Charolotte spent her days as a wage slave in the office and her nights dancing. She never considered herself a hero, just tried to be good to her friends… Those who weren’t arseholes about lending her money every now and again anyways. She’d never thought she would risk herself for anyone.
When the office agitators talked big about how the government should be doing something, anything abou the red stars she kept her head down and her fingers on her keyboard. She never joined a protest, never signed a petition. Avoid anything serious was her motto. That way she had more time after work to socialise.
That’s why it was such a surprise when, on the train home, the red mouthed man appeared in her carriage. She stood, unable to believe herself while panicked passengers screamed, and clawed, and clambered around her, crowding for the door into the front carriage of the train.
She backed so far, but no further. There were pregnant women behind her, the elderly, the obese, children, all trying to get home. Behind the gore soaked man was bathed in blood, with torn bodies and severed limbs in plenty. He lurched forward with the motion of the train. She braced herself to meet him.
He tore Charlotte apart, supernaturally strong, but she found her own thread of strength to cling to. The Tree stands before her, leaves settling close. It accepted her dying will. It enabled her to claim her soul and with its strength rise anew.