Fission | Ground Zero

☣C H A P T E R | T W O☣

Her feet hit the grassy flooring and, grateful for the grass on her toes, she covered herself behind a corner, observing their next move for a moment with hopes there was still enough there to distract them for a moment. Guilt and despair shudder like electricity through her chest, and she quickly wipes her tears away as fight or flight sinks in.

Just as she had settled on flight, she hears a small *huff* from behind her. Her head whips around and within 3 feet distance from her is a Dread, drool pooling and sizzling the grass away around its face. Her back presses against the wall and she once again covers her mouth, pulling her legs into her chest as far as possible.

Moving with the opposite of grace, the creature begins almost scanning the area, and up close she can see that they, in fact, do not even have room for eyes. The mouth encases the face so wholly that any eyes it could have would have to be on the back of its neck. It also has no room for a nose or mouth, nor ears. The ooze it secretes seems to be almost never-ending– as if its body is made of it entirely and can reproduce it at a rapid pace. It resembles mucus, whilst still retaining liquid fluidity.

Within that moment, a creature behind her bellows and stomps and she whips her head around fast enough to fill her vision with static for a moment. The Dread jerks its head quickly and begins crawling toward the noise of tearing muscles on its spider-like legs and arms. It skulks past her as if it has full spatial awareness, and when it is no longer in view she finally relaxes her limbs.

No longer interested in viewing the monsters (more so wishing they'd disappear, quite frankly), her eyes dart around the wide hall to find the door to the dressing rooms, looking down at her leotard and pulling herself back to her feat. She retains the crouched position, pushing herself forward with tipped toes. Without even a glance behind herself, she sneaks down the back walkway toward where she had been reading the paper, yearning to be in that moment once again as she steps into the open room.

Emily's eyes scanned the room for where her things had been. There was a ripped hole, a slash, through the back of the tent that was covered in the same excretion of tar color. From here, with the wind wafting the smell of the bile toward her, she could just barely make out a hint of metal– mimicking the smell of dried blood. She could hear very distant screaming, drowning out the silence in the suddenly stale room. She could just make out the crates at the center of the room where she had been sitting, and, still dropped and attempting to remain silent, quickly rushed over toward her belongings, passing abandoned stations and a single body– Chiyo, who had crumpled in the corner alongside her pastries.

Fighting vomit, she tries not to look, hot tears now streaming down her face in full force. She doesn't even attempt wiping them away, more concerned with reaching her things; and when she does, she paws the pile of cloth on the floor until she can find her shirt, pants, and a pair of woolen socks. Her buttoned blouse is hard to put on with shaking fingers, but once the sleeves are in place and the buttons are done, she pulls on her pants and sits for a moment to tend to her socks and shoes.

It doesn't take long until she is on her feet again, this time searching the room for any kind of weapon or coat. Her hands toss and pull at clothing items until she finds a blazer, ripping it up to suddenly find a vest, intricately woven and adorned with lace near the bottom hem. She fights a choke and sobs silently into her fist, biting down until she draws blood on her tight, white knuckles. It had been her fathers– probably the last remnants of him. She quickly pulls it on, the crimson red oddly offending her at that current moment, but unwanting of losing what could possibly be all that's left of him. His black velvet fedora –the one he never left the house without– had sat beneath it, and she bit down on her knuckles for a moment, practically gagging into her hands to stop large, startled cries from coming from her mouth, She pulled her fist away as the filling in her chest subsides, fighting buckling knees as she pulls the hat onto her head, her hands trailing along the accent ribbon for a moment, and then the bill before she finally dropped her hand to the side. The smell of his cologne wafted into her face, and she sighed before taking another long breath.