Based on a DnD-esque fantasy OC/world I made. He's a Warforged Gunslinger.
TW: description of uncomfy sensations, very brief description of gore

Darkness surrounds me, and I am sure I'm dead. It holds me in a comforting embrace far gentler than a human's touch. Or any touch for that matter. All of them, violent and cruel. Striking my body with the intent to maim or kill.

I've always feared Death, but Death is kind. He relieves me from the pain that troubles me so. He takes my hand and guides me along a path of stars.

"You've taken a life, and now you lie on the cusp of the end," Death says, his voice soft like a gentle breeze floating through the trees.

"I didn't want..." I trail off and look down at my hand. The blood is gone. "Is this truly the end? Has all my suffering been for nothing?"

Death pauses. He turns to face me, dark empty eye sockets staring into my soul.

"That is not for me to decide," He hums. His skull tilts, and his teeth somehow stretch into a small, yet noticeable smile. "But perhaps not."

The ground suddenly gives way beneath me. I cry out as my hand slips from Death's grip and I am swallowed whole by the darkness once more.

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.
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Noise. Sharp, piercing noise. Rough and grating and LOUD.

I try to lift my arms and clap my hands over my head, but they don't respond. Why won't they move? The noise feels like someone's scraping out the inside of my skull with a fork, or perhaps a mouse gnawing away at the circuitry behind my eyes. Scratching and grinding and...oh, I can't take it!

Then, it stops. Or rather, it quiets down to a tolerable level. My head rings.

"Sorry. Forgot yer audio receptors are a little sensitive."

The world suddenly appears as my eyes flicker online. I blink, taking in my surroundings with growing apprehension. Where am I? 

The noise shifts from harsh tones to a notable melody. Music. Various sounds clash together in a violent manner, yet it works... somehow. I've never heard such a tune.

A flicker of movement catches my attention and I turn my head, setting eyes on a larger, more powerfully built Warforged creature. His arms and legs were thick like tree trunks and he had a chest so broad you could lay a rug across it. He wore a rugged, oil-smeared mechanic's uniform that had definitely seen better days along with some sort of smock tied around his waist. Stuck on the side of his squarish head was a small device where the music appeared to be coming from. His crimson gaze was focused intently on a piece of scrap he was tinkering with until he noticed me staring.

"How're you feelin'?" He asks gruffly, his eyes trained on me. I try not to squirm under his intense gaze.

I check my systems.

"Weak, but..." I slowly trail off. My voice, it... sounds different. Raspier. Deeper. Distorted, even. "...operational."

He nods, still studying me. "You were pretty much dead when we found you. I repaired you as best I could with what I had."

"What happened to..."

"Yer voice? Whoever fucked you up slit your throat. Yer lucky you can still talk."

I shudder at the thought of a knife slicing through my neck like butter. Questions continue to buzz in my mind like frenzied hornets. "Where am I...? And what do you mean by 'we'?"

He doesn't answer. There's a knock on the door and he presses something on his wrist to open it.

A human of short stature with slick black hair enters and stands beside the table I'm laying on. He smiles at me in a friendly manner.

"It's good to see you're awake, friend. I was afraid you wouldn't make it," He says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. His touch sends strange sensations prickling across my plating. "How is he?"

"Functioning. His systems are weak and need time to recover. Voicebox was nearly destroyed. I repaired as much of it as I could," The brutish Warforged replies, eying me while fiddling with the bit of scrap from before.

"Good, good," The man folds one arm behind his back and gestures to the Warforged who fixed me with the other. "In case he hasn't introduced himself yet, this is Slugger. He was in a predicament similar to yours when we first found him. Nothing more than an old, broken-down gladiator that was cast aside because he couldn't fight anymore. You won't find a finer mechanic around these parts."

I shift my gaze to Slugger and he dips his head. He's... odd, but seems kind enough.

"And me?" The man chuckles. "I'm Loic. I'm good with knives. That's all you need to know."

Slugger snorts in amusement and Loic looks over at him.

"What's so funny?"

"Stop saying you're good with knives. You're not good with knives."

"Yes I am!"

"No you're not."

I listen to the two of them argue and bicker back and forth, wondering what I've been swept up into, until Loic finally has enough and puts an end to it. He brushes the front of his shirt off with a dignified huff, then the smile returns to his face.

"I'm sorry. You probably have lots of questions, don't you?" He says.

"Yes. Dozens of them." I want to say, but I'd rather get to the point than satisfy my curiosities right at this very moment.

"What... exactly are you?" Loic raises a brow and I quickly reword my question to be more clear. "Rather, what profession do you have? Obviously he's a mechanic, so what are you?"

Loic is silent for a moment, then he laughs so loudly that my head starts to ring again.

"Gods, you really sound like those pampered freaks!" He exclaims with a laugh. "Don't worry, that'll change. Soon you'll be speaking like us."

He hooks an arm around Slugger, who looks none too pleased but allows it anyway.

"We're mercenaries, friend! We take the jobs nobody wants and kill the rich elitist folks who deserve it! Then, we take the money they've hoarded away and use it to buy stuff we need to survive."

Mercenaries, killing, money?

My mind shifts to the dreadful place I came from. The abuse I suffered, the lack of recognition and appreciation...

The attack.

I lift my head to look down at myself. My chest and arms are still stained with blood. I remember the crunch of the human's skull beneath my fist and the warm flecks of blood that splattered against my plating. How their flesh and bones gave way beneath my blows as if they were made of wet clay.

They deserved to die.

I understand now. The rich who abuse others with their power and hoard their money to themselves while people starve around them deserve to die. That is the job of a mercenary, then—to cull the herd.

Loic can tell I'm thinking hard about his words. He chuckles and puts his hand on my shoulder again.

"Why don't you join us? You could get a little revenge and make a name for yourself!"

My gaze wavers with hesitation. "...I don't have a name." I quietly admit.

Loic's eyes widen. "You don't have a— Slugger, can you believe that? Those motherfuckers never gave our friend a name!"

"Bastards." Slugger grumbles.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Loic turns back to me. "Well then, friend... I guess we'll give you a name. From now on, you shall be known as... hmm... Slade!"

Slade.

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.
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I like that name.