PERSONAL

Gender: Male

Kit: Divine

Location: Drifting Through America

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Hero

Team: Solo Hero

VITAL STATS

Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: standard (rank 1)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )

RECORD

Fame Points: 0

Personal Wins: 56

Personal Losses: 56

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0

STATUS

Status: Disabled

WereWolf

My life was pretty close to perfect; I was in college and far enough away from the real world to enjoy it. In a few short years I would have been looking for a job in an economy that will probably still be broken, already massively in debt, and paralyzed by indecision in regards to where I wanted to live. But back then, my biggest worries were deciding what to major in and trying not to throw up too much on the weekends.

My schedule was great. Woke up no earlier than ten in the morning during the week. Proceeded to read, go to class, read more, do a little bit of work, and hang out with friends, with meals and necessities thrown into the mix when needed. When your days are filled with poetry, literature, and friends, it's hard to think about the future. Life was life, and that's all I needed to know.

Then one morning I woke up dead.

I still remember the paper I was working on the night before I died. It was an examination of the West Wind imagery in Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" and "Letter to Maria Gisborne". The parallels are fascinating and supply great insight into Shelley's mind. In the earlier poem, the West Wind is a force of change and revolution, blowing through Shelley and turning him into "The trumpet of a prophecy! (l. 69)" It's hard to top it's closing lines: "O Wind,/ If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? (l. 69-70)" Shelley wanted to change the world, to bring about a utopian society of free love and intellect. What's more, he saw himself on the very edge of doing just that. And I'm talking Godwinian free love, none of that 60s hippie stuff.

The passage from "Letter to Maria Gisborne" is a stark contrast. Instead of the Trumpet from his Ode, Shelley describes himself as "some weird Archimage", "Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery (ll. 106-107)". The West Wind, Libeccio in the Letter, "rushes round/ With an inconstant and an idle sound (ll. 114-115)". The Wind summons up terrific thunderstorms which amount to little more than sound and fury.

If you read up on Shelley's life, it's easy to see what happened. During the time Shelley was in Italy, libel and treason laws in England were strengthened to a ridiculous degree. Shelley's publishers and friends, to whom he mailed his poems, were afraid to put them into their papers or publish them in books. Leigh Hunt was ill and couldn't stand another sentence served in the Surrey County Gaol. None of Shelley's acquaintances, business or personal, were doing well financially; none of them could afford the risk. Every revolutionary line of verse, every poem screaming for change, for a better life for all of England, was heavily edited at best, unpublished at worst. His son had died, and his current wife, Mary, was depressed, no longer entertaining him with her intellect and her ideals. It's hard to tell which effected him more. All of Shelley's efforts, his goals in life, fell to nothing. He got hit by a big dose of the real world.

I

     Energy Body: standard (rank 1)

That wasn't a poorly termed phrase, earlier. I woke up dead. I jumped down from bed, looked back up, and saw myself still lying there, apparently sound asleep.

I think the chain of events that followed was normal enough. Assumed I was dreaming, checked both bodies. One was cold and stiff, the other decidedly amorphous. I didn't like the way my dream was going.

None of my roommates were there, which wasn't unusual. They all had real schedules. I sank into my desk chair, much more slowly than I thought possible, and tried to decide what to do. Thoughts were starting to creep into my mind that were downright disturbing, so I got up and walked to the lounge.

Think

     Danger Sense: standard (rank 1)

The lounge was empty, too. Not a big surprise, either. People were either at class, or in their room, or at the Caf, or any number of other things. But the TV was on, so I sat down and started watching. Easiest way to avoid freaking out before I had a chance to talk to someone.

Then the screaming started.

Some girl I didn't recognize was standing in the doorway, laundry basket on the floor, clothes strewn everywhere, and screaming bloody murder. Doors opened, heads popped out. John from down the hall came out and tried to calm the girl down, but she just kept screaming and pointing at me. John finally noticed, and personally, I think he reacted very poorly.

He threw a chair at me.

He's

     Phasing: superior (rank 2)

The chairs in the lounge are not exactly light. They are actually the opposite. Big heavy chairs, with wheels and little spinny desk attachments. I wasn't impressed by the fact that John could pick the chair up; they weren't bolted down or anything like that. I was amazed that he could hurl it across the room, though, with decent accuracy.

I flinched. Closed my eyes, turned away slightly, and heard the chair crash behind me. Then I heard something crash off to the side and saw Jeremy standing in the hallway. The girl proceeded to pick up her laundry basket and throw it through me.

I didn't know what to do. I was rightfully confused and more than a little angry.

A

     Invisibility: superior (rank 2)

They left, eventually. Ran off to get someone who knew what to do. Or just ran off, I never found out. I left the building to wander around campus, trying to clear my head.

I was clearly dead, but the weight of that fact hadn't hit me. No one acted like anything was different, ignoring that other little incident. People walked by without looking at me, intent on their own world of work and drama. I began to forget what I had only just realized, without screaming evidence to back it up.

It was hard to ignore the facts for long and it only got harder. A guy like me is used to not being noticed. In most ways, I'm nothing special, but I do have friends who know me, who care about me. Had, I guess. As I was walking back to my room my friend Emily, who I had known for years, looked straight at me and walked straight through me.

Ghost

     Energy Absorption: standard (rank 1)

I was sitting in my room, across from my dead body, trying not to look at it even though I know it was what I wanted to do, when the time finally came. My roommates hadn't come back, which was odd, so I was happy when I heard the knock on the door. I opened it and a very official looking man with a very odd looking gun walked in. To his credit, he started talking before he started shooting.

"I'm Mr. Johnston. The College hired me to get rid of you. It will be quick and probably painless. Questions?"

I was dumbfounded, obviously. I may have just died, but I still felt very much alive, if not exactly the same. I had a million little indignant questions, but I could only voice one.

"Where do you hire a ghostbuster?"

"They keep me on retainer. This happens more often than you might think." The gun flashed and something hit me. It hurt a lot. As my vision slowly came back to me, the man spoke.

"I know you're still around. I'll be able to pick you up on my sensors soon enough, and then I'll finish my job."

I knew better than to stay around. It's funny how it takes a man shooting at you to realize when you're not wanted. I said a silent goodbye to my life and my body, and walked out through the door.

Wandering isn't so bad. Get to see a lot of places I never would have otherwise. Lot more free time to read, which is pleasant. Still don't know how I died, or why I died, or why I turned into a ghost instead of whatever options there are, but right now I really don't care. I'm recently deceased; I'm allowed to be unmotivated. Honestly, I was never that motivated to begin with. At least I'll never get my dose of the real world.