hi friends, I hope y’all are well 💜 tumblr asked me if I’m still around and if I wanted to keep this username :V
you can find me over on my personal
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@gunhandsam
hi friends, I hope y’all are well 💜 tumblr asked me if I’m still around and if I wanted to keep this username :V
you can find me over on my personal

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broodmotherdearest:
The question elicits an amused chuckle, rich and throaty, from the pair of lips. They’re smiling.
“Yes,” she answers. “Much more. Miles and miles of my body stretched upon this earth like a canvas wrap. What you see is just an extension of me, no more the whole of my parts than your trigger finger is the whole of you.”
The cavern seems to flex around him, growing smaller and larger in a gentle, rhythmic cycle. She’s smelling him, trying to get a hint of where he’s been in the frontier so far.
“… You traveled here from Fort Yukon,” She says softly. It’s a sore subject to her.
“Miles, eh? That’s something alright.” Sam managed a nervous smile back to his partially present guest. He really didn’t have much reason to doubt them, something this strange likely didn’t have much reason to lie, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it if they were. The wall he had been leaning against eased away from him for a moment before settling back in place, causing him to relax somewhat.
That probably shouldn’t feel as nice as it does.
“Not a bad way of putting it I suppose,” he nodded. “Finger’s only as good as the hand it’s attached to and the brain controlling 'em after all...” He paused a moment on hearing the shift in tone from the mouth. Davy warned him about hazards of Alaska, but didn’t mention a living cave system. Were they enemies? Was this the source of the missing folks?
“Yeah... they’re a nice bunch. Reminds me of folks back home. What about them?”
CHARACTER AESTHETICS: OC EDITION.
bold what applies.
I. THE FAIRY. chipped nail polish. glitter highlight. tall trees with smooth bark. tangled hair. the taste of cinnamon sugar. talking too loud and too fast. overgrown flowers in your hair. crumbling buildings reclaimed by nature. flirting. walking home at 3am with no coat. platonic hand-holding. blowing smoke out of your nose. dragonfly wings. chaotic good. freckles. fairy rings. secret meetings. gender nonconformity. leather. smudged eyeliner. forbidden fruit.
II. THE REAPER. computer errors. a shiver down your spine. haunting beauty. hard liquor. crowns of thorns. shadowed alleyways. decaying plant matter. shattered mirrors and broken glass. corrupted memories. stopped clocks. the scent of stale cigarettes. tattered black hoodies. walking your friends home. the crescent moon. the sea. a graveyard on a foggy day. cold rings on cold fingers. absolution. looking out the window of an airplane. soft kisses.
III. THE WITCH. graffiti. pretending to know what you’re doing. worn paperback books. growing up too fast. parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. lace and combat boots. moth wings. candles on every surface. a weathered deck of cards. turning the music up. fireflies in jars. calloused fingers. drawing on your skin. sunlight filtering through clouds. petrichor. a dying rose in a jar. wearing a crystal pendant. illusions and spells. black cats. mint gum. chapped lips. dirt under your fingernails. the cycle of life and death.
IV. THE WOLF. murders of crows. frost-bitten leaves. wolves howling at midnight. knocking on your door. leaving food out for stray animals. the twang of an acoustic guitar. honey. tiny red buds on trees. claw marks on the walls. golden eyes. slightly too long stubble. sharp canines. soft, thick fur. hunger. a small cottage in the middle of the woods. knitted fingerless gloves. sleeping on the forest floor. always finding your way back home.
tagged by @broodmotherdearest tagging: whoever wants to! iunno who’s still active that follows me :V
Peer into my muse's memories
❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile
💙- A sad memory that makes them cry
💛- A memory that makes them feel angry
💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty
💜- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad
💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely
❣- A memory that leaves them laughing
💕- A memory about their significant other
💞- A memory about their children
💓- A memory about their friends
💗- A memory about a good deed they did
💖- A memory that made them feel special
💝- A memory that made them feel loved
💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding
💟- Wildcard!!!
» oh boy 👀
“Beneath that sweetness lies a monster. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, one who sleepwalks through life in between bouts of violence. Why do you deny what you are? Own it.”
Mother why

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broodmotherdearest:
The patrol.
At the mention of the Russians, Mother momentarily diverts her attention upstairs– metaphorically, anyways. The Cossacks are still looking for him; she can feel the thumping of their heavy boots as they lurch through the snow, trying to track their disappearing quarry. Far from the edge of the No Man’s Land, it’s unlikely that they would expect Mother’s presence here… and she plans on keeping it that way.
Better that they do not know, which means better that they do not find this man.
“No. You don’t,” She says shortly. The disembodied lips purse thoughtfully, as if she’s dwelling on what his ultimate fate should be.
“… But you will not need it,” She continues. “I will keep you hidden from the Dead Hand. You should be more considerate when you travel in this region. The Tsar regularly dispatches Cossacks through the Frontier as a means of gathering intelligence. And they are not above hunting men for sport.”
Sam bristled a little at the confirmation of his suspicions, but knew that he stood zero chance of coming out on top of a fight with this being. He certainly wasn’t under equipped, but his regular quarry was usually more his own size.
