Weight
Sometimes in the morning, I am petrified and can't move. Awake, but cannot open my eyes. And the weight is crushing down on my lungs, I know I can't breathe.
- Better Son/Daughter by Rilo
Florence walks through the streets, worried as the night draws closer. Her shawl offers little protection from the cold wind that seems to sweep through the streets, tangling the ends of her hair in an unbecoming way. She imagines with a wind like this that winter must be coming around earlier than expected this year. She makes a note of this in the back of her mind, to remember to move everyone into the furnace area so they can stay warm. She supposes this also means that they may want to start stocking up their supplies before the winter hits. She hopes that it will be enough considering this will be the baby's first winter.
The wrap around her head delicately hides her red hair from view; despite her standing, she knows that she is not immune to harassment for such an improper hair color. She only wishes that her makeup were enough to hide the freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. But considering the time of day and the emptiness of the streets, she is not as concerned as usual when the hair wrap flies away into the wind. She only watches it disappear from view wistfully, drawing her shawl closer.
Darkness is starting to creep overhead and with it, her visibility of the streets. She should have never been out on the streets, especially by herself, at this time. But mistakes are made and can't always be fixed. She knows that she is still a block away from her own home. All the shops in town are already closing for the night. Everywhere she turns, she's met with shut doors and closed windows. An inn would've been an option if it weren't further than her own home.
She turns the corner and doesn't notice when several large silhouettes follow.
When she wakes up, there's an almost uncomfortable warmth against her skin, almost as if she had spent too much time in the sun. But where she is, is dark. Her eyes feel heavy. At first, all she can notice is how hard it is to move and how it feels like there's a weight pressing her down. When she tries to take a deep breath and breathes in nothing but linen and dirt, the panic starts to set deep into her bones.
She still can't process where she is or what is going on. Instead, her body is filled with adrenaline and the panicked need to get out - to breathe. It takes everything she has and she is exhausted, but after desperately clawing upward she is able to break ground. Dirt spills all around her as she drags herself up to solid ground, coughing up dirt and muck that she swallowed in the process until finally - she takes her first good breath, lungs filling with familiar air.
Her body is shaking and she can't bring herself to move, she just collapses beside the hole she dug out of in a heap of exhaustion. Night air nips at her naked skin and it is only then, after minutes of finally getting her composure does she glance.
She looks to the stones around her - cold with names carved into their front. Then she spots a similar stone in front of the hole she dug from.
She learns - with a great horror that makes her finally beating heart stop - that the name etched into it is no one else's but her own.
Florence wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, her heart beating wildly. The warmth at her fingertips and the small singed marks on her sheets are enough to know that, once again, she has accidentally set fire in her sleep. At least in this time and age, fireproof sheets are much more dependable and common considering the variety of fire quirks. Which at least means that her sheets aren't completely ruined this time.
She stretches out her arms, wincing at the pain that follows due to the sore, aching muscles. Her body still feels warm from the nightmares and memories that haunted her during the night. Just thinking about it makes her shiver; she shoves it in the far back of her mind where it belongs.
The previous night's training session certainly does not help either. But she needed to make sure that she was in top shape for her first day as a teacher. She's done nothing these past few weeks but training and the occasional patrol. Not wanting to risk death before her first day, she cut the patrols down to a minimum which meant just home training out the wazoo.
Getting up and ready for her first day, however, is a process - a slow one at that. Her entire body feels like lead, heavy with each step she takes. For a moment, no matter how brief, she feels her age crashing down on her. It takes a moment for the spots in her vision to go away as she looks over at the nightstand. An antique jewelry box lays open, full of rings of varying ages and distress. She debates about it before taking out one particular ring, with its simple band of platinum and diamonds, and slips it onto her right ring finger.
UA's Main Entrance is flooded; from the amount of reporters surrounding the entire gate to the staff trying to make their way through without being interrogated. Florence eyes the chaos warily, taking a cautious step back and ever grateful that her casual attire doesn't immediately mark her as one of the pro heroes on staff. She spots Nezu trying to calm the frantic reporters; she's too far away to catch everything he's saying, but she catches enough glimpses to know that the media circus is due to the news of All Might apparently tending the school this year as a teacher.
You smart bastard, Florence can't help but think. If it was anything else, she would have said it was a coincidence that she is asked to be a teacher the same year that the Symbol of Peace begins. But knowing Nezu, this is no accident; nor is it a bad one. Hopefully with no one watching too closely past All Might, she will be able to slip in under the radar and no one will look too closely at her.
With that thought, she starts to head toward the hidden, more discrete side entrance. She slips away unnoticed and is able to make it to the location without the reporters noticing. But when she gets there, it seems that she's not the only teacher smart enough to try to sneak in somewhere else to avoid the reporters. She recognizes the other teacher at the gate immediately; considering that he was the one who attacked her last time, he had made quite the impression.
Seems like he still looks just as tired as the first time, Florence notices. The man's dark eye bags are as distinguishable as the dark mop of messy hair. Eraserhead, if she remembers correctly. Shouta Aizawa. She admits that she still doesn't know much of the pro-hero, other than he looks and has the feel of a more underground hero. She is still unsure of his quirk, but to be honest, she doesn't really particularly care either.
"Good morning." She greets politely, firmly, with only a simple nod as she waits beside him for the gates to slide open. He barely glances her way in response.
"Depends."
She cracks a wary smile at the dry, yet honest answer. "Yes, I suppose getting here this early for a staff meeting only being greeted by that circus near the gates doesn't really count as good, does it?"
Aizawa snorts, "That's one way of putting it."