[kidotm]

Lost in the Woods

by Im_A_Giraffe1979 When FLW and Charon arrange a meeting with Elder Lyons they run into a few issues and Charon gets very petty. Smut.

They were waiting in an old office for Elder Lyons to come speak with them. Well, technically, he was coming to speak with Summer, nor Charon. He wasn’t supposed to be in there. But she didn’t feel great leaving him alone somewhere and honestly, she wasn’t too keen on letting him away from her side in this snake’s nest. To make matters worse she’d been doused in mutant guts on the way in and had been forced to change into the only spare clothes she had on her, some sparkly blue knee-length dress that she’d picked up for God knows what reason. Sure, the Brotherhood had offered her some of their uniforms, but she refused since they’d refused all help up to this point, why should she act like they were friends now.

So, that’s how Summer had ended up wearing a blue dress meant for singing on a stage, leaning against one of those old wooden desks that were only accessible from one side, trying to figure out where to hide her almost seven-foot-tall companion and explain to him why he had to hide. And she wasn’t looking forward to it. He was already radiating violence from the fight just to get here and the less than warm welcome they’d received upon bringing a behemoth to the Brotherhood’s doorstep. She chewed at a hangnail that had been bugging her for a while now, trying to figure out how to best broach the subject while looking around the room for places to hide him. There were some lockers to the side of the room, but he was almost definitely too big. There was also a closet at the back of the room, which would be perfect if she wasn’t out of bobby pins to pick the lock.

“So, Charon, you know how we’re waiting for the Elder to arrive?” she asked. He was leaned against the desk, shotgun laying across his lap, one finger resting on the trigger guard. He nodded, his face like a mask. They hadn’t been traveling together for long and their working relationship had its good days and its bad days. Seemed like today was bound to be a bad day. She could only imagine how big of an idiot she looked to him while wearing this dress, waiting on a meeting that could decide the fate of the wasteland. “Well on the way in the Paladin who sent us to this room to wait and set up the meeting with the Elder mentioned how he wouldn’t take too kindly to you, being here for it, and suggested you wait elsewhere.” She rushed the words out. His eyes narrowed at her and she could see him bristle at the insult.

“That is not a command.” He replied.

“I know, it’s just, do you think we could…” the sound of heavy power armor moving and knights saluting their Elder reached both their ears signaling the man’s approach.

“Hide!” she grabbed his arm and without thinking tugged him under the desk just as a knock sounded on the door. It was a command, so Charon was forced to squeeze himself into the too-small space, then to add insult to injury she sat down and scooted her chair in, poking him with her knees and resting her feet on his lap. The door swung open and in walked Elder Lyons. She mock stood, hoping Charon didn’t mind her putting her weight on his leg, and shook the Elder's hand before sitting back down and scooting in. The Elder chose to stand across from her, wreaking havoc on her nerves like a disapproving schoolteacher.

“It’s good to finally meet you, we’ve been hearing so much about your mission…” he began.

2

Charon was furious. That was an understatement. The Brotherhood pissed him off with their holier-than-thou attitude and disdain for anything that wasn’t purely human or anything that wasn’t purely Brotherhood. Which is why he was currently crammed under a desk, listening vaguely to the conversation happening above his head, all the while Summer kneaded her toes nervously in his lap. He’d let her know what he thought of this when she let him come up, but for now, all he had to focus on was her bare legs.

They were smooth, except for a scar she had circling one calf up towards her thigh. There was hair on them, which felt like a marvel to Charon given his lack of hair pretty much anywhere, but hers was so fine it was just barely there, and soft he found when he reached out to touch it. A conversation came back to him from a month or so ago when she discussed boundaries with him. He’d told her he wasn’t allowed to have boundaries as such, so far as the contract was concerned, she just couldn’t be violent against him. She said she’d match that, so they were at least equals there. He heard more talk from above, talk of the Purifier and the Enclave, but he barely paid them any mind. He was focused on the scar, his fingertips lightly tracing it up her thigh as it wrapped behind her knee and kept going. He lifted her dress just a little, leaning in, intending only to find out where it ended when her knees clamped together on his cheeks and held him in place. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.

They were locked in place, foreign emotions tugging at Charon’s brain as he breathed in her earth scent. He hadn’t thought about sex in a long time. Hadn’t even really thought about his owner being a woman since he was a ghoul and in his mind, that would never happen. For a moment he was distracted, continuing to trace the scar until it disappeared over her hip, but then his eyes returned there. She was unshaven, just like the rest of her. The dark curls looked soft and inviting as he traced a hand up to touch them. She jerked, her voice faltering in their conversation but it had freed his head and for that he was glad.

A voice somewhere in the back of his mind told him to stop. Told him that this was his employer and this was inappropriate, but another more petty voice told him that she had directly stated that he could touch her anywhere, no boundaries. This probably wasn’t what she’d meant at the time, but he wanted some small revenge on the woman who’d bought his contract and shoved him under a desk, and although Charon was well versed in revenge, this type was brand new to him.

He wrapped a hand around the back of her knee, holding her firmly in place, and leaned his head forward a little further to rest his cheek against the inside of her thigh. He felt her breathing hitch, but the conversation continued. She was sitting right on the edge of her seat so when he pushed her other leg to the side, she was fully exposed to him. He blew lightly, watching the hairs shift under his breath and enjoying the goosebumps that peppered the insides of her thighs. She was damp, there was no other word for it in Charon’s vocabulary, a luxury of being fully human and the worse side of him wanted to be buried in it immediately. Still, Charon was nothing if not restrained, and he wanted to take his time here. He reached up with his free hand, carefully separating the folds, running the tip around each one of them and collecting as much of her wetness as he could. She flinched, her foot sliding off his thigh and scrambling for purchase again in his crotch. She probably didn’t even know it, but she pressed right onto his hard dick and it took everything he had not to groan. His teeth clamped down on the inside of her thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to distract both of them. The conversation up top faltered and for a moment, Charon wondered what would happen if they got caught. The Brotherhood would probably kick them out or shoot them dead, maybe both, but somehow this made the situation all the more appealing to Charon.

His finger found that soft little bundle of nerves just above her slit and he massaged it, always careful not to press too hard. Still, her thighs clamped shut over his hand and he had to gently pry them back open. His mind was going fuzzy, everything being shaded with arousal. He let his hand wander, anywhere from cupping her round ass to messily spreading her juices around, he just went for it. Then when she seemed ready for it, he eased a finger in. He had large, calloused hands, not very good for small detail work, but for this they were good. He found himself leaning in, nuzzling his way up into her folds, careful that his breathing didn’t become too loud. He curled his finger into her heat once before slowly licking a stripe right up her center. Her hips gave a little wiggle, but otherwise, she stayed put for him. Hopefully, her face wasn’t getting too red from all this attention, but he found it hard to care.

He curled his finger again, rubbing against the front wall of her insides as his tongue tried to lap up every bit of moisture he could as though he were going to die of dehydration if he didn’t. She tasted heavenly and sweet, probably from all the mutfruit she ate, but he couldn’t complain. He didn’t like the fruits on their own, but on her they might’ve been his favorite flavor. His face was getting too warm and his brain was clouding over, all he could think about was pulling her down off that chair and sliding her beautiful cunt onto his dick, then fucking her under the desk. But he couldn’t, not yet at least. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this situation was getting out of control, but it was difficult for him to reign in the stray thoughts that floated through his hazy mind. So, instead, he kept making circles. Circles with his tongue, circles with his finger.

Summer stood abruptly, Charon’s finger and face dislodged as she leaned over the desk again to shake hands with the Elder. Her dress acted as a shield to them and she stayed in that half-standing half-leaning posture until the door to the room was closed and the Elder was gone. When she plopped back down on her chair she was further away, dark curls falling around her shoulders, pupils blown wide as she stared at him. She opened her mouth, looking like she was getting ready to scold him when he placed his finger in his mouth and sucked all of her off it. When his finger popped free, she’d closed her mouth.

“May I come out now, Mistress?” he asked, still bound by his contract to hide. He didn’t use the title of mistress often on Summer since she disliked it, but if there was ever an appropriate time, it was now. She nodded and Charon began unfolding himself from beneath the desk.

“I kinda thought you still hated me.” She said, her voice almost a whisper. He moved to his knees, placing both hands on her thighs and gliding them up, enjoying the rough catch of his broken skin on her perfect skin.

“I don’t do this for you.” He murmured, lifting the hem of her dress and draping it back out of the way. She watched him with those careful brown eyes of hers, caught somewhere between predator and prey. He prized her apart again, the remnants of before still glistening on her skin.

“Then why?” she asked, her hand cupping the side of his skull. It was more tender than he expected from her right now. He expected rage, or disappointment, some emotion that he understood.

“That is a good question.” His voice was low, mouth mere inches from her warmth. He couldn’t fathom it anymore either. This was no longer about being petty or getting revenge, it had morphed into something else. Some desire that he hadn’t experienced in a lifetime or more. It was almost ethereal, as though he were a servant, and she was his savior. Then again, he supposed that wasn’t too far off from the truth, and in a way that made sense to him.

He licked her again, moving his tongue less delicately now that he could make noise. Two fingers slid in with ease this time, working in and out of her smoothly. Both her hands came to rest on his head, not pushing or holding, simply grounding her to him. She twitched under his ministrations, gave him rewards of breathy little sighs and quiet exclamations. This was better to him than the loudness. He’d witnessed enough of his employers getting their rocks off to know how unattractive he found loud women. This was just enough though, enough to let him know he was affecting her, without drawing the attention of a raider band several miles away, or in their case the Brotherhood knights stationed outside their door.

“Charon.” She moaned his name, they made eye contact and he pushed in once more. He felt himself go, completely untouched, swayed just by the look in his eyes that said she wanted him. He grunted, giving one final nip to her clit as she squeezed his fingers and flooded them with moisture. He withdrew his face, panting, resting it against her thigh like the softest pillow he’d ever encountered. His name rang in his own ears, some sort of benediction that made his dick twitch.

“Charon.” She said again. He pulled his fingers out slowly, cleaning them off as he’d done before. His mind was settling, what he’d just done sinking in. He flung himself back onto his ass, out of reach of her, a cold fear running down his spine. Would she want to sell his contract now? How badly had he fucked this up? It was only now that he was realizing how good of an employer she was, not that she had much to live up to, but out here in the wastes, decent people were hard to come by, let alone good ones. He was panicking, his mind flying from one terrible scenario to the next.

“Charon.” He froze as he placed a hand around his wrist. It was light, barely any pressure applied and when he looked up her eyes were calm and soft. They soothed him.

“They’re giving us a room to stay in tonight, we should head there and get cleaned up.” She said, standing and pulling him up after. Despite her kind eyes, he wondered what would become of him now.

3

The walk to their room felt shameful, but neither could figure out how to get out indiscreetly, so they didn’t bother trying to hide it. She could tell that something was off with Charon the whole walk there. Unlike his usual, massive presence at her side, he felt shrunken and small, like a beaten animal. She didn’t like it, but to be fair, a lot had just happened, and she wasn’t absorbing it all that well either. Sure, she’d been attracted to Charon for a while now. What could she say, she liked watching him work. He moved smoothly, confidently, and what girl doesn’t like a big, strong guy protecting her? But she’d thought he hated her, disliked her at best, and now it felt like they were on uncertain ground. The knights that looked at them with judging eyes as they made their way to their room only made it worse.

Once they were inside Summer flopped onto the bed. Strangely, she still felt completely safe with Charon, despite the fact that Charon didn’t seem to feel safe with Charon. She felt the stress piling on and building in her temples as Charon stood next to the door. Where to start with him? He was still such a mystery to her, but she had to try to mend this. She patted the bed beside her and he made his way over, wary like a caged animal about to strike. He sat a respectful distance away and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“We’ve got to sort this out. What’s going on Charon? With us? With you?” she felt like she was rambling as she fiddled with the hem of her dress. Her cheeks reddened thinking about Charon’s head resting below the fabric.

“I do not know what came over me. I am sorry.” He said, his voice back to the monotone it always was. Her heart sunk a little at his confession.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind…” she bit her bottom lip, not sure whether to back down or just go for it. She picked the latter.

“I actually enjoyed it… a lot. It’s been a long time for me, and well… I never really enjoyed that side of things, but I might have to rethink that now. I just don’t want you beating yourself up over any of this…” she paused her ramblings, trying to wrangle in her thoughts.

“I do not know what overcame me, but it seems my feelings are… complicated.” He managed. She snorted and he finally turned to look at her.

“You say that as though it’s never happened before.” She says, a smile smudging across her cheeks.

“It has been many years.” He said, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. She reaches a hand out to rub comforting circles on his back.

“Well, on the bright side, you’ve got plenty of time to sort through them.” She said. There was a long pause in their conversation where she just rubbed his back and he thought, his brow heavy with concern.

“Do you wish to rid yourself of my contract?” he asked, his voice lower and more gruff than usual. Summer felt her eyes go wide and her hand stopped its slow pattern. She turned him toward her, meeting his eyes.

“No, not unless you don’t want me to hold it anymore.” She said, holding both of his hands in hers. He nodded, taking a deep breath. He turned more towards her, a grimace crossing his face, and looked down at his lap.

“Oh, we should probably get you cleaned up… I can help, if you want.” She said the last part carefully, catching Charon off guard. He held his breath, couldn’t say no, couldn’t say yes. She reached for the zip to his pants, making him stand so she could tug the dirtied garments off his hips. They pooled around his ankles, but she couldn’t focus on that when confronted with what was possibly the largest dick on the planet. He was hard again, painfully swollen and red with cum dripping off of every inch. She gulped, flush rising in her cheeks as she got to her knees and opened her mouth. He smelled strong, like flesh and rads, like the wind after a storm. Her mouth was almost on him when he stopped her. She looked up to find a new expression on Charon’s face. He looked tortured, not in a painful way though. Then, the next thing she knew he was pushing her over onto her back and lifting her dress up.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe as he lifted her legs and lined himself up at her entrance. His heat was apparent already, dripping onto her in a way that mesmerized. For a moment she visualized cleaning him off this way, with one good thrust into her, her hungry cunt would accept everything he had to offer including the cum that already coated his dick. She watched him slide home, surprised at the stretch. Her hands found purchase on his chest, clawing at his shirt until he was just inches from her and fully sheathed inside.

“Tell me that you won’t get rid of me.” He said, his voice cracking as he rested his head on the bed beside her. He didn’t move, just held her there around her knees, fully inside of her. A pang shot through her heart at his voice. He sounded confused and worried, overwhelmed with everything.

“Never, not unless you want me to.” She replied, wrapping her arms around his back. She placed a light kiss on his cheek and he pulled out almost all the way and slid back in releasing a sigh from her chest.

“Tell me you want me to stay.” He said, rolling his head to the side to look at her and thrusting again, agonizingly slowly. She felt too warm all over and jittery like she was already close to the edge.

“Please stay.” She begged. He thrust again and again, starting up a slow rhythm that felt deeply intimate as she could feel every inch of him, experience him in slow motion as he watched her react.

“Tell me…” he grunted, pulling her tighter to him. “Tell me you want me.” There was something begging in his eyes and it almost broke Summer’s heart. She placed her hands on either side of his face.

“I’ve wanted you for so long now.” She said, pulling his lips against hers in a slow first kiss. Her face tingled with the contact, all her nerves coming alive. It was like a dam broke in Charon and he began thrusting into her in earnest now, his hands roaming her body, searching, but she didn’t know for what. He planted himself deep inside her, his legs shaking between hers, muscles twitching as he emptied himself again. His hand found her clit, massaging until she let go too. She let her hands wander as well, following the patterns in his skin and the map of his muscles. Their breathing was heavy, but in sync, and when a knock sounded at the door, they both froze.

“Food!” came a knight’s cry from the door, but it remained shut and bolted. Relieved, they both relaxed into each other, unsure of the future, but happy with the present.

[kidotm]

Blackbird

by s0ymilk

Panicked, alone, and carrying nothing but a pistol, newly evicted Vault 101 resident Gal finds herself stranded in the Capital Wasteland. She makes it less than a day before the slavers find her. CH x FOC

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"“It's a slaver camp.” she whispers, feeling cold. Gal thinks back to the day she left the Vault, how she had wandered aimlessly and stumbled upon Megaton, and shivers at how easily she could have ended up down there, naked and afraid." 

--

When she exits the Vault, it’s completely dark out. In some ways, it’s a let-down. She can’t even see the bright new world she’s stumbled on to.

She steps on something right outside the door that cracks under her heel. She picks it up; when she recognizes the object in her hand, she drops the skull like a poisonous snake and shrieks. The sound echoes through the wilderness.

Outside the cave, all is dark. She can’t see anything in this total blackness. The rustle of leaves and crunching of twigs around her makes her nervous. She keeps getting spooked, moving too fast, and tripping over something in her path. Finally, hands scraped up and cheek bleeding, she stays down.

She sits in the same spot for an hour. The pistol Amata had given her lays across her knees, but she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to use it. When she’d shot the security guard in the head in panic, she’d vomited all over the floor right afterwards. His face had been so destroyed she couldn’t even tell who he was.

It had looked like raw meat. Ripped up chunks of raw meat, like you might cook in a skillet or put in a stew.

If she had anything left to throw up now, she probably would be.

She has no idea what to expect out here, and so of course her mind keeps coming up with worse-case scenarios. Huge monsters with slavering maws, groups of cannibalistic men, poisonous plants. It’s enough to make her shake and tear up.

Finally she gets up. She’s hungry, thirsty, and tired, and none of those things will change by sitting on the ground, waiting.

When she sees a sign up in the distance, she ponders for a long few minutes before coming to a decision.

Megaton. Could be a settlement, could be a town. Or it could be something else. She has no way of knowing.

The sign points right. She goes left. Better to find a house to bunker down in somewhere, where she can forage for some food and wait out the night.

--

She never makes it to a house. Exhausted and cold, she doesn’t notice the group of raiders until they’re basically on top of her. One goes down thanks to her shitty little pistol, but then it’s wrestled out of her hand and she’s left defenseless. The raider laughs right before he clubs her on the head.

When she wakes, she’s in chains. Everything of value that she owns has been taken from her. She struggles, and fights, but all it gets her is a black eye and a whole collection of bruises all over her body.

Nobody tells her where they’re going. Not even the other men and women bound up in chains know. But there’s whispers of a place to the north where slaves are taken and sold, where they work until they’re dead, or until sickness gets to them and turns them into something monstrous.

What’s it called, she asks tentatively of the people around her. A woman looks back at her with haunted eyes.

The Pitt, she says. It’s called the Pitt.

--

“ Shit. Fucking bitch. ” the slaver says with venom. She brings her hand up and backhands Gal as hard as she can across the cheek. It nearly knocks her to the floor, but the slaver catches her by one manacled wrist and yanks her back up. Gal wants to bite her again, but her head is ringing so badly that she can’t even see straight.

“I fucking hate this job. Why can’t I go work with the miners? These fighters are like rabid fucking animals.” the slaver mutters to herself as she continues jerking Gal along down the hallway. Gal tries to pull away, but the slaver just grabs her by the hair instead. The pain makes her screech.

“You might as well get used to it, you little twat. At least you’ll get a chance to die on your feet, instead of on your back.” she says harshly. Gal doesn’t reply; the hand in her hand is pulling cruelly and her scalp and she can feel chunks of her locks being ripped out.

They go through a door at the end of the hallway and come into a wide room with a double set of bars on the far end. There’s about five feet of space between the two sets of bars, and another room beyond. A guard sits in the corner of the room with a rifle over his lap. He gives her captor a nod and looks Gal over.

“Seriously? She’s going to be a fighter?” he says dubiously, taking in her shortness and slight frame. “They’ll rip her apart.”

Her captor snorts. “Apparently that’s what her last owner thought too, until she bit his dick off. She’s too small to mine, and too vicious for the whorehouse, so I guess they figure they might as well get some entertainment out of her.”

The guard shrugs, but stands. He doesn’t seem to be that interested. Across the room, behind the set of double bars, a couple of women are eyeing her surreptitiously.

The guard unlocks a door in the first set of bars, locks it against behind them, and proceeds to open the second door once Gal’s captor has the manacle off her wrists. When the door swings open, the slaver puts a boot on her back and kicks her into the room. She hits the dirt with an ‘oomph’ and immediately scrabbles to her feet in case further abuse follows. But the guard just relocks the gate and heads back with the slaver to his workpost.

“Good riddance.” the slaver calls over her shoulder. “I hope you die in your first fight.”

Gal scowls at her, but the woman doesn’t even look back. Rubbing at her bruised cheek, she turns to scope out her situation. The room she’s in contains two battered tables, both of which are bolted to the wall. There’s a hallway on either end. The women standing in this room, all clothed as she is in short skirts and midriff-baring leather halters, are eyeing her with curiousity, but also with suspicion. None approach to help her.

She thinks about saying something, or approaching a woman to ask, but they don’t look very friendly. Nobody in this damn wasteland is friendly, she’s found. Not like home, where it was common courtesy to say hello when you passed someone in the hallway. Here, they’re more likely to shoot you than they are to greet you.

She ignores them and goes to explore.

The slave quarters are surprisingly big for the number of women in them. There’s four rooms in all: two sleeping areas, the middle area in eyesight of the guard, and another big gathering space with a large, heavily barred window in one side. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the women’s schedules; some are asleep on the dirty straw pads in the sleeping areas, others are seated in small groups, talking or playing games. Some even do exercises in the corners.

Gal approaches a woman at random and clears her throat, hoping to learn a little bit more about where she is. The woman, scarred and leathery, looks her over and snorts, as if displeased by what she sees.

“What do you want, new-comer?” she asks in an unfriendly tone.

“Just some information.” Gal says, in as friendly a manner as she can affect. The woman is unmoved.

“Well, I see about a dozen other people in here who can provide it to you. Go bark up their tree.” the woman says coldly, and turns away. Gal gapes at her blatant rudeness. She nearly grabs the woman by the shoulder, but a huge, ugly scar on the woman’s back stops her. These women don’t look like they’d take kindly to rudeness. She’s already as beaten up as she wants to be, and it’s not as if it’s urgent. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, whether she knows about it or not.

She doesn’t bother approaching anyone else, as they all give her the same disinterested look. Instead, she stalks over to the barred window and crawls up on the wide sill to get a look out. Someone else is occupying the other side, but Gal doesn’t pay her any mind.

The window looks out upon a  dirt arena. The other sides of it hold rows of seats, some of which are occupied. If she cranes her head enough to peek out to the left, she can see another barred window next to theirs. Another set of slave quarters, maybe?

She’s trying to reach how far she can reach out the bars when a gravelly voice interrupts her.

“Don’t bother. It’s a fifty foot drop down with no handholds. Trust me, plenty of others have tried.” the woman says sitting on the other side of the sill says, sounding amused. She hadn’t so much as looked at her when she’d clambered up onto the window sill, but now she turns to face her.

Gal flinches when her eyes land on the woman’s face. Her flesh is torn or ripped off in big chunks, and where her nose should be, there’s only a dark hole. The rest of her body is the same - not even an inch of skin exists that isn’t marred in some way. Her eyes are light and milky, like a blind person’s. They focus on Gal just fine, so Gal doubts that she has any trouble seeing.

“What? Never seen a ghoul before?” The woman asks with a hint of irritation when Gal doesn’t respond. Gal blinks and shakes her head hurriedly, before this one decides she isn’t worth talking to as well.

“No, I haven’t. Sorry for staring. I’m - new to the Wasteland.” she explains, dropping her gaze from the woman’s ripped skin. The irritated look fades from the woman’s face with the apology.

“Well, you’re certainly polite.” she grumbles, settling back against the wall. “Where you from then, tourist?”

Gal debates lying, but what would be the use? If they don’t already know that she’s no fighter, they’ll figure it out soon enough.

“A Vault.” she replies. “I was only out a day before they caught me.”

The woman looks surprised by this information. Gal guesses there aren’t many former Vault-dwellers in the Wasteland. She assumes something about the charming wildlife or the friendly people scare the rational ones back underground. God, she wishes she’d been that smart. She can’t think of a place worse than here. Maybe the whorehouse. She’d missed that one by a narrow (and violent) margin.

“That’s some shitty luck. You’ve missed out on all the excitement our fine area has to offer then.” the woman says, with a bark of laughter. “I’m Willow. Nice to meet you, smoothskin.”

“I’m Gal.” she replies with a smile. “So… can you tell me about this place?”

“You mean the Pitt?” Willow asks. At Gal’s nod, she continues. “What’s to say? It’s a mining town. Something like three quarters of the Capital Wasteland’s slaves end up here. The lucky ones end up where you and I are - fighters. We get to die on our feet with a weapon in our hands. The rest either work in the mills until they drop or end up in the whorehouses.”

“Who do we fight?” Gal asks hesitantly. Willow glances over at the other women milling around the room pointedly.

“We fight each other?! ” Gal hisses lowly, looking over at the other women. Every single one of them looks like they can pick her up and break her like a twig. Even Willow, who takes after her name, looks strong enough to throw her across the room. Gal has spent the last 19 years playing on computers and doing absolutely nothing that resembles physical activity. Where would she even have bothered trying in that tiny vault? She really is going to die in her first fight.

“Yup. All for the entertainment of Overlord Supreme Ashur. He runs this shithole. That arena down there? A few times a week, some of us get selected to fight for him. Sometimes it’s one-on-one, other times it’s a battle royale. Occasionally, when the scouts get their hands on one, they’ll bring a yao guai or a deathclaw back for us to fight, but that doesn’t happen too often.”

Gal looks back out upon the arena in horror. That’s her grave, right there. She’s never going to find her father, because someone is going to beat her death for entertainment instead. This place is awful. She wishes there was a hole to crawl into somewhere in these quarters where she can just have a complete mental breakdown. Too bad.

There’s more people in the seats now than there were when she’d first looked out. Directly across from them is an individual seat, raised higher than the rest. A man in heavy armour walks out and sits in it. Gal can’t make his features out at this distance.

“Looks like a fight’s about to start.” Willow says casually, turning her attention to the arena as well.

Gal can see that there are two gates set into the ground level on either side of the arena. Barrels are suspended above it by rope nets that are rigged to pulleys. Ashur calls something to the crowd that gets them up on their feet and cheering.

“The competitors will be behind those two gates. When the gates come up, the barrels will drop into the arena - they’re full of radiation. Keeps the slaves fighting each other, because if they don’t win in a certain time limit, they’ll drop dead of radiation poisoning. It must be the males fighting, because I didn’t see any of ours get pulled today.”

Just as Willow had described, after a few moments, the nets holding the barrels fall open, and the gates unlock with rusty screeches. From one side comes a quick, dark-haired fighter; from the other, a huge man with mottled skin just like Willow’s, settled in a crouch. Gal sees the glint of knives in each of their hands.

“Oh. This’ll be a short fight.” Willow says, apparently losing some interest when she sees the fighters. At Gal’s questioning look, she explains.

“The one on the left is Ashur’s favourite fighter. His name is Charon. He’s never lost a fight and I don’t know that he ever will. Certainly not to that little radroach.” Willows says, referencing the other dark-haired fighter. “Pray you don’t ever have to fight him.”

The two make their way to the center of the arena to cheering. A couple of women have come over to watch the fight as well, but Gal ignores them and focuses on the action. The dark-haired one darts in, slashing with a knife; he seems fast, but not fast enough. He chases the other man around the arena for a few minutes, trying to gain the upper edge. Finally the other man, Charon, catches his wrist and the knife falls out of the dark-haired man’s hand. There’s a loud crack, and a cry of pain; the dark-haired man stumbles backwards, holding his broken arm. Charon picks up the other knife, tucks it away, and waits.

Ashur claps loudly from the stands and leans over to say something to the man standing next to him. A siren sounds; both Charon and the dark-haired man with the broken arm back up into the open gates and disappear. The fight seems to be over, as the men and women in the arena seats get up and start to leave.

“Normally it’s a fight to the death, but Charon leaves ‘em alive if it’s not a good enough fight. Then they get repurposed to the mines instead. Not sure what they’ll do with that one since his arm is broken, though.” Willow muses as a group of people in radiation suits come out to pick up the barrels. Gal watches them woodenly and tries to keep her breathing under control. She is so screwed.

“Willow.” she says softly, trying not to let her voice hitch, “I - I’ve never fought before. I don’t know how. I’m going to get killed in my first fight.”

The ghoulette looks over in surprise. She takes in Gal’s quivering lower lip and forcedly calm breathing with no reaction. Then, quick as a snake, she lunges forward.

Gal, surprised, brings an arm up to protect her face and lashes out with a foot. The ghoulette knocks her kick aside, sending her careening off the window ledge. Before Gal can hit the floor, Willow hooks an arm around her neck and tries to pull her in a headlock. Gal nearly ducks under it, but isn’t quite fast enough; she goes to bite, but Willow’s elbow is already tucked under her chin and squeezing steadily on her windpipe. Scrabbling at Willow’s arm proves useless; instead, Gal sums up her quickly-deteriorating energy and elbows her in the stomach. Willow lets go with a wheezing laugh. Gal stumbles a few steps away and turns to keep her adversary in view, waiting for the next strike.

It doesn’t come. Willow looks at her appraisingly and smiles a little, holding her stomach where Gal had elbowed her.

“Alright, tourist, that’s enough. Even if you don’t have any training, your reflexes are good and your instincts are spot on. The rest we can work with.”

Gal blinks and lets her arms fall to the side. “Are you… saying you’ll help me?” she asks hesitantly. Willow rolls her eyes and jumps off the ledge.

“Well, I’m not about to teach you how to dance. Get over her, no time like the present.”

That afternoon, Willow teaches her where to put her feet and how to hold her body so she can’t be knocked over by a shove or a punch. She teaches her how to fall so she doesn’t get hurt, and how to get back on her feet quickly. They work on moving around, side to side to avoid punches and forward and back to engage or create distance. Willow shows her how pivoting her hips puts more force behind her punch and a few tricks to get an opponent to drop a knife, if she’s lucky enough to catch their arm.

It’s exhausting work, probably more exercise than Gal’s ever had in her life. But by the end, when Willow spars with her slowly, moving back and forth and throwing easy punches, Gal can figure out how to respond to protect herself, and even get in a few shots of her own. If she gets sent to a fight tomorrow, it probably won’t be enough. But it’s something.

Later that night, they get served dinner - brown goop in bowls that smells like dog shit. Willow forces her to eat every bite, and even gives her half of hers as well.

“I’m not going down in a fight anytime soon, smoothskin.” she says as she dumps the goop into Gal’s bowl. “You on the other hand, a strong breeze could blow you away.”

Gal grimaces and eats all of it.

When night comes, Willow gets a whole corner of a room to herself. She doesn’t complain when Gal drags a straw mat over next to her, but the other women give Gal dirty looks when they think the ghoulette isn’t watching. She doesn’t care. It’s not like they’d helped her, and it’s not her fault they’re scared of Willow.

Gal wants to ask Willow more, but she falls asleep the minute her head hits the pillow.

[kidotm]

Chapter 2

They’re at it again the next day. Willow is showing her how to fight an opponent from the ground when a clatter comes from the middle room where the guard sits duty.

“Willow!” a surly voice calls. “Get the fuck up here!”

Gal lets go of Willow’s arm so she can stand up, and follows her into the guard-room. The guard on duty and another slaver are in the the space between the two sets of bars, waiting impatiently.

“Charon asked for you.” the guard tells her. Willow grimaces.  

“We just did this last week.” she says irritably. The slaver bangs on the bars again with the hilt of his combat knife, clearly impatient.

Ignoring him, Willow turns back to Gal and tells her in a low voice, “If any of the others try to start anything with you, fight. Even if you lose, they’ll probably leave you alone once they see you won’t back down.”

Gal nods, glancing over at the others in the room. It’s enough for Willow, who turns and walks to the door set in the bars to be let through. She disappears with the slaver and the guard takes his position in the corner of the room again.

Gal turns to go back to her spot at the window, imagining that Willow will be gone for a while, but the minute she disappears out of eyeshot of the guard, someone grabs her by the arm and jerks her backwards. It’s one of the women who’s been giving her the dirtiest looks. When Gal jerks her arm from her grasp, the woman smiles in a nasty way.

“Been cozying up to the zombie, have you? Think it’s going to help you?” she mutters. It’s clear she’s trying not to get heard by any of the slavers. The look in her eyes is disturbing.

“You have a problem with my choice of friends?” Gal says coolly. She may not be much of a fighter yet, but she can sling shit with the best of them, and she plans to put that to use. “I value good looks in a friend, and Willow seems to be the best option in here.”

The woman snarls and goes for her collar. Gal, surprisingly, is able to knock her hand away and get a knee to the stomach in before the woman punches her across the face. Gal steps past her, shoves her shoulder back, and hooks a foot around her ankle, just like her teacher had showed her. The woman goes down, flat on her back, but she gets ahold of Gal’s wrist and takes her down with her.

Gal definitely comes out the worse in this fight. She gets a black eye and a lot more bruises by the time the guard gets them split apart. He doesn’t come in the cell, just threatens to shoot them if they don’t cut it out, and assures them that that goes for any of the other parts of the slave quarters as well. But when Gal retreats to the window, nobody else bothers her. Willow returns a few hours later and takes in her swelling eye with no small amount of amusement.

“So? They bother you after you got that?” she asks. Gal shakes her head and smiles.

“You were right. Guess you’re a good teacher.”

Will barks out a laugh and settles back against the window.

“Where were you?” she asks curiously. Clearly, she hadn’t left for a fight, because she’s come back no worse for the wear. ‘Charon wants you’, the slaver had said… what did that mean?

Willow’s mouth twists. Gal sort of expects her not to answer, but then Willow gives a ‘why not’ shrug and answers.

“Since Charon is Ashur’s favourite fighter, he gets certain privileges. Like alone time with female slaves.” she says shortly. She doesn’t have to clarify.

Gal’s mouth nearly drops open.

“ What? But, that’s -”

“It’s what?” Willow cuts her off. “Did you forget what we are? We’re slaves. We don’t get a choice.”

Her tone is curt, and brooks no discussion. Gal shuts her mouth and doesn’t say anything else. She has no right to, and if Willow had just come back from - that - unwillingly, then clearly she wouldn’t be in a good mood. In fact, she’s handling it far better than Gal knows she ever would.

She thinks of the large man she’d seen in the ring, at least six feet and all muscle, and shudders. At least Willow doesn’t appear to have any bruises. Maybe he’s not allowed to hurt them, since they’re needed for the fights.

“Hey,” Willow says, dragging her out of her thoughts. When Gal looks up, her face is less tense. She even looks a little repentant, for some reason. “Don’t worry about it so much, tourist. You know, sometimes… sometimes things aren’t always what they seem.”

That’s a cryptic statement if Gal’s ever heard one, but she drops the subject.

--

Willow practices with her every day, and Gal gets more confident in her fighting skills. Twice in the next week, Willow gets called for fights - she takes down a woman with a knife in the first, and breaks a man’s neck in the second. Gal’s beginning to see why none of the slaves are friendly with each other. The woman you talk to today could be across from you in the ring tomorrow. Better not to get close. But Willow never objects to Gal’s presence. Gal picks up on when she wants to chat, and when she wants to be silent, and doesn’t push.

One the tenth day of Gal being in the Pitt, she gets called to fight. She’s in the middle of trying an armbar on Willow, but the moment she hears her name, her blood turns to ice. Willow has to tap her on the shoulder to get her to let go. Then she has to shove her in the direction of the guard room to get Gal to start walking.

Ahead of her, another woman is already being led out - black-haired, stocky, she’s maybe a few inches taller but at least ten pounds heavier. Gal blanches. She can feel her heart rate picking up, and her hands getting jittery.

She’s going to die today.

“Almza.” Willow whispers in her ear. “She’s not a strong fighter at all. Chin up, smoothskin, you’ll be fine.”

The words don’t reassure her at all.

“I’m going to die, is what’s going to happen, Willow.” she hisses back as they approach the cell, and the slaver waiting on the other side. Willow rolls her eyes and pushes her forward another step.

“No, you’re not. You going to go out there and forget all the training we’ve been doing? Didn’t think so. Just don’t hesitate on the kill. Do whatever you have to, and don’t try to grow a conscience in the middle of it. Ashur doesn’t like that.”

Gal swallows and tries to stop, but Willow keeps pushing her forward until they’re up to the gate. She gives Gal’s arm a goodbye squeeze just before the slaver reaches through and drags her out of the slave area.

She doesn’t look at the man guiding her by the elbow as they make their way down to the arena. She doesn’t even take in what’s around her, too busy trying not to hyperventilate or start tearing up. Neither will help her win this fight. She needs to stay calm, focus, and get through this. Just this fight, that’s all she has to think about.

“Alright, it’s bare fists, no weapons. Try not to die, I’ve got some money on you.” the slaver says as they come up to the arena. Gal nearly glares at him, but stops herself. They bet on the slaves? Of course they do. She’s not sure why she’s surprised.

There’s a set of bars a few feet away from the familiar metal gate, similar to the entrance to the slave area. Gal can see the arena on the other side, but it’s too far to the other gate to spot her opponent. The guard shoves her into the waiting area, closes the door behind her, and leaves her to her fate.

Alright, what had Willow told her? She’s fast, so evasion is better than trying to overpower. If possible, try to break a limb; that’ll slow your opponent down real quick. The best way to kill an opponent bare-handed is breaking their neck. She can do this. She can do this.

Shit shit shit. She’s going to die.

Up above, she can hear people talking and stomping around in the seats. It doesn’t sound as busy as usual. The amount of filled seats corresponds to how good the fighter is, usually. Charon and Willow usually get a full house. She probably won’t get many at all.

That’s not what she needs to focus on, though. Focus on the grate. Focus on waiting for it to open, and then getting sight of her opponent as quick as possible.

Before she’s even close to ready, the grate screeches open.

Gal darts into the arena and nearly gets hit by a dropping barrel. She has to leap to the side to avoid it. The radiation is already sapping her strength; it makes her limbs heavy and the air feels thinner somehow, like she can’t breathe quite right.

Her opponent runs in at exactly the same time. Gal’s seen her around in the slave pens (how could she not, there’s only four rooms), but doesn’t know much about her. They circle, each sizing the other up.

Don’t rush, Willow had said. Fights go quick, but trying to rush in too soon is a death sentence. Gal finds that her nerves have all but disappeared; she’s filled with adrenaline, and hyper-focused on the black-haired woman opposite her.

Her opponent isn’t nearly as calm. She lunges at Gal, but Gal sidesteps and she misses by a mile. Turning around, her opponent goes for a second lunge. Gal steps only half as far this time; when the woman is just to the side of her, Gal turns and shoves her to the ground. The woman tries to get back up, but Gal kicks her in the stomach once, twice.

On the second kick, the woman manages to catch her foot and knocks her off balance. Before Gal can recover, the woman is on top of her. She goes for Gal’s throat; Gal throws her hands up instinctively and bats them away. As soon as she’s able, she thrusts her hips upwards to make the woman pitch forward. When she tries to catch herself on her hands, Gal drives a palm into her unprotected chin and then kicks her off.

She can feel her movements getting slower the longer the radiation pumps into her body. It’s affecting her opponent too, even more than it is Gal; the woman goes flying into a barrel and goes down. She struggles to get back up.

The best way to kill an opponent is breaking their neck. Willow whispers as she advances on her adversary. The other woman is trying to stand up dizzily, but she can’t seem to manage it.

Gal has to do it. She has to. Or she’ll die.

She reaches out, grabs the woman by the top of her head and her chin, and twists. The crack echoes across the arena. The meager crowd jumps to their feet and hoots as Gal lets the body drop and staggers backwards.

When the siren sounds, the rusty grate that she’s entered from lifts and she’s able to wobble back weakly, away from the energy-sapping radiation barrels. She stumbles right past the guard and falls to her knees. He wrinkles his nose as she vomits all over the metal floor, but waits until she’s done to yank her to her feet.

“I’ll overlook it this time, because you won me a hundred caps, but don’t yack in here again. That’s fucking gross. Here, lay down so I can set up this rad-away.”

There’s a table in the room that looks exactly like the one her father had used for surgery in the Vault. When she lays down, he tightens the restraints around her legs and arms and hooks up a bag of rad-away to her arm. At first, the fluid makes her nauseated. She has to close her eyes to keep the room from spinning around her. But after a bit, the feeling goes away.

“All done, let’s go. Fun’s over for today.” the guard says when the bag is drained. Gal stands, feeling, at least physically, much better, and lets him lead her back to the slave quarters without much protest. She keeps feeling the vibration in her fingers that she’d felt when she’d twisted the woman’s head. The image will be seared into her brain forever.

When she’s dropped off back at the pen, Willow is waiting for her. She doesn’t say anything, just leads Gal over to the window and lets her sit down in silence. Gal sits with her back to the bars, not wanting to see whether they’ve cleaned up the body yet or not.

Neither of them say anything the rest of the day. When they get up the next morning, Gal resumes training with Willow like it never happened.

--

A few days later, Gal gets called again. They’d just finished watching Charon fight in the arena a half-hour ago, and she’s never seen two fights in one day, so she’s not sure whether to be grateful that she probably won’t have to kill anyone, or nervous. What else could they want her for? Nothing good, surely.

When she and Willow walk up to the gate, the slaver on the other side gives Willow a mocking smile.

“Looks like you’ve been dumped, shuffler. Hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings too much.” he says with a sneer. Willow stares him down coldly.

“Boo-hoo.” she says sarcastically, and walks away. Gal feels very alone without her presence, suddenly.

“What’s going on?” she says as the guard unlocks the door. “Is it another fight?”

The slaver turns his wicked grin on her and shakes his head.

“Nope, sorry girlie. This is a fight of a different kind. Ashur’s pet asked for you.” he replies. Gal’s brow furrows as he digs his fingers into her arm and jerks her from the cell. Ashur’s pet?

No. No.

Charon.

“No fucking way.” she hisses, trying to twist her arm out of his grip. “I’m not doing that. Tell him to find someone else.”

She gets free for just a moment - and then stars explode in her vision as the guard buttstrokes her in the side of the head, knocking her to the floor. Before she can recover, the slaver jerks her wrists behind her back and handcuffs them together. Her shoulders nearly pop out of place when he yanks her up by the cuff chain.

“You don’t have a fucking choice, pretty lady. I don’t suggest you try that with Charon, unless you want him to hurt you very badly.”

She tries to spit in his eye, but her vision is still hazy and she misses. He growls and pinches the skin on her arm until she squeals.

“ Enough. Keep it up and you’ll arrive already in less-than-pristine condition.”

Gal takes a shuddering breath and relents. She’ll need her strength. She has to at least try to fight Charon off, even if there’s no chance of winning. Maybe there’s a small one; after all, she’d already saved herself once.

Willow may be able to handle it, but she can’t. She’d rather die.

The room they drag her to is similar to the guard room in the slave quarters, but there are no other rooms connected to it. All it holds is a straw mattress. There’s no chair for a guard in the corner. She guesses they’re not going to watch.

The guard unlocks her handcuffs and pushes her through into the cell before she can do anything about it. Her balance is shot; she stumbles to hands and knees and the room around her spins. The leers at her for a moment before leaving. Gal crawls to the back of the cell and slumps against the wall, rubbing at her sore wrists and trying to will the throbbing in her head away.

It’s not long before the door opens again. Not one, but three guards escort Charon into the room, all of them with their rifles pointed at his back. He’s clearly considered to be much more dangerous than Gal is. Still, he doesn’t even try to fight. He just walks up to the cell door and waits patiently while one of them opens it.

“About time you traded up from that ugly hag.” one of the guards remarks. Charon doesn’t say anything in response. When the door opens, he walks through and stops just on the other side.

“We’ll leave you to it.” one of the slavers says suggestively. “Try to keep it down this time.” With that, the three take their leave and the room is empty.

Gal stumbles to her feet, head throbbing, and surveys the man in front of her. Up close, he’s even bigger than she’d thought; he must be almost seven feet tall, and none of it is fat. He doesn’t wear the same outfit at the other slaves; where she has a torn skirt and leather halter, he gets a faded black t-shirt and heavy trousers. He wears combat boots on his feet instead of the lace-up sandals. None of it serves to hide the raw strength in his form. When she looks closer, she sees that the leg of his pants are covered in something rust-coloured and only half-dry.

His face is purely, terrifyingly devoid of emotion. Like Willow, he has milky blue eyes and patchy hair, but where her features portray amusement or irritation, his are blank. It’s like his eyes stare straight through her. It’s horrifying.

Charon takes one step forward. Gal falls into a fighting stance and tries not to sway as her head swims.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” she says loudly, trying to sound intimidating. Surprisingly, Charon does stop. One eyebrow raises.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks doubtfully, clearly seeing the way she can’t stand straight. Gal shakes her head, trying to clear it, and glares.

“ Me? I’m not the one cornering women in dirty cells and raping them, you heartless bastard. Don’t get anywhere near me.”

Charon blinks at her, and sighs. He doesn’t look amused.

“Willow didn’t tell you. Bitch.” he mutters to himself, taking another step forward. Gal scurries back away from him.

“Oh, she told me alright. She told me all about the privileges you get.” she shoots back. She has to brace a hand on the wall just to stay upright. When Charon moves closer again, she tries to step backwards, but her body has stopped working right. Her legs don’t keep up with her momentum and with a gasp, she starts to fall.

Strong hands catch her by the elbows, stopping her. Gal tries to struggle, but it’s like fighting with a stone statue. She doesn’t have the slightest chance of pulling away from Charon, and he knows it.

“Cut the shit, would you? Let me see your eyes.” he says irritably, grabbing both of her wrists in one hand. He turns them so the bare lightbulb in the center of the room is directly behind them and pulls each of her eyelids up in turn. Gal realizes dimly what he’s doing, and is immediately confused.

“Figures. Who hit you? Was it a guard?” he asks. Gal nods dumbly, still trying to tug her hands away weakly. Charon makes a rude sound, sets her on the ground, and lets go. She immediately backs up into the corner, as far away as she can get.

“Quit moving around so damn much. You’re going to make your concussion worse.” Charon says gruffly, crossing his arms. “Willow told me about you last time she was here. Said you came from a Vault and asked her to teach you to fight.”

Gal tries to get ahold of her breathing, but her heart is hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to break out. She’s grateful all her clothes are still on, but that could change any minute.

“So what? You were looking for someone who couldn’t fight you off? Because I promise you, I’ve learned a lot in the last few days.” she says threateningly. Charon rolls his eyes and crosses to the wall a few feet away to slide down to the ground.

“Yeah, you’re real fucking scary while you’re tripping over your own feet.” he jibes back. “Willow told me because she asked if I’d train you. Only with you having a fucking concussion, that’s clearly not going to happen. So instead, we’re going to sit here in silence and waste a couple hours doing nothing.”

Gal slumps back and gives him a disbelieving look. Train her?

“But I thought -” she starts. Charon cuts her off.

“Well, you fucking thought wrong. Things aren’t always what they seem.”

It’s an eerie echo of what Willow had said last week. Gal gets it now, and flushes in embarrassment. Oh, God. She’d thought he was going to - but the relief cancels out the embarrassment pretty easily. How could she have known? Willow hadn’t said anything.

A creak comes from the other side of the door. Charon swears and in a split second, he’s dragged her up by the wrists and tugged at her skirt and top, pulling them askew. Gal whimpers and tries to back away, but he holds her in place while he undoes his trousers one-handed and shoves the front of his underwear down. He turns around just as the door opens and the guard that had escorted her walks in.

“What the fuck is this?” Charon growls, one hand still gripping her arm as he faces the guard. The slaver doesn’t look very pleased to be presented with a full frontal from Charon. “She’s damaged goods. Somebody gave her a damn concussion. What am I going to do if I screw her and she dies?”

The guard looks up uneasily from the front of Charon’s trousers and shakes his head.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. But she’s only had one fight, so if she dies, no big deal. There’s plenty more to replace her. I’m just here to tell you you’re headed straight to Haven after this to see Ashur.”

“Fine.” Charon says shortly. “Get the fuck out.”

Surprisingly, the guard doesn’t say anything to that. He just leaves. The minute the door is shut behind him, Charon lets go of her arm and faces away from her. She pulls the cloth back down into place as he re-zips his pants, her lip trembling a little bit. She can handle fighting. Killing someone, even that is a hurdle she can overcome. But the feeling of someone ripping the clothes off her body is something else entirely.

“You decent?” Charon calls once he’s put everything back to rights. Gal mumbles something and he turns around. She looks away, shame-faced, but not before she catches the worried expression in his eyes.

“Oh, fuck. Please don’t fucking cry. I’m sorry, okay? I had to. I’m not really gonna do anything to you.” he says apologetically. When Gal looks up at him, eyes wet, he holds his hands up and backs away.

“Don’t tell me not to cry.” she says back tearily, collapsing in the corner and pulling her knees up to her chest. “You have no right to tell me what the fuck to do.”

He sighs and rubs at the spot between his eyes wearily. Picking a spot several feet down the wall from her, he sits down heavily and slings one arm over his bent knee. He lets his head tilt back and closes his eyes.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Cry if you want. I’ll stay over here.”

It sounds like it should be sarcastic. Surprisingly, it sounds sincere. A couple of drops escape her eyes, but crying makes her head hurt so bad that she really couldn’t keep it up even if she wanted to. She rubs the tears away and sets her head on top of her knees. There’s silence for a little bit as each of them is lost in their own thoughts.

“So if you and Willow don’t… you know… what do you do?” Gal asks hesitantly, when the silence gets too loud. Charon cracks one eye open and looks at her.

“We talk. Like normal people.” he pauses for a minute, then continues. “Willow and I are from the same town, so we knew each other before we ended up here. I have an image to uphold, and she helps me do it. We come in here, make some noises, maybe rearrange our clothes a bit. That’s all it takes. Everyone’s convinced.”

“Why do they need to be convinced of that?” she asks, her distress fading as her curiousity grows. Charon gives her a suspicious look, but answers anyway.

“Because, smoothskin, in order to survive in this place, you have to convince people you’re the baddest dog in the cage. If they think otherwise, they tear you apart. Plus, if I win enough fights, there’s a chance that I could win my freedom. I’m going to take Willow with me, and we’re getting out of this shithole.”

The scorn in his voice is obvious. Gal finds herself relaxing as he talks. He’s not as intimidating now with the two of them just sitting on the ground, having a conversation. At rest, the slope of his shoulders relax, and his gaze isn’t so cold when it’s not focused on her. The tight ball of fear in her chest unclenches slowly.

“I know you don’t owe me anything but…. don’t tell anyone that Willow and I knew each other before, please. And  if you could sniffle a little when you walk out of here…”

Gal snorts in amusement. She’d never have expected for the toughest fighter in the Pitt to be sitting in a cell with her, asking her for favours.

“I’ll make sure to tell them what a heartless monster you are. Pinch myself on the arm, get some tears worked up.” she says dryly.

Charon shoots her a sideways look. “No wonder Willow likes you. Smartass.”

The conversation lapses again. This time it’s more friendly. Gal pillows her head on her arms and closes her eyes, intending on taking a nap, but Charon makes a noise and she looks back up.

“Don’t fall asleep. You can’t sleep with a concussion. Actually, if you’re up to it, you should let me check where he hit you.”

Gal thinks it over, and nods slowly, so Charon climbs to his feet and walks over.

She can’t help but flinch when he kneels down next to her. She’s been hit, kicked, dragged around, and worse by a number of men since her introduction to the Wasteland, and between her bad experiences there and the constant training with Willow, it’s second nature to want to back away from an approaching person. Especially a man Charon’s size, who still has blood drying on his pants from the fighter she’d seen him kill a few hours earlier.

He waits for her to settle and point to the site before he touches her. His hands are gentle as they prod at her skull, pulling the hair out of the way so he can check for bruising and determine the extent of the injury.

“You should be fine. Seems like you’ve got a hard head.” he says gruffly. “I’ll ask for you again next week and we can start doing some training. Try not to get too roughed up before then.”

Gal’s spirits lift at that statement. Between Charon and Willow (who, Gal has figured out, is considered the second best fighter in the Pitt), she may really have a chance at surviving.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks, attempting to sound curious and not accusatory.

Charon turns back to his little spot on the wall and settles down. He moves like some type of large, predatory animal - graceful and dangerous. In every one of his slow movements, she feels like she can see the tension inside, waiting for a reason to snap.

“Because Willow likes you. She’s a good judge of character.” he says at first. He must catch that she’s not fully convinced by that, and continues. “You have good instincts. Don’t ever stop being suspicious of people. The minute you do, they’ll fuck you over.”

Gal’s not sure if that’s supposed to comfort her or make her distrust him more. Her instincts had told her before that any confirmed killer locked in a cell with her would take advantage. Now that that's not happening, she's not quite sure how to feel. 

They spend a little more time in silence together. Gal wants to ask questions - about the Pitt, about Charon, about how he and Willow ended up in this place, about him and why he didn’t take just because he could. But they feel way too personal for someone she’s just met, so she just curls up and enjoys being stationary for a while. It’s nice, even if her head still throbs. Charon leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. She gets the sense that even though he looks like he’s resting, maybe even drowsing, his eyes would snap open the minute she moved.

Soon, too soon, they do snap open, and he stalks over to her again, though he doesn’t pull her up against him or even make her stand. When the guard comes in, making a little more noise this time (as if he doesn’t want to get the same eyeful as the last visit), Charon faces her and tugs on the front of his trousers a little, as if he’s adjusting or buttoning them back up.

“Time’s up. Ashur’s getting impatient.” The guard says, tapping on the bars with the barrel of his rifle. He’s got his compliment of other men behind him, ready to escort the Pitt’s most dangerous slave to wherever it is that Ashur stays.. Charon looks down at her significantly; remember you’re supposed to be upset, that looks says.

She can do upset, all right. It’s not like she doesn’t have a plethora of bad memories to use as fodder. Gal scrunches up her nose, pinches herself on the arm, and in a few seconds has fat tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. She sniffles a few times, and lets out a couple soft sobs as if she’s trying to stay quiet. It’s very convincing, if she can toot her own horn a little. Convincing enough that it makes Charon blink and look a little embarrassed, before he turns away and walks up to the gate.

“I like this one.” He growls as they unlock the bars. The menacing persona she’d been so afraid of when he’d first shown up falls back into place neatly. “Get her a stimpack for her concussion, I don’t want her dying.”

The guard rolls his eyes, but Charon just walks out like he doesn’t expect refusal. He doesn’t glance back at her at all as they move towards the exit. One lone guard waits for her as she picks herself up and starts stumbling towards the door. She wipes her teary eyes on her arm and lets him yank her down the hallway and back towards the slave quarters without struggle.

“Not so energetic now, are you? Good, my shift’s over in five minutes and I’m too tired for that shit.” The guard sighs. He doesn’t appear to be moved by Gal’s tears at all. Unsurprised at his cold attitude, she lets out a fresh wail at his words, as if she’s really upset by them. He stops them by a medical room so he can beg a stimpack off the doctor inside and jabs it into her thigh like he’s trying to stab her. It hurts, but the relief that comes with her lessening headache is worth it.

The women all look up briefly when she’s dragged back into the guard room and shoved through the door, but they go back to what they were doing just as quick. What a cold group they are. Only Willow stands and waits for her.

In complete contrast to what she looks like on the outside, right now she feels the most hopeful she’s been since walking out of the Vault.

[kidotm]

 Chapter 3

Gal stumbles when she’s shoved into the cell, just like before. This time though, there’s someone there to catch her. Gal feels the thin arm wrap around her shoulders to keep her upright, and the next few tears that slide down her cheeks aren’t quite as fake as the others.

Gal waits until they’re in their spot at the window before she turns off the waterworks. Wiping the tears off on her arm as best she can, she turns a glare on the other woman.

“Why didn’t you tell me what that was about.” She hisses lowly. Willow, who had begun to look a little worried about her crying, relaxes.

“If I’d have known you were such a good actress, tourist, I would have.” She says. Gal glares at her again and Willow manages to look a bit sorry. “I didn’t want you to give it away by not reacting right. His rep is important if we ever want to get the fuck out of here. Sending you was a big damn risk.”

Gal sees the look on her face and gets the impression that Willow doesn’t help anyone else out like this. It’s one thing to give her some fighting lessons, and let her hang around while Gal gets used to Pitt life, but this is way bigger than that. Both Willow and Charon had put their faith into Gal, that she wouldn’t give them away or betray them if they helped her.

That’s pretty big. She’s not sure what she did to deserve it. But she’s terribly, incredibly grateful.

Selfishly, she hopes that Charon doesn’t win his freedom any time soon.

--

Gal’s second fight comes before she knows it. Just a week later, she’s yanked out of the living quarters again rudely. No one else had been taken out yet, so she’s either the first to be picked, or she’s fighting a male. If possible, she’s even more nervous than she was for the first fight. Then, she’d had no idea of what was waiting for her. Now, she knows what she’s going to have to do to win. The warmth of the woman’s skin under her fingertips, the resistance as Gal had twisted her head sharply. The way the life had left her eyes as she collapsed to the floor.

This guard doesn’t give any pointers. Clearly, if he’s betting, it’s not on her. She’s tossed into the holding area without ceremony and left to wait for a while. There’s a bigger crowd this time, she thinks. More footsteps, more conversation. She must have put on an okay show last time.

God, that makes her sick. How could people stand to watch something like this?

She hears the door slam across the arena in the other holding area. It alerts her to get ready. Darting up to the grate, she tries to peer out and see where the barrels are, but there’s not enough space.

With a screech, the grate starts lifting. Gal wastes no time in ducking under and into the arena.

Her opponent does the same. It’s the woman she’d tried to talk to her first day in the slave’s quarters, the heavily scarred one that had told her to buzz off. Gal feels a little vindication that she’s going to get revenge. Then she immediately pales and thrusts that thought away.

What a sick idea. Nobody deserves a death like this.

The barrels drop. Then, something else does too, something that glints in the lighting over the arena. About 50 feet to her right, a combat knife plunges point-first into the dirt floor of the arena and sticks there.

Gal doesn’t even hesitate. She takes off for the knife as fast as she possible can, pushing away the fatigue in her legs and the oppressing feel of the radiation in the air. Her opponent darts in the opposite direction - there must be two knives. Gal needs this one if she’s going to win.

She reaches the knife, yanks it out of the ground, and hurriedly settles into the stance Willow had taught her. They’d done some knife work with a short piece of wood. It was different than fighting with bare fists - with fists, you can take a few hits and still come out on top. With a knife, any move could mean your death.

Similarly armed, her opponent approaches in a crouch, a smug look on her face. She knows that Gal is a beginner. She’s convinced this will be an easy fight. Gal’s not sure what she’s up against, but she’s going to try her hardest to prove the woman wrong.

The woman slashes out with the knife. Gal twists to get out of the way, but a neat line of red opens up on her forearm. She can’t even feel it, with all the adrenaline running through her. Gal retaliates by taking a shot at her opponent’s side; the woman blocks with her free hand. She tries to keep a hold of Gal’s wrist, but Gal manages to slip out of her grasp and dart out of reach.

They don’t have the time to dance around each other, not with the radiation pumping through the air at this rate. The woman comes at her again; Gal tries to block, but fails. The knife sinks into her thigh. Gal hisses and completely forgets her training. Desperately, she jabs at the hand holding the knife with her own and the woman is forced to let go and back off to prevent losing a hand.

Now her opponent is unarmed, but Gal has a knife in her leg and her movement is severely hampered. She’s clearly not the expert in this fight.

Don’t rush, a gravelly voice chides in her head, if you lose your cool and stop fighting defensively, you’ll be dead before you know it.

Gal resists the urge to charge and instead yanks the knife from her leg, tucking it into the waistband of her skirt for safekeeping. Then she moves forward steadily, backing the woman up towards a wall where she can’t get away.

Distantly, she hears the crowd cheering. They seem to be enjoying this immensely. Gal isn’t, and clearly her opponent isn’t either; both of them are breathing heavily, steps slowed by the radiation that’s pumping into their bodies.

Gal feints with the knife and comes around with a hook while the woman’s distracted. It connects at her temple, knocking her back a few feet. With an angry cry, the woman leaps forward, reaching for the knife at her waistband. Gal stumbles backwards and slashes out with the combat knife. She feels it sink into something soft as she falls to the dirt, the woman’s weight on top of her.

The scarred woman makes a choking noise and goes limp, rolling off of Gal to one side. The movement takes the knife with her. Gal scrambles after it, but realizes quickly that there’s no need. The knife is sticking out of the woman’s stomach, leaking red all over her skin and the ground. A foul stench permeates the air; Gal’s hit her intestines, then. Unless she gets immediate medical care, she’s not going to live. But she is going to die very, very slowly if Gal leaves her like this.

The fight isn’t over. Her opponent is still alive. The grates are still down.

Gal takes the knife from the waist-band of her skirt (she doesn’t want to pull the one in the woman’s stomach out… no unnecessary pain) and steels her resolve. The woman looks up at her, eyes bright with pain. Her hand reaches weakly for her stomach, trying to stop the bleeding. Her breath comes in pants.

Gal tilts her chin up and draws the knife across.

The spray of blood catches her by surprise, though she should have expected it. Doctor’s daughter and all. The brightness leaves the woman’s eyes slowly; her hand stills on her stomach. Blood drips down Gal’s face. She has to wipe it away on her arm to keep it from getting into her eyes.

When she hears the screeching of the grates, she drops the knife and struggles to her feet. This time, she vomits inside the arena instead of in the holding area.

The guard grimaces when she stumbles in, covered in blood.

“Hold it right there. Hands up. I have to search you.” Gal shakenly holds her hands up. Groaning about the blood getting on his hands, he runs them over her skirt, top, and each boot to make sure she hasn’t held on to one of the knives, then points at a basin full of water in the corner.

“Go wash that shit off, then we’ll fix your leg and give you radaway. Don’t fucking touch anything.”

Gal obeys. The cool water feels good on her skin after all her exertion, but the added radiation makes her dizzy. She’s pretty sure she’s really close to permanent damage from all the exposure. Still, the guard is as good as his word; once she’s relatively clean, he straps her down on the table, jabs her with a couple stimpacks, and sets up the bag of radaway. Then, just like the first time, she’s taken back to the quarters and dropped off.

After that, the killing gets easier.

She falls into sort of a routine. Every morning, before breakfast, Willow does round after round of exercises that Gal tries to keep up with. Throughout the day, they work on fighting - unarmed, armed, on the ground, against a wall, multiple opponents, any situation that Gal might possibly be put in. In the evenings, they talk, about the Pitt or the Wasteland or Willow’s home, in Underworld.

“How’d you end up here?” Gal finally asks one day, when she thinks they’ve been friends long enough to justify the prying. Willow, who’s got her head tilted back against the stone and her eyes closed like she’s trying to take a nap, cracks an eyelid at her. Her eyebrows furrow a little bit, but she answers.

“I told you I worked as the guard to Underworld.” Gal nods. “We got sold out by somebody. Ghouls make good slaves if you’re looking for hard laborers - we live a long time and we’re tough. Plus, the upkeep is cheap as hell - irradiated water will fix us up just as well as a stimpack will. And when your slave looks like chewed up boot leather, nobody wants to take it from you.” Willow sees the beginnings of a protest on Gal’s face and barks out a laugh.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, tourist. I know what most people think about ghouls. I was a smoothskin once too, you know.”

Gal tries to imagine the woman in front of her with unripped skin, a full head of hair. It’s pretty much impossible. Willow’s hard exterior matches her tough-as-nails attitude; somehow imagining her any other way seems to undercut that.

“Still seems unfair.” Gal says stubbornly, then concedes the subject. “So, what? They just rounded you guys up and brought you here?”

Willow shakes her head. “Nah. We’re not that blind. We had a system in place in case something like this ever happened. Charon and I stayed behind to keep them occupied long enough for the others to get out, and we just ended up being the lucky sacrifices. Free room and board, a job - what more could a girl ask for?”

“I don’t know, maybe… dinner that doesn’t taste rancid?” Gal responds rhetorically, looking at the grey goop in the bowl she’s holding. The food isn’t great on any particular day, but today it’s not at all palatable. And Gal’s tastebuds have gotten much less picky since she came to the Wasteland.

“So what did Charon do in Underworld? Guard duty too?”

Something about this question seems to bug Willow, like she’s not quite sure how to answer.

“No, he works for a man named Azrukhal. Mostly he bounces at Azrukhal’s bar, sometimes he runs errands.”

“He got this good at fighting by tossing out drunks?” Gal asks doubtfully. Willow rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, drunks can get pretty violent. No, of course not. Charon hasn’t always worked for Azrukhal, but it’s not really my place to say. You want to know, ask him yourself next time you see him.”

Got to find something to talk about while we’re pretending to have sex, Gal thinks.

Her chance comes soon enough. Within a week, the guards are at the door again, yelling for her. Gal’s grateful that it’s not for a fight; Willow had just come back from one, and while she’s not admitting to being hurt, Gal’s almost entirely certain that she has a few cracked ribs. She can’t convince Willow to take it easy if she’s similarly injured.

“Am I going to have to crack you in the head again?” The slaver asks as she walks up to the bars. His name is Jenkins, she’s figured out. He’s surprisingly handsome for a slaver; every time Gal sees him on duty, she wants to rearrange his face so that it reflects his nasty soul. She could take the chance now, but she doesn’t. It’s not much of a fair fight, her unprotected, unarmed self against him, his rifle, and the guard on duty. So instead she just shakes her head and lets herself be escorted back to the room they’d been in last time.

This time, Charon’s already there. He’s leaned up against the back of the cell, arms crossed over his muscular chest. He looks clean of blood this time. He doesn’t even spare the guards a look as she’s locked in, just stalks up to her and wraps one large hand around the back of her neck so he can draw her in close. She doesn’t have to fake her nervousness with all six-plus feet of him towering over her menacingly. He’s so close that she can smell him, dirt and copper and underneath that, something musky.

The minute the door slams shut, he lets go and backs off, hands once again held up to show no harm.

“Any mishaps with the butt of someone’s rifle today?” He asks in place of a greeting. Gal shakes her head and gives him a tentative smile.

“No. And… thanks for sticking up for me after last time. They fixed me up before they took me back to the slave quarters.”

Charon just hums in response and takes a cautious step forward.

“Let’s get to work. I need to see what Willow’s taught you so I know what we need to work on. Don’t hold back.”

Gal looks up at the behemoth of a man in front of her, gulps, and settles back into her fighting stance.

Charon approaches slowly and takes a few slow jabs at her, seeing how she reacts, whether she dodges or blocks. She finds herself able to keep up for the most part, until he adds kicks in. The superior reach of his legs is something that she doesn’t have any idea how to handle. After a few minutes, he turns to crowding her up against a wall, getting low and close like he’s rushing her. He seems satisfied by the way she handles it.

Then, without warning, he steps in and grabs her, far more quickly than she could have expected. Before she can react, he tosses her flat on her back and traps her underneath him. Gal throws her arms up to protect her face from blows. With as much force as she can, she thrusts her hips upwards and sends him careening forward so that he has to catch himself on his hands; the minute he does, she goes right for the seam on his trousers with a closed fist.

Charon stops her before she does any real damage, as she’d expected he would. She’s not under any illusion that this is a fair fight. Every punch that Charon has thrown has been deliberately slow to give her time to react. But he looks fairly impressed so she thinks she did alright.

“Not bad.” He grunts, climbing off and pushing to his feet. He offers her a hand up, which she takes gratefully. “You’ve been training with Willow for two weeks?”

“Yeah, something like that. I’ve only had two fights so far.” She replies, brushing off the back of her skirt and trying to slow her racing heart.

“Willow’s a good teacher, but you’re a hell of a student. The woman you fought in the second fight was no pushover.”

The praise makes her smile a little without thinking. He seems a little surprised to see the expression on her face, but doesn’t comment. “Let’s get started.”

If she had thought Willow was a taskmaster, she’s taking all that back now. Charon is patient in teaching, and merciless in practice. Fighting someone so physically large is a whole different ball game than she’s used to. Moves that have worked against other opponents fail spectacularly against him. “You won’t be able to win on force alone. You’re too small and others will beat you in strength every time.” he advises after a failed attempt to leg-sweep him to the ground. “But if your technique is better than theirs, you’ll always have the advantage.”

He adjusts her stance and shows her how she was connecting with his leg in the wrong area. On her third try, with his help, Charon goes down like a pile of bricks. It’s only one move, but it feels like a huge accomplishment. After the misunderstanding (to put it lightly) the last time she was here, it’s amazing how comfortable she feels around Charon. Maybe because of how much Willow trusts him, or maybe because he’d been put into a situation that he easily could have taken advantage of - and didn’t - but she finds that the longer he teaches, the less fear she has when he grips her wrist or looms over her.

The guards are gone for longer this time than the last. After a couple hours, when Gal is wet with sweat and panting, Charon calls a halt to their practice and fumbles for something on his belt. He detaches a dull-coloured canteen wrapped in dirty leather and hands it to her.

“Good work. Drink this before you pass out. We don’t want to overdo it and then have you walk into a fight tomorrow completely fucked up from training.”

Gal takes the canteen gratefully and gulps down several large swallows. When she’s done, she wipes her mouth and hands him the canteen so he can down the rest. Together, they collapse against the stone wall.

“I feel like rubber.” she admits. Any adjustment to her posture makes her wince as it stretches sore muscles. She’s a little proud to see some dampness on Charon’s shirt as well. Hopefully teaching is at least a little helpful for him too.

“It’ll pass. Make sure you eat everything they give you or you won’t recover.” he replies. Gal makes a face.

“You sound like my dad.” she says with a snort.

They sit in silence for a minute, both catching their breaths. Gal watches her companion out of the corner of her eye. If she didn’t know better, she’d say that he was ignoring her. One hand draped across a bent knee, eyes lingering on the door across the room, he looks like he’s lost in thought. She thinks instead that maybe he’s aware of how nervous his stare makes people, and so chooses to look away.

She sees him in a different light now. Broad shoulders, a well-defined jaw, and a confident posture give a completely different impression when she’s not fearing for her life. He looks - handsome. She thinks of his hand wrapped around her neck, playing the cruel dominator, and gets butterflies in her stomach for an entirely different reason.

“So, you come from Underworld?” she blurts out in a desperate attempt to distract herself. Charon glances over, brows furrowed.

“...yeah.” he says cautiously.

“Will you… tell me about it? I didn’t get a chance to see much of the notorious Capital Wasteland.”

That mollifies him somewhat. He looks up to the ceiling, as if thinking, and then speaks.

“As far as towns go, it’s not bad. Big settlements in the Capital Wasteland aren’t very common, and it’s hard to get in and even harder to make a living in them. We’ve got a doctor, a shopkeeper, hotel, all the shit you need to make a good settlement. Only downside is that the area outside is covered in Super Mutants, so we don’t get many traders.”

Gal smiles. What a pragmatic description. “What do you do there?”

This time, the look he gives her is past cautious, all the way to suspicious. It’s really strange, how violently he and Willow react to questions about him. Why?

“I’m a bouncer.” he says shortly. “I work in a bar.”

She tries to think of another question that could draw out more information, but nothing comes to mind that won’t put him more on edge. She’ll have to let it drop for now.

“I’ve never been in a bar.” she says mournfully, kicking at a pebble with her sandal. “Only had alcohol a couple times.”

That segue relaxes Charon’s shoulders a bit.

“Not that the alcohol out here is worth drinking, but if you play your cards right, you’ll get your chance.” he replies. The thought makes her feel a little better, strangely. She doesn’t think Charon would say it if it wasn’t true.

There’s a thump at the door. Gal scrambles to her feet, just as Charon leaps up and crosses over to her. A large hand settles at her waist. She looks up at him, grins, and then turns on the waterworks. With the bruises she’s gained from their sparring, the whole act will be even more believable this time. With his straight face, it’s not easy to tell, but she thinks he’s a little amused.

She’s got a different guard this time. She knows it’s for her, because Charon apparently demands no less than three wherever he goes. The guard is younger, probably in his mid-twenties, and he frowns at Gal’s crying.

That’s a strange response. She comes through the cell door obediently as the guard keeps an eye on Charon, who is settled back against the wall and giving him a cold look. The guard neither shoves her nor pokes her in the back with his rifle; instead, he waves her on. She lets out a muffled sob, rubs at a particularly nasty bruise on her arm, and meanders out of the room.

“Do you need a stimpack?” the guard asks suddenly as they’re heading back to the slave quarters. Gal blinks in surprise and looks back at him. He eyes the cuts and spots along her exposed skin with unease. A guard with a conscience? She was starting to think they didn’t exist.

“Uh…” honestly, she really doesn’t. The marks are no worse than anything Willow’s given her, but that would probably sound suspicious, so she nods a little and stutters out a ‘yes’. The guard leads her to one of the medical rooms and swipes a stimpack from a box on the counter.

“Quit wasting our medical supplies on those.” the doctor in the room says scornfully, flicking his fingers at Gal. She supposes she is part of the ‘those’. “They’ll live regardless.”

“She’s a fighter. And she can’t fight if she’s banged up.” the guard says back. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, ‘heartless bastard’ and leads her back out of the room.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t administer it himself. Instead, he presses it into her hand with a smile.

“Here. It’s best to use them as close as possible to the source of the, uh… injury.” the smile becomes a little strained at this. She blinks down at the stimpak in surprise and then stuffs it into her skirt, where it can’t be seen.

“Thanks.” Gal says, a little bit suspiciously. There was a time in her life where people did things for each other just because. Now, she expects any help to come with strings attached. She doesn’t know if he’s angling for something, but paranoia tells her to assume that he is.

The guard looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he just clears his throat and motions her on.

The front room of the slave quarters is suspiciously empty when they step in. The guard is nowhere to be found. Her own guard looks around suspiciously, checks the cell door, then shrugs and lets her in.

“Stay safe.” he says in farewell. She turns her back and doesn’t reply.

A thud from the room off to the left - her and Willow’s room, as much as it could be anyone’s - catches her attention. Making sure the stimpak is secure in her skirt, she crosses to the doorway, peaks around the corner - and curses.

Willow stands in the middle of the room, panting. Her lip is split and she’s clutching her side with one hand. Six women surround her.

[kidotm]

Chapter 4

Gal doesn’t even think. She runs in and slams into one with her shoulder, knocking the woman to the ground. Another hisses a curse at her and grabs for her arm, but Gal darts away and joins Willow in the middle of the circle.

“What the fuck is going on here?” she demands. No one answers, not even Willow. The ghoulette does give her a grateful look, but then one of the women rushes forward and they’re put on the defensive.

Willow, with her cracked ribs and a limp in her step, is in no shape to fight. Still, she gets the upper hand on her first opponent and whips her foot right into the other’s stomach. The woman stumbles back and falls into another, knocking them both down.

Gal isn’t damaged, but she’s tired and a little weak from her work with Charon. She has to put extra force into her moves to throw her opponent over her hip. The next grazes her jaw with a right hook. There’s no way they’re going to win against six women. But they have to fight, so fight they do.

A blonde-haired, thick-waisted woman gets a good shot in at Willow’s cracked ribs, leaving the ghoulette hunched over in pain. Gal tries to cover for her, but there’s too many. They’re forced back towards the wall. Another, the leader of the pack by the looks of it, takes a step forward and pull something out of her clothing.

It’s a piece of metal, the end of a screwdriver or something, that’s been filed into a sharp point. Gal pales. It’s no knife, but it doesn’t need to be to do real damage to them. The woman eyes them both and steps forward.

“What the hell is going on in here?” a male voice calls from behind the crowd of women. Swiftly, it parts down the middle. Standing in the doorway are her guard and the cell guard, both with their rifles settled into their shoulders. Her guard spots the woman holding the shank and raises the barrel of his rifle to aim at her chest.

“Drop it. Now. And kick that over here to us. Any of you go for it, you’re done.” the cell guard growls. The woman, knowing she’s outclassed, drops the shank and kicks it. It skitters over to the guards. One drops down and picks it up, his rifle never faltering.

“All of you, get in the front room. Surprise inspection. Now.” the guard barks. Like obedient dogs, the women turn and trudge out the door to the central room. Gal has to sling an arm around Willow’s shoulders to help her stumble forward.

“What the hell was that?” Gal murmurs as they make their way across.

Willow grimaces against the pain. “They figured they’d jump me while I was down, I guess. Turns out it takes six other people and a whole line of busted ribs to get me out of the game.”

Gal snorts and gives Willow a fond look. “It’ll take more than that. I should have left you alone so you could teach them a lesson.”

Willow doesn’t call her out on the obvious falsehood, just twitches a smile and keeps walking.

They stand and wait as one of the guards calls for back-up. When three other guards arrive, two split off to search the rooms, and the others line them up for patdowns. Their faces are grim; probably wondering where a slave could have gotten something as dangerous as a shank. Gal wonders nervously right along with them. They could have been killed at any moment, it seems.

She realizes with a start that she still has the stimpak in her skirt. What would they do if they found it? Surely nothing good; a stimpack can be a dangerous weapon all on its own. It only takes a little air bubble in someone’s bloodstream to kill them.

She gets another lucky break when her light-haired guard stops in front of her. His eyes dart down to the spot where she’d stuck the stimpak. He knows it’s there. His hand stills when he feels it, presses harder to confirm the shape - and then moves on. He’s not going to call her out. Gal’s relief is palpable.

They check all the women. No more contraband is found, but after everything has been searched, the woman who had been holding the shank is jerked away by the arm and led out of the cell. The other five women who had been ganging up on Willow - recognizable by their assortment of bruises, cuts, and black eyes - give them a scathing look as the guards file out of the cell.

“Congratulations, tourist,” Willow sighs as she clutches her side, “You’ve just earned yourself the privilege of looking over your shoulder twenty-four hours a day.”

It’s Willow’s way of saying thank you. They retreat to their room, alert for more sneak attacks and still shaking with the adrenaline of being attacked. It seems an unlikely time to get jumped, though, with the guards on high alert.

“What was I supposed to do, watch them beat the shit out of you?” she asks drily. Willow cocks a grin at her as she settles onto the windowsill.

“Well, that’s what a lot of people would have done. Maybe your self-preservation instincts are shot.” she jabs back. Then, Willow must move something wrong, because she groans in pain and grabs her side again. Gal had seen a few girls get good shots in on that side, so the pain from the cracked ribs has to be near unbearable.

“Hey, I, uh… I’ve got something for that.” Gal says cryptically. She digs the stimpak out, careful not to expose it to anyone else in the room, and rolls it across to Willow under the cover of her legs. Willow’s eyes widen when she sees it; she picks it up and clutches it tight to her side, where it can’t be seen.

“The guard gave it to me, for my, uh…. ‘traumatic experience’.” Gal explains with an amused smile. Willow looks surprisingly touched by the gesture, as if she really wouldn’t expect Gal to give it to her.

“You sure you want to waste this on me, tourist? Like I said, we ghouls can use water just the same.”

Gal rolls her eyes. “Use it, before one of us gets in trouble for having it.”

Willow shrugs and eases the needle into the meat of her hip. The look of relief and gratefulness on her face is clear. Once the stimpak is empty, she pulls the needle out and quickly flicks it through the bars of the window and out into the arena.

“That’s a lot better. I hate cracked ribs.” Willow sighs as she eases back against the window sill. “How was your tryste with Charon?”

Gal narrows her eyes at the amused expression on Willow’s face. “It went well. If neither of you kill me through training, nobody else is going to be able to.”

Willow lets out a bark of laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow’s training.”

The laughter gets louder when Gal flops down with a moan.

--

“Hey! Blondie! Get the fuck out here!”

Gal groans, mashes the heel of her hand into her eye, and stumbles to her feet. The late afternoon sun is streaming through the window where Willow is lounging. The dirty looks and whispers have only intensified since the attack on Willow, so they’ve taken to splitting their sleeping shifts.

“Fight?” she asks sleepily. Willow shakes her head and points out the window, where a couple of men are facing off. The sight has become bizarrely commonplace to her. She’s had three more fights in the last few weeks, and won all of them with increasing ease.

“I’m too tired for this.” she sighs, and heads for the front. She’s only been asleep a few hours, she thinks.

The guard’s waiting for her inside the set of double bars. Her guard, the friendly one who’d slipped her the stimpak, is on duty. He gives her a tight smile, then frowns when the other guard grabs her by the hair and jerks her through the door. Gal grits her teeth, but doesn’t react. It’s not worth it.

“Cool it, Juarez. She’s not doing anything wrong.” he reprimands, to her surprise. Juarez ignores him and marches her out the room and down the hallway. They’re headed to her favourite empty cell. She makes a few half-hearted attempts at escape, just to keep up the image, but nothing to get herself injured. Still, she can feel a few strands of hair yanked from her scalp by his grip.

He marches her into the room with his hand still tangled in her hair. Charon is already in the cell with his back against the wall. They stop just before the cell door, but the guard makes no move to open it.

“You two have been quiet lately. Getting bored of this one too?” the guard asks Charon. His hand slips from her hair to grope at her chest instead. The movement pulls her back against him. She grimaces at the hot breath on her ear, but tries not to lash out.

“She’s in peak condition. Guess she’s not a good enough lay for you to bother getting rough. Good enough for me though, I figure.”

His hand barely closes around what he’s looking for before he’s yanked away from her with a grunt. Charon is up against the steel bars of the cell, one muscular arm wrapped around the guard’s neck. The slaver bucks like a frightened animal. Charon tugs the rifle from his fingers and squeezes more, until the slaver’s face starts turning purple.

“Lay another fucking hand on her and I’ll rip every limb you have from its socket one by one.” the ghoul growls. The slaver makes a choking, high-pitched noise and scrabbles weakly at the bars.

Just before he appears ready to pass out, Charon lets go and backs away from the bars. He moves the rifle up into the pocket of his shoulder and points it at the man with practiced ease.

“Put her in here.” he commands coldly. “Now.”

The guard fumbles with the keys and finally gets the door open. He reaches for her to shove her in, but stops just before fingers touch skin. Gal takes pity on him and slips through.

The minute the gate is slammed closed behind her, Charon drops the magazine from the rifle and ejects the chambered round, catching it in midair. The unloaded gun goes skittering through the cell bars and along the floor to the back of the room.

“Get out.” he says shortly. The door shuts behind the shaken slaver as fast as humanly possible.

There’s a bit of silence as Gal rubs at her aching scalp and watches the door slam. Charon steps back from the middle of the cell and leans against the wall again as if nothing had happened.

“...thanks.” Gal says after a short silence. “Have they been giving you a lot of trouble about what you, uh, do or don’t do in here?”

Charon sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose tiredly. He looks more stressed than usual, though Gal doesn’t think she would notice if she didn’t spend so much time watching him for cues during their practice.

“They’re getting a little suspicious, I think. There’s only so many times you can get caught with all your clothes on and still convince people you’re doing something else.” As if to confirm the truth of this, the door eases open again. Charon pulls her close as someone slips through the door, shuts it, and settles back against the wall, facing them. It’s her light-haired guard, and he doesn’t look pleased at what he sees.

“What the fuck is this?” Charon hisses, turning so his back is to the guard and backing her up against the far wall of the cell. She lets him crowd her into the wall. Shifting against the concrete makes enough noise to cover there whispering.

“No idea.” she murmurs back. “He’s been looking out for me. He gave me a stimpack after the last time I was here. I think he likes me.”

The flat look on Charon’s face says he doesn’t like that answer one bit.

A moment passes, and Gal realizes that even with someone in the room watching them, Charon isn’t going to do much more than manhandle her around. Their cover is going to be blown wide open if clothes don’t start coming off. With a significant look, she wraps her hand around the collar of Charon’s shirt and yanks him down to meet her lips.

As far as kisses go, it’s pretty pleasant. Charon’s lips are dry and rough, but she finds the texture surprisingly appealing. Really, she only has a few hurried fumbles with Paul from Vault 101 to compare to; he’d been too excited about the whole thing and the resulting kisses had been over-enthusiastic and very, very wet.

When it’s clear that Charon isn’t going to respond, she pulls back just a bit so she can mutter against his lips. There’s a strange look in his eyes when she meets them with her own.

“Do something, before they figure it out and I lose my training partner.”

For a moment, she thinks he’ll refuse. Then suddenly, hands wrap around the backs of her thighs and Charon yanks her up to meet his lips again. Gal lets out a very unsexy squeak against his mouth; he takes advantage of that to swipe his tongue across her lower lip.

It’s really quite amazing how everything goes from 0 to 60 in a few seconds. Gal is dizzy and breathless and her heart is thudding against her chest like it might burst out at any moment. Her hands run up his back almost of their own accord as he pushes her skirt up around her waist. His head drops to the crook of her neck, a hot tongue trailing across just before he nips at her skin. She’s not sure if she gasps or sobs at the feeling.

“That’s enough.” comes a firm voice from behind Charon. Charon stills, but doesn’t set her down. She peeks over and sees her guard standing just behind the bars, his mouth twisted into an angry grimace.

“I said, that’s enough. Put her down.”

Charon turns to face the guard, holding her up easily, even without the support of the wall. The look on his face is cold. Without warning, he drops her. Gal nearly stumbles to the ground, but manages to recover at the last moment.

“This is over for today. Gal, come over here.”

She starts at the sound of her name. Gal wasn’t even aware any of the guards knew it; proper names from the guards are usually reserved for the best fighters, with the rest of them getting nicknames ranging from the mundane to the down-right insulting. She’s probably more responsive to ‘Blondie’ nowadays than anything.

She shoots an uncertain look at Charon, but he doesn’t break eye contact with the guard. Unsurely, she stumbles over to the door, pulling her skirt back into place and rubbing at her neck. The light-haired guard drops his gaze to unlock the door and escort her through.

A loud crash sends her stumbling into him in surprise. When she turns, Charon is flat up against the closed cell door with one hand slung across the outside of the bars. Even knowing him as she does, the look on his face turns her blood to ice. His gaze never returns to her; it stays on the back of the guard’s head as he steers her out of the room and into the empty hallway. Despite his bravery in standing up to Charon, the guard looks nervous.

“...you didn’t have to do that.” Gal says to him quietly as he shuts the door behind them. She’s touched by his gesture, while at the same time a bit annoyed at being robbed of her Charon time and suspicious of his intentions.

He gives her a lopsided smile and shrugs. “I couldn’t just stand by and let that happen. It’s not right.”

“You’re going to get in trouble.” she points out pragmatically. The idea doesn’t seem to bother him.

“It’s worth it.” he says simply. There’s not much to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything.

“...my name is Rory.” he says suddenly, halfway back to the slave quarters. “I know yours, obviously, so I’ll just say it’s nice to meet you.”

Gal smiles, though she’s facing away from him as she walks so he can’t see it.

“Considering where we are, will you be offended if I don’t say the same?”

The huff of laughter is all the answer she needs.

--

She doesn’t see Rory for a couple days after that. When he comes to escort her back after her next fight, he has a broken nose and a limp in his step.

--

“I don’t like the way the guards have been eyeing us lately.” Willow mutters to her a few days later. “It’s like they’ve got something planned.” 

Gal nods tightly, noting the way one of them watches her and Willow as they’re doling out evening chow and spoons. Juarez catches her gaze and smiles nastily. She’s not overly scared; he hasn’t dared to mistreat her since Charon nearly choked him to death.

“What do you think it is?” Gal asks, after they’ve received their portion of slop for the day and are settled back in their spot on the windowsill. “Something to do with Charon?”

Willow shrugs. Gal admires the way she shovels the goop into her mouth without grimacing. She’s been here almost six months and she still can’t do the same.

“Dunno. Probably not. We’ve been having less fights lately. I hope Ashur’s not losing interest.”

That would be bad for them, Gal agrees. Their continued survival in (relative) comfort is thanks to his bloodthirstiness. Without it, their choices of employment are much less palatable.

There was a time in Gal’s life where such a statement would sicken her. Thinking about the Vault and her father just makes her chest hurt, though, so she turns her thoughts away.

“Last time the fights started trickling off, it was because…” Willow stops and looks away thoughtfully. “...oh. Well, let’s hope not.”

“What?” Gal asks, but Willow doesn’t answer.

--

They find out before long.

En masse, the women are marched out and down the hallways towards the arena. The mass of women is abuzz with speculation, and the guards seem especially high-spirited. Willow stays quiet and calm, quieter than even her usual, which makes Gal nervous. When they reach the entrance to the arena, the guards shove them in unceremoniously and clang the gate shut behind them. It feels crowded and stifling with so many women in here. 

Gal gets jostled one way, then another. An older women glares down at her when Gal stumbles into her. Then, a rough hand wraps around her bicep and yanks her backwards, towards the guard area and away from the arena.

“Stay back here until the gate opens.” Willow says, dropping her arm. “We’ll be safer that way in the initial rush.”

“What’s going on?” Gal asks, feeling a light sweat break out on her forehead. “Why are we all in here?”

Willow looks down at her grimly. Her lack of witty retort sets a small panic going in Gal’s chest. Things are never so bad that Willow doesn’t have a dry comment to add.

“It’s a battle royale.” Willow says softly. None of the other women pay her any attention. “They’re going to make us fight to the death.”

Gal’s knees go weak. She looks up at the mass of women in front of her, big and small, hardened and soft, lifelong slaves or recent transplants from the wasteland. She’s a good fighter nowadays, one of the best in one-on-one combat, but she has no practice facing multiple fighters. Five, four, maybe even just three of them will be enough to take her out.

“I’ve got your back.” Willow says to her, surprisingly gently. A mottled hand grips her shoulder warmly, matching the quirk at the side of Willow’s mouth. “We’ll get through this.”

Gal only has time to flash a weak smile back and squeeze her hand back before the grate screeches open.

The women flood in like startled cattle, trying to spread out and find their own space to occupy before someone grabs them and the fighting starts. Willow gestures her back, so they’re the last two to leave the holding area and don’t get caught in the rush. One woman is already limping, her ankle swollen and red like she’d twisted it.

“Keep the wall to your back and don’t be afraid to create some distance if too many gang up on you.” Willow shouts to her. All around, fights start. Gal notices with horror that another group is flooding in from the other side. Bare-chested men trickle in to the arena and start engaging the women and each other with roars and curses.

Gal has fought several men already in her time here. The first hard lesson she’d learned was that in the heat of battle, they didn’t give a shit whether their opponent was male or female. They were out to survive too.

Carefully, she and Willow make their way along the sloping wall. The stands are the fullest they’ve ever been for this fight, so much that dozens of people are just standing in the free spaces, cheering and betting. Gal nearly trips over a corpse.

A skinny dark-skinned man snarls at her and comes rushing in, fists flailing blindly. He must be a new addition; it takes little skill to counter his clumsy bullrush. Gal snaps his neck without a further thought and turns back to look for more danger.

A kick comes flying out of nowhere and takes her right in the diaphragm. Letting out a grunt, Gal stumbles backwards and goes head over heels with the power of the kick. She springs to her feet only to find Willow already on her new opponent. The blows are flying hard and fast, but Willow gets the upper hand and the woman stumbles back to find easier pickings. 

The fight feels like it goes on forever. There are no radiation barrels, but they don’t need them. It’s like the slaves are in a furious rage, fighting for their right to survive and not holding back. Gal feels like she’s about to drop from exhaustion, but each new opponent sends equal parts of terror and adrenaline flooding through her veins. She watches Willow’s back, and Willow watches hers, and they get through with only a few minor injuries.

“When are they going to shut it off?” she calls to her partner. The arena is littered with bodies, and only ten or so are still fighting. It’s a flat out massacre, like a battlefield from an old history holotape.

“Soon, they don’t want to kill all of us I’d think -” Willow bites off her sentence in a curse as a man comes flying at her. Another slips in and faces Gal, pushing her back the opposite way. Gal is forced back until she and Willow are nearly on opposite sides of the arena from each other. The woman is putting every ounce of herself into her fighting, and it’s all Gal can do to keep up.

Until a deafening roar shakes the ground. The sound causes Gal’s opponent to stumble. Gal takes the opening, snaps out a kick towards the side of her knee, and hears the snap of the joint. The woman goes down and doesn’t get back up.

It’s just as well, because they now all have a bigger problem to worry about. From the men’s holding area, a beast the likes of which Gal has never seen comes lumbering out. It has milky eyes set above a short snort and gnashing teeth. The hulking shoulders slope down to smaller, but similarly powerful hindquarters, all covered in gaping sores and cuts and a few patches of bristly hair. When it swipes at the closest fighter, Gal sees that its paws are the size of saucepans.

“Yao guai,” someone whispers in fear next to her. The monster takes down its chosen victim and looks around for the next target.

There’s a glint from above. Around the arena, knives thunk into the dirt, followed by a few pieces of rebar and a pipe. Gal starts towards one, but the remaining fighters have already snatched them up. The crowd is going wild above them. Gal spares a minute of pure, unadulterated hate for their callousness, and then focuses back on the task at hand.

The yao guai charges another fighter. It’s surprisingly fast for its size. The man manages to stumble out of the way and scampers across the arena, leaving only one target for the monster to focus on.

Willow, unarmed and panting from the battle royale, sneers at the yao guai and motions it over. It begins its lumbering path towards where she’s crowded up against the wall. 

Gal doesn’t even think about it. Muttering a curse, she takes off across the arena as fast as her feet can carry her. When she reaches the lumbering beast, she takes a flying leap and scrabbles up onto its back. Her hands slip on the blood covering its skin as she searches for a hold.

The yao guai stops in confusion and then jerks side to side, attempting to dislodge its passenger. Gal just barely holds on, but she slides forward so that she’s gripping the creature’s neck. It’s a dangerous position that leaves her center of balance falling forward over her head, threatening to drag her down right in front of the yao guai’s mouth.

“Hey, ugly, over here!” comes a sharp bark. The yao guai stops its bucking and looks up at Willow. It can’t seem to decide whether to go after the new threat or continue trying to dislodge Gal. When it looks like it might pick Willow, Gal reaches down and twists a bare ear as hard as she can. The creature shrieks in pain.

Before she can react, a massive paw wraps around and catches her across the shoulder. The claws, whole inches long and sharp as kitchen knives, dig into the meat of the back of her shoulder. Gal screams. The force of the blow dislodges her and she hits the dirt hard on her injured shoulder. Her vision goes white and her ears roar as she struggles to hold on to consciousness.

She expects the killing blow anytime, but it doesn’t come. When her vision finally clears, she sees that another figure has taken the yao guai’s attention.

Charon ducks a blow from the massive creature and darts in with the piece of rebar in his hand. He stabs towards the yao guai’s shoulder and leaves a bloody rivet in its pitted flesh. The creature snarls and charges him. Charon leaps out of the way, clearing hundreds of pounds of enraged creature by mere inches. Gal realizes she’s vulnerable laying out on the ground as she is and stumbles to her feet, searching the area for threats. Most of the other slaves are down or dead, and the rest aren’t coming anywhere near their side of the arena. Gal sees the rope and pulley systems above swinging barrels towards that side, ready to herd them into the fight via radiation.

She spots a combat knife curled in the lifeless grip of a man a dozen feet away and stumbles toward it. Her shoulder throbs too much to move, so she has to use her other hand to pry the knife out. Her one knife doesn’t look so useful against a creature that has five similar ones on each giant paw.

Charon has gotten in a few more blows on the yao guai, and Willow is backing him up. The yao guai looks back and forth at its attackers, unsure what to do. When Willow slashes it across a broad hindquarter, it lets out an ear-shattering roar. Charon darts in as soon as it turns to slash at her and reaches for its throat. He nearly succeeds, but the yao guai swivels just in time and flings out a paw, catching Charon across the chest. He lands hard several feet away, the beast lumbering towards him for a follow-up blow.

Panting, Gal stumbles forward and goes to finish what Charon had started. The yao guai is focused on its prey and doesn’t see her staggering up behind it. With as much force as she can muster, Gal stabs the knife into the yao guai’s throat and twists it.

The spray of blood that comes out is even more violent than she would have expected. It paints her face and the whole ground in front of her, catching Charon’s trousers and Willow’s leg as well. The yao guai shudders, eyes going dull, and slumps to the ground.

[kidotm]

Chapter 5

The slave quarters in the days after the battle royale are quiet and solemn. Despite people trying their best to stay solitary, everyone is mourning at least one friend that is now gone. Nobody blames the other slaves for killing a friend this time; there’s no point in blaming another victim when it’s clear their fate is in the hands of a cruel and uncaring god. Gal had looked up and seen Ashur’s mildly interested face during the fight and felt the most intense surge of hate she’s ever experienced for anyone, ever. She spends some of her time each day carving his likeness into the dirt with her finger, and then smashing it with her fist.

The guards still watch Willow and Gal, and they have no idea why. Gal asks Rory, but he admits grudgingly that he’s not on good terms with the other slavers, and so isn’t in the gossip loop. Whatever it is, it puts permanent creases in Willow’s forehead and causes her to snap at Gal if she dares ask.

Everything feels so off that Gal finds herself alternating between cold fury and hopeless misery. Even in the first days after arriving here, she hadn’t felt this way. Guilt takes hold at some point, guilt that she’s still here while some of the other women - women with husbands, or children, or families that they supported, before their enslavement - had been murdered and then carelessly dragged away to be left in a pile somewhere.

It’s a full two weeks before the fights start up again. In that time, they get a huge influx of new slaves that take one look at the brooding, angry veterans and slink off to find their own corner. Gal wants to talk to them, comfort them maybe, but she doesn’t even know what she would say. None of the others bother.

A few days after the fights have started again, Juarez comes for Gal. He seems to be in a more cheerful mood with her, which scares Gal more than anything else. He’s exceedingly gentle as he guides her down the hallway and there’s a look of undisguised glee when he shoves her into the cell with Charon. It says, ‘I know something you don’t’.

Silence reigns after Juarez leaves. Charon gives her a half-hearted quirk of a smile, but his eyes are distant. There will be no fighting practice today, and honestly, she’s okay with that.

“...how’s your shoulder?” he asks after a few minutes.

Gal looks over at the raised, puffy scars running along the back of her shoulder and shrugs.

“Okay, I guess. They gave me a couple stimpacks. No muscle damage or anything.”

“Good.” is all Charon says back.

Silence again takes over.

All of the sudden, it’s very hard for Gal to breathe. A pit of anger starts boiling in her stomach, hot enough that she has to clench her teeth tightly to keep from screaming. She thinks about the march here, the fights she’s endured, the looks that the other slaves have given Willow. She thinks about the blood on Charon’s trousers the first time they’d met and the feel of Juarez’s hands on her. She thinks about the dead bodies scattered across the arena and the dead monster lying among them, its eyes blank and sad. It’s too much. Gal lets out a frustrated scream and turns to the wall, slamming her fist into it.

A hand wraps around her face and covers her mouth gently before she can really voice any of her anger. Gal screams wordlessly into the palm of Charon’s hand instead and turns her rage on him, slamming her fist back into his thigh and then into the broad plane of his chest. Charon weathers her storm without comment. She knows it has to hurt, but he doesn’t do anything to stop her but to keep her from screaming.

“Do what you need to do.” he says quietly. For some reason, that’s more enraging than anything else. She tries to push his hand away, attempts to stomp on the instep of his booted foot, even lashes out against the wall again. If it had been a coordinated attack, she might have taken him by surprise at least once, but she’s fighting wildly and sloppily, so it’s very easy for him to keep her in control. She realizes blindly that he’s trying both to keep her from bringing a guard in and keeping her from hurting herself. At the moment, she doesn’t thank him for it.

It takes Gal several long moments to calm down. The rage fades slowly and leaves her panting and exhausted, with the bloom of a headache behind her temples. Charon drops his hand from her mouth when he sees that she’s not going to scream anymore, but the other hand is left wrapped around her bicep.

“Feel better?” he asks. She can’t tell if it’s a joke or a serious question. But, to her surprise, she does actually feel better, so she nods. Then she lets her head tilt forward to rest on his chest.

“I hate this place.” she mutters, closing her eyes. “I wish I’d never left the Vault.”

Charon lets out a huff that shakes the surface her forehead is resting on.

“Don’t lie, smoothskin. You may hate this place, but you don’t wish you were still in the Vault.” he admonishes. She lets that sink in, roll around for a while, and admits grudgingly that he’s right.

“I wish my father had taken me with him.” she says instead. “I wish that the Capital Wasteland was a better place. I wish people didn’t use each other just because there’s nobody around to tell them it’s wrong.”

That is the honest truth. Embarrassingly, Gal feels a tear slide down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away, afraid to bring attention to it.

Charon lets her rest her head there silently for a while until she feels steady again. Underneath the dirt and stink that accompanies any slave, he smells good - spicy and coppery.

“...you scared the shit out of that guard last time I was here.” she says, just for a change of subject. She lifts her head and he takes it as a sign to let go and back away. “I thought he was going to keel over of fright.”

She and Charon take their unofficial position, seated with their backs against the wall, Gal cross-legged, Charon with an arm across his knee. He looks amused at the retelling.

“Has he been bothering you?” Charon asks.

She feels a little warm at the idea that he is concerned about her. Gal shakes her head and laughs a little.

“No, he just likes me for some reason, I think. But nothing weird. He just couldn’t deal with the idea of you pawing at me like a big, bad wolf, I guess.” she teases. Charon shoots her a look and then rolls his eyes.

“Any decent man would feel that way, with you putting on a sob show like you were.” he shoots back.

It hits her again how much she likes this man next to her, the same man who she’d looked at in terror just a few months ago.

“Sob show? That’s certainly not how I was feeling.” she says unthinkingly. When Charon turns to give her an unreadable look, she flushes. “Look, I’m only human, okay?” she snaps, somewhat defensively. His expression turns amused.

“Never met a woman that liked to be slammed into walls.”

Gal thinks about the feel of Charon’s warm hands wrapped around her thighs and the concrete digging into her back, and suppresses a shiver.

“Maybe you’ve been slamming the wrong women into walls, then.”

She doesn’t realize how blatantly she’s flirting until he slides to his feet and moves towards her. Dropping to one knee in front of her, he places one hand on the wall and leans forward until he’s looming over her.

Charon stops with his face just inches from hers and studies her expression. The tension in the air thickens exponentially.

“Huh.” he says thoughtfully. She grins and leans forward until their skin is nearly brushing.

“Gonna do it again?” she asks. The words are barely out of her mouth before Charon grabs her around the waist and drags her into his lap.

It takes her about five seconds to realize that as hot and bothered as their kiss last time had made her, it doesn’t hold a candle to how Charon is kissing her now. The way she’s splayed across his lap is awkward and uncomfortable, but she can’t bother to pay any attention to that when he’s nipping at her lips and rocking his hips into hers.

She immediately finds the hem of his shirt and slips her fingers under it so she can connect with warm skin. The feel is different from anything she’s ever experienced. The patches of exposed muscle expand and contract like warm fibrous wire under her fingers. Even the whole pieces of skin are textured strangely, but none of it is unpleasant. She wonders briefly if it hurts, his torn skin, but the muffled noises he makes into her mouth suggest that it doesn’t.

This time, when his hands slip under her top, she shivers in anticipation. Charon leaves her mouth to bite at her earlobe just as he pulls the fabric over her breasts. Her nipples are already pebbled in anticipation of being touched. Charon doesn’t disappoint.

“Off. Off.” she demands, pulling at his t-shirt. He complies and drags it up over his head. Underneath she finds a well-muscled chest leading into a ridged stomach, dusted with sparse red hair the same colour as the hair on his head. Charon goes back to palming a breast while she sucks a bruise into the crook of his neck and trails a hand down to his exposed hip.

A well-timed roll of her own hips makes him stop and groan into her shoulder. She does it again and squeaks when he retaliates by dragging his teeth along her collarbone.

“You better watch it.” he says tightly, hands settling on her hips so he can press her down into him. From the feel of it, she’s not the only one enjoying herself. Immensely.

“Take your pants off and I will.” she retorts.

The gleam he gets in his eye is the only warning she receives. Fluidly, like he’s practicing a fighting move on her, Charon flips them so Gal is trapped under him. He kicks off his boots, one by one, then fumbles with the catch on his trousers and shoves them down too. Naked from head to toe, he runs one hand up her leg and gently slides it under her skirt, pushing it up and out of the way.

“If we had more time, I’d take it a lot slower.” he says, almost as if he’s apologizing. Charon must miss the reaction his touch is eliciting, if he thinks he needs to apologize for anything. Plus, Gal can guess from the size of his pupils that he would have trouble with going slower even if she wanted him to. As it stands, she’d rather enjoy this time quickly than try to take it slow and get stopped right in the middle.

“We’ll take it slow another time.” she says, and slides her panties off before she can lose her nerve. Charon blinks and then turns back to the task at hand.

The first brush of his fingers over her labia makes her shiver in anticipation. He slides his hand over again more surely and then slips a finger through her folds. Gal bites back a moan at the feeling.

Once he’s convinced that she’s relaxed into his touch, he slides one large digit in and moves it back and forth gently. It’s almost criminal how good it feels, but even one finger feels big and she’s afraid that whatever he’s packing down there might be too much. She hasn’t even seen it yet, but it felt big when it was pressed up against her through Charon’s trousers.

Another finger joins the first, scissoring a little and then steadily more as she opens up. Charon complies when she pulls him down for another open-mouthed kiss. He swallows the sound she makes when he adds the third finger and pulls her bottom lip into his mouth to suck on. Gal whines a little when the fingers withdraw, leaving her feeling empty.

Something thicker replaces them to press against her opening. Charon lines himself up with one hand and gives her a long look before he presses slowly forward. Gal lets out a breath as he pushes in, trying to relax at the feeling of something much larger than fingers stretching her out. Charon’s hips jerk once before he pulls himself back together and continues pushing in slowly.

When he’s all the way in, he stops and looks at her again, gaze searching. In a surprisingly sweet gesture, he reaches up and sweeps a piece of hair out of her face to tuck behind her ear.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly. Gal mumbles an affirmative, closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to the ground, willing her muscles to stop clenching. It’s been a very long time since she’d done this. Once the discomfort fades a little bit, she nods and he starts moving.

Charon’s breaths come in pants and moans. One hand is fisted in the fabric bunched up around her chest. He looks like he’s putting every ounce of effort that he has into keeping the pace slow and steady for her. She appreciates it, because it’s a few long moments before the movement feels anything but uncomfortable.

Finally, Charon rolls his hips and touches something that makes her gasp. He looks her straight in the eyes and does it again, bringing another breathy exhale.

“A little faster, please.” she requests, and then changes her mind. “A lot faster, actually.”

He draws out slowly, like he’s contemplating it, and then snaps his hips forward so quickly that it makes Gal’s back arch in pleasure.

The pace turns quick and rough, Gal’s fingers scrambling for purchase on Charon’s skin as he’s thrusting into her. Warmth blooms deep in her abdomen, growing each time he sinks in and brushes her insides in just the right way. She reflects hazily that she’ll be sore tomorrow, but it’s hard to care. Charon shifts his weight to one side, never breaking stride, and reaches up to drag a rough thumb over one of her nipples. The pleasure feels electric. It tingles up and down her body to mix with the spreading warmth. It almost feels like too much.

The feeling heightens just a little more, wavers, and then breaks. Gal’s eyes flutter closed as the pleasure rushes through her body and makes her shake. She has to clench one hand around Charon’s arm just to stay grounded. The feeling draws on for several more seconds before it fades away, leaving her limp and panting.

Charon falters at the clench of her muscles around him, but picks the pace back up doggedly and keeps going. It’s several more seconds before he pushes in as far as he can go and buries his face in the crook of her neck. The spasms that come send aftershocks of pleasure racing through her; she clenches involuntarily and Charon bites out a muffled curse into her skin.

Finally, the pleasure subsides completely, and Charon withdraws gently and then rolls over so he can collapse on the floor next to her. She feels sweaty and wet and completely satisfied. Judging from his lidded eyes, he feels the same.

“Are they sure they can’t get me over here more than once a week?” she asks playfully, when the silence stretches out too long. Charon looks at her, snorts, and then sits up. He drops her panties on her chest and looks away so he can start tracking down his own clothes. Gal slides the underwear on and pulls the rest back into place as Charon buttons his trousers. She doesn’t miss the way one of his hands settles on the hickey she’d given him and presses lightly.

“Actually, I had something to tell you. Stay out of trouble, because I think -”

He cuts off when the door to the room clangs open. Rory stalks in, takes one look at her debauched self and Charon’s shirtlessness, and his eyes go cold. Whatever Charon wants to say, he’s clearly not going to say it with a guard in here. Instead, he faces Rory down as he slowly pulls his boots on and shrugs on his shirt. Gal sees Rory’s hand twitch, like he wants to do something about it, but the guard takes a deep breath and motions her over so he can escort her out of the cell.

