#Malia's fanfics

[stereklyrics]

The pack is fighting a witch, now they don't really know how to fight a witch. Yeah, it would be easier if Stiles was there with them, but he had to go to this camp or whatever that Deaton said it was going to help with Stiles' new powers after the Nogitsune. So, they have zero idea what they're doing. Derek has enough and calls Stiles, gaining a glare from Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Malia and even Kira 'cause that's something they agreed they wouldn't do to not worry Stiles. Once Stiles picks up, Derek just casually asks "So...You know, not that we really need it right now but...Do you know how to kill a witch?" and Stiles is just like "Seriously? A witch is literally a human with magic, so just kill her the way you would with a regular human. Shot her, slash her throat, poison her, stab her...I don't know, pick one!" And then Lydia takes the phone off Derek and asks "My Banshee scream would kill her?" and Stiles replies "If your scream kills, then yes, just be careful with the rest of the pack." and then Lydia hangs up and gives Derek his phone back. Kira ends up killing the witch with her katana.

Stiles totally knew Derek was calling him about the witch because the pack was fighting a witch...He might have asked Deaton to keep him informed about the threats the pack is dealing during his absence.

[strawberrygrapesandcherry]

[jensenacklesantidote]

SCREAMING. CRYING. THROWING UP. THEY’RE SO FUCKING CUTE I-😭🤚

I’m just so incredibly happy for colby🥹

and I really hope the fandom doesn’t fuck up his happiness, otherwise i’m throwing hands😤

[aliensister17]

Listens for the sounds of a very very pissed off Stiles Stilinski-Hale storming into Beacon Hills, muttering about the gall of his husband, what the fuck... Someone is going to pay!

[quinnysnursery]

[👻] be mean to me | colby brock one-shot

pairing : little!colby brock x toxic/abusive!cg!oc (+ some cg!sam, if you squint)

summary : pure angst just pure pure angst honestly

warning/extra tid-bits : VERY HEAVY ANGST. abusive relationship, yelling, injury, abandoning a little, explicit language, all hurt VERY MINIMAL comfort

word count : 1,305

divider credit : umm i found all the photos on pinterest :3 (x's on the bottom are by @saradika-graphics)

a/n : quinny's sad so yk what that meansss....angst time!! ALSO in no way am i trying to romantize or glorify these types of relationships, i'm simply writing angst and showing just how much toxic relationships can affect someone. (sorry for any typos, i'm just a girl!)

“Being with you,”

Jennifer was nice at first, really. She complimented Colby, offered to pay for herself on dates and never made Colby feel ashamed for his regression. That’s why Colby introduced her to Sam, because Colby knew he loved her unconditionally.

He thought she loved him the same. Sam thought so too, telling Colby how lucky he was for finding such a good girl. 

“Don’t fumble her.” Sam had joked, earning a lighthearted eye roll from Colby.

When Jennifer told Colby she was moving to Colorado and wasn’t willing to compromise with long distance, Sam’s words rang in the back of his head. He couldn’t fumble Jennifer, Jennifer was the best thing to ever happen to him. 

So he told Sam he was moving, spent months pre-recording content for their channel and then- after a teary eyed goodbye- flew with Jennifer to Colorado.

Because Colby loved Jennifer unconditionally, and he would do anything to be with her. Even if that meant leaving Sam behind in LA.

“Makes the flame burn good.”

Things turned sour within the first month. Little things at first- like Jennifer getting overly frustrated at him for forgetting to unload the dishwasher or leaving the toilet seat up.

Colby didn’t mind though, because she always made up for it with sweet gestures. Like candy, or toys.

Sure, it was always candy that Colby didn’t particularly like but…it was the thought that counted. Jennifer had cared enough about Colby to get him candy, he should be thankful.

“So if you need to be mean,”

Jennifer worked in real estate- an area that Colby had zero knowledge of. He knew she sold big houses, like…houses that would make even his and Sam’s pockets hurt.

He knew that had to be stressful, making sure the houses sold on time and for the correct prices. Jennifer had told him time and time again how stressful her clients were.

“They’re just annoying! Always so rude.”

Colby did his best to be there for Jennifer when she came home from work- he was basically a stay at home boyfriend anyway. It was the least he could do. He tried having dinner ready and the table set before she came home.

Some days, it made her smile. Other times, it only seemed to piss her off more.

“Do you really think I want fucking spaghetti? I’m sick of it! God, are you stupid?!” She’d scream until her throat was dry, berating Colby the entire time he scrolled on his phone- ordering her a new meal. 

Colby understood though. At least, he understood when he wasn’t regressed.

When Colby was regressed, he’d try and do other things to make Jennifer smile- since using the stove as off limits. He’d draw pictures or set up forts in the living room.

Jennifer hated it. Always tearing down the pillows or shoving the parchment into the trash. Colby cried, but he’d always end up forgiving her.

“I don’t want to take care of a fucking baby after a bad day at work!” She’d yell, and Colby would understand. He had to understand, cause if he didn’t he risked losing Jenny. His Jenny.

“Be mean to me.”

Colby knew Jennifer’s job had to be stressful because a few months into living in Colorado, she announced that her boss was letting her hire an assistant to help ease up some of the work.

Colby thought that meant he’d be able to regress without being screamed at, he wasn’t entirely wrong…but he also wasn’t right.

Jennifer’s anger turned from Colby to her assistant, Malia. Whose voice Colby only ever heard apologizing.

It seemed that almost every day, Jennifer would come home screaming at Malia through the phone- spewing something along the lines about how incompetent she was.

One day, a regressed Colby realized that if he was tired hearing Jennifer screaming- Malia must’ve been exhausted. So, he decided he’d bear the weight of Jennifer’s words for Miss Malia that day. 

“You’re fucking stupid! Can’t you do anything correctly?!” Jennifer shouted, Colby could hear Malia’s muffled voice through the speaker of Jennifer’s phone as he sat next to Jennifer on the couch- shaky hands holding onto a glass of water.

“No! It wasn’t an ‘honest mistake’ if it was an honest mistake, you wouldn’t be-” Colby let out a shaky breath as he set his plan in motion, tipping the glass of water onto Jennifer’s lap- causing her to let out an ear-piercing screech.

