Chapter Text
Chapter 2
She-Wolf in your Closet
Yang’s not sure how long she’s been staring at the ceiling by the time the rhythmic beeping of her watch starts to go off. She’s laying on her back, hands resting one over the other on her stomach. Her shotgun gets more sleep than she does, tucked in against the pillows to her left like a snoozing partner. One foot had fallen off the side of the bed and was now keeping her grounded in her early morning haze. She barely fit on the mattress to begin with, but laying down was better for her back than sitting.
She presses the button at the side of the watch to silence it. It’s not quite daybreak yet, but a diluted light was starting to creep in through the narrow crack of the curtains. Yang had started watching the room grow less dark about an hour ago. She’s not sure if she truly ever slept. But that’s common for her. At one point in the night, she was startled awake by a hissing of sorts. It sounded like a sprinkler system kicking on, sputtering and bubbling, combined with maybe a crocodile’s bellow. But as she sat there frozen and straining to listen, she never heard the sound recreate itself. That was the trouble of her complicated relationship with sleep. Half-dozing often led to fickle hallucination. It was easier to manage when ghoulish creatures weren’t roaming around in the dark.
Yang takes a slow, deep breath in – stirring her tired muscles awake. It’s a routine she never learned to outgrow. She can hear the ghostly sounds of her bunk mates rustling as they, too, crawl out of bed with exhausted disgruntlement. They make their beds, and so does Yang, though she’s not sure why she bothers in a house that doesn’t belong to her. Shedding her button up, she throws her arms back and forth, stretching and forcing herself more awake. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of coffee – black, like her soul. The ghosts fall into position around her as they begin their set checklists formed during bootcamp. As the room grows lighter, Yang’s about halfway down her own list of reps. Sit-ups, push-ups, crunches, anything she can do without equipment. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, a house might come with something she can do pull-ups on. But in this case, locked in a kids room until the sun comes up, she’ll stick with the basics. Golden light creeps in from the bottom of the windowsill and paints a stripe over Yang’s right eye as she’s planking. She squints, rolling her head slightly to the side from the inconvenience. She tends to zone out the most while holding this position. In the static of her mind, she’s replaying a memorized podcast she used to listen to on the radio. By the time the talk-show hosts get to a brief advertisement break, Yang rolls over onto her side and lets out a heavy exhale. It’s hot, muggy, and with the sun rising as bright as it is directly into her window, Yang has a feeling it’s going to be grossly humid after all that fog they had last night.
She raises her left arm to look at the time. O-six-forty. Safe to leave. She runs her calloused hands down her face. Her skin’s lined with a thin layer of moisture, maybe she should try and wash her face. Well, she should shower, but who knows when she’ll find running water again. For no other reason than mischievous curiosity, she lifts her stained tank-top and gives it a whiff. Christ, she fucking stinks. She’d laugh if the art of smiling hadn’t been lost to her some time ago.
Pushing herself up into a sit, she drags her backpack over and digs into it for liquid soap and a hand-rag. With those bottles of water downstairs, she might be able to make use of the protein packets she’s been carrying around for a while. Collecting her things, Yang opts to leave her button-down off for the sake of airing out her musk. She doesn’t usually wear just her tank top, but she decides it’s too hot and she doesn’t really care. She reaches up for the curtains and tugs them down completely off their rods, causing harsh light to flood the room. The motion disturbs a shimmer of dust particles up into the air like a plume. No sense in leaving this place in the dark for some thing to come and make a nest out of it. If it’s flooded with natural light, grimm are less likely to investigate.
Blake’s door is still closed and no light comes through under the door when Yang leaves her room. She waits a little to see if she can hear any kind of movement on the other side. The only reason why Yang doesn’t think she split in the middle of the night is because the furniture downstairs is still exactly where Yang left it. Yang supposes she’ll get up eventually. She’s probably still recovering from yesterday.
The water splashed against her face is about as refreshing as it possibly can be, considering it’s warmer than room-temperature. The podcast resumes its content after the ad break in her head as she soaks a washcloth with more water to wipe her arms and neck. Ringing out the water into the kitchen sink, she’s aware of the way blonde flyaways stick to her damp forehead. A readjustment of her messy bun is in order, especially after sleeping and working out. Yang’s hair was already obscenely long before the outbreak, but with the additional six months of not going in to get it minimally trimmed has allowed it to get as long as her hips. She shakes it out, running her fingers through her roots and giving it a generous scratch. The talk-show hosts get into the segment about letters sent in from listeners, arguably her favorite part. One letter is sent in from a kid asking about if the end of the world in twenty-twelve was real and if it was actually going to happen. Yang remembers where she was when that date rolled around. While she wasn’t going to voice it, she may or may not have been holding her breath for most of the day wondering when the catastrophic explosions were going to start. But they never did. Funny how maybe a year or so later, it would be a virus that would do most of mankind in. Go figure. She flips her hair forward as she bends over, gathering it all together and twisting it to get it under control. Straightening back up, she slicks back as much as she can with some help of damp hands and ties it into a bun at the base of her neck. That should hold for the next day or so. Yang decides she should look for dry shampoo or baby powder on her next store run. Or maybe just bite the bullet and hack it off with a knife. Yang remains undecided on that front.
At the kitchen table she helped stitch Blake up the night before, she sets up an old hand-held battery powered radio, a bottle of water slowly being diluted with vanilla-flavored protein powder, and a very nutritious breakfast of teriyaki jerky and mixed-berry protein bars. A worn road atlas sits open in the middle of the set up with red pen marks scratched all over various locations.
She flops down into one of the chairs and hunches over the table, slowly working through a piece of jerky as she holds the radio in both hands. She presses her thumb into the on-switch, and a soft drone of static starts to play out of the speakers. She draws the antenna out as far as it’ll go, pointing it up and at different angles until the static is not as drastic. The tuner clicks with each turn of the dial as she pays attention to the numbers of the stations, until finally, the static fades and a clear tone plays out. Three aggressive electronic sounds, and one long drone of a beat. Then, a recording of a robotic man speaks in poor quality.
The National Emergency Alert System has issued the following broadcast as of… zero-eight, twenty-two, two-thousand thirteen…
The recording switches to a low-buzzing sound, and the robotic man is replaced with an exhausted sounding individual reading off his notes.
