CH1 : ❮ days are passing us by ❯ — abby x fem!oc
Seattle, 2037. Life isn't easy and little requests can go a long way. Abigail Anderson knows that, but she can't help it, there's something special about Celeste Wilson
dividers by : @pixopix , @suupersonic and @rockin-stims
3… 2… 1. The click of the old camera resonated in a satisfying way within the large, empty mess hall of Soundview Stadium. This space used to be a food court with many stands and huge lines, banners of all sorts and goodies shop. People would shout, impatient to be fed before the big game. Celeste Wilson didn’t know what a big game was, though, barely capable of remembering life before the outbreak. Before life became a mess and her mom died, not infected, but killed anyway. In a world of justice, a world of normalcy, none of it would have happened. But Seattle hadn’t been normal since 2013.
Her father, Marcus, had become more and more obsessed with making the military pay after that. This was how he joined the Washington Liberation Front in the first place. Celeste was still a little girl back then. She didn’t know what was what, and how could she? When she thought about it now, on the other hand, she could see it. She could read all the rebellious signs, all the looks she remembered : the scared ones, the angry ones, those he’d give to Isaac before the end.
Slowly, the young woman shook the picture that came out of her camera, waiting for the image to appear. She liked the silence of her job, the one she did when places would empty themselves, a necessary one. We need an inventory of all the reparations to be done around the stadium. Take a picture of the biggest ones, Isaac had written on her order. He had promised to take care of her to Marcus and the fearless leader of the WLF had done exactly that. He did not coddle her. Never. But Celeste was away from the streets and fights, and that was enough.
“Ceci,” a female voice called behind clothes hangers from sweeps here and there across the QZ.
Ceci. They weren’t a lot to call her that. Most people would call her Celeste. Celeste was less formal than Wilson because last names were linked too much with the army. The Liberation Front wasn’t FEDRA, they were still human and decent. It was the other who shifted to inhuman things, all of them, would say Isaac.
“Abby, hey,” greeted the photographer, smiling as she was coming forward to the soldier.
“Doing a job for Isaac?” the blonde asked and Celeste only nodded slowly, pushing past the old and used parkas.
“What about you? You had business with tradings?”
A gentle laugh rang through the mess hall as the Salt Laker lifted a bar of soap, a fresh fragrance of pine drifting between the two orphans. Abigail Anderson was something, the brown haired woman thought. Tall and muscular, she had come to Seattle a scrawny, thin young girl with a true rage within her bones. Celeste was 16 back then, her own grief there, still pulsing behind glassy eyes and hot tears. The Salt Lake City Crew had been a phenomenon within the WLF. Fresh faces, true conviction and a desire to prove themselves that had contributed to the best of their abilities and Isaac had liked them. Jerry Anderson was a friend he had said. Celeste grew to believe that the man had used the passing of the late man to fuel Abby, turning her into the she-wolf she was now, though.
“Are you leaving for the FOB?” she asked, pushing the dark curls of her hair back in an anxious move. “I’d need a favor.”
Oh, if there was someone Celeste could ask a favor, it was Abby. Here, those were never free. Manny would ask for a date, Owen for her keys to steal some paint, Nora would wait for the longest time before asking for something back. There was always a thing she could do for them, always, but Abs would never ask. We’re friends, right? She’d simply say, a rhetorical question Celeste would only nod to. Then, she’d take her to pet Bear, mumbling about repaying her favors with petting or with sharing a meal together. Sometimes she’d take her in one of the truck for a ride, nothing fancy, but something, still. There was this milk shop just by the main gate, a perfect place to rest for a second. It was always for a second before life would run at them, screaming there was no time to waste.
“Depends. I’m not doing something stupid like the last time Cec’,” she said, crossing her arms seriously, biceps flexing in a way Celeste couldn’t help but watch.
“Nothing like last time. That was…” the woman didn’t finish her sentence, her hands settling on her hips. “I need a lift to the FOB. Nothing else, I promise.”
And Abby lifted her eyebrow. Celeste had said the same exact thing the last time. I only need a little thing, nothing else, and the little thing had transformed into an operation into Seraphites territory. There had been blood, Ceci had cried. Yet, as she sighed, the blonde accepted because it was Celeste and there was little to nothing she wouldn’t accept from her, of her, and Abigail Anderson knew she was a fool for it.
