↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ ARE YOU SAFE...OR JUST USEFUL?
JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]
SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [4.7k] Were you rescued, or were you simply collected?
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of severe injury, mentions of death, swearing, medical procedures, mild combat, paranoia
YOU could feel the change in the weather outside. Hell, you could almost see it.
The way it was humid but not hot, the way little flowers were trying their hardest to sprout through the blood-soaked soil.
In the old world, today would have been about taxes and spring break. In this world—the one that stopped spinning you don't know how long ago—it’s just the day you might finally stop being a dead girl walking.
You’ve been alone for weeks. You lost track of how many. Maybe five?
Potentially five weeks of canned slop, sleeping with a hunting knife clutched in your hand even it was strapped to your thigh, and watching the horizon for...something.
But yesterday, you found hope. A frequency, a signal, a voice. And today, that voice on the other end was the only thing keeping you tethered to this mess of a planet.
"Hey, kid," Sergeant Stokes’ voice is a low, mechanical growl through the static of the hand-held radio. "Jus' checkin' in. You still in your same spot?" He sounded tired, but still professional and determined—like a man who had done this a thousand times.
"I’m here," you whisper, your voice cracking from how dry your throat was. You hadn't used your voice much lately, it was still adjusting.
You were huddled in the corner of an abandoned ranger station, the floorboards creaking under your feet as you paced in front of the only small window. "Still in the station. But the sky's getting cloudy..."
"Don't get all worked up." He calmed. "We’ve got your coordinates locked. Jus' stay off the open ridge. There are anomalies nearby in the valley. Jus' keep your ears open for the bird."
Anomalies. Hm. You figured he was talking about the Rotters. You guessed everyone had adapted to calling them something different.
"Okay," you say, clutching the receiver so hard your knuckles splinter.
It’s a heavy and unusual noise that vibrates in your feet, traveling up to your teeth before it even reaches your ears. You scramble to the window, frantically wiping the dust and grime off of the glass when you see it.
Cutting through the gray and gloom of what you assume is an early spring sky is the biggest symbol of hope you've seen in weeks, proof that there was life besides your own.
"I...I see you," you breathe into the radio, your eyes stinging as the older man laughed on the other end of the receiver.
"We see you too, kid. Nice place y'got there. Hold tight, we're comin' down."
The world becomes a blur as you gather all of your things, trying to fight the smile forcing itself on your face as the tears try to jump from your eyes.
When the helicopter touches down, just as you exit the small shack, the air pressure change makes your ears pop—leaves whipping past your cheeks, eyes squinting from the winds whipping your hair every which way.
Your heart thumped dangerously as big men in green splattered tactical gear spilled out, rifles raised. But you knew they weren't looking for enemies—they were clearing the perimeter.
But instinctively, you take a step back as one of them approaches you and reaches a hand out. His face is mostly covered but you still stare at him, hesitating.
You think on it for a heartbeat—the instinct to run, to hide, to fight. But then you look at the "US" patch on his shoulder and his open hand as your shoulders settle.
Your eyes flicker between where you think his eyes are and his hand before you take it. His grip is firm as he hauls you up with a kind of effortless strength and the floor of the helicopter is metal that feels weird under your shoes and sound terrible in your ears with each step you take. And as the men pile back inside, the helicopter lifts, the small station shrinks into a speck in the dying green of the wilderness.
THE FLIGHT is a blur of nerves and anxiety. There were four soldiers in the back with you, all with their masks still on.
One tries to offer you a protein bar, shouting something over the roar of the engines, but the propellors were just too loud. You just nod, accepting the bar but not eating it, clutching your bag and shotgun to your chest.
You don't speak. You forgot how to make small talk when the world ended. You just watch the landscape go by out of the miniscule window, looking for any sign of the life you used to know—the beaches, the marsh, maybe even your house.
But you see nothing but ruins.
And when you land, it isn't at a grassy field or a gated campground. It's a fortified compound, a concrete labyrinth surrounded by three layers of electrified fencing and snipers in towers.
The moment the doors slide open, the quiet is gone—hands are on you immediately. They aren't cruel, but they are frantic, rushing. The masked men rush your through the gates as more come up, stripping you of your bag and gun.
"H-Hey! I need that—" you say, your voice finally finding its edge as a soldier reaches for your holster, taking your knives.
"Standard procedure, ma'am," a woman says. Probably the only woman there. She doesn't look like a soldier—dressed in a white coat with a slicked bun.
You feel naked. Vulnerable as they pat you down for anything else. "All weapons are logged and stored in the armory. You’ll get them back if you’re assigned to the safeguard sector. Right now, we need to get you processed."
