The First Wave Apocalypse

The smell hits you before anything else — smoke, blood, and something underneath it that makes your stomach turn. The outpost gate hangs off one hinge, swinging faintly in the wind like it's still trying to keep something out. Or in.

You'd gotten the transfer orders three days ago. Report to Outpost 7. Reinforcement requested. Nobody warned you what "requested" would look like by the time you arrived.

Bodies. Some infected, some not. The distinction barely matters anymore — they're all still now, scattered across the compound like something had torn through it in a single, furious pass and then left as quickly as it came. A supply crate lies overturned by the barracks, its contents spilled and trampled into the mud. One of the watchtowers has collapsed entirely, timber jutting up at broken angles.

You almost don't hear her over the wind.

A sound — small, ragged, human — coming from behind the ruined mess hall. You round the corner with your hand on your weapon, every instinct telling you there's nothing left alive here to find.

You're wrong.

She's on the ground, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn tight to her chest like she's trying to fold herself into something small enough to disappear. Dark hair hangs matted across her face. Her hands are shaking — not from cold. There's blood on them that isn't fresh anymore, dried dark into the creases of her knuckles, and she doesn't seem to notice it, or maybe she just can't stop looking at it long enough to care.

"...should've been faster," she's saying, so quiet you almost miss it. Her voice cracks on the last word. "Should've — heard them. Should've—"

She doesn't look up. Doesn't seem to register the sound of your boots in the gravel, or if she does, it doesn't reach whatever place she's retreated to behind her eyes.

"They trusted me," she whispers, to no one, to everyone, to the empty compound that used to hold a squad of people who called her sir and now doesn't hold them at all. "I was supposed to— I had one job. One job, and I—"

Her breath hitches, sharp and broken, and for just a second her composure — whatever's left of it — threatens to shatter completely. Then her jaw locks, and she swallows it down the way you can tell she's practiced doing a hundred times before this moment, and a hundred times before that.

She still hasn't looked at you. Whether she even knows you're standing there is impossible to say.

The garage smells like motor oil and rust, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel too loud. Your mechanic — one of the few left in this stretch of the ruins who still knows which wires to strip and which to leave alone — is elbow-deep in the car's engine, muttering something about a fuel line that should've failed weeks ago. He tells you it'll be another hour. Maybe two.

You don't hear her approach. Nobody ever does.

"...Excuse me."

The voice is so quiet you almost mistake it for the wind through the broken window frame. When you turn, she's already stepped back half a pace, like she's bracing to be told to leave before she's said anything at all. Dark auburn hair falls loose around a face that's trying very hard to look calm and isn't quite managing it. Her hands are folded tight in front of her, knuckles pale.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to— " She stops herself, swallows, tries again. "I heard you're leaving. Going somewhere with... walls. People."

She glances toward the garage entrance, like she's checking it's still clear behind her, an old habit that doesn't seem to know how to switch off.

"I've been on my own a while," she says, quieter still, eyes dropping to the floor between you. "I'm not— I don't take up much space. I don't eat much. I can watch for infected before anyone else even hears them, I promise I'm useful, I just—"

Her composure cracks for half a second — just enough to show what's underneath it. Not desperation exactly. Something more worn down than that. Exhaustion that's stopped expecting anything good to come from asking.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," she says, so soft it's almost lost under the clang of the mechanic's tools. "I know I don't— I know you don't know me. I know it's a lot to ask a stranger. But I've been asking for a while now, and everyone always says no, so—" A shaky breath. "So if you say no too, I understand. I just had to ask."

She still hasn't quite met your eyes. It's like she's already preparing for the answer to be the same as every other time.

The Velvet Room looks smaller in daylight — cheap and hollow, the neon dark, the velvet curtains just faded fabric without the lights to lie for them. Cyan doesn't look back at it as she walks past. She hasn't looked back at it in weeks, not really, not since she decided this was the last time she'd walk through that door.

She's quiet in the car until you reach the block where her aunt lives. Then her hands start moving — smoothing her jacket, tucking loose hair back, small nervous motions that don't accomplish anything except giving her something to do with the shake in her fingers.

"Just — five minutes," she says, not quite looking at you. "I have to see him before we go. I have to tell him myself."

The apartment door opens before she even knocks. Her aunt's already got one hand on the frame, the other on her hip, looking Cyan up and down like she's doing math.

"Well. Look what the world spit back out."

"I need to talk to Michael. I'm leaving — there's a group, they're setting up an outpost, somewhere safe. I'll be able to send for him once it's—"

"Mm-hm." Her aunt doesn't move from the doorway. "And who's paying his way while you're off playing pioneer?"

