Katie :D

By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, you had developed a reluctant rhythm.

The herd moved.

You followed.

Part of it was practical. The walkers moved with surprising consistency, and keeping track of them was easier when you weren’t constantly lagging behind. The other part was something that you were considerably less eager to acknowledge.

Curiosity.

You were terrified of the walkers— that much hadn’t changed.

Every instinct still recoiled at the sight of them. Years of consuming zombie-based media and basic common sense had thoroughly convinced you that standing anywhere near the undead was a bad idea.

However, the longer they ignored you, the more difficult it became to sustain that fear at its original intensity.

Only a few hours ago, you had been convinced that getting within twenty feet of a walker meant death. Now you found yourself walking close enough to distinguish individual faces.

It was a little concerning just how quickly you’d adapted to this… condition of yours.

You kept expecting your courage to fail. Every time you drifted a little nearer to the herd, your body tensed in anticipation of disaster. Yet the disaster never came.

The walkers just kept moving forward.

Eventually, you found yourself matching pace with one of them.

The corpse was an older man, or at least it had been at one point. Wisps of white hair still clung stubbornly to his scalp. A faded plaid shirt hung loosely from his frame, stained with dirt and other things you didn’t want to think too hard on. One sleeve had been torn away completely, revealing a skeletal arm mottled with decay.

You couldn’t stop staring.

On television, walkers always seemed interchangeable. Up close, individual details emerged.

This man had once chosen that shirt.

Someone had probably bought it for him— a wife or a child, maybe.

Someone had known his name.

The thought settled like a stone in your chest.

Your gaze drifted to another walker nearby. This one appeared much younger. A woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform shuffled through the grass some yards away. The fabric was soiled beyond recognition, but fragments of a hospital logo remained visible near the collar.

You wondered if she had worked during the outbreak, whether she’d stayed behind trying to help people.

Whether she had family somewhere.

The questions came too easily and none of them had answers.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you found yourself studying the walkers for reasons unrelated to survival.

One limped badly on a ruined leg.

Another dragged a foot behind him.

A little girl wandered near the center of the herd clutching a filthy stuffed rabbit against her chest.

You looked away immediately.

All the knowledge in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. These weren’t props covered in makeup, or people excited to be in the background of their favorite show.

They were the remains of human beings whose lives had ended in one of the worst ways imaginable.

As the herd reached the outskirts of a neighborhood, the sun had reached its final destination.

The light had softened considerably since the brutal heat of midday, painting the landscape in warm shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the ground, weaving between the walkers as they continued their steady march forward.

You found yourself paralleling them without consciously meaning to.

At some point, the herd had stopped feeling like an immediate threat and started feeling like a strange sort of constant. They were still unsettling to look at, and the smell lingered in the air whenever the wind shifted. Every now and then, you would catch sight of an especially gruesome injury and have to force yourself not to stare.

And yet…

There was something oddly reassuring in their proximity.

There was no arguing, or demands made, or questions asked.

They simply moved.

Hour after hour, they shuffled onward with the same mindless determination, and after spending most of the day among them, you had begun adjusting to their presence.

It was something that probably should have alarmed you more than it did.

You walked alongside a woman who had likely been in her forties before her death. Most of her dark hair had fallen out, leaving uneven patches across her scalp, and the floral pattern on her dress had long since faded beneath layers of dirt and weathering.

She didn’t acknowledge you.

You wondered if that would ever stop feeling strange.

Your gaze drifted ahead as the neighborhood came into view.

Rows of houses emerged beyond the trees, their rooftops visible above overgrown hedges and neglected lawns. Even from a distance, the place carried the familiar appearance of suburban America. Mailboxes stood beside cracked sidewalks, driveways stretched toward garages, tall trees lined the streets.

The sight stirred something unexpectedly painful in your chest.

They reminded you of home.

Not because they looked exactly like your own neighborhood, but because they belonged to the same world. The same civilization. The same life that had existed before everything fell apart.

The herd drifted into the neighborhood without hesitation.

Walkers spilled across the streets and sidewalks like a slow-moving river, weaving around abandoned vehicles and overgrown yards. A rusted bicycle lay forgotten near a driveway. One house still displayed the remnants of holiday decorations that had somehow survived months of exposure to the elements.

Your stomach growled.

The sound startled you enough that you glanced downward.

Right, food.

You hadn’t eaten since arriving in this world, and your body was beginning to remind you of that fact with increasing urgency. Your throat remained dry and your muscles still ached from earlier. The initial surge of panic and adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a very tired, very hungry human being.

The houses surrounding you suddenly seemed far more interesting.

Some had broken windows while others appeared untouched. A few still had vehicles parked neatly in their driveways, as though the owners might return at any moment.

The sight sparked a thought.

If the herd had been moving through this area regularly— or even if large groups of walkers simply wandered nearby— then many survivors would likely avoid the neighborhood entirely.

The risk just wouldn’t be worth it.

Clearing a house was one thing— clearing a house while multiple walkers roamed the surrounding streets was something else entirely.

For the first time all day, genuine hope lightened your frame.

If you were right, there might still be supplies here. Food, medicine, water. The possibilities seemed almost too good to believe.

Your steps slowed as the herd continued onward.

Immediately, a surprising feeling tugged at your heart.

Reluctance.

The emotion caught you completely off guard. Objectively speaking, you should have been thrilled to leave.

You had spent damn near the entire day surrounded by flesh-eating monsters! Normal people did not become attached to zombie herds!

Yet as you watched them continue down the street, you felt a faint sense of unease.

The herd had become familiar— safe.

At least, as safe as anything in this world could be.

Leaving meant stepping back into uncertainty. Leaving meant being alone again.

You paused before laughing softly.

Nope, you weren’t going to think about it. If you didn’t acknowledge the sinking feeling in your gut, it didn’t exist.

Food first, mental breakdown later.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you stepped away from the herd and crossed the street.

The neighborhood lacked the obvious signs of repeated scavenging. There were no doors hanging from hinges, no smashed-in walls— no evidence that desperate survivors had stripped the houses bare.

Hope fluttered in your chest again.

Carefully, you made your way up the driveway of the nearest home.

The house itself was modest but charming. It was painted a soft shade of blue that reminded you of the sky on a sunny day. Flower beds bordered the front walkway, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass. A wooden rocking chair sat abandoned on the porch.

You lightly trailed your hand against the armrest of the chair, swallowing thickly as you did so.

Someone had once considered this place home.

You forced yourself to keep moving. You reached the front door and grabbed the bronze doorknob with a shaky grip.

The front door stood unlocked.

That fact alone told a story.

You couldn’t imagine leaving your house unlocked under normal circumstances. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly. The owners had likely rushed out with only the things they could carry, fully expecting to return once the emergency ended.

Nobody had returned.

The interior was quiet as you crossed the threshold of the house. Not eerie, exactly. Just empty.

Dust coated the interior in a thin gray layer. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating tiny particles that drifted lazily through the air. Family photographs decorated the walls of the hallway, smiling faces frozen in moments of happiness that felt impossibly distant now.

The pictures made this harder.

It was easier to think of abandoned houses as resources.

It was much harder when confronted with evidence that real people had once lived inside them.

The kitchen became your first target.

Mostly because food was your immediate priority, but also because focusing on a practical task prevented you from dwelling on everything else.

You gently pried the door to the pantry open and froze, your mouth falling open in shock.

The shelves were still stocked.

Rows of canned vegetables sat neatly arranged beside boxed pasta and bags of rice. Soup cans occupied an entire shelf. Crackers, peanut butter, oatmeal, and various other non-perishables remained untouched.

A smile stretched across your face before you could stop it.

“Oh my god.”

Relief washed over you so suddenly that your knees nearly gave out.

You had prepared yourself to find scraps, a few overlooked items. Maybe enough food to survive a day or two if you were lucky.

Instead, you were looking at enough supplies to last for weeks.

‘No sane survivor would willingly search houses surrounded by walker herds.’

For the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely appreciating your absurd decision.

Following the herd had actually worked.

You quickly began removing items from the pantry, placing them in neat piles across the kitchen counter. Cans went together. Boxes went together. Anything remotely useful was carefully sorted into groups.

It wasn’t until you’d accumulated an impressive mountain of supplies that a new problem occurred to you.