“COLE!” She screamed before sputtering over her words, steam coming out her ears. “Malia, I have to go. My boyfriend’s an idiot!” She spat, handing up her phone and throwing it onto the empty seat next to her.

Colby realized then it was a stupid plan.

That was the first night Jennifer threw something.

“I can take it and put it inside of me.”

Sam checked up on him from time to time. Asking if he was regressing enough, if he was drinking water, if he’d want to visit sometime.

It was nice. It reminded Colby that love without fear existed- just not in his house.

“If your hands need to break more than trinkets in my room,”

After the stupid water cup plan, Colby learned that if he really cared about his toys- he needed to hide them when Jenny came home.

If he didn’t, and Jennifer was in a particularly bad mood, they’d end up in the dumpster outside.

“You can lean on my arm, as you break my heart.”

Jennifer still posted her and Colby’s relationship onto her social media as if things were fine. Even after Colby had come to terms with the fact that nothing about his and Jennifer’s relationship was “fine.”

Unknowing fans would make edits of them, claiming they were the “perfect couple”. Colby’s stomach churned when he saw comments of fans begging for a relationship “like Colby and Jen’s!!” under a photo Jennifer had posted of her leaning on Colby’s arm at some fancy restaurant Colby could barely remember the name of.

He’d been so scared the entire date that something, anything within the restaurant would set her off and he’d regress in public out of fear. 

Still though, Colby’s thumb pressed down on the fan’s comment- liking it.

“Just don't leave me alone, wondering where you are."

Colby’s own brain betrayed him sometimes. Sometimes Colby’s brain would cry out for Jennifer’s comfort after she stormed out of the house in a fit of blind rage.

It took Colby a long time after escaping Jennifer and moving back in with Sam to realize he didn’t want Jennifer’s comfort, he wanted anyone’s.

"I am stronger than you give me credit it for.”

It took Colby a long time to regress without crying after moving back into his and Sam’s house. If he had to guess an exact time, maybe just under a year?

Some days, he wondered if healing was even possible. But Sam never gave up hope, always being sure to dote compliments onto Colby- regressed or not.

“You’re so strong, okay?” Colby didn’t feel strong…but Sam was telling him he was. Sam didn’t lie, especially not to Colby.

He’d told the fans a brief explanation of what happened- leaving out everything and anything that had to do with age regression. 

Once he accidentally opened a DM from a fan telling him that he’d given them the confidence to leave. That he proved to them that life was so much bigger than the bubble their abuser had placed around them. It felt wrong to not answer such a serious DM, so he did.

“You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. You decided to leave, don’t let anyone take that from you.”

It was only after sending that message that he realized he needed to take his own advice. 

Colby was strong.

taglist !! :

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@hrtz4alex2211 @bimbob1tch @sturnsxplr-25 @cherry-red-heart

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@urfavbestiee @nicksloverrr @babybatxxx

[janedoeswriting]

The Way the Wind Blows (Stiles Stilinski x OC)

Masterlist

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Playlist

Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

(Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Öyster Cult

One Way Or Another by Blondie

The Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks

Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain

Hotel California by Eagles

Wicked Game by Chris Isaak

Characters

Stiles Stilinski

Height: 5'11"

Eyes: Brown

Sign: Aries

MBPT: ENTP

Age: 16

RHIANNON PENELOPE WATSON

Height: 5'9"

Eyes: Grey/Blue

Sign: Leo

MBPT: INFP

Age: 16

[maria021015]

Lydia: You’d think a genius would be able to figure out how to follow an instruction manual. But I guess not.

Malia. Maybe if it was in English…

Kira: And the right way up.

Malia: It makes no difference. This still doesn’t make sense.

Melissa: It’s alright. The boys will be here soon and I’m sure they’ll be able to make heads and tails of it.

Lydia: All the more reason for us to work it out before they get here.

[beforetimes]

CROCODILE TEARS

“No,” Stiles interrupts, seemingly fed-up. “What do you want? With us. With anyone here. With Beacon Hills. There has to be something.”

Liam shrugs in response, drawing into himself. Shoulders hunched, hands fiddling with each other, leg bouncing, Liam is the perfect picture of adolescent anxiety. Then why, Theo thinks, almost frustrated with himself, does this feel so strange?

It’s a puzzle, Theo’s beginning to realize. And he’s missing more than a few pieces.

— brought to you by the author who saw liam fake-cry to escape scott and stiles kidnapping him in season 4 and immediately thought, i need to do something about this. this fic is a different first-meeting au. hinging directly on the idea of a role reversal where liam would be taken by the dread doctors and sent to infiltrate scott's pack, while theo would get to grow up in beacon hills as scott and stiles' third friend in their trio. link here!

[equallyloyalandlethal]

Tough Like Dandelions-verse Continues!

Hello friends, long time no see with an update on this verse, but hey, I've got good news.

I finished a 20k one-shot centering on Theo and Malia's relationship while also showing how Theo has integrated into the pack as a whole since the end of TLD and gearing up for the next part in this awesome story.

Many thanks to @spiderraeken, @raekensarcher, and @outcastpack for helping with this and keeping the brainworm alive as it grew.

The sequel story (Love Like Hellebores) is in the making, so expect some chapters being posted in February (or after, because my wedding is on the 14th, so I might get a little distracted during that). But it's in the works!

[shykpop]

BRING ME THE HORIZON icons, +like or reblog If you use

[thatmaddogley]

Disclaimer- I DO NOT OWN DESCENDENTS

Warnings:

-Mentions of SA and abuse

-Swearing

PART 1/?

“I love you because I don’t know how to not love you, and I can not imagine a world where we are enemies, fighting for our lives, because of our fucked up history.”

Plot

—------------------------------

Red looked down, playing with her fingers nervously.

“I don’t know what love feels like.”

Chloe grabbed Red’s chin and made her look at her. She slowly placed her hand in between Red’s hand, and squeezed ever so lightly.

“Maybe I can teach you.”

Or

Chloe teaches Red what love is very slowly, at her pace. Lots of GlassHeart/Red Charming

—--------------------------------

"I don't know what love feels like."