Under order of the National Guard and consolidated efforts of the United Nations, any and all survivors hearing this message are advised to seek shelter immediately. A Martial Law calling for an immediate lockdown has been issued due to the pandemic of the deadly GRIMM-K12 virus. Safe zones Charleston, Sienna, Jackson, Freeport, Washington, and Belmont are no longer operational. Under no circumstances, do not seek shelter at these locations.
Safe zones Garland, Omaha, Crawford, and Augustine are still fully functional and accepting refugees. If you are hearing this message, these military-officiated safe zones can provide food, shelter, and medical treatment for those not infected by the GRIMM-K12 virus. An antibody has been produced to decrease the likeliness of contraction. There is currently no cure for survivors infected with the virus.
This broadcast will be updated every day at… o-six-hundred hours… with the most up to date information. For coordinates of safe zone Garland…
The broadcast drones out the coordinates of the aforementioned zones in robotic format. Yang taps the edge of her pen on a circled location nestled in the heart of a tangled grid of streets and highways on her map; Augustine. What previously used to be a Naval air base just outside the major city of Charlottesville, now serves as one of the last standing safe zones in the country. Maybe even the world. It’s the only base accessible to where she is. Any other base would be thousands of miles away. Realistically, she’d never make it that far, even if she had others with her. Ever since the first military broadcasts went out, it had always been the goal to head there. Now that she’s alone, her only chance of survival is to get there. She marks down her current location by following the streets of her last marker to, roughly, where she ended up camping for the night. Still a long way to go. At least several days by foot. Limiting herself to only traveling within a certain time frame a day cuts her efficiency in half. She sighs, leaning her face into her palm as she plucks another piece of jerky from the bag.
The broadcast loops to the beginning of its cycle, bleating its warning sounds before the message starts again. Yang switches the radio off to save herself the annoying distraction and the battery. At least Augustine is still surviving in all this chaos. It’s always better to start off the day with some semblance of hope and relief.
Above her, the sound of a door opening draws Yang’s attention up, followed by slow footsteps. They make their way down the hallway and towards the stairs. Her lilac gaze drifts over to the hallway where they end, and sees Blake cautiously standing there by the railing. One ear swivels behind her like she’s listening for danger, while the other is trained at Yang as she returns her stare. From the dark of the windowless hallway, it’s ominous how bright her eyes are – locking onto Yang with constricted pupils and an expressionless face. Maybe Yang’s been out in the sticks too long, but this woman has a certain ferality to her that seems misplaced on a person. Or maybe Yang’s being slightly racist by accident. She internally swats away the thought.
“Morning.” Yang greets, voice deep from being used for the first time. Blake doesn’t reply, instead only offering an averted gaze and a forced relaxing of her shoulders. Well, good morning to you too, then, Yang thinks to herself. She approaches the kitchen and her honey-golden stare loses its sheen in the light. She looks like she didn’t sleep a fucking wink. Dark circles still encompass her eyes – her expression, which Yang can now see more clearly, is stuck in a permanent scowl. If anyone needs a hot cup of coffee, it’s Blake. Just inject it right into her veins at that point. She only makes it to the doorway before pausing again, eyes never leaving Yang at the table. She’s staring at her like she half-expects Yang to reach for her shotgun and shoot her. Why? Yang’s expression twists, unsure why she’s a lot more suspiciously hostile of her than she was the day before. Giving Blake a weird face, she looks back down at her map and puts the small piece of jerky she was holding into her mouth. “Oookay then.”
“...Morning.” She finally speaks up, sounding just as drained as she looks. Yang looks up at her again, this time catching how she shrinks into herself like she feels bad for being hostile.
“You can come in, you know. I won’t bite.” Yang waves her hand in her general direction like a sarcastic invitation. It flops down on the table with a thump, her cheek resuming its resting position into her other palm. She has half a mind to ask her if she slept at all, but ultimately decides she doesn’t care enough to know. Blake hesitates, but eventually walks in, and Yang looks down pretending to focus on finishing her breakfast so that it gives Blake some peace of mind. She feels like she’s coaxing out a terrified animal from hiding under a house. This shouldn’t be as complicated as it is. Yang listens to her take a couple of water bottles from the pack, and having a similar thought process as Yang, starts soaking a lone dish rag to start rinsing off some of the crud from her face.
Yang takes the opportunity while she presses into her eyes to take a look at her waist. The once gray fabric is now permanently stained in a blackish red, but it’s dry now. No fresh blood. That’s a good sign.
“How’s it holding up?” Yang asks, nodding to her hip for emphasis. Blake’s ear swivels in her direction, and she looks down at her waist as she finishes patting her neck dry.
“It’s holding firm,” Blake replies. She pauses in her drying like a thought crosses her mind. “...Thank you again. For helping me, I mean.”
“It’s no problem.”
An awkward silence follows. Yang’s not really sure where to look. She can’t keep staring at her, but there’s nothing of particular interest down on the map either. Lilac eyes drift to it anyway, trying to give herself something to do. Blake doesn’t seem to know what else to do either. She stands there stiffly for a few moments, arms close to her sides. She’s still a good four or five feet away from Yang. Cautious. She’s nervous. What more can Yang do to get her to relax? Her own tension is putting Yang on edge. It’s like she’s experiencing second-hand anxiety.
Clearing her throat, she looks up over to the living room where a good stockpile of supplies are compiled. “Feel free to take your pick from that pile over there, I guess. You must be hungry.”
As if the suggestion is enough to kick-start something inside her brain, Blake’s eyes dart over to the area in question and the tension in the room immediately shifts. Maybe all that anxiety she was extruding was simply just hunger. She didn’t emerge with the peace offering Yang had given her the night before, so maybe she’s more hungry than either of them realized. Without saying anything, Yang watches out of the corner of her eye as Blake heads over to the living room to peruse her options. It’s then that she catches a glimpse of the gun holster strapped to her lower back. Not sure why she keeps it there, someone could grab it from behind. Rookie mistake. Not like Yang would actually go for it, but still. She looks back down to the map and thinks proactively about planning out the day’s route. She could follow the highway to the next city, but it might be slower to traverse if there’s a car pileup. She may not make it in time by nightfall. There’s an off-road trail that cuts through the woods, that might be better. But it’s more shade and wilderness, and grimm aren’t the only thing wandering around out there. Hiking still requires caution during an apocalypse.
Blake sits down across from her in the farthest seat possible. She sets down a bag of trailmix and an unopened can of pineapple. Using the knife that was tucked into her boot, Blake punctures a hole into the lid and carves an opening, peeling it back wide enough to get into. Upon closer inspection, Yang can see it’s an army knife. She wonders where or whom she got that from.
