Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12152634.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      Fallout_4, Fallout_3
  Relationship:
      Sadie_(Original_Character)/Pickman, Sadie_(Original_Character)/Hancock,
      Sadie_(Original_Character)/Arthur_Maxson, Sadie_(Original_Character)/
      Gage, Potential_for_more_later
  Character:
      Sadie_(Original_Character), Pickman_(Fallout), Arthur_Maxson, John
      Hancock_(Fallout), Paladin_Danse_(Fallout), Porter_Gage, Jackson_Blaze_
      (Original_Character)
  Additional Tags:
      Sadie_gets_into_trouble_a_lot, Snippets, Raiders, Nuka_World, Paladin
      Danse_-_Freeform, force, Non-Consensual, But_Kinda_Consensual, Obsession,
      Survivial, Drug_Abuse, Drug_Addiction, good_times_with_ghouls, Rape, all
      tags_will_come_into_play_eventually
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-21 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2794
****** Scattered Tales Of A (Sometimes) Former Raider ******
by EgoDominusTuus
Summary
     The somewhat scattered tales of a particular (sometimes) former
     raider named Sadie Blaze. Of course, if you use her last name, she
     just might have to kill you.
     ---
     Also known as, author is writing snippets and bits of her shenanigans
     with her raider character, Sadie Blaze.
Notes
     These stories won't necessarily be in order. I'm enjoying myself and
     getting back into writing by having daily sprints in the form of
     "What did Sadie get into today" while I'm playing Fallout 4! I hope
     you enjoy!
     ---
Sometimes, I caught myself crying, and I hated it. I'd been taught from a young
age that crying was just a contention of weakness, and if people thought you
were weak, they'd exploit you for it. But sometimes... I couldn't help it.
Sometimes, the Commonwealth was just so overwhelming that I found myself
curling in the first safe place that I could find and letting my emotions out
by way of silent tears, with my sniper rifle curled up against my chest like
some lethal teddy bear.
Lethal teddy bears were a thing - I'd learned that with the raiders. I'd
learned a lot of things during my time with those bloodthirsty bastards, and
none of it had done me a damn bit of good.
I'd learned that 11 years old was old enough to kill someone, and that going
through puberty and having the misfortune of being pretty and charming was a
disadvantage when you were part of a group of deadly killers.
I'd learned at 16 years old that running away and risking death and being
hunted down by the aforementioned group was better than being sexual bait for
the unsuspecting people of the Commonwealth.
And I'd learned at 17 years old that I was fairly decent at doing quite a few
things, but I wasn't really good at much of anything, other than sneaking.
Other than hiding. Other than self-preservation.
I learned to dye my crimson hair pitch, because black hair didn't draw as much
attention as flaming locks. I learned that Raider paint was a deterrent to
people bothering you... so I kept the marks around my eyes, even though I
wasn't a part of their group anymore.
I learned that the scars that I'd gotten in punishment for my defiance to the
raiders weren't a deterrent to attention. In fact, people were curious about
the jagged edges that ran all along the side of my face, they wanted to askme
about it... because they didn't understand how such a pretty young thing with
aqua eyes and a delicate face, such a small girl who didn't even march past 5
feet... managed to look so ragged and rough.
They thought I was something that I wasn't - they didn't know that sometimes I
still missed my mark with my sniper rifle because my fingers shook and I was
silently praying that my chameleon armor would keep me invisible to malicious
eyes.
I'd learned all of these things, but I'd never learned how to stop being
afraid, and I'd never learned how to stop being angry.
My father was a druggie in our little town, and he'd knocked my mother up in an
event that I wasn't completely sure was consensual - but everyone knew who my
Daddy was, because aside from my aqua eyes, I looked exactly like my half-
brother.
I looked exactly like Jack.
Everyone remembered Jackson Blaze, because he'd brought trade and prosperity to
our little town. Everyone remembered my big brother, because Jack had murdered
my father and his mother when he was a child, and left the town without a word.
Everyone remembered Jackson Blaze, because even though I knew nothing about him
- I'd been so young at the time - as I'd grown into my looks... they could see
him in me.
I didn't know if they were expecting the same things from me as him, or if it
was simply a curse of the looks that our father had given us. Whatever it was,
eyes started watching me; people started watching me. The only problem was, I
didn't have the skill set that my big brother had clearly had.
I only knew how to run - I only knew how to hide. I left our little settlement
when I was eleven years old, because they'd had expectations.
I'd heard stories about how Jack had left with the Gunners - somehow, he and I
were two sides of a coin, and I was the side that was always going to lose... I
wasn't picked up by the militant, efficient gunners. I was picked up by a
ragtag group of raiders who recognized looks and semi-talent when they saw it.
