Pain was a powerful motivator. So was panic, and when the panic was extreme enough, even pain can find itself set by the wayside. Verity forgot about the ache in her feet, the distance between her and the ground, and everything else in her hurry to reach the only chance she had of getting to the second floor. Below her, Robert was barking orders to Margaret, who was no doubt figuring out her own route to the rafters. But since neither of them could fly, she still had a few minutes, and she was going to use them for all that she was worth.

The beam didn't run directly under the hatch - that would have made it difficult to use - but it came close enough. She grabbed one of the vertical supports, leaning out as far as she could without losing her footing, and thrust her other hand into the cobwebs until it banged against the ceiling. The wood shifted slightly. She hit it again, harder, and felt it lift up.

( That was all she needed. )

Verity knew three things even before she opened her eyes: that she was somewhere enclosed, probably no larger than a bathroom stall, that someone had changed her clothes - nothing was riding the way it should have, which probably meant her weapons were also gone - and that she was in serious trouble. Then she raised her aching head, opened her eyes, and added a fourth thing to the list: wherever she was, it was pitch-black. ( No natural or artificial light, and she wasn't a bogeyman, she couldn't see in the dark. )
[Adapted from Seanan McGuire's Midnight Blue-Light Special and coded by the delightful firstofitskind. I do not deserve you, bb. NFI, NFB.]

After a dinner of lasagna - which, on their new night-shifted schedule was actually more of a lunch - Verity had come up to brood for a bit. Recognizing that her death stalked the streets of Baltimore in the guise of her third cousin had her looking at the future a little more closely. She'd came to Baltimore to prove that she could make it as a professional ballroom dancer. Only things hadn't exactly worked out that way. She hadn't managed to win a single major competition; the times she'd placed, it had always been local, and the prize money she'd received barely paid for the cost of her registration. It didn't touch her costumes, or the hours of studio time she had to beg, borrow, and steal whenever she could. Most people in her tier of the profession supplemented their income teaching classes, but she couldn't even do that anymore. Trying to be a bartender and a choreographer for Kitty and a cryptozoologist took up too much time. Quit bussing tables and she couldn't afford to eat. ( Quit taking care of cryptids… )
[You know the drill! Adapted from Midnight Blue-Light Special by Seanan McGuire. Preplayed and coded by firstofitskind]