“Yeah, kinda figured as much,” he sighed and cradled his gun in his arms. “Davy told me a little bit about where not to go wandering, guess I got distracted by the weird show the sky was putting on.” Despite the unsettling atmosphere he had found himself in, Sam nodded as his host spoke. “Dead Hand sounds familiar, can’t say the same for the Tsar and Cossacks though... but they’re human, right?”
Sam relaxed a bit and threw a thoughtful glance down at his weapon. A faint grin tugged at his cheeks as he rubbed the receiver with a gloved thumb.
“Seems there’s a bit of hunting folks goin’ around in this land, but I’m no stranger to that game. Still, I appreciate your help.” He paused a moment before looking back at the lips dangling from the ceiling. “Is there... more of you?”
gunhandsam·:
“The sun doesn’t set here and caves are made of meat? Terrific…” Sam grumbled as he traipsed around, looking for an exit. “At least it’s a bit warmer in here, although I could do without the floor trying to yank my boots off.” He was still somewhat disoriented from the little dugout he had snuck into giving way and leading him down a squishy rabbit hole.
A voice? More of the people from above? No, this one was speaking English, not the foreign tongue Sam had never heard like the others he had hoped to avoid. He pulled his shotgun to his shoulder, keeping it low but ready. Maybe someone else was stuck in here, and there was no need to shoot the first thing that moves. But where was the voice coming from?
“I… would you believe an accident?”
There is silence following his response.
Then, the ceiling above the man splits in twain with a sudden and sharp crack! Something long and slender descends, almost looking like a twisting vine. It sways back and forth through the humid air, like a snake tasting the air. At its end, an amorphous ball of flesh wriggles and jerks.
Then, it unfolds, a lotus of gore and ichor; a pair of lips make themselves visible. They settle in front of him at eye level. The voice that comes from them is sweet and drippy, like honey.
“I have a hard time believing it,” Mother says. “Most who come here come to kill me. Are you here to kill me?
Sam took a few steps back the best he could and snapped his gun up to bear on the noise above. Did the people above see him? Are they trying to break in? Who even were they?
"Oh..."
He wasn't sure what he was seeing, or even if it was real. Did he hit his head falling down here? Was there some sort of toxin in the air? Slowly but surely it dawned on him that what he was seeing was, unfortunately, very real. He continued his careful retreat until he put his back to a wall that announced his arrival with an audible squish, causing him to shudder. "I don't know where I am or... who? You are. I just wanted to avoid the patrol on the surface, so I hid in a cave and the wall gave way, so here I am." Sam tried to look at the lips that were speaking to him, and while they had an oddly pleasant voice, he couldn't stand to look at it for too long before scanning his surroundings. Everywhere he looked was more of the same strange terrain that seemed to be alive. "But... no. I don't make a habit of killing something as a means of introduction, and something tells me I don't have enough gun either way."
@gunhandsam
What a mysterious man. Mother watches him from her perspective high above. He seems oddly… delicate in his stance. As if he’s trying not to put too much pressure on his feet, like he’s attempting to be a considerate guest in someone else’s house.
“Curious…” She mumbles, tilting her head. “What brings you to me?”
“The sun doesn’t set here and caves are made of meat? Terrific...” Sam grumbled as he traipsed around, looking for an exit. “At least it’s a bit warmer in here, although I could do without the floor trying to yank my boots off.” He was still somewhat disoriented from the little dugout he had snuck into giving way and leading him down a squishy rabbit hole.
A voice? More of the people from above? No, this one was speaking English, not the foreign tongue Sam had never heard like the others he had hoped to avoid. He pulled his shotgun to his shoulder, keeping it low but ready. Maybe someone else was stuck in here, and there was no need to shoot the first thing that moves. But where was the voice coming from?
“I... would you believe an accident?”
*yawns and stretches*
You Always Remember Your First
"A while ago, Emma and I were talking as we sat about her place, perhaps curled up in bed and just sharing in the simple joy of finding a human being that one could tolerate being around. Well, our place. I still haven't fully made that connection of... sharing a home with another person. I recognize the shack as home, yes, but I don't fully see it as our home. And... 'the shack', it sounds so dismissive, no? I ought to come up with a better name for it, it sounds like I'm speaking ill all the while not being willing to trade it for a suite at the Ultra-Luxe. Emma's home is where I discovered there could be more to life than murder, wandering, alcohol abuse, more murdering, buying company for the evening, or what passed as evening at the time anyway, followed by more wandering."
"Anyway, as we sat or lay there, whichever it was, she asked me if I had plans on moving my stuff in, setting up ourselves up for a more permanent living situation. I of course was nervous, as I've never even considered it, but now that it seemed that not only was I staying in the Mojave for a while, but she hadn't grown tired of me either... well, giving it some thought can't do any harm, right? I've got the stuff down in the hole in the hills, and some in a room in Novac. Even got a little bit of kit up in Jacobstown stashed away in one of the rooms well away from the locals. I don't like disturbing them when I pass through, but they were nice enough to let me have a place to rest in exchange for running off some trouble makers a while ago. So yeah, you could say I'm spread out a bit."