“Stay out of trouble, Gal.” Charon calls from behind. Rory’s hand tightens on her arm to the point of pain before he realizes what he’s doing and relaxes it.

They stop by the medical room for a stimpack. Gal tries to hide her disappointment as the reminders of her and Charon’s time together fade. The lack of soreness is a boon for a fighter, but it might have been nice to lay down in the slave quarters at night and have something pleasant to think about.

“Rory.” she says, taking a chance and laying her hand on his arm while they’re stopped and alone in the medical room. He pauses and looks at her. “You don’t need to be so upset on my behalf. It’s consensual.”

The word doesn’t seem to compute with him.

“They put you in a room with their best fighting dog like you’re a bitch in heat, Gal. There’s not much that’s consensual about that.” he says icily. Then he sighs, and the anger drains out of his face.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… you remind me of someone, is all.” His eyes go thoughtful, like he’s seeing someone else standing there, instead of her. “You don’t deserve this. Nobody does.”

Strange outlook, coming from a slaver, she thinks. But his words feel surprisingly genuine to her. Gal gives him a smile and gets a small one in return.

“You’re awfully sentimental for a guard.”

“Tell me about it.” he grumbles.They turn back to the door and head for the slave quarters.

--

Willow takes one look at her and her fading bruises and laughs her ass off. Gal just rolls her eyes as she takes her spot on the window.

“Can you really tell?” she asks. Willow nods, slapping at her leg and cackling like a witch.

“I was wondering when it was going to happen.” she admits, once the laughing dies down. “You get… perky when they take you up there.” Gal scowls, but Willow is unmoved by it.

“So you’re not upset or anything, then?” she asks. The ghoulette shakes her head.

“What’s there to be upset about? Everybody needs to have some fun once in a while. You want to sleep with his cranky ass, more power to you. Just keep the details to yourself.”

Gal grins and leans in closer.

“Sure you don’t want to hear about it? I can tell you all about his big -"

Willow cuts that comment off by pushing her off the windowsill.

--

The other shoe drops a few days later. They’ve just finished a rough session of sparring when someone clatters on the bars in the main room.

“Blondie,” Juarez sings, “Get the fuck out here!”

Wiping the sweat out of her eyes, Gal waves to Willow and heads for the main room. It’s not a good idea to keep any slaver, especially Juarez, waiting.

When she strides in, he’s draped across the front of the bars, grinning at her in a way that makes her uneasy. Gal doesn’t know if she’ll ever see a dark, handsome face like his again without being physically repulsed by it.

“Hope you’ve said your goodbyes, Blondie.” he says, snickering, as she comes up to be led out. “You’re going to die today.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Juarez?” she says coolly, facing him through the door. He unlocks it with a flourish and buries his free hand in her hair to drag her out. He hadn’t done that since Charon had nearly killed him weeks before.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” he says nastily, steering her towards the doorway. “It’s too bad I found out so late, or I would have taken advantage of it and pulled you out a little early.”

She can’t see his expression, but she can imagine the leer on it. She tries to stamp down on the nervousness that’s making her stomach churn and focus on breathing steadily instead. Reactions like that aren’t going to help her get through whatever it is she needs to get through.

Juarez leads her down the familiar path to the arena. It’s to be a fight, then. She doesn’t know what fighter is so good that Juarez believes hands-down she’ll lose. There’s only a couple she would say that about nowadays.

That thought makes the churning in her stomach worse.

“Your boyfriend’s going to be upset after this is all over. He’ll have to find himself a new playtoy, after he spent all that time getting you broke in. What a pity.”

The shoves that he gives her nearly sends her head-first into the grate on the other side of the holding area. She manages to twist and roll so she takes it on her side instead, but it’s hard enough that it knocks the wind out of her. Juarez, instead of leaving, stands back from the bars and lifts his rifle to his shoulder.

Is he going to shoot me? She thinks. What point would that have?

“Maybe I’ll make you dance a little bit before you go out there.” he says, sighting down the barrel. “Ashur probably wouldn’t care about a little hole in your leg.” he mimics pulling the trigger and laughs when she darts to the side.

Gal wants nothing more than to take his rifle and beat him senseless with it, but she’s caught in the holding area like a fish in a barrel.

Before he can say anything else, the grate behind her screeches upwards. Gal sucks in a breath and darts under it. Two knives are already lying in the dirt on either side of the arena, in reach of the two fighters from their starting points. Gal picks hers up, tests the weight and the balance, and turns to eye the other opening cautiously.

The crowd is bigger than usual for her today, and Ashur is in his spot as well, which is not unheard of but a bit unusual. A figure emerges from the shadows of the opening. Whoever it is, they’re not in any hurry to make it to the fight.

The crowd goes wild when the sunlight finally reveals who she is. Across from Gal, Willow bends and picks up the knife, then turns to face her. The sunlight glints off the knife in Willow’s hand.

Gal blinks, trying to pretend it’s an illusion, but there Willow stands, facing her down in the arena as her opponent. The barrels drop and the radiation washes over her and twists the knot in her stomach even more.

Gal can’t fight Willow. Willow had taught her everything she knows. How to throw a punch properly, how to slap the ground on a fall or roll to take the impact out, how to use feints to her advantage and what the best techniques were for someone bigger or stronger. Willow had spend whole afternoons bullshitting with her, and patching her up when she was hurt, and listening to every teary rant that she went on about what her life was like before The Pitt.

Gal sinks into a fighting crouch, and all she can think about is how it looks just like Willow’s, because Willow taught it to her.

Even as her brain objects, Gal’s body moves. Fighting is second nature to her now; she doesn’t need to think for her legs to move her forward, or for her arms to block and attack.

They stop in the middle of the arena and face each other, ignoring the way the crowd is screaming at them to draw blood.

“Willow -” Gal says, and is mortified to find that her voice is choked with tears. Her vision gets a bit blurry, and she wipes the tears away quickly, brusquely.

The ghoulette has always been good at hiding her emotions, but Gal has been in her presence nearly 24 hours a day for half a year. She can see the pain in Willow’s eyes, even as the rest of her stays prepared for a fight. No matter how much she’d bitched about teaching, or that she didn’t like other people, or that she preferred to be on her own, thank you very much, Willow doesn’t want to do this any more than Gal does.

“Fucking do something already, you cunts!” somebody yells from the stands. Gal is starting to get dizzy from the radiation.

“Willow, I -” she says, faltering. She wants to speak, to say anything, but she just can’t.

Willow looks at her, looks at the knife - and sighs. Straightening up, she drops the knife into the dust.

“Get it over with, smoothskin. No use sitting around making yourself sick when you don’t have to.” Willow says. She sounds worn out.

Gal freezes in place. The look on the ghoulette’s face twists in annoyance.

“Did you not hear me? Get over it and kill me, so we can be done with this. You’re on a time limit, here.”

Gal shakes her head numbly. She’s still clutching the knife, but only because her fingers are locked around it and won’t come loose. If Willow had attacked her, made her defend herself, maybe she could have fought back, but this way - She can’t kill Willow in cold blood. She can’t do it.

A sudden hush settles over the crowd. Gal looks up to see someone, another slaver perhaps, whispering into Ashur’s ear. The amount of radiation in her system is starting to make it difficult to stand straight; she has to drop from her fighting stance just to keep her balance, and even that is shaky. Ashur makes a gesture. Dimly, she hears a clanging behind her, but she can’t figure out what it is.

Someone appears in her peripheral vision. Gal twists, trying to lash out, but she’s too dizzy and the blow doesn’t connect. Instead, the world tilts sideways and Willow’s face comes into view just before everything goes black.

[kidotm]

Chapter 6

Gal comes to in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with shabby, unfamiliar grey walls. Confused, she tries to sit up far too fast and moans when the world starts spinning. Someone has placed a bucket just on the side of the bed. Gal vomits into it, pauses, and then starts again. When her stomach is empty, lays her head back down on the mattress and surveys her situation weakly.

“Gal? You up?” a familiar voice calls. Gal looks up at the cracked door just in time to see Willow nudge it open. She takes one look at Gal lying on the mattress over the bucket and snorts.

“Rough day?” Willow asks rhetorically. Ignoring her jibe, Gal closes her eyes and lets out a groan. She can hear Willow chuckling at her misfortune.

“You remember what happened?” the ghoulette asks. Gal nods. “You passed out from severe radiation poisoning. We had to give you so much radaway to fix the damage that I’m pretty sure you’d bleed it if I cut you right now. That’s why you’re so nauseated.”

“Whose bed am I in?” she mumbles, peeking out at Willow. Willow grins and pats her on the shoulder.

“Your own, smoothskin.”

Gal squints at her, confused. “My...own…?”

Gal notes finally that Willow is wearing an outfit she’s never seen before - a faded grey v-neck, a leather jacket, and dark pants. The halter top and tattered skirt are nowhere to be seen. Gal is still wearing her slave outfit, but the lock that usually hangs on the front of the top is gone.

“They wanted the hardware back before we left, and I figured you might want to change into something more comfortable at some point.” Willow gives her a pointed look. “Get it yet? Charon won his freedom. And somehow, the bastard convinced Ashur to let both of us go. We’re members of the Pitt’s working class now.”

It takes that information a little while to make sense in her head. When it does finally click, Gal gapes at her, speechless. For all that she’d only been a slave six months, somehow it had started to feel like it would always be that way. The idea of being her own person again is strangely incomprehensible. The information feels a little overwhelming; it makes her head hurt and her stomach flip even more.

Willow takes pity on her and helps her up into a sitting position. “You want to go take a shower and get into some clean clothes? No offense, tourist, but you stink.”

A shower. That’s enough to push any confused thoughts from her mind. Gal grins woozily and nearly trips over her feet in her haste to get going. She hasn’t had a shower since the Vault. She’s going to spend hours in it.

Willow leads her to a small bathroom just across the hall from her room. It’s small and rusty, and it looks like the shower has been repaired several times, but when Willow turns a knob, hot water streams out of the showerhead and starts steaming up the mirror. She goes to leave, but Gal grabs her wrist before she can disappear.

“Willow.” she says hesitantly. “In the fight back there… you would have let me… well. And - “

The words are discombobulated and the meaning is near unintelligible, but Willow gets it. She grins at Gal again and squeezes her hand tightly. “Seems like you were out to do the same. I should have known you’d be too stubborn to let an old ghoul die in peace. Let me go get you some clothes, smoothskin.”

Gal lets her exit the bathroom and shut the door behind her, and does not, does not, cry.

It feels significant to unfasten her clothes and let them drop to the floor. When she finally slips into the shower, it’s so hot she nearly scalds herself. But it feels good to scrub herself with the bar of soap until her skin pinks up. All this time, she’d been thinking that life in the Pitt had given her a tan, and in reality it was just a layer of grime over her skin.

She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until finally, she’s too tender to stay under the hot water anymore. Willow has slipped in at some point and left a pile of clothes on top of the toilet, but Gal ignores them for a moment to look at herself in the cracked, steamy mirror.

The person on the other side is nearly unrecognizable. Her body is thin, much thinner, and corded with muscle. The weight loss has drawn lines into her cheeks that were never there before, leaving protruding cheekbones behind. A bloom of purple stains the skin under her eyes from her continuous inadequate sleep. Her hair is long and tangled and the bangs grown out and indistinguishable from the rest of the mass. The only things that look even remotely the same are her eyes. The rest of her may look like it’s been through the ringer, but her eyes still gleam.

She looks like a product of the wasteland - lean and wild.

Gal abandons the mirror and dresses so she can explore their new home. In terms of other homes she’s seen in the Wasteland, it’s not much, but it’s far bigger than any living spaces in the Vault and it’s not filled with dozens of other women and stinking straw mattresses. Three bedrooms lead off from the hallway that also contains the bathroom. At the other end, there’s a small living area and a kitchen. Charon is seated on the couch polishing a combat shotgun, one booted foot kicked up on the coffee table. He eyes her as she hovers in the doorway uncertainly.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gruffly. She takes that as an invitation and settles on the other side of the couch with her feet curled up beneath her.

“Fine. Better.” she says honestly, though her head still feels a little woozy. “How did all of this happen?” she waves at the apartment to clarify her meaning. Charon turns back to his cleaning as he explains.

“Ashur was impressed by the yao guai and figured it was time he let me out. I was going to tell you before the guard came and got me.” He makes no mention of the reason he ran out of time to tell her in the first place. “I requested both of you but by the time the word got passed up the chain, you were already in the arena. Ashur had to stop the fight.”

“What he means,” Willow adds, appearing from inside the kitchen, “is that he threatened to eviscerate somebody if he didn’t tell Ashur to stop the fight right away. Ashur could have had his throat slit, and probably would if it were anyone else making those demands, but he thinks Charon’s ‘drive’ is ‘commendable’. I’m going out, there’s no damn food to eat. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

With that, Willow sashays out and leaves her and Charon alone.

“Thank you.” Gal says quietly. “You didn’t have to save me.”

Charon grunts, and doesn’t reply.

“I thought you and Willow had to leave? To get back to Underworld?” she asks hesitantly. Charon snaps a piece off of his shotgun and takes a brush to it.

“We’re going to, but you can’t just leave the Pitt, especially not as a former slave. They don’t want you getting out to expose their secrets, or coming back with reinforcements to try to take over. We’ll get out eventually, but it’ll take some time to form a plan.” he pauses, and then goes back to scrubbing viciously. “We’ll get you out too, if you want it.”

The statement makes hope bloom in her chest. It curls back up and falls away just as viciously. As awful as the Pitt is, it’s been her home for six months. Everything she knows of the Capital Wasteland has come from Willow’s stories, not from anything that will actually help her survive out there. Gal may be a better fighter now, but there’s more to survival than just fighting.

“I…. don’t even know where I could go.” she admits. “I left to find my father, but by now there won’t even be a trail to follow. I have no idea where to start.” It’s a long shot, but she decides to go for it. “Could I go with you? To Underworld? Just until I figure out my next move.”

The clank that the combat shotgun makes as Charon slaps it down on the coffee table is both loud and pointed. He gives her an expressionless look.

“No.” and he disappears into the kitchen, signaling the end of the discussion.

She stares after him, shocked. Charon is prone to directness and he isn’t very eloquent, but he’s never blatantly refused to help her before. There’s something about Underworld that nobody is telling her. Is it because she’s not a ghoul? It can’t be - Willow said they have occasional non-ghoul visitors. Whatever it is that makes Charon shy away from the subject, nobody’s willing to talk.  

Willow finds her in her room later, curled up on the bed and staring at the wall blankly. Gal tries to produce a smile, but it’s a weak one. Willow, barefooted and smelling of cigarettes, gestures her into the kitchen and towards the rickety old table standing in the corner. Two plates of food sit on the table. Gal gives Willow a wan smile and picks up her fork to pick at it.

“Something happen while I was gone?” Willow asks casually. Gal shrugs.

“Just talking about what we’re going to do after we get out of here. I asked Charon to come to Underworld when you guys leave, and… he didn’t like that idea.”

Willow’s mouth twists in annoyance, and then she sighs. She seems as uninterested in eating as Gal is; the food on her plate goes untouched, though Willow grips a fork in one hand.

“It’s not you, alright? Charon’s life is… complicated. Besides, Underworld wouldn’t be a very good place for you anyway. Smoothskins come and go sometimes, but they don’t stay permanently. You’d be treated like a pariah.”

As much as Gal wants to argue, it doesn’t seem like it’ll do any good.  Instead, she decides to change the subject.

“How did you end up in Underworld? Were you born there?”

Willow rolls her eyes. “Hardly. Ghouls are sterile, so you won’t find any little ones in Underworld. I was born into a caravan family, about 80 years ago. We would stop at all the major settlements in the Capital Wasteland and trade goods. My family was murdered one night out in the Wasteland. I was the only one who survived. Charon found me and brought me back to Underworld.”

Gal’s eyes widen as she turns to look at Willow. “ Murdered? ”

Willow gives her a look, as if to ask, ‘Is that really surprising?’. Aloud, she says, “Yeah. My husband and two kids. If I hadn’t been out hunting, I guess I would have been killed too. Whoever it was that did it, they were gone by the time I got back. No trace of ‘em.”

“I’m… so sorry.” Gal says, dropping her head to stare into her instamash. “That’s really terrible.”

Willow doesn’t reply. The sensitive topic seems to make her really uncomfortable, so Gal moves on. “How did Charon find you?”

The ghoulette smiles humourlessly at the molerat on her plate. “I tried to track down the raiders that killed my family, but like I said - no trace. It was a crazy idea, but I went kind of crazy, to be honest. I must have been out searching for several days, no sleep, no food, just enough water to keep me going. When I finally realized I couldn’t avenge them, I guess… I decided to join them.” Willow’s mouth twists. “There was a nuclear bomb crater left over from the Great War nearby. I stumbled in as far as I could go and laid down to die. It wasn’t ‘til I woke up in Underworld that I realized it didn’t work. I gave Charon a lot of shit for saving me.”

I’m glad he did. Gal thinks. It’s not the right thing to say, in this context, so she keeps quiet.

“Hey,” Willow says, breaking her from her introspection, “I need to run some errands and Charon is out. You going to be okay on your own for the evening?”

I don’t know, is what Gal wants to say, but that feels selfish. She’s free now, with a bed to sleep in and food to eat in front of her, and someone else got that for her. She should be over the moon right now.

But she’s… not. Why that is is anybody’s guess.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I’ll read a book or something.” she says, glancing at the bookshelf standing in the corner. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.

Willow snorts, disbelieving, but accepts the answer and pushes up from the table. As she passes, she ruffles Gal’s hair affectionately and snatches her jacket from the kitchen counter.

“Eat your dinner.” And then she’s gone.

Gal looks down at the food pushed around her plate and pushes it around some more.

The little apartment feels cold and lonely without anyone in it. Gal gives up on the plate of food and scrapes the rest off into an old banged-up trash can before setting the plate in the sink. She pokes around the apartment some more and notices that she’s left her old slave clothes on the floor in the bathroom.

When she picks up the torn, tattered skirt, a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. Frowning, Gal picks it up. The spiky, near illegible handwriting on the inside is unfamiliar.

Gal -

I’m glad you’re free now. If you have time, I need your help with something. No funny stuff. You can find me at Vertigo Bar after six any evening.

- R

Rory, huh? Well, she had been looking for something to do. She’s not entirely sure what a newly-freed slave could do for a slaver, but she’s not concerned about any ‘funny stuff’ coming from him. He seems honest to her, honest in a way that Charon and Willow are.

She checks the clock. 6:30. A perfect time to meet. That just means she has to leave the apartment, all by herself, in a completely unfamiliar place, and navigate the streets to somewhere she’s never been before.

She can do that. She can.

Gal yanks an old black jacket out of her room, scribbles a note out to Charon and Willow that she leaves on the kitchen counter, and slips out the front door. Then she turns to inspect her new town.

If she’d been expecting something fancy, she would have been sorely disappointed. The door to their apartment leads to a cobbled-together walkway that appears to be three stories or so above the ground. The walkway under her feet is made of rusted pieces of sheet metal, wooden planks, and metal bars that are mostly sturdy-looking. Mostly. Similar doors line the walkway to either side, presumably to more apartments.

She picks a direction and sets out.

Below her feet, people mill back and forth down the dirt ‘street’ - men and women in heavy armour, regular joes wearing faded flannels and jeans, the occasional slave recognizable by their minimal clothing. Gal keeps her head down and doesn’t talk to any of them.

She finds a stairway down to the lower levels. On the second floor, just behind the stairs to the ground level, a homemade wooden sign hangs with the words ‘Sal’s Souvenirs’ scrawled on it in black marker. The whole front of the shop is open, with a set of metal grates pushed to each side that probably block the shop off after hours. Gal approaches the pot-bellied man behind the counter cautiously.

The man is probably in his fifties, with a salt-and-pepper mohawk and festering, red skin. He sees Gal and straightens up, leering visibly.

“Heyya doll, what’s cooking?” he asks as she stops well away from the counter, out of arm’s reach. She doesn’t want him touching her.

“I’m looking for Vertigo Bar. Can you give me directions?” she asks flatly. He grins again, flashing yellow, rotted teeth.

“And what will you give me if I do?” he asks slyly, eyeing the loose long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing. It’s not even remotely revealing.

It’s almost habit to step forward and wrap her hands around one of his. He lets out an undignified grunt of pain when she forces his finger back and scrabbles at her grip, but she doesn’t let go.

“An unbroken finger. Good trade, right?” she asks, no humour in her voice. The man glares at her weakly. She bends the finger back a little more.

“Okay, okay, you little bitch!” he exclaims. She lets go and steps back, watching warily as he nurses his sore finger.

“It’s on top of that building over there. Now get the fuck out of my shop.” he growls, pointing out the open front of the shop to a building nearby. She does just that without a further thought for him.

It occurs to her, as she’s ambling down the walkways, that she’s changed a lot since she stepped out of the Vault. Her nervousness about being out on her own has faded and she feels confident that she can take care of herself. She’s dressed distinctly less protectively than most of the other people on the street, who are largely armed to the teeth and decked out in armour, but nobody bothers her.

After a bit of fumbling, Gal finds the walkway that leads up to the top of the building housing Vertigo bar. The place is open to the elements on the top and two sides, with the bar itself up against a farther and taller side. It’s not much of a place; there’s a few shelves full of liquor and mixers, a fridge and a stove, a pool table at one end, and some scattered tables. Some lights are strung up to hold back the oppressive dark that hangs over the area. For all that it looks pitiful, it’s fit to bursting with people and all the tables are taken. A woman with a half-shaved head glances up from one of the tables, looks her slight frame up and down, and scowls at her.

Gal ignores the woman and scans, searching for the familiar head of blond hair. She finds Rory seated alone in the far corner, cradling a glass of something dark in one hand that he doesn’t look to actually be drinking. Suddenly hesitant, Gal crosses to him and pulls a chair out.

“Gal,” he says hastily, and stands. He reaches one hand out, as if he’s going to shake her hand or clap her on the shoulder or something, but thinks better of it and settles back down into his chair. He does give her a wide, relieved smile.

“I’m glad you came. I was worried you wouldn’t.” he says, still giving her that smile. Gal cuts it off with a hard glare. Good intentions or not, the sight of him holds a lot of memories that aren’t really that pleasant, the least of which is a reminder that she was fighting for her life against Willow less than 24 hours ago because of men and women like him.

“What’s all this about, Rory? I’m not exactly ‘your charge’ anymore. So what do you want?”

That certainly makes his ears droop. He coughs into a fist awkwardly and gets down to business, voice low as if he doesn’t want to be overheard.

“I know this is weird, but just hear me out and it will make sense, I promise. I’m not really a slaver.”

Gal blinks in surprise and eyes his armour. “You certainly could have fooled me.”

Rory has the decency to look ashamed. “Well, I mean, I guess in some ways I am. But that’s not why I’m here. In the Pitt, I mean. I came here because… because my little brother was taken.” he stops for a minute and lets that sink in.

“Connor was kidnapped from my house in the Wasteland and taken to Paradise Falls. When I tracked him there, they told me he’d been bought and transferred to the Pitt. I came here and signed on as a slaver because I thought it would make it easier to look for him, but then they signed me on to work with the fighters and now it looks real suspicious if I’m seen talking to any of the other slaves.”

He sighs and stares into the contents of his glass. Gal realizes suddenly how tired he looks, with the giant rings under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor to his skin. He looks nearly as bad as she does. Working as a slaver isn’t being good to him, that’s for sure.

“I just…” he begins, fingers tight on the glass, “I just… miss my brother. It’s my fault he’s gone. I have to get him back.”

Rory looks up and gives her a wan smile. “You’re free now. I don’t know what your plans are, but…you can get into places that I can’t, talk to people that won’t give me the time of day. Will you help?”

Reaching back towards his waist, Rory pulls a little bag from his belt and tosses it onto the table. It jingles and clinks when it hits.

“I don’t make much, but what I have is yours, if you’ll help.”

Gal looks at the little bag on the table and Rory’s fingers, clenched around the glass. Reaching one hand out, she settles her thin hand on top of his broad, calloused one, and squeezes.

“Of course I’ll help. And I don’t want your money. Keep it in case you need it.” she says. Rory looks at the hand on top of his and then sweeps his gaze up to meet hers, a wide smile on his face. The grin very nearly changes his whole face, it’s so bright. She can’t help but smile back.

“Thank you. I - thank you.” he says, gratitude evident in his voice. “I don’t really have any leads, but I know a few places you might start looking. I’ve written them down.” Rory pulls a folded pack of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table. “And a picture. It’s a pretty good likeness, I think. People say he looks a lot like me, just younger. He’s almost ten.”

Gal unfolds the papers, sets the list of places aside, and looks at the picture. It’s a pencil portrait and very, very good. There’s no colour, but it appears that Connor has Rory’s light hair and eyes in a thinner face. His ears stick out like he hasn’t quite grown into them yet. The look on his face is mischievous, as if he’s pulled a prank and he’s just now reaping the results.

Gal looks up to see Rory studying the drawing too. His lips are pressed into a thin line. When he catches her looking, he swallows hard and attempts another smile. This one is distinctly wavery around the edges.

“We’ll find him, Rory. If he’s here, we’ll find him.” Gal finds herself promising. She folds the picture back up so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore and tucks it and the list of locations into a pocket. Rory nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, I just… well.” he coughs and takes a sip of his drink. “Listen, uh… I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could keep this to yourself, I’d be grateful. With Charon being Ashur’s right-hand man and all…”

Well, Charon certainly hadn’t mentioned that this morning, but Gal’s not really surprised. That had probably been the whole point of Ashur freeing him, after all. She considers telling Rory about the lie they’ve been enacting, but decides against it. She’d promised not to, for one thing, and for another, while she trusts Rory herself, she’s not sure she trusts him to pass by an opportunity that might buy his brother’s freedom. An opportunity like, say, information about a traitor in Ashur’s network. One that Rory thinks is a scumbag that’s been forcing himself on women.

Yes, better not to say.

“I won’t tell. But it’s getting late, so I should get back. If I find anything, how should I let you know?” she asks.

“My address is in there. I live alone, so you can stop by anytime. Or I’m here most nights.” he stops and gives her a searching look. “Thanks, Gal.”

She squeezes his hand one more time, promises to get back to him soon, and heads back home.

For a town full of slavers, looking to get into trouble, 8 o’clock is apparently time to be out on the town. The streets and walkways are full of swaggering bodies in armour. Men and women  in bloodstained clothes stumble from bars, eyes red from jet overdose. She hears yelling, fighting, even gunshots. Nobody seems to care. A woman runs straight into her and tries to get angry about it, but she’s so drunk she just falls to the ground and fails to get back up.

It suddenly seems a little foolish to go out by herself, completely unarmed. Next time, she’ll definitely bring at least a pistol or something. She was a pretty good shot with her BB gun, and she’d hit a few marks on her way out of the vault with the handgun Amata had given her.

God, that seems like such a long time ago.

Gal makes it back to the apartment with no mishaps. Sighing in relief, she tries the handle, only to find it locked. The door is yanked open almost immediately after she knocks. Charon stands in front of her, his eyes cold. Moving out of the way, he motions her in with a jerk of her head. She acquiesces, confused by his manner, and winces as the door slams shut behind her.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he hisses, once the bolt is thrown. His face is tight with anger.

“Out.” Gal says defensively, realizing what this is about and starting to get a little angry “I left a note on the counter, since both you and Willow were out yourselves .”

“And what exactly made you think it was a good idea to go out by yourself in a place you’ve never been, with no weapons?” he counters, crossing his arms.  The curve of his bicep is startlingly visible under the sleeves of his tight, faded undershirt. Gal lets out a disbelieving huff.

“And what, exactly, gives you the right to keep me here without your big, bad presence around to protect me, huh? I’m not a little girl, Charon, I can take care of myself.”

That only makes Charon angrier. The way he tightens his mouth makes muscles in his neck stand out in sharp relief, uncovered by flesh.

“That’s interesting, smoothskin, because I remember us talking earlier about how you got rolled up by raiders less than a full day after you’d left the Vault. You’re lucky you’re not locked in somebody’s closet right now with your pants around your ankles.”

Gal had never understand the term ‘seeing red’ before, but she does now. It’s all she can do to keep from slapping him across the face.

“Funny how it’s not a problem when you’re the one taking them off, Charon.” she snarls back. “Why don’t you go-”

“Hey, hey, what the fuck is going on in here?” a gravelly voice cuts in. Willow appears from her room, brows knitted together, and takes in the scene. Gal realizes she’s moved so she’s less than a foot away from Charon, literally staring up into his face. Willow hurries over and inserts herself in between them smoothly.

“Why don’t we shelve this conversation for now, it’s getting late.” she says reasonably. Neither Gal nor Charon back down, but Willows turns the full force of her gaze on Charon and he finally relents. Not looking at Gal, he disappears down the hallway and slams his door shut.

“Pompous ass.” Gal growls, watching him go.

“Hey, cool it, tourist.” Willow says reprovingly. One hands wraps around Gal’s shoulder. “He didn’t mean to piss you off. He was just worried about you, and he doesn’t know how to show it. He’s been pacing a hole in the floor since he came back and you were gone.”

“Which totally excuses his controlling behavior.” Gal says stubbornly, but lets her shoulders droop. Willow lets out a huff of laughter and steers her to the kitchen table.

“Want a beer? Nuka-cola?” she asks, trudging over to the fridge. Gal accepts a cold bottle of soda and takes a long draw, sighing at the taste. Willow flops down in the chair opposite and sips her own drink in silence for a minute.

“He’s not entirely wrong, though. Might be good to have an escort for a while until you’re used to life above ground and not in a cell. You ever used a gun before?” Willows frowns when Gal shrugs. “Nobody’s trying to be controlling, but The Pitt is a rough place, rougher than the rest of the Wasteland, even. If you want to go out by yourself, do us a favour and let us help you out so nobody can snatch you off the streets. That fair?”

Gal sullenly thinks about saying no, just to be contrary, but Willow in all her practicality is hard to say no to. With a sigh, Gal nods and leans forward to prop her head on her hand.

“I didn’t go out just to wander around. It was for a good reason. Somebody… needs help.” she says vaguely, trying to explain without really explaining.

Willow sees through her bullshit immediately. “That blonde slaver friend of yours?” she asks, laughing at Gal’s shocked look. “You’re not as sly as you think you are, tourist. But, to give you some credit, I’ve known there was something going on with him before you even showed up. Look at him for more than five minutes and you can tell he’s not cut out for slaving. I just never knew what the real reason that he was here was.”

Gal sighs. “I promised him I wouldn’t tell.” she explains helplessly. Thankfully, Willow accepts that with no prying.

“Well, whatever it is, just don’t get in too deep. And don’t tell Charon, he doesn’t like your friend. Can’t imagine why.” she says with a knowing smile. Gal lets out a snort.

“Trust me, that’s not news to me.” she says wryly.

--

Gal finishes the drink an hour later, bids Willow good night, and crawls into bed in her shirt and underwear. She tries to sleep, but the bed is too soft, the sheets too hot, the room too quiet. She stares at the ceiling for a long, long time before sleep finally takes her.

[kidotm]

 Chapter 7

Someone bangs on her door at what feels like the crack of dawn the next morning. Gal, bleary-eyed, stumbles out of the bed and swings the door open. She doesn’t remember that she’s not wearing pants until it’s already ajar.

Charon, to his credit, doesn’t even look, though he does take in the way she rubs at her eyes with some amusement. He’s already dressed for the day in a black t-shirt and thick, dark pants. A pistol hangs from a holster at his side.

“You going out today?” he asks. Gal blinks and nods hesitantly. The anger she expects doesn’t come. Instead, Charon looks almost resigned, as if he’s given up arguing with her. Or maybe he’d actually been listening a little bit last night when she’d been reminding him that he wasn’t her keeper. She doesn’t know which it is, but she likes the change.

“I’m going to teach you to shoot then. Go get dressed.”

Despite the fact that he’s already gotten an eyeful, Gal still shuts the door in his face so she can shimmy into some pants.

When he leads her up to the roof, she realizes that it feels like the crack of dawn to her because it is actually the crack of dawn. The sun is just peeking over the horizon as they come out onto the crumbling concrete roof, spilling faint golden light onto the Pitt. The roof is mostly empty, but there’s some barrels set up on one end with bottles lined up neatly on top. Charon leads her to the opposite end and produces his pistol. Gal peeks over the side of the building.

“Are we going to bother somebody, shooting at this early in the morning?”

Charon shrugs as he checks the pistol over. “I have to work today, so this is the only time I have.” He cuts off as a loud crash echoes up from somewhere below, and someone starts yelling. “And no, I don’t think anyone will care. Come here.”

Satisfied that everything is in working order, Charon hands her the pistol and a loaded magazine. A pistol’s a lot different than a BB gun, and the few hours she’d gotten right out of the vault isn’t enough time to become an expert,  but she knows the basics apply to all weapons - finger straight and off the trigger, keep the muzzle pointed away from anything you don’t plan to shoot, check the safety, check to see if it’s loaded. She tells herself that she’s not interested in Charon’s approval, but she feels a little flush of pleasure when he looks impressed anyway.

“This is an N99 ten millimeter pistol. It used to be standard issue for officers in the military, so it’s a good handgun, and durable.” he explains gruffly. “Shooting a pistol is different than other guns, so I’ll teach you the grip and the stance and then we’ll shoot.”

She pockets the magazine, moves over so she’s in front of the barrels, and points the pistol downrange. She feels it as Charon steps up behind her, though she doesn’t know how. His touch on her shoulders is firm as he squares her towards the barrels, nudging her feet further apart with his boots.

“This is the standard stance. Now wrap one hand around the grip, and then the other over it. Like that. Good. See how the sights line up? Don’t lock your arms out - keep an easy bend. Grip tight so you can deal with the recoil.”

It seems in all things, Charon is a good teacher. He seems to have an intuition for what she knows and what she needs to be taught, and he never makes her feel incompetent. Once he’s shown her a few stances and discussed the points of aiming, Gal loads the pistol, takes a stance, and sights in on a bottle.

To her disappointment, it doesn’t shatter when she pulls the trigger. She sighs and lowers the gun, looking up to her mentor for guidance.

“Your aim is good, but you’re jerking the trigger. Everybody does it when they start out. Make sure you’re practicing a slow, steady squeeze - it should be a surprise when the weapon actually fires. Here, I’ll show you.”

Gal hands the handgun off and moves aside so Charon can assume her position. He hands the pistol like it’s an extension of himself; she can tell that everything he does is done in slow motion for her benefit, and can only imagine what he looks like at full speed. Terrifying, probably. Charon spreads his legs, wraps his large hands around the pistol grip, and takes aim. His body never wavers as he slowly draws the trigger back. At the sound of the gunshot, a bottle goes flying.

“Like that. Your turn.”

When Gal sights in again and channels her inner Charon, she’s rewarded with the sound of tinkling glass. An unbidden grin spreads across her face as she sights in on the next bottle. That one shatters under her bullet too. She gets a little too excited and misses the next one, but she finds her focus again, takes a long breath, and gets it on the second try.

When she turns to face her mentor, he’s smiling just a little bit, a lopsided quirk that she’s only seen a few times now. When Gal goes to hand him the gun, he waves it off and starts fiddling with the holster at his side instead.

“It’s for you. You should take it with you when you leave the apartment. This too.” Finally detaching the holster from his side, he strips it off and steps in close to attach it for her. Very close. Charon is so tall, he has to kneel so he can buckle the bottom strap around the inside of her thigh. His touch is sure, unteasing, but heated all the same. Then, the top has to thread through her belt, so he reaches up and starts unbuckling it unbidden. Gal stumbles a bit when he tugs to pull it out of her belt loops, catching herself with a hand on each of his shoulders and moving even closer in the process.

Charon threads the loops of the holster through her belt and starts sliding the strip of leather back through her belt loops. When he reaches forward to circle her back, it puts his face nearly into her belly. Gal desperately wants to close the gap between them. It would be so easy to just slide one hand along the back of his neck, to feel the hot skin there underneath her fingertips...

Charon drops the belt and clutches at his head. His sharp intake of breath sounds pained. Deep furrows appear in his forehead as he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Gal exhales sharply and grabs his shoulders to steady him.

After a moment, the pain seems to pass. He stands up, still rubbing at his head, and blinks heavily.

“...sorry. Migraine.” he says shortly.

He gestures to the pistol, now tucked securely in the holster on her side. “Take that with you when you leave. Don’t hesitate to shoot if you feel you need to. I have to get going. Willow will be around most of the day, I think.”

With that, he turns towards the staircase and disappears, leaving Gal confused and feeling like she’s very much missing something.

--

“Have you seen this boy?”

For what feels like the fiftieth time today, the slave in front of her shakes his head, not making eye contact, and scuttles away, clutching his pickaxe to his chest. Sighing, Gal wipes a drip of sweat from her forehead and searches around for a shaded area to rest and regroup.

She’s been out searching for Connor for at least three hours now. For some reason, she hadn’t expected it to be that hard to find him. But getting the slaves to talk is like pulling teeth. To them, she probably just looks like another Raider, or at least just another free woman, and so she’s the enemy. Half of them don’t even glance at the picture before they shake their heads and run away.

“This isn’t working.” she mumbles to herself as she finds a shaded corner to rest in. It’s clear she’s going to need a different strategy. Her first thought is to throw her old slave clothes on and go about dressed that way, but things are run differently out here, and the last thing she wants is for somebody to decide she’s easy pickings and drag her off into a dark alley.

Gal sinks down into a crouch, back against the stone wall behind her, and unfolds the drawing. Connor’s face looks back at her. Where are you, Connor? How do I find you?

She looks up when a pair of sandaled feet stop just at the edge of her eyesight. A woman with leathered skin, wearing a shapeless top and a tattered skirt, flinches when she meets Gal’s gaze. Gal stands up hastily and then regrets it when the woman stumbles back several steps.

“I’m sorry!” she says hurriedly to the woman. The slave looks back up to her and sidles a bit closer. It’s plain she doesn’t trust Gal as far as she could throw her.

“Are you the one that escaped from the fighting ring?” the woman asks in a thin voice. Gal nods. The woman looks down and starts wringing her hands worriedly, eyes darting from side to side. When she’s convinced nobody is in hearing range, she speaks again.

“If you’re looking for somebody, you should ask Midea. Midea knows everything.” This is delivered in a whisper, so quiet Gal has to lean almost in half just to hear her.

“Where do I find Midea?” she asks quietly. The slave fumbles, as if she doesn’t want to say, but relents.

“Downtown, in the square. Across from Kai’s cafeteria. Please… don’t tell anyone I told you. Please.” with that, the woman backs away and disappears, without even waiting for an answer. Gal folds the picture back into a square with absent hands and frowns after her.

The walk to Downtown takes about a half hour. Whether it’s the look on her face, the pistol on her hip, or just that they’re not interested, nobody bothers her.

She wanders into Kai’s cafeteria first. The woman behind the counter doesn’t notice her immediately, too dead-set on slicing up the slab of meat she has in front of her. Gal notices that her skin is as ravaged and bloody as Sal’s was, even along her exposed midriff.

The woman - Kai? - looks up, eyes widening, and sets the knife down hurriedly. She tilts her head and lowers her gaze immediately. “I’m so sorry, I was focusing on my work.” she says breathlessly. Gal’s mouth twists.

“I’m in no hurry. What are you making?” Gal asks. It sounds conversational, but the truth is there’s something that looks alarmingly like a human rib cage on the counter.

“I make the food for all the slaves in this area.” the woman mumbles towards the raw meat on the counter. “It’s mostly trog meat, not very high quality.”

Trog? Gal has no idea what a trog is. Maybe better not to ask.

“Could you tell me where to find Midea?” she asks instead.

It’s very slight, but Kai’s shoulders stiffen at Midea’s name. She looks reluctant to say anything, but she also looks like she expects a bad result if she refuses.

“Midea lives just across the way. She should be home now…. ma’am.” the formality is pointed, bordering on insolent. Gal tries to combat it with a grateful smile and leaves, feeling awkward and a little miserable. She can feel the woman watching her as she crosses the courtyard to knock on the door opposite.

After a few long moments, the door cracks open just enough for the person inside to peek out. Then the door is yanked open quickly. A woman wearing a headscarf and a tattered top and skirt stands in front of her, looking down respectfully just as Kai had when Gal walked in. Her face is tanned and lined from sun and hard work, but she looks in better health than most of the slaves here. No strange sores or lesions, anyway.

“Are you Midea? Can I come in?” Gal asks. Midea just nods quickly and motions her in.

Her ‘house’ is a one room shack with crumbling cement walls. A dirty bed occupies one corner. Broken, rusty shelves hold wooden crates and old dishware, next to a refrigerator that’s missing a door. Still, it’s a private space to herself, so Midea must be held in some regard by somebody.

“You’re the one from the fights.” Midea says quietly, straightening up a little bit. “The one that Ashur’s prize fighter saved.”

“Yeah,” Gal says with a little surprise, “That’s me.” She knew the fights were a big deal in the Pitt, but she didn’t think people would know who she was just by looking at her. Especially people who’d never been to a fight. “I’m looking for someone who might be here as a slave. I guess you’re the person to talk to.”

“I do know most of the slaves in the Pitt,” Midea says thoughtfully, accepting the drawing from her. “Who is this boy?”

“He’s… a friend’s brother. He was taken. My friend tracked him to Paradise Falls and said he’d been transferred here. His name is Connor.”

Midea’s lips press together as she studies the drawing. Then, she blinks, and thrusts the paper back at Gal.

“He’s here.” she says. “But if you’re planning on getting him out, consider it a suicide mission. He works directly for Ashur.”

Gal’s stomach flips queasily. Ashur? There’s no way Rory can sneak a boy out from under the nose of the leader of the Pitt. It would be suicide.

“Can you at least tell me where he is?” she asks. Midea shrugs.

“No harm in that, I guess. There’s a disease going around the Pitt - Ashur’s wife is working on a cure for it. I guess she thought she needed an assistant, so they picked the kid. Maybe they thought, being young, he’d be less of a handful, I don’t know. Either way, they’ve got him holed up in Haven with them, and they never let him out.”

Gal accepts the drawing back silently, thoughts churning in her head. If she goes back and tells Rory that Connor is in Haven, he might do something stupid. She needs a plan. But she’s out of her depth here.

“Midea, I need to get in there to see him. Do you have a way?”

The women frowns thoughtfully and seems to think it over. Then she nods slowly.

“I think I do, but - you’ll have to do something in return. Is that fair?” she asks. Gal nods cautiously.

“I’ll have to make arrangements.” Midea says. “Come back in a few days and we’ll have a plan.”

“And the favour?” Gal asks. Midea smiles.

“When you come back, I’ll tell you. You can decide then if you want to go through with it.”

--

Gal ends up back home in late afternoon. She thinks about going to see Rory, and telling him she has a lead, but she doesn’t want him jumping the gun and rushing off to Haven by himself trying to rescue Connor. So instead she just unlocks the door and slips through, thinking musingly about taking a nap.

The kitchen and living room are empty, but Charon’s door is cracked. Voices echo down the hallway, too quiet to make out from so far away. Gal doesn’t really intend to eavesdrop, but suddenly she’s standing in front of the hallway, hovering just to the side so she’s hidden. The voices come loud and clear from here.

“Charon, you have to tell her. Part, if nothing else. Make it up if you have to. But you can’t leave her hanging.” Willow says firmly.

“She doesn’t need to know. We’ll get her out of here and then find somewhere for her to go that’s not Underworld. She’ll forget all about us.” Charon snaps back.

“...why are you so dead-set on keeping it a secret?” Willow asks softly. “Are you afraid she’ll treat you differently?”

“How can she not?” is his angry reply. “Do you look at a slave the same way you look at a free man? Do you treat a murderer like an innocent person?”

“You’re not giving her enough credit.”

“Even if she knows, it won’t change anything. It’ll just be a burden on her that nobody can fix.” his voice drops down low. “Just let me have this for a little while. Before I have to go back.”

“Fine.” Willow says shortly. “But don’t blame me when she gets angry at you again. She’s not stupid, she knows something is going on.”

Gal realizes that somebody is about to come out of the room and darts back towards the front door. She pushes it open and lets it thump shut loudly this time so they can hear. Both parties emerge from Charon’s room at the sound.

“Here I am, safe and sound!” Gal says cheerfully. “Did I miss anything?”

They buy it. Charon, still grumpy, rolls his eyes and retreats back to his room without saying anything; Willow pulls a pack of cigarettes from her front pocket and packs them as she gives Gal a quirk of a smile. Gal can see a hint of irritation left in the jerky movements of her hands.

“Nah. We’re living the quiet life these days. Cigarette?”

Gal takes the proffered cigarette and follows Willow outside. She’s smoked with Amata before, back in 101, so she knows how to cup her hand around the flame and inhale to get the tip to start burning. There’s a bit of silence as Willow takes a drag and lets out a long, relieved sigh. Gal lets her have the moment for a bit before she spoils it.

“So, if I already know that Charon has been a slave and that he’s killed people, why would I be surprised to find out that Charon’s been a slave and has killed people?” she asks casually.

Willow inhales too fast and starts coughing. Even as she’s bending over at the waist, hands on her knees, she glares at Gal, who struggles to stay nonchalant as she puffs on her cigarette.

“You’re too nosy for your own good, tourist.” Willow grumbles, once her coughing is over.

“It’s not my fault you two speak so loud that you can’t hear me come in.” Gal says back calmly. That’s not strictly fair - it would be difficult for them to hear her, quiet as she was - but it furthers her cause so it’s worth a try.

Willow gives her a look, but Gal can tell her heart isn’t in it. Whatever secret they’re keeping, Willow’s convinced that Gal should know.

“Look, even if I’m all for spilling the beans, they’re not my beans to spill.” Willow tries. Gal gives her an expectant look. The ghoulette deflects by pulling out another cigarette.

“Willow, come on.” Gal taps out the cherry and flicks the butt away, waving off the offer of another. “You were one hundred percent right in there. If I’m kept out of the loop, I just feel like I’m being pushed away for no reason and it’s totally acceptable to be angry. But if I knew the truth, I could show him that I’m not going to change my opinion because of whatever he’s trying to keep a secret.”

Something about that statement rubs Willow the wrong way, because she gives Gal a hard look, her pale eyes glittering. Her stance stiffens a little bit.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, smoothskin.” Willow says warningly. “This isn’t all fun and games out here. You might think you can handle the horrors, but you haven’t seen the half of it yet.”

Gal frowns. “You stuck up for me before. Now you’re doubting me?”

“Not you,” Willow says, her mouth twisting, “I’m just doubting that you know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m all for hard truths over pretty lies, and so is Charon, but he doesn’t need another person walking away from him because of something he can’t control.”

Willow turns away and leans back against the wall. Her back makes a very pointed ‘thump’ as she puffs on her smoke. Maybe a different tactic is in order.

“How about this,” she suggests instead, “I’ll try to put the pieces together, and you can interject if you feel like pointing me in the right direction.” Willow neither agrees nor refuses, so Gal just forges on. “You weren’t talking about the Pitt. Whatever you were talking about, it has something to do with where you come from. Underworld.”

Willow doesn’t react. Her gaze stays pointed out towards the street. Gal sighs. “Well, that’s going to be my first assumption. Second assumption: whatever Charon does there, it’s obviously not voluntary. And it sounds like it’s on the far side of the law. Hmm?” Still no answer. “Well, if Charon is choosing to go back, there has to be a reason. Nobody would walk back into something like that. Blackmail, maybe?”

She finally gets a reaction. Willow shakes her head, ever so slightly. No. “Okay, not blackmail. But he is being coerced somehow. But how?” this last part is more to herself than to Willow. What could somebody use, other than blackmail, to force somebody into servitude? The answer is unclear. She needs more information.

“I think that’s enough digging for one day, don’t you? How about we go back in and make some dinner instead?”

Willow doesn’t wait for an answer. Putting out her cigarette and flicking the butt away, she yanks the front door open and strides in. Gal follows reluctantly, still mulling over her new information.

Dinner is maybe a little awkward, but they get through it okay. Willow and Charon both make an attempt to seem like they weren’t arguing before Gal came in. Gal realizes after her first bite of brahmin that she’s ravenous and that real food is delicious. The way she inhales her steak gets a bark of laughter out of Willow and a snort from Charon.

“You want to come ingot hunting with me tomorrow, tourist?” Willow asks as Gal is gathering plates to take over to the sink. Gal looks at her and frowns. “Ingot hunting?” she asks.

“Yeah. Easiest way to make money in this town, apparently, and it’ll give you some training on how to function in the real world. There’s an abandoned mill on the edge of town that we’d have to pick our way through. Interested?”

The idea of leaving the safety and confines of the town for somewhere abandoned and dangerous is not enticing. The last time Gal had tried that, in fact, she’d been scooped up like a sack of grain and wound up as a Pitt fighter. Not her smartest move.

But I guess I’ve got to learn some survival skills eventually, she thinks with an internal sigh.

“Yeah, sure, I guess. Let me know when you want to leave tomorrow.”

She goes to start the dishes but Willow bats her hand away and slides into the space in front of the sink. Gal takes that for the dismissal that it is and slips off to her room.

She spends about twenty minutes lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, before that gets too boring to continue. Groaning, Gal sits up and pads out the door to knock on Charon’s door. He pulls it open with an impassive expression.

“You in the mood for some company?” she asks tentatively. He raises an eyebrow and then moves to the side to let her in.

Charon’s room is much like Gal’s - a queen size bed, a few empty shelves, and a desk at one end with a black book lying on it, page marked with a pen. A shotgun of some sort is propped up against the wall to the left of the bed. A stack of armour sits on the lower shelves and pack is leaned up against the rack, half full of something. It looks like he’s already getting ready to leave.

“You’re not wasting any time getting out of here, are you?” she asks as she surveys the room. Charon gestures her to sit on the bed and flips the desk chair around to sit in. It’s a little bit funny how small the chair looks when it holds his above-average bulk.

“Just being prepared for when the opportunity strikes. Not that I won’t miss this shithole.” he says drily. Gal smiles and nods her agreement, though the thought of leaving makes her nearly green with nervousness. The Pitt may be a shithole, but it’s one of only two places that she’s ever lived, and there’s a whole big world out there she doesn’t understand.

“You worried about what you’re going to do after we get out of here?” Charon asks. Gal shrugs indifferently, but she knows the way she thoughtlessly wraps her arms around herself afterwards gives her away.

“I just - my whole life has been relegated to the Vault, and then three rooms and an arena. I don’t know the first thing about living out there, and with you and Willow leaving…” she sighs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Hey, none of that.” Charon says gruffly, leaning forward. “We’re not going to kick you to the curb with no way to take care of yourself, alright? We’ll make sure you’re set up somewhere - maybe Megaton. If you came from Vault 101, your dad probably went through there anyway, so it’d be a good place to start.”

And far enough away from Underworld for me to ‘forget’ about you too, huh? Gal thinks.

But she doesn’t voice her thoughts. Instead, she falls back onto Charon’s bed and closes her eyes. The comforter under her is thick and warm. Wool, maybe. Vault blankets had always been either scratchy or plastic-ey.

“Your bed is more comfortable than mine.” she says conversationally. When she cracks an eye to glance at Charon, he’s looking at her intently.

It has not slipped Gal’s mind that the last time she was really, honestly alone with Charon, they were dancing the horizontal tango (and she was very much enjoying it). Things since have been… awkward. The last dregs of yesterday’s argument are still swirling around in the air, even if Charon had attempted to apologize via shooting lessons.

Was it just a result of the circumstances? She thinks. Fighting is stressful, and sex is stress release. Plus, it’s not like he had a whole lot of options. Now he’s got a whole city to pick from. Also, pragmatically speaking, it’s not very logical to strike up a relationship, even a casual one, with somebody that you’re attempting to push out of your life in the near future. Gal finds increasingly that she very much does not want to be pushed out of either Charon’s or Willow’s life.

“You planning on sleeping there?” Charon asks. Gal realizes she’s been silent for a while. She glances up at him and splays her arms wide across the bed, grinning.

“What’s that saying? ‘Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?’ Keep rolling your eyes like that and you’re gonna strain a muscle, you know.”

Both of them go silent for a moment as Gal thinks about how to phrase what she wants to say next. She’s never been very good at this kind of thing.

“You know, you could come sit next to me.” she says finally, sitting up.

Charon gives her a long look. It’s long enough that she starts wondering when he’s going to tell her to get out, but finally he rolls to his feet and draws towards her.

His first touch on her leg is light, a bare whisper of pressure through the thick fabric. Just like the first time, this feels like a question somehow, as if he wants just one more reassurance that they’re on the same page before he goes any farther. What makes you hesitate? She thinks as she slides her hand over his. His hands are the most ravaged part of him, half stripped of skin and baring muscle but still strong and dexterous.

His hand slides out from under hers and goes to her shoulder. Gal gives in to the slight pressure and lays back so that Charon can place his knees on either side of her legs and bracket her face with his arms. Her heart starts thudding harder; she can feel her face flushing.

“I thought you were going to kick me out.” she murmurs. Charon huffs a laugh at that. His breath smells like brahmin steak and beer from dinner, but it’s not at all unpleasant.

“I was going to, but I was afraid you’d take my blanket with you. You seem attached to it.”

Gal notes that her hands are fisted in the aforementioned blanket and relaxes them. Then she places one on his chest lightly, mirroring the hand he still has pressed against her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “You just make me nervous.”

Charon frowns and leans backwards, taking his hand off her shoulder. She scrambles to sit up on one elbow and wraps a hand around his bicep. Charon halts and looks down at her hand, still frowning.

“Bad choice of words. It’s a good nervous. An “I-don’t-want-to-mess-this-up” nervous.” Gal says hastily. Looking only half-convinced, he gives in when Gal tugs him back down.

The first kiss this time is gentle. It lacks the fire of the others she’s shared with him, but her body still tingles just from the touch of his lips to hers. With a slow pace like this, she can feel texture of his lips more intently. The scrape of the rough skin is so different from anything she’s experienced before. 10 out of 10, she thinks dizzily. Paul might as well have been a damp pillow in comparison to this.

Charon finally relents and presses the long line of his body against hers. His biceps bulge with the strain of keeping his weight off of her; she appreciates it, because even with that, he is heavy.

When the lack of air becomes too much, Gal breaks the kiss and takes in a deep breath. Charon immediately nudges her head to the side. His hot breath on the length of her neck makes something in her abdomen curl up in pleasure. The first touch of his tongue to her skin doubles the feeling.

“You said last time you wanted to take it slow?” he says lowly into her neck. Gal, eyes closed, lets out a groan as he rolls his hips into hers.

“I want to take it any way you want, just don’t stop doing what you’re doing.” she says breathlessly. Charon answers by sliding off of both her and the bed completely. Gal blinks and goes to sit up, but a firm hand on her hip stops her.

“Tell me at any point if it’s too much.” he says. She raises an eyebrow, but lifts her hips as he tugs her trousers down, taking her panties with them. Then rough hands are spreading her legs wide and a warm tongue is caressing the inside of her thigh. Gal squeezes her eyes shut and lets out an embarrassing sound as she realizes what’s about to happen. She and Paul had gotten handsy, even gone all the way, but nothing like this.

Charon eases her into it slowly, gently mouthing up both sides of her thighs before he opens up the area he’d been making his way towards with his hands. Then his tongue presses right up against her. Gal gasps as he flicks lightly and then sucks on her bud. One hand moves down to tease at her opening, pressing in slightly and then withdrawing. He pushes in a little farther with each thrust, until finally he crooks his finger and hits that spot inside her again, the one that makes her arch up from the bed with a cry.

His tongue is moving faster against her clit, quick flicks and long, firm drags in sync with the way his finger is moving inside her. Gal throws timidity to the wind and shoves her shirt up so she can palm her breast and rub her thumb across her nipple. Charon responds by thrusting faster.

The orgasm takes her entirely by surprise. One minute she’s lost in the growing feeling of ecstasy in her abdomen, the next she’s shaking with it as it flows outwards in every direction. Charon coaxes her through the waves with his fingers and his tongue, only stopping when she’s spent and lying limp on the bed. He withdraws his finger slowly and stands up. The sight of him wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand is immensely erotic.

“You’re going to have to give me a second, because that was… wow.” she mutters, pushing one hand through her sweaty hair to detach it from her forehead. She feels like a limp noodle, in a good way. It is increasingly clear that what she had labelled as ‘sex’ while still in Vault 101 was, at best, more like awkward genital fondling.

“It’s fine.” Charon responds, fumbling with the catch on his belt. Trousers unzipped, he untucks his cock from the confines of his underwear and wraps one hand around it, giving it an impatient tug. Charon locks eyes with her, still lying on the bed in disarray, and lets out a soft groan, his hand moving faster.

Gal watches him interestedly. She hadn’t gotten a chance to really look at Charon before, so now she does so without shame. His cock is thick and red, with a drip of precum beading the tip. It just proudly from a nest of ginger hair that matches the few locks on Charon’s head. Charon locks eyes with her again and then lets his eyes trail down her body - then, groaning, he wraps his thumb and index finger around the base of his cock and grips tightly.

The question is out of her mouth before she even thinks about it.

“Can I ride you?”

Charon pauses and looks at her strangely. “...what?”

Gal flushes from the tips of her ears all the way down to her toes, but she’s already metaphorically jumped in, so might as well commit.

“I just mean… well… I’ve never done it before. And I’ve always wanted to. ...do you want to?”

Charon looks at her like she’s grown a second head, but after a minute he shoves his trousers down, toes off his boots, and drags his shirt over his head. Gal follows suit with the remainder of her clothes. She can hardly take her eyes away from him as he stretches out along the length of the bed, chest muscles and abs flexing as his body turns this way and that. In places where his skin is missing, she can actually see the muscle itself flexing

When he’s settled, Gal pushes to her knees and turns to throw a leg over his hips. Straddling his body, she takes a minute to run her hands up his torso. He throws off warmth like a furnace; even from several inches away she can feel it.

“I’m going to have to take it slow.” she says apologetically. Charon leans forward and traces one finger around the shell of her ear, stopping to twist his fingers in the hair around her ear gently.

“Take it as slow as you need.” he says quietly.

Gal reaches down, takes his length firmly in hand, and lines it up with her entrance. Then, slowly, she sinks down a few inches and stops, gritting her teeth. It seems like an eternity before the discomfort passes and she’s able to sink down more. Finally she bottoms out and is able to lift back up again slowly. It takes a few passes before she’s able to judge the distance without him slipping out.

Both of them let out a sound when she starts moving faster. Laying her hands on Charon’s chest puts her at an awkward angle, and reaching behind to grasp his thighs isn’t much better. Finally, he holds his palms up and she laces her finger with his. The extra support is enough to help her go deeper each time. Charon throws his head back into the mattress, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as she lifts her hips and snaps them back down over and over again.

That little bundle of pleasure is sitting low in her gut again, but it’s not enough. Gal lets go of one of Charon’s hands and reaches down to press at her clit. The change is immediate. The more the feeling grows, the harder it is to keep her hips going steadily; she forges on, trying to keep it up, trying to keep her fingers moving. Then she looks down at the man spread out beneath her and she’s gone.

The minute she stops moving, spent from her orgasm, Charon grabs her by the neck and drags her down to meet his lips. She accepts his hungry kiss with enthusiasm. Then his hips snap up and he starts the relentless rhythm again. It doesn’t take long before he’s faltering himself, and then he’s pressing up into her as far as he can go, his cock jerking as he comes.

After a few long moments, Gal leans forward and gently separates them so she can climb off and collapse on the bed.

Unlike last time, there’s no hurry to get dressed, and they both seem to know it. Instead, Charon moves his arm out of the way and wraps it around her shoulders as she presses up against his side.

“It’s nice to be able to do this without worrying that somebody’s going to walk in.” Gal mumbles, a tad sleepily. Charon’s fingers are carding through her hair, and it feels really nice.

“Don’t speak too soon, Willow could come in at any time.” he retorts. Gal lets out a hum of agreement and closes her eyes. The silence stretches out long enough that she does, in fact, fall asleep.

[kidotm]

Chapter 8

Gal wakes up in the morning to a warm arm slung across her waist and her legs in a tangle with Charon’s. There’s just enough light in the room for her to make out his face, slack with sleep.

She keeps still and just watches for a while, memorizing the planes of his face and the way the shadows play over his skin. It feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done to see him like this. She gets the impression that Charon doesn’t sleep easily around other people. Though Charon’s facade of easy confidence is pretty believable in waking hours, she imagines she can see a certain relaxation in the line of his shoulders that hasn’t been there before.

She’s just thinking about wiggling closer when a scraping sound comes from outside the room. Charon’s eyes pop open like he’d never been asleep and focus on her face.

“What time is it?” he grumbles, disentangling his legs from hers and sitting up. The few tufts of hair left on his head are sticking up at wild angles. His voice is gruffer than usual. Gal sits up too, not bothering to pull the blanket up over her bare chest. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker down from her face for a split second.

“Dunno. But I think Willow’s awake, and I told her I would go ingot hunting with her today, so I guess I better get dressed.”

Noting that her clothes are on Charon’s side of the bed, she very deliberately crawls over him to reach them, rather than walking around. Charon responds by letting one hand press on the small of her back briefly as she shrugs her bra and shirt on.

When she slips out of Charon’s room (fully dressed), Willow is leaning into her open doorway with a frown on her face. She’s already dressed and has a shotgun hanging across her back. She turns, sees Gal, and looks her up and down pointedly. Gal notices that her shirt is tucked into the front of her trousers and fixes it with a flush.

“Were you in there all night?” Willow asks. Gal nods silently, still blushing. Willow turns and looks at Charon’s closed door.

“Huh.” she says thoughtfully. Then, apparently dismissing whatever she’s thinking about, she turns to Gal and gestures towards her bare feet. “Go put your boots on and we’ll head out. Best to start early.”

Ten minutes later, they’re out the front door and headed down to ground level. The sun is just now lightening the sky; the people around are a mixture of tired workers heading home and grumpy early risers still half-asleep. The route that Willow takes them out goes directly past Midea’s apartment. Gal glances at the door nervously, but it stays resolutely shut.

“The working slaves don’t get treated as well as we did. Don’t get involved.” Willow says in warning as they walk. They turn down an alley that Gal hasn’t explored yet, past signs for a place called ‘the Mill’.

When Willow opens the door to the Mill, a huge blast of superheated air swarms over Gal. The inside of the mill is dark, punctuated by dim lights and spots of bright orange heat. Slaves mill back and forth, cutting metal, shoveling coal, and transporting red-hot steel. Here and there, guards lounge against the walls, watching over the workers.

The slaves look overworked and underfed. Most have the pallid expression of a person who never sees the sun, dark bruises under their tired eyes like swatches of purple paint. Gal watches as one woman stumbles and falls to one knee, then slowly pushes herself back up as if the movement pains her.

One of the guards off to the right of them is kicking a man on the ground in the stomach repeatedly. His barks of laughter as the man spits up blood puts her hair on end.

“This is horrible.” Gal shouts over the crashing din. Willow shrugs, but Gal sees in her eyes that she’s disgusted too. “Fighters are prized possessions. You have to have skill to last in the arena. These slaves are nothing but worker ants. Every time one dies, they have a replacement already on hand. So no reason to treat them well.” Willow explains. Gal watches as a hollow eyed woman shovels coal into a furnace and then looks away. She never thought she’d be grateful to put her life on the line every day to ensure her own existence, but it looks like even in slavery, some people are more blessed than others.

Gal doesn’t realize she’s stopped in place until Willow grips her arm and tugs her forward. Her eyes hold a glimmer of sympathy.

They make it through the Mill with no incidents. Gal breathes a sigh of relief when Willow leads her through another door into a smaller room. The air is still stiflingly hot, but the blasts of direct heat from the furnaces has let up somewhat and there are no slaves in here, just a single man in armor, eyeing them.

“We’re going out to the Steelyard.” Willow says to the man, gesturing to herself and Gal. The man looks them both up and down and then grins. His teeth are yellow and rotted.

“I know you two. You’re Charon’s bitches. What makes you think you’ll last even a minute out there?” he asks nastily. Willow steps forward swiftly, grabs the man by the collar, and shoves him into the wall. She has his hunting rifle in her hand and is holding it out to Gal before the man even has the sense to look scared. Gal takes the rifle and ejects the magazine and the chambered round, pocketing the ammo.

“What do you say we drag you along and have a little contest? Think you’d stack up?” she says, slamming him into the wall again. The man lets out a curse, but relents and holds his hands up.

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Give me my fucking piece back and get out of my face.” he says. Willow drops him like a sack of potatoes and heads for the door at the end of the room. Gal gives him back the rifle; the man swipes it from her hands with a glare and follows them through the far door.

The door leads back outside, to an area is fenced off all the way up to the ceiling. A walkway, also completely enclosed by iron fencing, leads off into the distance. She can see another door on the other side. Something skitters above them; Gal looks up to see a vaguely human-shaped creature, hunched over on all fours, crawling across the fencing.

“That’s a trog.” Willow says as they make their way to the other side. “Used to be a person, but disease turned it into that. They’re the reason ingot hunting is so dangerous.”

“Those and the crazies that live up on the blast furnace.” the slaver interjects with a nasty snicker. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll blast your heads off.”

Gal gets the feeling that he doesn’t appreciate their attitude. He unlocks the door for them and swings it open, gesturing them through sneeringly. Willow stops just before she goes through the doorway and fixes him with a look.

“Charon is expecting us back at 5. If we’re not there, he’ll know who’s to blame.”

The slaver scoffs and lets out an expletive, but nonetheless, he looks cowed. Willow must be convinced because she gestures to Gal and crosses through the doorway. The slaver shuts it behind them without ceremony.

The area they find themselves in is an extension of the factory, but this part looks dilapidated and unused. Directly in front of them is a metal walkway that goes up and towards the roof of one of the buildings; to the left is a set of steps to the ground. It’s eerily quiet, after the loudness of the Mill and the bustle of the Pitt.

“You ready?” Willow asks, glancing at Gal. Gal unholsters her pistol and looks around nervously.

“Not really,” she says honestly, “But no time like the present, I guess?”

Willow snorts and moves off along the walkway. “Good answer. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll be in front, and you bring up the rear, so it’s your job to watch our six. These things can climb, so make sure you’re looking up as well. If you have any doubts, just shoot it.”

They follow the walkway up onto the roof of a low building and stop while Willow checks out the way ahead. The silence is starting to make her nervous. She realizes that part of her nervousness is that this situation somewhat parallels her first foray out into the Vault; then, she’d been scared, out of her depth, and clutching a pistol for dear life too.

“Hey. Look over here.” Gal follows Willow’s gesture and catches sight of a pale pink creature hunched over a body just in front of them. It looks up at them and lets out a strange chattering noise. “That’s a trog. Take care of it. I’ll watch our backs.” Willow says. The trog slides over the body, still chattering, and creeps closer, then suddenly breaks out into a run. Gal takes her stance. She sights in on the encroaching creature and pulls the trigger. Slow and steady, just like she’d practiced. The trog stops, blood blooming on its chest, and falls off the walkway.

“Not bad.” Willow says sincerely. Gal grins and lowers the pistol.

The body is a dead slaver with chunks ripped out of his throat and one arm. Willow goes through his pockets, comes up with several mags’ worth of ammunition, and picks up the rifle that had been lying at his side. Gal keeps lookout while she checks it over.

“It’s a 93 - Chinese Assault Rifle. It’s in good shape too.” Willow says, reassembling it. “Here, you take it. You said you had a BB gun when you lived in the Vault, right?”

Gal holsters her pistol and accepts the rifle. It’s heavier than her bb gun, almost ten pounds probably, and longer, but the feel is the same. Sighting down it makes her feel like she’s back in the Vault, pinging little wooden targets again.

“Yeah. My dad got it for me when I was ten.” she says as they continue on. “Not much good for anything but shooting radroaches, but it was something.”

They continue on over the roof of the building and down the other side. All is quiet. Gal sees a few trogs here and there; they they scramble out of sight rather than approaching. The sight of a human-esque thing, naked and morphed into something really unrecognizable is disturbing in various different ways.

A half hour into their hunt, a scream pierces the air. Gal brings her rifle up to the ready as Willow lets out a curse. Carefully, they make their way towards the source of the scream.

Another yell comes from around the corner of a building. Willow gestures to Gal to hunker down next to the wall and does the same. When she reaches the corner, she swings her shotgun out first and then peeks around the corner.

“Fuck, let’s go!” she snaps, darting off. Gal follows hurriedly, rifle pushed into her shoulder.

In the middle of a courtyard, a slave is desperately fighting off a trog, who has him by the leg and is attempting to drag him closer. Another trog jumps on his torso and lunges for his throat.

Willow runs straight up to the one sitting on the man’s torso and kicks it off. The trog gets a faceful of buckshot and goes down. The other one sees Gal coming and lunges, hissing. It’s on her before she can get her rifle up to take a clean shot. She falls flat on her back, but manages to get her boot in its chest and kicks it off. Rolling, she brings her rifle up and takes aim. Her shot catches it in the leg; Willow’s second round of buckshot puts it down.

“You all right, tourist? Did it get you?” Willow asks, kneeling in front of her. Gal runs a hand over her chest and neck and is relieved to find no damage.

“No, I’m okay. I got too close and didn’t have space to shoot.” she accepts Willow’s hand and lets the ghoul pull her to her feet. “Is he okay?”

“We’ll have to work on close combat with a rifle. Pistols are easier, you can be close and still get a shot in, but rifles are a different story.” Willow turns towards the slave and gestures at his neck with her shotgun. It’s shiny with blood. “Trog got him right in the throat. He had no chance.”

Clad in the same outfit that Willow and Gal had both worn in during their time as fighters, the slave looks disturbingly vulnerable laying on the ground. A piece of sharpened metal, similar to the shank that had almost been used on her and Willow in the slave quarters, is his only accessory. He has the same pallor as the other slaves. Somebody with ribs that prominent couldn’t possibly be expected to be successful out here.

“They send them out here without weapons?” Gal asks incredulously. Willow nods, arms crossed.

“Like I told you. Slaves are replaceable. Weapons are expensive, and dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“That’s…” Gal trails off. What? Disgusting? Deplorable? Completely, absolutely unfathomable? Capable of destroying her faith in the human race? “...Awful.” she decides on.

Willow turns away from the corpse. “...yeah. It is. Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight.”

They have no luck finding ingots outside, so eventually they turn to scouting for a building that doesn’t look too dangerous. Willow, with some checklist of desirable traits that she doesn’t share, finally chooses a building and leads them to an entrance.

“Alright, here’s the deal.” the ghoulette says lowly. “Buildings are fucking dangerous. The close quarters make it easy for somebody to pop out and get you before you even know it. So stick with your pistol. We scout the whole building together in silence, make sure it’s empty, and then we pick it over. Don’t stop until we know it’s clear.”

Gal nods, slings the assault rifle across her back, and pulls out her pistol. She grips the handle of the door as Willow directs, yanks it open as quickly as possible, and flattens against the side of the building. There’s no sound from inside the building. Willow peeks into the gloom cautiously before stepping in. Gal follows, easing the door shut behind them.

The lighting inside is dim. The narrow hallways, built of steel and concrete, feel kind of like the Vault - if the Vault was covered in a layer of rust and grime and smelled like a mixture of garbage and death, anyway. Most of the shelves along the walls are empty or filled with junk.

They creep through the first room completely silently. Gal’s eyes dart side to side nervously, attempting to see into each nook and cranny in the dark rooms. To her relief, nothing jumps out at them.

The next room is narrow and rectangle-shaped, with some type of big machinery in the middle. Willow heads to one side; Gal follows her lead.

Just as Willow hits the end of the machinery, she lets out a curse and brings up her pistol. Gal stumbles backwards to give her space and hits the ground hard as something yanks on her pants leg. She turns; a Trog chitters at her angrily and lunges for her calf. She kicks it in the head as hard as she can muster and then squeezes off a round. The bullet takes the trog in the arm; it shrieks in pain, but comes back at her in full force. Just as it’s leaping towards her face, Gal jams her pistol under its head and pulls the trigger again.

The Trog collapses on top of her, covering her in warm, strange-smelling blood. Cursing, Gal shoves the trog off of her and scrambles away from it. Willow, standing over the body of another dead trog, is wiping off the blade of her combat knife on its tattered shirt.

“Wipe your face and let’s go.” Willow says lowly. Gal obediently scrubs at her face with the front of her shirt, careful not to push any blood into her eyes, and follows.

The rest of the building is empty. Willow doesn’t relax until she’s fully checked every nook and cranny, but finally she shoves her pistol in its holster and takes a deep breath.

“That was more exciting than I wanted it to be. I was hoping we wouldn’t encounter anything.” Willow looks over at Gal and grins at her. “That’s quite a face full of make-up you’ve got on, tourist. Should have been quicker on the draw.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Gal says drily, swiping at her face once again with the edge of her sleeve. She feels sticky. “See any ingots?”

There’s nothing lying out for the world to see, but a large safe is tucked into one corner of one of the rooms, still unopened. Willow fiddles with the lock for a minute but finally gives up, scowling. “No chance. Guess we’re shit out of luck.” she says.

Gal leans over the computer on the desk next to the safe and taps a few keys. The monitor blinks on as the tower whirs into life. Frowning thoughtfully, Gal seats herself at the desk and pulls the keyboard towards her.

“Maybe not. Give me a minute here.” she says distractedly. Willow shrugs and leans on the desk next to her, pulling out a flattened pack of smokes.

Gal starts the boot-up process a couple times, getting the name of the OS and some other figures, and then goes to work in the administrative settings menu, which someone has left stupidly connected to the log-in screen. It takes the changing of half a dozen settings and several reboots, but she finally unlocks the administrator account. A quick search through the files gives her what she needs.

“Try 43 - 56 - 07.” she suggests. Willow glances at her, eyebrows raised, and twists the dial on the safe. It pops open with an explosion of dust to reveal a whole stack of steel ingots, shiny and untouched.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Willow says with a grin. “Who knew we had a computer hacker at our fingertips this whole time. The things you learn about a person.”

Maybe Gal preens a bit much at the compliment, but hey, her computer skills are pretty good. The literal hundreds of hours she’d spent tracking down manuals for each brand of computer and operating system, reading through them, and then applying what she’d learned in real life until she figured it out was worthy of a little gloating, right?

Gal kneels down next to Willow, accepts the stack of clothes she hands her to wrap around each ingot, and sets to work filling her pack. The ingots are smaller than she’d thought they’d be, but heavy - each one has to be a couple pounds. She puts only 8 in her pack before it starts feeling unmanageable.

“That’s enough. With the code, we can always come back later and get the rest.” Willow says, shoving the last one into her own pack and strapping it down tightly. “You that good with other computers? Our town mechanic has been bitching for a decade about needing to get the security systems up and running in Underworld.”

“I won’t say I have a 100% success rate, but I’ve been pretty successful with every computer I’ve tried.” Gal says. “Why, are you changing your mind about letting me come to Underworld?”

Willow sobers instantly. Setting the pack down, she pulls out another cigarette and lights it. Her eyes are troubled.

“...I know you think this whole thing is about Charon. But it’s more complicated than that. I’ll tell you some of it, but you have to promise this never, never, gets repeated. To anybody.” her gaze is stern, no-nonsense. Gal nods, but Willow studies her for a minute longer before she starts speaking.

“Everybody in Underworld thinks the raid was just a fluke. That somebody found out about us from a merchant or a traveler and decided we’d be a good hit. But it’s not true. We were sold out.” Willow’s voice is iron as she speaks. The movement of her hand, bringing the cigarette back and forth to her lips, is deliberately slow. Too slow.

“Charon knows who it was, and so do I. His employer, Ahzrukhal. He made a deal with a rep of Paradise Falls for every ghoul in Underworld in exchange for a serious amount of caps and his own safety. I was the guard on duty when they were supposed to hit. Charon found out, tipped me off, and I got everybody out before the slavers showed up, so nobody got caught but us two.” Willow mouth twists. “Problem is, nobody knows about the deal but me and Charon, and Charon...well, let’s just say the minute he steps back into Underworld, he’ll be in no position to tell anybody else. So we’re in a bind. Charon has to go back, one way or another, and he can’t tell anybody. If I go back, Ahzrukhal will have me killed as soon as I step in the door. And if neither of us does anything, that rat bastard will pull the same trick again and every ghoul in Underworld will be here in chains.”

The silence in the room is so complete, you could hear a pin drop. Willow finishes her cigarette and crushes it out.

“I… don’t understand. Charon can’t say anything?” Gal asks slowly. “Why not?”

Willow looks at her pointedly. They both know that Gal’s question is straying into territory that Willow has already said she wouldn’t share. Gal asks anyway.

“So you go back, tell the town, and they get rid of this Ahzrukhal guy. Problem solved, right? There’s no way they’d keep him if they knew what he did.”

Willow picks her bag up and plunks it down on the desk to pull at the straps. Her mouth is pressed in a thin line. Gal thinks she reads frustration in the line of her shoulders.

“If I tell anybody in Underworld, they’ll be killed before they can do anything about it. Ahzrukhal has assets and his conscience is as nonexistent as the future of this damn country. Just trust me on this, smoothskin - any plan that leads with me walking into Underworld ends with me and possibly everybody else dying.” Willow picks the pack up, jerks it over one shoulder, and makes towards the door. She stops halfway across the room, eyes squeezed shut, and sighs.

“I’m just...tired of people heaping secrets on my plate and expecting me to just deal with it. And I keep thinking there’s an answer to all this somewhere, but I don’t know what the fuck it is.”

With that, Willow moves towards the door, Gal trailing behind.

-

Gal goes back to meet with Midea the next day. She wants to find out what it is she needs to do, because she’s tired of lying to Rory. He’d looked heartbroken last night when she’d come by and said she had no leads.

Midea receives her cheerfully, motioning her into her little apartment and shutting the door firmly behind her.

“So, is there any news?” Gal asks, seating herself in one of the rickety chairs. Midea gives her a warm smile and nods.

“Yes, everything is in place. We had to get in touch with somebody at the palace who can let you in. You’ll go in disguised as a cleaning slave - there’s so many of them, nobody will notice a new face.”

Gal leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. “And what’s the favour that I need to do in return?”

Midea sobers up instantly. Though the door is shut tight and locked, she still eyes it to double-check, before leaning in as far as she can towards Gal’s ear. Her voice is a low murmur, just barely discernable over the sounds of the mining outside.

“We’re staging a revolution.” Midea says quietly. “The slaves. All of us. We don’t have much in the way of weaponry, but we outnumber the slavers five, sometimes ten to one. We’re going to drive them out and take the Pitt for ourselves.” Midea stops for a moment, looking uncomfortable with the subject, but drives on. “The problem is the disease. We need the cure, and if we drive Ashur and his wife out without securing it, they’ll take it with them. We’ll get you into the palace and allow you and Connor safe passage out of the Pitt once we’ve taken it, but you have to give us the cure.”

Gal frowns. It sounds so… simple. Too simple. Her gut tells her something else is going on here, but she can’t figure out what.

“What is the cure? How will I know I have the right thing?”

Midea shrugs. Her eyes drop for a minute, then come back up to Gal’s face. “We’re not sure, but we know Connor works directly with it. If you find Connor, you’ll find the cure. At that point you should have no trouble identifying it.”

Gal looks at Midea’s open, pleading face, and decides it’s just nerves making her paranoid. Creeping around the palace doesn’t sound like a great idea while there’s a revolution on, so of course she’d be feeling this way. But it’s the best plan they’ve got. Better to be a part of the revolution than an unfortunate casualty.  

“I want safe passage for Charon and Willow too. The ghoul fighters. And Connor’s brother Rory.” she says firmly. Midea shrugs.

“Done. We’ll let them out with you and Connor once we have the cure.”

“When should I be ready to go to the palace?”

The answer is the most unexpected part of the visit.

“Tomorrow.”

Gal feels the bottom drop out of her stomach.

[kidotm]

 Chapter 9

Rory is vehemently opposed to her plan. Namely, that he’s not involved.

“So many things could go wrong, Gal. Let me be there. Let me help.” he says desperately. Gal shushes him, looking around the tables filled with raiders around them. Nobody seems to be paying attention to them, but just one nosy person could turn the tables and ruin everything..

“Rory, no. It’s going to be hard enough for me to get through without getting caught. There’s no way to explain a fighter guard and a slave making their way through Haven together.”

“At least tell me when you’re going.” Rory demands. His eyes glitter with determination. “I can’t just sit here and wait, knowing Connor is in there and not knowing when I’ll get him back.”

She knows exactly what will happen if she tells him. Gal breathes out slowly, looks Rory in the eye, and lies to him one last time.

“The day after tomorrow. The slaves are going to do something tomorrow to set the stage. Then, the day after, I’ll be able to slip into the palace and find Connor. I’ll bring him straight to you, Rory, I promise. Just do me a favour and stay inside until then. Lock your doors and don’t let anybody in, okay? Not until I come with Connor.”

Rory stares her down. He’s pursing his lips so hard that a vein is pulsing noticeably in his temple. There is silence between them for several seconds.

“Fine.” he says tightly. “I’m going to trust that you know what you’re doing. Though I’m not sure I really believe that you do.”

Gal pushes away from the table, squeezes his hand once, and leaves.

--

She doesn’t get a chance to see Charon again before the next day. When she comes home, he’s in his room. “He gets migraines.” Willow tells her. “They’ll go away once he’s back in Underworld, but they’re getting worse every day. ”

Gal has to be certain that this whole complicated plan is going to work out, because the idea of getting killed and not seeing Charon again is pretty unbearable. She’s not worried about Willow and Charon getting out of the Pitt safely - they certainly don’t need any help looking after themselves. They’re waiting for the right time, and they’ll know that the slave revolution is the right time. And once Gal helps Rory and delivers the cure, she can follow them to Underworld.

Everything is going to work.

For some reason, chanting that in her head doesn’t help her fall asleep that night.

--

“You remember the directions?” the slave asks her one more time. Gal, busy fidgeting with the pistol shoved into the back of her outfit, nods distractedly. It’s only been a few days, but she’s gotten used to wearing things that covered her whole body. Armor, even. The slave outfit feels even flimsier in comparison than it had before.

“Good. The rebellion starts in an hour. So don’t waste any time.” the slave shoves a broom in her hand and disappears without so much as a ‘goodbye’. Gal’s too nervous to be annoyed by the brusque treatment.

The entrance to Haven looms before her. It’s a tall, pretty building with a cement bust set into the wall above the entrance. Hastily cobbled-together sheet metal covers holes in the foundation. Behind her is a statue made of wire and metal that depicts a man in chains struggling to free himself. Gal isn’t sure how anybody could look at that every day and not be sick.

She knows that she needs to get to the third level past the guards and into the section that houses Haven’s family. She also knows that Charon is here somewhere, working, and that even the mud and grime she’d scrubbed into her hair and onto her face isn’t going to trick him. If she runs into him, she’s going to have a hard time convincing him to let her go through with her plan. It feels a little like playing Hide and Seek, only with more dire consequences.

With a deep breath, Gal clutches the broom in front of her and makes her way to the entrance to Haven. At least nervousness is an acceptable look for a slave. Gal’s not sure she could play any other role, scared as she is.

The guards don’t immediately see through her disguise and descend on her. In fact, they barely look at her; ducking her head, she passes them by and slips down a hallway towards the staircase.

Though Haven is in better shape than most of the buildings in the Pitt, it’s still crumbling and dilapidated in places. The wallpaper is peeling from the walls in the hallway, and gravel and bits of plaster crunch under her sandals. She holds the broom in front of her, ready to stop in place and  start sweeping if anybody comes by.

The other slaves, either recognizing her as an outsider or aware of her role in the upcoming rebellion, give her curious looks as they go about their own tasks. She doesn’t look at or talk to anyone. The less attention on her, the better.

It takes her a good 45 minutes to go up all the levels and find the right area, because she gets turned around twice and has to spend a good twenty minutes sweeping in one room while a group of guards lounges in the corner, catcalling at her and hurling insults. Finally, she sees the landmarks her guide had described and finds herself in Ashur’s personal area.

Now to find Connor and the cure.

She hears a commotion start up on the lower levels. Rushing back to the stairs, Gal peeks over the balcony to the ground floor and sees guards pouring out the front door. One peels off, grabs a slave, and shoots him through the head. Gal immediately drops the broom and pulls the pistol from the back of her skirt. The time for blending in is over.

Cautiously, Gal makes her way through the winding hallways. She ducks into a closet at the last second and successfully avoids a half-dozen guards that come barreling down the hallway. The closet yields up a faded jumpsuit that Gal struggles into  as quickly as possible. It’s too big, but maybe if she doesn’t look like a slave, people will be less likely to shoot her.

As if anybody here cared a wit about the people they shot anyway, slaves or not.

Feeling a little more confident after her costume change, Gal heads down the hallway at a faster clip, coming to a T. Looking one way, she turns the other and collides with somebody’s chest hard, sending her stumbling backwards.

Things go downhill very fast from there.

Gal raises the pistol, even as she’s trying to gain her footing. The man, dressed in faded armour, holds his hands up automatically but doesn’t look concerned about Gal shooting him. Instead, he looks royally pissed.

“I knew you were lying to me.” Rory hisses angrily. “I had a hunch you were coming to the palace today, and I was right. What the fuck, Gal?”

Gal lowers the pistol, glaring at Rory.

“That’s my line Rory. What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay home!” she hisses. “You’re going to get us found out and shot!”

“No, I’m going to go find my little brother and get him out of here.” Rory says harshly. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Gal opens her mouth to reply, but catches a glimpse of someone moving behind the blond-haired man. Before Gal can pick up her pistol, Charon has Rory by the throat, unconsciously holding him up as a shield. Gal lets out a curse and meets Charon’s eyes, recognizing the shock and confusion there.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Charon says, squeezing his arm tighter around Rory’s throat. The man scrabbles at Charon’s arm, trying to get him to let go, but he might as well be a small child for all it bothers the ghoul.

If she could have imagined a worst-case scenario, this would be it. She thinks about lying, but it wouldn’t be any help. Everything is unraveling and she doesn’t have time to think up something convincing.

“I’m here to help Rory. His younger brother is a slave that works in Haven. I was going to get Connor out and take him to Rory, but Rory showed up here like I asked him not to.”

Rory’s fumbles at Charon’s arm are getting weak. Charon loosens his arm a little bit and allows the man to take in a grateful gulp of air. Then he yanks Rory’s pistol from his hip and his rifle from across his back and tosses them down the hallway, out of reach. Rory stumbles away as Charon releases him.

We have to get out of here.” Charon says to Gal. “The slaves are rebelling. This is going to be our best chance to leave.”

Gal looks up at Charon, eyes pleading. “We have to find Connor first. I can’t break my promises, Charon.”

“You can’t leave with him.” Rory wheezes, one hand on the wall to support himself. His voice is scratchy from the previous pressure on his throat. Charon looks at him coldly, like he’s a particularly vile insect that needs to be crushed.

“Gal, you can’t trust him. He’s not who you think he is.” Rory continues. Gal gives him a confused look.

Charon doesn’t look much more enlightened than she is, but he strides forward, grabs Rory by the collar, and slams him into the wall. Rory lets out a pained grunt as his back hits the flaking wallpaper. Gal lets out a curse and tries to push Charon off of Rory, but Charon keeps his cold gaze on the blond man’s face.

“There’s another reason Ashur let you out of the fighting ring, isn’t there?” Rory says lowly. “Because he’d heard of you before. You and the things you do in Paradise Falls. He knows you would make a better business partner than a slave.”

“You talk too much.” Charon says, leaning in towards Rory’s face. The corners of his mouth are drawn back in semblance of a snarl. When his fingers twitch towards the pistol at his side, Gal grabs his arm with both hands and yanks it away. Charon finally glances at her briefly, but only for a moment.

“Charon, what the fuck is he talking about?” she demands. Charon doesn’t answer. “ Tell me. ”

“If he won’t tell you, I will.” Rory interjects. His voice gets stronger the longer he talks, and he doesn’t look particularly concerned to be pinned to a wall by a man that could kill him half a dozen different ways. “Charon does trade in Paradise Falls. Not in goods. In people. He brings in girls from the Wasteland and sells them into slavery. I heard talk about him when I was there, but I didn’t connect the pieces until he was brought into the Pitt and searched. That picture of Connor I gave you? It came from his little black journal. It was tucked in with drawings of all the other people he’s brought to Paradise Falls and the prices he got for them.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under Gal’s feet. She looks numbly at her hands, gripping Charon’s forearm, and lets go. Charon keeps his hold on Rory, not looking in Gal’s direction even once. The snarl slides off his face, replaced by a familiar cold, blank look. The same one she’d seen the first time they met. The one that had scared her to the bone.

Charon is a slaver.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Gal whispers. “How…”

The ghoul doesn’t stop her as she reaches into the pocket on his armour and pulls out the little black journal. She’s seen him pull it out countless times, now that she thinks about it, but she’s never really bothered to ask what it was for. The cover is leather, soft and faded around the edges with several scratches. Gal opens it, hands shaking.

The first page she turns to is a composite of sketches of a girl in a white dress. Her face in each shows different emotions - happy, sad, distant. In one sketch, a bruise blooms across one cheek. The bottom of the page is labeled ‘Liza’. She swallows and flips the page.

The drawings are interspersed between pages of writing in spiky black ink. It’s too small and cramped to read easily. Gal flips a few more pages and finds a full-page sketch of a girl with bushy, dark hair, and thin features, wearing a faded shift. Despite her thinness, she’s pretty, with big dark eyes that hold some nameless emotion in them. This picture is labeled ‘Sophia’.

She flips through the rest of the pages more quickly. The back of the journal has a list titled ‘payments’. Some of them are innocuous - ‘whiskey’, ‘ammo’, ‘travel rations’. One just says, ‘Sale - L.’ A few lines down, the list reads, ‘Sale - S.’ These prices are significantly higher, in the thousands of caps.

Liza. S. Sophia. Gal flips through a few more times and finds more names. Each is of a young woman; each is labeled carefully in the list with the word ‘sale’ and the first initial.

Gal finds, sandwiched between a scene from a dark, smoky bar, and a sketch of Willow, a spot where a page has been ripped out. Gal fumbles the drawing of Connor from her pocket and smoothes it out on the journal. The torn edges line up perfectly.

“ How could you. ” she whispers. Charon is looking down at Rory’s chest, where his fist is buried in the man’s collar. His face is impassive. He doesn’t look at Gal.

“Leave.” she hears herself say. Charon lets go of Rory and steps back, but doesn’t walk away. Gal very nearly draws her combat knife.

“ Leave. ” she says again. “I won’t ask a third time.”

Charon takes another step backwards, turns on one heel, and disappears out of sight. Gal realizes after he’s gone that she still has his journal clutched in her hand. For reasons unknown, she tucks it into her jumpsuit, rather than tossing it aside. A shiver runs down her spine; her skin feels strangely cold, and numb.

Rory is leaning over, hands on his knees. His face is red from lack of air. A blackish-purple bruise is forming around his throat. Gal stifles the overwhelming urge to punch him and turns to walk down the hallway silently. When she looks back, she sees that Rory is following.

They see more and more people as they get closer to the center of Haven, but they turn out to be harmless. Nobody pays them any attention; everyone is too focused on fleeing the building to care anymore. She and Rory find the laboratory just where her guide had said it would be. Gal grabs the doorknob with one hand, pistol in the other, and throws it open.

On the other side, a woman with short, dark hair and brown skin stands, her other arm twisted around the bicep of a young boy. The boy, blond-haired and scared-looking, is holding a swaddled baby to his chest. The clothes he’s wearing are tattered and worn. His ears stick out to each side, like he hasn’t quite grown into them yet.

“Connor.” Rory says from behind incredulously. The boy sees Rory and tries to dart forward with a cry, but the woman yanks him back by the arm. Then, seeing Rory trying to push past Gal and into the room, she turns her pistol and presses the barrel to the boy’s head.

“Stop right there or I shoot this boy in the head.” the woman says. Rory freezes in place, eyes narrowing. Connor clutches the baby tighter and lets out a sobbing hiccup. The baby, just as in tune with the situation as everybody else, starts crying loudly.

“You must be part of this little rebellion.” the woman says sneeringly. “It was a valiant effort, but I assure you, we’re getting out of here alive, and you’re all going to die.” she takes a few steps backwards, towards the other door in the room. Rory lunges forward; the woman’s finger tightens on the trigger. “I wouldn’t do that if you want to see this boy alive ever again.”

Besides the gun and Connor, the woman doesn’t appear to be carrying anything else. Her lab coat has no pockets. She wouldn’t leave the cure behind, would she? No, it wouldn’t make sense to.

Unless...Gal’s eyes fall on the swaddled baby. Despite a red face and fat tears rolling down its chubby cheeks, it looks completely healthy.

The only healthy baby she’s seen in the Pitt at all.

“The slaves have Haven surrounded.” Gal lies with as much conviction as she can muster. “Give up the boy and the cure, and you won’t be harmed.”

The woman lets out a short laugh and backs up a few more steps. “You’re a terrible liar, girl. Those braindead morons can barely work the mines effectively. The chances of them actually being able to hold a line around this building are slim to none, and we both know it.”

Gal thinks frantically, but she can’t come up with any other way to turn this situation around. She’s still thinking when something rustles behind them.

A shot rings out. Rory goes down at her side with a cry; the woman turns, still gripping Connor’s arm, and flees out the other door. Gal goes to chase after her but a lucky glance behind has her jerking to the side and out of the doorway, avoiding another bullet.

“Well, well, look who it is. I figured you’d be mixed up in this.” a familiar voice sneers. Two slavers in armour march into the room, pistols in hand. When Gal brings up her pistol, the unfamiliar guard takes aim and squeezes the trigger. The pistol in Gal’s hand goes flying as the bullet pierces her hand. Juarez kicks it away and puts another round into her leg. Gal slams to the floor with a pained shriek, vision going black from the impact on her shattered thigh.

“I was really disappointed when the zombie got you released with him. You’re more fun to mess with than the other fighters.” Juarez says. Gal lets out another pained cry when he steps down on her mangled hand with his boot and grinds it into the floor. The other guard is standing over Rory, loading a magazine. Blood stains the right side of Rory’s torso.

“I’ve got to get out of here soon, but I think I have some time to enjoy killing you. At least a few minutes.”

His boot digs in harder. Gal struggles to stay conscious through the pain.

“I even saw your corpse boyfriend making his way out of the city as I was on my way in. Did you really think he’d come to save you? No, he dropped you as soon as he had a chance for freedom. What a waste.”

Despite the overwhelming pain in her leg and hand, the mention of Charon is enough to make her start crying. The truth of Charon’s betrayal is far worse than anything Rory can come up with. Falling limp, Gal lets her forehead droop to the floor and shudders as the sobs overtake her.

Another shot rings out. She looks up, expecting to see Rory’s corpse slumping to the floor, but instead it’s the unfamiliar slaver that falls. His chest is one large, bloody hole. Juarez curses and bring his pistol up. A small, neat hole appears in his chest plate; eyes wide, Juarez tumbles backwards over Gal and falls into a limp heap.

“Tourist? You in here?” Willow calls out. She steps over Rory, laying facedown in the doorway, and spots Gal weakly trying to drag herself out from under Juarez’s body. Willow immediately holsters the pistol and rushes over to roll Juarez’s body off. She takes in Gal’s mangled hand and bloody thigh with pursed lips.

“Has anybody ever told you how stupid you are?” she asks irritably. “Because my definition of stupidity definitely includes coming to Haven on the day that there’s a slave revolt . You’re lucky I ran into Charon on the way to Haven to meet him, or I never would have known where you were.”

“...had to…” Gal says, voice cracking. “...had to find Rory’s brother.” she glances over at Rory, still unmoving. Willow gets the hint and goes back over to him, rolling him over carefully. One shoulder is dark with blood, and his forehead is bruised.

“He’s still alive. Looks like he probably hit his head when he fell and knocked himself unconscious. We’ll get both of you patched up and then we’ve got to get out of here.”

Gal lays back and attempts to breathe shallowly as Willow digs through the cabinets and drawers in the room. She comes back with a handful of stimpacks, a roll of gauze, and medical tape.

“We’re low on supplies here, so I’m going to fix your leg so you can walk and just bandage your hand.” Willow explains as she cuts at the fabric around Gal’s thigh wound with her combat knife. “I didn’t find any med-x, so this is going to hurt. Reflect on your bad decisions while I’m working.”

It does hurt. The bullet passed right through, which means Willow doesn’t have to go digging it out, but the dirt Gal had smeared on her legs means she has to suffer as Willow cleans the wound with a square of wet cloth. Willow injects her leg with a couple stimpacks and then sets to bandaging her hand as the medicine knits the gunshot wound closed.

“Willow…” Gal says, when the pain has lessened enough that she can talk coherently. “Did you know that Charon was selling people into slavery?”

Willow’s eyes flicker to her quickly, and then back to her hand just as fast. “You have a couple broken fingers too. What did that guy do, shoot you and then stomp on your hand?”

Gal stays quiet. Willow presses the gauze pads onto each side of Gal’s palm and starts wrapping with a sigh. “Listen, when we’re out of here and somewhere safe, I’ll explain everything, okay? No reason to keep the whole story from you now.”

Hand finished, Willow trails over to Rory and kneels down next to his injured shoulder. The bullet is lodged in the wound, so she has to spend several minutes digging to find the bullet and extract it. When she finally finds it, she injects their last stimpack into the wound and wraps it with gauze, just like she’d done for Gal. Then, she heaves him up as gently as she can and throws him over her shoulder.

“Can you walk?” Willow asks. “We need to get out of here.”

Gal pushes to her feet with her good hand and limps her way over to Willow. The ghoul pulls out a pistol with her free hand and they make their way back through the building. Gal keeps expecting trouble around every corner, but they don’t see anyone. It’s like the whole building has become a ghost town in the last hour.

When they reach the front door, Willow cracks it open slowly and peeks out. She slams it shut again with a curse.

“They really do have the building surrounded. I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get out and avoid them.”

“They’re waiting for me.” Gal tells her. “I made a deal with them so they’d get me into Haven. If they see me, they won’t shoot.” Probably, Gal thinks desperately.

Willow lets her pass reluctantly. Gal creaks the door open and puts just her hand out, waving it back and forth to alert them to their presence. Then, slowly, she eases out the door, hands up in the air and away from the pistol at her side.

The courtyard, not pretty at the best of times, is a nightmare now. The bodies of raiders and slaves litter the ground, dirt soaking up the blood and making dark spots. Just ahead of her, the giant slave statue that had guarded the bridge is completely aflame. It burns like a torch in the cloudy afternoon. Dozens, hundreds of slaves line the front of the building. All of them clutch rifles, pistols, even simple lead pipes. They are chanting something too garbled to be intelligible.

Gal looks through the line frantically, trying to spot Midea. She finally finds her in the front row off to one side, standing next to a man with an eyepatch. Gal waves to get her attention, then makes her way slowly and carefully down into the crowd. She’s hyperaware of the way the slaves are looking at her, Willow, and Rory; they’re twitchy, nearly crazed.

“Midea.” she says when they finally make it to the pair. “Looks like you did it.”

Midea goes to say something, but the man with the eyepatch cuts her off before she can speak.

“Where’s the cure?” he demands. Gal gives him an annoyed look, but answers.

“I don’t have it. You sent me in there with no backup. The whole place was swarming with slavers, and you didn’t even tell me what I was looking for. And I know why you didn’t. You knew, didn’t you? You knew the cure was a baby.”

Midea looks like she wants to protest, but thinks better of it and closes her mouth. The man, though, looks furious.

“Are you telling me they got away with the cure?” he says harshly, grabbing Gal’s arm. Automatically, Gal pries his pinky off and twists it until he lets go with a curse.

“There was no way we were getting out of there with it.” Willow adds. “Like Gal said, the place was crawling with slavers. She was shot twice trying.”

Gal shoots Willow a grateful look. Willow probably doesn’t even know what she’s talking about, but she supported Gal just the same.

“We’re doomed, then.” Midea says lowly, wrapping her arms around her torso. “If we don’t have the cure, there’s no way we can stay here.”

“Luckily for you, I know where Ashur went, and I know how to get to him.” Willow follows. Gal turns and gives her a surprised look. How could she possibly know that? Willow doesn’t look down at her, just stares directly at the man in the eyepatch.

“He went to Paradise Falls. And if you want to kill him and get that cure, you’re going to need our help.”

--

They retreat to Midea’s apartment to hash out the details - Gal, Willow, Rory, Midea, and the man with the eyepatch - Wernher. It’s nearly the only place in the Pitt that isn’t covered in blood. All around them, former slaves are dragging bodies out of the streets and piling them into carts. Buckets and buckets of water are splashed into the street, trying to get the stains out of the dirt.

Gal is used to blood and death by this point, but the sheer scale of it is sickening. There’s enough slaves lying facedown on the ground to make her wonder if the rebellion was really worth it. Clearly, the cost was high.

Willow puts her foot down as Wernher attempts to start negotiations right away and demands that Gal and Rory be treated first. Gal’s fingers have to be re-broken and set before they can knit themselves back together. They worry over Rory, who has been unconscious for over an hour at this point, but once his concussion is seen to, he comes to hazily and seems no worse for the wear.

“Where’s Connor?” he asks, as soon as he’s coherent enough to speak. The look on Gal’s face must be enough to give it away. Pursing his lips, he turns away.

“They took him to Paradise Falls. We’re going to take the settlement and get him back, Rory. I promise you.” Gal says quickly. Rory is silent. When she goes to touch his hand, he rips it away.

“How exactly do you propose we get into Paradise Falls? The security there is just as tight as it was here, and we’ll be going in almost completely blind.” Wernher says, leaning back and crossing his arms. His one eye is narrowed. He’s a lot colder than Midea is - ruthless, that’s a good word for him, Gal thinks. Midea sits next to him, looking equal parts worried and hopeful.

“We’ll also be better equipped for this attack. We can round up weapons for everyone and make a plan.” Willow replies levelly.

“We don’t know anything about Paradise Falls.” Midea interjects. “It would be suicide.”

Willow considers this. “There is somebody that knows Paradise Falls, and he knows it well. He would be able to help us get into the settlement and attack from the inside out. You’ll need time to prepare for the assault; in the meantime, we’ll bring him to you and figure out a plan of attack.”

Midea and Wernher exchange a look. They seem unconvinced.

“Look, the Pitt is going to be a horrid place to stay.” Gal adds persuasively. “The cure isn’t finished, and who knows how long it will take to finalize? In Paradise Falls, you won’t have to worry about the trogs outside the border or your children being born into squalor. You can spend your time researching the cure. Plus, the Capital Wasteland is better suited to trade, and you’ll need that to keep yourselves going. You’d never be able to survive here without slave labour.”

Midea nods, looking thoughtful.

“I think they’re right.” she says to Wernher. “There’s too many bad memories here. And Paradise Falls is a smaller settlement; it won’t be hard to take, not even as hard as the Pitt was. We can do this.”

Wernher eyes them all. The silence stretches out as he thinks it over. Finally, he nods grudgingly.

“We’ll move everyone to the old fort just north of Paradise Falls. From there, we can start doing reconnaissance and stockpiling weapons. You show up at Fort Constantine a month from the day you leave here, or we’ll find you ourselves.”

The threat is clear. He faces Willow and Gal down with a hard gaze.

Willow is the first to break eye contact. She gets up silently and heads for the door, pausing to wait for Gal with one hand on the doorknob. Gal approaches Rory, searching for something to say. When Rory speaks, his tone is quiet and cold.

“I’m going to go with them to the fort. They’ll need my knowledge of the slavers.”

That’s clearly all he has to say to Gal. She accepts that and leaves without a word.

She and Willow make their way back to their apartment. As the day draws to a close, more and more former slaves abandon their clean-up and turn to merriment. The sounds of yelling, crashing bottles, and loud laughter echo down the streets. Despite the change in ownership, the Pitt sounds just the same as ever. Gal suppresses a shiver at that thought.

When they reach the apartment, Willow locks them in, flips the deadbolt, and attaches the chain. Then she shoves an empty bookcase in front of the door. Gal curls up on the couch and watches her. She accepts the Nuka-Cola that Willow hands her from the fridge but doesn’t drink it. Her other hand clutches at the small black journal she’d taken from Charon. Her thumb rubs at the soft leather cover like a worry stone.

“It’s been a hell of a day. I never expected for you to drag me into a slave rebellion.” Willow says, breaking the silence. She slouches down on the couch next to Gal and takes a long swig from her beer.

“I didn’t mean to. It just kind of...happened.” Gal says numbly. Her fingers play along the divots and bumps on the bottle. Willow takes a second long drink from her beer and empties the bottle.

“I know. It wasn’t your fault. The rebellion or the kid getting taken. You know that, right?”

Gal doesn’t answer.

“You can’t blame yourself for other people’s actions.” Willow continues gently. Too gently. It sounds strange, coming from such a rough-and-tumble woman.

“No, but I can blame myself for falling for other people’s lies.” Gal says sourly. She knows Willow knows exactly what she’s talking about. The image of Charon laying next to her, face slack with sleep, comes to her mind unbidden; she slams the journal down on the coffee table and brings the Nuka Cola to her mouth.

“Tourist. ...Gal. Look at me.” Gal stares at the opposite wall for one more moment stubbornly, then grudgingly turns to face Willow.

“I know what I’m about to tell you is hard to believe, but it’s the truth. I’ve seen it.” she explains. Gal struggles to keep her face expressionless. “Charon isn’t a monster, and he isn’t a slaver. He has no choice but to do what his owner tells him. And his owner, Ahzrukhal, is a very bad man.”

“Yes, Willow, that is hard to believe, because last time I checked, I didn’t see anybody here strapping a collar around his neck.” Gal says angrily. Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes. She blinks them back shamefully, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. “He walked out of here on his own two feet to go back to Underworld. So what is it? What’s making him do it? If it’s not blackmail, what the hell else could it be?”

Willow watches her spit the words out. She mercifully ignores the tear tracking its way down Gal’s cheek. Gal finishes speaking and rubs at her eyes, feeling cold. Her face feels too hot, but her body is shivering like it’s below zero in the apartment.

“Listen to me, Gal. There are things going on outside your Vault, outside these walls even, that are hard to understand.” Willow starts, patiently. “Charon’s case is one of them. Whatever it is that makes him obey the contract Ahzrukhal has, it’s strong and completely unbreakable. When Charon refuses an order, it physically hurts him. I’ve seen him lose consciousness if he fights too hard. You saw how bad his migraines were when he was here. He was having them because Ahzrukhal ordered him to come back as soon as he was able, but Charon wanted to wait until the right time. Until he could get you and I out too.”

Vision blurry, Gal sets the drink on the table and buries her face into her knees, arms wrapped around the front of her calves. It’s impossible to keep from crying at this point; she just focuses on choking back the loud sobs and lets the tears roll down her cheeks freely. A hot, rough arm drapes across her hunched shoulders and pulls her over to lean on Willow’s torso. Gal starts a bit at the touch, but accepts it.

“Charon has been Ahzrukhal’s slave for fifty years.” Willow continues. Her voice is starting to sound rough, like the subject is hard for her to talk about too. “And he may do everything Ahzrukhal’s orders him to do, but he hates it, and he hates Ahzrukhal. He blames himself, even if it’s not his fault. He didn’t want you to know, because he was afraid you’d blame him too. He’s not a monster. He’s a man in a bad position.”

Gal cries for a long, long time. The legs on the jumpsuit she’d taken from Haven are soaked by the time she’s done. Her head pounds like somebody has taken a sledgehammer to it. Willow sticks with her through it all, arm heavy and motionless on her shoulders, torso strong and supportive at her side.

“....so. Let’s say I believe you. Why hasn’t anyone done anything?” Gal asks when her voice is steady enough to handle the words.

She finds that she does believe Willow, even if she can’t quite say it yet. Maybe it’s just baseless optimism, but when she imagines him, she doesn’t see the emotionless fighter he’d tried to project. She sees the man that nearly blew his own cover because he didn’t want to kiss her without her consent. She sees the teacher that risked his own safety to make sure that she didn’t die in the arena. She sees Charon, protective and kind and patient.