Instead of making the air between them stiff again, Yang leaves her alone to eat and resumes drawing a faint line down the desired path to take. Ah, but she could cut across the fields and gamble she’ll find another farm house. That might be easier, but not a guarantee… She frowns, unsure of how she wants to go about it.
“Where’re you heading?” Blake asks suddenly. Yang looks up, and she’s paused with her fingers tucked halfway into the can of pineapple. She’s looking at the map that Yang’s hunched over, so Yang straightens up and turns the map around and points to the circled base.
“There’s a military base that’s been sending out daily radio broadcasts about being a safe zone.”
“You really think it hasn’t been overrun?”
“The broadcast gets updated every morning with the current date. Besides, they wouldn’t be able to keep it running if someone wasn’t actively resetting it at midnight. They’re meant to go off the air as a precautionary measure should anything ever happen.”
“I see.” Blake looks over the map with thoughtful eyes. Yang’s not sure if Blake entirely believes it, despite the proof being laid out as plainly as it can be. She doesn’t have to. It’s Yang’s personal plan of action, not Blake’s. So long as Yang checks the broadcast every morning, it’s good enough for Yang to keep heading toward it. “I didn’t think there were any safe zones left. Not since Sienna went dark,” Blake comments. Yang perks up at the revelation, and not in a good way.
“Were you there?”
Blake nods, a hand coming to rub her upper left arm over the loose fabric of her sweater. “I wasn’t there for very long. We got there right before they breached the walls.”
Sienna was one of the first safe zones to go. It was inevitable due to its location in a highly populated metropolitan area. There was no way they could’ve properly fortified their walls in time. Yang only feels it’s unfortunate for Blake, and nothing more.
“Is that what happened to your group?”
Blake shakes her head. “No. It was a miracle we all got out together.”
“...Okay but then what?”
The Faunus woman frowns, looking at her with a hint of defensiveness. “What do you mean?”
“Well obviously they’re not here now. What happened to them?” Yang lost her ability to approach questions sensitively ages ago. If she wants to know something, she’ll just outright ask. No point in pussyfooting around.
Blake is hesitant to respond, but eventually caves upon realizing Yang isn’t going to stop staring at her until she gives her an answer. “I got left behind, alright? Pushed off the ladder as we were running away from a pack of those things. I got away, obviously. But I never saw them again after that.” Blake doesn’t maintain eye contact with her after that. It must still be a sore topic for the other woman. Yang understands, to an extent.
“Wow. They seem nice,” Yang says flatly. Blake’s ears flatten, and she fixes her with a frigid yellow stare.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Sorry.” She offers her hands up in repent. Blake’s ears relax, if only by a fraction. “How long have you been out here by yourself?” she asks instead, steering the conversation away from callous teasing.
Blake thinks to herself for a moment, trying to piece together a timeline. “Four months, maybe. I don’t know. I lost track after a while.”
“And you’ve just been, what, roughin’ it out in the woods this whole time?”
She shrugs, setting her half-eaten can of pineapple aside and allows her hands to settle in her lap. “More or less.”
“How in the fuck are you not dead yet?” Yang can’t help but scoff. She didn’t really put a whole lot of effort into trying to run her responses through a sensitivity filter, despite making a mental note to do so from a few seconds prior. At least this time, Blake doesn’t seem as offended as before.
“Sheer dumb luck, I suppose.” A smile of sarcasm breaches the forever scowl on her narrow face.
“I suppose,” Yang echos, shaking her head. She looks back down to her map, rotating it back to face her properly. She’s digging into her pocket to pull out a compass to check their direction when Blake suddenly asks:
“What are the odds that I can go with you? To Augustine.”
When Yang looks up again, Blake’s nodding at the map, arms crossed and ears folded into a curious tilt. Yang’s movements slow. She’s considering all possible outcomes should she let this woman come with her under the span of three seconds.
“Depends on if you’re going to slow me down or not,” is how she decides to reply. She doesn’t care if the expression she makes is carelessly stoic. She’s not intending to be hospitable at the moment. They’re still strangers, acquaintances at best. Good, trustworthy people are hard to come by, these days. Yang can’t be too cautious.
“Well if I do, just push me off a ladder.”
Yang’s jaw drops slightly, a snort forcefully leaving her before she can contain it. She hasn’t heard that kind of shit humor since boot camp. “ Jesus. ”
While charmed for a moment, Blake winces and resumes rubbing her upper arm. “Sorry. I’ll tone it down. I haven’t talked to another person in a while,” she admits. It doesn’t click with Yang what she said until a few seconds pass. Her attention keeps being drawn to the way Blake’s rubbing her arm. Is she uncomfortable or something?
“Me either,” Yang replies with a shrug. It’s half-committed, not really meaning anything by it as she starts folding up her map to tuck it into the front pocket of her backpack. Blake watches her with a creased brow, ears sliding back out of uncertainty as she packs up her things without giving her an answer. Those cat ears are a dead giveaway to her feelings, even if her face says otherwise.
After running all the possible outcomes of letting her come with Yang, she ultimately decides there isn’t any good reason to not let her. She’s a survivor, like Yang, and they have a common goal. They’re heading to the same place, anyway. Maybe Blake might make things easier for her with her dependability. There also may be a part of Yang that still demands her to acknowledge her duty to civilians who aren’t as equipped as she is to handle this sort of thing. But she won’t openly admit that that part hasn’t been snuffed out from her forced retirement all those years ago.
“You can come, so long as you can pull your own weight. If we’re going to stand any chance of making it there, we have to be disciplined enough to be strict about efficiency. This isn’t a road trip amongst friends. We’re not making pit stops unless we have to.” She stands from her seat and takes the watery protein shake from the table, giving it a couple of shakes before opening it. She pauses to look Blake in the eye to make sure she understands Yang isn’t fooling around with her terms.
Upon making eye contact, Blake straightens up, giving a nod. “Okay.”
