The Last Of Us, Neil Druckmann / ferdydurke, tumblr / rudolphsboyfriend, tumblr / beaft, tumblr / A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara / Julia Hoban / A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara / Laura Bailey and Sam Riegel, Critical Role Campaign 1: A Bard's Lament

"SINGIN' MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE, THOUGH," Sloane always used to say whenever her mother discouraged her from the stage. Life of a performer was a tough life. Harder when you were only famous in your local bars. But Sloane kept her passion alive and her passion kept her alive. Well, I'll be, the bar patrons used to say, you sing sweeter than a canary. And Sloane would smile and they'd tip her then take her home and she'd end up waking and feeling like she had lost something. She realized quickly though, that if she did not live by a code, people would tear apart pieces of her like scavengers and leave her with nothing but bones to pick. 

So she sang. And she cleaned the tables. And she did not go home with those who tipped her. She was seventeen when her mother Amelie died. It was no one's fault really, the car skidded and toppled over but Sloane still blamed herself. After all, Amelie was driving to see Sloane in her school's talent show. She didn't show up. Sloane cursed at her when she didn't see her in the audience. Then she cursed at herself in the hospital. The canary became sad then, and she sang of grief. The notes were heavy and desperate as if she were clinging to memories.

Memory is a strange thing. It exists outside of time. There are few moments in Sloane's life that she can never forget, however much time passes. In fact, those moments feel so disconnected from reality that she can recount them second by second. Horror and grief fill her. And so do nostalgia and bitter sadness. She feels as if she might drown in them at any moment.

Summer of 1993. She remembers it well. It was an orange kind of summer. There were little birds everywhere and Marlboro cigarette butts crushed beneath boots. Gnats sticking to the sweat on the skin and the stench of alcohol from the mahogany of the bar counter. Her memory remains unstained.

She remembers meeting them vividly too, the Miller boys. She was seventeen on the bar's stage singing her mother's favorite song in remembrance and holding back tears. They were younger than any other patrons. Fake IDs, she had guessed. One was older and thinner, the other younger but more built. They had been arguing while she sang, Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when I lost you.

She had seen them again, the day after. It was a Saturday. She was working the counter when they asked for drinks. She had looked at the younger one and had said, Ain't ya too young for a scotch, boy?

Aren't ya too young to be working the counter, Ma'am? he had retorted back.

I sing here, Sloane had huffed. This ain't my job but it pays double.

We'll just have one drink today, the older one had added. We're mourning.

Celebrating, Joel. Celebrating.

You might be. But I ain't happy.

Sloane had raised her eyebrows. Why? What happened?

This young boy here, Joel had rolled his eyes then, had the fine idea of joinin' the army.

Did you now? Sloane had chuckled in disbelief. You'd like to serve?

Very dearly, Ma'am.

Ma'am. Sloane's mouth had turned sour. Nobody had called her that before. She didn't like it a bit. Don't call me that. I'm your age.

Well then, what do I call ya? The younger one had smirked, a kinder gesture than most of his kind. A soft curl on the left side of his mouth.

My name's Sloane. Sloane Vuong.

Tommy Miller.

Tommy Miller. It was a whirlwind of a romance. Two months of happiness before he got deployed. Fingers in belt loops, kisses on foreheads. Sloane learning how to shoot a gun from Tommy and failing miserably. Tommy learning how to mix a drink from her and failing miserably. It was saccharine sweet and 60s melodies as they kissed in the back of the car. And then Sloane went and ruined it all. It was a mistake. A bad night at the bar and too much to drink. And she missed Tommy too much. Joel had had the decency to stop it before anything unspeakable happened.

They never spoke about it. Tommy returned. Tommy and Sloane broke up. Tommy and Sloane got together. Broke up again. Then got together again. They were going alright this time. Sloane felt that they both decided to stay because it felt comfortable. Because they were approaching their 30s and they needed stability and neither of them wanted to get to know someone new now. It was too much work.

This was family.

She was singing, the day the world ended. It was a Friday, 2003. Another memory she can recount second by second. The fare of the bar was slow but a crowd had started to pour in when Sloane's fingers strummed her guitar. Best bar singer this side of Texas, Tommy had called her. She kindly disagreed. But she did secretly pride herself on the fact that she could attract a crowd to any bar in Travis County when she visited. She had been singing an original song. It was half complete and needed some remodeling but it sounded like an apology. Now that she thinks about it, maybe the song had always been a letter to Emily. She didn't know that name then. But she had sung anyways. I'm sorry I just make it up as I go along. And I can feel myself becoming someone only you could want.

And Tommy had whistled from the crowd. And she had smiled. And they had had a few drinks. She felt the hands before she sensed someone behind her. She had pulled away and the man had moved closer, calling her names. Then Tommy had punched him. And the man had punched back. So Sloane had punched the man. Then someone had attacked the waitress, all crazed up and high. Tommy had tried to take him out. Then both Tommy and her were in lock-up. It gets a little blurry then, but Joel had bailed them out. A good scolding was interrupted when someone almost drove their car into Joel's. Sloane remembers the headlights almost blinding her. She still wakes up sometimes having been run over a car. But that isn't what happened. It was worse. So much worse.