I killed my first person when I was eleven years old, and I'd thrown up
afterward and cried the whole night, while the raiders around me laughed.
As I grew, my crimson hair and aqua eyes easily caught the attention of my
group - they'd kept me safe and alive up until that point, though we'd been
attacked enough times that I'd lost more people than I could count; I'd pulled
my lifesaver from the first man that I'd killed on my own. Chameleon armor; if
you stood still, if you were very careful, you were invisible.
It was what had saved me more often than not.
But it couldn't save me from the people who saw me every day - from the people
who noticed my full lips and my fiery hair. It couldn't save me from wandering
hands and drunken assaults both day and night.
I was sixteen when I'd decided that I had enough - I was sixteen when the
raiders decided that they wanted to take their show of rape out on the road,
and make me seduce unknowing victims so that we could loot and steal their
belongings.
I was sixteen and terrified, but I ran anyway. It was a self-imposed exile, and
it was all that I could do to keep myself safe. I'd snuck into our little
arsenal, taken a knife, a shotgun, and a sniper rifle... and I'd left
everything else behind.
I wandered for a while, unsure of where to go - I hid in broken buildings and
alleys, and I hoped that the former group that had been my fucked up family
thought that I was dead.
I hoped that they forgot that if I was anything, I was too lucky to die; or
maybe too unlucky... I still debated that on some days.
It was a few days after my seventeenth birthday that I wandered up towards a
place that I'd heard of called Goodneighbor - I'd heard that it was a town for
anyone who didn't fit in, a place for the ragtag and the down on their luck...
It sounded just about right.
But something else had caught my eye - a building that I'd ducked into for
cover, after I'd heard the sound of raiders approaching. A building that was
filled with the most interesting artwork I'd ever seen in my entire life.
I wasn't usually one for violence, but there was something about the art that
hung on the dilapidated walls that caught me, that spoke to me. I wanted to
turn and run, but at the same time, I couldn't help but to go deeper into the
house. Whoever had created this art might have been there, after all... and I
wanted to meet them. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was
painted in blood, and I could tell from the scattered bodies that it was raider
blood.
It was one of the few times that I was allowing my curiosity to get the better
of me, and I was just hoping that it was going to be worth it, because I could
hear the raiders deeper in the house. Shouting, furious. Something was going on
here, and I couldn't quite understand what it was. There were dead bodies
everywhere, displayed as though whoever had put them there had given it
thought.
I should have been terrified, and I was... but I was also burning with a need
to know that I couldn't deny. My bravery sure as hell picked odd times to raise
its head - I’d been trembling only moments ago, and I still was… but I wasn’t
sure that it was altogether from fear; it was something about the art,
something about the violence of it. It spoke to me.
With a sigh, I knelt low to the ground and pulled out my rifle, hoping that I
could simply sneak through the house and that I didn't need to use it.
It was easy enough to follow the string of bodies and shouting to the
passageway that led to the lower depths of the house. It was just as easy to
snipe the raiders that were in my way and evade the ones that I could.
What wasn't easy was stopping the thundering in my heart when I finally came to
the end of my journey. The man who stood, surrounded by raiders was beautiful
in a nearly disturbing way, with his dark hair pulled back and his slender body
adorned in a suit. I could see a mixture of insanity and genius dancing across
his features, and I instantly knew that he was the man who had been painting
art with raider blood.
There was a part of me that realized I was his subject matter; at least, I sure
as hell looked like I still was.
Another part of me realized that if I didn't do something, the men around him
were probably going to overpower him. With a small sigh and my body conflicting
with my common sense, I raised my rifle again and started to fire shots.
The crack of my gun was enough to garner the attention of the men in the room,
and I could tell that there was a bit of fury on their faces when they realized
that all of the forces infiltrating the house weren't on their side. It didn't
matter though - I actually raise my head so they could see who I was; see that
I was a raider look-alike. A part of me was thrilled that I was finally getting
some revenge on the people who had made my life a living hell, but I couldn’t
focus on that part.  I wanted dissension in their group. I needed them confused
for a moment so that when I aimed my rifle again, the leader of their group’s
head spattered into so much crimson and thicker things.
The distraction was enough that the man in the suit, the beautiful man, raised
his gun as well and took aim. Together we made quick work of them... and
together, we cleared the room. A part of me wanted to turn tail and run - a
part of me knew that it would be a better idea if I did. After all, I looked
like a raider. I had on a black Brotherhood of Steel jumpsuit, but I had the
hairstyle of a raider, and the face markings of a raider.
