that she's wasted all of that time. Her lips, eyes and cheeks droop with sad consideration. Finally, she just shrugs. She doesn't know. All she knows is she exists, even if most people don't believe her.

"You're cold," Smedley points out with a nod of his head, looking to the way Samara hugs herself rather than the expression on her face. "So that's somethin', right?" He glances down the street, wondering, hoping that no one sees him speaking to a window, or guesses that he's casing whatever store this is for a potential robbery. He gives the leashes a tug, pulling the dogs away from the window even as he studies the girl within it.

It's a moment before he speaks again, his own face awash with suspicion, worry, and uncertainty. In the end, he nods sharply. "I'm Wes," he whispers. "You gotta name?"

The cold comment earns a half smile as her hands are lowered to her sides. Samara's head shakes. She's not cold, but her discomfort is what it is. She walks through the dogs (leaving quite the picture in the reflected surface) and closer to the glass to tap on it once. Her eyes close as she focuses her attention on scribbling across it with a single finger. It'll render her exhausted if she does it too often.

'Sami' it reads in the dirtied surface, although the 'i' is dotted with a heart, much the way a high school girl would write. Hopefully Smedley doesn't call her SamEye— not that it bothers her as much anymore. Finally, she points to herself. That's her. Sami.

"Sammy," Wes says with another nod, trying the name out. "S'nice t'meet 'cha. I…guess." If this can be called meeting someone. He turns to walk away then, but when it takes some effort to get the dogs to follow him - both Von and Carson are far too interested in Samara to leave just yet - he pauses and rubs at his jaw once again with his gloved hand.

"I live near here," he says, jerking his head down the street toward Redbird Security. "You ever need anythin'…well, I guess you could just ghost your way through walls, couldn't 'cha?" It's a distubring thought, inviting a ghost into his apartment, let along the secure facility that is Redbird, but Samara is far different than Hokuto, even if she is some weird spirit thing. Maybe she needs some wrong righted before she can rest peacefully. Or maybe she's like that Red-headed girl. "You need anythin', you just stop by, alright?" he half-asks, half-declares, his brows furrowed.

The correct pronunciation of her name elicits a smile from the auburn-haired ghost. A glance is given to Redbird Security following a raise of Sami's eyebrows. Whether unhappy with the apparition or not, Smedley's offer is met with a half-smile. Apparition or not, Samara is about as scary as Casper. With a nod and another grin, her secret satisfaction remains; more than anything she has friends. And in a world so uncertain, what more could a ghost girl ask for? A gust of wind blows through the area, and in the blink of an eye, she's gone.

That same wind blows down the neck of Smedley's sweater, but it isn't the only thing causing him to shake. As harmless as she may be, and as thankful as he is that she stuck to the glass rather than parading around on the sidewalk, seeing something that isn't really there but is has him a little disturbed. And with everything else already weighing heavily on the man's mind, the idea that there might be a life after death tied to this earth isn't one he's keen on putting stock in.

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