“Nobody wants to risk their neck for a man who won’t even talk to them. Even before, when Ahzrukhal was willing to sell his contract, everybody thought it was a trick. You’d pay the money, and then Charon would come out of the shadows and break your neck. You’ve seen how deadly Charon is - with somebody as smart as Ahzrukhal pulling his strings, the chances of anybody getting the jump on the two of them is slim.” Gal looks up and sees that Willow is studying the beer bottle in her hand thoughtfully. “You’d have to find a way to beat the system. If you could anticipate how Ahzrukhal would react, you could beat him at his own game. And I think I’ve figured out how to do that.”

She pauses and looks up at Gal. “I know it’s a lot to ask, after all this information, but I’d need your help. Are you in?”  

Gal picks up the black journal with both hands, thumbs sliding over the cover, and nods.

[kidotm]

Chapter 10 + 11 + 12

“Is that a smoothskin?”

“Where’d she come from?”

“What’s she doing in Underworld?”

Gal has never felt so exposed in her life. Within the first thirty seconds of stepping into Underworld, ghouls have been literally peeking out of doorways to catch a glimpse of her. You would think she’s a unicorn, not a regular person. It’s unnerving. The architecture of Underworld isn’t helping either; the several days spent traveling here were long enough for her to get used to the sweeping scenery of the Wasteland, and being inside Underworld feels, at least topically, like being back in the fighter cells.

Breathing in deep, she adjusts the pack on her shoulders and takes the stairs up to the second floor. A crooked, home-made sign on the wall advertises for ‘Carol’s Place’. Gal dodges a gaping ghoul and slips into the room.

Behind the counter, a female ghoul in a faded blue dress is seated. She has what looks like a piece of embroidery in her hands. The few pieces of hair left on her head are a light straw blonde. She looks up as Gal strides up to the counter, stares for a moment, then stands with a beaming smile.

“Well, hello there! It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of your kind in Underworld!” she says cheerily. Nobody has ever made such a derogatory statement (seriously? ‘One of your kind’?) sound as sweet as this ghoulette has. Gal finds herself smiling back automatically, shuffling in place a bit under the brightness of that smile.

“Hi. I’m looking to rent a room…?” she asks. The ghoulette smiles even wider.

“Well, then, you’ve come to the right place. We don’t have separate rooms, but I can set you up with a bed, and each one is divided off. As much privacy as you can get around here.” she leans under the counter and comes back up with a coloured plastic tab with a number on it. Gal counts out a handful of caps from her stash and trades it for the tab.

“Don’t mind the staring now. It’s been a bit of a tough year for Underworld, so people may be a bit suspicious. But we’re a friendly group, and you’re always welcome here.” Carol continues. Gal senses the meaning behind that statement easily enough. She can’t imagine that business has always been bad enough for Carol to react this happily to a lone traveler renting a bed. Under the surface, Underworld is obviously hurting.

“We serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner here at Carol’s Place if you’re hungry, and drinks too. If you need supplies, Tulip on the lower level can help you. Is there anything else you need?”

Carol looks at her expectantly. Gal smiles back and tries not to swallow too conspicuously.

“Yeah, uh… is there a bar called the Ninth Circle here?”

Carol’s smile droops.

“I don’t want to suggest that you can’t handle yourself, dear, but that’s not the place for a young smoothskin like yourself. The Ninth Circle is…  a rough crowd.” Carol says uneasily. One hand bunches in the fabric of her skirt and wrings it nervously.

Gal smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure to be careful. Could you give me directions?”

Carol purses her lips, but walks her to the entrance of Carol’s Place and points down the hallway obligingly. Gal makes note of the doorway she points to and heads back inside to find her ‘room.’

She’d thought, on the way here, that she’d be itching to get to the Ninth Circle as fast as possible. Now, she finds herself strangely reluctant. Instead, she curls up on the bed that Carol directs her to, shoes kicked off, and flips through Charon’s journal. She’d read it, of course, cover to cover. Even if she’d consciously believed Willow’s words, she’d needed more proof to cement her beliefs.

The little black book had given it to her in spades.

Charon, it turns out, is a fantastic artist. Nearly every other page is full of sketches - residents of Underworld (Gal had recognized Carol immediately - she looked exactly like Charon’s drawing), panoramas of the Wasteland, the insides of buildings and dilapidated subway tunnels. And, in the back, several sketches of her. Her face, lips curling into a smile. The curve of her neck as she looks off into the distance. Her bare back as she sleeps in Charon’s bed, hair splayed across the pillow.

Gal wasn’t sure at first what they were. Part of the documenting process? Some step in Charon’s business procedures? But now she knows better. They’re memories. Charon, at some point in his 200-plus years of living, had taken to journaling and drawing to preserve the things he’d seen and the places he’d been. The people he had met.

It’s pretty impossible, after she’d looked more closely, to misinterpret Charon’s intentions. She sees in his portraits a spark of the people that he’s drawing. For Sophia - a timidness, undercut by a little curl of a smile. Liza projects an assertiveness that reminds Gal of Amata. She looks like somebody that gets what she wants, and doesn’t take no for an answer. Charon has done everything he can to captures people’s spirits in his drawings. Gal would say he’s succeeded.  

She flips through the drawings back to the first entry. This journal had only been started a few years ago - Gal suspects that there have been several incarnations of the little black book across the years, each one discarded or stored somewhere as it was filled.

Day 18851

Back from my trip to the Falls. Arrived 0300. Hoped Ahzrukhal was already asleep, but he waited up to hear how things went. The look on his face when I dropped the bloody bag of caps in his hand was priceless. If I can’t get him to care about the lives he’s ruining, I can at least make reaping his reward dirtier than he expects.

It was hard this time. Sophia was… different. Not that the other girls were easier, but at least they’d only stayed in Underworld a few days. Sophia was here 3 months and 14 days.

She begged, every damn day. She would ask me to let her go or to help her escape. 

It wasn’t until the slaver at Paradise Falls had her by the neck that she stopped begging.

Day  18856

I see Sophia’s face in my dreams at night. I see what happens to her. It doesn’t matter how little I sleep, how long I stay awake - the minute my eyes close, there she is.

I keep hoping that one day when I put my shotgun to my chin and pull the trigger, I’ll have forgotten to unload it. Hasn’t happened yet.

Day 19378

Ahzrukhal is planning something. He thinks he’s keeping it close to the chest, but he’s had me so long he keeps forgetting I’m around.

This is bigger than the rest of his schemes, and it has something to do with Underworld. I won’t let him wreck this town like he’s wrecked every other settlement we’ve been a part of. These people deserve better.

Day 19384

I know what he’s going to do. I have to stop it. He thinks that he’s going to get away with it, but not if I can fucking help it.

Willow will help. I know she will.

There’s a huge blank after this. Gal flips forward until she comes to the most recent entries.

Day 19583

If Willow keeps demanding I tell Gal about the contract, I’m going to wring her damn neck. The first thing she’d do is come running, thinking she could do something about it. Willow probably would too, fool that she is.

I’m not losing either of them to Ahzrukhal. I’d rather they hate me.

Gal’s got a bright future ahead of her. She’s smart, a quick learner, and she’s got all the right instincts to do well out there. I’d like to see somebody get between her and her search for her father - she’s gotten so good at the hip toss she nearly broke me in half last time she threw me. She deserves the chance to get out of this shithole and find something better. Willow, too.

Never thought I’d be in a situation where fighting a deathclaw bare-handed is a better option than being home. At least here, I get to live by my own rules. I spend my days training, instead of doing someone else’s dirty work. I wonder how crazy the two of them would think I was if I told them I wanted to stay. Willow would understand.

Day 19612

We’ve been freed. That means our days here in the Pitt are numbered. The headaches have already started; I give it about a week before they’re debilitating enough that I can’t handle it anymore.

We need a distraction so we can slip out unnoticed. There’s been talk of a revolution among the slaves. They better do it damn soon, or I may have to start it myself.

Going back is going to be harder than I thought. Maybe it would have been better to never get my freedom back at all. It’s going to make standing in that damn corner, cracking heads, fucking unbearable.

Gal snaps the journal shut, not able to handle any more. Charon’s life reads like a horror story. It’s enough to get her up and moving; toeing her boots on, Gal slips a pistol in the waistband of her pants and ambles out of Carol’s Place.

Even with her new-found determination, taking that final step into the Ninth Circle is hard. She hesitates in front of the door until it swings outwards and nearly catches her in the face. Blushing, Gal mumbles an apology to the ghoul couple stumbling out and slips inside.

Just like when she’d first seen Carol, Gal recognizes the inside of the Ninth Circle like she’s been here before. She hasn’t, of course; it’s just Charon’s frequent sketches of the place that make it seem familiar. The room is dim, smoky, lit only by a few wall sconces. The bar is up against the back wall; to the right, an open doorway leads to another room. Almost every table is full. The low buzz of chatter in the room doesn’t die down completely, but she conversations trail off as tables of ghouls near the door turn and look at her. The looks are varied - suspicion, curiosity, annoyance. Even the man behind the counter stops polishing the glass in his hand and looks at her expectantly.

And, in the corner…

She can’t look at him, but she feels his gaze on her face. She feels how heavy it is, and she knows instinctively that he’s angry that she’s here. No, not angry. Furious. Gal struggles to keep a straight face and focuses on putting one step in front of the other, until she’s made it to the bar.

Ahzrukhal’s face has strangely never been featured in Charon’s journal, so she hadn’t known what he would look like. She’d sort of expected him to look evil, somehow. But he just looks like another ghoul, appearing middle-aged underneath the damage to his face. His eyes are the most abnormal thing about him; slightly too close together in a thin face, and almond-shaped. He’s not bad-looking, though the suit he’s wearing is faded, patched, and doesn’t fit quite right.

Then he smiles. That smile causes a visceral reaction in her stomach, like somebody has wrapped a hand around her insides and yanked on them.  The smile itself is polite; it’s the smile of a business owner to a patron. But Gal sees something darker in in the fringes of it, something less pleasant and more repugnant.

“Well, look what we have here.” he says smoothly, settling a glass down and turning his full attention to her.  “Welcome to the Ninth Circle, my good lady. Are you looking for a drink?”

Her stomach lurches again. She knows that this man has done. She and Willow had discussed it at length, everything Willow knew of, more she’d only heard in rumours. It’s doubtless that there’s even more that nobody knows about but perhaps Charon and Azrukhal himself. Gal wants to jump over the table and shove her pistol in his mouth, but she has to approach this the right way, and that’s certainly not it.

“Yes, please.” she tries, finding it comes out only a little stilted. “Do you have whiskey?”

Ahzrukhal gives her another smooth smile and pours a few fingers of whiskey into a glass.

“A discount for the pretty lady. Four caps.” he says, pushing the drink towards her. Gal drops the caps on the table and waits for him to reach for them before she snatches the drink up. She doesn’t want him to touch her. At all, if possible.

“You seem nervous, my dear. Are ghouls a new experience for you?” Ahzrukhal asks as he whisks the caps away. Gal takes a sip of the whiskey to delay answering.

“I’m sorry. Everything is new for me at this point. I just came from a Vault.” she says, once the whiskey has stopped burning. It doesn’t feel like much of a lie; her trip across the Capital Wasteland had been instrumental in reminding her exactly how much she doesn’t know about survival out here. Thus, it feels a lot like she just walked out of 101 yesterday. Gal takes another sip of the whiskey and clutches at the glass with both hands.

Ahzrukhal leans forward on the bar and into her space. His milky eyes gleam with smooth confidence. Gal resists the urge to back away, but one foot still stumbles backwards. He smells sour, like rotting milk or something.

“Well, let’s hope you’re here long enough to get used to our fine city. There’s plenty of… charm… here to sample.” The tone in his voice is suggestive enough that she feels the need to go take a very long, hot bath to scrub the oiliness from her skin. The skin around his eyes crinkles as his lips draw upwards.

Gal gives him another quick, nervous smile, picks up the drink, and flees.

She realizes very quickly that every table is taken in the Ninth Circle. Every table, but the one right next to Charon. Sighing inwardly, Gal walks towards it before the effect of being near Ahzrukhal has faded and she loses her nerve. Like a magnet, her eyes slide up and to the left to catch on Charon’s face.

He looks livid. Gal can practically see him grinding his teeth behind his lips. His hands, crossed in front of his chest, are white-knuckled where they grip his biceps. She half-expects the peeling wallpaper he’s staring at to catch on fire from the intensity of his glare. But he doesn’t say a word as Gal sits down, back to him, and sips her whiskey. The back of her neck heats up under his scrutiny, though he’s never facing her direction when she turns her head to look.

Gal bolts her drink, buys one more to prolong her stay just a little longer, and then retreats. The atmosphere, the staring - even the conversation around her is too much. She lays in bed that night, trying to sleep but failing miserably.

--

Having been awake until four or five, Gal sleeps in until noon the next day and wakes up groggy and sore. She takes lunch with Greta, who seems content to ignore her presence completely and inhale her plate of food, and Carol, who makes up for her partner by being cheerful and talkative.

“You said you’ve had a rough year?” Gal asks casually as she picks at her spaghetti. Greta gives her a harsh look and disappears from the table, taking her empty plate with her.

“Yes, well.” Carol says reluctantly. “It’s just that the town ran into a spot of trouble several months ago and we had to evacuate. Everybody is still settling in again.”

“No trouble now, I hope?” Gal continues pryingly. Carol lets out a forced laugh and sets her fork down.

“No, no, nothing to worry about. Though I do wish you wouldn’t have gone to the Ninth Circle last night. We serve drinks here too, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Gal waves off the offer and spends the afternoon wandering Underworld. She finds the residents, once the initial shock has worn off, are friendly and welcoming. The shop owner downstairs, Tulip is especially excited to have somebody to converse with. Gal makes a mental reminder to come back with some trade supplies when she can, because she definitely needs the caps.

This evening, she stays later at the Ninth Circle, until about one. Ahzrukhal’s small talk gets increasingly more flirtatious; the discounts get higher. And Charon’s attitude grows stiffer and angrier, until she can barely stand the tension in the room. She can’t stumble out fast enough after the last customer.

It’s not until the third night that she gets her courage up and takes charge of the situation. The last customer besides Gal trickles out just after two AM. She sets her half-consumed whiskey down and makes her way for the bartender in the pinstriped suit.

“I want to talk business with you.” she says, crossing her arms on top of the bar and leaning forward. Ahzrukhal looks up and affects a manner of surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed her approaching. She doesn’t buy it for a minute.

“Is that so, smoothskin?” he says, eyeing her. “And what type of business would that be?”

“I want to buy Charon’s contract.” she says. Reaching one hand down, Gal pulls a bag of caps from her pocket. It jingles heavily as she tosses it onto the bar. Ahzrukhal wastes no time reaching for it.

“His contract, is it? Well, let’s see what Charon has to say about that.” Ahzrukhal looks up over her shoulder towards his bouncer and makes a ‘come here’ motion with his fingers. The smile on his face is greasy and vile.

A large hand wraps around the back of her neck and yanks her backwards before she has a chance to react. Her pistol is ripped from the back of her pants. Gal ignores the hand on her neck and slams an elbow backwards towards Charon’s groin instead, but Charon anticipates her move and pins her arms against her side with his free hand. Then he lets her neck go and runs a pragmatic hand down all sides of her torso and each leg. The combat knife in her boot is found and discarded.

“I really was hoping you would stick around a few days.” Ahzrukhal says, emerging from behind a bar. Dark amusement settles across his features as he watches her struggle feebly against Charon’s grip. “My stash of caps has been running low these last few months and I’ve been looking for a way to make some money on the side.”

“What the hell is this? Let go!” Gal shrieks, wrenching her arm free from Charon’s grip. She reaches back and slams her wrist into his side, feeling a jolt of pain from where her bracelet digs into her skin. Charon responds by trapping her arm against her ribs with his other hand and pressing the side of his head against hers to keep her from headbutting him. His breath is hot against her neck; his arms are cruelly tight around her middle, squeezing the air out of her.

“Well, if we’re going to have a pretty lady around for the next few days, we might as well take advantage of it, don’t you think, Charon?” Ahzrukhal muses. He steps forward and draws his index finger down the side of Gal’s face. Gal’s teeth snap shut just after he withdraws, missing by a millimeter. “Ah, a fighter. Just your type, isn’t she? I’ve been thinking you need another reward for ruining my last business venture, so why don’t you take her into the spare room and show her our special brand of hospitality? ”

“Go fuck yourself.” Charon says back icily. His arms grip tighter around Gal’s waist; she wheezes and tries desperately to draw in a breath of air, but his arms are a vice grip around her diaphragm. Involuntary tears prick at the edges of her eyes as her vision wavers before her.

“Language, Charon.” Ahzrukhal says reproachingly. “Or would you like me to come in and observe? I know you enjoy performing for an audience.”

Charon doesn’t reply this time. Instead, he heaves Gal up like a sack of grain and throws her over his shoulder. She hits with an ‘oof’ and sucks in a grateful lungful of air, even as she feels a bruise forming on her hip from the buckle on his armour. She catches one last glimpse of Ahzrukhal’s smug face before Charon turns the corner into the next room and carries her through another doorway on the far side.

The first thing he does is shut and lock the door. The second thing he does is throw her onto the floor unceremoniously. Gal nearly knocks her head against the hard tile, but catches herself at the last second on her elbows, ensuring yet another painful bruise. When she rolls over, he's in the corner, leaning his shotgun carefully up against the wall. He turns, task done, and stalks towards her.

Gal has never seen such rage in his milky blue eyes. Charon picks her up, as easy as if she were a toy ragdoll, and slams her against the concrete wall so hard the wind is knocked out of her. His grip on her wrist is cruelly, painfully tight.

“You stupid little child.” he says lowly, voice cold enough to frost the air between them. “I spent months with you. I taught you how to defend yourself. I told you to stay the fuck away from Underworld. But you didn’t listen, and now you’ve thrown it all away.”

Gal had expected anger. Even overt anger. She’d been prepared for that, she thought. But she wasn’t prepared for the madman that stands before her now. He looks like he wants to tear her limb from limb.

“Do you understand what kind of position you’ve gotten yourself into?” he growls. “Rory told you what happened to the girls that showed up here before you. What I did to them .”

Gal, intent on stopping that train of thought in its tracks, finally finds her voice. “I know what Ahzrukhal made you do to them. It’s not the same, and I’m sorry that I doubted you before.” she stops, breath hitching, and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m so sorry, Charon. I was wrong. Willow told me everything, and I was wrong.”

Charon lets out an honest-to-God roar and slams her into the wall again. She feels like the whole room shakes, but it could just be her own brains rattling around in her head.

“Then you know exactly what’s about to fucking happen to you. And then Ahzrukhal is going to make me take you to Paradise Falls in fucking chains.” he hisses.

Gal hears a soft thump from outside the room. Hurriedly, she throws up a knee, forcing Charon to deflect it and pin her against the wall again. He doesn’t seem to notice the sound.

“Charon. What he makes you do is not your fault. You need to understand that.” Gal says pleadingly. Twisting her hand awkwardly, she runs her fingers over the inside of his wrist gently, the only part of his skin she can reach. He snatches his hand back like her touch is poison. Then he groans in pain, clutching at his head with his free hand. The ghoul’s breathing becomes laboured as he lets her go and doubles over. Both hands cover his eyes, as if the dim light in the room is too much. Gal makes a small sound and reaches out to press one hand against the back of his head.

Just as her hand brushes skin, the blast of a gunshot rings through the small room. Charon is up and grabbing for his shotgun before she moves a muscle. Gal lunges forward and tries a swipe at the gun; Charon pushes her off and is out the door in a flash. Gal lets out a curse and follows as quick as she can.

A second gunshot sounds. Gal skids around the corner into the main room and takes the scene in. Against the far wall, behind the bar, a splatter of blood  paints the cupboards and glasses. If anybody is in the room, they’re hiding below the bar. Charon brings the shotgun to his shoulder and heads for the counter.

“ Stop.” a gravelly voice rings out. Charon stops dead in his tracks.

Something appears over the top of the counter. An unfolded sheet of stiff paper, yellow with age. A thin arm, corded with muscle, follows it. When Charon doesn’t shoot, Willow’s head peeks up above the counter and then she stands fully. Her face and torso are splattered with blood.

The room is silent for a few long moments. Charon lowers the shotgun slowly.

“I need to see it.” He says finally, breaking the silence. “Willow. I need to see it.”

Willow moves out from behind the counter. It’s clear she has to step over something. She gets completely out of the way and then gestures Charon towards the bar.

Charon walks over slowly. His steps are jerky, uncertain. Gal follows at a distance, moving around to the side so she can peer through the opening. All she can see is a leg clothed in a light, pinstriped suit, laying on the floor.

Charon brings the shotgun to his shoulder. He pulls the trigger once. The leg jumps; more blood splatters the back of the bar. Charon pulls the trigger again. And again. And again.

By the time he stops, Gal can’t see anything in the opening but a bloody stump. Charon lets the shotgun slip from his shoulder and stares down at the remains of Ahzrukhal. Willow folds the piece of paper back up and presses it into Gal’s hand.

“You did good, kid. I was getting worried, waiting on your signal.” Willow murmurs. Gal fiddles with the bracelet on her wrist, depressing the small button on the side. She’d cannibalized a radio emitter to broadcast a signal when the button was depressed. Willow, hunkering down outside the Museum of History each night, had been waiting with her radio tuned to the same frequency, ready to burst in as soon as Gal used it.

“I’d forgotten how fast he is.” she says sheepishly. “He had me pinned before I got to the button.”

Charon turns to them. His face is unreadable. He spots the contract in Gal’s hand and steps up to her, slinging his shotgun against his back. His left pant leg is soaked in blood, much like it had been the first time she’d met him. Gal looks up into his cold, expressionless eyes and feels her heart jump into her throat.

“Charon. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. We agreed that it had to be done this way, or otherwise you would have been able to stop us.” Gal pleads. Charon’s expression doesn’t change. It looks alarmingly similar to the first time she’d seen him up close - cold, calculating. Sizing her up and finding her wanting.

“You’re entitled to my services in combat.” he tells her curtly. “You may command me to perform other services, such as carrying salvage or preparing food. Physical violence invalidates the contract.”

He steps away and takes his place on the wall at the other end of the room, leaving her standing there with his contract in her hand. His gaze settles on the opposite end of the room, avoiding hers. That’s the end of their conversation

Gal tucks the contract into a pocket and looks to Willow, who just gazes back at her, lost.

Chapter 11

Willow disappears out the front door to take care of the the people that respond to the gunshots. There are surprisingly few of them; Gal doesn’t know whether it’s because gunshots are a common sound coming from the Ninth Circle or because nobody really cared whether Ahzrukhal was alive or dead. Willow had made it clear that even though the Underworld residents hadn’t know about his betrayal, Ahzrukhal was still universally disliked.

Nobody looks into it too hard. Gal assumes Willow tells somebody about the deal, but she doesn’t ask. Mostly, she just wanders around the bar, poking in the corners and opening doors, until finally she decides something needs to be done about the body and realizes she’ll have to be the one to do it.

Gathering up a sheet that had been stuffed in a supply closet in the other room, Gal carries it over to the bar. It’s going to take some real scrubbing to get this area clean; every inch of the small, enclosed space is covered in blood and chunks. The remainder of the body is completely unrecognizable. Charon had pumped something like five rounds of buckshot into it. Gal finds that she doesn’t mind not ever seeing those weirdly slanted eyes again.

Laying the sheet down over the body, she wraps her arms around the torso and rolls towards her until the body is cocooned in the fabric. Gal finds a bucket and a scrub brush under the bar and carries it to the bathroom in the back to fill up. She can feel Charon’s gaze heavy on her back, but ignores him doggedly.

While the bucket is filling up, she takes a minute to poke around the rest of the space. There’s a short hallway that leads to three rooms: the bathroom, the spare room where Charon had locked them in, and one more room that’s locked up tight. She guesses that’s Ahzrukhal’s bedroom, and doesn’t bother trying to pick the lock. She doesn’t want anything that she would find in there.

Willow has turned the last of the visitors away and is now behind the bar counter. She disappears from sight for a moment and then reemerges with the sheet-wrapped body over her shoulder.

“I’ll get rid of this. Will you be okay here for a minute?” Willow asks. Gal nods, brushes past her with the bucket to hide the fact that she’s distinctly not okay. Willow’s not dumb, she knows that, but Gal still feels like she needs to make the effort.

The bar goes silent as Gal rolls up her pant legs and drops to her knees to start cleaning. This is the filthiest job she’s ever had; never in her life has dunking her hand into a bucket of wash water involved feeling chunks of meat and skin brush against her hand before. She grits her teeth and scrubs harder, feeling a surge of satisfaction as the still-slick blood rubs off the bar and floor with ease.

After a few minutes, a shadow falls over her. When she turns to look, Charon is picking up the bucket by the handle and carrying it off towards the bathroom. He comes back a minute later with a fresh bucket of water and sets it down next to her silently.

“Thank you.” Gal says quietly, looking up at him. He ignores her and goes back to his spot on the wall. Gal sighs and goes back to scrubbing.

She’s almost done when Willow comes back in, carrying Gal’s pack. She sets the pack down and comes over to inspect Gal’s work.

“I think that’s good enough for now, tourist. You need to get some sleep.” she says. Gal looks at the remaining streaks of blood with a frown, but the truth is, she’s pretty tired. It’s probably somewhere around 4 AM and she hadn’t slept well last night either.

She’d been looking forward to having all this done and over with so she could rest peacefully, but she’s no longer convinced that’s going to happen. She throws the brush down anyway and stumbles to her feet.

“We’ll stay here for the night, I guess. Drag the mattress out into the room or something.” Gal says. She knows Willow wants to get back to her own place for a night. She has somebody waiting for her and she’s been remarkably patient in waiting to see him.

“You two will be okay? You won’t kill each other, will you?” Willow asks, mouth twisting. Gal huffs, too tired to laugh outright.

“I don’t have the energy to kill anyone, at least until tomorrow. But thanks, Willow. Get out of here.”

Willow claps her on the shoulder and then turns away. She exchanges a long look with Charon before she leaves.

The bar is dead silent. Gal flips the locks after Willow and trudges to the back to pull the mattress out. She doesn’t even hear Charon, but suddenly he’s in front of her, grabbing the mattress and sliding it from the bed frame like it weighs nothing. She realizes she’s standing in the way with her hand hanging in the air and stumbles backward.

The bed is a queen, and it even has two pillows and a thick blanket. Gal slumps down onto one side so she can start unlacing her boots.

“Do you mind sharing?” she asks dully as she yanks one boot off and tosses it off a little ways. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

Charon is up against the wall in the exact same pose as he was in the other room; leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking deliberately casual. Like he couldn’t cross the room and take your head off with one shot. Gal knows better.

“Unnecessary.” he says. “I’ll be keeping watch.”

Gal is tired enough that she has to press her face into her thighs and take a few calming breaths to stop from yelling. She breathes until she doesn’t feel like exploding anymore and then raises her head.

“Charon. We’re in the middle of a city that Willow has assured me is very safe, in a locked room. The only person that would have been a problem is now meat paste. So, do you mind sharing or not?”

Charon looks at her, sitting on the mattress with one boot on and her undershirt hanging all lopsided off her shoulder. His face is impassive.

“I will do as you command.” he says shortly.

Gal takes her second boot off and chucks it vaguely in his direction. It goes wide and smacks the wall next to him. Childish, but gratifying.

“Seriously? This is about the contract? Because I don’t fucking care about the contract. Look, it’s right here.” she says, pulling it from her pocket. She stands up and strides over to him, contract held in front of her. “Take it. It’s yours. Do whatever the hell you want with it.”

She yanks Charon’s hand out and goes to drop the contract in it, but he pulls his hand away at the last second and it flutters to the floor. Gal closes her eyes and takes several long, deep breaths. Tears of frustration are beginning to prick in the corners of her eyes.

“Would you just tell me what you’re angry about? I came here to help you, I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing.”

Charon looks her straight in the eye as he pushes off the wall. Crossing to the other side of the mattress, he unslings his shotgun and tugs his armour off over his head. Those pieces, along with his ammo belt and boots, get stacked in a neat pile next to the mattress. Left in a black t-shirt and his customary thick trousers, Charon flips the edge of the blanket back and lays down, facing the far wall. He doesn’t say a thing.

Gal grits her teeth as she scoops up the folded paper and marches over to the other side of the mattress. Laying down, she yanks her side of the blanket over her hips and faces away from him.

They sleep that way all night long.

-

Morning doesn’t dawn any better. Gal wakes up late morning to find herself alone in bed. Panicking, she fumbles her way into her boots and dashes through the doorway into the other room - only to find Charon in the middle of cooking breakfast. He takes in her disheveled appearance with no comment and slides a couple of radscorpion eggs onto a plate.

“Good morning.” she tries, once she’s calmed down a little bit and done something vaguely respectable with her hair. No response.

Charon takes the pan he’d been cooking on and runs it under the faucet to cool it off so he can scrub it clean. Gal notes that his shotgun is in the corner of the bar area, propped up against a wall so it’s never too far away. The flecks of blood that had been left over from her scrubbing the night before are gone.

“We have to talk about this eventually.” she says as she seats herself at the bar. Charon pulls a bottle of water from the banged-up old fridge in the corner and slams it down in front of her. His passive-aggressiveness is just as wearying at 10 AM as it had been at 4 AM.

“You told Willow about Ahzrukhal’s deal, and Ahzrukhal knew that. There’s no way she could have walked into Underworld and expected him to let her be.” Charon picks up an old, faded dishrag and scrubs the inside of the pan. “She also knew that Ahzrukhal was always looking for a way to make a quick buck. Including the convenient arrival of somebody like me. Somebody that Paradise Falls would want.” Charon shakes the pan off and sets it to the side of the sink. Gal pauses her monologue to take a drink of the water.

“So it follows that the only way to make this plan work was to send me in and use me as a distraction for you, so that Willow could kill Ahzrukhal. If you’d known she was going to try, you’d have killed her. If she’d walked in herself, Ahzrukhal would have ordered you to kill her. And if you’d expected I had some intelligent plan to make this work, you would have figured the whole thing out and foiled it. So I came in, pretending to want to buy your contract, and the whole thing worked out perfectly.”

Charon, in the middle of putting food back into the fridge, freezes. His knuckles are white on the fridge door. She waits for him to reply, but after a moment, he lets go of the fridge door and turns away from the bar area. She watches him return to his spot on the wall with marked frustration.

Her stomach is too twisted up in knots to eat. Gal pushes the eggs away and slides off the barstool, waving Charon away when he moves to follow her out the door.

“Just… stay here. I’ll be back.” she says. Charon obeys, but his gaze follows her out the front door.

A shirtless ghoul with mussed, dark brown hair opens the door to Willow’s apartment. He gives Gal a once over and grins.

“Gal, right? Come on in.” he says in greeting. Gal smiles in return and steps into the apartment tentatively.

Quinn leads her into the kitchen, where Willow is sitting at table, smoking a cigarette. She is wearing, of all things, a pair of black pajamas with little hearts and cupids on them. She doesn’t hide her amusement at Gal’s raised eyebrows.

“Quinn thinks he’s funny.” she says in explanation.

Quinn, busy pouring coffee into a chipped ceramic mug at the kitchen counter, grins again. “Correction: I am funny. She obviously thinks so. Good taste, that one.” Quinn brings the mug over and sets it down on the table next to the other chair. A box of sweetener packets follows. Then he disappears through a doorway.

Gal sits down and wraps her hands around the mug of coffee gratefully. Willow, ever the attentive one, sees something in her eyes that tips her off and frowns.

“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise, I take it?”

Gal takes a sip of the coffee and nearly burns her tongue off. The taste is bitter and strong, more like chewing through black tar than coffee. She’s not surprised that Willow drinks it that way. Gal sets the mug back down but keeps her hands wrapped around it to give her something to anchor herself to.

“I… yeah. He won’t - he won’t talk to me.” she admits. “He just keeps telling me he’ll do whatever I say. I tried explaining why we did what we did, and he just walked away and didn’t say anything. I don’t know what to do.”

Willow snorts and takes another drag of her cigarette. The smoke curls up towards the ceiling in lazy spirals.

“What a baby.” she says, not without amusement. “It’s the contract he’s worried about. Think about it. You used to be on the same level. Equals. But now you have his contract, that’s not the case anymore. You’re in charge, and he’s worried about what that means.”

Gal’s fingers go reflexively to where the square of paper is settled in her pants pocket.

“But… he has to know that doesn’t change anything. I even - I mean, I tried to give him the contract and he refused it. I don’t know what else he wants from me.”

Willow fixes her with a look. “You can’t give him the contract, Gal. That’s not how it works. And you can’t destroy it, either. Either you hold the contract, or somebody else does. Those are the only two options.”

Gal frowns. “Okay then. So I hold his contract. But he should know I’m not going to use it.”

“Should he?” Willow counters. “You forget that he’s 200 years old. How many owners do you think he’s had that haven’t used his contract?”

This conversation is nearly as frustrating as her ones with Charon has been. She swallows another mouthful of dark, gritty coffee to keep her sharp tongue in check and finally gives in to the sweetener packets on the table. Drinking that stuff is like drinking toxic waste. She’s not even sure sweetener can fix it.

“Yeah, well, he should know I’m different. I’d never use something like that to my advantage. Damn it, we just put our lives in danger to kill Ahzrukhal, you’d figure that would make a difference!”

Willow watches her with a steady gaze that seems faintly unapproving. Gal returns the stare stubbornly and crosses her arms over her chest. Willow’s raised eyebrow tells her that she knows Gal’s stance is more defensive than assertive.

“Let’s just get this straight so everybody at the table understands the score.” the ghoulette says, casually slipping another cigarette between her lips and lighting it with the cherry of her last cig.

“You, a young woman who, though surprisingly mature for your background, came directly from a Vault into the Pitt, met a man whom you at first thought was, in fact, going to defile and/or murder you. A month and a half later, due in no small part to your wise and knowing mutual friend, you’ve… let’s say ‘figured out your differences’. Am I tracking so far?” Willow doesn’t wait for Gal’s reply. “What you didn’t know is that your companion is actually 200 and some change years old and has, for almost that entire time, been tied to a contract that strips his free will completely and puts him at the mercy of other peoples’ whims. You’ve figured out, however, that most of that timespan was unpleasant. Are we still on the same page?”

Gal is trying very hard not to shrink into her chair, even though Willow’s tone of voice is as careless as if she were talking about the weather.

“So Haven blows the fuck up, Charon disappears because he doesn’t have an option to stay, and you get left there with a lot of very wrong assumptions about the kind of person he is - through no fault of your own, because these are interesting times we live in and you didn’t have all the facts. He comes back to Underworld and to the servitude of a vile man who deserves to burn in the lowest pits of hell, and we come up with a plan to fix that little situation.

“Once everything is said and done, upon finding that Charon is uncomfortable and a little suspicious of the whole situation, your response is, ‘Well I don’t care about anything you’ve done in the past, even though I don’t actually know what all you’ve done, and unlike the other employers you’ve had over the past 200 years, I’m not going to fuck you over!’ And, in a completely rational fashion, you’re confused as to why he doesn’t answer that with immediate and unbridled enthusiasm.”

Gal has failed at not sinking down into her chair. Willow takes the cigarette from her lips and taps the ash off the end into a chipped ashtray sitting on the table.

“Did I miss anything important?” she asks lightly, looking down at her cigarette. Gal straightens up, crosses her arms on the table, and buries her head into them with a long sigh.

“No, I think you covered it all…” she mutters sarcastically into the table. If Willow hears, she doesn’t reply.

After a few moments of silence, Gal feels a hand on her elbow and looks up.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Charon may be suspicious, but I’m not - I know you’ll do the right thing. It’ll just take some time to convince him of that too. And if I know you as well as I think you do, I know you’re committed enough to wait, aren’t you?”

Willow is simultaneously the best and worst person on Earth. She always knows exactly what to say - probably because she can read Gal like a book. And open one, with all the important parts underlined. Which is exactly why she’s grinning at Gal now in a way that says, ‘We both know I’m talking about something more serious than a roll in the hay’.

“As committed as you are to wearing heart-covered pajamas for your guy.” Gal mutters in a desperate attempt to save face, looking away in embarrassment. Willow lets out a snicker and sits back in her chair. Clearly, she’s in no way ashamed of the little pink and red symbols that decorate her clothes.

“I’m sure he can find you a pair if you’re feeling jealous. Quinn is a master at procurement. So when should we leave? Day after tomorrow? I don’t think we need to be quick about it, do you?”

Gal remembers suddenly that she’s become involved in an insurgent plan to take over a giant slaver settlement, groans, and collapses onto the table again.

--

She returns to the Ninth Circle thoroughly chastened. Charon has his combat rifle out and across one of the tables in pieces. He keeps his eyes focused on the buffing rag in his hand as she walks in hesitantly and stops in front of the table.

“...I’m sorry for blowing up on you last night. It was childish. I was angry because you didn’t react the way I wanted you to, but expecting you to react a certain way is a sign that I wasn’t thinking about your position in all this. And...sorry about the boot.”

Oh God, she’d thrown a boot at him.

Charon pauses, just a little stutter of his hands over the barrel of the shotgun. It’s barely enough to even catch her eye, but it’s there. She wants to push and push until he finally gives in and tells her what he’s thinking, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns and heads for the other room.

“I’m going to take a nap, and then I was thinking we could get an early dinner at Carol’s. Is that okay?” she calls back to Charon. She knows he won’t answer. It’s the expectation that counts, Willow had said. If Gal keeps treating things like the contract doesn’t factor in, Charon might just believe it one day. It’s the only strategy she has, so it’s what she’s going with.

She’s in the middle of tugging her overshirt off when she notices that the little black journal is still sitting in her pile of things near the mattress. Feeling even more guilty, Gal picks it up and walks back into the other room to set it down next to Charon’s elbow.

“I guess add violating your privacy to the list of things I have to be sorry about. I didn’t have any right to take your journal and I certainly didn’t have any right to read it, no matter what wrong ideas I had at the time. I won’t do it again.”

Surprisingly, Gal feels a pang of loss as she leaves the little black book there. It feels like she’s abandoning the last piece of the Charon she knew. After he claims it, she’ll be left with the voiceless specter that occupies his place. She’ll have no momento of the man she lost in the process.

That’s fucking melodrama at its finest. Gal stops that thought right in its track and goes back into the other room to flop down on the mattress.

--

Gal wakes up to a loud thud and falls off the mattress in a panic. Scrambling to her feet, she searches the room and finds nobody but Charon, who’s rummaging around in a pack on the floor. He must have dropped it. Deliberately.

She groans, shuts her eyes, and stumbles to the bathroom to wash her face.

When she comes back into the room, Willow is there, leaned up against the wall. Gal is somewhat pleased to see that Charon is intently ignoring her as well. At least they’ll be suffering his wrath together.

“I figured we’d get a jump on getting ready. We were less prepared coming out here than I would have liked.” she says by way of explanation. Gal inclines her head and settles down on the mattress to pull her boots on.

As it turns out, Charon is in fact prepared to talk to her.

“This is not up for debate.” she says stubbornly, still holding the heavy chest plate up awkwardly in two hands. It’s big enough to make two out of in her size, almost. “Yours is falling apart at the seams.”

Charon rolls his eyes at her - rolls his eyes at her - and shoves the chestplate out of his space, forcing Gal back a step in the process. “And you have limited caps. You should be spending them to outfit yourself.”

Gal glares at him. Charon glares back. Behind them, Willow leans on the counter and watches impassively. Tulip looks like she doesn’t know whether to hide under the counter or take the chestplate out of Gal’s hands before she hurts somebody with it.

“I’m fairly certain Tulip would be willing to barter for some of Ahzrukhal’s good stash in exchange for what we need, especially considering nobody in Underworld can even wear a chestplate that size besides you.” Willow says dryly. Charon doesn’t look at her, but he does relent and take the piece of armor from Gal finally. Thank God - that thing must weigh a hundred pounds. Is it really only made of leather?

Feeling the tension in the air dissipate a little bit, Gal rewards Charon’s good behavior by taking the arm guards he shoves at her with no complaint. Their fingers brush; Charon jerks back like he’s been electrocuted and stalks over to the medical display instead, leaving her to fumble the guards on herself. It takes several attempts, one long breath, and finally Willow’s help to slide them into place and get them buckled.

All in all, it costs them 532 caps and the promise of six bottles of Ahzrukhal’s finest before they’re kitted out properly. It probably would have costed more if Tulip hadn’t been so rattled by Charon’s mere presence in her shop. Clearly, Charon doesn’t visit often. The impression she gets is that when he did, it was never for pleasant purposes. He shows not a flicker of annoyment at Tulip’s treatment of him, though; in fact, he ignores her so thoroughly she might as well not be there.

They eat a mostly quiet dinner at Carol’s after dropping the gear off in the Ninth Circle. When they get back to the bar, Charon sits down cross-legged in the pile of stuff, yanks Gal’s pack towards him, and starts pulling things out of it.

So he’s going to pack for her, like she’s a small child. Gal frowns, nearly says something, but turns away with a sigh. Something tells her that Charon is itching for a reason to fight with her, and this is just another tactic to force that fight. She can argue the point and be miserable all night, or she can let it go and get out of doing something that, frankly, she doesn’t like doing anyway.

So instead she runs a hair through her hair, disappears back into the main room, and starts rooting around in the storage closet for something to drink. Willow had warned her away from anything on display at the bar, citing only that ‘you don’t want to drink it, trust me’. This stuff, in the storage closet, is the ‘secret stash’ they’d promised part of to Tulip. Gal picks up bottles at random, inspecting the contents, and finally decides that beer is the safest choice. She pushes an old plastic food dish out of the way, grabs two bottles, and heads to the bar to open them.

“I guess you were right about me getting a chance to drink.” she says in lieu of a greeting as she stops just to the right of Charon. He looks back at her and blinks at the bottle she’s offering. Gal sees that he’s halfway done repacking her gear, feels a pang of irritation, and masks it by taking a swig from her own drink.

After a few long moments, Charon accepts the bottle. But instead of drinking it, he examines it with sharp interest, then fixes her with a sharp look. Gal shrugs and tips the bottle to her lips again. After a moment, he does the same. When she brings hers down, he’s still drinking, tipping the bottle further and further back until it’s nearly vertical. Just as Gal manages to tear her eyes away from the long line of his throat, he brings the empty bottle down and wipes his mouth off on the sleeve of his shirt.

The last time she’d seen that gesture was...

“I’ll get you another one.” she says hurriedly, sweeping back towards the bar and trying not to think of Charon on his knees between her legs. Her cheeks are starting to feel a little warm.

Gal takes a minute to lean against the bar and breathe a little bit, trying to will the flush out of her skin. Instead, she gets a sudden picture of Charon looming behind her, pressing his hips into her and trapping her up against the bar. Hot breath against her neck, thick arms bracketing her body…

This is going the wrong direction. Opening the fridge, she sticks her face in it for a few long moments and lets the chill cool her down. Once she feels reasonably put back together, she picks up the beers and the bottle of amber liquid she’d taken from the storage room and carries it back into the other area. Charon’s finished with the main part of her pack and is shoving ammo and medical supplies into the pouches on the sides in some sort of order that makes sense to him. He takes the new beer from her and raises his eyebrows at the liquor bottle. The side of his mouth tilts up just a little bit.

They drink a while, Gal sputtering and coughing on her first drink of whiskey, then getting the hang of it quickly. Charon finishes the beer, eyes the whiskey, and raises a surprised eyebrow when she offers it to him. But he accepts, and they trade it back and forth until the bottle is mostly empty. As the whiskey spreads from her core into her limbs, it drags her thoughts a dozen different directions - thoughts of touching Charon, prospective arguments to fix this broken thing between them, aimless wishes to stay here endlessly and not carry the burden on her back of a crying baby and a boy with light blonde hair and big ears.

Charon has long since finished going through their packs, now, and leans back against the finished products with one leg bent and the other kicked out across the floor. His elbow rests on the bent leg, long fingers wrapped around the neck of the whiskey bottle as they take a break from drinking.

“Hey. Gal.” he says softly, dragging her attention away from the spot in the corner she’s been gazing at while lost in thought. She blinks and looks over at him. His face is closed off, unreadable.

The silence drags on for a minute. Gal lets it. Finally, Charon takes another drink from the whiskey and sighs.

“When you came here. With Willow. You put yourselves at risk. There was no way to know how it would turn out.” he looks at her for a long moment, then looks away. “If you’d been caught…”

He doesn’t finish, just keeps looking away, his shoulders tight. His grip around the neck of the whiskey bottle is harsh, nearly white-knuckled.

It’s not an apology, or a thank you.

“It was the only way.” Gal says tentatively. “There wasn’t another option, Charon.”

His grip on the whiskey bottle tightens, though his face stays impassive. One small tell that he’s angry.

“There was another option.” he says shortly. “You could have stayed the hell away and left it alone. Went and looked for your father. Started a new life.”

Gal feels her temper start to rise, both helped and hindered by the whiskey. She opens her mouth, closes it, and thinks about what she wants to say, about what the right thing to say is. Only when she’s considered it carefully does she open her mouth again.

“You have to understand that leaving you here wasn’t really an option. Not for me, and not for Willow. You want us to be safe, I get that. We want the same for you. So there was a chance, and we took it. And yeah, maybe it could have gone bad, but if I’d left you here….well. I couldn’t live with that.”

“And you think I could have lived with dragging you back to Paradise Falls to sell to the highest fucking bidder?” Charon counters, slamming the whiskey down on the floor with such force that Gal’s surprised the bottle doesn’t break. “But what I want doesn’t fucking matter, does it smoothskin? Now that you have my contract, you can do whatever you want, and I have to live with it.”

You’re in charge, and he’s worried about what that means, Willow echoes in her head.

“What do you want, Charon?” Gal asks quietly.

The jerk of his shoulders betrays his surprise. The look he gives her is equal parts suspicious and questioning. He doesn’t know why she’s asking, but he’s afraid of finding out the answer.

“What do you want?” she asks again.

Charon tears his gaze away, mouth set into a thin line, and stands up. He disappears into the bathroom with a hard slam of the door, and doesn’t come back out.

That’s okay. She didn’t really expect him to reply, she thinks as she starts tugging her boots off. The whiskey beckons, so Gal steals it back and takes another long swig.

She’ll just have to keep asking, until she gets an answer.

Chapter 12

They leave on schedule, despite the snafus that come with all of them being blatantly uncomfortable around each other. There is a tense moment when Willow and Charon argue about whether to take the overground route or go through the metro tunnels, but it resolves peacefully - since Willow and Gal had come back through the tunnels, they’re mostly cleared out, and fighting off feral ghouls and the occasional raider is easier than fighting off Super Mutants and the Brotherhood of Steel.

Gal finds that after spending her whole life in a Vault, and nearly a full year more of it trapped in the same three rooms for days on end, she doesn’t much enjoy being underground anymore. The walls feel too close, the air too damp and cold, the shadows too dark. They have to keep quiet, with the way sound echoes down the tunnels, so they don’t attract a pack of ghouls or tip raiders off to their position.

Charon ignores her, other than to give gruff instructions about staying close and watching her back, and Willow is irritated with Charon and in a foul mood. Thus, the trip is miserable.

Halfway down the red line tunnel heading towards Dupond, Charon stops suddenly and holds up a hand, closed into a fist. Gal and Willow stop obediently, both glancing around as Charon’s head tilts, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He pivots towards Gal, pushes her out of the way, and lifts his shotgun to his shoulder. The buckshot catches a woman with a crowbar in one hand in the chest. She lets out a strange gurgling sound, and slumps to the floor.

They pause for a moment, Gal taking in that she’d just nearly died, and Charon and Willow listening intently. Something scrapes down the side tunnel the woman had emerged from.

“We need to move.” Charon says lowly. Nobody argues.

A hundred yards down the tunnel, the first bullet whizzes by. Willow lets out a curse and darts to the side, past a broken-down subway car that offers some cover. Gal and Charon follow.

Ahead of them, the tunnel has collapsed. Gal follows Willow into a side door that looks like it leads to a maintenance area. The bullets are still flying behind them, accompanied by hoarse yells and profanities. Not giving up then, this pack of Raiders.

People on the surface are such dicks.

“Go open the tunnel. You remember where the switch is?” Willow calls to Gal. Gal searches frantically in her mind, glances around the room, and - yes. She remembers this place.

“Got it!” she calls back. Willow nods and leans back out of the doorway to return fire and slow down the Raider’s progress.

She’s lost sight of Charon. Panting from exertion, Gal darts over to the opposite wall and mashes the button that leads to the emergency tunnel set into the floor. With a mechanical groan, the doors on either side begin lifting up, revealing the stairs that lead down under the metro tunnel.

Then, with a horrific screech, they stop moving, only halfway open. Gal lets out a curses and jabs at the button again. The doors don’t move.

“ Shit. Willow, it’s jammed!” Willow looks back as Charon stumbles through the doorway and frowns. Charon takes up her position, allowing Willow to jog over and look at the tunnel. She mashes the button, yanks on the doors, even crouches down to fiddle with the opening mechanism, but the doors don’t budge.

“Damnit. You and I can fit through, but…” Willow looks up and back at Charon. Gal compares the width of his shoulders to the narrow opening in the doors and nods. There’s no way he’s fitting through.

“We’ll have to find something else.” she says, somewhat frantically. “We - “

“No. Go.” Charon calls out. Another blast from his shotgun causes somebody to cry out in pain.

“But -”

“ Go,” Charon roars. “I’ll meet up with you at Arlington. Get out of here.”

Gal shakes her head, but Willow grabs her by the arm and yanks her towards the doors. When Gal turns her wild gaze on Willow, Willow’s eyes are serious.

“He can take care of himself. Let’s go.”

Gal takes one last look at Charon’s back and starts wedging herself through the opening into the tunnel. Willow follows, and then they’re through.

A few minutes of running later, a huge explosion rattles the steel grating below their feet. Gal stops in her tracks, goes to turn, but Willow is already there to keep herding her forward, not giving her even a second to turn and go backward. Gal gives in and keeps moving. It feels like her brain is stuck on a loop, imagining all the things that explosion could mean.

She doesn’t have much time to debate, though. Something flickers in the corner of her eye; when she turns to look, a hand slices through the air and catches on her air, tearing the fabric of her sleeve. Gal swears and stumbles backwards. Her fingers wrap around the combat knife at her hip and bring it up. The feral ghoul screams as she jams the knife through an eye socket and collapses.

Ahead of her, Willow is engaging two more. One falls over, but wraps itself around her leg, trying to topple her as well. The other is swinging for her head. Gal kicks the one on the ground in the stomach, and when it fails to dislodge the ghoul, brings her rifle around and aims for the chest. The ghoul falls still after three shots.

Willow brings her shotgun around like a baseball bat, clocks the other ghoul in the side of the head, and takes advantage of the distance to pump it full of buckshot. With that one out of commission, silence falls around them. They wait for a moment to make sure no stragglers appear, but all is quiet.

Willow glances at Gal, then winces and looks down at her leg. Her thick trousers are torn just below the knee, and there’s a very clear bite mark on her skin, leaking blood. It looks painful.

“We need to treat that.” Gal says. Willow shakes her head and whips a handkerchief out of her pocket to tie around it, not bothering to wipe up any of the blood.

“No, it’ll keep. It’s not that bad, and we need to get out of here.”

Willow has to slow down due to a limp from the bite. The metro is dark, damp, and quiet. Every little sound, from their footsteps to the drip of water along one wall, echoes eerily through the air. When Gal trips on a chunk of cement, the sound of her own bitten-off exclamation nearly scares her into a heart attack.

Willow injured, Charon missing, and her shaking out of her boots - it’s not exactly the way she hoped to start this trip. Feels like an omen, really.

But even if turning back and forgetting about the Pitt would be the best option, it doesn’t erase the faces of the Pitt slaves from her brain. She could never live with herself if she abandoned them. So on they go.

It takes literal hours to wind their way through the subway, long enough that when they finally emerge back out into the open, dusk is setting in. Gal takes a minute to appreciate the wide open space as Willow rests, leaning against the railing around the metro entrance. Willow dumps her pack on the ground and  groans when she unwraps the crusty handkerchief around her leg.

“Fucking ferals.” she says bitterly, yanking a bottle of water from her pack to soak the handkerchief. “Good thing it was me and not you. We can’t get infections like humans can.”

“You can still die from blood loss.” Gal snaps, uncharacteristically angry. Willow looks up from her wound and raises an eyebrow, then snickers.

“You’re testy when you’re pining for your lost love.” she says. Her flippant attitude does NOT make the situation better. Gal opens her mouth to say something cutting, thinks better of it, then shuts it and turns away.

“He’s going to be okay.”

Gal whirls around. “You don’t know-”

She stops at the look in Willow’s eyes. They’ve lost all trace of humor.

“Gal.” Willow says softly. “He’s going to be okay. Charon is tough as nails and stubborn as a mule. He can’t be brought down by a couple raiders.”

“I…” Gal tries. “I just…”

Willow waits patiently while she searches for the words. They stick in her throat, so she swallows once, twice, and then suddenly they pour out like a waterfall.

“It’s just that we left this morning, Willow, and now you’re hurt and Charon is gone and he might be hurt and this is all my fault because I dragged you guys into this and I don’t even know what I thought I could do to save literally an entire city of slaves, Willow, I can’t even fight a feral ghoul on my own without you needing to save me and if you hadn’t I’d have died in the arena in my first fight and you’d be in Underworld and safe.”

She stops only because her chest constricts so painfully she can’t speak anymore. One hand goes to her chest plate as she tries to take a slow breath and unwind the knot in her sternum. This feels an awful lot like the panic she’d experienced when she’d stepped out of 101 - overwhelming and uncontrollable.

Gal doesn’t even realize she’s looking down at the ground until she feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, right into Willow’s chestplate, and takes a step forward so she can rest her head on Willow’s collarbone. She doesn’t expect the thin, strong arms that wrap around her shoulders and pull her in close.

“You’re so full of shit, tourist.” Willow says above her head. Just like Charon, she gives off heat like a furnace. They stand in silence for a moment.

“...I told you that I had a family, right? Before I got turned into a ghoul?” Willow asks.

“Yeah.” Gal says softly. “You said they died?”

Willow hums an agreement. “Had a husband and two kids. Andy and Carla. My husband was a piece of shit, but he was a piece of shit that gave me two of the best damn kids in existence. And then… he took them away from me.”

Her grip tightens a little bit, then loosens. She takes a step back, giving Gal a little space but close enough that the heat of her can still be felt.

“I was lost without them. They were… my everything. And then when I tried to end it all, suddenly this ghoul comes swooping in to save me, drags my sorry ass twenty miles back to Underworld on his own. And it was fucking hard to start over, and there were days I didn’t want to, but eventually it got easier. I found a new place in life. Found Quinn. I owed Charon everything. And yet, I had to watch Ahzrukhal use him as a cronie and a dog for his own fucked-up pleasure.”

Her voice is starting to sound a little strange - more scratchy than normal, maybe.

“And then you come along, and you risk your goddamn life for him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like there’s no other option but to do it. You know how many people in this world would do that?

“But it’s more than that.” Willow stops and scratches the side of her cheek. “I lost my family, tourist. We ghouls, we can’t have kids. Can’t make a family in the traditional sense, so we have to do it some other way. Everything you’ve done, for me, for Charon, you’re part of that family whether you want to be or not. And you’re worried about dragging me to Paradise Falls for a vacation? For fuck’s sake, I’d trek all the way to the West Coast with you, if that’s what you needed. I’d go to the ends of the Earth for you.”

The silence hangs thickly between them. Gal makes one aborted attempt to reply and winds up stumbling forward again into Willow’s space. She squeezes Willow’s torso so hard the ghoulette lets out a wheezing laugh, and keeps squeezing. Willow returns the embrace carefully before one hand touches Gal’s hair and smoothes it back. Gal’s dad used to do something similar when they hugged. It feels - nice, but also sad. Like there’s weight to the gesture, a story to it for both of them.

“Okay, okay, enough of that.” Willow says eventually. “Shouldn’t be doing this out in the open anyway. We’re almost to the stopping point, let’s head out before it gets too dark.”

-

They had stopped at this same house in Arlington cemetery on the way to Underworld, but it had still been light out then and far less creepy. Now, in the twilight, the shapes of the gravestones and crosses look like specters in the gloom. Gal can’t believe that they used to bury bodies in the ground before the war. How creepy is that? In the Vault, they just cremate them like civil people.

“That’s why it’s so safe.” Willow says in amusement. “You humans are so damn superstitious about graveyards, you won’t even go near ‘em after dark. Come on, let’s get inside.”

Willow pushes the front door of the house open gently. They sweep through the house from top to bottom, making sure it’s empty, before dropping their packs and barricading the back entrance. Amazingly, all the windows in the house are intact, making it a good temporary hideout.

Willow starts a fire in the fireplace while Gal clears out a spot in the middle of the former living room and drags a mattress in. The smell of mac and cheese makes her stomach rumble, but she oddly enough doesn’t feel that hungry. Gal doesn’t even contemplate why until she finds herself standing at one of the windows, looking out at the graveyard and twisting a strand of hair around her finger. If Charon had gotten into trouble and they weren’t there to help…

Her eye catches movement in the gloom. Something slips behind a gravestone and then comes out the other side, a large dark shape that she can’t identify.

“Somebody’s outside,” she calls back. Willow carefully takes the mac and cheese off the fire and sets it on a crumbling brick before reaching for her rifle.

The figure ambles closer, moving slowly and keeping to the gravestones for cover. Gal accepts her own rifle from Willow and ducks down so she won’t be silhouetted in the window by the firelight. Willow gets on the other side of the door where she can take down anybody trying to break in.

The figure ambles ever closer, clearly alone. Gal doesn’t want to hope too hard, but…

“ It’s Charon, ” she breathes when he finally gets close enough to identify. And he’s limping slightly on one leg and has a bandanna wrapped around his forearm that looks darker than bandanas should be. Gal sets her rifle down hurriedly, checks that her pistol is on her hip, and darts for the door. Willow lets her go first.

Charon pulls his pistol when they burst out of the doorway, but lowers it immediately afterwards. He looks worn-out, and yeah, that bandana shouldn’t be that colour. The look in his eyes as Gal and Willow stop in front of him is one of relief, which makes Gal beam at him.

“You’re getting old. Time was, you’d have beaten us here.” Willow says drily. It’s how she expresses her own relief at seeing him here and (mostly) whole. Charon snorts and lets her take his pack so he can limp up the stairs and into the house.

“Ran out of ammo and had to gut one with my knife. She was faster than usual.”

“Is that where your new decoration came from?” Gal asks, pointing to his forearm. Charon shrugs, not even looking at it, but the way he he sits down gingerly, using his other arm to lower to the floor, is telling.

“Caught a bullet. Nothing to worry about.” he says dismissively. Gal frowns at him and crouches down by his side.

“You should have stopped to treat it. Is the bullet still in there?” she asks, even as her hand is reaching for the knot on the bandana. She touches it gingerly, just trying to feel if the fabric is wet.

Charon flinches.

Gal jerks her hand back as if she’d touched a hot stove. Charon has never… flinched before. She’s touched him literally dozens of times. Sure, he’d jerked away from their brief contact yesterday, but she’d chalked it up to him being angry at her still.

Her eyes go from his arm to his face, catching the untrusting, wary look in his eyes. It’s replaced almost instantaneously, but the damage is already done. She stumbles to her feet and away from Charon, her throat tight.

“Well, uh, you should… should get Willow to look at it. Stimpacks are in my bag. Where you packed them.” she says woodenly. Willow is frozen in front of the fire with a fork in her hand, looking at the two of them with a quizzical expression on her face.

Gal feels her throat tighten and flees.

She finds herself in the basement, fumbling a pack of matches out of a pocket so she can strike one and see. Somebody’s left a bunch of old lanterns scattered around a portrait of a man with dark hair at one end. Gal commandeers one that still has some oil left in it and lights the wick before sinking down against a pillar and closing her eyes.

Maybe it would be a different story if she’d held the contract right from the beginning, but going from an easy, dare she say close relationship to this… to flinching at being touched, and arguing, and blatant distrust…

It’s nothing she did, Gal reminds herself. Charon will come around when he feels comfortable, when he’s able to believe that Gal isn’t going to control him or use him. She has to be the gentle, understanding one, which is kind of a big burden when you don’t know what you’re doing 90% of the time. But she can do it. She can.

Something scrapes near the stairway. Gal glances over and blinks.

“...hey.” Charon says gruffly, walking over. He’s no longer limping, though his gait is a bit stiff, and his forearm is neatly bandaged in white gauze. So he’s been taken care of. Good.

She realizes she hasn’t acknowledged his greeting. It doesn’t scare him away; rather, he sits down a few feet away and stretches his leg out in front of him. Gal looks away.

Why would you flinch from me? She wants to ask. Instead, what comes out is, “Do you know who that is?”

Charon turns to look at the portrait they’re both facing, of the man with the high forehead, dark hair, and full beard. There’s not just lanterns in front of the portrait; several vases are scattered about with dried flowers stuck in them, and paper litters the floor. It looks like a memorial or something. Somebody that died here?

“That’s Abraham Lincoln.” Charon says shortly. When Gal looks at him, he elaborates.

“He used to be President of the United States, hundreds of years ago. He was called the Great Emancipator because he ended slavery in the country.”

Gal raises her eyebrows in surprise. “America practiced slavery?”

Charon lets out a huff of amusement. “Yes. For a long time, actually. The whole country went to war over it in the 1800’s and nearly split in two. But the North won, and the country was kept together and slavery abolished, thanks to Lincoln.”

So how did you end up the way you are? She thinks. He grew up when America was still around as a country, so how did Charon ended up tied to a contract that takes away his free will? “It sounds like you admire him.”

“He was a great man.” Charon says softly. “He always fought for his ideals. ‘Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.’”

Oh. Hmm.

“...is that a dig at me? Because of the contract?” Gal asks cautiously. Charon looks over at her and furrows his eyebrows.

“...no. I was referring to myself.”

“You?” she frowns. Oh. Oh. “Because of the stuff you’ve been made to do, you mean?”

Charon goes very carefully still, and doesn’t answer.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” she adds after a moment of silence. Rather than relaxing, Charon’s shoulders stiffen, and he looks pointedly away at a dark corner of the basement, very much away from her.

“I will do as you command.” he says woodenly.

Gal fucking hates that sentence.

She stands up, brushes the seat of her pants off, and turns to Charon, though she doesn’t move any closer to him. She can’t handle any more flinching tonight. His eyes are hard, defiant, as they meet hers. It’s like he towers over her, even he’s seated.

“It’s almost like you want me to, you know. I feel like you’re waiting for me to show some evil side I’ve been hiding this whole time, and you’re just goading me until it happens. Is that what you’re doing?”

He just looks at her, expression unchanging.

“Well, it’s not going to happen. Goad all you want, I’m not going to treat you like a - like a - “

The word doesn’t come out. She turns and leaves, the weight of his gaze heavy on her back.

Willow looks up when she comes upstairs. She takes in Gal’s stormy face and huffs in sympathy.

“It’ll take time.” she says. Gal shoots her a look and curls up near the fire, knees pulled up so she can wrap her arms around them.

Willow watches her for a moment more, then goes back to rearranging her pack. “You want first watch tonight, or should I take it?”

Gal shrugs, then reaches out for her rifle, propped up against the wall, and drags it to her.

“I’ll take it. Not that tired anyway.”

Willow shoots her a look, but doesn’t pry.  

They eat in silence. Gal finds out that Willow puts hot sauce in her mac and cheese (‘don’t have that many taste buds left, tourist. I gotta do something to make it taste good’). Charon shows up a half hour later, eats his dinner mechanically, and then sets up across the room with his shotgun. When Gal tells him she’s taking first watch, he just looks at her and stays exactly where he is.

“I’m not going to command you, if that’s what you’re waiting for. But you should get some rest.” she adds pointedly. He ignores that too.

Willow looks at both of them, mutters something under her breath, and flops down onto the mattress. Charon and Gal sit in silence, ignoring each other, until she gets back up again for her turn at watch.  

It’s not until Gal is already laying down on the mattress and half-asleep, spare clothes tucked under her head for a pillow, that she feels someone settle in on the other side.

--

“I think we can make it to Megaton by tomorrow night. It’d be nicer to stay in a settlement than to camp out like we did on the way here, huh?”

Megaton? That sounds familiar to Gal for some reason. She frowns, in the midst of shouldering her pack, and thinks.

Megaton. The word on the sign. A city she’d never gotten to her first day out of the Vault. Looks like she’s going to get to see it after all. Weird, how the universe works.

How different would her life have been, had she headed for Megaton instead of turning left at that intersection? Where would she be now?

Gal glances over at her traveling companions, bickering over something as they get ready, and smiles. The Pitt was a lot of heartache and rough times - still is, honestly - but it was worth it. Who knows if she’d ever have met Willow and Charon otherwise? Maybe she’d be farther in the search for her father, but maybe not. No, she wouldn’t give up the way things have happened.

Once they’re through the initial jaunt through the metro tunnels, the way to Megaton is relatively smooth sailing. Charon stops them just out of eyesight of Megaton’s walls and glances up at the area, eyes narrowed.

“They have a sniper on the roof.” Charon says. “You sure we’re gonna be welcome here?”

Gal squints up towards the front gate; she sees a Protectron ambling about in the distance, but nothing else. How can Charon see that far?

“Quinn comes through here all the time. We’ll be fine.” Willow says with a roll of her eyes. Gal moves to get in front - she’s no stranger to ghoul bigotry, she knows that her being in front is the best option - but Charon darts around her and takes the lead without a word.

Nothing happens as they meander up to the front gate of the settlement, though Gal does catch a flash of something shiny up above. The Protectron doesn’t bother them either, just rattles out an advertisement for some bar in town and shakes a metal limb in their direction.

The gate lifts to reveal a sturdy, if somewhat shabby, town cobbled together along the sides of what looks like a crater. Just in front of them is a pathway, reinforced with wood beams, leading down into the heart of the crater. In front of them stands a man in a cowboy hat with a neatly trimmed beards. His arms are crossed over his chest in a no-nonsense manner.

“Welcome to Megaton.” the man says in a deep, melodic voice. “I’m Sheriff Simms. I do my best to greet every new face we get in our little town. Can I ask what your business is here?”

His words are pleasant, and bland of tone, but Gal sees how his eyes dart to their weapons, cataloguing them carefully. Looks like the welcome wagon doubles as the security around here.

“We’re just passing through.” Willow answers. “We were looking for beds for the night, place to eat, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Uh-huh.” the Sheriff’s face is impassive. “If you’re looking for a place to eat, The Brass Lantern will suit you fine. I’d normally send you to the common house for lodging, but we’re full up at the moment. You can try Moriarty’s Saloon, over on the other side of the town. He’ll probably be able to rent you a room or two.”

Simm stops, eyes Charon, and continues.

“Now I want you to know that I give this speech to everybody that visits our fine town, so don’t take it personal. We don’t brook any troublemaking here. If I catch you at it, you’ll be out of here faster than you can blink. Keep on the straight and narrow, and you’ll be welcome back anytime.” with that said, the Sheriff touches a finger briefly to the brim of his hat, turns, and walks away.

As soon as the Sheriff is gone, Willow immediately rounds on Charon with an amused grin.

“You turn heads everywhere you go, you know that? Dinner first, or the saloon?”

Charon gives her a flat stare. “Very amusing. Let’s make sure we have a place to stay first.”

They hike down into the bottom of the crater, passing several houses and an outdoor bar. There’s a large puddle of water off to the side in the center of the crater, with what looks like a…

“Is that a bomb?” Gal asks incredulously, looking at the rusted hunk of metal half-sunk into the puddle. A man in ragged old clothes is standing ankle-deep in the water next to the bomb, speaking to a group of people.

“Yeah, Megaton built up in this crater because of that bomb. They figured nobody would be crazy to attack if it meant they could get blown into little pieces.” Willow explains as they pass it. Charon mumbles something that sounds strangely like, ‘fucking morons’.

“You mean it’s still active?” Gal says with a look of horror. Why don’t they defuse it? If it’s been there since the Great War, there’s no telling how unstable it is. It could go off anytime.

“Well, yeah.” Willow says with a snort.  “Do you have the smarts to defuse it? I can guarantee no one around here does. If they did, it would have been taken care of a long time ago.”

The kicker is, Gal is pretty sure she can. Once you got past the encryption on the information storage in Vault 101’s computer system (which she did right after she turned thirteen, not to brag), she’d found whole gigabytes of old classified military information from before the Great War - and she’d read every word of it. If it taught her anything, it was that defusing an explosive is much easier than anybody realizes. She could have it done in ten, fifteen minutes tops.

But tinkering with a volatile nuclear bomb on their first night in town probably isn’t smart. Still, the idea sits on the edge of her mind, ignored but not forgotten. If she can help, maybe she should.

They head up the other side of the crater and around until they stop in front of a building that reads ‘Moriarty’s Saloon’. It looks a bit shabbier than the buildings around it, but then, Gal’s expectations for a bar are pretty low anyway.

The front door opens into a seating area with the bar up behind it. It’s empty of customers, but there’s a figure standing behind the counter, banging on a radio, and another man standing behind him holding a clipboard.

“Come on, work you piece of shit -” the figure standing next to the radio stops and glances up at them as the door swings shut. He’s a ghoul, with dark brown patches of hair and big milky eyes, wearing a faded grey t-shirt. He sees Gal and flinches, his eyes dropping down as if he doesn’t want to make eye contact with her. But when they light on Charon and Willow his eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Willow? Charon?” he says hesitantly, one hand still poised above the radio.

The figure with the clipboard comes forward - an older man with slicked-back grey hair and a short beard. He looks at them standing at the doorway and then at the ghoul with an irritated look on his face.

“Well, are you gonna stand there with your gob open, or are you going to serve our customers, you useless piece of shit?”

With no hesitation at all, the gray-haired man lifts his free arm and cuffs the ghoul across the back of the head, knocking him across the counter and nearly into the wall beside it. The ghoul doesn’t fight back, just lifts one arm above his head defensively and waits for the gray-haired man to back off.

“Sorry, Mr. Moriarty, I’ll get to it right away. Sorry.”

Apparently accepting of this, Moriarty whirls around and disappears into a back room. The door slams shut behind him. One hand covering the spot where he’d been cuffed, Gob looks up at Willow and Charon with shame in his eyes and straightens up.

“Sorry, I - I wasn’t expecting, well. You. What are you doing in Megaton?”

He sounds like he’s trying to change the subject, but judging from the look on Willow’s face, it’s not going to be successful. Gal follows quietly as Willow marches up to the bar. She can see bruised patches on the ghoul bartender’s arms in between the spots where his skin is ripped or missing, clearly new marks and not ones caused by ghoulification. He looks like a wreck, to be honest. No wonder, if that’s the treatment he gets on a daily basis.

“Gob,” Willow says, her voice strangely solemn. “We wondered what happened to you. Carol-”

The ghoul, Gob, starts and looks at Willow with something like panic.

“Don’t tell Carol, please! I don’t… I don’t want her to worry about me. Promise me you won’t tell her.”

Willow attempts to make a placating gesture, but the movement of her hands causes Gob to flinch again and take a step back. His arm is already halfway up to cover his face before he gets the reaction under control. Willow lowers her hands, her mouth twisted in an unhappy line.

“We won’t tell Carol, Gob. But… shit. This is fucked up. Is there anything we can do? Can we-”

Something thumps in the back. Gob glances over his shoulder and makes a nervous shushing gesture as Moriarty emerges again and shuffles around to a stack of boxes in the corner. Willow’s shoulders slump slightly as she cuts her sentence off. She seems disinclined to say anything more.

“We wanted to rent some rooms, actually.” Gal cuts in, before the whole situation turns even more sour. She tries not to be moved by the fact that Gob won’t even look her in the eye, but it’s hard. “Do you have any available?”

“Why, of course we do, lassie.” Moriarty cuts in, bellying up to the counter. “And how many will ye be needing?”

[kidotm]

"Snap"

written by "s0ymilk"

" So maybe she shouldn't be standing on the stairs and listening... " CH x FOC

...But she likes to think about it as, 'learning something new about her companion.'

She's coming back from Gob's Saloon around midnight when it happens.

She'd told Charon she'd be gone a while; that she was planning on getting piss drunk and possibly passing out on the floor. She's done this enough times that Charon isn't worried about her safety in Megaton or her ability to get home. Usually, he comes with her, but tonight she could tell he wasn't up to it, so when he moved to follow her out the door she told him to stay home.

She knows he's probably still awake, cleaning his shotgun or repairing something, waiting for her to appear. He won't expect her this early; she'd lost her enthusiasm for drinking halfway into her first beer and headed back, but usually she's gone until 2 or 3 AM.

It has nothing to do with the asshole at the bar, slinging names at her for having a ghoul companion, but really it has everything to do with him. She hates the things they say about Charon, that they say about her for treating him like a human being. She's heard every insult under the sun about his rotten dick and what she must be hiding under her clothes to choose to be with a ghoul, and she's even more frustrated because none of it's true.

Charon saves her life on occasion, and watches her back, and gives her enough shit that she thinks they're more than just employer and bodyguard, but she knows better than to jump someone's bones when they're under contract to her, even if she's maybe sort of madly in love with him. She doesn't want to roll over afterwards and realize she's expected to pay up, or to find out that Charon's just following orders. And she's too chickenshit to sit down and have a woman-to-man talk with him. He's never so much as glanced at a woman admiringly, and she refuses to fall into the narcissistic trap that any Ghoul would want a human just because they have all their skin. She may have all her skin, but that doesn't do much for her knobby knees, her perpetual awful farmer's tan, or the freckles that cover her face like a blanket.

So maybe she punches the asshole in the face a few times from frustration. And then knees him in the groin. And then spits on him as he rolls around in pain. She hadn't hurt him that bad, though she'll probably have to apologize to Doc Church for the wake-up call she knows he got.

Anyway, the point is, she just isn't in the mood to drink anymore, so she's come home. And she doesn't really want to explain to Charon why she had a sudden change of heart.

So she shuts the door as quietly as possible and toes her boots off in the corner. Dogmeat is snoozing in the corner, too far gone to give her away. She smiles at the way his paws twitch from whatever dream he's having. She contemplates cleaning the dirty dishes in the sink, but decides that's too much work after her traumatic experience and leaves them where they are.

Charon's door is closed. She'd half-expected him to be in the living area somewhere, but it's not unusual for him to retreat to his own space when he's wanting some privacy. Quiet as a mouse, she empties her pockets onto the kitchen counter and creeps upstairs, planning to slip into her room and catch up on some sleep. She can leave the door cracked so Charon knows she's home when he inevitably comes to search for her.

A strange noise stops her at the top of the stairs. It comes from behind Charon's closed door. She freezes and listens, because it sounded almost like a groan of pain to her, and she knows that if Charon's sick or injured, he'll hide it from her as long as possible so she can't mother him about it. She's caught him more than once attempting to tend his own injuries and botching the whole job.

The noise comes again, a soft groan followed by a rhythmic slapping sound that gets a bit faster as she listens. She's confused for a minute, but soon enough red blossoms on her cheeks as she realizes what she's listening to. The creaking of the bed cements it.

Charon is jerking off. And she's listening to it.

As gross as it is to be standing on the stairs, listening to someone masturbate, she can't move right away because the thought of Charon doing anything remotely sexual is completely alien to her. If you'd asked her what Charon does in his free time, masturbation would not have been on the list. He doesn't sneak off when they're out in the wasteland or ask for 'alone time'. He doesn't wink at cute girls in the bar or ask for separate rooms the few times they spring for a hotel room. Sure, he wakes up with morning wood occasionally, so she's aware that he's got working equipment (and hey, it's not like she's deliberating snuggling up to him when they share a bed, she just happens to get cold easily) but even then, when he goes to the bathroom after it's just to piss.

So really, she's just learning a little more about her companion. Nothing weird about that.

Not at all.

Charon groans again, and this time there's a word somewhere in the noise, though she can't tell what it is. The slapping gets louder, and she feels a sudden warmth in her abdomen that's horridly embarrassing. She is NOT getting turned on by listening to someone masturbate, not even someone that she's been mooning over for weeks now. It's enough to make her start creeping up the stairs again, resolving to slip into her room and shut the door and try her hardest to forget this ever happened.

The word is repeated two steps up, and this time she thinks she makes it out. It sounds like...

..her name.

The third time, it's completely clear. He's moaning her name, more frantic now by the sounds coming from the room, and she's been wrong this entire time about what Charon may or may not feel about her and now she doesn't feel at all embarrassed by the fire in between her legs. Charon wants her.

She's not wasting this opportunity.

She sneaks to his door without hesitation and, before she can lose her nerve, pushes it open. Still, it's more than she can do to cross the threshold, not until she's taken the scene in. All movement stops at the first squeak of the door.

Charon is lying on his bed, torso propped up with one arm. The other hovers above his shirtless abdomen, clearly snatched away from the angry red length protruding from his unzipped pants. His face betrays a little shock before he slams the lid down and forces it blank, but he doesn't move to sit or cover himself at all, just watches her like a wary animal as her eyes trace up and down his body. She doesn't let her eyes linger below the waist because it's making it hard for her to focus. Even just the fact that she'd managed to surprise him makes a little more warmth bloom in her chest, which is a really weird thing to get excited about but she doesn't have time to be embarassed by her weirdness right now.

“Was that my name?” she asks redundantly, because she needs to know. She has to make sure.

“...yes.” Charon says steadily, his calm only faltering a little bit. His honesty is impressive but unsurprising, not when she's been traveling with him for so long. She knows him inside and out. She takes a step forward and sees the way his muscles tense, his eyes plotting out escape routes and guessing at her next move. The atmosphere is horridly awkward, and she's not sure how to fix it, so she stops again.

“How long?” she murmurs then. He understands her meaning without elaboration.

“A while. ...few months.” he says uncomfortably. Finally, he moves, pulling a sheet over his exposed lower body, and hiding his lovely cock from her hungry eyes. It's been longer for him then her then. The thought is both surprising and a little arousing. She's always been a little slow on the uptake, but when she thinks about the way he watches her and realizes what his mind might have been doing while she was sweetly oblivious, her muscles clench with a sweet rush of pleasure.

That's all it takes to get her moving again. She strides up to the edge of his bed with no hesitation, careful to block any escape route by keeping her body firmly between his nightstand and the pack he's left at the foot of the bed. When he goes to sit up, her hand is there on his chest, blocking him, and she pushes him back. He slumps back down with a little grunt and then she's on him, legs on either side of his waist and hands framing his head. She leans down to catch his ruined lips with her own and waits patiently for him to respond.

He doesn't. In fact, he doesn't do anything at all. The lips below her own are rough and warm, just like she imagined, but they might as well be stone for all the reaction she gets. So she breaks the kiss and backs off, confused by his sudden lack of interest. Was she wrong?

Charon's face is uncharacteristically open. There's a little bit of shock there, enough to let her know that she's really surprised the shit out of him. Some suspicion too, which she tries not to take offense to. She knows he can tell she's not drunk, since she hasn't fallen on her face yet (not that she doesn't do that sober), but still, he's not giving in for some reason.

“Charon,” she says, “I want this. I've wanted this for a while.”

She lets her hand cup the side of his face and draw her thumb across the exposed muscle of his cheek, wondering if she's misread the signs. He doesn't react to the touch, still like a statue beneath her body. Some guys are pickier in real life than they are in fantasy, she knows, and she hopes with a selfish desperation that Charon's not one of them, because it's going to scar her forever if she has to do the walk of shame out of his room.

Charon catches her hand in his and draws it away from his face. She lets him, but the strength in his grip tells her that he would have forced her too, even if she fought it.

“You sure, smoothskin?” he growls up to her. “Because if you tell me now you are, there's no changing your mind later. I don't play easy.”

She reads the meaning behind the rough words, the way he covers his traces of uncertainty with callousness and distance. Charon's never been good at the soft stuff, but she's pulled too many bullets out of him to be confused by it now. So she leans down and presses her forehead to his, his breath a warm cloud against her face.

“As long as it's you, and me, and this, I don't fucking care.” she breathes. His icy blue eyes lock onto hers for a long moment, and then before she can react, he has one hand on her back and he flips their position with no effort at all. Her legs react instantly and lock around his hips, her head caged in by his long arms as he leans down. She's able to take one quick breath before his lips are pressed against hers. She whimpers as his body presses down in one smooth line, chest to hips, not resting all of his weight on her but enough to feel the largeness of the man above her. His half-hard cock is pressed into her thigh and his tongue is suddenly in her mouth, swirling around hers. He explores the flat planes of her teeth and the contours of her mouth like a man taking his first breath after nearly drowning. The experience is both overwhelming and just what she imagined. He draws her lower lip into his mouth and nips sharply, which makes her gasp and arch against him.

They've only touched a few times, just brushes in tight spaces and a few hurried medical procedures where survival was paramount to touch. Now, she can press her palms to the hard planes of his arms freely, feeling the roughness where his skin has ripped and the warm wire of his muscle. There's no hesitation or disgust in her fingers; she drinks him up like a fine wine as he tilts her head to the side and bites at her pulse. The feel of teeth makes her shudder underneath him.

He slides his hands under the bottom of her shirt and begins tugging it off. She helps him pull it over her head before he loses patience and rips the t-shirt into shreds, and then his hands are wrenching the straps of her bra down off her arms, baring her breasts to cool air. At the feel of his rough lips on one nipple, she keens, long and loud. When her hips buck up and her torso writhes against his mouth, he puts his hands on her shoulders and shoves her into the mattress. She feels the easy strength in his body as he holds her still and takes what he wants and it's more than a little hot.

He drags her out of her pants with little protest from her, panties following quickly behind, and she's naked except for the bra trapped around her waist. Charon moves his mouth to her other nipple and lifts his hips so he can slide one hand down her body. She gasps at the warmth of his hand between her legs, and then he is parting her lips with one finger and pressing deep inside, his finger crooked in just the right way. She squirms again, but another warning bite to her collarbone keeps her from pushing into to his hand in a quest for relief. She whimpers and scratches at his arms, but it brings a deep groan of pleasure from him instead of pain.

He opens her in sharp, swift movements; two fingers, three, and then he's practically fucking her on his massive digits as his erection grows against her leg. She wants to ask him to slow down, but she feels the wildness in his shoulders and the harshness in his breathing tells her he's already going as slow as he can. She wonders how long it's been since he last had someone underneath him. She's always been too afraid to ask, but she thinks it may have been a few decades, by the way he's rutting desperately at her leg as he struggles to prep her.

It's like being trapped under a wild animal, feeling the way he quivers under her fingertips and nearly loses control. He's a wire that's just about to snap. She loves it.

When she circles his erection with one hand and squeezes gently, he shudders against her body with a wild groan. He pushes his trousers down with one quick movement and kicks them off, so she can wrap one leg around him and squeeze. She pumps his length in her small hand, urging him to slide up her body and line himself up. He doesn't fight her, just props his body up on one elbow and removes her hand from him.

“Last chance to change your mind.” he says, his voice thick with desire, the head of his cock already nudging her in a way that makes her muscles seize. She can't think like this, feeling the way he's lined up and trembling with desire to piston forward. She nearly forgets that he even spoke.

“Would you stop if I told you to?” she asks, her own voice faulty and breathless. He looks her in the eye and lets one side of his mouth curl up in amusement.

“No.” he replies, just before his hips snap forward. Her breath catches and then she groans at the sharp pain that follows as he sinks in, but before she can catch up, his hip are already moving in a steady, relentless rhythm. It's too much, just this side of painful, but her hands grip his biceps and that grounds her against his bodily assault, and if he feels her nails digging in, he doesn't complain. Instead, he lifts his body up on his elbows so he can look down at where he's thrusting into her and lets out a low groan. The sight of it is intensely erotic, and though she knows there's no chance of her getting off this round with the rate he's going, she doesn't mind. The sweat on his face and the weight of his body on her is enough.

Before long, his rhythm gets erratic and his breathing intensifies on her neck. He thrusts twice more and then buries himself into her, sharp hipbones cutting into her thighs, and his teeth dig into the meat of her shoulder like he's trying to really take a chunk out of her. It fucking hurts, but the feeling of his cock twitching inside of her as she clenches distracts her away from the pain. He's not the only one it's been a long time for.

The throbbing in her clit reminds her that she should really make sure it's not quite as long until the next time.

When the aftershocks pass and he can finally move again, he pulls out quickly and collapses to the side of her in a boneless heap. His half-limp penis leaves a trail of slick between her thighs, but she feels no urge to clean up. She can't see his expression underneath his arm, but the crescent marks she's left on his skin make a thrill of something go through her.

“...sorry.” he says quietly to the ceiling. “I guess that wasn't very good for you.”

He goes to sit up on the bed, his eyes sliding over her without looking. There's a sudden change in the atmosphere, a tense feeling, and she knows by the way he's carefully not touching her that he's trying to give her another out, even let her pretend this never happened if that's what she wants, so she rolls over and into his side, trapping him on the bed. He could push her off, could stand up and walk out no matter what she tries to do, but instead he lets her sling one leg over his two and pillow her head on his shoulder. She traces his chest lightly, feeling the old leather of his skin against her callused fingers.

“Guess you'll have to make it up to me.” she says confidently, enjoying the ache between her thighs and the way he shifts uncomfortably as her slickness rubs off on his skin.

It's a gamble, but she wins. His mouth turns up at one side, just half a smile, and the arm under her head curls around her shoulder.

“Guess I will.” he murmurs. His large fingers brush an abused nipple, trail down her stomach, and nudge gently at the spot where she's pressed up against his thighs.

She smiles back and lifts her leg out of the way, closing her eyes. When she finds the strength to get out of bed and actually go somewhere, she's going to have a long talk with Nova about how right she was, but for now...

Well, she's got other things to focus on.

[kidotm]

"Testament"

Summary

"Ghoul meets girl, and all the problems that come with it."

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

F/M

Relationships:

CH x FOC

Stats:

Published: 2023-03-09 Completed: 2023-12-27 Words: 166,925 Chapters: 45/45

Nice to Meet You

   We are born in the Vault.

   Those metallic halls, ever so cold under the warmth of fingertips.

   We live in the Vault.

   No everlasting sky, no clouds of dust stirred by skin-flaying winds.

   We die in the Vault.

  No shit-stained, putrid-smelling, ethic-lacking, grotesque jumblefuck of a mess this world had become.

   Shitshitshitshitshit-

   And no fucking man-eating, monster-sized ants, either.

   The chittering bastards were clipping at her blistered heels (she never imagined socks could have become such a rare commodity) and their bone-breaking pincers nearly snagged the hem of her vault suit a few times. She bounded over rocks and ducked under fallen powerlines like an ersatz Olympic event, pounding her feet against the scorched earth with enough thundering bravado to make a stampeding herd of brahmin envious.

   An ant nipped the backside of her thigh, erupting a squeak from her mouth and a second gear in her legs she didn’t even know she had. The looming eyesore of Megaton came into view soon after, and the burning in her calf muscles told her it was do or die if she even merely thought of slowing down.

   A few gunshots rang out from the sniper’s nest- ol’ Stockholm provided her life-saving pest control.

   Again.

   Evelyn gasped as she finally slowed down at the gates, her hands on her knees and her heart threatening to be puked from her chest. Beads of sweat rolled from the tip of her forehead and down the curve of her nose to drip on her boots; dirt-streaked hair clung to her skin like thin snakes, the loose wisps winding around her throat and licking at her cheeks for a taste of salt.

   The groaning of rusted metal became her fanfare to usher her back inside. Evelyn raised a hand in kind as the sniper just shook his head at her naïve stupidity. With this track record, she was on a straight and narrow road to an early grave.

   Thanks Dad.

   After the gates had closed behind her, a few strands of hair were brushed from her nose (it tickled), and the creeping wedge of her soaked, sour-smelling vault suit was fished from the crack of her ass. She bumbled over the metal plumbing (nearly tripping) towards her new home in this wild atomic wasteland. It had only been a month since she had escaped with her life from Vault 101, a mere month since she had woken up to this never-ending nightmare of parental ghost hunting and day-to-day survival training. Not even all of the downloaded archives in the Vault’s system could have prepared her for this school of hard knocks.

   Thanks, Dad.

   She fumbled with the key in the lock before swinging the door open to a spartan Feng Shui setting. A knife-knicked table that wobbled under pressure, a chair with no backside, a locker that raped her ears every time the door was opened, and a (horrifyingly) stained mattress that she hadn’t bothered to lug up the stairs yet. Although, it was better than the musty, dank body odor seeping from the corners of the common house...so she had that going for her, at least.

   The Mister Handy by the name of Wadsworth hummed about its duties and tactfully bitched about her entrance after she simply stripped her filthy suit to the floor and splashed cold water on her sunburnt skin, dismissing its earlier hard work without even a breathed apology.

   Evelyn nabbed at a wastelander’s outfit, cringing at the texture of the stiff fabric itching like sandpaper along her salt-crusted skin. Dressed, hydrated from a bottle Wadsworth had condensed for her, and somewhat sated after stuffing slimy Cram down her throat, she curled into a ball on her bed (tried not to think about the mysterious bodily fluids she laid upon) and closed her eyes for an escape from it all.

   She dreamt of bright fluorescent lights.

   We are born in the dirt.

   We live in the shit.

   We die as God intended.  

   Alone.

   “How’d it go out there smoothskin?”

   Evelyn raised her eyes over the untouched drink set before her. It smelled like piss.

   “Just...peachy,” she mumbled, belting a loud sigh and spinning her beer bottle in a circle. She righted it before it toppled. “Almost made it to the Super Mart...but ants found me first.”

   The ghoul bartender working behind the counter gave her a half-hearted shrug while spinning a grimy rag inside a glass. “Hey, at least you came back in one piece...can’t say that for everyone.”

   A teasing smile quirked her lips, dampening her mean quip behind a flash of white teeth. “Such as yourself?”

   “I still got all my toes, smoothskin,” Gob rasped with a low chuckle. “Nice try.”

   His hazy eyes then took a quick peek down her vault suit, instinctively making her fingers tug the zipper up to her neck. He didn’t seem to notice the correlation as he went about his job with a damp cloth on the counter and a lighter mood from her company.

   Don’t make anything out of it, kid. Men like these would eye the backside of a brahmin if they knew they wouldn’t get caught doing it. Nova, the saloon’s only working girl, had imparted the sage advice (that only young women who were forced beyond their years would know) the third time she had come around. Every guy is going to stare at you like a piece of meat...just make sure he actually pays for a good cut, first. Sex sells, kid, and you got a nice face with huge tits.

   Evelyn inwardly shuddered at the thought. It was beyond uncomfortable going from the awkward sexual outcast in the Vault to suddenly catching the eyes of nearly every man she passed. She wasn’t stunning like Amata, whom the horny boys had begun to not-so-discreetly pine over, but the stares made her feel vulnerable. If she wasn’t prey outside the walls, then she was just a cornered mouse within them.

   “Ya goin’ to drink that kid, or just stare at it to empty itself?”

   And if she wasn’t busy being either of those things... then she was Moriarty’s new favorite torment.

   The Irish saloon owner (and general prick) leaned in close over the counter, wafting his thick breath down her throat. “If you’re goin’ to be a distraction to my barkeep, I suggest you fucking leave.” He then stood straight, a beaming grin smug on his face. “Alright, girly?”

   Evelyn shrugged herself off her barstool, throwing him a glare. “Sewage smells better than this crap.” She then stomped off and slammed the door behind herself before any nasty remarks could be thrown at her back.

   Still...the biting rudeness dissolved her tough exterior into a sniveling mess by the time she entered back inside her ‘house’. That old fuck was somehow crueler in five minutes than all of Butch’s harassment from the past five years.

   “Oh dear...trouble, Madam?” The floating robot inquired as she burst inside.

   She only threw Wadsworth a withering look, effectively silencing the robot into begrudging comments regarding her uncalled-for attitude. The time on her Pip-Boy read approximately two-thirty in the afternoon...plenty of daylight to test her suicidal tendencies once more.

   “I’m going out,” she informed him after shrugging on her dusty, sun-bleached tunnel snake jacket.

   Butch would have been so disappointed as to its condition...but meticulous care of frivolous things didn’t help in keeping her alive.

   Not much did, actually.

   “I hope to see you alive and well!” Wadsworth remarked cheerily after she stepped back out into the sun. She heard him mutter to himself lowly, “Or neither...perhaps.”

   The squealing metal gates then rolled shut behind her, Stockholm’s head shaking as she set off into the wastes once more.

   Shit-ohfuck-nononono-!

   Super-Duper Mart had been just on the horizon, and for the first time in weeks, her heart swelled with optimistic hope at the sight of possible food, water, and as the sun began to set, shelter.

   Too bad a batch of radscorpions had beaten her there first.

   Her boots kicked up dirt and her screams were lodged behind panicked gasps as she sprinted to relative safety. She wasn’t in a million years about to hightail it back in the dark- even her bar of common sense wasn’t that low- but the longer she fled the more attraction she unwittingly chased; a few mongrels, a molerat, hell, a fucking upright human-sized crab thing became her abomination parade. They all congregated in a nasty fashion of screeching choirs and blood spilt baptisms amongst each other, and by the time she had spared a glance behind herself, the mutated crustacean was happily nibbling on its three-course meal (and twirling a mongrel limb like some macabre baton).

   Evelyn took respite among the boarded-up houses she eventually bumbled into, grateful for a moment to catch her breath and puke spittle to the side.

   Too bad a group of super mutants had beaten her there, too.

   This then led to a brief chase- thank God they were so unbelievably slow- and here the cowardly field mouse came upon an abandoned train station, holing up in a small grocery shop on the corner and barricading herself inside.

   A box of Sugar Bombs was snatched from the top shelf and torn into with animalistic tendencies, a Nuka-Cola was popped and guzzled, and before she had a chance to check her map to see just how fucked her distance from home now was, she heard the tell-tale sound of a certain creature that made everything else in this hellscape seem like child’s play.

   Radroaches.

   The rotting doorframe was slammed open, a crystal clear audible shriek yowled out of her chest and into the nighttime air for all to hear, and just as she careened down some metro steps and tripped on her own foot, a weight of something broke her fall (and almost her face).

   No...not something.

   Someone.

   And by the sheer size, someone big.

   ...shit.

   Evelyn grunted, rubbing her sore nose while tears sprung from the corner of her eyes. She peered up a little too quickly, and coupled with the fact she was overheated from physical exertion, and that a tidal wave of stale cereal and fizzy soda were waging war inside of her stomach...well-

   As far as I can tell, you're a perfectly healthy 16-year-old girl, so, yes, you have to go to class to take your G.O.A.T exam.

   Splat!

   The vomit violently rushed up and splashed over their boots.

   Congratulations, looks like you’re going to be the Vault’s newest garbage burner.

   If anything could have taken her back to that day, she would have promptly grabbed it by the hand and dragged it off herself. Nothing, absolutely nothing was as equal to or rivaling this new embarrassing incident she created for herself (not even the time when she had accidentally walked in on Freddie Gomez and Christine Kendall doing the nasty in the lower level of the reactor). ((Yuck)). Still, she would witness it all a second time than be prepared to face the dire consequences of puking on somebody’s feet.

   Evelyn gagged at the smell of her own sick, wiped the backside of her hand across her mouth, and sluggishly raised her head to promptly apologize. The weight of the stare looking down at her from this ginormous fucking ghoul was so overbearing she felt her knees begin to buckle.

   “Oh-oh my God,” she managed to gasp. “I’m so fucking sorry-” A rancid burp escaped her lips, and before she could continue in her heartfelt tirade, she slapped a hand to her mouth and dashed past the chain link gate into the shrouding darkness of the metro tunnel.

   A faded sign for the women’s restroom made her veer a sharp right, but before she could even make it to the toilet for a decent spot to relieve the rest of her stomach contents, she ended up keeling over with her hands on her knees and screwed her eyes shut as she retched loudly enough to have it echo down the whole tunnel.

   Garbage burner.

   The acid burned her throat.

   I could’ve been happy doing that.

   The blur of tears blinded her vision.

   Who fucking cares, I would’ve been safe.

   Globs of drool hung from her lips like slimy spiderwebbing.

   Why couldn’t you just let me live my life, Dad?!

   After she wiped the mess from her lips a second time, she turned around to a solid brick wall of ghoulish muscle and palpable ire mere inches from herself. She knew she was being loud, but she should have at least heard someone that fucking big waltzing around. The surprise gave her a fright, and she squeaked and bumbled into her own slippery mess as an instinctive reaction to flee.

   She blinked in the dim lighting under the flickering fluorescents. It was too dark that she couldn’t quite make out the detail of him, but he was close enough that she could see he was visibly angry.

   Fair- she would’ve been pissed at the person who puked on her and ditched, too.

   “I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t mean anything by it,” she explained with building anxiety. The dude was just standing there, staring at her...as though he was ready to grab her by the skull and smash it into the tile. Oh God, if he was, she prayed it would be fucking quick-

   “Water,” he rasped.

    His voice was completely flat and void of all emotion, a complete contrast to the raging fire blazing behind his eyes. They glowed down at her like hollow furnaces, blue and piercing in the black shadow.

   She stared at him dumbly, too frightened (and mortified) to respond in a respectful manner. His boot crushed some small rocks as he took a step toward her, his voice low and gravelly.

   “Water,” he repeated.

   With her mouth still slightly slack-jawed, her fingers became their own entity as they fumbled inside her jacket pockets uselessly. She didn’t have jackshit on her.

   “Uh, uh-uh,” she stammered. “I don’t have any.”

   He leaned over, his hot breath choking her own. “Then go get some.”

   Holy fuck, he was huge. He could easily pick her up and toss her across the room. She glanced at the butt end of the shotgun holstered to his back, briefly scented the thick musk of his sweat and gunpowder laced to his leather clothes. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, and at that moment, she had managed to piss him off.

   “O-Okay.” She nodded stupidly, carefully bypassing him like one does a stalking predator to then sprint out of the women’s restroom.

   When she came to the chain link gate a second time, she paused for a moment. Water? Where the fuck was she going to get some...and why? She should just keep going, run as far as her remaining stamina would take her until she returned to the safety of Megaton’s walls. He wouldn’t follow her- she didn’t think- and she would hopefully never see him ever aga-

   An ominous presence stirred her from her thoughts, and she turned her head.

   The ghoul had somehow managed to sneak up on her again, uncrossing one arm from over his chest to wave it at her, the nonverbal message clear. Go. He then refolded it, and as he lowered his face to be partially concealed in darkness, his burning eyes told her another one. You better come back.

   Another head nod, and she now found herself standing just outside the open doorway of the grocery store that was the catalyst of this whole mess. Thankfully, the radroaches had taken their leave, and so she scurried around inside with the light of her Pip-Boy until she found a carton of dirty water. She would come back for the rest of the goodies after smoothing over her little(big)...misunderstanding.

   “Here.” She came back and held it out, forcing herself not to flinch as he took it from her hand. “Sorry it’s not purified; I hope that’s okay...”

   She then watched as he took a swig, and then dumped the remainder over his black boots to rinse off the vomit.

   Oh.

   “Hey, who the hell is this?”

   The unknown voice forced her to squint through the darkness around him, and the big ghoul slightly turned his head to address the question. She could make out another ghoul, no, two ghouls, both armed and noticeably skittish. The one wearing some cracked spectacles lifted a necrotic finger directly at her.

   “This isn’t part of our deal. What the hell is Ahzrukhal trying to pull? You trying to blow our whole operation?!”

   Evelyn wished she could have simply melted into radioactive goo to dissolve through the floor. This was all blowing way out of proportion- she was just trying to get to that stupid fucking Super-Duper Mart!

   The big guy halfway blocking her appearance cracked his neck with a sharp tilt to the side, and then ignored her existence entirely as he turned his back to her. Apparently, she wasn’t even considered to be a minor threat to have him expose himself as such. When he began to march towards them and she slowly (and unsuccessfully) tried to sneak back outside, the spectacled ghoul raised his voice so loudly it made her jump.

   “Whoa there smoothskin, where are you going? Get over here.” He then murmured something to his rifle-toting partner, both keeping sharp eyes on her timidly advancing form. “That’s right, nice and slow, don’t get all jumpy.” He briefly turned to the big guy. “You were just going to let her scram?”

   Evelyn felt incredibly small under all of their glowing stares as she halted within a reasonable distance.

   The red ghoul studied her for a moment with bored interest, a complete 180 from his previous smolder. “She is not with me.” For a second time, he turned away from her. “Let us continue.”

   “Yeah, hold on a second, you’ll get your chems.” The ghoul went to bypass around, but he was grabbed by the shoulder. Even from her spot, she could tell it wasn’t a friendly gesture by any means.

   “Now,” the big guy growled. He ignored the one with the gun aimed at him and spun the smaller one around. “Do not keep me waiting.”

   “Alright- alright. Barrett,” he addressed his partner, wincing as he felt the iron grip tighten, “bring her inside.”

   She stiffened as he came around from behind, bumping her with the barrel of his gun. “C’mon, and don’t try anything, smoothskin.”

   Oh my God, I’m going to get raped, or eaten, or-or-

   A million scenarios whirled around inside her noggin, resurging a new wave of cortisol and adrenaline through her nerve endings at the endless possibilities of how this shitty day was going to get exponentially shittier. She followed them down the tunnel, rounding through a service door that opened up to some sort of makeshift drug den. The ghoul addressed as Barrett forced her to stand in a corner, and she hugged her arms close to her chest while she quietly observed them with wide eyes.

   “Here.” A large duffel bag was set on one end of a table, followed by an equally impressive sack of caps on the other. She didn’t think it was possible to carry around that much money. “Nice doing business with you.”

   The red ghoul unzipped the bag for a peer inside at the wares, being methodical and taking his time as he inspected the stash.

   “Jesus, what? Ahzrukhal suddenly not liking his stock?” the ghoul noted with irritation.

   The big guy ignored him and went about his task as though everyone else in the room simply didn’t exist.

   Evelyn scooted herself as close to the wall as she could when the other two finally gave her their attention.

   “Alright smoothskin, you mind telling me who sent you?” the smallest of the three rasped.

   She furrowed her brows. “Sent me? Look, I was trying to get to the Super-Duper Mart and I...” here she trailed off lamely, feeling heat burning her cheeks, “got lost.”

   “What? Got lost? Where are you coming from?”

   “...Megaton.”

   “Megaton?” The ghoul blinked. “So, you came all the way out here, alone?”

   The implication made her snap her mouth shut before she could respond with something stupid.

   “No...I have friends,” she lied. She hugged herself just a little bit tighter as Barrett’s gaze awkwardly drifted downwards. “They’re waiting for me outside.”

   This seemed to agitate the ghoul even further. “So you did bring someone?!” He scoffed and went about in a craze around the room, beginning to pull items from shelves and place them in assorted bags. “I fucking knew it. We’re going to have to move, damnit.”

   “I won’t tell them you’re here!” she blurted at his unexpected panic. “I’m just trying to get back home. Just let me leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

   “Hah, nice try, smoothskin. I won’t be taken for a fool.” The ghoul tossed something across the room into a bin. “Barrett, go check outside for more of these friends. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”

   The room emptied of just one person, his footsteps swift and muttering peeved. The big guy was still assorting through his inventory...she had completely forgotten he was even in the room; he was so eerily quiet.

   “I’m not here to cause any trouble,” she started, but the ghoul who had quickly left just as quickly entered back inside.

   “She’s lying Murphy. We’re clear for miles around.”

   Murphy paused before shoving a Bunsen burner inside a pack, and instead, he came close to brandish it in her face. “This can go one of two ways, smoothskin, you either start telling just who-”

   A gloved palm landed on his shoulder and cleanly pushed him into some metal shelving. The big guy thrust a finger down at the table where he had set some canisters of jet to the side.

   “These are defective.” He then snapped his eyes at her, his whole aura extremely pissed off. “Get out.”

   Evelyn didn’t argue or question him- not even the other ghoul made a stand- and so she hastily dipped from the room, for once blessing the breath of the cold night air and drinking in its vast open sky.

What's in a Family?

   Being cooked alive wasn’t the first thing she had hoped to wake up to. Then again, sleeping in a dumpster overnight wasn’t exactly ideal in the first place.

   She had booked it for as far as she had dared, flashing her Pip-Boy light around erratically to give it a strobing effect. Creepy skittering and too-close-for-comfort howls made her dive headfirst into the first bin she could find. The freezing temperature, coupled with the echoing sounds of shotgun blasts in the distance, had made her sleep restless. It gave everything a surreal, loopy filter as she struggled to wake.

   She peeled her damp, scroungy hair from her sticky face and crawled out like some scraggly rat, relishing in the slight breeze that rolled on by giving a cool smooch to her throbbing forehead. The crick in her neck stabbed lightning down her spine every time she tried to turn her head fully.

   “Ow,” she muttered as she stretched in place.

   The recount of last night’s embarrassing fiasco made her inwardly cringe, and she almost considered just slinking back inside the dumpster with her fated garbage.

   They could then at least burn together.

   She nursed a warm soda to treat her skull-splitting headache, topped off her nonexistent appetite with some packaged Dandy Boy Apples, and then reached back inside her nest for the metal crate of supplies she had managed to squeak from that grocery store. The screen of her map showed the miserable distance she was forced to make for back home...and, surprisingly, was also the little marker Arefu that Lucy West girl had pinned for her.

   Evelyn raised her eyes- it was just over the ridge.

   Nestled inside her left breast pocket was the letter she had been entrusted with to give to Lucy’s folks (as she had no reason to ever take it out). Lucy did say her father would pay her to act as a courier for them...and caps were something she needed desperately, otherwise; she would soon be forced to sell Wadsworth for parts.

   The metal bin was adjusted uncomfortably against a hip, and she awkwardly began to meander towards the settlement with her goods banging around.

   A disembodied voice called out to her not even five minutes into her excursion. “You aiming to wake the entire Capital with that ruckus?”

   Evelyn whirled her head around to a scavenger waving a friendly gesture from beside a corrugated lean-to shed. She blinked and sheepishly shrugged. “Um. I’m...sorry?”

   Please don’t be a rapistmurdererpsychopath-

   The stranger took in her condition and gently shook his head. “You look like you woke up with the wrong side of a deathclaw.”

   A what?

   If names had anything to bear out in this wasteland, then she fucking hoped to God she would never be able to put a face to it.

   “Don’t worry about me none,” he continued, mistaking her visible fear for himself. “I’m a local trader that sells some odds and ends I happen to find.” He motioned with his chin at her box. “Want to make a deal?”

   She bit her lip and glanced down at her wares. Well. If he wanted her dead to loot her corpse, he wouldn’t bother asking...right?

   The entire exchange went more pleasantly than expected, until he jutted a half-tipped thumb over his shoulder to the murky waters just down below his shack.

   “Water’s a bit cold,” he said plainly after he refused her trade of a box of detergent.

   The insinuation made her face burn as bright as a cherry bomb, but she merely gave a meek thank you and doused herself in the frigid lake with her suit still on, scrubbing the stinging (and slightly acidic) soap into her skin till it tickled pink and felt raw. Trailing waterdrops dripped behind her like breadcrumbs as she trudged towards the crumbling overpass just down the road. A handful of caps would hopefully be some sort of consolation prize after everything she had endured in the past twenty-four hours...

   At the very least, it couldn’t be any worse than her puke fiasco.

   Slam!

   The wind from the door being banged shut breezed back her still-damp curls.

   “Oh my fucking God!” she shrieked, retching to the side with stomach-squelching sounds.

   No sooner had she opened the door to the West residence, than did the smell throw a double-fisted punch directly at her face. It was so thick and damp that it was almost palpable. She could taste it- a fuzzy carpet of rot.

   “Gaaaaaaaah!” She dry-heaved a few times before stomping away to gulp down some ‘fresh’ air. She didn’t have to go back inside to deduce what had happened- they were surely dead.

   First, it was scorpions at the mart. Then, it was making beautiful first impressions with a gigantic fucking angry ghoul. Now, it was playing messenger for some old coot whilst discovering her entire reason for even agreeing to help was already stiff.

   Fuck you, Dad.

   Evelyn relayed the status to Evan King, the self-proclaimed mayor of Arefu.

   “Was their son, Ian, among them?” he asked.

   “I don’t know, I didn’t exactly poke my nose inside more than I had to,” she slightly growled. The sun was beginning to climb, and with it, the sweltering heat and migraine-inducing buzzing over the sands. It did wonders to her temper. “...I think I saw two bodies.”

   Evan then proceeded to beg for her help in locating the boy...and her goodhearted, people-pleasing nature said sure, I’ll risk my life for one idiot who’s more than likely dead! She really wished she would harden her resolve and just say no...but it seemed dear old Dad had imparted more than just his abandonment on her.