Red was sitting in her dorm who she shared with her roommate and friend Chloe. She was reading an article about news and Wonderland. It was like a whole new world. Everything was the opposite to the wonderland she had known. The book was called, “Wonders Of Wonderland.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

Wonders Of Wonderland

-By Daisy Peerez

Wonderland, when you think of that name, you just think, well, Wonderful! The Queen of Hearts, Aka Bridget Hearts has insisted that we use her real name in documentaries. The lands of Wonderland are just amazing! Cherry Blossom tree’s line the castle and around the Castle Of Hearts, the villagers are as friendly and as family as you can get, as well as the Queen and her Daughter, Princess Red of Hearts, and Heir to the Throne.

People have been concerned about the Princess’ new attitude change recently that started at the student orientation at Auradon. It started when Principal Uma, daughter of the sea witch Ursula, gave her speech. She sneaked away with Princess Chloe Charming, daughter of King Charming and Queen Cinderella. They came back when Queen Bridget accidentally interrupted Principal Uma, and the Princess yelled, “Mom what are you doing?” which the Queen replied, “Just playing my favorite game, Hearts.” Immediately after that, the Queen put beautiful bubble hearts in the sky. But ever since that encounter, Princess Red has never been the same.

She’s very distant, especially from her mother. She used to be very huggable, and cheerful. You’d be able to hug her from behind and she wouldn’t mind. Now if someone were to hug her, she’d flinch, and push you away. All except for her best friend ever since she was born, Chloe Charming. People are speculating and making theories as to why she is like this. The top theory I have seen is that she got assaulted, or sexually assaulted. But that is unlikely because she doesn’t leave the comfort of her palace, and her mother.

There’s another theory for why she only allows Princess Chloe to be around her. People have suggested that they are dating-

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dating? Why did people think that? Of course they were close, and that Chloe is the only person who's allowed to touch her and that she might find Chloe’s hand very comforting, and that her hair is so fluffy and so nice to touch and- okay, there were many reasons they could suspect that. But Red wasn’t gay. At least- she thought she wasn’t gay.

She didn’t really understand how things worked because her old mom always said “Love ain’t it,” and “Love makes you weak.” She literally banned and burned any love related book and almost banned people from dating, but then realized she wouldn’t have any subjects if she did that. But it was banned to show love outside your home, or talk about it.

Just then, Chloe walked in smiling and humming, but as soon as she locked eyes with Red, she stopped. “Red?” she asked, concern flickering in her eyes

Red looked up quickly, dropping the article and standing up. “I’m fine.” She said, though her voice wavered slightly

Chloe looked really spectacle and tilted her head. “Uh- okay! So whatcha reading?” Chloe bent down reaching for the article, but Red snatched it away from her. “Hey!”

“No, you can’t read it.” Red insisted, clutching the paper tightly

“Why not?” Chloe asked, her curiosity piqued

“Cause I said so.” Red replied, her tone firm

Chloe huffs and tries to snatch it, the same way when they were fighting for the pocket watch.

“I don’t know about you,” Red said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, “but I’m getting deja vu.”

Chloe nods. “And you do know I was the one who won that right? I can do it again.”

Red smirks. “Oh yeah Princess? Come and get it then!” Red darted towards the bathrooms, article in hand, attempting to lock herself in there, but Chloe is just as fast, snatching Red’s hoodie and making both of them fall backwards.

Red froze. It wasn’t because she was in pain, oh no, she handled worse. But it was the position they were in. When they landed, Chloe fell on her back, with Red’s back on top of her, but Chloe flipped them, to where Chloe was at top, and Red was on bottom…Not where she’d like to be.

Chloe immediately blushed out of embarrassment, and got off Red immediately. Red was too shocked to know what was even going on.

Chloe nervously reached a hand out towards Red to pull her up. Red accepted it gratefully and sat on her bed. Chloe immediately backed away.

“I’m so sorry I- I forgot about your boundaries and-”

Chloe feels a warm hand touch her palm and she shuts up immediately.

“Chloe, it's fine. I was just a bit taken aback, that's all. You’re literally the only person who can even walk next to me.” That makes Chloe chuckle.

Chloe then walks over to Red’s bed, silently asking if she can sit, and Red nods.

They sit in comfortable silence until Chloe breaks it. “So…why are you so distant anyways? I mean, I know you have lots of trauma from your old mom but…what led up to it?” Chloe saw Red’s face change into a frown, so she immediately went back. “I mean- if you want to answer that is- I know it's hard to talk about, so I won’t push you.”

Red looks away for a few moments, sighing. Thinking if she should tell her only friend of her broken parts. The ones that can never be fixed or healed. One of those broken things, being her heart. She was sure nothing in this world could get her to re-open her heart again. Not after that night that changed Red forever… But Chloe was different. She doesn’t know why, but she is. And she always will be. Red can’t describe it but there is like a magical string connecting them together. They were meant to find each other, meant to connect with each other. So Red does something she hasn’t done since she was six. Listen to her heart.

“I’ll tell you.’’

Endnotes

—-----------------------------------------------

Sorry I left you on a cliffhanger…but I will be updating it more. I’m gonna try and have a schedule for postinging but who knows. I have a busy schedule. Also, fun fact, the name I used for the publisher is actually my best friend’s first name. But I used another last name for obvious reasons. But whenever you see OC names, they could be my friends. I don’t know how many parts this will be so yeah haha. Leave suggestions for others! Stay positive, love yall <33

August 6th, 2024

Written by: Thatmaddogly

[jensenacklesantidote]

AHHHHHHHH

I CANT. I FUCKING LOVE THEM. THEY’RE SO FUCKING HOT! 🥵😩

ALSO HE FR SLAYEDDD CHELLA!! GAH DAMN!!

[fionajames]

im not ready for ao3 to be down tonight, i have so many fics to read

[iminlovewithfiction]

if only i actually existed in the teen wolf universe...

[missameliep]

Twenty Seconds or Twenty Years

Book: Wake the Dead Characters: Angel Savage; Eli Sipes; Malia Jones (MC) and Troy Hassan. Pairing: Malia Jones (MC) x Troy Hassan. Rating: M (see notes bellow) Word count: 6.300k Summary: After getting separated from her friends during a scouting mission in a new city, Malia got injured and will struggle to survive against all odds. Is she going to make it on her own?

