[hr][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/cQ1NPja.png[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/jttTmEk.png[/img][/center][right][b][code]St. Eleanora's Orphanage.[/code][/b][/right][right][b]Interactions: None.[/b][/right][hr][hr]

The orphanage is quieter than usual, though maybe that’s only how it feels to Destiny. 

The corridors are full of the usual noise — children laughing, sisters calling out instructions, the shuffle of feet as coats are pulled on and scarves tied tight — but the sounds reach her like they’re underwater, distant and muted. She lay on her cot, staring up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, replaying the last few nights in her head. Not the thing’s face (she’s seen uglier) but the [i]words.[/i]
[i]
Vessel.[/i]

It wanted her. Out of anyone, [i]her.[/i] Not to kill, not even to feed—something worse. That word still sticks to her skin like oil. She remembers the weight of the net pinning her, her body refusing to obey, and the sick certainty that she was about to be claimed—then, Latoya(?) tearing her free. A hand yanking her back, the fight tipping, the creatures fleeing. She rolled onto her side, jaw tight. If Latoya hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t be lying here now. She hates the thought—no, she [i][b]despises[/b][/i] it. In the Pit, survival was hers alone. Here, she let herself stumble.

[i]Complacent. [/i]That’s what it would be called if she let herself believe Cloverfield was different. 

It wasn’t. 

The horror had only learned to dress nicer.

Every time a door bangs or a floorboard creaks, her shoulders twitched. The orphanage should feel safe, but the walls feel too close today, the crucifixes and candlelight-like decorations over a silence she can’t trust. A few of the younger children glance at her in the halls - some curious, others uneasy - and their thoughts slip toward her whether they mean them to or not. 

[i]Destiny saw something.[/i] 

[i]Destiny's [b]cursed.[/b][/i]

They don’t ask, but their minds already have. She stood abruptly, pulled her jacket from its hook, before the walls pressed in further. The sisters are herding the children out for the Thanksgiving festival, and she falls into step behind them without a word. She tells herself she’s going to hear the music, maybe get something to eat, and play at normal for a while. But she knows that’s a lie. The festival isn’t what she wants - it’s just an excuse, a direction to walk in, a place that isn’t here. What she really needs is space, air that doesn’t taste of plaster dust and memory, somewhere the word vessel can’t echo so loudly.[right][b][code]The Spanksgiving Festival.[/code][/b][/right][hr]The festival sprawled through the streets like a living, breathing creature - lights blinking, music drifting, the smell of fried dough and roasted nuts thick in the air. Children darted past her, laughing, bumping shoulders. Vendors shouted over one another, tossing candies and small trinkets into open palms. The chaos[i] should [/i]have been comforting, a reminder that life continued to move forward. Instead, it pressed against her chest like a hand she couldn’t shake.

Destiny let herself drift with the crowd, scanning more than just the physical space. Thoughts flickered across her mind: a boy fretting about losing his pumpkin pie, a woman laughing at something in her phone, the occasional fragment of irritation or gossip. None of it rooted her. All of it felt distant, like echoes in a cavern, except one.

And then she saw her. [i]Latoya.[/i] Across the crowd, a flash of familiarity - her tall frame, high puff, that quiet confidence that seemed to anchor the chaos of the festival around her. Destiny’s telepathy reached for her, brushing against the edges of her mind. But Latoya’s thoughts... they didn’t flow like normal thoughts. For a heartbeat, Destiny’s chest seized. The world slowed, narrowed, and she felt the pull, the expectation of words she didn’t want to speak.

Destiny’s feet shifted. Her eyes flicked to the left, scanning for an escape, a path that would weave her away from Latoya without anyone noticing. Her telepathy whispered the thoughts of those around her, snippets of mundane curiosity: [i]Who’s that girl? Something about her... odd. She looks [b]scared.[/b][/i] Even strangers could sense it, and it pressed down on her like a physical weight. The festival became a blur, the music and laughter fading behind her as she pivoted, ducking behind a row of booths. She didn’t stop to look back. She couldn’t.

Every step she took carried the weight of that choice: to move, to survive, to keep the memory of the night in the alley at arm’s length. Latoya would be here, somewhere, and she would be waiting - Destiny didn’t need her eyes following her. Not today.

She told herself she was just [i]exploring,[/i] that she [i]might[/i] circle back eventually. The lie tasted bitter, but it was better than the truth: she was running, not from the crowd, not even from the noise, but from the hand that had yanked her back from death, from being claimed. She needed space. She needed air. And most of all, she needed to be alone with her fear, not wrapped up in the presence of someone who could see every jagged edge of it.







[sup][sup][sup][color=757566][i]I’m running from her. From her and everything she makes me feel.[/i][/color][/sup][/sup][/sup]