   She covered her eyes from the sun and squinted at the reflection it gave on her Pip-Boy screen at the two possible locations Ian had been squirreled away to. Both were within a stone’s throw of Arefu, so she tried her luck with the outdoor cinema first. It was a bust, but she took her time in nabbing anything her sticky fingers could find. She placed them all inside a burlap sack the trader from earlier had given her, cramming all the cigarette cartons and toy cars together like some morally askew Santa.

   Trudging down the hill towards Hamilton’s hideaway proved to be a different story- a pack of molerats found her to be a delectable meal. While she didn’t have much of an issue clobbering a couple of the rodents into pulp, half a dozen of them proved too much for her splintered baseball bat alone. She didn’t have time to consider any other choice but barricade herself behind the chain link gate leading into the cavernous lair. The wrinkled oversized rats sniffled around the dirt for a way to follow as she disappeared deep into the mountainside, effectively trapping her within the darkness of this sketchy fucking place until she found another way out.

   She was going to die down here; she was certain of it. Someone was going to come along and find her mottled corpse like she had with Lucy’s parents. They were going to take a single whiff and grimace at the smell of her. If there was any sort of ironic karma in this world, then it was probably going to be the big guy crushing her skull under his boot and wiping the mess from his heel.

   The light from her Pip-Boy cast a sallow glow throughout the underground maze as she painstakingly crept around every corner and pilfered through every crate. Her bag was growing in size with assorted, mostly useless crap. Whatever. As long as it brought in some caps, then she didn’t care...but her aching shoulder muscles soon did.

   A resident radscorpion made her scream (nearly shit her suit) and busted her childhood baseball bat in half. She held up the fractured end of it, blinked twice, then chucked it at the little hissing fucker before slamming her boots along the catwalks in retreat. She turned a corner and tripped over the body of some unfortunate soul, cursing loudly as her goodies went tumbling about. The brief glimpse of a stinger aimed well and high for her face left little time to dawdle in gathering her senses or things, and so she scrambled to her feet and continued to run until she was sure she had lost the bastard.

   ...in which she was also now disoriented.

   Empty rooms full of random corpses belonging to raiders, roaches, and ruffians made for a graveyard of a maze for her to wander about. Stimpaks and caps were greedily stuffed in her jacket pockets till she was just about jingling a tune, luring her old friend back while she was hunched over busily rifling through a dead guy’s coat. Due to some quick thinking and cowardice display, she managed to trap it inside the room and secure the door, leaving her free to regather her dropped supplies...and find a sledgehammer that weighed nicely in her blistered hands.

   Hamilton's hideaway proved to be a dud as well.

   The molerats from earlier had disbanded, and so she returned to Arefu with the full intention of telling Evan King his presumptions were stupid and completely off the mark, but she instead gave a shake of her head (and was given one more possible location as thanks).

   The metro station. 

   The puke was right where she had left it...as were the ghouls, minus the big guy.

   Thank God.

   She prayed she would never see him again lest she die from straight embarrassment.

   “What the hell?! You again?” Murphy remarked after she shyly shuffled back inside their workspace.

   This time, she held up a hand in an amicable greeting and explained her endeavor. They simply stared at her before glancing back at each other, and without explaining himself, the ghoul led her around to a back room and pointed to a manhole cover glossed with glowing radioactive goop.

   “Have fun, smoothskin.” He eyed her bulging goods (in both senses), his apparent lack of shame knowing no bounds. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any Sugar Bombs, would you? It’d be unfortunate to lose them, you catch my drift?”

   She balked. “Why? What the fuck is down there?”

   “Mirelurks.”

   “Mire-what?”

   Now she had a name for those crab monsters...great. How the fuck was she supposed to get past that?!

   As she dumped her wares on the table to offload the sugary cereal, a landmine was picked up by Barrett and overturned in his hands.

   “You want those too? I don’t use them,” she offered.

   The ghoul gave her a thoughtful raise of his brow. “You should.”

   Barrett proved to be a genius. Laying some mines down and luring the shelled pricks made life a fucking mirelurk-cakewalk. She was so overjoyed watching them explode into softshell pieces that she was tempted to run back and gush of the success. The gloomy lenses of her world were suddenly wiped away, she was unstoppable-!

   A snap from a tripwire slapped the drunken happy smile off her face. The explosion nearly blew her off her feet.

   A plethora of clever traps almost laid claim to her life in multiple instances- it was sheer stupid luck she managed by with only a baseball to the shoulder from a pitching machine. A live landmine was defused, a rigged shotgun peppered holes a mere hairsbreadth from her leg...

   When it was all said and survived, she eventually found them, waving her letter for Ian like some holy scripture.

   The Family was fucking nuts.

   Evelyn pursed her lips, politely nodded, and was forced to listen to the inane bullshit spewed a dozen different ways from a handful of eager lips. She was more unpleasantly surprised than frightened at their teachings- weirdos- but she wasn’t about to argue with a bunch of gun-toting bloodsuckers to make her point. The letter was practically shoved in Ian’s face, her point-blank suggestion of using blood packs was accepted, and her backtrack to the lab was much more uneventful a second time around.

   The ghouls were visibly shocked at her miraculous return completely unscathed.

   “Find The Family?” Murphy rasped as she dusted off her knees.

   “I did, phewf!” She stuck her tongue out to wipe some dirt from it. "Not looking to go back, either."

   “Well, well, guess you’re more resourceful than you look, smoothskin.” He crossed his arms, seemingly in deliberate thought. “...you might be the kind of help I need around here. It’ll pay. Interested?”

   She wiped some snot from her chilled nose. It had been so cold in those tunnels! "What sort of help?"

   Another five days, another trip out into the wastes to gather Ahzrukhal’s laundry list of goods. The ghoul could walk these cracked asphalt roads blindfolded- it’d been years since he’d left the Capital Wasteland, and judging by the circumstances in which he was placed here, it looked like he wasn’t packing his bags anytime soon.

   He learned not to dwell on that notion a long time ago.

   Northwest Seneca Station was at his feet almost instantly- his mind tended to blank on the finer details of his routine trip when he wasn’t busy putting lead in something. Under his accumulation of years and experience, he had become a textbook example of walking destruction- a perfect means to an end for his employer’s tastes. It was all his life had become as of late, and he shut himself down in almost every way not to care.

   “Not going to bother checking it, this time?” the ghoul scientist quipped sarcastically when he merely shouldered the duffel bag of Ultrajet.

   Well...almost every part of him.

   Charon gave a heavy stare at his employer’s supplier. With an almost deliberate movement, he set the bag back down on the table with a loud bang, his glowing eyes silently challenging him to argue otherwise.

   “It was a joke...but alright,” Murphy muttered under his breath as he returned to his work.

   The red ghoul inspected the canisters and shook their contents for any tell-tale sign that the depressor was faulty. Charon honestly didn’t give two shits if they were or not- he was simply spiteful, and in an extra sour mood after a feral mongrel had somehow completely taken him by surprise and managed to nip him in the ass. He was sure to bear a few puncture-sized scars because of it. He half-mindedly listened to the blabbering on the side while his hands and eyes operated on autopilot.

   “...we really need those Sugar Bombs, that smoothskin better come through for us.” Charon felt their stares land on his person. “Or Ahzrukhal’s going to have to go back to dealing Jet again.”

   When he was finished conducting his business, he hefted the bag over one shoulder and left without so much as a glance back. The ghoul paused just outside the chain link gate, staring down at his feet where he had previously been defiled by that bizarre fucking smoothskin.

   She was lucky he hadn’t been in a foul temper that day, or there would’ve been a lot more than just half-digested cereal to be cleaned from his boots.

   He knew better. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and absent nose clean; the canisters from the previous visit had been without flaw...he just needed a reason. An excuse.

   He knew better.

   Evelyn felt a creeping chill slither down her spine that instinctively made her turn her head. There was nothing sinister stalking her- that she could see- and so she shuddered the nasty vibe from her shoulders and turned back around.

   She hadn’t attempted the Super-Duper Mart for another few days after the radscorpion high-speed chase. This time, she came somewhat prepared with her repaired sledgehammer (Moira had charged a pretty penny just for some spit, duct tape, and ‘wishful thinking’). Shooting a gun was out of the question- she was the world’s shittiest shot, and the 10mm handgun Amata had given her was still discarded at the bottom of her locker at home.

   The sweat-stained ballcap she wore was fiddled with at the brim while she studied the building from behind a boulder. It looked empty- the scorpions were long gone- but then a person stumbled out cackling manically to themselves before dropping in a stone-cold heap just outside the door.

   They were dead.

   Raiders...nope.

   She dusted her hands together and walked straight back home. Moira was just going to have to convince some other sorry sucker to help with her ‘research’. It wasn’t worth the risk of being beheaded and feasted on.

   She stripped to her skivvies in the sweltering heat and listened to Wadsworth’s exhaust blowing around upstairs as he ‘dusted’. She had virtually done nothing since The Family incident, and she was still left without a single clue as to where her father had run off to.

   Moriarty had offered a snap at some bait for a hundred caps, which she now had...lugging all that scavenged crap back for Moira to fawn over had been so worth the aching back muscles.

   I’m sorry...I thought your dad told you...

   Your father’s the reason for all this!

   Oh my God...you actually opened it...

   She closed her eyes, fiddling with the knobs of her Pip-Boy to replay the voice of her father from the only note he had left behind; his warm, gentle tone filled her otherwise resentful heart.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   A flick of the switch. Rewind.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   Rewind, repeat.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   She curled into a small ball, remembering her first night in this empty house, how she clung to his ghost as though it were an actual visitor to stave off her loneliness. She had been so desperate for that safety net that she had begun to make herself available to anyone with a problem; anything for a chance to have a friend in this big, scary world.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   Evelyn held up her clean suit (fresh from the sink) and snagged a bottle of purified water to deepthroat as she assembled her gear. The hemming was fraying, there were permanent stains marring the golden numbers, and a few grotesquely sewn tears were beginning to threaten a free peepshow of her ass. The leather reinforcements Moira had equipped her with were in dire need of oiling and stitches, neither of which she had the general knowledge to.

   “I’m heading out!” she called up to the floating robot. She swore she heard him mutter and please don’t come back.

   Gob was on her ass faster than a bloatfly on shit, already reaching under the table for her usual before her butt could even warm the seat. She observed him while he popped off the cap, and for once, she didn’t bother reminding herself that it was rude to stare.

   He had indubitably frightened her during their first encounter, but it wasn’t so much as being scared, rather, it was the complete unknown of it all. People like him existed (and so did vampires, now, too). It was something out of a horror holovid or science-fiction comic book, and the fact that he wasn’t the only thing to have changed in this horrid landscape made future ventures a stomach-flopping thought. He was the first ghoul she had met, and before the previous days’ events, the only one she had known.

   “Like the view?” he jested. “I charge extra.”

   She slid the bottle to herself and took a discreet whiff. He winked at her.

   “Set aside the good kind this time,” he rasped in a hushed tone out of earshot from Moriarty.

   A swig of foamy hops raced down her gullet, and she ran her tongue over her teeth. “Does it hurt?”

   “What?”

   She lamely waved the tip of her bottle at him in apology, now feeling incredibly silly. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

   “Nah...don’t bother me none.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “It did when it...changed, but not anymore.”

   “Huh.” She tipped her bottle back, noticing the unblinking stare he was giving her in return, except it was more...predatory. She gulped both her beer and nerves. She liked Gob, just, strictly as a mutual gabber. With the way he was eyeing her now, she could clearly translate his end as desiring something else.

   It was as Nova had said- he was sweet...and she wanted to keep it at that.

   The Irish arsehole rounded by them, and for the first (and only) time, she was grateful for his interference.

   “You find your dad yet, kid?” he asked with a condescending drawl. “It’s a mighty big wasteland out there...if you’re ready to cough up the caps, I might just point you in the right direction.”

   Goodbye...I love you.   Evelyn interrupted his shite talk with the bundle of currency she was ready to part from. “Spill.”

[kidotm]

The Incompetent Tourist

   Bap bap bap

   “No, come on, come on!”

    BAP BAP BAP

   The Pip-Boy screen flickered, emitted a high-pitch whine, and then went black.

  

  Evelyn panicked, smacking the thing into oblivion as she gasped in sheer terror. “Holy fuck, oh no no-nonononononono!”

   This is not happening now no way oh fucking shit-

   She was so engrossed in her impromptu service repair (or disrepair, more appropriately) that she failed to hear the sound of footsteps clambering down the metal walkway. A raider was just about to snag at the collar of her jacket when she finally turned around at the smell of something grossly unpleasant.

   “C’mere, bitch!”

   Evelyn screamed in alarm, reflexively smacking her broken wrist computer upside the man’s skull. He stumbled back from the blow with a curse, and she took the opportunity to flee.

“You get back here!”

   Shouts echoed down the corridors as she full-on sprinted past the bewildered cannibals and sleeping molerats. Everyone caught a glimpse of the golden-blue human-sized blur galloping at Mach speed right past them, evading outstretched grimy fingertips and barely dodging screeching bullet fire.

   A chain link gate was thrown open, and not for the first time, she blessed the sight of the open sky. She took the metro steps two at a time to the top, wheezing at the burn in her legs and the hitch in her lungs. She didn’t have the luxury to stop and catch her breath, however, for a misconducted symphony with death as its composer was playing everywhere on the surface streets.

   “Oh my God,” she shakily breathed as she took in the sight of the chaos whizzing all around her.

   Super mutants galore firing away at chem-induced crackheads along with some sort of militant type of guys were having an all-for-one deathmatch. Grenades showered concrete dust and slimy gore along the side of buildings; a few lifeless bodies of both species were floating in the green stagnate water of the canal.

   Just as she wrapped her fingers through the mesh of the metro gate did she hear the cries of those from earlier still giving chase. She was going to either risk being caught by raiders in the dark tunnels of the underground, or have her limbs blown off by entering the fray.

   She chose a third option- to hide.

   There wasn’t much in terms of cover. Super mutants were stationed on high ground in the skeleton remains of buildings, the wooden planks used as makeshift walkways sprinkling dirt down as they shook from their relentless stomping. She nearly suffocated herself from smothering her arm to her face to quiet her coughing after inhaling on the dust; she kept low and constantly whirled around like a rat, eyes wide with fear and muscles tensed to spring.

   A dumpster to her right blew up from a stray missile, slamming her into a brick wall. Her ears were ringing- she couldn’t hear! She couldn’t see!

   Oh no, I’m dead, I’m fucking dead- Dad-!

   All at once, it came back, the black smoke whirling away with the cold wind as the music of destruction began to sing once more. Gunfire peppered around; screeches ricocheted for all to hear. She watched a super mutant grab a raider clean off her feet, and then rip the woman in half.

   Her feet pounded against the blacktop of the streets, fuck this-fuck this!

   One of the green giants spotted her and gnashed its teeth together as it began to barrel towards her- she screamed, earning the attention of more. Her footing slipped as she skidded around the side of a building, her heart being sobbed out as she heard them grunting right behind her. Another metro gate was just up ahead- she would take the raiders over the mutants any fucking day.

   Unfortunately, no one had told her about the ferals.

   At first, she had been more than fucking relieved at knocking into someone down in these dark, damp, radroach-infested subway tunnels- she was too stupid and wired on adrenaline to even bother questioning as to why they would be living down here in these conditions.

   The feral ghoul went sprawling on the ground after being tackled in the side like a headbutt from a brahmin. Evelyn immediately sprang to her feet, reaching out to assist them and panting every other word.

   “Oh my God, I am so-so-so sorry-!” Her mouth began to race a mile a minute, her eyes glancing over her shoulder for any sign they would follow her down here. So far, it was just herself and the ghoul. “I don’t know where-”

   The feral hissed, silencing her words into stupefied surprise, and she instinctively snapped her helping hand back to her side as the ghoul made a lunge for her. It was then that the smell kicked her so hard in the nose that tears sprung from her eyes, and as she was laid out flat on her back (with the sledgehammer digging into her spine) she realized this person didn’t have any clothes.

   “What the fuck?! Get off me!” she shrieked, batting her hands at their face as they snarled and drooled thick ropes of saliva on her throat. She brought a kneecap up, and she could hear the silently collective groans from every nutsack around the world as she smashed the flaccid tidbits into flattened pancakes.

   The feral curled into itself as it was shoved over to the side, and without even bothering to question this pervert streaker, she hightailed it towards the other end of the metro to where she could make out the faint light of day.

   Galaxy News Radio better be fucking close, or she was just going to dig her own fucking grave at this point.

   The Brotherhood Knight didn’t take his eyes off the sight before him to address his superior coming up from behind.

   “What is it, Earl? Mutants taking a piss on the Memorial again?” The Paladin briefly paused beside his subordinate, both taking in the sight of a young woman flailing a sledgehammer around like a wild fiend at a few stray mutts. “...who the hell is that? A civilian?”

   Earl would have shrugged if he wasn’t clad from head to toe in power armor. “She just came from the Mall Northwest station like a cazador out of hell...” Their helmets slowly swiveled in motion with her erratic movements. She had lifted the sledgehammer high above her head, the weight of the tip suddenly careening her backward. An ugly squawk left her mouth as she was forced to plop down on her ass.

   The Paladin gave a filtered sigh through the internal mic in his helmet. “Go help her out.”

   The Brotherhood Knight did as ordered, effectively reducing the mutts into bright ash just as they were gnawing on her boots. “Hey, civilians shouldn’t be this far into D.C. You alright?”

   Evelyn raised her head, blowing a strand of hair from her face and reaching for her discarded ballcap that blew off to the side. She blinked at this enormous stature of armor standing before her like some white knight from a fairytale. “Uh, uh, yes. Thank you.” She got to her feet, checking herself for any injury. Some scratches, bruises, and bumps, but nothing she couldn’t treat herself. Her dirt-stained hands wiped at her knees and shook out her jacket. “Uh, Galaxy News?”

   Earl cocked his helmet to the side. “GNR? What about it?”

   “Is...” She meekly looked around now that she had a proper chance to survey the landscape. “Am I close?” The arm of her Pip-Boy was held up like it was the sole reason for this entire happenstance. “It broke awhile ago.”

   The Brotherhood Knight didn’t say anything for a few moments, and she squirmed under his invisible stare.

   “You’re at the Mall.”

   She furrowed her brows, not understanding.

   Earl repeated himself slowly, as though giving his words time to sink in. “The Mall.” He shouldered his rifle to point across the way. “Galaxy News is to the North.” He eyed her, now noticing the vault suit. “Why are you trying to get there? D.C. is crawling with muties.”

   Her entire face had been slowly melting into utter heartbreak with every syllable he spoke, and by the end, she was brusquely wiping her teary eyes and snuffing snot back up her head.

   Earl felt his chest tighten- it was disheartening to watch a pretty face like hers stand there and cry. “Look,” he tried again with a gentle tone. He reached out and took ahold of her shoulder as though she was made of glass. “Why don’t you tell me your name.”

   “Evelyn,” she sobbed.

   “Okay, Evelyn.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s going to get dark soon, and you don’t want to be out in the ruins when night falls. Where are you coming from?”

   She smeared some goop across her chin. “M-Megaton.”

   “Megaton...” He peered over his shoulder- his superior was waving at him to return to his post. “Alright, look, if you stay out here, there’s no guarantee we can keep you safe. You got mutants on one end, and then some slavers on the other to complete this shit sandwich. That isn’t even to mention the Talon jerks that sometimes roam around. We’re about cornered just every which way around here.”

   Evelyn hiccupped, wishing more than anything that she had never left her bed that morning. “Then where the fuck am I supposed to go?!”

   “...you ever heard of a place called Underworld?”

   How the fuck did it all come to this?

   It was completely full circle- the dirt, the grass, the deer, death, the dirt, the grass. She couldn’t believe her fucking luck, or, with this day’s series of most unfortunate events, maybe she could.

   She should have stayed in bed.

   There wouldn’t be the throbbing headache from the crash of adrenaline she was trying to remedy with cola and a splash of whiskey. No sensation that her blistered, sore feet were walking barefoot over Hell’s bed of brimstone and coals. The slobber and teeth marks on her boots from those wild dogs would be nonexistent.

   There was no telling just how this day could get any worse.

   Evelyn glanced around the mostly empty room from her spot, treating her ass on this barstool as though it were a life preserver out at sea.

   Gob had told her some stories of this rumored city when she had first crawled out from the earth, had said there was a whole town of just ghouls; a colony of finely, radiated souls. Her shining metal savior had pointed down the way and she had blindly taken his word for it. She barely remembered what the snippy sentry or wiseass mechanic had even said to her upon admittance- her eyelids were so heavy she could barely keep her head off the counter.

   She should have gotten a bed rather than a drink, but the comfort of a cool glass sounded like Heaven itself blessing this unholy shithole.

   The barkeep sidled on over- she hadn’t even bothered to ask for his name yet.

   “If you would prefer, I have some, private quarters, that you may retire in for the night.” His voice pricked pins and needles under her skin, as though a slimy oil coated his tongue and kept being regurgitated in the back of his throat. Nasty.

   The offer was attempted as a comforting purr, but it only made her cringe away from the mottled green hand gently resting atop her own.

   “Um, no thank you,” she said thickly, rubbing at the bags under her eyes. Didn’t the ghoul downstairs say there was-

   The double doors at her back creaked open on their rusted hinges.

   “Ah, Charon,” the bartender rasped with some interest. Almost instantly, his expression and mannerism went from sleazy charmer to pure annoyance. “You’re late. You were due back yesterday.”

   Evelyn turned with her glass held to her lips, but when she met the eyes of the ghoul standing beside her, she felt her blood slush into ice. The entire cocktail dribbled down her chin to soak her chest. She barely took notice. A sizeable military-grade duffel bag was slammed on the counter beside her, the big ghoul she had made great first impressions with staring down at her with hateful reproach.

   This bar was the dirt, her drink had become the grass, and here she was, a fair doe, looking up into the face of death.

   In their previous encounter, she had only been able to make out the eyes. They had glowed, just like any other ghoul, but they were bright. Two eternal fires, raging inside their prisons of mere flesh and bone, captive from laying anything before them to pure, hot ash.

   The creak of his leather, the hint of gun oil, the dark blood painted across his muscled canvas. A warrior from another time, another soil, rekindled in the body of a new man. Here he stood, as proud and ominous as a trireme sailing through a storm. This ghoul portrayed nothing but the simple message of I can kill you.

   And she didn’t misinterpret a single word of it.

   She had been gaping at him like a fish struggling to breathe; eyes boggling from her skull from the overwhelming pressure of being brought to the surface too quickly. She had been reeled up from the black waters by a solid wire, tugged on by a single finger till she writhed and burned under that unforgiving sun.

   The bartender beside her kept speaking- she had tuned him out completely in fear if she were to look away, the ghoul glaring down at her would sink a knife into her gut.

   “Wha-what?” Evelyn finally tore her eyes from his, instinct begging her to move away from this apex predator. Her foot twitched.

   He was staring at her with a deep frown, but it wasn’t one of concern. “It appears you have spilled your drink; would you care for another?”

   She looked down, now realizing her frontside was soaked and becoming sticky. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. She stupidly wiped at it with her hand, still trying to process the situation through her fog-clouded mind. Everything was taking that dreamy quality, a thick velvet blanket pulled over her eyes.

   “Sorry,” she mumbled, staggering from her seat as she made for the door. She didn’t bother looking behind her to their hawk-like stares following until she was gone from sight.

   The boring eyes of the multitude of ghouls preying on her like owls would a mouse made her feet quicken and hands sloppy. The doors across from the bar were opened with a half-stumble inside, and she gave a weary look to the ghoul (woman?) standing behind the counter.

   “Oh, oh my,” she garbled as Evelyn wobbled through. “I’m guessing you’re the smoothskin Winthrop was talking about...”

   Evelyn flopped her bag at her side and brusquely tried to rub the exhaustion from her face. “Is there somewhere I can lie down?” she asked in a heavy voice. Things were beginning to make little sense, she needed sleep, and now.

   “Of course, 120 caps.” The hostess gave a blink at the bag of currency plopped before her. “Um, it, it will only take me a moment to count-”

   “The morning it’ll be,” Evelyn drawled like a drunken sailor.

   There was little to remember but the sigh of her mattress, the snug pull of sheets, and the fact that despite the ever-growing darkness fading the world from her eyes, she thought to herself, ew, I never took my boots off.

   The mornings were always a bit different. Even though she had spent weeks on the surface, every time she opened her eyes to her head on a pillow, for one very brief second, she believed she was in the Vault.

   The bare floor would be cold under her feet, making her hop and skip to the bathroom to stand under that delicious spray of never-ending hot water. A clean suit and a pair of buffed boots to adorn, a plate of previously cooked breakfast lying in wait on the table, covered from the chill of the room and sprinkled with the usual note- Good morning, I’m off to the clinic. I love you.

   The illusion would normally dissipate with a giant kick behind her eyes, but this time, it was relayed by a necrotic face hovering inches from her own.

   “You still alive, smoothskin?”

   Evelyn rapidly blinked, and then thrust her head back from the stench (God knows how long) of unbrushed teeth and a light misting of spittle on her cheek.

   “Yeah, she’s up,” the ghoul woman before her observed with a snip. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You going to pay for a second night, smoothskin? I’ve got work to do.”

   “Greta!” The other one from the night before came around the side, a slight dip in her walk from walking on a busted heel in her shoe. “Shame on you! Look at the poor dear, give her a hand, will you?”

   Greta rolled her eyes- although subtly- and scoffed. “Sure.” When the other woman had given a nod of approval and walked away, she leaned forward slightly to hiss in her ear, “You stay away from Carol, smoothskin, I’ve got my eye on you.” She straightened herself upright and attempted to flatten some permanent wrinkles from her dress. “Now, you going to eat something? The stew just stopped moving.”

   Before Evelyn could protest, her stomach gave a growling rumble of an answer. She lightly shrugged her shoulders.

   Greta gave a terse nod of her head to the side. “Come on, then, I have other customers to tend to, you know.”

   Evelyn was soon seated and staring down at a chipped plate serving something...indescribable. A few black bubbles blew and popped, wafting a sour stench to her nose. She felt the eyes of the ghoul who had served it unblinking at her face.

   “Well? Not to your flavor, smoothskin?” she asked caustically.

   A fork with missing tines was picked up, and she carefully peeled off a tiny piece of the tarry goo to then politely place on her tongue. She chewed, stopped, and looked back at the ghoul with a forced smile.

   “Thank you,” her voice shook.

   Greta nodded in satisfaction, turning away to resume her duties over the stove. “Just let me know when you want seconds.”

   As soon as she was out of sight, Evelyn spat it back on her plate before her entire empty stomach could remove it first. She scraped at her tongue with her grubby fingertips until another ghoul in a tattered suit came around the side.

   He thoroughly eyed her for a few moments, causing her to bristle under the scrutiny.

   “You don’t look like much,” he grunted.

   “I can easily say the same,” Evelyn snapped without even thinking. She forced the plate across the table and reached inside her bag for a bruised mutfruit. The creeping smell from inside her suit made her grimace, although, it was somewhat hard to tell if it was even hers.

   When the ghoul didn’t leave, she gave him a hard stare.

   “I’m sorry, but can I help you?” she asked with a hint of aggravation.

   “Depends, smoothskin,” he replied, adjusting his tie to lie flat against his throat. “I’m looking for someone to take on a job.”

   She waved a hand in disinterest. Any other occasion, and she would have been forced to obey her good nature, but at that moment she was utterly grotesque, famished...and somewhat strangely horny. A shower, some real food, and maybe a courtesy at some privacy, and she was sure she would then listen to this ghoul’s request. She did for just about everyone else.

   “Not interested, thank you,” she said civilly.

   “Don’t know why I even bother with your kind,” he muttered sourly, not apologizing for the insult as he stalked on past.

   The ghoul hostess that gave her the accommodations came back with a nervous smile showcasing missing teeth and a sack of caps in her hands. Evelyn nearly choked on her breakfast at the realization she had left her entire stash with this woman overnight.

   “Don’t worry, dearie, I didn’t take more than you owed,” she rasped gently as she handed it back. “You were in quite a way last night. Are you feeling better?”

   Evelyn looked up at this woman, the sincerity in her voice almost making her cry. Whoever she was, she was now ranked in her top three of people she would do anything for.

   “I am, thank you.” She genuinely smiled.

   “Oh, my, you are such a pretty young thing.” The woman laughed; the wet sound akin to someone choking. “I’m Carol, and you’ve already met my Greta.” She waved a hand in the air to the ghoul standing beside the stove...staring at her. “Welcome to Carol’s Place, well, my place. I do hope you enjoy your stay...we don’t get too many smoothskins, down here. Try not to mind all the staring, it’s been some years.”

   Evelyn nodded, wiping at the juices running from the corners of her lips with her fingers and then sucking them greedily. Her eyes then unfocused, and she remembered the entire scene from the bar like some rewound sitcom holovid. She gulped, and her cheeks grew hot.

   “You’re not ill, are you?” Carol asked with concern as she mistook the bright red of her face for something else. “Doctor Barrows downstairs is good with humans- I think you should go see him when you can.”

   Evelyn ignored the suggestion, and instead, finally looked around the room for the first time upon waking. “Is, is there anywhere I can, um, shower, or something?”

   It wasn’t a shower, it wasn’t even hot...but it was water, albeit, radiated, but cool, clean water, nonetheless. The working taps in the bathroom by the entrance to the Museum of History provided some private, reflective time to herself as she scrubbed her bare skin while her suit and garments were soaking in suds. She reflexively went to check her rad count on her Pip-Boy...and then remembered her entire dilemma.

   She was stuck in the downtown of the D.C. ruins, in a ghoul city, with no map or know-how of how to get back home. Forget Galaxy News Radio, forget Dad, she was fucking stuck here till who knows how long!

   When her skin tingled and her hair was washed, braided, and tucked under her maroon baseball cap, she left her suit to dry over a bathroom stall while she inventoried her things in her bag and considered her amount of caps. She had enough for a couple of nights, she was sure...but then what? Go back out there? She would be smeared as paste on the pavement quicker than her dad suddenly upending her life and walking away from it all.

   She hugged herself and shivered in her damp underwear as she inspected the Pip-Boy for its possible cause of malfunction. She had a knack for tinkering with things, but she lacked the skill in fixing them. The bomb in Megaton was only disarmed due to having read about it prior- there wasn’t a whole lot of unrestricted material to devour down in the Vault, and so she took what she could sink her teeth into to suck the marrow clean from the bone.

   But this was a whole new city, and these were ghouls, some probably Pre-War...someone around here might know something.

Gainful Employment

   As awkward as it felt, she did try to ignore the staring as she shyly began to retreat back to the safety of her spot in Carol’s Place. The creeping blush along her neck forced her to duck her head to avoid the multitude of eyes and raspy whispering about her person. As unintentional as it was, she had become the spotlight in this isolated city.

   “You look lost, smoothskin,” the ghoul mechanic- Winthrop?- stopped her before she could ascend the stairs. “Needing something?”

   She tucked a curl that had fought for its freedom back behind her ear. “My Pip-Boy’s broken...I need someone that can fix it.”

   “May I?”

   She unstrapped it, handing it over for his scarred hands to gently take hold of. The intimate sight of him tending to it so delicately formed a weird, tight ball in her belly.

   He gave a whistle of appreciation, turning it over and testing a few knobs. “Haven’t seen one of these in a long time...looks like the backlight for the screen is out. Should be an easy fix.” He then raised his brow at her hopeful smile. “For some caps, of course.”

   Damn. She nodded earnestly anyway. “Thank you. It’s very appreciated.”

   “You’re too damn polite, smoothskin...not everyone deserves it,” he chuckled. He motioned for her to follow him to another room that she hadn’t taken notice of before. She practically hovered by his side amongst the sea of strangers lest she be carried out with the tide. “Let’s see if Tulip has what we’re looking for...”

   Evelyn then had to endure a twenty-minute exhibition from the shopkeeper about the entire history of Underworld, and was nearly dragged by the arm around the store being shown weapons and items she had no interest in (or enough caps) to buy. While she and Winthrop discussed the part in question, Evelyn stood over to the side and pored over a book the woman had given her.

   She had her nose buried so deep in the pages that she failed to notice the lettering becoming fainter due to lack of lighting. It was then that she realized the chattering at the counter had also paused. She looked up.

   The big guy himself was looming over her, erupting a squeak from her lips. She had been actively avoiding him ever so cautiously, and it seemed she was about to pay the consequences for it. A quick, desperate glance at the other two in the room for some help proved futile. They were simply staring at him, just as terrified of the large ghoul as she was.

   Evelyn lowered the book to her side, took a deep breath, and gave a timid smile. Was he still upset with her from before?

   “I really am sorry for what happened,” she began.

   The ghoul’s face went from completely stoic to now positively annoyed. With a terse sigh through his nostrils, his gloved palms wrapped around her shoulders with a tight grip (that could easily crush her), and he simply lifted her off the ground to move her a few feet to the side. He was neither gentle nor apologetic, and he dropped her as though she were some contagious leper.

   Evelyn blinked, dumbly watching as he then collected a few boxes of ammo from the shelves that she had previously been blocking access to. He tossed a bag of caps on the counter, and then left.

   “You’re lucky, smoothskin,” Winthrop rasped, turning her head back to him. “Some of the others...haven’t been.”

   “What does that mean?” she questioned, now looking out the way he had gone. “Who is he? What’s his deal?”

   “That’s Charon,” Tulip chimed in, giving her a weird look. “He works for Ahzrukhal, the bar owner upstairs. It’s best to avoid him.”

   Oh believe me, I’m trying. Evelyn then kissed a hefty portion of her caps goodbye as her Pip-Boy was taken away to be repaired.

   She was going to need a job.

   “Whoa!” Patchwork belched in his face, his entire body going limp under his iron grip. “Izzz that anee way to-bleh-treat a cusssstomer?”

   “Come back with the caps.” Ahzrukhal snapped his fingers, his face less than humored. “Get him out.”

   Charon directly obeyed, dragging the town drunk by the nape of his stitched burlap shirt. He threw the door open, perhaps a little too forcefully, for the trim cracked in its casing as it was banged into the wall. With a simple toss, he pitched the ghoul towards the flight of stairs, watching for a split second as Patchwork began to tumble all the way down, barely missing Cerberus.

   A presence at his side made him snap his head around- the smoothskin had been standing there, observing the manner in which he treated unwanted guests. Her bright blue eyes went wide when they met his own, and without a second thought, he tightened his grip on the doorframe and slammed it shut.

   With his arms across his chest, one leg propped up, and his back leaned against the peeling wallpaper, he returned to his designated position in the far corner where the lights never seemed to reach, and where no one ever came to bother him. He preferred it that way, as did everyone else.

   Charon was good at hurting things, very good, and no one in Underworld needed reminding of it.

   The door slowly widened; his eyes were drawn to the motion like a stalking yao guai. The smoothskin came inside, apparently not taking his passive-aggressive hint to leave well enough alone. She attracted more than his own gaze; most young pretty women would. She came to the counter, and his employer didn’t bother to hide his perverted stare from groping her body. Charon couldn’t hear the conversation over the coo of the radio, but when they both turned to look at him, he felt a tightening spring under his muscles.

   “Charon.” Ahzrukhal crooked his finger to beckon him over. Like a dog. “Come here.”

   The ghoul lowered his arms to his sides and took a few steps till he was beside the counter. He felt the smoothskin slightly lean away from him. He didn’t say anything. He never had to. His employer liked the sound of his own voice.

   “You’re going to do a special job for me, do you understand?” Ahzrukhal rasped, a hideous smile curling on his face.

   Charon gave a single nod of his head.

   “Good. Good.” He motioned to the smoothskin still standing in her spot quietly. “Charon, meet Evelyn. Evelyn, meet...Charon. He’s going to take very good care of you.”

   This was the furthest thing she had from her mind.

   She had simply enquired about some work. The ghoul lingering in Carol’s Place had asked her to off some ‘bigoted’ smoothskins...something about the entire conversation felt forced and weird. She passed, coming back around to the bar- she wasn’t desperate, per se, but the pond wasn’t too big to fish in.

   Ahzrukhal (if that wasn’t a fucking mouthful to say) had seemed most...eager...for her help. The job was simple: she was to meet with an associate of his and somehow persuade him to part with some high-shelf merchandise to then bring back for him to sell. The only issue? It was back the way she had come.

   “I’m looking to stay local,” she had stated, firmly. “If I could clear out of the ruins myself, I would’ve left by now.”

   “Oh, but that won’t be a problem, smoothskin.”

   Now she was fumbling with her shit, trying to steady the shaking of her hands under the microscopic gaze of this ghoul that she didn’t want to be within twenty feet of. He said nothing, however, as he stood there watching, waiting...seething.

   “Okay,” she huffed as she strapped the bag over one shoulder, adjusting the strap to her sledgehammer so it didn’t squish her boobs so tightly. “I’m ready.”

   He gave her a once-over; it was as though he was witnessing the most pathetic thing he had ever seen in his entire existence. It deflated whatever sort of little self-esteem she had clung to. Without a word, he spun around on his heel and began to walk off without her, not even turning his head to ensure she was following.

   She kept her distance, eyeing the way he parted those from his path without even meaning to. He was somehow more imposing from behind than he was facing her- his broad shoulders and deep, grooving muscles rippled under the leather of his jacket with every step he took, his abnormally long stride leaving her well behind in the dust.

   “Hey, smoothskin!”

   She turned around to the sight of Winthrop giving a little half-jog to intercept her before she made her way out the door. He held up her Pip-Boy, bestowing it back with a grin.

   “Told you it was an easy fix,” he rasped.

   A knob was flicked, and the screen buzzed that beautiful, emerald glow that made her heart thump pleasingly inside her chest. Good as fucking new.

   “Thank you, Winthrop.” She smiled brightly under her ballcap, not wasting any more time in securing her lifeline and extra appendage back to its rightful place.

   The ghoul gave a bashful chuckle, rubbing at the back of his head. “I could show you how I fixed it, uh, sometime, you know, so in case it goes out again, you could...uh...” He shrugged, now entirely flustered. “Maybe over a drink? Or two?”

   The offer came completely out of left field, and she was sure the hot rise to her face betrayed her. Before she could even consider her reply, a set of strong fingers wrapped around her arm and nearly pulled her out the door.

   “We are leaving,” Charon growled. He dropped his void expression for cold ire, coming between her and Winthrop with an aura of assertive dominance. “Now.”

   He then slammed the entrance to Underworld shut directly in the ghoul’s face.

   “Ow-ow!” Evelyn yelped as she was tugged along, tripping over her own feet down the steps. For the first time since she had met the big ghoul, she felt her own anger bubble up and spill forth. She jerked her arm back to her side, mildly relieved that he let her go. “God, I was coming! That was so rude!”

   Charon rounded over her, slapping the fury from her soul with a look of utter animosity. “Do not waste my time.” He then prowled off across the concourse, again not even peering over his shoulder to ensure her proximity to him.

   The ghoul sentry just outside looked up from grinding her heel over the butt of her cigarette, too stunned to speak as the duo went about their way. Evelyn felt nervous from her reaction of terrified surprise- apparently, Charon didn’t make many friends.

   They skirted around some rubble, out of sight from the Brotherhood sentries as they began to backtrack the way she had come from initially. She halted at the top of the metro steps, and the ghoul paused at the bottom as he failed to hear her footfalls behind him.

   She fiddled her fingers together nervously and bit her lip. “I didn’t have the best experience through here.”

   The ghoul merely stared at her for a moment, and then continued on inside. When she finally followed, she was equal parts relieved and disappointed that he was waiting for her just past the gate, his shotgun in his hands and bright orbs giving any indication he had a face in the pitch-black void.

   “Stay close,” he ordered.

   She could only nod, keeping near enough she could smell his heavy musk. It was pretty potent, and while it necessarily wasn’t a bed of roses, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant, either. It gave her some sense of security in the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in this.

   A skittering in the shadows behind them made her jump nearly ten feet in the air. The ghoul instantly wrapped an arm around her, smothering her galloping heartbeat with his tantalizing body heat and rugged skin brushing against her cheek.

   “Quiet,” he rasped in a low voice, the vibration from his chest buzzing her spine. He then began to shuffle them forward with careful steps, avoiding the assortment of trash to minimize their presence.

   She was completely blind, allowing him to take absolute control while she focused on slowing her breathing. The great beat of his chest pulsated against her steadily like a war drum; his thick fingers occasionally twitched along their spot at her waist. After they came out on the other side unscathed (with no visit from that degenerate flasher) she looked down at the muscled forearm snugged across her chest, and realized she had her hands anchored around it, her fingers digging so firmly in the exposed muscle it made the veins slightly bulge.

   “Sor-” The ghoul dropped his arm and stepped away before she could finish. “...ry.”

   He simply gave a nod of his head to continue.

   The plaza had drastically deescalated from the previous day. Bodies, random limbs, smashed heads splattered on the pavement...she had never seen so much carnage before, and it kept her distracted rather than focusing on where she placed her feet. A solid wall was bumped into; she muttered an ow and rubbed at her nose as she looked up.

   Charon’s head was nearly twisted around on his shoulders, glaring down at her with a forehead-creasing scowl.

   Freaky.

   Sorry, she mouthed.

   His head slowly turned back to a normal vertebrae position, and he carefully leaned out from his spot to survey the scene. Without turning back to look, he reached a hand behind himself to tug her forward, pushing her into a brisk walk as they traveled quickly through the empty courtyard. The beat of heavy footsteps made him abruptly pull her around a corner, and when it continued towards them, he pushed her up some stairs and barricaded them inside a Pre-War townhome. He shut the door without so much as making a single sound, and they listened with rapt attention as the super mutant lumbered on by, entirely ignorant of the prey just lingering inside.

   Evelyn released a loud sigh, snapping Charon’s eyes at her.   He closed the distance between them and rammed a finger in her face. “You are loud,” he hissed.

   Evelyn blinked in surprise- this was the sneakiest she has ever been!

   “No, I’m not,” she argued.   “Yes, you are.”   “Well I didn’t hear anything.”

   “Because you do not listen,” he rasped matter-of-factly. Before she could continue to quarrel with him, he propped the door back open with tedious slowness, his eyes unblinking as he scoped for possible danger. “It is clear.”

   Before Evelyn could even register what he had said, she was already being yanked back out, his hand not releasing its unforgiving pressure as he pulled her toward the underground tunnels.

   He held out his shotgun before his chest, briefly checking the stock before eyeing her doubtfully. “Where is your gun?”

   She crossed her arms and avoided his stare. “...I don’t have one.” The minutes passed and he said nothing, and she was about to defend her reasoning until he continued without her.

   The first raider had been caught with his dick fished out of his pants, pissing in a corner with his back arched and legs shaky.

   Evelyn went to bypass quietly around, but the ghoul propped his weapon over one shoulder, crept up from behind, and swiftly wrapped a muscled arm around his neck, taking ahold of his entire face in one palm and twisting it with frightening power. There was a sickening crack, and he let the body drop.

   She turned her head away when the face of the bent-neck man stared at her, almost accusingly; those glass eyes were sure to haunt her dreams with all the others.

   “I will go ahead.” Charon didn’t look at her. “Wait here.”

   She listened to the grotesque screaming and braying of gunfire- the corpse was kicked over, his face left forever to drown in his own piss.

   Well, when she ever needed to get back home, at least the tunnels were cleared. Charon damn near upended every table, blasted through every rodent, and chucked a grenade into a room where some raiders were seated playing cards.

   Evelyn brought up the rear (about two miles away) and pilfered caps, drugs, and whatever she could deem valuable enough to sell. She must’ve taken too long, however, for the ghoul was suddenly at her side like some vengeful spirit, the loathing on his face forcing her to move.

   Her bag jingled as she walked, and when they exited Tepid Sewers to greet the steadily setting sun, she (halfway) considered just making the rest of the trip to Megaton herself. What the hell would he do? Stop her? It’s not like he was enjoying this much himself-

   “I will drag you back,” he rasped suddenly. He had witnessed her longing gaze in the direction across the river. “Do not make me. It will be...unpleasant.”

   She whirled on him, genuinely shocked...and afraid. “Are you serious? What? Why?”

   “I am to get you to Dukov’s safely and then return to Underworld.”

   “Maybe I don’t want to go back to Underworld,” she reasoned.

   “That is between you and Ahzrukhal,” he said rather dully, as though the conversation no longer interested him. “I will carry out my orders. We will go back.”

   ...o-kay. Evelyn noticed his hands were clenched into tight fists, as though he was struggling with himself not to swing at something.

   “Do you even like working for him?” she probed. “No offense, but he sounds like a dick.”

   Here he raised a single brow muscle, his permanent frown intensifying. He didn’t answer the question, but rather stomped on past toward a fortified building she hadn’t attempted at snooping around previously. He raised a fist, pounded it on the doorframe twice, and then leaned against a pillar with his arms folded in wait.

   She shuffled on the balls of her feet a few times, directing his attention, but he ultimately ignored her.

   The door opened, and they stepped inside.

   “Eh, back so soon, clown shoes?”

   A very thick accent Evelyn couldn’t place greeted them as she blinked through the dim lighting. The face of an older, bald-headed man took in hers as she came around the side, and she instinctively hid back behind the ghoul’s bulk.

   “Hey now, sweetcheeks, don’t be shy, let me get a good look at you!” he yelled in a boisterous voice, his hand slipping past to grab at her.

   Charon intercepted the advancement with swift reflexes, taking ahold of the drunken perp’s forearm and twisting it around with brutish force.

   “Ah, holy shit-!”

   The ghoul leaned down slightly, his muscles flexing as he spoke. “Do. Not. Touch.”

   “Ow-ow-okay, okay-!” Charon kept twisting, and he let out a small scream when there was an audible pop! “I got it! Hands off! Ahh!”

   Charon finally released him with a hard shove backward, satisfied with his understanding of the situation. He then relaxed his hands to his sides and turned his head, his eyes glowing strangely as he motioned her forward with a jut of his chin.

   Evelyn licked her lips, self-consciously trying to keep herself as small as possible. “Um, hi-hi. Ahzrukhal sent me-?”

   “Yeah?” His entire flirty nature went downright sour. He rubbed at his arm, glaring at the indifferent ghoul now standing like a statue beside her. “What the fuck for? I paid for my shipment already.”

   “Uh.” She fleetingly looked up to Charon for some sort of verbal help, but he just appeared bored and apathetic to her cause. “Something about Rosewalda liquor...?”

   The man seemed to actually see her for the first time, and then burst out laughing. It rang around the walls, drawing the eyes of some scantily clad women from the second floor. Evelyn blinked at their lack of modesty and then swept her eyes around the room. Bottles of booze, canisters of Jet, wet sheets...

   She took another step closer to the ghoul, now extremely uncomfortable.

   “He better have a shitload of caps! So, baby, pay up! I want to see that fucking money!”

   Evelyn dumbly shook her head. “He...he didn’t give me any...”

   “Oh? You weren’t expecting it for free, now?” His eyes made a slow rove down her frame. “Maybe...we can work something out, huh?”

   The implication made her flush hotly, and at that very moment, she felt incredibly stupid. That bastard bartender knew exactly what he had sent her here for...her abashment burned into a fiery whirl of wrath.

   “Look,” she snarled, taking a step forward from the safety of Charon’s shadow. “I’m not going to be doing...that...there’s got to be something else. It’s just some fucking booze.”

   He again laughed, wheezing so hard he began to spray spit in the air. “Just some fucking booze,” he chuckled to himself. “You know what, you’re alright in Dukov’s books, baby-” He quickly stopped from coming any closer when Charon began to growl. “Let me get you a drink, and we can talk about this something else.”

   He threw her a cheeky grin, and she glanced up for the ghoul’s suggestion. Nothing. He was too busy staring at the extended hand being offered for her to take, as though he would sink his teeth into it at any moment.

   She steeled her nerves, and forcibly relaxed her arms down against her sides. She did need this job.

   “Okay,” she said. “Just one drink.”

[kidotm]

Dukov's Place

 The urge to kick the doors open and march back to The Ninth Circle was growing more in temptation with the more alcohol she drank. He was forced to stand there, like some gargoyle, keeping his eyes focused on the too-close wandering hands that tried to slip past his field of security. If he hadn’t been given his current orders, he would’ve taken the drunk Russian and repeatedly slammed his head into the table until a red river flowed.

   Charon, you are to escort her to Dukov’s alive and well, and then bring her back the same...I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does. Don’t kill Dukov, or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   His palms curled tightly, his fingers digging into the leather of his worn gloves. He hated this, hated watching the casual refill of her chipped mug and the quiet murmuring of words near her ear. It made his job that much more difficult- it was dangerous to travel at night, and coupled with the fact she was inebriated, it put them both at considerable risk. Once she got her end of the deal done, he would promptly dunk her head in the Potomac and shove his boot so far up her ass-

   “God, it’s so hot in here,” she drunkenly complained, her speech heavy and posture considerably much more relaxed. She stripped the leather jacket from her shoulders, tossing it aside on the rest of her crap.

   His eyes had followed the motion, returning to the sight of Dukov’s quick fingers having pinched the zipper of her suit and slowly pulling it to her breasts. It made her squeak, the flush red of her cheeks darkening.

   “There, much better, eh sweetcheeks?” He grinned.

   Charon snarled at the breach in containment, coming between their seats to cut her off from view. He slammed a hand on the table, splintering the wood. He dramatically leaned downward, his considerable height towering over the smaller man.

   “I advise you to keep your hands to yourself,” Charon rasped with a promised threat.

   “Oh, come on, clown shoes!” Dukov patted him on the bicep, Charon’s head slowly turning to the motion. “We’re just having a bit of fun, ha ha! You and me, we’ve known each other a long time, so, I give you this.” He waved to the women whispering to themselves on the couch. “You go and enjoy the party, alright my friend? Hey, Cherry! Get the ghoul some fucking booze!” He winked with a smirk, his hand already sliding past to run along her thigh.

   Evelyn removed him before Charon could (and snap it in three places) himself. She stumbled away on unsteady feet, mumbling something about bathroom.

   He became her living shadow as she trapezed for a door with a visible toilet, closing her away from the world as she struggled with her suit. The golden stitched numbers 101 on her back were visible to him for the first time, and he felt a ping of recognition from somewhere. He stood guard, eyeing the retired mercenary from across the room with reproach.

   When she eventually came back out, her suit was only halfway zipped up, exposing her soft white belly and cleavage of her tits that had been hidden away underneath. Her sweat-stained undergarment was slightly damp; she reeked of booze. She plastered into him, worming her fingers in the straps of his armor and rubbing her face in his jacket. He was momentarily stunned by the unexpected touch and froze in place.

   “You’re an asshole,” she slurred, beginning to tip backward as she lost balance on her feet. She then righted herself and face-planted into his chest. “Yousmellgood.”

   He awkwardly gripped her by the shoulders and held her away from himself, keeping her propped like a human-sized doll that went limp. Charon snapped his head down as this drunk smoothskin was now beginning to zip her suit farther down, a peek of her underwear band winking out.

   She stopped and looked up at him, her skin a light green tint. “I’m gonna throw up.”

   Alarmed, he shoved her back inside the bathroom, quickly shutting the door as she fell on her ass. She wasn’t going to repeat her mistake from the first time.

   “Ow!” he heard her yelp from behind the frame.

   This was not part of his contractual obligation, so with a quick twist of the handle, followed by a powerful tug, he ripped his side of the knob off the door and dropped it at his feet. The locking mechanism wiggled a few times as she tried to open it, but to no avail. He turned, rolling his shoulders while cracking his neck to the side, and then narrowed his eyes at the Russian sleazeball that was loudly complaining about him ‘breaking my shit’!

   I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does.

   Charon started across the room; Hell embodied on two legs.

   Don’t kill Dukov-   Charon was good at hurting people...very good.   -or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   Almost as good as following orders.

   The sudden drop in the cold water jolted her awake.

   Amata’s face was behind her eyes, got it from my dad’s cabinet in his office, a clear bottle filled with liquid amber, did you remember to lock the door? a taste of fire burning across her tongue, if he finds out, we can say it was all my idea, the giggles, the damp air of the lower floors cooling her brow, you’re so lucky to have big boobs, a teasing squeeze, a strange lump in her throat, who do you want to be your first?

   She hadn’t had a sip of hard liquor ever since that night almost three years ago, just after the G.O.A.T exam, and now she remembered why.

   “Grbfghf!” she gasped, flailing her hands about wildly. They met with the side of a grimy porcelain throne, the putrid stench of stale piss and the texture of coarse hair coating her palms. She felt the pressure from the back of her skull release, and she instantly smacked her head up.

   She had just been swirlied in a toilet.

   “What the fuck?!” she shrieked, scrabbling away on her ass across the cracked tiles. Her eyes darted around, coming to the broad shadow of the retreating perpetrator who had just broken every law in the Geneva Convention. At that moment, everything turned a violent shade of red. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

   The wet slick surface beneath her feet didn’t aid her cause, and she slipped after struggling to stand. Coming to a crash on her hands and knees, it was then that she noticed her entire vault suit was missing...as was her bra.

   Another scream, coupled with the slamming of the door.

   When it was finally flung open to her disheveled appearance, her soaked hair wild about her face and eyes puffy and bruised, every nasty insult that could come to mind was set at her lips, ready to be fired on this ghoul with the intent to mentally maim.

   It died, however, at the sight of him.

   A metallic scraping sound filled the empty echo of the room- the ghoul bouncer was swirling a spoon inside an open can of Pork n' Beans while casually seated on the couch, his shotgun propped at his side to be readily available. His eyes were on the closed door they had entered from, but then he roved them to her.

   He said nothing, and resumed his watch while finishing his meal.

   Evelyn coughed up the itch in her throat, tasting a hint of vile stomach acid on her tongue. It was then she thought back to where they were, and what had just happened. Her body stiffened as though electrified, and she snagged at her things while blabbering profusely.

   She had stripped her clothes after being locked in the bathroom, thinking the most perverse thoughts of-of-ew-(was it ew?) apparently not enough, for her hand was still ripe with her musk and her underwear was soaked and the sight of this ghoul she had been thinking unholy thoughts of-

   “OhmyGod- holy fuck.” Her lips moved a mile a minute, the previous war crime he had committed against her dignity thrown to the wayside as she prepped to leave the awkwardness of the situation. “Nope, never again, oh, Jesus-!”

   An emptied metal can was frisbeed at her head, clunking her in the forehead before making a loud clatter on the floor.

   “OW!”

   “Be quiet,” Charon ordered with a flat rasp. He reached inside a pack (her pack!) and pulled out another can. He unsheathed a combat knife from his boot, slammed it into the lid, and expertly sawed a perfect circle. The aluminum top was flicked across the room, and he dove right in.

   Any other occasion, and she would have been pissed at this guy going through her things and helping himself to her stash- a quick glance to the trash heap detailed he had an appetite worthy of his size- but she was so flustered that she just lamely went about gathering the rest of her gear. She would willingly venture out into the wastes, job or no job be damned...

   A bottle of unopened liquor with the faded label Rosewalda was set beside her jacket on the table...she whirled her head around to the ghoul, and then blinked at the lack of their host.

   A garbled groan trebled down the staircase from a ghostly presence- she could spy one of the women from before smoking a cigarette at the top and observing them with careful eyes.

   Evelyn sputtered, pointing to the thing as though it was a live bomb. “Did...did you-?” Charon tore his gaze from the door once more, his nonchalant attitude betraying nothing. He didn’t finish her accusing statement.

   “You know what, fuck this,” she spat, that buried anger clawing its way to the surface. She thrust her leather jacket on and began to make for her bag...but his predatory glare made her reconsider. “Fuck it, keep it, I don’t care.”

   She stomped for the back door, halted by a firm grip around her wrist. He was so fast!

   “Do not leave,” he growled.

   “This whole idea was stupid! Bring it back yourself, tell your boss I’m never working for his slimy ass again!” she snarled, going to wrench herself free...except this time, he wasn’t letting go. “Hey, hey!” She panicked, beating a fist against his arm. It did nothing, he didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go!”

   He brusquely shunted her flush against himself, ignoring the pained yelp drawn from her lips. “You are returning to Underworld. I will carry out my orders.”

   “What the fuck, are you some kind of fucking robot?!” She grunted as he began to drag her across the floor. “Just give it to him yourself-!”

   Her bag was nabbed, the bottle was tucked inside, and it was pressed up against her chest.

   “Take it,” he commanded, all business. She meekly obeyed. “Do not slow me down.”

   A lump the size of a golf ball was gulped down her throat, and soon, they were exiting Dukov’s Place with the sun slowly climbing over the horizon. She realized she must have been passed out in her drunken stupor, and that he at least had the grace to have let her sleep...even if it was on the bathroom floor.

   When they came to the service tunnels, she glanced back to the one building she hoped to never revisit in her travels.

   “...did you kill him?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.   He glanced over his shoulder at her before continuing down the tunnel. “No.”

   They were left in silence the remainder of the way.

   The bottle was smacked down on the bar counter, Evelyn’s teeth bared along with her resentment. “Here’s your stupid alcohol.”

   Ahzrukhal didn’t seem to take offense to her anger, and only gently handled the merchandise as though it was a newborn babe swaddled in fleece. “Very good,” he rasped, his decayed cataracts fixated on his prize with great reverence. “Yes...very good.”

   He then eyed her with a newfound sense of appreciation.

   “So, smoothskin, I’m most curious about how you managed it, but I guess it comes with the advantage to have some certain...qualities.” He grinned, all of his black rotting teeth on full display.

   “I didn’t fuck him,” she growled, leaning away from the counter. “You can thank Charon for it.”

   Here Ahzrukhal raised a single brow, and then his eyes went to slits as he looked over her to the hulking bouncer back in his place in the corner. “Oh, really, now? That is...interesting.”

   She thrummed her fingers on the counter, waiting for her payment. When the ghoul slid the bottle onto the highest shelf of his collection, she impatiently sighed. He then faced her, wiping a dirty rag along the bar surface.

   “Is there something I can help you with, my dear?” he asked with false innocence.

   “Uh, yeah, my caps?”

   “Why, whatever do you mean?” he rasped curiously. “You said it yourself, my employee had retrieved the bottle for me. This being the case, then you didn’t do the job I had asked...so, what ever should I pay you for? Keeping Charon company?”

   She blinked in disbelief. Was he being serious?

   “Unless you’re here to drink, then I suggest you leave.” Ahzrukhal dismissed her suddenly with a wave of his hand. “I have customers to tend to.”

   She was about to lunge over the counter when a strong force slammed her into it. Evelyn gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs, and she struggled with a pained whine as she flit her eyes upward.

   Charon had her pinned by the back of the head, crushing her into the marble with unrelenting pressure. She let out a cry as she tried to squirm out from his iron grip, but it was akin to moving a boulder.

   Ahzrukhal adjusted his patina-stained cuff link, unfazed by the violence. “Don’t kill her- Barrows will throw a fit.” He then leaned in close, his swampy breath toxic and gross. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, smoothskin. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

   Before she could reply with a biting insult, Charon heaved her upright and carried her by the collar to the door, her jacket acting as a noose. He slammed it open, threw her into the balustrades, and then chucked her pack at her, the contents spewing about.

   “Do not come back,” he rasped before closing her off.

   Evelyn went about slowly gathering her things, the multitude of eyes witnessing the scene making her tuck her ballcap down her face, lest someone see her cry.

   The trip back to Megaton was long, and painful. Winthrop had attempted to catch her attention before she could run with her tail tucked between her legs, but her bruised tailbone and shattered self-worth made the ground a hotbed of coals. The Museum of History became another marker for places she had no intention of reappearing in; she threw a dirty look at Dukov’s Place when she had finally made the journey across the river.

   If there was any consolation to be had in any of this, then it was that at least her bag was bulging with valuable wares that she could sell to keep her afloat till her next job. That absolute fuck of a bouncer had practically cleaned her entire inventory of food...and helped himself to the boxes of shotgun shells she had found in a locked trunk.

   The entire thing had bubbled her up in such a boiling mess of spite and anger that she was already wiggling the locked handle to her house without even realizing she had made it home. She jammed the key inside and forcefully twisted it just as a shadow overlapped hers on the door.

   “Hey kid.” Jericho removed the cigarette from between his bad teeth and blew some smoke in her face. Yuck. “Where’d you run off to?”

   She waved a hand in front of her, coughing up the secondhand lung cancer. “Why the fuck would you care?” she growled, her previous ire (at the thought of Charon) now being locked and loaded in her arsenal for the ex-raider.

   “Whoa, feisty.” He propped an arm over her head and leaned in a little bit closer. She could smell his odor, and it reeked. “Just trying to look out for you, doll.”

   She scoffed, rolling her eyes and finally opening her door. “Whatever, doll.”

   Her wrist was grabbed, very much the same one that the ghoul had bruised before. It stung, and she winced as he applied some pressure.

   “You think just cause you survive a few days out there that you’re tough shit now, is that it?” he breathed over her. He puckered his smoke to his chapped lips with his free hand, his eyes making the journey down her suit. “Remember just who it is you’re dealing with. The world ain’t such a pretty place...much less for your kind.”

   A kneecap was brought up and slammed down the homestretch of his groin. He instantly released her, spitting his smoke to the side and sputtering curses as she dipped through her door and locked it.

   “Madam! It is so good to see you again-!”

   “Wadsworth,” Evelyn interrupted, spinning her back to the frame and leaning against it. “If anyone comes through this door, you have my permission to shoot them.”

   The Mister Handy smacked a single claw to its highest optic, the lens lowering into a stern squint. “Yes, Madam! I will see to my duty as guardian and protector, right at once!”

   She offloaded her pack on the table, hearing a muttered we’re going to die as he floated past to his new post. There was a loud metal groan, and she blinked as she watched the table completely fold in on itself in a heap to the floor, her bag spilling its contents again.

   “Oh, my,” Wadsworth commented offhandedly. “I do hope I will not be left to clean-”

   Evelyn spun on her heel and made directly for the fridge.

   The robot continued with its bitter mutterings, the words floating across the room. “-oh, silly me, of course I will.”

   She ignored it, unzipping her sweaty suit down to her hips and shrugging out of the arms, wrapping the sleeves around her waist as she popped the fridge open and peered inside. A single package of Deviled Eggs was taking sole residence on a shelf. She nabbed it, ripping open the dark-stained packaging with her teeth and sucking down the contents like a famished animal. She propped herself against the counter, smacking her gums in a rude display as her eyes unfocused and she began to see things that were not quite there.

   Things that were almost seven feet tall and shrouded under a brooding cloud of anger and resentment.

   The emptied package was tossed in a bin, and she ‘freshened up’ in the sink before retiring to her mattress on the floor; she really should lug it up the stairs and call it a day. Maybe tomorrow...but the next day bore no such thing.

   She took her scavenged crap to Craterside Supply, managing to deal a good barter for the looted junk, and then had the idiot notion to ask about another ‘research project’ that was more than likely to get her killed.

   Moira blew a rude sound from her lips and waved a hand at her as though she had insinuated something silly. “This next one should be easy! All I need you to do is...maybe...getasdeathlyirradiatedaspossibleandletmestudytheeffects okay? Now, that doesn’t sound so bad, right?”

   Evelyn sat out by the giant atomic bomb for hours, soaking in as many rads as she could until she eventually began to puke blood in her hands. When she stumbled up the steps, she was half-surprised she didn’t melt right through the flooring. Moira pumped her with so much ‘homemade Radaway’ (it’s a secret recipe!) that she expected it to leak out of her ears and nose. She then left the store, nursing a warm buzz in her spine and a pocketful of caps for her troubles.

   She didn’t attempt to make her way through the D.C. ruins in search of Galaxy News Radio again...she had barely survived getting to the Museum of History from sheer luck, and she wasn’t looking to repeat her chances for a crumb of a trail.

   Maybe...maybe you’ll come back for me, Dad. It was the only thing she could hope for. I’m just not made for this world.

   The table was repaired with three whole bottles of Wonderglue (and an entire roll of duct tape) that was left a complete eyesore not worth the amount of sticky residue Wadsworth had to trim from her once beautiful, long brown hair. She kept frugal with her caps and bought minimal supplies to restock her sparse kitchen, taking up the task of cooking to help spread her rations. In the Vault, the appliances had been immaculate, and she had occasionally deviated from the usual premade box in experimentation for different dishes. They hadn’t always come out well...but at least they had been edible. She couldn’t necessarily say the same for her attempts with even more limited ingredients, and a single stove that she feared would blow her sky high someday.

   As the days continued, the temperatures began to drop just as the nights grew darker at the corners of the world. She reluctantly parted with some caps for a few threadbare, moth-eaten blankets Crazy Wolfgang had found during his caravan travels.

   “Consider this a discount, just for you,” he told her, giving a not-so-subtle wink after she handed over the money.

   He held the same look in his eyes that Winthrop had given her upon asking for a drink. Derailed by her ingrained adolescent chagrin, she politely bid him farewell and then planned to never trade with him again in the near future. All of her life in the Vault had been met with ridicule and flashing hormones. The boys she had grown up with had never expressed their interest- Amata was always the prettier one, and the rumors surrounding Christine’s ‘talents’ drew them like flies to honey. Evelyn was just the awkward, weird, antisocial doctor’s daughter. It left her inexperienced and wholly lacking in confidence when it came to bedroom skills...how much that seemed to change out in the wastes. For once, she was looked at, seen, even if she didn’t necessarily wish to be. She didn’t know how to react positively to it, didn’t want to take a chance and somehow fuck it up. It wasn't that she wanted to be the constant center of attention, but it hurt being invisible, too.

   None of it seemed to curb the lonely hours of the night, when Wadsworth was powered down at its station and she looked up to the starry sky through the small hole in her roof, a serene moving picture of constellations and galaxies. She would fondle herself and explore the intimacy of her sexual nature without the fear of being overheard by her father in the next room. Sometimes, she would shyly picture Winthrop’s fingers instead of her own, feeling shameful and dirty at the thought while being completely ignorant to the fact that he was doing much the same just some odd miles away.

   One evening she had dreamt of a set of hands curled around her jaw, holding her steady as she was railed from behind without mercy or tenderness. Only after she had woken up did she briefly remember the face that had been looking down at her; a hard-set mouth drawn in a firm line with a pair of blue coals burning straight through the darkness. Her groin had throbbed and the weak orgasm she forced herself with did nothing to sate that inner hunger she had felt...she thought she had banished that brute from her mind, but her sex most certainly had not.

   The passage of time eventually began to twitch her feet and deplete her caps, and she finally succumbed to leaving the safety of the walls once more. She had refrained from snacking on the boxes of Sugar Bombs she had come to collect- that weirdo ghoul in the subway tunnel did say he’d pay her a decent amount of caps for them...but it was a hell of a walk, and she wasn’t looking to make the leg up there just yet.

   That only left her with one other option.

   “So,” Evelyn sighed as she tapped her fingers on the counter at Moira’s store, trying to ignore the eyes of the mercenary drilling a hole in her spine at her back. “Is there anything else other than getting beheaded and chewed on at the Super Duper Mart? Anything at all?”

   The older woman gave a thoughtful tap on her chin. “Hmm, welllllll, there is this one place...”

A Walking Minefield

   “Minefield?” Murphy rasped. “Why are you trying to go there, smoothskin? The name ain’t enough of a clue for you?”

   She shrugged, shouldering her bag after offloading her cargo. Her muscles were killing her. “It’s for some highly respected research, obviously, I’m a woman of articulate business ventures, can’t you tell?”

   “Heh heh.” The ghoul scratched at his elbow, handing over the caps he owed. “Don’t get yourself killed, you’re the only one that’s getting me these Sugar Bombs.”

   “No guarantees,” she replied dryly, turning for the open doorway. “About the dying or the Sugar Bombs.” She paused, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her pack before she spun around. “Do... do you happen to know anything about that ghoul that was here the last time?” Rolling his name off her tongue burst butterflies in her belly. It felt weirdly intimate to say it aloud. “Charon?”

   Murphy adjusted his specs while Barrett raised his eyes over the screen of a terminal.

   “You looking to do business with him, smoothskin?”

   She shrugged, feigning her gnawing interest with a cool attitude.

   Murphy coughed into a fist. “Take my advice. Stay as far away as you can. I might be dealing Ultrajet with Ahzrukhal, but he’s a slimy bastard who always tries to cut my share anytime he thinks he can get away with it.”

   Tell me something I don’t know, she thought sourly.

   He continued, “I’ve been working with him for awhile now, but I still don’t trust him.”

   “Okay, I get it, but what about his partner?” she insisted.

   “What about him? He’s hired muscle. Don’t get in his way, and you might come out with all your limbs attached.”

   She sighed, exasperated. “I mean, don’t you find him...weird?”

   “I find him to be good at his job.” Murphy opened a box of cereal, beginning the lengthy process of breaking the components down. He eyed her when she remained in her spot. “You have a better chance at surviving Minefield than being tangled with the likes of him.”

   It wasn’t too far from the truth. Evading the general wildlife and strolling into the empty town seemed as easy as throwing an intellectual insult at poor Butch’s tiny brain. She had begun collecting a few mines to shove inside her bag, wiping her sweaty hands on her thighs repeatedly from nerves at listening to the erratic beeping. It wasn’t until she was actually set to leave that she was fired upon by some quack with a sniper rifle, his shots lighting a vehicle aflame.

   She stared at it, horrified, and then her brain screamed move! Her boots slapped the pavement as she tried to hightail it to the edge of town before the whole place would explode. She nearly made it when the rusted-out frame blew in a dramatic eruption, lighting off the rest of the surrounding landmines in a deadly domino effect. A piece of shrapnel had the unfortunate luck of making contact with her thigh, but the override on adrenaline didn’t really register the hit until she was a way up the road...and then it body slammed her with all the force of a steel-toed boot to the face.

   “Gah!” she screamed, loud and without shame or sense of self-preservation. A sharp hiss bled from her lips as her fingers automatically went to remove the thing causing her so much pain, but the light touch brought another crescendo of sobbing curses and pounding thrush of blood to her skull. Her ears were ringing from the blasts all around her; she couldn't breathe with all the swirling black smoke in the air.

   She was a doctor’s daughter with no interest in the science of the human body, bleeding out from a piece of junk metal in her leg with no one to come ease her pain.

   I’m here sweetheart, you’re alright, what’s the matter?

   “Dad!” she wailed, coughing from the toxic fumes filling her lungs. “Daddy!”

   It’s just a little scrape, nothing that a bandage and a kiss can’t fix. Mwah! See? All better.

   Her father wasn’t coming, no matter how hard she cried.

   If it weren’t for this supply run, Charon was sure to have gone feral at this point. Ahzrukhal had been most displeased upon learning the truth of his inhospitable negotiations with Dukov, forcing him to speak with the Russian himself before losing a long-standing client.

   His employer had taken it upon himself to make his service most...disagreeable, since then. He had been stripped of his rations and was tasked with reimbursing his employer the potential caps he could have lost by any means necessary. The ghoul was set to return with them along with the run of weekly chems...he was still devising a strategy, and all of them involved some form of murder and stealing.

   It wasn’t his preference, but it also wasn’t his choice.

   The two ghouls in Northwest Seneca station looked up upon his arrival and went about their habitual task of counting caps while trading over stock. The bouncer leaned up against the wall, eerily silent and abnormally sullen as he gave them a look meant to flay the meat from their bones.

   “Smoothskin left her crap behind,” Barrett rasped as he took notice of a sledgehammer propped to the side.

   Murphy shrugged his shoulders, too busy counting caps for the second time. “She’ll be back...maybe.”

   Charon didn’t take an interest in the side conversation...but he couldn’t help staring at her weapon of choice. He knew it was hers.

   “Who the hell wants to research Minefield, anyway?” Barrett remarked to no one in particular.

   “Can’t pay me enough to,” Murphy agreed.

   The rest of the deal was conducted as normal. Charon left with Ahzrukhal’s bidding and glanced up to the sudden spiraling of black smoke off in the distance. If he had to make an educated wasteland guess, it would appear the smoothskin wouldn’t be coming back after all. He expectantly didn’t feel two ways about it- he shrugged the duffel bag higher up his shoulder and resumed his usual travel routine. The ghoul had only just about turned the corner of the grocery store, an intrusive thought pinging around inside his brain. That smoothskin was a little scavver... she was bound to have some caps on her; it would at least be something to start with.

   Plus, she was already dead, and there was no shame in collecting from a corpse.

   His boot made an indent in the dirt as he swiveled around and followed the road to Minefield. The town itself was covered in a thick haze; it was hard to discern just what was where, and he felt it almost to be a complete waste of time until his sharp eyes spotted a trail of blood, fresh. He tracked it to a house on the edge of town, the wind picking up slightly to give him better visibility.

   The door was halfway propped open, bloodied prints decorating the frame and trim. Being ever cautious, the ghoul widened it with the barrel of his shotgun, only closing it behind him when he scoped the living room was clear. The smoke followed him like a rolling fog, and he gave a guttural cough as he inhaled the tarry smell down his throat. A bloated corpse was staring up at him with a slack-jawed mouth, and judging by the decomposition, he would venture it had been cold for at least a week.

   Not the dead smoothskin he was looking for.

   The blotted tracks led him around the side underneath the stairwell, all the way to a back bathroom that was curtained in shadow. His heavy footsteps creaked the floor beneath his weight as he crouched down close to eye level with the girl.

   It wasn’t too hard to deduce the situation- she was dying.

   She was barely propped upright against the wall, slouching into herself like a folded doll. The once bright blue threading of her vault suit was stained dark and more than likely sticky from the loss of blood; her eyes were pinched closed and her breathing came in shallow waves, the skin a sickly pale shade.

   He lifted her arm to gauge the nasty injury to her upper right thigh, and then he noticed the littering of some Med-X syringes. She would at least die in somewhat of comfort- she had either accidentally overdosed herself or simply couldn’t tolerate the amount of pain. Whatever the case, it wasn’t his issue.

   He dropped the dead weight that was her limb, slightly startling her. The ghoul ignored the groaning from her lips as he rummaged through her pack that had been discarded to the side. A hefty bag of caps was pulled out, assessed, and judged enough for Ahzrukhal’s demand. He unshouldered his own bag to stow the currency safely away when her hand shot up and gripped his forearm with waning strength.

   Her lips moved, and he had to read them to understand what it was she said.

   “...Dad?”

   He almost snorted. Not quite. The pack was zipped closed, and she licked her lips before blinking sluggishly at his face.

   “Charon,” she whispered faintly.

   He froze. It was a surprise to him, she remembered him well enough to know his name, hell, it was a surprise she was aware to even know who he was.

   The ghoul looked down at the chunk of metal protruding from the flesh...if he were a man of any merciful stature, he would put a bullet in her brain and end her suffering. He stared at her dirt-streaked face and drooping eyelids, and then she weirdly smiled at him.

   “Asshole,” she mumbled with a string of gibberish to follow.

   This time, he did snort. She didn’t forget a single thing about him. Her small fingers crept up the leathered skin that remained on his arm, traveling across the oiled straps of his armor and jacket until they softly rested over the horrid disfigurement that was his face. She traced him as though blind; a cartographer sketching the rough plains and high peaks; a shipbuilder admiring the knotted wood of a hull that had journeyed a thousand seas, christening it with the thick red wine staining her hands. She leaned forward with all of her weight bearing into his chest, and she kissed him.

   The sensation wasn’t comparable to anything he had ever experienced before- it was his first.

   She pulled away before he could even react, the desperate collide of her lips to his stern mouth as brief as a match lit in the wind. With her chest now heaving labored breaths, she slumped back to the wall and closed her eyes.

   Charon promptly shouldered his bag and made for the door...he knew better.

   (It wasn’t his business)

   A few slaps from his thick fingers to her cheeks only mildly roused her.

   “Wake up,” he instructed, and she only mumbled a low whine of something along the lines of so tired, go away. “Wake up, smoothskin.”

   He dove through her bag once more, hands steady as decades of field medic experience came forth like a kick in the teeth. If he was going to save her life, he had to act very quickly and be very precise. Anymore wasted time or limited resources would most certainly spell her passing. Two Stimpaks were retrieved, but it wasn’t enough. He cursed under his breath, his stride long and steps full of purpose as he scoured the kitchen on the other side of the house for useful items. A first-aid box containing another stim and some water was nabbed, along with a bottle of vodka he took from the fridge.

   It wasn’t ideal, but she would live.

   When he returned, he promptly removed his belt from his pants, the leather snapping in the air as it was pulled from the loops. Holding her upright with one hand while fashioning the makeshift tourniquet with the other, he held her down with careful pressure, and then cinched it, tight.

   “Fuck, stop! Stop!” She sprang alive as though the nerves of her body had been electrified, her bloodied hands scrabbling at his shoulders and chest as she wailed and choked on her own gasps.

   The ghoul uncorked the vodka with a side pull of his teeth, spitting the stopper out as he kept his focus on the task before him. With a quick splash over his hands, he met her fading eyes- she could see him, now.

   “Hold still,” was all he said, and then he soaked her thigh.

   Her anguished screams sounded like a soul crawling from the depths of Hell. Her uninjured leg spasmed as she writhed, her face shiny with sweat as she bawled. Her hands came up and found sanctuary around his forearm, holding onto his exposed flesh as though it were her only tether to this plane of existence. She squinted past the tears and snot at his face, her expression desperate.

   Charon braced his hand over the embedded object; it was deep...it was going to be painful. He didn’t take his eyes from her own and only gave her a single nod before ripping the metal free.

   Evelyn screamed a decibel worth of rupturing his eardrums, fluttered her eyelids as her blue irises rolled in the back of her skull, and went limp.

   He went about injecting the sight, using every stim and carefully holding the flesh closed until it stitched together as a newly formed jagged pink line. When he was satisfied with his work, he then uncapped a bottle of dirty water and splashed some on her face, rudely waking her from her traumatic blackout.

   “Drink this,” he ordered with a sharp rasp, tilting the rim to her lips.

   She sputtered, sluggishly rolling her head around and blinking in confusion. He grabbed ahold of her jaw with one gloved palm and forced her to concentrate.

   “Drink,” he repeated, offering it at a much slower rate.

   The muscles in her neck rolled as beads of water dripped from the corners of her lips, and when she became coherent enough, she gripped the bottle herself with both hands and nearly drowned from guzzling too quickly.

   Charon held the water away despite her whimpers. “You will make yourself sick. Slow.”

   She smacked her lips, and he couldn’t help but stare at them.

   Like the rolling of a thundercloud, he suddenly grew angry and got to his feet, staring down at this pathetic smoothskin who would be dead if he hadn’t intervened. This wasn’t his job. She was not his employer.

   This was a waste of his time, and so he left her there without so much as a single glance back or parted word of good fortune. As he began to make the return trip to Underworld, he could only think about the manner in which she had looked at him, when she had believed herself to die.

A Proposition

   Now, now, young lady, you’re not getting into some sort of trouble, are you?

   No, Overseer. Never mind the scraped knee- the bruise on Butch’s face. There is nothing here of notice. Not the bloody nose, the sniveled whimpers, the angry eyes. Just me, my little fist, and Butch’s right eye.

   Hmm. Okay then, just be sure and get back to your rooms, I’m sure your father is looking for you...

   The burning in her leg didn’t finally soothe into a dull throb for hours. Here she was, waking from some lucid dream about black fire; it was everywhere, scalding her lungs with every inhale and melting her eyelids shut behind a glue made of scaley skin. The folds and lines of her hands were crusted red- water, holy fuck she needed some fucking water.

   Drink, slow.

   A sound of crinkled plastic was heavenly gospel to her ears when she roved a hand around in the darkness. She held it up close to her face, trying to see amidst her caked eyelashes. Her fingers fumbled with the cap, and she more or less doused herself than hydrated her sandpaper tongue.

   You-you heard the Overseer, nosebleed! Run back to Daddy!

   Oh, but sweet little Butch, why would I? I was having so much fun using your face as a piñata. I mean, at least I still have a dad...

   I'm gonna kill you!

   She gasped, groaning aloud as she slowly moved her stiff joints and sore muscles. It felt like she had been run over by a herd of brahmin, what the fuck happened...?

   The explosions, her leg, the ghoul-

   She gingerly felt around her thigh, clenching her jaw in preparation for the pain to come...but nothing did. A thick rope of scar tissue was inquisitively traced over, it was surreal, feeling the aftermath of something she was sure had killed her.

   The light to her Pip-Boy was clicked on, blinding her instantly and emitting a low hiss and garbled fuck. With pings of sharp stars behind her eyes, she rapidly blinked as she timidly roved the light around for better awareness. She almost half-expected a large, shadowed figure in the doorway, pinpricking a chill down her spine. There was nothing. She strained to listen, aware of a low, droning buzz from her left ear...but there was nothing.

   She stretched her feet and wiped at her face, finally looking down at herself. Fuck, she was so tired...and ghastly. Ew, horrid. The entire lower right half of her suit was stained black and stiff when she moved. The tearing had grown to a decent size...she would have to have it stitched back together when she got home. With a slow roll onto her side, propping her head to rest against the wall as she took to regathering her scattered things, she was met with the fuzzy recount of her savior...just what the hell had he been doing here? How did he know she was here?! Was he stalking her?

   Why did he bother to save her life and then just leave?

   The entire interaction was plain fucking weird...and terribly vague. Tried as she might, she couldn’t replay the entire thing, and she grew frustrated at the snippets of seeing the grimace on his face and torturing her memory with that God-awful pain she had endured. She was alive because of him. That much she was sure of...or some other stranger had saved her sorry ass and she hallucinated the entire thing while high out of her mind on pain meds. Yeah. That was probably more likely.

   Her fingers kept wiggling around in her knapsack for a solid ten minutes as she ruminated over everything until she snapped to attention that she wasn’t feeling her cap stash. She opened the bag wide, peered around inside, and then wildly flung the contents out as she dumped it upside down.

   No way. 

   She smacked the bag down and then began to comb around on her hands and knees on the dirty tiled bathroom floor. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. That could only spell one thing...

   He had robbed her!

   “That asshole!” she barked, throwing the last twenty-four hours of trauma from her mind momentarily as she literally began to cry over her misfortune. She threw the sack, wiping at the hot tears tracking streaks down her grimy cheeks. “I’ll-I’ll-I’ll fucking ki-kill you!”

   How long she had saved those Sugar Bombs just for it all to blow up in smoke (quite literally). She sobbed her heart out from nearly dying, to being alone in all of this, and finally being blindsided by some dick that decided nothing in the wasteland was done for free...especially not saving someone’s life. Only after her tears were dried and a headache began to pound in her skull, did she wipe a stringy webbing of snot from her chin (ew) and flaked the crusties from her eyes. The taps were turned full blast in the sink; for once, she didn't care for the smelly brown water she splashed her face with.

   The bloated corpse in the living room had a putrid stench that made her lightheaded- she dashed out the door, completely forgetting about the sniper nested across town (who was fortunately already dead). Her tummy rumbled and groaned, forcing her to dive on her rations (she was back to being dead broke) and consume them without care as she took in the fallout of the landmine catastrophe.

   The fires had long extinguished (for how long had she been out?) and the smoke had cleared. She bumbled around with caution, finding a few landmines that had somehow survived the Great Blowup of 2277. Whatever her eyes spotted, her fingers grabbed. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she needed everything that she could get. She stared at the corpse of an old man; his body having been crushed by concrete debris. She pilfered the sniper rifle, some ammo, and held up a small key that she would go forth to use on the remaining houses to loot.

   If she ever saw that ghoul again...she honestly didn’t know what she’d do. He did save her life, that much she was sure of.

   “Smoothskin, you’re alive,” Murphy rasped, blinking at the sudden dump of cereal boxes on his desk. “How’d it go? No offense, but you look like you’ve seen better days.”

   Evelyn blew a hair from her face- her childhood ballcap had been destroyed in the burnout. “Minefield’s going to need a new name.”

   He raised a brow muscle.

   Another hair was blown. “No more mines.”

   “Ah.” The ghoul leaned back in his seat and began to count the caps for her salvage. “Lucky you’re here, then. Oh, yeah.” He pointed to the far wall where her sledgehammer was lying in wait like a faithful dog. “Forgot your shit.”

   She felt Barrett’s eyes on her from behind as she bent over to securely pack away the bundle of caps. “I honestly completely forgot...I don’t use it much.”

   “You should. You’re the only one I can count on to get me these, smoothskin.”

   She had no snide comment to return with and merely shouldered her gear for the long walk back to Megaton.

   By the time the metal high-rise was within spitting distance, her feet were being dragged through the dirt and the sun had nearly fried her retinas (she most definitely needed a new hat). Stockholm looked down from his perch in the sniper’s nest, shaking his head at her miraculous survival. Folks stared as she ambled through the gates and stumbled like a drunk to her house- she couldn’t imagine her outward appearance at that moment.

   Her front door was opened, slammed, shit dumped at the step, Wadsworth ignored, and she fell face first into her mildew-stained mattress without so much as stepping out of her boots. She had a feverish dream of raging infernos licking her skin and popping her eyes from their sockets, the goo squirting into her palms. She woke drenched in sweat, the night already well underway and creeping into every corner of her home.

   Her father's final message kept her company for a few hours until she could no longer keep her eyes open, no matter how much she struggled.

   You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own.

   The holotape played on repeat, intertwining with her dreams about a dozen needles pinned to her arms and a disfigured face telling her to hush, hold still.

   Goodbye. I love you.

   The morning was met with better fortune and clarity. After nearly expending all of the water in Megaton in cleaning her suit and scrubbing her skin, she allowed Wadsworth to trim off the burnt ends that had been caught in the crosshairs of the explosion. It was completely uneven and made her hair now shoulder length, but thankfully it was such a wild, wavy and curly mess it was impossible to notice.

   Moira met her return with cheeky smiles and enthusiastic jokes shrugging off her near-imminent death experience. With all the caps she gained from her troubles, she didn’t bother asking for another chapter in her research project...at least, not yet. The vault suit, along with Butch’s leather jacket, were left for its stitching, and she exited the store scratching at the itch the brahmin-skin fatigues left on her skin.

   For the first time in a couple of weeks, her ass took residence in Moriarty’s Saloon, her caps laid out and ignorance plain to Jericho’s eyes leering at her from the corner. Gob took her money and set out a beer before a word had even been spoken, both staring at the other in mutual silence as she savored the cold hops.

   “So...where you been, smoothskin?” he finally rasped after Moriarty had stepped outside, leaving them free to gossip.

   “Here...there...” She scratched her chin. “Everywhere.”

   “A real wanderer, huh?”

   “Gob, may I ask you a question?” she sprang out of the blue, and didn’t wait for him to answer as she plowed on ahead. “I went to Underworld awhile ago-”

   “Underworld? You made it all the way out there?” he interrupted. “Did, did you meet someone named Carol? She’s...uh, my mother, kind of.”

   Evelyn became completely derailed from her train of thought. “Wait, she’s your mom? Ghouls can have kids?”

   “No, not like that.” He waved a hand. “It’s a long story. But you met her?”

   “I did, she was very sweet. She’s doing good.”

   The ghoul brightened at that and began to wipe the countertop for some mindless busywork. “That’s good to hear, thanks. Sorry, I kind of stole your thunder, what were you asking about?”

   “Charon.” She blinked as he startled at the name. “Did you know him?”

   Gob gave her a weird look, and his rasp dropped a few octaves, his manner of whispering. “Are you in some sort of trouble with him, smoothskin?”

   “So you do know him.”

   “I’m serious, and you should be too. He’s bad news all the way around.”

   “He actually saved my life.” She waved the tip of her bottle at his shocked expression. “Guessing he doesn’t do it often? I’m trying to figure him out. Like, just what the fuck is his problem?”

   “Ahzrukhal.” Gob slowly set the rag to the side and looked around, as though the utterance of his name would draw him forth like some conjured spirit. “Whatever he says, Charon does. No one really knows why...and no one questions it. I wouldn’t go around asking, it might get you killed.”

   “Why would he work for him? I mean, to me, it seemed like he hates it.”

   “You think I like working here, smoothskin?” Gob said plainly. “Not all chains are visible.”

   Evelyn looked down at her drink, feeling a mixture of anger and foolishness. Was that true? She knew Gob was indentured to Moriarty, but Charon, too? She downed the rest of her beer, wincing at the burn it left in her throat.

   “Nice catching up, I’ll see you sometime.”

   Gob went to reach out to grab at her, but then recoiled his hand back as though she had slapped him. “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you smoothskin?”

   “That’s my agenda for every day,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Wish me luck out there.”

   “Yeah,” Gob rasped quietly as the door swung shut behind her. “You’ll need it...”

   Her suit took three days to finish. Moira had sewn the torn fabric over her right thigh together wonderfully, and she almost had the inclination to inquire about some research...but the very close memory of the whole ordeal in Minefield left little to be desired. Instead, she repacked her bags with the proper supplies for the journey into D.C., a little ember of curiosity lighting the tinder in her belly.

   Gob had met her hopeful smile with a grim one, handing over a few folded parchments of letters he wished for her to impart to his mother.

   “Sorry I can’t pay you,” he started sheepishly, but she waved him off.

   “If she has something in return, I’ll be sure and bring it back,” she offered.

   “Thanks, smoothskin,” Gob finally relented. “Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.”

   She pursed her lips and left without another word.

   The roads were familiar enough that she now traveled with better confidence. The tunnels were still cleared from the previous venture...although something had clearly been eating the corpses left behind. It quickened her footsteps and forced her to hold her sledgehammer with a tight grip, and twice she jumped at her own shadow across the wall.

   Georgetown was eerily quiet...she didn’t believe for a second that it was truly abandoned, so she skittered like a rat to the other metro tunnel that would grant her entrance to the Mall. Once she was down in the dark underground, casually strolling towards the chain link gate, she took a deep sigh and activated the light from her Pip-Boy for better vision.

   A person standing with their back to her in a corner scared the absolute shit out of her, and she squeaked and backpedaled. When she realized it was just a ghoul- albeit, a very thin, dirty, strange ghoul- she placed her hand on her chest and blew out some air from her cheeks.

   “Thanks, asshole, really gave me a heart attack,” she snarked as she made her way past. She kept her eyes on their shaking limbs, were they high on drugs? It was the wasteland, and she had witnessed from afar how raiders behaved when strung out on the latest chem. Did ghouls do something similar...? She hadn’t met a hostile one, not really-

   The ghoul spun around, his maw hanging open and globs of saliva dripping to his feet. She stared, horrified, as he then hissed and waggled his head around like some disoriented dog shaking water from its ears. She then recognized him- the naked man!

   How could she forget?!

   The chain link gate was soon met with her fingers, and she yanked it open and slammed it shut back in his face. A wiry arm shot out and scrabbled at her through a decent-sized hole, and she picked up a rock to pelt it at him before hustling up the steps. If there was anything she was good at, it was being fast. She would have to ask someone about the ghoul living in those tunnels, she would really hate having to run into him countless times...he seemed to have literally lost his mind. In a way, she almost felt sorry for him.

   The ghoul sentry was busily lighting a smoke, watching a super mutant brawl in the trenches with a bemused twinkle in her eye.

   “Hey tourist,” she rasped as Evelyn came around the corner. “Couldn’t get enough of the sights last time?”

   Evelyn looked over to the chiseled stone faces by the entrance, looming, silently judging all who entered. Her last visit had not ended so pleasantly, but she was here, wasn’t she? What for...she still didn’t exactly know.

   “Just...” Evelyn slapped her hands at her sides and shrugged. “Wandering around, I guess,” she said lamely.

   “Strange place to wander to,” Willow commented under her breath. She inhaled on her cigarette, eyeing the smoothskin from head to toe. “I’m surprised you came back alive with Charon, no offense.”

   “So everyone seems to tell me.”

   “For good reason,” the pink ghoul rasped sagely. She turned her head back to the commotion in the pits. “Don’t go around looking for trouble...”

   “So everyone seems to tell me,” she muttered as she finally dipped inside. Her hand settled on the entrance to Underworld for a good long while...what exactly was she doing here? She had gotten the boot last time, and, oh, God, she had forgotten about Winthr-

   The door opened, making her squeak and jump to the side. The ghoul had seemingly been summoned by her trepidation, for he blinked his glowing eyes at her standing awkwardly half-turned away.

   “Smoothskin?” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing standing out here for?”

   Evelyn refused to meet his eyes- she was now bombarded with every moment she had secretly fingered herself to him, and, whew, she really hoped he couldn’t read the lewd thoughts she had about him.

   She thrust a knife hand at the woolly mammoth. “I’m admiring the exhibit. It’s a free wasteland, so I’m told. What are you doing here?”

   He chuckled at her eccentric behavior and widened the doorway. “Busy keeping this place up and running, you...you want to come inside?”

   She tapped her fingers together shyly. “S-sure, thank you.” She squeezed past, almost annoyed he didn’t move out of the way completely. Her nose had to take an inhale of the grease he was lathered in, and her tongue could taste the hint of solder on his clothes.

   The multitude of strange eyes were on her once again, and she forced herself not to stand so straight and rigid. She felt like an iguana on a stick being flourished around a pack of hungry dogs, just waiting to take a bite. She was here for business- she was here for business. That big, red idiot was going to answer for himself. She nearly cringed from embarrassment as Winthrop just stood off to the side, waiting. He’s clearly very interested, that much she can tell. His eyes won’t leave her tits alone for longer than five seconds. Did nobody have basic decorum when it came to dating out here?

   ...did wastelanders even date?

   “So, uh,” he garbled, flustered as they both stood in the corner, expectant of the other to make the first move. “You’re back.”

   She rocked on her heels, holding the straps of her pack with white-knuckled fists. “I am.”

   “You...you want that drink?”

   Minefield was child’s play compared to this. She’d have better luck taking a piece of shrapnel to the face before-

   “I have some in my office,” Winthrop rasped. “It’s a little bit quieter than upstairs.”

   Her face was on fire. She may be inexperienced, but she wasn’t dumb.

   “Uh,” she croaked. Pleasant. Astounding. Applause all around. So full of beauty, timeless grace. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here for something else, uh, first.”

   “Oh, yeah, sorry smoothskin, I didn’t realize,” he began with a huge one-breath rush of apology, but she waved a hand before her with an easy smile.

   “No, no! It’s all good, I’ll just get this sorted and...um...see you around?”

   The ghoul made a strange popping noise with his tongue and seemed more spurned than he did hopeful. "Hope you don't mind me asking, smoothskin, but, uh...you ain't here to do business with Ahzrukhal, are you?"

   All at once, her shy unease became stamped under a hot iron of irritation. What was her business to anyone else?

   He scrambled to continue at the sight of her stern browline. "It's just that, we all heard what happened last time. Barrows and myself had a talk with Ahzrukhal, we figured you weren't at fault. We know what kind of a sleaze he can be...so it just kind of surprised me you came back, is all. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you did."

   Evelyn bit her tongue, unsure of whether to thank him for coming to her defense or berate him for getting involved. It made her feel slightly demeaned, having someone fight her battles for her...but it also felt nice knowing someone cared enough to step in on her behalf.

   He set a hand on her shoulder, the grip warm and ohsoawkward.

   “I’ll be in my office if you need to find me,” he rasped, "and if you still want that drink." He finally strode over to his workspace, glancing over his shoulder as though to ensure she was still there.

   Evelyn glanced around at the peeping eyes that had caught the show, and she hurried up the steps towards The Ninth Circle. She came to the handle, half-flinching from the anticipation that it would be flung open to dump out some poor soul and smack her in the face, but her fingers pushed the frame, and she was welcomed inside the dingy bar...

   ...and he wasn’t there.

   No hulking form, no seething mass, no glaring juggernaut. Just herself and the ghoul that she had no intention of talking to, frowning at her appearance.

   Ahzrukhal drew his eyes to slits. “Well, smoothskin, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

   Evelyn glanced to the corner again- the room felt large, empty, without his presence.

   Ahzrukhal noticed her attention focused elsewhere. “My employee is unavailable, at the moment. I might be inclined to pass on a message for him.” He watched her approach the bar. “For a fee, of course.”

   Oh, of course. She highly doubted he would relay any sort of word regardless. Her butt took a seat, her peripherals noting some other guests slouched in the far corner, a few hits of Ultrajet being sucked down their skeletal throats. They didn’t even acknowledge her entrance. A soft melody was playing on the radio, the reception staticky. Reluctantly, she pointed to a beer bottle on the wall.

   “Ten caps," he rasped.

   Ten?! Robbery!

   She laid them out anyway, inwardly seething at him. She hated him, and although he had japed her out of money and kicked her ass to the curb, she was willing to play nice. Just long enough. The bartender didn’t notice the animosity shimmering around her stiffened shoulders, her crossed brow, her clenched jaw.

   “It seems you have taken quite an interest in Charon.” He dealt the first blow, all smiles, no teeth...none recognizable, anyway. “Were you impressed with a man of his...talents? He’s very good, as I’m sure you know.”

   Yep, my ass still hurts, thanks.

   She licked her lips after the first sip, ran her tongue over her teeth, and looked him dead in the eye. “Why does he work for you?”

   A dark chuckle, like dust from a crack of rotting wood. Musty, wet, hint of mold. “Has Charon been telling you stories of me? I’m surprised.”

   “No...just curious.”

   He raised a brow, leaned an elbow on the counter until he was practically swamped over her, and held out a flat palm. “Ten caps.”

   She didn’t even argue.

   He slid them into the register with a practiced motion and then went about restocking the shelf, his entire performance like some Shakespearean soliloquy. “Charon is...special. He is bound to anyone who is owner to his contract.”

   “Contract? What, like a slave?” She felt her insides squirm and grow cold. This wasn’t a conversation she was sure she should be having.

   Stay as far away as you can.

   Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.

   Don’t go around looking for trouble...

   Perhaps their warnings had some merit after all.

   Ahzrukhal seemed genuinely upset over the accusation. “No, he is not a slave. He will tell you so himself. Charon put himself in his place many years ago...I just happen to accommodate him for it.” He again leaned over her, his breath disturbing the fine hairs on the top of her head. “Are you inquiring me about Charon’s contract? He is a very valuable asset.”

   This wasn’t what she had intended at all when she woke up this morning.

   No.

   “I am.”

   Shit.

   “And what sort of proposal are you entertaining me with?” he asked, and she had to forcibly breathe through her mouth to not gag at the smell of his breath.

   “Uh,” she started stupidly. What the fuck was she even thinking?! She wasn’t this sort of person! What a disgusting notion, to own someone! But her mouth fished out the number of caps she had on her person. “Two hundred?”

   He stared at her, and then barked a crude laugh in her face, a mist of spittle dampening her cheek. Disgusting. That alone was grounds for murder. “Come back when you have a serious offer.”

   Her brows scrunched, her naivety speaking for her and burning any bridge for barter. “I honestly have no idea.”

   Maybe five hundred caps-?

   He pondered for a moment, and then stood back. “Two thousand. Give me two thousand caps, and Charon’s contract is all yours.”

   She was sure her jaw smashed into the marble. Two thousand?! Who the fuck had that kind of money to spend?! She would be toiling weeks, no, months for that amount of cold, hard caps.

   He must have read the ludicrous disbelief on her face. “I am willing to negotiate such a price... for, other propositions...” He slowly crept a hand over the counter to her.

   Sex sells, kid, and you got a nice face with huge tits.

   He’d clear the place, the only form of foreplay being a shot of something dirty and a scrupulous stare of beady eyes as she shyly stripped. He’d be impatient- hadn’t had the privilege to touch a woman in however many years...too many to count. The front of his suit would be unbuttoned, touch me here, slapping her pale hands to his chest, she’d be hesitant and withdrawn.

   She wouldn’t enjoy it. He wouldn’t care.

   It’d be dry, painful. Much too fast and much too rough. Her eyes would be screwed shut, picturing a different face, something to make this bearable. It wouldn’t be how she’d imagine her first to go...she’d cry about it later.

   Nope, no way. She would rather eat sand.

   Evelyn stood from her seat, grabbing her pack. “Two thousand...I’ll come back when I have it.”

   His eyes leisurely crept from her groin to her face, the disappointment not withheld. “I’ll expect you then, smoothskin...”

   As soon as the doors closed behind her, she felt like a sticky sheen had licked her skin. It made her want to take a shower, a very long, hot, shower.

   Carol’s Place was much more receptive...at least, from one host, that is. Gob’s mother was grateful for the news and letters from her son, whereas Greta appeared more than ready to lance a crusted fork in her throat. A bundle of caps and an offer for a free night was shoved in her mouth, swelling her cheeks.

   “Oh, that’s okay, I told Gob I wouldn’t-”

   Carol waved her refusal away. “I am more than happy to compensate you for it.”

   Evelyn glanced at the other ghoul woman throwing daggers at her face, and chopping something on a board vigorously. She gulped. “I-I mean-”

   “You’re very sweet, dearie. But I insist.” Carol closed her fingers around the currency in her hands.

   Two thousand caps...well, she had to start somewhere.

[kidotm]

Never Forget a Pretty Face

  The smoothskin was like a parasite- crawling under his skin, skittering across his brain. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, probe at it, grab the goddamn thing with his rough fingertips and squeeze it till it popped, it evaded him. It wormed deeper, eating away at his grey sense of rational until he felt as though he would open his mouth and just scream.

   But he didn’t do any of that.

   What he did do, however, was reroute this carnage he kept suppressed on his more present issues. A raider junkie had just taken a fall from tripping over their own undone shoelaces- he lifted his foot, witnessed the tinge of fear in their eyes, and stomped.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   He nonchalantly looked down and lifted his boot to view the underside of the heel, raising a brow at the brain matter stuck to it. He wiped it off on a thin rail, the clanging metal echoing down the subway tunnel, and then continued.

   Another raider- a woman- rounded from the shadows in what she probably hoped was an ambush. Charon had visibly made out her trembling silhouette half a track away- the loud sniveling and teeth chattering did nothing to help her cause. He brushed aside the lead pipe aimed at his face with laughable ease, grabbed her by the throat with one hand, and lifted her from the ground, slowly choking the life from her eyes.

   Her lips trembled as she struggled to breathe; he couldn’t help but stare.

   They had been chapped, probably due to dehydration, but they had also been soft. He remembered that. A kiss from the tip of her nose had stroked his cheek, felt the leathered sinew of his muscles and white bone. He wondered what she would have tasted like- perhaps salt, sour, a certain rot one has when tinged with death. She had been simmering in it, a homemade brew of loss of youth and a certain innocence.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like him.

   The raider was struggling to speak, her vocal cords vibrating under the glove of his palm. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he refocused, ever so carefully loosening his hold to allow her final words.

   “Was’the matter, zombie?” she wheezed. Her eyes were bloodshot, bulging, she could have been pretty. Once. “You gonna fuck or eat me?”

   She was kicking her feet, the instinct to somehow run away, to survive, was so strong. She was dripping red, a piece of shrapnel from her right thigh. The blue vault suit was blinking in and out of the shadows with every passing of the train. The lights from the windows teased her face, changing from that of the raider to the smoothskin.

   Flash, flash, flash.

   She looked at him with those pretty blue eyes.

   Asshole. That’s what she said.

   He tightened his clasp, felt the muscles roll under his fingertips and the trachea crack, and then he slammed her head into the brick wall.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   There was nothing left to see from those eyes- he had crushed them into paste.

   The door swung open- he automatically looked to it. Another patron, looking to toil their caps away on one vice or another. He looked back to the bar. Ahzrukhal’s oily smile. A finger propped, come here.

   He obeyed.

   Business. Do this. Do that. Go collect my caps, hurry now, don’t be late.

   A walk across the bridge over the Potomac, and he saw her. A flash of sapphire- what sort of idiot wears something like that? So noticeable, a perfect target. If he had a rifle, he could set the sights and take a clean shot. Didn’t even need a fancy scope; a set of irons would do.

   She had dipped inside of the Tepid Sewers, not even noticing his far-off gaze. That whirlwind of color, foreign, bluer than the sky above or the water below. The world did not remember such vibrance- it would eat her, sooner rather than later, take her in its very maws and swallow her whole, reducing her to shit like everything else.

   He was surprised she had survived. He did not think she would.

   He remained in his place, not realizing he had been staring at her absence until he felt his fingers brush his mouth. The palm of his hand was stared at; he felt betrayed.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like the fresh scent of rain.

   The radio. He listened. He didn’t have a choice, it always played. A peek into the window of another time, another age. The guests all gathered round, no matter night or day. And then he listened. The Vault. He wasn’t stupid...but she was. It told him everything he needed to know, as though he had found the missing piece of the puzzle, how easily it slid into place. He could glue the whole thing together now, frame it, hang it on the wall, show her, see, I figured you all out.

   He wondered if she kissed the others too.

   It was the dripping fat sizzling into the fire, the delicious aroma when you’ve had nothing to stomach and it's greasy on your fingertips. You suck on them, not caring if the others see, let them judge. They haven’t known true hunger, what it does to a man, makes him willing, watching that club batter away at the hare. It seizures, blood foams at the mouth, then stills.

   Who wants the eyes?

   They pop in his mouth.

   She’s frosted cake, a ribboned icing, a creamy inside. He catches himself before his fingers touch his lips again...for he hasn’t had them in over a century now.

   He never wants to see her again, even just in passing.

   Boom. She drops, a simple headshot.

   Asshole.

Friends with Benefitting Complications

   Butch.

   What? A snuggle into sheets that smell of chemicals and are stiff from the heated press. She always hated the turnover laundry days of linen- they made her own bed feel foreign, sanitized. She turns over on the lumpy pillow, squints in the dark at the back of Amata’s head. What about him?

   He...was my first.

   Wait, are you serious? She curls the blanket around her, wraps it under her blue feet, shivers. The air recirculation system keeps blowing cold air on their levels...she hopes it will get fixed soon. When? Where? Why?!

   His room, a couple of weeks ago...his mom was out getting trashed on ration coupons. I don’t know. It was quick...he was...nice.

   Butch, nice? I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. She lays her cold heels on the back of Amata’s thighs, erupts a squeal from her. That’s what you get!

   I’m serious! I think he’s honestly a nice guy-!

   If you told me this a year ago, I would have thought you were insane. She doesn’t tell her what she really feels. Jealous. Left out. Weird. She was always weird. Too quiet. Too random. Not pretty enough to feel wanted.

   You don’t hate me for it, do you?

   Hate you? She does. A little. No! I’m happy for you, if you are.

   ...you’re such a good friend.

   According to her Pip-Boy, it was almost seven in the morning. She wiped away the sleep, snacked on her own prepared breakfast (lest Greta truly poisons her), and laced up her boots. She braided her hair beside the banister on the second to the top step, indiscreetly glancing inside The Ninth Circle when its doors opened for any sort of hint at black leather and broad shoulders.

   He still wasn’t there.

   Tulip chattered away aimlessly as she bartered the few things she had found in the tunnels. A courteous hairdressing ghoul by the name of Snowflake offered her a free trim just to work with a real set of hair. Her fist came to pound on Winthrop’s office door. She told herself it was only polite to not stand up the ghoul a second time. She told herself it wasn’t because she was just desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she was setting out to buy-

   The mechanic was almost as surprised at her presence as she was. He widened his door just as the entrance to Underworld opened.

   “Uhm,” Evelyn stumbled, her heart hammering in her throat and choking her words. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the rolling storm that had just thundered on in. “Sorry, I, uhm, came to say goodbye?”

   She barely heard the confused response as she strode through the concourse to intercept him at the base of the stairs. Charon noticed her just as he took the first step, the lines in his face creasing as he scowled. The silence between them felt electrifying- her toes tingled and her mouth went dry as he just stood there, fresh gore blotting his uniform and piercing eyes nailing through her wide ones. So...now what?

   Minefield. There was some unresolved baggage to be unpacked there. Baby steps.

   The dour look he was giving her made her knees weak. “I came here about what happened last time, between us,” she forced herself to say. He was watching her lips move with each syllable she spoke. “You know, back at Minefield?”

   Charon looked around subtly and then gave a sharp nod of his head for her to follow. Well! That wasn’t so hard! Now she panicked. What exactly was she going to say to him? Hey, I know you saved my life and stole from me but I was looking to-

   She didn’t have much of a chance to chew over her words and spit them out, for as soon as they had rounded inside the bathroom beside the entrance, he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her against a stall door. She gasped from the unexpected hostility.

   And then he kissed her.

   ...crudely.

   It was the only word she could describe it as, and it wasn’t necessarily the word she had hoped to use for her first one.

