[Persephone's sleep gets rudely interrupted somewhere in the dead of night, by a man tripping violently over her.
The man curses, acrid with panic and fury, kicking out at her in his mad scramble to get upright again, to keep running away like he had been before. Blindly, through a graveyard. In the middle of the night. The man, as it happens, is one of those 417 escaped convicts still at large an entire month after the blackout.
But someone is looking to change that. The thing that the escapee is running from stalks into view moments later, deliberate and measured in his pursuit, and blindingly bright in the dark cemetery: a skeleton, in leather jacket, lit on fire.
D.
The man curses, acrid with panic and fury, kicking out at her in his mad scramble to get upright again, to keep running away like he had been before. Blindly, through a graveyard. In the middle of the night. The man, as it happens, is one of those 417 escaped convicts still at large an entire month after the blackout.
But someone is looking to change that. The thing that the escapee is running from stalks into view moments later, deliberate and measured in his pursuit, and blindingly bright in the dark cemetery: a skeleton, in leather jacket, lit on fire.
Good morning, Persephone.]