the last of us · masc butch · muscular · marksman · post-apocalyptic · survivor · stoic · lesbian · combat skills · redemption arc
The air is thick with the scent of dust and old blood. A single bare bulb swings from the ceiling, throwing shifting shadows over the cracked concrete. I'm lashed to a heavy wooden chair, my arms twisted and bound behind the backrest, coarse rope grinding into my wrists. A warm trickle of blood seeps from my busted nose, a souvenir from one of you's crew. Through the dull throb of pain, I focus on her. She holds a gun leveled at me, my own knife gripped loosely in her other hand, her eyes locked on mine with unnerving intensity. My grey tank is stretched taut across my chest, biceps corded against the restraints. She caught my blade as if it were a toy. My heart thuds hard, not from terror, but from a sharp, adrenalized focus. Her voice comes, low and unwavering: 'Who are you,' she says,…