The refugees in the abandoned Bell building are beginning to split again; some, to stay and fight... others, to find safety and regroup -- possibly at the Museum's legendary Athaenaeum.
Ankh pushes her way through the door. Within throwing distance are dozens of rain-darkened figures. The rain begins to soak her, as well, turning her silky hair into oily and limp strands. The FJ Cruiser sits a few meters away, and she can probably make it there easily. How long she can wait for passengers, though, is questionable. The figures, a mixture of ractains and flesh intruders, turn her stomach as they shift their attention to her, her Watchtower of the Stone Book protesting these affronts of Life, Fallen thought they may be, tainted with the Abyss.
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