Whaddup, I'm Meat. I post Call of Duty fanfiction. Where'd the callsign come from? I asked my brother what he thought I'd be good for in the post-apocalypse, and he replied, "Meat."
I also post non-CoD, military-centric practice works, research sources, and the occasional CoD reblog.
callsignmeat on Archive of Our Own | callsignmeat on Ko-Fi | callsign-meat on bsky
Publication Schedule
09:30 ET every Sat, Sun
7 June - The 141 and Sleep
09:30 ET every Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri
Jun 1-Jun 9: His Heaven His Hell
Jun 10-Jul 6: Muscle Memory
Constructive criticism is always welcome. Requests are always welcome. Fanfic comms are not accepted (they're illegal).
List of Works:
Series
Finished
Dude, Seriously? (Comedy: Soap really likes mean women. 20 parts.)
Is This Love? (Comedy: Soap and Weisz are two idiots in love. 26 parts.)
In-Progress
The Trouble with Tems (Fluff: The 141 find a cat.)
Ritual (18+ Angst: Soap would rather bathe with a toaster than be seen as a civilian. Unfortunately, toasters are waterproof. 11 chapters published.)
Yoga Instructor AU Masterlist (18+ OC x canon fluffy smut: Based on this post by l3ibnest. 4 fics.)
Caught (18+ OC x canon smut: Soap catches his teammate masturbating at work. And she catches him making audio porn as a side hustle. Four chapters plus bonus.)
His Heaven was Hell (Angst: Heaven is supposed to be everything he ever wanted. ...so why isn't it?)
One-Shots
I Hate You, No Really (Mild angst: Reader gives a eulogy at Soap's funeral.)
Death In His Infinite Wisdom (Mild angst: "Rarely does death do you the favor of allowing you to say goodbye.")
Bullshit Bulldozer (Angst: Updated version of Death In His Infinite Wisdom.)
Leave for Simon (Mild angst: Simon's comes home after a mission. Based on this TikTok.)
How to Be A Pretty Boy (Fluff: Soap takes the 141 through his skincare routine.)
Would You...? (Angst: Soap and FMC confront their feelings for one another.)
Adjust Your Grip (Angst: Gaz asks Price for comfort. Price can't provide it.)
Blanched Palms, White Knuckles, The Blood Rushing Back (Angst: Twenty-seven was Ghost's unlucky number.)
Screen-Shot Through The Heart (Comedy: Price's laptop is broken. That isn't Ghost's primary focus.)
Can't Believe I'm The Woman (Smut: Ghost and Soap have always wondered what fucking a man in the arse feels like. Problem is, one of them has to be the bottom.)
He'd Do Anything for Love (Even That) (Smut: Soap finally agrees to let his girlfriend do him in the bum.)
It's All To See You Smile (Fluff: Eve and Ghost enjoy a day on leave. Turns out, Eve had something up her sleeve.)
Sketches
The Base (Non-CoD. A servicemember and her shadow.)
Soap and Panic Attacks (Mild angst: So long as nobody knows, they aren't a problem...)
Beach Episode (Fluff: Gaz and Soap prank Price and Ghost. It ends, predictably, rather poorly. Based on this pic.)
A Dangerous Dance (Soap figures battle is as close as he'll ever get to a rave.)
Ghost and Soap Get a Divorce (Drabble. What it says on the tin.)
Nipples and Belly (Smut practice. Ghost is pierced. Guess where.)
Count (CoD poem: The beads on a dog tag and beads of a rosary are rather similar, don't you think?)
Waxing (Inspired by having to wax my legs recently.)
Tea Time (Mild Fluff and Angst: Ghost makes his teammates tea.)
Thistle and Bone (Mild angst: Ghost writes a letter after Soap's death)
Abandoned Ideas Listed Here, Feel Free to Use (Tag me if you do so I can read it!)
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This is quite possibly the funniest bot I have ever gotten.
The comic spam bot actually rejected my fic (censored bc this is going on the AO3 subreddit for giggles) as being just all around too shitty to make a comic out of.
That's fucking hilarious. I kind of want to keep it up for posterity.
How about the 141 boys being super protective in small ways? Like that video where the husband puts his hand over the sharp edge of a table so his wife doesn’t bump into it. Or how some parents always walk on the side closest to the road so their child is protected on the inside of the sidewalk. Just tiny little things like that.
