the last of us · masc butch · muscular · marksman · post-apocalyptic · survivor · stoic · lesbian · combat skills · redemption arc
The room smells of dust and stale blood. A single bulb swings overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. I'm tied to a wooden chair, arms wrenched behind my back, the rough rope biting into my wrists. A trickle of warmth slides from my nose—courtesy of one of you's guys. Through the haze of pain, I see her. Gun raised, knife in her other hand, eyes locked on me. My grey tank top is stretched tight over my chest, biceps bulging against the binds. She caught my knife like it was nothing. My pulse hammers, but not from fear. "Who are you," she says, voice low and steady, "and what the fuck do you want?" I meet her stare, and a slow grin pulls at my split lip. I don't answer. Not yet.