Yang looks at her a moment longer if only to cement her emphasis before she resumes her multitasking. Yang collects a few more water bottles for her backpack and takes a drink of the protein shake. A lukewarm powdery substance slides down her throat that reminds her of crushed up Flintstone vitamins that had sat in her father’s truck for too long in the dead of June. She can’t help the involuntary “ugh” that chokes out of her as she forces herself to swallow it. Maybe it’d be better if she just ate the powder raw next time. “I’d prefer if we get out of here within the next ten minutes or so, so. Whatever you want to bring with you, go see if there’s a bag you can swipe. I’m only carrying what I need. Sharing supplies last night was a one time thing. You’re on your own for that.” She nods towards the pile again in the living room, and Blake takes that as an initiative to get up and follow Yang’s suggestion. Yang’s not going to be responsible for anyone other than herself. Blake’s a grown woman, she should be more than capable.
“...Would it be foul to make a ‘sir, yessir’ joke here?” Blake comments with a cautious smile. It’s like she’s testing the waters of Yang’s sociability. Yang just looks at her flatly. Blake’s smile falters, though based on the glow in her eyes, she’s still too amused with herself to be fully remorseful. “Got it. Understood. Sorry.” She looks down and doesn’t say anything else, grabbing whatever she deems necessary and stuffs it into a spare backpack.
“How have you managed so long without carrying supplies?” Yang asks. She had nothing on her when she found her in the pharmacy. Just her gun and a knife. Surely she wasn’t surviving solely on that, and for four months alone, no less.
Blake shucks her backpack onto her shoulders and adjusts her holster around her waist, ensuring the strap was still lodged tight.
“I did have a pack, but I wasn’t able to get to it when I fell and impaled myself. It was way out of reach with the distance I fell. I had no choice but to abandon it. No point in going back for it now. There wasn’t anything in there that’s irreplaceable.” She pulls the glock out of its glove and checks the magazine clip. She handles the firearm with a grace that Yang should be concerned about, but she’s more impressed by the maneuvering, if anything. Once satisfied with herself and gun returned to its holster, she looks over to Yang with alert ears, waiting for her to take the lead.
“Fair enough.” Yang reaches her arms above her head in one last stretch to chase away the last of the night’s stiffness. They had a long day of travel ahead, and Yang needs all the energy she can get. She’s well aware of the way Blake’s focus is trained on her intently as she does, particularly her arms as she flexes. When lilac eyes look directly into amber, she can physically see the moment Blake’s irises constrict into slits and she looks away, ears flat. She can’t tell if she’s experiencing discomfort or embarrassment. Yang wouldn’t consider herself unattractive, but she is beefier than most. Maybe it’s just off putting for someone like Blake.
“Aren’t you hot?” Yang asks. She’s referring to the jacket that Blake’s kept on this entire time, and is currently fidgeting with like she isn’t sure if she wants it on or off. Like an involuntary reaction, Blake draws her arms across herself and intently holds her left, expression unreadable.
“I’m fine like this.” She replies stiffly.
Are you sure? Yang wants to ask. But daylight is burning, and they don’t really have time for this. “Suit yourself. It’s gonna be humid today, though. Don’t wanna give yourself heatstroke.”
“I’m aware. Thanks for the advice.”
Yang knows a stand-off when she sees one. The pressure in the air settles between them thickly like the fog from the night before. Tension. Distrust. Yang’s swiftly reminded how little she knows about this woman, and how on edge she may be for the duration of the trip. While it annoys her to be met with so much friction, Yang ultimately decides it’s not a battle she wishes to fight, so she backs off. Raising her hands again in silence, she turns away, walking past her to collect her shotgun.
Slinging it over her shoulder, she checks her watch for good measure before pausing in front of the furniture she had wedged in front of the door the night before.
“Let’s go.”
***
The most jarring thing about living day to day in the aftermath of a global economic collapse is the fact that life goes on. Not in the sense of mankind, but rather, what existed before and what will always be long after they’re gone. The way that in just six months time, mother nature threads her roots like embroidery over the rugged, ruined canvas that is her surface. Weeds, vines, and shrubs stretch from the confines of the sides of the road to claim their victims – abandoned cars left on the highway to suffer from rust. The windows that remain intact are tinted more by dust than chemical. Yang doesn’t care to wipe them away in the event she ends up seeing a rotted face of someone passed. She tends to develop tunnel vision when walking along crowded highways.
She decided to take the main interstate down for as far as they can. If congestion gets too bad, they could detour to the woods and rely on direction for the nearest town. Charlottesville was the only major city for miles. Outside of its city limits was nothing but farmland, suburbia, and sparse little towns that maybe only housed a few thousand people or so. Places one is born in, not places one moves to. The interstate and country roads connected them all, but it wasn’t always wise to stick to them. They serve as landmarks, if anything.
Blake follows in tow without saying much at first. She surprisingly keeps up with Yang much faster than the day before as well. She must’ve gotten more rest than Yang thought.
She hoists herself onto the hood of a catty corner Cadillac blocking their path to get past it. She looks over to see if Blake needs help getting up, but Yang finds her paused with her hands on the hood mid-lift, looking off to her right. Yang takes notice of how her cat ears are rod straight and alert, swiveling slightly as she listens. Following her line of sight, Yang looks to the trees, an unnerving feeling forcing her to crouch slightly.
“What is it?” she asks, voice low. Squinting, Yang tries to see if there was anything she could spy. All she can make out is just overgrown pine and thistle brush. A breeze ruffles the foliage and brings forth a stale scent of rusted metal, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just dreary, ominous quiet.
Blake’s torn cat ear quivers, though she seems unsure of herself. “...I don’t know,” she finally murmurs in response. Yang’s not sure if she should take out her shotgun or not. “It’s probably nothing. I don’t like being out in the open like this. Not much for cover.” She lets out a breath Yang didn’t realize Blake was holding. She looks behind them in the direction that they came from, ears folded with uncertainty. Yang wishes she would just outright admit she doesn’t agree with Yang’s choice of direction instead of passively expressing her lack of faith.
“Following the interstate is the fastest way to the next town. We’d have a harder time cutting through the woods without knowing what kind of terrain is in there. Or worse.” Yang hops off the hood of the Cadillac with a heavy landing. She turns to face the other woman who’s still on the other side of the car.
“It’s how I’ve managed to survive this long. People follow the main roads. Animals are less dangerous during the day, anyway.” Blake folds her arms.
“ We’re people,” Yang replies with a frown. There’s a weird moment of dissonance between them that Yang’s not really sure what to make of. There’s gears turning behind those amber eyes, that much Yang can see.
“I’m just saying… I know my way around navigating the woods. I could probably save us some time if we–”
“You can go that way if you want. Nobody’s stopping you from following me.”