   His mouth was hot and wet and consuming her lips with such ferocity she feared he was trying to devour her instead. Their teeth clacked and his tongue plunged inside, swapping saliva while she whimpered and he growled. One of his huge hands was holding her steady by the jaw; he could have wrapped his entire palm around her throat if he so wished (and she found the image to be as equally arousing as it was terrifying). His other was pawing at her breasts under her jacket, taking one under an iron grip and squeezing till she yelped. He did it again, and she batted at him with a fist while pushing him away. He finally released her, both breathing heavily over the other.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she spluttered.

   Charon narrowed his eyes slightly and loosened his hold to grant her space. She now noticed the very large outline underneath his leather pants. Her eyes widened without meaning to, he could pin her to the wall alone with that thing!

   She blathered, “I-I came about what happened- and-and your contract-”

   All at once, he became an entirely different man. He took another step back, assessed her like she was some form of prey, and then cracked his hands into fists.

   “Ahzrukhal has told you of my contract,” he rasped with a dark undertone, the question coming out more as a statement. He looked as though he was ready to rip her into pieces with his bare hands. “I advise you leave and do not come back.”

   “What?!” she exasperated, wholly confused as she shoved him. He didn’t budge. “You fucking kiss me, and now you don’t want anything to do with me?!”

   It was then, looking up into the shadow of his face, that she was just reminded how extremely easy it would be for him to smear her brains on the pavement. He didn’t have a reason not to- this was the wasteland, people killed for less, and yet here she was, taking a metaphorical stick and poking the very real giant fucking bear with it in the eye. She felt her insides clench at the thought, and just as she went to apologize, and, hopefully, spare her life, he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away.

   “Hold on, wait-!” She jogged to catch up, but he turned around while unholstering his shotgun and aiming the muzzle directly at her face. Her hands immediately flew to the sky, cold fear stealing the air from her lungs.

   His finger rested on the trigger. “Get out.”

   She timidly pointed to the double doors leading back inside Underworld. “My stuff is-”

   A blast rang out, the wind from the shot kissing her cheek. She abruptly fell backward, scrabbled to her feet, and dashed out of the Museum of History, turning her head around to find that he was taking long strides in pursuit. Something of a frightened cry was uttered as she ducked through the doors, flinching from the crack of his shotgun and the blast peppering the space where she had just been. The first step had been horribly miscalculated, and she cursed as it felt like her entire ankle snapped as it rolled out from underneath her.

   “Gruh!” Her skull smacked against the pavement, a blur of creeping darkness and bright stars disorienting her long enough to witness a gargantuan-sized, steel-toed boot kick the doors open. Another shot spat up concrete dust beside her head; she shakily got to her knees and hobbled as quickly as she could manage to relative safety.

   “Charon!” she heard Willow bark, “what the hell is going on?!”

   Neither had a verbal response as Charon adjusted his aim with quick reflexes just as she disappeared around the bend. When there was no longer the stomping of heavy footsteps behind giving chase, she stole a peek back, finding no one there.

   The molerat exploded in a gruesome display of blood and fleshy bits. Some had the unfortunate luck to be sprayed directly in her face, and before she could keel over and gag, a sharp nip bit her in the ass.

   “Ow!” she yelped, swinging the ‘repellant stick’ around wildly.

   So, I finally did it. Yep. It...wasn’t planned. Not even sure it counts, really. What does he look like? Uh, well...he’s big (in just about every way), tall, broody...and looks like he got dropped in the fan shaft...on fire.

   Another rodent blew up with a high-pitched squeal, its body vibrating erratically.

   I don’t know. I kind of hate him, right now, I guess. Maybe. He tried to kill me...he’s a real asshole.

   A loud sigh was exhaled from her lips, and she winced as the sunburn on her face reminded her that she looked like a walking cherry tomato. She really needed a new hat.

   I think I like this one. Yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?   She looked around at the extermination she had provided for Moira’s latest research project, the carnage brutal to any vermin that would so happen to cross these sands. With a swing of the makeshift weapon over her shoulder, she trudged back to Craterside Supply, spying a few raised brows from the locals at her bloodshed appearance. Moira gave her an armful of chems to carry back home- items she could turn around and sell to Doc Hoff, the chemist trader, when he would make the rounds next week. She jammed them in her locker, somewhat rinsed away the stinking mess, and then took a trip to the Water Processing Plant that towered high above the tin can town, a metal crate balanced at her hip.

   In the two weeks since she had limped on home, there seemed to be no amount of shortage to the busy work she kept herself tasked with. Two-thousand caps...after how he had threatened her life, she should’ve nuked that notion from her mind, but the bundles sitting in a secure strong box upstairs said otherwise. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t even close, but she couldn’t bring herself to spend them. Not on lifesaving armor, a decent meal, hell, not even the tub Moira had offered to let go. Oh, how she would kill for a hot bath...but here she was, killing her skin under the sun and her back with this drudgery, instead.

   The kiss almost felt like a fever dream at that point; it was maladaptive to her everyday life. He had tasted like the warm barrel of a gun; metallic, slightly acidic, a hint of gunpowder with a greasy aftertaste. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad...and she found herself wanting to dip her tongue in for a second taste.

   He doesn’t have lips...or a nose...yeah, I know.   She entered the smelly water plant, her footsteps clanging the metal like percussions on a tambourine.

   I miss you, Amata...I wish you were here for me to tell you all of this.

   “Girl, did you get me that scrap metal?” Walter, the grumpy operator (and sole reason Megaton had any purified water at all), questioned no sooner than she had rounded inside his office. “We got more leaks I think around the east side.”

   Evelyn heaved the metal box onto the table, inwardly sighing at the instant relief granted to her sore muscles. “Here’s everything I found out of Sewer Waystation...minus the actual sewer.” The growls and hellish screeching that had come from the black tunnels had derailed any sort of adventurous spirit she had.

   The elderly man came over to poke his nose inside. “Guess it’ll have to do, for now. Keep bringing anymore that you find, otherwise, we’re going to be shit out of luck up here.” He handed her a pouch of tools to get the job done. “Figure you know the drill, same as last time. I’ll count the caps I owe you while you’re gone.”

   Evelyn straddled the metal piping under the hot midday sun, getting absolutely soaked by cold water as she fitted wrenches and reinforced square patches of refurbished steel over the seepages. Her boots made a squish with every step she took back to the plant, puddles forming at her feet as she stood a sopping mess waiting for her compensation in time and labor.

   “Twelve things of scrap metal at ten caps a piece, and two hundred for repairs.” The jingle of money had never sounded sweeter to her ears. “Here you go.”

   Once her hard-earned caps were tallied alongside the rest, she popped a Nuka-Cola from her stash and sat down on the busted chair in her home, prepping an array of sterilized equipment on the table to begin a minor blood transfusion. If donating her own blood to The Family wasn’t desperate enough for income, she didn’t want to know what was. She sipped her sugary soda while she waited for the bag to fill, ignoring Wadsworth’s quiet, bitter disdain towards her after he had learned she had taken a haircut from someone else. She set the empty bottle aside, removed the needle from her vein with a wad of bandage pressed at the sight, and prepped her 'new' pack for a trip to Northwest Seneca station.

   Loneliness.

   That’s what she had tasted like. Not a tingling sweet, not the cold chew of fat, not simple heat and moist flesh of skin on skin. There was desperation...and fear. If she hadn’t forced him back, he wouldn’t have let go. He would’ve taken it way too far. He would’ve done what Winthrop played out behind his eyes every time he looked at her.

   She didn’t come back. Good. She shouldn’t, if she’s smart. They held on to her stuff, said she’ll eventually come around. They questioned him, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Nice smoothskin. Pretty smoothskin. That’s what they said about her. He knew better, he probably knew her better than everyone. Lonely smoothskin. Straight out of a vault, wandering the wastes, not having a single fucking clue.

   He sometimes imagines she’s dangling from a raider noose, somewhere, her body swaying with the breeze and fingers missing. Or she’s sliced into pieces in a super mutant encampment, head in a bucket and skin blue, bloated, mouth open in a silent scream. The wastes are not kind- it’s a horrific landscape to survive in. Most do not, and the ones who manage come to learn it is not something to be taken for granted. It’s a skill, a desirable trait, an experience of sheer dumbass luck and a big fucking gun. He was really good out in that world, really good. Being out there tested his limits every day; his ingrained instinct to survive versus his very simple wish to die.

   He then saw her on a small hill just past Northwest Seneca station, that color of blue. Still a target, just outside of range. She watched him, her hair dancing in the breeze. He knew he was staring, and he shouldn’t have, but he did until she finally disappeared from view.

   Come find me. He had seen it on her face, even though there was no expression made. It’d be easy; she’d leave tracks a mile wide like a drunken yao guai. If he'd been quick enough, he would've caught her in the bottom dip of the ravine, cornered her into the rocks and water with nowhere to run or hide. He was unsure what he would've done.

   He sees her again in another week. The Anchorage Memorial. She’s bandaging her arm, oblivious to everything and everyone around her as she dresses the laceration.

   Found you.

   He draws his gun, steps up so quietly he cannot even hear his own heartbeat inside of his chest, and comes to a stop within two feet of her. Her tongue is out to the side, her brows stern in concentration. Her jacket is removed, the tear in the sleeve mirroring her wound. He lets her finish, she raises her head, and she startles in place as she finally notices him.

   She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with those owlish eyes, so blue. That skin is very much alive, tickled pink, her lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rapid. A glance at the weapon pointed at her, and she finally realizes.

   He could have killed her anytime he wanted to. But he didn’t.

   “Just what the fuck is your problem, anyway?” she asks, her voice trembling with distress and... something else. “If you’re going to shoot me, then just fucking do it.”

   His fingers yank her zipper down just enough to squeeze a palm under the fabric and grab an entire handful of her. She’s on the tips of her toes, almost trying to climb him like a summit with her lips at his mouth and her hands intertwined through the straps of his armor. She’s tugging, trying to rip it right off, but she only manages a gasp of lustful frustration that makes him thrust her up against the memorial.

   He doesn’t know what he’s doing...he’s not sure if she does, either. His pants are much too fucking tight and the dip of her body rubs against him perfectly as he grinds her into the unrelenting stone. She’s whining and moaning and whimpering in his ear, perfectly ruined by the all-too-close spray of gunfire just at their backs. He drops her and instantly arms himself, dealing with the few raiders that had survived a run-in with the native mirelurks.

   When he turns back around, she’s already gone, her taste still fresh on his tongue.

   Anchorage Memorial had been anything but a very simple walk through the park! Once again, Moira had somehow outdone herself when it came to reckless vaultie endangerment, sending her deep within a hoard of mirelurks to plant a probe inside their nest.

   The Stealth Boy she had used was her first trial run with the device- it was extremely disorienting, not being able to see your own self, and so she had scraped her arm on the sharp edge of a broken metal railing. The scent of blood flurried them to her location, forcing her to pitter-patter around like a panicked mouse until she had shoved the device inside a clutch of eggs (and inwardly cried at all the precious loot left neglected). The crustacean smell had been so nauseating, she was sure not to eat another mirelurk cake for the rest of her years.

   The fresh air of the wastes (if that wasn’t an oxymoron to say in itself) did little to help clear her assaulted nose, and as she played doctor and thought over what sort of snippy remark she would give to Moira, she was once again met with him. Although, unlike the previous encounter at Northwest Seneca, he was much closer.

   Close enough to trade tonsils and ohmyGod-

   She never thought herself one for exhibitionism, but...he could have stripped her then and there and taken her like two wild animals caught in the heat of the moment (if it hadn’t been for the rude interruption of death by maiming). It had been enough of a distraction to pull the velvet wool from over her eyes and stuff it in her mouth till she was home, chewing it over and over to savor that remainder of musky flavor.

   Her breast tingled at the thought of how his very large hand had perfectly cupped over it, kneading it with the worn leather of his glove and smearing some gun oil on her bra, the rough exterior of his skin lighting a flame wherever it traced. The base of her groin was so swollen it ached- she braved the common restroom area, dumping a few buckets of cold irradiated water in the public grimy bathtub just for some fraught attempt at relief. It didn’t help much...and she had to put her vault suit back on afterward, inherently aware the crotch area had been previously soaked.

   Winthrop was taken from the high shelf and tossed in the bin, replaced with a much larger, much more threatening sort of man that made her cheeks blush anytime she thought of him. She had somehow developed an intense crush on a seven-foot wall of gristle and death...a part of her was relieved she had the sense to scram before it went too far, but damn the part that screamed at her to have fucking stayed (or stayed fucking, more appropriately).

   She was rewarded for her crustacean tango with a new hat- it was ugly, but at least it covered enough sun from her eyes- and a few Stealth Boys (and a complimentary stim for the cut on her arm...at least, she thinks it was a stim). They all went into her locker to be later inventoried as useful items that she actually wished to keep, sitting alongside the 10mm pistol...

   Don’t let her get away!   She’s a hostile! Take her down!

   I...I can’t come with you, I’m sorry.

   The gun was slammed back inside, fresh tears smarting her eyes at the instant replay of it all. Charon was all but forgotten as she crawled to her bed, snuggling under the scratchy blankets as she looked up to the colors of the setting sun through her holey roof. She fell asleep wondering if there was ever a time in her life when she truly didn’t feel alone...she couldn’t think of one. She dreamed of massive hands holding her down, gun smoke wafting from his mouth into hers as they kissed, before he cracked her neck and laid her face down in a puddle of piss.

Second First Impressions

   Ahzrukhal had been in an extremely foul mood as of late, pushing Charon to break more bones on unruly customers than Barrows could stand to mend. The ghoul doctor had finally come upstairs to set his authority straight after Patchwork had been admitted with both arms missing, the conversation between the two tense and stiff. Ahzrukhal had then cleared the bar (a very rare thing to do), locked his inventory away, and summoned Charon with that waggling finger.

   “We’re going to conduct some business. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

   This always led the bouncer downstairs to Tulip’s, an array of ammo boxes and explosives purchased without a single word uttered between them.

   Traveling the wastes with his employer was always a major pain in the ass. Ahzrukhal walked the streets as though he owned them, not cautious of the lurking dangers or the inevitable threats just looming around the corner. It forced Charon to always be one step ahead- dealing death unto enemies that he may have simply skirted around to save on ammo and time.

   The ferals and super mutants tended to leave them alone, but raiders always had to go and pick a losing fight. Charon had blown their heads clean off their shoulders, leaving a sole raider woman sniveling in the dirt with a mangled leg, courtesy of a grenade he had gifted them. He stepped up to her, intending on snuffing the life from her eyes when his employer came around from behind the safety of his shield.

   “Tie her up,” he rasped, his voice unusually garbled.   Charon did as told, securing her wrists behind her back and leaving her to inhale the earth.

   “Go wait over there, keep watch. I don’t want anything to interrupt.”

   Charon’s expression had never been so perfectly carved from stone. He obeyed, watching the landscape for any hint of danger as he was forced to listen to the labored breathing and grunts, the screaming muffled before it eventually reduced to sobs.

   A snap of fingers. He turned back around. She was slathered in snot and tears, her voice hoarse and eyes dull.

   “Deal with it.”   A raise of his gun, and they continued on.

   Northwest Seneca station took much longer to arrive at than it did when he journeyed solo. For a brief second, he glanced around for that shimmer of color...she was not there. He did not know what to expect- it had been weeks since he had last seen her. He figured she was six feet under somewhere, the worms recycling her into dirt.

   Ahzrukhal preached his sermon to a pair of nonbelievers, his wish of a discounted price for being a loyal business partner going unheeded.

   “Are you crazy?” Murphy had rasped, Barrett at his side with an itchy trigger finger. Charon would have to take him out first. “That’s a lowball offer. You can find someone else to supply-”

   “I do apologize,” Ahzrukhal interrupted, fiddling with his tarnished cufflink. “I had assumed you knew this was not a negotiation.” He then waggled two fingers, and Charon recited the scripture like a faithful little choir boy.

   Barrett took some lead to the shoulder, not adequate to kill, but pain worthy enough to get the point across. Murphy braved a few fists and lost more teeth than he could afford to, finally cracking under his own blood that dripped from Charon’s knuckles. It dribbled back into his mouth as he croaked an understanding.

   They walked up the steps, embracing the overhead of dark clouds...and a trio from Talon Company, the Capital Wasteland’s most notorious mercenary gang. They questioned the whereabouts of a certain smoothskin with a nice price on her head.

   “We heard she sometimes comes through here, does trade with a couple of ghouls. Seen her lately?”

   Ahzrukhal gave a sleazy smile, never one to undermine a business opportunity when it presented itself. “Perhaps...who’s inquiring?”

   “Ow,” Evelyn muttered under her breath, another bobby pin breaking at her fingertips as she tried to wiggle the lock to the cabinet open. “Little bastard. I swear to God, you’ll show me your wares...”

   Another pin broke, another curse. She wiped the sweat from her forehead on the back of her arm, swapped her tongue from one side of her cheek to the other, and blindly fished for another in her pack before trying again.

   It finally gave a shit-eating grin of a click, and she swung it open and began to assort through its inventory with sticky gremlin fingers. A scotch, whiskey, and wine. All perfect bids for Jenny Stahl, the Brass Lantern eatery proprietor, to deal on. She carefully wrapped them in individual pieces of clothing she had found earlier, snuggled them tightly in her bag, and cinched the strap down to begin combing over the rest of the rubble.

   Springvale ruins was a perfect picking ground for minor finds- she had no idea exactly why she had never bothered to roam around it before...perhaps the holed-up raider gang at the Springvale Elementary School had something to do with it. Probably. Maybe. More than likely.

   A giant shadow loomed over her as she foraged inside a garbage can, sending her into a premature grave from cardiac arrest. When she spun around with a shoddy combat knife in hand, she glanced up from beneath the brim of her hat to the ghoul she had not had a reunion with since that steamy memorial visit.

   Charon was staring at the shitty weapon she so confidently wielded at him, slowly raising a brow as he drew his eyes to her face.

   It had been a solid month since she had the chance encounter of meeting him again and-wait, hold on. Chance encounter? All the fucking way out here?!

   Her eyes wildly flit back and forth. “What the hell are you doing here?”   Awesome. Smooth. No, it’s nice to see you again, or, wanna pick up where we left off? Or, even better, thanks for not blowing my head off behind my back, do others get the same courtesy?

   Judging by the blood on his uniform, she supposed not.

   Her mouth opened, a word in her throat, but a piece of folded paper was thrust at her. She swallowed her question and looked at the message being held an inch from her face.

   “Uhm, what is that?” she asked dumbly.

   “A message,” he responded dryly.

   “Yeah, I fucking know that,” she snapped, taking the paper that was being so rudely shoved into her eyes. She unfolded it, her knife still in hand and being held a little too close to her face as she pulled the lettering under her nose. “Why? What is-?”

   She glanced up only to find that he was already leaving.   “Hey! Hey!” She broke into a jog, the action much too déjà vu worthy to be comfortable. “Was that it?!”

   He paused, turned slightly to face her, and spoke in the most monotone voice she had ever heard another human being muster. “Your business is with Ahzrukhal.”

   She nabbed at his bicep before he walked away again, instantly dropping it when he whipped a glare at her. “I’m not talking about my business with him- I want to-oh my God, really?!”

   Charon was setting off once more, completely ignoring her existence. She crossed her arms and seethed at the blatant rejection- did he just hate her now, or something?!

   “Fine,” she called out at his back. “Not like I care, just leave!”

   She sheathed her knife (for her own safety) and briefly entertained herself by angrily blowing an eardrum-splitting tune on a rusted-out harmonica she had found, the note hastily read.

   Have you forgotten my proposition? I suggest you do not delay, as there have been recent inquests I’m looking to give favor to.

   -A

   No, she didn’t forget. She was so close to collecting all two thousand that the caps had to be moved to their own fucking duffel bag. She turned the note over, a bloodstain making the penmanship barely legible...it read like some sort of bounty.

   Caucasian. Female. Evelyn. One thousand fucking caps! What the hell did she do?!

   She snapped her head around when the shadow engulfed her a second time. Oh, boy...he was mad.

   “I was not the one who had left,” he rasped.

   The response was growled so spitefully that she dropped her newfound musical hobby to the dirt. They then just stood there, his entire face creased together in a snarl and hers blank from shock. When it appeared she was too stupid to give a proper response, he swiveled around and stalked off, presumably returning to Underworld.

   She licked her lips, regaining some sense (mostly stupidity), and called out once more. “You’re the one leaving now.”

   That made him instantly halt. He came back around so fast she flinched into a corner of skewed boards and an open fridge.

   A finger was pointed directly in her face, his tone anything but friendly. “Do not push me.”

   She obediently kept her mouth shut, staring up into that cold face of murder until she was reminded of the note in her possession. It was waved around like a flag. “What the fuck is this? Who-”

   “It is none of my concern,” he dismissed her bluntly.

   She motioned with a hand to their impromptu meeting spot. “That’s why you came all the way out here? To tell me-”

   “Talk with Ahzrukhal,” he interrupted her again, this time with a sharp edge to his tone.   Okay, she got it, loud and clear. Obviously, he didn’t handle her ghosting last time too well...she could take a hint. It’s all she did do back in the Vault.

   “Fine, fuck you too,” she simmered. “I guess I should be thanking you for not robbing me this time.”

   His face came so close that she had to plunk her ass on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Both of his hands braced on each side of the gutted appliance, effectively trapping her in place. “I did not have to interfere. Remember that.”

   “I remember other things pretty well,” she rushed without even filtering first. When he stared at her silently, she smacked her jaw shut and burned beet red.

   The ghoul slowly backed away, and then not-so-subtly looked around, erupting a hot bloom in her underwear. Was he seriously-?

   “It is not safe here,” he concluded, his statement said so firmly she almost burst out laughing.

   “Didn’t stop you before.” Once again, she wished she had to input an enter key to vocalize her thoughts. “I-I have a house...just over the hill.”

   It was forced out so painfully shy she turned away. When he didn’t respond or make a move, she mustered the courage to glance at him. He was very still, seemingly gauging the offer. A sharp nod of his head. Lead, I will follow.

   “Oh, uhm, uh, okay,” she said dumbly.

   She awkwardly stepped around him, slipping on some loose gravel and righting herself without any ounce of grace. She tried to ignore the fact she had this monstrous ghoul a few feet behind her, following her to have...she couldn’t even finish her own thought, the notion sure to make her lightheaded and faint. She felt like the eyes of the world were staring at her as they came to the gates.

   Hey, we’re about to have sex!

   Could they read her face, could they tell? She whipped her head around, catching his eyes. He looked...bored. So absolutely fucking uninterested in what they were about to do. Did he do this often? He was old, probably, so she assumed he had experience.

   The town sheriff, good ol’ Lucas Simms, intercepted them before the winding curve leading up to her place. Oh no, he was going to find out they were about to commit the deed-

   “Hey there,” he said with an easy flash of a smile at herself and a warning to his teeth at Charon. “I see your friend here found you. He came poking around, said he had a message to relay...you getting along okay?”

   “Uh.” She again looked over her shoulder. The ghoul was regarding everything, his expression unchanging. “Y-yeah, we’re good. Thanks.” We’re about to go to pound town...I think.

    “Alright, holler if you need anything.” Simms gave a tip of his hat, and she mimicked in kind before he trudged back down the hill.

   Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t even get the key in the lock for a few minutes, and when it finally swung open, she just as quickly dipped inside.

   “Wait here,” she gushed, and slammed it shut before she spun around to yell upstairs. “Wadsworth!”

   “Yes, Madam! Welcome home! What do-”

   “Please go deactivate,” she commanded as she flew into a flurry, chucking empty boxes of InstaMash in the bin and furiously scrubbing dishes in the sink.

   “Oh, why do I even bother...” he muttered as he hovered down the steps to rest at his station.

   Shit, I have all that crap on the table-do I move the mattress upstairs-I probably smell awful-ohmyGODIhaven’tshavedindays-

   The door whined on its hinges as it opened, and she squeaked in surprise as the ghoul rudely invited himself inside. He had to duck his head and dip a shoulder through the frame, his comical entrance comparable to an oversized action figure being forced into a tiny dollhouse. He closed it, his glowing eyes sweeping over the disarray to then circle back on her.

   She wiped her sudsy palms down the length of her vault suit, oh so nervous with her heart battering away at her ribcage. “So, um, do you, uh-”

   Charon unholstered his shotgun and came forward to set it on the table, his boot nudging the mattress to the side. His hands rested at his buckle, and he began to undo his attire from the waist down. Apparently, he wasn’t too shy.

   She stared like a wide-eyed mouth breather, unable to look away as the innermost secrets to the ghoul’s family jewels were presented to her with a most...sizeable display. Wow. It wasn’t the first dick she’d seen, (if that accidental walk-in on Wally Mack’s prostate exam in her father’s clinic had anything of weight to it), but it was...distinguishable. Veiny. Red. Long & Thick™. She could pick it out in a line-up faster than-

   She snapped out of it as she realized he was still standing there, staring at her. Right. With a numbness in her fingertips, she set the hat and Pip-Boy aside, clumsily undid her braid, and began to shake out her wavy hair as he stepped towards her, his pants shunted past his thighs and cock standing tall and proud. There was a glistening bead of liquid at the tip that dribbled down the shaft with every violent throb it made. His gloved palm wrapped underneath her jaw.

   “Take off your clothes,” he rasped, and then he bent down to embrace her in a kiss.

   It was certainly messy, but not as uncoordinated as the previous times. He seemed to be figuring out what he liked, lots of tongue, less teeth. She barely pulled her suit off one shoulder before he sloppily pulled away and clamped his mouth around her throat, inviting the intrusive thought of he’s also a fucking vampire-?!

   Regardless, she rewarded him with a soft little moan, and he seemed to eat the treat right out of her hand, for he dragged his tongue up her neck and tugged at her lips a second time in hopes of more. Her boots were shunted to the side as she kicked them away, her hands roving blindly as she peeled her suit and underwear from her body.

   He removed himself, stared at her naked skin like a famished man receiving a delectable meal, and then swallowed a nipple with a hard bite of his teeth.

   “Ow!” she yelped as she squirmed under his heavy, rough hands.

   A grope here, a squeeze there- he wrapped his arms around her to cup the cheeks of her ass in both palms and lifted her off the ground.

   “H-hey!” she stammered, eliciting a loud oof as she was smashed into the bedding with none-too-gentle assertiveness.

   The upper half of his body was still covered, the metal of his armor clinking together and the leather straps rubbing her cheek, his head craned over and breath swamping her face. A press of something hard began to prod in a very wrong place, and she panicked and smacked him in the chest. He immediately halted, snapping his eyes at her with a hint of annoyance.

   She wrapped one leg around the backside of his thigh. “Okay-”

   Another jut of his hips before she could align him properly, and he overshot, his cock sliding along the slickness of her cunt and smearing it over her clit and the lower half of her tummy. The sensation curled her toes and sank a tooth in her bottom lip, and he didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t even inside of her yet as he kept humping her into the bedding. He wasn’t making a single sound, the breathy whimpers escaping her being lost amidst the tumult of his gear clanking and the sad exhale of her mattress with every thrust he pounded.

   “Wait-wait-” she breathed out, the urge for him to continue almost overriding the simple desire to have him fill her completely. He growled as he reluctantly stopped, propping himself upright just as she reached down and grabbed his dick.

   It was so hot and slippery and meaty that she held on tight, having him respond to the pressure with his fingers digging into the blankets and his jaw clenching so hard the muscles popped. With a lift of her hips, she directed the tip at the right entrance, and he obliged her assistance with a solid stab.

   No one had ever talked about the pain. She cried out, clawing at his shoulders with desperation and screwing her eyes shut as she was being stretched. She went to open her mouth, tell him to stop, it’s too much, too fast, but he had already withdrawn and slapped his girth back over her clit, a hot, gooey string spiderwebbing across her stomach and breasts.

   One look at his pinched face told her he was somewhere not of this world- he shivered, his breathing ragged like he was fatally wounded, and he rolled to the side while snorting and brusquely rubbing at his eyes.

   Evelyn looked down at the gift he had left behind, inquisitively smearing a few fingers in it. Gross.

   The dip on his side of the mattress raised up as he stood, his back to her as he went about tucking himself away and then reaching for his gun. He appeared the same as when he had entered- indifferent.

   She blinked as he strode to the door, his hand turning the knob as she spoke her insecurities with a timid voice. “Was...it, um, good?”

   He looked at her- a hot mess with his cum lacing her tits- and nodded. “It was.”

   He then left, and she plopped back on the bedding to stare at the hole in her ceiling. Well. That was something, and she wasn't quite sure what.

A Slight Misunderstanding

   A wince as she sat on the barstool, gingerly trying to get in a comfortable position without making it too obvious that she had been nailed by a one-strike hammer. She hadn’t indulged in a beer for a while now, almost feeling like a stranger as she took residency in Moriarty’s Saloon. Every cap unspent was a cap saved...but that night, she felt like she needed a beer for company and maybe an ear to lean on.

   Moriarty was busy inventorying his latest swindles from unfair prices to piss-distilled beer, leaving Gob free to catch up in some side conversation. She could faintly hear Nova moaning from behind a closed door upstairs- everyone had become so accustomed to the world’s oldest profession that no one bothered to listen- it still made her blush at the imagery it unwillingly conjured.

   “Hey,” Gob rasped with an iced Nuka-Cola in hand, discreetly looking over his shoulder. “Sorry, but I wouldn’t advise it. Caravan’s been off schedule since the last run...Moriarty’s been making it stretch.”

   She set her money down and savored the chilled glass between her clammy hands.

   Hey, can I tell you something?

   Amata, helloooo, we’re best friends. Duh. Of course! She watches her fixing her hair in the mirror of her bathroom. Perfectly straight, dark, thick. Everyone says she has beautiful hair.

   You have to swear you won’t tell-   Are you pregnant!?   No! It’s just...that...well-   Spill the beans! She tickles her in the side, erupting a laugh. She loves to hear her laugh.

   “Never seen you with that face before.” Gob pulled her back to reality, and then leaned in a little. “I know Charon was looking for you- he came in the bar asking before Simms made him step outside. Are you in a bad place, smoothskin? I told you he was trouble.”

   Bad place? Not entirely...but there was this emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a jar full of marbles that couldn’t quite fill the spaces.

   “No. We were just...conducting business.” She shrugged, praying to every God there was above and below that he couldn’t see past the façade. That would be downright embarrassing.

   He didn’t, and he began to sort some liquor on the shelves with a nod of his head. “That’s good to hear...I was a little worried, is all.”

   She plunked her chin in hand, amused. “Were you now? Of little old me?”

   Gob wouldn’t raise his eyes, focusing them intensely on his hands while he worked. “You’re good to me, smoothskin...it’s nice to have a friend.”

   She bit her tongue, momentarily stunned at the blunt statement that felt more like a love confession. Sweet jet and tangy sweat sidled up beside her before she could make some sort of cringy reply.

   “Been too busy to hang with us?” Nova asked snidely with that sultry flair to her voice, a crinkled cigarette between her lips with musk permeating from her pores. Her eyes drew onto Evelyn’s bare throat, and she slightly pulled the collar of her jacket down to expose a blooming hickey. “Oh, who had this honor?”

   Gob was staring at the evidence of her hookup with saucers for eyes before Evelyn could clamp a palm over it. The look on his face when he finally put two and two together about just what sort of ‘business’ she had to attend to glowed a molten firework across her cheeks.

   Nova reached up with the pointy end of her umbrella to poke at the heavy, awkward tension hovering over them like a raincloud. “Was it fun?”

   Evelyn fiddled her fingers together on the counter, shrinking into her coat to make herself as small as humanly possible. “Uh. Sure, I guess?”

   Nova worked a lighter, gave an inhale, and slanted her eyes at the lack of confidence in the response. “First time?”

   “OhmyGodamIthatobvious-”

   “Take it easy, kid. You’d be lying if you said otherwise.” She took a long drag, flicked the ash into a tray. “So.” She lifted one leg over the other, the tear in her stockings stretching just a bit further as she spun on her stool to face her. “Who was it?”

   Gob met Evelyn’s eyes, both privy to the mystery hickey deliverer, and she looked away. “He’s not from around here.”

   The cherry at the end of Nova’s smoke burned a deliciously bright hue, casting shadows on her high cheekbones and underlining the bags under her eyes. A little twinkle of perception caught the hidden message shared between the two. “Didn’t happen to be that ghoul who came looking for you, did it?”

   The absolute mortification on Evelyn’s face told her everything mere words could not.

   “No shit,” Nova mused, stubbing the end of her dying habit out with a last blow through her lips. “Was he packing?”

   Evelyn choked on a sip of her soda like a warthog.

   “Big hands, big feet, big dick,” the prostitute said wisely. She peered down at Evelyn’s groin; the shame having long been abolished from years of work. “Bet that ass is sore.”

   “Okay! Nice talk,” Evelyn rushed, leaving her drink half empty and forcing herself to not limp out the door.

   “Go sit on something iced, you’ll be fine.”

   “Goodbye!” Evelyn swung the door shut, heavily leaned on the railing, and ignored the bustling evening crowd below in favor of the blanket of bright stars overhead.

   I had sex with Freddie Gomez last night, after curfew...we snuck out and did it in the cafeteria.

   Oh my God! First- ew. Second- you little harlot! They laugh, more tickles and belly roll pokes ensue. Butch-

   Doesn’t know! I mean, let’s get real, it’s not like we’re even dating-

   Yeah, but Freddie Gomez is just an asshole, and he shacks up with Christine Kendall, (gross!). He said my skin looks like the color of that fake sliced cheese we get!

   You know he doesn’t mean it.

   No, you don’t know how they talk about us. That’s what she wants to tell her, so desperately. You don’t know of the horrible things they whisper just loud enough for me to hear. They want me to hear. They’re jerks.

   She should have told her that. She should have told her everything, as though it would have somehow let her stay.

   The early morning was always worth the ungodly hours to wake up to. A dark velvet blue crushed with violet petals in the same mortar, some sprinkled golden flakes and misted orange citrus. It was quiet, the busy hours of daily life not yet coming to fruition. She liked to sit just outside the gates, watch the sun breathe life.

   ...which was promptly ruined by a waft of cigarette smoke leeching into her nose. Bleh. She turned her head- Jericho.

   “You’re up early,” he commented nonchalantly, not giving her a return glance as he stared out into the wastes.

   “Could say the same,” she half-muttered as she watched him procure a cigarette packet from his pocket to shake one out for her to take. “No thanks. Smoking’s bad for you.”

   He shrugged. “Whatever.”

   Evelyn returned her gaze to the natural wonder, feeling his eyes drill a hole through her skull. She hated that vulnerable vibe she garnered from being around him.

   He slaps my face more than his balls slap my pussy...he just pays Moriarty extra for the bruising.

   Nova had told her more than she ever cared to know about the ex-raider’s tendencies in bed. She inwardly shuddered, thankful Charon hadn’t dealt out similar treatment...she couldn’t help but wonder if he was reflecting on their experience as much as she was. She assumed not, if she had anything to go by with his immediate departure.

   The smell of cigarette-stained clothes was much closer than she would have liked, and she grew irritated at the lack of respect when it came to personal space. Jericho wasn’t too upset with their last encounter when she had crushed his nuts, so it seemed. She stood up, dusted the dirt from her butt, and proceeded back inside the safety of the walls, aware of his ogling gaze stalking her as she went.

   In an hour or so, the shops would be open, and the settlers would be roaming around like a congested ant farm. She divvied up her loot from yesterday’s short-lived scavenging hunt...and then proceeded to sit and inhale some frosted cakes while she stared at her sheets, newly baptized from a popped cherry. She really wanted to see him again...even if she didn’t.

   Wadsworth came to life from his preprogrammed alarm system, whirring around the place and muttering something of absolutely filthy...I insist you remove your shoes prior to entering, Madam.

   Her eyes zeroed in on the dried mud littered about- most certainly not from her. Hey, can you wipe your shoes off? Wadsworth hates the mess.

   Ugh. Too cringeworthy. Not like her place was clean to begin with.

   Are you hungry? Want a drink?

   Too...desperate for social company.

   You can stay the night; it’s going to be dark soon...

   She slapped her face in her hands and groaned aloud. For Christ’s sake, one quick fuck and she was already planning future visits like she was actually expecting him to show up at some point. Absolutely pathetic. The hickey on her neck was only getting darker, making her wear a thin scarf around it despite the heat. Forcing herself to get along with her day rather than sit and overanalyze the situation was more difficult than she could have imagined. Thankfully, Moira took her crap with an overly beaming excitement like always, not once prying about her new fashion statement.

   “Fission batteries?! You have no idea how much I’ve been needing these for this project I’m working on!” she chittered, tossing them in a crate with no care whatsoever. “Oh, yeah! Someone came by asking for you by name yesterday, kind of a scary guy! I told him to try Springvale, since that’s where you said you’d be going-”

   Jesus, Moira, remind me to never tell you where I put my spare key.

   Evelyn dumped the currency she had earned into her pack. “Yeah, he found me, thanks.”

   Did he just talk to everyone about her? He was certainly thorough...and now he knew where she lived, would he maybe come knocking if-

   “Hey now! I almost forgot!” Moira spun around, making popping sounds with her tongue as she nabbed something off the shelf. “He came by and left this for you.”

   An olive-green military-grade sheath was set down on the counter, the handle of the blade that was secured inside wrapped in some sort of worn leather. She picked it up, her tummy exploding with electric butterflies as the blade pulled smoothly from its casing.

   Holy shit. It was much better quality than her chipped combat knife, that was for sure. The refined edge told that it was recently sharpened by an expert hand and a trained eye. Something like this would rake in a shitload of caps!

   She replaced the knife back inside and held it as though it were forged from glass. He really left this for her? But why? She couldn’t get two words from his mouth that weren’t condescending (or threatening), and now he suddenly gives her something like this?

   He probably paid you, duh.

   All at once, her happy butterflies exploded into acidic fireballs. Wow. She was so stupid. It was so blatantly obvious she fiercely bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying in public. She did invite him, after all. Amata had never told her anything about gifts from her courtships, and prostitution was a common trade in the wasteland.

   She resisted the tremendous urge to chuck the fucking thing in a bin. It would fetch a decent price with Lucky Harith, at some point, and she couldn’t afford her pride to fuck her over...not like he had done, anyway.

   With much more sullen airs, she went back home and veered on autopilot to her caps stash that was kept locked away in the upstairs bedroom. Out of habit, she tallied her newest acquisition with the latest sum she had been keeping track of on a folded piece of yellowed paper.

   She blinked. She counted again. The same number. She painstakingly went through and counted each and every cap, suddenly flush and nervous and so damn giddy. All those long days, the calluses on her hands from digging through the rubble, the knots in her muscles from lugging a full pack around, the hours spent hiding from every threat and miles she’d walked for every specialty item she could sell...

   Two-thousand and sixty-two caps. She could now buy his contract, give the damn man his freedom as payback for saving her life, and forget about him as this debt would finally be rolled from her shoulders.

   Well, there was no time like the present.

   Out of sheer habit, he went to grab his knife. His fingers brushed the underlying leather of his pants instead, and he was inherently reminded of his impromptu decision before he had left Megaton.

   A quick thrum of his fingers on the table (that was compiled with a very vast array of death-dealing instruments he routinely performed maintenance on). He would need to visit Tulip’s sometime before his next supply run to replace it, and he was certain he wouldn’t find anything near as excellent quality as that one had been.

   The ever-turning rumor mill in Underworld was always filtering past his ears. He generally ignored it, had learned to tune out most things a long time ago, but certain key words had radioed in his attention most eagerly (something he would never admit to).

   Did you hear? Winthrop’s been making something in his workshop, they think it’s for that smoothskin...peh...bastard thinks he’ll finally get lucky.

   Charon hoped she appreciated the knife. It was exponentially better than that walking future tetanus shot she had threatened him with...he might have to kill Winthrop.

   He honestly didn’t expect to see her again unless they happened to cross paths at Northwest Seneca; Ahzrukhal didn’t let his leash drag too far.

   The bouncer stretched his spine in his seat, cracked his neck. He was becoming distracted by these asinine thoughts- it was a detriment, and could be dangerous. The wastes did not take kindly to complacency, and here he found himself sitting at this table, his mind wandering to the sound of her whimpered breathing and the taste of her sweat, rather than focusing on the task at hand. Now his dick was at full attention, and he had the unfortunate timing of needing to take a piss.

   He grumbled, quickly disassembled a 10mm he sometimes carried as a sidearm for a chance to cool down, and then left the bar for the urinals by the entrance. He did his business (at once reminded of her musky smell that still perfumed him), shook the tip, and craned his head from instinct as the front doors to The Museum of History opened.

   That fucking smoothskin was here.

   He would most definitely have to kill Winthrop.

   The zipper to his pants was shunted up tight, and he found his legs making great strides across the lobby in chase before she entered Underworld. She was lugging a giant duffel bag and small pack with her, to which he grabbed the latter and spun her around. She seemed surprised...and, annoyed.

   “It wasn’t like that, between us,” she spat at him. He did not understand the hostility and took a step back. Her angry, scrunched-up eyes quickly took him in from head to toe. Her voice was dripping with resentment. “I didn’t want it, but thanks anyway.”

   “I do not understand,” he rasped. Did she not enjoy the sex they had? She sounded like she had...he most definitely had.

   “You should’ve kept your fucking knife.” When he said nothing, she scoffed, “Whatever.”

   He watched her turn back around and go inside. She did not like it? It was a much better choice than her own selection...should he have given her something else, instead? He came back in, just in time to catch a glimpse of her speaking with Winthrop...and then disappearing inside his office.

   The smoothskin wasn’t his business. She wasn’t his employer. He got laid for the first (and now last) time and that was it.

   (He was going to kill Winthrop)

   With a hidden bitterness, he climbed the stairs back to The Ninth Circle, took his seat, and resumed his usual routine while trying not to think about what had just happened. The minutes passed, his guns and armor cleaned, and Ahzrukhal counted inventory while he threw out a drunk (maybe a little too harshly...as he ended up sailing over the balcony).

   The commotion down below drew out the pair from behind the closed door (and more eyes than he normally cared for) and Winthrop looked up and yelled something he didn’t bother to hear. The door slammed shut, he leaned against his usual spot with his arms crossed and expression lethal, and tapped an index finger along his bicep.

   “What the hell are you doing?” Ahzrukhal hissed from behind the bar. “Watch yourself, Charon. I don’t need Barrows up here again.”

   He gave a terse nod and resumed his silent fuming. The doors didn’t open again for over an hour, and when they creaked on their hinges, he threw the most hateful glare he could have ever constructed, directly at her.

   She completely ignored him, went to the bar, and threw the duffel bag on the counter. It sounded heavy. What in the world was she-?

   “All two thousand,” she said decisively, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

The Contract

   Winthrop was taken out of the bin, politely dusted off, and set back on the shelf...maybe not as high as the bouncer still was (he seemed to almost be glued down), but he was there. The warm greeting and immediate agreeance to help her with a small matter was entirely unexpected after her rude absence the last time...and then he gave her a pair of binoculars (customized with night vision!) and a kiss.

   Small, respectful, on the cheek, not so much a kiss as a brief press of his mouth to her warm skin, but it counted...right?

   “Hope to have that drink, sometime,” he had rasped nervously, and then he stammered as he pointed to the present in her hands. “You know, to-to show you all the features and everything, you’re a real beauty-I mean! It’s a real beauty! Not that-shit-I meant-”

   “Thank you,” she had interrupted, her face redder than a wasteland sunset. “I will...after I take care of something, if that’s okay?”

   “Yeah, of course, take your time. I’m here, I’ll be here, whenever you need me.” He had then forced a chuckle, gave her a very stiff wave of his hand, and then slapped it against his pants and blew out a sigh as she left.

   Every step to the top felt heavier than the last, as though her boots were slowly being filled with lead. The unfortunate patron who was now in a coma in Underworld’s medical facility had been tossed overboard by the very same man she had scathed at and was looking to free. She hoped he wouldn’t give her the same treatment...they would let bygones be bygones and never see each other again.

   At least, that’s what she drilled in her brain like a fever-licked mantra as she came to open the doors and step inside.

   There he was. In the corner. The energy he radiated was like a brewing cyclone over dark waters, visible from a distance, and deadly enough to take caution around. Every inch of chiseled muscle and oiled leather and big hands, big feet, big dick-

   She almost licked her lips at the sudden blinding vision of him taking her over the table. Focus! She was here for business! Important business! Straight-forward, no-nonsense, boring fucking business. Caps. Contract. Congratulatory fuck. (NO!)

   She tossed the bag on the counter before her underwear could soak through at the remembrance of how he had looked at her, how he had felt, how-

   WinthropWinthropWinthropWinthropWinthrop-

   “All two thousand,” she said with absolution, all of her pent-up anger (and sexual frustration) at the bouncer leeching into her tone. Wow. She didn’t mean to sound like such a dick, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

   The silence was stiff. Ahzrukhal didn’t say a word. She actually thought her rudeness had offended him until he walked to the safe on the wall, spun a quick combo, and popped open the hatch to handle a piece of paper very delicately. He closed it, came back to her, and held it up with the smarmiest grin that only a man of his nature could fashion.

   “I was hoping you had received my message,” his voice rattled. “This will only take a moment for me to count...Charon.” The bouncer snapped off the wall. “Clear everybody out and lock the doors.” He then nabbed the strap of the duffel bag and motioned to a (now free) table. “Shall we, my dear? Drink?”

   “No,” she replied, watching as Charon grabbed the back of someone’s chair to upend them from their seat.

   “B-but I ain’t done yet,” an inebriated ghoul burped into his glass, the collar of his shirt seized to hoist him out the door.

   The bar was emptied save for the three of them, and the bouncer took his place back in the corner, his line of sight in perfect view of her. She kept her eyes down and fiddled her fingers under the table; he would not stop fucking glaring at her! Stop it! I’m fucking helping you, you ungrateful asshole!

   Ahzrukhal took nearly all the damn time in the world. The sun could’ve imploded, as far as she knew. Every cap was inspected (yeah, like she had the time or know-how to forge one) slid into a bin, and mentally tallied. She became bored after the first few hundred, feeling nauseous at this point from the god-awful energy Charon’s eyes were lancing through her. All those weeks of living on the frugal edge, now lining someone else’s grimy (not even one-thousand thread count) suit pocket. Gone. Poof. Just like that.

   She should’ve just given him the knife back and calmly explained herself...but she probably ruined that chance now, anyhow. She stretched in place and sighed.

   “Problem, my dear?” Ahzrukhal flit his eyes up and then resumed counting. He had pocketed a few while she hadn’t been looking. “This is a large sum of money-”

   “Take your time, yeah, yeah,” she snarked, her mood growing sourer with every cap clinking. “What was with that message? Was that a bounty?”

   He again broke focus away from his tally. “You haven’t heard? You must then be considerably lucky. Don’t worry, Charon is an extremely talented asset. He can fill you in on the details, I’m certain. I would be more than...happy, to, once our transaction is settled, and a few drinks are had.”

   Ugh. Whatever. No one else had heard of it, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal, or he was more than likely trying to coerce her into buying protection. Not like that was the reason she was doing this.

   When he finally (FINALLY) ticked the last cap into place, he frowned, looked her dead in the eye, and lied, “I am afraid you have miscounted, as this is only-”

   “It’s two thousand. I had Winthrop count it myself, and he’s more than willing to vouch for it.” Years of dealing with the Tunnel Snakes had strengthened some resolve inside of her. “I think you’re the one who’s miscalculated.”

   Ahzrukhal leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyes a fraction. “...it seems I might have. A deal is a deal, smoothskin.” He then stood, reached inside a breast pocket for that piece of faded paper, and handed it over the table. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

   She took it, squinting at the inked lettering having long since faded from oiled fingers and time. So many worn creases, some dark spots from blood...she glanced up to the sight of the bouncer already walking over.

   “Ah, Charon, come to say goodbye?” Ahzrukhal asked with oozing smugness. Man, she would’ve punched him in the face for that-

   But Charon was instead drawing his shotgun, and rasped a single word that sunk a chill so deep in her bones she shivered.

   “Yes.”

   One moment Ahzrukhal was there, the next, atomized into a wet spray of blood and chunks that splattered the table, the chair, the caps, and her fucking face. The blast from his shotgun was felt, smelled, bitter and choking and suddenly her ears were ringing from the proximity. An eyeball rolled on the floor, the body dropped with a thud, and a seeping river of blood began to pool around her boots.

   She couldn’t move- she was frozen from shell shock- what the fuck just happened?!

   Another blast, mutilating Ahzrukhal’s corpse into ground beef and (not even a hundred thread count) shredded suit pieces. Something landed on her lap- a chunk of rotten flesh with a black indentation in the middle- what was once Ahzrukhal’s fucking ear.

   Charon gave a nod of approval, a very tiny twitch of his mouth like he was struggling not to smirk, and then lowered his gun at his side in one hand, the barrel smoking and his veins rigid from the adrenaline pumping through them. That warrior was staring at her, fresh from the battlefield with the glory of his killings staining his boots, and hers. He then spoke, not meanly, not smugly, not anything, really. A flat, rehearsed, drawn-out shtick he must have repeated dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Something this, clause that. She had no idea, she wasn’t paying attention, her eyes were still drawn to the chunk of ear still in her lap.

   “-and now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

   Her head slowly lifted as she blinked at him, and then she jolted from her seat as life finally animated her limbs (the bit of flesh made a nasty plop), the paper held out for him to take, a drip of blood falling from her fingertip.

   “I don’t want this. It’s yours now.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice. Takeit-takeit-takeit take the fucking thing. “I’m giving it to you.”

   Charon stared at her for so long the sun could’ve reformed, and she’d have no idea. There could be an entirely new world just outside those doors, another start to civilization.

   “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “This is for you.”   “I cannot take that.”

   She snapped it in the air at him, holding it out with her hand shaking. “Please take it, I did this for you, I did this because you saved my life, I owe you, now we’re even, fair and square, here, take it, fucking take it-!”

   The ghoul took his other hand, gently curled her fingers around the paper, and pushed it to her chest. “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   Oh no. No. This isn’t what she wanted, oh no-

   Evelyn looked down at the giant gloved palm still encircled around hers- she was trembling, violently- oh fuck, what the fuck should she do? Leave it? He’d have to take it then, right?

   A banging on the door outside whirled their heads to the sound. “Hey! What’s going on in there?! Ahzrukhal! That smoothskin better be alright!” A voice she didn’t recognize.

   “Open the door!” That was Winthrop. Oh my God, how was she going to explain this to everyone?! “Damnit open the door!”

   A sudden motion flurried around her. Charon poured the caps back inside the duffel bag, emptied Ahzrukhal’s pockets, and then in one fluid motion, hoisted the bag over one shoulder and fucking stood there, waiting, waiting on her.

   Evelyn looked down at the corpse, beyond recognition, (only identifiable by the one thread count suit). “Nope. No.” She threw the contract at him, to which he snatched from the air almost inhuman-like. Her mouth spewed word vomit after she turned to leave. “I’m out- do what you want- I’m not doing this.”

   The door was unlocked, and she thrust them open dramatically to a crowd that gasped and buzzed at the sight inside. She expected the microphones shoved in her face, the flashing of bulbs, the furious scrawling of pens on notepads. Can you tell us what happened?! Is it true?! Did Mr. Ahzrukhal get shot in the head? Are you aware you own a slave, now? She stepped through, the bodies parting to avoid touching her blood-sprayed clothes, the murmuring so loud it drowned her ears.

   “Evelyn.” A hand nabbed at her wrist and turned her around. She looked up with wide eyes, she wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t start to cry. Winthrop pulled her towards the stairs, away from the commotion. “What the hell happened?!”

   She could see Carol standing just outside her shop with the others, a hand to her mouth and head slowly shaking, disbelieving this nice smoothskin who had just delivered her son’s letters a mere hour ago was now Underworld’s biggest scandal of the (literal) century. She was always so nice, none of us had any idea. It’s such a tragedy to the community...

   All at once, it became quiet. The slow footfalls of heavy boots, a creak of leather, a gasp as he came too close. Evelyn watched the crowd give way to this ghoul a foot taller than everyone else, his shotgun still held at his side and deadpan expression giving nothing away. He was fully equipped with items she had never seen him wear before; he appeared ready for war. He looked at her, looked down at Winthrop’s hand still holding her close, and instantly whipped his gun up to bring it mere inches from the ghoul’s head.

   “No! Charon no!” she cried as Winthrop flinched backward, and she took a stand between the two. He instantly lowered it. “Oh my God.” She instead reached for Charon’s arm, tugging him along. “Let’s go-”

   They had to get out of there. They had to leave. She didn’t want anyone else hurt over this. He followed, obediently, just a few steps behind her down the stairs and making a beeline for the double doors.

   “Oh, shit, shit, my fucking bags.” She raced towards Winthrop’s office where she had put her stuff, not even hearing Charon’s steps right behind her until she shouldered her crap and spun around. “Oh, Jesus-”

   The (now ex) bouncer was staring at Winthrop’s bed. That was weird.

   “Smoothskin,” Winthrop rasped from inside the doorway. “Just tell me what’s going on-”

   He didn’t get a chance to finish, as a massive hand cut off his air supply and lifted him cleanly off his feet to slam him into the wall. A scream echoed from just outside.

   “Charon, drop him!” she shrieked in a panic. He swiveled his head a fraction to her, rolled his fucking eyes, and obeyed. “Winthrop, I’m so so sorry-” She squeezed past him as he buckled to his knees and wheezed air back down his throat.

   Charon merely planted his boot on his shoulder and punted him aside to make room. Man, what did Winthrop do in a past life to the guy?!

   “Now hold on there smoothskin!” A ghoul wearing a tattered surgeon outfit raised a hand at her by the front entrance, and then just as quickly lowered it as a shotgun planted in his face over her shoulder.

   “Charon!” she whispered with a hiss as she threw her weight into the doorframe, closing off the multitude of eyes watching them leave. She hurried over to the bathrooms, craning her head around for any sight of a chase. No one had followed them through.

   Evelyn ducked inside the stale urine-smelling restroom, her hands on her hips and face tilted to the ceiling. Okay. Okay, think, breathe. In. Out. Whew.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she blurted (after spinning around so fast she became lightheaded). The ghoul didn’t say anything but stared. Always the staring. Few words, all stares. “Charon!”

   “Is there a problem with what I’m doing?” he asked caustically, and at that moment, she never thought the sound of rude sarcasm could ever be so beautiful to her ears. Okay, he was still an asshole...her asshole, now. He stared.

   “Well, I mean-!” She threw her hands around, as though they explained everything she couldn’t finish saying. A laugh bubbled from her chest; she sounded completely mad. She smeared her face in a hand and-ohmyGod, Ahzrukhal’s goo was still on her skin. EW! She braced over the sink and turned the taps full spin, splashing her face and drowning in cold water to furiously scour away the evidence. When the floor was in need of a wet caution sign and her hair was doused and her jacket was soaked, she wiped the excess away and turned to look at him. Still there. Staring.

   “Stop staring at me!” she snapped.

   He nodded once, turned a precise quarter away from her, and stared at the wall.

   “Charon!”

   He immediately turned back to her.

   Evelyn gaped like a fish praying for water, and then she just strode on past him. She held a hand up when he immediately pursued. “No, no! Don’t follow me!”

   He nodded again. “As you wish.” He unshouldered his bags. “I shall wait here until you return for me.”

   (CUE STARE)

   “...was that a joke?” she asked nervously, watching him prop himself against a stall door, arms folded and expression angry. It was as though he was back at the bar and not some decrepit, hazardous bathroom that had literal shit in the far corner.

   He didn’t answer her, and she scathed, “Fine, fine! Have it your way!” She stomped out, feeling his glowing eyes shadow her until she was gone from view.

   “What the hell happened to you?” Willow asked dryly, dragging on a smoke and completely ignorant to the calamity she was being sentry to.

   Evelyn half-garbled a non-lucid response, dragging her feet and trailing water droplets as she went around the bend. There was no way he’d actually wait for her there...right? He’d have to grow bored and leave...right?

   “Oh my fucking God,” she muttered as she turned straight back around.

   He was still there. Waiting. She didn’t think he moved a single muscle.

   “Shall I join you once again?” he asked stoically.

   Real charmer. Absolute winner. A fucking brainwashed slave that was death personified and had the honor of taking her virginity...even her first kiss.

   God, when I said I really wanted to see him again...this isn’t what I fucking meant.

   Their eyes met, and she nodded (reluctantly).   “Yeah...let’s go.”

Ghouls and Guests Smell after One Day

   The change in hands was a pleasant surprise. The aftermath, however, was not.

   She must have known this would have been the inevitable outcome upon purchasing his contract, but she still refused it. It was nonsense, it was pointless to argue, and it was aggravating. It was some small miracle his conditioning kept him from pitting the base of his thumbs in her neck and just squeezing...at least until she just stopped being so loud. He assimilated very quickly to filter out anything that wasn’t a general order, otherwise, he would’ve gone feral. (He was most certain of that). Her mouth was running a hundred miles an hour, and they were lucky the road to her doorstep had been relatively safe without her screeching attracting anything that was looking for an easy meal.

   A metallic snapping sound granted his ears respite from her mouth. He finally gave her his full attention, for judging by her sudden silence and grim demeanor, something was wrong.

   “Uh, oh...” she mumbled, holding up the broken end of a key. In her fit, she had paid little mind to her strength when coercing her door to unlock, and broke the key in the knob as a result. She looked behind at him, sheepish. “Um...you don’t know how to fix that...do you?”

   He placed his hand over the knob, gave it a sharp twist, and braced his weight in the frame to force it open. He stepped inside, leaving her to gawp at his improvised handyman skills, and was immediately assaulted with an iron pot to the face.

   Thud!   “How dare you, you oversized, pea-brained oaf!” A Mister Handy came whirring down the stairs. “I will defend my Madam’s (ghastly) estate with every ounce of my-!”

   “Wadsworth!” His employer teleported between his loaded shotgun slugs and the robot’s ultimate demise. “Down! Charon is not a threat!”

   He instantly lowered his barrel to the floor from ingrained trigger discipline, although it didn’t wipe the nasty snarl from his face. That pot would’ve crushed his nose if he still had one.

   “But Madam, he broke the door!” it wailed.

   “I know!” She then turned around, motioning with a hand at the entrance. “You broke my fucking door!”

   His brow muscle nearly twitched right off his face. He should’ve shot Winthrop before she had stopped him...it would have been another nice memory to replay while having to listen to this.

   A grumble rolled off his tongue as he moved past her to set his bags on the crudely fashioned table. There was a loud groan, a crack, and the table folded in half as the obscene layers of duct tape that held it together ripped perfectly down the middle. Her jaw hung so low he was sure it would touch the floor. He took a seat on the tiny chair (the severe dip of the base slightly worried him) and he looked to her, awaiting his orders. After her earlier outbursts, he was completely unsure as to what she would require of him.

   For once, she kept her lips sealed tight, sat at the foot of the stairs, and waved the robot to its station. “Go ahead and power down, Wadsworth.”

   The Mister Handy gave him a squinted optic (he assumed it was glaring at him) and deactivated at its stand. They both then sat there, the door still wide open, the ray of light from her house casting a thin illumination to the dark beyond. She had her hands in her lap and eyes far-off into the distance. He sat straight (for the chair had no back) and stared at her. After minutes of silence, she looked at something on the screen of her Pip-Boy, and turned her head to meet his gaze.

   “Moriarty’s has rooms to rent. You can stay there for the night since it’s so late and, um...” Her eyes darted to the single mattress that they had just shared yesterday. She turned bright red and hugged herself tightly before looking back outside. “We can talk more about your contract tomorrow. I’m pretty tired...I can imagine you are too.”

   He shook his head. “I do not require sleep.”

   She gave him a weird look. “Pardon?”   “I do not require sleep.”   “I can’t tell if that’s a joke.”

   “It is not.”

   “Um...okay...” She appeared exhausted, wiping at her face with her hands.

   The air between them was stiff and uncomfortable, and then both their eyes landed on the bed. He felt a twitch in his pants. She was giving him that look- the one before they kissed. Then she turned away right as his dick got hard.

   “Obviously I’ll let you decide what you want to do. You know where the bar is, there’s the caps. If you’d rather stay here,” she lamely gestured to the minimalist ruined furnishings, “there’s food in the fridge and the bathrooms are up the hill.” She deeply sighed and looked at the door. “I guess I should try and fix that. Somehow.”

   An expectant look was thrown at him. He didn’t say anything, and she took the hint. She mumbled under her breath as she tried closing the frame- he had also busted a hinge off- and ended up laying strips of duct tape down the side of the trim. She gave him a shrug of her shoulders after he simply shook his head, but he ultimately kept quiet.

   “Yeah, like you got anything better,” she snarked, grabbing the side of her mattress to begin dragging it up the stairs.

   For the next thirty minutes, he remained in his place and watched his employer’s pathetic attempts at lugging the thing up by herself. It appeared awkward to handle and heavy enough for one person to struggle with...he ate a can of cram as he offered no help whatsoever. It certainly wasn’t his duty to. She cursed and wiped sweat from her forehead, and twice had the unfortunate luck of it wobbling off the staircase back to the ground floor. (Twice he had to lift a boot to veer it away from falling on him). A small pile of emptied goods was at his side when she finally made it to the second floor and shimmied it into another room.

   All was then quiet for a few hours. He figured she must have finally fallen asleep.

   A light breeze picked up and peeled the tape away from the doorframe. He didn’t bother reattaching each tedious strip, not even as he left to take a leak. He concluded his business on the wall by the doorstep (to keep any would-be trespassers within scope), rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck side to side as he eventually looked up to the sky. He never had the opportunity to see so many stars when he wasn’t traveling, and the lull of (false) security and zero expectation of being somewhere at a certain time was...relaxing (almost disarming), in a way.

   Charon came back in and performed a wellness check- her door was already slightly cracked, so he widened it to get a clear visual. She was fast asleep, curled in a tight ball and lightly snoring, with a rather large pool of drool darkening her sheets. He closed it, making sure the frame was actually secured this time, and resumed cleaning out her kitchen of anything and everything.

   He snooped through the locker (the door squealed horribly), picking up a 10mm pistol that had dirt crusted in the crevices, and a round jamming the chamber. The slide was pulled, the gun turned over and shaken, and the bullet clinked at his feet. He checked the magazine- it was the only bullet to have been expended. There was a pile of books, something wrapped in cloth, and a sad-looking teddy bear. He didn’t find the knife he had given her; he assumed she had sold it.

   The chair had a permanent dip to it after the hours he had spent sitting in it. He watched the slow rise of the sun chasing away the darkness- it was difficult to tell the passage of time in Underworld, so this was something he would become accustomed to.

   Evelyn awoke early and came down wearing a simple choice of wastelander’s clothes. She stopped before hitting the bottom step, looking out the wide-open front door he had never bothered to shut.

   “I thought about this contract thing a lot last night,” she said indirectly. She was still staring out the entrance, the warm light basking just below her feet. “I’m not gonna lie and say I understand it, or the situation it forces you in...” Her face turned to look at him, just as the sun flooded high enough to swell over her like a golden tide. “If you want to leave with someone else, tell me. If you want to stay here, that’s fine. Just...don’t wait on me to tell you what to do or anything, it’s weird. I just want you to be yourself.”

   He could only nod- she was honest, in that she didn’t understand anything. So long as she held ownership of his contract, he was sure she would come to figure out its boundaries and limitations. They all did...eventually.

   She stretched, satisfied with his nonverbal answer, and went to the fridge. It was empty. “O-kay, guess I need to go out.”

   The house was a disaster. Her door was hanging off one hinge, her table was its own pile of rubble, and a fucking murderous, grumpy ass ghoul was taking permanent residence on the only piece of furniture that had not yet been destroyed by him. YET.

   No matter how she tried to word herself to make it sound like she wasn’t directly ordering him to, he wouldn’t stop following her. Her shadow had grown three times its size- everyone stared. She even slammed the door in his face trying to gain some privacy for the bathroom (and some breathing room), but he merely leaned against the frame outside and growled at anyone that passed too close.

   “Stop it! You’re scaring people!” she finally snapped at him after he made sweet little Maggie burst into tears.

   He gave her a blank look, his tone bone-dry. “I am being myself, as you have asked.”

   Her eyes almost rolled out of her head, and she dipped inside Craterside Supply just to get him off the streets. Moira’s hired mercenary in the corner gave Charon a solid once-over; the ghoul repeated the gesture with a very clear message of I will wipe the floor with you.

   Evelyn rang the service bell more than was necessary and set the duffel bag full of caps on the counter. If Charon was going to eat her out of house and home, then she was going to take full advantage of him while he did so. She tugged at the scarf around her neck- it was hot!

   Charon immediately grabbed her chin with one hand and turned her head to the side.

   She panicked and tried not to flinch away from his unexpected touch. “What the fuck?! What is it?!”

   “You are injured,” he rasped plainly, zeroing in on the purple and yellowed bruising of her skin.

   She pulled away, not meeting his hawk-like eyes as they scrutinized her. Moira’s living theft- preventative was watching them closely. She batted at his hand as he reattempted to inspect it.

   “Stop it!” she hissed lowly. “That was from you!”

   “I do not recall,” he confessed, his deep voice vibrating around the room.

   She glared up at him. “Are you serious?” she asked stupidly. Her face was so red she was afraid it would burst. “From, you know.” She flailed her hands around. “The other day? When we-uh-”

   He remained silent and blinked. He did not seem to draw a correlation between the two.

   She cupped a hand around her mouth as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “When you came over,” she said as quietly as possible.

   “During sex?” Charon bluntly asked aloud, just as Moira bounced behind the counter.

   Evelyn gave a horrified gasp and whipped her eyes forward, trying to ignore the sweltering heat creeping up her neckline. She awkwardly coughed and rushed through whatever Moira was about to say. “What the fuck can two thousand caps get me for my house?!” she blurted, unzipping the duffel bag to spill a load of caps onto the counter.

   It worked, as the eccentric shop owner’s face went from mildly curious to absolutely thrilled. “Wow! I guess all those jobs you’ve been doing have really been paying off, huh?” Moira grinned, turning her attention to Charon. “I see you’re back in town!”

   He said nothing but glared at her.

   “You-you said you had a bedframe, yeah? And that tub?” Evelyn successfully returned the focus back to herself before she could ask for any more details about her (permanent) visitor. “I also need a new table...and chair.”

   “Well, I have a whole layout if you’re interested. Oh! There’s also this working Nuka-Cola machine I just finished putting together! I was going to use it for some experimentation on the properties of-”

   “Yeah, great!” Evelyn never thought of herself as to interrupt someone until Moira had stepped into her life. They would be there for hours. “I’ll take it. We’ll take all of it.”

   “We?” Moira chimed. “Hey now, is this a setup for two?”   Evelyn withheld a groan and motioned to the door. “So...what are we buying?”

   The entire overhaul took the rest of the mid-morning and late afternoon. Her back became so sore she thought she would be hunched over and crippled for the rest of her life as she carried box after box after fucking box to set up a cozier homestead. She knew it had been long overdue...but she guessed she never had much of a reason to have wanted to make it home, before.

   Not like Charon was the reason for it, anyway. Just an excuse.

   A big, grumpy, prick of an excuse that didn’t lift a single finger to help. He even let herself and Moira carry the tub over- that almost threw out her shoulders from their joints, but after settling it in place and having Walter come down to fit some piping, it had been so fucking worth it. It was awkward in the living room and took a whole corner, but yes indeed, it was worthy. A workbench was placed into the spare bedroom, along with some gun racks mounted on the wall. They were the only items he had pointed to when she had asked him of wanting anything.

   “You know,” she tersely remarked after dumping an empty steam trunk at the foot of her ‘new’ bed. “It wouldn’t kill you to help.”

   He was leaned up against the door (that Moira had fixed for her). “Is that an order?” he asked. She swore there was sarcasm in there.

   You bastard. She put her hands on her hips, blowing a hair from her face. “Well, no, but-”

   “Very well,” he replied just as plainly...and then he remained in spot, watching her mill about with those heavy brows and toasty glaring.

   The very last item- the soda machine- was in pristine condition and set to go up the stairs inside a nice little nook by a small table and chair. The bitch was heavy enough with the assistance of a dolly and some straps...and as she looked at the feat before her, she felt frustrated enough to cry.

   “There’s no way I’m getting this up there,” she mumbled. Two people couldn’t fit side by side on the steps...and she wasn’t strong enough by herself. She noted bitterly, “Bet if Winthrop were here, he’d help-”

   The ghoul left his spot, nabbed the handle from her, and effortlessly climbed the stairs with it in tow. The entire house shook after it was set in place, and he leaned over the railing to peer down at her.

   “Is there anything else you require?” he asked sharply.

   She crossed her arms and scoffed. “No, but thank you.”

   She was finally allowed a moment to rest, and plopped on the dusty couch in the center of her living room. She would have never recognized this place if she hadn’t put her own blood, sweat, and tears into the extensive transformation. (Wadsworth only made the comment of oh, joy, even more for me to clean...) It would seem these past few days were all about major changes. Her eyes came to settle on her newfound ‘partnership’.

   She didn’t know if all of those changes were good.

   Simms eventually came by to inquire about her reappearing guest, and she did her best to ensure him that the ghoul would be on his most solid behavior...until a certain ex-raider nearly got himself killed, thereby not even upholding the statement for a single day, that is.

   She had been organizing her stuff upstairs when a knock came pounding on the door. She came down and discovered him missing. It was a swell of relief (she ignored the disappointment) until she noticed his stuff was still in place. She had told him to do whatever...so, whatever. She assumed whoever it was, wasn’t Charon (as she wouldn’t have a door anymore). She swung it open and assumed correctly. Her eyes narrowed at the man.

   “May I help you?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you realize what time it is?”

   Jericho twiddled a cigarette around his lips, leering over her shoulder for a glance inside. “Nice digs. Where’s your fucking shuffler? Heard we got a new maggot farm in town.”

   “That is incredibly rude!” Evelyn shunted the door closed to prevent him from scoping out the place any longer. She crossed her arms and glowered. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Now.”

   He puckered on his smoke, the ember cherry brightening his sneer. “You fucking that zombie, girl? That’s some sick shit.”

   Slap!

   Her palm stung after swinging back to her side, his burning smoke rolling to the ground. The blood under her skin was boiling, and before she could bite at him to fuck right off, he lifted a fist to retaliate. His arm was swiftly nabbed from behind, and then snapped. Charon's outline stepped out of the shadows, his entire visage reading murder. Evelyn startled back as Jericho was hovered off his feet, his windpipe being crushed by a single hand to prevent the cry of anguished screaming as his limb hung at an abnormal angle. She could hear the cartilage of his throat cracking. The ghoul’s fingers reached all the way around.

   Jericho was then dropped to his knees, wheezing faint cries and trying to crawl away from the pair of white-hot flames that burned through the darkness at him. The ghoul unholstered a side pistol and swiftly planted it at the backside of Jericho's head.

   “Holy shit Charon, don't kill him!” she panicked. He obeyed, putting his gun away. “Shit, we have to get him to Doc Church-!”

   Charon nabbed the man by the collar of his jacket, lifted him a second time, and tossed him over the railing towards the medical clinic. They both watched as he rolled down the hill to eventually come to a stop in a pile of brahmin shit. Close enough.

   She gaped at him, and he curtly shrugged.

   “Oh my-come here!” Evelyn brusquely dragged the ghoul by the hand and locked them back inside. “This isn’t The Ninth Circle, Charon! I’m not fucking Ahzrukhal! I don’t need you to potentially kill people! I can handle myself!”

   He snorted, “I do not think so.”   A heartfelt gasp. The ghoul hadn’t said so much as a handful of words to her all day, and he decides to end it with that?!

   “You know what, fuck you!” she growled. “Take that stupid fucking contract, and shove it up your ass with God knows what else up there!”

   She stomped up the steps to her room and slammed the door shut. She took it back. She took every word back. She never wanted to see that hulking, scowling, asshole ghoul ever again.

[kidotm]

Knives and Butterflies

 He didn’t see much of her for the whole next day. That suited him well enough- it was, for once, quiet. The floating robot went about picking up after himself, muttering things in its synthesized voice that he ultimately paid little mind to. It brought her water and food while she completely shunted her existence from the world. He was only ever in her company while she left to use the head, and even then, he could feel her resentment towards him. He was performing his duty to her in keeping her safe- the walking scum he had tried to kill ducked into a building whenever they almost crossed paths. No one would threaten her with him at her side; she was lucky to have survived this long on her own.

   Sometimes, he heard voices drifting from under the crack of her door. They would repeat, fast-forward, play back. He heard her cry.

   He left her alone. It’s what she seemed to have wanted.

   By night, when he was certain she was lost in her dreams, he peeked inside just to ensure she was still there. She was. Asleep, her back to the door and curled in a tight little ball, the shitty pistol she kept laid out on her desk. He checked the magazine. It was empty. He used the workbench, crafted some ammo. It had been a long time since he had the privilege to do as he pleased...it did not go without appreciation. She was much more favorable compared with Ahzrukhal. He checked on her again. Still asleep. He ate some food- she said he was welcome to. A book was taken from the shelf, the pages fluttered open, he skimmed the words without actually reading them.

   A third visit- she had turned over. He took her bag, retreated to the couch, went through her things. A book, full of inked scribbles, some pictures he couldn’t quite identify...he squinted at something that very much resembled himself with the scrawled word, dickbag, beside it. A pair of black socks. The end of what was once her sledgehammer...he assumed it had not lasted very long due to improper maintenance. A...rock? Smooth, flat...and still a fucking rock. A pair of binoculars was the most interesting, and he inspected them carefully. They had night-vision scope capabilities, and he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into modifying them. It was probably the only useful thing she had.

   The curved handle of his knife was met at the very bottom. He slowly pulled it out, somewhat in disbelief that she still had it. She didn’t outwardly use it. She had said she preferred that he had kept it...it was set aside from the remainder of her things.

   He looked up, seeing a handful of white pinpricks through her roof until they eventually became streaks of red and gold. She came down in a different outfit, a simple green jumpsuit, her hair wild around her face. The bruising he had (supposedly) left her was nearly the same hue. She seemed to be in a much lighter mood.

   “Wadsworth usually does laundry on Tuesdays. He said you look like you smell- abysmal.” She scratched at her scalp. “You can take a bath, too, while he does it. Do you have any other clothes?”

   He shook his head. He practically wore his uniform as a second skin, only occasionally going for a dip in the Potomac to wipe away the gore. The ghouls in Underworld were all used to the smell of themselves, anyway. She was still blathering as he stood to begin stripping, unbuckling his armor and setting it down on the table she had replaced.

   “I can see if Moira has anything for-oh my God-!” She spun around after he undid his belt and started unlacing his boots. “Um, hello?! I didn’t mean right now! You couldn’t wait until I left?!”

   His fingers paused in lowering his pants. He blinked at her abrupt bashfulness. “You did not mind the last time.”

   “Well, yeah,” she blubbered, still refusing to look at him. “That was totally different!”

   He did not see how.

   Her eyes flit over, and she squeaked, “Okay, um, just, just- take your time, I’ll be in my room. Let me know when you’re done, and we can see if Moira has some gear that’ll fit you.”

   He watched her hurry up the steps, heard the closing of her door, and was left completely nude in her living room. He took a great deal of time soaking in the tub (even if he didn’t completely fit). A box of salts she had been most excited over was peeled open and curiously sniffed. There was still a faint trace of its former potency, so he shrugged to himself and dumped the entire thing in.

   The robot took his clothes with a disdainful absolutely atrocious, and when the warm water had finally lost its appeal by becoming cold, he marched up to her door and pounded on the frame, water droplets pattering the floor at his feet.

   “Finally,” she muttered from behind, thrusting it open to then slam it back shut. “Where are your clothes?!”

   “Being washed,” he grumbled. He had told her he only had one pair.

   After a few moments, her door gave the barest of cracks, and her hand came out holding a ratty dark blanket for him to take. “Here,” she insisted.

   He complied, wrapping it around his waist and holding the ends together with one hand. She hesitantly widened the space, seemingly relieved at his modesty.

   “Look, I’ll just bring whatever largest sizes she has,” she said, weaving side to side for a way around him. “Um, excuse me?”

   “I will come.” He did not like the idea of her being alone, and the incident from the previous night only reinforced his concerns.

   She waved a hand at his body, her skin nearly as red as his own. “Not half-naked, you’re not!”

   “Then I shall grab my clothes.”

   “But you just said they’re being washed,” she exasperated. “It won’t kill you if I-”

   “I will join you,” he rasped, turning away to retrieve his sopping uniform. His arm was grabbed at the bicep, and he raised a brow at her assertiveness.

   “No,” she said firmly, finally putting her foot down. “I’m going by myself,” she reiterated. “You are more than welcome to stay here.”

   Charon scowled. “Is that an order?”

   Her patience snapped. “I swear to God, if you say that one more time, I’m going to make you take that contract and shove it down a mirelurk’s throat!”

   He stared at her, silently, and then, “Is that an or-”   “Shut up!” she snarled, turning around with her hands thrown in the air. She very much liked to enunciate her point with them. “I honestly prefer not to have you at my side twenty-four seven, or, even better, how about never!”

   The muscle of his brow twitched aggressively. “You are my employer; it is my duty.”

   “Yeah, well, as your ‘employer’, I hate it,” she scathed. “I was only looking to free you from that slimeball and maybe have some sex.”

   She gasped, slapped a palm to her mouth, and the room felt very small. Her face grew so bright with blood he was worried it would pop. That would not spell good for her health.

   Charon glanced at the bed that was pushed against the wall, feeling his mounting erection tenting the blanket. She once again gave him that look- a parted mouth and eyes nowhere near sane. He dropped his decency.

   “Fuck it,” she breathed, her hand coming up to pull the zipper of her jumpsuit down swiftly.

   The metal frame of the bed shook and squeaked with every movement of her. She shimmied her clothes off while he pulled her boots to the floor, his over-eagerness already fisting his cock and widening her thighs with one leg wrapped around him. His other fingers held her at the waist, the tip of his dick meeting that warm, wet invitation that made him breathe tersely through his nose.

   “Fuck, wait-” Her lips ghosted inside his temple, the breathy exhale of her voice absolutely mesmerizing and filling his lungs like hot lead. “Let me do it.”

   The muscles in his core trembled, the fine line between an order and instinct conflicting pain and pleasure like mortar shells on his psyche. She fiercely held on to his forearms as she slowly worked down, his cock rewarded with a mind-numbing squeeze from her efforts, but it was then just as quickly taken away. She did it again, and then again, each effort drawing more of himself inside. He was aware his hands were shaking; his breathing labored. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

   “Okay.”

   He barely heard it, but heard it he did. Like a violent whiplash, his head came forward to thrust his tongue in her mouth and slam her down till her ass smacked his balls, the sensation rolling his eyes in his skull. The sound that bled from her mouth into his was choked- pain. He instantly lifted off.

   “Ow,” she slurred. There was no more hazy glaze-over to her eyes, no more half-lucid tongue kisses. She was wincing and gingerly moving away. “Sorry...”

   He took the hit- it was immediate. A lash at the front of his brain, a pulsating grenade decimating all coherent thought. He suppressed a groan and rubbed at his eyes- he’s had worse...a lot worse. She was speaking, she was apologizing, it confused his already addled mind. He strained to listen, for it could be important.

   “I guess it just takes some getting used to...sorry if I ruined it,” she said a little sadly.

   He rapidly blinked to look at her clearly. He had hurt her. He knew that much. She did not seem to notice that she had done the same.

   “Do you require anything?” he asked, widening her a bit to inspect for injury. She threw her eyes away, retreating from him with the curl of her body into herself.

   “No...I’ll be fine.” Her fingers fiddled with some stained water droplets on the sheets. “...was it at least, nice, for you?”

   He remembered she had asked this the last time. He didn’t really quite know what to think of that.

   “Yes,” he answered bluntly.

   When it appeared she had nothing more to say, he stepped over the pile of her clothes to retrieve his own from downstairs. The robot threw a complaint at his back while he fastened zippers and shrugged his (now flaccid) manhood inside cold leathers. He then came back up, hesitating as he walked in to the sight of her crying.

   She had her knees to her chest and back to the wall, her eyes puffy and face splotchy. “Please close the door. I want to be alone.”

   It was as clear as an order as he’d ever heard her give. He went back downstairs, sat on the couch in his damp attire, and briefly wondered what exactly she had grown upset over.

   Oh, shoot, I totally forgot!   But how?! This is what we do every first Friday of the month! She’s stunned, truly. They’d never miss holovid night, not once.

   I kind of got this thing going on with Wally Mack tonight, but-

   What? Wally Mack? The Wally Mack? That asshole who threw that baseball at the back of my head last week Wally Mack? Are you serious?

   He honestly feels really bad about it-

   Bullshit. You know he doesn’t. He’s just saying that to get in your pants. She can’t believe it. Her best friend. Her once great protector. The girl who ditched all the other mean kids in class to come sit by her at lunch and read comics with. She was being ruined. Ruined by them.

   Look just because you aren’t getting with anyone doesn’t mean you have to be mad at me for it!

   She’s silent.

   Oh, oh my God, Evelyn, you know I didn’t mean that...

   He was just sitting there, waiting, like he always does. That fucking ghoul she doesn’t know what to do with. Does she get rid of him? Tried her best, wanted to be a good person, got in way over her head? She wanted nothing more than to ask her dad, who was still out there, alive or dead.

   Charon stood as soon as she came down the stairs. He didn’t wear a single emotion on his face (unless it happened to be irritation). Nothing from the past half hour could ever transpire from him. He’s a fresh chalkboard she can scribble on, just for him to take the brush and wipe it all away. Clean, stainless. She often ponders what Ahzrukhal made him do.

   She moved past, he expectantly followed. She has an invisible tether laced around his neck; at any point she can just twirl it around a finger, pull it tight. He’d have to obey, the only sign of defiance being his eyes. He could kill a man with a single stare...she was sure of that.

   She wanted to try again, get it done right, this time. She wanted to strangle him with his own stupid fucking cord. She wanted to know what was wrong with her...Amata never made it sound this way. She wanted to talk to someone, have her insecurities heard and understood, but she was sure she would be ridiculed, for no one else ever voiced them.

   A pause. The blade he had given her was on the table...so was her bag. He went through her things?!

   “I see you found your shit,” she said snippily, thrusting the fridge open to nab at a very lonely carton of Salisbury Steak. There were no two ways to go about it...the caps were running low (that giant fucker ate a lot, forget house and home, he would eat her out of town!) and she was going to be forced to take on a job.

   She tossed it on the counter, lit the stove, clacked down an unseasoned pan. He just stood off to the side, silent. The slimy what-was-once-meat was slid onto the hot surface, the loud sizzling pops splattering some grease on her hand. She could feel his eyes weighing her down.

   “You did not like it,” he rasped matter-of-factly.

   “I’m not a prostitute,” she replied, refusing to chip away her cold shoulder.

   “I did not think you were.”

   The bent fork she held to turn over her steak was dropped, clattering to the floor and playing hide-and-seek under the stove. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You were just being nice?”

   There was a slight shift of his weight on his feet. He didn’t have a response for that. It was the first time she’d seen him so uncomfortable.

   “Oh,” she mumbled, busying herself with looking for another utensil. A spoon was drudged up, and she fumbled with unsticking her burnt meal from the skillet. “...it’s a cool knife...but you’d probably use it better than me, anyways.”

   When she shyly roamed her eyes over, he nodded. He had been replaced with a blank canvas again.

   “Very well.”

   The steak was charred. A small nibble determined it inedible, even to her standards. With a cough from the thick smoke that was beginning to cloud the small space, she dumped the entire thing in the sink and ran some water over it. She suddenly wasn’t very hungry, anymore, the entire swarm of rekindled butterflies choking her appetite.

   "Do..." She curled her bottom lip beneath her tongue. He stared, and she could already feel his teeth sinking in. "Do you maybe want to try, again?"

A Super-Duper Good Time

   If she had to credit one thing to the ghoul, was that he was certainly all business.

   Her jumpsuit had been removed again, his array adding to the pile with every tug of straps and buckle being unlatched. He didn’t seem to mind her being a captive audience, her quick turnaround from being respectful to downright shameless going unspoken.

   She studied his body, a sculpture of brimstone crafted by wrathful hands and a critical eye. A grotesque exhibit of bone and sinew, hidden underneath a heavy canvas that she got to pull away, admire, and touch.

   He finally stepped out of his pants (his fucking gloves were still on), and the bed gave a concerning groan as he knelt before her. Unlike the previous times, he seemed very unsure of himself, so hesitant to touch her. His looming body and outstretched limbs overshadowed more than half the bed; a giant old oak, charred at the edges with a white-hot pyre flaming within, the branches strong and thick amidst the ash at its base.

   She scooted back, suddenly shy. “We don’t have to do this, if, if you don’t...”

   The ghoul’s hazy eyes licked up from her bare legs to her face, his right hand slowly reaching down to brush over her thigh and curve inwards. On an unspoken cue, she widened herself the further his rough fingertips traced down, the pad of his thumb giving a light stroke through the dark, soft hairs that hid her away.

   A stretch of her hands, imploring to touch his face. He bent over, completely covering her away from the world, the sharp edge of his jaw and high cliffside of his cheekbones being met with fluttering strokes and gentle traces. The curve of her palm smoothly enveloped the exposed tendons of his cheek. She closed her eyes as the puff of air from his nostrils lightly blew on her face, the hard lines of his mouth meeting her soft lips for a kiss.

   BANG

   They broke apart instantly as her door flung open.

   “I do say, Madame, leaving food in the sink is rather crass.” The robotic butler was completely ignorant of the situation as it went about dusting the room on its automated schedule. “But of course, that isn’t your problem...”

   Charon left the bed to swipe at the side holster he carried, making her sit upright to nab at his elbow.

   “You can’t shoot him!” she gasped.   “I beg your pardon?” Wadsworth cried indignantly, which they both ignored.

   Charon switched the safety off, his tone absolute. “I will dispose of it.”   “No!”   The ghoul nearly snapped his head a full 180, making her recoil. “It is unnecessary.”

   She blew a rude sound. “He cleans my house!”

   “It is annoying.”

   “What the hell isn’t to you?!” When he didn’t have an answer, she huffed and began to dress in the (clean) vault suit the said ‘unnecessary’ robot brought for her, the mood now completely soured. “Forget it. I’m going to Moira’s.”

   A disgruntled grumbling was given in reply as he also began to lay claim to his clothes, neither giving a look to the other as they dressed in curt silence. He dutifully followed her out the door, and she pretended to fiddle with the screens on her Pip-Boy as they waited for the shopkeeper to come down.

   “So?” Moira clapped some dust from her hands and smeared a line of grease down her front side. “How’s it been going? You two been getting on okay?”

   “I think I’m ready for more research, actually,” she said dryly. Moira was the last of all people she wished to voice her weird relationship with this ghoul to.

   Charon, expectantly, didn’t contribute any social commentary.

   “Oh, goodie! I was wondering when my wonderful assistant would be wanting to continue!”

   She dove under the counter to slap a large self-made book onto it, the notes and pictures nearly impossible to translate without context. Moira skimmed some pages, humming in good cheer as she went along.

   “A-ha! Here we are! We’ll go ahead and be studying the effects of serious injury, so I’ll just need you to go out there, break a few limbs, and come right back!” She lifted her head with a wide, go-lucky smile beaming at them. “Easy, right?”

   Ghoul and girl both stared before sharing a glance. The glower on Charon’s face was easy to read- no fucking way.

   “Uh.” Evelyn licked her lips. If she were completely honest, she didn’t find any appeal in it either. “Anything else?”

   “Hmm...” Moira flipped back a chapter. “Hey, now! I almost forgot, we never finished the first segment! We still need to see if combing the Super-Duper Mart is worthwhile for food and possibly medical supplies.”

   Evelyn thought for a moment. It had been literal weeks since her last trial run, and raiders didn’t tend to last too long in one place...she again looked to her companion. This time, she wouldn’t be going at it alone, and he was very good at what he did.

   “Okay,” she agreed after turning back. “Super-Duper Mart it is.”

   Charon truly could not comprehend how she had survived this long.

   He had decided to follow her lead in the beginning, waiting and observing the situation before diving in headfirst. It sounded good on paper, but was shit when implemented by her standards.

   “I don’t see anything. Looks clear.” She shrugged, handing over the binoculars for him to verify.

   He grumbled under his breath as he roved the scope around. Fresh cuts of presumably human flesh were littered outside for the birds to pick clean. She would have been caught dead on her oversight.

   “Too bad there was no way for Winthrop to put a thermal setting on these,” she commented offhandedly. “Although, he did say he could add some features...”

   Charon thrust the gear from his face to inspect it more carefully. Was this what he had been rumored working on? He looked at her- she was still chittering nonsense and not paying him any mind. With a slight bend of the frame, he snapped it in half.

   “These are defective,” he rasped evenly.

   “What?!” She went to reach for them. “Where? Are you sure?”

   He pointed out the minuscule crack down the line, and she pouted, “Aw...maybe I can see if he can fix it-?”

   He tossed the piece of junk over his shoulder. “I will find something of better use.”

   He jutted his chin to redirect her eyes forward, and she relented, “...okay.”

   He waited for her to pull out a weapon so as to gauge the best sort of tactic for their approach, but when she continued to sit there and do nothing, he elbowed her bag. “Where is your gun?”

   She immediately became defensive. “I told you; I don’t use one.”

   Anything other than a ranged weapon would spell fatality with her. He would have to adapt...but when there was no other sign of anything else being brought forth, he gave her a look.

   “I was going to use these,” she said a little uncertainly, pulling out two landmines from a side pocket. “Like, put them at the entrance...lure them out...”

   He handled one, thinking it over. It would do. He could improvise. It was his job. “Very well,” he agreed, taking them both before making his way down the hill.

   He set one at each entrance, rigged their charge, and then beat a fist against the frame, nearly shaking it off its hinges. With careful steps around the side of the building for cover, he cradled his shotgun at his chest and glanced over to his employer, hiding in her spot like a mouse. She shyly waved.

   A raucous commotion could be heard building up from inside, and the first door opened to the sound of high-pitched beeping and a shout of surprise. Charon waited a breath after the ear-ringing explosion, then snapped his gun level as he came around the bend, automatically taking the first shot of opportunity as a raider barreled out and slipped on some splattered guts. The side of their head misted onto the third fiend giving close chase behind, blinding them temporarily and emitting a howl loud enough for the entire wasteland to hear. A slug blew their face apart, bits of bone and peels of skin sticking to the frame to then slough off at his feet.

   The remaining few quickly got smart, but not smart enough as they rerouted through the second entrance- a severed arm still gripping a rusty blade smacked him in the thigh as he flashed his muzzle inside, performing a quick scan for any more hostiles. It was quiet, but he kept strict situational awareness while motioning her to come down.

   She was tinged green in the cheeks, staring at the carnage that had transpired in less than ten minutes. A pistol was scooped up, the sticky flesh shook off, and the magazine briefly inspected. He then held it out for her to take.

   She looked at it with a deep grimace, her sickly color going sheet-white. “Umm...”

   “It is loaded,” he simply rasped, thinking back to her other pistol that had been jammed.

   He waited for her to take it, but she still just looked at it as though it would bite her. With a quick draw upwards, he held the gun perfectly straight and aimed down range at an imaginary target.

   “Aim. Pull.” His finger ghosted the trigger. He held it out a second time.

   With great reluctance, she took the thing with shaking hands; it almost seemed to weigh her down when she touched it. Somewhat satisfied, he gave a nod and then readied himself.

   “Stay close.”

   They slowly entered, mindful of their steps and surveying the mart- it was ghostly and dark, the empty shelving and scattered tins not promising anything worthwhile. Constructed catwalks over the aisles would have given a raider a clear visual of the duo, but they were lucky the threat had already been dealt with as they navigated the empty halls.

   At least, so his employer thought.

   She quickly took off in an unknown direction before he could properly clear the area, bounding over a counter and already rifling inside a few bins with her sack open and eagerly awaiting its next meal. Before Charon could bark at her foolishness, he saw the movement in the shadows and disregarded the chastisement as she whipped her head around to the encroaching presence.

   The raider had a lead pipe high above his head, ready to be brought down to fracture her skull in two. She held the pistol with wide eyes and an open mouth in a silent scream, the only crack of a gunshot coming from his own weapon. The drug-fueled fiend blew apart in the side, a splash of guts whipping her suit and blood spraying her face.

   Charon stalked straight up to her; his temper far more terrifying than the close encounter with death itself. He towered over her as she shrunk back from his lashing ire.

   “Stay. Here.” He then left, securing the perimeter and ensuring no other guests would appear unannounced. When he was certain they were safe, he rounded back to find her still frozen in spot. The gun was lowered at her side, her entire arm trembling. Her face was ruddy. She had been crying.

   “Are you injured?” he rasped.

   A simple shake of her head, a close of her eyes.

   “Why did you not shoot him?” he questioned.

   She could not freeze like that in the future- her survival also rested on her own reaction timing just as much as his did. Charon was good, but not invulnerable to error.

   No answer, but a hard bite of her lower lip and some more tears racing down her cheeks. He looked down at her, at this young smoothskin woman that had been sheltered in a Vault and had somehow persisted this long, who had laid claim to his cock and his contract. She was an anomaly to him.

   “You have never killed someone.” It was a simple fact, but it came out more as a flogging than an observation. She flinched, visibly pained. “You will die if you cannot take a life.”

   He then spun on his heel, keeping watch as he waited for her to gather whatever supplies she needed to fulfill her task. When her bags were bulging and her tears were dry, they left the remains of the Super-Duper Mart behind them. He did not care to comment on the fact that the gun had been abandoned, as well.

   The tap was spun, her fingers dipping in the tepid water, eyes glazed over and far gone. She could see that face, holding no sanity or merciful regard for her own life. Smell his terrible breath, taste the sugary lace of chems from his clothes.

   She turned her head to the ghoul sitting on the couch, taking no subtle hint whatsoever to take his leave and grant her her privacy. She would have been frustrated if she did not feel so hollow. He had saved her life...now more than once.

   “Thank you,” she said softly, turning his head from the front door to her. “For what you did, today.”

   “It is my duty,” he responded in that gravelly, somber tone.

   She turned to the side, flicking at the surface of the water to create ripples across its smooth plane. “If...if I gave your contract away, would you shoot me, like you did with Ahzrukhal?”

   Their eyes met. He betrayed nothing. “No.”

   “Guess that’s good then,” she mumbled sarcastically under her breath. The flat side of her hand smacked the water a few times. “I’d like to enjoy a bath before it gets too cold.”

   He didn’t move, and she tersely huffed, “Um, that kind of means I’d like to be alone, please?”

   The front door was once again stared at; he was paranoia on steroids. “It is not safe. I will keep watch.” When she was about to groan some form of objection, he added, “There is nothing I have not seen.”

   She choked on her argument (and some spit) but persevered to preserve whatever moral decency she had. “I would like to bathe in peace and quiet!”

   “I am not the one being loud,” he rasped flatly.

   “I’m not going to ask again!”

   His head whipped to her so quickly that she nearly fell into the tub from fright. With a very faint narrowing of his eyes, he said, “Would you rather I stand watch outside?”

   The inside of her cheek was nibbled on. That asshole. The ghoul wasn’t exactly a crowd pleaser amongst the locals- he frightened them and generally kept everyone at bay...besides Moira, who seemed to be the only person willing to be within two feet of her and her abominable bodyguard. Having him perched on her doorstep just to growl at anyone passing by like some angry dog would only escalate the rumor mill she was sure was already spinning around about her.

   Yes. (That was the reason).

   Not because it was cold and the air was slightly damp, casting a chill on anyone beyond the warmth of indoors, not due to the fact he would be left out in the dark, exposed to the elements while she enjoyed the refreshment of a salted bath...

   “You can keep watch in here,” she said dully. “I’m not going to ask you to go outs-”

   “Very well,” he interrupted, somehow sinking his weight even further into the broken springs and pressed cushions.

   He’s a person not a dog-he’s a person not a dog-he’s a fucking asshole and he should totally be left out in a doghouse!

   She sighed and reached for the box of scented salts she had the foresight to purchase from Crazy Wolfgang eons ago...the box was already opened, and she tipped it upside down to discover it was already empty. Her head slowly roved to the ghoul that was keeping vigilance on her unmoving doorframe, her nerves fraying one thread at a time.

   “You used the whole thing?!” She was flabbergasted. It was almost comical, and she let out a breathy giggle at the thought of this giant one stop bullet-in-the-brain shop ghoul taking a nice reprieve with lavender-infused crystals.

   The empty box was thrown at the bin, missing completely. She heard a ghost of a snort from him.

   “I really don’t know what to do with you,” she mumbled to herself, unstrapping her Pip-Boy to set it aside. She rubbed at the area around her wrist and unlaced her boots, pausing at unzipping the suit from her body. “Can’t you, like, watch the door from somewhere else, at least?”

   The couch breathed relief after he stood, his shotgun taken with him as he went upstairs. Every single step reverberated around the house...it appeared when he wanted to be heard, he absolutely made sure everyone would listen. The creak of a chair met her ears from directly above her, and she glanced up at him spying from the little nook beside the Nuka-Cola machine. The light didn’t exactly illuminate the corner very well, so only his faint outline and glowing eyes were visible.

   “You went from being obnoxious to just being a creep,” she muttered.

   A zipper from his pack was opened above, and as she began to unbraid her hair and unshoulder her suit, a large splash of water drenched her before she could even undress completely. She gasped loudly, looking around at all the water soaking her floor. An item had been tossed into the tub...it was another box of salts- Clementine Chamomile! That dickbag had found a replacement at the mart and somehow decided that this was the best opportunity in presenting it to her.

   “Ugh!” she bitched, retrieving the sopping wet carton before it could further clump and dissolve.

   Screw this! She knelt by the ceramic, scrubbed the blood from her face and neck, quickly wrung out her hair, and stomped up to her bedroom. She threw the shadow demon in the corner a nasty glare before shutting herself inside.

   The jumpsuit was hoisted back on, her boots angrily laced tight, and her scarf wound a dozen times around her neck- she dark-humoredly considered fashioning it into a noose. She flung her door open and stormed back downstairs to throw her blood-spattered vault suit into the tub. (Might as well not waste reasonably clean water).

   “I’m going to give Moira the scoop,” she called up, her eyes trained on fastening her Pip-Boy back in place. “You can-”

   “I will stay here.”   Evelyn paused in securing the latch, looking upwards with serious doubt. “...really?”

   A nod was given. “Be cautious.”

   “Um, okay?” She shook her head, feeling uneasy rather than relieved at this sudden change. She lingered in the living room for a few minutes and fidgeted with the straps of her pack, unsure as to why she was feeling so anxious.

   “Is there something you require?” he rasped plainly.

   “No...” She went for the door. “Be back in a few.”

Preconceived

   Evelyn left Craterside Supply with a few anecdotes on avoiding obvious dangers whilst returning with some oversized clothing items for the big guy, a used leather armor set for herself, and a whole new research chapter to endeavor for the both of them. She shouldered her bag and went to step past the saloon when the brief idea of enjoying some actual privacy redirected her feet inside.

   It was the typical evening crowd. Gob was busily wiping a spill from Walter’s tipped beer while Nova made easy chatter with a dusty caravan trader, coercing him to spend some caps for a little promiscuous company. The ghoul turned to address his newest customer, the usual brightening of his expression turning grim.

   Evelyn took her seat at the bar, giving a tiny wave of her fingers. She shuffled around a few pockets in her pack, laying out a bundle of letters to discreetly slide over. “Sorry about the wait. I got kinda busy, lately.”

   The ghoul snuck a glance behind him as he hid the postage inside his pants. “Hey smoothskin, you, uh, look good. Wasteland hasn’t spit you back out yet.” Gob set a beer down, his eyes nervously searching around the room for her absent stalker. “I’ve been hearing some stories about you...”

   “Yeah...he’s...staying, for awhile.”

   Gob leaned forward, his rasp coming out as a hiss. “Smoothskin, what the hell are you thinking?!”

   She shrugged, entirely unsure herself. “It’s like you said, not all chains are visible.”

   “That didn’t mean you had to go around and take ahold of them yourself!” He noticed her visible frustration with the onset of her frown, and he sighed. He shuffled on his feet, wholly uncomfortable. “He...he hasn’t hurt you or anything, has he?”

   “No,” she said a little sadly, refusing to meet his eyes and instead peering inside her glass. “He’s not like that, with me, at least.” She looked over to the prostitute eyeing her from across the room. Nova winked.

   Evelyn set out some caps, and then a few more. “Can I please get a shot? Whatever is safest, thank you.”

   A glass was poured, and she tipped the rim to her lips, immediately gasping from the liquid fire racing down her throat.

   “Thanks, Gobbie,” she said with a cheeky grin as his eyes widened. “Yeah, your secrets aren’t so safe.”

   “Just don’t go saying it out loud,” he rasped quietly. “Nova would never let me live it down.”

   “No promises.” She smacked her boots to the floor, sidling around to whisper to Nova. “I really need to talk to you.”

   The prostitute took out a cigarette and motioned to a corner table, speaking around her briefly to the future client. “I’ll be upstairs in a minute, honey.”

   They took their seats. Evelyn fiddled with a fraying thread on her jumpsuit, her neck already creeping with an uncomfortable heat.

   Nova lit her smoke and eyed her critically for a moment. “So, what’s the scoop? Heard about the ‘big and ugly’ in town.” She lifted a hand in apology at the quick scowl on Evelyn’s face. “Sorry...I don’t know how you do it.”

   Evelyn pulled her beer to her chest and licked her lips, trying with all her discretion to keep their conversation private. “...I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, with...you know.” She flamed, too embarrassed to continue any further.

   The other woman took a big inhale, raising a brow and quirking a smile as a tease. “Still hurts?”

   A shy nod; the tips of her ears burning.

   Nova blew a cloud over the table, gazing off to something across the way. She appeared to be in deep thought for a moment. “His thumb should be some good foreplay.” She looked back at her. “And try to relax. When you got that figured out, come back and we can talk about the fun stuff. I got to go work now, sugar.”

   Evelyn turned in her seat to watch her leave and was met with a giant brick wall of leather standing at her back. She looked up, horrified. Charon was preoccupied with staring at his thumb before giving her his full attention.

   “You did not return,” he merely rasped.

   “OhmyGod! How long have you been standing there?!” she squawked. When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up a hand to stop him, hissing, “You know what? Nevermind! I said I was going to be right back!”

   He nodded. “Yes.”   “Did you take that as fucking literally?!” There was no answer, so she guffawed, “Of course you did. Jesus.” She moved around him, making a beeline for the door.

   Moriarty whistled at her. “Caps are always welcome at my saloon...but your friend there pays double.” He gave Charon a distasteful look, as though he had smelled something rancid. “What the hell you looking at, fucking shuffler?”

   “Whatever,” she muttered as they continued to leave.

   A crash of glass and a shout made the room grow quiet.

   Moriarty shoved Gob aside, the ghoul tripping over his lack of balance in a heap on the floor. Everyone stared as the proprietor stalked up to his bartender.

   “That’s coming out of your pocket, you hearing me, zombie?” He punted the tip of his boot into the ghoul’s side, earning a loud groan. “Eh, what the hell is that?”

   It was the first instance Evelyn had witnessed physical abuse towards the ghoul, and as she involuntarily took a step forward to say something, Moriarty bent over to swipe at the stack of letters she had just delivered.

   “Fuck are these? Letters? From whom?” he spat, and ripped the sheets into pieces, each tear drawing a pained whine from the ghoul. “You trying to pull one over on me?”

   Evelyn came around the side, her pent-up anger from the past few days finally bursting the carefully crafted dam she had built. She failed to notice the entire stillness of the room; the lack of intervention from the others who simply watched with tight mouths and passive eyes.

   “That wasn’t your business!” she snapped, and the room seemed to fall on her. “You don’t have to-!”

   “Was this your doing, kid?” Moriarty interrupted, encroaching on her and completely ignoring Gob still sniffling about on the floor. He came uncomfortably close to give a snarling threat, and then he was gone. “Hrk!” Moriarty was smashed into the bar counter, erupting a scream from across the room. Charon had simply grabbed the entire side of the man’s face with one palm and brusquely applied pressure until Moriarty’s head swelled like an overripe mutfruit.

   Patrons rose from their seats and Gob scrabbled away. Evelyn couldn’t help but stare. The big ghoul wasn’t looking to release the crushing force without some form of word from her lips, and for the very first time...she considered not saying anything at all. Moriarty struggled, his arms flailing uselessly and eyes bulging from their sockets. The entire color of his skin darkened a deep shade, the veins on his forehead protruding until they seemed ready to pop.

   Her hand gently rested on the ghoul’s bicep that was holding the man down at her unspoken command. The amount of power surging beneath her palm was frightening and awe-inspiring all at once.

   “Let him go,” she said softly. Charon turned his head to her, showing no exertion whatsoever. She nodded, and he released.

   Moriarty immediately crashed to the floor as his knees buckled, a strange croaking sound emitting from his throat as he struggled, globs of drool dripping to the floorboards.

   She looked around the room. They all stared, afraid, of her. Without a word, they left the bar, everyone in their path quickly darting from their way. After the door had closed behind them, a buzzing drone came alive from the inside, and she simply stared at the railing that the bar owner had perched on many a time to oversee the hive of activity in the town below. It made her think of Alphonse, high up in his Overseer's office, looking down on his subjects as they went about their lives.

   “Would you have killed him?” she asked quietly.

   He nodded.

   “Okay...let’s go home.”

   She had sat there at the table, far too silent to not be unnerving. He had locked the door and taken his position to blow the first intruder into chunky mist. A knock had come calling, and he tried to dissuade her from answering it first with no success.

   “It’s Simms,” a voice muffled through.

   She opened it- they spoke. Charon eyed the town sheriff with a very clear challenge if he so thought of using more than just words. Their conversation was succinct and brief. She retook her seat, looking far into the distance at something he was too blind to see. He patiently waited, keeping as reserved as she was until she came to stand before him.

   “May I use your knife?” she asked.

   Without thought, he unsheathed it and held it out by the tip. She carefully took it, so very tender and delicate with its lethal nature.

   “I’ll be right back,” she said.

   Almost immediately, he stood. If he had any hair left on the back of his neck, he was sure it would be electrified. “I will come.”

   “You’ll stay here.”   It was a clear command. His hands curled into tight fists. “I advise I do not.”

   “It’s alright...” She turned for the door. “I won’t go too far.”

   The absence of her presence concluded after ten minutes. He had waited in the doorway, staring out into the dark without actually being able to leave, listening for any distant screams or muffled cries that she may be in danger. She returned with the knife in hand and no sign of injury.

   “Thank you,” she said after bequeathing his blade to him. “I know it’s late...but there’s someplace I want to go. It’s for a job. Do you want to come?”

   She was inane. Of course he would.

   She dressed in an entirely new outfit of some badly-needing-oiled leathers, shouldering her gear and leading him underway of a moonless sky. She didn’t seem to make any particular effort in scouting for dangers- twice he halted her pilgrimage to deal with some radscorpions. She simply buried her nose in the green glow of her Pip-Boy, fiddling with the knobs and dials on a detailed map she used as a guide.

   A crumbling overpass engulfed her in shadow; one moment, there, the next, gone. He followed, his boots crunching some gravel beneath his heel and shotgun readily propped at his chest. The pack from her shoulders was removed and set down, the eerie glow of her wrist computer providing the only source of illumination. His eyes adjusted- he watched her as she began to undress.

   “What are you doing?” he rasped, swiveling his head around on a dime for possible dangers. There was no answer.

   The Pip-Boy was set on her bag; her shoes unlaced and stepped out of. A wiggle from her leathers; the underwear cast aside. He stared, simply because he couldn’t help in doing so. The buckle of his belt was met with certainty and all lack of awareness to the precarious position it put them in as her fingers undid the leather strap, before coming down to unzip his steadfast erection. The words of caution were translated as a terse sigh through his nostrils, and she bent down to put her lips to it.

   His shotgun was nearly dropped from his hands, but he quickly snapped back upright and gave a poor attempt at scanning the empty, dark wastes around them as he tried not to let the sensation of her hot, wet mouth muddle his thoughts. A swirl of her tongue over the tip released a backward tilt of his head and a stifled groan. He then felt his shaft slowly being worked down her throat, and he had to harness every ounce of will not to plunge himself completely when she stopped almost halfway.

