Master of Thrashers

Chapter 1: Some Title that Sounds Thrash as FUCK

Christ, what a headache….

Grumbling to himself, Ronnie begin to drift back to life from the deep chasm of a sleep and face first into one helluva hangover…

How much had he drank last night? Wanting to just lay in bed and hope for the Hammer smashed face feeling to go away, he knew damn good and well from past experiences that sadly, things just weren't that simple. So, groaning in annoyance, he groggily began to sit up in his bed and and hold his hands to his face as he began to gather the strength to get up and deal with the upcoming day. But in doing so, he felt soreness in the rest of his body as he gathered his wits.

Holy fuck, he must have been in one hell of a pit last night… who did he even go to see play? He hadn't felt this thrashed since that time he went to go see Amon Amarth a couple of months ago. Trying to remember, he was surprised to find that he couldn't quite recall.

Strange, he normally never let himself drink to where he blacked out. He normally could tell when he was between 'shit-faced' and 'fucking annihilated'.

Finally opening his eyes, he was glad to see that at least he wasn't getting blinded by bright light. Gotta be thankful for the little things, keep things optimistic. As his eyes began to adjust, however, he saw that he was not in his bed. Or even his own room, for that matter. From what little he could see, he saw three other beds in what looked to be like some sort of large room. Some kind of hotel or something?

He knew Judas and the others wouldn't just dump him somewhere without making sure he was good, so he wasn't too worried. Didn't look like any sort of hotel room that he had ever seen, though. Seeing the figures of what he assumed to be his friends/ bandmates still asleep, he decided to just quietly get up and attempt to find the bathroom.

But as he stood up, the headache smacked him like a freight train as he almost stumbled, laying his hand back to his head as he sucked in air through his teeth, swearing quite colorfully under his breath as he did so, still trying to be mindful of the others, lest he get met with a flying can of beer to the dome. It didn't matter how drunk any of them were, they still had impeccable aim when it came to hitting people with beer cans.

He still remembered that time that guy at the Municipal Waste concert who tried taking Dave's Wallet getting domed in the forehead by Varg from about a yard away. Pretty sure he saw Varg with that same exact can later that night, too.

Fucking Norwegians, bunch a crazy Bastards.

But as he began to shuffle his way over to a door on the opposite side of the room which he guessed was the bathroom, Ronnie was hit with another feeling too, this one in his gut however. And not like a 'whatever I put down last night is trying to fight back up' sorta feeling, but a really weird gut feeling, like something was really off. Hell, even looking past the mangled mess that was his sore body, he felt different as well. Almost lighter.

But with his head still pounding like Lars was beating the shit outta his snares off of , he momentarily just focused on getting to the bathroom and dunking his head into some cold water. After fumbling with the doorknob for a second or two, he was greeted to a tiled floor and what he was fairly certain was a sink. It was hard to make out with how dark it was, but he wasnt about to turn on a light and make him loath the start to this morning even more.

Closing the door behind him, he blindly fumbled his way over to what he hoped was the shower as he stripped off whatever sort of clothing he had on from the previous night, which just seemed to be some shorts and a t-shirt. Now nude, he entered the standing shower and smacked the wall until he found what was the knob and turned it on, hoping for it to help him in anyway it could with this monster headache.

And was promptly met with ice cold water.

"Fucking cunt ass BITCH." Ronnie spat out blindly in shock as he began to furiously mess with the nob, trying to turn it to something that didn't feel like he was getting pissed on by Iceman. After a couple of seconds of shivering and questioning his existence, the water slowly went from chilling to somewhat tolerable, leaning his head against the tiled wall as he let the water try to work it's magic.

And while he felt his headache ease up enough to the closest thing he could manage to where he could make coherent thoughts, he still couldn't get that soreness off of his muscles. And to make matters even worse, that gut feeling he had only seemed to be worsening.

Letting himself remain like that for about a solid ten minutes as steam began to fill the shower, Ronnie attempted once more to recall the events of the night before. But, he still could only draw a blank on what could have possibly led him to this. Sure, he could just ask the guys what the hell happened, but that still didn't help the fact that he didn't like not being able to recall his actions. Something must have went down last night to have caused him to feel like this.

He never let himself get blackout drunk before. Never. He knew his own limits, and with him still being a year away from drinking age, he at least tried to remain somewhat careful so as to not get in trouble. He lived in a small town, so he most certainly wouldn't be the only one his age to do it. But it was more for himself than anything else. Plus, y'know, his dad was a police officer, so that'd be about as akward as someone wearing an Avenged Sevenfold shirt to an Overkill concert...