"Safeguard sector—what?" You muttered, looking around at the woman in the white coat and the two soldiers holding each of your arms.
"Follow me." She says calmly, turning on her heels and walking into the compound as the men usher you through the halls and into a sterile, white-tiled room. They hand you a pack of basic clothes—just a t-shirt and some pants with a pair of white sneakers—and point you toward a shower.
The room is so pristine and white that it burns your eyes and you stumble inside as they close the door behind you, letting you know that someone was positioned outside the door to escort you to the next location after you were done.
You look around, walking toward the shower and turning the water on—the sound almost foreign now. It gave you a flashback of normalcy—showering gave you a flashback.
Memories behind your eyes of showering with JJ after the beach, running around with your friends in the rain during a storm warning when you should've been inside.
It almost hurt to think about.
You let your dirty and soiled clothes fall to the floor as you cautiously step inside—the water is lukewarm and smells like nothing, but it feels like heaven. The water traveling down your back, touching your scalp, splashing on your face—it was heaven on whatever remained of earth.
Even seeing the dirt brown water flow beneath your feet, revealing skin underneath layers of dirt that was almost an entire shade lighter. You don't know how long you were in there before the guard outside knocked on the door, urging you out and snapping you out of your trance.
You turned off the water, stepped out, shivering as you forgot about the post-shower chill. Wrapping a towel around your frame, you dried off and slipped into the clothes they provided you with. They were soft, comfortable. Clean.
As you exited the washroom, the guard was waiting—nodding at you before walking as if he expected you would follow him. He guided you to a different wing of the building—the medical wing.
Sergeant Stokes is there, standing by a desk. You didn't get to see him in the helicopter. He was in the cockpit. He’s older than he sounded on the radio, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that look like they have seen the worst of this new world.
"Hey, kid," he smiled, shifting on his feet. "Glad you made it." He nods.
The woman in the white coat is standing by his side, hands clasped in front of her with a small smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes. He turns to her, throwing a hand out in her direction.
"This is Doctor Sloan. She's gonna make sure you're all good before you join everyone else."
You looked at her, eyes wide and a bit terrified of what that meant. The doctors never scared you. Well, you used to hate needles. Now you figured that was the least of your worries...
They let you relax in a medical cot before they take three vials of blood, swab your cheeks, swab your palms, pluck a strand of hair, and make you bite down on a piece of plastic.
You feel like a rat being experimented on, eyes darting across the room at the plethora of doctors bustling about when you notice two doctors whispering in the corner, looking at a digital readout of your vitals and glancing back at you like you weren't human.
"...Is something wrong?" you ask, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
"Oh! Um..." The male doctor stutters. He looks geeky—too nervous to contain himself at any given point. He stammers for words as he pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "J-Just checking for mutations and viral load. And... other markers..." He rambles, looking between you and the female doctor beside him who just looked annoyed. "We're looking for compatibility for the long-term projects."
"Well, lots of them. M-Most importantly, a c-"
"That's enough, Stuart." Doctor Sloan slides up next to the two younger doctors, her gaze on the boy hard as he nods compliantly and turns around. When the two are out of earshot, Sloan turns back to you with a forced smile, blocking your view of the other doctors and the monitors.
"Don't worry about any of that. I assure you, you're safe with us. All the doctors in this room are here for your sake." She nodded, resting a hand on the edge of your cot. She stares at you for an uncomfortably long time and it's almost like you can hear the saxophones blaring in your brain as your shoulders tense.
She looks you and up down before huffing and removing her hand, clasping them in front of her. "Right, well, we've collected everything we need from you. Why don't you head on out? There's water on the table near the door. Sergeant Stokes is waiting to escort you to TAM."
Doctor Sloan turned away as your threw your legs over the edge of the medical bed, groaning as you did so before calling out to her. She paused in her tracks, turning to look at you over her shoulder.
"TAM?" You questioned, massaging the sore spot from where they drew your blood. "What is that?"
"WELCOME to TAM." Sergeant Stokes stood before you in a large, vast yard—multiple buildings surrounding, including the one you just exited. "TAM is an abbreviation for The Aptitude Matrix." Stokes explained, voice gruff as he crossed his arms in front of you. "For the next few hours, I'll observe you in five different environments and decide where to place you."
"Where to...place me?" You asked, crossing your own arms, fixing the man with a skeptical look.
He chuckled at your reservations. "It's nothin' bad, kid." He looked down at you. "We're dedicated to keepin' everyone safe, but that don't mean you all jus' get to sit on your asses and make us cater to you. Everyone is good at somethin' and that 'somethin'' is how you contribute to this place and earn your keep. That's standard for all quarantine zones."
