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thisaintascenereviews · 2 years

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Metallica - Kill ‘Em All Metallica’s debut album, 1983′s Kill ‘Em All, might be their most underrated album, at least as their 80s output is concerned. I love their 80s material, especially 1988′s And Justice For All (don’t worry, I’ll review it, too; I’m reviewing all of their 80s albums in order, starting with this one), but I’ve always thought that their debut is the most underrated out of the bunch. 1986′s Master Of Puppets and 1984′s Ride The Lightning get a lot of love, and for good reason -- they’re both great. I just feel like Kill ‘Em All doesn’t get the same amount of love, but a part of me understands why. Context matters when it comes to certain albums, especially within a band’s discography, and the context with Kill ‘Am All is very interesting. I don’t think I need to talk about it very much, because most fans of Metallica know all about it, but future Megadeth guitarist / frontman Dave Mustaine was part of Metallica in its inception. He helped form the band with James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Cliff Burton, only to be replaced mid-recording by Kirk Hammett, and there was a lot of messy drama that went along with his firing from the band, but a lot of the reason this album is the way it is, well, is because of Mustaine. He helped to write a few songs on this record, and because this was the first thrash album released in the US, it had a huge influence on the burgeoning thrash scene in the US (especially in California, where thrash metal reigned king). The reason I think this album is their most underrated is simply because it’s their debut, and it’s also their most “simplistic” album, at least in terms of the albums people like. I’m not talking about Load, Reload, Death Magnetic, St. Anger, and all that garbage from the 90s and early 00s, but I’m speaking merely within their 80s output (in other words, their peak, although 1991′s The Black Album is pretty solid, too, and that’s more or less a traditional heavy metal / hard-rock album). It’s not the most progressive, ambitious, or unique album, at least when you look at the thrash scene at large. At the time, it was very much of a unique album, since thrash hadn’t taken off here yet, and albums from Slayer,. Testament, Anthrax, and all of those bands wouldn’t release records until later that same year or within the next couple of years. Hell, just a year before this record came out, that’s when The Number Of The Beast by Iron Maiden was released, or Screaming For Vengeance by Judas Priest. That’s what metal was like, mainly comprised of the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal, or bands like Dio (who formed after Ronnie James Dio left Black Sabbath in the early 80s), Black Sabbath, Van Halen, or Motley Crue (hair metal was just starting to come into fruition) were ruling the metal / rock world. Anything “heavier” wasn’t thought of, but bands like Slayer and Metallica would prove that a heavier kind of metal could certainly exist. That’s why I love Kill ‘Em All, since it doesn’t want to be anything more than a kickass thrash / speed metal album. It doesn’t try to be anything else, and it doesn’t want to be anything else, either; songs like “Jump In The Fire,” “Seek & Destroy,” and “Hit The Lights” absolutely rule. They’re in your face, fast, loud, brutal, and best of all, fun. This is such a fun album, but that’s not to say that the rest of their 80s albums aren’t fun, either. They definitely are, but this one is unapologetically fun. Their other albums within their 80s output have more to say, as well as more that they’re trying to do, musically speaking. Ride The Lightning dips its toes in more progressive textures, longer song lengths, and more unorthodox song structures. Master Of Puppets really leans into that, but also making one of the best metal albums in the process. And Justice For All goes for broke and has a really weird sound (not just for it having no bass at all, but we’ll get to that one later), yet it still manages to be a kickass progressive-ish thrash record. Kill ‘Em All, however, is just loud and fast, nothing more and nothing less, but I love it for that. At 51 minutes, it’s a nice burst of thrash / speed metal that will definitely get you pumped, and with that said, if you haven’t heard this album yet, I’d say go for it. It’s my personal second favorite album from them, even if I can acknowledge it’s not their best album, and in fact, it’s easily the weakest of their 80s material, but I still gravitate to this one all the time. I always listen to this one, because it’s the most accessible and the most fun to listen to. When I think of thrash, this is the perfect album that comes to mind, even though Master Of Puppets and Ride The Lightning do, too, this is just unapologetically catchy, heavy, and fun for all the best reasons.

#metallica #kill 'em all #metal #thrash metal #heavy metal #master of puppets #ride the lightning #and justice for all #seek & destroy #metal militia #jump in the fire #van halen #motley crue #slayer #megadeth #james hetfield #dave mustaine #anthrax

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k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 · 4 years

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Metallica - Metal Militia

#Metallica #Kill 'Em All #Metal Militia #Release date: July 25th 1983 #Genre: Thrash Metal #Lyrical themes: Corruption Death Life Internal struggles Anger #True Metallica #USA

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metalsongoftheday · 2 years

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Monday, July 4: Metallica, “Jump in the Fire”

R.I.P. Cliff Burton (1962-1986)

“Jump in the Fire” was a true outlier in the Metallica discography, featuring a swagger and strut they would never again actualize (even when they were actively attempting to do so 10 years later) and effectively spotlighting the work of three guitarists: the snakiness of the primary riff was pure Dave Mustaine, while the power chord charge and crunch was prototypical James Hetfield and the Schenkerisms in the leads could’ve only come from Kirk Hammett. Kill ‘Em All was full of salutes to the glory of heavy metal, with the thrashiness largely coming from the low-budget production, and if “Motorbreath” and “Metal Militia” hewed closest to what thrash actually became while “Seek and Destroy” and “No Remorse” were effective Diamond Head pastiches, then this track was their UFO/MSG homage. With that in mind, it was easy to appreciate and enjoy “Jump in the Fire” as another representation and celebration of Metallica’s early influences.

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border-spam · 3 years

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Leech Lord - Beginnings and regrets

The single least Seifa thing Seifa has ever done, is probably also the most actual Seifa thing she's ever done, and that's extremely Seifa of her.

It was going against every lesson survival had beaten into her so far in her life, and helping Tyreen instead of walking away all those years ago.

(Pre CoV)

Pandora is a terrible place.

The whole Galaxy is, Pandora just has a reputation that's honest about it.

The Edens, Athenas, Promethea, Tantalus, every city on every settled planet is built on a foundation of bones, nowhere's really safe or actually wants the humans that settled uninvited and ruined the neighborhood. Can't really expect an ecosystem to welcome you with open arms when you immediately start destroying it for profit, and life ain't easy anywhere. Nowhere is good. Nowhere is nice.

You can't live for long without finding out how dangerous "caring" is.

Small family units survive, yeah, clans scrabble out a living on rock plains and migrant space-rigs, but if you hold out a hand to a stranger in need you need to know the risks, need to really understand how likely it is that there's a knife behind their back and a couple of crosshairs already trained on you.

You have to be harsh, you have to be cruel. Everyone who makes it on the border planets knows the unwritten rules.

Unless you've the backing of a town militia or a hell of a lot of weaponry, you can't afford to risk your own safety for others - and Sei has walked past more people who gasped out a desperate plea for help with one of the few breaths they had left then she could ever, ever let herself acknowledge. Fuck man, everyone has. It's one of the sad truths of living at the knifepoint everyone balances on out here at the fringe.

...It's no different really on the corporate ones, the blades waiting to land in your back are just better dressed there.