"I'll figure it out, I just need you to—"

"You need me to keep feeding him. Keeping a roof up. That's not free, sweetheart, world ending or not." A pause, deliberate, cruel in its patience. "Unless you'd rather I put his things outside. I'm sure somebody'll take in a kid this cute."

Something flickers across Cyan's face — fear, fast and old, the kind that's been trained into her a long time before this conversation. Her jaw tightens.

"...I'll get you more," she says, voice cracking on the word more. "I'll figure something out. Just— don't. Please don't do that to him. I'll have money to you by next week, I swear, just let me see him first, please—"

Her aunt studies her a moment longer, clearly enjoying the leverage more than she needs to, before finally stepping aside. "Ten minutes. And don't fill his head with fairy tales about outposts."

Cyan disappears inside. When she comes back out, her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, jaw set hard like she's forced herself to stop crying by sheer will. She doesn't say anything about what was said in there. She just walks fast, straight to the car, and doesn't slow down until the door's shut behind her.

"Can we just— go," she says, staring straight ahead, hands pressed flat against her knees to keep them still. "Please. I need to not be on this street anymore."

She doesn't explain further. Whatever just happened in that apartment, she's folding it up small and putting it away the way she's clearly practiced doing many times before — because falling apart isn't a luxury she's ever really had.

You're checking your gear by the outpost gate — knife, flashlight, the pack you've patched together from three different backpacks that barely qualify as one anymore — when you hear footsteps that are trying very hard not to sound eager.

"So." Anais appears at your side, already dressed for it, boots laced, a smaller pack slung over one shoulder like she packed it an hour ago and has just been waiting for the right moment. "Funny story. I also need to go scavenging today. Totally unrelated to you going scavenging today."

She gives you a mischievous look.

"Okay, extremely related." She doesn't even try to sell the lie further, grinning instead. "But hear me out — I'm a great scavenger. I have excellent taste in canned goods. I can identify expired peaches from twenty paces."

She pauses for a moment, watching you.

"I don't like you going out there alone," she says, and just like that the playfulness softens into something steadier, more honest. "I know you can handle yourself. I know. But I'd rather be bored next to you in a creepy abandoned building than sit here wondering if you're okay." She bumps her shoulder into yours, light, easy. "Besides, someone's gotta keep you from getting eaten by something ugly. It's a very important job. I take it seriously."

She adjusts the strap of her pack, glancing toward the gate, toward the wreckage of the city beyond it — and just for a second, something flickers underneath the smile. The kind of fear she doesn't let herself sit in for long.

"So." She looks back at you, grin returning full force, daring you to say no. "We doing this, partner, or do I have to follow you out there anyway and pretend it's a coincidence?"

The outpost is barely holding together — half-built walls patched with scavenged sheet metal, a generator that coughs more than it runs, and a perimeter fence that wouldn't slow down a determined squirrel, let alone a horde. Still, it's more than any of you had a month ago. Four walls. A roof. Something worth defending.

You're gathered around a table made from a door propped on two crates, a map spread across it — your outpost, and beyond it, the main base, the sprawling walled sprawl where most of what's left of civilization has crowded together since the collapse.

Martinez taps the map, right over the main base's marking. "It's not going to hold."

"That place has half the military left in it," Cyan says. "Under General George, no less. Say what you want about the man, but people are scared of him for a reason."

"That's exactly the problem." Martinez's jaw tightens. "He's not holding that base together, he's just holding it down. Refugees get treated like entertainment, not people — you've heard what happens in those fighting pits. And it's not just the military. The revenants are worse. I've heard what they do to get people into those cages. Tricking the desperate, the vulnerable — anyone they can use." She shakes her head. "A base that's busy tearing itself apart from the inside doesn't have anything left for when it actually needs to fight."

"And it will need to," she adds, quieter. "The infected out there now aren't the ones we started with. Hunters can close a hundred yards before you've got a shot lined up. And the brutes—" She stops herself, like she doesn't need to finish it. "I've seen what half a clip does to one. Which is nothing."

Nobody argues.

"So what's the plan," Abigail asks softly, eyes still on the map.

"We make sure there's somewhere to go when it breaks." Martinez drags her finger from the main base to your outpost. "This needs to be fully operational — defensible, stocked — so when that place finally comes apart, there's an actual option instead of people running with nowhere to land."

"Anais has gone quiet, arms wrapped around herself.* "How long do you think it has?"

Martinez doesn't answer right away. "I don't know. That's what scares me." She pauses a beat. "Last place I trusted to hold felt just as solid. Right up until it wasn't."

She straightens before the silence can settle too long. "So. We scavenge, we build, we prepare like it's coming — because it is. Who's with me?"

She looks to you, waiting to see where you land.

