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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷boston quarantine zone
THE FURNACE HEART WITHIN CASSIE'S CHEST HAD LONG BEEN VOID OF IT'S ONCE VIBRANT FLAME. A corruptive darkness ebbs away at the world around her, the setting sun offering very little to help soften the absence of light. She stares distantly upon the bland roof above her with constricted pupils, the allure of assorted pills offering a blissful sense of numbness having caught her within its trap. The familiar tingle of intoxication sends goosebumps across her clammy skin, yet still, her wish to detach from the reality she'd lived for too long is never fulfilled.
The concoction of pills and cheap liquor, of which she preferred to call medicine, had refused to grant her the momentary solace of sleep. A radiate aching meandering through the muscles of her back, she lays flat upon the rough, wooden flooring of the fireflies' radio room. Though she had a bed assigned to her elsewhere, she foolishly remained, with the delusioned thought that there is yet a chance Tommy may reach out to her.
The small window of the room is open just a crack, letting a jaggedly cold breeze enter. Its gentle touch taunts the flushed-out cheeks of Cassie, though she embraces its discomfort as an old friend. The outside world is almost serene as night befalls them, only the rumble of military vehicles tainting the airways. The interior of the fireflies hideout was an entirely different story; a disorganised symphony of shouts and footsteps thundering within their walls.
In her weary, intoxicated state, Cassie had paid not an ounce of attention toward the commotion. Only once the chaos within the hallways had escalated, and a deafening eruption of gunfire echoed out, did she wake from her stupour.
The fiery touch of adrenaline swift to bring some semblance of sobriety, Cassie stumbles up, regaining her albeit shaky footing. With a trembling, calloused hand, she retrieves the revolver she'd left beside her through her attempts to rest. Hastily checking how many bullets remain in its chamber, she carefully treads toward the closed entryway into the hall — her every step soft, evading the rattling creaks of the old, wooden floorboards.
As she reaches the doorway, the harrowing reverberation of gunshots has stilled, though the stench of gunpowder still lingers thickly within the air. Pressing her ear against the door, she hears only a muffled groan of pain, nearby to where she's stood. Clicking her revolver's safety off and holding it at the ready, she opens the door only a slither, peeking out from behind its safety.
The scene before her is one of a gruesome battle, with splatters of crimson tainting almost every surface. Bodies are strewn throughout the hall, some familiar to Cassie, and some not. Bullet shells are discarded in abundance on the floor, as are weapons of which once belonged to the dead. Amongst the carnage is but one visible survivor — Marlene. A downpour of blood oozes from a wound within her stomach; the signs of pain painted clearly upon her features.
