TF141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)
Immune (Rewritten): One
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Gore, death
Authors note: Hi to those who are reading this! If you read my original Immune series I hope you enjoyed the rewritten version. I wanted to make the series a slower burn and more realistic and also give myself the opportunity to rewrite something without having to remember minor previous details. Whilst most of the plot will have common themes (e.g names, locations) I’ve rewritten plot lines to make it different from the original! <3
Next
You fidgeted on the stage, clammy hands trembling against your school uniform, your hair wrapped in childish pigtails, held together by two different coloured bows. Warmth spread against your chubby cheeks as you looked down at the crowd, spotting the familiar face of your parents who waved at you, semi-calming your nerves.
The man turned to you, his face contorted by wrinkles and what appeared to be razor burn that littered his plump chin.
“Spell privilege,” He rasped out, his voice croaky and overworked as you heard a girl, one you didn’t particularly like, snicker. Even at the ripe age of 9, the word bitch seemed to fit her just fine.
You stammered, letting out a short, shy cough.
“P – r – i – v-“ you began, thinking in your head, “l – e – g – e. Privilege.”
You heard the buzzer go off as his deep voice echoed out, “Incorrect!” before turning to the opponent next to you. You went home with second place that day, your parents still parading the badge around on Facebook as they gushed at how proud of you they were.
It’s funny the memories you think of when you’re about to die.
Scuffed shoes padded against worn concrete, skids and stains tugging at the grey like a child against its parents’ arm. The air was thick, smog filling your lungs. If they didn’t kill you first, you’re sure it would. Sirens blared, ringing through fragile eardrums as they simmered into your organs, buzzing through your brain like an alarm. Pupils darted, flashing across the street as you took in the falling leaves, colours of reddish-orange hues collecting on the pavement like everything was ok. Like everything was normal.
Potted plants succumbed to trodden on stairs, wood chipping and decaying like the rotten flesh you see before you. You could feel your heart against your ribs, digging into your lungs, almost suffocating them as you tripped, colliding against an iron railing, the thick, metallic feeling of blood blending with all the spit your mouth could gather. Numb fingers poked at the gummy flesh, wincing as you looked back down at your calloused digits, red meeting the eye once more, familiarising you with the nature around you.
A heavy hand grabbed your forearm, giving you a swift tug. Her voice was glass – sharp yet delicate as she spat two words at you, “Get up.”
You did.
Fingers laced between one another, your skin a dusty shade of grey as you coughed through the littering dust. You noticed the lack of nail on her middle finger, your brows furrowing as you tried to register when that occurred. The meat that was normally protected, now left to decay as it mixed with contaminated dirt and particles of God knows what.
Trembling gasps left your throat as you gathered your feet again. You felt like a toddler, only just learning to walk once more. The clothes on your body were stuck to you, clinging to whatever they could. If you were under any other circumstance, you would be rioting at the sickening feeling, your senses heightened by how poorly overstimulated you are. But you can’t afford to.
“We can go down this alley, rest for a moment,” she tiffed, her voice mellows, eyes a different story. They were pits of blackening hues, swallowed by dilated pupils, any white now a ghastly shade of jaundice, bloodshot and clouded. You remembered when they were once a resemblance to a deep forest, rich in smoky cedar.
The laugh that left her mouth was almost uncanny.
“Fucking hell, y/n. Thought you were dead there.”
You buried your head in your hand and let out a ghastly half-scream, a sob tearing through you as though a knife had gutted your spine, ripping the fragile cord from your already blistered skin. She hit you, wrapping a hand across your torn mouth as you shoved her away, regaining clarity.
“Sorry – sorry,” you whispered, your voice unable to register its usual octave. You choked on your own words for a moment as you looked at her, eyes darting across her face. So familiar yet so nostalgic.
“Are you ok?” She whispered, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“I’m sca-scared, Vienna,” you lamented, salty liquid framing your eyes. Under other circumstances, no matter how sad, your tongue would have darted out, tasting the resemblance of the empty beach your family would experience every summer.
“I’m scared too,” she said, attempting to relate to you. She never had, and you weren’t even sure she did now.
You sat. Your jeans were tight against your curvature, deep bruising most likely evident as you grimaced. The brunette sat next to you, still clutching your shoulder before darting down to grab your hand instead.
“We’re gonna be ok, I promise. I- I’m not going to let anything happen to us,” she murmured, tilting her head until it met yours.