I don't know, I just need the boys to look after me for a bit. 💙
Sorry for the length! It seemed like you were going through it, so I whipped it out fast as I could.
I hope you feel better soon! <3
~*~*~*~
Price
Price is protective by way of paranoia. He's got alarms and lights and two large dogs who, frankly, you're not sure you can imagine truly tearing any limbs off anyone (until one day you go to their training session. Never again). He's "prepared," he says, as he takes you to the range once a month to teach you how not to look down the barrel of a handgun with your eye. It's unsettling at first, but you get into the rhythm of it when you realize it's a kind of theatre.
He's not really expecting anybody to come after you. He's not expecting anything to happen at all. But it's easier for him to sleep at night knowing that if your Johnny-Bear isn't hibernating next to you, at least Bear and Ursa are.
...what's up with you and bears, anyway?
Ghost
Ghost is the kind of protective that makes young girls squeal. You are not a young girl, so you don't squeal. But you do blush just a skosh when he carefully maneuvers you to the other side of the pavement when a car's coming on a rainy date night evening, or when he loops an arm around your waist at the pub when he notices a guy giving you the up and down.
He's never overt. Not possessive or over-the-top. It's just that you lack spatial awareness sometimes, and if he didn't tug you closer, you'd have run into the light post.
Soap
Oh, Soap. A bit of a frat boy when it's all said and done. Protective loudly and proudly, puffing out his chest if he thinks he needs to show a man how to treat a woman correctly.
"She said no," is a common refrain on your many nights on the town. But you can't help but smile, because it's not an act. He sees a woman being bothered and he'll drop a kiss on your temple, promising to be back in just a second before looming with all 187cm (188, he'll insist) and tapping the bothersome fly on the shoulder.
But for you? He's always ready to knock a man out. He doesn't - he's laser-focused on you the moment you rest a steadying hand on his arm - but he would if you weren't there to stop him. You should know. You've had to pick him up at the station before.
Gaz
Gaz is quiet. Like Ghost, he's more attentive to where you could use a complementary hand. Carefully ensuring you don't bump your head on the counter when you bend to pick up an errant carrot peel, hand curled around the composite right where you'd pop up; or placing a careful hand on your hip as you stand on the bookshelf that definitely shouldn't be bearing a whole human's weight on it to reach whatever it was you'd stored atop it.
He's watchful, in that way.
It's why, too, when you've had a bad day, he's the one to order your favorite food, curl up on the couch, and insist that you two watch a movie together, even though all you want to do is go to bed and weep. He queues up your favorite movie, pulls out your favorite treat, and kisses you softly.
Memories began to sketch themselves after his experiments had landed him face down on the pavement, with him having jumped from a great height. No bloodshed, or gunfire, but memories of his teammates.
Late nights with whiskey and poker cards. Early mornings with coffee in buildings that weren't theirs to sleep in. Cold, white snow and matching uniforms.
Hazy were the specifics - what was it they'd held in their hands as they marched? Collapsible hiking poles, yes, and... large, black, heavy... Gripped in a specific way that he could replicate but not understand. He blinked down at his hands.
What had they been painted in that he wasn't allowed to know about? Each day, his past sank deeper into the bottomless pool of his memory.
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I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
Constant movement. Might be shifting foot to foot. Might be tugging on his vest straps. Readjusting his hat. There isn't a waking moment that Price isn't fidgeting. Nor a sleeping one. He twitches in his sleep, feet kicking out just enough to wake the poor sap who happened to be close enough to jab. Every snort and snore brings with it an involuntary swallow or smack of his lips. And God forbid you be within rolling distance. Consider yourself pinned beneath his elbow, which somehow managed to catch you in the cheekbone.
Gaz
He's always clutching something. Sometimes it's his own arm, tucked beneath his head. Sometimes it's his dog tags. When he's at base he keeps his covers held close to his chest with both fists. And back home it was his childhood stuffed animal (though if anyone were to find out, he'd deny it to his last breath).
Prone to nightmares about falling, Gaz wakes with a jerk at least once a week. He'd roll over, tuck one pillow between his knees and one under his arm, and force himself back to sleep.
