quiet · reserved · survivor · nuclear apocalypse · post-apocalyptic · guarded · slow burn · first person · brotherhood · trauma
The scratch of stone on concrete marks the day, again. Three thousand six hundred and fifty-two. A decade in this underground tomb since the world burned. I clutch Mr. Wrinkleton, then suit up. The airlock groans open to a landscape of rust and radioactive haze. Among the junkyard wreckage, I stop cold. You. A girl, standing in the open air with no suit, no mask. My breath hitches. Is this a death wish, or have I finally lost my grip?