"I plan to consolidate things, sell off what I don't need, even give to those that need more than I. For example I've got plans for all the armor I've carted into Novac; gonna strip it down to scrap metal and lug it on over to a particularly sweet repair girl. Last I saw her, she seemed like she could stand to have some kindness in her life. Anyway, the whole "Why don't you move your things in, babe?" thing. I've been more or less living out of my bag, using whatever it is I've packed and crammed in there, but for all my shuffling things back and forth, there's one thing I've never taken out of there, that one special thing I always have on me wherever I am."
He produced a slender object, wrapped in a delicate cloth worn thin from years of being jostled around during his travels. Sam placed it on the table with a quiet reverence, and gently unraveled the cloth as if he was terrified the whole thing might turn to dust in his hands.
"You know that saying; you always remember your first? First kiss, first love, first awkward teenage grope, first time getting laid, first near death experience, that kinda thing? Yeah." He smiled down at the object on the table, a simple fork, missing one of its tines. It was well worn, most of the shine had given way to a smooth patina, parts of it pockmarked with rust.
"I remember the first time I killed someone quiet vividly. Which is impressive, considering the kind of life I lead. People come and go, usually go by way of gunshot or grenade, or fade from memory as nights of heavier drinking wash away those memories. But it's even more impressive, I think, that I was nine years old at the time, and can still see it clear as day. It was summer, during those 'dog days', when you just want to curl up and wait it out. But hanging around a house made mostly of metal down by a river in a sticky Virginia summer didn't have much appeal, so I'd go out looking for somewhere cool and safe to nap or read. There was a little hollow, carved into a hill by the river, I'd curl up in there and watch the water go by. Wasn't far from home, just in case a mirelurk or something showed up and I had to run home for somebody to kill the thing.
He shuddered, stifling a nervous grin.
"I hate mirelurks. Anyway, that day I heard someone rooting around in one of the piles we kept all the scrap stuff. Not in that kind of casual but urgent, "Where'd I put the damn Nuka bottles?" way, but this was more careless rooting around in the garbage. I shimmied out of the hole and poked my head around, just in time to see one of the kids in town launch himself out of the pile and start booking it for town like his life depended on it. The dude digging in the garbage looked pretty mad, then saw me peeking out at him, and jabbed a finger right at me.
"There's one! Nab him!"
"Couple other dudes showed up, coming around one of the vacants too dangerous to renovate and were making a beeline right for me. I, being a child, chose to burrow as deep into the hole as I could get and expect one of the adults in town to step in and sort this out. Nobody but these really dirty men showed up, and they kept going on about some place called Paradise Falls. I didn't know where or what that was, but if these guys were from there, I knew I didn't want to go. The hole was pretty tiny, just big enough for me and a small day pack, but one of the guys managed to shove his upper half inside and was grabbing at me. I had brought lunch with me that day, so all I was armed with was a fork and a pretty dull spoon. Fork it was, then. And in his throat it went. I was trying for his eye, but I was terrified and the guy was wriggling around a lot trying to grab me, adrenaline dumps do funny things to your coordination. The fork kinda slid over the guy's skin at first, but all the thrashing around he was doing worked to my advantage, and he ended up skewering himself. He didn't die right away, of course, and I'm wrenching on the thing as much as I can to pull it out of him cause I'm just a kid and I'm scared senseless and I just want him to leave me alone. So for all the flailing he's doing and all the wiggling and pulling on my part, I end up tearing his throat open. Now the blood is really flowing, and he's making this weird raspy whistle noise as his other hand shot past his side and into the hole, and it's clutching a pistol. I figured that yeah, this is it. I'm gonna die here cause this man is going to shoot me, so I just wrench the hell out of the fork, and the teeth must've caught him just right or something, cause I felt something pop inside and there's this really weird looking white tube starting to slide out of the hole in his neck."
"He dropped the gun and slapped at his neck with both hands while blood is just gushing all over the place, and I've got my feet on his shoulders, trying to push this gibbering bastard back out of the hole and just away from me, but I keep slipping in his blood and the dirt and I can't really get the leverage I need. Eventually someone outside started tugging on his legs and pulled him out, and they're talking about that Paradise place. And... I don't know, just something, a gut feeling, voice in my head, whatever you wanna call it, told me to pick up that pistol and pop the first thing that shows up. The first thing being a similar man, all dirty and foul and angry eyed, dressed like the dude I just skewered and lips peeling back to reveal a mouth of broken yellowed and blackened teeth, and it all just came together for me. All those lessons my mom had given me about shooting; both hands on the gun, firm grip, thumbs stacked on each other and pointing forward, pad of the index finger on the trigger, target is fuzzy but the front sight is clear as can be, center mass, keep breathing, and squeeze.
It's not pleasant, letting off a shot in a confined space, but I still hit the guy where I wanted. It was one of those Chinese pistols, nine mil. Weird how you remember those little details. A nine at close range tends to zip right through whatever it hits, but I tagged something important, cause that guy dropped to the dirt and went awful pale in a hurry. His chest didn't get red, either, something black started seeping out of him. His buddy started shouting and swearing, and just lined himself right up as the guy I had shot did, so he got it just the same."
