It didn’t happen the way anyone thought it would.

At first, it was just another outbreak. A controlled sickness. They were supposed to fix it. Before the government even knew what was happening, it spread. The dead were walking. Most people died within the first few weeks or so. They began to run out of food, run out of supplies. After that, only the fittest survived. People like us lived on the edge; nomads, constantly moving. We raided houses and stores for gear and weapons. The meager remains of the military tried to help.

Cities were closed off. Some stayed, some left. The government tried to piece itself back together, but law was dead. The infection ravaged through the city until nothing but the walkers remained. Us vagabonds didn’t know this till we came back. And when we did, it was too late to save anyone. The cities were filled with friends, family members. We mourned.

Nothing was for certain. The tragedy of it split us up, broke us down. And when we had lost all hope, the Titans were born.