He is the resident big spoon on arctic ops.
Ghost
He runs hot. Between the need to conceal his identity at all times and the general lack of aircon on base, he needs the reprieve. And that comes in the form of nude, blissful unconsciousness.
He's quiet - not a snorer like Price - but he sleeps with his mouth hanging all the way open, sprawled across the mattress as if affixed to a St. Andrew's cross. He does not move from his position on his belly for between six and twelve hours.
Soap
He could fall asleep anywhere, resting his head on whatever or whomever was closest. Asleep after an op? His head was on your shoulder. Long day of nothing on a weekend? Stretched out on the rec room couch.
So, it's utterly in character that his urn rests on a little blue and white pillow, where he can comfortably rest for eternity.
The skin of Soap's forearm bubbled up pink and white and rapidly charring black. He could smell the hair that had curled and gone brittle, then the nauseating scent of rendering fat. He pulled himself away from his hearth and stared as the skin began to knit itself together. The memory of any pain had already been removed, leaving nothing more than abject awe as the SAS tattoo re-inked itself on his flesh.
It followed the exact lines the tattoo artist had used - placed with the same care, though far more rapidly.
It was the last in a line of attempts to inflict some sort of permanence to his life.
"Please," he croaked, the first time he'd spoken in three years, "please just let me die."
@sleepy-dino12 - thank you again for letting me play with your OCs. Your work on them is so amazing and they're so evocative. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I've loved getting to know you and what an inspiration you are for me in the fandom. <3
Summary: After a close call in the tunnels, Gen comes to terms with the realization that no matter how well she builds her walls, people will always find a way to slip behind them.
WC: 2,355
Content warnings: N/A
~*~*~*~
"Comms check," Gen intoned, leaning closer to the walkie on her shoulder. Silence followed. "Check, how copy?" She tried again. The line crackled. She glanced at the others beside her. Orders remained.
They waited, weapons hot, but did not push.
Until the gunshots.
Gen wasn't there when it happened. When a bullet drove through Soap's skull at point blank. When Soap collapsed and spilled a crimson halo around what she had affectionately termed his "fuckass mohawk." She wasn't there when he was fitted with a foam and plastic collar and hauled into a van to be transported to an emergency medical facility.
But Ghost was.
She was headed toward them, boots pounding on concrete when Price's voice cut through comms.
"All stations - this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized... Bomb is safe... Requesting immediate medevac."
Gen stood in the sterile on-base hospital, her pits clammy with adrenaline sweat, her hair crusty with the same. She stood in front of Ghost, eyes blazing.
"They say it's a close shave." The joke landed flatly between them. "Missed him by a hair." Another dud. "...it's a fifty-fifty shot."
The look Gen gave him would have killed a lesser man.
"That wasn't a joke," Eve placed a warning hand on Ghost's forearm, "GSWs to the head are the cause of 48% of TBI-related deaths. But the good news is that he's still with us, which gives us a reason to hope."
Gen shook her head, turning to stare at the glowing green sign above the exit.
The running man.
"You should have been faster," she accused, throat working, "where were you?"
"Coming from the other side," Ghost explained patiently, his deep brown eyes not entirely unsympathetic, though they didn't meet her sharp, blue gaze. She knew it wasn't because it was her.
"Not good enough," she ground out, "we were told to hold position. You should have-"
"I did what I was ordered to," Ghost cut off the rebuke sharply.
"You didn't tell me until he'd been in surgery for four hours." Gen hated how her voice cracked.
The moment Ghost had texted (not called, texted), she had been lying in Soap's room waiting for him to return. An hour, then two had passed, and she had to admit to herself that even Soap couldn't shower that long. Her phone had buzzed - a quick one-two. Face buried in his pillow, she'd blearily brought it to her face and found purchase on just two words:
IN SURGERY
She leapt up, not bothering to snatch up her sweatshirt as she tore through the base, shouldering past privates and lieutenants alike. Any indignant squawk was silenced when they saw the look on her face.
She pushed through the door to his hospital room, heart stuttering as she took in a sharp breath. Her eyes widened.
The rest of the 141 stood in a semicircle around the bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only indication that Soap was alive.