So, when Seifa went to walk away from that filthy kid in the junkyard with the busted SMG and found herself stopping as the girl pleaded for medicine, that was beyond out of character.

That was weird. That was impossible to justify, and she lost plenty of nights to trying to do so after - long ones, with tears and far too much whiskey.

It's hard to think back on, how unsettling and stomach turning that first month had been. The whole thing feels like a blur, some grease smeared memory that's mostly lost to the desperately anxious conflict that was going on in her head the entire time. She can remember specific points, but they're half images half feeling, nerves and worry all tangled together into something she hates dwelling on.

She remembers the heat mirages swirling above the desert sands as Elpis set on the horizon, driving the girl out across the salt flats as Ty panicked and urged Sei to go faster, all while she was trying to explain to herself WHY she hadn't slapped this stranger out of her buggy and throttled in the opposite direction. What had gotten into her?

She doesn't remember anything that the kid had said as she was lead by her into that dark shack, still battling with why she wasn't turning around, why she was gingerly picking through debris to reach what looked like a hastily set up camp surrounded by rusting sheet metal and pieces that used to be the hovel - but she remembers the stink of fever sweat that wrinkled her nose and that sad mound of sharp angles heaped at the center by a burnt out fire pit, and the shock of realising it was a man when Tyreen had dropped to her knees and begged through sobs for him to keep breathing.

That she had "Found someone to help."

Recalls fighting back the equal disgust she felt with herself for helping carry the nothing he weighed out of that shithole, and for the fact he was still alive in this state. Covered in filth, blood, chunks of.. something, and reeking of puke and god knows what else. How she chewed at her lip till she tasted copper as the buggy engine rattled in complaint under them, flooring it when she knew the shoddy weld job on the left axle wasn't going to take this strain and would need another couple of hundred dollars she didn't have in repairs by the time she got these pathetic kids back to her ship - and she remembers wincing hours later at her empty medical cabinet after gutting it to keep the boy alive.

Saline stock sucked dry, bactum wasted, and she was saving those health kits for when she might need them...

It was a bad decision. It was a stupid decision, and she'd spent that first night when the girl had cried herself to sleep and he'd finally stabilised, sitting on the cold floor of her quarters with her back pressed against the repurposed mag-lock door, cradling her pistol in her lap as she gnawed at her nails.

They were Sirens.

Sirens.

Moron. Stupid fucking twat, If Boss found out, he'd kill her before these two could get the chance.

Helping them had been idiot move enough, had gone against every fiber of who she'd built herself into, but she couldn't have known. Tyreen had been covered in rags, and Troy's markings too dim and caked in muck to even see before they'd gotten him cleaned up and stable.

She hadn't known. She didn't know, nothing about Sirens anyway, just that you didn't fuck with 'em in the first place. Sirens were bad news, Sirens were the bane of Pandora in the last few years and everyone knew the stories. They were monsters who could turn you inside out or roast you alive without needing to point a gun first, and now she had two in her home with no defenses bar a shitty Jacobs she knew damn well she could barely aim, and hopefully enough faux confidence to seem in control of the situation.

That first night had been the worst.

The twins slept fine, Troy out cold and Ty having cried herself unconscious shortly after his heart beat had become something possible to confuse with normal if you squinted at the scan display from the right angle, but Sei didn't close her eyes once.

Sat awake all night in the clunking, humming, rattling silence of her home as she thumbed the revolver's cylinder slowly, considering how each click marked another second she'd left them both alive instead of doing the right thing and emptying a round into each of their skulls. Pandora would take care of the bodies and she'd fix a serious mistake she was walking straight into... but the suns rose in the end, and the twins were none the wiser about how close the decision had actually been.

It didn't really get better. The fear did, that passed over the next couple of days, but not the worry, not the regret. Two more mouths to feed when she only had the funds for herself? The girl was going to have to learn how to work. The cash she'd put aside was for her junker colony, not strangers, and the boy still couldn't even stand... and how were things going to pan out even if they so far didn't seem to be quite as monstrous as she'd been told so many times in no name dive bars in settler towns?

What if she took Tyreen out on a barter run and her markings got noticed? That mad corporate fuckwad Sexy George or fuckin whatever had just been running some reward scheme for Sirens, right? Would the lowbrows she dealt with on a daily basis here comprehend that wasn't a thing anymore, or would Sei be shanked and Ty abducted within hours of setting foot in a trade dock?

And him...

What the fuck was she going to do with him.

He wouldn't talk, wouldn’t even look at her, just some massive, gangly, awkward, nervous child that ghosted around the edge of her vision and scurried out of the room like a panicked Skag pup if she made the mistake of looking directly at him.

Sick still, even if he was trying to stay in his crew cubby for less every day, the one she'd told him was his and still had not a word of thanks for yet. Shaky, delicate, and in no physical condition to be able to help around the ship yet alone have a chance of bringing in some extra dollars, even if he hadn't been missing such a huge chunk of himself. Pity wasn't going to keep him fed, and she was pissed with herself for feeling it for him in the first place.

She figured that's what had done it really... them being siblings.

That raw desperation in Tyreen's voice as she'd begged Seifa to help when she'd turned to walk away. That her brother was so sick and she didn't know what to do. Siblings gut punched her in ways she knew were a weakness out here. The twin thing? That had just cemented it really. Helping wasn't in Seifa's nature, but leaving kids to die wasn't in her bones.

Still, she'd make it work, she always did. They'd survive, and she'd come out of this in profit one way or another, that was as sure as an Athenian monk lowballing an offer.

She'd train the girl up and run some deals with her, cover the costs of helping them out with a tidy margin for herself - then she'd leave 'em with the tools to survive, a couple of hundred bucks to get started and never have to see them again.

She'd be fine. She was always fine.

That's very Seifa of her.

Asks are Open!

#borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #seifa #leech lord #my hcs #my writing #fanfiction

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psychicequalizer · 3 years

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favorite album you own?

rn it's kill em all (cannot stop listening to metal militia oops) but of all time...probably the original 1989 copy of no respect by vain that i ordered on ebay for two dollars

#those are like. SO RARE. the seller definitely did not know what they had omg #kk

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sagasofazeria · 3 years

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Old Wounds

Song of the Seven Suns, Part 5

Summary: The gang arrives in Koretion, and they find things look to be more personal than they’d seemed for a few members. They gather information on their foes and prepare to confront the slavers.

Taglist (just ask to be added/removed!): @hellishhin @talesfromaurea @thelaughingstag

content warnings: discussion of slavery, discussion of death, discussion of childhood trauma, swearing, violence, murder, death, blood

word count: ~ 4200

The clouds were gathering again that morning, a looming promise of storms to come. As the first light of dawn peeked through the gray sky, Faulkron was sitting next to the remains of the fire, staring into the ashes.

He was awake first, a benefit of being elvish and not having to sleep, even though he often preferred to. Along with his keen senses and the fact that he rarely had to drink water, since his body stored it in a special set of vein-like vessels (which he’d freaked out about finding at age 7), made him quite the efficient adventurer.

The fact that sometimes his eyes glowed in the dark, or his blood gave off a faint blue light, was sometimes less helpful.

