ATOM BOMB BABY!

You got: The Chariot

You! get! shit! done! You’re determined and action-oriented, focused and persistent. Underneath your aggressive spirit, however, you’re also fiercely caring -- and can be a protective force to be reckoned with if anyone crosses the people you care about.

MASS EFFECT SENTENCE STARTERS ↳ ACCEPTING @synthmama​

          Her jaw was TIGHT and her fist curled at her sides as she and several other people stood over Mama Murphy’s bed in Sanctuary. Someone had done this, Sylvia could see the telltale signs of overdose while the others were holding their hands to their mouths in sorrow. She had convinced Mama Murphy to stop taking the chems and yet someone had given them to her anyways and this was the result. And she hoped they felt fucking bad about it. 

MASS EFFECT SENTENCE STARTERS  ↳ ACCEPTING @publickoccurrence

          Even though she’d been traveling with Piper for more than a month, Sylvia had just come to ACCEPT that Piper was softer of a person than she ought to be in a world like this. Sure, she’d pull out a 10mm pistol if they were approached by someone who wasn’t exactly friendly, but Dogmeat usually pinned them down while Sylvia lined up a shot with one of her rifles before Piper ever had to draw a gun. She’d made an ass out of herself, assuming that Piper wasn’t built for a world like this one. But Sylvia was happy to say that she was pleasantly surprised by her display of unabashed courage with the real deal. 

          Given the circumstances and nature of her place in the Commonwealth, Sylvia had a little bit of a soft spot for kids. If asked about it though, she’d lie to anyone’s face. She wanted to help kids but didn’t have the selflessness in her that she reckoned Miss Durant did. What Sylvia did have, however, was some spare materials she had planned on taking to a nearby Minutemen settlement that she could donate. Those settlers were finding enough scrap that between all of them sharing with one another, they could manage without one bag full of shit. And since Sylvia compulsively picked everything up that wasn’t nailed down, she had lots of it to give.

          She’d only heard about it once or twice in her wandering around what was left of Downtown Boston and since this was her first trip to Goodneighbor, she figured what better thing to do to clear her pack while she was in town a few days to meet up with Nick? And so, after casually witnessing the murder of a lowlife thug at the hands of some hippie ghoul who looked like he got dressed at the Museum of Freedom, Sylvia managed to get directions from a strangely friendly assaultron.

         The silhouette of her looks misshapen through the particles of dust, dark and long-limbed against the dry rot of wood catching the flames of the blast, orange and red, and red, and red. The low, hitched keening of an animal reverberates; the kind of sound that can be felt in the bones. 

     There’s a precision to explosives, an order to the chaos. Exothermic chemical reaction. High-velocity pressure bursting in all directions, an instrictic attempt to reach equilibrium with the surrounding air. The air burns. And then, the afterburning. The overpressed air is so hot, and so violent, it shakes the entrails. Pulmonary contusions. Perforation. 

     Owen hides behind a wall to shelter himself from the brunt of it, the way he had been taught to——-  thirteen years old, dissecting a deactivated improvised explosive device, while his mother loomed behind him with a stopwatch in her hand, counting the seconds. It was always important to count. If he did well, he was allowed dessert. 

     The sharp rise of her voice cuts into the dregs of this violent upheaval like an old foghorn; it might have been comical. Owen’s ears are ringing faintly, and his skin feels hot, but he decides this is what it means to be unscathed. He’s covered in dirt. It sticks to his hair. 

     She had hid in a hole, the remnants of an abandoned irrigation system. Owen processes this quickly, with a sharp revelation; that was smart. The pressurized air would have passed over her. He is quick to reach for her.

     “They’re perforated,” says it out loud. Doubts she’ll register it. Owen speaks anyway, hoping for the sheer luck of hearing his voice beyond the metallic ringing. It would be a positive sign. “Can you hear me? Stop squirming—–”   

          She didn’t hear his voice for a long time, at which point he’d already pulled her back into the spot she was sitting several times. A frown found it’s way to her lips, but she sat still. He was more versed in field medicine than she, and since her first instinct was to just stimpak it and move on, Sylvia figured she ought to let him do his thing.  ❛ Grady, can you hear me? ❜ She no longer had to SHOUT to hear herself, but she said it a little louder than normal--just in case. Sylvia hadn’t seen where Owen ducked to as she threw the grenade and didn’t know if his ears were ringing too or if she was just going to have to go crazy by herself. 

           ❛ You said something a moment ago. I saw your mouth move but I can’t read lips. ❜ While he was looking over her injuries, she took a moment to scan the horizon. If they were run up on by anything else in that moment it would take Sylvia several precious minutes trying to get her bearings enough to grab Bertha or Kellogg’s pistol. And if she threw another grenade as close as she did to herself, there was a chance she’d lose some of her hearing PERMANENTLY. 

          With the adrenaline of the fight wearing down, she was able to make a mental checklist of all the aches and pains she’d suffer from tomorrow. There was bruising on her shoulders and back from throwing herself back into the drainage pipe from an ancient irrigation system to a farm long since gone. If scarring was the worst that came out of the scratches going diagonally down her calf, then Sylvia could count herself lucky. A severed Achilles's tendon would mean certain death out there in the Commonwealth and she still had too much to do before she called it quits. And, of course, the little pieces of rock and grenade debris freckling the back of her hands, though if you asked Sylvia, it was better her hands than her face. That shit could have made her go blind and it wasn’t like she walked around Boston with safety goggles on. Not only would it look ridiculous, but it was highly impractical seeing as how she’d have to stop and clean it every time a gust of wind kicked up some dirt. Staying alive felt a little more important than making a safe fashion statement.

          And last but certainly not least, the ringing in her ears had quieted enough that she could compartmentalize. At that point she barely even noticed it, but Sylvia was sure that meant there was a hole where there shouldn’t have been one. Even when she reached up to feel if there was any blood on the side of her face, she couldn’t really tell. Too much dirt was caked on from the past few days of this shit. She just wanted to get back to Sanctuary and take a fucking shower. It wasn’t the best shower in the whole wide world, but it did the job. Cold shower was still better than no shower.