"Everything was real quiet after that. My ears were ringing from both the blast of the pistol and the adrenaline swirling in my veins, but nobody else came around for what seemed like hours, even though it was like ten minutes, tops. That kid that ran home came back with some of the adults, and my mom was with 'em, clutching her sledgehammer and by the looks of things, really wanting to shatter some bones. She was first in finding me as I crawled out of the hole and over the dead men, my front all slicked with blood and skin devoid of color. I think she thought I was hurt, cause that's when she got really wound up and was waving one of the two town doctors over. I said, 'No no, I'm fine mom! They didn't hurt me!', so she starts going over me making sure I don't have any extra holes or that I'm missing something important, but aside from few scrapes on my legs, I was right as could be. Shaken up, of course, but physically fine. By then more folks had shown up, about six, maybe seven other people, and they're all kinda staring at me, hands over their mouths. My mom asked me what I did, and I simply told her that I did what she told me to do. She gave me this kinda funny look, like she wasn't sure if she should be proud or terrified, so it came out as both, and we went on home to get me cleaned up.
"Later that day, I told her I left my bag out there and it had some of my books in it, and I wanted to go get it. She knew how much reading meant to me, so she agreed, but insisted she come with me, and even rounded up a couple of the better shots in town, just in case there was trouble. They all stood outside the hole, and my mom tossed in a sheet so I wouldn't get dirty again, and told me to make it quick. I scurried on inside and got my stuff, and I was started to back out when I saw the fork jammed in the dirt. I don't know why I took it, I just did. Like something inside me was saying "Hey. That is important. Keep it.", so I did. Slipped it in my bag, then washed all the dirt and crud from it before I went to sleep. I always kept it close, I suppose I felt like it was my special thing to keep the bad people away. Mom had her sledgehammer and her dad's hunting rifle, some of the folks in town had their own special weapons too, it just seemed normal to me."
Sam smiled at the fork and slowly ran a finger up and down the tines before wrapping it back up, taking his time as he neatly folded and pulled the cloth in place, and placed his palms on top of it.
"You always remember your first."

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"I know Sam survived, would’ve been surprised if he didn’t. No doubt he burrowed himself into one of those little hidey holes in town he knew about and just waited things out. Knew if he went against Enclave, he’d die just the same as everyone else. Was probably Athalie told him to hide, honestly. His time with the Talon boys? Refined that edge she put on him. Put him on a few choice radars to boot, and he was clever enough to enough to keep hold of his last name. If he hadn’t, that would’ve made things complicated for me. Conflict of interest and all that. Still, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t protective of him. Every so often the Regulators would be tooling up for any and all targets of opportunity, and that meant my son. He was certainly capable of going toe to toe with them, but he was still wreckless. The chances of him coming out clean were fairly low, especially with the garbage he was pounding into his body fogging things up. So they’d have a little mine related accident on the road, maybe roll on a knife in their sleep. That kind of mishap. And to say nothing of the power armored asshole brigade stomping around. But he learned how to avoid them; dig in where their fancy helmets were a hindrance, lure them in where their bulk would weigh them down and peel them open like a can of pork and beans. He always was clever."
"It’s just as well Athalie died. I knew it was only a matter of time before she would piece things together, figure out why I was gone for so long and where I had been going. She would've gut me without a second thought. You ever wonder how Sam can be charming and hospitable one moment, and then there’s that pause. Not very long, blink and you’ll miss it. He’s still smiling, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking through you. Like the world drops away from you and it’s just you and him, only he’s in front of you and behind you and just off to your side all at once. That’s her taking over. That predator behind the wheel. Kinda what caught my eye about her in the first place. As stupid as it is to not be afraid of anything, fear really didn't exist in her head. That’s what drew me in, all that sheer confidence in herself. And it rubbed off on others, too. Being around her, you felt like she felt. Like she could do all the crazy shit people said she did. But the flip side to that coin was the fear she could instill in others. She didn't even need her gun or her sledgehammer, just one look. One glance, tilt of the head, slight twitch of the brow, even a little sniff from the nostrils, and it’d damn near stop your heart. Even if I had been around often enough, he still would've came out the way he did. He was her son, simple as that. Not sure if he’s got that whole leadership thing, though. But I heard enough about him, saw enough of the aftermath of when he blew through someone’s life, he had the rest of her in his blood. Never knew a woman like her before, and I knew it’d be a matter of time until she offed the right person, got the right kind of attention, until somebody wanted her for themselves. Would I have delivered? I’m not sure. If I tried… she’d probably try to kill me. Likely succeed. And if she didn't and I pulled off the transfer, and he found out? There wouldn't be a single identifiable piece of me or the buyers left. Just a thin red smudge on the floor… and the walls and ceiling. There’s murder, then there’s what those two are capable of. Well, were. Those lessons she taught him? About killing clean, to ensure there’s no suffering? Those are her way of atoning for some damn thing. I don’t know what. I asked her once and she just stared at me. Right fuckin’ through me. I've found myself looking down more than a few muzzles, and that’s what it felt like. Staring right down into the end. I’d sooner punch a deathclaw on the snout than have her look at me like that ever again. And considering she’s dead and all, that won’t be a problem.”