He looked around the camp at his companions’ sleeping forms. As he scanned around, he remembered what Elikon had told him. “No one does this just for fun. We’ve all got our issues...”

Fuego, who, fiery and rambunctious as he was, seemed almost scared when they’d told him to be careful of his fire.

Jetra, who had approached Faulkron and 2 other random mercenaries out of the blue one day, then ‘found’ a job the very next.

Shakari, an arcane warrior from a desert across the continent. Why was she here, in this place? Why did she care?

Finally, he turned to Alejandro. They’d met, hit it off, had a wonderful night. Faulkron was scared to expect any more, but a guy could dream. Then suddenly, he decides to go with him on a week long journey for a bounty? Not to mention whatever was up with last night. Out of all of them, Alejandro had to be the most mysterious to Faulkron, and he could admit he liked it. Even now, as he was sleeping, Alejandro seemed tense, restless.

Faulkron had no idea what any of these people were here for, but he couldn’t help wanting to know.

He looked down at his sheathed blade, lying on the soft dirt next to him. Even he was here for a reason, wasn’t he? Who were these people to him? Allies? Stepping stones? He thought he was here for money, but there was no legacy to be had with heavy pockets and no glory. So was he here for glory? He thought so.

The truth, the truth Faulkron was too scared to acknowledge, was that he didn’t know why he was here.

He stared for a long while at that sword.

Eventually, the gray of the fading night turned to brilliant blue, as the morning’s light spread across the landscape.

As the rest of the group roused from sleep, Faulkron began to gather his things, sharpening his sword and donning his armor, still quiet in his thoughts.

That day, tensions were higher, and the morning more quiet. They were all wary of another attack, and thinking ahead to their arrival.

By midday, the clouds had grown thicker still, but the rain hadn’t come yet. The road had grown wider and looked better traveled, but it was oddly empty, considering how close they were to town.

Before long, Fuego called out from his scouting position on a tree branch a little ways ahead.

“Hey! We’re here!”

They all sped up their pace, following where Fuego was until they too could see the town of Koretion up ahead.

It was a smaller mining town, carved into the side of the large natural pit that served as its stone quarry. The hills rose up, looming and rocky, all around. The huts and houses were made of carved stone, and most of the inhabitants were busy at work, from what the group could see.

Something was off, however. Rows of sharpened wooden spikes were shoved in the ground near the borders of the forest where the terrain dipped downward into the rocky center of the quarry, and the road was blocked by a large wooden barricade.

As Faulkron peered through the gaps in the sloppily built barricade, he could see that behind it stood 4 terrified-looking people. Two dwarves and two humans, armed with crude spears and repurposed pickaxes.

“Hey! Stop there! Wh—“ the dwarf who had spoken up coughed loudly and suddenly, speckles of red blood dribbling into their curly black beard, as the group saw them clutch a bandaged wound on their side.

As the other two steadied the dwarf, the third guard stepped forward, brandishing her spear. “Who are you? Why’ve you come? You’re not with them, are you?”

The five companions shared a few looks as Faulkron raised his hands. “We come in peace. We heard about your problem, we’d like to help.”

“Ha! You think we haven’t heard that one before? I’d bet my best goat—“ the dwarf interjected again.

The other militia woman cut her off. “Indroma, enough. You’re still hurt, you should really see a healer. If they’re here to help they’re here to help. If they’re not... well... we’re fucked, I guess.”

Faulkron looked to the rest of the group and shrugged. He wasn’t sure what was going on but it wasn’t getting them anywhere.

Jetra walked up next to Faulkron, her lyre in hand. “I can help with your wound, Indroma, if you let us through.”

No voice responded.

“As a way to prove we’re not with the bandits?” Jetra continued.

There was a bit of hushed arguing, but the barricade’s door opened regardless.

As they made their way past, Jetra approached the dwarf. Indroma sat down against the wooden fortifications, breathing heavily, still clutching a deep and partially infected sword wound. Jetra kneeled next to her, slowly unwrapping the bloody bandages.

As she placed her hand against the wound, she slowly exhaled, closing her eyes and whispering soft words that lingered in the air, motes of magical energy dancing around the two for a brief moment before disappearing. As Jetra stood back, Indroma’s wound had a fading light around it, and was now just a faint scar.

Indroma stared at Jetra in shock. “I don’t know what to say... thank you.”

Jetra only smiled. “Least I could do. If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get this?”

“Killin’ some of those damn slavers. One of ‘em got me good, but I don’t die that easy. Thanks again for helping me fight another day.”

“My pleasure.”

Jetra stood back up and rejoined the group. Faulkron looked around at the rest of the guards. “Is that enough to prove we’re here to kill the bandits?”

The guards looked at each other for a moment, but they all nodded silently.

“Thank you.”

With that, the five began to traverse the rocky side of the quarry down into the town.

•••

As they walked down the path, Jetra could see the militia members eyeing them warily. She wouldn’t expect any less, but it would draw a lot of attention. She wouldn’t be surprised if these slavers had lookouts on the inside, and she was willing to bet they’d single out their group rather quickly.

“Okay guys, here’s the plan. Keep a low profile and find us a place to rest, I’ll go find my contact and get more information.”

The others nodded, pulling up what hoods they had. They all huddled together and tried to look inconspicuous, making their way through the town once again. As they walked away, Fuego gave a thumbs up and a grin before blending in and disappearing entirely. At least he’d be fine. She was more worried about the 6 foot elf and the shiny sapphire dragonborn.

Jetra looked on and sighed. It wasn’t doing much, but she supposed it would be fine for now. She just needed to meet up with the captain of the guard, her dad’s old friend, Horakes. Then they could go after those slavers and free this town.

She’d been here once before, as a kid. She remembered being fascinated with all the patterns within the rocks, and how she kept asking the rocks what their paintings were about. Her dad had just laughed. Jetra sighed. She missed that smile.

But now, Koretion was far drearier. The people shuffled about, hands worn and ribs showing from hard work and long weeks at the mercy of the bandits who haunted the hills.

Jetra shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for nostalgia. Clearing her head as the sky darkened, she continued on, and before long found a large stone structure near the top of the quarry’s side. On top, a single wooden ballista sat dormant next to stacks of metal bolts. As Jetra approached the building, she was stopped by 2 more militia members.

Before they spoke, she waved them aside. “Don’t bother, boys. I’m here to see Horakes about your slaver problem.”

The militia men looked at each other for a moment in confusion, but she was already past them into the building, pushing open the door.

Inside, she could see various weapons, mostly spears and modified mining tools, but a few more finely made daggers and shortswords were scattered amongst them. There were stairs that led up to the top of the building, where the ballista was, and various cots on which wounded and sleeping militia members and townsfolk lay. Beyond a doorway covered by a ragged curtain, she could see a large table and the boots of an armored warrior, who she could assume was Horakes.

After drawing her eyes away from the wounded people, she pushed aside the curtain into the next chamber. On the table was a map of the area, and leaning over it was a graying dwarf with weathered skin and broad shoulders.

Without looking up, he grunted and called out, “Who is it?”

