Title: I Spy (with my little eye, dead people?)

Summary: A just turned twenty one year old, bored with her life, decides to investigate the living dead and writes about it in her rose sparkled diary.

Disclaimers/Spoilers/Notes: Nothing belongs to me except Calliope Matthews. This idea's been running through my head for a while, figured I'd give it a try. It's not going to be all diary entries just so you all know.

Entry One:

Dear Diary,

Damn that's cliché, but these things that I see, I gotta tell someone…someone that won't knock me out and cart me to the bin either. You, my dear diary, fall to my safest bet. So here's the kicker: I see dead people.

No, really.

I'm not quoting The Sixth Sense to be funny and when I say dead I mean not so much dead ghosts as live, breathing, and 'oh my god, I had an eyegasm!

I caught one in action the other night, it's the second time, and my opinions have formed that this guy, originally part of the mob, was making up for his err in life as a warrior of love and justice in death.

Okay, now that I've taken a page from Sailor Moon, you may not believe me anymore, but honestly, you're a book, with roses, sparkles, and jewels, even fancy paper, still a book though, no matter how gorgeous and special you are. My sister took great care in picking you out you know. So I suppose getting you to believe me isn't relevant, mostly I'm just venting where it's utterly safe. Could you imagine if someone read this? I'd be a full laughing stock.

Not that I'm very popular at work, school, or anywhere really-you know me, I'm that girl in the corner with the always braided pigtailed black hair and glasses. No, wait, the glasses were right, obscenely big black glasses too, but my hairs not so much black anymore. I accidentally dyed it completely yellow on one of my more ballsy days of trying to rebel from what's considered societal norms or so I keep telling myself, mostly I was just going for a golden look. What I got instead was a Lady Gaga Telephone yellow, so that girl in the corner that used to blend in with the background, isn't me anymore.

Now, I'm a partial laughing stock at work, ergo 'full' used before. I even had one guy 'cock-a-doodle' at me as I was walking towards him. When I stopped and stared, he apologized, saying he thought the sun was rising again, and then he busted his gut with laughter.

Hardy, har, har…not.

These people at work are horrible, but I should probably get back to the main issue, the reason I decided to give you a go.

The specific question really, when going back to the fact that I see dead people, is how do I know these people are dead alive? I can sum it up in six words. Jaime Gallagher, research paper, perfect picture. I did a research paper on the Irish mob in my first year of college, now it's about my third year, and I still don't know what I want to do, but that's beside the point. I keep all of my writings, so when I saw him, well, he's definitely not someone you forget, especially with this dead alive guy rocking a red and black Bugatti, aka rich people car. So I immediately went to my paper stacks and confirmed it. I just need to be sure he's not some look a like relative.

I've made plans. I've gotten a black cat suit with black boots and a cap to shove my shockingly yellow hair under. Operation Find Out If Sexy Guy Is Dead: OFOISGID…okay so I need to work on a new name, but that's not as important. I'm officially a spy, a just turned twenty-one year old, needs to get a life, inexperienced spy.

How cool is that?

Calliope