Untitled (2016-11-15)

A/N: Related to this ficlet.


Her squad is a bunch of dumb boys who almost never follow orders and barely scrape out mission successes through sheer luck.

Like captain, like squad, she guesses.


Ryan’s their sniper. Long and skinny and as active as a sloth. He can wait for hours–days, once, in Nevada–in his roost in anticipation for the perfect shot. 

Once, she spent a afternoon convinced she was alone in their headquarters only to prove herself wrong when she sat on the couch and spotted Ryan under their makeshift coffee table painting a still life of shoes and empty bullet casings.

He never misses a shot.


Peter is the youngest; a walking encyclopedia and social disaster, both.

Before they figured out the latter, they tried to use his baby face on a diplomatic mission–The Resistance isn’t the only organization of survivors, but they are, probably, the most effective–needless to say, his vivid blushing and stammered, incoherent pick up lines on the commander were less than appreciated.

Still, there’s no one better for obscure historical facts, navigation, and matching up what little excess supplies they have with what other people inexplicably want.

He’s still their dumb hamster child, though.


Vinny is her second in command.

She can trust him to get the job done if she sends him off on his own and if she has him go off with one of the others as a leaner, stealthier fire-team then, well, she knows they’ll both come back to her alive.

He has a somewhat worrying preference for eyeball stabbing and a frustrating tendency to hoard guns, but given the current environment she figures neither of them are entirely bad things.


Chuck, their general, is a man with gray in his hair, sharp blue eyes, and a photograph which he always carries but never looks at.

Once, when he was transferring it from pocket to pocket, she caught a glimpse of it: a pair of kids, a smiling round-faced woman, and a man right beside her who might very well have been her superior officer in a kinder, happier world.


Nate has surprisingly zero qualms about following the orders of a woman less than half his age.

Most other members of The Resistance attribute that to a lack of… spine… but she knows better: he was a well decorated vet before the aliens invaded, served three tours on the same ship as Chuck before they both got promoted up and away.

By rights, he ought to be running The Resistance alongside Chuck or, at the very least, his own squad.

But she thinks he likes not having that much responsibility.

He would rather fix radios and poke at the sleeping behemoth that was once the internet–occasionally making sure the bunch of reckless children around him have the equipment they need before they run off to pull off even more reckless stunts–than have such a large part in the fate of humanity.


Anton is her least favorite, which seems like such a petty, childish thing to say at the end of the world.

He’s part of her squad, so of course she’ll treat him the same as the others, but still. She’s not very fond of him.

It’s not as if he’s an awful person: he’s nice and smart and genuine–and under duress she’d admit his face is maybe aesthetically on point–but everytime he smiles at her, or tries to talk to her outside missions, she tenses up and runs away.

One time she even let Peter ramble on about his grandfather’s coin collection for three hours just so she could shrug helplessly at Anton from across the room.

He’s a good soldier, competent and sharp–hell, she’ll even say that he’s a good teammate, a good person!

The only issue is that he knows who she used to be.


Her squad is a bunch of dumb boys who almost never follow orders and barely scrape out mission successes through sheer luck.

Bizarrely enough, she wouldn’t change them for anyone else.


A/N: Ask Box Event is still open, I just had this idea and wanted to write it before I forgot…

Word Prompts (M7): Mask

“Do. Not. Move,” she seethes, words hissed out between clenched teeth. “I will tear out your throat,” she warns.

Foolishly, he twitches. Immediately, he jerks back and freezes.

She narrows her eyes at him, suspicious, but after a few beats more of motionless, she turns away.

The boarded up cave mouth has three peepholes and the aliens are coming. She watches and waits.


Her first instinct upon being faced with alien invaders was to cover herself in blood and hide in the massive freezer in the back.

Not really the best move considering her cute and summery outfit, but she only barely got hypothermia, so she’s fine.

Now she wears borrowed trousers and a stolen bomber jacket, pockets filled with extra ammo, a grenade, and the bits and pieces of alien technology she’s scavenged off the few invaders they’ve managed to kill.

Phone lines have been down for days.

She hasn’t heard from her family in longer than that.


The mini cooper convertible is tiny and bright red, completely impractical and absolutely silly. It has an unnecessary racing stripe and a stuffed panda toy hanging from the rearview mirror.

It’s such a spot of ludicrous normality, so out of place at the end of the world, that she can’t help but laugh. Loud and bright and full of unsaid worries.

The tank is full, the keys are in the ignition, and it reminds her of being a teenager and pulling reckless tricks in the school parking lot that she does a donut for the hell of it.

When a scouting party lands, they run over three aliens together before speeding headlong into the bay.

She keeps the panda toy for months after.


Becoming a captain of The Resistance was mostly accidental.