Jetra only smiled and said, “A friend of a friend.”

Horakes’ brows raised in surprise, and he smiled, turning to her. “Ah, you’re here! It’s been a while, Jetra.”

“That it has, that it has,” she replied, kneeling to hug him.

She gave a quick squeeze, and then Horakes pulled away. “I got your message, your timing was extraordinary.”

“Well, I do my best. I brought some friends, by the way. I think we’re ready to do this.”

Horakes looked her over. “Are you sure? I mean, I hate to remind you, but... this is the woman that killed your father, from everything we know.”

“I understand that, Horakes. That’s the whole point. I’ve been waiting to take this bitch out for years. Like I said, I’m ready,” Jetra said, trying her best not to look terrified. Somehow, hearing Horakes, stern, confident, Horakes, ask if she was ready was scarier than just her suspicions.

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, kid. Now, what do you need to know?”

•••

Meanwhile, Faulkron and the others managed to find rooms without drawing too much suspicion. The Bedrock & Breakfast was a small inn & tavern they’d found was near the bottom of the quarry, just off the main road into the town.The barkeep was a smiling dark-skinned human woman, with brightly colored tattoos all the way up her left arm. The stump of her right arm was wrapped in a silvery cloth. When they came in, she greeted them without asking questions, and no one gave them any second glances in the quiet lantern light. Once they had all settled in, they met in the central room to wait for Jetra.

As they all sat, Alejandro’s jaw was tense, and he was drumming his fingers on the table, practically staring holes through the wood. He barely ate what food they had purchased, and didn’t speak except for the occasional phrase.

Fuego, in contrast, was practically buzzing in his seat, and ate everything Alejandro didn’t and then some.

Before the clear clashing of mood could become too awkward, Jetra entered the inn. She quickly made her way over to the table, grabbing her map out of her pack and a cup of wine from the barkeep and setting them on the table.

“Alright, I talked to the captain of the guard, here’s what he knew. First things first, the slavers are a remnant group of the—”

“—Mortal Chains,” Alejandro interrupted.

Everyone paused, and Faulkron raised a curious eyebrow, not recognizing the name. “Who are the Mortal Chains?”

“They’re... a terrible group of slavers and marauders. I’ve had experiences with them before.”

Jetra looked a bit taken aback, but she nodded. “Yeah... yeah. They’re ruthless. They were scattered about a decade ago, but remnants remain, and this is obviously one of them.”

Fuego leaned back, stroking his chin in thought. “Okay, how do we get rid of them?”

“Well, they figure they’re somewhere up in these hills. Based on the scouts who have actually come back, they’re set up somewhere in this area, but since we don’t know the exact location we’ll have to search it all. We can assume they’ve set up defenses, considering how well they’ve hidden themselves. The woman leading this group is cunning and devious, and these people aren’t your average brigands,” Jetra said, a clear venom to her voice as she noted the area on the map.

Shakari looked at the map a moment, then tilted her head, one scaly brow raised with an easy curiosity that was betrayed by the intensity of her eyes. “Jetra, you spoke like you know this woman.”

Jetra looked back at Shakari for what seemed like a moment too long, before looking back to the table, expression guarded. “I know of her. She’s dangerous.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Dymea. She has a reputation for her willingness to use any means necessary for her own ends, regardless of how dishonorable or underhanded it may be. And, seeing as her ends are usually murder and slavery, she’s a pretty nasty deal.”

Shakari nodded in understanding, turning back to the others. “I see. Should we head there, then?”

“No. We wait until morning,” Faulkron interjected. “If we go now we’ll be caught in the storm, and they’ll have the cover of darkness. They’ll want to attack during the night, that’s when they have the advantage. If we attack at the break of dawn, they’ll likely mostly be asleep, and we can surprise them,” Faulkron explained.

Alejandro’s brow furrowed. “And what if they attack between now and then? Why stall and put all of these people in danger?”

Faulkron locked eyes with him. “If we wait, we have the best chance of victory.”

“This is a badly defended frontier town that is entirely on the low ground. Are you sure we have the advantage?” Alejandro pressed, voice low.

“If it eases your mind, Alejandro, let’s just say they didn’t have us before. We shredded those bandits on the road. We can join the militia on watch if you want, but I’m certain we should wait. Bandits don’t really do sieges. Why would they? They’re milking all the resources they need from the town as it is.”

Alejandro sighed and shook his head. “You do not know these people like I do, Faulkron. They haven’t only been stealing objects, remember?”

Clenching his fist, he begrudgingly continued, “But, I will admit, we stand a far better chance together than apart, regardless of when the fighting starts. We wait until dawn, then.”

With that, Alejandro finished his drink, and stood up. “Now if you excuse me, I’m going to get some air and see how I can help the militia until night. I’ll be back by dusk.” Alejandro looked once around the tavern, then walked out.

As Faulkron sat back and grabbed his drink again, Fuego took his leave as well, pulling up his hood and ducking out into the storm-darkened streets.

Shakari followed not long after, stepping out of the inn with a nod.

When they had left, Jetra sat down next to Faulkron with her own drink. They sat in silence for a while, but eventually Jetra took a long drink and grimaced before turning to Faulkron.

“Are you sure about this plan? Alejandro is right, the Mortal Chains are dangerous. And he said he speaks from experience, gods only know what that entails.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Jetra finished her wine. “Very well. Take some time, have a drink. I’m going to go help out in what ways I can, maybe play some music to cheer up the townsfolk, and see to those that need healing.”

“Hey, that magic you did was pretty cool, by the way.”

“Well, magic is amazing. There’s lots of things you can do with a bit of imagination,” she winked, and walked out as well.

He didn’t realize until a little later than he probably should’ve that he’d suddenly sprouted a blue illusory beard.

•••

Fuego found it pretty easy to lay low among the crowds of miners and townsfolk. A benefit he hadn’t expected when he left Zul’Zagan for the mainland was how easy it would be to hide among all the big people.

He had seen earlier a figure watching them from the corner of the inn, and suspected nothing of it. Probably just some person who was real quiet and thought they were weird. Honestly, he would’ve agreed. They were all pretty weird. All these people were very quiet. Except the bard. Fuego loved her, she was great.

However, when Alejandro left, he noticed the suspicious person follow, and decided he should tail them, just in case they were a plant of some sort.

Now, as the rain began to drizzle down from the clouds and the afternoon sun was fully obscured by a curtain of storm, he was sneaking along the rocky walls of the quarry, following the figure as they followed Alejandro.

As he was sneaking along, he leaped across to another stone roof, accidentally sending some loose stones tumbling off. When they splashed into the mud, the stalker stopped walking suddenly, and Fuego froze.

The stalker turned towards the roof, but saw nothing, and continued on.

Flattened as much as he could against the roof, Fuego let out a breath. He kept his focus on the spell, remembering the unnatural fog that constantly surrounded his home, and his magic hid him seamlessly against the backdrop of the roof.

Now invisible, Fuego’s eye was trained on the stalker, and he followed them until they reached the area houses furthest from the mines. The muddy paths here were empty of life, and Fuego felt the onset of an uneasiness, one that had his skin tingling and his hair raising, even hidden as he was.