Notes:

English is not my first language;

Characters belong to Pixelberry and I’m borrowing them;

Post-WTD events;

This fic is rated M because of triggering subjects: swearing; mentions of death and violence compliant to canon; mentions of injuries and blood; mention to suicide; readers discretion advised

This fic was inspired by a prompt sent by the lovely @jerzwriter - It kinda took an unexpected turn from where I thought this fic would go! Thanks for sending the prompt and I apologise it took soooo long.

Running through unknown terrain is usually a bad idea and Malia would strongly advice against it, considering how easily one could stumble directly into the arms of the undead. However, given the circumstances, the only other option left is certain death if she tries to hold her ground and fight the ‘zombiefest’ on her own with an injured arm.  

So, she runs.  

Being chased triggered Malia’s brain in survival mode.  

Adrenaline and pure will make her muscles climb another set of stairs and the next one. No amount of exercise at the colony could have prepared her for this. 

Breathe, she reminds herself, breathe. 

Dashing up, Malia reaches the next flight of stairs, barely catching her breath and a glimpse of the number six lying on the floor. 

Six.  

That’s the number of arrows shot and undead put to rest for good before a blur in her peripheral vision obfuscated everything.  

The impact knocked the air out of her lungs. Stumbling back, her body landed on a pile of debris. A sharp pain on her arm didn’t stop her from kicking back, making the decayed corpse reel back, allowing enough space for the metal tip of the arrow sunk deep into an eye socket and exit through the back of the drone’s head.  

Her brain didn’t register getting up or running. Next thing she remembers is the bang of the heavy metal door against the wall when she dashed, hisses and snarls following too close...    

Heart pounding in her ears, almost muffling the sound of her own steps and those of her chasers, she climbs another set of stairs.  

Going three steps at once is not something manageable for much longer; however, slowing down is not an option either until being certain of the distance put between her and the pursuers... 

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. The voices in her mind alternating between her own and Troy’s, that one cheerful tone he used when she was sparring with anyone other than him. You can do this, Malia. You’ve got this!  

Reaching the next flight of stairs, she slows down, pacing her run, and her trained ears capture the faint growls and dragging of feet echoing bellow. There is no need to turn around to know she’s gained on them. At least for now.   

Tenth floor. 

Ten.  

That’s how many days passed since they barely survived the surge. But with all the work tending the injured, the extensive damages to the lodge and deciding on a new place to settle Olympus, one could think it happened months ago... 

Using her good arm, she forces the fire exit door’s handle and pulls with all her strength in vain. 

An inhuman screech echoes.  

A fucking Scout! Just my luck! Every hibernating zombie in a mile will come here... 

She darts upward, hoping the upper floors won’t be packed with drones. 

On the wall, the numbers indicating she reached the sixteenth-floor conserve a faint glow despite the dust and spiderwebs. The fire exit door is also stuck, probably blocked from the inside. With a groan, she pushes and pulls harder, but it doesn’t budge.  

“Better try my luck with the next one,” she murmurs, “Seventeen might be my lucky number.” 

It wasn’t.  

But it doesn’t matter. When your goal is not becoming drone’s snack, you’ll find the strength to keep going.  

This building has at least forty floors... I’ll try the next one and the next one until I find one door unlocked or no more doors to bang on... 

Hope fuels her entire body.  

Twenty-two was her lucky number. 

Pulling at the large bar, she easily props open the fire door. A long and dark hallway stretches before her, the faintest light filtering through the furthest door on the left. 

From the stairs, the hisses are getting louder.  

As quiet as possible, she closes the door and turns on the flashlight, searching for anything to barricade it. Drones shouldn’t be able to grasp on door handles, but they shouldn’t talk or have a conscience either, but Malia knows how untrue those statements can be... 

A fire hose on the wall fits the purpose. Forcing the metal door open, she reels it out as best as she can with one hand, then rolls it around the bar to keep the door shut.  

She barely finished securing the door closed when the horde tested its resistance. Scratches, bangs and ungodly hisses echo. Startled, she takes a step back and the gun out of the shoulder holster. In the darkness, her attention split between the door in front of her and the long corridor behind, from where a drone could be lurking. 

Not daring make a sound, she stands completely still and holds her breath until most of the horde seems to continue the chase up the stairs. Only a few growls persist, but no signs they would manage to break in. 

Letting out an exhausted breath, every muscle on her body seems to give up at once. Her lungs ache. Her vision blurs. She bends over with pain in her side and leans against the closest wall. Her palm is tainted crimson with the blood soaking the t-shirt. 

“Fuck” she hisses and her body slides down. The muscles of her legs melting underneath her weight like frost when the sun comes up. 

The silence that settles is a good sign. If the commotion didn’t attract any zombie, then it’s almost safe to say she’s entered a zombie-free floor. 

Putting her backpack down, Malia takes a sip at the water from the flask and inhales deeply. Another sip at the liquid is not enough to wash the lingering taste of dust in her mouth, but she must save for later. 

Later. 

Eli’s words on the back of her mind reminding now’s the time to prepare for later. “Keep walking. Let your body decelerate. Sitting down is bad. Life is motion.” 

The pain urges her to ignore all the advice.  

There’s no strength left. Blood is pouring from the wound, soaking her t-shirt that has been shredded on the side by the drone’s tallons. Her left arm refuses to be ignored any longer. An acute pain irradiates through the entire limb. Her hand run over the thick fabric of the jacket, touching the bump caused by the bone sticking out... A fracture. 

“Just my luck,” she mutters. 

It’s unsafe to risk making any noise without securing the perimeter first. The fact there’s not a drone in her face, is no excuse to sit back and relax. But on the other hand, she cannot go on without tending to her injuries. 

Rubbing her hand against her face, wiping the sweat, she needs to rest. One more minute. Two more deep breaths. Her back rests against the wall while she inhales and exhales, her breathing becomes steadier and her pulse less erratic.  

From previous experience, if all the noise and the scent of her blood didn’t bring any drone here, she must be safe. For now. 

Her training comes back to mind, and her brain lists everything she needs: a less exposed place; a first aid kit, since the one Shannon insisted on sending with the party remained in the van; and then she’ll find an alternative exit.  

