A/N: I have potty-mouthhole tendencies and an affinity for describing things with words endorsed by Sesame Street. Let's do this.
Prologue
Splashes of dawn began arching over the horizon, a hesitant glow tugging at the skirts of the night. It crept along rooftops, over rivers of concrete, tucked away corners and lazy canopies, chasing away the darkness in a sweep of humble authority. It blushed and blossomed, the words of commencement for a story on high. The stars withered, yielding until called upon once again by the tendrils of twilight.
The waters of the distant ocean were bathed in a muted gold, licked by the finger-pads of Midas himself. They lapped at the shore, the cadence of duty eternal beating at the sparkling sand. The tide frothed and flowed, the shore's most faithful bedfellow; a partnership in tandem by no master commanded, beckoning the scarlet sun which yawned into the water's reflection.
A chaotic chorus of bird calls rose from the treetops, a symphony of voices vying to carry the declaration of the day's birth. Crickets carried out the final notes of their nighttime ballads, lamenting chirps held until the close. From afar a coyote cried a tormented howl, as the moon, its one true companion, faded without consent. The shadows fled from the rising light, skulking back to sullied crooks until summoned by the inky dusk. The air hung dense, a misty curtain clinging to every agreeable fiber and surface; blades of grass yielded, bending and dripping with rolling dew.
High above the city on a throne of weary brick and mortar, a woman sat alone, a surreptitious onlooker of the day's conception. The heels of her boots bounced carelessly off the side of the building, legs swinging in suit, dangled from the precipice of the rooftop. The dampness of the morning seeped into her bones, chilling, despite the heat of the day rising to a boil around her. It was the south, after all, leaving little room for illusion of anything but stifling warmth. The coarseness of the brick chafed her fingertips as she hung on, rebellious against her touch. Her tongue danced slowly across her lips, the habitual waltz surfaced as her mind ventured elsewhere. In a manner almost ceremonial, she reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and removed a small knife, brandished with a flick of her wrist. She pulled her left leg up and laid her boot on her opposite thigh; the fabric of her jeans groaned with the sudden movement. With the careful consideration of a craftsman, she brought the blade down to the boot's heel and stuck the tip in, the begrudging rubber requiring her knife's insistence. She made a small notch, a single slice lost among a line of similar slits. Her eyes lingered on the sight, the row of forty-seven haphazard cuts made one after another around the perimeter of her boot, a jarring reminder and gut-wrenching notion.
And so Emily Prentiss ushered in day forty-seven of the irreparable clusterfuck of post-apocalyptic Earth.