Before he could begin to back out, however, he realized that he couldn’t see Alejandro anymore, and it appeared neither could the stalker. Fuego started scanning the area, but he couldn’t see any sign of his friend from the roof. He began to wonder if he’d been ambushed, and drew his sword, which steamed and hissed as the rain fell onto the heated blade.

Down below, the stalker began to cautiously walk forward, drawing a pair of curving serrated daggers from within their cloak. Fuego felt a small rush of excitement that he had been right, but quickly refocused.

He watched as they walked forward, and he began to think that they looked far too much like an insect waiting to be crushed for this to be an ambush.

Or at least, for it to be an ambush for Alejandro.

As he began to realize what had happened, he saw the cloaked person suddenly get yanked into a small muddy alley between two stone huts and disappear from view.

Adrenaline kicking in, Fuego leaped over a nearby hut and looked into the alley, sword and magic at the ready. As he looked on, he could see Alejandro with one of his swords at the stalker’s throat.

“Hola, motherfucker. Surprised?” he growled, pressing the blade closer.

The stalker, a tanned elven man with a shaved head, only grinned.

“It seems I underestimated you,” the man hummed.

“It’ll be the last mistake you make.”

As Alejandro finished his sentence, he hissed with pain, as one of the elf’s blades sank into his side. His grip loosened just enough that the stalker was able to knock away the sword and start sprinting back down the alley.

He only got a few steps before Alejandro’s greaves slammed against his shins, and his legs were swept from under him. He went tumbling into the mud, limbs sprawled.

The elf grabbed at his daggers, clumsily swinging towards Alejandro, who parried them away before brandishing his swords and bringing them down towards the man. Even as the stalker tried to roll away, the blades slashed across his back and sent him falling into the mud once again. The mud was soaked through with blood, and the man cried out in pain.

Rolling onto his back, he kicked Alejandro firmly in the chest, knocking him off balance. Scrambling back to his feet, he held his daggers aloft again, breathing heavy.

“You can’t stop us. Our chains have already wound around Koretion. There’s nothing you can do.”

Alejandro laughed through a grimace of pain.“Oh really? I can kill your sorry ass.”

At that, he leaped forward with his swords.

Their blades clashed, and Alejandro spun behind him, holding his blade once more to the man’s throat. He grunted, holding the man still.

“Déjà vu?”

The elf chuckled. “Not for me, it seems. For you. I saw your brand. You-”

Before he could continue, Alejandro slashed his blade across the man’s throat, and he collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood. As Alejandro stood over him, bloodied and breathing hard, the bandit slowly stopped moving, face still contorted in a half smile.

Alejandro stared down at the corpse and spit on it. “You will not steal any more people away from their lives.”

Fuego let the fog fade from his mind and dropped from the roofs into the alleyway. “What was that?”

Alejandro quickly put his blades up again at the sudden noise, but lowered them seeing Fuego.

“Oh. It’s you. It was nothing, just... he was following me. One of the slavers, sneaky bastard,” he said, kicking the corpse over to reveal all the extra daggers and chains beneath the cloak.

“I mean, I wouldn’t call that nothing. A lot happened there.”

“Wait. How much did you see?”

“The whole thing. I was following the guy since the inn, thought he was acting weird.”

“Ah.”

“Did you know him or something?”

“Not personally, until now. Like I said, I have experience with this group.”

There was a bit of a pause. “Now, I don’t know about you, I’d like to get this treated, so let’s go?” Alejandro said, putting a hand over his wound.

“Right, yes, you’ve been stabbed, we should get you to a healer. Good thing we know one...” Fuego quickly agreed, leading the way out of the alley.

•••

Shakari was meditating beneath a large tree, on top of one of the larger hills that surrounded the town. They’d climbed their way up here in the rain, claws slipping and scraping on the wet stone and muddy hillside.

Now, they were meditating. Their breathing was slow, and the rainwater flowed across and between their scales, trails of water weaving like a tapestry across their body.

There they sat for a while, taking in the view and the clean air, letting the water wash away the sense of uneasiness they carried, the weight they felt, even if only for a moment. After a deep breath, they began to speak out into the storm.

“Brothers, though I am not with you, I am not far. May the dry skies give way to rain and bring you peace, life, and plenty, even if only for a day. I miss you all...” She let the sentence trail off, finishing her prayer in her mind. Her tribe was far away, but she still felt the weight of her exile with every breath.

A few more minutes of meditation, and then she came back down the hill, reflection over and her current task at the forefront of her mind.

•••

That evening, they all gathered at the tavern, Alejandro’s wound now just another scar among many, thanks to Jetra. There was another quiet toast to kicking ass, and then they left the central room to get some early sleep.

Faulkron didn’t need the early sleep like his companions, and so for what time he had to himself, he patrolled the streets, hood up as he walked among the shadows.

What Alejandro had said earlier had sat at the back of his mind, simmering just under the surface. He felt a responsibility now, weighing on his shoulders, and that hadn’t gotten any better when Alejandro was stabbed. He was sure he wasn’t responsible, but there was still a small seed of doubt and guilt that had started to sprout in his mind.

So he walked the streets, eyes flicking over every corner and shadow, unable to rest until he could be satisfied that he hadn’t made a grievous mistake.

The pattering of the rain was the only sound, and the light of the moons and stars was obscured by the heavy clouds. It was almost peaceful, in the stillness of the night, but the threat of storm and slavers haunted the darkness like an ever-present ghost.

Part 4 | Part 6

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awesomeshufflepodcast · 5 years

Audio

Metal Militia - Remastered" by Metallica https://spoti.fi/2WZwmh7

#Spotify #Metallica #Kill 'Em All (Remastered)#Metal Militia - Remastered

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minuteminx · 4 years

Text

Revolutionary

[NEW FIC ALERT!!]

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

[AO3 Link]

Chapter One: Paul Revere

“You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.” ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Qunicy Ruins, June 2288

When Preston was a kid, he’d sit with his dad on their tattered rug as the man picked lackadaisically at the strings of an ancient guitar. He’d wax all sorts of poetic about the past, the times before the war, before the bombs fell, before everything was rads and raiders and running from bands of ferals. It was that Great Commonwealth Myth of a pre-war paradise, of big ideals, and boundless opportunity. A myth that one would hear refuted if they listened closely enough to grumbles from ghouls who’d managed to keep their sanity over the two centuries since the end of the world.

The myth was a lie, for sure, one Preston had clung to for most of his life. But he couldn’t anymore, not as he stood staring at the massive pile of ashes that used to be his comrades and the settlers they attempted to protect. The bastards who murdered all of those people were direct descendents from the monsters who made weapons with enough power to wipe entire regions off the map. There was no paradise; it was just a prettier picture.

The Quincy settlement, if he could still call it that, looked a lot different since the last time he’d seen it, surrounded by junk fences and lined with barbed wire at the top. Buildings were tagged with Gunner graffiti, and the streets were quiet as the mass grave that the settlement had turned out to be. It really didn’t make much sense. Shouldn’t it have been some sort of bustling Gunner stronghold after Clint and his buddies went to all that trouble to claim it?