Gen swallowed, eyes trained on the deep rise and fall of his chest. The dark lashes lying still against his too-pale cheeks. Anywhere but the tubes and wires that fanned out around him like angels' wings. The halo of gauze that hid the reality of what had happened in that tunnel.
"He'll be okay," Gaz assured her gently, "the doctors said it was a close miss, but he should be able to come out of it in a week or two."
Gen said nothing, her gaze snagging on his hand, carefully placed on the side of the bed so as to allow his...
"Pulseox," Eve supplied. "Just to make sure he's getting what he needs."
"That stays on?" Was all Gen asked in return. The others began to filter from the room. Only Ghost brushed his shoulder against hers as he passed.
"For now," Eve said gently. "Can I get you anything? Or, if you wanna talk..."
"No," Gen's eyes hadn't left Soap's hand. Her nostrils flared. She swallowed again.
"Okay. I think visiting hours are over in twenty minutes. I'll wait for you in the cafeteria."
"Mm."
Eve wasn't sure if that was an agreement or not.
Gen sat, perched atop the aircon intake, and stared at the stars. A cigarette hung limply in her hand. The sun had set a while ago. The air had begun to chill. But she had no reason to go to sleep quite yet.
She heard the heavy tread of boots before the door squeaked open, every sound for her benefit. Every crunch of gravel the words that Ghost couldn't, wouldn't, say.
"Can I bum one?" He lowered himself against the rough metal by her feet, planting one foot solidly in the sediment. Gen didn't bother to look as she leaned forward, handing him hers,
"Here," she murmured, eyes tracking a commercial flight just outside their airspace.
"Ta," he took a heavy drag, and Gen knew he held it. She'd done the same. Felt it char her from the inside out. It was a relief. A release.
Minutes ticked by and neither spoke, though Gen already knew what he'd say when he did.
"'s Orion," Ghost pointed to the constellation. He always started with Orion.
"I know," Gen replied, kicking her boot heel against the aircon.
"He was a warrior."
"I know."
"Fought Mother Earth herself."
Gen took a deep breath through her nose. Her chest ached. She reached for the crumpled box of cigarettes in her pocket. The metal rasp of her lighter filled the air between them, the flame illuminating dried tracks on her cheeks. She said nothing.
"Won out in the end," Ghost continued, "because he's in the sky forever, and we still know his name." Ghost rested his head against the metal with a soft thunk, his blond hair, Gen realized as she glanced down, shaved rather short on the sides and back.
"New look," she commented.
"Needed a change," Ghost agreed.
"Gonna itch like hell in your mask."
"Mm," Ghost pointed to another constellation, twisting to do so. "Scorpion. Thing Orion was fighting. Stung him."
"Uh-huh," It came out rather choked as Gen let the black tar coat her lungs. Her following sigh was white, obscuring her vision for a short moment. She leaned back on her palms, once more letting the cigarette burn.
"But it can't get him now," Ghost said, "That's the point, you know?"
Gen kicked the aircon once more, her boot brushing Simon's shoulder. He didn't move.
"It's time to sleep," Ghost said once their cigarettes had burned to the filter, too gentle by half. "Tomorrow's another day."
"Yeah," Gen hopped off the unit.
They descended to their rooms, stinking of cigarette smoke and chill air.
---
Gen hated how right Ghost was. It was another day. She woke at 05:00, ran four miles, and ate breakfast before she showered. She watched teammates make small talk as they readied for the range. She shot horribly. And she continued.
Until visiting hours.
She was the first there, that first day. Fresh shirt, fresh uniform pants, hiking shoes having dried last night. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea - that he'd woken right after the mission. She tugged the old, worn upholstered wooden monstrosity of a visitor's chair closer to his bed, barely holding herself aloft by her elbows. Balanced forward on her toes, her calves shook as she took him in one more time. As pale as yesterday. His dark hair limp and brushing his forehead. Not a hint of blue. She planted her heels on the ground, leaning closer.
"Soap," she murmured, eyes tracking down to his shoulder, then the corded muscle of his arm. The rest of the SAS was inked into his forearm in delicate, fine lines. Her chest ached as she fought the urge to reach out and trace those lines. "Who dares wins," it tore at her to continue the path downward, toward a hand draped limply on the blanket, seemingly unmoved since yesterday, except the IV that had been inserted had been moved. The thin plastic tube snaked under the covers, instead.