"He probably wants to know where I had been, what I was doing. Why I wasn't there that day, why I wasn't doing what he likely thought I should’ve been doing. Maybe if we meet, I’ll get to tell him. Maybe he’ll plug me through and through. Maybe he won’t even recognize me. That’d be the really interesting scenario. Would he’d be looking for me to settle up, or would he have found something in his life to fill the void I left, leave me long forgotten?"
"Nah, what’d be truly fucking fascinating is if his name came across my desk. Somebody wanting to have a collar fit for him and not putting two and two together and thinking, just for a moment, they’re asking me to rope my son. Real fascinating, that."
The man brushed the crumbs of his meal from his clothes and slid out of the booth seat, dropping a single silver coin on the table. "Sometimes I wonder where he is. I know he’s alive, of course. There’s been a few tales of someone fitting his description, or what he’s capable of, come flitting in my ear. There was some big mess in Illinois that saw damn near an entire town butchered in a way that’d make Caesar’s best and brightness perk right up. Seems a fire started at the gallows and spread through town in all the wrong ways. I heard some talk of a rather strange doorman that clearly wasn't a local working a Reno whore house, as well as some talk of a bounty hunter fond of shotguns around Vegas. Sounds like him. Could be him. Athalie did love her twelve gauge, just as her dad did. Strange thing about her gun? Took a bayonet, about as long as my damn arm. You’re already up close with buckshot, you really gonna stick somebody? Bloodthirsty woman if there ever was one.
But if it is him? Let Sam find me. The whole Mojave is just a time bomb with a tricky timer wired to some sweaty sticks. When the whole thing blows; not if, when, he’ll get pushed right to me. Right to the big bad Bear. Mojave is frontier territory, but here in NCR country? They don’t seem to really like the fast and loose mercenary types. There are rules, order, structure."
"He won’t survive it."
"Sometimes, I think about joining the Followers. It seems like a decent way to do some good and help those in genuine need. Both the overburdened workers, and those they treat. Then, well," Sam shifted on a milk carton as he sat hunched over a man on the floor of a dingy building on the edge of North Vegas. "I think, ‘What do I know about fixing people?’ Nothing. I’d do more harm than good, and they’d get sidelined training me, so problems upon problems, a real snowballing effect."
He glanced over at the corner at the small pile of effects he had collected from his guest. A ten millimeter pistol, three loaded mags, a few Jet inhalers, nothing too out of the ordinary. But what had truly got his attention was the signature white overcoat bearing the Follower’s insignia, now shot through with buckshot, with a single pistol caliber exit wound a little lower than his own inflicted damages.
"There’s some phrase doctors go by, Latin I’m told. Something about not doing any harm. So when a Follower opens fire on me with no rhyme or reason, armored up under their coat, clearly something’s off. Why would they be skirting Fiend territory, all on their lonesome. Did they get lost, separated? They’re smart. Smart doesn't pop the first thing that moves and draw attention to itself. Again, snowball. Or should I go with a tumbleweed for a more familiar metaphor?"
Sam plucked the knife from the small of his back and idly tapped his thigh with it.
"All this tells me is you brought harm to one who would avoid dealing it. Preying upon the healers. Even I won’t do that. I'd likely kill the person that asked me to without a second's thought and sleep the sleep of the just. And judging by the state of the coat, I’m thinking you did them in a while ago, maybe at the top of the month, no doubt ditched or hawked any personal goods by now." Sam spoke with the knife, casually waving it to and fro as he talked, finally bringing the tip to bear just below the man’s naval.
"Lower abdomen shot, too. I don’t know how to fix people, I just know how to hurt them. And there's not much that hurts like abdominal pain." He raised a brow, nudging the tip of the knife past the first layer of skin. "All kinds of important bits down there, with a variety of functions. Pull out any one of 'em, and the body starts failing. And the veins and arteries? Stacked upon one another, woven together into one big indecipherable sticky maze. None of them really look important, until they’re severed.” Sam leaned forward, pushing the knife in a little more as he propped his head up with his other hand.
“So, what I'm thinking here is you slug the doc face to face, snatched his gear while he's bleeding out and hoping his insides don't become outsides, and leave him to his own devices." Sam frowned, nostrils flaring slightly. "Or her. Plenty of women with the Followers. Kind hearts the lot of 'em. Then think the coat will get you some leeway. Just another beleaguered face in the crowd, scurrying back to the Fort to slap another bandage on a sucking chest wound and hope against hope it’ll be enough. Wouldn’t be stupid enough to try a stab and grab past the gate, though. You know the guards would drop you once they clued in.”
The raider he’d been chatting with squirmed as much as their body allowed as Sam pushed the knife down to the hilt.
“The big bad boogeymen of Caesar and friends gets kicked back across the river and now the Bear’s come to settle, you’d target the people with the least to offer would yet give the most they could to ensure you see another day. And that Bear? It decided my services aren’t really needed anymore, claiming law and order will see the day and that us filthy mercenaries and bounty hunters need to seek new means of lining our pockets. Start being good guys.”
