She was dressed for a night on the town when the call came. Her expertise was urgently needed. A derailed train had dumped a gigantic load of noxious waste. Ironically the call prevented her from doing the same. Soon her pretty face was hidden in a black mask and she was in a world of yellow suits and white trucks and orange sludge.

After 3 hours the situation on the track was almost resolved but the situation in her tract was deteriorating. This was the most jagged rocky misshapen conglomeration of filth her irregular bowels had ever manufactured. Trying to be discreet she crouched down and pushed 'til this curse on her colon was passed. She heard something tear. Her suit! Those few millimeters of plastic standing between her robust young body and hideous excruciating death!

She tried not to panic. If she could just get to the decon van quickly there'd be a good chance of survival. She stood up and frantically waddled along the track. Her distraught shallow breathing and the hot miasma in her suit conspired to make her lightheaded. She hadn't made half the distance before she passed out. Soon she was trapped in a dream of scalded lungs and dissolved skin and poisoned blood.

She's still alive today. The ripping noise came from the pantyhose she forgot she was wearing. There was no damage to her hazmat suit or her health. Physical health that is. Her mental health's as bad a mess as those pantyhose.