“You can’t promise that,” you whispered. You were never able to find your voice when it came to Vienna. Even after that stupid spelling bee she beat you at.
“I can do my best.”
That was enough for you.
Then you laughed. Well, attempted to. She stared at you, puzzled, before joining in. Heavy fingers rubbed at your eyes, balls of colourful fuzz filling the void before you opened them once more. Vienna watched you for a moment, noticeably swallowing. Peeling the ragged backpack off herself, she swigged a mouthful of water, passing it to you.
“We need to move again; we can try and find somewhere a bit further out for the night.”
You nodded, rising to your feet.
You never liked to speak about death, the idea of endless possibilities always swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the mere thought of it. Would you pass and end up in Heaven? Or Hell? Would you reincarnate? Turn into an animal? Wander the planet alone forever? Reunite with lost ones? Would you just cease to exist?
Was it possible to experience death before you die?
Time felt slower in the moment as you clambered towards the fence at the end of the tunnelling alleyway. The wire did nothing to soothe your aching skin, cuts and gouges painting you like an image you would have walked past in a museum. Your knees were locked as you hoisted one leg over the fence, straddling it in a way that should seem uncomfortable but was strangely not. In a way, it felt hopeful. In a way.
You could hear them before you saw them. The sound of gargling flesh and decaying groans harmonised with one another as they rubbed rotting bodies between broken bones and toppled bins, the air stenched with the unfamiliar scent of mould.
Vienna looked at you that day with something you had never seen before. Sorrow? Regret? You would know now it was defeat. In her eyes, you had won for once. Your fingers clamped against hers, attempting to pull her trembling figure to meet you as her legs dangled between the rigid holes.
“I can’t do it – help!” She wailed, voice shrill and exhausted.
They were visible now, mangled bodies working their way down the alley, dancing almost therapeutically as they toppled, groans passing blue and green lips as gnawed tongues smacked against the air, hungry.
You could hear her screaming your name, desperation thick in her tone. Then her voice got softer, in a comforting way. Pupils met one another, your eyes almost blending into one, before you passed your trail to her chapped lips, reading the words ‘I’m sorry’.
You could answer now what you experience before you die.
You begin with hitting the concrete, hair matting against clumps of ichor as what feels like your final breath sips from your lungs. You’re tight, wounded together like a series of rubber bands all cascaded so thickly they form a ball. Then your body locks. You remember learning about it in school. Rigor mortis, they call it. You lie, almost perfectly, as atoms still flow through you, your blood still pumping, brain still running.
Everything works, except you.
You can close your eyes, expecting to see something, anything. But you don’t.
Your ears are working overtime, practically gnawing at the sounds surrounding you as you feel them trampling over your body, tripping and snarling. At this point, you’re static, your legs gathering that sensation that resembles a broken TV. A lone tear leaves your eye, sticking to the apple of your cheek but never moving.
You were meant to die that day – you should have died that day.
But you didn’t.
As a final hoard washes over you, tenderising your limbs as though you’re a butcher’s new toy, you wake yourself up enough to break free from the temporary paralysis, shoving past the crowd as you plead with a crack in your voice for them to stop as you bellow your bag down onto them.
“Why would they listen to you?” She would have said, “The girl who only ever came second.”
If you could, you would scream the word at her - the word that introduced you and the word you now live with – privilege. But you couldn’t. And as you look down at her body, you notice there are two of her. Half distorted into the fence, bone visible as ounces of flesh mingle into woven hands. The other half you’re more familiar with.
You watched Vienna die that day. You watched as her face contorted in pain as she held an arm out to you, pleading, whether that was to you or God.
You might not have been able to answer what happens when you die, but you can answer when you know someone has. And as any life drained from her face, she almost looked at rest. Innocent.
That was the last time you would see Vienna’s face. That was the last time you would ever see Vienna.
It had been 296 days since then, or so your handmade calendar had said. Your leather journal worked well, keeping score. It was also the last time you saw anyone. Alive, that was.
You had found refuge in an abandoned farmhouse, the sight of starving animals almost traumatising you more than the dead. Buried off a dirt road, you were isolated, ironically. Made from what you presumed to be timber, ivy cloaked the older design, the green merging into the surrounding trees made from oak and pine, yanking their claws into the swelling skies of blackish grey.
