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OCT 14, 2149 DAY THIRTY TWO ON THE GROUND
FALLON HAD BEEN UNABLE TO SEE ANYTHING FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THEIR JOURNEY through the wretched mine.
A blood-ridden body had been tossed directly over her head, stealing away her view of Anya, Clarke and the dimly lit tunnel long ago. She could barely breathe, her oxygen intake uncomfortably limited with the stranger's mostly bare chest shoved into her face. It had taken a lot of concentration to discern if the woman was still alive, but after a while, she'd been able to detect the faintest of heartbeats; the organ practically pressed against her eardrum.
She had discovered the weak heartbeat, only to hear it stop.
It wasn't long into their expedition that the woman's life gave way, and Fallon seemed hyperaware of how her skin was gradually growing colder. Hearing and witnessing the exact moment of death, even on a total stranger, had affected her more than she'd like to admit. Her mind wandered into dangerous territories; harassing her on how she had left Dakota inside of Mount Weather, and how it might feel if Dakota's gentle heart were the one who had ceased to beat. So there she sat, feeling like she was going to combust from the wars raging in her head; repeating like a sacred oath in her mind that she was invincible. It was rather lucky she had perfected the art of holding it together under horrible circumstances a long time ago.
After what felt like hours, the mine cart finally came to a halt; interrupting Fallon's silent mantra as the rusty wheels squealed beneath them. The three girls remained stiff and still in their cramped positions as reapers lifted two bodies from the cart; one being the deceased woman laying on top of the hotheaded blonde. Only then could she properly breathe again, and found her wide eyes instantly connecting with Clarke's as they listened to the men's receding footsteps.
One of the bodies whom the monstrous people had plucked from the bloody cart— the man, had not been dead. Not fully, at least. The three fugitives were quickly alerted of this when his screams rang out, though they sounded more like mangled, excruciating wails. Fallon had never heard a human make such a noise. She didn't honestly know someone was capable of producing what she was listening to now, but regardless of her unfamiliarity with this type of cry, it was nearly unbearable.
The nauseating yowls seemed to have a similar affect on Clarke— as if it was making her skin crawl, and it was filling her veins with ice water. Wincing at the harrowing noise, she scrambled silently to her knees; apparently having enough guts to peek cautiously over the bin's ledge. Fallon didn't know nor want to know what she saw in that moment, but it was enough for her to decide leaving was worth the risk.
"Okay. Come on." she whispered, the Walsh girl slowly propping herself up onto her trembling arms; sore joints popping incessantly as she began to silently maneuver her way out.