“I don’t like this,” Charlie remarked suddenly, her raspy voice a quick reminder that he wasn’t alone, hadn’t been alone for over eight months now. He turned to face her, eyes flicking around the ruins to the seven other Minutemen who’d come along. Millie was the only one who noticed him, and she gave him the least reassuring smile he’d ever seen.

“Neither do I,” he agreed as he returned his gaze to Charlie. “Not one bit.”

“It wasn’t like this when I got away,” Millie added, glancing around the square, “I know that there had been mention of disagreements between Clint and the other bosses, probably because he has the leadership ability of a bloatfly.”

Preston smirked. “Now, Millie, I think that’s giving him too much credit.”

She laughed and opened her mouth to reply to him, but an explosion rang out instead as a launched projectile crashed into one of the buildings just ahead of them. She eyed the area frantically before locking onto the rooftop of the church. “Shit. It’s Baker.”

“Baker?” He snapped his gaze up to the walkway, catching a glimpse of a figure clad in power armor and wielding a goddamned fat man.

“He’s one of the other bosses… and it looks like he found himself a new toy.”

Preston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, running through the list of possible strategies in his head. “We need to fall back,” he muttered under his breath decisively, then looked up to make the suggestion to Charlie, to the general, “We need to fall b--”

She’d already taken off toward the church, a pistol in either hand, without giving a single order to him or the others. He wanted to drop everything and chase after her, to stop her from running directly into danger, just once. But someone had to give some kind of instruction before Baker launched a nuke directly on top of them. He waved his hand over his head and back toward the gates, motioning for the others to head back out of the middle of town. “Fall back. Head up to the walkways if you can. We can’t win this from the ground.”

Millie remained where she stood as the others fled to safety. “I’ll get these guys into position,” she stated, then nodded in the direction Charlie had run, “You go fetch your general.”

“But--” Another mini nuke exploded, in the distance this time, and his stomach lurched.

“Go.” She flicked her wrist in a shooing motion. “You’re not gonna be any use back here worried about her out there trying to pistol whip Baker to death.”

He snorted out a laugh despite the gravity of the situation, the image of the rail thin red-head successfully tackling him down, power armor and all, and smacking the butt of her favorite 10mm into his nose. Honestly, he’d seen her get away with wilder things. He tipped his hat at his long time friend, gave his musket a quick crank, and ran off after his wildcard general.

He faced little resistance on his way to the church, only a couple of Gunner conscripts crossed his path, and he was able to take them out easily. It looked like a lot of their efforts were focused on Millie and the others at the gates and climbing up the walkways. It was for the best, but it didn’t make him worry any less for their safety.

When he finally reached the church, it was too quiet, especially for somewhere Charlie was supposed to be. There was no gunfire, no talking, nothing. Just silence. Preston scanned the area, heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. After everything Charlie had been through, all she’d survived, she couldn’t be dead now, not while doing a favor for him, not with all that unfinished business between them. She couldn’t.

Several moments passed, and there were still no signs of life in the area. He decided to head inside the church, figure out how to get up to the roof for a better view. Just as he moved toward the door, a loud clank of metal sounded behind him and he spun on his heels, weapon readied.

It was the traitor himself that he turned to face, Clint, in his hulking suit of stolen power armor, a militia hat perched disrespectfully atop his buzz cut head. He still wore sunglasses that were so reflective that Preston could see his own furious face in the lenses. Clint let out an arrogant chuckle, and stomped up closer.

“Well, well, well,” he mocked, “What do we have here? Paul Revere himself?”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to correct a man he intended to kill, but the words slipped out.

“I know who you are. Read all about you in Ol’ Ezra’s holotapes.” Clint laughed again. “And the Minutemen don’t exist anymore. I got rid of the last of ‘em, myself.

“You missed one,” Preston remarked, dryly.

“What? You? Ha!.” Clint shook his head. “And that merry band of farmers you marched in through the front gate with? Kind of a rookie move, there, son.”

“ Don’t call me son,” Preston spat, venom filling his mouth.

Before he could react, Clint’s armored fist slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying back against the rusty skeleton of an old car. Preston’s head crashed against the metal, and pain pulsed out from the point of impact throughout his whole head. His vision spun around him, creating a double of the man who towered over him. He felt sick to his stomach, and couldn’t quite figure out how to get back to his feet or where his weapon went. Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision.

“I hate mouthy punks,” Clint growled.

Preston attempted to speak, but couldn’t find words in the chaos of his head. He mumbled something even he couldn’t interpret.

“Oh man,” Clint exclaimed, smirk twisting on his face, “You’re really making this easy, Garvey. Can’t say you live up to Ezra’s praise. What in the goddamned wasteland made you think you could rebuild the Minutemen? You can’t even take a punch. Pathetic.”

As Clint spoke, Preston noticed a blur of movement behind the other man. He knew his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because it looked as if the air vibrated like it sometimes did in highly irradiated areas. Quincy wasn’t one of those places. The only other thing it could be was a--

Just as he thought the word stealth boy , the wobble in the air dissipated, and Charlie stood no more than ten feet behind Clint. She slowly raised a finger to her lips in a shushing motion, and readied her weapon to aim. Preston couldn’t keep the relief washing over his face, mouth twitching at the corners. She was alive, and not only that, she’d come to save him once again. Mama Murphy really did hit the nail on the head all those months ago.

“Why are you smiling,” Clint asked abruptly, lifting his laser rifle, locking it straight in the direction of Preston’s chest. “What’s so fucking funny, huh?”

“Nothing, man,” Preston managed, words slurring, “Nothing at all.”

At that moment, Charlie unleashed a terrifying barrage of shots into Clint’s armor, damaging the legs so severely that they locked in place, and Clint had to jump out. “What the--” he began, and turned around, to face his attacker. “You little bitch .”

He attempted to raise his weapon and aim at her, but before he could get there, she’d pulled her trigger. Preston couldn’t make out where she’d shot Clint, but the man dropped his gun and fell to his knees, before falling to his face. Charlie holstered her pistols, and stared down at the man she’d just killed, expression as flat as he’d ever seen it.

“I’m not a bitch,” she muttered, shaking her head before setting her gaze on Preston, worry knitting her brows as soon as their eyes met. She rushed over to where he sat, up against the car he’d been thrown into, and knelt down, cupping his face with a gloved hand on either side and turning his head to the left and then the right, clearly examining him for injury. She flipped a switch on her PipBoy, flashing a bright beam of light into each of his eyes. He squinted and shook his head, causing her to giggle, but he could hear the tears and sniffling between laughs.

“You’re okay,” she assured him, pressing an unexpected kiss to his forehead, “Looks like you might have a concussion, but you’re safe. I’m here.”

“You’re really scary sometimes, you know that,” he stated, words still stumbling out of his mouth clumsily.

She laughed nervously and glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, I just… I’d just watched Clint knock you into this car, and he was about to kill you and I just--.”

“No,” he corrected her, grin spreading across his face, “It’s kinda hot.”

She snorted and a tear rolled down her cheek, dripping off her chin. “Jesus, you hit your head harder than I thought.”