Finally deciding that the water had done all it could do, Ronnie let out a long sigh as he turned the knob to end the stream and put him into the cold as he opened the shower door and was his with cold air. Actually managing to perform motor function somewhat better than a decaying corpse, he stepped out of the shower and fumbled to his right as he grabbed the first towel he could nab. Pretty comfy for a hotel towel, but eh, he wasn't complaining. So long as it wasn't coming outta his fuckin' wallet, he really didn't care. Gotta save up for that Slayer farewell tour.

As he went to go dry his hair, however, he was surprised to make out that it was a bright, hot pink, as opposed to the usual plain white ones he had seen in almost every hotel he had been to prior. An odd choice for standardized towels, but whatever. It's 2018, people just did whatever the fuck they want. But that immediatetly became irrelevant as he was met with an even bigger shock as he reached up to dry off his long, flowing black mane that had won him the unofficial 'god of windmilling' title.

His hair wasn't as long as it was last night. Infact, he had to reach up from his back all the way to the middle of his fucking neck before he could feel anything.

Now fully awake, his soreness and pain was instantly forgotten as Ronnie quickly made his way over to the door in attempts to find a light switch before flicking one on. Trying his best to ignore the source of light trying to give him what felt like the equivalent of an icepick lobotomy, he quickly tried to make his way to the now fogged up mirror as he took the towel and wiped away the steam. He swore on Chuck Schrodinger's grave, if somebody fucked with his beautiful, beautiful mane of hair, he was gonna straight commit some hacksaw decapitation on a motherfucker, Cannibal Corpse style.

Never fuck with a metalhead's hair. EVER.

But as he wiped away the last of the fog, Ronnie was met with a hell of a lot more than what he thought he was going to see. He stood there, dumbfounded and slack jawed at the foreign reflection that stared back at him. The reflection, that was not his own.

He didn't even know where to begin. His hair? Down to his chin as opposed to his shoulder length jet black locks. And it was Fuckin blond, too. Not his natural hair color. At all.

And his beard? Gone. Instead of his well kept, awesome-ass beard that rivaled the beauty of even some of the greatest metal gods, he was met with a smooth ass chin that wasn't even the same one that he hadn't seen since he was old enough to grow facial hair.

And his eyes. No longer the emerald green he had, they were sky blue, wide and in complete shock. Because they were his eyes. But they also weren't. And for fuck's sakes, even his god damn skin looked different. It looked almost... Like it was...Cell shaded?

What.

WHAT!?

It looked like almost everything about him had changed. Gone were his tattoos, his rings and spiked leather bracelets, the scars from his various concerts and adventures into The Pit. Everything. This was an entirely different body. And even worse?

He recognized it. His brain slowly tried to process what in the unholy hell was going one, but for some reason, a name started to flow through the jumbled mess that was his brain.

Jaune. Jaune Arc.

What. The. FUCK.

What the fuck what the fuck what THE FUCKING FUCKIN FUCK.

So many thoughts were running through his head right now. None of them made any lick of god damn sense.

How? Why? Just, fucking, WHY!? HOW!?

Ronnie? Jaune? WHO THE FUCK- finally managed to make his way out of the bathroom, his brain officially functioning like the world's biggest mosh-pit as he tried to grasp just what in the name of Fucking Slayer was going on. Drugs? Did he get hit with roofies or something? Are there even drugs you can slip someone unknowingly that are this fucking potent? The closest thing he had ever come to this was the one time he smoked weed with his band just so they could have the trippiest Tool experience ever, and holy shit, that was somethi-

NO! Focus. What in the hell was he supposed to do? Ronnie (Jaune? For Christ's sake, he didn't even know who the fuck he was-) scanned his immediate surroundings,his jumbled thought process desperately trying to make some sort of effort to figure this shit out. What in the absolute hell was he supposed to do? Why in the hell was he even-

The guys, he thought. Talk to the guys.

Looking around, he spotted the closest bed with a still sleeping figure. Either he was able to hold his freak out in really damn well, or they were wasted too. From the outline, having been put back into the dark again, his mind made him think Judas. He sure as shit had a lot of explaining to do.

"Judas." Ronnie croaked out and he shuffled over to the bed and put a hand on the person's shoulder to wake them. "Judas, dude, wake the fuc-"

"Jaune?"

Wait a minute... Either Judas pulled a Bruce Jenner on him, or this was some sorta-

Ronnie froze. Having not been looking directly as said person, his wide eyed gaze slowly drifted down to the foreign voice. And instead of being met with his guitarist's short hair and goatee, he was met with a different face entirely.