   A loud, gagging sound made him glance down, his jaw tight and knuckles bone-white as he gripped his gun so fiercely he could have snapped it. Her lips were stretched, a web of drool swaying down her chin. The tip of her teeth abrasively stroked at the scarred skin of his cock as she pulled up and away, her mouth widening as she gasped for air. His eyes became slits as she turned around and leaned over a giant slab of concrete rubble, the look on her face becoming all the invitation he needed for some semblance of regaining sanity.

   Her legs widened as he rested his shotgun over one shoulder, his freed hand coming down to squeeze a handful of plump white flesh that faintly glowed in the absence of light. He was throbbing, painfully so, but he remembered the words the prostitute had given and reached underneath to cork his thumb in her. He gave no warning or gentle entry, and she clawed at the rock with a stuttered moan.

   “Fuck-fuck, go easy, please,” she panted, closing her eyes and kissing her forehead to the cool slab of stone.

   He nodded, forcing himself to tear his eyes away to charade the role of protector as he fingered her with unrhythmic, rough thrusts. The desperate little breaths and fevered whisperings of fuck and yes scratched at the composed psyche behind his eyes. He felt the hot, slippery mess trace around his wrist and soak his glove, could feel the silky flesh tighten around his thumb. He curled it inward, and listened to the most amazing sound leave her lips that he’d never heard a woman make before. He considered stroking himself just as she reached around and grabbed at him, the touch magnetizing his cock straight to her pussy. He came as soon as she had mounted, and he tightened his fingers around her ass to stop her from further riding him. She turned her head slightly, her hair falling over her face.

   “I am done,” he managed to croak out, withdrawing himself slowly and shuddering at the sensitivity. He tucked his chin to his chest, the urge to take a piss retreating his steps a few feet away while he listened to the sounds of her outfit being put back together.

   After his own decency had been cobbled with one hand and his neck cracked to the side, he turned around to the sight of her perched atop the boulder, staring down at the little screen with hooded eyes. She still had not braided her hair, and she scooped the entirety of it over one shoulder, a tidal of waves and curls framing one side of her face. He lowered his shotgun to his side, having never parted from it.

   “Does it bother you...killing people?” she asked quietly, and when he remained silent, she looked at him.

   “No,” he finally replied, his guttural rasp still tinged with husk.

   “Did it ever?”

   His answer came a little slower. “Yes.”   “What changed?”

   He didn’t know. Or maybe cared not to. She blinked at him, owlishly. Waiting. He resisted the urge to look away. He redirected his gaze to her lips; the cupid's bow an emerald shade.

   “Everything,” he grumbled.

   “Everything...” She looked around at their surroundings, as though she was noticing where they were for the first time. “Yeah. I can see that.”

   He didn’t further the conversation, and she led them on.

[kidotm]

A Simple Side Quest

 The entire weight of the world seemed to crash on her shoulders after a mere half hour of walking toward the next point in Moira’s chapter. She rubbed at her eyes and twice stumbled over something, almost faceplanting into the dirt before she caught herself back upright.

   The black backdrop of the night did nothing to stimulate her senses; she needed to sleep before they continued any further. A nudge at her shoulder from the ghoul’s elbow made her turn her head in the direction he jutted his chin to. The faint outline of a trailer was difficult to distinguish against the contrast of rock formations, and she would have missed it completely if not for her companion.

   “Just a few hours,” she mumbled as one does when drunk on exhaustion.

   Charon briefly poked his head inside and ushered her in, and she had only laid into her pack before completely drifting off with an open mouth and light snore. The break of dawn filtered through her eyelids, waking her from sleep and forcing her to groggily sit upright. A glob of drool stained her skin. Charon was seated in the doorless entry, his gun cradled in his lap and eyes scanning the horrific great beyond of dirt and radiation. He glanced at her as she pulled water and boxes of food from her pack.

   “Here,” she said thickly, her voice still fresh with sleep.

   He wordlessly took it while she dug around for her own breakfast. The time on her Pip-Boy read way too fucking early to be up and alive, but she chewed the bland contents and tried not to notice the dense pressure between them.

   “Nova doesn’t take ghouls,” she randomly blabbered.

   When he turned his head, his expression blank and not understanding a word she had just said, she cleared her throat and looked down at her lap full of crumbs.

   “The prostitute, back at the bar...she told me she doesn’t take ghouls. It’s just, I mean, I hope you don’t think you’re stuck with me, or anything.” She tried to muster all of her past insider knowledge into her tone, the false bravado sounding short on her ears. She hoped it didn’t on his own (or lack thereof). “I know how it works.”

   The beating of her heart hurt as she braved a look at him.

   “I do not understand,” he said plainly.

   “You know...” She swayed her head side to side, once again not meeting his eyes. “Having sex, thing.”

   Charon stood, and the topic seemed to have come to a swift end as he waited for her to do the same. The day passed on, the sweltering heat of the sun casting a shimmer in the air above the lifeless landscape; she pointed to a lone high-rise building in the distance as they came closer to their intended objective. It seemed so very out of place.

   “What is that?” she asked, the past few hours of taciturn silence between them having finally been broken.

   Charon glanced over, his dusty boots sinking in the sand. “Not safe,” he rumbled at her back.

   “Yeah, that really answered my question,” she muttered.

   He either did not hear, or ignored her sarcasm as they came upon the RobCo Facility, the cool air wafting from beyond the opened door making her sigh in relief and eager to step inside. Charon halted her by the shoulder before she could escape the burning on her skin.

   “I shall enter.” He bypassed her, armed and ever-ready to encounter a fight. He gave her a quick nod of his head to have her follow in step behind him, and she dimmed the screen of her Pip-Boy as they traded the blinding sun for damp darkness.

   A skittering across the tiled floor made her latch onto him, and he berated her with a scowl as he rudely shrugged her off. The ghoul then paused in the middle of the room, training his shotgun's line of sight at the sound as it quickly scurried their way. A radroach stepped into the dim lighting under the cracked fluorescents, and he relaxed his stance whereas she grew stiff and held onto him a second time.

   He growled and shook her off again. “Do not do that.”

   She was staring at the bug with the widest eyes. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered.

   Charon raised a brow, looking back at the wasteland’s most common pest. “My contract entitles you to combat services.” He aimed the tip of his barrel at the thing. “That is not combat.”

   When she didn’t move a single muscle (he didn’t think she even breathed), he rolled his eyes and moved on without her. Whatever the reason she dragged them here, she was sure to snoop around and pilfer every nook and cranny, therefore he had to preemptively ensure the building was secure.

   “Wait here,” he rasped, the hissing and waving antennas on the floor being crushed into goo beneath his boot.

   The facility was home to nothing but vermin and strewn piles of robotic scrap. He passed the door leading to the management offices, rounding back to the lobby to proceed with his employer. She was not there.

   He roved the newly emptied halls, poked his head inside a few spaces. “Evelyn?” he called out, briefly considering that she may have made her departure back outside.

   He had opened the door and was about to vacate the building when a blood-curling scream pounded his feet back through the halls, the metal catwalks groaning under the force as he raced towards the sound of certain death. He must have missed an enemy. He did not know if he would make it in time-

   The ghoul burst into a room on the factory level, assessing the situation before him at lightning speed. Evelyn was sitting on an overturned trashcan...that was moving.

   She caught sight of him as it veered towards the stairs. She cried, “Charon!”

   He lifted his gun. “Move.”

   She didn’t need to be told twice. She scrabbled behind him just as the can tipped over, a sizeable radroach crawling away to safety.

   Charon slowly lowered his weapon, throwing her a rather dirty look.

   “That thing is fucking huge!” she sniffled, trembling all over and hugging herself tightly. “I-I panicked and thought I’d trapped it...”

   He released an aggravated exhale through his nose, drilling all of his frustration into the flatness of his tone. “Do not scream for me like that again.”

   “I was terrified! I didn’t do it for fun!” she defended herself with a nasal whine. She looked back to the dark crevice the insect had disappeared through. “...do you think it’ll be back?”

   His only response was a curt nod of his head for her to continue. With great reluctance, she navigated deeper into the recesses of the building, pocketing anything she could wrap her fingers around until they came to a door.

   “Guess the mainframe is through here,” she mumbled to herself. There was a turn of the knob and a loud squeal as she opened it, and then she just as quickly slammed it back shut. Her hand came away from the frame, and she backed up a step before looking at him. “I’ll wait here.”

   Charon grumbled sourly under his breath as he stomped around inside, disposing of mutated roaches and territorial molerats with the brunt force of his heel. He wasn’t going to waste shells on such insignificant pests. A few Protectrons in sealed units were quickly considered, but they appeared to be inactive.

   He opened the door. “It is clear.” His head turned to watch her scurry past and proceed to open a vending machine and clean out a fridge. He turned down the offer of a box of snack cakes that she held over to him.

   They continued up some stairs, and she sucked the frosting from her fingertips (that made him feel a certain way) as she darted for the control room that he had previously scoped. Her pack made a loud thud after being whisked from her shoulders to the floor, and she dug around all the useless crap she had scavenged for a peculiar item that she held up for him to see.

   “Easy peasy.” She smiled, attaching it to the mainframe. “I guess this is supposed to like, control old tech or something?”

   He didn’t pay attention as she continued to ramble and type some keys in. (He really didn’t care).

   A sudden alarm began to blare, and the pod beside them containing a dormant Protectron hissed as it opened. She looked over, horrified, and he nabbed her by the elbow to shove her back toward the door.

   “Go!” he barked, knocking some sense into her empty head as she took his advice at a sprint.

   He popped a slug in the side of the robot’s dome, shattering the protective glass around its processing unit and spitting smoke from short-circuiting wires. Its arms flailed erratically, the synthesized voice cutting out before it tipped on its side. Another one was at the base of the stairs; he shoved into it with all of his strength to careen it into the wall- the things were suddenly everywhere.

   “Go!” he repeated, and she ducked from the laser fire pinging all around the room with just enough ounce of luck to not get hit. He, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. It instantly melted through his leather jacket, cauterizing the flesh as it burned. He ignored the scalding sensation while she burst back into the main hub of the building, his steps inches behind her own.

   A loud gasp of realization inflated her lungs as she spun around on the metal catwalk, her eyes bulging with distress. “Oh no, my bag-!”

   Charon clipped a new drum magazine on his shotgun and knelt down to scoop her over one shoulder as she tried to run past. The metal bastards were roving the facility like a kicked hornet’s nest, enticing him to make an immediate departure. He ignored her squeaky protests and roughly jostled her before making their way down to the lower floors, his palm anchored tightly over her ass to keep her in place.

   She clamped her hands over her ears as he fired away with his weapon in one hand, the recoil from its destructive firepower causing his arm to faintly flex with each blast he aimed. The sharp smell of gunpowder made her sneeze, and she bit out a pained cry as something burned across her left butt cheek.

   Charon growled at the sharp throb in his brain from the slip-up- she squealed like a stuck pig and wildly kicked her legs as her leather armor caught fire. He smacked at the flames a few times to put them out.

   They reached the front lobby without further injury, and he kicked the doors open to the sky of early dusk to retreat around the corner of the building. He set her down, spun her around, and tilted her forward into the wall to grab at the sides of her ass, inspecting the visible scorch mark to proceed with treatment.

   “Ow!” she whined, feeling his hands wrap around her waist to begin unbuckling her belt. Her leathers and underwear were shunted past her thighs, ripping some of the melted fabric that had glued to her skin. “Stop!” she choked.

   His fingers pressing into the flesh froze on command.

   “Fuck.” She screwed her eyes shut and dug her forehead into the cool concrete. “How bad is it?” she asked with a shaky breath.

   He squinted, judging the depth and measure. “You will live.”

   A few deep breaths were drawn in, and then she pulled away from the wall, wincing as she carefully pulled her decency back in place.

   He grabbed at her hands before she could finish. “What are you doing? You are injured.”

   “Yeah, I know,” she replied with pinched brows. “I’ll be okay. Are you okay?” She tried to study him, but it was evident she was distracted by the pain.

   He ignored the question. “I have a Stimpak.” His fingers were already unlatching a side satchel at his waist.

   She caught sight of the wound in his side. “Use it.” Her hand stopped him before he could turn her around. “On you.”

   He stared.

   “I’ll wait until we get back to Megaton,” she painfully gasped with a wave of her trembling hand.

   The rapid firing of pain receptors inside of his brain nearly dove his index and middle finger in his eyeball sockets to rip his skull clean off his shoulders. His hand tightened over the stim, nearly shattering it from the pressure he applied.

   “I advise you do not,” he rasped through clenched teeth. “Let me tend to it.”

   “I, I can’t,” she confessed, wincing as she took her first step. “Moira-”

   Her back drew flush up against the wall in fear from how fast he descended upon her, his massive frame eating her existence away from the rest of society.

   “I will tend to it. Now.” His eyes bored into her own, and she faintly nodded. With a spin and second undressing, he poked the needle in her flesh and patiently waited for it to heal. Satisfied (and relieved of the agonizing throbbing in his head), he left her butt naked to the side as he finally considered himself.

   His armor was shed, his leather jacket shrugged out of, and his tattered black shirt was raised for proper viewing of the already disfigured skin. It was cauterized, so there was no reason to waste medical supplies. He lowered his shirt and reached for his jacket.

   Her hand intercepted him, and he growled.

   “Whoa, hold on, you don’t have anymore stims?!” She appeared genuinely worried for him, and he couldn’t help but resent her for it.

   He had two more.

   “It will heal,” he said evenly.

   “But you used one on me!”

   “Yes, you were in pain.”

   “Oh, and like you’re not?” she scoffed.

   He thought for a moment. “No.”

   “Well, that doesn’t matter!” she snapped. “Use one!”

   He scowled, “Is that an order?”

   “Ugh!” She threw her hands up, and he hurriedly went about equipping his things as she stomped off in Megaton’s general direction. “Fine! Die! See if I care!”

   As much as her spite wished to carry her home just to stomp up the steps to her room and slam the door in his face, her stamina wouldn’t hear a single word about it. Her noodled appendages carried her as far as the previous night’s camping site, and she slumped like a corpse in the corner of the trailer where their garbage still remained undisturbed. Morning came much sooner than she would have hoped for, and she awoke to the bitter smell of cigarette smoke. The weight of her head felt immensely heavy as she lifted it off the cold, uncomfortable floor to narrow her crusty eyes at the lack of courtesy.

   Charon was seated, just like before, dragging his lipless mouth on a smoke and eyeing what she herself could not see. He turned his head slightly to look at her while she rubbed at her face.

   “You smoke?” she drawled, pulling a few stray hairs from the corner of her mouth.

   He exhaled and flicked the butt away. “No.”

   An ugly snort came between them. “I just stress you out that much?”

   There was no answer, and she huffed as she rose and nearly tipped over, her brain not comprehending that it was time to be awake.

   “No, no no.” She held a hand up as he made to follow her out into the wastes. “I just need to pee, give me, like, five minutes.”

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   Her eyes drew to very thin slits. “...you’re not taking that literally...are you?”

   The lack of a verbal reply, (coupled with his weird, innate paranoia) hustled her feet around a few rocks and scored her a world record for the fastest piss ever made. Her companion was still waiting in place (the big guy didn’t so much as blink), and she just sighed at his obedient nature as he followed in step behind her.

   She honestly didn’t know what to do with him.

   The thought plagued her the entirety of the way home. Albeit, he was really resourceful and excellent in combat when it came to saving her burnt ass, but it was, just, too weird. Too unsettling. His contract was a lump of hot coal sitting somewhere in his pocket (for she refused to carry it, hoping he would get the message and just leave).

   His obvious dislike for her was demoralizing. The sex they shared was...not what she had envisioned all those lonely nights. She still liked him, but she feared him, too. It felt so utterly wrong to just hand him off to someone else like some unwanted pet...he was a person, but her person, all by a flawed design she had no intention of appreciating. She turned around to face him fully, stopping them in their tracks along the dusty road, looking up into that gruesome visage of distilled wrath. A vintage bottle of corked hatred, violence, and apparently no smoking.

   “Do you like, erm, working for me?” she asked. "Have you thought about working for someone else?"

   He blinked at her. She stared at the too-cool-for-medical-school hideous sear he bore so nonchalantly.

   “Do you intend to pass on my contract?” His voice was so flat, so uninterested. He had to feel some way about it.

   “Would you want me to?”

   He seemed to think for a moment, and then finally rasped, “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “You are so frustrating!” she tersely snapped. “I literally don’t understand a single thing about you! What is it that you want?”

   He scanned the horizon. He didn’t say anything, and it was obvious he intended not to.

   “Fine, whatever. I don’t really care.” This time, her petty behavior blessed her feet with seven-league boots, and the gates of Megaton ground metal on metal as they opened to their arrival.

   The massive saloon billboard just up the hill made her heart hammer in her throat and dew sweat on her neck. No one gave them accusatory looks or hushed any whispers as they passed by. She tried to ignore the hot bubbling of anxiety splashing inside her chest as the knob to her house was wiggled. It was locked. Her pack was...still at the fucking RobCo facility. She slowly turned a dirty look to the ghoul, who glowered at her in return.

   “You’re lucky I have a spare,” she bit at him, stooping down to turn over a rock for her only copy. He seemed genuinely surprised.

   “I advise you do not leave that there,” he rasped with caution.

   “Oh, please” she grumbled, twisting the handle and stepping inside. She tossed the key on the table. “Wadsworth, we’re home!”

   The robot flew down the stairs in such a rush she barreled backward into Charon, who firmly planted a hand on her back to shove her off. Wadsworth waved a few limbs around, not saying a single word.

   “Um...” she started uncertainly, “Are you okay?”

   The robot ceased its movements and then slanted its optics at the ghoul behind her.

   She looked over her shoulder. Charon was already setting his things aside and...running a bath. Cool. (She guessed she would just take one later). ((Inconsiderate Jerk™))

   She sighed and began to walk up the stairs. “Did you hang up my vault suit?”

   There was no reply, (not so much as a single snark) and she glanced over to her home helper. Again, it waved its limbs around.

   “What, did the mainframe get you too?” she half-joked, and then she felt the neuron connections in her brain slowly spark electricity as she observed how it pointed to the ghoul.

   I will stay here.

   She took a stomping step back down with every word she spoke. "Oh, my, God. You. Didn’t.”

   Charon was busily removing his gear, glancing up at her without a single emotion betraying his face. He neither confirmed nor denied the unspoken accusation.

   “You did!” she gasped. “Charon! What the hell?!”

   He looked over to the Mister Handy and shrugged, reverting his eyes back to his business. He took a seat to remove his boots, and she watched them being neatly set aside. His pants dropped. Out of deeply rooted civility, she turned away and continued up the stairs, her muted robot close at her heels.

   Wadsworth followed her into her room like some sad puppy, performing a silent number with limited features of rotating claws and shifting optics.

   She sat on the edge of the bed, chin in her hands, thinking over everything while not thinking about much of anything at all. She eventually laid on her freshly made sheets, staring at the ceiling until she succumbed to a quick nap that felt like literal centuries. Her leathers were stripped to build a micro-habitat in the corner of her room, the vault suit feeling icky despite being clean on her sweaty, unwashed skin. She came down to Wadsworth washing dishes and Charon dressed in the clothes she had acquired for him, his hands meticulously stitching together the tear in his jacket.

   He didn’t bother to look at her for more than a moment, perhaps assuming she had no orders for him to care to. His fingers dug in a needle, curved it out, and pulled. The strange grace he had was almost awkward to watch- she didn’t think someone his size or nature could handle something so delicately.

   “Is there something you require?” he asked sharply, his shoulders tensing due to her unflinching stare.

   “Where’s your contract?”

   His fingers stopped their weaving. Without hesitation, he reached inside a hidden breast pocket inside his jacket and pulled out the folded piece of paper, holding it out for her. She took it. It felt dirty, as though the ink would stain through to her fingers and she wouldn’t be able to scrub it away.

   “What if I ripped it up? Burned it?” she tested.

   “I would make another,” he said simply. It didn’t seem to bother him whatsoever. He then resumed his sewing.

   She put it in a small side pocket, making for the door. “I’ll be-” The screeching of his chair as he stood nearly rolled her eyes out of her fucking skull. “Oh. Silly me.”

   Charon zipped up his jacket and clipped his armor back in place. The shotgun (that had been neatly cleaned) was picked up by one hand and attached to its rightful place at his back. She stared at him...she felt sort of, well, sad.

   “Let’s go,” she said a little glumly, and he didn’t comment on her forlorn attitude as they left for the saloon.

Under New Management

   “Welcome to Moriarty’s,” Gob began before he turned, “shit, uh, I mean, welcome to Gob’s.”

   He froze at the sight that had walked in.

   Evelyn took her seat with Charon standing awkwardly behind her. She spun around. “Please sit and act normal, for once. We’re not going to get stabbed, or anything.”

   He flexed his hands into fists, but relented and took a spot against the wall at her side, folding his thick arms over his chest and hawking her every move for any subtle cue.

   She laid some caps down, sharing another look with Charon. “You want something?” A simple shake of his head, his glower flaying Gob’s soul from his body as he slowly shuffled closer. She hissed, “Stop it!”

   Gob not so subtly tried to ignore the homicidal elephant in the room glaring poisoned-tipped arrows at him. “So, uh-”

   She thrust a thumb over her shoulder. “I saw the sign. Gob’s Saloon. What happened?” She ignored the thick lob of spit jamming her throat. No one was giving her second glances...for now, everything seemed okay.

   Charon growled as Gob set a beer down.

   “Yeah,” he rasped uncertainly. “Moriarty went out for his usual smoke. The railing came off the side, and he went along with it. Wasn’t too pretty.”

   She turned, offering Charon her beer. “Here.”

   He stared at it but didn’t budge.

   She sighed as she came back around, twirling her bottle in circles on the countertop. “That’s...umm...” She shrugged. “Unfortunate?”

   “Damn lucky if you ask me, smoothskin.” Gob picked up a rag. “It’s almost too good to be true, if I’m being honest. I keep waiting for him to come back through that front door.”

   Evelyn took a swig, distracting her tongue for a moment. She had done it- it had worked!

   A faint whiff of cigarettes and the sweet tang of jet sat beside her.

   “Hey kid.” Nova gave her a wink, looking up at the giant ghoul. “You got him wrapped around that little finger, huh?”

   Evelyn ignored the weirdly specific comment that was absolutely true (and for all the wrong reasons). She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling much too hot under her collar. “So...how is, everything? Better?”

   Nova pulled out a crinkled cigarette and gave her a teasing grin, completely ignoring the specter glaring down at her. The smoke was lit. “Moriarty being gone is one of the best things to have ever happened to this town...and probably, one of the worst.” She flicked the ash to her boots. “No one contested to Gob taking ownership of the bar...hell, he pretty much ran the place himself already, but it’s still living under the shadow of Moriarty’s thumb." She gave Charon an appreciative once-over. "I think your guy can help with that.”

   Evelyn kept her eyes on her drink. “Keep the drunks in line and the assholes outside?”

   Nova winked. “Bingo.” She tilted her head to the side, the bare skin of her throat an ivory river down the open seam of her shirt. “What do you say, big boy?” Charon didn't grace her with anything, and so she muttered, "Not much of a talker, is he?"

   "You have no idea," Evelyn mumbled in return. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. She was inwardly stalling...but this is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why was it so hard to spit out the words she had been chewing on all day?

   “May I talk to you?” she whispered conspiratorially to Gob. “Alone?”

   The necrotic duo shared a glance over her head. Nova raised a freshly plucked eyebrow.

   “Uh-” Gob started uneasily.

   Evelyn stood and pointed at her deathstalker bodyguard. “Just wait here, okay?”

   Charon muttered something sourly, shifting his weight to the other foot and surveying the few patrons.

   The other ghoul followed her into the back room, where she closed the door and fumbled with her pocket.

   “What’s this all about, smoothskin?” Gob couldn’t beat the nervous tick from his tone even if he tried. She assumed he would perhaps die with it.

   Evelyn tucked a hair behind her ear, the stocked items on the shelf suddenly becoming of great interest. “Charon shot Ahzrukhal.” His eyes grew wide at the information, and she felt her lips move at such speed she feared it would never cease. “I can’t be with him anymore, Gob! He needs to be somewhere, I didn’t want the stupid thing, I tried to give it up, God, he’s-he’s-”

   The door burst open, a shotgun hounding through the small space to land directly on the innocent ghoul cowering in the corner.

   “Charon!” She darted in his line of fire. “I told you to wait!”

   The red ghoul scowled and lowered his gun. “I heard you in distress.”

   She instead turned to Gob, who was still flinching a mile a minute. “See, see?! This isn’t- hold on.” She snagged the bigger ghoul’s arm to drag him completely inside and shut the door from potential eavesdroppers. “Okay. I’m just going to keep it simple. Gob, this is for you.”

   The piece of paper was held out, both pairs of hazy eyes zeroing in on it.

   Gob still wouldn’t move.

   Charon burned a hole through her skull.

   “What?” she snapped up at him. Her voice grew a little hoarse. “I told you I didn’t want it!” When she swiveled her head back to the new bar house owner, she shook it. “Gob, please. Just take it, and, and, and everything will make sense.”

   Her feet took some slow steps to build a bridge between them, his eyes never leaving that flimsy piece of paper.

   “Smoothskin,” Gob finally rattled, his garbled voice sounding like a tin can being kicked in the wind, “what are you doing?”

   “This is Charon’s contract.” Her fingers tightened on it, as though she thought twice about letting it go. “It’s why he is the way he is. It’s what I tried to help him with. It’s why he’s with me.”

   Gob licked the cracked edges of his mouth, for once addressing the big guy hulking across the way. “Is-grk-is that true?”

   Charon's hands were molded fists, a faint tremble coursing through them, barely susceptible to the naked eye. He gave a single, slow nod.

   Gob shook his head a little, and then furiously. “Smoothskin...that’s-”

   “I know.” The contract was curled down to her side, and she took a breath before facing her newfound problem. “Well? Do you have anything to say about this?” He didn’t. “Yeah, don’t know why I thought you would...”

   “Why are you doing this?” Gob asked her suddenly. He went for the door. “You know what? Nevermind. This is too much.”

   “Wait, Gob.” She got in his path, and the hulking mass at her back made him hesitate in brushing past. “I don’t know what to do.”

   He smacked his hands to his chest. “And you think I do?! No.” Another sidestep, and she reluctantly let him go. “Sorry smoothskin, but I don’t want any part of this. I got my own issues to worry about.”

   Gob left them alone, and she eventually came out to raised voices.

   “As of yesterday, I’m retired. Take your ass upstairs and get the job done yourself,” Nova said testily to a most unpleasant, familiar face.

   Jericho.

   “That’s a load of shit,” he scowled in return, taking hold of her arm despite her squirming. “Moriarty ain’t been dead for more than twenty-four hours, and you think you and that rotbag over there now run this joint?”

   Gob came over, a baseball bat in his hands...that was shaking. “Let h-her go, Jericho. I-”

   “You what, zombie?” the ex-raider spat, eyeing the weapon being held so timidly with a chuckle. “You going to hit me, huh? Don’t think I won’t fight back?”

   Evelyn took a step forward to intervene, but Charon halted her at the shoulder. He then stepped past, and everyone became quiet as he slowly came close, just standing and staring at the man.

   Jericho sneered, “What the fuck are you looking at, you ugly motherfucker.”

   Charon gave no reply- he didn’t so much as blink. He took a step, and then another, and Evelyn witnessed a bead of sweat drip from Jericho’s forehead. Nova was released, and he scrambled back a few feet before Charon came too close.

   “You know what? Fuck this,” he growled, unable to hide the slight terror in his voice. “This place is a shithole anyway, beer smells like piss.” He shoved a few others from his path as he gave an uneasy look over his shoulder to the unmoving mountain of burnt flesh.

   “Outta my way!” he barked, and then the door swung shut behind him.

   Nova let out a breath. “Thanks, big boy.”

   Evelyn felt a scratch on the inside of her eyeballs at the nickname.

   Gob lowered his weapon, sheepish. “Yeah...thanks.” He watched the duo then leave his bar, the wheels turning inside his brain.

   There was no comment to be made, partly because he felt no certain way about her offer of his contract to another. He was unsure as to why she was so adamant in exchanging it, especially if not for something of value in return. He felt he did his duty to her well...he did not know what he had done wrong. Ultimately, this was her decision to be made, and he did not have a choice in the matter.

   Although...it would come with its perks.

   He was watching her speak with the store owner that he was most inclined to put a bullet in. She was most certainly trying to dispose of his employer (which made his job that much harder) with these bizarre ‘projects’ she endeavored her on. How his employer did not see the underlying motive in her death befuddled him. She just must be stupid, that much he was confident of.

   “...and that would conclude the final chapter. D’aww! We’re so close to finishing! So! Did you want to start with Rivet City’s history or the library? Oh! We almost skipped over serious injury, and we can’t forget that!”

   Evelyn gulped. “Um...how bad of an injury, again?”

   They were both startled after he slammed a fist on the counter, rattling everything on the surface. “No.”

   “Charon, please go wait outside,” she ordered him dully. “Sorry, Moira. What did you need to study?”

   The shock on the woman’s face quickly reverted back to ecstatic eagerness. She rubbed at her chin in consideration of how to maim his employer. His hand crept off the counter back down to his side. Evelyn completely ignored his silent ire.

   “Very well,” he growled, turning on his heel as Moira began to detail the obvious plot of her demise.

   “Well, maybe a broken limb or two should do the trick-”

   The door was slammed shut with all of his brewing anger and strength, shaking the foundations of the building and echoing his unwanted sentiments. He eyed the railing for a split second and then made up his mind just as quickly. He laid out his left arm across the metal piping, locking his elbow and curling the fingers tightly in his palm. He ignored the curious eyes of random settlers watching him, released a deep exhale through his nose, and then slammed his other arm directly over and down. A sharp snarl ripped from his throat as his left shoulder and elbow dislocated whilst a visible chunk of white bone poked out from the flesh. He came back after the white stars had faded, dropping his skewered limb on the table between them. Their yapping instantly died, and Evelyn’s eyes went wide.

   “There,” he groused through clenched teeth.

   “Holy shit Charon-!” She instinctively reached out to touch it.

   “Don’t,” he snapped at her, and then he gave the crazy smoothskin his best glare and motioned to his injury.

   “Um, o-kay!” Moira rubbed her hands together, clearly unsettled by his tactic. “Let’s get you over here for a moment, shall we?”

    He drowned out the meaningless blathering as she took notes and asked questions he gave nonverbal answers to. His employer nervously watched and fidgeted more than usual. The hired mercenary in the corner seemed to placate himself around him...it brought some small sense of self-satisfaction.

   “Okay, now just hold still...” The bone was reset, and he grunted, brusquely rubbing at his eyes. She stood back, seemingly satisfied with her work. “There! All done! No biggie, right?”

   "He also has a burn in his side," Evelyn said sharply. "Can you look at that as well?"

   He threw her a nasty glare. "That is not necessary."

   "It is." Her tone left no room for arguing. "Go ahead."

   He grumbled as he stripped down to his shirt to raise it enough for the smoothskin to treat. When she finished, he collected his assorted gear as he inwardly seethed.

   Evelyn didn’t say another word to him. She pocketed some caps and pulse grenades and then refused to so much as look at him while she stomped back home. He watched her eye the saloon once more before entering. She blustered upstairs and into the spare room she let him work in, and then came back down with his duffel bag in hand. She thumped it on the table, shoved the payment she had received inside, and then threw it at him.

   "Here,” she spat. “Your contract is in there too. Get out.”

   He blinked. Why was she suddenly so angry? She was crying.

   “I cannot,” he rasped much too calmly, as though the woman before him wasn’t having some sort of cataclysmic meltdown. “You are my employer until my contract-”

   “I don’t care!” She went to the door and flung it open, waving her hand at him. “Go pick your own! Goodbye!”

   He set the bag down. “Was there something I had done wrong?”

   “You broke your fucking arm!” she practically shrieked. “You won’t let me help you when I try-”

   He interposed with a snarl, “I do not need help.”

   She ignored him and continued in her ranting. “-like dear God, you are not normal, by any means! I’m not suited for this, you’re just way too much! I came out of perfectly living in a Vault to realizing my whole fucking life was one big lie, and I don’t need you complicating that any further!” She crossed her arms and stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. “Now please leave. Grab whatever else and just get out of my life."

   “Is that an order?”

   “I will shoot you if you don’t go!”

   “Violence on your end invalidates our contract,” he rasped automatically. When the light of her teary eyes brightened, he threatened, “I will be forced to retaliate by any means necessary.”

   She visibly thought it over, and then her shoulders slumped. Good...he wasn’t in the mood to blow her to chunks, anyways.

   There was a stiff silence thinning her lips, and so he picked up his bag and resumed up the stairs, depositing it on the workbench whilst she slammed the door to her room. The conversation appeared to be over.

   The same passage in one of her many scavenged books had been reread (without actually being read) a hundred times over before the knocking came at her door. She had been determined to die in the small space amongst her sheets, literature, and smelly laundry (slowly becoming its very own fauna in the corner) until the knocking persisted. It hadn’t even been a whole three hours since her spat with the ghoul...and the thought of being around him after threatening to kick him to the curb made the notion of biting off her tongue much more appealing.

   He was in the workspace she had granted him. The door was closed. She didn’t hear it open a crack as she answered to her guest. It was Gob.

   “H-hey smoothskin,” he rasped. His frown deepened at the sight of her woe. “Are you okay?”

   She gruffly wiped at her eyes. “Just peachy. Thanks.”

   “I hope this ain’t a bad time, but, uh, I was wondering if we could talk about earlier...” He looked over her head. “About...about that, uh...”

   She glanced back to the lingering shadow at the top of the stairs. A shake of her head, her arms crossed over her chest. “Um, yeah, yeah, of course.” She widened the frame to allow him to meekly dip past. “So...you thought about it.”

   Gob wrung his hands together and looked up at Charon with obvious apprehension. “Do you, want to, uh, come work at the bar?” He licked his lips, his raspy voice almost belting out a few squeaks. “You’ll-you’ll get paid, and you can have a room...”

   Evelyn hugged herself just a little bit tighter, finally addressing the specter glaring down at them. “Well?”

   Charon didn’t say a word, and she expected he wouldn’t. He had said it was her decision...

   “Okay.” She motioned to the big ghoul, her throat constricting as she pointed up the stairs. She felt the floor swirl under her feet; an imaginary tide rising up her floorboards. “Your bag...please.”

   He gave a curt nod before dipping inside his workshop. When he presented her with it, she reached inside and handed over his life-binding indenture. It was perhaps for the best, for the both of them.

   “He’ll tell you everything about it,” she said thickly.

   “Um...okay.” Gob squinted at the lettering, and then flinched when Charon rounded over him. “H-h-hey, Charon...uh...”

   She felt immensely awkward standing next to the man she had just coldly evicted from her life. “You’re really not going to shoot me?” she asked.

   Charon snorted, taking the strap to his bag and shouldering it. “No.” He then turned to his new employer. “I am ready.”

   Gob bobbed his head, and then awkwardly left. “Don’t be a stranger to the bar, smoothskin.”

   Evelyn didn’t say a word as they made their way up the hill. The big guy didn’t even bother looking back. Well...whatever. What was done was done. She had that asshole idiot out of her life (somewhat) and she could go about living hers (which was even more questionable).

   She didn’t realize she had just been standing in her open doorway, glancing up the way they had gone, before a strong breeze of hot sand cleansed her nose. With a growl, she slammed her door shut (locked it) and finally, finally, FINALLY, ran a hot bath and soaked in the delicious waters (with some added scoops of Clementine Chamomile) that she so desperately deserved. The tub became a disgusting hue of brown after mere minutes of vigorous scrubbing and shaving, so she unplugged the drain and waited in a ratty towel on the couch to take another.

   A knocking came at her door, loudly- enough to shake the dust right off the frame.

   No way. She glanced down at her attire. “Um, just hold on a minute-!”

   The knob turned, snapped, and her door was once again opened with brute force. Thankfully, all the hinges remained in place, but her jaw dropped as the behemoth prick casually walked inside.

   She almost lost her towel from the shell shock. “Charon?! What the fuck?! What are you doing in here?!”

   He gave her a look, closed the door, and proceeded to walk upstairs to the workshop. The sound of scraping and metal clinking met her ears as she chased after him. That giant fucker was in her house, tinkering on a fucking gun.

   “Are you not going to tell me what the hell it is that you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

   His eyes flit over, annoyed, as he reached for the doorknob, and then he closed her own door in her face. The sounds of work continued, and she felt the tremendous urge to scream.

   Wadsworth fled from her room while she angrily pulled on her vault suit and stomped up to the saloon, not even taking the time to braid her hair or lace up her boots properly. The few patrons enjoying their early evening rounds all stared as she burst inside like a vengeful spirit.

   Gob saved a glass he had dropped from the sheer surprise.

   “We need to talk,” Evelyn demanded.

   They once again met in the back room, and the ghoul instinctively flinched from her wrathful aura, unused to being victim to her vicious temper.

   She threw her hands in the air, pacing around like a frantic madwoman. “What the hell is Charon doing in my house?! You took his contract! Did you send him back?!”

   “What? No, smoothskin,” Gob rasped uneasily. “He was sort of scaring away the customers... besides, it’s usually pretty slow around this time, so I told him he could go out whenever-”

   “Yeah, well, he broke my door and is acting like he still lives there!”

   Gob was unable to meet the blazing fury in her eyes, tilting his head down and rubbing at his neck. “Oh.” He eventually shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

   Her mouth opened, hung there stupidly, and then it slowly closed before a few bloatflies could swarm inside. What could he do? Order him to stay put? Become another Ahzrukhal, (or a Moriarty) have him on a short leash, cooped up in a bar, forced to live a certain life because of her insistence and meddling? She didn’t think Gob even knew how to demand something from someone, anyway.

   “I guess...nothing,” she said, the fire fizzing itself out. “Sorry. I’ll try and talk to him myself.”

   (Already a failed endeavor).

   She trudged away on lead-filled boots, not meeting the curious looks from everyone. The door was opened to a prefilled space of her nightmare of an annoyance. Charon stepped in, forcing her to step back before he ran her over. She maneuvered around him, his head slowly swiveling on his shoulders to eye her departure. She closed it on his unflinching 180 stare.

   She came to twist the knob to her house...it was locked. She blinked. He...fixed it? She tried again, putting a little weight into it. No budge. Her key was fished out from a very discreet place on her person (her bra, more precisely) and she didn’t bother securing it again lest he intrude whenever he apparently felt like it.

   The fridge had been wiped out of everything but the snack cakes. His clothes were in Wadsworth’s laundry bin. She snooped around upstairs- which, in itself, was utmost ridiculous- this was her house! A picked-apart gun was laid out on the bench, and judging by the thick odor killing her sense of smell, she determined it had been recently cleaned. The sound of her front door closing made her jump and quickly rush out, as though she had been intruding on something she had no business of getting in to (absurd!).

   Charon climbed the steps, and she met him at the top of the landing with what she hoped was a worthy scowl.

   “Okay, look, I get that I told you-”

   His fingers took hold of the zipper of her suit, and it made a loud zip as it flew to her crotch, a breast being whipped out into one gloved palm before his mouth came down to swallow her tongue. With one hand on her back, he ushered her into her room and closed the door.

   The change in hands came with its perks.

   He unshouldered her suit and shunted it off with her boots, ignoring her squeaks as he shoved her onto the bed. The entire frame wiggled as he grabbed both sides of her waist and slid her flush to him, one of his hands releasing his pent-up raging hard-on. It would be a lie if he told her he hadn’t been thinking of this the moment his contract had been liberated from her service.

   His glove rubbed the tip of his slimy, drooling cock, his eyes narrowed in on the sight of those glistening pink folds that he impatiently slipped a finger into. Her head slapped back into the bedding as her legs came up to squeeze him in a vice grip, the weak panting he induced from her lips nearly buckling him on top. The hot gush of liquid over his hand gave him the strange urge to fit another finger inside- it met with some resistance, and her hands flew down to grip his forearm as he squirmed it past, the silky interior clenching down as he fingered her.

   She had her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open, and the noises she cried (for once) extremely pleasant to listen to. His vision narrowed in on her hand as he witnessed her perform the most peculiar thing. Her own fingers rubbed at a spot just a little bit higher than his own, and he couldn’t help but stare at the glorified reaction it got.

   She blinked up at him rapidly, confused and flushed as to why he suddenly stopped. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

   He withdrew to replace her fingers. “What were you doing?”

   Her mouth snapped shut, her entire face bled bright red, and she gaped at him with something along the lines of mortification.

   “Um...” she stammered, “my...uh...you don’t know what a clitoris is?”

   He stared. 

   “It’s like...a sweet spot?” she offered.

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   He caught a brief hint of that annoyed fucking expression she had before he began to rub it himself- what felt like a little, smooth bead catching between the rough texture of his ghoulified fingertips. She was much more generous with the cursing of his name, her toes curling at his sides and her other hand blindly grasping out for his cock.

   He swiftly indulged her with a fat push of the stiff muscle, the lips of her cunt stretched tight as he stabbed inside. A grunt escaped him while she mewled high and loud, and he forewent her ‘sweet spot’ in favor of fucking her fast and heavy with a fierce hold on her hips. The metal bedframe rattled obnoxiously as he pumped away, his breathing growing labored as her frantic prayers melted into intoxicating encouragements. The tight grip she had on him stuttered a growl in the pit of his chest as he felt himself grow too close much too soon, his eyes glued to her bouncing tits.

   “Fuck, Charon, yes, fuck.”

   Her words brought him to the edge, and as a last-ditch effort to keep himself from coming, he leaned over to smash his mouth to her own, his hands wrapping underneath the soft skin of her back to hold her close.

   It was here.

   He gave a few, quick, shallow thrusts before spilling as deep as he could go, her pussy milking him for everything he was worth. Her tongue still licked at him as he waited, unmoving, for his load to finish. He pulled off and stumbled a few steps back to grab at a folded shirt to wipe himself with. Being considerate, he tossed it at her to clean the oozing mess between her thighs before he left for the bar.

   The saloon was empty save for his employer wiping down the counter, glancing up as he came forward.

   “Uh,” Gob began awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the relationship between them. “You don’t have to watch the bar, no one ever tries anything...” Neither moved, and Gob scratched at his head. “You, you can stay upstairs in the spare room, or-”

   “I do not sleep.”

   “Oh. Sorry.” Gob appeared genuinely troubled. “Then what do you do?”

   “Whatever my employer requires.”

   “...right.”

   The door opened, and the smoothskin he had just fucked silly came inside, her face still ruddy and a barely susceptible limp in her step.

   “Hey,” she said a little thickly to his employer, not meeting his eyes for longer than a moment before she blushed. “I need to buy some food.”

   “The usual?”

   She nodded. “Sure.”

   Gob disappeared under the counter as she unshouldered a new pack. A few cans and a couple of boxes were crammed inside.

   His employer took her caps. “Where are you headed this time? Not going to wait until morning, at least?”

   “Up north,” she replied vaguely. She once again stole a look at him, then left. “Thanks.”

   “Crazy smoothskin,” Gob muttered under his breath. He resumed cleaning up, and Charon followed her.

   She was just outside the bar, her gaze focused on the railing that had been fixed with some rope and a sun-bleached strand of caution tape. Her head slowly broke away to blink at him.

   “Did you know?” she whispered.

   He did. “Yes.” The stripped screws had made it obvious to someone who knew what they were looking for.

   “Does that make me a bad person?”

   He did not know...not anymore. He didn’t reply, but instead unclipped the sheath holding his blade. It was held out for her.

   She looked at it, and then carefully began to take it before his grip tightened, forcing her to meet his eyes.

   “Bring it back,” he instructed.

   She scoffed, her mood instantly turning bitter. She let go. “Then you might as well just fucking keep it.”

   He brought her hand up to take hold of it again. “Bring. It. Back.” With a simple nod of his head, she finally slipped away from him.

   "Um...okay." She looked him over, at once awkward and shy. "Thanks...big guy."

   He watched her walk past the gates until the void of the wasteland swallowed her whole.

Partnerships

   It was as the old adage goes- nothing good happens after midnight. Well, whoever had sprouted such nonsense clearly never imagined living in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Nothing good happened no matter the hour.

   The dark was so thick she could saw the big guy’s knife into it for a little tasty snack (that he would probably end up eating, anyway). She tripped over her own foot more than once, squeaked at the nightlife sounds of certain impending death (which so happened to be a molerat fart), and scurried along the dirt roads that were the same as they always had been- dangerous. 

   The bed had simply felt too empty, too big, an entire ocean to swim in with the vast nothingness just below the surface. A stranger dwelling in her own sheets, sticky and wet with not just herself, but of someone else, too. She had listened for the sounds of the door to open, and it had made her feel unwelcome in her own home- she didn’t want to wait for him to return, swimming out in that big blue to only leave again, a single head bobbing along the tide.

   Bring it back.

   That’s what he had said.

   Bring. It. Back.

   She nestled herself in a shoddy shelter made of metal sheets and wrapped her scruffy, thin blanket around her shoulders, sipping on some water and loudly chewing some food as she admired it under that ugly Pip-Boy light. It felt like a sleeping viper, coiled in her hands, the cold metal lifeless and just as deadly. Nonetheless, she cradled it close- keep it warm, don’t disturb (watch out, be careful), it bites. The illumination was too harsh, casting it under a foul glow, but even so, she ran the pad of her thumb along it, rethinking the words he had told her, the heat of his hands-

   She cut herself.

   “Ow,” she mumbled, holding the minor oopsie close to inspect the damage. A swell of blood so dark it appeared black streaked down the length of her vault suit after she wiped it away. Some snake charmer she was.

   It replaced the bedside company of her old teddy (that she hadn’t slept with in over a decade). A child’s toy dethroned by a cut of steel that’s sunk in more men’s throats than she could ever imagine, but it gets tucked in, handle on the pillow, a whispered ‘good night’, all the same. It gets a name- Sterling.

   (She’ll never tell him that).

   Northwest Seneca station was, for once, met with a brightened disposition and cheery tune at her lips. An extremely faded and staticky radio station had been discovered by pure accident whilst she had been fiddling with some knobs, the tunes barely distinguishable and the radio host completely unintelligible…she wished there was a way to make the broadcast clearer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

   A pile of bodies was the first thing to greet her in the plaza square, just as the wind had picked up and slammed a rancid hammer of air directly in her face. She gagged, attempted to keep her stomach down, and failed, miserably. A hesitant peek and slow shuffle of boots brought her closer to the wasteland’s newest (and most certainly not last) fatalities. It was hard to discern where one body began and…well…she was sure there was more than one, unless someone used to walk around with five hands. (Which wouldn’t be too surprising, all things considered). The bloated flesh, the signs of necrosis, and the absolutely horrible horrible smell deterred her from inspecting any longer, not even to collect some of the gear that looked leagues better than her own, but she wasn’t about to go and peel off the sticky ligaments and muscle from it. With much more hesitance, she crept down to the dank underground and came to quietly knock at the hermit ghouls’ doorstep. It opened to Barrett’s face barely visible amidst the shadowy backdrop.

   “Oh…it’s the smoothskin.” The door was widened. “Murphy’s in the back.”

   “Smoothskin- smoothskin-” Said chem-peddling ghoul nearly barreled from the other room, his glasses wrapped in thick strands of duct tape and left cheek sunken in. He startled her with his aggressive approach, forcing her against the side of his desk. “We need to renegotiate our terms- double the quota, half the price.”

   Evelyn was still partially recovering from the initial sight of him before her brain processed the words completely. Her look of shock turned into bewilderment.  “Half!? What! Do you know how hard it is to-”

   “No time like the present, smoothskin,” he interrupted, already reaching for their safety net of caps to pay her with. “You want to do business? Then let’s do business.”

   She didn’t unshoulder her bag and instead dumbly looked around, the mental image of the pile of corpses somehow rotting inside her nose. “Did you like get robbed-?”

   “Ahzrukhal,” he rasped, hooking a thumb in her pack to unzip it himself. (He ignored her indignant hey!) “Guy came with his dog- that ghoul you asked about- beat us within an inch of our lives. He’s put us in a tight spot, and you know what they say about shit-” he waited a moment, and then finished with, “-it rolls downhill.”

   She let him finagle the Sugar Bombs free before she dropped her bag on the table. “Ahzrukhal’s dead. Charon shot him…I saw it myself.”

   The words hung in the air, and then Murphy removed his glasses with a shaky hand.

   “…you’re not messing with us, are you?” he rasped quietly.

   Barrett cleared his throat, and now that she turned her head to properly study him, she could see the still fading memory of a brutal beatdown…signature Charon-style.

   “That would explain the late shipment,” he concurred.

   “Charon doesn’t work for him anymore,” Evelyn lamely explained. “He’s in Megaton, now.”

   A small heh left Murphy’s mouth, and then he disappeared into the back room. Before she could follow, a jarring commotion of equipment sent flying strung with violent cursing made her freeze in place.  

   “That’s just fucking fan-tastic!” Murphy yelled after coming back inside, but judging by the cynical tone of his voice and the wild sneer in his eye, it was obvious it was anything but. A Bunsen burner was launched into space by a smack of his hand. “Now what the hell are we supposed to do?!”

   “Murph,” Barrett attempted calmly. He nudged his head towards their frightened guest.

   “Who the hell are we supplying?” Murphy continued unapologetically. “Huh?! I got my teeth knocked out, and for what?!” The question seemed to run off the last bit of steam, for he plunked into a chair with his head in his hands.

   Evelyn crossed her arms. “Why not deal in Underworld yourself?” she offered, but the absolute scathing look Murphy gave her made her withdraw her suggestion with a purse of her lips.

   Barrett stepped into her line of sight beside his downtrodden partner. “Barrows doesn’t appreciate the chems we supply.”

   “Barrows? I don’t think I met him.”

   “He’s the ‘mayor’,” Murphy grumbled, “so they say.”

   “I mean, you have people there who buy.” She shrugged, attempting to placate the situation with all the shrewd barter experience she was years off from ever having. “Isn’t there someone else who could deal instead?”

   “You really need the caps that bad, huh?” The implication of his statement made her bristle.

   “No.” A lie. Big guy was probably chewing on her walls at this point. “I mean, well…" She stamped her foot. "Look, I’m just trying to help!”

   “Help…huh…?” The scientist shared a telepathic message with his companion, then got to his feet. “Okay, smoothskin. You looking to make a deal?”

   A tight ball of nerves formed in her belly. Whatever it was, she was sure to get suckered in…and nothing good ever came of her noble intentions, yet.

   It had been a long night.

   He had left the bar repeatedly to enter her home. He had sat on the edge of her bed (the metal frame groaned considerably under his weight) and rummaged through her assorted collection of books. Nothing had been read. A bath had been drawn, and the rest of the (two-thirds) scented salts had been used. The Mister Handy had washed his clothes. He had sewn a few holes he never had the time (or luxury) to tend to. He had replaced the hinges on the downstairs locker to cease its squealing. The bedframe had been greased to quieten its protests. He had cleaned her pistol that she did not take. Her tired leathers had been given new life with a generous oiling and patient stitching.

   He blamed it on lack of instruction. Ahzrukhal had ordered him to stand in the corner, be quiet, keep watch over the bar from these filthy miscreants. 

   Gob gave no such direction. Told him to…take a break, room’s just down the hall, ergh, let me know if you need something.

   They were almost at an impasse with each other. Gob didn’t give orders…but neither did he. They walked in constant circles around each other, waiting for the other to slip up and dangle a piece of bait for the other to snap at and hold on to, something familiar to tug on and swallow before being reeled in.

   The quiet evening turned into the break of day.

   He was now out on the front step of the bar, eyeing the town with scrutiny for potential dangers. None were found. He came back inside. Paced. Heavy boots, old floors, both creaking with every step. A cigarette had found its way to his mouth, the carton nestled in the tight leather space of his warm pocket. The first burned straight down to the filter. The second hadn’t fared that much better. His employer watched him. Charon made him nervous…no…afraid.

   “Do…you want a drink, or something?” Gob flinched after he snapped his head around on a dime. “Sorry, you just look, anxious, is all.”

   “I am fine,” Charon growled, going for another cigarette. He didn’t like the woolen texture over his tongue, too dense, too thick, but it didn’t curb his hard-set mouth from pinching one free, frisking himself for a lighter. His eyes flitted over to the former prostitute as she made a remark about how he could (probably) out-chew a brahmin of tobacco.

   “So, how you liking the job?” she continued. Evelyn had said she didn’t take ghouls, not that it mattered much, seeing as to how she didn’t take anyone at all anymore...he didn’t like her eyes- it was as though she knew something he didn’t.

   The ghouls shared a glance. She wasn’t aware of their honor-bound relationship.

   Gob gave a dry cough. “Urm, do you want to take another break? It’s always slow in the mornings…”

   Charon threw him a scathing look, and then he stomped outside, slamming the door so firmly it became wedged in the trim and got stuck. He went back to her creaking house hanging by thin stilts on the side of the hill. The fridge door was angrily thrust open (he accidentally pulled the handle clean off) and the only dish for his eyes to feast on was a little folded note. He took it, wolfing down the words as a key slipped from his fingers to the floor.

   Stop breaking my door! I want this back when I come home. 

   There was a little scrawled picture of what strikingly looked similar to his face, the word ASSHOLE glaring next to it.

   The hill overlooking the Super-Duper Mart was just a hop and a skip back toward home, and bed, and maybe something big and thick and somewhat crusty with sweat and dirt and completelynaked-

   She slapped her hands to the side of her burning face and looked down at her feet. The cracked binoculars Winthrop had gifted her were still in their spot like an abandoned puppy, waiting to be picked up and given the same amount of affection as Sterling (the knife) now had. Her pack made a loud zip after it was closed, the dysfunctional piece of equipment turned junk to maybe salvageable treasure tucked nicely between her fresh pair of underwear and journal. 

   She didn’t waste any more time in getting to Underworld after that- not when she had a mirelurk catch wind of her scent and proceed to chase her into the tunnels. Thankfully, it either lost stamina or found another delectable meal to savor, for she arrived at the Mall alone and unscathed (it didn’t stop her hand from touching Sterling once in a while for comfort, though), but that wasn't the worst part of it all. Now…she had to face the music of the atrocities committed here. She had to be confronted, and talk, and face…conflict. Murphy had promised her some good caps if she pulled off a dealer for him to work with…

   Big guy was more than likely turning Wadsworth into a five-course meal, by now.

   A deep breath- for luck, courage, and posterity-

   “Smoothskin?” That raspy rattle, and the curling of what was once an eyebrow above a thin tendril of smoke. “…welcome back.” The sentry of Underworld, stationed at her post, as casual as ever with her sudden appearance.

   “Willow.” Evelyn raised a hand and slapped it on her thigh, her face already burning a million degrees at the inevitable questioning she was sure to receive. “How is…uh…”

   “Good,” she answered, shifting her weight to the other foot as she leaned against the side of the building. She scrutinized her with those cataract eyes. “Charon’s not with you?”

   “No, no! He’s, uhm, no longer with me! Just myself, you know, me...just me.”

   Willow gave her a look. “If you say so…you’re a little weird, tourist, no offense.”

   “Oh.” They then stood there, and Evelyn pointed to the door. “Can…can I go inside, you know, after…uh…”

   “Oh, of course. I’m sure Dr. Barrows would like to speak to you, anyway. Some things are different around here…kind of unheard of.”

   “Gotcha. Speak to Barrows.” She quickly corrected, “Dr. Barrows! Woops!”

   “Whatever, tourist.”

   Evelyn scurried past. One citizen of the ghoul city placated- check. Her palms began to sweat as she came to the doors, and she seriously considered just going all the bumfuck way back home at the thought of everyone turning to stare-

   Too late, she ripped off the proverbial band-aid and slipped inside.

   And everyone stared.

   “Smoothskin!”

   A voice, and it was familiar! She could cry. Instead, she shyly lifted a hand and waved to the mechanic who not-so-subtlety showered her with his ever-growing affection. The ghoul wrapped her in the most awkward one-sided hug before he unlatched himself.

   “Hey, you’re back!” He slapped a hand down on her shoulder, and then removed himself altogether as though he had just groped her boob instead. “Sorry-it’s just, after Ahzrukhal-”

   Evelyn tugged him into a corner, the most public privacy she could hope to get before facing everyone again. “No one’s mad, are they? I can totally explain-”

   “What’s there to explain? That Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard?” he scoffed, waving away her doubts and insecurities with a simple flick of the wrist. Poof. Gone. Viola. “Yeah, that day was sort of hectic, but then we went snooping through his terminal…and, well, let’s just say Charon did us a favor. Which-” He nervously glanced around. “-is he…?”

   “Not with me, anymore. I mean, we were never together, it’s just…” She thought for a moment. He stared at the pout on her lips. “Complicated.”

   “Complicated,” he repeated.

   “It’s nothing,” she finished. “Um. Well…okay, cool. No one, like, hates me, or him, or anything?”

“I don’t hate you,” he offered, and then he stuttered on his next choice of words (making them unintelligible) before sternly folding his arms instead. “So, what brings you back? I’ve heard you’ve been, er, busy.” She gave him a look, and he awkwardly continued with, “it’s just, you know, with the bomb…and that town…Arenfu?”

   “Arefu,” she automatically corrected, stunned by this present stalker's admittance.

   Winthrop leaned in closer, oblivious as to how she shrunk away, his rasp lowered an octave. “Great job with the nuke. I’ve seen a few during my time, and I’ve never heard of someone disarming them successfully-”

   She rudely interrupted, “How did you know all of that?”

   He blinked, and the look he gave her somehow made her feel completely stupid.

   “Galaxy News Radio,” he casually supplied. “What, you don’t listen to your own broadcasts?”

   “Broadcasts?” she questioned.

   His chin was in his hand, expression thoughtful. “Well, I guess the signal is pretty weak. Can’t imagine the output beyond-”

   A concerning rattling sound turned their heads to a vent just above them. Some smoke began to lazily drift out, and Winthrop cursed under his breath as the air suddenly quit recirculating.

   “Damn place keeps falling apart,” he mumbled. The weight of his sigh made him crumple into nothing more than a very sad, very old man. He gave her a half-shrug, more out of apology than unease. “I don’t know about you, but that drink sounds good to me.”

   Between the soles of her feet hurting so terribly they burned, the sunburn on her nose beginning to itch and peel, and the thought of the big guy swallowing her house whole, the sound of a cool refreshment made her wholeheartedly agree. She smiled.

   A few caravanners had their hands broken for waving a gun around after being questioned on their tab. His employer disapproved of his tactics, which meant he would have to improvise in the future.

   “He’s just doing his job, Gob.” The smoothskin woman, however, was unfazed by his characteristic violence. She snuffed out a lit match with a flick of her wrist, languidly hanging the end of her smoke over a dented ashtray. “People are going to take advantage now that Moriarty’s gone.”

   Charon tuned out the discussion regarding his ‘overreactive nature’ and went to sit on a barstool at the end of the counter. A cold bottle of beer was slid down to his elbow, and he turned his head.

   Gob began, “I can get you something else…”

   Charon popped the bottle cap off with a side-pull of his teeth and then noisily downed his drink, a few drops wetting his mouth before snaking down his throat. It was emptied no sooner than it had been put to his lips.

   Gob hesitantly went to give him another before his fingers swiped at something underneath the counter. With a deep frown, he pulled out the remnants of Carol’s letters Moriarty had tarnished.

   “Guess I owe her an apology,” he sadly quipped to himself as he gently laid them on the surface to be reassembled.

   Nova watched the way he tended to them like delicate puzzle pieces. “Why don’t you just go tell her in person? No one’s keeping you here.”

   Gob lost all enthusiasm in his task, glum. “I wouldn’t last five seconds out those gates…”

   “Just take big boy with you- it’s what you hired him for.” Her eyes crept over to the ghoul in question. “I got the bar.”

[kidotm]

Thirty-Day Return Policy

   Winthrop was everything Charon was not- polite, understanding, patient, and capable of stringing along more than just a few words. However, they were both awkward in the way that neither had a single clue how to go about getting in her pants. Winthrop was what her father would have deemed 'an overall nice man'...although it was hard to assume if he would have approved of a ghoul (much older in age) vying for a roll in the hay with his (much younger) naïve daughter. Then again, she was much more certain in her assumption that Charon would not have been his first choice...or last. Oh, dear old Dad, if only you could see what had become of your once shy, awkward bumbling sprout that had no luck with the pretty boys. The secret relief he had felt then for her lack of suitors was sure to be horrendously shit on the moment they (ever) reunited. 

   The door to Winthrop's office had been closed- making it intimate and crowded- and she had stood in the corner as though it was her own claimed safe haven, keeping her presence small and reserved while he hastily fumbled around, picking up discarded laundry for last-minute tidying.

   “Sorry, sorry,” he rasped, tossing a pair of filthy oil-stained jumpers under a bench as though it rendered them invisible. “Wasn’t, uh, really expecting company.” He then turned around. "I mean, I invited you, it's just-"

   She awkwardly cleared her throat and kept her eyes on the assorted projects at his worktable. “It’s fine.” He smoothed out his crumpled sheets, inviting the invasive thought of what he would be like under them. She mentally slapped herself and pointed to the radio in the corner. "So- ahem- you said I have broadcasts? Like...of me?"

   "Yeah, Three Dog talks about you a lot, ever since you came out of that Vault."

   "What's a Three Dog?"

   Winthrop apologized, "sorry, he's the DJ for Galaxy News, always talking about 'fighting the good fight'..." He then seemed to mutter to himself, "whatever that means." 

   Evelyn kept her personal business regarding her father in their mental filing cabinet labeled Childhood Trauma: Daddy Issues Special Edition, for herself to review at a later time. It felt like a gross breach of privacy at having a faceless entity privy to all of her affairs, and to then have them spat forth for the entire wasteland to hear without a single snivel of her consent.

   She dove through her bag. “Um, I didn’t mean to bother you with this, but…”

   The cracked binoculars were handed over for him to study. All at once, his fluster washed down the drain. A hmmm, and he held it under a table lamp for a closer look. “That’s odd.”

   “What?” she questioned, leaving her literal comfort zone to peer at them. “…can they be fixed?” 

   “I thought the reinforced casing would be enough…but they took some serious damage.” He glanced up. “You must be quite the adventurer, smoothskin.”

   She blushed at his genuine tone. “Not really.”

   “Well, more than most of us here, anyways.” He set them beside some tools before snagging a clear bottle and two chipped mugs from a shelf. “I can fix them, but it’ll take the rest of the day. Need to see if Tulip has a spare liner.” A cup was poured and slid over. “I know Barrows wants to speak with you. He’s usually next door…and I need to fix the vents before anything else, so, uh, get nice and cozy.” He took a long swig from his own helping and then pointed to the bed with its grimy sheets. “If you don’t want to waste your caps upstairs, you can crash here. I don’t get much sleep with all the work I do.”

   The response was timid and delivered with a stiff nod, “oh, um, thank you.”

   They both stared at it, the invitation not overtly subtle. 

   "Greta makes terrible food," he blathered, trying to lighten the density between them. "Not that that's a reason, or anything, just, uh-" He stared at her lips. "Can I kiss you?"

    She made a face as she finished her vodka. With the alcohol now boiling her blood, she figured, why the hell not. "Sure."

   He seemed to brighten and become completely petrified all at once. Their cups were set to the side, and he stood close as he seemed to rethink his request. "I'm, not very good at this- it's been a long time."

   Unable to handle the awkwardness of it any longer, she tipped up on her toes and gave a small peck to his mouth. It felt...oddly like she had just done something completely out of line, as though the action itself was the worst sin to have ever been committed. She backed up a step just as his hands came to her waist.

   "I really need to speak with Barrows- Dr.- for a quick sec," she said breathlessly. "Sorry. It's important."

   "Oh." The utter disappointment in his voice was felt in the marrow of her soul. His hands came away. "Yeah, of course, uh, was this-"

   "Fine!" she somewhat lied, already making way for the door.  "I just remembered I had to ask him something, but, I'll be around?" 

   Winthrop turned, sullen. "I should probably take a look at those vents..."

   The crowd of (no-having) nosy guests just outside the door jumped at her emergence, skittering around with gutterings of didn't see ya there smoothskin to that was awfully quick... She ducked her head from their predatory stares through the double doors of The Chop Shop, only to immediately slam herself back into them. A ghoul seated at a terminal spun around in his chair, going from pensive mutterings to mild annoyance at the intrusion. 

   "Yeah?" he gargled. 

   Evelyn didn't respond, too frozen with fear at the sight just beyond the viewing window that divided the room. A ghoul- glowing- was dragging a tongue from one end of the pane to the other, completely out to lunch in both mind and physique.  

   "There's-there's-" she stammered, and then she squeaked as a second one suddenly popped up into existence, its bright bright bright eyes roving wildly like a powerball in a pinball machine. Ding, ding ding ding, dingdingdingding-

   "Never seen a glowing one before?" the normal(ish) ghoul mused. "They're harmless...so long as you stay on this side of the room." He wheeled over, scrutinizing her for any visible injuries. "So, you finally decided to come down here, huh? I treat all patients, if you got the caps." When her bulging eyes didn't leave the horrendous sight, he snapped his fingers a few times to successfully divert her attention. "Did you need something, or were you here to explain why I had to mop Ahzrukhal off the floor?"

   She went to speak, swallow, and breathe all at once, which ended in the unfortunate consequence of inhaling her spit. Her chest wracked as she coughed up her entire being, her purpled face in her hand as she keeled over to the side.

   "Hmm." Barrows watched on with all the professionalism of an ethical-abiding doctor in the modern wasteland...in which he just watched. He quipped, "you're going to lose a lung that way, which, if you do-"

   Evelyn took a deep breath, wiped the drool from her chin, and then flinched as a glowing one banged its head into the glass. She wheezed, "I'm here to speak with Dr. Barrows..."

   "Speaking." He folded his arms over his tattered surgeon's outfit, the dried blood unmistakable on his uniform. "You going to answer my question, smoothskin, or do I have to perform triage first?"

   She sluggishly waved a hand, inching closer to the door as she noticed both nuclear ghouls suddenly at rapt attention in her presence. "I didn't ask Charon to kill him, if that's what you're implying-"

   "Listen, I don't know the guy beyond the patients I've had to fix- which, believe me, was a lot- but he's been here long enough for me to question his motives. I don't care what they are, so long as they don't involve anyone else getting hurt." He leaned forward in his chair. "I'm assuming he didn't come back with you?"

   She shook her head. "No...I don't think he would care to, anyway."

   Barrows gave her a look that she couldn't quite decipher, and then dramatically rose from his seat. "Well, that takes care of that. I'm busy, smoothskin, so out with it. Did you need a procedure done? Maybe thinking about donating a sample...?"

   "Uhh, no," she said, and without making eye contact with the glowing guests on the other side, she took in the room. It was as much a medical clinic as she ever saw one: plastic privacy screens, soiled gurneys, various (unsterilized) equipment...a foot. A laid-out ghoul that was very much deceased (and horrifically sawed open like a child's toy succumbed to an 'operation') made her back up a step into the good doctor himself. 

   "You can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs...or, in this case, some ribs," he joked with a heh. 

   She gasped, "I knew this guy!" She could (unfortunately) recognize those wrinkly sacks in a lineup anywhere. "What happened to him?"

   Barrows gave her another look. "Wait, really? You knew him before he went feral?"

   She turned, and all of her blessed innocence was once again put on display for the wasteland to take a heaping bite out of. "Feral?" 

   Charon never had his patience tested quite so frustratingly, which was ironic in the sense that Gob was by far his easiest employer to date. Gob took suggestions like second nature, allowing Charon to beautifully prep for the warpath of gunpowder and blood toward a place he honestly had no intention of ever returning to. He had taken time with his arsenal, tending to the tools that he used to cultivate the community garden full of abominations and rot. When his weaponry was set, his shoulders squared, and his eye trained on the horizon, he then had stood at the gates with his employer, and waited.

   And waited.

   And fucking waited.

   "Is there a problem?" Charon had finally groused. The atmosphere had turned that hideous sepia-brown, tinting the wasteland a fitting shit-colored hue. There was no shade of blue to ease the strain it put on his eyes. A breath of wind had picked up, whipping sand into their faces and filling the cavern of his nostrils. He turned and placed a thumb over one side, snorting it out.

   Gob flinched at his tone. "Sorry, it's just..." He took a deep breath of the dusty air, almost hesitantly, as though it would somehow inflict him harm. "It's been awhile since I've been out here." He looked up at him. "I know what you did, to Ahzrukhal, if you don't want to head back, or..."

   Charon shifted his weight, mildly irritated with the sand now lodged in his ear canal. "It is of no issue. You are my employer. Lead, and I will follow."

   "Right..." Gob puffed his chest, closed his eyes, and then took the first step, and then another, and another, and...Charon wasn't following, making him pause to turn. 

   The bigger ghoul jutted his head to the east. 

   Gob kicked his mental nuts and curtly nodded. "Oh...sorry."

   They didn’t speak unless needed, at first. Gob kept by his side like a flimsy shadow, his initial silence agreeable and a prayed-for Godsend after experiencing the gabber that was the smoothskin, but then they made their way into the sewers, and his employer's initial I can't believe I'm doing this somehow rolled into Moriarty this and Moriarty that and you know, I always thought Ahzrukhal was a terrible person- not you, though, I'm glad you shot him-

   Charon expelled the loudest, annoyed sigh he ever had the compulsion of making. It shut his employer right up...until they left the sewers. 

   "Sorry...was I being too loud?" Gob meekly asked, nearly barreling into his side at the sound of a radroach disturbing some rubble.

   He didn't answer, just trudged on towards the next underground tunnel with his shotgun settled tightly in his hands and his teeth grinding themselves into dust. 

   Gob gaped at the sight of the Brotherhood patrols stationed around the Washington Monument. "Whoa, things have changed since-" A grunt redirected his head. Charon motioned for him to follow around. 

   Willow met them at the entrance, her smoke dropping from her lips at the sight. “Well I’ll be…” she started in disbelief, “Gob! I didn’t expect to see you back here, much less with Charon.” She turned her head to the bigger one that easily overshadowed them all. “That young smoothskin you left here with is inside. I told her you both were cleared with what had happened…though Barrows might still be uneasy with the whole thing, you running off like that.” There was a twinkle in her eye. "I'm sure Ahzrukhal deserved his dues-"

   Charon didn’t care to listen to the rest of the pleasantries exchanged, didn’t feel the multitude of eyes on his person as he strode through the concourse like he owned the place, didn’t hear the hushed voices linger at his elbow while his boots stomped over by Winthrop’s shop, opening the door and-

   "Hey." His employer, out of breath after having sprinted to catch up. "I'm going upstairs to Carol's."

   "Very well," Charon acknowledged, and then he intruded on the occupant whilst closing the door on the small crowd gathered at his back, the disappointed garbles at once silenced. 

   “Whoa-!” The smaller ghoul dropped something from his hands at his desk- those fucking binoculars- and jumped back. "Charon, what're you-?!"

   She wasn’t here…but her pack was at the foot of the bed. His bed. He turned to the flustered mechanic that was brandishing a wrench at him. Charon simply raised a single brow muscle at the warning.

   “I-I don’t want any trouble,” Winthrop rasped with a wobble.

   The door opened.

   Evelyn barely had time to lift her head to question anything before Charon grabbed her by the fucking face with one hand and squished it together with his meaty fingers, a surprised choke stemming from her throat and a shout at his back. He lifted her till she was nearly face-level.

   “You said north,” he growled.

   “Grfkhb!” she sputtered, scrabbling at his forearms for a release while spittle flew from her chapped lips.

   He complied, and she nearly headbutted his crotch at the drop. A loud thwack bounced off the armor plating on his shoulder, and he slowly spun a stone-cold glare to the ghoul behind him.

   “You should not have done that,” was all he said as he made a move for him. 

   "Charon!" The smoothskin jumped on his back and was clonked in the face by his elbow as he prepped another swing at Winthrop's head. There was a pained gasp, and he failed to notice the fact he had broken her nose. 

   Winthrop flew into the table, scattering bits and pieces of scrap metal and tools everywhere like a busted piñata. The terrified shriek that left his mouth drew the attention of the others beyond the door, including his employer. 

   "Charon, Charon!" Gob panicked. 

   He immediately pulled away, looking down at the weight clinging to his leg. The smoothskin, dazed and bespattered in her own blood, holding on like a monkey on a tree limb. He growled and shook her off, watching with a burning fester as she crawled over to the unconscious ghoul on the floor. 

   "Winthrop," she faintly called, smacking his cheek with a few fingers. "Winthrop."

   A warbled groan indicated he still lived. 

   “Pl-please go wait out in the lobby,” Gob managed to shakily get out, and Charon picked something up before he gave a hard pivot and stalked past a parted crowd, the voices at his back intensifying once he was out of sight. 

   "Everyone move!" Dr. Barrows lept into action, studying the scene quickly. "Get him to the clinic- Nurse Graves, help the smoothskin up." 

   A ghoul woman that Evelyn was now being informally introduced to gently took her by the arm. "Easy does it now. It's not so bad, let's get you cleaned up-" She reached out as Evelyn slipped away. "Smoothskin!" 

   Evelyn burst through the doors and descended the front steps so quickly she tripped, nearly eating shit for a late lunch. She came to find the broody bodyguard half-hidden in the shadows by the Mammoth exhibit, his stiffened back to the world. 

   She ignored the warm, thick drip of blood rolling off her chin, the taste of copper down the backside of her throat. "What the fuck was that?!” she nearly screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. It eventually became quiet again, the eternal flames in their respective trash bins cackling to themselves. She continued, "you broke my nose!" 

   Nothing…he almost seemed to be pouting like a sullen teenage girl, awfully reserved with a frosty chip on his shoulder, giving a perfect thousand-yard stare across the way. 

   “Fine. Whatever.” She began to stomp back up when he turned his head. 

   “You said north.”

   She halted mid-step. “Excuse me?” 

   Charon turned more, looking her dead in the eye. “You had said you were going north.” 

   “So?! What business is it of yours?!”

   His eyes narrowed a fraction, but then he turned to silently seethe to himself again.

   Gob came out, his hands wringing together so pitifully it made her heart sink.

   She gasped, “oh no, is he-?”

   “Barrows said he’ll probably lose an eye…and maybe an arm.”

   A hand came to her open mouth. “Oh my God.” 

   "You don't look so good yourself, smoothskin. You should get that patched up." He shakily rubbed at his head, more miserable than his previous days under Moriarty combined. He looked over at the bigger ghoul with open fear. “I guess I should talk to him.”

   Evelyn threw one last hateful glare over her shoulder before taking refuge back inside, dipping into Winthrop’s office for her things. The looks and heated rumor mill whirling around gave her the impression she wasn’t going to be much of a welcomed guest after being a close bystander to a second gruesome (near) murder. Regardless (of the public poll rating being zero), she entered The Chop Shop a second time. Murphy’s deal was now the furthest fucking thing from her mind.

   "Come sit over here." Nurse Graves directed her to a gurney on the opposite end of the room, away from the chaos that was Winthrop on life support. Graves turned her patient's head away from the sight and tilted her chin up. "A Stimpak should do once it's reset."

   Evelyn was now staring at the comatose body that had been hidden away behind a screen. A pink-haired woman that was-

   "Ow!" she griped as the nurse pinched her nose back in place without warning. She blinked past the swarm of tears.

   "Sorry," Graves rasped, applying a needle to the skin. "Give it a few minutes, and you should be good. You can discuss payment with Dr. Barrows."

   Evelyn had to refrain from rubbing at it as the creeping itch of a thousand ants began to tingle on her face. She stared at the only other smoothskin that was lying deathly quiet on her bed, her shallow breathing the only indicator she was even alive. She felt the wind from the door as it opened and turned her head.

   Gob began coughing in his hand. “Smoothskin, can I talk to you for a second?”

   She warily looked around for the big guy for a moment. No sign. “Um, sure.”

   “Thanks.” He then shoved a hand inside a pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. He immediately advanced toward her as she jumped up and began to shake her head in disbelief. “Look, I, I know I asked you-”

   “No way!” She refused to touch it, taking two steps back for every one he made. Her back came to the wall.

   “He nearly killed Winthrop,” he rasped desperately, pointing to the ghoul as though he were already a headstone. “Smoothskin, if I hadn’t made him stop, there wouldn’t be anything left of him.”

   She eyed the paper being held over, the sheet wavering as the ghoul shook. “But, I don’t-”

   “I told him I can’t hold onto this, not after something like that.” Gob set it gently on the bed. “I asked him if he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere-"

   "Let me guess," she groveled, "you are employer until my contract changes-"

   "-and he asked for you.”

   “Me?!” 

   "How's the nose?" Barrows interrupted. "Darn, still attached. If you ever grow tired of it..."

   Evelyn dropped her voice to a deathly whisper, ignoring the doctor at their side. "I can't take it!"

   "I don't know what to do!" Gob practically shouted for all to hear.

   Barrows eyed the piece of paper out of line in his medical facility. "What is that?"

   She snatched it up, unzipping her suit to stuff it in her bra. Both men eyed the generous display of bouncing cleavage that was begging to be set free. 

   "Nothing," she scathed. "How much for the stim?"

   He dropped the topic at the sound of caps jingling. "Fifty. Supplies aren't cheap."

   Fifty?!

   "Yeah, I see that face, smoothskin. Consider yourself lucky I'm giving you a discount."

   DISCOUNT?!

   "It's okay, smoothskin, I got it," Gob reasoned, "I owe you...for that."

   At once, she deflated at his sincerity, her fingers fiddling with some straps. "...is he still out there?"

   He nodded. "I think he's waiting for...you know."

   Ugh. She shouldered her pack and went to step up to Winthrop, but Barrows blocked her path. 

   "He needs to rest. Ahzrukhal was one thing, but this is unacceptable." He crossed his arms, giving her a solid I'm not angry, just disappointed dad stance. "Charon seems to like you, so I'll let you pass on the message."

   She spat out a loud pfft! "What makes you think that?!"

   Barrows jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You don't have a cracked skull and collapsed lung. Trust me, you got off easy. I've never met someone who's only walked away with minor injuries around him."

   "Sure, fine," she dully replied.

   That seemed to relieve the good doctor, for the tension melted from his shoulders. "Good. Now, if you're done with business in this city, then I suggest you clear out."

   She gave one final glance to Winthrop, so still and wheezing on his cot, and then looked back to Gob. "Are you coming with us?"

   He shook his head. "Quinn said he'd get me back...tell Nova I'll be a few days, and, uh, look out for her, while I'm gone?"

   Evelyn ducked out of Underworld, for what she assumed was perhaps the last time, standing on the top step to stare at the unmoving statue. Maybe if she took his contract, rolled it into a little scroll and tucked it under his tongue, maybe he would walk out those doors and into the Potomac to never be heard from or seen again...but no such luck. The deathly specter inclined his head after the doors closed behind her, his expression bored.

   “What the fuck is your problem?!” She stomped over, unzipping her suit a second time to retrieve his contract and wildly wave it. “I told you I didn’t want this! Do you hate me that much that you want to just, I don’t know, spite me or something?!”

   The ghoul said nothing but shouldered his bag, waiting on her to direct him once again. She ignored his cling-wrapping presence mirroring her every move as she went straight past. He unexpectedly halted her by the shoulder to spin her around, giving her a critical eye as he observed her already bruising face. 

   She threw him off, snarling, “yeah, that was no thanks to you."

   Charon fully withdrew. "I did not intend-"

   "I really don't care," she snapped. "Maybe next time use your words instead of your fists- you're lucky you didn't kill Winthrop."

   He remained silent as she fumed into the bathroom and angrily scrubbed at the dried, darkened warpaint until she heard a faint mutter. She wiped away the mess and whipped her soddened hair over her shoulder. “What? I didn’t hear you.”

   “You did not say you were returning to Underworld,” he rasped flatly, holding the shock of her eyes with the unrelenting steel of his own.

   The lightbulb finally clicked.

   “Hold on..." She licked at her damp lips. He watched. Attentively. "Were…were you jealous? Did you think I left to see him? Winthrop?” He suddenly became wary for a moment, cracked his knuckles, and then cast his eyes down, uncomfortable with his proximity to her. “Jesus Charon…no. I don’t think of him like that.” She then mumbled under her breath, “at least, not anymore.”

   He bobbed his head in a nod, self-conscious as he eyed her head to toe, then admitted bluntly, “I like having sex with you.”

   The absolute wild drumming of her heartbeat that tattooed her ribcage was somewhat pathetic. He might as well have told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met; it was a fucking weird, very Charon-istic compliment if she had ever heard him give one.

   She stammered, suddenly shy, “I-I like having sex with you, too…”

   Neither made a move, and when the stifled discomfort was too much to swallow, she bashfully went to exit the Museum of History, feeling his aura suddenly very up close. The peek behind spoke volumes of just how intimate he was to her, his hands twitching at his sides and his breathing like large bellows onto a fire. They once again left the wandering sentry behind in the gossiping dust as they made their way for home.

A Feral Fantasia

   They descended into the metro tunnels. Her heart was skipping a mile a minute- bum bum- her face grew hot- bum bum- the entire oh you broke my nose but not yet my heart euphoria lifted her on cloud nine. She was almost giggling to herself, ignorant of the weird looks he gave her as she hopped and twirled down the steps.

   He liked her!

   She glanced over her shoulder, the grimace on his face at her silly antics instantly poking a sharp pin in her heart-shaped balloon.

   Well…he said he had liked her. Sorta.

   The darkness impeded her vision, as always, and she automatically clicked on her Pip-Boy light. It illuminated Charon’s alarmed expression before he smacked a hand over it, smothering the brightness as best he could.

   “Turn it off!” he hissed.

   She panicked, flipping a knob for the radio instead.

   “HEY EVERYBODY, THIS IS THREE DOG, YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD-!”

   Evelyn’s squeak bounced off the walls with the booming announcement, echoing down every tunnel before she finally silenced it. The loud thud thud thud of her heartbeat pulsing in her ears seemed to render her deaf until a hair-raising hiss came from almost every direction.

   Charon shoved her, his tone urgent. “Move.”

   She didn’t argue, but scrabbled for the service door just ahead, the sound of claws against concrete drawing a whimper from her mouth. A blast from the big guy’s shotgun blasted at her back, and then another, another, the white muzzle flash illuminating their silhouettes like moving pictures against the wall…and it was at that moment she saw the multitude of the distorted limbs and gaping maws.

   Pitch black. Snarling. Flash. A row of black teeth ready to devour her face. A scream. Pitch black.

   Charon’s fingers reached around her waist and unsheathed his knife, flipping it in one fluid motion to then drive it straight into the feral’s throat. With his body pressed against her, he pushed her forward as more could be heard scraping over each other up the escalators. The door was opened and slammed shut in the faces of many, their souls screaming in unparalleled agony as the frame shuddered and jolted. He wrapped both hands around the wiggling knob and leaned his weight into it, the muscles of his sculpted arms bulging from the effort.

   “Go!” he growled. When she remained frozen in place by fear, he whipped his head around and snarled, “Run!” 

   She ran across the rickety gangplank leading up to the main courtyard, her lungs begging her to slow down and her mind screaming to find someplace to hide. She nearly collided with a group of individuals that were traversing down the same path she was so desperate to escape from. Everyone was startled by the random encounter, and she pointed behind her with a huge draw of air down her lungs.

   “Ferals,” she managed shakily, squinting her eyes through the haze of early dusk at the particularly well-armed trio aiming their guns at her. “Down, in the tunnels-”

   “You that Vault Dweller?” one asked, taking her good intentions and shoving it right back up her ass. He took in her vault suit. “The one on the radio?”

   She kept silent for a moment, now really studying this entirely new threat that had come knocking at her door. Their armor pinged a faint draw of recognition. She never had the chance to answer, for they all raised their weapons at once at something behind her just as she felt a heavy blow knock her to the side.

   “Oof!” she gasped, and then a gloved palm swiped over her mouth before she was rolled under the footbridge, Charon snugged underneath her in a narrow trench in the earth.

   The planks above them rattled and dipped under the weight of so many- they shrieked and screamed and cried as their shoeless feet bounded toward their new foes. The dust and dirt that rained down wafted up her nose. Bullets began to hail, laser fire zinged through the air.

   A desperate scream. “No! Get off me! Get off-fgchck!”

   Flesh could be heard being torn apart from fat and ligament and bone. It slapped against the pavement. Mashed between rotten molars. Chew chew chew. The scuffing of boots, the repeated help me help me please don’t leave me here-

   She trembled. Her hands tightened around the stronghold that was the ghoul beneath her, always so still, a breathing statue. They were forced to lay there, listening to the sounds of the carnage above, one of them slowly being devoured alive. She couldn’t take his sobbing, his hopelessness- it made her begin to cry. She clamped her hands over her ears, closed her eyes. A solid beat pounded against her spine, slow and steady and deep. An echo of a tympanum, beaten upon by heavy hands, vibrating through her core. She could listen to it in the early hours of dusk, the sands still warm as she lay in the ocean tide, overlooking those dark waters with the scent of citrus and jasmine in the air.

   A rancid odor forced her eyes to open. A feral, sitting not more than a foot away, its open maw drooling blood with a chunk of skin dangling between its teeth, staring at them with milky eyes. A low whimper built in her throat as it crept closer, the horrid stench almost making her gag. She felt Charon’s palm tighten over her mouth as he slowly raised his other arm, offering it just below the feral’s chin. It sluggishly lowered its lipless mouth and sniffed, smearing some slime along the patchy muscle of his forearm.

   A rattle of gunshots peppered somewhere in the distance, and it whipped its head around with a sickening crack of its vertebrae before scrabbling off with the others. Their hideous snarls soon became nothing more than the low moans of those left behind, and yet he did not release her. The seconds became minutes, and by the time her shot nerves snapped at the suspense and she went to struggle away, a creak sounded right above them, a large slop of drool dripping between the splintered cracks to slather her left cheek. A disfigured face only conceived in nightmares smooshed itself between the gap, eyeing her with an inhuman grin. She retched. It heard. Charon whipped the barrel of his shotgun straight up and blasted it into chunks of meat and musty wood splints. He quickly sat up, shoving her over and out of the trench back to the courtyard. Her ears rang from the close blast- for a horrified moment, she feared she was deaf.

   She paused at the sight on the surface level. It was a fucking slaughter-fest. The low whimpering was coming from a wet sack of bloodied flesh that was still moving- the remains of one of the men she had run into. He weakly raised a shuddering hand that had two fingers- the others had been bitten off, leaving only chewed stumps. The lower half of his jaw had been ripped away, his upper lip barely moving, but the pain in his face was clear- please, don't let me die here, don't leave me alone, please help-

   Charon pushed her between the shoulder blades towards the entrance to the sewers, and then quickly wheeled her back around as they turned the corner. A few ferals, skittering along the road and investigating the area with their chins to the ground as they sniffled a faint scent, one occasionally making a squawking noise and raising its blind face. With absolute silence on his end, he very carefully pulled her back around and down a set of stairs. The last sight she had before being consumed in total darkness was the creeping ghouls crawling over to the still breathing mercenary, his guttered cries haunting her as they descended below.

   The arm she clung to was the only solace in that infinite pitch. Her fingertips dug into the coarse muscle and leathered skin, the endless grooves of wrinkles and knotted scars held captive by her steadfast grip. She refused to let go, followed blindly as he somehow ferried her around twisting turns without any source of light. He then abruptly disappeared from all sense of touch. Before she could panic and call for him (the thought of being torn apart by invisible teeth making her cry), a service door was slammed shut, locked, and a heavy workbench was pushed against the frame. They waited in total blackness for a few minutes, the sudden silence overwhelming and anticlimactic all at once. With hesitance, she clicked on her light again only to enhance his broad back, his hands still braced against the blockade and head slightly bent forward as though in prayer. He said nothing, but eventually leaned away until he was retreated in shadow, his presence felt rather than seen.

   His glowing eyes were suspended high above in the empty air, his phantom voice sending chills down her spine. “Are you hurt?”

   She managed to blink, tearing her eyes back to the barricaded door. “N-no, I, um-”

   “You are shaking,” he rasped with an eerie calmness.

   It was true. The light was bouncing and trouncing and having funfunfunfunfun all over the walls.

   “I’m scared,” she confessed.

   Only until his eyes disappeared did she redirect her light around the room. Broken beer bottles, their amber refraction glittering the walls; scattered tin cans, a few fashioned together in a single line with some wire; some boxes of detergent, busted crates, a person hunched over in the corner-

   She yelped and jumped into the ghoul behind her. He didn’t budge an inch.

   “He is dead,” he commented as though it was on the weather.

   She hugged herself, the warmth at her back a small comfort. “Can we, like…get rid of him?”

   He sighed tersely through his nose but proceeded with the request. The pale-blue corpse was almost a husk, thin and gaunt underneath the rags it wore, its jaw slack on its hinges and eyes long recessed into dark pits. He opened the cabinet doors below the workbench and rudely shoved the body inside, the bones snapping as he finagled it to fit.

   “I didn’t-!” she began, but then he forced them shut, hiding the body away forever inside an oversized drawer. He shrugged at the face she gave him. She muttered, “You knew what I meant.”

   Charon set his bag down against the far wall opposite the barricaded service door, unstrapping his shotgun before taking a seat on the floor. He adjusted the side pistol on his thigh, giving her a cool stare.

   “I suggest you sleep.”

   The words left the tip of his tongue like a casted spell, coiling fatigue around her bones and hanging weights from her eyelids. She rubbed at the latter, yawning with a heavy nod of her head to then sit beside him. He instantly leaned away as she married her bag to his own.

   “I don’t have cooties,” she mumbled as he moved an inch to avoid touching her.

   The Pip-Boy was removed from her wrist and propped on the floor to keep the light on the door. With her blanket retrieved and wrapped around like a shawl, she whispered ‘goodnight’ and was out. She hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep until she felt herself being shoved aside. Her head had been in his lap, and she brushed her hand against something thick in his pants while he tried removing her. He was rock fucking hard, and the thought of unzipping it made her cunt wet.

   “Oh,” she whispered, and he paused in pulling her away after she put a hand on it. She looked up at him, the faint light not even reaching his face. “Do, do you-?”

   He responded instantly, “Yes.”

   She crawled into his lap, her breath hot and damp and sour across his face, her tongue lathering into his mouth and teeth dipping in the stern line of his lip. The heft of his hands came up, demanding in their taking, snatching themselves underneath her suit as he practically ripped it from her body, the delighted gasp she exhaled moving his mouth to a freed nipple. He noisily sucked on it, frothing over the perky nub while one palm squeezed her ass. The Pip-Boy was bumped into, clattering across the floor with the light now reflecting their silhouettes against the wall. The bits of pebbles dug into the skin of her knees as he got straight to business, flipping her around and bending her over on all fours in complete subservience to him, their roles completely switched.

   Charon spread her legs wide, propping her ass in the air for the tip of his weepy dick to catch. His eyes never left the sight of that initial lipping of her cunt over the head. “You will need to be quiet,” he instructed, and when he thrusted, she was anything but.

   He automatically smacked a hand over, catching her jerky whimpers and stuttered moans in the palm of his glove as he gritted his teeth and paid little mind to being attentive, the stabbing of agonizing pain melting into unadulterated pleasure with every plunge. A sick game of wills, the battle for obedience being challenged by the indulgence of sex, and he couldn’t differentiate between the two when it came to the white light behind his eyes.

   Her head turned, watching his large shadow melting into hers with every thrust he gave, the spear of his cock vanishing and rematerializing over and over and over as he buried himself inside. The white of her eyes glimmered as they rolled in the base of her brain, her body growing limp and malleable enough that he could push in just a bit farther, feel that impenetrable wall of flesh that jolted a spark of electricity through her nerves, whiplashing a seedy moan from her lips with every stab.

   His fingers came down to grope at her clit, clumsy and uncoordinated and on a completely different fucking map. She came down to chart his course through the dark curls of her groin, and he scratched at the supposed ‘sweet spot’ with his rough texture until her voice suddenly became high-pitched. It gave him the most invasive thought of taking the backside of her head and repeatedly slamming it into the pavement till something gave way, her skull, maybe.

   He came instead.

   The ghoul went to stand after the minute of dignified silence, his knees feeling every bit their age as they cracked. He stifled a groan and tottered backward, snorting past that euphoric rush swelling through his veins with a harsh rub at his eyes. His dick was limp and dripping all over his boots, that sweet musky scent quickly enveloping everything else. He didn’t bother wiping himself as he jiggled it back inside. The zipper to his pants was shunted up tight and flat, and he turned back to the scene of her milky legs shaking with his contribution drizzling out; it felt good knowing it was his. 

   When she was clean and dressed, she once again took her place beside him, drifting into sleep and his body like a loose sail caught on a gentle breeze. He grabbed her by the face and forced her weight to fall the opposite way, to which she eventually curled into herself for an undisturbed few hours before she awoke with a fright.

   Her words were slurred, unsure and timid. “You’re not turning feral, right?”

   He turned his head. “No.”

   They were now rushed, insistent and demanding, like a child. “Like, never, right? You’ll never turn feral? You won’t…be like them?”

   He turned away and shifted his weight, spreading his legs out just a bit wider. “I do not know.”

   It was quiet. He assumed she may have fallen back asleep until she suddenly said, “I don’t want you feral…the world is cruel enough.”

   He almost grunted at the sentiment. He agreed. He listened to her breathing become soft and steady once again, his eyes on the door, and his gun always at his side.

   The skin of her throat was being peeled between sharp teeth and sticky saliva, (bang bang!), pulled, tight tight tight until it was so strained it could snap back into place (bang bang!), but then it started to tear, riiiiiip, (BANG BANG).

   Evelyn fought the constricting blanket around her legs like a live snake, struggling without a single coherent thought as to what was happening-

   Charon clamped a hand around her mouth, his voice tight. “Do not scream. You are safe.”

   She took the inhale of air after his release like a deep drink of water. After a moment of clarity, she remembered where they were and the events leading to that point. She pulled on the collar of her suit as an invitation for the chilly air to grant relief to her hot, sweaty skin. It went unnoticed how Charon stared at the slight peek of her bra that had winked out. The blanket was shoved into her pack while she rummaged around for…for…she glared over at her companion.

   “Will you stop eating everything?” she rudely snapped, and then a single can of Pork n' Beans was held under her face. “Oh, thanks, you’re so considerate,” she sarcastically drawled.

   He nodded, deliberately and with a straight face. She struggled in popping it open with a rusted screwdriver while he simply watched.

   “Can we leave now?” she asked, reaching over for her Pip-Boy to check the time. Morning. Early. She had to pee. Bad.

   “There are too many on the surface,” he rasped. “We will have to go underground.” He pointed at her Pip-Boy. “I am familiar with the tunnels. I advise you leave that off.”

   She nicked her thumb on the edge of her opened lid and hissed an expletive, jamming it in her mouth to gum on. “You went outside?”

   “I have.”

   “And they don’t, bother you?”

   “Ferals are of no concern to me,” he vaguely explained.

   She redirected the light to her thumb, the blood dewing on her skin and bouncing bright red under the glow.

   The ghoul was suddenly at her side and crouched nearly face level, scaring her out of her wits with his lack of warning. (His perfection in stealth was most disarming and exceedingly ungrateful when entirely unnecessary.) He grabbed at her hand, inspecting the minuscule cut for a moment before wiping it clean with a swirl inside his own mouth. The noise of surprise that left her was unattractive, but he paid her no mind as he dipped a few fingers into a small satchel at his waist to wrap her thumb with a wad of sweat-sullied bandages.

   She stared at the newly mummified finger. “Um…thank you.” They both stood and gathered their respective gear, and she nervously fiddled in place while he leaned out to visually scope the tunnel.

   “It is clear," he observed.

   “You can go first. I need to pee.”

   He rolled his eyes but did as he was told, waiting on her absurd privacy request with folded arms and a scowl.

   She came out with a blind grope of her hands through the dark. “I can’t see anything without my light. How will I-?”

   Something was pressed into her open palm…they felt familiar enough, and she ignored his suggestion and ticked a button on her Pip-Boy to illuminate the object in question. The binoculars. She gawped at him, turning them over in her hands. 

   She guffawed, “You took this? Why?”

   He simply rasped, “They are better.”

   When she didn’t say anything, he stiffly pointed to the side of them, clearly wholly uncomfortable. She flipped a micro switch and then held them to her eyes, peering down the once-blackened subway with perfect clarity. He reached over and flipped it again, and something entirely new came into view. Heat signatures. She pulled them away, amazed.

   “You did all this, for me?” Well, that explained the noise that had woken her up.

   He awkwardly nodded, not seeing to continue the conversation, and motioned for her to follow.

Not All Who Wander (with a Grumpy Ass Ghoul) Are Lost

   The tunnels were ever murky, smelling of mildew and decomposing flesh; pressing a thick odor on the back of the tongue that you couldn’t wash off no matter how hard you scrubbed. It was so eerily silent that just the faintest noise would elope on the wings of a butterfly to summon whatever ancient eldritch slumbered in its tomb. She kicked a bottle with her toe, skidding it across the floor for a millisecond (straight for a one-way trip down the escalator), until he quickly caught it under his boot, preventing a near-total repeat of yesterday’s incident.

“Sorry,” she breathed at his back. “I can’t really see what’s at my feet with this thing.”

    He muttered something she only caught snippets of do not understand and still alive.

   “You may hold on to me,” he relented with a grouse. When she immediately went for his hand, he brusquely redirected her to the strap on his back. “Here.”

   They slowly descended, her hand clenching his leather strap like a lifeline in choppy waters, her retrofitted eyes taking in everything that dwelled in the abyss. Charon came to a halt. A few lanterns illuminated a sectioned-off portion of the metro, and he grumbled to himself at the nuisance it created. There wasn’t a detour worth taking to get around.

   “Wait here,” he rasped as he removed her hand…or at least tried to. He spun an evil glare around as she refused to release him. “Let go.”

   “Don’t leave me here alone!” she sniveled.

   “It is only for-”

   “No!”

   He grated through clenched teeth, “It is for your safety. I advise you remain-”

   “I won’t get in the way,” she promised as though she was reciting some feverish prayer. “Just don’t leave me here. Please.”

   A drawn-out, I’m too old for this fucking shit sigh gave her the green light. He brought his face uncomfortably close.

   “Be quiet.”

She nodded, and he started forward with her toddling behind. A mother duck and its duckling (if the mother duck was seven feet tall and the resurrected image of the harbinger of death, and its duckling was a pretty thorn in its feathered behind). Said mother duck craned his head around a piece of propped plywood for a better visual of the area. Said duckling stared at his butt after he was forced to lean forward. Charon jolted a micro-fraction as something touched his ass. He swiveled his head around so quickly it could've spun off as a dreidel.

   “What is it?” he snapped.

   She gave him a sheepish look. “Nothing…sorry.”

   With a glower and shake of his head, they stepped swiftly and soundlessly through the raider encampment, his hands and low growls occasionally discouraging her kleptomaniac habit as she tried to loot anything within reach. A few coma-induced Jet junkies were sprawled on sheets of tatty blankets, blissfully unaware of their presence as they crept on by. A single sentry, enjoying a smoke and a thumb of whiskey, failed to notice the giant sneaking up at his back. His awareness of the threat was made much too late after a hand stifled his shouts and a knife cleanly sliced through an artery. He was dead in minutes.

   Evelyn did her due diligence and kept as quiet as her overly-loud nature permitted, shadowing the ghoul as he led her through tunnels and down escalators and past doors and up stairs and-

   “Where are we going?” she finally hissed, scoping the binoculars around after they came to another halt. She spied more ferals, twitching and snapping at one another, down another service line. Besides the occasional tick of her Geiger counter, they had completely avoided all dangers during their excursion through the subway tunnels.

   Charon nabbed the binoculars from her hands, ignoring her questions as he grumbled to himself. A few minutes passed until he gave her her eyes back, and he continued to slink along the tracks with her in close pursuit. They entered a large lobby area of the metro, the faint rays of sunlight drifting through portions of the collapsed ceiling. It cast a spooky glow through the abandoned passageways, and she was only able to see unaided for a moment before he led her down another escalator to the depths farther below.

   A partially lit directory by the billboard track that read Metro Central caught her eye. She pointed to it, whispering, “There’s-”

   “I know where we are,” he cut her off, his voice sharp and a tad more annoyed than usual.  

   They wandered down another tunnel- a few feral dogs greeted them with slobbery jowls and less than innocuous affections. Charon broke his own ground rule and blasted them into stew-sized chunks. A locked service door was kicked down; the janitor's closet led to a dead end.

   “Are you sure-?” she questioned as she pilfered what she could before he dragged her out. “Hey!”

   Another traverse across the station, another line. A couple of feral ghouls were dismembered by the blast of his shotgun, his initial caution slowly being whittled away with every door they rounded into. She began to flip through the maps of her Pip-Boy but was unable to pinpoint their exact location due to his long stride threatening to leave her behind (even though he wouldn’t dare to).

   Charon forced them to pause as he reloaded a new drum magazine, his indistinct mutterings becoming snarls and his scowls burning into loathe-filled glares. Evelyn traced a strange, faded symbol on the wall with a fingertip, one of the few that she had noticed during their journey.

   “What is-?” She turned her head to him stomping away.

   He slammed a hand over an electrical panel beside a large service door, opening it to a waft of damp air that smelled of wet earth. A large cavern. He trudged on forward, and she listened to the sounds of bullet casings hitting the deck. He came back around, his armor misted with blood and his expression ever-so irate.

   “Let us continue,” he rasped, the underlying rage just barely contained.

   She tiptoed around the carnage, up some metal catwalks, and into another subway system. A new billboard- Red Line.  

   “Charon, are we-?”

   He didn’t even look back. “We are not lost.”

   “Just how long has it been since you’ve been through here?”

   He was utterly silent, and she blew out a breath of hot air; forced to follow in the aftermath of his raging storm, listened to the booming thunder as he took his frustration out on anything that moved. Just when she was about to gripe about his construed sense of direction after entering an abandoned car tunnel, he shoved her into the concrete wall with a flattened palm stemming her complaints. The side of his eyes turned her own to a pack of ferals- healthy in number, sluggish, and oblivious of their new guests. One slid out of a busted window within the skeleton of a bus, slinking to the floor with a groan. She nodded, and he slowly released her to press her forward, guiding her steps as they cut straight across until they made it through the other side, finally emerging into open sunshine. With an elated sigh, she closed her eyes to the sun and breathed the open (fresh?) air.

   “Thank God.” The Pip-Boy was brought up, the screen set to full brightness as she scrolled through the menu. “So. We’re-?” An expected glance was given to her companion, who was frowning at the giant billboard plastered on the side of a building. She placed a hand above her eyes, reading, “GNR. Galaxy News?!”

   Charon was already pivoting back around just as she began to bound away. He suddenly had a hold of her elbow, sweeping her off her feet with how abruptly he stopped her momentum.

   “There are more tunnels,” he rasped plainly.

   She shrugged him off, pointing with excitement. “No, this is perfect! I’ve actually been trying to find this place for my…” Her enthusiastic rant tapered off, and she at once became sullen. “…my dad. I heard he came here.”

   Charon raised a brow muscle but didn’t press the topic. Rather, he motioned with the barrel of his gun at the building. “You wish to proceed?” When she eventually nodded, he declared, “Very well. I must inform you that the Brotherhood is not friendly with ghouls.”

   “The guys in the shiny armor?” He nodded, and she questioned with a genuine, “Why?”

   He gave her a look she couldn’t describe. “They are not impartial as you are.”

   It was apparent that was the extent of his heightened vocabulary and conversation, for he then just stood there as his usual stoic self, waiting on her to carry on.

   Step by step, she came closer to possibly reuniting with her father. Inch by inch, the looming radio beacon called, broadcasting an inaudible signal that only seemed to play for her- a record, skipping- Goodbye. I love you. Goodbye. I love you. Goodbye. I love you. The building seemed to transform into a living entity, its walls bulging from its heavy breathing, the cracks and dust moaning with every sigh. The wind cried in her ears, the chorus of screaming from the throats of many wailing within its walls, hands pushing at the frames and pounding to be let out- by God, let me out!

   Charon nudged her with his elbow.

   She had been standing in place, frozen stiff and staring with widened eyes at the once-more plain and crumbling structure, the metallic halls and florescent lights recessed into the far reaches of her mind. She rubbed at her forehead. “Sorry…just a little tired, I guess.”

   The closer they got, the more her head whipped around for a way inside, the sun-faded billboard taunting her with its inviting message- ha-ha! So close yet so far, sucker!

   “How do we get in?” she pouted. A single door was visible on an upper floor, but with no way to possibly reach it. “Can you get me up there?”

   He glanced up. “I do not know.”

   They maneuvered up a few levels over some concrete debris until she was standing directly below it, her hands reaching for the sky and stars above. “Okay, just-whoa!”

   Charon had cupped her ass with both palms and lifted her straight up, her fingertips barely skimming the broken platform. When it was obvious she couldn’t hoist herself over, he set her back on her feet.

   “A little warning next time, thank you,” she said curtly.

   He shrugged. “You did not mind before.”

   She waved him off with spoiled cheeks and looked around. “Isn’t there more than one way inside?”

   He simply pointed up a small path of some rubble, indicating a way around to the front of the building. The ghoul stepped up first, sure-footed and with laughable ease as he then watched her slide back down on her ass, her cheeks hitting every sharp rock on the descent.

   “Ow!” she whined, rubbing at the site and discovering a slight tear. With a huff, she tried again, biffing it near the top and only escaping the previous fate as Charon caught her by the arm. She dusted herself off, trying to recover some semblance of dignity. “Thanks,” she said.

   He nodded, and then simply watched (again) as she slid on some slippery slate (on her first step) all the way down the other side, her body rolling a few feet before knocking into a dumpster. He carefully stepped forward, sliding all the way down with a precarious balance on a mini landslide. 

   “Yeah, thanks,” she bit out after spitting out some rocks.

   He nodded. “Are you injured?”

   “Are you injured?” she groveled with a horrible mocking impression. The inquiry was left unanswered as she stalked off, tracing a side avenue until they came into an open courtyard. The biting end of a laser rifle was instantly planted in her face.

   “State your business, civilian,” the mic-filtered voice rudely inquired. The last term was nearly spat out, as though it was something repulsive that had been chewed on.

   Before she could even blink (much less reply) the rifle had been snagged from their hands, the butt end of it cracked into the front of their helmet. The Brotherhood soldier staggered back with a pained gasp and was quickly on the other side of their own tactic.

   Charon snarled a warning, the rifle held steady and surely in his hands.

   Evelyn immediately placed a hand on his arm, the exposed muscles of his bicep taut under her touch. “Charon-!”

   “What the hell is going on here?” A second soldier stepped down from behind a fortified defense at the base of the plaza, his gun held down at his side. “Initiate, you mind explaining why a ghoul has a hold of your rifle?”

   The initiate snapped to attention, her hands balled at her sides and feet at a perfect forty-five-degree angle with her heels married together. “They surprised me, Sir!”

   The other seemed to sigh. “Go take ten, then report to Jackson for field day duty.”

   The initiate slammed a fist to her chest, then walked off…but not without a slight sulk in her step.

   The Brotherhood soldier gave Charon a calculative assessment. “I wouldn’t suggest looking for a fight, unless you got the firepower to take on an entire squad.” He redirected his helmet to Evelyn. “I’m Knight Hammond, second in command at the GNR outpost…and, you are?”

   “Evelyn,” she said, and she moved her hand over the rifle that was still pointing downrange at Hammond’s head. She gave the ghoul a look. “And this is Charon, we’re very friendly.”

   Charon grumbled something irately that she couldn’t transcribe, but he lowered the gun regardless.

   “What is a civilian doing this far in the ruins?” He waved a knife hand at her suit, soiled and stained and fraying. “Much less, a vault dweller?”

   Her lips parted to speak, and then her weight left the ground. Grenade. The plume of dirt blasted around them, filling her lungs with hot sand. Charon had picked her up, unnaturally quick for a man his size and stature as he sprinted for some cover. Another explosion set off to their right, blinding them in a cloud of dust and sweeping the ghoul off his feet. All sound went out in her ears, leaving behind nothing but a faint ring.

   She coughed, squinting past the swimming vertigo that swayed her head. “Ch-Charon?” Her own voice was muted, she could only feel the vibrations in her throat. There was a swirling pattern in the haze before her eyes, and then a nasty green snarl emerged. She screamed, and all the sound in the world came back like a kick in the teeth.

   A shout. “Light them up!”