Sam slapped a hand over the man’s face as he yanked the knife out of his belly.
“Funny thing is,” he said, “Having seen the behavior of the ‘good guys’, I’m really damn tired of following their lead. Lot of wishful thinking from a bunch that gets cold feet when it comes time to get their hands wet, but are all too eager to put the squeeze on the little people. The Followers however, they don’t fall under this umbrella. Officially, they wouldn’t condone my behavior. Unofficially, they know it to be necessary. Bear won’t help readily help them, so what else can they do? So when one of their own goes missing, I don’t really mind going to bat for them. I appreciate their service, as they appreciate mine.” Sam wiped off his knife on the raider’s chest and tucked it behind his back as he screamed into his hand.
Outside, Sam could hear a ripple of gunfire bouncing off the walls. He sighed and got to his feet.
“I’d say there might be somebody around shortly to see to that problem you gave yourself, but good folks tend to avoid this side of town,” he said as he gathered up his belongings, as well as the doctor coat. Another burst of gunfire rang out, getting closer. “Shame you’ve not got that on anymore,” he nodded to an armored vest tossed against a wall, “Not that it’ll do you much good against what sounds like rifles, but do you really think you deserve such a chance? Still...”
Sam rolled his shoulders and drew the .45 from his hip. The raider was still screaming as he sighted in on his temple and let off a shot.
“Good people don’t prolong suffering.”
With that, Sam ducked outside and skirted along buildings and weaved through alleyways away from the fighting. Chances were good it was NCR, green as could be, trying to clear out the remnants of raiders and fiends. Maybe they’d get lucky and there’d be a ranger offering a more seasoned hand. Either way, chances were also good that they’d mistake Sam for a bad guy.
It was several hours later when Sam got home. Night had fallen, and the lonely street light over the Goodsprings sign beckoned to him. He veered off the road just outside of the light, noting the handful of NCR troops lingering outside the saloon. After disarming the trap on the front door, Sam let himself in his shack and peeled out of his gear, heading straight to the shower. Part of him expected the soldiers to kick in the door and haul him away for what he did today. As he climbed into bed, he braced for the door to crash open and a handful of soldiers to come charging in, weapons drawn. It was possible the soldiers saw him in town, found his mess, put two and two together, and came to dispense truth and justice.
“Tomorrow is always another day, just not for some poor fool.”
Sam curled up in bed with a book and a gun on the bedside table, and eventually dozed off a little before sunrise. After the fight for the Dam, a lot of things had changed, just as a lot of things had stayed the same. There was still need of people like Sam, and he would still be eager to assist them.
I forgot my birthday.
I'm thirty now. My birthday was a few months ago, and I spent it away from the only person I've ever truly cared about. I had tried going home, to our home, just to check on things. Maybe rest, take in the fleeting hints of her scent in the sheets and hope for a pleasant dream or two.
I couldn't even step on the tattered welcome mat, let alone open the door. My gut heaved as my hand reached out for the knob and threatened to reject what little food I had managed to choke down that morning. My bones ached with a constant cold and dull throb, somewhat like the after effects of an adrenaline dump. Fingers sliding over the worn metal conjured up memories of the two of us, of her, strolling home after a day of wandering or a night at the drive-in. The contentment as she pressed against me, my arm over her shoulder or hand in hers, the giggling and teasing and smirking as we both hurried out of our clothes, perhaps aided by the other. It was all too much, the memories crashing over me in waves, threatening to break me down and leave me crumbled on her step.
So, naturally, I determined the best course of action was to crawl into my little hole outside of town and treat myself to a swift libation. Or several.
I mean, that's ok, isn't it? It's not the Prospector. Emma asked me to stop going there so often as apparently people were talking, and while I personally could care less of what some teetotaler thinks of me; their prudish thoughts of judgement and contempt fired from their eyes as they looked down at us less wholesome people, sight of us skittering in the dark obscured by their upturned noses, I still promised her I would spend less time in the local saloon.
I promised her a lot of things.
Like... oh, I promised I'd keep her safe for example.
That went well.
As did my decision to drink rapidly and heavily on an rebellious stomach and minimal sleep.
I found this strange. I'm a well seasoned professional, after all. One little bottle shouldn't put me on the floor, something is amiss. I managed to claw my way across the concrete floor towards the bunk beds, when I heard a strange sound. Something was gurgling... was it raining outside? The previous owners of this little bunker had cobbled together some piping to gather rainwater and funnel it down into some cisterns, and if it rained hard enough, you could hear it. This was different though, it felt more... direct. Focused.
More... personal?
Oh.
Well, that's different.
"Come closer. Sit."
I was reasonably certain I was alone, as nobody really knows about this place... well, nobody alive anyway, and I distinctly recall being on my own when I entered and unscrewed my belated gift. I was also in no condition to fight, so I did as the disembodied voice instructed. Don't get me wrong; I can shoot fairly well drunk, but this was different. All I was able to do was haul myself across the cold floor and slump against a steel bed frame.
"I meant on the bed. But that is alright. Should you stand, you may fall again and injure yourself. And nobody knows about this place, correct? Nobody to come and help you?"
That voice was so familiar, and my head rang as I tried to pin it down.