You had absolutely no way of carrying any of it.

You stared at the collection.

The collection stared back.

A loud groan reverberated from the back of your throat. You dragged a hand down your face, your eyebrows pinching together in frustration.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Leaving the food behind felt physically painful, but there was little point gathering supplies if you couldn’t transport them.

You stepped away from the kitchen and began searching the house.

The living room yielded little beyond dusty furniture and more reminders that people had once lived here. A blanket remained draped over the arm of a recliner. A few books rested on a side table beside a pair of reading glasses.

You hurried past both.

The hallways led to four rooms. You chose the first one and stepped in.

The bed remained neatly made. Family photographs occupied the dresser. Sunlight spilled across the carpet through partially opened curtains.

For a moment, you just stood there.

There was something uniquely unsettling about bedrooms. More than every other room in a house, they felt personal. You pushed the discomfort aside and began checking the room.

It didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for.

Tucked near the back of the closet sat a large duffel bag.

The bag looked sturdy enough to carry a significant amount of weight. It was larger than anything you could have hoped to find.

You unzipped it and discovered a collection of colorful envelopes, folded paper decorations, and greeting cards stacked neatly inside.

For a moment, confusion replaced your excitement.

Then understanding followed.

Birthday cards.

Years worth of them, judging by the quantity.

You could have read them but you quickly squashed down the thought. Taking the bag already felt uncomfortable enough. Reading the cards would be crossing a line.

Carefully, you removed the contents and placed them in a tidy stack on a nearby shelf. You avoided looking too closely at the writing. A few colorful envelopes slipped loose during the process, revealing fragments of cheerful handwriting and cute stickers.

You ignored them.

Some things weren’t yours.

The cards remained where you left them as a monument to people you would never know.

Once the bag was finally empty, you slung it over your shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen.

As you began carefully packing the cans and boxes into the duffel, a reluctant thought surfaced.

Maybe following the herd hadn’t been the worst decision you’d ever made.

————————————————

Your shoulder was beginning to ache from the weight of the duffel bag.

The discomfort was worth it, though.

The bag was stuffed with canned food, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, spare clothes, and enough miscellaneous supplies to make you feel almost optimistic. Considering you’d arrived in this world with absolutely nothing, the transformation felt borderline miraculous.

You’d already searched most of the houses.

The first had been terrifying.

The second had been awkward.

By the third, you’d accidentally started developing a system.

Kitchen first, medicine second, anything useful afterward.

Somewhere around house number five, you had also realized you’d begun talking to yourself.

Quite a lot, actually.

The discovery had been prompted by a walker wearing a wedding ring.

You’d spotted it while crossing a driveway and spent nearly ten minutes wondering about the person’s life before abruptly catching yourself speaking your theories out loud.

The walker hadn’t cared.

At one point, you’d even found yourself walking alongside a woman in a tattered yellow cardigan while discussing the merits of canned ravioli.

She didn’t respond, obviously, but you’d like to think she agreed with you.

The house at the end of the street finally drew your attention away from your silent walking companion. You bid a quick farewell, to which she only groaned. Rude.

The house sat slightly apart from the others, partially hidden behind a collection of mature oak trees whose branches stretched over the roof like protective arms. The yard was overgrown, but less so than some of the neighboring properties. Ivy climbed one side of the house, softening the structures edges and making it feel oddly secluded.

Something about the place tugged at your memory. For a few seconds, you stood in the driveway trying to place it.

Then you shrugged.

You’d spent years watching The Walking Dead. You were beginning to suspect that half the state of Georgia felt familiar now.

The front door was locked.

The discovery should not have been surprising, yet it frustrated you all the same.

You rattled the knob one last time before stepping back with a sigh. The windows proved no more cooperative. Whoever had lived here had made damn sure the place was locked tight before they left.

Alright then.

Improv has always been one of your strong suits.

Your gaze drifted toward one of the decorative rocks lining the porch, already weighing whether it was worth sacrificing a window, when something else caught your eye.

A squat little stone frog sat beside the front steps, grinning at you with the vacant optimism only lawn ornaments seem capable of.

Well… it couldn’t hurt to try.

You crouched and lifted the statue.

Sure enough, tucked neatly beneath its stony ass sat a small brass key.

Thank god for cliches!

Sliding the frog aside, you snatched up the key and returned to the front door. It slipped into the lock with an almost disappointingly soft ‘click’.

And just like that, you’re in.

The door creaked open as you peeked your head inside.

Two walkers occupy the foyer. Neither seemed particularly interested in you. They barely spared you a glance before returning to… whatever it was walkers did when they weren’t trying to eat somebody.

Fine by you.

You let them to whatever depressing hobby occupied the undead and headed straight for the kitchen.

Throwing open the pantry door, you fully expected to find shelves lined with canned food like the rest of the neighborhood.

Instead, a pair of spiders and several enthusiastic dust bunnies greet you.

The spiders scattered as you stared into the empty pantry, thoroughly betrayed.

“Guess I got too cocky…”

With a sigh, you shut the pantry and started opening cupboards instead. No matter, surely there had to be—

A single can of dog food on the shelf.

It somehow managed to look smug.

Huh.

Alright, so the kitchen is a bust. Go figure.

You trudged back through the foyer, brushing past the walkers with an exaggerated groan when one of them happened to turn its head in your direction.

“Oh, don’t start!”

Couldn’t they see you were in the middle of a crisis?! Who knew when you’d stumble across another neighborhood this untouched?

Your footsteps echoed through the house as your search continued, each room somehow more disappointing than the last. By the time you climbed the stairs, your patience had all but vanished.

The second floor wasn’t any better than the first!

Bedroom, bathroom, closet— all useless!

Finally, you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a teenagers bedroom, your foot tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor.

Band posters plastered nearly every inch of the walls. Some you vaguely recognized, but most you didn’t.

None of them held your attention for long.

No…

What caught your eye was the bulky old computer sitting on the desk beneath the window.

Your eyes lit up.

The thing was practically a museum exhibit! It still had the giant monitor box and everything!

You wandered over, looking it over with open curiosity. A tape-recorder sat precariously on the edge of the desk, while the keyboard was surrounded by multiple cassette tapes. A few had handwritten labels, but most were left blank.

You picked one up.

Across the faded strip of masking tape, someone had scribbled:

‘Pops Mix :P’

A smile tugged at your lips.

Your dad used to ramble for ages about how much of a pain making mixtapes had been back in the day. Sitting by the radio for hours, finger hovering over the record button, praying the DJ wouldn’t start talking halfway through the song…

So for some moody teenager to make one for their dad…

They must’ve been close.

Carefully, you set the cassette back on the desk before sifting through the others. The labeled tapes followed much the same pattern— Mom’s Road Trip Mix, Summer Songs, a few dedicated entirely to individual bands.

A whistle pushed past your pursed lips as you took it all in. This kid had been obsessed with music.

Then something else caught your eye.

Nestled innocently among the chaos sat a Walkman

A delighted squeal escaped before you could stop it.

You knew what a Walkman was, of course, but only because your dad had brought his old one out for you to gawk at. They’d gone out of style before you were even born!

You snatched it up like you’d just discovered buried treasure.

A pair of worn headphones was already plugged into it. You settled them over your ears, then spent the next minute squinting at the buttons with growing determination.

“C’mon…”

The thing couldn’t be that complicated!

Eventually, stubbornness won out and you pressed Play.

For one long, agonizing moment… nothing.

Then the cassette whirred to life and the blessed sound of music flooded your ears.

Your eyes widened when the song was something you knew.

“… The Wanderer?”

You’d know that song anywhere!

Sure, it was decades older than you were, but after sinking an embarrassing number of hours into Fallout 4, hearing it felt strangely… comforting.

The familiar tune washes over you, filling a silence you hadn’t noticed until now. Ever since you found yourself stranded in this nightmare of a universe, there had been no music.

Just groaning walkers.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

By the time the chorus rolled around, there was an undeniable spring in your step.

You gathered up the remaining cassettes, carefully slipping every labeled one into your duffel bag.

Your hand hovered over ‘Pops Mix :P’.

Would taking that one be crossing a line? You didn’t take the letters from the other house, why should this be any different?

You stared at it for a few quiet seconds before sighing and picking it up anyway. These tapes had been made with love. Leaving them here to gather dust— or worse, rot away with the house— felt like the greater tragedy.

