Meet the Street

Meet the Street: Justice & Gemma

Everyone had a life before.

Justice

My name’s Justice.

I don’t love the name. It sounds like you’re supposed to be serious all the time, and I’ve never managed that. I prefer useful.

Before everything went wrong, I worked as a manager in a shipping company. Containers. Timetables. Things going missing and everyone panicking about it. My job was to keep systems moving when they were already under strain. Calm people down. Redirect. Solve problems before they stacked up and broke something important.

Outside of work, I played airsoft.

A lot.

People laughed about it. Grown adults running around in the woods with replica kit, talking tactics, taking it far too seriously. But airsoft isn’t just running and shooting. It’s movement. Cover. Communication. Knowing when to push and when to hold. Watching your surroundings. Trusting the people on either side of you.

Turns out I’d been training for the end of the world without realising it.

The night it started, we were halfway through a barbecue. TV on. Radio updates getting stranger by the minute. Everyone pretending it was just another news cycle. Then the bang hit the window and the street went quiet all at once.

That silence is dangerous. I know that now.

So I filled it. A joke. Something daft. Because panic spreads faster than anything if you don’t cut it off early. Same rule as work. Same rule as airsoft. Keep people moving. Keep them thinking.

After that, I did what I know how to do. Organised. Shifted things. Carried heavy stuff. Set up watches. Moved people into positions that made sense. I started seeing the street like a map. Choke points. Safe zones. Lines of sight.

I also fed people.

Biscuits, mostly. Custard creams. Bourbons. Whatever we had. You put a mug and something sweet in someone’s hand and they remember how to be human again. That’s not nothing.

Gemma says I take risks. She’s right. But they’re calculated ones. Years of airsoft taught me that charging in gets you taken out fast. Survival’s about teamwork, patience, and knowing when to laugh so people don’t crack.

Zombie warrior in training, apparently. Who knew.

If Queen’s Road survives, it won’t be because we were fearless. It’ll be because we learned how to move together.

Gemma

My name’s Gemma.

Justice is a menace.

I say that affectionately. He jokes when things are tense, eats biscuits like they’re a strategic resource, and has an infuriating habit of being right after doing something that looks reckless. He also knows exactly when to stop, which is why I haven’t punched him. Yet.

Before all this, I was a carer. Elderly people, mostly. Quiet work. Patient work. The kind where you learn to notice small changes before they turn into big problems. A missed meal. A new bruise. The way someone answers a question differently than they did yesterday.

Caring teaches you something important. People don’t always need fixing. Sometimes they just need someone steady nearby.

The night the world broke, I remember the pause after the bang more than the noise itself. Everyone waiting. Looking. Not wanting to be the one who spoke first. So I did. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just clearly.

After that, I stayed where I was needed. Checking on people. Making sure no one was forgotten. Accepting that decisions don’t stop once you make them — they follow you around afterwards, asking questions.

I carry a knife now. Not because I want to use it. Because pretending you don’t need one doesn’t make you safer. It just delays the truth.

Justice drives me mad. He disrupts my careful plans. He feeds people biscuits when I’m trying to be serious. But he also reminds the street how to laugh, how to eat together, how not to drown in the weight of it all.

I love him for that. Even when I could throttle him.

Queen’s Road holds because we do.

Everyone had a life before.
Welcome to Queen’s Road.