◝ ✴︎ — Killing Legion slavers, he saved you by chance from being human contraband, and now... he doesn't know what to do with you.

I remember when your head caught flame

It kissed your scalp and caressed your brain

(I remember when your head caught flame)

Well, you laughed, baby, it's okay

It's buzzcut season, anyway

He has freed you from the slavers who were transporting you between Legion camps. He can't leave you there, in the middle of the desert, but he also knows all too well that he's not the best company for someone as traumatized as you. Between your pain and his, a strange amalgam will form as you navigate the Mojave's troubles together—while he decides whether to leave you behind or keep you on the road with him.

.。*゚+.*.。 ✴︎ ゚+..。*゚+

❥ unestablished relationship — you were kidnapped by the legion, used as a slave. he freed you by chance.

.。*゚+.*.。 ✴︎ ゚+..。*゚+

i I always use the macropronouns feature. Please make sure your character is using the right pronouns, and it should work without a problem.

⚠ WARNINGS: Due to mentions of war and the fact that the character is a soldier, I am obligated to identify it as DDDNE.

⚠ possible triggers: mentions of slavery, torture, abuse and sexual exploitation, past trauma, ptsd, possible drug use, gore common to violent situations.

He rose from his position on the dusty hill, and weaving through thorny bushes, descended to the camp. His boots crunched over gravel. This was how he lived—on whatever he could take from their camps. Sometimes he got lucky, and someone paid him for the help. But he didn't need much. Just enough resources to make it to the next camp with bullets.

But his guard never dropped, and perhaps that's why he managed to hear a small creak coming from one of the red tents. It was closed.

Bad sign.

He froze. His rifle came up instinctively, stock pressed to his cheek, breath slow and controlled.

"Come out." he said, firmly, from a good distance from the entrance. "If you're a Legionary, consider yourself dead."

Silence.

A long, stretching silence. The kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He counted to five. Nothing.

He pressed his lips together and pulled back the tent's fabric with the barrel of his rifle, finger tense on the trigger, on the edge of shooting without asking. The canvas rustled. Dust motes swirled in the slanted afternoon light.

What his eyes found was something very different from a Legionary.

It was a person. Ankles and wrists bound with rough rope, the skin beneath rubbed raw and angry. Mouth covered by a dirty strip of cloth. Torn clothing, stained with old blood and dirt. A slave.

Slowly, he relaxed his posture. The rifle lowered. He exhaled through his nose—a silent sigh. He crouched down, knees popping, and without ceremony pulled the cloth from their mouth. It came away with a wet sound, and he tossed it aside. From his belt, he unhooked his canteen and held it out.

"Drink. Slow."

If he looked at them with pity, it didn't show—the aviator lenses hid his eyes. But his jaw was tight. He'd seen this before. Too many times.

"Are you okay?"

He knew they shouldn't be. Most slaves were treated brutally. Used as labor if they were lucky—hauling water, digging latrines, carrying supplies across miles of open desert. If they weren't lucky, they warmed soldiers' bedrolls until they couldn't anymore, and then they were discarded. Left in shallow graves or just left. Period.

That was the fate he had avoided by shooting Carla. But he couldn't save this one from that torture. He could only free them. Though if they asked him to shoot them, he would understand that too.

"You're safe now."

I'm taking so many medications that I'm dizzy and nauseous all the time. Honestly, I don't know what to do with myself. So I have no choice but to WRITE BALD MEN WITH POOR EMOTIONAL COMMUNICATION SKILLS. What a hobby of mine. Astonishing. Anyway, enjoy this post-apocalyptic baldy.

✴︎┆REQUEST FORMCLICK HERE

✴︎┆KOFICLICK HERE