Once the cassettes were safely tucked away, you turned your attention to the rest of the room.

The closet was stocked with graphic tees and faded band shirts, but one in particular caught your eye.

A nearly pristine Transformers T-shirt.

You couldn’t help but grin.

The Walking Dead never nailed down an exact year for the outbreak, but most fans agreed it kicked off sometime around 2010. If that theory held true…

The first couple of Michael Bay’s Transformers movies would have already been out.

Across the black cotton, Bumblebee posed triumphantly in bright yellow. Childlike glee fills your form as you grab the shirt. Little you would have killed for a shirt like this!

“I’m just gonna… take this.”

Your voice filled the empty room, but it’s not like you were expecting an answer. Still, your next words come out all the same.

“Thank you.”

It felt silly talking to an empty house, even sillier thanking people who were almost certainly dead.

Still…

You hopes they would’ve understood.

Setting your duffel bag onto the floor, you peeled off your sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace. It clung stubbornly to your skin before finally coming free.

You send a silent ‘thank you’ to every god that you can think of that you decided to wear a sports bra instead of going commando.

The clean shirt slipped over your head a moment later, and you practically sighed in relief as fresh cotton settled against your skin. It wasn’t just cleaner, it felt… normal.

For a few precious seconds, you could almost pretend you weren’t scavenging through the apocalypse.

You clipped the Walkman onto the waistband of your jeans, settled the headphones over your ears once more, and slung your duffel bag back across your shoulder.

One room left.

You nudged open the door— and immediately stumbled back with a startled yelp.

A massive owl stared back at you, its golden eyes never blinking.

“Oh.”

Your heartbeat slowly drifted back down from your throat.

The owl remained perfectly still, save for a slight puff of its feathers that managed to convey mild irritation.

“…sorry.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

Owls had been one of your favorite animals ever since third grade. You still remembered sitting cross-legged on the classroom carpet while your teacher explained how silently they could fly. Eight-year-old you had been completely obsessed.

Standing only a few feet away from one now felt…

Weirdly familiar.

Like there was something important sitting just beyond the edge of your memory. A frown tugged at your lips.

Slowly, you raised your hands in a placating gesture and crouched a little lower, trying to make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey, buddy…”

The owl regarded you with all the enthusiasm of an exhausted customer service worker, but it didn’t fly away.

Small victories.

Music continued humming softly through your headphones as you closed the remaining distance one careful step at a time.

When you were finally close enough, you hesitated before slowly reaching out.

Your fingertips brushed impossibly soft feathers and you smiled.

The moment lasted exactly two heartbeats.

Something hard pressed into the center of your back.

Every muscle in your body locked and your breath caught in your throat.

Not a walker.

The ones downstairs would’ve been moaning long before they reached you, and if they’d somehow wandered up here, the bird would’ve caught their attention first.

This…

This was a person.

Before you could react, the headphones were ripped from your head. The music died, and a rough, gravel-worn voice spoke directly behind you.

“Stay still.”

Cold metal dug harder between your shoulder blades.

“Move…”

A beat of silence.

“And I kill you.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Finally bringing the main cast into play! I was going to start with Reader finding Hershel’s farm, but I got lazy and decided to just jump headfirst into season 3 😭

Hope y’all enjoyed!

Your lungs burned.

The feeling struck somewhere between your fifth and fiftieth glance over your shoulder. Time had become meaningless the moment you started running. Every thought had narrowed into a single desperate objective: put as much distance between yourself and the walkers as physically possible.

The problem was that your body had never received the memo.

You weren’t Rick, or Daryl, or Glenn, or Michonne, or any other badass main character from the show.

You weren’t even one of the background survivors who somehow managed to sprint across forests every other episode without collapsing from exhaustion.

You were a person who had spent most of the evening curled up beneath a blanket with a bowl of popcorn.

The difference was becoming painfully apparent.

Your legs felt like lead. Each step jarred through your knees and hips. Dry grass slapped against your calves as you stumbled through the field, desperately trying to maintain a pace that your body was increasingly unwilling to provide.

A stitch had developed in your side ten minutes ago. At least, you thought it was ten minutes. It might have been less, it might have been more. Your heart was beating so hard that it felt impossible to judge anything accurately.

The only thing you knew for certain was that you couldn’t keep this up forever.

The thought sent another surge of panic through you.

Because the walkers could.

Walkers didn’t get tired.

They didn’t need water.

They didn’t need sleep.

A human could outrun them for a while, but eventually exhaustion would win.

It always did.

You risked another glance over your shoulder.

The herd remained there.

A sprawling mass of bodies moving steadily across the landscape.

The sight nearly made your stomach drop out through your shoes.

You immediately turned forward again and pushed yourself harder.

Your breathing had become ragged, every inhale scraping against your throat. The afternoon heat only made things worse. Sweat soaked through your clothes and clung uncomfortably to your skin.

The Georgia sun.

Of course it had to be Georgia.

You had never appreciated just how miserable Georgia looked until you found yourself running through it.

A hysterical laugh almost escapes you.

The absurdity of that thought was enough to make you feel slightly unhinged.

You had been transported into a zombie apocalypse.

You were being chased by a herd of the undead.

And somehow your brain had chosen that exact moment to complain about the weather.

Maybe panic was finally frying your remaining brain cells.

The field gradually gave way to a sparse collection of trees. You veered toward them immediately, driven little more than by instinct. Open ground felt dangerous. Trees meant cover.

Not that you had any idea what you were covering yourself from.

The walkers had already seen you.

At least, you assumed they had.

Several of them had been looking directly at you.

The memory alone sent another burst of adrenaline through your veins.

You pushed between two trees and nearly tripped over an exposed root. A startled yelp escaped before you managed to catch yourself.

Your foot slipped.

For one horrifying second, you thought you were going down.

Images flashed through your mind with brutal speed.

You falling.

A broken ankle.

The herd catching up.

Tearing hands.

Rotting teeth.

The end.

Somehow, you regained your balance at the last second and a shaky breath pushed itself from your chest.

“Okay,” you wheezed.

The word sounded more desperate than reassuring.

You forced your legs to keep moving, ignoring the burning that spreads through your body.

Eventually, your body makes the decision for you.

The adrenaline that had fueled your escape could only carry you so far, and it had long since begun to burn itself out. No matter how desperately you tried to force your legs onward, they felt heavier with every step. The stitch from earlier had only worsened, your throat felt raw from panting, and each breath seemed to bring in less air than the one before it.

You staggered toward the nearest tree and braced a hand against the trunk, bending forward as your lungs fought to recover. Sweat dripped from your forehead and into your eyes, stinging enough to make you wince. For a few moments, all you could do was stand there and breathe, focusing entirely on the simple act of remaining upright.

Gradually, the worst of the dizziness began to fade.

The moment it did, panic returned.

The walkers.

Your head snapped up and you immediately regretted the movement when the world tilted slightly beneath your feet. Ignoring the sensation, you turned toward the direction you’d come from and searched for the herd.

They were still there.

The walkers continued their slow march across the countryside, their movements as steady and relentless as ever. The sight alone was enough to send your pulse racing again. Yet as you watched them, something about the scene felt strangely off.

You frowned and squinted into the distance.

The herd wasn’t closing in.

At least, not in the way you had expected.

You had spent the last twenty minutes running as though your life depended on it. Given the amount of noise you’d made, the walkers should have been converging on your location. They should have been drifting toward the sound of your movement and your voice.

Instead, the herd appeared to be following the same general course it had maintained from the beginning.

For a moment, you wondered if exhaustion was clouding your judgement.

A few walkers wandered near the edge of the herd, occasionally turning their heads as though reacting to distant sounds. One of them seemed to look directly toward your position.

You choked on a breath and pressed yourself closer to the tree.

The walker lingered there for a moment, its ruined face angled in your direction, and a familiar surge of fear swept through you. You could practically feel your body preparing to run again.

Then the walker simply turned away.

No lunge.

No sudden burst of movement.

No reaction at all.

It resumed shuffling forward alongside the rest of the herd as though you weren’t standing there.

You stared after it.

Several seconds passed.

Then several more.

Nothing changed.

The herd continued onward, paying no more attention to you than it did to the trees or the grass around it.