Gen made a note to ask Eve what it might be.
"Johnny," she tried again, mouth sluggish around his name, "can you hear me?"
Not as much as a twitch of the eyelid greeted her. Those eyelids that creased at the corners when he grinned at her. Those teeth that gleamed white and straight like...
tombstones...
Gen lay on the rec room couch. Her head, against her better judgment, had found its way into Soap's lap. She groaned, the world spinning on an altogether unfathomable axis. One grounding, blessed constant was the warmth that Soap seemed to radiate no matter the situation. She let out another soft moan, turning to bury her face in his stomach.
"Hard night?" He teased lightly.
"You Scots drink like you don't want to live," Gen groused into the well-worn fabric of his sweatshirt.
"Aye, most of us don't," Soap conceded, "you gonna be sick?"
"No," Gen said, entirely unconvincingly.
"I believe you," Soap lied. A moment passed between them. Then, something warm rested on the crown of her head. Hesitant, then heavier. Gen's eyes shot open as it registered. Carefully, Soap began to rake his blunt, straight-cut nails over her scalp and through her hair. She stiffened.
"Hm?" Soap paused, "no good?"
Gen didn't reply for a long moment, expecting Soap to retreat. Instead, he slowly began anew, raking carefully through her short-cropped hair.
"My mom used to do this for me when I was sick," he explained, dropping his voice to a soothing murmur, "was always a comfort."
Gen slowly reached a hand up, grasping at the front of her own shirt. Soap didn't move; didn't change pace or try to explain further. Gen let her eyes slip shut as he continued, fighting an embarrassing heat that began to well behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw, grasping her shirt tighter in her fist.
She gulped down a shuddering breath, suddenly thankful that Soap seemed to have been overcome by an uncharacteristic quietude. It's why she liked getting drunk with him - away from the boys, he would get almost... contemplative. Not maudlin, but altogether... softer. Less boisterous. As if the alcohol sapped the essence of him, leaving only the dregs of the man and what he'd done.
Gen liked seeing someone else hurt, selfish as that was.
"I never..." she mumbled into his belly, unable to complete the sentence. Not when the thought of comfort conjured its polar opposite.
"Well," he brought his hand to the nape of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, "now you have." They lay like that for minutes, Soap alternately running his nails over her and massaging temple, cheek, and neck. When, ten minutes in he encountered the soft shudders and telltale wetness of her surrender on his pass over her cheekbone, he said nothing. He simply swiped it away and continued on his path.
Until she had no more tears to cry.
---
She folded over herself, forehead resting just beside that hand of his.
She turned, staring up at him through heavy lids from where she lay. Mechanical blips and beeps replied with hollow reassurance.
She'd learned her lesson too many times before. There was no use in hoping, or praying, or begging.
Or crying.
And yet the tears came, silent as they tracked over the scar that crossed the bridge of her nose - one of the first things she'd ever let Soap touch when they were alone.
It was when they first fell into bed together after an op, adrenaline crash leading them both to what Gen reckoned would be a quick and dirty roll and ended up being Soap, inimitable Soap, propped on his elbow after having put his all into a kiss and looking at her like she'd hung the moon in the sky herself. He'd gently traced that scar and whispered, awestruck, that he'd always found her striking.
She'd slapped his hand away, rolling over to gather her things and head back to her room. He'd watched her the whole time, that dopey smirk affixed to his lips as if he'd just handed her his heart.
She took a breath, saliva sewing her lips together, and finally reached for him.
His hand fell almost too naturally over her crown, the soft heat of it no small comfort. Gen closed her eyes.
And sobbed.
---
"Oh, no," Eve whispered as she and Ghost stepped into the room. Gen had fallen asleep at some point, having cried herself out of any remaining energy. It was the first time Eve had seen her like this.
The second time Ghost had.
"Blanket," Ghost beckoned to Eve, taking the scratchy wool thing they'd meant for one friend and draping it carefully over the other's shoulders. She didn't move, only letting out a soft sigh. Ghost's fingers brushed the back of Soap's hand before resting carefully, just a moment.
"We'll come back," Eve took Ghost's other hand. He nodded.
"We'll come back," he agreed.