   The super mutant reached out with its sausage fingers, its rancid smell like nothing in comparison. The gaping mouth opened, close enough that she could taste the distasteful odor of its breath as it swamped her face like a cloud in a bog. She whipped onto her back and began to scoot away, kicking at its outstretched hand with the heel of her boot.

   “No-no!”

   The super mutant dipped forward with a violent jerk, grunting as it lost balance and toppled forward to crash just inches from her. The ghoul on its back jammed the muzzle of his gun firmly at its temple, blowing its skull wide open to splatter them with gory confetti. He dismounted and pulled her behind some cover of piled sandbags, grabbing her by the chin to force their eyes to meet.

   “Are you hurt?” he rasped, loud and well enough for her to hear.

   “No!” she shouted in return, and he seemed satisfied as he then pulled a grenade from his pocket, ripping the pin out with his teeth to lob it into the fray.

   She could hear the brutish yelling of super mutants. Her hands shook, her face hot and sweaty, her breathing much too fast. She slowly peeked around and quickly shrunk back. This was insane! She had come so close…her eyes took in her contracted bodyguard, his steady breathing, his calm demeanor, his quick-fire shots. He was risking life and limb for her, forced to.

   The battlefield was chaos. She watched a soldier go down, his gun skittering across the pavement and his hands raised in front of his helmet as a super mutant stepped up to them, his entire ribcage being smashed inward under the weight of its stomp. A band of more soldiers appeared from the ruins, rallying their battle cries and spraying the courtyard with lead and lasers. Charon ducked her head back before a stray bullet could kiss her goodnight.

   “Stay down!” he barked. He had a laser burn on his left arm, cauterized and sizzling black flesh. He seemed to assess an escape route through the warzone, for he then sat down beside her. “You are to run for the entrance. I will cover you-”

   She gaped at him. “I’m not leaving you here!” She shrugged off his hand before he could push her up. “If you stay, I stay!”

   The ghoul stared at her. “You will die.”

   It was stated as a crystal-clear fact, an absolute. It wasn’t a matter of what if. It was cold, it was blunt, it was carved in stone- a commandment sent by God.

   She bristled, her voice thick, “I haven’t yet.” With a blink past the angry tears swelling under her eyelids, she waved at the gun on his thigh. “I can do it.”

   He hesitated, but then the strap to the holster was unbuttoned, a single snapping sound that somehow cut through all the noise at their backs. The pistol was unholstered and held out in the palm of his glove. With great reluctance, she took it, staring at the well-maintained piece of equipment as though it would swallow her whole.

   “Stay close,” he cautioned.

   The ground suddenly shook beneath their feet, the still-standing structures around them threatening to collapse with every groan and shudder rippling through their supports. The earth quaked, it juddered underneath her. Boom boom boom. It was surely splitting in half, ready to send her back down in that pit, to bury her, put her back where she belonged- now, how did you get out, you silly little vaultie?

   They looked over, and for the first time in a very long time, she prayed.

   A colossal super mutant, towering over them all like a child with dolls, gnashing its teeth and bellowing a roar so loud it disrupted the air around it. It picked up a soldier at its feet that peppered it with lasers like pelted stones, brought them to its mouth, and bit their head clean off their shoulders. 

   A wild scream. “GET ON THAT FUCKING FATMAN NOW!”

   Evelyn turned and puked; the sour stench insignificant compared to that sickly odor of death intoxicating the air. A muffle of words- she didn’t hear them. A rush of wind- she didn’t feel him leave. She was too busy trying to stay alive, trying to keep her feet on the ground and not fall upwards through the big empty sky, oh God, how big it was, how vast, how did no one trip and get sent away, so blue, so terrifying. There was so much noise- too much gunpowder tarring her lungs and itching her throat. All the smoke was killing her, how it blinded! The air wouldn’t stop vibrating, it rattled her bones! God, where were you? Why do you let this happen?!

   A seismic blast ripped a scream from the pit of her belly. The Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy went dramatically off-scale, but she didn’t hear it, she couldn’t see. She was curled in a tight ball, her head in her knees and her eyes screwed shut against the world-

   The rickety wooden shack door is at her side, bangs against the trim with the hot wind in its sails.

   (bang bang bang)

   The sun. The sun, how bright, how bright, she had never seen something so scorching, so painful, something so far, far away it blisters her skin and melts her hair. She could see it, behind her eyes, no matter how hard she presses the heel of her palms against them.

   It was quiet. Much too quiet. No thrum of the air recirculation fans, no faint buzz of the sickly-pale lights, no carried whispers down halls or echoed laughter beyond open doors. Just the sigh of the wind, the clacks of the door.

   (bang bang bang)

   It was too open. There was too much space. It’s going to scoop her up, up and away, a brittle leaf carried by the breeze.

   It did just that, and she began to scream.

   “Stop it!” a voice barked at her.

   She opened her eyes. The ghoul seizing her by the wrists and throttling her quite suddenly became the most wonderful thing in the world to hold onto. He could keep her anchored, not let her fly away. Charon stood as she tried to find comfort in his arms, brusquely lifting her to her feet and holding her upright as her knees began to buckle.

   “Get up,” he rasped harshly. “You are safe.”

   With a sniffle and wipe at her wet face, she looked down at the discarded pistol at her feet. She had dropped it, too broken and bruised to defend her own skin. He bent down to retrieve it, securing his weaponry with a turn of his back to her. He didn’t meet her weepy eyes. She was forced to face the gruesome fallout alone.

   A breeze picked up, and it brought along the scents of sweet shit and blooming decay. The once empty courtyard was now the newest textbook addition of wasteland warfare; the Brotherhood were dragging their lifeless to the side, preparing a makeshift grave; the behemoth was sprawled into the side of the ruins, its charred body crumbling into hot ash. Its mouth was wide open, its eyes boiled from their sockets to forever stare up into the empty sky. A goliath, struck down by the hand of a single man- a slingshot at his belt and a nuclear warhead in his pouch.

   War never really did change.

   She turned to him, as exhausted as he never showed but should have felt, his broad shoulders always so unyielding to the pressure, his stern mouth never wavering for anything less than a reprimand.

   “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, but it came out more like a croak. “I-I couldn’t...I tried-”

   His eyes flit up, just once, then back down to his gear. He heard her, as clear as a fucking crystal bell, but chose to say nothing.

   A woman stepped forward, blonde flyaway hairs framing her face. “You okay, kid?”

   “Y-yeah,” Evelyn blubbered. “Sorry, I-”

   “Civilians shouldn’t be this far inside the ruins. I suggest you go home once the route back is clear,” she interjected. She then gave her a full appraisal, and wasn’t very impressed.

   Evelyn blinked over at Charon, but he kept unusually quiet and made no suggestion.

   “I actually came here, for something,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to get in the way.”

   “Look, I’m not telling you how to live your life, I’m just telling you how to keep living it.” The woman then turned her head and gave a twirl of her fingers in the air, the mechanical suit whirring with the motion. “Set up a perimeter, check for any more casualties. I want this building secured before nightfall.” When the group behind her back disbanded to their duties, she gave Evelyn one last glance. “You got a name, civilian?”

   “Evelyn,” she said sheepishly, then pointed to the ghoul at her back. “Charon.”

   “Charon.” The woman gave a nod of her head, polite and respectful. “Thanks for the hand.” She then left, barking more orders across the courtyard for everyone to hear.

   Charon stepped past for the entrance, only stopping to half turn his head and give Evelyn another look, as though he was actually seeing her for the first time, before continuing to walk away.

Dinner & Diatribes

Chapter Notes

Yes that title is in reference to a song by Hozier. Yes I associate his music with Charon please and thank you and you're welcome.

   It was a rat dropped into a tank full of snakes, except this rat had sharp teeth, scars of experience, and watchful eyes. Charon strode past the helmet-clad soldiers, heard their muttered insults wafted under their breath. No one said anything outright concerning his presence, however. The brawl with the behemoth saw to that.

   Everything was a mess. The stretchers were rushed by, those unlucky enough to survive writhing on their cots until a round of Med-X was slapped on like a band-aid, the medics talking over one another as the medbay quickly became overrun. He grabbed his employer by the arm as she had stood in the corner and began to watch a man’s leg being amputated, the anesthesia administered but not yet quite set in; there wasn’t much else that needed to be seen. He tightened his grip around her, and she finally looked up at him.

   “My Dad isn’t here,” she said dully. He wasn’t sure how she deduced that upon just entering, but he wasn’t going to question it.

   “Hey, outsider,” a voice called to her, turning both of their attention to a soldier stripped down to his base orange uniform. He gave her an easy smile (and him a not-so-subtle nervous glance). It was obvious he was mildly afraid of him.

   Good.

   The soldier approached anyway, awkwardly rubbing a hand through his dark hair. “So. You made it.” He wasn’t even acknowledging Charon’s presence anymore- it was as though she was the only thing in the room.

   His employer gave him a strange look. “Um. I’m sorry, do I-?”

   “Oh, right- I was in power armor at the time. Back at the Mall, you had asked about GNR…Underworld?”

   Her face lit up. “You were the one who saved me from those dogs.”

   Charon’s eyes drew down to slits as he made a threat assessment of this man…he didn’t look like much. The ghoul settled for folding his arms and leaned against the wall.

   “Glad to see you didn’t forget, and that you’re still in one piece.” A hand was held out. “Earl, Senior Knight of the Brotherhood. I know you had told me your name, but I’m only good with faces…”

   She gave hers in return, her mood considerably lighter. Charon's eyes zeroed in on the contact as they shook.

   “Evelyn.” She smiled. 

   (Earl might be a problem)

   “Are you hungry at all? Injured? I heard you were out on the front.” Earl warily looked over (Charon’s mouth curled in a silent snarl), continuing with, “It was one hell of a show.”

   His employer turned around just as he regained a neutral expression. “…how about you?” She pointed to the burn on his arm. “Will you please get that looked at?”

   Charon nodded, stiffly. It seemed to appease her enough…and yet she walked at this soldier’s side through the organized pandemonium.

   (He might have to kill him)

   “Head’s down that way, chowhall is just right here-” Earl slapped the side of the door he had escorted them to. “-I have to run a few reports, let me know if you need anything.”

   “Actually.” She dropped her voice. “I’m looking for-” Her stomach growled, and she blushed a violent red.

   Earl chuckled. “I’ll come back in an hour, how’s that sound?”

   She sent him off with a shy little wave before (finally) addressing Charon’s looming presence again. “See? Impartial.”

   He rolled his eyes, muttering to himself with disdain as he began to ransack everything from one of the few fridges, the wire shelving rattling and becoming displaced by his brute tendencies. He dumped the entire armful on the small table she had chosen to take a seat at.

   She caught a rolling can before it could take a nosedive off the side. "Maybe we should just get you a whole brahmin when we get home."

   He ignored the tease and began to strip his weaponry, piece by piece, alongside their dinner. She watched the piling with a blank face, blinking as it easily outgrew the portion of food. Charon sat down, the chair groaning under his bulk, and grabbed the first item closest to him. The box of BlamCo Mac & Cheese was ravenously emptied, a puff of stale cheese powder blowing around his face after he ripped it open with his teeth. He set it to the side, loudly belched into his shoulder, then dug into another. Evelyn only sat in her seat with her hands underneath her thighs, her expression disgusted by his tableside manners. With an index finger, he scooted a can of Cram to her.

   “You are hungry,” he rasped matter-of-factly.

   Her eyes flit over, but she shrugged and wiped at her nose. “I guess.” 

   “You should eat.” He tossed the second empty box over his shoulder.

   “You can have it.”

   He tapped on the lid. "Eat."

   “Oh, now you’re fine with sharing?”

   His combat knife was unsheathed, slammed down to the hilt through the top, and a perfect cutout of a circle was made. He frisbeed the metal disc across the room. 

   “Eat,” he repeated.

   She sniffed and searched for a utensil with her eyes. "Unlike yourself, I prefer not to-"

   Charon half-turned, reaching over to the countertop, and looted a dented spoon to shove it into the slimy surprise. It made an unappetizing squelch as it sunk down. She gave him a look but relented, only eating half until she eventually passed out with her head in her arms on the table. He finished it (along with the other items) before the soldier returned for them.

   The smoothskin couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke to him. “There’s a few extra cots in the lower barracks…does she need assistance or-?”

   The ghoul leveled a flat look with him before reaching over and placing a hand on her shoulder, shaking her none-too-gently. “Wake up.”

   Her teeth chattered in her skull as she was jostled, her eyelids fluttering as the whites of her eyes showed. She batted him away before wiping the stringy glob of drool from the corner of her lips. She slurred, “Okay-okay!”

   The compound was much calmer than before, those fit enough to resume their duties going about the building like a collected hivemind. Everyone turned their head to stare as they passed. A freshly-shaven crewcut baited Charon with, “We missed one.”

   His employer pivoted on her heel a lot faster than he would have anticipated. Charon grabbed her by the shoulder to keep her forward, but she shrugged him off.

   “Apologize,” she spat sharply off her tongue.

   Charon reattempted to peel her away. He found the insult harmless, but the situation, not so much. “Let us go,” he rasped lowly for her to only hear.

   “I want him to apologize, first,” she scathed, and his fingers loosened their hold a little. He blinked. She was suddenly so angry over something that he was more than accustomed to. She shoved the soldier in the chest, surprisingly making him back up a step. “Did that make you feel big, little man? Too much of a coward to say it to his face but not behind his back?”

   The man went to retaliate with a nasty sneer, but Earl intervened before Charon could.

   “You heard her, Initiate Lowes. You owe him an apology, and frankly, you owe your brothers and sisters here one, too, for dishonoring their names with such gross misconduct. He saved their lives, and now you owe him yours.” He looked around at the quiet crowd that had gathered at the end of the halls. “You all do.”

   “With respect, Sir,” the initiate said through clenched teeth, “I don’t recognize zombies as people any more than I do with muties.” He met Charon’s toasty glare. “Just food for the worms.”

   A fist nailed him in the teeth, earning a choke from his throat before another was thrown at his lower gut. Evelyn jumped him as he tilted over for a split-second, tackling him to the ground with a raining Hail Mary of lead-filled punches. Charon’s face contorted into alarm as he nabbed at the hissing, spitting, yowling cat of an employer. She somehow managed to keep Lowes' arms pinned with her legs, leaving her sense of wasteland justice free to conduct its sentence. Charon was surprised and completely caught off guard- she was much stronger than he would have thought- and he was forced to wrap an arm around her waist to hoist her up. 

   Earl lassoed the insubordinate just as Charon reined her behind him.

   “Stop it!” Charon growled at her, holding her face with one hand to force her eyes away from her target. “Don’t.”

   Earl barked, “Back up, Lowes!”

   “What the hell is going on here?” A voice cut through the commotion and the soldiers snapped to attention. A Brotherhood member still dressed to the nines in power armor strode down the hall, his hands laced behind his back as he slowly sauntered over. “Initiate Lowes, are you inciting a misdemeanor while your brothers and sisters are laying out as food for the worms just outside these walls?”

   The initiate shook his head, not breaking his thousand-yard stare from the wall. “No, no Sir!”

   “Well, now you’re lying to me.” He turned to stare at the two sore thumbs standing off to the side, his brow quirked at Evelyn’s darkened scowl. “Senior Knight Earl will see to it a counseling report is written up regarding your behavior and punishment, Initiate Lowes. I hereby authorize the recommendation, Senior, so there will be no need to route it.” He turned back to the others. “If there are any more incidents regarding our guests, you will be expected to take a walk straight to Paladin Gunny and have someone worth wearing the armor come take your place. Everyone is dismissed.”

   Evelyn glowered at the initiate as he stalked on past, his hands wiping at his bloodied nose to smear it along the bruising on his face. A few of the others crowded around him, speaking in hushed tones before disappearing.

   The soldier in power armor turned back around. “Knight Sargeant Wilks. I'm in charge of this outpost. I apologize for the actions of my subordinate.” He glanced over to Charon. “With that said, I don't take too kindly to those who have overstayed their welcome. Sentinel Lyons has granted special permission for you two after your help with the behemoth, but I'm the overall figure of authority around here...so you best keep that in mind, ghoul.”

   Charon replied with a, "Very well," before his still-bristling employer could speak her mind plainly. When they were motioned to follow the Senior Knight once more, he leaned down to her level to mutter, “Do not hesitate once you throw. It is not as effective.”

   She turned her head to stare at him, and then all at once grew shy under his eyes. “...I won’t.”

   They continued on in silence to their quarters for the evening- a small, backdoor room that was nothing more than a glorified broom closet, spartanly equipped with a bunk bed and an empty footlocker.

   "Sorry about the cramped spacing, but I figured you wouldn't want to be bothered after all of that," Earl explained. 

   "It's perfect, thank you." She smiled. For him. (Again)

   Charon's brow twitched.

   Earl dumbly nodded, seemingly stalling to leave. "Oh, yeah, you said you were looking for-?"

   "My father," she finished, subconsciously inching ever so closely to the smoothskin. "James? I was told he came through here...it would have been at least a month ago."

   The Senior Knight briefly looked over her head to Charon smoldering down at him. "I was just recently transferred here, so I'm afraid I don't know, but if you go around back through the lobby to the recording studio, I'm sure you can ask Three Dog. He tends to hear a lot about what goes on in the wasteland-" His eyes suddenly snapped down to her Pip-Boy. "Wait, hold on- are you, 'The Lone Wanderer', he's always broadcasting about?"

   "The Lone Wanderer?" she repeated.

   "Well, there's this kid that came out of a vault- Vault 101- that he talks of. She's done some crazy stunts. Disarmed a nuke, saved an entire town-"

   Evelyn blew out a sigh. "...that's me. It's not as cool as it sounds."

   Earl chuckled and raised a hand to pat her on the shoulder, but the head-tilting sleep-paralysis demon at her back made him awkwardly lower it instead. "Don't downplay yourself. That's impressive enough for just one person. I can't imagine coming out of a completely sheltered life to facing the entire wasteland alone." He jutted his chin at her companion. "But I guess you're not really alone, huh?"

   She turned, and Charon's dark scowl immediately lightened to his disinterested facade. "I wouldn't have made it here without him," she stated.

   Charon gave a succinct nod and crossed his arms. When she gave an involuntary yawn, Earl stepped out the door.

   "It's nice to meet you again, Evelyn." His eyes roved to Charon, finding himself caught under another nasty glare that sent shivers down his spine. Earl coughed, "May steel be with you."

   The door closed, leaving them alone with only a battery-powered lantern to keep the dark at bay. She plopped on the bottom bunk; the frame creaked. Charon took a seat on the opposite side of the room on the floor, making her frown. 

   "Do you want the other mattress to sit on?" she asked. 

   "No," was all he replied with, and then he began to unpack his things and undo his straps and satchels for routine maintenance. He quietly assessed the laser burn from earlier, pressing a few fingers to the blackened, crisped edges of his flesh.

   "I have stims."

   "No," he repeated. It seemed to be more superficial in nature, for he left it alone and continued with his weaponry instead. 

   Her fingers fiddled with her boots. "Did...did you know, about me?" she shyly inquired, not meeting his stare after he raised it. "On the radio?"

   He looked back down at his work, popping a tin can of grease open to smear a finger inside. "Yes."

   "Why didn't you say anything?"

   The shotgun made a loud snap after he removed the drum magazine. "It was not necessary."

   She thought back to the men in the courtyard and leaned forward on her knees. "Did you know people are after me?"

   "I do." He gave her a cool stare. "You should have taken that bounty more seriously."

   "Bounty-?" The puzzle piece made a final fit in her smooth brain. "That's from them?!"

   "It is."

   "And you knew this?!"

   "I do."

   "You didn't think to casually mention, oh, I don't know, that-"

   He bluntly interrupted with, "I will keep you safe. It is of no concern."

   The bluster she had worked up slowly fizzled itself out as she watched him empty the chamber of his sidearm. "...you shouldn't have to."

   "It is my duty," he said stonily.

   She softly replied, "I wish it wasn't."

   His fingers paused for just a split-second, his eyes looking into empty space, and then he resumed with his nightly tasking. "I advise you to get some sleep."

   Don’t call her that.

   Call her what, nosebleed? I’m just saying it how it really is. He laughs. They all do. They crowd at his back, many at the hands of one.

   Amata cries.

   She sees red. It takes two to pull her away. One being her dad. A true father-daughter moment. They’ll snap a picture, put it in a frame, he’ll wrap an arm around her shoulders and say see? Look at you! Only eight years old and already putting the others in their place. Daddy’s so proud!

   She’s never seen him so disappointed.

   Charon wasn’t in the room when she woke up. It was two am.

   She rolled out from the bottom bunk, tore the scratchy blanket down to her feet, reached for her boots that were snugged beside her bag, laced them tight. A wander down the halls- the soldier on watch pointed to a door that led outside. Charon was leaning against the railing, drifting on the smoke of a cigarette. The moon was high in the sky, a bowl full of milk, the stars speckled drops from a cat who had lapped at it.

   He turned his head, just enough to catch her in view, his eyes glowing strangely under that pale-white light. His voice was flat, uninterested. “Is there something wrong?”

   She hugged herself from the chill in the air, wishing she had her leather jacket in company. It wouldn’t be left behind again, no matter how sweltering the heat was during the day. She stepped up to stand beside him.

   “No. Thought you said you didn't smoke.” She studied the outline of the colossal, the still-glowing embers deep within its burning flesh trailing lines of bright red. “…so, you did that?”

   He blew a smoke-filled haze from his nostrils. “Yes.”

   “Wow.” Her palms came to rest on the cold metal railing, her fingers drumming along the edges. “Were you…scared?”

   He stubbed out the butt end of his dying cigarette on the bar. Shook his head.

   “How do you not get scared?” she whispered.

   His eyes landed on her face, her lips, before glancing over at the giant mutant as he reached for another habit to burn down.

   “I do not know,” he answered stoically. “I do not…remember.” He tensed, clearly uncomfortable. Those eternal blue flames once again singed her mouth; she could almost taste him on the tip of her tongue, a drink of dark wine and a lick of salted meat. He suddenly scowled, leaning away from her after he had unintentionally gravitated forward. “Not here.”

   The bulge in his leather pants said otherwise. It was by some small miracle it didn’t rip straight through; he perhaps wore the hardest-working zipper in the entire wasteland.

   “There’s a lock on the door,” she said quietly.

   “No,” he growled, “it is not safe.”

   "We can go back inside-"

   He glowered down at her. "You know what it is that I imply." He turned, somewhat sullen. "You are much too loud." 

   Without skipping a beat, she said bashfully, “It’s hard to be loud with your mouth full.”

   His eyes raised up from tapping the cigarette carton in his palm.

   She leaned over the railing to squint through the moonlight for any hidden figures. “Is there-?”

   “They patrol every thirty minutes,” he rasped, the statement said so factually that she almost rolled her eyes at his ingrained paranoid behavior. His fingers came down to unleash his already drooling cock. “There is time.”

   She got down to her knees, the cold concrete uncomfortable through the skin of her suit. He bent slightly as she tilted her head forward, her lips miles apart as he eagerly helped himself inside. The slick dew coated her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and she gagged at the horrible, briny taste. He thrust forward, running a race she hadn’t even shot off to start.

   “Hold on!” she hissed after pulling away, a trail of spit spiderwebbing from her lips to his tip. She wiped it off with the back of her hand. “You’ll choke me. Let me do it.”

   There was an irritated exhale high above, but he relented with a nod and instead worked for a cigarette again. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, experimentally darting her tongue out to lap at the underside of his shaft, feeling the grooves of veins and thick muscle on her ride to the top. She sucked on the tip just as he had sparked a flame, and she looked up while he puffed the end of his cigarette to life, the lighter making a sharp snap after he closed it to pocket it away inside his jacket.

   One of his hands came down to tip his dick in a perfect lineup for the back of her throat as she began to swallow him, but the back of her tongue raised up to stop it. He didn’t even fit halfway. She slurped the head, sucking on it with a little hum in her throat after he reached down to grope her chest. She obliged him with a nice view after she unzipped her suit to her navel, his fingers fishing her tits out to cup them in his palms. Charon lipped his smoke to the corner of his mouth, tilted his head back, and blew a tobacco-filled cloud to the sky. His hands came to the sides of her head; she occasionally felt a twitch of his fingers, a faint tightening of his palms around her skull.

   Globs of saliva dangled from her chin as she swayed back and forth, back and forth. She had no idea what she was doing…but he appeared to enjoy it, even if he didn’t make a single sound besides his terse breathing. She licked, swallowed, gagged, and brought a hand up to awkwardly jerk (what couldn’t fit) off. The rhythm was stilted, but he didn’t seem to mind. A sudden tensing of his cock was followed by a twitch and a blast of- yuck!

   She slurped off, coughing up the thick, hot, chalky cum as it continued to lace her neck and chest. It was flung from her fingertips with an ew!

   Charon closed up shop downstairs after flicking his cigarette away. “What is wrong?”

   She blinked her pretty eyes up at him, slightly annoyed. “What?”

   He gave a jut of his chin downward.

   “I don’t understand,” she said dumbly.

   He only grunted. 

   “…did you not like it?” she finally asked, and the insecurity in her voice was so undeniable that it made him, for the first time, in a long time, panic.

   His words came out as an absolute, for he had to make sure it would clear out any doubt in her mind. "I like it."

   “Oh,” she replied simply, and then she chewed her bottom lip. It bobbed his knob. “I-I’m not really experienced with this, um-”

   “Why did you not take it?” he asked with all the finesse of a blunt hammer.

   Her jaw dropped for an entirely different reason. “Like, the whole thing?” He nodded, and she said flippantly, “One: do you see how big this thing is?!”

   He tilted his head for a moment, studying the range and depth of her mouth with a critical eye (like a fucking landscape surveyor), and then nonchalantly shrugged. “I do not see the issue.”

   “Two: it’s gross! You try it!”

   The door opened. An unwanted guest strode out in an orange uniform with their own cigarette perched at their lips. He froze in the doorway upon the sight before him; the smoke fell to his feet, his expression unchanging.

   Charon lunged, wrapping an arm around the soldier’s neck in a chokehold faster than she could stuff her sticky boobs back in her suit.

   “Charon!” she gasped.

   The soldier went limp.

   “Oh my God-!” she began to panic.

   “He is not dead.” Charon carefully laid him out flat. “I advise we leave.”

   “Now?!”

   He curtly jutted his chin at her to move along, closing the door on the unconscious smoothskin outside before propping a garbage can under the handle. 

   “We’re leaving him out there?!” she hissed.

   He nudged her all the way to the empty barracks where their gear had been stowed, wasting no time in equipping himself.

   “Wait, I have to meet this Three Dog,” she begged after he scooped her bag up by the strap. “My Dad-”

   “You have said he is not here,” Charon replied evenly, spinning her back around for the door.

   “I mean, I don’t think he is.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “But I wanted to ask around.” When his grimaced deepened, she implored, “Please.”

   He gave another I’m losing more hair than I actually have sigh and disapprovingly eyed the mess he had left behind. “It would be wise to tend to that, first.”

   He stood guard outside the bathroom door, making certain no one would walk by to sneak a peek through the busted frosted window at his employer undressing as she washed in the sink. He turned his head- just a quick glance, ensuring she was moving with a purpose. He observed as she scrubbed her suit in the frigid spray, catching her mumbled snippets of never doing this again. Her hands cupped her breasts, her nipples perky and tight from the cold, water dripping from her bare skin to the floor as she ran a wet hand up her neck-

   The door flung open; the shitty latch had busted from his added weight after he had leaned into the frame. She squeaked at the intrusion and attempted some modesty as he stumbled a few steps before catching himself. He snapped to attention, pivoted on his heel, and walked straight back out. The door was slammed shut...and slowly swung back in.

   Charon grumbled to himself, harshly rubbing at his eyes as he kept his back to the open frame and listened to the sounds of the taps being spun closed.

[kidotm]

Charon Killed the Radio Star lol

 There were no armed Brotherhood soldiers wandering the halls of the recording studio. It was as though they had entered an entirely new world, one void of the smell of stale sweat and the commotion of heavy footsteps. A low buzz of someone speaking drifted down a staircase, a murmuring invitation that she followed as an uninvited guest. They were greeted by a man hunched over a holotape recorder, his head in one hand while a cigarette took refuge in the other.

   “It is I, Three Dog-!”

   He paused the tape, mumbling something too low for her ears to pick up. With a click, he rewound the recorder and stubbed out his smoke in an overfilled tray, rubbing at his face before spinning around in his chair.

   “Gah!” He jumped, slapping a hand over his chest. “Man, have you ever heard of this thing called knocking?!”

   “Sorry,” she began.

   “Do you know what time it is?!” He spun around again, peering at a clock over the rim of his tinted glasses.

   “Early, I know, I just-”

   “I was wondering when you would finally be coming around.” The radio host fumbled her defense with a brilliant white grin. “And here she is! Miss One-o-One! The Lone Wanderer, herself-” He repeatedly jabbed at the air with a finger. “-in, the, FLESH! Ha ha! Now, I bet you’re sitting here wondering, just who the heck is this guy-?!”

   “Uh.” Evelyn felt her mind blank due to the dramatic introduction. She heard Charon take a seat on the edge of a desk behind her, the entire metal frame groaning like an old man being put to bed. She fiddled with a knob on her Pip-Boy. “Well-”

   The DJ flipped the recorder off and theatrically stood from his chair. “-why, I AM-!”

   “Three Dog,” she candidly interrupted, wiping the fatigue from her eyes and hiding a yawn behind her hand, to which she then reached over for a polite shake. “I’m Evelyn, and this is Charon. I’m looking for my dad, James.”

   Three Dog visibly deflated, but returned the formalities all the same. “Dang, kid, straight to the point, huh?”

   “Did he come here?”

   He removed his glasses to wipe them clean. “He did, couple of months ago-”

   An ice pick chipped a chunk out of her chest- months ago?! It had already been that long?!

   “-but as you can imagine, your old man ain’t here.”

   She crossed her arms, the weight of the world crumbling down on her shoulders. “Did he say where-?”

   “Whoa now, one thing at a time. Look, I know you want to find your dad, but this is the wasteland, and as I’m sure you know by now, ain’t nothing gets done out of the pure goodness of our hearts.”

   Evelyn began to remove her pack from her shoulders. “I don’t have too many caps, but-”

   Three Dog held up a hand. “You can hold on to your caps. I’m actually looking for a favor, of sorts.”

   She warily asked, “…what is it?”

   The more the disc jockey elaborated, the more she felt the urge to just sit down and cry. So, not only had she been chased by ferals, had a near-death experience in a shootout with super mutants, was close to being flat broke, and was still stuck in the middle of the DC ruins, but now (to top it all off), the only other person with information regarding her father was coercing her to go out and retrieve a fucking satellite dish to repair his shitty broadcast signal.

   What a bitter cherry to swallow. The rancid aftertaste it left behind slithered all the way down her gullet like a stone to her gut.

   Three Dog clicked his tongue as her face melted into a puddle of grief. “Hey now, I didn’t mean to make you cry-”

   She blubbered, smearing goop across her cheek, “I just want to find my dad! I’m not some fucking adventurer, or, or, or this stupid ‘Lone Wanderer’ you keep telling people about! I got kicked out of my vault cause my shitty father up and fucking left without even telling me!”

   He looked thoughtful. “The wasteland’s a cruel place-”

   “Yeah, no shit!” she snapped, wiping her wet palms and slimy fingers down her thighs. “I came all the way out here and all I get for it is just some other fucking excuse as to why no one can just help me!”

   “I understand your frustration,” he coaxed, sitting back down in his chair. “But I’m frustrated, too. We’re two sides to the same coin, out there fighting the good fight. I’ve heard about what you’ve done for the people, for the less fortunate and the downtrodden souls just trying to survive. Your dad was a standup guy-” He paused in reaching for another cigarette when she abruptly spun around on her heel. “Kid-?”

   “I don’t care, anymore! Get your stupid dish yourself.” Her boots stomped down the stairs, her fists balled at her sides with her companion closely at her back.

   Charon halted her in the main lobby before they were in view of the soldier on duty. “I have misplaced something. Please wait here.”

   She whimpered, rubbing her fists into her teary eyes. “Y-yeah, sure. I just want to leave.”

   He nodded and reentered the recording studio for a few minutes before rejoining her again. “I am ready.”

   She didn’t look up from the screen of her Pip-Boy as she led them out to the courtyard. Charon veered toward the alleyway they had initially come from, but she snuffed snot up her nose and pointed to the ruins.

   “I was able to make a map for home. I’m not going back in those tunnels.”

   He looked up at the remains of the behemoth, the sunken bones from within beginning to show. “Very well.”

   They carefully made their way through the skeleton of an old school, the corpses of mutants and soldiers alike leaving a nice little breadcrumb trail for them to follow. She occasionally, almost subconsciously, looted whatever visible goodies she could find, her bag soon becoming a plump tick on her back. A school desk was opened, and she coughed from the dust it wafted, rummaging through the assortment of (mostly) useless crap. She was being abnormally quiet and broody, barely sparing him a second glance as he entered the room by shouldering the broken door open.

   Charon picked a box of shotgun shells right out of her hands, ignoring her frown. “It is not wise traveling at night. I suggest we keep moving.”

   She stuck her tongue out at him. He raised a brow muscle at her childish tantrum.

   “I’m just trying to get something out of all of this,” she remarked bitterly, stepping into the next room.

   Charon laid a palm flat over the top of the next desk, preventing her from opening it. When she scowled, he rasped evenly, “You have come away with your life.”

    She scoffed; a vile spat of disdain cut between her teeth. “Only thanks to you. I’m fucking useless.” He didn’t have a reply to that, and she resumed snooping through a wooden crate instead. A bottle of wine was held up for close inspection- the cork was still intact. The layer of grime was wiped away, the two-hundred-year-old label completely illegible. She muttered to herself, “Garbage burner.”

   He drilled a hole through her spine as she took off down a gravel path into another collapsed infrastructure. Her eyes were kept on the screen of her map whilst his were ever-perceptive of the dangers around them, and he narrowly avoided a head-on collision after she had suddenly stopped with no warning. His instincts immediately swiveled his head on a dime, but there was nothing he could make out that was a threat.

   “What is it?” he rasped.

   She turned to raise her eyes up at him, the moonlight making them shine like never-ending wells of water. “I mean, should I do it? Go get that dish?”

   Charon stared at the vulnerability plainly written on her face- the self-doubt, the noble, altruistic calling that she would sooner rather than later answer to. He didn’t understand why it made him so angry, why it bred an infective horde of dark, twisted thoughts about things that he wanted to do to her. There was a lone boat harbored somewhere deep inside his mind, a swarm of hands rising from the black waters and clawing over the hull, their fingers digging into the rotted wood- let us in.

   He took a step back. The shotgun nestled in his hands was being held with unnecessary force. His jaw had been clenched so tightly it strained his neck.

   “You are my employer,” he forced himself to say, “where you go, I will follow.”

   She pursed her lips and didn’t look at him after that, blindly following the invisible line on her Pip-Boy until they came to the entrance of a metro. The frustration heavily weighed down her brows as she furrowed a grimace at the inevitable. Her fingers fiddled with some more neon-green images, the screens flickering faster than he could register from over her shoulder.

   “I think there’s another-” She was rudely interrupted by the ear-piercing screeching of the gate as the chain link scraped against the concrete, her companion half-hidden in the impermeable darkness.

   “I shall return, be cautious,” he rasped before disappearing completely into purgatory.

   Evelyn folded her arms as an instinctive way to stave off the loneliness she felt. Five minutes passed, and then ten. “Charon?” she called out, keeping her voice quiet enough so as not to attract unwanted attention. No response came from within, no glowing orbs illuminated behind that curtain of black. She glanced back up the stairs.

   “It is clear.”

   The voice made her jump a foot in the air as she turned to him just suddenly being there. She made an ugly noise and stamped her foot. “Will you please not do that?!”

   He ignored the request. “Let us continue. This place is not safe.”

   A trip down an escalator, a traverse along some tracks, and a few bodies of a mummified nature were met. The tripod lights powered by generators still brightly shined despite their operators being well beyond deceased; their clothes hung on to the mere wisps of their bones. A couple of them displayed clear signs of having been chewed on…by something big. She couldn’t help but inch a little closer to the ghoul.

   “What did that to them?” she asked frightfully.

   Charon didn’t bother giving the corpses a second glance- he had already cleared the area and investigated it thoroughly. “It has moved on.”

   “Totally didn’t answer my question,” she muttered.

   An Eat’o’tronic 3000 showcased a few items through its cracked plastic screening, and she let go of her tether to promptly snatch at a box of snack cakes. She spotted another faded, painted Brotherhood insignia on the wall beside it, an arrow pointing back the way they had come.

   “Why does the Brotherhood hate ghouls?” When he didn’t reply, she turned, the packaging being ripped open. “I mean, mostly everyone in Megaton doesn’t seem to have a problem, so what’s theirs?”

   Charon gave her a strange look before scoping back down the tunnel over her head. She was once again given silence.

   The map of her Pip-Boy led them into another service station, the lights (for once) still operable and guiding their way, soaring her spirits (with something as basic as lit corridors). Charon brusquely pulled her behind him before she could go bounding off by the nose of her own excitement.

   He held a finger to his mouth. “Listen.”

   She did, and her small tumble of joy was promptly thrown to the ground and stomped on by the hissing of ferals.

   Charon pushed her into a corner. “Wait here. I will see.”

   She was left in the company of a headless mannequin. (At least it didn’t glare at her). When she started the endeavor of researching the exact whereabouts of the Museum of Technology, a sudden great explosion shook the very walls and made her scream, the mannequin toppling over and rolling along the metal flooring. Charon sprinted back around the bend at the end of the hall.

   She panicked, “What the hell was that?!”

   “It is clear, but we should hurry,” he rasped quickly. “Come.”

   He grabbed her hand to tug her along, guiding her through the swirling black smoke that she couldn’t see past or breathe through. Her eyes watered, her lungs choked up, and her feet tripped over charred bodies and down stairs until they were through another metro tunnel, the air at once cleared by the draft. She hacked into her elbow; the vault suit was lightly dusted with ash (ew). 

   She hideously groveled, “What happened back…”

   She looked down- his left hand was still holding her right at his side while he gently bent her other arm to take a view of the map himself. He was so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. Whatever he saw in her eyes when he looked up made him instantly drop all touch.

   “We are close,” was all he said, and then he pointed down the end of the tunnel.

   He once again left her waiting at the base of the stairs to survey the landscape before waving for her to join him. A small smile of relief was on her face at the sight of the river separating them from the familiar roads leading back to Megaton. A bridge offering dry passage was just a hop and a skip down the bank.

   “God, I’m so ready for a bath and bed,” she wistfully sighed, walking along the stone wall at the water's edge. She held her arms out for balance, an amateur trapeze artist. “…and then maybe, maybe, I’ll think about Three Butt's request.”

   “Rivet City.”

   She blinked over at the random mumbled outburst. “Huh?”

   Charon met her confused expression with a glower. “Rivet. City.”

   “I don’t-”

   He looked away to their surroundings, muttering, “It is where he went.”

   She stopped. They stared at each other. The wind made a lonesome cry as it passed.

   “Did…oh my God, did you-?!”

   “He would not listen,” he snarled, crossing his arms with an undeniable grump.

   She guffawed; an uncalled-for sardonic laugh belted from her chest. “What the hell did you say?!” She mockingly rasped in her best Charon expression, “Tell me where he went before I make you.”

   He side-eyed her, his voice completely serious. “…I did not think you had heard.”

   “CHARON!” she shrieked. “Why the fuck would you do that?! You killed-”  

   “I did not kill him,” he flatly refuted. He then squinted his eyes far off into the distance. “He should survive.”

   Her hands flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe this-!”

   He growled; his hackles raised with his growing ire. “His request was unreasonable, and we cannot go back after what that soldier had witnessed.”

   She wailed to the open sky, “Oh my God, Charon-!”

   “Your father left for Rivet City,” he snapped, annoyed at her melodramatic theatrics. “We should continue. It is not-” He whipped his head around, and unexpectedly pushed her overboard.

   The frigid water made a splash as she sunk to the bottom, the weight of her pack dragging her down until she struggled out of the straps in a fight for the surface. Air- she needed air! She emerged with a loud gasp, coughing up whatever had seeped inside her lungs as she paddled for the opposite shoreline. She didn’t hear the drop of another body into the water as she wildly hyper-focused on making sense of what was happening.

   Charon was still stranded on the other side of the river, duking it out between two raiders that yipped and squealed like rabid hyenas. She went to shout for him, but a grab at her ankle swiped her off her feet and stole the words from her mouth. A rock bluntly hit her in the back of the head as she flopped down like a caught fish.

   “You ain’t getting away!” A bald-headed man deliriously grinned, crawling from the depths of the river like a nightmarish sea creature. “Come here!”

   She screamed so fiercely it bloodied her throat, earning a direct slap to the face. She groaned as she forced herself to try and sit up, but his larger size kept her pinned against the sharp stones and wet sand. A few fingers were shoved in her mouth, and she gagged.

   “Keep that fucking mouth shut,” he breathed in her face. “Or I’ll give ya something to scream about.”

   Her left hand shot up and jammed a thumb in his eye; the screech nearly blew out her eardrums. He scrabbled off, giving her enough freedom to grab a decent-sized stone to nail him in the side of the head with. With a grunt of pain, he fell over, and their roles reversed as she straddled him. The stone came down.

   What’re you going to do about it, nosebleed?!

   Your mom’s lucky she’s dead! She never had to meet you!

   Going to cry to Daddy? Huh? That’s it, run home, get out of here, freak!

   The taste made her stop. So warm, coppery. She brought a few fingers up, swiped them along her lips, pulled away. It was almost black in the moonlight. The rock fell from her palm back to its brethren; the only one that was red.

   He was unrecognizable. A plump of meat, still pulsing, still wheezing (such an awful sound).

   …still alive.

   There was so much of it on her. She wiped at it, wiped some more, began to scream and shout and panic as she frantically tried to claw it off. No! No!

   A force pulled her up and off, and before she could say anything to make it better- please don’t tell my dad, I didn’t mean to, I can get a Stimpak- Charon’s boot raised up and then stomped straight back down, the remaining goo splattering where she had just been. The body twitched, then stilled.

   He was holding her face, moving it every which way.

   “You are injured,” he calmly stated. “I will-”

   But she shoved past him, diving back into the cold river, the blood that stained her clothes tainting the water around her. She dove, came back up, dove down, came up, dove-

   She couldn’t resist the tremendous surge of power as she was pulled to shore, the ghoul not kind in his nature as he reeled her out of the water.

   “My bag’s down there!” she screamed, squirming and fighting and yanking to be let free.

   “I have it!” he shouted right back, pointing to the sopping-wet pack he had retrieved. The anger and volume of his voice scared her, and she quickly stepped away from him as he reached for her. “You are hurt.”

   She motioned to the laceration on his waist. “So are you!” 

   He snarled, the remnants of his patchy hair dripping water down his face. “It is fi-”

   Her lungs nearly fractured her ribcage from the outburst. “STOP TELLING ME IT’S FINE!”

   The words echoed on for miles; neither made a move. He simply stared at her, emotionless, every bit of crumbling brick she had toppled down suddenly rebuilt and sanded over. An impenetrable wall she could never hope to scale or tunnel under. He picked up her bag and held it over for her to take. She eventually did, looking down at the straps as he waited on her to take lead. All of her wrath extinguished like a flame at the end of a match- there was a burn on her fingertips. She shouldered it, and he silently followed her home.

   It was the heaviest thing she's ever had to carry.

No Take-Backsies

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

   Megaton had never looked so fucking beautiful before.

   Was it the safety of its looming walls, built upon the remnants of what was once an airworthy ship? Perhaps the allure of the people that dwelled within, offering the utmost basic (but enticing) services such as hot food and cold beer? Or maybe it was due to being the only place in the world she could proudly call her own- it wasn’t much, but damn if it wasn’t home...that she was currently locked out of.

   “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. She had completely forgotten about her little ‘peace offering’ to the breathing gun at her back, (he hadn’t so much as grumbled unintelligible nonsense since their walk on the roads) and so with a sigh, she turned to finally face the music. “Did you-?”

   The key was already inserted and the door swung open. He then held it over for her to take possession of.

   “…thanks,” she awkwardly said. No terse nod, no Neanderthal grunt, no smoldering glare. He was so passive it was like he wasn’t real- the headless mannequin had had more life to it.

   The light switch was flipped on. Wadsworth was docked at its station, but it was obvious the good little house bot had performed its duties impeccably during her absence. She unshouldered her still-sopping wet bag by the couch before plopping down on the broken springs. Charon remained standing in the open doorway, staring at her.

   Her hands nestled under her thighs, the suit cold from being damp. “Are you coming inside?”

   He rasped, almost robotically, “If that is what you wish.”

   No fucking way. Forget the Ninth Circle- Charon must have come straight from the Tenth. 

   She wiped at her eyes. “Oh my God- you know what I mean.”

   The door closed. He now stood inside, staring at her. There was no holding back the groan of frustration as she untangled her tousled hair from its fraying braid. Ouch. The gash on her head needed tending to, and it only added to her irritation.

   “Can we please not go through this again?” she pleaded.

   If she was hoping for the usual dour response, she was shit out of luck, for he gave a single nod, placed his bag down, and then left the house. There was a loud creak from the frame- he was leaning against it while standing guard outside. She didn’t even try to pop open that can of pickled worms as she applied a stim to her injury and just went straight to bed, the exhaustion deep within her bones overlooking the dirt behind her ears and the light ticking of built-up rads in her system. 

   The raider crawled into her dreams, snaked a mottle tongue down her throat and decayed before her very eyes. His skin sloughed off, wet and sticky and rank as he choked her screams with it. His eyes were glowing, his teeth were pulling out her hair before the world suddenly became very bright. The holey sheet was soaked- her body odor was atrocious enough to pucker her own nose. She smashed the heel of a palm into her eye and tried to slow her breathing, looking over to the permanently defective Mister Handy at her bedside.

   “Hey, sorry,” she slurred. “…I’m okay.”

   The robot blinked an optic and then awkwardly laid a claw (in what she assumed it thought was tenderly) on the top of her head.

   pat pat

   It accidentally ripped a few hairs out before floating away.

   Evelyn tiptoed out in a fresh green jumpsuit, throwing the tattered blue and gold in Wadsworth’s bin for a good scrub and repairs. The door to the spare room was wide open- he wasn’t inside. (He wasn’t even in the house). The tiny space felt incredibly too big without him, so she closed it to grant privacy to his things.  She came down and noticed her gear had been hung up and laid out to properly dry sometime in the earlier hours of the morning.

   “Thanks, Wadsworth,” she causally remarked as she went for the fridge…there was a new handle on it. Hmm, weird.

   There was no food...she honestly didn’t know what she had expected. The caps in her drawstring purse were light, but it was a minor concern considering it would be replenished after the haul she’d sell to Moira. Her hand hesitantly wrapped around the doorknob, let go, took a firm grip, and came back off. She instead raised a fist and knocked, quietly. (She felt like an idiot). It opened, partly, to Charon’s face halfway in the crack.

   “Um…” she began. “I need to go out…please.”

   (Please?)

   Like a secret password- open sesame! -she was granted full passage through her own door to the bright light of the sun and the hot wind. She mumbled a thank you before stepping past and making her way down the hill with Charon at her heel. The only decent food in all of Megaton was wafting a palatable scent up her nose as she took a seat at the outside bar of The Brass Lantern. Jenny Stahl ambled down from another customer at the far end, her face screwed up in displeasure as though she smelled something terrible.

   “Hi Jenny.” Evelyn smiled. “Can I get the brahmin special? Two?”

   “Fifty caps.”

   Evelyn halted from forking over the egregious charge. Did she hear that right?

   Jenny rudely held out a hand. It was very unlike the previous occasions when she had ever ordered from her. “I charge double for ghoulfuckers and shufflers.” Every word came out as a nasty flick of dirt in the eye. “You’re lucky I’m even serving you.”

   The settler at the end chuckled into his beer.

   I didn’t raise you to be this way- you know better.

   But Butch called me ugly and made everyone laugh at me. They spit on me. I don’t know why they don’t like me. I just want them to like me. I just want to have friends.

   You have Amata. Isn’t she your friend?

   Evelyn glanced over her shoulder to Charon standing a few feet to the side, his hands behind his back and his eyes always carefully watching her for a sign, any sign. She then really looked around, and she saw it. The loathing, the scrunched-up faces like they'd just stepped in shit. The muttered curses, the whispered jests- get that fuckin’ zombie cur outta here, one’s damn already enough. Charon ignored it all. It was like he didn’t even notice, but he did; he always did. She had been walking blind with her hands clamped over her ears, the ignorance made from the little world she had kept herself in. The Brotherhood didn’t have a problem with ghouls…everyone did. It was near impossible to miss the animosity towards them after the scales had fallen from her eyes.

   “You know what?” Evelyn cheekily smiled, whisking her purse back into her pocket. “I’ll hang on to these. You’re a fucking bitch, no wonder Leo uses.”

   Jenny’s face dropped, appalled, as though she’d never expected the polite, keeps-to-herself vaultie to ever say such a heinous thing. Her face grew red, then purpled as she scathed at her retreating back. “Don’t ever think you’re welcome back at my stall!”

   They kept moving. People stared and gossiped and pointed all the way to the saloon until they were hidden away from the peeping crowd. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, a face from what felt like centuries ago being the first to greet her.

   “Hey kid,” Nova called over with that sultry flair. She was standing behind the counter, counting caps into a register. Her eyes flitted between the two of them and back to the door. “Gob with you?”

   Evelyn came to the front while Charon took to the wall, his arms across his chest. “He’s still in Underworld.” She then quickly rushed at the lift of an eyebrow, “It’s a long story, but he said he’ll be back soon.”

   Nova looked at the ghoul. “You still working here?”

   Charon didn’t reply, and Evelyn answered for him with, “No. He’s…with me. Again.”

   “Alright.” Nova shrugged. And it was left at that. “Need something?”

   Reassurance. Validation. A hug. A glass of water. New socks. An orgasm. A good, long cry. A simple kiss. (Maybe not all in that order).

   “Food. Whatever all my caps will get me.” 

   An armful of assorted cans, boxes, meat wrapped in brahmin skin, and bottles of soda were inventoried and put away in the comfort of her tiny kitchen. Evelyn tucked her loose hair behind an ear and took out a pan as she looked to the front door. He had gone back to his post outside, leaving her to the privacy of doing whatever the fuck she wanted…a quiet, distasteful meal (the leftovers placed in the fridge), a nice bath (the soap was gone, again?!), and a long nap (more like, an early bedtime).

   Another night, another dream, another sunrise. The extra food had been left untouched. There was no evidence of another bath having been run. She chewed a strand of hair and stood awkwardly in the middle of her own house, staring at the door. She wrote in her journal- doodled a little comic of Charon chasing Wadsworth on every little corner of each page, the stop-motion animation brought to life after she flipped through it. Ate a snack. Had another long soak. Studied the ugly scar on her thigh from the Minefield fiasco. Marveled at the work Wadsworth had put into her leathers- they were like new! She eventually just stared at the closed-off space he would've normally been in.

   Knock Knock

   The front door opened, again with only half of his stony visage visible. She twirled a curl around a finger. He somehow felt so intense whilst being perfectly flat.

   “Can you come in? Please.”

   He obliged and closed the door behind him, his arms crossed and face impassive as he looked down at her. Her eyes gravitated to her shoes, unable to meet his cataract eyes.

   “I’m…sorry, about the other night. I didn’t mean to lose my shit at you.” Phew. What a big girl moment, britches pulled up and ethereal father proud. She glanced at him for a reaction.

   He somehow wore an even more deadpan expression than before.

   She weakly tried again. “Um…I noticed you haven’t eaten anything.”

   Nothing. Fucker didn’t even blink.

   “Do you, like, want to at least talk about it?”

   An animation to his face- his mouth moved. He rasped flatter than the midwestern plains, “if conversation is what you wish, then I shall provide it.”

   Her hands flew to her hips, her temper taking her attempt at any sort of repentance and smashing it underfoot.

   “Okay, I've forgiven you pretty easily for everything up to this point,” she seethed. “Not only did you get me kicked out of Underworld, but you also tried to kill Winthrop- who was my friend- and now I can’t even go back to GNR for anything because Three Dog may or may not, be dead. You’ve hurt people, and now you’re being a total dick to me because I, what? Yelled at you to take care of yourself? How is that in any way fair?” There was nothing but silence on his end, and she threw her hands up. “Well?!”

   He leaned forward, just the slightest, but she couldn’t help but instinctively cower. He rasped, “You did not yet wish for conversation.”

   “Ugh! Fuck it!” The scavenged loot was shoved inside her bag. “I’m going to Moira, maybe then I’ll get some conversation.”

   A gloved palm immediately landed on the doorknob before she could open it. “I am employed for your safety.”

   She could’ve taken her eyes out of her head to roll them across the floor. “I’m not going for a job, just want to sell all this stuff.” He didn’t let her through. “Seriously?! What, do you not believe me?”

   “I will oblige if that is what you wish.”

   “Are you expecting me to order you?” she loudly gasped, stabbing a finger in the air at his face. “You can’t keep me a prisoner in my own house!”

   Charon raised a brow, as though the notion was wholly absurd. “You are my employer, I will-”

   She cut him off by spinning around to stomp up the stairs. “You know what? Do whatever the hell makes that little brain of yours happy, cause God knows I sure as shit don’t.”

   She then slammed the door before giving him a chance at another sarcastic reply. Her bag was thrown in the corner before she took a seat on the edge of the bed (too angry to notice that it didn’t squeak). This was far from the first time she had been sent to her room, but it was the first in which she had put herself in it. When the boredom became too much she quietly peeked back out- he was gone, but not really.

   “Wadsworth!” she whispered with urgency. “Come here!”

   The loyal little bot did as commanded, slanting an optic at the conniving energy she flaunted about as she smushed her face against a hole in the corrugated paneling to peep outside, her eyeball twisting around for a better angle. The bed frame was pushed from its spot, and she drew an invisible square on the wall for the Mister Handy to take note of.

   “I need you to cut a hole here for me,” she said. 

   By the time her Pip-Boy eventually came to read seven in the evening, she was left with exactly one hour before Moira closed for the night.

   She lifted the escape flap, closed it, bolted the small latch down, and tugged on the knob. The hinges held, and although they weren’t completely aligned, they did their job. Perfect. She grinned at Wadsworth, and if optics could speak, they would be telling her she was the densest Madam he had ever come to serve.

   “Dad could never keep me in my room. I took apart an entire section of the paneling and would sneak through the wiring in the walls till I got to the vents…probably not too smart, now that I just said that out loud.” Wadsworth only shook his three heads. She dismissed his condemnation with a curt wave of her hand, hoisted her full pack on her shoulders, and cinched the straps down tight. “Wish me luck!”

   The timing was perfect. The wait for night to fall had proved wise in that no one noticed the smuggling vaultie crawling out of the side of her house like a worm from a mutfruit. She threw a leg over one of the many water pipes snaking around the town, the settlers going about their lives with nary a clue of the person shimmying just above their heads. She slowly inched along before being able to grab ahold of a metal railing to hoist her bag and then herself over, her feet on the catwalk within minutes of her initial escape. She patted the dust from her clothes and threw a thumbs up to the robot that had been watching her through the improvised window. Wadsworth closed the secret passageway, and she was off. 

   Craterside Supply was full of smoke. She wafted a hand through the air, coughing into her elbow and escaping back outside to allow it to dissipate.

   A distorted voice called to her from the back. “Aw, shucks, sorry about that! You can come in now!”

   When the air was breathable again, she reentered. Moira came over behind the counter, a gas mask fitted over her face.

   “Well hey there! Haven’t seen you in awhile!” she happily greeted from within her containment suit.

   Evelyn looked over to her hired gun in the corner- he too had a mask on. “Uh, what is-?”

   “Woops!” The mask was unlatched and lifted over, a few sweaty stray hairs flying around her flushed face. “My latest batch of Nuka-Cola fizzy bombs hasn’t been working out so well lately, which, if you’re interested-”

   Evelyn heaved her bag on the countertop between them. “Sorry, I was actually just looking to trade some stuff.” She glanced over at the merc undoing his own safety attire, his manner entirely unfazed by the day-to-day antics his eccentric employer got up to.

   The random junk was happily scooped into a metal bucket. “Aw, well that’s too bad…”

   Evelyn couldn’t help herself as she pocketed the sweet load of caps into her purse, the burlap edges all plump and fat from their filling. “…you talked about Rivet City before, right? Like, go there, find out its history?”

   Moira beamed. Hook, line, sucker. “I think it would be a swell addition to the Survival Guide! You know, learn about how to rebuild society with old tech and so on, and Rivet City would be the perfect example of that. Here, if you want, I can mark it on your Pip-Boy, just in case you think about it!”

   “Okay.” She reached her left arm over. Charon was going to be so pissed (but only if he ever found out...). “Thanks.” 

   Moira snorted. “Oh no, thank you!”

   Evelyn left and stared at the little marker on her screen. Dad was there…at least, he should be. She had become so engrossed by the indicator that she almost failed to notice she was walking up the steps towards the front door of her house...and grumpy-ass guard dog. Woops. That would have been unpleasant. She dipped back under the railing of the catwalk and onto the water pipe she had used as a homemade jungle gym, heaving herself up and beginning the journey back to her room. It was much more difficult, the strenuous effort of fighting gravity and her body's weight making her sweat and curse the entirety of the way. When she got to the top, she straddled the pipe, wiped at her forehead, and pushed on the hatch- it was locked from the inside. She tapped on it.

   “Wadsworth! It’s me!” she whispered.

   It unlocked and the little door was swung inward, revealing a face that she most definitely had not been expecting.

   “You have returned,” Charon rasped, his statement a non-withheld accusation.

   She gasped, pitching backward from the unwanted surprise and feeling her body fall through empty air before he shot an arm out to grab at her, pulling her through as though she weighed nothing.

   “Ow, ow, my arm- hold on!” She was tossed onto the bed, bouncing off the mattress to hit the deck. “Ow!”

   For a very brief second, she noticed a hint of pain across his face before he sharply shook his head. He then turned, closed the makeshift escape route, bolted it, and slammed the heel of his boot down on the lock. It warped and snapped, rendering it completely fucking useless. All of that hard work, gone in an instant.

   “Hey!” she protested, but when he wheeled around on her she shrunk back and snapped her yapping trap shut.

   “That was very stupid,” he snarled. “If you had been injured, I would not have known.”

   “I came back just fine!” she growled in return. “You can’t just box me in here because you’re a paranoid, sulking brainwashed slave-”

   “I am not a slave,” he rasped with an underlying threat to his tone, taking a few steps forward.

   “-who doesn’t know how to communicate their feelings like normal people do. Guess what, big guy? You’re stuck with me because I’m stuck with you. You want to be with someone else? You know you don’t have to ask, but if you want to be here, with me, then you have to give me some space.”

   His fingers kept twitching at his sides, his tone so dry it put the Sahara to shame. “Was my post not suitable for your space?”

   "You know what I mean!” she practically shouted, their bodies now mere inches apart. “I had said I was sorry, what more do you want from me?!” His burning eyes snapped over to the bed, and she meanly laughed up at his face. “Are you serious? That’s it?! Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not really in the mood for sex when you already keep fucking me over!”

   Knock Knock

   “Ugh!” She stormed out and stalked to the front door, opening it with a bite of her teeth at the throat of the unwanted guest. “What?!”

   The waft of alcohol was so potent it nearly knocked her off her feet. She leaned away, breathing through her mouth to stem the stench.

   “Now really isn’t a good time,” she tersely addressed the drunken ex-raider at her doorstep. She didn’t have to look behind her to know Charon was breathing down her neck to stare at the man- she could feel him. “Go home, right now.”

   The door was swung shut, but a boot dipped its path to prevent it from closing completely. Jericho leaned into the open frame, halfway inviting himself inside. The neck of a whiskey bottle was precariously held between two fingers, slowly brought to his cracked lips as he eyed her from head to toe. 

   “Everyone knows,” he slurred, squinting his blackened eyes up at the menacing figure behind her. He popped a shit-eating grin, as though the ghoul was on the other side of a sheet of glass; a zoo animal kept in its cage. "Zombie."

   “Jericho, leave,” she threatened, "and don't ever come fucking knocking at my door again."

   He held up his hands, the liquid sloshing around in the bottle. “Jus’ tryin’ to place nice, doll.”

   “Play nice with your friends, assuming you have any.” She pushed him out, but he grabbed at her forearm and pulled her towards himself. Her eyes widened with alarm, but not for her own safety. “No, don’t-!”

   Jericho squeaked, (a strange sound for a grown man of his nature); a cheeky mouse caught in the snare of a wrathful lion as he was forcibly removed. Charon tucked her back and rammed the butt of his forehead against his own, breaking the man's nose. Jericho grunted and stumbled, realizing the error of his ways a smidge too late after the ghoul wrapped a gloved palm around the backside of his head and slammed it into the railing, the loud metal ting reverberating in the air. He crumpled to the ground, the used and abused whiskey bottle rolling away, and Charon simply went to close the door. Jericho’s leg got caught in the frame, and so Charon swept him over with the side of his boot like tidying dust under a rug. The body slowly slid under the rails, slinking into the darkness as it tumbled down the hillside.

   He was then able to successfully close the door, turn back to her (as though nothing else had just taken place), and declared, “if there is nothing else you require, then I will resume my post."

   “…is he dead?”

   He reopened the door just enough to crane his head out, studying something for a moment. “I do not think so.”

   “Are you going to stand out there all night again?”

   A simple nod.

   The sigh that left her was enough to inflate the house and float it up to the starry sky. “If Simms comes around...just come get me." She then hugged herself, chewing her lower lip and stalling for something profound to say to amend their earlier argument. She came up with nothing and finally relented with, "At least eat something, or take a bath, or whatever. You live here too... it's my place as much as yours.”

   She went for bed, not witnessing the way he looked at her as she walked upstairs, not hearing the creak of her door in the early hour of the morning, or noticing the vault suit being laid out on her desk just before she awoke, the fabric thoroughly cleaned, and the tears perfectly stitched.

The Irradiated Brick Road

   The sheriff had come around later that morning. Charon stood by in the corner, quiet as a ghost, as they conversed about the incident from the night before and his…general presence, amongst the local community.

   “There’s just been some complaints I’ve been getting,” Simms reasoned. "And frankly, I like to know who visits my town-"

   “Charon isn’t a fucking guest. He lives here, in our house,” she scathed. If she had feathers, they would be more than ruffled. “If people have a problem with that, then they can just fucking remember who it was that disarmed the atomic bomb in the middle of town and who regularly fixes the only water source going around. I've never seen Jericho busting his ass up there, or anyone else, for that matter.”

   “Hey, if you want to preach you can join the church.” Simms raised his hands. “I’m with you, but I’m also here to keep the peace. All I’m asking is that you don’t go out looking for trouble, and if you find it, to steer clear.” He tipped his cowboy hat to her, and then to Charon before he left. “You folks have a good day, now.”

   Evelyn sunk onto the couch, curling over the arm on one side and drawing both legs underneath herself, already appearing exhausted by the rise of the sun. She tucked her wild, wavy hair behind one ear and just stared at him with those big blue eyes. He’d looked at her countless times: watched her sleep, checked for injuries, waited for any subtle cue pertaining to an order...but something about her in that instant made him feel a swell of molten heat rise from his chest, crawl up the back of his neck and tighten the muscles in his cheeks- he’d never felt anything like it before. He darkly wondered if it was a sign of going feral. (If that were the case, he’d have to take precautions).

   She broke away first, a faint color of rose spoiling the tan on her face, and she became preoccupied with some loose stitching on the hem of her green jumpsuit. He, too, roved his gaze around- the room suddenly felt constrictive- but he somehow found his eyes placed on her again. She could’ve been painted in that moment, immortalized like the faded canvases he had once seen in the Museum before they had been used as tinder for the fires. It would have been a simple piece with a basic subject; no flowing gowns, ornate jewelry, or picturesque backgrounds of mountains, oceans, or forests. Just a young woman in an oil-stained utility jumper, seated on a ramshackle couch, pulling at a thin thread.

   He would have liked to look at it.

   “So…” She broke the pregnant silence with an awkward birthing of words. “I know we just got home, but there’s still a few things I need to do.” She hesitated, as though bracing for the fact he would argue in some way. He didn’t; he was tingling with that bizarre feeling again. She continued, “The reason I went to Underworld was to help Murphy get a new dealer for his Ultrajet, since, you know, you killed Ahzrukhal.”

   The words hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer, knocking the strange warmness from his chest clean out of the ballpark- it was the most unexpected thing he’d ever heard her say. She had returned…to peddle chems?

   She licked her lips at the trademark scowl creasing his wrinkles together. “I was just trying to help out with another source. He said he’d give me a cut since I already supply them…it seemed like a good deal at the time.”

   “Chems will get you killed,” he growled. “It is dangerous. I know this.”

   “I’m not looking to sell them myself!” she defended, rising from her spot. “I was just going to find someone who…” She trailed off, the miniature wheels turning in her mind. “Oh! I should ask Hoff!”

   Charon narrowed his eyes to slits.

   She bounded to the door. “There’s a caravan run today, too!” She flipped through the notes on her Pip-Boy before going to leave. “…aw, it’s Wolfgang…Hoff isn’t supposed to be here for at least two more weeks, but, maybe…”

   She was out the front gates faster than he could attempt to dissuade her next harebrained scheme. The caravan trader- this Wolfgang- smiled as she approached…it was obvious he liked looking at her, too.

   (Another name was added to his Might Have to Kill list)

   “Ah, if it isn’t my fellow traveler.” Wolfgang gave a small bow. “A delightful sight for these weary eyes, come, my good Madam, what can Crazy Wolfgang offer you? Some oddities, some ends? Crap, junk, garbage? I carry all sizes.”

   “Doc Hoff,” she replied, crossing her arms.

   “Hoff?” He made a show of looking over at his brahmin, the two heads chewing cud simultaneously. “I don’t believe I packed him today…”

   “Ha ha,” she sarcastically quipped. “What route is he on? I really need to talk to him.”

   “Another one lost to the finer pleasures. Be honest, is it the hair?” He grinned. (His armed escort standing off to the side rolled her eyes). “I’m afraid Hoff’s brahmin went lame. He’s back in Canterbury Commons until he gets another.”

   “Where’s that?”

   “Here, I’ll mark it for you on your Pip-Boy.”

   Charon dwarfed them with his shadow as he closely oversaw the interaction. The trader didn’t betray anything other than a nonchalant attitude.

   “Bodyguard?” he asked, looking directly up into his face. Charon gave him his best glower for his viewing pleasure. “He is…tall.”

   “His name is Charon.” Evelyn went to take her hand back to her side, but not before her knuckles were grazed by his lips.

   Wolfgang winked. “Always a pleasure.” 

   (The list was edited with his name moved to the very top: Might Have to Kill)

   “Um, we gotta go,” Evelyn nervously replied as she grabbed at Charon's hand (that was reaching for his neck) and forcibly began to lead him away (more like drag). “I just remembered I have a ton of things to do. Anyways, thanks, bye!”

   “Farewell.” Wolfgang waved, oblivious to the danger he had put himself in.

   Charon kept his head rotated around, lancing hateful daggers at the trader’s face until he was out of view. When she finally let him go at her front step, she hissed, “No trouble, remember?”

   He merely growled...but then looked down at his palm where hers had just been. It had been so tiny in his own.

   The door was left wide open as she went to her room. “I’m going to pack- do you need anything from Moira’s before we go?” She stopped halfway up the steps to turn around. “Since I’m assuming you’re coming with me.”

   His mind expeditiously filtered through his organized thoughts of inventoried gear. “I require a few items.”

   She pointed to the locker. “Caps are in there. Do you want me to, um, come with you?”

   He shook his head. “It is not necessary.” He watched her disappear, hearing the loud zip of her jumpsuit as she presumably changed. He grabbed the burlap purse of currency and marched straight to the town supply store, ignoring a certain pair of beady eyes watching him pass. He did hear the mumbled asshole, though.

   The merc that stood guard in the corner greeted him with the usual- a terse nod- whereas the shop owner always had a too-wide of a smile on her face.

   “What can I do for you?” she asked with great enthusiasm.

   He felt the urge to squint against the energy she beamed. “Shells. Grenades.” He dumped the bag on the counter, pointing a finger at a box of bullets on the back shelf. “Two of those.” His eyes looked over the array of items, coming to a pause on a knife she had displayed. “May I see that?”

   “Sure! Just don't cut yourself!” she joked, setting out all of the requested items for him to peruse through.

   Charon picked up the knife, studied the blade. No chips, cracks. It was of decent quality, (not comparable to his), but still respectable. He set it aside. “I will take this as well.”

   The bag of caps was a little lighter, but his arsenal was restocked, and that was all that really mattered (in his mind). He deposited her money back inside the laughable security of the locker before getting to work in the spare room. It only took him a few minutes to hone the blade to a suitable sharpness, which he would then test on a scrap of brahmin hide until it melted through like hot butter. He crafted a sheath; basic and plain, but one of durability that would get the job done. By the time he was packed and waiting by the door, she was still in her room, studying the map of her Pip-Boy. He interrupted her deep-set thinking by coming to her side. Waiting didn’t normally bother him…but for some reason, he was entirely impatient.

   (He wanted to give her the knife)

   She looked up at the foreboding presence that filled the room before becoming enraptured by her screen again. “Are you ready?”

   “Yes,” he deadpanned. She was wearing the vault suit…she must really like it, despite it painting the biggest fucking neon target on her back. The knife was thrust between her face and the little lines she traced- he couldn’t help feeling extremely annoyed.

   She raised her eyes. “…are you giving this to me?”

   “I am,” he groused through clenched teeth.  He dropped it in her lap, and then he planted the tip of his thumb into his neck right below his jaw, pressing on the exposed carotid vein just enough to pronounce it. “Here.”

    “Um.” She blinked as he stomped back out. “Thank you?”

    He remained downstairs, arms angrily folded with his index finger tapping erratically at his bicep. He felt much too hot- it must be this new sensation buzzing through his veins. It would have to be brought to her attention, sooner rather than later. It could be dangerous.

   Then she came out, the sharpened little toothpick (proudly) displayed at her hip, a sun-faded ballcap on her head, and a blow of (bubblegum?) at her lips. Snap! She looked down at him with a faint smile.

   And he suddenly forgot what he was about to say.

   She didn’t know what to say at this point.

   Charon remained an intolerable asshole- more so than ever. Every look she got was a loathing snarl. Every grumble was a thinly veiled curse. Every chance he had, he reminded her that she was the absolute bane of his existence.

   Well, fuck you too.

   The ghoul kept his distance, not willing to be within five feet of her and sniping the wasteland's grotesque finest with terrifying accuracy. Despite her best efforts at not trying to ruin his life any further, she could feel his eyes, just fucking staring at her. If he had been hoping that she would prove more self-sufficient with the gifted blade, then he was sorely disappointed. She had at least attempted to parry with a feral dog, but once the mutt nearly nipped her, he had intervened and blown it to mist...he didn't let anything close to her after that.

   Garbage burner.

   When they arrived at Northwest Seneca under cloudy skies, the previous pile of Talon Company corpses had been picked clean with their bones strewn about. A cracked femur was sent spinning across the courtyard after she had kicked it from her path. As they descended into the metro station, she realized that it was the second time they were here again, together. She almost went to reminisce about it with something along the lines of, hey, remember when I spilled my guts on your shoes, but the cold glare of murder on his face (that seemed specially reserved for her) made her keep the special memory to herself.

   Barrett opened the door, whipping his head back with a surprised shout at the uninvited guest at her back. Both had their guns out and leveled on either side of the doorway.

   “Whoa, whoa!” Evelyn held her hands up, attempting to soothe the wasteland’s fucking ugliest horses. “Charon, don’t shoot!”

   “What the fuck is this?!” Murphy rasped from behind the safety of his hired gun. “I trusted you, smoothskin!”

   “Charon’s with me. I hired him,” she said calmly, her hand firmly planted on Charon’s bicep. 

   “You ain’t going to pull a fast one on us-!”

   “Charon, drop your gun,” she ordered. He complied, but not without a nasty growl erupting from his chest. She put herself in Barrett’s line of fire, keeping a cool poker façade. “Unless you want to go through the hassle of finding your own dealer, you’ll get that fucking rifle out of my face.”

   Barrett looked over. Murphy nodded. The tension was lifted, and the spectacled scientist looked over his glasses at her.

   “Who’d you get us?”

   The news wasn’t well received- the idea of supplying ghoul-intended chems to a smoothskin was an entirely different risk of its own, but with no other option to be had, she got her samples to bring to Doc Hoff.

   “Remember, if things go south, you didn’t get these from me,” Murphy reminded her.

   They had then proceeded on the road to Minefield, walking under an angry, green-hued sky to another particular reminiscence of, remember that time you saved my life and fucking robbed me? The fires had long been burned away; the scent of smoke drifted to the four cardinal winds. A peal of thunder vibrated the very air, the severe clicking of her Geiger counter making her heart flutter with panic.

   “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice fearful, but also awestruck. She looked up to the heavens, the black clouds occasionally flashing neon green. The landscape was quickly overtaken by an early night; a strike of lightning illuminated the world for a split second.

   Charon grabbed her arm, directing them to the very house of her first near-death experience. The raider corpse from before was long gone- a black stain of blood through the front door told its own horrifying tale.

   Evelyn assessed her condition as the rads continued to build, her blood itchy under her skin. “Fuck- I’m going to need to take some Rad-Away, and I forgot the Rad-X in my locker.” She glanced up as Charon blocked the door with a desk. “What’s going on?”

   “Radstorm,” he answered. He turned, and a burst of green light through the boarded windows lit his outline for a moment. “Do you have what you require?”

   “No,” she confessed. “I don’t carry it. Last time it popped in my bag and ruined my stuff. I didn’t know radstorms were a thing…”

   He grunted, beginning to climb up the stairs. “I shall look around.”

   The rain began to fall. It battered away at everything on God’s irradiated earth, soaking the parched sands with nothing but poison. A lantern was found in the kitchen and connected to a small battery, being placed on a table in the main foyer to provide some warmth in the otherwise gloomy atmosphere. She could hear the ghoul upturn the entirety of the second floor: drawers slamming open, mattresses being tossed, a shatter of a medicine cabinet.

   She disappeared into the darkness of the bathroom, where she had once crawled like a wounded animal, barely clinging to the notion of life. She stood in the spot he had, looking down at where she had been, trying to picture the scene through his eyes. A silly girl. A stupid girl. A pathetic excuse for a wastelander. Evelyn-Smell Ya Then-Has An Ugly Face Again! The empty bottle of vodka and expended Med-X syringes were still littered on the floor. The metal shard he had pulled out was picked up, lightly traced over with her fingertips. It seemed like such an insignificant thing to die from- no less fitting for someone like her.

   You will die.

   Charon came back down, rasping to an empty room, “I did not find any.” She heard him walk around in search of her. "Evelyn?"

   "Here." She stepped back out into the main part of the house. "Sorry..."

   He stared at the thing she held, then turned for the front door. “I shall return.”

   “No!” She rushed over, reaching for him, making him freeze in place before he could move the barricade. When he looked at her, ever emotionless, she awkwardly explained, “It’s just…I’ll be fine, until it passes. I don’t want you to go out there.”

   He straightened, tall and unrelenting. “It does not affect me.”

   She threw her eyes down. “I would like you here.”

   He was silent for a moment, studying the fragment, and then rasped, “Very well.”

   The storm continued, every chime of lightning and toll of thunder making her angsty after she had taken a seat on the musty couch. Charon remained off to the side, hidden away from the soft light of the lantern. She gently patted the spot beside her.

   “It’s better than standing outside,” she lamely joked.

   He shuffled his weight but otherwise made no intention of moving. She looked down at her hands, struggling for something to say. The fragment was on the end table beside her; she didn't know why she kept it. The cushion suddenly had a severe dip on its right side. He had awkwardly taken a seat, sitting as far from her as possible. A laughable attempt- his size swallowed a good deal of space between them, their knees touching as he spread his legs for comfort. His eyes were focused on the door. She could see the tendons quivering in his jaw as he ground his teeth.

   Her voice was a whisper, as though he was something easily spooked. “Why did you save me?” 

   His fingers began to thrum on the arm of the couch, b-b-r-r-rum, b-b-r-r-rum, but he didn’t answer.

   “Do you want to leave Megaton?”

   His fingers paused. He turned his head. She felt incredibly small under his milky eyes, just looking down at her.

   “We don’t have to stay there. We can find somewhere else, someplace better.” She couldn’t tear away from him- there was an irrational fear he’d jump for her throat if she did. “I know you’re not happy with me, and until you find someone you want to…be, with…we can leave. Go wherever you want.”

   If she wasn’t beginning to grow delirious from the slight effects of radiation poisoning, she would have sworn on her mother’s grave (and perhaps father’s) that he wanted to kiss her, that he did kiss her, hot and nasty and with a bite of his teeth on her lower lip, that he was unzipping his massive cock for her to bounce on like a pogo-stick, taking fistfuls of her hair that he pulled on as he heavily breathed in her ear. She didn’t really know. The world was too dark for her to see and too muffled for her to hear, so very cold and wet. Maybe…maybe she just imagined it all, in the throes of the storm.

[kidotm]

When the Night is Over

That strange feeling was firewater in his veins. It was bubbly, spitting from the strike of metal being welded together; iron fused with a delicate weave of copper. The spatter made her hiss as he grabbed her skin, his gunpowder fingerprints smudging her ivory caste, corrupting it with something less than satin sheets and flawless diamonds. The warmth of her lips had tasted like death. Ashy and cold, it bloated his tongue with an odor of edible despair. He pulled away, unsure. He had felt death many a time in his hands, but now it stained his mouth.

   It’s what he’d first imagined of her in all those days gone past.

   She looked up at him, her eyes the barest of slits, and smiled before leaning over the side. There was puke on his shoes. (Again). It was blood- pure heaves of sticky red insides, coating his boots and sullying her chin.

   “I don’t feel good,” was all she managed to say before dropping like a fresh corpse in his arms.

   At that very moment, the contract suddenly wielded a very large hammer, brandishing sparks from the anvil that was his skull as it smote down- clang clang clang! The forge was molten, brimstone agony, as it dipped its steel to then skewer it straight between his eyes like a plunge in oil (hiss!). It made his inner ears ring and pulsate so powerfully he almost smashed his head into the wall to make it stop- make it fucking stop! He’d never acted so fast in his entire fucking life as he ripped the door off and bolted headfirst into the tempest.

   The storm stretched wide, its claws pulling at the bones of the house to make it heave and shudder. The wails and shrieks screamed all around as the cold drop of rain battered his face, whipping him from every direction. Every clap of an unadulterated energy spike was a white-hot rod of steel lancing down his spine. It filled him to the brim with vitality, overflowed his cup, but he couldn’t drink it quick enough, couldn’t have two words make sense without the need to dig his fingers into something and just pull tight to either fuck it into submission or eat it raw while it still breathed.

   The second house across the street was empty. He ravaged through it like the hurricane outside, upending everything and anything as he desperately searched for the aid he required. They were too far from any settlement, had too little time before the radiation poisoning would beget serious consequences.

   Do you want to leave Megaton?

   The third one had exactly what he required; a fallen first aid kit behind the toilet, the bag and surgical tubing camouflaged under a thick coat of dust. He came back to her, just as he had done before, holding the rope that he would toss as her lifeline, to pull her back from where he had led many before that he was now twice calling her from, from the edge of a place that he could not follow.

   We can find somewhere else, someplace better.

   She wasn’t there.

   He came to the back bathroom and found her, small and quivering like a beaten dog with no hope left in its life, guided only by the commanding purpose of survival. The discarded syringes crunched under his boots; the empty vodka bottle was kicked aside into the wall. The cold rain dripped from his body and freckled her face as he crouched down.

   Go wherever you want.

   Her veins nearly popped from her skin, black and angry and ugly; her fingers swollen and bright red. The sleeve of her arm was cut into with the edge of his knife and ripped away, his hands working swiftly and sure and steadily.

   Why did you save me?

   “Evelyn,” he rasped, holding her chin tight to force whatever waning consciousness she still breathed to listen. “Do not die.”

   The poke of Rad-Away, the stench of acidic puke, (a faintly muttered prick). She trembled, moaned, screwed her eyes shut and wailed with the echoing heartbreak of the skies that had sought to curse her so. His hands nestled under her arms whilst hers clenched over his shoulders, both anchored to the other as she rode wave after wave of extreme nausea and boiling blood.

   “Don’t leave me,” she sobbed, repeating the mantra over like a broken record, one he had set the needle to the moment he had embedded it under her skin. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

   Bit by bit, the Rad-Away purged her system of the accumulated radiation and tossed whatever lining was left of her stomach onto the floor, the sour webbings of spit smeared away by the glove of his hand as he kept her from falling over into her own sick. Her body grew spent as the bag emptied, and he carefully picked her off the floor to leave that personal purgatory he never sought to return to. The contract was now reduced to a dull pounding; the sides of his skull ached, but he could handle it. He's fared much worse.

   As he climbed the staircase with her head lolled against his chest, her eyes became so heavy he almost feared they would never open again, but they did, and she looked up at him.

   “Stay with me,” she whispered with a croak, her throat raw and abused. “…please.”

   Her small hand snugged under the leather strap of his armor. He stared at it while laying her in the empty bed upstairs, disentangling her fused limb from himself so that they may become their own entity once again. The scruffy, thin blanket she kept in her pack was draped across her curled form, almost as an afterthought, before he finally sat on the edge of the bed with her blood still dyeing his boots. He stared out the thin cracks in the boards that were nailed over the window. The quiet calm of the night was beyond their door; the storm had passed. He watched her sleep well later into the early powder of dawn; the glow beyond a light shade of baby blue.

   When she finally awoke with the birthing of the sun, groggy and eyelids fluttering as she raised herself up, she went to press her lips to his. Charon halted her advancement with a firm grip on her shoulders, the prickling of irritated confusion twitching his fingers against her skin. She blinked through the foggy layer of sleep dusting her lashes as her mouth quirked in a frown.

   “Ugh…” she groaned as she laid back down. “…what happened? Where are we?”

   Charon stood and reached for her bag, pulling out a bottle of purified water for her to drink. “You were ill from radiation poisoning,” he dryly enlightened. The look he gave her was not one of relief or concern, but rather a, I told you so. “You were dying.” It was said so matter-of-factly it came out like an extreme inconvenience for him.

   The bottle was lazily slurped from as she exerted as little energy as possible, her eyes squinting against the slowly brightening illumination of the room before she flitted her eyes to her Pip-Boy screen. The little marker indicating their location made her tersely sigh, some water dribbling down her chin.

   “Are you well?” he asked, his eyes chasing that bead of water like a fox down a rabbit hole.

   She chortled, “No.”

   “Is there anything you require?”

   “No.” She closed her eyes. “I just need a minute…thanks, big guy.”

   “It is my duty,” he gravelly rasped.

   His heavy footsteps marched off; his weight pressed into the floorboards a little more forcefully than was necessary- he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t go through the rotted wood as he stomped down the stairs. While he obsequiously waited by the front entrance for her to attend to her more ‘private needs’, he spied that little metal fragment on the side table, glistening under the halo of the sunlight.

   (He suddenly didn’t like this place)

   The small cast of her shadow eventually came down the steps, her fingers and eyes fiddling with the tear in her vault suit that he had come to purposefully inflict. He heard her mutter something along the lines of Wadsworth and not happy. There was nothing about the previous hours etched in the lines of her face for him to read; she truly did not recall any of it. That would have suited him fine, preferred, even…but for a reason he could not fathom, it didn’t.

   “Have you eaten anything yet?” she asked with a little hum in the back of her throat, replacing that earlier desperate begging with impish inquisitiveness.

   “I do not like this place,” he answered instead. She gave him a look as though he had just spouted some foreign, dead language from a second head. He continued, “I advise we leave.”

   She briefly looked over to the couch and caught sight of the black spew that had poured from her very lips where there should have been them. It didn’t bait any comment, however, for she stepped outside to blink and sneeze in the face of the full light of the sun. Charon hovered an appropriate distance at her back as she made off into the wastes…she didn’t give one single glance back.

   The once-parched earth was somewhat puddled here and sodden there, making his employer slip and slide more than once. Rather than the fresh scent Pre-War rainstorms used to carry, there instead lingered a tart, almost acidic haze in the air that slightly burned the back of the throat, something he didn’t really notice anymore until he was forced to listen to her incessant coughing. His feet stopped of their own accord- a first in his books. The blue and gold of her body kept swinging away as she bumbled on towards their destination; this stupid smoothskin that somehow put herself in everyone’s business (his own included).

   “I do not know.”

   Her boots paused in the splash of a puddle. She turned to look behind herself and noticed the distance that had been put between them. Her brows furrowed.

   “What?” she asked.

   Charon retreated his eyes to the far distance- something that couldn’t drag him under like the breach of a high tide.

   “I do not know,” he repeated. “Why I had saved you.”

   He relented his stare back over. There was no change to her expression.

   “Oh…” she finally said a little sadly, and then she half-heartedly shrugged. “Maybe it’s because you’re actually a good person?”

   He didn’t know what to say to that, much less what face to wear in response, and so it remained blank as she started forward again while he stared just a little while longer, just enough until he felt the need to take a step of his own.

   It had all been a dream, yes, one hellish scream in her ear sort of dream. His tongue had been snakes, his fingers vines with thorns, his needy breaths turned into thundered shrieks. The imagination of Charon kissing her like she was an idol to be worshipped had all been woven together from some horrible, nasty little part of her brain like a loom on fire, the dark crimson thread cut straight from her veins. She had begged him not to go, to not leave her in that horrible place where the venom was poisoning her blood and the quicksand was filling her lungs. He must have stayed, for he was still there when she awoke…then again, it’s not as though he had much choice to be.

   Canterbury Commons was a reserved journey across the thin stalks of brush and endless dead sea of sand, both simply left in the midst of their own thoughts. As the looming silhouette of the town grew closer, the outlines of the buildings went from flat colors on a backdrop to crumbled mortar and-

   What the fuck was she even looking at?

   Besides the littered corpses of giant ants (eck!) and electronic scraps of robotic parts lying in the empty streets, a small crowd of people (including the bald chemist she was there to see) were gathered around a single man who was standing on a small box, his hands waving in the air to appease the rising voices.

   Evelyn looked up at her companion as he finally came to stand at her side. “I see Hoff. We’ll be in and out.”

   He didn’t say anything but gave a curt nod, and so she took the lead to draw closer to the townsfolk and eavesdropped on the general hubbub.

   “This is getting out of hand, Roe-!”

   “I can’t sleep knowing this is going to continue!”

   “Just put a goddamn bullet in them, already!”

Racketeering of agreements and dismays rose up. She once again peered over for the ghoul’s nonverbal opinion of it all…he only seemed mildly annoyed. They patiently waited for the commotion to die away after a seemingly innocuous solution was spread around like a sip from a chalice, subduing the earlier hostility amongst the populace as they went back to their daily lives. The man on the soapbox finally gave them notice as Evelyn pattered off for the good doctor.

   “Hoff,” she called out after him.

   The chemist trader turned around, surprised at her unexpected appearance. “If it isn’t one of my finer clients-”

   She was already holding the Ultrajet in hand, waving it at him with all the discretion of a nuclear bomb. “Can you sell this?”

   Charon growled at her lack of sense, whereas Doc Hoff eyed the canister with a certain scrutiny. Something at her back made him quickly pocket the chem from any prying eyes, and he told her in a hushed voice, “I will see to its appraisal,” and then he left her standing stupidly in her spot.

   “Well.” Evelyn grinned in relief at the smooth transaction, dusting her hands together. “That was easy.” She heard Charon’s grumbled mutter over her shoulder, his disapproval plain.

   “Welcome to Canterbury Commons,” a voice behind them announced. They both turned to a portly gentleman giving them an easy smile. “Everyone round here knows me as Uncle Roe- sorry for the state of appearances. We’ve just been having a little trouble as of late.”

   Evelyn glanced over at the carcass of a giant ant being towed away limb by limb, her face disgusted. “That’s…unfortunate.”

   “It is,” Roe agreed. He then openly stared at Charon and his gleaming arsenal. “I don’t suppose you could lend a hand?”

   Charon instantly whipped his head down to her, the glare on his face an easy read- it is not our concern.

   Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest, her people-pleasing nature blooming despite herself. “Um…” She rubbed the tip of her nose. (It couldn’t hurt just to ask). “…what sort of help?”

   Charon didn’t hide his frustration; in fact, he let it be known to the entire wasteland just how he felt about his employer’s self-righteous sense of stupidity. She had even gone ahead and further insulted him by stating you can stay here, if you want. He shook his head. She nauseated him. A full twenty-four hours hadn’t even had the decency to pass from her last near-death experience, and here he was, already prepping to prevent another.

   At least he got to properly ‘prep’, this time.

   The pulse grenades clinked in his side satchel as they made their way up a small hillside toward a derelict robot repair center where the aptly named idiot, the Mechanist, resided. Charon didn’t really know and cared even less. Where she went, he followed, for so long as she held his contract, this was his way. They came to the main entrance that he propped a shoulder onto, giving her a look to indicate that he was ready to engage upon her word. His eyes followed the motion of her fingers grasping the handle of her knife, unsheathing it to wield it unconfidently before her.

   “I advise you to remain behind me for cover,” he rasped as though speaking to someone lacking in the mental faculties department. “That will be ineffective.”

   She blushed an angry scowl as she pocketed it away with indignity. “You’re the one who gave it to me! I’m just trying to be useful.” A jut of her chin to his pocket drew his eyes down. “Can I at least have one of those- what were they- pulse, grenades?”

   A request, but not an order. He didn’t have to comply.

   “Do you know how to use one?” he countered flatly.

   She quickly rebutted with, “Yes.”

   (An obvious lie)

   His snort was so snappish it ruffled her hair. He was in no mood for her incessant antics at that moment, if he ever was. “I advise to take lead,” he replied as he gradually opened the door to peer inside. “Be cautious.”

    Charon generally only filtered two things among conversations- what it was, and how many. The pulse grenades proved a wise choice against the array of robots they came across. He was (almost happily) disposing of the rust buckets, trading his well-thrown pitches for their erratic lasers as they kept behind solid cover of overturned desks and stayed flush against concrete walls, his employer safe and sound beside him-

   His face nearly melted off into a puddle of pure vehemence and panic as he spun around to find her missing, the invisible outline of where she had just been comically flashing at him in mockery. He found her butt sticking out to the firefight, her sticky fingers busily prying open a locked box inside an office cubicle. Charon lobbed a grenade through the open doorway before storming over and decking the side of the container across the room with the steel toe of his boot, the loud bang making her jump from her skin and the abundance of pilot lighters sprinkling down like hard confetti.

   “Focus,” he growled. “There are more ahead.”

   She huffed at him after zipping her pack closed. “What else do I do then?!”

   He leaned down. “Stay. Close.”

   When he turned back around to deal with the threat at hand, he heard her horribly grovel under her breath, “Stay close, smoothskin, grbergarbrar-ra-ra-ra.”

   (He did not sound like that)

   A Sentry Bot wheeled inside the room, its audio synthesizer announcing, "HOSTILES: DETECTED."

   Without a word, Charon picked her up and carried her like a limp ragdoll as he ran back for the front entrance, only to accidentally drop her when a shrieking projectile blew up the wall just feet to the side of them. He once again lost sight of her as he was forced to stand his ground and blow some decent-sized holes in the bot until a sudden tugging at his waist minutely diverted his attention. 

   “I got it open!” she shouted over the noise, pointing down a narrow corridor.

   He quickly followed and provided cover fire, blasting shell after shell through the doors while she slapped the button closed like an erratic rabbit's foot. The Sentry Bot was nearly a husk of smoking wires and melted metal, but still it assaulted them until the silent hum of the elevator began to make its descent, the softly playing music a stark contrast to the chaos just above. Taking advantage of a moment of safe respite, he leaned into a corner and traded his spent magazine for a fully loaded one, not noticing her standing just before himself until he had finished pocketing away the empty drum. There was a Stimpak in her hand and a certain look in her eye that made him uncomfortable. She motioned to his thigh- there was a chunk of drywall embedded through the leather of his pants at his waistline. The adrenaline coursing through him didn't allow the pain to register until he finally took notice of it. He curiously widened the edges with a forefinger and thumb, tilting his head to inspect the severity of it.

   “Um…” she timidly began, and then finished dumbly, "You're bleeding."

   He considered the offer and then shook his head. “No.”

   "Charon, I can read the word ‘safety’ from the poster still on it."

   He looked her over; the concrete dust graying her hair, the skinned knees of her vault suit, the dirt streaked on her cheek.

   “Are you injured?” he inquired in return.

   “No,” she said. "Just let me-"

   He clenched his jaw and ripped the obstruction free, growling low in his chest as he snagged the Stimpak she held over and injected himself, the warm flow of blood loudly dripping to the floor at their feet. As the chem worked its charm and stitched him shut, he closed his eyes and tilted his head against the vibration of the elevator wall, cracking his neck side to side when they came to a stop. She glared at him. 

   "I am better," he informed matter-of-factly. 

   She didn't seem too impressed with his doctoring method, for she spun on her heel and marched straight out the open doors on the lower level before he could even scope it to be clear. Much to his relief, there was no presence of any more erratic bots and simply just a wack-job smoothskin whose brain had to have been fried under the heat of the wasteland sun. Charon had him backed into a corner and kept the biting end of his shotgun planted precisely at his helmet’s forehead (for a quick shot if needed).

   “You’re really causing a lot of trouble for the town,” his employer reasoned, and then she gave a wide-eyed look like a puppy who’d just been kicked. “Can’t you just…stop?”

   And it fucking worked. They were back on the surface no sooner than they had left it with news of their successful delegation in preventing any further ‘kooky’ incidents. Charon watched her fill her caps bag to the newly stretched seams and trade over the clunky piece of armor the Mechanist had given her (that she had somehow managed to lug all the way down the hill). She kept the helmet, however…he didn’t know what to make of that. When the business was concluded, she grew extremely shy and held up the ginormous satchel of currency for him to take view of.

   “Um…I figured before I divided our share, I’ll buy?” When he only stared point-blank at her, she nervously swallowed. “Food? There’s a diner…I figured you’d be hungry.”

   He nodded. He was. She took her seat and made small talk with the smoothskin who ran the place. Charon hovered at her back, always keeping his keen sense of self-preservation on high alert. When she turned around, she patted the stool right beside her own.

   “…it’s better than standing out in a radstorm,” she weakly jested.

   His weight settled on the cracked leather barstool, the seating just barely gracious enough to allow him to sit comfortably. He listened to her engage in amicable conversation with the man making their food and himself.

   “Charon’s the only reason I’m even around,” she joked over the counter.

   (It was not a joke)

   She then smiled up at him. He felt a violent warm rush to his face- he must have been injured somewhere else and was now feeling the aftereffects. It would need tending to, but before he could rise from his seat to begin assessing himself for the source, their bowls were set before them, and she dug in with all the tenacity of a starved yao guai.

   “This is amazing,” she gushed, beaming from ear to ear.

   Charon began to study something of great interest in his bowl, the injury all but forgotten. It could wait. He, too, took a sip, and then observed her being helped to a second serving. She must have really liked it. He, unfortunately (and fortunately), didn’t have enough tastebuds to know anymore. They promptly wrapped up their fine dining and met with the chemist trader just before the sun could set, and she again was lucky with good fortune (a very valuable thing in the wasteland).

   “A ghoul had conceived this?” Hoff asked. “That does make a lot of sense…” He then looked to Charon, as though the mere sight of him had confirmed something. “Yes, indeed. Where did you say-?”

   “Northwest Seneca metro station,” she easily supplied, her naivety with trust knowing no boundaries. “Murphy and Barrett. I’m sure they’d love to do business with you.”

   After her tasking was (finally) finished (both preplanned and not), they were given shelter in a refurbished garage. The merc smoothskin had offered them the quarters and gave no insult or veiled prejudice to their shared company, and so they took advantage of the privacy in a backroom that had a single bed.

   The light was dimmed. The bedframe squeaked as she rolled over to blink at him. He pulled up a chair to sit close and keep watch on the door. He leaned his back into the frame and crossed his arms, spreading his legs out for comfort. 

   “It’s not so bad here,” she whispered. He turned, watched her stroke the threading of her ruined sleeve. She tucked her hands under her head and gave him an owlish stare. “What do you think?”

   He shifted his weight.

   “It is...” He sat there, thinking, and then, “quiet.” 

   Her hand dangled over the edge of the bed.

   “I'm happy you're here with me,” she softly said, and then she closed her eyes to drift off to sleep.

   She kept her small palm over the side throughout the entirety of the night, just within reach, and more than once, he felt his fingers twitch to take it.

The Way to a Vaultie's Heart (is Through her Stomach)

 It felt like she had docked at a foreign port upon waking to an empty room. These were not her spices in the air; she didn’t recognize the language being murmured. The previous day came rushing behind her eyes like a deep drink of something rich and dry, somehow sating and parching her thirst at the same time. She rubbed at the crusts over her eyes and tried her best not to smell herself as she opened the door with an obnoxious creak, her first encounter for the new day being a young woman strapped in dusty leathers with a gun at her hip.

   “About time you woke up,” the woman snarked. She had to be no older than herself, despite the aggressive assertion. “So, you’re the Vault dweller.” She crossed her arms. “Or I guess you wouldn’t be wearing that stupid outfit.”

   “I guess you’re not the town barber,” Evelyn replied with a dry tone, meeting her eyes dead on. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be walking around with hair like that.”

   The young woman growled with a stamp of her foot. “The fuck you just say to me?”

   A toilet flushing the entire Nile down the drain turned their attention to a figure striding out of the head. Charon took in the situation within milliseconds as he clinked his belt together…and then he just strode on back inside their room, ignoring the bubbling hostility in the air. (That was a first). Something changed behind the girl’s eyes- a cog began to spin the other way. She gave Evelyn a dirty look before marching off.

   “Don’t go walking around with a big head,” she threw over her shoulder. “We could’ve handled it our way.”

   It's not so bad here...what do you think?

   These merchants bit her coins and spat at her passing. These were not her waters. Evelyn boarded her ship and pulled in the gangplank back for home, her map unfurled on the table and her compass forever spinning in circles. She checked in on her first mate and single crew member; the only one to weather a storm for her. He was down on one knee and organizing some inventory away in his pack. Her entrance lifted his heavyweight stare; she was going to ride him straight out to pasture. His eyes followed the slow journey of her fingers bringing the zipper of her suit down; he seemed mildly unimpressed by the show of extra skin, and she at once became hesitant. The ghoul stood, shouldered his bag, and held over her own. He didn’t say a single word.

   With a dark flush of shame at being rejected, she took the offered pack after tidying up her decency, feeling at once silly and stupid when he suddenly came up behind her as she turned for the door, murmuring lowly in her ear, “When there is no one listening.”

   She looked up, confused, until the sound of not-so-stealthy footsteps scampered off, the crack under the door betraying the shadows of their escape. Evelyn quickly snapped it open to the sight of the hostile woman (and her awful mop of hair) dashing around the corner in haste.

   "This place is full of weirdos," she mumbled under her breath as they went to leave.

   Charon followed her outside to the open streets before he tapped her on the shoulder. She blinked in surprise at the unexpected touch.

   “I wish to take care of something,” he requested rather politely. It was very unlike him, to ask, much less without a snarl on his lips.

   She stumbled, “Uh, yeah, sure, you-you know you don’t have to ask.” She parked her ass against a leaning mailbox. “I’ll, um…wait here.”

   He took straight off for the diner where they had previously enjoyed a meal together. Curiosity made her watch him engage in conversation with the man behind the culinary magic; Charon was given a rather strange-looking fruit and pointing to a pot on the stove while asking questions that were just out of earshot…he was always so serious in everything he inquired about. He must have really liked that dish.

   He returned with the fruit now pocketed away and gave a nod of his head. “I am ready.”

   She kicked off and they set out straight back to Megaton, bypassing around Minefield as though it were once again plagued with explosives. She decided to try her luck in getting Charon to divulge the mysteries of the bygone wastes since he seemed to be in something of a good mood.

   “What are those things?” she asked, pointing up a hill to a row of steel structures. 

   His eyes only had to flit over for a second to look at what she referred to. “Pylons.”

   Minutes later, and then, “And that?”

   “Monorail.”

   More time passed. A giant statue far out in the distance was pointed to. “That?”

   This time, his answer was preceded by an annoyed growl. “Not safe.”

   “Oh.” Evelyn kept her lips shut at the emergence of his grumpy disposition- it would seem her happy-ghoul tokens had all been spent.

   They finally arrived at home with the setting of the sun. She happily sighed at the sight of the bathtub, (how delicious of a soak she was going to have) until Charon began spinning the taps for himself. She knew she could hardly complain, for at least he was somewhat back to normal, now. The vault suit was tossed in its rightful bin to be replaced by her favorite green jumpsuit (her only jumpsuit). A couple of hours passed while she lazily lounged in her bed, her time occupied by the turning of a page in a book as she waited for a chance to enjoy some hot water luxury. A knock on the partly closed door to her room made her startle. Charon, knocked?!

   He may be human after all.

   She sat upright and tucked her loose hair behind an ear. “Uh, come in?”

   Charon slammed the frame into the wall by how violently he widened it. “Are you hungry?”

   What the fuck-

   She tried to hide the shock she felt. “I, I guess-” Her stomach interrupted her sentence with a loud whine of affirmation.

   He announced, “I have made dinner.”

   She stared at him. There was no appropriate response to be had except, “…sure?”

   He then just as abruptly left.

   With careful steps down the staircase as though the house was boobied with traps, she eventually came to Charon standing in the tiny alcove of the kitchen. He directed a knife hand to a chipped bowl and bent spoon set on the small table that had accommodation for one. She reluctantly took a seat and politely folded her hands in her lap, watching him turn around to grab at her only pot off the stove. A ladle was dipped inside, and something…seemingly crawled onto her plate. She looked down at the creation. It smelled awful.

   She blinked at it. “What is it?”

   “You like it,” he answered matter-of-factly. (She would’ve thought he sounded somewhat smug).

   She dipped the spoon in; sludge slowly dripped off. “I do?”

   He stood there, waiting for her to taste it. She didn’t know if she’d be able to take a single sip without gagging, but he did make it, for her. It was a start to...something, she supposed, even if she wasn't sure what that exactly was. The utensil was brought past her lips, and she felt a crunch as she swallowed. It was the fucking worst thing she’d ever been forced to try. Greta was pardoned for every past sin made in the name of cooking- dear God-

   She immediately set her spoon down. “Wow, that’s, um…strong.” She blinked back tears, forcing herself not to reach for the bottle of water she so desperately craved.

   Charon took a taste test for himself from her own bowl. She waited for him to realize that he nearly burned her tastebuds from her mouth, but he merely gave her the spoon back.

   “It is the same,” was all he replied with.

   She looked back down at her fate. Fuck. When every last bit was gone (and her stomach felt like the repercussion of an atomic warzone), he gave a nod of approval and grabbed at her dish, filling it to the brim once more before she could vomit in protest. It was clinked back down on the table, and then he left to climb the stairs to his workshop. Once he was out of sight, Evelyn went to make a dash for the sink to toss the hazardous waste, but the sound of him coming back down made her panic and nab at Wadsworth’s back panel, her entire bowl of slop being dumped inside and shut away to (please God) not be seen. She awkwardly leaned against the fridge, inspecting her dirty fingernails as he rounded back to the kitchen, his eyes critically inspecting the suspiciously empty table.

   “You have finished,” he rasped more as an accusation than a question.

   She gave him two thumbs up, fighting the rising, sentient bile in her throat. She couldn’t verbally answer for fear that it would end up on the floor.

   Charon motioned to the stove. “There is more-”

   “Wow! Would you look at the time!?” She diverted quickly with a phony façade of utter shock. She held up her Pip-Boy; the screen was blank. “It’s past midnight already?!” She widely yawned in her hand, (tempting a gag), and pointed to her room just above her head. “I think I’m good for bed. You go ahead and finish it, big guy.”

   A comical pat of her hand on his arm made him raise a brow muscle down at her, but he didn’t comment as she went to her room and shut the door.

   Charon placed the remains of the soup inside the fridge; it would be free for her craving come the morning. He’d considered it a suitable rendition of the recipe back from Canterbury Commons, even if more than a few ingredients had been substituted due to the lack of. It had been his first real attempt at any sort of cooking. She seemed to have enjoyed it. He checked the inventory of food. He was out of key items and would have to request them if he were to make more.

   The robot was held at the end of his index finger- the tip as sharp as any refined blade. “Watch the door. Do not let anyone but myself inside, or I will rip your circuits out.”

   He then noticed a slow drip of something gooey leak from inside the Mister Handy’s components…he’d pop him open later. He predicted his employer to grow upset if the robot was left in further disrepair. After the threat of dismemberment was well ingrained, he left for the saloon with his share of the caps nestled nice and snug against the thigh holster of his pistol. He came to a locked door. He banged on it until the end of a baseball bat was shaking in his face.

   “What-what d’ya want? We're closed!” Gob shouted with a tremble, his teeth clattering in his skull. He squinted through the dark, his weapon only slightly lowered. “O-oh, it’s you. Uh…is everything-”

   Charon directed the bat out of his way, stepping past the smaller ghoul to welcome himself inside. “I require a few items.”

   Gob rubbed at his eyes, apparently woken from sleep. “Jeez, it couldn’t wait until morning?” he groused. When he properly opened them to take note of the glower on Charon’s face, he immediately set himself behind the bar. “Sorry. What can I get for you?”

   Everything in his inventory was laid out on the counter. Charon remained standing as he assessed each and every item. It wasn’t what he needed, so he would have to make further improvements. Gob unsuccessfully hid a yawn behind one hand, his mouth beginning to mutter utter drivel about Charon’s pariah status in Underworld.

   “They had the bar redone-ergh, ‘scuse me-" Gob scratched at his elbow- scritch scritch. He continued to gab, abusing the stoic ghoul’s trademark silence; he then took a shot. Charon blatantly ignored him. “-then Winthrop finally came out of his coma.”

   Gob took another shot as Charon placed caps onto the counter, his eyes not raising from his counting until the total had been piled. Charon finally looked over…the bartender was missing. He heard some slurred mumbles rising from the depths over the side, and so he slightly leaned forward to peer down. Gob was sprawled out, simmering in a drunken haze with an amber bottle keeping company in one hand.

   “Ya gotta tell me,” he rasped in between a nasty burp (‘xcuse me). “How’d ya do it?”

   His eyes were wet and shimmering. Charon had never seen something so utterly pathetic. Nevertheless, he shook his head.

   “I do not understand,” he simply replied.

   Gob took hold of a shelf and braced himself upright by a few inches, his face one of complete amazement and lustful inebriation. “How’d you get Evelyn?”

   Here Charon raised a brow. “Get?”

   He sluggishly nodded. “Yeah, how’d ya do it?”

   Charon didn’t understand. He again shook his head.

   Gob took a drink, wiped the dribbled mess from his chin with a forearm, and licked his lips. “Why’d she say yes, to you? You know? A ghoul.” He motioned a hand at himself. “I didn’t think it were possible, for us. But then you come along…” He stared at something down the neck of his bottle. “And here we are.”

   Charon straightened himself and gave his focus back to his chosen wares, stowing them away in his bag. “She had asked me for it.”

   Absolute silence.

   Gob’s head was suddenly on the counter, his eyes wider than jumbo dinner plates. “…she did?”

   Charon nodded.

   “…you’re not messing with me, are you?”

   Charon shook his head, throwing his bag over his shoulder. His business was concluded.

   Gob blew out a breath. “You…you think Nova would ever ask me?”

   Charon was at the door, but he paused. His hand was on the knob. He looked back to the ghoul who stared up at him as though he were the only light in a very bleak, very dark tunnel. Evelyn’s previous statement about the prostitute came to him.

   With absolute seriousness, Charon rasped, “Nova does not take ghouls.” And then he left.

   The great bowl of Many Unappealing Flavors was on the table by morning.

   It was a different color. 

   It was still boiling. 

   There was an eyeball. It swam like a disconnected gyroscope until it landed on her face to glare at her.

   Charon watched her watching it watching her. He only said, “It will get cold.”