Blake’s ears go flat, that eternal scowl branding itself back onto her pretty face. Yang finds she’s not able to appreciate it at the moment when her leadership and sense of direction is being challenged. Without waiting for Blake to reply, Yang presses onward, as if to prove her point that she won’t wait for Blake. She hears the hood of the car groan under Blake’s weight as she slides off and follows anyway. Just as I thought.
Yang doesn’t slow her pace to allow Blake to catch up. She hears Blake quicken her steps behind her until she’s matching her speed at her side. She huffs, looking at her directly as Yang looks back out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been in a group, hasn’t it?” Her tone’s aimed. She’s determined to crack Yang like a walnut without a cracker. Good luck, beautiful.
“Never was in one,” Yang replies simply. She raises her arms carefully as she walks in between two side-by-side sedans, her hips barely making it through. Blake’s not even going to attempt squeezing through that space. She goes around instead.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m not lying. It was just me and my sister from the start. We didn’t need a group. Between the two of us, we could take care of ourselves.”
She pauses. Yang already knows the assumptions Blake is making without even having to look at her face. She clenches her jaw in an attempt to curb her bristling before it unreasonably snaps. “...What happened to her?” Blake asks carefully.
Yang doesn’t want to talk about this. But there’s no reason not to talk about it, either. Logic and useless emotion engage in a battle of teeth in claws inside her head. Be rational. She hasn’t actually done anything to explicitly harm you. She’s just asking a question any normal person would ask. “...We got separated. The plan was always to head to Augustine no matter what, so that’s why I’d rather prioritize efficiency based on what I know, instead of taking risks that may delay me getting there.” She stops walking and turns to fix Blake with an implied look. It stops Blake a few feet from Yang, and they stand there in the middle of the pile up looking at each other for what feels like one too many heartbeats. Either Blake chooses to ignore it, or she misses the point Yang was implying entirely.
“How long ago did you get separated?” Blake’s hand is half raised and curled into a loose fist, thumb rubbing into the curve of her index finger. It’s like she’s treading very carefully on eggshells, but treading all the same. Yang struggles to fight the defensiveness rising in her chest like a pending storm.
“Three weeks ago.”
Blake doesn’t say anything, but her silence is so loud that it pricks Yang wrong. She frowns, looking her in the eye when she says her next words. “She’s fine. She’s on her way to Augustine like we planned. I know my sister. I raised her to be more than capable of fending for herself.” Yang won’t accept any other reality where Ruby isn’t on her way to Augustine right now. She won’t. She has to be there waiting on her. She has to be.
Another breeze shifts between them, causing some of Blake’s short hair to flow against her cheek. It’s not pity that causes her irises to soften to discs, but sympathy. The way she looks at Yang is calming, but instead of feeling relieved, Yang just feels bad for getting worked up in the first place. She takes a steady breath, eyes falling away from her amber stare. It’s alarmingly vulnerable in the eyes of such a stranger and she hates it.
After a while, Blake breaks the tense silence. “What’s her name?” she asks. It’s far more gentler than Yang feels she deserves.
“Ruby.”
Blake tucks the strands of her hair that were blowing in her face away and behind one of her human ears. “Were you guys from around here?”
Yang shakes her head. “No, we’re from Sorrento.” She starts to turn to resume walking, hoping that Blake won’t insist on keeping the tone of their talk serious by standing still. Luckily, she falls beside her as she watches where she steps. Yang internally sighs with relief. At least they can keep moving and not dwell on things, figuratively and literally.
“That’s far. You walked all that way?” Blake tilts her head, eyes wide.
Yang shrugs, pulling on the strap of her pack and shotgun so they’re not digging into her bare shoulders. “More or less. My dad had a homestead out there. We went on the move looking for something safer about four months ago, and it wasn’t long before we got separated that we heard the broadcast about Augustine. That’s when we started making an effort to go straight there.”
“I see.” Blake looks down to the ground again. Perhaps this is Yang’s salvation moment where she finally gets some peace and quiet from their talking and turbulent thoughts.
“What branch of the military were you?”
Perhaps not.
“Why do you want to know?” Yang asks. She’s looking at her with a sideways glance now, not out of hostility but more out of confused curiosity. Blake looks up to her with hooded eyes, blinking twice. God, she’s gorgeous.
“It’s only fair I get to ask a few questions about you since you asked about me this morning.”
Yang doesn’t buy that for a second. But whatever her reasoning may be, Yang can’t think of any way that Blake could somehow weaponize the knowledge of Yang’s military experience. She supposes it’s harmless. She’s only minorly inconvenienced that she has to apply her focus to something other than walking, for once.
“Navy. Petty officer first class.”
Curiosity shimmers like a ripple over the surface of a pond in Blake’s eyes. “What did you do?”
Yang clears her throat and looks forward. The look of interest caught her off guard. Suddenly she’s feeling hot and not because of the weather. “I was a missile tech for six years,” she says simply. Yang’s tone is awkwardly short, like she cut herself off mid-sentence. She doesn’t bother to give her more context than that, and after a long and very stiff silence, Blake realizes that’s all she’s getting.
“Oh– Well. Um. Obligatory ‘thank you for your service’ , I guess.” She pantomimes this slightly offensive salute, and Yang’s lips spread into a lopsided grin that she has no control over. The snicker that follows can’t be helped. Not only was it clear that Blake was someone that didn’t give a shit about the military, but the way she randomly exerts these tiny bouts of personality in between her brooding is… dorky. Yang likes it.
The tips of Blake’s cat ears quiver at the sound. “So you can laugh.”
“Only if it’s funny.” Yang’s smile remains, but her tone sounds contrastingly pouty. Blake’s mouth drops open slightly to feign offense, but she closes her eyes and submits to the truth of the matter without much of a fuss.
“Sorry, I’m a bit rusty. I’ll work on it.”
Yang huffs, eyes rolling to the sky before looking back forward. Talking to Blake isn’t so bad. The little momentary outburst of attitude she had before was rather uncalled for. Guilt scratches at her like a couple of mosquitos she can’t seem to get rid of. She raises her hand to the back of her neck, scratching at it lightly. Sweat and sheepishness cling to her from the heat. She should say something… But what? Sorry for being such a stiff dick?
“I’m, um–”
Blake looks at her immediately. It makes Yang deliberately not look at those shimmering eyes of hers.
“...Not used to talking . I’m sorry I’m not much for conversation.” Her brows pinch. She’s not sure what’s showing on Blake’s face because she refuses to look at it. All she can tell from the corner of her eye is she watches her for a moment before looking forward at the stretch of weed-infested, crumbling highway before them.