Laying there, eyes half open, was a girl, long red hair spewed out on her pillow as she looked at him half asleep. It's not like his freinds didnt wake up in the morning with women they had met the night before, and he had gone through the same quite a few times... But this was different.

He actually recognized this girl, even though he had never seen her before in his entire life. Two completetly contradictory thoughts, performing a Wall of Death inside the crowd that was his mind. He was surprised. Astounded. Completely mind-fucked. No words were able to accurately describe his mental state, so it just threw whatever the hell it could at him. So, like the suave child that he is, Ronnie just stood there and stared at this girl with wide eyes and slack jaws.

Once again: What the fuck is going on.

"Jaune, is…. *aaaaumph*... is everything alright?" the girl mumbled out groggily as she tried to move. He was lost as he scanned over her features, definitely one of the hottest girls he had seen in one of these situations. And even though he was taking in her features for the first time, the horrible sense of Deja Vu was growing in him more and more by the second, his gut feeling having now morphed into a large pit in his stomach.

"Yeah." He eventually responded. Was that him? Did he just say something? He felt so lost at the moment, he couldn't even recognize his own voice with all this shit going on. Oh, wait.

That's because it wasn't his fucking voice.

"Yeah, don't worry about it." His mouth just seemed to work for him as he didn't move a muscle, afraid that whatever bit of sanity he was somehow retaining would break itself worse than Fred Durst's career. Instead of his usual manly baratone voice that he often used to dessimate the mic and make some killer fucking venue shows, instead his vocal chords spat out some voice cracking excuse for a sound."Just go back to sleep."

And without seeming to question him, the girl just simply did as he asked, nodding before laying her head back down onto her pillow, letting out another small yawn before slipping back into sleep.

And so, he stood there, his mind now a complete blank. Not knowing what in the everloving fuck to do. Should he check the other beds? What if they were even more random strangers? Even if they were his bandmates, he was pretty sure he would still be on the absolute verge of a mental breakdown.

At that moment, however, what he guessed was the a.c. unit kicked on and began dispensing cold air into the room, striking him with a chill, Which reminded him he was standing stark naked, in a room full of people he didn't know, going through probably the worst identity crisis in history. So, his body taking over for him, he turned to the bed he woke into this nightmare on, seeing a pair of jeans and a black t shirt with some converse on the floor next to it.

Ronnie(?) Shambled over to these articles of clothing before slipping them on, trying his best to not let his mind implode upon itself as he did his best to work out some semblance of a plan as what to do.

Gotta get out of here. That's the only somewhat rational thought that crossed his mind at the moment. Just get these fuckin clothes on, and get the fuck out of this room. And somehow managing to get that done, he then stood up before catching a mirror in the corner of his peripherals. Walking over to it slowly and looking over… His body. His new body.

Nothing had changed. He was still blond, still clean shaven, looking like some sort of Sub-par Nirvanna cover band singer. He was fairly certain that this kid had never even tried headbanging before, let alone listen to anything heavier than fucking Linkin Park or Avenged Sevenfold.

"Holy fucking Kreator, I need to get out of here." He muttered to himself with someone else's voice. Christ, he probably would never be able to hit a pig squeal ever again. Or even a low growl, at that. Does this kid even have any sort of fucking band shirts? He'd probably find a fucking shark in a nearby closet before he could find anything even remotetly close to a battle vest.

Actually, you know what. With how this morning was going so far, he really didnt want to test that theory.

Yep, fuck this.

Managing to step away, he finally trudged over to the door which he hoped would lead him out of this mess. Get some fresh air, nab a pack of Newports, find a nearby Megadeth CD and hopefully get his thoughts straight. But, just as he grabbed the door knob, his mind was suddenly hit with three random names. Names that, sounded familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on them. They swirled around in his head, until finally, they managed to float their way to the surface and revela themselves to him.

Pyrrha. Nora. Ren.

Slowly turning his head around, his gaze landed on the three sleeping figures in the beds. He had no idea how, but he was somehow able to associate these new names with these people. Matter of fact, he actually knew which bed held who, even though he hadnt even seen any of them.

Had he?

You know what, he'll figure it out later. Less chance of him just mentally snapping right then and there. Turning back around, he slowly opened up the door, stepping out of this recluse, and into a completely new, foreign world.

Ready to tear some shit up, and going to leave in his wake probably the greatest tale of a Metalhead the likes of which this world has never fucking seen.