Someone once said anger against oppression is a clean-burning fuel. There's a lot of oppression to be angry about lately. So Rachel has plenty of fuel to burn when she goes out for her morning run. It's been cold and rainy for over a week, so she's dressed in leggings and an old hoodie, as she bounds down the sidewalks in her athletic shoes. Her friends have told her that this is a good part of the city to know, and since she's new here, she's trying to find her way around. Build a mental map, as she goes.
Lincoln Park is clearly a haven for runners, who pass by Rachel solo, in pairs, or in the occasional group run led by a toned instructor-type. Even in the cold, wind and rain, the trees form a beautiful fringe of foliage against the Chicago skyline. Even though the atmosphere out here is not so thick with tension as in other parts of the city many are still wary, the impressions of spiked keychains and pepper spray canisters indenting pockets.
A woman runs towards and past Rachel, talking loudly into an earbud, using her ability to speak to gauge her level of fatigue. "Yeah, someone got shot out here last night," she says between even breaths. "For his cell phone, can you believe it? Yeah I think he's alive last the news said. It's a lot safer than it used to be still..." She continues talking as she passes Rachel by, going out of earshot.
The five-mile loop of running trail comes to life as the sky clears and the sun shines down. People bring their kids and pets out to bask in its glow.
Rachel's there, in that runner's high. Heart pumping, lungs billowing, muscles warm and gliding under her skin, endorphins in her veins. But she's still aware, of course. The mention of a shooting catches her ear. Chicago is a dangerous places, she's learned over the last year. Crime isn't enough, you've got to add black ooze and homicidal werewolves to it.
It's tempting to think that it's perfectly safe here in the glow of the sudden sunlight, and the public presence of families, community. But crime can happen anywhere. Anytime. Preparedness, not paranoia, she reminds herself as she trots along down the path, throwing back the hood of her hoodie and taking her own chance to bask in the sun.
Time passes, and the runner's high rises. Eventually it's time for a break, and there's a nearby empty bench which looks quite warm and inviting. A broad green lawn stretches out in all directions from it, with locals out lying on blankets, eating packed lunches or playing with their dogs.
The bench isn't empty for long, as a thirty-ish year-old white woman in tennis shoes, a khaki tennis skirt, a powder pink polo shirt and wavy blonde hair held back by a visor jogs up, flushed from exertion herself, and leans over the back of the bench. Another runner it seems, even if it looks like she raided her mother's closet for her athletic wear from the 80s. Her hair too, come to think of it.
The funny thing about personal space, the invisible bubble around everyone which it would violate the social norm to intrude upon, is that it changes based on context. If you're out on a picnic blanket, you might want some space from other blankets, but if you get on a crowded subway car, it might be expected for your shoes to touch someone else's by accident.
This thought goes through Rachel's brain as she pulls up on that bench, trying to stay on the opposite side of it from the 80s fashion throwback, give her as much personal space can be afforded in this context. She gives the woman a smile of greeting while she takes a moment to breathe, placing one hand on the corner of the bench's spine to balance herself while she stretches out her legs on at a time.
The thirty-ish blonde smiles back at Rachel. "Hi honey," she says in casual greeting, and walks around the back to sit down on her end. She tucks her legs together and bends at the waist to touch her toes, which she manages handily. She'll then start a sitting stretch sequence. "God, it's such a beautiful day!" she continues, clearly in a good mood. She sets her visor aside and lifts a towel off of her neck to daub her forehead. From this close, it's a white towel with 'UNITED AIRLINES' printed in the center, with the airline's logo printed beneath.
A second smile blossoms on Rachel's face at the greeting. She's not immune to the attraction of a moment of warmth, however casual or superficial it might be. "Hi," she answers back, a sliver of white teeth showing between the upward curl of her lips. The stranger's stretches momentarily distract Rachel from her own, her eyes going to the other woman's legs and rear, before she resumes, gripping her calf and folding her leg over itself while she stands on it's opposite.
"Yeah, we haven't had this much sunshine in over a week," she agrees brightly about the weather. Of course, she's from the pacific northewest, rain never bothered her. But a bit of sun is nice. Noticing the logo, she tilts her chin at the towel. "You work for the airline?"
"Yeah, I'm a stewardess," the woman adds brightly, standing up to go back around the bench to do standing stretches. "I'm starting a twenty-six hour flight to Singapore tonight, got to get that exercise in. Ever thought of doing it? Great career, you get to see the world."
"Not for me. I have a hard enough time with customer service as it is," She answers with a smile, "I can't imagine being trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour for over a day with my customers. Nobody would make it off that flight alive," there's a laugh in her voice, but it fades as she directs her attention to the bench for a moment, tilting her head slightly.
Some things occur to you in rapid succession. First, Lincoln Park is the former site of City Cemetery, and is flush with urban legends of ghosts. Some distance away, a well-tanned woman wearing a floppy cloth hat, sunglasses and a lanyard with a badge leads a group towards a bridge in the distance.
The blonde woman laughs at Rachel's jest sincerely. "Oh, you get used to it," she says. When her eyes fall on the group approaching the bridge, she frowns. "One of those ghost tours," she says, sounding mildly disapproving. "Don't you think those are kind of tacky? Real people died, you know?"
Second, it occurs to you that in all the ghost stories you've ever heard with a grain of truth, the restless shade usually haunts some place or object.
She glances down at the bench, cool under her hand despite the sun. It seems like an odd object for a haunting, unless something significant happened here. But that must mean that the woman she's talking to is the one doing the haunting. The out-of-date styling makes sense that way.
At the (presumed) ghost's words, Rachel looks up, gaze finding the tour group. After a moment of considering it, she shrugs. "Maybe. But people deal with death in different ways. And all throughout the history of our species, it's been a subject that... captivated us, for obvious reasons."
She glances over at the woman again, "You could call it tacky, sure. But some people like to say that you live as long as someone remembers you. So if you looked at it like that, couldn't you also say those tours are keeping the memories of the dead alive?"
The blonde's body language suggests discomfort with the subject, but she puts on a disarming stewardess smile all the same. "Oh, they rarely get it right," she says with a chuckle.
It's then that the distant stop concludes, and the group begins heading their way. She's no longer at ease now that they head your way. "Thanks for chatting with me honey. My name's Paula. Maybe I'll see you around, have a great day!" She turns and takes a few steps, but mounts the sidewalk in just the wrong way, straining her ankle. She hisses with pain, leaning over to massage it.
The ghost(?)'s discomfort makes her wish she hadn't said anything. She's fully prepared to let Paula go, hoping she's managed to leave this interaction without acquiring a haunting herself (because that's just what she needs on top of everything else, another complication) when she hears that hiss of pain.
Is it... maybe Paula can't leave the bench? Or is this some remembered pain from the moments preceding her death? Or does Rachel have this all wrong and Paula's not the ghost haunting his bench at all? She steps forward, offering her hand to Paula to help her balance while she favors her foot, "Ouch, that didn't look good."
Paula takes Rachel's arm by the wrist when offered. "Thanks," she says, grimacing through the pain. "I'll take something when I get home," she says, exhaling and slowly testing her weight on the ankle. After a few tentative steps, she grits her teeth and manages to stand fully upright, withdrawing her hand. "Okay, I think I'm good to go. Thank you, honey." With that, she walks off towards downtown.
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