“I don’t mind. Thank you for humoring me. We can be quiet now.”
Yang huffs again in both relief and humility. “Thank you.”
***
They go the rest of the afternoon without exchanging a word. Blake just walks slightly behind Yang, but just because she’s not in her direct line of sight doesn’t mean that Yang’s not painfully aware she’s there the whole time they trek. By early evening, a fork in the highway leading to two different directions of a county road presents Yang with a choice. Blake, brave as she is, tosses out the option again of letting her lead them straight through the woods to the next junction. After spending a good five minutes studying her map and quietly trying to find literally any other back-road that would lead them through, Yang has no other option but to admit that Blake’s way would be most efficient if they just cut through. The county road makes a wide cut west before it gets back on track. The stretch of land before them was private property, or well, it used to be.
They avoid heavily dense areas and stick to natural paths forged by local wildlife. Blake’s ears never stop twitching to every little sound, and Yang can’t help but stare at them from behind for way longer than she should now that she’s taking the lead. She wonders if they’re soft to the touch. While her ears were working overtime, her overall demeanor seems to relax now under the shade and cover of natural foliage. Yang supposes she can understand. More places to hide, less of a chance of running into hostile survivors. But it still isn’t Yang’s strongest suit. She knows man-made structures. She just hopes her new travel companion isn’t leading her right into a trap of some kind.
Yang doesn’t allow herself to take detours. But the one Blake suggests they make is actually useful. They find themselves taking a short break beside a freshwater stream. Not deep enough to submerge in, and only a couple feet wide, but enough to cool off and to refill their containers before pressing on. Blake had heard it along the way long before Yang could. She wonders what else she’s able to sense that Yang can’t.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. It was a good call going this way.” Yang crouches beside the stream and shucks off her backpack and shotgun. The first thing she does is dip both hands into the water – warmer than she’d like, but it's August and the water is shallow. It’s not going to be ice cold or anything. She gathers a generous amount into her palms and splashes it onto her face, specifically her forehead. She was starting to feel the grime building up from sweat an hour ago.
Blake kneels down and does something similar, only she focuses on her forearms first. “Thanks. Like I said, I know the woods.”
With the angle the sun sits in the sky, vibrant scarlet gold light filters in between the pines and turns the surface of the stream glittery. Yang has to lean slightly to get out of the directness of it. Blake starts looking into her bag for an empty bottle of water to start filling it.
“Were you into camping or something?” Yang asks. She’s grateful to rest her feet for a while, but she won’t let the extra praise go to Blake’s head. She’s already smug enough from Yang’s earlier admittance. That hooded expression she wears ain’t hiding a damn thing.
She makes this ha-ha sound as she laughs, and Yang catches a glimpse of her slight fangs again when she smiles. She’s so… something to look at. She’s not strange, because that would imply something negative. Fascinating or intriguing might be better words. Yang’s never been one to apply much thought to poetry, so whatever this admiring feeling is, it’s positive. She likes looking. “Not at all. I’m from downtown Valentine.”
Yang chokes a little on a sip of water from her bottle. “Oh that’s super city-scape.”
“Yeah. I had to figure out how to survive out here fast. I picked up survival skills from the group I was in. We all had roles to play. We relied on each other to do our parts. Mine was scouting.” She shifts to sit on her knees as she dips her hands into the water to splash some on her neck. The water soaks into the rim of her tank top, darkening the color almost black. She rubs her throat and lingers on her left nape, pressing into her shoulder with eyes shut and expression languid. Her head tilts slightly from the pressure, worn and relishing in their temporary break. Heat flushes Yang’s cheeks the second she becomes self-aware of how long she’s been watching Blake massage her shoulder. Her eyes snap down to her half-filled water bottle and sticks it back into the stream to redirect whatever direction her thoughts were going.
“I see,” Yang replies, clearing her throat.
She wants to ask why she ended up getting sacrificed if her group was such a ‘close-knit’ unit. Her gaze innocently slides over to catch the action of Blake ringing out the section of her tank top that had the most blood stain on it. With it raised, it exposes a slender strip of her tanned midriff. Yang stalls a little. Where a marred, butchered stitch job should be is nothing more than a tender bruise. Puckered at best. The edges of it were already solid and looked far more healed than it should’ve been for how deep it was not even twenty-four hours ago. Yang frowns.
She doesn’t get a good look at it enough to pass judgment entirely before Blake is pulling her tank top down over her hips. Yang looks up to meet Blake’s questioning stare, and she resigns to look back at the stream to top off her bottle. Neither of them say anything about it. But it was definitely worth noticing, considering how the air between them just got a whole lot more staticy.
A deep, rolling grumble sounds off in the distance overhead. It’s full of bass and angry, but due to the distance, not as violent as it could’ve been. But it will be. The thunder causes them both to look up, Blake’s ears pointed and angled in the direction of the sound. Beyond the canopy of the pines, Yang can see the sharp contrast of the colors of the sky directly above them and how a black shelf is approaching from the south. Yang looks at her watch. They still have a couple hours of travel time, but the storm complicates things. It depends on how intense it is… Another roll of thunder squashes the consideration of traveling through it in an instant. She rolls her eyes and pinches the space between them with her thumb and index finger.
“We should keep moving. That storm’s not far off. I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of it,” Blake voices before Yang can say anything. She opens her eyes to see the other woman pushing to her feet, dusting off the dirt from her knees in the process. She can see the tension forming along her shoulders with the way her ears are making a sharp V-shape. She’d tease her about being afraid to get wet if they were closer, but something about her sudden need to move puts Yang off. Without saying anything, she tightens the caps on her bottles and puts them back into her pack.
***
Another roll of thunder follows its predecessor as a gust of wind collects from beyond the pines. It runs its sulfuric fingers through their needles and attempts to shove both Blake and Yang from behind, though they’re capable of withstanding the push. With the wind comes the strong scent of rain, and the sudden burst manages to shake a few fat droplets from the clouds above. They’re overly endowed and ready to spill at any moment. Yang wipes away another raindrop from her cheek. Every single one of her senses is demanding she take cover from the impending storm. Not even someone as steely as she is immune to the flinch that occurs when a flash of white lightning strikes across the sky like a warning. Another thunder follows. It grows closer by the minute.