“It’s still the truth,” he admitted weakly, vision closing in entirely. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness entirely, was her voice calling his name.

“Preston?”

#fallout 4 #preston garvey #preston garvey x f!sole survivor #female sole survivor #fanfiction #my writing #long post

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echoes-of-the-clockwork · 5 years

Text

Deacon St. John || Phantom in the Night [5/5]

A/n: I present you with the conclusion of this mini series unless someone wants it to continue a little longer.

⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

Hope you all enjoy! Love you all!!! ••••••••••••••••••••

***HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD! PLEASE NOTIFY ME OF ANY ERRORS!!!***

***** Prompt: Deacon searches for you in a desperate attempt to mend the wounds that have been inflicted over the past weeks. Slowly but surely, the wounds in your heart are healed. *****

~3rd Person POV~

"A gas station, huh?" Deacon mumbled to himself as he examines the area Captain Kouri circled on his map. He walked over to his bike and mentally mapped out a route to the gas station. "You better still be there, (Y/n)."

Departing from Diamond Lake, Deacon drove up the windy path up to the highway and headed straight for the gas station located off Highway 97. He had heard about the numerous of hordes that wander around the area from a few people on Wizard Island and hoped (Y/n) hadn't decided to take it upon herself to wipe out every single one.

The drifter was quite amazed and mesmerized at how (Y/n) wasn't frightened whenever she saw a horde. In fact, she found it exhilarating and always found it to be a welcoming challenge. All she was terrified of was not having all the supplies she needed to execute her plan. It would even disappoint her if there was a horde she couldn't face due to the lack of materials.

Deacon was sure of two things: (Y/n) was definitely not Sarah and he was very glad she wasn't. She was full of energy and was a hurricane of surprises. In all honesty, he has never felt so alive unless he was with her.

Arriving at the gas station, the first thing Deacon noticed was (Y/n)'s bike. The motorcycle was torn to pieces as if someone or something ripped it apart. The metal parts were bent and pulverized. "What the hell did this?" He glanced around, noting the corpses of the squatters. From the bullet holes in their heads, and no other wounds on their bodies, he knew it was (Y/n)'s doing. "Clean kill. Every single one of 'em."

By the gas pumps, Deacon found the radio Colonel Garret had gifted her after her first assignment. He picked up the device to make sure it still worked before clipping it to his belt and checking the interior of the gas station. He vaulted through a shattered window and landed behind the counter. The garage was void of anything except for a few empty racks and there was no one in the small convenience store.

When Deacon was about to give up and search further down the road, he saw the storage closet was closed. He wasn't leaving until every possible spot (Y/n) could be hiding was checked.

Slowly, the man opened the metal door. The small room was dark and he clicked on his flashlight, scanning the darkness, he found a figure balled up on the floor in the corner. Seeing the familiar unsettling mask obscuring the person's face, Deacon rushed to their side.

Deacon fell to his knees beside her, swiftly tugging the mask off her face. Her (e/c) eyes were sealed and her skin was pale and clammy to the touch. Turning her body over, he noticed a thin slash in her shirt and a crimson stain on the side of it. "Sorry 'bout this, sweetheart, but I've gotta see what happened to you." He lifts her shirt and saw a gash trail from her back to the side of her hip.

Without hesitation, he whipped out a sterile bandage and wrapped it around the wound to prevent an infection. He grabbed his radio and contacted Captain Kouri, knowing he would pick up. "Captain, I found (Y/n), but she's in bad shape. I need someone to pick her up. There's no way I can get her back on my bike in her condition."

"Understood, corporal. I'll contact Doctor Jimenez and request immediate pickup."

Deacon thanked the captain and waited impatiently for help to arrive. The moment he placed his arms around (Y/n) and tried to hoist her body into his arms, a painful whimper escaped her lips and her eyes cracked open. "S-Shit..." She tried to push against Deacon, not recognizing him due to her blurry vision.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, (Y/n). It's Deacon," he replies, voice lower than usual and full of worry. "I'm gonna get you out of here. Just bear with me for a little bit."

By the time Deacon managed to gather (Y/n)'s body in his arms, a truck arrived outside. Two men exit and he recognizes the red bands around their arms. He carries the woman outside the gas station and to the truck, where the two men took her from him and placed her in the back seat of the white vehicle without disturbing her injury. They hopped back into the truck and headed to Wizard Island. Deacon followed behind the truck on his bike.

On Wizard Island, the two men delivered (Y/n) to Doctor Jimenez. He cleaned her wound, stitched it up, and gave her medication to fight off the pain. She sat silently on the cot, leaning forward and resting her arms on her thighs. She could feel the burning sensation from the sudden movement and immediately sat straight up to avoid ripping the stitches.

The door to the infirmary swung open and Deacon stepped inside the tent. In his hand was her mask. The drifter wandered over to the cot and sat beside her, handing the false face to her. She muttered an incoherent "thank you" before tearing her eyes from his and staring down at the ground.

"What happened out there?" Deacon inquired.

"It was just another normal assignment until Breakers came out of nowhere. The gunfire must've drawn them. One of them smashed my bike into smithereens while the others chased after me. Another batted me through an already broken window and I ended up getting a large shard snagged in my side. Crawled into the storage room, slammed the door shut, and passed out once I pulled the glass from my side after I realized my radio was missing." (Y/n) stated down at her hands, noticing the blood she had yet to wipe off. "How long was I out there?"

"Three days. What'd the doc say?" Deacon wonders.

"That he'd be reporting to the colonel and telling him I'm out of commission until I've made a full recovery. I should be back to my normal routine in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah? And what's your "normal" routine?" Deacon sneered. "I bet it also includes ignoring me."

"Deacon," (Y/n) sighs, covering her face with her hands before dropping them to speak. "You found Sarah. Where is there room for another woman in your life? A friend, maybe? But that won't be enough for me."

Deacon met her (e/c) gaze. "She found someone else."

(Y/n) was confused for a split second before breaking eye contact once she assembled the pieces. "Oh, god, Deek. When did you...?"

"Few days after we arrived. Some guy named Devin," Deacon scoffs.

"Wow, sounds like a douchy name," the woman snickered, earning a chuckle from the drifter. She placed her hands on her knees, drumming her fingers against her black jeans. "And now I'm the one who feels like an asshole..."

"For avoiding me?"

"That, and for not even giving you a slither of opportunity to talk to me. Guess it took you to save my ass to realize how moronic I've been acting these past couple of months." (Y/n) inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness just yet, but I'm hoping you'll forgive me for my behavior soon."

Deacon placed his hand over hers, flipping the appendage over and entwining his fingers with her. "Yeah, well, let's just say it's difficult to stay mad at you."

(Y/n) smiled and rested her head against his shoulder. "Glad to know."

<————————————<<<<<<<<<<

Two weeks had flown by quickly and (Y/n) was completely healed. Deacon had been assigned to watch over the woman by Colonel Garret, who was influenced by Captain Kouri in the final decision. Relationships were forbidden, but that didn't stop the couple from displaying their affection for one another through small actions when no one was around.

