The Streets of New City

You make your way through New City. Named so for the fact that it's nestled against an 'old city.' Cold autumn air prickles against your skin, as village fades behind you and the ruins of ancient man start to fade in around you.

It's just that time of year. Your anxiety has nothing to do with the cosy road running along open areas littered with wooden toys and signs of work safely abandoned, waiting to be resumed come morning. Yes. It has nothing to do with the warm glow and smoking chimneys, families gathered in front of fireplaces, their trusty cat companion torturing a rodent, much to the enjoyment of the entire family.

All of which you're leaving behind for grey, empty concrete buildings, streaks of grime running from hollow windows, settled against the backdrop of a yellow full moon. Squinting, some paranoid fool could almost convince themselves that the lifeless slabs of steel and concrete were weeping for their lost inhabitants. Someome that paranoid would probably also be gullible enough to get the impression of the great, big yellow moon taunting the poor sods. Look how many twinkling friends I've got up here, looosers!

Not you though. You're totally fine. Totally cool. Look at you going out into the ruins at night - not at all worried about such silly nonsense like wolves or... nope, nothing else to worry about. You are one hundred percent not avoiding thinking about some horrific mutant lurking behind those teary eyed concrete mourners. Nope, that's not your ears mistaking harsh autumn winds for howls of lost and damned souls.

You're one of the cool kids. Not one of those working in the fields or nursing simple dreams of lives with complications no bigger than a dirty diaper. You're part of the Tunnel Fisters!!! (Because you smash dangerous things in dark tunnels - with your fists - or so Jorrel argued since the last name change didn't go over well). Rapscallions unearthing lost technology that no one will admit improves their life. Like that pair of tweezers, their actual, practical intention long lost, but perfect for curling hair. Or - gosh - maybe that frightening robot which caused the amount of acid burn rates to plummet.

Ever since you were kids the gang has been inseparable. Venturing into the ruins and forgotten places of Old City. Then the wilderness, once Jorrel determined there was nothing left to see. Then the occasional weird laboratory or factory buried underneath decades of dirt and tangled in roots of invasive flora. Literally aggressive flora, too.

So, yeah, you're not anxious or sweating nervously at all. You're a brave young woman. A stellar mind who, if they just lie to themselves hard enough, can avoid breaking into a mad sprint.

Something makes you stop dead in your tracks.

_God. Please, dear god, no. _Finding it harder and harder to control your thoughts, terror creeps like a bastard down your spine, poking needles into your skin the whole way. If you just - no - don't look down. Do not look down.

You look down. Eyes wide in panic, tears swelling in your eyes, as you stare into terror incarnate. Your gang would have had one last hanging sesh' before venturing out on your expedition. Sure, you'd be seeing a lot of each-other. But, somehow, this last meeting meant something special. Something special that you're not going to experience.

Paralysed, you remain rooted and immobile in the dark ruins of Old City, it's mourners and mocking moon directing their gaze on your pitiful shape. Caught in that harsh, cold, uncaring autumn wind, you do not feel it as much as you should, because you've still got_ your your ugly-ass boiler suit tied around your waist, your protective overalls sagging like loose skin, and - most uncharitable of all - a plain looking, white sleeveless shirt.
_

Complimenting your daringly off-putting look, you'll find an exotic variety of nasty-looking smudges. Some oil. Some undetermined. Good grief. Truly, an outfit that manages to say, No thank you, I'm not like the other girls - skin contact with other people is so passée!

Then again, it's not like they haven't seen you in your work get-up before. You've worn it plenty of times while exploring. It's a perfectly fine thing to wear. Really, it is, you lie. It has all your tools within easy reach thanks to its incredibly (embarrassing) generous amount of pockets.

None of which has a mirror in them - thankfully - so you can't fret over the mess that has to be your entire goddamn face. Likely your hair too. Thinking of your wild, red hair crusted in oil makes you want to cry even more. You allocate power from your 'not-being-scared-shitless' routine into your 'I'm-ugly-and-nobody-will-ever-love-me' denial routine. It has a 100% success rate at failing. People have said you're an optimist. Sure, you mean, got to be if you want to keep wanting to fail at everything ever, over and over again.

Deep breaths. It's fine. Clearly they weren't waiting for you by the Old City Bu-ger 'hack. Who can blame them! It's fine, you were late. Happens. You got this. You got this. You got this. Got this you? Focus! Stop! Aaaargh! Why aren't you breathing deeply!? STOP RILING YOURSELF UP!!!

Calming down failed. If you don't want to cry in the middle of nowhere, you gotta make a plan. Plan. Planning. Pannings? Focus! STOP YELLING!

Here's the plan, stupid. Sneak around the camp spot - They probably already got a fire going, so you can use the cover of darkness to take a really cold but necessary dunk in the lake. Fully clothed. Then use your boiler suit as some sort of fancy shirt and your overalls as a radical, avant-garde social statement - yeah - that'll work. Your jacket will function as a-- well, as a jacket, while the fire warms you up.

Ha! Whew, thank everything, you think to yourself. This whole situation would have been especially emotionally devastating if you had, say for an example, laid out a really neat skirt/stocking combo you had sewn yourself from left over material, meticulously scavenged from people nice enough to hand you their old stuff. Something you painstakingly made for yourself, finally, actually, making you feel sexy. An empowering feeling, confidently telling the entire world that, "I like being warm and comfortable," but also, "Please, I'll settle for hand holding if it means someone will view me as an object of desire. I went out in a skirt. In October! You can be lonely without being ****! Right!?"

For the second time tonight, your heart tries to escape through your throat, as somebody startles you by shouting, "Shiva! We're over here!"