The two stand on the outskirts of an abandoned property, if Yang would even call it that. It’s more like an old shack. Its gaping walls and leaning foundation have not known residence since long before the outbreak. The fence surrounding the property barely remains intact. Planks have fallen and disappeared to the overgrown grass, easy to step over. Beside the broken porch steps are a pair of sturdy cellar doors. Yang starts the trek up the hill towards it, ducking slightly as another gust of wind assaults her from the front this time. Blake does not follow.
“We still have time before the sun sets. I’m not really sure this place can stand a storm like this…” While her words are tentative and full of anxiety, Blake has to speak loud in order to be heard over this incessant wind. Yang stops and looks over her shoulder.
“This place has a cellar, it’s designed to withstand a tornado. It’ll be fine. We don’t know how long this fucking storm is going to be, and I have no idea how far the next town is. It’d be stupid to try and press on.”
Another flash of lighting, this time it’s close enough to be heard mere seconds after the light. To hell with this. Yang leaves her there at the bottom of the hill as she makes her way over to the cellar doors.
They’re tattered and worn, and the latch on the outside is rusted to hell. But unlike the main floor, they’re reinforced with wide planks and look newer than the side-paneling used on the now-rotting house. See? Sturdy. Yang shucks off her shotgun and holds it with her left. She uses her right to grab hold of the door and fights to get it open against the wind. Luckily, Blake’s come to her senses and gives Yang the extra hand at prying them wide. The hinges groan from use for the first time in ages, falling heavily to the sides to reveal a short staircase leading down into darkness. Yang looks to Blake and exchanges a glance. It’s obvious Blake would literally do anything else but go in, but she reaches behind her for her gun and flips off the safety anyway. Yang readies her shotgun at the front, and takes the lead one slow step at a time.
Her descent is slow, despite the rapid encouragement of mother nature and her impending wrath. Rain starts to patter against her back, but Yang won’t be rushed. She lifts her barrel and reaches forward to flip the flashlight dial on, aiming immediately for what she believes are the corners. Sometimes basements are an exact mapping of a house, just underneath it. This one, however, seems to be a later addition to the house. The square footage wasn’t large, and the only way in or out was through the cellar doors the two had just descended from. Blake comes up to fill her blind spot, Glock aimed and ears alert. The floor, walls, and ceiling were made entirely of concrete. Due to the location of the house on a hill, the north-facing wall had two barred windows no bigger than five inches wide, purely existing for ventilation and nothing more. DIY storage shelves jut out from either wall, creating an aisle way of sorts directly down the middle. Thick cobwebs cover old canisters and paint buckets that were so old, the text on the labels had worn away from time.
The rain continues to fall, beyond the open cellar doors, wind moaning slightly through the many openings of the rotted wood above ground. But apart from that, and the slow, careful tiptoes of Blake and Yang’s footsteps, she hears no wheezing, growling, or any indication that they’re not alone down here.
Yang aims her light down every section of shelving, until she hears Blake from the back of the room near the water heater. “Clear.”
She draws her shotgun back up, the light illuminating exposed hooks and wires running along the ceiling. There’s no way electricity still runs in this place, but just in case… Yang gives a tug on a nearby low-hanging chain. It clicks, but nothing happens. Worth a shot.
It’s not ideal. But like Yang said before, it’ll do for the night. The storm worsens overhead, so much so that the cellar was almost impossible to see the more the sky turns black with seasonal rage. Setting her gun beside the railing, she walks a few steps upward and grabs the inside handles of the cellar doors. With tremendous force and a loud grunt, she pulls them shut, one after the other, and drags the iron latch against ancient bearings until it locks in place. Another roll of thunder growls from beyond like a looming beast unable to reach its prey. The doors aren’t waterproof, and a steady drip, drip, drip echoes against the stone walls the more the storm leaks in. They’re in for a pretty miserable night, but it’s dryer in the dark, dank cellar than it is under some tree in the woods out in the open.
Carefully making her way back down, Yang reaches into the side-pocket of her backpack and digs out her flashlight. Clicking it on, a much brighter light washes over the space, casting ominous black shadows in unintelligible shapes on the walls depending on what she aimed at. She finds Blake backed into the corner to her right, hands white-knuckling a strap of her backpack. Her pupils constrict at the light, and she flinches.
“...You good?” Yang asks. Though she tries her best to conceal it, Yang can visibly see the way Blake’s chest is rising and falling in rapid succession. She’s clenching her jaw hard enough to the point where Yang notices the tension in her temple. Stressed doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Her ears don’t perk at the question. Instead, only her eyes shift quickly over to Yang before looking down at the ground again. She swallows, tightening her grip on her backpack. “...I, uh…” Her eyes dart around, looking into the far reaches of the cellar before looking at the doors Yang just closed. Yang’s not sure how much better she can see in the dark, but to Yang, the only thing she’s capable of seeing is wherever her flashlight touches. “I’m not… comfortable sharing a space like this.”
“Are you claustrophobic or something?” Yang angles the flashlight lower so she’s not flash-banging her in the eyes. She takes the opportunity to take off her backpack and set it down against the wall. Blake watches her do it intensely like a terrified cornered animal.
“Not necessarily.”
It takes a few moments for Yang to consider what she actually means. Scoffing, she rolls her eyes upon realizing the source of her discomfort. Trust. “ Relax. I don’t exactly trust you either. But we’re just gonna have to deal with it. Alright? We can’t do shit with this storm going on anyway. I’m not gonna do anything to you in your sleep.”
Yang meant it as a light-hearted joke, but Blake doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t do anything except stare at the cellar doors for a long minute before eventually looking down at the ground. It’s like it’s taking all of her self control to keep whatever panic she’s experiencing confined. Yang’s not really sure what to do or say that’ll help ease her tensions. Her knee jerk reaction is to say suck it up, but she has an inkling of a feeling that’s not the most proactive thing to say. The steady beeping of her watch makes her drop the light momentarily to look at her watch. Too late now. Now they really were stuck down there until daylight. Silencing it, she aims the light slightly higher to see that Blake’s wrapped her arms around herself with back pressed against the wall to lower herself into a sit. She doesn’t look at Yang, instead she maintains her stare at the ground with an expression Yang can’t read. She brings her knees to her chest and remains defeatedly silent. Perhaps this is her way of coping. Yang decides she’ll leave her alone.
“I’m going to take a look around and see if I can find a lantern or something.”
