After the world went to shit, there was nary a shred of good news to be found.

A combination of societal collapse, natural disasters and wide-spread hysteria and panic made for a miserable year. Once-congested cities became ghost towns overnight across the country as their populations fled by whatever means of transportation they could muster, seeking refuge out in the rural pockets of wilderness—far away from the looting, fighting and lawlessness of urban sprawl. For a long time after the initial chaos, it was every man fending for himself. Distrust and paranoia took root deep in those that survived. There was no way of being utterly certain who were genuine in their offers of help versus those that would sooner stab you in the back and loot your supplies.

The early days of the end were dark, grim. Miserable.

As the years went by, eventually the world began to heal and sanctuaries began to pop up across the country.

They were nothing more than small homes and simple buildings in the beginning with the most basic security, accommodating the survivors that were looking to settle back into some form of normalcy, albeit in its simplest form.

The Cloverfield sanctuary was one such commune, and it had its humble beginnings with only a handful of individuals sharing the burden of chores from the day-to-day to keep themselves clothed and fed. Over time the small huddle of buildings and fields grew, as more people came to join the sanctuary.

The end of the world had come and gone; it was time to rebuild.

As the sun ascended towards the highest point in the sky, Jenny saw herself fit to go down to the sanctuary’s kitchen. The last of her morning chores was to cook up lunch for everyone, which meant putting together a spread fit for twenty people—twenty-two technically, if you counted the newborns that had come into the world just last night, but Jenny had it on good conscience that the infants would prefer their mother’s milk over anything she could cook up in the kitchens.

The thought of Hector and Jane’s twins brought a smile to her face; if someone had told her five years ago that the world would be safe enough to start having children again, Jenny would have called them a liar.

She was happy to be proven wrong.

Jenny’s thoughts lingered on family, and children, as she continued on her walk towards the kitchens. Jenny had always liked children, and before everything went to shit, she had happily entertained the thought of becoming a mother someday.

This wasn’t a decision she could make on her own however, no matter how quickly she was succumbing to the baby fever.

It was nothing short of a miracle that despite everything that had happened in the last five years, Jenny had the good fortune to find love for herself. They both were steadily carving out a place for themselves in Cloverfield after surviving through the worst of the last five years, and she hoped that it was finally time for them to think about having a family together—what they had once thought would be impossible considering the state of the world back then.

Jenny’s dark hair clung to her temples, damp with sweat, by the time she made it down the hill. Greeted by a just-barely warm stove, it was fair to assume that the other people on kitchen duty had yet to arrive. Jenny wasted no time in gathering up ingredients from their pantry to start on a few loaves of bread, and a simple potage. She began on their lunch humming under her breath, letting the muscle memory guide her through the process.

Flour dusted her tanned arms white, and with each kneading push Jenny’s breasts swayed underneath her tanktop, the soft peaks of her nipples protruding from beneath the fabric. The commune did not have much of a fashionable streak, and instead favored hardy and durable fabrics that could bear with physical labor. With her tank top, Jenny sported a pair of well-worn denim jeans covered in old grass stains and mud that no amount of scrubbing by the creek could wash away.

Jenny used the back of her hand hand to sweep her hair out of her eyes as she kneaded the dough. She usually wore it loose, but for the task at hand, she had the foresight to gather it up into a ponytail. Jenny had her family’s Asian look: her skin a warm, creamy brown, perpetually sun-kissed; with high cheekbones, and dark eyes upturned at the corners. It wasn’t until she straightened up that Jenny realized she wasn’t alone in the kitchen anymore.

She hadn't even heard the door open, absorbed with the preparations for lunch.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of a familiar face, her heart warm in her chest. “What are you doing here? Lunch won't be ready for a while.”

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