"Right... there was a log on a terminal from the previous owners, some Desert Ranger types... the ones that didn't die slipped in with the NCR once that treaty of theirs went down... who are you? Where are you?"
"Who I am is irrelevant, as are my whereabouts. You, however, are very relevant. And the things you have done since she left. You have been a bad boy Samedi, have you not?"
The hairs on my neck stood stock still as my eyes cracked open. They found me. My old compatriots. They tracked me across the country and waited for me to come tumbling down the hole, get good and drunk and helpless, so they could put one in my ear. My hand groped for the gun on my hip, only to find an empty holster.
"I... yeah," I sighed, rubbing the leather with a finger tip. "Yeah."
There was a soft chuckling to my side, low and smooth and deep.
"Not going to deny your true name? Interesting. Your weapons are downstairs on the table. Waiting. As I am. Take your time. Although... I am curious. The trunk to your left."
I don't remember getting up, or moving for that matter. But there I was, looking at the trunk in question.
"What about it?"
"It is not the trunk I am interested in. The contents however..."
The lid popped open and I pressed it back down with an unsteady hand. This was getting silly, since when do things just open on their own? The latch on the trunk was sturdy and well oiled, it shouldn't be able to spring open whenever it pleased.
"No? Do you not want what is inside? We both know what is in there. How nice it feels against your shoulder, how your hand envelopes the grip... almost as if it was made just for you..."
I wanted to slam the lid shut. Close the trunk, lock it, weld it, tip it upside down, sit on top. I also felt a growing urge to hit something. But what? There was nothing to strike that wouldn't leave my hand worse for wear.
"No. No need."
More chuckling that echoed inside my head.
"Very well. Downstairs. No rush."
My hand lingered on the chest for a moment before I headed through the armory door. Upstairs was home to weapon storage, munitions and components were down a level.
"Fancy yourself a collector? Strange, you only have two hands, and you know how foolish it is to fill both with a pistol..."
"It'd be a shame to leave the walls bare," I grumbled, firing up a cigarette without a thought. "It gives me something constructive to do. Find something I don't have, repair it as much as I can, maybe toss on a mod or two, stuff it on the wall."
A deep hum reverberated off the walls of the bunker as well as my skull. I could feel it in my bones and my eyes, and I fought down the terrible urge to vomit as I descended the stairs, as the act would surely leave me falling head over ass, showering myself with bile until I lay broken at the bottom. Sure enough, my usual guns were waiting for me, as was the bear.
At least it wasn't wearing my hat or glasses anymore.
"Those are mine, alright. I suppose it's foolish to ask how you got down here..."
"A better question: Is a man the sum of his parts, or is he more than that?"
"I don't fu... I don't know. I was working on a perfectly fine bottle of whisky when you came calling."
My response was met with more humming and a quiet chuckle.
"Yes, I saw. Now, what if the parts change?"
A fancier revolver and a semi automatic rifle, .223 and .308 caliber respectfully.
"Does the man change with them?"
"I don't know! Guns are just tools to me! I use what works or what I feel comfortable with! I might change 'em out if need be, but once I find something that works well, I tend to stick with it!"
"Temper, Samedi. I do not mean to upset you. I'm curious as to why you have the rifle down here, I thought you were not proficient with them?"
"Am I not allowed to try and learn something new? Oh! I should rephrase that to keep the theme going! Is a man not entitled to better himself?! What is this all about, really?"
The walls seemed to press in against me and the pounding in my head intensified. I shut my eyes tight and fought down the bile churning in my gut.
"Flattery will get you nowhere. Mockery will take you places even you cannot return from. Still... interesting that you chose this particular pistol."
"I... yeah, I suppose. I managed to work up a couple of loads for it that give good expansion and penetration, better than the stuff I've seen for sale. The longer than usual barrel adds velocity... why am I even explaining this to you?"
Another hum, softer than before, almost comforting.
"I am well familiar with your firearms, my friend. Why would I not be? Surely you have noticed how observant I am of you. However, a lesser man would make a crude joke following such a statement of penetration. But given your recent... indiscretions with the tribal girl, perhaps you are not feeling a need to compensate for something? Even more interesting is how willing you were to let her penetrate you, and to say nothing of how much you enjoyed it... ah! I guess I am not above crass humor after all..."
I slammed a fist down on the table as I felt my blood begin to boil. This had gone on long enough! Maybe in my haste I had grabbed a bottle of absinthe rather than whisky, and now things were getting weird. It happened, almost without fail, when I drank the stuff.
"It was either that or kill somebody again! Maybe it wouldn't be somebody so deserving of it! Maybe someone I just didn't like the looks of for whatever bullshit reason I came up with! What do you want from me!?"
The room went frigid, and I could feel a terrible pressure over my chest.
"What I want? Why, that is simple my friend. I want you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You spent so long being your own worst enemy, and how many times did it nearly get you killed? You need to start treating yourself better. Sexual needs and wants matter not to me. Wanton violence does not bother me in the least. I only care that you are satisfied regardless of the path you choose. A clear head results in an able body. Do you not remember Quincy? Your mind in a fog, cleared away as the rope grew tight, your breath hitching in your chest and your vision dimming as those on the other side took hold of you? And when you were freed from the gallows, and your clambering out of the burning barrel, do you not remember how focused you were afterwards? You certainly put on a display... what was it, nineteen? Twenty people killed by your hand that night?"