You looked around at all of the buildings, silently wondering what they'd do if you weren't good at a damn thing. "...How does this even work? You just decide what you think I'm good at?"
"No, nothin' like that." The Sergeant replied, walking towards a table as you silently followed behind. "It's a careful system." He told you, grabbing a clipboard. "It's basically a point system. It's timed, an hour in each category, and you gain points for everything you do right. Sector with the highest points is where y'go." He explained, motioning a hand towards the first building—a greenhouse. "You ready, kid?"
THE next five hours were exhausting and grueling.
Stokes lead you into the greenhouse for your first observation. It was beautiful, made of tempered glass, colors everywhere. He asked you to identify seedlings, explain soil pH, explain why certain plants weren't growing.
"Our agriculture sector is vital to how we keep everyone fed and full of energy." Stokes spoke as you dug into a pot of soil, letting it fall between your fingers to assess how much water it lacked. "The folks here are responsible for all this. Plants are used for food, medicine, all types of shit." He rambled, tapping the pen against the clipboard as he chewed on a toothpick.
You knew enough to survive, but you didn't have a green thumb. But your lack of knowledge almost made you smile, knowing that if Kie were here, she'd be over your shoulder, telling you the name of some random plant. She'd probably say the plants weren't growing because they "weren't getting enough love."
By the end of it, your hands were covered in dirt and you were starting to grow itchy as you followed behind Stokes to the next building.
Needless to say, Stokes didn't check too many boxes off during that hour.
"LOGISTICS is a pretty important sector, too." Stokes talked mindlessly behind you as you sat at a desk in a quiet room—it looked like a classroom. The entire building kind of resembled a small elementary school, just less colorful. You wondered if they still prioritized education in the midst of all of this, especially for the smaller kids.
That would've been great for Elle. She loved school...
"Though, people that score high here can get placed in lots of different places. Some of 'em, especially the older folks, get assigned as teachers for the little ones. Others are placed in the garage, creating parts for the vehicles or fixin' 'em up. Or you can get stuck developing blueprints—"
"Could you be quiet?" You asked, voice oddly soft as you looked at the man over your shoulder. "I can't really focus." You explained, turning back to the paper in front of you.
"Right..." The Sergeant cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to it."
This exam was a series of questions in a packet. Logic gates, structural integrity questions, "what materials do you use to build what" scenarios.
It was a simple pass or fail for each section, but you figured the goal was to pass every one. You pass two out of three, and just barely.
AFTERWARDS, The Sergeant leads you to a lab, not too far from the medical wing you'd arrived in.
The technology is more advanced than anything you'd ever seen—everything was white and blue. Large monitors, holograms, transparent computers.
"This is the lab for the Medical Division. I don't think much of an explanation is needed here. They're basically our lifesavers—they assess illnesses, figure out the ones we don't know about, administer meds, or sometimes even create 'em," Stokes told you, hands and clipboard behind his back as he walked further into the room. "Not gonna lie to you, kid. This is the hardest sector to get into. People used to need degrees and years of school to do stuff like this. Now, they've reduced it to a few simple evaluations and a short test."
Stokes pointed you to a computer, watching as you walked over and sat in front of it. He clicked a button, signing you in as a guest and opening up a testing browser before standing back to his full height and rounding the table to stand in front of you on the other side.
"You'll have half an hour to answer thirty questions on basic medical knowledge—anatomy, biology, bodily functions—all that weird shit." He explained, checking his watch. "Then, I'll have you look at some data and do some simulations." He told you, turning around and looking at a hologram of a brain hovering above a table.
You started answering the questions, but you knew nothing about medicine. Sure, most of the biology questions were a breeze—but needle depth, surgery tool identification, amputation?
When Stokes gave you a fifteen-minute warning, you were on question nine. You just started taking your best guesses unless you knew the answer for sure.
And when your time was up, he didn't look surprised by the score on the screen. In fact, it was so low that he figured it'd be best to just move on to the next sector, offering you a polite smile on the way out.
THE next place the Sergeant took you was a basement. It was pretty sizeable—filled with sewing machines, loose threads scattered on the floor, bins in the corners, clothing racks lining the walls.
"This," Stokes started, spinning on his heel to face you with his arms out by his sides. "Is our 'A&E' Department."
"A and E?" You questioned, shifting on your feet.