“I can do this,” she mutters like a mantra. “It’ll be fine.” 

When she’s back on her feet the flashlight trembles on her left hand, her fingers barely bending to hold it. Ignoring the pain, Malia tucks it under her arm and holds the revolver with her right hand.  

While she walks, the faint glow fights the darkness, the beam lingering on every closed door while her hearing trained to listen any minor noise. The first door is locked, and she leaves it be. The next one is some kind of storage room, with brooms and several containers with colourful liquids. A quick skim to make sure there’s something useful on the cramped shelves. If Angel were here, she’d probably fabricate an explosive with two of those bottles and a rag. Just in case, she picks up a small one with a highly flammable warning before closing the door and moving on to the next one.  

Pushing it open, she finds herself standing in a bathroom with several urinals, broken mirrors and signs of death everywhere, if the maroon splotches on the white floor tiles and the impression of a hand on the door are not part of the decoration. 

Ignoring the eerie sight and the pain, she takes one careful step after the other. The gun and backpack are placed over the counter next to the sink. She lets the jacket slide off her shoulder and down her arm, exposing the injuries in the mirror. Right beneath the ribs, there’s a gash in the t-shirt and a long cut wider than her index finger. It definitely doesn't need stitches, something undoable by herself. Fortunately, it’s also superficial and no ribs were broken by the collision. Taking a spare t-shirt from the backpack, she tears a piece of the cloth and press it to the wound and keeps the pressure on to stop the bleeding, all the while her gaze doesn’t avert from the bump on her arm. 

She takes a deep breath, preparing to examine it.  

Assisting Shannon while treating the injured taught her a thing or two, and she’s grateful for that. The fracture was right above the elbow and the bone didn’t pierce through the skin, which is a good thing, considering the risk of infection. It’s not the first time she breaks a bone, nor the second. She’s broken fingers and toes and a rib during trainings. But at the Tower you never had to deal with it alone, and if you were lucky enough, you’d even get a pill to ease the pain or some ice... 

When she tries to push the bone back in place, an unbearable pain stops her from doing so. Gritting her teeth, she tries again. Her jaw tightened so much while she tried not to scream, she fears the teeth would just crumble to dust. Her eyes well with unshed tears when the bone seems to click in place. A string of curses is muttered under her breath while struggling to put the jacket back on. The rest of the spare t-shirt is converted into an improvised arm sling until she can treat it properly.  

Collecting her stuff, she returns to the corridor that remains completely silent. 

Ahead of her, the corridor takes a sharp turn to the left. Peeking from the corner, she observes how it widens near two elevators’ metallic doors, and she can almost picture it bustling with people in the old days.  

Two wide lift doors are sided by what once might have been ostentatious vases with palm trees like she’s seen in magazines. One is lying sideways, dark potting soil spread over the floor. Indications of a small fire and singed objects close to one of the many doors on the other side, painted the wall black all the way up to the ceiling.  

This corridor is also pitch black, except from a faint light emerging through one of the furthest doors.  

Her gaze fixes on that promising natural light.  

She crosses the remaining metres and walks into an ample and illuminated space. 

Judging by the disposition of the remnants of countless desks and what she assumes once were cubicles, she’s stepped into some kind of office. A much bigger version of the one at the Tower’s fourth floor. 

Walking carefully around piles of debris and tossed carcasses of metallic furniture, she finds no sign of drones. The floor is littered with paper and ragged pieces of what she can only assume once upon a time were someone’s clothes. One of the floor-to-ceiling windows is cracked in a spiderweb pattern and another was shattered, allowing the warm desert wind to blow inside. Next to them a chair lies tilted upside down. Tiny pieces of glass are scattered on the floor, glowing with the sunbeams. 

She cannot even imagine the chaos that might have followed an attack in such confined spaces. A shiver runs down her spine. Suddenly the rules imposed at the Tower to prevent infected to get in make too much sense. 

The flutter of wings startles her. She’s not expecting birds in a fucking building. Some of them fly across the room and out into the open space. She ducks in time to not get hit by one of them. There are feathers scattered on the ground and over the desks, droppings taint every surface and what she assumes are nests are hidden on the plaster above her head and into tubular lightings. She ignores them and moves forward.  

A crunching noise beneath her boots calls her attention.  

Lying at her feet, a frame with a broken glass. Despite the spiderweb-like shape of the crack, it was possible to see the picture. A smiling woman sitting on a porch’s stairs in the company of a child, a cat and a dog. A glimpse of what life used to be. Her jaw tightens at the sight of it.  

Life in this New World lacks pictures, pets and smiles like those.  

When the world spiralled into chaos, pictures were definitely the least of anyone’s concerns. Who would even stick some big-ass photo album on a backpack, considering you even had time to pack?  

However, if you survive the End of the World, it becomes one of those sentimentalities that nag at your mind. At days when it seems her fathers’ faces have fallen into an abyss in her mind, and Brynn’s face is dangerously starting to fade, she’d give anything to have at least one picture of them. Just one. It didn’t even have to be a flattering one, just good enough to keep some part of them alive... 

Pets were never allowed at the Tower. Too noisy, people said; and over the years she almost forgot about their existence entirely. Brynn, however, remembered the old retrievers from their home. Coco and Luna. According to her, they were soft, warm and loving, and you could bury your face in their caramel fur and forget bad days at school and boys who picked on you. Malia doesn’t remember them or the sound they made, but Brynn confirmed dogs were loud – even the old ones – and so were kids. That’s probably why so many disliked them at the Tower either and you won’t see a single kid with the Raiders...  

And for the smiles, it’s not exactly people don’t smile anymore...  

Malia certainly has smiled plenty of times and even laughed! And so have others... But it seems like everyone has worry lines, even the children. The constant looking over one’s shoulder might age people beyond their years, weighing down their expression, hardening it. The horror you cannot unsee becomes engraved in the skin, steals the brightness of the eyes little by little...  

Unlike those old pictures.  

At least not in the ones they’ve usually come across, hanging at houses and proudly displayed at stores. Only once she found something remarkably similar to the looks and smiles of people in the colonies. In a pile of detritus at one of Olympus’ rooms, she found this old magazine... The inner pages were filled with pictures of refugees of some war in a place she never heard of... Displaced, threatened, starving, separated from loved ones... Experiences most of the survivors know well by now.  