I even had the scars that made me look far tougher than I actually was.
But I didn't back away. Instead, I jumped down. The man came forward in a few
quick strides, and I could see the flash of a blade in his hand. I wasn't sure
if he meant to attack, but he stopped suddenly, a flicker of something
registering through his blue eyes.
"You're..." He tilted his head, examining me and stepping closer, bringing the
silver blade up as he did. It touched my throat, and my heart jerked hard into
my chest. I could taste my pulse on the back of my tongue, and I wasn't sure if
it was that or his proximity that made it hard for me to breathe. I wasn't sure
about anything... other than the fact that he wasn't pulling the blade against
my flesh.
He was looking at my face as though he was dissecting each and every feature,
and whatever answer he came up with caused a slow smile to curl across his full
lips.
"You're his sister."
My stomach suddenly felt cold. He was looking at me the way that he was because
of Jack.
A part of me registered the fact that being Jack's sister could have very well
saved my life... but I didn't want to thank him for anything. That, and I was
far too distracted with the way that cool amusement danced across the man's
face.
I spoke softly, feeling the touch of sharp metal against my throat as I did so.
Still so close.
"You're the artist?" And I knew that my reverence was clear in my voice.
"You sound like you enjoy what I've done to your... companions." His nose
crinkled as he said the word, as though it were filthy.
My mouth worked for a moment, the feel of the blade still pressing against my
throat causing me to shiver for a second. "I'm not a raider."
One dark brow arched, and he gave me a patronizing look. "Being Jack's blood
won't help you if you're going to lie to me." And then, softer, "He never
mentioned that he had a sister."
I scowled at the mention of my half brother's name, and carefully spoke. "They
picked me up when I was younger, but I left a soon as I could. The paint and
hair keeps people from asking too many questions." I was trying to sound
tougher than I actually was - inside, I was a tumultuous mixture of fear and
excitement that was almost too overwhelming.
He lifted his gaze to the mohawk that I wore, and his head tilted slowly. One
hand came up, and his fingers grabbed at the dark strands. He pulled tight, but
it only took me a second to realize what he was actually doing.
The dark dye came away on his fingers, and the strands that fell limp came back
red. His eyes were transfixed for a moment on that crimson color, and then he
let the knife drop from my throat.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to take a deep breath or collapse against the floor.
I settled for leaning against the wall so that he wouldn't be able to see
exactly how weak my knees were.
"Why did you help me?" His voice was dreamy but analytical all at once, as
though he lived in whatever world he conjured up with his paintings, but his
questions were far too pressing not to be asked. "Do you know who I am?" And
then, more, "Did Jack tell you?"
Clearly, my damn brother had gotten to this man before I had ever even heard of
him. He had that same besotted, obsessed expression that most people did when
they were referring to him... I wanted to change the subject, wanted to scowl
at the mention of him. Instead, I sighed.
"Jack," I hissed his name out, "Doesn't even know that I exist. He didn't
bother to ask before he killed my father and  ran off the way that he did."
The man's eyes widened, and something mixed between interest and a blossoming
idea formed in their depths. "Oh, that is interesting."
I wasn't sure as to what was so interesting about that... I wasn't sure as to
why the mention of the fact that Jack had no idea that I existed could prove at
all useful, but he seemed to be pleased.
"I love your art." I blurted the words out to change the subject off of Jack,
and the man tilted his head again. Before he could call me out for sounding
like some idiot, I continued. "I've never seen anything like it... but it's
so..." I searched for a word, finally landing on one that didn't seem adequate,
but was as close as I could get. "Visceral."
That was about right. I wanted to say more, but I didn't know how to phrase it.
For a few moments, he simply stared at me, and I had forever to realize how
lovely his eyes were - I had all of that time to also realize that there was
something cold inside of them, half dead. There was some part of him that had
been damaged a long time ago, and it was that part that allowed him to create
the art that he did.
Whatever that part of him was, I wanted to reach out and touch it. I was again
made starkly aware of the fact that I had picked a very, very idiotic time to
be brave, but I couldn't help it.
I couldn't take it back now, even if I'd wanted to. I was standing in front of
him, and I wanted to follow him to wherever he was going next.
I didn't even know his name.
"I'm Sadie," I said the words just as quickly as I had the compliment to his
art, but this time it elicited a response.
"I'm... Pickman." And his lips curled into a smile as he took my hand and
raised it carefully to his lips - suave, debonair, refined... and leaving
behind a faint smear of crimson in wake of the kiss.
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