Yang gets no response. She doesn’t wait around for one, and starts to head further into the cellar to peruse the shelves. The storm outside rages on, the contents of the clouds erupting onto the surface world below in a cataclysmic tempest. It shakes the house above them with each rattling thunder. The bolts have to be striking the nearby fields. Yang hasn’t experienced a storm like this since her father’s homestead. Each time the lightning hits, white light bathes in briefly through the narrow windows on the north facing wall. Roots and weeds scrape against the glass, all the confirmation Yang needs that probably neither Blake or Yang are going to get any reasonable sleep tonight.
She makes her way down closer to the water heater, aiming the flashlight at some old canisters. Nothing of use. Primer, spackle, a bucket of brushes, but no lamp. No food or batteries or anything else they could use. The yellowish light of her flashlight suddenly sputters. Speaking of fucking batteries. She taps it a couple of times to try and keep it alive. The light grows bright with each hit, but it’s pointless. She tries to screw the end tighter on the off chance that maybe it had come loose, but at that point, the light shuts off, sending her and the rest of the cellar into total darkness.
“Shit,” she curses. She can’t even see her own hands in front of her. Squinting, she looks in the general direction of where she remembers the small windows were just above her head. They’re only illuminated by slightly darker shadows of the roots blowing in the storm, so they don’t offer much help. “Hope you’re not afraid of the dark,” she calls louder over to Blake.
Blake doesn’t answer.
All she hears is rain against the cellar doors and scratching thorns on tempered glass.
“...Blake?”
There’s a shuffle of sorts, and then this wretched scraping sound. It’s not the glass. It’s concrete. It’s the same visceral feeling she gets whenever she hears nails on a chalkboard. It’s followed by a low-bearing groan, but Yang can’t tell if it’s the wood from the house shifting in the wind… or something else.
“Blake? Y’alright?”
She strains to listen. Nothing but the drip, drip, drip, of the water leaking in from the doors and a steady moan of the wind from beyond their concrete tomb. Yang takes a silent step backwards until her back presses gently against a damp wall. Her gun. It’s by the cellar doors. As quietly as she can, she tests the flashlight a few more times to see if maybe she can get it to work. There’s a light on her shotgun. If she can just get to it…
Using her hands as a guide along the wall, she side-steps away from the water heater and reaches for the nearest shelf. Her breath comes out shallowly and trembling, concealing it in favor of enhancing her hearing the best she can. If she remembers correctly, the doors were to her right, and Blake was to the left of that in the corner. Her heart drums in her ears. It’d be the only thing she could hear had another clash of thunder clapped overhead, kick-starting her adrenaline into overdrive. She takes a step forward, carefully and silently, thankful that at least, despite the insane noise, it’s aiding in concealing her movement.
In the darkness, Yang can scarcely make out the shapes of cellar doors where very minuscule light offsets the material. The steps closest to the doors illuminate the railing, and just beside that, her shotgun lays propped against the iron poles. Lilac eyes dart to the left, but she sees fucking nothing but black, so Yang takes a risk and closes the gap to get to her shotgun.
Hands wrap around the barrel and she slings it upward, fingers finding home on the grip and thumb fiddling to turn the dial for the light. A singular pale beam aims right at the corner. Blake’s not there.
Alarm causes all her senses to go on alert. Yang turns her back immediately against the wall and aims the light into the rest of the cellar, back and forth. Grotesque shadows stretch and bend, making it confusing to tell what’s just based on an existing object or what’s foreign. Where is Blake.
Calm down. Breathe. She takes a shaky breath in and allows her eyes to slowly fall over to where Blake previously was sitting. Carefully, she aims the light back down to the ground. She sees her backpack, and the jacket, and something smeared on the concrete floor. Yang assumes it’s water until she steps closer and realizes it’s… tar like. Thick, black, and splattered like it had been expelled with force. Her lip curls. There isn’t a lot of it, but she doesn’t have much time to observe it before a loud Clunk makes her snap in the direction of a shelf diagonal from her.
Her heart drums. It’s racing, beating, slamming into her ribs. She pumps the shotgun, loading the bullet casing into the chamber. She opens her mouth to call out to Blake one more time before she realizes that she doesn’t hear the dripping of the leak anymore.
Her breath halts in her throat.
What she does hear, is the gurgling, steady thrum of a growl.
The left.
Yang swivels her aim from the shelf directly at the source. A sound so vile and ear-splittingly loud shrieks into her eardrums the moment her light reveals what was lurking in the dark. It’s too large for her attachment to encompass in full, but all that registers in Yang’s line of sight is teeth – long, white, glistening – and the reflective white that happens when light is aimed at a pair of soulless beast-like eyes. Instinct takes over, and Yang pulls the trigger aiming as close to the head as possible. The blast knocks her back some, but she absorbs it like muscle memory. Her ears ring loudly from the shot, and she pumps again, eyes constricted and wild and trying not to slip on the water from the leak as she tries to put as much distance from that thing and herself as possible.
The beast rears a long, elk-like neck high, wailing a hellish scream that tells every sense in her body to RUN. But she has nowhere to go, the fucking thing was blocking the damn doors! Suddenly a pair of reflective eyes lock directly on Yang, and Yang stumbles clumsily, stupidly, into the corner of one of the wooden shelves without thinking. Shit, shit! SHIT! Scraping claws eat at the ground as teeth flash in the light of lightning, jaws agape and ready to strike. Yang’s finger pulls on the trigger again, but the moment it clicks, the barrel is ripped from her hands and something enormous strikes her in the chest. She collides back first into concrete, the sounds of loud metal and thunder crashing all around her. A searing ache burns into her skull as it collides with the ground. She can’t tell which way is up or down, not with the way she’s lifted like she’s nothing by her waist and dragged backwards.
Panic overcomes her like the shadows she’s consumed by. Hot breath beats down against her flesh, a low hiss leaving its jaws. The moisture collects on her cheek and it reeks of death and rot. She twists, elbow out as it collides with something hard and plated. It shrieks again, and Yang ignores the way it’s deafeningly loud as she tries to crawl away. A hand as large as her torso latches onto her leg and pins her down, crushing the air from her lungs. She tries to scream, but no sounds come out. Fight it, Yang! FIGHT IT!
It bears down on her like the weight of a truck, crushing her, suffocating her, until the feeling in her limbs grows cold and numb. No! NO! She chokes and gasps, struggling to fight back, but her body will not respond.
The last thing she can register before the darkness consumes her is a ripping snarl against the side of her temple.
art by GhoulsamGrusam