Cordyceps. The structure of a fungus mirrors that of the human brain. An intricate web of connections. People share the same properties as fungi. Thoughts leap from brain to brain. They mutate. They evolve. We evolved from mycelium. Walk into a field of mycelium, they know you're there. Their spores reach for you when you pass by. They look for connection. Connection. The basic necessity for human survival. What if this need for connection was weaponized? 

Was it terrorists? Was it our mistake? Did we fail as a species? Are we worth the trouble, the cost, to save us? Connection said yes. Yes, we're worth it. Of course, we are worth saving. 

Adrenaline pumping through Sloane's veins had almost deafened her as they had rushed the truck back home to get Sarah. And then Mrs. Adler had attacked and Joel had struck her. In the backseat, Sloane had held Sarah close as Tommy drove them away from the madness. She had prayed. It was the last time she would pray. There was no escaping the madness. It spread so fast. In a matter of hours, they had gone from enjoying a drink to holding onto each other as the car flipped over, getting knocked by debris from a crashing flight.

The ringing in her ear had been pierced by Tommy shouting her name over and over again. She clung to it. Like she clung to it now, a lifeboat, a lantern, the last breath of air. Breathe in and then out again. Fire. It was everywhere, licking up the corners of almost all the buildings. They were split up but Tommy knew the way, and Sloane knew Tommy. They had to make it to the river. Please god, she had thought, for the last time, just let us make it to the river. She had stolen some poor fuckers gun to watch Tommy's six. He had been dead on the sidewalk, his throat torn open. He wouldn't have used it anyway. The next minutes are a blur. It was mostly just running, trying to stay ahead of those things attacking them. She couldn't understand then, what had happened. They cut across the thoroughfare and found a back alley that opened into fields. And she smiled when she saw them there, Joel and Sarah, then they were lit up under a beam of a flashlight. She followed it and saw the sleek curl of the sniper trained at them, and the soldier holding ready.

Joel's name left her lips a second too late. He fell and Sarah with him. Sloane doesn't remember Tommy pulling the trigger on the soldier, her attention was stuck on Sarah and the angry red wound that pierced her stomach. She rushed to her as did Joel. Sloane wants to omit this part of the story. Maybe not saying it might make it easier to forget, but that doesn't happen. The hole in her heart never lets her forget. Sarah wasn't her daughter but she might as well have been. She had been there almost all of the little girl's life. Was there when her mother left. Was there to talk to her about boys and nails and dresses. Taking her to all the museums she wanted to go to and rushed to the comic shop when the new issue of her favorite comic book dropped. It is a strange thing. Everyone tells you the fear you will have when you have a child, but they never quite know what to tell you when the fear becomes a reality.

Sloane is trying to hide the fact that she doesn't want to admit what happened that night by talking around inconsequential things. Sarah died. There. She's said it now. It hurts the same. Connection. Sloane remembers the feeling of Sarah's hair under her hand as she petted her head, lulling her to sleep. She remembers the light in her eyes, the killer smile. Her curious incessant questions, her know-it-all smirk. Her kindness. Her love. It was so big. She feels so big, such an unattainable thing now. As if there was no way she could have ever existed. Not someone like Sarah. As if she were the hero of some Greek tragedy. Tragedy. Sloane also remembers the blood on her hands, trying to stop the bleeding wound. Sarah's choking sounds and Joel's cries ring in her head over and over like some popular radio song. Maybe Sloane's remembering the wrong details. She should remember how she got here, and she does. But there's something about these moments that will never stop digging their claws in her back. Details. Details: her laugh is still a lost thing. There is nothing in this story that's not a dagger. There is nothing in this story that is not asking for forgiveness.

Forgiveness. It is such a strange emotion. Sloane had almost always been singularly angry towards the world. Ever since she was a child. But knowing the Millers had felt like forgiveness. But seeing their faces again there's only guilt. Guilt and sorrow and a song for the road.

Let's just wait it out. You know we can... be all poetic and just lose our minds together.

Ellie Williams, The Last Of Us

Maggie Q . . . . SLOANE VUONG

"Godammit Joel, you bastard. I'm trying to repent. I've made some terrible choices. I just want to give that Texas country singer her dreams back."

Mackenzie Foy . . . . EMILY WAYNE BERGMANN

"You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me."

Pedro Pascal . . . . JOEL MILLER

"I've had enough of your bullshit, Sloane. You've never cared about anyone but yourself."

Bella Ramsey . . . . ELLIE WILLIAMS

"I'm immune. Great. It didn't fucking matter to Sam. He still fucking died. Why are you still here?"

Gabriel Luna . . . . TOMMY MILLER

"I owe you a lot, Sloane. If not my life then at least my sanity. I wouldn't be . . . I couldn't have done this without you."

We can still be together, here. Until it's over.

Archivist, The Magnus Archives: Last Words

COPYRIGHTS / WARNINGS

All rights for The Last Of Us go to Neil Druckman and Naughty Dog. Except for all my original ideas, they are the owners.

Of course, warnings. Very trauma heavy so read at your own risk.

Hello, this is my way of expressing how much I love this game and this show. I remember watching the gamplay of TLOU and really wanting to play but not having a gaming system to do so and when the series came out, the perfection of the scenes. 

Anyway, here enjoy the fruit of my TLOU brainrot and my love for stories.