"Apparel and Equipment." He clarified, turning his back to you as he walked to stand next to one of the sewing machines, hand on the table. "These people are responsible for what we wear everyday, the reason we can still get the normalcy of wearing somethin' different. But they also make our professional gear—bulletproof vests, combat boots, gloves—hell, even them white coats the doctors wear." He explained, standing up straighter. "They're more important than y'might think."
"So, what am I supposed to do here?" You inquired, looking all around the room. It was kind of dull down here—dim lights, unkempt—but you figured these people also prioritized speed. You wondered how many people were quarantined here in total.
"Amazin' question, kid," Stokes started, walking towards you, planting a hand on your shoulder and pointing at a sewing machine that had a stack of fabrics next to it. "There's a sewing pattern over there that you're gonna try your best to follow and, after that, you gotta freehand a piece of clothing, and lastly, you've gotta repair a few rips and tears."
"...I've never used a sewing machine in my life." You said blankly, feet planted to the ground.
Stokes sigh, palming the back of his neck. "Yeah, we get that a lot. This is usually a waste of fabric if y'ask me." He shrugged, nudging you further into the room. "But, you gotta do it. Otherwise, I didn't do my job. Get to it, kid."
You threw a small glare over your shoulder at the older man as you walked slowly over the sewing machine in the far corner. You sat down in the chair, already confused as to where to go from here.
It can't be that hard, you thought to yourself—finding a foot petal on the floor when your foot accidentally kicked it. Carefully pressing your foot on it, the machine came to life—making you jump and the man across the room laugh.
You rolled your eyes, playing with the machine a bit more before you gathered the smallest bit of confidence to glance at the pattern, which you didn't understand at all, and try to recreate it.
By the time you were done, you were holding nothing but a lopsided waste of fabric. Stokes looked at your piece, wincing as if it were the ugliest thing he'd ever seen in his life.
And it was safe to say, the best thing you did in that basement was repair a rip in a pair of jeans.
"YOU smilin' yet, kid? This is your last observation." Stokes tried to joke, but you were far to exhausted to even force a chuckle. "Tough crowd, I see..." He sighed to himself, walking you into a new room in a new building.
The room had a mat in the middle of the floor the size of a boxing ring—guns, swords, knives, crossbows, and grenades lining the entirety of one wall.
"Well, uh, this is the Safeguard Department." The Sergeant explained, seeming to be growing exhausted himself, resting a hand on his hip as he exhaled. "Probably the second hardest sector to get into. Y'gotta be pretty fast, skilled with a few weapons, and know how to go hand to hand." He told you. "So, let's start with the basics, alright?"
The Sergeant led you over to the workout equipment lining a wall and put you on a treadmill, increasing the incline and speed until your lungs burned as if they're filled with acid. You felt like air was a mere concept by the time you were done, but he let you know that you survived longer than most.
Then, he made you haul 50-pound crates across a yard. To simulate what? You weren't sure. Then, he made you carry a 120-pound dummy over your shoulders to simulate carrying a "fallen soldier" back to the "compound". It hurts and you ache by the end of it, but there was something that just wouldn't let you quit.
After, he led you to the small range within the building—allowing you to fire multiple different guns to "assess your accuracy." Shotguns, rifles, pistols, revolvers, a crossbow—the kickback from each one set your shoulder on fire, but by the end of it, to your own surprise and Stokes, you'd managed a 90% aim accuracy—a score that Stokes was only convinced was lowered due to your lack of use of a crossbow.
Afterwards, Stokes had this smile on his face that wouldn't disappear. It kind of reminded you of your dad used to look when he was extra proud of you...
But you got confused when Stokes chucked off his heavy-duty military jacket and tossed it to the floor, letting the clipboard fall on top of it.
"Um, Sergeant?" You questioned, cocking a brow at him. "Are you hot...or something—"
Your words were cut off when Stokes let out a hearty laugh, tossing something your way that you just barely caught. "You're funny, kid," He breathed, walking to the mat in the middle of the room, beckoning you over. "The melee weapon and hand-to-hand assessment are combined into one." He started as you came to stand in front of him, looking at the object in your hands.
It seemed to be a kind of "play-knife", not intended to cause any real harm.
"For your last test of the day," Stokes continued, transitioning into a defensive stance. "You gotta kill me, kid."
That was the first time you had laughed all day, or in weeks, actually—the knife clutched in your hand. "What?" You wheezed, reeling your neck back.
But your smile fell when you realized the man was dead serious. "...You're kidding, right?" You deadpanned. "You're a Military Sergeant. I'm like half your size—"
"Look." Stokes scoffed, dropping his shoulders. "You just ran like hell on that treadmill, trudged ten 50-pound crates across that yard, carried a 120-pound dummy on your back without your knees bucklin' once, and I just watched you shoot targets more accurately than almost any man I ever fought with." The Sergeant interrupted, determination for you in his eyes. "You got this, kid."
