WARNING: Coarse language in this chapter, but nothing too overwhelming. I may change the rating to M if I decide to include some more violent or sexual themes, but for now it's just rated T.
This story was inspired by a journal entry found in Saugus Ironworks about several inductees who were "fed to the Forge" just for having a conscience… yeesh.
I've always struggled to believe that all raiders are "bad" people; after all, people just do what they need to do to survive. I was hesitant to write a fanfic about the more human and compassionate side of raiders since I may be ridiculed for it, but that one entry spurred me into action.
Hope you enjoy this little introductory chapter :)

Prologue

The sharp whistling of hot, gritty wind. Scritch. The muted pops of gunfire firing off somewhere not so far in the distance. Scritch. The blood-curling screams as unspeakable horrors were being wrought on unsuspecting - scritch. And above all, the ravenous, booming roars of the Forge. Always, the Forge.

A gentle crackle filled the air, followed by a triumphant cry, as the man propped up against the cool metal of the wall lit a worn match. It had taken a few tries and a scorched forefinger - for once he thanked God he had undergone the Trials or that would've hurt like a bitch - but he had finally gotten the damned match to light using an emery board he had scavenged a couple weeks back. He'd pried it from the cold, stiff fingers of the remnants of a woman whose face was mangled such that it had been nothing but a rotting, bloody, gaping hole.

He hadn't touched the nail file for days afterwards.

But then life went on and he found himself itching for the comfort of burned tobacco curling pleasantly in his lungs and mouth and relieving the stress of the day - whatever it happened to be. There was always something, whether it was keeping watch around the perimeter in the dead of night, working the blazing furnaces all day, holding another failure's mouth open to make way for the molten iron Anvil would pour down the screaming man's throat, ripping another's desperate hands from the railings leading to the open area above the Forge or, worst of all, beating down the memories of an old life gone by. That used to be a constant battle.

It was a simple fact of life that need overruled sentiment, that letting emotions or the tiny little voice in your head get the better of you was no different than shoving the barrel of a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. Perhaps it was even worse. Through blades and burns and bruises and blood he had learned the proper way - the only way - to survive. Through the Trials he had emerged honed, whittled to stone-cold perfection. Who he had been before didn't and couldn't matter. From that day on, he was Blaze. Just Blaze. Only Blaze.

"Told you it would come in handy," he called out over his shoulder as he cupped the precious wavering flame and raised it to the frayed end of his cigarette.

"Congratu-fucking-lations. You got yourself a smoke. Wanna actually do something useful now and take over? Been standing here for hours."

"Jeez. Get off my ass, Splint. I'm coming."

A half-amused chuckle came from above. "Ha. Now ain't that a pretty picture."

After a few long drags of bliss, he pushed himself off the wall and made his way to the stairwell. He stuck the half-burned cigarette between his lips and picked up the assault rifle resting against the lit brazier. With a loud exhale, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and clambered up the stairs. When he reached the top he lightly whacked the man standing watch upside the head.

"Mind's always in the gutters with you. Can't be healthy," he said around the cigarette in his mouth.

"You're one to talk. Those things'll kill you, you know." The man turned his attention back to the barren expanse of land stretching for miles on end like a gigantic open grave. "Mind you, what won't?"

Splint was the closest thing to a friend he had - if friend meant anything like the person who had been chained down next to you so close you could feel his anguished screams reverberating in your chest and who sometimes ate night rations at the same table as you. At an impressive six feet tall with a well-built frame, he had obviously chosen the name Splint as a joke. Had it not been for his natural strength and marksmanship, Blaze knew the boss would've gouged his eyes out and branded the insides of his eyelids or thrown him in the furnaces alive for that.

There was always some kind of punishment being meted out, and it always had something to do with fire.

"Hey," a gruff voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "I'd pay attention if I were you. Nighttime's when the snipers come out to play. You remember Flicker? Nice tits, ass to die for - shame she had such an ugly nose… One who decorated this lovely part of the floor here?" He pointed with the tip of his shoe at the massive rust-coloured stain beneath their feet.

"Sniped. Head came clean off. Guess what shift she was on." He paused to clap a hand over Blaze's arm. "Night one."

Blaze shouldered his way past him. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath.

"If I come back and see your severed head on the floor, you know I'm gonna let you rot, right?" He quipped, already halfway down the stairs. "No fucking way I'm touching your corpse."

The shadow of a smile flickered across his face as he blew out another puff of smoke. "Yeah, I know."

The tendrils billowed and twisted in the air, writhing tormentedly under the unabating battering of the wind. He watched as they grew fainter and fainter until finally they dissipated into nothingness.

"Another boring night of guard duty," he said out loud to no one in particular.