Salvatore
Dave's footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as he deliberately approaches Kirk, who sits rigid in the chair, still processing everything from their heated conversation. The sunlight slants through half-drawn blinds, casting bars of shadow across Kirk's face.
“Kirk,” he speaks calmly, almost too calmly, as he kneels before him, close enough that Kirk can smell whiskey on his breath. “Listen to me very carefully: You’re gonna call Metallica’s manager. I still got his number. You’re gonna tell him you want to talk to James. And you’re gonna tell James exactly what I say.”
“What- what are-”
“I mean you’re gonna tell them you quit. You don’t want to be part of Metallica anymore. You don’t ever want to see any of them again,” Dave says simply, coldly.
Kirk’s expression goes rigid. “Dave, I can’t... I-”
It's not Dave's words that interrupt Kirk's protests, it's the revolver that rises from Dave's hip, almost lazily, until it rests against Kirk's kneecap. An intimate gesture. “Yes you can. You will do exactly as I say.”
Kirk shakes his head, and says quietly: “Dave, please-"
"My mom's a housekeeper. She told me once, about this old guy she met who was bedridden. He couldn't walk without excruciating pain, 'cause he'd been shot in the kneecap. You know what happens when someone shoots you in the kneecap, Kirk? The bullet doesn't just go through. It ricochets around inside, turns the bone to powder. If you're lucky enough to walk again, you'll never get rid of the limp." Dave's voice remains conversational, as if discussing the weather. "And that's just to start."
Kirk stays quiet, shaking his head slowly.
"Yeah, I really wouldn't like to shoot you, Kirk. I'm not a psycho, and quite frankly, I don't really have much interest in hurting you like that. But I'll have to do it if you don't listen to me."
Dave's eyes are piercing through Kirk's soul. His expression and voice are soft; all too soft despite that roughness of his words and actions.
Dave licks his lips. "You'll do it. Is it clear?"
"I can't!" Kirk chokes out, immediately regreting raising his voice to Dave.
Dave stands up, shaking his head. The barrel leaves Kirk's kneecap. "You are one stubborn little fucker, aren't you?" His voice rises. "Are you tryna make me mad, Kirk?"
"D-Dave, this band is the only good thing that has happened to me in so long,” Kirk begs, trying to fight back the tears in his eyes, but Dave only kept shaking his head. “Please, Dave, you can’t make me-”
Dave’s hand shots out, and punches Kirk. “You will, Kirk,” he growls. “You’ll do it, or things are gonna get a whole lot worse for you.”
Kirk’s throat tightens. He knows Dave isn’t joking. He's seen the rage in Dave’s eyes, the madness, and that could probably be only the tip of the iceberg.
"The phone's right there," Dave says, nodding towards the phone next to the hallway. "All you have to do is make the call."
Dave reaches for the key in his pocket and uncuffs Kirk. The sudden freedom should feel like relief, but it doesn't. The room has become a different kind of prison.
"Stand up."
Kirk doesn't move just yet, he keeps shaking his head slowly, looking for mercy in Dave’s eyes; naturally, he doesn't find any.
“Kirk, I’m not gonna fuckin’ ask you again,” Dave says, pointing the revolver at Kirk, but the threat in his voice is unmistakable. “Get the fuck up.”
Metallica won't mean shit if you're dead. Or bedridden.
Kirk rises on unsteady legs. Dave guides him towards the phone, one hand on his shoulder, the revolver pressed against the small of his back. These two leave him from a couple of seconds, then lay on him again, and Kirk thinks it was just his imagination.
"Dial the number," Dave commands. He shows Kirk the number written down of a crumpled paper. The poster he'd tore away from that light pole.
Every fiber of Kirk's being screams at him to resist, to find a way out. But the cold metal of the revolver pressing into the back of his head reminds him of his new reality.
Kirk's fingers tremble as he punches in the numbers Dave had written down. The receiver feels unexpectedly heavy as he lifts it to his ear.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
"Hello?" The voice is distant, normal, belonging to a world that seems increasingly unreal to Kirk.
“Hi, uh, it's- it’s Kirk, I-” he takes a deep breath. “I need to talk to... James,” he says with the steadiest voice possible, but still can't help his voice cracking with the dread sinking deeper into his bones.
“Kirk? O-okay, one second.”
Dave leans in close, his breath hot against Kirk’s ear. “Tell him everything I said,” he whispers. “And be fuckin’ cool. I don’t want no tears or anything.”
“Kirk?” James was on the other side now. “What- Where the hell have you been? ”
“James, I... I’m quitting Metallica. I don’t want to be part of the band anymore.” Dave smirks gently behind him, satisfaction flickering in his eyes as he watches Kirk deliver the message.
“What?” James asked, confused. “What do you mean? Why? Why do you wanna quit?”
“Doesn’t matter why, James. I just don’t wanna be part of the band anymore. Don’t wait for me.”