(Y/n) had been assigned to take down a marauder camp located southeast of Wizard Island while Deacon wound up being Weaver's errand boy. The chemist has been working energetically on a napalm molotov that would create a much larger radius of damage than three normal molotov cocktails.

Deacon currently was delivering the last ingredient Weaver needed for his creation—polystyrene. Simply put, he brought back an entire box of foam cups. The chemist was hustling around his lab after getting his hands on the final ingredient for his invention. The man in the lab coat grinned as he held up the first of many napalm molotovs. "You ready to test this bad boy out, corporal?"

"I know someone who's gonna enjoy this," Deacon replied and contacted (Y/n) over the radio. Remembering who he was with, he made sure to not use her real name. "Corporal St. John to Phantom. You out there?"

"This is Phantom. What is it, corporal?" Her soft tone asked curiously.

"If you're not busy at the moment, come to Lieutenant Weaver's lab."

"I'll be there shortly. Phantom out."

Weaver was skeptical as to why Deacon would think (Y/n) would enjoy his invention. "You really think an assassin is gonna enjoy a napalm molotov? This shit is pretty loud and alarming."

"She's not really a—look, I've known her for a while. One of the things she did before joining the militia is taking down hordes all by herself. You can bet she's gonna enjoy this."

The chemist smirked, placing the explosive on the table beside him. "Let me guess—girlfriend or wife? Which one?"

"Neither," the drifter denies snappily, hoping the chemist wouldn't detect his relationship with (Y/n) and avoid being torn apart from one another. "She's a good friend I've been traveling with for some time now."

Weaver didn't believe it for a second, but he decided to let it slide. "Mhmm, a "good friend". I'll buy that for now." The moment he turned around, he came face to face with a horrifying mask. "Holy shit!"

"Sorry," (Y/n) huffed with laughter, pulling down her black hood and taking off the mask. "Forgot to take it off."

"Jesus..." Weaver puffed out, placing a hand over his racing heart. "Gave me a heart attack. When the hell did you get here? I didn't even hear the door open."

"I was on the island when the corporal called. It only took me a couple of minutes to get here," she replied.

"Don't do that sneaky assassin shit on me," the chemist sighed. "Especially with that creepyass mask."

"Y'know, I'm not really an assassin. In no way, shape, or form have I had such elite training for a risky position. It's just what the colonel came up with."

"You're doing all his dirty work," Deacon commented.

"Very true," Weaver agreed. "Never been particularly a big fan of the colonel's, but he gives me access to the shit I need."

"Anyway," (Y/n) started as she glanced at Deacon, wanting to change the subject. "Why'd you call me here?"

"This." The drifter picked up the napalm molotov and showed it to her. "We're testing it out."

(Y/n) took the jug from him and examined it closely. Her eyes narrowed when she got a whiff of a familiar scent. "Kerosene. Is this... a molotov?"

"A napalm molotov to be more exact," the lieutenant responded. "It has a larger radius and burns longer than a normal molotov. You two are gonna test it on a horde."

A glint of excitement glimmered in (Y/n)'s eyes. Both men noticed but Deacon was the only one smirking. Weaver was confused and eyes the drifter, whose only response is, "Told you so."

<—————————————<<<<<<<<<<<<

Deacon and (Y/n) were accompanied by Captain Kouri to the small town of Chemult. He joined the couple to see how well Weaver's invention truly worked under Colonel Garret's orders.

On a plateau overlooking the small town, they spotted the horde weaving through the crashed vehicles and towards the derailed train. The only light they had as guidance were the dim streetlights and their flashlights.

"They'll be here for a while. This is their feeding ground," (Y/n) informed the men as she handed Deacon his binoculars. She wandered over to the crate of napalm molotovs strapped on the back of her new bike, courtesy of Captain Kouri, and grabbed all she could carry. "I'll be back."

"You know what you're doing?" Kouri questioned.

"She's done this before," Deacon replies. "A lot."

"I've got all that I need, captain. That, and much more," she smirked. "I'm looking forward to seeing what Weaver's invention can do."

Deacon crosses his arms, eyes trained on (Y/n)'s back as she left and headed into Chemult. Captain Kouri was aware of their relationship and wondered if the drifter was worried. "You're not going to try and stop her?"

"Even if I did, she wouldn't listen to me. Learned that a while ago. She's taken on bigger hordes by herself."

"Never expected to meet someone who took down hordes for amusement," Kouri said.

"Yeah," Deacon chuckled. "Neither did I."

Suddenly, a large flame rose into the sky as loud shrieks echoed throughout the small town. Deacon grabbed his binoculars and watched a third of the horde burn. The Swarmers caught in the explosion cried out before collapsing to the ground.

Captain Kouri was amazed at the sight. "Lieutenant Weaver will be more than happy to know his explosive works. Now all we have to do is wait for the rest of the horde to be wiped out."

Another throng of explosions filled the air as the horde scurried around Chemult after (Y/n). She led them directly into the traps she set and only a few remained as they chased her down the street. She grabbed her handgun and killed the last remaining Swarmers on her heels.

All was silent. The horde was wiped out and there were no Freaks in the area. (Y/n) sighed in relief as she laid down on her back. The hard asphalt wasn't the most comfortable, but she didn't care. Staring up at the stars, she felt at peace for the first time in years.

Someone sat beside the woman and she knew exactly who it was because there was only one possibility. Sitting up, she glanced at Deacon with a smirk. "So, how was the show?"

"Still can't believe you find it entertaining to take on hordes," he stated.

"Someone's gotta do it," (Y/n) retorts. With a grin, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him down to the ground. She quickly straddled his hips before he could get up and placed both hands on his chest, leaning down until their faces were only a few inches apart. "There's no knife this time, I promise."

Deacon's hands gravitated towards her hips with a playful grin. "As much as I'm enjoying this position, this ain't exactly the most romantic place."

"What?" (Y/n) lifted her head, gazing around the decaying town. "On the road smack-dab in the middle of the apocalypse isn't doing it for you where a Freak could spot us any second? What a shame. I like to live on the edge."

"Yeah, I know you do. Just don't drag me along for the ride."

The woman sighed defeatedly and climbed off Deacon. "You're no fun, Deek." She stood up and crossed her arms, lips pursed in a childish manner.

Deacon got to his feet and adjusted his militia hat. "Just tryna keep our asses from getting eaten alive."

(Y/n) unfolded her arms, resting a hand on her hip. "Yeah. Wouldn't want to find you a little over here, there, or everywhere. It's not fun picking up the pieces, especially body parts."

"You've—never mind. Not gonna even ask."

"We better not keep Captain Kouri waiting much longer, but before we go..." (Y/n) reached out, grabbing the collar of Deacon's shirt and hauling him towards her. The drifter didn't have time to even blink before he felt her soft lips against his. It was a sweet and innocent kiss, but they both had desperately wanted to go further. Morosely, they couldn't do such a deed just yet.

Once the kiss came to an end, (Y/n) released Deacon and smiled softly at him. "I love you, Deacon. I hope one of these days, it'll be just us again."

Deacon wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his side, placing a kiss on her forehead. "I'll make sure we get the hell outta this place together."

#days gone #days gone x reader #deacon st john x reader #deacon x reader #female reader

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