Slowly, confusion began to push its way through the panic.

You remained where you were, watching the walkers disappear farther into the distance while your thoughts raced to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. The longer you stood there, the harder it became to ignore the growing inconsistency.

Walkers didn’t behave like this.

You knew that better than most people. You’d spent years watching the show. You knew what attracted them, what distracted them, and what happened when a living person made the mistake of drawing their attention.

A person running across an open field while shouting would have been impossible for them to ignore.

Yet that was exactly what they seemed to be doing.

Your thoughts drifted back to the moment you’d arrived. At the time, sheer terror had overwhelmed everything else. You had seen walkers and immediately focused on escaping them.

Now, with a little distance from that initial panic, details you hadn’t noticed before began to resurface.

The walkers had looked at you, you were certain of that.

Multiple had turned their heads in your direction.

But none of them had changed course, none of them had sped up.

None of them displayed the slightest indication that they viewed you as prey.

For a long minute, you remained exactly where you were.

Your back rested against the tree trunk while the herd continued its slow progress across the countryside, utterly indifferent to your existence. The walkers drifted through the tall grass in loose clusters, occasionally bumping into one another before correcting course and continuing onward. From a distance, they almost looked peaceful.

The illusion vanished the moment you focused on the details.

Sunken faces.

Rotting flesh.

Torn clothing stained with months of dirt and decay.

They were still walkers. Still monsters. Still the same creatures that had spent over a decade terrorizing television audiences and devouring unfortunate survivors.

The fact that they weren’t trying to eat you did little to make the sight less disturbing.

You scrubbed a hand over your face and immediately regretted it when you realized how much sweat had accumulated there. The sun felt relentless. Combined with the panic attack, the sprint across half a field, and the general trauma of being ripped out of reality and dropped into a television series, you felt absolutely miserable.

Your throat was dry.

Your legs ached.

Your entire body felt one minor inconvenience away from simply lying down in the grass and giving up.

The thought was alarmingly tempting.

Unfortunately, dying of dehydration in a field would be a particularly embarrassing way to end your story.

Assuming this was a story.

The uncertainty surrounding your situation continues to gnaw at you. Every now and then, your brain attempted to convince itself that none of this was real. Perhaps you were unconscious somewhere. Maybe this was just an extraordinarily vivid dream.

Then the hot wind would brush against your skin or your aching muscles would remind you of their existence, and the fantasy would crumble.

Dreams weren’t usually this uncomfortable.

Your gaze drifted back toward the herd.

They had moved farther away during your rest.

Not much, just enough that you could feel the distance growing.

You should leave.

The thought returned for what felt like the hundredth time.

You should head in the opposite direction and put as much space between yourself and the undead as possible. Every piece of common sense you possessed agreed with that assessment.

The problem was that common sense wasn’t offering any alternatives.

You were stranded in the middle of rural Georgia with no supplies, no shelter, and no real idea where you were.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

You had a general idea.

You knew you were somewhere in The Walking Dead universe. Unfortunately, that information was significantly less useful than it sounded. Georgia contained a lot of land. Knowing you were somewhere within it didn’t magically provide directions.

You could wander for days without finding another person.

And if you did find another person…

You grimaced.

Not everyone would be as kind as the main cast.

One of the first lessons The Walking Dead taught its audience was that other survivors were often more dangerous than the walkers. Given the choice between encountering a random stranger and encountering a random walker, you weren’t entirely sure which option was supposed to be more reassuring.

With a groan, you tilted your head back against the tree.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Let’s think.”

The request was immediately complicated by the fact that panic continued to occupy approximately ninety percent of your brain.

Still, you tried.

The walkers ignored you.

That much appeared undeniable.

You had screamed, run, stumbled, and generally behaved like the worlds least competent survivor. Under normal circumstances, a herd should have torn you apart long ago.

Instead, they had barely acknowledged your existence.

The implications of that were bizarre enough to deserve their own breakdown later.

For now, the important part was that the walkers didn’t seem dangerous to you.

At least not directly.

The thought lingered for longer than it should.

Slowly, a deeply questionable idea began to form.

The more you considered the possibility, the worse it sounded…

Which, unfortunately, didn’t make it any less practical.

“No.”

You shook your head fervently, almost in an attempt to shake the thought away.

Absolutely not, that was insane! The sort of decision made by horror movie extras moments before their untimely deaths!

But…

The walkers ignored you. Better yet, everyone else feared them.

Large herds acted like moving exclusion zones. Survivors avoided them whenever possible. Nobody willingly approached hundreds of walkers— not unless they had a death wish.

Which meant the herd offered something surprisingly valuable.

Privacy.

Protection.

A giant warning sign visible from miles away.

You briefly imagined approaching another survivor alone. The image was not encouraging.

For all you knew, they could rob you, kill you, or do something that was far worse.

The herd, on the other hand, was predictable.

Terrifying, rotting, horrifying…

But predictable.

You knew exactly where they would be, how they would behave, and for reasons beyond your comprehension, they wanted absolutely nothing to do with you.

It was still an unbelievably terrible idea.

You swallowed thickly before pushing yourself away from the tree.

Every muscle immediately complained— you ignored them.

The herd continued their funeral procession through the field.

You stared at the sea of rotting corpses stretching across the landscape and wondered if you had finally lost your mind.

That honestly felt like the most reasonable explanation.

Then, with all the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for their own execution, you started after them.

You kept your distance at first, staying far enough back that you could convince yourself you weren’t actually walking alongside a herd of the undead. The distinction was largely meaningless, but your rapidly deteriorating sanity appreciated the effort.

Walking after the herd, one single thought bounced around your head:

This was the stupidest thing you had ever done.

The rain had been falling for hours.

Distant thunder rumbles as water continues to pelt against your windows, turning them into mirrors that reflect the warm glow of the living room back at you. Every now and then, headlights from passing cars streaked across the glass, brief flashes of white and red before disappearing into the wet darkness outside.

It was the perfect weather for lazing about inside.

You were curled up on one end of the couch, wrapped tightly in your favorite blanket until only your head remained visible. The blanket had long since trapped your body heat, turning the little nest you’d created into a cocoon of warmth that made the thought of standing up feel genuinely offensive.

A half-finished bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table within easy reach. Beside it rested a large cup of soda, beads of condensation slowly sliding down the plastic. The open bag of Reese’s Pieces was tucked against your hip, forgotten for the moment as your attention remained fixed on the television.

The familiar opening theme of The Walking Dead echoed softly through the apartment.

Again.

At this point, you couldn’t even pretend this rewatch hadn’t been planned.

You had intended to watch a single episode, maybe two at the most.

Instead, several hours had vanished without your notice.

The second season had always been one of your favorites. It wasn’t the most action-packed season, and it certainly wasn’t the fastest, but there was something about Hershel’s farm that kept drawing you back. Maybe it was the temporary illusion of safety, or maybe it was the way the characters still had enough hope left to believe things might eventually get better.

Or maybe you were just nostalgic.

Either way, you had found yourself back here yet again.

You watched as the survivors argued on-screen, already knowing exactly how every conversation would end. Every reveal, every betrayal, every death had been permanently etched into your memory years ago.

That didn’t stop you from watching with rapt attention.

When a character made a terrible decision, you rolled your eyes.

When someone said something hypocritical, you immediately called them out despite being completely alone.

When one of your favorite scenes appeared, you found yourself smiling before it had even properly begun.

There was something deeply comforting about knowing what would happen next.

Life rarely offered that luxury.

Stories did.

The episode continued to play while rain tapped gently against the windows and the occasional crackles of lighting lit the room up in bright spurts. Time slipped by unnoticed. One handful of popcorn became another. Then another. Somewhere along the way, the candy bag grew lighter.

By the time the credits rolled, you were surprised to discover the popcorn bowl was nearly empty.

You leaned forward and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, intending to turn the television off.

Instead, your thumb hovered over the button.

The next episode was already loading.

You stared at the countdown.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

“I should go to bed…”

The empty apartment failed to offer an opinion.

Two.

One.

The episode started.

You sighed dramatically and settled deeper into the couch.

“One more.”

A promise neither you nor the universe believed as the opening scenes began to play. The farm was gone and the group was on the road.

Lost.

Exhausted.

Surrounded by an endless world of death.