Set on an acreage, the house was hugged by fences, both electric and wooden, with small holes evident in the bottom of a few, no doubt caused by a rodent. You had grown accustomed to the place, realising quickly that they lived off the grid, but you remained vigilant.
You lived off their crops, swiftly understanding gardening was a lot harder than it seemed. No wonder your grandparents were so desperate for help all the time. As time passed, you began to hunt for yourself too, focusing on animals like rabbits and the occasional deer. You weren’t that good with a bow and arrow yet.
The house, quite large in size, boasted a comfortable room for you to live in, the sheets plusher than you expected and allowed for warmth when needed. You were grateful for the water tank on site, providing you with both running water and the ability to clean yourself. Not that anyone would smell you.
There was a quaint town nearby, only barely raided, which allowed you to assume you were hidden from most of society, concealed away. If anyone was alive, they wouldn’t find you, so you liked to assume you were dead already.
The walking dead didn’t stumble upon your new home either. Even if they did, you would presume they would walk past you – or perhaps trample you – as they did 296 days ago. Just in case, you realised quite quickly what kind of people owned this house as you faltered into their grimy garage, an old truck greeted you instantly before the rows of guns greeted you next.
You had gotten good use out of that automobile until you dug around in an old shed, plucking out the almost childish bike that had now become your other half. It was easier to think you weren’t alone even if you were. It made time pass.
So, when you settled down in the evening, eyes drifting off on the couch as you knitted away at an attempted jumper, you convinced yourself you were going mad when you heard a chug of an engine scraping across the handmade road. Stilling for a second, you pinched yourself, and then you jumped.
As you looked onto the front porch, grateful for the sliding glass door, you took notice of the pink hues that had gathered, relaxing as you pretended to convince yourself you were going insane. So, when a car door slammed, not only did you squeal in surprise, you also tripped reaching for the shotgun you kept on the mantle in front of you.
On the outside, your house looked vacant, available. It wasn’t. The blinds were drawn as you tiptoed over, toes fragile against the hardwood floor, rigid fingers peeling the soft white back until a man met your view, your skin feeling as though it was drawing away from your ligaments, piling beneath you into a smouldering abyss.
You feigned confidence as you grappled the gun in your slippering grip, trembling muscles aching beneath the sheath you would refuse to bare. You fidgeted with the doorknob. Stubborn, old thing. Cranking it open, a scowl wiped across your face as you held the gun high.
“This is private property,” you spat, holding your ground. You looked up slightly, stumbling back that one man had now multiplied into four. The eldest stepped forward, his hands raised as he let out a shallow breath.
“We don’t mean no harm, we’re milita-“
“I said, this is private property.”
You could hear the click of a gun turn towards you and you stammered to meet where it came from.
“Ghost, lower your weapon. She’s no harm. I would advise you to do the same,” the man said, a hat situated across his head. You began to read his features, taking in his calloused hands, thick with extra skin, no doubt from the weaponry (if he was truly in the military). He had a thick beard that was slightly greying, no doubt from stress, and a thicker moustache to go with it. His forehead was wrinkled but he didn’t look old, just overworked.
“My husband will be home soon, and he won’t want you here,” you snarled, lowering your gun but not completely. The man called your bullshit immediately but didn’t question you. You tucked your left hand further behind the shotgun as you noticed another man eyeing it.
“Don’t believe me?” You quipped, tone harsh as you turned to face the beady-eyed so-called soldier. His brows raised, blue eyes almost radiating distrust. He had strong features, exuding masculine energy. You weren’t a fan.
“Caen’t say I do,” he replied quickly but was cut off quickly by your gun raising in his direction again. You were aware how you must look. A deer in headlights – shaken – and as military men they could read that, stepping back.
“We’re not here to harm or bother you, just assumed no one was here. We’ll be on our way,” The eldest said, tipping his hat towards you. You watched as the one who raised his gun at you, Ghost, got in the car last, eyeing you with distain. You waited till they left, your weapon still at the ready before you bolted inside, breathing heavy as tears welled into your eyes.
You were panicked, naturally, but also curious. Are there more out there? Is anyone you know still alive? Are they immune too? Do they know you’re immune that’s why they’ve come for you? Are they going to kill you? Or worse?
You didn’t sleep that night. Instead, you waited anxiously by the door, gun at your side, constantly making your rounds through the house to ensure for the 10th time, all doors and windows were bolted shut. You didn’t know if you would ever see them again, you didn’t know if you wanted to.
All you know is, there are people out there.