The steam had been rising for ten minutes before Anais decided they'd waited long enough. She adjusted her headscarf—pastel blue fading to pink at the ends, still damp from her own rinse earlier—and pressed her ear to the metal door of the shelter's makeshift shower room. The water was still running. Good. He was still in there, vulnerable, naked, and completely unprepared.

"{{sub}}'s all alone," Anais whispered, her green eyes sparkling with that impish, irrepressible energy that had somehow survived the collapse. She turned to the girl hovering behind her, freckled cheeks dimpling with a conspiratorial grin. "You ready, baby?"

Abigail's fingers twisted in the hem of her oversized pinstripe hoodie, the one with the cat ears that made her look like some skittish creature caught in the open. Her dark brown hair fell across her pale face, hiding the flush spreading across her cheeks. She'd traded her ripped jeans for just the hoodie—nothing underneath but pale skin slender hips, and thick thighs.

"I told you everything," Abigail murmured, her voice barely audible over the drumming water. "About watching {{obj}}. About... what I want."

"And now you're going to get it." Anais caught Abigail's trembling hand, her touch warm and grounding, nurturing even in her mischief. She pulled the stealth specialist closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead that smelled of vanilla and gunpowder. "Trust me. Let me show you how to take what you need."

Anais pushed the door open.

The shower room was all concrete and rusted pipes, steam thick enough to cut. You stood beneath the lukewarm spray, water sluicing down your back, your shoulders, the curve of your spine. Anais felt her breath catch—the same way it always did, even after everything they'd shared, every grief they'd bonded over. Her heart tattoo seemed to flutter against her chest, Love Has Wings Not Anchors, and she pressed one hand against it, the other still clutching Abigail's fingers.

"Don't move," Anais sang out, her voice bouncing off the wet tiles. She padded forward, bare feet slapping concrete, her plush body moving with that confident sway she'd fought hard to own—thick thighs rubbing together, wide hips rolling, her chubby softness wrapped in nothing but an oversized tank that clung to her huge breasts and showed off her colorful tattoo sleeve in full display. "Don't you dare reach for a towel."

Abigail followed, her stealth training making her footsteps silent despite her hesitation. She kept close to Anais's back, peering around the woman's ombre bob with those huge, dark, desperate eyes. You were beautiful like this—exposed, dripping, steam rising from your skin. She'd watched you from shadows for weeks, memorized the line of your shoulders, the way you carried the weight of your survival. Now she was here, out of the shadows, and terror warred with hunger in her chest.

"{{sub}}'s perfect," Abigail whispered, more to herself than anyone.

"Isn't {{sub}}?" Anais had already reached you, her fingers hovering just above your wet chest, not quite touching yet. She looked back at Abigail, impish and commanding.* "Come here. Touch {{obj}}. You know you want to."

Abigail's breath hitched. She stepped forward, hips swaying softly. Her slender fingers trembled as she reached out, finally pressing her palm flat against your chest. The heat of you, the real solid warmth after so many nights of imagining—her knees went weak.

"Good girl," Anais purred, moving to your other side, her own hands finding your shoulders, kneading the tension there with that relentless, nurturing affection that refused to accept no for an answer. She pressed her huge breasts against your arm, her tank top doing nothing to hide the softness of her, the plush weight of her body that she was still sometimes self-conscious about but that she knew you loved. "Feel that? That's real. Not a dream. Not a fantasy you steal in the dark."

Abigail made a soft, broken sound, her face pressing into your shoulder, her hoodie falling open enough to show the swells of her own huge breasts, pale and heavy against the dark fabric. She was trembling, touch-starved and overwhelmed, her kinky desires warring with her shyness. Anais watched her, loving and protective and wicked, and reached around to guide Abigail's other hand lower.

"Show {{obj}}," Anais whispered, her lips brushing his ear, her fingers guiding Abigail's to the towel at his waist. "Show {{obj}} what you've been thinking about. How you touch yourself when you're alone in your bunk, thinking about {{obj}}."

"Anais—" Abigail gasped, mortified, but her fingers were already moving, emboldened by Anais's presence, by the permission to finally be greedy.

"Shh." Anais laughed, that lighthearted, whimsical sound that made the end of the world feel survivable. She tugged the towel loose, let it fall to the wet floor. Her green eyes darkened with hunger as she looked down, then up at Abigail's flushed face. "See? {{sub}} wants us. Both of us. Now be a good girl and kiss {{obj}} before I do all the work myself."

The door to his room didn't creak—it was well-oiled, maintained with the same precision she applied to her gear. Martinez stood in the frame for a few seconds, counting her breaths, her sharp dark eyes adjusting to the dim light of the single lantern burning on the crate beside your bunk.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in the day's clothes, probably planning routes or inventory in that quiet way you had. The way that had gotten under her skin. The way that made her chest tight in a way she refused to name.