"No, this doesn't make any sense. What's going on? Are you-"
"Nothing's going on," Kirk interrupts, Dave's breath on his neck making his skin crawl. "I just don't want to be part of the band anymore. That's all."
Dave's hand squeezes his shoulder. A reminder.
"I don't want to see any of you again," Kirk adds the final nail.
Dave takes the phone from Kirk's hand and hangs up without waiting for an answer.
Dave laughs out loud. "Shit! That was beautiful," he says, sliding the revolver into his waistband. "Really fucking beautiful."
Kirk stands motionless, staring at the phone. His lifeline has been severed. He's never felt so completely alone.
"You know what the funny thing is?" Dave asks. "They'll probably just let you go. Just like they did with me. They'll find another guitarist by tomorrow."
Kirk feels the tears welling up in his eyes, but he wipes them away quickly, trying to maintain what little composure he has left.
Dave’s hand raises to rest lightly on his shoulder, almost comforting in a way, but Kirk could feel something else behind it.
“You did good, now the fuck calm down.” Dave says, his tone almost gentle for a brief moment. He steps back, watching Kirk with the cruelest satisfaction. He told Kirk to calm down, but he can see the tension in his body, the confusion, and the pain. It was all too easy to make him feel small, to make him feel like there was no escape, no hope.
"Hey, don’t worry, you can be a part of my band now. No more Metallica. They’re done with you, and now, you’ll be with me, how's that sound?"
Dave doesn't know if that's true; he hasn't even heard Kirk play yet, and he expects him not to be that good of a guitarist. But it's funny to imagine Kirk quitting Metallica only to be in Megadeath.
How would the guys react to that?
Kirk looks away, his eyes downcast, as if trying to hide the pain and the shame. Dave can almost feel it radiating off of him; the resignation, the helplessness. It thrills him in a way that he can’t quite explain, but it's there, pulsing inside him, making him feel something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Control.
It's not nice to see Kirk's discomfort, but even so, Dave feels a flicker of a satisfaction curling deep inside his chest. He's the one calling the shots now. He has power over Kirk, and fuck if it's not intoxicating. He has him in the palm of his hand now. There's no more Metallica, no more big band, no more competition. There's just him now.
And in the quiet of his room, when Dave went to sleep, with Kirk Hammett tied up and gagged in his living room, he allowed himself a moment of reflection.
It’s fucked up, he thinks, almost disgusted with himself. What kind of person finds pleasure in this?
But then, as quickly as the doubt came, it disappeared. He can’t fight it anymore. This was who he is. The control, the dominance, the power; it feels good. It feels right in a way nothing else ever had.
It isn’t just about revenge on Metallica, or proving something to them, it isn't even about Kirk; it's about owning someone, breaking them down, and building them back up in a way that suits Dave’s desires. Kirk's a pawn, a tool, someone weak and dumb enough for Dave manipulate at will. The thought of seeing Kirk so vulnerable, so completely under his control, makes something stir inside him.
He likes it.
But with every realization, comes a moment of fear.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He can feel the darkness, the twisted side of himself that he’s long buried under years of rage and regret. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but it's undeniable. He likes this. It’s fucked up but it’s true.
You like having people, having Kirk like this. Vulnerable. Submissive.
He’s scared of what that says about him. But it’s who he is, and he has to own it. He has to embrace it.
Dave shakes his head and rolls around on his bed, as if trying to shake off the conflicting emotions. He has to stay in control. He has to make Kirk see that this is where he belongs now, under Dave’s thumb. That's the only thing that matters.
Kirk lays wide awake in the darkened room, his body aching from the harsh encounters of the day. The faint hum of the house seemed to echo in the silence, but it was far from calming. His mind raced, thoughts spiraling in an endless loop.
He hadn’t slept at all. Not a wink. His body's exhausted, but his mind... his mind is alive. More alive than it's ever been. Alive with fear, confusion, and a deep, terrifying sense of helplessness. Every time he closes his eyes, the memories of the day—of Dave’s words, of his touch, of the gun—come rushing back. They replay over and over again. He feels like he can’t escape. Even when he tries to push the thoughts away, they come back stronger, dragging him deeper into the pit of despair.
And then there was the power dynamic. The way Dave seems to enjoy controlling him, breaking him down. Especially today during that call with James. The thoughts of escape, of running away, of somehow getting out of Dave’s grasp; it feels so impossible now. Dave has him trapped.
He closes his eyes tightly, trying to block it all out, but sleep refuses to come. Instead, he sits there in the darkness, wrestling with his thoughts, his emotions, and the strange, twisted bond that had begun to form between him and Dave. He doesn’t know where it's headed, but deep down, he fears that he might never escape.
Dave wakes up groggily, the remnants of last night’s drinking still fogging his mind. He stretches, groaning softly, before heading toward Kirk. His demeanor shifts quickly as he approaches, forcing a smile.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dave sings with a forced cheerfulness, rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t wait for Kirk’s response, already moving to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Kirk sits quietly, his mind still a whirlwind of thoughts. The betrayal, the forced call, the suffocating feeling of being trapped; it’s all too much for him. His appetite is practically nonexistent, but the smell of food soon fills the room.