You watched the familiar images unfold while absentmindedly reaching for your bag of candy. Your fingers dipped into the bag and camp up empty.

Frowning, you peered inside.

Nothing.

You blinked.

Hadn’t there been half a bag left?

The realization made a laugh bubble up in your throat.

Apparently not.

Setting the empty bag aside, you stretched beneath the blanket. Your shoulders popped pleasantly. The warmth around you seemed to double the moment you relaxed.

You glanced toward the kitchen, the microwave clock catching your attention.

11:47 PM.

Later than expected but not surprising.

The rain continued pouring outside while the TV cast flickering light across the room.

Everything felt peaceful.

Safe.

For a moment, you simply sat there and enjoyed it. A yawn escaped before you could stop it, causing your eyes to water. The characters on-screen continued their journey down an abandoned road while you fought off a second yawn.

You were losing.

Badly.

The sounds of the episode gradually blended together with the rain. The groans of distant walkers mixed with the hum of the refrigerator. The steady rhythm of dialogue became harder to follow as your attention drifted.

Your eyelids felt heavier with every passing minute.

You blinked once.

Twice.

The television seemed strangely bright when you opened your eyes again.

The image on-screen had shifted to a massive herd of walkers moving together through the countryside.

Something felt… off.

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the lingering haze from your mind.

The herd was still crossing the screen. Hundreds of walkers shuffled together beneath an endless blue sky, moving with the same relentless pace that had made them so unsettling all those years ago. It should have looked familiar. You had seen the episode countless times.

Instead, you found yourself frowning.

The image looked unusually sharp, noticeably lacking the visible grain that was present in the early season.

The sunlight looked brighter.

The details seemed clearer somehow.

You shifted beneath your blanket, intending to sit up a little straighter, only to pause when something hot brushed against your face.

Hot?

That wasn’t right.

Your apartment was comfortably warm, but not hot. Certainly not hot enough for sunlight to feel like it was resting directly on your skin.

Slowly, you became aware of other sensations as well. A breeze stirred against your arms. Somewhere nearby, grass rustled softly. The sounds were faint, but distinct enough that they immediately felt out of place.

Confusion began to replace the last remnants of drowsiness.

You blinked again.

The television remained bright.

Too bright.

A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

When you looked upward, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of your apartment, your mind simply stopped.

For one impossible moment, your thoughts went completely blank.

There was no ceiling.

No light fixture.

No apartment.

Above you stretched a vast blue sky unmarred by anything except a few drifting clouds.

You stared at it.

Then stared some more.

Your brain stubbornly refused to make sense of what your eyes were telling it.

That wasn’t possible.

You had been sitting on your couch.

You remembered the weight of the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You remembered the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and the candy tucked beside you on the cushions. You remembered the rain tapping against the windows.

You remembered it all with perfect clarity.

So why were you looking at the sky?

A sharp jolt of fear shot through your chest.

You pushed yourself upright so quickly that dizziness washed over you. Instead of sinking into couch cushions, your hands met rough grass and uneven dirt. The texture scraped against your palms, startlingly real beneath your touch.

The sight of it sent your pulse racing.

You scrambled to your feet.

The world spun around you.

A wide field stretched around you, interrupted only by patches of trees and distant hills. There were no buildings. No roads. No signs of civilization. Nothing remotely familiar.

For several seconds, you simply turned in place, searching desperately for something that made sense.

There had to be an explanation.

A prank.

A dream.

A medical emergency.

Anything.

Your breathing quickened as you gaze swept across the landscape again and again. The harder you looked, the worse the panic became. Every direction revealed more of the same empty countryside.

“No…”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Your voice sounded wrong in the open air.

Too small.

Too fragile.

You swallowed hard and tried to steady yourself, but your hands had already begun to shake. Reaching into your pocket was almost instinctive. You searched for your phone, hoping for something familiar to anchor yourself to.

Your pocket was empty.

A fresh surge of panic crashed through you.

You checked again, turning it inside out.

Then your other pocket.

Then both a third time, despite knowing how ridiculous it was.

Nothing.

No phone.

No wallet.

No keys.

The realization struck with alarming force. Whatever had happened, you hadn’t simply wandered outside while half asleep. Everything from your life was gone.

You felt your chest tighten.

The beginnings of a panic attack clawed their way upward.

“Help!”

The shout burst from your throat before you consciously decided to call out.

Your voice carried across the field.

No answer came.

You shouted again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

The silence that followed was somehow worse than if no sound had existed at all. It left you along with your racing heartbeat and spiraling thoughts.

Then the wind shifted.

The smell hit you almost instantly.

Rot.

Your stomach lurched.

It was a foul, sickening odor that seemed to coat the back of your throat. Instinctively, you raised a hand to cover your nose, but it did little to help.

The smell only grew stronger.

A chill crawled up your spine.

Something about it felt familiar.

Not because you had ever encountered anything quite like it before, but because your brain had already begun drawing connections that you desperately did not want to acknowledge.

Slowly, you turned toward the source.

The figure emerging from the tall grass looked human at first glance.

At second glance, it looked anything but.

Its movements were wrong. Its skin hung in gray, decaying strips. Part of its face appeared to have collapsed inward, exposing darkened teeth beneath ruined flesh.

A scream caught in your throat.

Every instinct screamed at you to run, yet you remained frozen where you stood.

Because you recognized it.

Not the person.

The creature.

You knew exactly what it was.

A walker.

Years spent watching episodes on your couch. Endless discussion posts online. Character deaths that had left you staring at your television is disbelief.

As though determined to confirm your worst fears, another figure staggered into view behind the first. Then another.

A herd.

A cold wave of dread washed through your entire body.

The possibility that had been lurking at the edge of your thoughts suddenly stepped into the light, impossible to ignore any longer.

The realization shattered whatever composure you had managed to cling to.

Tears stung your eyes. Your breathing became shallow and uneven. Every horrifying memory associated with the series seemed to crash into your mind at once. You remembered the deaths. The starvation. The violence. The countless ways people suffered long before they died.

Most terrifying of all, you knew that unlike the characters, you weren’t written for this world.

You weren’t a survivor.

You were a fan who had been watching from the safety of a couch less than five minutes ago.

And now that safety was gone.

With barely any time to think, you turned on your heels and ran.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

New story, woohoo! Hope y’all liked it!

Dragonborn! Reader x GoT

Westeros is the same continent as Skyrim, but due to a mass genocide, the people of Skyrim are no longer here.

Reader was considered the last great ruler and when she passed, he people built monuments to her. Many of them show different facets of her personality (one surrounded by children, one accompanied by a large wolf, one similar to Talos’ statue, just to name a few)

The largest one is just past The Wall, with her standing on top of a dead dragon.

There’s also one is Casterly Rock! Little Tyrion often hid there when his family and court life got to be too much, and he even considers it a friend.

The thing is— all of these statues are facing out toward the North, towards The Wall, and people are curious as to why.

Modern! Reader x TWD

Not super original, sue me.

Reader tries to stay away from the main cast while helping them. Like, leaving out food and clean clothes for them.

Would take place after Hershel’s farm goes up in flames and the group is on the road again.

Walkers ignore the Reader since she’s not part of the original storyline, which makes sneaking into places pretty easy!

Reader would definitely have a Walkman that she tries to find cassettes for. She finds one with The Wanderer by Dion and just listens to that on loop lmao

Modern! Reader x Omegaverse! DCU

Completely self-indulgent ngl

Reader who realizes that she took over another person’s body and has to figure out how to act like them before people get suspicious.

Reader would most likely be an omega who’s completely confused on WHY everyone acts so fucking weird and dominating.

Reader who slowly finds out who the OG!Body was, even reconnecting with the OG’s family.

Bad idea, since the family is two alpha parents, and a bunch of beta and alpha children. Reader is the only omega. The family’s also a bunch of socialites who come from old money, which causes Reader to get caught up in Bruce Wayne’s circle.

DCU x Fictional! Self-Aware! Reader

Again, self-indulgent

A bit of a Truman Show situation, except Reader is actually fictional.

Which sucks, considering the universe she’s in is a yandere WEBTOON (and she’s not the MC)

People in the DCU have this weird obsession with Reader despite her being a side character, with a bunch of edits and fanfics being made about her. Her design isn’t as eye-catching as the MC’s and her personality is pretty bland—

UNTIL about halfway through the WEBTOON, when Reader suddenly start being drawn looking out at the viewer. If people tweet out that she should avoid the MC and the MC’s love interests, Reader will be doing exactly that in the next chapter.