You stood silent, but Stokes didn’t wait for a reply. He lunged.
Your eyes went wide and you barely had time to bring the rubber blade up before his massive hand clamped around your wrist. With a sharp twist, he sent you sprawling across the mat, curling in on yourself.
Your lungs, still screaming from the treadmill, burned as you hit the floor.
"Rules are simple, kid!" Stokes barked, circling you like a wolf with a grin as you pushed yourself up, coughing. "In a real scrap, you don't win by hittin' limbs and other useless shit. That knife has to touch a major point—neck, chest, or head, 'specially if your goin' up against one of them things. Anything else is just a ticket to get yourself killed." He breathed, wiping the sweat off of his forehead. "Get up!"
You scrambled to your feet, taking a deep breath, your vision blurring at the edges from exhaustion. You took the initiative this time, swinging, but Stokes parried it effortlessly, his forearm feeling like a metal pipe against yours.
He shoved you back, and you stumbled, your legs starting to feel like jelly as you slid across the mat.
"C'mon," he growled, stepping into your space and looming over you. "You ain't endure all that time out there with nothin' to show for it! You didn't survive just to fold the second someone pushes back!"
The mention of your time out there—the world that now offered nothing for you but cold nights, hunger, and loneliness—hit you harder than his hands did, and that man had fists of fury. A sudden bolt of motivation sparked in your veins—body flooding with some kind of adrenaline.
And when Stokes moved in for another grapple, you didn't pull away. You dropped low, beneath his center of gravity. As his momentum carried him forward, you grabbed his outstretched arm and the neckline of his shirt, planting your foot and twisting with every ounce of strength you had left.
With a heavy, muffled thud that vibrated throughout the entire sparring mat, the Sergeant’s feet left the mat. He flipped over your shoulder, landing flat on his back.
Before he could even process the ceiling, you were over him, pinned to his chest with the rubber tip of the knife pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat.
Silence stretched through the room, broken only by your ragged, heavy breathing—hair clouding your vision.
Stokes stared up at you, eyes wide with genuine shock. Then, slowly, a massive, toothy grin spread across his face. He started to chuckle, the sound vibrating against the knife at his neck.
"...Well, I’ll be damned," he wheezed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am thoroughly impressed, kid." He laughed breathlessly, sitting up as you fell away from him. "You’re officially the first person, ever, to put me on my ass. I knew that shotgun you were hauling on your shoulder did y'some good out there."
You were catching your breath, legs outstretched in front of you as you planted your hands on top of your head. The tension in your chest finally snapped, and a small, genuine smile broke through your exhaustion.
Seeing it, Stokes’ expression softened.
"It’s nice to see you smile, kid," he said warmly, patting the mat and hauling himself up on his feet before outstretching a hand to help you up. "Welcome to the Safeguard Sector. We'll get you set up tomorrow."
You looked up at him, surprised to hear the words for some reason. Five hours of pushing yourself, worrying they'd toss you out on your ass if you had nothing to offer and you ended by putting the Sergeant on his ass and making into one of the hardest sectors.
You took his hand, standing up, when a loud, metallic alarm suddenly blared through the building, echoing off the walls and making you jump. Stokes grunted as he stretched himself out, rubbing his lower back as he stood.
"And just in time," he said, nodding toward the door, snatching his belongings up off of the floor and patting you on the back. "That’s the mess hall bell. C'mon. After putting me through the floor, I think you’ve earned a double ration."
THE mess hall is a massive, filled with the chatter of hundreds of people. And the smell of actual, cooked food—beef stew and baked bread—is almost overwhelming.
It’s the first time you’ve been around this many people in what feels like a lifetime.
You didn't even know this many people still existed.
Your eyes wander as you enter the line, gaze focused on the plethora of food to choose from.
You grab a tray hastily, but your movements were still sort of stiff and robotic as you find a corner table, wanting to keep your back to the wall.
Only God knows what could happen if you turned your back to any of these people—these strangers.
You’re staring down at your stew, wondering if this is a dream as you push the food around the plate. You were still on edge, everything that world had done to you still weighing heavy. You're bringing a spoonful of stew to your lips when a voice cuts through the noise.
A voice you would know anywhere.
"If that's not her, I’m officially losing my mind."
You freeze, spoon hovering above your tray as your heart hammers against your ribs so hard you can feel it.
You look up, and your breath hitches as you look eyes with them.
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