“Already on it.” Song climbed the ladder until she reached the top, then she flipped her body, switching her legs up to face the sealed hatch. Her hands clung to the ladder, relying on the sheer strength of her upper arms to keep her balanced. Not one to idle, she slammed her heels into the hatch—once, twice—before it gave way. Forget picking the lock. Why bother when brute force could get her through anyway?
Expecting Val to have already jammed the main doors, Song repositioned herself and clambered into the room. Instantly she was hit by a blast of searing air. It carried smoky black fumes and the pungent smell of gas, and her nostrils flared. This was the incinerator. This was where all the refuse from the prison was disposed of—personal belongings, sentimental objects, clothing stripped from inmates. A part of her hoped she’d find her armor and weapons here, but she knew they wouldn’t.
If it wasn’t in the barracks, then it would have been processed into the vault. “Great,” Song muttered and wiped a bead of sweat on her brow. She took a quick look into the incinerator, gazing down at where the fires should be, and felt a surge of relief to find it wasn’t running. Had it been, and their climb to the roof would have been impossible.
She took a step back and dug into one of the bins, searching as if it was a sale in a thrift shop. “Looks like they ran the incinerator this morning,” she told Val. “So, it might be a little warm in there.” She began wrapping discarded clothes around her hands, neck, and slippered feet. She was confident they could make the climb. It was just a matter of shimmying up the ventilation shaft. Trying not to get burned, though—that was the real obstacle here.
“I’ll go first,” said Song. Then, she slipped into the incinerator.
@Mockingjay
Expecting Val to have already jammed the main doors, Song repositioned herself and clambered into the room. Instantly she was hit by a blast of searing air. It carried smoky black fumes and the pungent smell of gas, and her nostrils flared. This was the incinerator. This was where all the refuse from the prison was disposed of—personal belongings, sentimental objects, clothing stripped from inmates. A part of her hoped she’d find her armor and weapons here, but she knew they wouldn’t.
If it wasn’t in the barracks, then it would have been processed into the vault. “Great,” Song muttered and wiped a bead of sweat on her brow. She took a quick look into the incinerator, gazing down at where the fires should be, and felt a surge of relief to find it wasn’t running. Had it been, and their climb to the roof would have been impossible.
She took a step back and dug into one of the bins, searching as if it was a sale in a thrift shop. “Looks like they ran the incinerator this morning,” she told Val. “So, it might be a little warm in there.” She began wrapping discarded clothes around her hands, neck, and slippered feet. She was confident they could make the climb. It was just a matter of shimmying up the ventilation shaft. Trying not to get burned, though—that was the real obstacle here.
“I’ll go first,” said Song. Then, she slipped into the incinerator.
@Mockingjay