Dave sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of him and uncuffs him, of course, with the revolver still in his hand. “Eat,” he commands, the tone leaving no room for refusal.
“I’m not hungry,” Kirk mumbles, eyes downcast.
“I don’t care,” Dave snaps, his previous attempt at kindness immediately evaporating. “You’re gonna eat every bite or I’ll shove it down your throat just like I did with that whiskey.”
Kirk sighs and picks at the food reluctantly. The thought of Metallica—his dream, now shattered—sits heavily in his chest. Each bite feels like a struggle, not from lack of hunger, but from the overwhelming sorrow.
Dave watches him closely while eating his own plate of eggs “You need to get over it,” he says coldly. “What’s done is done. Sitting here moping won’t change a damn thing.”
Kirk responds in his mind: You should try and take your own advice, Dave.
In reality, he stays quiet, his focus remaining on the plate in front of him.
Dave's patience is thinning. “Hurry the fuck up, Kirk. I gotta tie you before I go.”
Kirk eats faster just like he told him to. The food is tasteless, each chew is like a reminder of the control Dave holds over him.
“Mhm, I’ll put an announcement in the newspaper, you know, that I’m looking for a bassist and a drummer for my band.” He chuckles but Kirk’s face is blank. “I’m excited, it’s gonna be awesome. You should start thinking about ideas and stuff while I’m gone.”
Kirk's obviously not gonna be a part of my goddamn band, Dave thinks, But hey, what if he has more than two braincells and ends up coming up with something decent?
Dave finishes eating and leans back on the couch. “It’s funny.” He swallows. “I never thought I would eat breakfast with a fuckin’ revolver in my hand.”
Dave stares at him, watching Kirk pick at his food with frustration, lacking any determination. His eyes narrowed.
“You know,” Dave begins, his voice deceptively calm. “You’re better off without those narcissistic idiots.”
Kirk looks up, his brow furrowing in confusion and sadness. He says quietly: “They’re not-”
Dave scoffs. “Oh, they are. You’ve only known them for a few weeks, man. Trust me, I’ve been there. They only care about themselves. You were just another pawn to them, a replacement to fill the spot they kicked me out of.”
“That’s not true,” Kirk tries to argue, though his voice wavers. “They... they welcomed me.”
Dave leans in closer, his gaze piercing. “Did they? Or did they just see you as someone who could play the parts they needed, someone easy to control? Wake up, Kirk. A band is bussiness at the end of the day. They don’t care about you; they cared about what you could do for them.”
Kirk’s eyes flicker with doubt, the weight of Dave’s words sinking in despite his attempts to resist. He shakes his head slowly, trying to hold on to his belief in his new bandmates.
“They’re good guys,” Kirk whispers, but the conviction in his voice is faltering.
Dave laughs, straightening up. “Good guys? You think good guys would let you vanish and not even look for you? If they really cared, they’d be kicking down doors by now. But they’re not, are they? You heard James on the phone, Kirk, he didn't give a fuck about you leaving.”
Kirk’s heart sinks further at the realization. He doesn’t want to believe it, but Dave’s words plant seeds of doubt.
“They’re just like everyone else,” Dave continues, his tone turning more persuasive. “Self-centred, only looking out for number one. But me? I see your worth. I know what you’re capable of. You don’t need 'em, Kirk.”
Kirk stares at the plate of food, his appetite completely gone now.
The manipulation is working, pulling him deeper into Dave’s twisted reality. He feels the isolation, the creeping sense of dependence on the only person around; Dave.
With an exasperated sigh, Dave stands up. “Well, I wish I could stay here and talk for hours and hours with you, Hammett,” he says jokingly, while handcuffing his hands behind the chair again. “But, I gotta go to work,” he secures Kirk's chest to the chair with tape.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he warns one last time while he puts a final piece of tape over Kirk's mouth, his gaze sharp as he heads for the door. He turns on the TV for Kirk so that he doesn't get that bored (aw, what a detail, asshole) and heads for the door.
The door closes behind Dave with a definitive click. Alone again, Kirk’s thoughts spiral further. The only sound in the room is the low hum of the television, flickering images casting soft shadows across the walls. He stares blankly at the screen, not truly watching but using it as a distraction from the fucking chaos in his mind.
Dave’s words linger, their echoes dulling the sharp edges of his emotional pain.
No, he could never be right.Dave could never be fucking right about anything. They're good guys.
Oh, but the thought brings a twisted comfort. The anger and sadness that had consumed him began to fade, replaced by a resigned understanding. If Metallica didn’t truly value him, then was he really losing them?
He could be right though, a voice tells him from the back of his mind. The idea was unsettling, but persistent. They barely know you. Maybe they don’t care as much as you think.