<sub>[ooc: Forward-dated to the wee hours of the morning, around 3:00 or 4:00.]


[So she'd been having some problems with fire lately, and it had been rattling her nerves. That was normal, right? This was normal.]

[When the camera turned on, there was the usual firelight that indicated that Heather was, once again, sleeping out in some sheltered area of the woods on account of A) Being totally broke, and B) having a increasingly-strained relationship with those Center nurses. But this time, the fire's a fair distance away, leaving most of Heather's features in shadow.]

[Normally she was okay with fire in most situations. She could light matches without freaking out, and while campfires weren't exactly her favorite thing in the world, they were kind of necessary for, y'know, camping, and they didn't make her want to run screaming for the hills or anything. But tonight... tonight, for some reason, that fire sent vicious little shivers down her spine and she'd realized that she did not want to sit near it.]

[Even through the shadows, the glaze of sweat on her skin was visible, as was the fact that she was unusually pale. In her lap is Arty, who seems to be a little confused at being used as a squeeze-toy, but is holding abnormally still for once, whiskers twitching and black eyes glistening in the fire's light. She can tell there's something wrong.]</sub>


H-hey, um...

... That was a pretty crazy storm earlier, huh?

I can't be the only one still awake.


.... James? Uh-- ... man, what am I saying, you're probably not even awake. _{[Forced, awwwwkward laugh. Of course he wouldn't be awake, and anyway, he was going back to get his wife, he didn't have to hear about her fucked-up dreams. In fact, why would she even want to tell him? They were just dreams! So what if they were about...]}

.....

_{[Nightmares like that had to be normal after everything she'd been doing, right...?]}


.... SOME weather we've been having lately, huh, guys?

_{[ooc: Backdated, the morning of the seventeenth.
Also, Heather... MAY NOT REPLY. XD; I understand everybody's doin' their own crazy thang for this plot, so I don't expect a whole lot of interaction tagging to happen (if it does, though, that's coo', that's coo'! But in the meantime, enjoy some tl;dr.]}




So there were a lot of things you could hate about fog.

For one thing, it was wet. That alone was pretty much worth hatred. Or at least dislike. Even normal fog, relatively benign stuff that it was, had this unfortunate quality. It wasn't enough that it just hovered around being wet all by itself, it had to go and get you all cold and clammy, too. It sort of evoked the same primal DO NOT WANT response as a small child who'd just wet themselves trying to crawl into your lap without permission.

Or at least, that's what it felt like to Heather.


Her boots squeaked against the soaked pavement as she tromped down the main street of the white-shrouded Violet City, hands fitfully rubbing her bare shoulders. There were days it paid to remain compulsively sleeveless, and days it didn't. This? Was one of those days.

Behind her, with a series of soft clicks of blunt claws on asphalt, Cujo the Growlithe padded along, surprisingly solemn for... well, for being himself. His rusty coat was the only thing in the near vicinity that stood out against the ghostly mist.

That was the other thing she hated about fog.

It blinded you.

Humans were visual animals and if there was one thing that was enough to put even a big burly Neanderthal on edge, it was not being able to see what was in front of you. That was why kids were instinctively scared of the dark, and why the species as a whole hid away under blankets and pillows at night where they'd be safe, only to rise again when the sun did, too. Basic instinct. People were just programmed that way.

Of course, that was just what she was telling herself. Because she'd rather not think that the reason she kept hearing little rustly noises that prickled the hairs on the back of her neck and staring over her shoulder paranoidly as she walked, bag bouncing against her hip, was anything other than 'It happens to everyone'. She knew better than to think that, but hey, the effort counted for something, right?

When the shiny windows and cheerful red roof of the Pokemon Center loomed up out of the fog, Heather stopped briefly, letting out a gusty sigh. This wasn't exactly where she wanted to be, but camping in the damp meant that her dinky little sleeping bag was no longer adequate for keeping out the cold, so it was time to mooch some free supplies. From the nurses who hated her guts and probably thought she was a menace to society.

If there's a benevolent higher power, and it's actually listening, please grant me the strength to get out of this with blankets, and without ALL-CAPS confrontations with the staff.

And with that silent prayer stated, Heather stepped towards the door--

WHINE WHINE WHIIIIIIIIIIIINE.


"Wh-- ... no, Cooj. Stay."


The Growlithe's amber eyes proceeded to grow disproportionately enormous and woobly.

Heather remained unmoved.


"If those nurses see you in there again, they're probably gonna euthanize you. Sta-- no. The paw thing doesn't work on me, remember? STAY."


Cujo dropped his paw to the ground once more, having been pawing at the air in the universal canine 'handshake' gesture, and whimpered, but stayed put.

Rolling her eyes, Heather adjusted the bag's strap on her shoulder.


"Dumb mutt..."


The doors slid open with a sleek, mechanical whirr, and Heather stepped inside.

( And then shit went down. ) <sub>_


[ooc: What's happening in real life is pretty much Heather going batshit insane in the middle of the Pokemon Center lobby and attacking the approaching concerned nurses with an IV pole. While obviously no one is SERIOUSLY injured, she does a fair amount of damage, and then will flee the scene. Tag if you want, but don't feel obliged! This is a big plot!]</sub>