What the Flames Left Behind

Ruins

Dream has no idea how to pick locks.

That said, he didn't have to. It wasn't as if they were terribly sturdy, made more as a warning rather than actual defense. So, he broke them instead.

Not with particular grace or finesse, but if what George had told him was correct--and he's certain of it--then forceful exit wouldn't lead them to certain doom.

The first lock was simple enough; it was old, it was rusty, and it was easy to just kick the door out.

It leads to a concrete hallway drawn in charcoal shades of black and gray. A crooked line of old pipes ran along the top of the arched ceiling, and a thin stream of light leaking from what seemed to be an old, wooden door streak across dark floors.

He leans his hand against the wall, fingertips reading the fine textures of relatively new paint, meticulous gaze studying what used to be onyx black spray paint but was now rolled over with a coat of white.

Salt stings the air that drifts from the exit, almost overpowering the finer hints of dusty pollution. His sensitive hearing catches the loud pulsing of ocean waves and faintly, distant traffic.

Dream walked up to the door and gave it a light shove, catching notes of metal against metal along with creaking wood. A harder shove proved the door to be locked, unyielding, and splintery. He ran a hand down the slit where it should open in the middle, but couldn't find a handle or its lock.

It must be padlocked shut from the outside, he guessed, and gave it an experimental kick. To his annoyance, the old gray wooden planks fractured slightly but the door as a whole refused to budge. If I do have to kick it down, I'd be more likely to leave a big gaping hole than break the lock.

He began to feel around the sides, trying to see if he could bust the hinges or otherwise disassemble it, but soon realized they must have been installed on the outside as well.

Well. He stood for a moment, that asshole of a door taunting him in the dim light, this is a bit of a dilemma, isn't it? Sure, he could just break it, but from what George had told him it was a bit of an antique, so he didn't really feel like leaving it in pieces. Besides, it wasn't a terribly sleek way to get out, and he didn't feel like leaving a trail of wood chips.

There was a crudely rectangular hole near the top of the door, just a few inches above his eye-level, and by standing on his toes he could just catch a glimpse of the outside.

It was disappointing, to say the least. A gray cement wall, barely brighter than the inside of the bunker and covered in neon teal scrawls, sat resolutely directly opposite of him. All he could tell was a). There was a lot of graffiti and b). There was, at the moment, no one in front of him.

So in other words the view was practically useless.

He cursed, dropped back down, and gave the door another defiant kick before retreating back to his half-assed ideas. Being clever never really was his thing, it was always--

"Meow."

"FUCK!" He flinches violently, whipping his gaze around to pinpoint the noise.

It's a cat, of course. A small, silver-gray tabby.

It meows again, sits down, and calmly waits, staring him down with a blank white gaze.

Dream is malfunctioning. Short-circuiting. Losing his mind, because yes, George can and often will turn into a cat, a cat that looks exactly like that, and yes, his eyes can take on whatever color they want, but!