"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Cicada Days
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👀 (credit to Kotorikun)
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((Florentina Luz continued from Inprimatura))

Her thoughts were lonely, mute, bled away quickly. Tina felt pale. The dull sheen of the sun's glancing blows upon a window. She couldn't tell how she looked, she felt worse.

An itch in her throat. Dry, mealy. She wanted something to wash it down with, but she had nothing of the sort on hand. Save for one thing her bag was an inert body. Tubules, tumblers worth of water. Every single drop wasted. Tina wondered, at every breath, if she was hearing the breath of another. But they all sounded the same. Bitter hacking coughs that refused to echo, died on walls. Great stretches of negative space, corridors and stairwells where Tina heard naught but her own fluttering heartbeat. Restless, even as her gait was stoic.

She cleared her throat.

The room had once been rooms. Jagged shards of icy crystal precipitated over ground. Kindling too. Crunched as she stepped over it, like the wistful fold of canvas in sketchbook. She smelled fresher air, it's swirls and eddies somewhere in the grandiose distance. Maybe she could reach it. Splinters threatened at the exhausted rubber of her shoes. She continued on. A slow march in mono-color. Stiffness threatened the joints, though she moved. Somewhere, there was someone. A silhouette, though her eyes would allow it to melt into the blistering static of a florescent. She could find it, in ones and twos of heel and toe.

The air smelt distantly fresher still. Phlegm continued to percolate through the sinus. A pane of glass cracked underfoot, reflecting it's own demise.
The Dies Before First Rolls Squad

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