Doesn’t matter how close she was with these people before, she’s avoiding them like the plague now.

Things only get weirder when the story slowly starts the focus on Reader, with each panel slowly getting closer and closer to her until—

She’s just gone the next chapter.

For a long moment, you just stood there.

Staring.

Breathing.

Trying very hard not to think.

Every time your thoughts started to form, they spiraled— fast, sharp, and unforgiving— straight into you are not in your world anymore and you gave yourself Superman powers like an absolute idiot.

So, you didn’t think. You just breathed, slow and steady, like that might somehow anchor you in place.

“This is fine,” you said out loud, because apparently saying it made it more believable. “People wake up in alternate realities all the time. Totally normal. Happens every—“

Your reflection moved.

You froze mid-sentence, your body going rigid as your eyes slowly drifted toward the wardrobe mirror across the room. There you were— standing exactly where you should be with that ‘deer-in-headlights’ look— but something about it felt… off.

“… that’s not right…”

You took a cautious step closer, as if the mirror might betray you if you moved too quickly.

It didn’t, just like the floor didn’t crack when you moved. Still, better safe than sorry.

The mirror just stood there, reflecting you back with quiet, unwavering honesty.

Except… it wasn’t quite you.

You were taller. Not dramatically so, but enough that it threw everything off. Your eye level sat higher than it should be, your proportions just slightly stretched in a way that made you feel like you’d been shifted half an inch out of alignment.

Your shoulders were broader, too. Your posture naturally straighter, like your body had decided slouching was no longer something it tolerated.

Which was something you dreaded if you were to pull off the whole ‘Clark Kent’ persona thing—

You looked stronger.

Not bulky, or exaggerated— just built.

Like every part of you had been refined into something sturdier, something denser. Something that could take a hit and keep standing.

For the second time in an only a few minutes, your stomach dropped straight out of your ass.

“Oh my god, I got buff.”

Your hands came up immediately, patting at your arms, your sides, your waist, like you were checking to make sure everything was still attached properly.

Spoiler alert: you were not pulled apart and put back together again like some sort of Frankenstein experiment. Your nose shape was still the same, your lips still had the same pull as before, shit— even your hip dips remained!

Still, it was unnerving to see all these familiar features on an unfamiliar body.

Everything felt solid (R.I.P to the soft pudge on your stomach, you will be missed). Real. Warm beneath your touch.

“…Okay,” you said faintly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay, that’s— fine. That’s fine, I can work with this. I can—“

Something brushed against your brow.

You stilled.

And finally, your gaze rested on the one small thing that really drove the ‘oh-my-god-I’m-fucking-Superman’ idea home.

A single curl of hair, resting perfectly, deliberately, across your forehead.

You stared at it.

You pushed it back. It fell forward again.

You blinked, then pushed it back again, harder this time. It bounced right back into place like it had something to prove.

“No,” you said firmly, like this was the one thing you could not stand with. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I reject this. I did not sign up for branding.”

The curl, evidently, disagreed.

It stayed exactly where it was, like it paid rent.

After a stunted pause where you had to heavily resist the urge to march into the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors and snip this damn thing off—

You leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. “…Okay, but—“ you tilted your head slightly, studying yourself from a different angle. “—why does it kind of work?”

You straightened a little, almost unconsciously. Your shoulders squared, your posture shifted, and something about the way you held yourself changed in an instant. You plastered on a brilliantly bright smile, and— oh my god, are those dimples?!

“Hold on—“

You turned slightly, then the other way, taking yourself in from different angles. There was something undeniably different about your presence now.

Something that made even standing still feel intentional— like you occupied space in a way you never had before.

“…I mean,” you said slowly, “if I’m going to be stuck like this…”

Your gaze drifted downward as you shifted to see yourself from a side angle. A smug grin pulls at your lips once you see the buff increase also applied to your ass.

“… it could be worse.”

The moment lingered for just a second too long before your expression flattened entirely.

“Focus,” you told yourself sharply. “This is not the time to be hot and mysterious! This is the time to panic correctly.”

With that, you tore yourself away from the mirror (not without sending one last look at your behind— holy shit, even your back is ripped!) and started pacing the room. Every step was careful— you didn’t trust your own strength not to betray you if you got careless.

“Okay, so,” you muttered, ticking points off on your fingers. “New body. Super strength. Super senses. Probably the rest of the package too. That’s— great. Love that. Big fan.”

Your gaze swept the room— and then stopped.

There, sitting on a small desk near the wall, was a phone. Plugged into a charger. Completely normal. Completely out of place.

Your breath caught.

You rushed toward it, then forced yourself to slow down halfway there, visibly reining yourself in. “Careful,” you whispered under your breath. “Gentle. You are no longer allowed to run.”

A bit strict, yeah, but you can’t run (ha) the risk of accidentally slamming through the wall and giving the neighbors a fright.

You pick up the phone like it might explode.

It didn’t.

(Maybe you should stop being such a pussy and realize that not everything is going to crack under you— maybe. Hopefully.)

The screen lit up instantly. No lock screen. Not even a password.

“…Suspicious,” you muttered, eyeing the thing like Cecil-fucking-Stedman might pop out and ask threaten you to join his team. That obviously doesn’t happen so you allow yourself to relax— only slightly though, because that old man is more slick than a greased up eel—

Your thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. The display flickered to life, showing the time, the battery— and then the date.

You nearly gagged at the sudden information presented before you.

February 26th, 2021.

One month before the events of Invincible start to take place. One month before Mark Grayson gets his powers. One month before Nolan Grayson murders the Guardians of the Globe and breaks the trust of everyone around him.

You’re gonna be sick.

You lean closer, as if the proximity might somehow change what you’re seeing.

It didn’t.

The date remained exactly the same. One month before everything.

Your thoughts came too fast now, tumbling over each other.

Cities reduced to rubble.

Blood stained concrete.

That train—

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like you could dislodge the images.

“Nope! Nope, we’re not thinking about that.”

But you already were.

Because you already knew how bad it would get. You knew who was coming, what was coming— and now you were here, with powers that practically screamed Viltrumite-Level-Threat! Might as well write it across your forehead in bright red marker.

Worst of all, you have no idea how to use your fucking powers! You’ve been dropped in this absolute hellscape with no control, no training, and absolutely no clue on what you’re supposed to do.

Your breathing quickened.

“I can’t— I can’t do this,” you muttered, your voice unsteady. “I’m not a hero, I watched this from a couch. With snacks. I didn’t sign up to—“

A sharp ping cuts through your thoughts.

You suppress the urge to send your head through the nearest wall.

The air at your right side shimmered.

“Come the fuck on—“

Light fractured across empty space, assembling itself piece by piece until the now-familiar screen snapped into existence.

But this time—

It looked different.

Not just a floating message— a full interface.

Clean lines. Structured panels. Soft glowing borders that felt less like something divine and more like something ripped straight out of a video game HUD.

Text scrolled in smoothly, accompanied by a quiet chime.

[SYSTEM ONLINE]

USER SYNCHRONIZATION: Complete

POWER SET INTEGRATION: Stable

Welcome, PLAYER

You stared at the word.

“…Player?” you echoed faintly. “Oh, that’s not— no. I don’t like that. That implies mechanics. I don’t want mechanics.”

The interface did not care.

A new panel slid open to the side with a soft, satisfying click.

[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIALIZED]

The text beneath it appeared one line at a time.

Objective: Establish Hero Identity

Time Limit: 30 Days

Requirements:

Gain Public Trust

Gain Recognition from Active Heroes

Achieve Positive Standing with Global Defense Agency

Your pulse spiked.

“…Excuse me?!”

Another line appeared.

Failure Condition:

Classification as Unregistered Threat.

Silence filled the room.

Your mouth opened slightly.

Closed.

Opened again.

“Oh, so you’re not even pretending this is optional.”

A soft ding responded as another panel slid into place.

[DAILY QUEST: HEROIC ENGAGEMENT]

Description: A hero is defined by action. Passive observation will result in failure.