Could the woman and child have survived the first hordes? And the surges that followed every seven years? Were they separated from each other, never knowing what happened to the other or were they allowed the mercy to live and die together?  

The agony of not knowing is painfully familiar. 

Almost reverently, she places the frame over a desk and keeps moving, checking for zombies... It takes only a few minutes to cover the whole floor. Thankfully she’s alone. Unfortunately, there are no other exit or external fire escape for her to climb down from this side of the building.  

That’s a big complication, considering she cannot use the one she came from. With a broken arm, using the elevator’s shaft is too risky...

Standing by the floor to ceiling windows, she presses her forehead against the warm glass and gazes at the city bathed in the late afternoon sun. Long shadows stretch over the streets bellow. Maybe a hundred drones are hidden in those darkened alleys... Soon it will be completely dark. She takes a long deep breath and curses. 

She’s trapped – at least for the night – and alone. 

Getting separated from your companions on any mission can be bad.

Getting separated on a city you’re scouting for the first time is a nightmare.  

They haven’t mapped escape routes or ruled out hazards apart from drones. One never knows if you’ll meet other survivors and of which kind... 

Down below, one of the streets is partially blocked by abandoned vehicles. A small delivery truck hit a light pole that fell and smashed its hood and cabin. Other vehicles queued behind the truck, forming a long line with about twenty cars. Some of the doors were left wide open, reminders of the rush to escape and the chaos of those days. 

Two decades have gone by, and you can always feel it hanging in the air. The tragedy. The lives lost. The stories interrupted.  

Was there anybody left to tell their stories? Does anybody remember what happened here? All those people had names, lives, pets, jobs... All that’s left of their existence are abandoned cars and lost shoes...  

If one is gone and nobody remembers them, is it the same as never existing?  

When the last of her friends die, is it what will happen? Will they fade to nothingness? Should it even matter? 

Her mind drifts to them. Troy, Angel and Eli have no idea where she is. And she has no idea if she successfully drove the zombies away from the van... How are they faring? Did they get the supplies to the van? And more importantly: are they alive? 

Hopefully they are following the plan and will be leaving soon. 

Leaving her.  

That’s how it’s supposed to be, she reminds herself. If they’re safe, it was worth it. 

Her stomach growls. The last time she ate was this morning, before leaving Olympus. While rummaging through the content of the backpack to pick one of the apples, her fingers glide over the radio Angel put together. They tested it a few times back at the colony, and it only worked within a certain range. After 10 miles it was hard to capture the signal, and the communication was ineffective. She considers how much she ran through the park till the building.  

The object is heavy in her hands, like the decision she must make.  

If she contacts them, they could come after her, which is suicide, considering all the drones.  

If she doesn’t, they won’t know she’s fine and might be looking for her, wasting precious time and resources. Besides, the idea of them worrying unnecessarily is unpleasant. She’s been there and hated it. 

The radio cracks when she turns it on, and she calls her friends’ names in a low voice. One after the other. Like a mantra.   

“Hey? Can you hear me? Troy. Eli. Angel. If you guys can hear me, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Get back to the colony.” 

The radio crackled with the strangest of noises. Malia wanted to make something out of it, to believe there were voices, familiar voices, talking back to her. But there were none. Only static. 

The hopeful part of her brain assumes they are on their way back to Olympus, getting to safety and not staying outside after nightfall... That’s the logical thing to do – even if she’d never make that choice. 

Shoving the radio in the pocket of her cargo pants, she moves away from the window and keeps herself busy. The drones are not resting if the noises somewhere above this floor are any indication. 

If anything, life taught her the impermanence of things. There’s no safety.  

Life is motion.  

So, she moves. 

First, secure the perimeter.  

Pushing a heavy cabinet, she blocks the access to one smaller section of the office that has real walls and doors instead of the paper-like partitions that are everywhere else. A room with sturdier furniture and a two-seater sofa provides a good place to rest. Once inside, she shifts through the desks’ drawers and cabinets, finding a small hidden refrigerator.  

After the task is completed, she collected two scissors that might be useful, granola bars and chocolate fabricated in the year the world collapsed, three bottles of water and one half-full of decent whiskey, judging by the way it doesn’t burn her throat when she takes a swig at it. Troy will be thrilled about that discovery. Everything gets shoved inside her backpack. For her own enjoyment and the kids at the colony, she takes notepads and a handful of pens and pencils. 

Clearing a large wooden desk, she sits atop of it with her legs crossed. The hunting knife is placed beside her, ready to use. Looking outside, she munches on one of the apples picked at the orchard. 

Even in the distance, the lines of vehicles on the roads exiting the town are visible. Decades spent in the same position, frozen in time. Living in a zombie apocalypse has taught her to see the horror beneath the quiet.  

From time to time, there’s beauty too.  

She picks up one of the notepads and takes a pencil to sketch the skyscape and hills in the yellowed pages. This is the first time she's drawn since leaving the Tower. It doesn’t matter if it’s a rough sketch. Her pencil moves quick to capture all the lines. She can better it later.  

And she must believe there’ll be a later. 

Without the sun, the sky darkens fast, and the notepad and pencil are shoved inside the backpack. She lies on her back in the couch, and stares at the ceiling. 

Waiting and doing nothing are not amongst her skills.  

Boredom turns the radio into a temptation, and she fishes the device. 

Contacting them, she tells herself, is nothing but a selfless gesture. In doing so, she puts them at ease about her whereabouts, they can stop worrying and move on... She’s not thinking about the ache in her gut of not knowing if they’re alive. It’s not about the hope of being rescued either and going back to the home they’ve built.  

In a world like theirs, why should she be so determined to survive? When their lives are basically navigating from a life-threatening situation to the next one? Isn’t it the strangest thing? To feel such helplessness and dismay daily and yet dread the possibility of an end? it makes so little sense sometimes all this effort... wouldn’t it be easier to cease to exist?  

