The bride from the ashes (Catnap X Reader)

chapter 1

I stood like an exhibit in a museum of the absurd, under the sun, which warmed as effectively as a microwave with a broken door. I was waiting for these ancient shamans, who look like pensioners at a carnival, to finally finish their dancing around me. A wedding outfit? It wasn't a dress, but rather a skein of rags that they pulled out of the very last corner of the bunker and called the buzzword “vintage.” A cross between post-apocalypse fashion and a consolation prize for participating in the Survivor of the Year contest. And the patterns on my skin–it was like I was a canvas for a failed tattoo student.

–Elisandra, freeze," Arthur ordered, stabbing me with a rusty needle, as if this was his way of vaccinating against common sense. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that the only thing I would get from this was tetanus resistance. I'm going to get out of this damn bunker soon. No, the place is sacred, of course, but these old people have not realized for twenty years that the ideal woman is a myth, as well as their chances of retirement. And this obsession with the letter "A"…

The names of all shamans began with ”A". Strictly.

"There will be several applicants," the supreme shaman muttered, scratching his beard as if looking for lost youth there. He walked around me like a ghost in his white rags, which were as white as his chances of success. And my dress... well, at least the color is normal, not like his – his outfit was the color of boredom and despair.

– How much was it last time?  I asked, trying to stay awake from boredom. A few men are more than enough for me. Knowing nothing about them, only by their physiognomy, choose a husband for yourself. Great, huh? As a choice between plague and cholera.

– At least thirty, – said Arthur, and pricked me again. The most boring shaman of all. He never forgave me for painting his beard blue. So what, it was a joke. I was wondering if it's true that the paint doesn't wash off. Really! And now he looks like a Smurf in a midlife crisis.

– Elisandra! – the supreme instructed me. – Modesty and obedience are what a good wife should have. And don't you dare disgrace the name of the great goddess of the Apocalypse.

It's like the goddess has no other business but to keep an eye on my wedding ceremonies. If she saves me from these poor devils who will look at me like the last piece of canned food, I will be grateful to her for the rest of my days. Or until the end of the day, considering how fast things are changing here. After all, in this world where radioactive fallout is just a seasoning for breakfast, who knows what will happen tomorrow?

The air around them was heavy and full of smells: smoke, sweat, metal. It is the smell of fear and hope, the smell of life and death, the smell of new and old. It's the smell of the post-apocalypse. I stood there like the last heroine of a horror movie who doesn't know that the exit is always there, waiting for these old bearded senile people who look like retired wizards with amnesia to finally finish all the preparations.

– The dress is ready, – said Arthur, and I thought: “Finally, freedom from this fashionable nightmare!” Arnold and Alfred, his two assistants, crawled away, leaving me with these terrible drawings on my skin, which looked more like an escape route from the labyrinth of the minotaur.

In these wastelands, where every day is like the last episode of a bad reality show, I was decorated with tattoos of the vows and promises of the goddess of the Apocalypse, who chose me as special. She apparently decided that one of her “gifts” was enough for me to turn survival into an art. What will I get after I get married?

The ability to see through radiation? It would be great if I could see my hubby hiding in another infected area. Command mutants? Well, if they can cook and clean, I wouldn't mind. Control of electromagnetic fields? I've always wanted to run an old TV. Cleansing water and food from toxins? Useful. Fire control? Great, suitable for parties with fried marshmallows... if there were still marshmallows. And friends. And parties. Accelerated wound healing? This is exactly what you need after you stumble over another broken apocalyptic skateboard. Protecting the mind from psychic attacks? Well, it's always useful when your mother-in-law is a telepath.

So yes, thanks to these “gifts”, life in the wastelands will become a little less terrible. That's what the contenders for my heart are counting on…

"It's time," the old man said solemnly, taking my hand, as if he were a pilot and I was the first passenger on his ship into the abyss. Oh, great goddess of the Apocalypse, save me from this circus, or at least give me some popcorn to make it more fun to watch.

The dress hid my “virtues” as effectively as a camouflage net hides a tank on parade. And the hair... well, at least something remained intact, except for a couple of radioactive flowers in a wreath.

"Pay attention to Lord Antoine from the lands of Antalya," the old man whispered, as if he was presenting me with an exotic dish in a restaurant at the end of the world. – Antoine, from the surviving wealthy Andromeda clan, and very handsome. You won't know any trouble with him.

Yeah. Or pleasure. But who am I to argue with tradition?

Two “A's" are the ideal husband according to the old man's version. Don't roll your eyes, don't roll your eyes..." I repeated to myself like a mantra.

–Okay, I'll pay attention," I replied, trying not to show that I wanted to run away from here like from the plague. - thanks. For all those years of hell that you call parenting.

These bald old men in white rags with red eyes were my foster parents, teachers and my only friends. But it's time to fly away from this nest. My husband is waiting for me, a new bunker, a dull life of an obedient and diligent wife, and their new “daughter of the goddess of the Apocalypse”. They are born every twenty years. And each time with a new gift. I'll find out what kind I have when I get married. If I survive, of course. And if not, then at least I will become the main character in the stories about the strangest brides.

Putting a wreath of radioactive flowers on my head, the old man took my hand again and led me into the ritual hall. Well, let this post-apocalyptic wedding begin. At least if things don't go according to plan, I always have a plan B: pretend I'm a zombie and make a real armageddon.