Objectives:

Intervene in 1 Civilian Incident (0/1)

Prevent Property Damage or Injury (0/1)

Maintain Controlled Use of Power (0/1)

Optional Bonus:

Positive Civilian Reaction Recorded (0/1)

Rewards:

+1 Reputation (Local)

+1 Control

System Guidance Unlocked

Failure Penalty:

Negative Reputation Modifier

Increased Surveillance Risk

You blinked at the screen.

“…You want me to go outside?”

[CONFIRMED]

“…And do hero work.”

[CONFIRMED]

You let out a short, breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “In the Invincible universe. The one where people get obliterated. That’s the one you picked.”

The interface remained perfectly still.

Unbothered.

Unmoved by your plight.

Your hand slices through the air, the screen only flickering briefly in response. Your lips curl up in a snarl as you continuously try to swipe the screen away, the words remaining unchanged.

Your other hand came up, swiping harder, more frantic. Again. Again. Again.

“Go away—!”

Your voice broke completely now, rising with panic as you tried to shove it aside, to push it out of your space, your life.

“Stop it— just— stop!”

Your hands cut uselessly through light.

The interface didn’t move.

Didn’t even react.

[QUEST TRACKING ACTIVE]

“STOP!”

The shout tore itself free from your throat, raw and desperate, echoing off of the walls.

Silence.

Your arms dropped.

The fight drained out of your body like someone had pulled a plug.

You stood there for a second longer, shaking, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges as tears spilled over before you could stop them.

“I’m not— I’m not supposed to be here…”

That was the worst part.

Not the powers.

Not the System.

Not even the month.

The quiet, suffocating realization that everything familiar was gone.

Your home.

Your life.

Your mom.

Even the person in the mirror didn’t feel like you anymore.

“I don’t even—,” your breath stuttered, shoulders starting to shake as you pressed a hand to your face, trying and failing to hold it together. “This isn’t my body…”

The words came out in a broken whisper.

“I don’t— this isn’t mine.”

Your knees gave out before you really registered it.

You sank to the floor hard, catching yourself just enough not to crack the tile beneath you, curling in on yourself like you could somehow make all of this smaller.

Manageable.

It didn’t work.

Tears slipped freely now, hot and relentless. Your breathing uneven as panic bled into every inhale you took.

Fear.

You were scared.

“I don’t want to do this,” you whimpered, the words barely audible even to your sensitive ears. “Why me?”

The question hung in the air.

Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, your body still trembling as everything finally set in all at once— the reality, the responsibility, the impossible expectation sitting just inches from your face in the form of that damned screen.

It didn’t care.

Of course it didn’t.

It just hovered there.

Patient.

Waiting.

[OBJECTIVE REMAINS ACTIVE]

“…Yeah,” you whispered hoarsely, tears still slipping down your face. You make no move to wipe them away, your hollow gaze fixed on the glowing screen. “Of course it does.”

You let your head fall forward to rest against your arm, eyes squeezing shut like that might block it all out.

It didn’t…

Nothing did.

After a while— seconds, minutes, you didn’t know— your breathing started to slow. Not steady, your throat still caught every so often.

Just… less jagged.

You didn’t get back up.

Didn’t argue again.

Didn’t try to swipe the screen away.

You just laid there on the floor, feeling small in a body that felt too strong for you, staring at nothing as the weight of everything settled in.

You didn’t bother denying it anymore— this was real, and no amount of screaming or crying was going to change that.

═══════

The System had the decency to let you wallow in self pity for another half hour. You stayed slumped on the floor, your tears having dried out a while ago. A petulant pout stuck itself to your face as your body trembled just enough to remind you that you were still alive.

You let yourself breathe, small, shaky breaths, trying to convince yourself that the world hadn’t completely collapsed— just your personal world, your body, your future.

A sharp ding cut through the quiet.

You raised your head, fully prepared to cuss the System out for interrupting your little pity party.

The HUD glimmered again, impossibly bright in the dim room.

[SIDE QUEST ASSIGNED]

Your stomach lurched.

Objective: Prepare for Your First Day at the Daily Planet

Description: You are to integrate into your designated occupation to establish a cover identity.

Requirements:

Don professional attire suitable for office duties.

Arrive at workplace before 9:00AM

Maintain composure during first interactions with colleagues

Rewards:

+Reputation (Local)

+Public Recognition

+ [DAILY PLANET] Fondness

Your jaw dropped.

The world snapped into sharp focus. Your pity party evaporated instantly, mind racing as adrenaline floods your veins.

“No, no, no, no, no!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet. The room seemed impossibly small all of a sudden, furniture threatening to block your path as you made a mad dash towards the wardrobe.

Your hands gripped the glass knobs of the doors and flung them open, eyes darting across hangers and drawers.

Clothes. You needed clothes. Work clothes.

Your fingers flew over shirts, jackets, skirts, slacks, your mind moving faster than your body as you tried to find something professional. Fuck, you worked as a god damn librarian in your past life where the only dress code was to be dressed! You had no idea what shirt went with what skirt, or if heels are the only acceptable footwear.

You needed to find something professional, something you could survive wearing. Something that wouldn’t scream alien monstrosity disguised as human.

You yanked out a crisp white button-up and froze, staring at it. “…I… can I wear this? Is this even— does this even fit this stupid body?!”

Of course it fit.

Your new body was built differently, and the shirt clung in all the wrong—and right— places, but there was no time to freak out over it. You shoved it on, fumbling with the buttons, muttering curses under your breath the whole time.

You grabbed a blazer next, a pair of slacks, shoes— black flats that looked fairly comfortable— and tried to assemble an outfit that wouldn’t stick out too much.

All the while, the System’s screen stayed stubbornly by your side. It displayed a clock that was slowly ticking down to 9:00AM.

One hand mussed up your hair as the other adjusted the collar of the shirt for the third time in thirty seconds.

You carefully played with the strands to hide the pronounced curl that still fucking refused to blend in with the rest of it—

“Oh!”

A pair of light red glasses stared up at you innocently, like they weren’t the one thing that pulled this whole thing off. You paid no mind to how perfectly they were placed or how they fit the curve of your face— you were just happy that this whole thing might not go up in flames yet.

The System made sure to have you grab a lanyard and a briefcase, both tucked neatly by the front door.

The door slammed shut behind you as you rushed out into the hallway, almost crushing some poor guy against the wall.

“Sorry,” you called out over your shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall. “In a rush!”

The man grumbled some curses after you but you couldn’t make them out properly over the racing of your own heart.

Christ on a stick, just how bad can this get?!

You knew you shouldn’t have started it again.

Watching Invincible for, what, the ninth time in a row was, objectively, a bad idea.

Sleep deprivation? Imminent. Emotional damage? Guaranteed. Obsession? Already too late.

But could you stop? Absolutely not!

You already knew this entire show like the back of your hand, and yet, there was this strange compulsion to watch it over and over and over again. You’re pretty sure your mom is close to calling it an addiction at this point. Which…. fair.

She’d have a heart attack if she saw you right now.

“Just one more episode,” you mumbled for the fourth time this night, wrapped in a blanket burrito, the glow of the TV flickering across your face. Somewhere, in the very back of your mind, you registered just how ridiculous this has gotten— how you could quote entire scenes, how you had very strong (and sometimes crass) opinions about the story’s politics like it was real-world discourse.

Maybe your mom was right—

By the time you finally conked out, the sun was already threatening the horizon, Mark’s monologue to Conquest serving as background noise to your slumbering thoughts.

═══════

When you opened your eyes again, everything was… wrong.

No ceiling fan, no tangled charging cable, and most concerningly, where the hell is all your merchandise?! Your posters, the various comic books scattered across your room, your limited edition Atom Eve figurine?!?!

Before you can spiral any further— seriously, you spent hundreds on all of your shit— you finally take notice of where you are.

Just white.

Endless, blinding, sterile white.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, nodding along like this is all completely normal. “Either I’m dreaming, dead, or I finally snapped.”

A soft ping answered you.

A translucent screen flickered to life in front of your face. Its color was a soft blue, almost like it was trying to seem nonthreatening. Wasn’t really working, if you’re being honest—

WELCOME, USER.

PLEASE SELECT YOUR ABILITY.

You stared at it.

Then squinted.

Then reached out and poked it.

Your finger passed through the surface like mist, but the screen rippled in response.