The answer to that question she knows too well. Hope moves her. It might sound silly if she ever says it out loud... but it’s hope. It’s hope that makes her wake up every morning, work hard and take care of herself and loved ones. They live and die for one another. They survive and they hope. They work and they hope. And she hopes and hopes. For a good day. For love. For respite. For a future. For the day her toes will touch warm sands at a beach. For the cool waves swaying around her body.

This day might’ve thrown a shitload of touble at her, but she can get over it. She always does. She’ll find a way, even if now she only wishes to break down and cry. Giving up is not an option. Brynn sacrificed herself for her, and she has followed the example more than a handful of times – including this afternoon. A month ago she promised Troy to live a good life, and she’ll do exactly that.  

The memory makes her throat tighten.   

Without thinking, her hand runs over the bump and the fractured bone... and the pain settles her. Nothing much she can do now, she must wait until morning, when there’s a better chance of leaving this building unscathed... Until then, she must act. Life is motion. 

Time moves so slowly when you’re not doing chores; she remembers the times they got lockdown at the Tower and all the idle hours to fill. She and Brynn drank whatever crap beer one could get, played charades and word games, trained, and stayed silent for hours. Disrespecting the rules, Malia and Troy would often sneak into each other’s rooms, and spend some time together. Those were the best moments... The memories and the things left unsaid almost choke her. She’s faced zombies and more danger than her mind could’ve anticipated before leaving the Tower, and yet... the idea of telling him how much she loves him, how much she’s loved him for years is terrifying. 

A bitter laugh gets trapped in her throat, and it’s hard to breath. Her hand presses against the back of her neck, it rubs the muscles, trying to alleviate the tension. 

With each passing minute, fighting the idea of using the radio becomes harder. She wants them to pick up, to listen to their voices, even if it’s the last time.  

If they do pick up, it means they are close, when they should’ve left. And she can’t bear the thought of being the reason of them dying. 

What’s left unsaid, does it even matter now? If either of them does not see another day, do words change what they feel? Is it more bearable to hold it in, to not name what it is? Would the loss feel less devastating without the words weighting on it? 

“What a fucked up world,” she mutters under her breath. 

She fidgets with the radio, letting the static fill the silence for a few minutes. Then she speaks again. This time, she’s just calling Troy over and over. The minutes elapse, and she’s just rambling to the hissing device. 

“Troy... if you’re listening... it’s me... I... I’m... fine... Don’t worry. I’ll make it back to the colony when I can,” she pauses, considering who is she lying to. Even if she makes all the way down, there’s no guarantee she’ll ever make to the colony by herself.  

Another family lost. 

She sighs, and the truth pours out of her mouth like a river, “Troy, I’m hurt and trapped... but I’m safe for now... there’s no drones here... but the lower floors are packed with... I don’t know... a hundred of them, maybe... I cannot go back... I’m at the twenty-second floor... it’s insanely high! You’d love the view! I need to thank Eli for bugging me to run every morning or I wouldn’t have made this far... I can see most of the city... I’m at Baker Street... and I’ve got water... and food... but I’m... but... I’m so fucking scared. You can’t die. I promised to take care of you... but... I hope you’re... okay... all of you... there’s so much I wanted to tell you... damn... This is stupid! There’s nobody out there!” She growled with frustration, and the radio hissed. 

“Malia! I hear you! Can – Can you hear me?” Troy’s voice echoed before she turned the radio off, and it washed the tension off her body instantly. 

“Yes!” she cries, “I can hear you!”  

“We were so worried...” There’s a clear sign of relief in his tone the radio statics couldn’t hide. “The radio was cutting off... and you didn’t hear us. Are you okay?” 

Before she could answer, Angel asked, “Where are you exactly on Baker St.?” 

Apparently, they have been listening to her, but she couldn’t hear them.  

“Tell us exactly where you are, Angel’s starting the van. Just keep talking to me, Maly!” 

They are coming for her. They are coming. They are family. They are her people. They are not lost. They are not leaving her... They are coming to a building infested with a hundred drones. They’ll die because of her. Her heart tightens. A rush of emotions blurs her vision. 

“No!” She won’t let anybody else risk their lives to save hers. “You can’t!” 

“What? Of course we can!” Troy shouts, probably fearing what she’ll say. “We’re getting you out of there now.” 

“There are too many drones! And at least one scout. There’s no way I can go back down... they fucked up my arm...” 

“You got bitten?” Eli’s voice echoes louder than Troy’s.  

“My arm is broken... I can’t use the crossbow.” 

“What about your gun? Just shoot those z-bag right between the eyes!” 

“I got five bullets left... it’s useless with that many... and the noise would just draw even more... I’m staying here tonight... And you guys must go home... Save fuel and go back. I’ll be alright. I’ve supplies. Have you seen how many abandoned cars? I got my eyes on a convertible,” she says lightly, even though her throat is tightening and her vision blurred. 

The radio cracked, and there was a long silence before Eli spoke again. “We won’t leave you.”  

“Sure, you will,” Malia tasted the salt of the tears on her lips. “Go.” 

“No.” 

Wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice started to crack, “You know the rules, Eli... Just... do what must be done... keep everyone safe. It’s up to you now.” 

“Malia,” Eli’s voice was laced with a kind of pleading Malia never heard. “What about keeping you safe?” 

“Have I thanked you for training with me? You’d be proud. Twenty-two floors, Eli. A gazillion steps. And no zombie got even close...” A low chuckle lace her words and there’s only statics on the radio. Maybe they lost the signal. 

“Hey! Why does only he get a thank you? What about all that cardio we do together?” Troy’s voice cannot hide the uneasiness.  

They are stalling, expecting her to change her mind...   

“And Troy? I found the roller rink... It’s beside a comic book store, you just go past –”  

“Don’t just ruin the surprise!” he cuts her off but his voice is higher and wavering with emotion. “You’ll take me there. We’ll come find you and then I’ll dazzle you with my incredible moves!” 

When her reply doesn’t come, Troy calls her name softly at first and then with desperation, and Eli and Angel’s voices are almost muffled by the rumble of the van’s engine. She ignores them and the pang in her stomach. 

“Angel, floor it,” Malia whispers, turning the radio off to not hear their protests.  

Willing herself to stop crying, the tears are wiped in a brusque way against the fabric of her jacket.  

