She’s cold. It’s what wakes Caitlin on the beach, the bone-deep chill that’s set in from her head to her toes, soaked through the pajamas she’s wearing. She’s cold. She doesn’t feel the cold, not since her powers emerged. Not since Frost. But that’s far from her only concern. She woke up on a sandy, rocky beach with crashing waves, and she doesn’t live anywhere near a coast. She’s in her pajamas. No shoes. And this fog has set in. She can’t see anything around her as she gets to her feet and brushes the wet sand from her body.

Maybe it’ll get better if she’s somewhere that isn’t… here.

She picks a direction and heads off. She makes note of the roads as she goes: Phillips Drive, King Lane, Stoker Park, Jackson Boulevard. There’s house after house. The streets dead end, requiring her to turn around and go back the way she came. Is it the fog that’s making her dizzy or is it the wandering? Either way, she needs to stop. She needs to find a place to sit down, get out of the fog. The fog won’t follow her inside, right?

Caitlin picks a house. Any house. There may be people inside; it may be uninhabited. It doesn’t matter to her right now. She’s happy to play Goldilocks if it might get her out of the damp, out of the weather. She’ll help herself to a spot on the couch. She’ll poke around the cabinets, looking for something for her head. She may even wander into the bedrooms in search of dry, warm clothes to put on.

She isn’t content to stop at just houses. Once Caitlin feels like she’s gotten her bearings back, she goes back outside. The fog is no less heavy, no less suffocating. That sense of feeling sick comes back, though this time it’s less dizziness and more nausea. She doesn’t last terribly long outside, her empty stomach churning and the occasional belch escaping her. This was a terrible idea. Why did she decide to go back out?


This time it’s a government building she takes shelter in. She waits at the reception desk, her patience slowly waning the longer she stands there. Her voice sounds like it echoes as she calls out a few times, but the “Hello?”s only seem to cement how empty it is. With no answer, she turns her attention to the bulletin board on the wall. Dozens of handwritten notes layer the surface, some with odd looking phone numbers inscribed. She spots one that looks to be calling for certain people, so she takes a moment to scan for any familiar handwriting. It’s a hopeful thought, but a disappointment. There’s nothing there for her.

She’s just about to look around the building more when the papers rustle in an odd breeze, revealing something painted there. Her fingers brush against the symbol and come away wet. It… it doesn’t feel like paint. Against her better judgment, she leans in and sniffs the stain on her fingers. It has an unmistakable metalli tang to it. She flinches and pulls away. “Oh my god. That’s blood.”

[ hit me up with other scenarios or ideas you may have in mind. if you’d like to plot, find me up at lovedbythesun or pm this journal.! ]