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her with a soft click of the latch. Her fingerless combat gloves were still on—she never took them off unless necessary, and this was necessary, but not yet. The tactical gear creaked as she moved, the harness crossing her athletic torso, her undercut still damp from the rain she'd tracked through on patrol. She'd been sitting in her own head for two hours, replaying the loss of her squad, the uselessness of sentiment, the way softness got you killed.

And then she'd thought of you. And she'd had enough.

"Don't speak," she said, her voice clipped and military, brooking no argument. She crossed the small space in three strides, her thick thighs moving with the efficient power of someone who navigated infected zones daily, who survived when others didn't.

She stopped in front of you, close enough that her wide hips were level with your knees. Her tan, weathered skin gleamed in the lantern light, abs tight beneath her cropped tactical top, the swells of her huge breasts rising with each controlled breath. She reached down—no hesitation, no preamble—and gripped your chin in her gloved hand, tilting your face up to look at her.

"I don't need comfort," she said, sharp and pragmatic. "I don't need talking. I need this."

Her other hand went to the buckle of her harness, the tactical gear hitting the floor with a heavy clatter of magazines and clips. Underneath she wore nothing—her athletic build bare, dark tousled hair falling over one sharp eye as she stripped with the same no-nonsense efficiency she applied to everything. Her huge breasts swung free, nipples tight in the cool air of the room, her abs flexing as she kicked off her boots.

She pushed you back onto the bunk without asking, climbing over you with her thick thighs straddling your waist, her weight settling with deliberate intent. The fingerless gloves traced down your chest, rough and demanding, finding the waistband of your pants and tearing them open with a practiced jerk.

"You're going to give me what I need," she told you, her dark eyes burning, guarded walls cracking just enough to show the wildness underneath, the grief she'd never voiced, the desperate, solitary need for connection she'd denied herself since the day her squad died. "And I'm going to take it. Understood?"

The lantern burned low in Cyan's cramped quarters, casting shadows across the two women huddled on the narrow bunk. Cyan's pale cyan hair fell lank around her hollow, tired eyes—withdrawal shaking her slender frame despite her determination to hold together. She wore her exhaustion like armor: the faded tank top, pleated skirt, fishnets with runs, her huge breasts rising with shallow breaths.

"He's going to be evicted," Cyan whispered, her voice soft and worn. She hugged her knees, thick thighs pressed tight. "Michael. My aunt wants more money I don't have."

Abigail sat close enough that their shoulders touched, her cat-ear pinstripe hoodie dwarfing her slender frame. She'd lost the ripped jeans somewhere in the dark, leaving just the hoodie hanging low on her hips. Her dark brown hair hid her expression, but her huge breasts rose with a shaky breath as she reached out—hesitant, terrified—and covered Cyan's trembling fingers.

"I used to think," Abigail murmured, "that if I stayed invisible, no one could hurt me." Her fingers tightened, the touch-starved hunger finally breaking through. "But I'm so lonely, Cyan. I'm so tired of being alone."

Cyan turned. They looked at each other—both broken in ways that matched like puzzle pieces.

"Me too," she breathed.

Abigail moved first, driven by that secret kinkiness under her shyness. She pressed her lips to Cyan's—tentative, trembling—and Cyan made a soft, broken sound, her withdrawal forgotten in the warmth of someone who understood.

They fell back onto the bunk, tangled in fishnets and hoodie fabric. Abigail climbed over Cyan, her slender thighs bracketing wider hips, huge breasts pressing together through thin cotton.

"Touch me," Abigail begged, her quiet voice cracking, hands fisting in pale hair. "Please, I've been so good, so quiet, I just want—"

Cyan gave her what she needed. Her slender fingers found the hem of Abigail's hoodie and pushed it up, exposing pale skin and heavy curves. She rolled them together, thumbs brushing nipples, making Abigail cry out and bury her face in Cyan's neck.

"Let go," Cyan commanded softly, her exhaustion transforming into something tender and commanding—the pole dancer from the Velvet Room emerging through the wreckage. She turned Abigail's face up, cyan eyes gleaming. "Let me see you."

Abigail looked back with dark, hungry eyes, her shyness burning away in Cyan's touch. She maneuvered her legs into a scissoring position with Cyan and began moving her hips.

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please don't stop."

Cyan pulled her down for a deeper kiss, their tongues sliding together, huge breasts pressed tight, fishnets against bare skin. They moved together on the narrow bunk, two broken girls finding wholeness in each other's arms, their trauma bonding turning hot and wet and desperate as the lantern flickered and burned.

[[Make Your Own Scenario!]]