They’re alive, so why’s she crying? 

Crying is not the answer. It never is. If she starts to cry alone for all the losses and pain within, the things that have never been and never will be, all that’s left unsaid, she’ll probably never stop. And those are dangerous thoughts. The kind of thought that makes her touch her pocket... 

Biting the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, she forces herself to focus on anything else, like the fact she’s still alive and that no amount of zombie or disappointment can shut up the growl of her stomach. She’s alive. She’ll endure. She always does. Maybe this time around, she’ll have to do it alone. It’s good. She likes a challenge. 

Munching on one the rest of the apple, she contemplates the stars peppering the sky over the desert hills outside the city. That’s one of her favorite things about being outside the Tower: looking at the sky and the stars. If there’s a full moon tonight, she might just fucking cry with happiness then. 

Complete darkness has engulfed the world.  

Malia decided to keep the flashlight off to save the batteries and to not give away her location. The darkness and silence left her too long with her own thoughts. But there's nothing else to do... 

Besides the five bullets in the cylinder, there’s one inside her jacket pocket – the same one she’s keeping there since the night Brynn supposedly died at Eli’s cabin. 

If it comes to it, she’d rather die than let them have a piece of her... It’s not that she’s eager to die or anything. Especially not now when, despite the chaos  and losses, she is finally living. She’s got a taste of what life is supposed to be like beyond surviving: planning a future and basking in the sun and eating a piece of ripe fruit... and waking up and seeing Troy’s face first thing every morning...  

Her heart tightens. Troy helped her feel alive after Brynn died, he reignited her hope... and she hasn’t said she loves him... It’s a silly thought. Do words really matter? Would it make a difference if she said and died the next day, not keeping the promise to go back to him? 

The bullet is cold against her fingers.  

One for herself, if it comes to this. Dying is not the worst thing when turning into a zombie is a real threat.  

Somewhere in the building, a loud screech resounds, chilling the blood in her veins.  

She hugs herself, reminding herself if she keeps quiet, she'll be safe. Finally, she let sleep take over.  

Something heavy thumps outside.

Then a soft voice calls her name, the whisper breaks into her dreamless sleep. Her eyes flutter open. It’s still dark outside. She’s still all alone. The radio is silent. 

“Malia.” 

It's definitely her name and sounds like Troy. Maybe she’s hallucinating. 

There’s a flash of light underneath the door.  

She gets up and crosses the room to stand closer to the cabinet blocking the doors, and listens.  

“Malia. Where are you?” 

This time she hears it clearly. It’s Troy. She must be dreaming. 

“Troy?” she whispers, “Is that you?”  

The sound of footsteps halt. Her voice is enough to summon him straight to where she is standing.   

Pushing the cabinet aside, she cracks the door open, and the flashlight almost blinds her. The white light travels from her face to her feet. The flashlight hits the ground when his cold hands raise to cup her cheeks. 

“It’s you! It’s really you...” Troy’s voice is barely a whisper, and his gaze softens at the sight of her.  

“What are you doing here?” 

“Saving you, if my dramatic entrance didn’t make it abundantly clear...”  

With one arm around her waist, carefully avoiding her injured arm, he pulls her closer and buries his face in her neck, breathing out his relief. 

“Why would you risk coming for me?” she whispers against his ear. “I told you to go!” 

He raises his head to face her, a slow winning smile stretches his lips. “Baby, in case you haven’t noticed, that’s what I do! I always come back for you. I did at those zombie-infested woods, at the amusement park... I'll always come to you... You’re my best friend. My person. My family. I love you. I don’t think I ever loved anyone like I love you... How could I go on living knowing that – ” 

Once her brain processed the three words and what he’s saying, Malia doesn’t let him finish, kissing his lips with unusual gentleness. The kiss is unrushed, and the same words are whispered against his lips.  

“Say it again,” he pleads amongst soft kisses placed against the corner of her mouth. 

“I love you, Troy.”

Her hand caresses his cheek, and her thumb brushes against his lower lip, tracing his smile.

“It’s a shame now were both turning into zombie food...” 

“Where’s your optimism?” 

“I probably dropped it during my escape...” 

His mouth stretches with a grin, and he reluctantly steps away from her. 

“You certainly underestimate me. Do you think I’d come without a rescue plan?”

His eyebrows raised and even in the dim light she knows his eyes are sparkling with mischief. Kneeling, he grabbed the flashlight from the place it was lying next to their feet and went to the windows. His hands swirled, drawing the darkness with the light.  

As if on cue, the roar of an engine resounded somewhere below, followed by a honk she’d recognize even in her sleep. 

On the street, the van’s tyres screeched when swerved around the corner, allowing them a glimpse of Angel driving and screaming at the top of her lungs what she can only assume is a string of swearing at those fucking drones.  

“What’s she doing?” Malia mumbles.  

“You’ll see.” 

A swarm of zombies poured out of the building, shattering the remaining glasses of the lobby on their way out of the building to follow the noise. 

Swerving to the left, the van disappears.  

“What the hell! Have you guys lost –” 

“Wait. Almost there...” 

A few minutes pass, before loud music blasts in the distance.  

Troy points at an illuminated point in the far left. 

“The stadium.”  

Malia’s eyes identified the place right before the explosion. The glowing red lighted the darkness for an instant before being replaced by a column of thick smoke like tendrils on their way to reach the moon. 

“Fuck me!” 

“Oh! I will, but not here. We're on a tight schedule.” He chuckled, turning around to face her. “Impressed?” 

“Are you trying to impress me, Hassan?” 

Troy’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her to a sideways embrace. “We’re living on borrowed time, Maly... and it doesn’t matter if I have twenty seconds or twenty years... I want to spend them all with you... So, no, I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to take you home. It sounds nice, doesn’t it? Home.” 

“It sounds perfect.”

She kisses him one last time, and they move on with the plan.

[maria021015]

*staring at the built desk*

Malia: Are you sure we got it right?

Melissa: Pretty sure.

Malia: It looks like it belonged to someone's grandma.

Zaida: That’s kinda the whole point of an antique design.

Lydia: Next time, pick easier furniture.

Zaida: So I’m guessing you won’t be happy to hear there’s a matching chair?