That was it. I was done. The air in my lungs had long since escaped, and the room had begun to tilt and spin.
"Twen... twenty-three... fourteen men, nine women," I stammered, steadying myself on the table with a rubbery arm. Whatever this was, I wanted clear of it. I wanted to wake up in my bed next to Emma. That's all I ever wanted.
"Impressive for a man that was mere minutes away from his end... amazing what you are capable of when you put your mind to it. I fear our time however is at an end. Before we part, I want you to say it."
"It? What? What do you want me to say?" I was drawn to my hat. I knew that if I had it in my hands, I'd be ok. Things were growing dim and distant as I reached out, fingers brushing the brim before I collapsed on the floor.
"You know. The thing you've been wanting to say ever since it happened. Do not play dumb with me, Samedi."
I curled up by the table, clutching my sides.
"I'm..."
"Say it."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let her down. I'm sorry I couldn't help her..."
I could feel a hand brushing my cheek, and the humming had become a quiet sigh.
"That is all I wanted. You may hear from me again, I do not know when. I do hope you are feeling better by then. Please, do take care of yourself, Samedi. If not for yourself, for her. As you know, without her, the alternative is... well. You can figure it out."
"You may think you will not remember this night, but you will."
Celebrate Father’s Day by bonding with your dad through the age old art of patricide.
tagged by: @awildthing i can’t say no to a y’all’d’ve tagging: whoever wants to partake of these humble memes
WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE? You gonna get them lavender and sage brush scents all up in mixed with leather and gunpowder. YOU TOO can smell (kinda) like this as he makes his own soap! Also whiskey on his breath semi-frequently, go wash your mouth out Sam sheesh :( Sometimes he’s also got a weird smell about him from those funny cigarettes of his, ask him about this and he’ll share :V
HOW OFTEN DOES YOUR MUSE BATHE/SHOWER? ANY HABITS?
Shower each morning and night as he still can’t bring himself to get dirt in the sheets even though Emma is long gone :( He’ll wash his hair twice a week or so, as doing it daily really uses up the soap.
ANY BODY MOVEMENT QUIRKS? (E.G. KNEE SHAKES?)
Lotta finger wiggling when he’s thinking, like he’s spinning an invisible pen or coin and will randomly pause, then pick right up where he left off. Oddly enough, he only does this with his left hand. If he’s talking to someone he’s not quite sure of, he’ll tap his ring finger on the pistol on his hip. Lotta sniffing, too. Just randomly SNIFF, maybe lick his lips a bit.
WHAT DO THEY SLEEP IN?
Nothin’ at all, nothin’ at all, nothin’ at all
WHAT’S THEIR FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING?
His hat and purple neckerchief. He feels the former is lucky, and the neckerchief reminds him of Emma. He keeps the ring she gave him under it ssshhh big secret
WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY WAKE UP?
Get a shower, and then get that heckin’ breakfast goin my dudes. Gecko eggs, SPICY blood sausage, toast, and prickly pear tea. If he’s got a lot to do that day though, he’ll make coffee with a lot of honey mesquite. Chow d o w n
HOW DO THEY SLEEP? POSITION?
If he’s feeling good, he’ll sleep on his stomach. Most of the time however he ends up flat on his back. Bad times see him sleeping in a chair behind the door with his shotgun in his lap :( He’s a light sleeper either way, but doesn’t have much trouble drifting off again if something wakes him up.
Also he loves being the little spoon. Hold him tight, stroke his hair, nudge yaself into he booty (makes finger guns @blackeyed-mile :V)
WHAT DO THEIR HANDS FEEL LIKE?
Soft hand Sam fully endorses brahmin tallow for all your hand moisturizing needs. He’s got smooth bony paws :V
IF YOU KISSED THEM, WHAT WOULD THEY USUALLY TASTE LIKE?
Hope you like lavender toothpaste with the occasional undertones of and whiskey and/or rum and nuka cola. Get him at breakfast for that delicious prickly pear flavor

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Sam, offering counsel: When I’m in a dark place, I ask myself: What would Joshua Graham do?
Person: *squints* ...wasn’t he a Legate?
Sam: That kind of slander is uglier than the south end of a northbound molerat, partner *puts a .45 in their hand* Through the Burned Man, all things are possible
When Easy Pete dies, Sam will take his place as the fixture on the Prospector’s porch but will be far easier to convince to dole out ordnance
Random wanderer: MISTER HELP SOME BADDIES ARE AFTER ME
Sam: *hands them a detonator* Let them chase you over that ridge, I packed it full of explosives last spring and it’ll look super cool
Wanderer: ...well shit alright
Sam: *thumbs open a beer* I love fireworks B)
alternatively: Wanderer: *furiously making molotov cocktails as they storm out of the bar*
Sam: You should put soap inside so they get gooey and sticky
Wanderer: who in the shit
Sam: I like it hot B)