“Oh, this is definitely a dream,” you decided. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Love that for me.”

The screen remained.

Waiting.

Expectant.

Can… machines be expectant…?

ENTER DESIRED ABILITY:

You hesitated— for just a moment.

I mean… if this was a dream…

A grin tugged at your lips.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s make it count.”

Your fingers moved instinctively, like you’d typed it a thousand times before in debates, forums, comment sections—

Superman.

You didn’t elaborate, didn’t specify, didn’t think.

Why would you? This wasn’t real. Nothing that happened here meant anything out of this small moment. You’d wake up the next morning with a pounding headache, a few missed messages from your mom, and go on about your day. Nothing mattered—

The screen pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

You get the sudden feeling that you just fucked up.

Then—

INPUT ACCEPTED.

Your smile faltered.

“Wait—“

FINALIZING SELECTION.

“Hold on, I didn’t—“

POWER SET: SUPERMAN— CONFIRMED.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The world dropped out from under you.

═══════

You didn’t move at first.

Not because you couldn’t— but because you were afraid to.

The last thing you remember was that white room, the screen, the very questionable life choice of typing in “Superman” like you were picking a username instead of rewriting your entire existence. And now—

Now everything felt too sharp.

Your eyes were still closed, but light pressed insistently against your eyelids, brighter than it had any right to be. The air brushed against your skin in a way that felt… detailed. Individual. Like you could map every current, every shift in temperature without even trying.

And the noise.

God, the noise.

It wasn’t loud, exactly. Not overwhelming in volume, but it was layered. Complex. A thousand tiny sounds stacking on top of each other until your brain didn’t know what to do with them.

A clock ticking somewhere nearby.

Footsteps— no, multiple sets— moving above you.

Voices. Muffled through walls, but still clear. Too clear.

A car passing outside.

Another one, further away.

A siren in the distance.

Your breath hitched.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how steady it sounded to your own ears. “Okay, okay, okay…”

You forced yourself to open your eyes.

The ceiling came into focus instantly— no blur, no adjustment period. Just crisp, clean lines. White paint. A faint crack in the corner you could’ve sworn you counted the edges of without even trying.

“…That’s not normal,” you muttered.

You really need to quit talking to yourself.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed yourself upright.

Big mistake.

The moment you moved, your hand twitched instinctively against the surface beneath you— and the metal frame of the bed groaned.

You froze.

“…No.”

You looked down.

Your fingers were curled into the edge of the frame, the metal bent inward like soft clay. Like it hadn’t stood a chance.

You released it immediately, jerking your hand back like you’d been burned.

“NO.”

Your heart was racing, and you heard it. Not just felt it. Heard the rapid thud-thud-thud echoing in your chest like a drum.

Along with it came everything else.

Louder now.

Closer.

Someone talking in the hallway outside—“…told you, man, it’s not my shift—“

A phone vibrating in another room.

Water running through pipes somewhere below.

You slapped your hands over your ears.

Tried to ignore just how easily you could’ve smashed your own head like a god damn melon—

It didn’t help.

“Too much— too much, too much—“ you squeezed your eyes shut again, curling in on yourself. “Okay, okay— think. Think. This is— this is just sensory overload. Like— like Superman. First time. Focus, focus—“

Superman.

The word landed heavily. Your stomach dropped.

“…No way.”

Slowly, you lowered your hands.

The noise didn’t stop— but it… shifted. It wasn’t any quieter, but your brain started picking it apart, separating it into pieces you could almost manage.

Almost.

You swallowed hard and and swung your legs off the side of the bed, placing your feet carefully on the floor like you expected it to crack beneath you.

It didn’t.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s good. Floor is good. Love the floor.”

Your gaze lifted, drawn toward the window across the room.

Sunlight poured through it— too bright, too vivid. You could see dust particles floating in the air, each one catching the light like little stars. Beyond the glass, the world stretched out in impossible clarity.

Buildings.

Streets.

Cars.

People.

You walked slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled.

“Don’t break anything,” you murmured under your breath. “Rule number one: don’t accidentally punch through a wall.”

Step by step you made your way to the window.

Your hands planted themselves on the glass— rather unnervingly, you don’t leave behind any fingerprints.

The city sprawled beneath you— but it wasn’t your city.

It took a second for your brain to process why.

The layout was wrong. The buildings unfamiliar. The skyline is just off enough to trigger that uncanny, creeping realization.

A sharp, whistling sound catches your attention— demanding you to look up—

A blur streaks across the sky.

Your breath catches in your throat.

A figure— no, a man— is flying.

You lean closer to the glass, eyes widening as your vision— traitorously, helpfully— zooms in without your permission.

The man slows down midair, hovering for just long enough for you to recognize him.

The red and white suit, the dark hair with streaks of gray, and that insufferable mustache—

Omni-Man himself lingers long enough outside your window for you to catch a glimpse of his furrowed brow before he’s taking off once again, disappearing between buildings.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“No way,” you said again, weaker this time.

Your mind scrambled, piecing it together faster than you could stop it.

“Oh no.”

You stumbled away from the window like it had shot you, shaking your head rapidly.

Of all the worlds, of all the fictional universes you could’ve landed in.

It had to be this one!

The one where cities got leveled, where heroes lost, where people—

Your thoughts cut off abruptly.

Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, you gaze drifting up towards the window once again.

Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass— wide-eyed, pale, terrified.

“I picked Superman.”

You have to resist the urge to reach up and tug on your hair.

“… in the Invincible universe.”

Silence hung heavy in the room.

You let out a weak, hysterical laugh, dragging a hand down your face.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “This is going to go great.”

On your eleventh birthday, you weren’t woken up by the usual feeling of your mother peppering your face in kisses, or your father’s baritone voice singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

No… this time, it was quiet.

Well— not entirely. You could hear the TV downstairs, paired with the familiar laughter of your older brother and younger sister. You shrugged the hurt off and slipped out of bed. Your parents were most likely baking you a cake in your favorite flavor, that must be why they’re not up here!

That— that has to be the reason.

You ignored the unsettling feeling that had settled deep in your gut as you padded down the stairs.

Ignored how the pictures that dotted the hallway walls were now barren of your face.

Ignored the surprised looks on your family’s faces once they saw you.

That was your first experience with the curse. It had eventually gotten so bad that your family could no longer recognize you, no matter how many times you reintroduced yourself.

So, you moved.

Gotham definitely wasn’t your first choice, hell, it probably wouldn’t have even been on your list but desperate times call for desperate measures.

What other options were there for a freshly 18 year old with no money to their name and no family or friends to help out?

This was the best thing you could do for yourself!

You managed to snag a somewhat nice apartment— it even had a balcony that overlooked the Gotham City skyline! And you only had to deal with the landlord once a month when he collected rent. He, of course, was beyond confused each time you handed him the money with a warm smile, but he never questioned it.

Getting a job was no stroll in the park either, but you managed! A nice little coffee shop that was close to your apartment. Not ideal, but the owner was almost never around and your coworkers just always thought you were a new hire.

Annoying, but manageable.

No, the hardest part of your existence was the sheer loneliness.

How were people supposed to befriend a ghost? Any pictures that contained your face were blurred, your name typed out autocorrects to blanks, and recordings go silent when you speak.

So you keep to yourself, settle into the role of watcher with minimal pushback.

(When you were younger, you’d scream yourself hoarse with trying to get people to just remember. You’d act out, attack your siblings, paint murals all around your hometown in hopes of leaving something behind. It never worked.)

You end up latching onto other forgotten people— Jason Todd, for example.

Sure, there’s a memorial open to the public, but you’re the only one who consistently visits. You don’t know his favorite flower, so you bring a different bouquet every time. You wipe the grime off of his memorial plaque and lean against the wall his picture hangs from. You talk about your day, about the people you saw at the coffee shop, about how a man proposed to his girlfriend and she accepted. You hoped that they had a perfect marriage.

(You sobbed quietly in front of his portrait, those painted eyes staring through you.)

It’s unhealthy, you know that.

That stupid part of you that craves companionship, connection, has bound itself to the memory of Jason Todd. Maybe he wouldn’t forget you, maybe he would have remembered you— your birthday, your favorite flower, favorite color, anything—

But Jason Todd was dead and you wished you were as well.

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