Work Text:
She drags herself out of the mud in the ruins of what once was called Miramar. The Wellington isthmus is burning, but it’s always been burning.
The long walk home, rubbing dirt out of her eyes. The endless, echoing footsteps of the bots. The crushed cars in the tunnel. The memory of what was.
He’d sworn she was dead; lost to the waves of sea and time like the rest of them. Their embrace is long, passionate, deep. Nearly forbidden, in times like these. She falls on top of him on their battered couch, and loses her clothes to his hands.
No-one can get pregnant anymore, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try.