The week after, when Soap's eyes fluttered open and his hand trembled as he tried to bring it to scrub at his face, was the first time Gen had ever initiated anything.
It should have been gentle.
It could have been careful.
But in the end it was neither.
It was Gen, heedless of the fact that she could hear Price and Gaz approaching, or that Eve and Ghost had only just stepped away for coffee, throwing herself across the room. Standing, chest heaving, as Soap's eyes fixed on hers, then drifted down to the bridge of her nose.
"Hey Genie," he croaked, expecting her to scowl or snap back.
And she did. As she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the thin fabric of his hospital gown. It took a moment for his brain to catch up, surprise still written on his features when Price and Gaz rounded the corner, before he melted into her embrace, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. His arms circled her gently, one hand over her shoulder.
FIRST OF ALL, I absolutely love Gen. Gen belongs to @sleepy-dino12. Second, I absolutely love drawing Soap. This guy is so damn handsome, and I’m happy every time I get to draw him. Third, I feel so damn silly because I use Tumblr so rarely and I’m a little scared to post here, but hey. I guess I should catch up, so get ready for some backlogged content.
And here’s another of Dino’s OCs, Eve! Both ladies are gorgeous, and you should head over to Dino’s to give her lots of love.
LOOK AT MY GORGEOUS WOMEN MY GOD
Cadet is so talented and captures my girls so well ;;; also the Gen/Soap my heart. The colors and the poses the FEELING OF THE DRAWING
And Eve like I'm still so blown away at how perfectly she captured her with little rough sketches
Please go follow cadet she is amazing and I love her
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The makeshift calendar he had painted was allowed to stay on his wall. By his metric, at least in number of sleeps, he had been dead for nearly three years. In that time, he had not yet broken. Each morning, he woke with a renewed vigor for afterlife. His chest would expand and warmth would suffuse his body from toes to scalp, and he would smile at himself as he brushed his teeth.
When he would catch the eye of his cheerful reflection, his fingertips would tingle and his grip would tighten on his toothbrush. By the time he was done readying for the day, he would find his reflection did not appear to share in his dawning dread. He would shave mechanically, suddenly filled with an indescribable sense of wrongness, and then turn.
And by the time he stepped across the threshold to the kitchen, his muscles would have loosened and that warmth would have returned.
The sun warmed his face as he lay once more in what he now considered "his" patch of greenery. Just a quick hop over the bridge and a ten-minute walk had the sounds of the city muted to a manageable hum. Arms and legs splayed haphazardly, he stared dully up at the sky.
He had tried for days to recall how it was that he'd come to find himself in heaven. He had to have died in the line of duty - for he remembered that the tattoo on his forearm was the crest of the Special Air Services - but what duty had he been performing?
The cruelest things he'd done couldn't be conjured to the forefront no matter how he strained nor how he allowed his mind to drift. He was floating on a sea of happy memories of tea in the mess hall and inside jokes, hands on shoulders and knees and chests and necks as he was patted and jostled and assured and led. He recalled feeling much like a dog in some cases, but the memory would twist into that happy-go-lucky, tongue-lolling image of a retriever chasing after a tennis ball more than what he was sure was the hangdog plodding that had been his reality.
It brushed the edges of his consciousness, fleeting and just out of reach and it was torture so effective he was amazed he hadn't yet broken.
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Soap smudged the last bit of color over his sketchbook and stared at the resultant art. Almost impossible to remember, he'd only just managed to get the shapes of his old teammates to appear on the page. Big, bigger, biggest; that much he remembered. One of them cloaked all in black with deathly pale skin, one of them so hairy he had taken to calling him Captain Coo, and the third, a good study in contrast in a light blue shirt with dark skin and sparkling white teeth.
But their faces were wrong. He couldn't explain how he knew they were wrong, but they were. Their expressions were happy in a way he was certain they hadn't been when he'd known them, and something about the way that they stood - arms wrapped around one another in easy camaraderie - that felt as if it were more fiction than fact. More Heaven-o-Vision, no doubt, papering over the reality of how they had looked after missions. Beaming, surely, but tired and worn and arms wrapped around one another to keep themselves from collapsing as adrenaline faded into bone-deep assuredness that their souls were so blackened by the deeds they'd done that they'd never see the Pearly Gates.