   It’ll get cold, oh my God, what happens then? Does it evolve? Declare itself a man? Sharpen sticks and build fires and-

   Charon leaned over and plucked the eyeball out with his bare fingers. “It should have melted.”

   It should have melted.

   “Um,” Evelyn finally spoke, albeit very small. She twirled her utensil around inside, an oily surface following her every stroke. “Do…did I ask you to cook, by accident, or something-?”

   When she glanced up to gauge his response, she couldn’t believe it. Charon had something on his face she never thought she would ever come to witness in her short lifetime. A barely susceptible frown. She could have rubbed at her eyes, disbelieving of this mirage before her.

   “You did not,” he affirmed. He then looked down at her bowl as though it were ready to jump up and latch onto his face. “Do you not enjoy it?”

   Oh no. She had hurt his feelings. She had offended the big guy.

   “What?!” she guffawed, tightly crossing her legs under the table and clenching her free hand under her thigh. “No! I do! I do! It’s, just, uh, you never did it before…so, you know…”

   He nodded. “I did not know you had liked it.”

   Oh, Jesus. She was so fucked. Now she had to force herself to somehow eat (or cleverly hide) this shit until the angel Gabriel blew his horn and unleashed the day of Judgment upon the land. The joke was on her in the end, though, for Hell was just an entire river of Charon’s soup with the Devil wiggling her spoon between his hooves.

   She plunked her head on a fist and accepted the bereavement of her breakfast. “Thanks, big guy.”

   The majority was crammed down her throat like a turkey being stuffed- with nonconsenting force. Her toes curled and her skin grew green with every swallow, and she quickly learned to plug her nose and screw her eyes shut to help ease each passing. Charon had returned to her nearly expired in her seat, her eyes hollow and lips pale.

   He only took notice of the empty serving. “There is more.”

   She could cry.

   “That’s okay,” she insisted, covering a wet belch into her hand. (Ugh) She quickly got off to a kickstart of a topic to derail his new hobby. “Have you ever been to Rivet City?”

   When he didn’t answer right away, she glanced up.

   “I have,” he rasped slowly. “They do not allow ghouls.”

   “Hmm.” She leaned back in her seat in an attempt to force the room to stop spinning. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

   “I do not think so.”

   Well, if that wasn’t a confidence booster, she wasn’t sure what was.

   She stood, wavering from a belly full of lead. “If Three Dog is right and my dad is there, then it won’t be an issue.” There was a whir of her Pip-Boy being flicked through as she scrolled for a map. “It’s just so far…how long of a walk do you think it’ll be?”

   Charon seemed to seriously consider her question, and then said, “It will depend.” She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Charon the Vague-As-Fuck Mystique, doling out wisdom in the form of few-syllable words. He instead continued with, “When do you wish to leave?”

   With a fold of her arms, she longingly gazed upon the empty bathtub. "I would like to at least finally scrub down..."

   He turned his back to her. "I will cook as you-"

   "But what's the point when I'm just going to smell like a brahmin's ass anyway?!" she quickly exclaimed, nabbing at her things around the house. "Fuck it, let's go now! Dad, here we come!" 

Some Restrictions Apply

   The bottle of purified water was drained to the very last drop; the end tilted up to the sky and then shaken erratically. Evelyn gasped, wiping her damp brow on the newly stitched sleeve of her vault suit. (Thank you, Wadsworth). Traveling during midday under the hot wasteland sun was always a poor choice to be made. Charon looked over to take notice of her sticking her tongue inside the neck of the bottle, absolutely desperate for a hint of hydration. He rolled his eyes and rummaged inside his own bag.

   “Here,” he rasped.

   Evelyn took the offer; the scratched-to-hell plastic bottle was unscrewed, her breathing labored and pits sweat-stained. 

   “Thanks,” she sighed in return.

   With a raise of the rim to her lips, she took a giant swig. It wasn’t water. It was fucking soup. It was blown like a rocket off a launchpad out of her nose all the way down her front. Charon gave her a look like she had gone fully mental. She gawped, her mouth half-full of slime, her voice horrified.

   “I fough eh waz wadeh!” (I thought it was water!)

   “It is not.”

   “Weh ehz eh nawd?!” (Why is it not?!)

   He just shrugged.

   “SHAWON!” (ASSHOLE!)

   “Keep quiet,” he growled, his head snapping around at some imaginary sound. “I advise we keep moving.”

   The suggestion was promptly ignored as she threw handfuls of goop off her chest to sling it on the pavement; her shrieking curses loud enough for everyone and their dead mother to hear until he finally soaked her with some dirty water from his stash. 

   Charon forced them onward well into the early call of dusk, eventually sidetracking them from the outskirts of the ruins to seek shelter. An absurdly large sewer grate was observed from an appropriate distance (behind a dumpster) for threats. 

   “Do not leave this spot,” he cautioned before stealthily creeping forward to investigate alone.

   She watched him step in and then come right back out. He waved her forward, pressing the weight of his hand into the dip of her lower back when she came to step past, his head on a tight swivel for any potential lurkers. Evelyn gasped as her boot sunk into an opaque, sickly-green, stagnant puddle. Her shriek was very quickly cut off by his enormous hand.

   Charon snarled, “Do not do that.”

   She pulled away and retched. (How awful of a smell!)

   “Really, the sewers?!” she snapped, her voice echoing down the miles of tunnels that led to only God knew where.

   He again clamped a hand over to stem her shouting. “It is safe. I have been here before.” He then added after she gave him the side-eye, “Recently.”

   “Guess that’s promising,” she muttered, performing her best ballerina pirouette around the various puddles of piss and shit. 

   They camped around a previously established firepit that consisted of concrete cinderblocks and a barrel filled with tattered books. She observed the big guy set down his things and scrape away the ash from a long-dead flame.

   “This was you?” she asked.

   He nodded. A few hardly legible books were ripped away from their spines and expertly towered for an easy light. The fire was soon cackling away while she combed through the rest of the literature pile for anything salvageable enough to read (and save).

   “I will return,” he announced, walking down the line to prep a few traps for any unwanted guests.

   She shoved her nose inside a novel.

   “Are you hungry?”

   She startled. He had come back and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the fire from her. She hadn’t even noticed his reappearance.

   “Actually,” she began as gently as possible, closing the book for another day, “I wanted to tell you…”

   His face was utterly blank, but she somehow felt he was hanging on to every word she said. She licked her lips. She could do this. She couldn’t possibly go harboring suicidal thoughts over a fucking meal-

   “…that I would like to cook something for us instead!” she rushed, her hands clapping together like a magician performing a trick. Poof! (Here’s the rabbit!) “You know, as a return-the-favor sort of thing.”

   He handed over his bag to her. He didn’t impart a single word.

   She quickly got to work. A small metal pan from her own bag was propped over a bed of hot ash (with a little accidentally sprinkled over as wasteland seasoning) and she carefully considered the contents he had brought along for something edible-worthy. A sizzle of molerat fat. A slab of brahmin. A few dashes of something that smelled aromatic from a little tin in a side pocket. She caught sight of the silent bodyguard meticulously cleaning his side pistol; the slide snapped back into place. He wasn't paying her cooking any sort of mind.

   Whatever her creation, it at least smelled a thousand (no, a billion) times better than whatever Charon had thought he had made. She sliced the meat into strips and gave a heaping portion to the ghoul, not sparing another moment as she shoved a hot piece in her mouth before it had a chance to cool. The burnt tongue was totally worth it…it may be her best work yet. She greedily sucked the grease from her fingertips and looked over. He, too, was scarfing it with his bare hands. Success!

   “So.” She smacked her lips, a cheeky grin beginning to form. “How is it?”

   Charon raised his eyes, the shadow from the flames casting a dark blanket across his brow. He shrugged, giving his attention back to his meal as he finished wolfing it down. “It will suffice,” he rasped.

   Her jaw almost unhinged. “…are you telling me it’s bad?!”

   “It is not good,” he said rather bluntly. He had taken her snow-white bunny and shot a fucking hole through it, spattering gooey bits and springy fluff right in her face. (Ta-da!) His thick fingers settled over his knees; he not-so-subtly stared at her chest. “We are alone.”

   A cruel, disbelieving laugh barked from her lips. He suddenly looked positively annoyed.

   “Sorry, not in the mood,” she snarked, ripping her blanket free from her pack to angrily swaddle it around her shoulders. She kept her back to the fire and curled in the tightest possible ball; a seething worm. “Goodnight.”

   The toe of his boot was her wake-up call the next morning.

   “It is early,” he deadpanned as she struggled to wipe the drool from her cheek.

   He didn’t so much as grump another word to her until they came to the bank of the river. She picked up a flat rock and attempted to skip it across the water. It sunk on first contact. He snorted at her lack of skill.

   “Don’t see you doing much better,” she mumbled as she went to pick up another. The echoing sound of water slapping across the way made her glance up- nine skips. She turned to the ghoul, her prized stone falling out of her hand.

   He was already walking alongside the bank, his gruff voice calling over his shoulder, “We should continue.”

   An impenetrable fortress of concrete walls and large, steel doors (the size of Megaton itself) met them a ways down.

   With excitement, she pointed at it. “Is that it?!”

   “No,” was all he simply said.

   “Oh…” They passed it by at a safe distance. She craned her head up to peer at its enormous stature. “So, what is it?”

   Again, his answer was plain, his eyes only briefly glancing over. “Brotherhood.”

   “Oh.” She stuck her tongue out at it. “Figures.”

   Charon made no snide remark or likeminded comment, his boots creating deep impressions in the sand that she tried to match with her smaller stride, her legs stretching to an awkward gait as she married their prints together. He came to a stop and finally noticed the smaller indents squashing the middle of his own. He didn’t appear too impressed, for he only shook his head and grumbled something she couldn’t transcribe. 

   A ramshackle boating shed became their last stop to rest. Charon had already begun whipping up some eldritch-horror-on-a-plate before the sun could fully set, and she cleared her throat as he threw a pinch of bloatfly scales inside the mix.

   “I’m not really that hungry,” she admitted weakly.

   He paused with his actions, his entire body frozen stiff before he seemingly rebooted to life and tersely rasped, “Very well.” He automatically went to dump the contents out to their natural, purgatory habitat.

   Her hands flew up. “No!”  

   He snapped his utterly sour expression at her.  “You do not want it.”

   She didn't. “I mean, just not right now,” she backtracked. (The biggest bullshit lie her mouth had ever spewed). “But I’d love to have it later…if that’s okay. That’s all I meant.”

   At the sight of him slowly bringing the pot back and unsurely looking down inside of it, she knew she would happily shove that shit down her throat until it put her in a grave.

   He reluctantly gave a self-conscious bob of his head. “I will wake you when it is finished.”

   And he did. The putrid smell alone was enough grounds to evacuate the shack, but she forced herself to sit upright, wipe the heavy sleep from her face, and slurp it down until not a single drop of existential dread remained.

   By the third day, they came to the shoreline of an absolutely massive-er, what exactly was-?

   Charon stepped up a small formation of rocks, directing a knife hand at the sight before them. “Rivet City,” he informed her.

   She came up beside him, blinking against the early afternoon sun at the piece of Pre-War history she was about to step foot on. “Whoa…what is that?!”

   The beaming golden rays illuminated the sides of the hull; discolored patches of sheet metal adorned the entirety of its bones from bow to stern, the length and height of the aircraft carrier unlike anything she could have ever imagined. A few radgulls cried as they flew overhead; a woman was seen dumping something overboard, enticing the flying sky rats for a meal if they divebombed quickly enough. It groaned, the sound echoing like a great beast emerging from the deep, endless black waters of the ocean. It was old, it was tired, and yet it had new life breathed through it once more.  

   “So cool,” she said, awestruck.

   Charon rolled his eyes and continued to be her guide up until the base of a metal platform. He turned and crossed his arms, inclining his head for her to proceed alone. “They do not allow ghouls,” he repeated from before. “I shall wait here until you return for me.”

   Evelyn mimicked his stance. “Wait, you’re seriously okay with me just going at it by myself?”

   “There is no choice,” he growled, his anger beginning to simmer. He looked down at her, his eyes hard. “I trust you will be cautious.”

   She looked across the river to the daunting ship. For once, she could do what she wanted and go wherever without the looming, violent shade at her back. No one would stare, no one would talk, no one would make her feel like she was completely alone in a crowded room.

   He was unblinking, waiting on her to leave him to his post.

   For once, she didn't want that. A wry smile came to her lips, and his eyes narrowed. She suddenly said, “…what if I had an idea?”

   All rational instinct screamed- this was a bad idea.

   From head to toe, he had been wrapped and bandaged and swathed with strips of her blanket that she had taken her knife to, dampening his sense of touch and obscuring his sense of sight. The fabric smelled like her. He must look completely stupid.

   “Can you see anything?” his employer inquired, only slightly muffled.

   “No,” he answered.

   “Hmm…” A touch of her hand inside his own. He didn’t pull away despite how tight his nerves became stretched. “Here, I’ll guide you.”

   She shuffled him forward- he dutifully followed. He couldn’t tell where he was going. A click of a button. A static voice. An intercom. They must be at the bridge. There was a horrible shriek of metal, almost as painful as the pounding urge in his skull to look, what if there was an enemy-

   Footsteps. Rivet City security. They must be at gunpoint, for he felt her fingers tighten. He very much wanted his gun in his hands and this stupid thing off his head.

   “Now stay right there,” a voice called out. A man. “State your business.”

   Her thumb brushed along the leather of his palm. She was nervous.

   “Um,” she began. “I’m looking for my father…I was told he came here?”

   “Your father? Who is he?”

   “James? He’s from a Vault.”

   It was irritating, not being able to see the situation unfolding. Not being able to catch her worried eyes. She tightened her grip; he subconsciously squeezed her in return. 

   “A Vault? I don’t know who you’re talking about-hey now, wait a second, are you that kid on the radio? The Lonely-uh-”

   “The Lone Wanderer,” she corrected. “I didn’t pick the name.”

   “Well, you don’t look to be alone,” he quipped. “What’s wrong with him?”

   “Uh.” Evelyn coughed. “Molerats.” Charon lifted a brow muscle, the expression unseen. She then quickly added, “Big ones, like, enormous. So freaking gigantic." She took her hand away; she must be miming with them. "And it was, uh, after the fire- you know, the fire...the fire that burned- um…he’s very lucky to still be alive. He’s my companion...Grog.”

   Grog?

   Who was this Grog he was impersonating? An old acquaintance? Combative partner?

   ...relationship?

   (He will have to kill him)

   “Oh, well, my apologies,” the man replied with a somber tone. 

   He felt Evelyn place her hand on his bicep. “He’s hard of hearing, unfortunately, and also completely mute, and blind! Did I mention that? Like I said, molerats...the fire…I’ll spare the details.”

   A minute passed, and then, “Come on, and welcome to Rivet City.”

   They started forward again. This stupid smoothskin had somehow managed to smuggle a ghoul in. His stupid smoothskin. Their boots clanged across the metal walkway; a radgull cried out just overhead.

   BONK!

   Charon snarled as his head rang like a church bell calling for the hour. He doubled over and rubbed at the fabric covering his forehead. He must have hit the low overhang of the hatch.

   She gasped, “Oh, shit, sorry!”

   Her hands were suddenly all over him- touch here, press there, are you okay? He merely grunted.

   She coaxed, “Come on, there’s a step-”

   Another hatch. He reached his hand up and felt along the edge of the cold metal and slick condensation that dripped to the floor. He ducked and stubbed the toe of his boot on the lip, making him stumble. He had no idea of his sense of direction after that.

   “Sorry, excuse me, pardon us-” Evelyn called out. He could hear the whispers about them, this seven-foot mummy being pulled around by this pretty, young woman. “He’s blind, sorry, and deaf.”

   A squeak suddenly escaped from her lips. He instantly froze.

   “It’s a tight squeeze in here,” a man drawled.

   Charon’s head swiveled to the voice with a sickening crack in his upper vertebrae. He may not be able to see, but he could feel. With a lightning quick step forward, he shot his forearm out and felt the tender underside of the smoothskin’s neck, bracing it against the hull until he felt something give in the trachea. The smoothskin’s feet dangled from the ground, the boots scuffing the metal; his hands scrabbled at the thin blanket over his arm, his throat gargling.

   “Charon, no! Drop him, drop him!” Evelyn commanded, yanking at the leather of his belt.

   He obeyed, and there was a thunk followed by a loud wheeze of air being swallowed. He was then tugged into moving again; a close of a door, a spin of the hatch.

   “You’re blind, deaf, and mute, remember?!”

   They must be alone. He unwrapped the makeshift shawl from his face, his scowl no less than lethal when he was finally able to lay his eyes on her. She had squirreled them away inside a room full of filing cabinets. He could hear footsteps traveling up and down the halls.

   “This is not working,” he said flatly. “I cannot protect you in this manner. I do not advise it.”

   “It got you in, didn’t it? What else was I supposed to do?!”

   He assessed her condition. “Did he hurt you?”

   She huffed and crossed her arms. “No. He just pinched my ass. Total creep.”

   He would find him. He knew what he sounded like…particularly in pain.

   She cut a hand through the air. She was very dramatic. “This place is so confusing. There are signs everywhere, so I’m just following the one for the science lab. I’m going to go out on a fucking limb and say my father would be there, or at least visited." She was stomping all around the room. Very dramatic. "Or maybe not- maybe he fucking died on the way here and this was a complete waste of our time!”

   He didn’t say anything. She brusquely wiped a tear from her eye before it could roll down her cheek.

   “Sorry, none of this is your problem,” she finally lamented. “...or maybe it is.”

   “It is,” he agreed.

   Her eyes were woeful, her voice a whisper. “I keep telling you it doesn’t have to be."

   They remained silent for a moment before he began to wrap his disguise around his head once more. She took the nonverbal cue and opened the hatch. Her hand returned to his.

   (He again allowed it)

   “Another door," she informed him after some more wandering in fucking circles.

   He was much more adept this time in striding through despite his large frame making it difficult, even without the impediment.

   “Hold on." She halted him. "Just wait here. There's a shit ton of stairs. I don’t want you to fall.”

   Her hand fell away, but not before he tightened his fingers for a split second around her own. There was a stomping of steps down and away. He strained his hearing for any sort of distress in her voice once he pinpointed her from across the room. There was soon a lot of it. He unsheathed his knife and slit an opening for his eyes. He was on a platform, standing at the edge that looked down upon a large section of the ship. His brain passed over the images of machinery and people until it came to land on his employer speaking tersely with a smoothskin in a lab coat. He made for the stairs.

   “I have to go now,” Evelyn snapped as she stalked past the woman.

   She was distraught. She was crying. He reached over a shoulder for his shotgun just as she noticed him approaching. She gasped, wildly looking around the room for anyone that may have noticed.

   “Charon!” she feverishly whispered, rushing to take him by the arm to spin him around. He didn’t, and she heaved. “No! It’s nothing! Come on!”

   He growled, his eyes drawing down to slits at the lab coat’s back that was turned to them. They left the science lab and were once again forced into a two-person group huddle in the room of filing cabinets.

   “He’s not here!” she snarled. He stood like a statue and watched her tantrum explode around them. “He’s never fucking here!”

   A fist was thrown. A yelp. A small dent. She had thrown a punch at a locked drawer and was now hissing and cradling her bruised hand to her chest. It was taken in his palm, his fingers kneading around for any hint of a break. She winced as he applied some pressure with his thumb.

   “I hate this,” she said, miserably. She sniffled. “I don’t know why I bother. He obviously doesn’t care.”

   He let her hand back to her side.

   She rubbed at her eyes with her fists. “I saw a sign when we first came in about some sort of a hotel. I’ll…I’ll figure out what I want to do tomorrow.”

   The trip to the ‘hotel’ was more unpleasant than the trip to Rivet City itself. She was forced to backtrack and ask for directions and somehow still ended up on the wrong side of the fucking ship. Charon felt his patience thin quicker than his nonexistent hairline, and by the time she had muttered a hundredth shit, wrong door, he revealed his peephole to the world and began to subtly shove her in the right direction.

   “Okay, okay!” she hissed after he pushed her to the right. “I see it now! Jeez!”

   The hour on her Pip-Boy read that it was late; a Mister Handy behind a service desk rang up their accommodations for the night. He spun the hatch closed (and tight) and turned around to find her completely naked.

   He growled. This was unfair. “You realize where we are?” he asked caustically.

   “Yeah, with my deaf, mute, blind companion who is so not a ghoul,” she replied with an edge to her voice.

   It was good enough for him.

   She held up a hand as he came forward with his cock winking out for her to take a taste. “I want to see all of you.”

   His eyebrow muscles creased together. He didn't understand. “You have before.”

   She took the end of his belt in one hand and ripped it free from the loops. “Show me again.”

   He took a step back and complied. She got to her knees and undid his laces, helped him with his boots, took a lick and a swallow of his dick while he fumbled with his armor and weapons and that stupid fucking blanket he couldn't unwrap fast enough. 

   "So much pain," she said quietly, almost in reverence, as she watched every part of him fall away.

   Her fingers traced countless scars; the hardships his body had endured over many a trial, some unjust, most unkind, and all for the sake of someone else. Her lips pressed to the one at his waist; a knotted abomination of tangled muscle. She kissed another; a raised groove on his back that curved like a headless snake. The sight of himself didn’t bother him- it hadn’t for centuries. His mind was not molded for self-worth; his skin was not his own, not when it belonged to her in all of its rawest forms. Their eyes met; his cloudy but clear, hers seeing but blind.   "Charon, what happened to you?"

   He couldn't answer that. Not anymore.

   She tasted his mouth as she gently pulled him into bed, the weight of his tip pressed into the edge of her, and then she took him over it.

[kidotm]

What We're Worth

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

   Her leg rode up higher, curling around the thick trunk of his waist, her toes curled and pussy absolutely broken. He pawed at her tits, squeezed hard, the cracked skin of his nailless fingertips scratching and pulling at her nipples. How did the bed not break? It was caught in rough seas, being shaken and rattled down to its very bones. The frame was abused with blunt force, banging against the wall.

   Someone loudly knocked at their door.

   “Will ya keep it down!? Rest of us are trying to sleep!”

   The dense concentration of mortification plunged from a syringe straight into her heart would have killed her if not for the ghoul’s quickened pace, his hands wrapping around her hip bones to slam her home.

   “Fuck, fuck!” she cried. She wanted to beg, to plead, fuck me harder do me faster ruin me Charon, ruin me-

   It all left her lips even though she did not hear herself speak. Charon obeyed, pressing himself closer to drill his cock right through her as though he couldn’t fit enough of it inside. She kissed him, sloppy and uncaring. He rammed his tongue in and nearly choked her. The hard outline of his muscles continuously brushed her clit, plowing it from the fields straight up to the mountain peak.

   He made damn sure the entire ship could hear her.

   And then he stopped.

   When he finally finished, he pulled off and sat on the edge of the bed, his dick growing limp and eyes trained on the door. She laid there, dreamy and dazed, not knowing if this was real or just another night of falling asleep to the stars. Her fingers brushed down the length of his exposed spine; he turned his head to look at her.

   “You can stay in bed,” she whispered, shy, hopeful.

   He turned away. “I must take care of something. I will return.”

   She watched him get dressed, hide away his scars and burns and face, and then leave. She kept her back to the door. She wished she hadn’t said anything.

   He was seated in a chair in the corner when she eventually came to, the time on her Pip-Boy reading rise and fucking shine! She yawned, rolling through her tangled sheets until an arm dangled lazily off the side, her eyes catching his.

   “Sleep good?” she joked, blowing a wavy curl off her nose.

   His eyes slowly roved over to her exposed ass. She wiggled it.

   “So, do I want to know what you did last night?” she inquired, trading her birthday suit for modesty. “How did you even get around the ship?”

   “I took care of something,” he rasped indifferently.

   Mind your fucking business. It couldn’t have been more perfectly stamped on her dumb forehead. With a duck of her head from his toasty glare, she fastened the straps of her Pip-Boy to her wrist and went for the door, holding up a hand as he went to disguise himself.

   “I’m going to take care of something,” she said coolly. “You can wait here.”

   She then slammed it in his face before he could reply, with his stupid scowl, stupid shotgun, and stupid lack of hair. The lobby for the Weatherly Hotel had a new face representing it that morning. All the conversation stopped. She was stared at, all alone in a crowded room.

   “Are there showers anywhere on this boat?” Evelyn politely asked, trying to ignore the hawk-like eyes of the gossiping women at her side.

   “Right down the hall on your left,” the receptionist replied just as plainly. “Here’s the key for the door. It’s for hotel guests only.”

   Halle-fucking-lujah.

   The taps were spun, the water was blessedly hot, and she stood underneath the scalding spray until she felt like her skin would melt off and clog the drain. Clumps of tangled, knotted hair were pulled out and curled around her fingers, (she made a picture with it on the wall) and she brushed at the prickly sensation down her once-smooth legs (if she even gave a damn anymore). Her pussy was still a little sore. The vault suit was scrubbed scrubbed scrubbed free of the sewage smell that had leeched into the threads.

   The spray was shut off. A constant drip from the showerhead.

   Drip drip drip

   Do you even like boys?

   What? She’s drunk. A little more than usual. It’s not like Amata. Her once prodigal, on the straight and narrow, best friend was now a little bent. Some days, the days she’ll never confess to, she wants to just finish snapping her in half. Crack that pretty face, the one prettier than hers, right in two.

   I mean, I’ll obviously still be your friend!

   Says it like a badge of honor to wear. Performing the Vault a golden community service. She’s taken the G.O.A.T and received her lifelong duty- Be Friends with the Weird Girl, Forever!

   So…do you?

   She’s thought about it. Heard enough of the small-brain rumors drifting around the halls of this tiny community to not not question it. The doctor’s daughter might like the girls. A skirt chaser. Problem for the gene pool. But she’s not. She’s in love with Amata, but they’re something closer than simple kisses and holding hands, so she likes to still think.

   You can always tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else.

   And she looks up, but doesn’t see her face. It’s plain, just like everyone else’s. An anonymous entity, just another 101, and she thinks she might start to cry.

   Big baby Evelyn, she’s always crying.

   The hatch was spun shut. She raised her head; Charon was still in his chair in the corner, his expression no less dour than usual.

   “Sorry,” she said quietly.

   She had trailed water down the hall and into the room. Her hair was soaked and scraggly, and the vault suit had been wrung out until she was afraid it would somehow disappear into an invisible pocket of space. A little puddle formed at her feet. Her boots were wet. The Pip-Boy screen was fogged.

   “There’s showers,” she tried again, a little lamely. “There’s a key…it’s private.”

   He didn’t say anything but stared at her. She knew that look, the first of many she would come to recognize, the first page amongst the multitude in the Grumpy Ghoul’s Pop-Up Book- now with interactive grumbled audio for all your translating fun!

   “Are you ready?” she finally asked.

   Ding ding ding!

   He stood and holstered his shotgun on his back before beginning the tedious task of wrapping himself until he became a walking toilet paper roll.

   “Do you want some help?”

   He paused in covering his arm; he only slightly raised his eyes. With a faint nod, he held over the strip of fabric for her to take. She grazed his fingers with her own and it somehow made her knees shake. When the disguise was complete and the door was opened, she turned to find his hand already, just barely, reaching out for hers.

   She pulled him past the reception desk, heard the sniggering behind her back.

   “I see why she keeps him around.”

   “More like hear.”

   “Guess something works under all of that.”

   They passed a duo of security guards.

   “He was always a drunk- it’s no surprise, honestly. Lucky they retrieved what they could before the mirelurks got to him.”

   “Yeah, but you didn’t see the body when we slabbed him up. I’m telling you, there’s no way a fall like that could-”

   They snapped their mouths shut as they passed. One gave them a terse nod and generic warning as a way of greeting. “Staying out of trouble?” The two then dived into details once they were out of earshot.

   The Rivet City Marketplace was much busier than she would have expected. Charon was helped down the stairs, one step at a time, into the throng of people milling about. More than one strange glance was sent their way. The vendors were hectic chasing caps while their customers were shrewd with their deals. She stepped up to the first stall that wasn’t completely swamped, a swatch of ruby-red fabric catching her eye.

   “Ooh.” She went to caress the pretty dress before a sudden snapping made her withdraw.

   “Ah, ah, ah.” A twiddle of a finger. Naughty naughty. “Please do refrain yourself from sullying the merchandise, thank you.” He then held out a hand, most expectantly. “At least until you have paid.”

   Fully embarrassed at being schooled like a snot-nosed child, she bowed her head and automatically reached for her caps stash. It thankfully wasn’t anything to break the bank, and the man smiled an entirely different tune after he counted it into a register.

   “Here, let me get that off the rack for you…a most…interesting piece, indeed.”

   Evelyn lifted the dress- no, not a dress- the lacey, racy, could barely keep her tits from spilling overboard-

   She sputtered and quickly stuffed the sexy nightgown inside her bag before anyone else could notice. “Um, thank you,” she meekly choked out, and then she almost flung her shoulder out of its socket by how hard she tugged the big guy along to the next stall.

   A weathered man leaning against a gun cabinet gave her a weird look as they approached. “I heard about the ‘Mummy Man’ in town…seems they just about let anyone in on this tub nowadays.” He eyed her head to toe. “Course, not always a bad thing…”

   “I’ll spend my caps somewhere else,” she promptly responded with a pivot on her heel.

   “Whoa, hey now.” He hastily came around the side, unaware of the faceless head swiveling along with his every step. “I didn’t mean anything by it…you looking to do business, girl? I might even give ya a discount.”

   She squeezed Charon’s hand. Two fingers tapped her in return. She would take that as a yes.

   “What sort of discount are we talking?”

   With a grin, he bowed and waved an arm over to the assortment of guns on the rack. “What catches your eye?”

   She didn’t have a single fucking clue. They all did. Shiny, deadly, and out of her league in terms of skill. A bite of her lower lip, and she shrugged. This was Charon’s area of expertise, and he had been castrated of any opinion on it all.

   “Got any bullets? For a shotgun?” she asked with a touch of heartfelt innocence and overflowing ignorance.

   “Shells? Sure.” He again gave an overbearing grin as though he were ready to take a chomp out of her. He turned to retrieve a few shoddy boxes and stacked them on a knife-nicked countertop. “That’s three a shell…just for you.”

   “Thanks-?” she started, but then Charon reached up and blindly felt for the boxes, opening one to then trace a bandaged finger along the inside over every single piece of ammunition.

   The man across from them snorted. “What’s he doing?”

   A damn good question.

   “Uh.” She blinked, watching the ghoul continue with the second set. “He…likes to touch things, sometimes, like…to…uh, touch…them.”

   The man’s eyes stayed glued to her tits. “I bet he does.”

   “Okay.” She slapped some caps down. “Here-” She went to finish with pervert, but a thing on the wall stole away her insult. With wide eyes and a single finger, she pointed to it. “What is that?”

   He turned, loudly snuffing snot up his head. “Oh, that?” He pulled it off to clunk it down between them. “This here’s a power fist. Packs one hell of a wallop. Now, unfortunately, this one is a little shot on the hydraulics, so I ain’t too inclined to-”

   “I’ll take it,” she interrupted. It was no sooner a sad little scrapheap on the counter than it was a sad little scrapheap tied to the side of her bag, clanking along for the ride. If it was broken, Moira could fix it…she hoped.

   Gary’s Galley was her last stop- she wrapped away the mirelurk cakes with a watering mouth. The hostess leaned on the end of her broom to openly stare at them.

   “So, are you together?” she asked, a strange lilt to her voice.

   Evelyn nearly fumbled with zipping away the delicious treasures at the implication. She cleared her throat, keeping her eyes down and taking her time. Ziiiiiiiiiii-

   “Uh, I guess. Kind of? It’s…”

   What kind of question was that? Together? Why did she ask it in that way? She knew what she was asking. No one else had asked it like that. He was her…

   -iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

   What exactly was he?

   -iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

   “Complicated.”

   -iiiiiiiiiiip!

   The young woman sighed. “I wish my life were complicated.”

   I got a ticket just for that, Evelyn thought bitterly. She briefly pictured this woman having her world turned upside down, having this murdering tank of a ghoul stalking her every move, telling her it is fine and very well and maybe fucking her senseless and growling in her ear and sucking her tits-

   She held on to his hand a little too tight; tight enough that he tapped her with his fingers until she released him. They were soon crossing the bridge back out into the wastes, the thick haze shrouding them from all eyes.

   Her hand dropped from his. “We’re clear.”

   He reached up and began to unravel himself, every bit of cloth wound into a tight ball to then be shoved into her pack. (Who knew when it would be needed again).

   “We’re going to the Jefferson Memorial,” she said. He gave her a hard stare. “Oh my God, what?”

   Charon turned his head to the domed building just beyond their scope. “I do not advise it. It is not-”

   “Not safe,” she finished, shouldering her bag. “Well, it’s where my dad went, so-”

   “He is dead,” the ghoul rasped matter-of-factly. “Super mutants patrol the grounds.”

   “He’s not dead,” she bristled. “He hasn’t been here for weeks, that’s what Dr. Li, that woman, told me. If it’s been that long, then I doubt he’s over there, too. I just need to find out where he fucking went off to next.”

   Charon paused for a few minutes, then said, “Is it worth your life to find him?”

   She automatically went to answer with a yes…but…she looked down at her feet, gripped the straps of her backpack. To say any of this had been worth it…

   “I…” She felt that tremendous surge of pressure building inside her skull, the prickle of hot tears in her eyes.

   She’s always crying.

   “…he’s my dad,” she said thickly.

   It was all she had left. He was all she had left. She couldn’t say anything more, lest her throat constrict and her eyes begin to bawl and her nose gets stuffed. Those big sky-blues, so ugly in the rain.

   Charon released a deep sigh. “Very well.”

   At first, she protested, loudly. He had to snap at her to be quiet. Then, she begged…that was a first, outside of sex. He again snapped, shushing her sniffles and whiny fucking voice until he once again asked her if her father was worth it. She said yes. He didn’t ask why. He had pointed to the bridge that was still extended. She had shaken her head. She wanted to find her father; Charon wanted her alive. This was the easiest solution. She would die, otherwise. He wasn’t invincible, and she wasn’t very bright.

   “But, Charon-” she blubbered, her fingers worming into his armor. “-what if-what if-”

   “Super mutants are of no concern to me. You will be safe, and I will return.”

   “You promise?” she breathed.

   He looked her straight in the eye. “No.” With a gentle push on her lower back, he directed her back to the ship, and he only turned his eyes away from her retreating form once she had safely walked across, that blue vault suit disappearing in the swirling mist.

   He gave his attention back to the Jefferson Memorial.

   The walk was short. The super mutants were healthy in number and roved the complex in a disorganized fashion. The quicker he approached, the louder they became. Completely stupid beasts, but extremely troublesome. There were far too many for a single combative and sole liability- clearing the compound would take days, maybe a couple of weeks, to properly prep for minimal risk and come away with all limbs intact, but he wasn’t granted that sort of time. This was the most sensible solution.

   One was at the base of the giant metal catwalks that surrounded the memorial. It gnawed on the leg of a yao guai, its bulging eyes roving in their sockets to watch him pass. It grunted. He ignored it, his boots clanging up the footpath. The mutants just clambered on by, shaking the entire platform like a miniature earthquake rolling on through. Only a few so much as turned their head and breathed swamp-like gas at his passing, others, merely gnashed their teeth and shouted single-syllable words. 

   He found an entrance leading inside. She may be right. Perhaps her father was still alive. The super mutants appeared more recent than he would have initially assumed- no hints of piled carcasses or bags of wet gore. He would still have to be thorough, just in case. A centaur slowly watched him enter the main section of the gift shop and begin the tedious task of searching for clues as to her father’s whereabouts. He knew nothing of this man. Not what he looked like, or what his habits were…it may take some time. There were minimal signs of life. Empty coffee mugs, the crusty rings inside telling of more recent abandonment rather than decades. Paperwork not completely illegible, but scattered about and trodden underfoot. He kept out of the general way as he combed through the spaces, eyeing the blinking machinery. Mutants did not have the intellectual capacity to operate any of this. Someone had been here, at one point. He stepped into the rotunda and found a few holotapes in a pile that had not yet had the chance to accumulate much dust.

   He pocketed those and kept searching.

   A carton of cigarettes was swiped from an opened drawer. He drowned out the mindless, obnoxiously loud babble buzzing around him as he proceeded down to the lower basement level, a smoke at his mouth and a cloud of tobacco lingering at his heels. Two mutants were duking it out in a brawl. He sidestepped around and crushed the spent cigarette under his boot. There were a few nets filled with assorted limbs: feet with no toes, chewed-up hands, a few heads with their hair matted and black, their eyes empty. Not good.

   More holotapes, all labeled with the same handwritten signature as before. Project Purity. Maybe her father. He came upon a single closed door and stepped through. A bed, a desk, a scattering of the prerecorded disks just about everywhere. Better Days. That’s what one had read. They had all been neatly organized for the trip back to her. There was no sign of a body. Maybe she won't be so upset.

   A holotape player was poking out from a box full of strewn paperwork, half-buried. He stared at it. The chair sighed under his weight. Another cigarette was lit at his lips as he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, the pile of holotapes now stacked beside him.

   He then picked up the first disc, and hit play.

   Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty. Two hours.

   The vendor back at Flak N' Shrapnel’s gave her a wink as she stormed right up to the counter. “What’ll it be this time? Where’s your-”

   “Shut up and give me something that’ll make you think twice about talking,” she bit out with all the venom of a striking cobra. Her pile of caps was dumped between them. “And make sure it’s fucking loaded.”

   He chuckled and pulled a Chinese assault rifle off the wall, clicking the magazine into place. “Don’t hurt yourself, darling.”

   The bridge became a giant tambourine, beating along with every pounding of her boots as they marched right down the platform and straight into the person she had been too cross to even fucking see.

   “Oof!” she yelped, stumbling back to glare up into the face of whoever was standing in her fucking way.

   Charon was eyeing the rifle shaking in her hands. He raised a brow and placed a hand over it. “What is-”

   “Where the fuck have you been?!” she snarled. She threw the gun to the ground; his face was drawn in distaste. “I’ve been waiting for over two fucking hours for you! What the hell happened?!”

   He bent down to retrieve her weapon of choice but didn’t offer it back for her to take. He replied coolly, “I apologize for my absence. I did not mean to inconvenience you.”

   “Inconvenience? Inconvenience?!” She laughed, loudly and brashly. She directed a knife hand back the way he had come. “I thought you had fucking died! Oh my God, really?! I don’t have any way of knowing if you’re hurt, or if you’re waiting on me, or if something horrible happened.” She was getting too thick with her emotions, and she took a deep breath to get herself in check. “I was going to come and find you,” she finally warbled.

   Charon’s face had slowly gone from mild displeasure to nasty ire. With a clench of his jaw, he took a step back. His fingers were twitching.

   “Do not do that again,” he rasped, a veiled but promised threat. He then angled his body away from her, his leather gloves creaking from the pressure they held on to the rifle with. “He was not there.” When she didn’t say anything, he reluctantly continued with, “He is in Vault 112. It is where he said he would be going.”

   “And that was it?” she asked, hollow and uncaring. “Nothing about…me?”

   He briefly looked at her before throwing his gaze away. “No.”

   Her lower lip trembled. She spun on her heel and planted her hands on her hips before she could make that face he hated so much, the one that reminded him that he was stuck with an absolutely pathetic, lonely, vaultie reject that couldn’t even fend off the time of day.

   “Charon,” she faintly sobbed, her throat in pain from how hard she tried to fight it. “Do you know where Vault 112 is?”

   “No.”

   “Okay, okay, I guess that’s…um.” She brusquely rubbed at her snot-bubbled nose with her sleeve. “I don’t care. Fuck it. I really don’t care.” Her hands slapped at her sides. “I want a drink. Do you want a drink?” She eventually turned around. She couldn’t place the look he was giving her. “Oh, come on, I swear I won’t make a repeat of Dukov’s. Unless…” She winked her wet lashes at him. “You want me to?”

   He instead answered, “He is not worth it.”

   It was a couple runaway tears, then a flood, then a hysterical mess of chaffed eyes and a ruddy nose and cracked lips and a hoarse throat. Charon didn’t offer comfort, dole out chastisement, or do anything at all, really. He stood there, staring down at her with no expression on his nightmare of a face. She dry heaved. He watched. She cursed and shrieked and he remained still and gazed on and didn’t react in any way.

   “I fucking hate him!” she screamed, snatching the rifle back and suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun.

   It’s the taste of hot sand, dry salt. It’s sudden. It’s everywhere. There’s no escaping it, for she’s already made it. The Alpha and The Omega. The Beginning. The End. This is where it’s led to. She’s tried the door, pushed all the buttons, cried and cried and cried. Please let me in. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me out here. Don’t leave me here alone. It’s so lonely. I don’t know where to go. Dad isn’t here. Have you seen my dad?

   She only has the gun. It’s loaded. She couldn’t pull a single shot.

   But now she can.

   “Evelyn,” a single utter of her name. A thick, deep rasp, not something entirely human, but something wholly alive. “Please…come here.”

   She’s curled in a ball, shoved tight, tight, small, so incredibly small, inside a little hovel she had managed to squirrel into. A hand, scarred and ugly and stained with every shade of red, holds out. She takes it, feels the curl of his fingers around her, and lets him pull her up and away.

At the Door

Chapter Notes

A title reference by The Strokes

   It had been three days of unspoken words and downcast eyes. Charon was more than accustomed to the stiff silence from traveling alone, but it didn’t sit quite right with someone like her. It made their steps short and company restless. She didn’t want to eat; she barely slept. He had taken the rifle and chucked it as far as he could manage into the murky waters of the Potomac- an illogical and unpragmatic decision, but he felt better for it.

   They had arrived at the front steps of her house, her eyes just staring at the key laid out in the palm of her hand, and before he went to question her wellbeing, she put it in the slot and turned the lock.

   She got that drink. 

   It had been nabbed from the bin of other stashed bottles that she intended to sell to the bar. The cork was popped, the neck peered into. There was the first shot, then another. No decency for a glass, just the ghostly prints of her lips around the rim, that swirl of golden liquid tenderly swallowed. It was obvious she wasn’t much of a drinker, not that he had assumed she was. He had only set down his bag before catching her chasing that bitter pill with a taste of tequila and his soft cock. 

   His fingers shook as he tried to remain calm- she was much more enthusiastic with her performance than before, coiling him tightly around her hot little tongue as it sloppily kissed his tip, the stiff muscle dragging along the roof of her mouth. He growled as she suddenly swallowed him deep, and he came. She took it all. When she pulled away, a frothy bubble of spit and semen dribbled down her chin. She wiped at it with the back of her sleeve, and then reached for the bottle of booze. 

   “You drink?” she politely inquired, holding it over for him to indulge. He took it to set aside. She pouted, “Are you ever any fun?”

   His eyes followed as she moseyed to the tub with a drop of her clothes on the floor. She turned to look at him, her cheeks rosy red and eyes drunk with lust. 

   “Let’s take a bath.”

   He paused in unstrapping his thigh holster. She was every bit of bare as he liked to look at. She spun the taps, flicked tepid water from her fingertips. His eyes slowly roved up from the dark little curls to her plump breasts to her face, and then back down to his gear. He unclipped a grenade satchel and unholstered his shotgun. A boot was kicked off, and then the other. The zipper to his pants was sharp, his tattered shirt carelessly flung on the couch. The water sloshed up and over the lip of the tub as he settled inside.

   Her knee dug into his thigh while her hands held on to the dip of his broad shoulders as she climbed over him, wetly panting with a deliriously stupid smile on her face. His palms brushed down her back as she straddled his waist, his throbbing cock snugged nicely inside the curve of her ass. Between the two of them, the basin was uncomfortably small, but it was made up for with the tilt of her hips and a plunge straight down to his balls. His skull cracked against the porcelain as he smacked his head back, his eyes closed and breathing terse through his nose. 

   There was no room for his legs to move to simply jackhammer away, and so he was forced to succumb to her leisure with himself. He opened his eyes to her riding him, wild and fierce, her long hair acting as a veil over her face while her fingernails dug into the knotted skin of his chest. She made gaspy sounds, stuttered breaths. It appeared to be quite the effort. He parted her hair to see her.

   The floor was soon soaked with each wave of water that cascaded up and around the curve of her body. She abruptly halted her jerky rhythm, leaning forward with a part to her lips to collide with his. While he wrapped his tongue around her own he gripped the backside of her thighs with both hands, squeezing until he was sure it would leave bruises. He effortlessly lifted her high up his shaft before smacking her ass down, once, twice, and then the repetitive clapping of water and skin drowned her whimpering moans of pleasure. 

   She pulled her face away as he rallied himself home, a barely audible grunt escaping him as he blew as deep as he could go. A soft, coy smile was on her mouth as she slowly began to ride him from the precipice of ecstasy to something borderline insanity. 

   “Keep cumming in me,” she whispered. 

   His eyes rolled in the back of his head. He felt that hot heat inside her, the pressure she gripped him with. His muscles began to shake and his breathing grew heavy. He finally choked out, “N-no more.”

   She stopped, sitting there like a hunter atop her big game trophy while he collected his thoughts and willed his twitching limbs to still. When she remained in place with his cock growing soft inside her, the creeping itch of irritation replaced that of his fading orgasm. 

   “Will you get off?” he curtly rasped.

   All at once, her vixen visage soured. She granted his request, propping herself on the rim beside the spout. 

   “I want to finish bathing,” she said just as snappishly. 

   He stood, the droplets of water raining from his body as he lumbered out. He turned to watch her untangle her hair with her fingers, her eyes feeling his own and returning a heated glare. He gathered his things and walked up the stairs.

   She didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. She avoided his general company. She let her bowl of soup go untouched.

   He matched her cold shoulder with equal reserve. He didn’t offer in repairing the powerfist she had tagged along, watched her waste her caps after trading it over to the wacky smoothskin. 

   “Oh, Rivet City?” The shopkeeper brightened. “Did you by chance get to-?”

   His employer slumped her face in a hand. “Shit. Sorry, no, I completely forgot. I’ll be sure and get to it next time.”

   Next time? So, she would be planning on returning. (He hated his disguise).

   Moira shrugged. “No biggie, just be sure and get the full scoop when you do! Take care now!”

   Evelyn only returned to her room long enough to change into the vault suit. It was her tell-tale sign that they would be leaving, and so he gathered his things to meet her at the door. She didn’t wait for him or bother to see if he followed. 

   She took to well-traveled roads; they must be returning to Northwest Seneca station. She kept him a few steps at a distance; he killed everything with stone-cold vigor. His hunch proved correct after they entered the courtyard and descended the metro steps to bid words of business to the hermit ghouls. 

   “Did it work out, between you and Hoff?” she asked as he set up shop in the dimly lit corner with a neon sign that read Do Not Fuck With. 

   Murphy came over with a bag of caps. “As promised, smoothskin. You’re one hell of a lifesaver.”

   She smiled. She seemed happy with the compliment. “So, what’s next, then? Keep collecting Sugar Bombs?”

   Murphy looked over to his partner, and then went to wrap an arm around her shoulder. Charon growled to make him reconsider if he liked having it still attached to its socket. The necrotic hand dipped back to his side, and he instead motioned to the entrance from whence they had entered. 

   “Well, you see, smoothskin,” he rasped uneasily, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done-”

   Barrett interrupted with, “Hoff can supply us with Sugar Bombs.”

   Murphy whipped a glare at him. “We agreed on being easy!”

   Barrett simply shrugged.

   His employer gasped, the incredulity on her face almost comical. “You’re cutting me out?! After all of that-?!”

   “Hoff’s giving me a better deal than what I pay you for,” Murphy interjected, the salt in the wound being vigorously scrubbed in. “Sorry, smoothskin…good luck out there.”

   They got the boot to the ass and were out the door. Good. It was one less thing for him to worry over. 

  She couldn’t believe it! Give a chem-peddling ghoul an inch, and they’ll take a mile. She huffed, cursed, and loudly stomped her way back to Megaton. Fine! She’ll just have to keep every box of stale cereal for her self from now on, make them rue the day they decided to go ahead and burn that bridge-!

   A guttural cough at her back made her spin around, a furious snarl on her lips. 

   “What?” she growled.

   Her prick of a bodyguard only waved the biting end of his shotgun to an abandoned shack, the long shadows from the waning sun stretching their silhouettes across the sand.

   “I’ll meet you back home,” she said snidely before balling her fists at her sides to storm off down the road once more. 

   His fingers were soon wrapped around her elbow, halting her one-woman army march. “I do not advise-”

   She rudely shook him off. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

   Charon growled, spitting through clenched teeth, “Do not be stupid. It is not-”

   She again interrupted him with, “Ooh! Not safe!” She mockingly waved her hands. “Pfft! Nowhere’s safe enough for you.”

   He took a single step back and glowered at her. “You are being a brat.”

   “Well you’re being a dick!” She carried on once more. “Stay, don’t. No one’s ordering you to.”

   His face went from smoldering ire to a completely blank slate. He remained awfully quiet after that…so quiet, she would forget that he was in step behind her. The continuous fury pounding through every step eventually tired her out and beat the anger from her bones when the highrise of Megaton’s gates came into view. She glanced over her shoulder; he didn’t look at her in return. Rather than face an awkward stand-off in the tiny proximity of their home, she thought it best to hash out the apologies here and now. 

   You’re an adult now.

   She turned around, fiddling with her braid and observing the split ends. (It would need a trim).

   “Hey,” she started, glancing up for his reaction. “Sorry for being a bitch…I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

   He stared at her. Typical response. She would have to nudge a little further.

   She cleared her throat and looked off into the distance. “I know you’re just doing what you do-”

   He marched straight past, his deep rasp hollow and stony. “I advise we continue.”

   Well!

   Her hands flew straight to her hips. “Are we really going to do this every time?”

   He halted. “Be quiet.”

   She gaped at him, his complete uninterest once again hotly burning the tinder in her veins. “Oh my God, I was just trying to-!”

   Charon rushed up and clapped a hand over her mouth, his pungent sweat overpowering. “Stop talki-”

   A bullet whizzed by, inches from her head, but perfectly aligned with Charon’s chest. He grunted, stumbling backward a few steps, and was hit with two more. One went straight through his thigh, the other lodged well into his abdomen. 

   Her hands had flown to her mouth in sheer terror at the sight of blood and the sudden deafening sound of gunfire. Charon didn’t waste a single moment as he grabbed her by the shoulder and face-planted her into the dirt, a wheeze of pain rattling from his throat as he reached behind for his weapon to return the favor. The sand sifted from her clothes as she rolled over, trying to fight the initial instinct to curl up in the smallest possible ball to avoid being hit as she watched a mercenary lose his head all in the span of seconds, the blast smearing a wet cloud of blood in the air. 

   That armor. That bounty. They were here for her. 

   I will keep you safe. It is of no concern.

   Another had barreled around the carnage of his misted companion, the sights of his gun aimed at her forehead. She scrabbled backward, a scream lodged in her chest, she couldn’t move fast enough, this was it-

   The shot rang out just as she raised her hands up and screwed her eyes shut, but nothing came. They opened to Charon clutching at his side with one palm; a steady, thick gush of blood oozed from between his fingers.

   It is my duty.

   “Stop it!” she screamed, clawing her way to her feet despite just how heavy they felt, how they dragged through the sand, why was he so far away so suddenly? “NO!”

   Her shrieks jolted life into the ghoul, animating his limbs once again with ingrained violence as he reached out and nabbed at the mercenary’s arm, twisting it up, then to the side, then crack! The merc screamed, his arm awkwardly askew with a white peek of bone at the elbow (hello there!) and the gun getting kicked around at their feet as they shuffled in a dance. Charon took the lead, the flash of his knife sinking pleasingly in his gut. He twisted it, ignoring the stuttered choking and spray of blood spat on his face, and slit him open from belly to chest. His guts spilled out, a leak of yellow fluid dripping between his thighs.

   The third one came wielding his own jagged blade in a direct line for Charon’s spine when his back was still turned. Evelyn tackled his legs, a mess of limbs and a kick in the teeth and a punch in the face. She screamed and bit and scratched, (I hate you! I hate you! Leave us alone!), her howls completely mad and nipping at the air with blunt teeth. The combat knife rose up, nasty and full of ill intent, but the entire limb was blown off before it could meet its mark. She flinched from the blast, giving the mercenary enough leeway to sit back upright, only for a second blow to snap him back flat.

   Charon stumbled over, his back hunched and breathing labored. With a raise of the barrel, he fired another shot, and then another, and then let his gun drop from his hands to his feet. 

   It was quiet, a lick of a breeze rolling by to kiss their salted brows.

   “Oh my God,” she panicked. She was on her feet, shuffling for her discarded bag that had been thrown to the side. “Holy shit-holy shit-um, okay, okay, I-I have some stims-”

   Charon raised his bloodied palm to his face, squinting his eyes at something in the invisible lines of his hand. His stare dragged over to her, and all at once, the fires seemed to dim. He then fell face-forward with a thud, billowing a puff of dust.

   “Charon!” Her hands were all over him. They pulled away sticky, warm, much too warm. “Charon!”

   He wasn’t moving. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. 

   “Charon?!” She took a shoulder in one hand and roughly shook him. “Get up, Charon!”

   She didn’t care what could hear her. 

   “Get up!” she shouted, tugging at his slick palm with a sobbing cry. “Charon, get up! Wake up!” She threw his hand down and screamed, “I ORDER YOU TO GET THE FUCK UP! GET UP NOW!”

    A low groan. The ghoul ever so slowly brought his arms underneath himself, his entire body quivering from the effort. She dived underneath, sobbing as he crushed her with his entire weight. 

   “You have to help me! I can’t carry you alone! Please don’t die, please get up, please!”

   Charon’s hand shot out, his fingers digging through the silt that had been muddied red. She heaved and gasped as he toppled back to the ground. He didn’t move again no matter how hard she wailed at him to. 

   The bag was torn open, bits and pieces of scavenged junk and personal items scattered everywhere without a single fucking thought as to their value as she procured all of her medical supplies and put all of her strength into rolling him over. 

   She stabbed him twice with Med-X. Three stims were next. She didn’t know how to pry a bullet or check for an exit wound. She was not her father. Her father the fucking good doctor. The one who could help. The one who wasn’t there in her most dire time of need. 

   He is not worth it.

   “Charon, Charon,” she feverishly whispered. A prayer, a name of faith, (I’m calling to you God please answer me). She wiped the sweat and dirt and blood from her forehead with the back of her hand and gently held his face between her palms. “Hey, hey, wake up big guy.”

   Nothing. She ripped off his armor and unzipped his jacket and crushed his chest with the side of her skull as she listened-

   A drum; a solo beat tattooed behind her eyes. 

   Her lips brushed against the clammy skin of his cheek, her breath moist. “I’m coming back, okay? I’m coming back for help. Don’t die, you hear me? I order you not to die. I’ll be back.”

   She had never run so far and so fast, so quick were her feet across the wastes, her lungs threatening to combust into hot ash as she rounded the gates, frantically waving her arms up at the lone sentry with a blood-curdling scream in her throat. 

   “I NEED HELP!”  

   They moved much too slow. She pounced and paced and shouted profanities until they finally came out with a stretcher towed behind a brahmin and followed her out into the pitch black of night. She didn’t have a pin marked where she had left him; it didn’t occur to her to, for she somehow knew exactly where to go, where to find him. They came upon the three corpses and the ghoul, everything right where she had left it, little dolls, expendable playthings. (Look, this one’s my favorite!)

   It took three men to heave Charon onto the stretched lining while Lucas Simms rolled over a corpse with the toe of his boot, a deep grimace etched on his face. Evelyn forwent their things as she kept close to Charon’s side, coming to snap at a man who had so dared declare that they stop to take a break. 

   “I’ll light that bomb in your ass if you don’t keep fucking moving!” she shrieked. She shoved him aside, taking the brahmin’s lead rope for herself. “Let’s go!” 

   The rest of the way was paved with the lines in the sand from the stretcher being pulled along. She darted ahead, instructed them to bring him home, to their home, busted down the front door and upended the living room and dashed up the stairs to throw her mattress over the railing. It slapped with a loud bang on the ground floor.

   “Put him there, put him there!” she directed, holding Charon’s right arm as it flopped over. All three men grunted as they set him flat on his back, the mattress severely dipping beneath the weight. She leaned out of the doorway of her house for a recognizable figure amongst the small crowd that had gathered around the commotion. “Where is-?”

   “Here!” Moira, a shining beacon in the darkness, burst through like a ray of holy light with a neon-green glowing device in hand and an always too optimistic of a smile on her face. “I have just the ticket, at least, it should work-”

   Evelyn tugged her inside and slammed the door shut amongst the multitude of curious faces. “Hurry.”

   They knelt on either side of him, his chest rising with shallow breaths. 

   Oh, how frail, he seemed. So very old, no longer stoic or coldly proud. Her iron tower, crumbled and fallen before her feet. The ashy brimstone stained her hands a dark red, almost black, the flakes dusting him as she peeled his shirt away. He was lying quietly at the bottom of the ocean, a monster sunken to the impenetrable depths in a murky grave of cold sand. She only had to tie the rope off, bring him back to the surface and warm sun.

   This was all her fucking fault.

   “Okay, let’s take a look over here-” Moira pressed a few fingers to the ugly puncture wound in his abdomen, and then raised her eyes with a pitiful look to them. “Oh…I’m so sorry…”

   Evelyn didn’t understand. She motioned with a hand at the blood seeping onto her floor. “What are you waiting for? Fix him!”

   Moira sat back on her heels. “I don’t think we can…”

   Evelyn’s lower lip quivered, and her eyes felt hot. She glanced over to the weird, glowing device Moira had brought along.

   You’re ready to be on your own.

   (He’s all she had left)

   Evelyn reached over and swiped at the device, stabbing it into the side of Charon’s ribcage before Moira could do so much as lift a finger.

   Moira’s eyes went wide after the emptied canister was tossed to the side, its unnatural glow now faded. She exclaimed, “I don’t know what the entire dose will do!”

   Evelyn ignored her callous decision and brought her face close to his, her eyes wildly looking over and carefully scrutinizing for any sign that he would wake up, glower at her, rasp in his deep, grumpy voice to stop it, rarragraw.

   But he didn’t do any of that. 

   Evelyn inspected the wound. “It’s closing…that means it’s working, right?” Her voice broke, her fingers tenderly tracing his permanent scowl. A few tears rolled off her nose, the snot loudly snuffed up her head. “You have to wake up now.”

   He didn’t. Still. Silent.

   “Why isn't it working?!” she cried. She looked up. “You said it would work! It’s not fucking working!”

   Moira looked across to her. “I am so sorry-”

   “Get up!” she screamed, throttling his shoulder with both hands. “Wake the fuck up! You’re all better! I ORDER YOU TO WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

   Charon snapped upright, howling as he clawed at himself and tore away at the skin, making it crack and bleed.

   “Charon!” Evelyn cried as she made to embrace him, but she instead recoiled after he whipped around to her with a hateful expression on his face, lunging for a grab at her throat. 

   He immediately crashed to his knees, wheezing in insurmountable pain and screwing his eyes shut as he beat at his skull with his own fists. 

   “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he snarled.

   “Charon!” she wailed again, and he all at once ceased hitting himself.

   He glared at her and roared, “YOU LEFT THE FUCKING BULLET IN ME!”

   His eyes snapped to the knife attached to her hip. He rudely took it, ripping off his shirt completely to wring it into a tight coil to then bite down on, the handle of the blade flipped in his hand as he then looked down at his waist. The tip was dipped inside the flesh with a strain to his neck and a pained grunt.

   “I wouldn’t-” Moira began, but Charon withdrew and snapped his jaw at her. 

   “Pliers,” he demanded. “NOW.”

   Much to Evelyn’s surprise, (and utter relief), the shopkeeper just raised a thumbs up and burst out the front door, leaving her alone with the ghoul who was acting more feral than sane. Her nostrils flared as she could only stand by and watch, genuinely afraid, while his fingers began to slip and slide over the reopened wound.  

   She licked her lips. “C-can I-?” 

   His neck cracked as he spun to her, the burning embers in his eyes relit and blazing an uncontrollable wildfire. The handle of the knife was still clenched in his fist- he appeared to want nothing more than to fuck her throat with it.

   The door burst open with Moira and the pliers extended. “Here you are-!”

   Charon swiped at them with a growled, “Get out.”

   The door slammed right back shut.

   Charon flexed his other hand before taking a bite of his shirt once more, his brows extremely cross and breathing careful and slow. With a tilt of his head, he began to insert the needle nose pliers, his jaw popping and breathing becoming stunted. 

   The pliers made a wet sucking noise after they came back out beholding gooey, red webbing and a tiny piece of brass. It made a loud clink to the floor. 

   He brusquely rubbed at his eyes, muttering something under his breath that she couldn’t decipher, and felt unwise to ask. A shaky breath was released from the pit of his chest as he let the tool carelessly fall from his hand, his head slightly turning to her standing there frozen in the corner.

   “I require a Stimpak,” he rasped. There was no movement, and he turned further to fully face her. “Stimpak.”

   She nodded, giving the ghoul a wide berth as she pattered up the stairs to retrieve the remaining few she kept in an emergency stash. He only plucked one from her trembling hands, injecting it into the base of the exposed flesh. He scanned her from head to toe as she quietly stood there in case he needed more aid. 

   His eyes lifted, his voice low. “Are you injured?”

   A faint shake of her head.

   The timber had been patched, the sails stitched, and the stern spared. He was ready for open waters, once again, but she didn’t want to set foot on board.

   She sidestepped around him, flinching when he turned a little too quickly to follow her with his gaze. “I’m going to sleep at Gob’s tonight.” 

   He didn’t say anything as she went for the door and stepped right through it, the frame closed between them.

The Bounty

   Gob’s was busy. A wandering caravan had rolled through, enjoying the refreshment of a safe settlement after having gone astray for the past couple of weeks. She weaved through the throng of drunken, garbled singing and reckless fists until she got to the ghoul behind the bar. 

   “Howdy smoothskin,” Gob began, but then he took in the dried blood all over her suit and skin. “Holy-”

   “I need a room,” she pleaded. “I, I don’t have any caps at the moment, but-”

   He waved a hand before sliding a beer to an elbow. “Don’t worry about it. Last door up the stairs.”

   The sheets hadn’t been changed. There was an empty vodka bottle on the table. Someone else’s holey sock was serving as an unwanted guest at the foot of the bed. 

   The knob was fiddled. She had locked it. There was a loud knocking on the other side of the door. She ignored it.

   "Evelyn." That deep rasp. Knockknockknock. "Evelyn?"

   She pulled the covers under her chin and stared at the ceiling. There was no hole to see the stars. The knocking soon ceased. A bout of laughter rose up from the rowdy crowd below.

   She didn't sleep no matter how many times she closed her eyes, willed the muscles to relax, told herself it would all be okay in the morning when everything looked better under a warm, bright light. She dreamed of drifting along open waters, calm and serene, until something snagged her leg with a powerful grip and began to pull her down, down, so far down, until the ray of the sun was smothered by that black water and she couldn’t breathe. 

   She leaned over the edge to the monster crawling out from under the bed. It nabbed at her ankles and snapped them. It had glowing eyes and an ugly sneer and stood by in the shadowed corner of her room, always awake, always watching, always waiting.

   The murmuring of voices and retreating footsteps eventually got her out of bed when the sun was well and high, the sunlight illuminating the empty space.

   She slowly opened the door, afraid of what could be on the other side. Charon was leaning against the railing just outside her door, his arms crossed and expression…exceptionally smoldering. 

   “The sheriff wishes to speak with you,” he rasped, bone-dry.

   He took in her disheveled appearance; she had slept in everything, from the suit to the boots to the blood. Unlike herself, he didn't betray a single thing from the day prior. Besides his armor having been left in the hot sands, he appeared as himself as ever- a withstanding fortress of pure spite and towering bones. He followed her and moved with that unnerving grace of absolute power, parting the crowds just by simply being there. They met the sheriff posted by the front gates, his eyes squinting against the harsh sun as they trudged up the hill. He didn't care to comment on her shit state.

   “Some of us took it upon ourselves to go back out early this morning and get your things,” Simms began, but he held up a hand before she could thank him for the selfless deed. “It wasn’t done as a favor. I was more interested in the men you brushed up against.” He reached inside his duster to pull out a familiar-looking missive. “Care to explain why Allistair Tenpenny wants you dead?”

   She gave him a look. “I don’t even know who that is.”

   Charon suddenly growled, “This is unnecessary.” 

   Both turned to stare at the unexpected outburst, but he didn’t elaborate. With a curt fold of her arms, she gave her attention back to the only source she could glean about her personal bounty. 

   “Who’s Allistair Tenpenny?” 

   Charon stalked between them and snapped, almost threateningly to Simms, “I advise you to leave.”

   Simms raised a dark eyebrow, outwardly unperturbed by the threat. 

   “Charon!” she gasped. 

   Simms tipped his hat up by his thumb. “I care about the safety of this town and all of its citizens, whether it be brahmin, human, or ghoul, and if you know what I’m asking about, then I suggest you don’t keep it to yourself. It’ll get you killed.” He eyed Charon's immediate defensive stance of clenched fists and a loathing glare. “Safe to say, it already did.” 

   The swing was halted mid-air just a few inches from her head; she had jumped in the middle just as he took the first step. The impact would’ve cracked her skull. She noticed the brush of Simms’ hand on his gun inside its holster. 

   “Charon!” She pointed to their house with a barked, “Go wait inside!”

   He stared down at her. No very well or as you wish or even a grumbled complaint, just a pivot on his heel as he stalked off. 

   When he was out of sight, she hugged herself and tiredly apologized, "Sorry, it's just-"

   “I’m going to be honest here,” Simms told her frankly, his usual fair nature sharpened to a biting edge, “I don’t know what the relationship that you two have is, but it’s done more harm than good. Look, I like you, kid. You’re alright, but that ghoul you have tagging along? I don’t trust him.”

   “Charon’s saved my life more times than I can count,” she bristled. “He’s not a bad person, he’s just…Charon.” 

   “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Simms shook his head and sighed. “Those Talon mercenaries are a bad deal, and I know firsthand they won’t stop until they’re dead, or paid.”

   She looked off to the side at the stream of water flowing from the eastern piping. (It would need to be patched, and soon). 

   She asked without meeting his eyes, “Who’s Allistair Tenpenny?”

   Simms shoved his hands in his duster, following her stare before diving into the details of Tenpenny's abhorrence for general wastelanders and his special bigotry for ghouls. He finished with, "Tenpenny Tower is his brainchild, so they say."

   She shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

   “Well he’s heard of you.” 

   She fiddled with her fraying braid and threw it over one shoulder, looking up into the shadow under his brim. “What does he want with me?”

   Simms clicked his tongue and began to walk off. “Maybe you should ask him that question.”

   (She'd rather fix the piping)

   The house was unnaturally quiet when she came inside. The mattress had been removed, the table and chair righted and straightened, and the blood scrubbed from the floor. He was sitting there, sharpening his blade, the long, slow strokes he made along the edge ominous in that tiny dwelling. 

   Shhk Shhk  

   He only raised his eyes to look at her, his hands continuing with their habitual duty. The door was closed at her back, and they were alone. 

   Shhk Shhk

   She awkwardly cleared her throat. “So, um…how are you feeling?”

   He pulled the blade to his face to observe the edge, his voice flat. “Do you require something?”

   She watched him run a thumb down, tilt the knife slightly, his eyes honed in on his practice. When the minutes began to pass and she remained quiet, he gave his full attention back to his work. 

   Shhk Shhk

   She looked down at her feet, unable to face those burning flames that licked away her psyche as though it was nothing more than golden stalks of dried grass. She finally said, her voice timid and thick, “Where’s Tenpenny Tower?”

   Every hair on the back of her neck stood up. She trembled, but finally glanced over for his reaction. He looked unreal, so stiff and narrowed in, an animatronic not yet brought to life. He clenched a fist, once, twice, shook his head and snorted and rubbed at his eyes. She thought him to be in pain before he began to speak, all the while smushing his eyeballs into his brain and flexing his free hand into an iron slugger. 

   “It is southwest of the RobCo Facility.” He clenched his jaw while looking off to the side and tersely sighed, his rasp heavy with underlying rage. “We will be shot on sight.”

   Her fingers wrapped around the doorknob digging into her spine. “You’re not coming.”

   He simply stared at her, then belted out an empty, brutish laugh. It whiplashed a seedy heat right between her thighs. 

   “You cannot be serious,” he rasped, shaking his head again.

   “I am.”

   With an abrupt rise from his seat, he slammed his knife into the table all the way down to the hilt.

   She licked her lips. “I’m bringing someone else.”

   The words seemed to break him; he unhinged, straightened, and then growled, “Who?”

   “I…haven’t asked him yet.”

   “You are replacing me.” He gave an accusatory glare. “Are my services not adequate for your needs?”

   She took a step forward and shouted, “I thought you were dead!” She pointed to the floor where he had just been, so very still and creeping on the edge of someplace else. “If Moira hadn’t come-!”

   The chair was slammed over, the sharp crack frightening her out of her wits. Charon wrapped a gloved palm around the handle of his knife and effortlessly ripped it free. He stormed over, pushing her back into the frame with just his raw anger alone. “Who is replacing me?”

   She didn’t answer- she was fixated on the knife in his hand, something inches from her throat. He could saw right through her spinal cord and perch her head on the wall, tell guests stories of his most obnoxious fucking employer to date. 

   “Who is he?” he demanded.

   She felt her lower lip quiver as she looked up into his face, wholly terrified.

   The ghoul immediately took back a step. He seemed to consider her for a moment seriously, and then said, “You know I cannot hurt you. You are my employer.”

   She whispered, “Even though you hate me?”

   He gave her a weird look. “I do not hate you.”

   She felt ready to burst into tears. “Everything’s been all my fault.”

   “Yes,” he flatly agreed. 

   She rubbed her fists into her eyes, sobbing, “I fuck everything up!”

   He nodded.

   “I hate the wasteland! I hate everything!” she bemoaned, sniffing loudly. “I don’t want to be here!”

   Charon stared down at her as she cried, then calmly rasped, “Where you go, I shall follow.”

   Her wet lashes fluttered as she blinked past them to see him clearly. The small knife he had given her was on the edge of the bookcase, the crusted blood that still coated the edge stiffening her shoulders and tightening her lips into a thin line.

   “We’re going to Moira’s.”

   There wasn’t a single excuse for him to make. The Talon mercenaries had been lying in wait, aware of her consistent routes. He should have known better, had clearer foresight, should have realized it was going to happen sooner rather than later. His clear sense of duty had been muddled. He had been thinking of what to say, something that wouldn’t upset her further while they were in a safe setting (in the predictable event she would argue).

   He had very much wanted her to ask for another bath. 

   These were not the thoughts he was meant to have. 

   He had been more than content to die there. He had fulfilled his duty, kept her safe. It was the inevitable outcome. He had not expected her to bring him back, to be so stupid as to risk herself for his own sake. Something in him had snapped at seeing her there, at recognizing the immense relief on her face for him. It squeezed something in his ribcage; an electric tingle down to his toes and up to his cheeks.

   He must be going feral. He should be replaced. She had every reason to do so. It shouldn’t matter who it was for…but it did. He would ask her again when she seemed to be in a lighter mood, but she only kept her cold shoulder as they stepped into Craterside Supply.

   The obnoxious smoothskin (who he begrudgingly admitted had saved his life) turned around and smeared an entire glob of grease across her forehead. Intentional? He did not know. (She seemed insane in the general aptitude of things). There was that big fucking smile he inwardly squinted against aimed directly at him.

   “Well look at you! Up and about already-?”

   “Moira, can we talk?” Evelyn leaned over the countertop. “Privately, please?” 

   He remained downstairs with the mercenary in the corner. They held a silent stare down while the women took to speaking in low tones just out of earshot above them. 

   “-you don’t go and get yourself in too much trouble now, okay?” Moira chirped as she suddenly came to stand before him. He subtly balked when she crossed her arms and sized him up. “So, do you feel any interesting side effects from my concoction? Oh! How about any abnormalities in regards to, um, changes in the downstairs plumbing?”

   The slight widening of his eyes was the only indication he was horrified. He immediately looked over to his employer who was speaking in turn with the mercenary that oversaw the store. 

   “I’ll meet you outside the front gates,” he heard Evelyn say. “Thanks again.”

   “Whatever, so long as I get paid,” the man grumbled in return.

   Moira was still jabbering away at his elbow. “There was this fascinating thing I had read about ghouls actually healing from immense amounts of radiation, and, well, just hearing what had happened I just had to-”

   He rudely brushed past her just as his employer made to leave. Before the door had even closed behind them, (and Moira had beamed can’t wait to talk soon!) he snarled, “No fucking way.”

   “She just needs someone to watch the store,” she dully dismissed him as they strode down the metal catwalks. “I’m sure it’s easier than being with me.”

   “I wish to be with you,” he rasped with genuine honesty. 

   She looked at him, a glimmer of something sparking behind her eyes, but then it just as quickly faded. “She’s a good person. If something happens, she’ll make sure you’ll be okay.”

   Charon stopped in his tracks just as they came to her door. “You discussed my contract.”

   “I had to.”

   He growled, “You should have let me die.”

   She turned, a look of absurd disbelief on her face, and then she laughed. A great, loud, crystal clear laugh from her belly. It pricked strange pins in him. 

   “You are so dramatic!” she guffawed. 

   She shook her head and went straight to her room. He followed, bracing a hand on the frame before she could close it. 

   “When will you return?” he rasped.

   She unzipped her suit and began to wiggle from her boots, nabbing at the oiled leathers to slip into. He didn’t see why she was suddenly wearing it instead. Her long hair was scooped back and coiled in a bun. 

   “I don’t know.”

   He didn’t like that answer.

   She lamely shrugged at his scowl. “It’s the best I got.”

   Her back was turned as she went to upend her bag on the bed, but she just stared at the sight of the darkened stains on the mattress. 

   “Maybe you’ll like Moira’s better,” she said quietly without turning around. 

   He already knew that to be false. His eyes followed her hands as she went about organizing her things, not once turning to address him again. 

   He shifted his weight. “I wish to take a bath.”

   The zipper to her backpack was pulled. “Go for it.”

   He scratched at his elbow, clarifying, “I do not wish to bathe.”

   They stared at each other. He blinked. Her face bloomed a bright, vibrant red.

   “Oh, um…” She bit her bottom lip. “I-I told him I wouldn’t be too long…”

   He automatically responded with, “It will be quick.” 

   They didn’t draw a bath. They didn’t even make it down the stairs. He bent her over her desk, scattering her things all over the floor and pounding her into the metal frame. He ruined her hair as he pulled at it, snugged an arm around the curve of her breasts and held her tight, growling in her ear while she dove a hand down to touch herself. He placed his palm over her own, cupping her and forcing their fingers to move in tandem through the slick. She tensed, her eyes screwed shut and mouth open. He had the sudden thought of placing his slippery fingers inside, and so he did, rolling the taste of herself around her tongue. 

   He was unfortunately right. It was quick. 

   Moira’s mercenary was awaiting her as previously agreed upon, smoking a cigarette and casually standing by Deputy Weld. 

   He flicked the spent butt to the dirt and turned to greet them. “Hey.”

   Charon stormed up and nabbed him by the collar. “Bring. Her. Back,” he snarled in his face, dropping him without an apology or care. 

   The mercenary stumbled, coughing and attempting to regain his footing. 

   “I’m so sorry!” Evelyn apologized whilst grabbing Charon’s hand to pull him into a corner by the gate. She gave him an imploring look. “Please be nice to Moira.”

   His fingers twitched against her own, the very ones he had just been having his way with. He groused through clenched teeth, “I shall…try.” 

   It seemed to be a satisfactory answer, for she nodded and eventually let him go, moving on in step with the mercenary that glared daggers at him as they set off. 

   Charon waited until they were no longer in sight…and then he steeled his nerves to walk up to-

   “She finally told you to get lost, huh?” 

   A sneering voice made him turn his head slightly. The filthy scum zipping up his pants after a quick leak on the side of the building gave him a respectable distance, but it didn’t seem to apply to his mouth. 

   “Man, you are so fucking ugly.” Jericho hacked and spat at his feet. “Too bad you survived that…not doing anyone any favors.” 

   Charon snorted, then feinted. Jericho flinched from the false move and tripped over himself, plopping down on his ass before slinging curses and slurs as he hurried away. The ghoul shook his head and continued to the general store. His hand hadn’t even touched the knob before it swung open with a rush of air.

   “O-kay!” Moira exclaimed, dressed in a faded yellow biohazard suit. “Let’s get started!”

[kidotm]

Ghouls, (Explosive) Spice, and Everything Nice

 “So…um…” Evelyn blanked at the mercenary. 

   He stared at her, rolling a cigarette around his lips, waiting on her to continue when she just sat there, stupid. She suddenly realized she didn’t even know this guy’s fucking name. 

   “Uh-”

   No, that couldn’t be right. She’d had to have heard it at least once before. She’d been living in Megaton for months now, was a regular patron of the store, occasionally met his eyes in a nonverbal greeting. Perhaps in passing? A casual introduction? Maybe he had a fucking name tag she somehow missed? He was still waiting; this Nameless Man. She could just ask him. That wouldn’t be too rude, would it? Wastelanders didn’t seem to hold the same standard when it came to proper etiquette. He wouldn’t be offended-

   “So,” he drawled out, shaking the frying pan over the small fire he had built. “Evelyn, right?”

   Fuck.

   She scratched at her scalp and pointed to the sizzling contents. “What’re you making?” 

   He shifted his feet through the dirt. “Brahmin belly scramble with roasted Instamash.” 

   Damn, that sounded good. 

   He eyed her practically drooling and reached for two metal bowls from his pack, slopping down a steaming portion for her to take. “I hope you’re hungry.” 

   It was good. Maybe Charon would prefer Moira’s after all…

   The Man with No Name watched her inhale her plate and remarked in between slow chews, “That ghoul, Charon, how’d you come by him?”

   Buy, would’ve been the more appropriate term, but she didn’t care to share that information over supper. 

   She instead leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the starry sky. “It’s a long story.”

   “Well, alright.” He lipped his smoke in one corner of his mouth and spat a disgusting stream of dark spit on the sand. “I got first watch. I’ll wake you when I need to.”

   She curled her spine to the fire and stared at the multitude of holes in heaven’s floor. Every toss and turn from fitful sleep would be met with sore disappointment at the lack of a seven-foot total dickhead. Mystery Merc was just as much an insomniac, however, for they only swapped sleeping arrangements a few hours before the sun came to start the day.

   He fished her nose out of her Pip-Boy screen with a casual nudge in her side, pointing to the looming building in the distance with his rifle. 

   “No need for directions,” he said. 

   She shielded the sun from her eyes with one hand, instantly recognizing the structure from her earlier RobCo adventure. Not safe, is what Charon had told her. 

   Oh. 

   “So, you got a plan in all of this…?” he inquired as they encroached upon impending death. 

   She unlatched the strap of her Pip-Boy, the pearly white skin of her wrist telling of its near-permanent use. She tucked it within the dwelling of her things. “Sort of.”

   He chuckled, but it was lacking in humor. “Can’t say I’m not used to it.”

   A ghoul wasn’t the first thing she had expected to see as they approached the tower’s entrance.

   “You know the answer is no. Get lost, zombie.”

   “Heh.” The ghoul at the intercom smirked. “Cute, real fucking cute.”

   He flipped a giant bird and spun on his heel. “Hell are you looking at?” he spat at them as they passed. 

   Evelyn looked over her shoulder to watch him make a beeline for a trainyard in the visible distance. Due to Tenpenny’s less-than-friendly reputation with ghouls, she was more than surprised he had been allowed to come within a few feet of the place. “He seemed…nice.”

   Unsung Hired Gun at her back grunted. “He’s wasting his time.”

   She stepped up to the plate, mindful of how sweaty and clammy her hands had just become. She pressed the button on the intercom.

   “For the last fucking time, if I gotta come out there and shove my boot where the sun doesn’t shine-”

   “Um, I think you have the wrong person,” she said weakly.

   “Oh,” the voice spoke, and then he cleared his throat. “Er-erhm. You are seen to be trespassing on the private property of Allistair-“

   She leaned her mouth close. “I’m here to see Tenpenny.” 

   Cryptic Freelancer was shaking his head behind her shoulder and sighed, “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

   “Oh? And do you have an appointment, or just enough bullshit to shove off with?” 

   “That’s quite rude!” Evelyn gasped, the severe lack of manners clouding the entire reason for her visit. 

   “What’s the name he’s expecting, then?”

   She thought hard, lying with, “Susan?”

   “Nice try, kid, now get the hell off of Mister Tenpenny’s private property.”

   It clicked off.

   “Shit,” she muttered, pressing the button once more. “Hello?”

   Nothing but static. 

   “Damnit.” She crossed her arms and turned around, lamely shrugging her shoulders. “…got any ideas?” 

   “Yeah, Megaton.”

   Ouch. 

   She tapped her shoe and looked off to where the ghoul had departed. “I might have another.”

   “Did you know the properties of deathclaw excrement can be used as a base for skin cream? Although, it would be a little smelly…”

   Twice he found his hand subconsciously reaching for his gun. 

   “Charon! Take a look at this! Animating the complete nervous system of a molerat with fission batteries! Pretty neat stuff, huh?”

   Twice he actually did.

   “You would think after the fifth time of rigging a baseball into a homemade grenade it would’ve gone off by now…”

   He mentally chastised himself when the most exquisite thought of smashing her head into the counter like an exploding melon curled his fingers and tightened his jaw- he had told Evelyn he would…try.

   “Oh!” Moira bounded up to him, a clipboard in one hand and a scalpel in the other. “How about some samples?”

   He tilted his head forward and snarled, “No.” 

   Moira’s requests in having him strip to poke and prod certain areas was out of the question. The nudity didn’t bother him, but the medical tools in her hand aimed at certain places…very much did. 

   He was simply here to replace the mercenary who was now overseeing the absolute safety and mortal well-being of his employer. (The man he would gut alive if she came back with so much as a fingertip missing).

   “Aw, okay,” she pouted, clearly upset over his noncommittal to genital mutilation. “No biggie. I do happen to need some assistance with some glowing cave fungus! Perhaps you could-”

   Charon leaned down a little further, his breath wafting the stray flyaway hairs around her head. He rasped with a low pitch, “I’m nobody’s errand boy.”

   An employer was one thing. A crackpot smoothskin, was not. 

   He straightened and rolled his shoulders, his head turned to the door for any unwanted guests. “Talk to Evelyn.”

   She let him be after that…a wise decision for her sake just as much as his. He remained at the safety of his post, observing from the corner of his eye how Moira fiddled with fucking nuclear warheads and disemboweled all rational sense from her own brain when playing with radscorpion glands like kittens with yarn. An overpressurized gas canister exploded and launched like a missile right at his head. He barely moved a fraction of an inch before it went sailing through the wall. 

   “Oops!” she had giggled. Giggled. “Now I know what reading to stop at!”

   She must be trying to kill him. He watched her patch up her shop, not so much as offering a single finger to help.

   “Here!” she cheerily said after divebombing in his personal airspace once again. He peered down at the glass jar held in her hands, the golden, molasses-thick substance…unknown. She urged, “Go ahead, it won’t bite!”

   With obvious reluctance, he held it up to see in better lighting. He squinted. “What have you given me?”

   Moira grinned. “Just a little thank you present for all you two have done for me so far! Now! I don’t recommend opening it here- it’s pretty strong- but when she comes back and you two are all cozy at home, go for it!” 

   He did nothing but nod, wholly ignorant of the implications. He would present it to Evelyn to decide what to be done with it. 

   A few customers had then come by to purchase odds and ends, all uneasy with his sudden presence looming in the corner. One, however, almost seemed to seek him out.

   Gobtholemew. 

   “Uh…” Gob garbled after sidling up beside him, attempting to appear discreet as he browsed wares on the shelving without actually giving it serious consideration. “I thought a lot about what you said, to me, that night…”

   Charon remained quiet, his eyes on the door. He gave his best impression of being uninterested in the side chatter, but Gob just kept jabbering as though he were all ears.

   “-and so I thought, it couldn’t hurt a guy’s chances like mine, so, screw it. The business has been good lately, and Nova’s always going on and on about it, so I figured, why the hell not.” He scratched at the underside of his chin. “Have you ever done something like that, for Evelyn, I mean?”

   Charon turned to finally look at him. He noticed a blue dress in his mottled hands, nervously being shifted under the pads of his fingers. 

   “What is it you are asking of me?” Charon rasped.

   Gob held up the dress. “You’ve never given Evelyn something, like a present? I used to read about it all the time, see it on the old holovids.” He gave a tender look at the sun-bleached fabric as though it were the most beautiful thing he had ever been blessed to hold. “Their eyes always seem to light up, you know? I want to see that.”

   Charon didn’t understand the sentiment. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her ‘light up’. He regarded the dress and said, “I have given her a knife.”

   “Oh? What did she think?”

   He thought. Hard. The first one she had dismissed. The second one…had not been seen fit to accompany her. It had been left behind, much like himself.

   Charon shifted, his arms across his chest and mood sour. “She did not like it.”

   “I’m going to be honest, but I’m not surprised.” Gob flinched at the scathing glare that raked hot coals across his skin. “I’m just saying, from what I remember, women like nice things- dresses, jewelry, flowers, you remember those?” He sighed, his eyes distant and mouth curved in a small smile. “What I would do to find Nova some real flowers, the ones that you could put your nose to and smell.” 

   Charon watched him make his way to the counter, wistful and dreaming of things far beyond his reach, and then leave. He hadn’t moved an inch from his spot, whereas his mind had already begun to wander. 

   Craterside Supply eventually came to wind down for the evening, as Moira swept and Charon prepared a spring-loaded shotgun trap a foot from the front door. She gave him a curious look. 

   “Wow, you’re pretty handy with all that sort of stuff, huh?” 

   He tested the length of the wire leading to the knob and rigged it. “I advise you do not leave until I return,” he rasped, and then shut the frame before she could reply.

   The house felt empty. 

   He stood at the bottom of the landing, looked up the narrow stairs, almost expected her to come stomping out of her room like a herd of frightened radstags. He went to climb up when he spied her knife sitting there on the edge of the bookcase. Her door slowly creaked open. The vault suit had been left on the floor, overdue for deep cleaning and his patient stitching. The leathers would prove a much better choice, but it felt…off, like a second skin she was not meant to wear. A peek of something brilliantly red was pulled out from the confines of the trunk nestled in the corner.

   He held up a thin, silk piece of skimpy clothing. It was brought to his chest. He did not know when she had acquired such a garment. He put it back inside. 

   Evelyn liked nice things. 

   He got to work on repairing and general maintenance of his gear, and when he finished, the hour would have been late, and an idea would click inside of his brain like the string to a lightbulb as he prepared her vault suit for a wash. 

   The trap he had left was no sooner disarmed than his hand was on Moira’s shoulder to throttle her awake.

   “What, what’s happened?!” she gasped, disoriented as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Are the mirelurks speaking in code again?!”

   “I require hair,” Charon demanded. 

   She sat up and rapidly blinked at him. “…hair?”

   “Yes,” he said. “It is for…an experiment.”

   Moira clapped her hands together, the drowsiness vaporized. “Well o-kay!”

   Moira’s Anonymous Auditor was well-versed in the ways of disposing of ferals- in that he chucked grenades down the service line until the sounds of growling and screams finally died away.

   “Here.” He tossed one in the air for her to take. “You try.” 

   She stuck her tongue out the side and peered around the corner they had come to. He leaned over to thumb the pin, his arm brushing her breasts. She hoped he didn’t notice the creeping blush along her neck. 

   “Pull, toss, and duck.” 

   “Pull, toss, and duck,” she repeated, and then she did just that. 

   A few ferals exploded into smithereens, and she felt a wide smile crack on her face. He gave her a pat on the shoulder and a nudge to continue. 

   “Not bad, girl. Let’s keep moving.” 

   A shaky ghoul in a fortified portion of the metro came to halt their progression. 

   “We’re looking for a way into Tenpenny Tower,” Evelyn offered. “Maybe we can help each other out?”

   “Hmm.” The ghoul gave her a once-over. “What’s your name, kid?”

   “Evelyn.” She held out a hand, but it wasn’t taken. She awkwardly brought it back to her side. 

   He looked to her partner. “And you?”

   Finally!

   “I’m not looking to make friends,” was all he said.

   Goddamnit.

   Nevertheless, they were allowed an audience with Roy Phillips and the Ghoulie Gang, listened to their blood-thirsty plans to unleash literal Hell on the unsuspecting ‘bigots’ that lived under Tenpenny’s roof. 

   She saw the Talon merc in the courtyard, heard his whimpering pleas in her ear. It made her want to puke. 

   “That’s…not what I’m here for,” she said rather uneasily. 

   “If you’re not going to help us, then you’re no better than the rest of them,” Roy snappishly dismissed her. “What, you got a thing against ghouls too, is that it?”

   His patronizing tone made her seethe. “I’m just trying to help! But fine! Forget it!” 

   “Oh Roy,” the ghoul woman by the name of Bessie had rasped, gently placing a hand on his arm. “Let’s hear the smoothskin out.”

   He grumbled, not shaking his ‘tough guy’ persona. “If she were worth any weight, she’d get us through that access door, no questions asked.” The critical look in his eye was pelted like a stone at her face. “Admit it, you ain’t no different from the rest of them. You just see us as monsters, and so that's what we’ll be- monsters.”

   “Oh please,” Evelyn chortled with a snort. “I’ve fucked a ghoul much scarier than you.”

   She crossed her arms, satisfied at finally having the room keyed in on her words, but then the realization of what she had actually just fucking said slammed into her like a bag of bricks. “Oh my God!” she sputtered, waving her hands around and feeling the heat on her face rise to a temperature suitable to crack eggs on. “I-I mean, well, uh-”

   Bessie choked on her next inhale, but Roy seemed indubitably impressed. (He even checked her out). 

   “Well, well, smoothskin,” he garbled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, but seeing as you know your place in this world, maybe I’ll give you a chance.” He leered over to the mercenary standing casually at her back. “You got something to say about all this?”

   Needs-A-Fucking-Name just nonchalantly shrugged, flicking the ash from his cigarette to his feet. “I’m just here to get paid.” He raised an eyebrow at the mortification on Evelyn’s face. “I already knew.”

   She stammered, “You-you did?!”

   “The whole town knows it.”

   “They DO?!”

   “I like you,” Roy rasped, turning his eyes back on her (chest). “The both of you.” He motioned for her to follow. “Talk to me. The revolution doesn’t have the time, or patience, so you better have something good.”

   The bag had blackened and dripped and smelled of death itself by the time the sun had risen. He ignored the putrid stench that was rank enough to bring a lesser man to his knees, instead welcoming it to work in his favor by the time he could see the tower itself. He paused in his long journey, retrieved the multitude of blanket strips and then proceeded to wrap himself until he was unrecognizable. The gas mask he had borrowed from Moira’s shop had been a preferable alternative to the head wrap, in that he could at least see clearly whilst still being under complete disguise.

   He smashed the intercom button with the pad of his thumb, and waited.

   “You are trespassing on the private property of-”

   Charon pressed the button again, and again, and again. 

   The voice snapped in between the multitude of clicks. “Jus-at-e-hell-i-you-oblem?!” 

   Charon didn’t lessen his barrage of button smashing. 

   “You-ave-anoth-thi-coming!”

   The gate opened, and Charon stepped before a firing squad of three armed security guards.

   “Okay, state your business or you’re-!”

   A piece of crinkled paper was thrust at them. All three stared at it, and Charon took a step forward.

   The one speaking over the intercom held a hand up. “Now wait right there! Roger!” He looked over to his fellow gun. “Grab it!”

   The voluntold guard uneasily shuffled forward, swiping at the parchment when he came within reach. He gagged as the wafting air from the duffel bag hit his nose with all the pleasantry of a behemoth taking a shit. 

   “Now don’t move!” the first one instructed. They all crowded over the piece of paper, and he slowly read aloud, “Molerats…fire…have bounty…Grog?”

   Charon nodded.

   He looked over in disbelief. “Are you saying you have Mister Tenpenny’s bounty on that Vault girl? You?”

   Charon unzipped the bag. Evelyn’s filthy, blood-soaked suit was gently brought out in his palm for them to see. The backside of a Talon merc’s head (that he had collected) was covered with a mussy brunette wig, the hint of bloated flesh making their stomachs turn. 

   “Yeah yeah, okay.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Just, put that thing away, will you?”

   Charon zipped it closed.

   “Come on then, Mister Tenpenny doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

   Charon’s plan had worked for one of two reasons: either Evelyn had made it inside under a different guise, (she seemed to be good at that), or she hadn’t made it at all. He had pushed himself through the night to arrive no later than they would have, so the latter thought made him uneasy. 

   They should be here. 

   He strode on through. A few of the residents wandering the courtyard were left gawking (in a whispered fashion) as this dangerous newcomer was allowed entrance from the wild wastes. He ignored their stares as he was escorted inside. The building itself was impressive, and he had no doubt for himself to be the first ghoul ever actually allowed admittance, adding a tally to his rap sheet of No Ghoul Zone. Perhaps his employer’s techniques were not so stupid after all.

   “Right this way.” The guard at his side directed him to the main elevators. He pressed a button, and they waited for the lift to make its way down. The guard had his nose crinkled for the entirety of the time. “How can you stand that smell?”

   Charon turned his head, the dark lenses of the gas mask boring holes into him. The doors opened, and he stepped in alone. 

   “There will be someone to see you to Mister Tenpenny,” the guard said, pressing the button once more. 

   The doors closed and the lift began to rise. Charon cracked his neck side to side, scratched at the inflamed itch on his ass. A ding announced his arrival on the penthouse floor, and he came to completely engulf the guard at Tenpenny’s door with his shadow. He gave him the letter before he could begin to question the legitimacy of his presence. 

   “Hmm. Well, if you got this far, then I’m assuming you’re clear.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be standing right here once Mister Tenpenny decides your stay is over welcomed.”

   Charon was allowed inside a small foyer with multiple doors leading to different rooms and a presentation of flourishing flowers as the centerpiece. He stared at them. They were real.

   “You’ll find Mister Tenpenny just through there.”

   Charon looked over to the door on his immediate right. He waited for the guard to slip back to his post and close the entrance behind him, and then he made his way through. It opened to a balcony, the vast expanse of the wasteland welcoming him with open arms for miles around. Megaton was visible in the distance. 

   Evelyn was not here.

   (That made him nervous)

   A few chuckles and the clinking of glass made him step forward, his heavy boots creaking with every step as he let his presence be known to the two men dressed in (finer) suits sitting around sipping scotch and playing chess. 

   “Now, now, Mister Burke, you best not be going easy on me, lest you insult my intelligence.” A strange accent, one that could spit snake oil from between his false teeth. Allistair Tenpenny. 

   “I dare not.” The other spoke with a rather…interesting hum to his voice. “You are merely somehow always a step ahead.”

   “Yes, you might be quite right.” Allistair finally turned in his velvet chair to address his company. “Now, what is this? Just who-”

   The note was thrust forward. The Mister Burke took it.

   “I would expect you to apologize for interrupting Mister Tenpenny in such a deplorable fashion, but I can’t say you knuckle draggers have much of a brain to comprehend with,” Burke sneered, but then he read the lettering and gave him a new look. “You’ve brought the girl? The one from the Vault?”

   Charon pointed to the paper in his hands, rumbling, “You are the one who placed the bounty?”

   Burke seemed taken aback by his raspy voice. “Indeed, I am.”

   Perhaps…who’s inquiring?

   Ahzrukhal hadn’t been an employer to turn down any sort of business opportunity, going so far as to skin his own kind to sew the clothes put on his back. His present employer had been lucky his contract had been deemed of more value than the price on her head…otherwise, he would still be in that bar, tossing drunks and ferrying chems. Years in Ahzrukhal’s employ had made him softer than he was forged to be; brittle, vulnerable, a thin fissure liable to break. 

   He realized he had been lucky not to die that day. He could not afford to make that mistake again. It was not in his contract to make mistakes.

   Charon removed his mask and looked down on the men who both recoiled in disgust and fear. He cracked his knuckles by flexing them into a fist. 

   “That is good to know.”

   They were at the gates once more, and she clicked the button. 

   “You are trespassing on-”

   “I’m here about your ‘ghoul’ problem,” Evelyn said. “I’ve got some insider details I believe Mister Tenpenny would be most interested to hear.”

   She glanced at her hired John Doe. He gave a not bad nod of his head. 

   “You again? If you’re going to waste Mister Tenpenny’s time, I’ll happily be the one to put a bullet in you.”

   The gate opened, and the chief of security met them before they could step foot inside. “Give me your name before I even consider letting you through.”

   “I already said it was Susan,” Evelyn reminded him snippily. 

   He looked to her partner. “And yours?”

   Ah-ha, he can’t escape a second time!

   “Yeah, it’s, mind your fucking business,” he growled.

   Are you serious?!

   “What information do you have? I’ll relay it through and see if-”

   “This information didn’t come cheap, and I doubt you’d be the one to get it yourself,” she said with commanding authority. (Charon would be proud). Her hands went to her hips. “I’m willing to help out with your little problem, and maybe do something about that bounty he has posted-”

   “The bounty’s been taken care of,” the security chief said smugly. “So you’re too late on that one.”

   …what?

   A distant scream, growing louder by the millisecond, turned everyone’s head upwards.

   SPLAT!

   A woman, just standing there in her Sunday finest, held up her blood-splattered arms and looked down at her newly baptized dress, the color horrifically dyed from green to red. She erupted into a wild shriek, and then everyone began to move. 

   The security guard ran up to the body that was more inside out than right side up. Evelyn felt her stomach attempt to mimic the nasty sight.

   “Jesus Christ, it’s Mister Burke!”

   A hand wrapped around her elbow, pulling her along back through the gate just as her eyes flew upward to catch sight of a hulking figure leaving the scene of the crime, that permanent dislike-for-everything scowl unmistakable.

   CHARON?!

   She bolted like a wild horse through the chaos, stampeding past residents and security detail alike with rough shoves and breathless apologies. “Move, move-sorry-passing, I need to get by!”

   The main lobby was overlooked, the absolute splendor of the interior blind to her eyes as she scanned for any possible way to reach him. There! An elevator just on the other side!

   …that about five or six goonies were all struggling to cram into. 

   Helpless, she could only stand by and watch as the doors eventually sardined its next meal and took them to the tippy top…and then it just as suddenly came back down, and opened with a crystal bell of a ding!

   Charon stepped out with his shotgun in one hand and the straps to a duffel bag (her newly grotesque-looking duffel bag!) in the other. There was panicked screaming all around, flashes of asses and elbows as the community dissolved into everyone for themselves!

   “My heavens, how did a ghoul get in here?!”

   “Quick, somebody shoot it!”

   “Hurry! It’s going to eat us!”  

   Charon met her gaze from across the room, and they came to meet in the middle.

   “Charon!” she gasped, ignoring the fleeing mice pattering around them. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

   He holstered his weapon, reaching to unzip the duffel bag instead. “I have absolved your bounty.”

   “You what?!”

   A bloom of iridescent reds, yellows, purples, and blues was shoved into her face, the sweet smell of fragrance colliding with a taint of rot. Charon was holding a bouquet of…flowers. 

   The screaming became quiet. The blur of movement faded to black. For a moment, she could only stare at the gift he was holding out for her to take, feeling every bit as shy as when Paul Hannon Jr. had (forced by his father) asked her out to the Vault’s Annual Workforce Appreciation dance.

   For you.

   The stems, freshly cut by the end of a sharp blade, greened her fingers, the grassy scent entirely foreign but very much welcomed in the more primal part of her brain. (Which, speaking of brain, she couldn’t help but notice a fleck of it was clinging to the petals).

   Charon gently turned her around to push her past the wide-open screams and hellish panicked shuffling, the bouquet clutched close to her breast, and the biggest smile she had ever fucking made on her lips. 

A (Ten)penny for Your Thoughts?

   What’s this one about? You haven’t been writing for months. 

   She’s twirling the fake stem in her hands. The waxy exterior has long since hardened, the once snow-white petals yellow with dust. 

   Love. She wants to say. Of a hopeless romantic. Of me. But she won’t say that. 

   The journal snaps shut, the chest of sparkling diamonds and glittering gold hidden away from prying eyes before they can steal a peek. Christine Kendall is a thief. She had stolen a glance, mockingly serenaded the rest of the class with her private words. They had laughed. Who writes poetry? Surely Evelyn, the weird girl. She had thrown the whole thing away. They were right. It is stupid…but her heart can’t help and think otherwise.

   Amata waves the bouquet around. They’re hiding in the farthest corner of the Vault, in the room that would occasionally host a wedding or funeral. She had picked the lock to the trunk and snooped around inside. A bunch of fake flowers and the Holy Bible. 

   Here.  

   Amata grins and holds out the faux arrangement. Puts on a thick, posh accent.  

   For you, my love, oui oui.

   She takes them and lightly smacks her on the head. Oh oui oui, Mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup. 

   Amata wrestles them back. Tug-o-war ensues. Amata ends up with a handful of petals while she has the stem.

   Oops. Not like it was used anyways. No one will notice.  

   Amata tosses them in the air, smiles as they rain down, sticking to her hair like snowflakes.

   The stem is all she’s left with. She looks down at it. Not a single flower remains.

   It’s one day before her father leaves her behind, and her world changes forever.

   It had been one hour since they had hightailed it from Tenpenny Tower, and her world has been changed forever. 

   The trader outpost they had holed up in, Lucky’s, had a single occupant that more than welcomed their caps. He eyed the trio from his corner in the grocery store, claiming to be unperturbed by the seven-foot-tall ghoul as he was regularly kept in business by Roy and the Ghoulie Boys.

   Her pen hadn’t stopped; an ink stain formed on the side of her palm. Those fortune-teller lines were erased under a smudge of black, rewritten by the words melted from her lips like a swirl of hot honey licked off a spoon. They’re delicious, savored, warm in her belly, stirred in a cup of milk flavored with cinnamon and cardamom.

   Charon had leaned over to squint at the frantic scribbling. “What are you doing?”

   She leaned away. “Um, nothing,” she had lied. 

   He had grunted and left it alone.

   The flowers had been pressed between the pages of her journal like a sacred tomb, placed forever to eternal rest that she could visit and pay respects to, look upon those colors that somehow the world forgot to bleed dry, smell that syrupy scent of a nostalgia that she didn’t have but felt parched to remember.

   Charon had watched as she had tightly pressed the binding together between her palms.

   “Do you like them?” he asked.

   She looked at him with a smile. “I do. Thanks, big guy.”

   He didn’t seem very happy with the response, or maybe she imagined it. This man carved his own emotions like slivers shaved from the edge of his knife, only feeding her when he thought her hungry (when she was in fact starving). He seemed to be waiting for something, but he didn’t ask for what.

   A kiss, maybe?

   It wouldn’t be their first, but it somehow made her feel shy and strangely intimate. A tilt on her toes, a lean forward, a close of her eyes and a slight parting to her lips…

   A few seconds passed, and she cracked an eyelid. He didn’t seem to wish in reciprocating with that fat fucking frown on his mouth. Almost immediately she awkwardly coughed to clear her throat and turned to the side. Well!

   She pouted, simmering in her rejection. “Does Moira even know you left?”

   Charon growled, “She is not my employer.” She rolled her eyes, and he continued with, “I was nice.”

   “Can’t help but wonder what that means,” she muttered. 

   “Somehow knew you’d come around,” the Squeaky Third Wheel casually remarked as he came to the side of the cashier’s counter to distribute gifts of food, either not noticing or blatantly ignorant of the thick haze of awkwardness in the air. 

   Evelyn took her plate that he held over and gave a closed-mouth smile. Despite it smelling absolutely aromatic and divine, she suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. “Thanks,” she began, but Charon took both her serving and the rest of her words.

   He thrust it back. “We will be quick.”

   Holy fuck.

   A delicious spread of heat blushed between her thighs as he pressed a hand to her lower back and guided her to the best thing granting any form of privacy- the bathroom. She was already racing to unstrap her leathers and toss them aside when her fingers slowed…and the buckle remained in place…and he just stood there…clothed.

   Were they not-?!  

   “Oh,” she said dumbly and quietly, going about redressing herself. 

   He waited until she had finished before questioning, “Did you wish for more?”

   She was dumbfounded.

   He enlightened with a tilt of his head, “Flowers.”

   “Um…no?” 

   “I see.” He then turned around and opened the door. 

   They ate in stifled silence while the trader and mercenary bartered her owed caps. With a yawn, she fished out her lifeline to secure it back to her wrist and felt her eyes burn in their sockets as she forgot to dim the backlighting in the gloomy atmosphere. The tippity tap’s and pit pit pat’s of her fingers dancing across the screen drew visible interest from the scavenger running the outfit. 

   “A Pip-Boy, huh? Wow. Ain’t seen one of those in a while,” he said. “Ran into a guy that had one just like it.”

   Her head smacked up. “Really?”

   “What was his name?” He rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. “Jim-?”

   “James?”

   He snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” He then gave her a look. “You wouldn’t happen to be another Vault dweller, would you?”

   Charon was carefully watching her from the corner of his eyes, and so she shrugged her shoulders and hid another yawn behind her hand. 

   He is not worth it.

   She didn’t answer the question. 

   …was I?

   They came to part ways with Potential House Husband as he made to return to Megaton and she began to dive deep into the underground back to ‘The Revolution’. Charon halted her by the elbow just after they had stepped through the chain link gate.

   “Would you have wanted something else?” he rasped out of the blue. 

   Her brows furrowed. She was so confused. 

   “Uh…what do you mean?” 

   His teeth grated together, apparently becoming agitated and upset. He asked, his voice snappy, “Did you wish for something else?” 

   She looked down at her feet, and then at his pissed-off expression. “What’s this about? Are you okay?” Her lip jutted out as she put more brainpower into it. “I didn’t order you or something, did I?”

   He released a cantankerous sigh and waved them on. “Let us continue.”

   Sweet Bessie Lynn’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull at the sight of the newcomer walking in their midst. She shyly ducked from their path, inclining her head with a warbled, “Oh…hello.”

   Evelyn reached for his hand and guided him the rest of the way.

   Roy Phillips gave an impressive whistle at the sight of him. “Now, you, my friend, are just what this revolution needs.” He then went straight to business and gave his attention back around to her. “So? Did it work?”

   Evelyn went on to explain the demise of a certain Tenpenny resident, and rather than be upset with the complications, he gave Charon a newfound look of appreciation and respect. 

   “See? Just what we need. You should be with us,” Roy rasped before crossing his arms. “It’s already begun then, smoothskin, with Tenpenny dead-”

   “He is not dead,” Charon interrupted. 

   Roy snapped at him with a glare, “You let that bastard live?!” 

   “He was not my concern,” was all he clarified, and then his lips remained shut, disinterested in the rest of the conversation. 

   “I mean, maybe there’s still a way that-” she started, but Roy brushed her off with a snarl before she could elaborate. 

   “I knew it. You’re worthless for our cause. We’re going to do it our way, so run along, smoothskin, before you're caught in the crosshairs-” 

   He didn’t have much to finish with after Charon snatched him up by the collar and went to slug a home run with his skull in a locker.

   “Stop it stop it!” she cried out, holding up her hands as the ghouls around them balked at the unexpected violence. 

   Charon instantly dropped him, his face more than displeased. “He threatened you.”

   “He’s just an asshole!”

   Roy righted his askew jacket, mellowed at having been knocked down a few pegs on the ‘tough guy’ scale. “You think just because you’re getting smoothskin pussy you’re suddenly better than the rest of us?”

   Evelyn squeaked, “Hey!”  

   He rounded a finger in Charon’s face. “You’re not. We’re the same, we’re both just freaks to them.” He gave Evelyn a hard stare. “...remember that.” He waved them off with a turn of his back and a stomp down some stairs to the lower access levels. “Get out. I got no beef with you smoothskin, but you’re no good here.”

   “I can’t imagine anyone is,” she said condescendingly in return, spinning on her heel to storm back up to the surface. She yelled over her shoulder as they ascended the escalator to exit the metro station, “I was handling everything just fine!” 

   Charon grumbled at her back, “It is done.”

   She spun around at the top step and poked him in the chest. “You’re not even supposed to be here! I didn’t ask you to come out and put yourself in danger for me!”

   He cracked a hand into a fist. “That is my duty to you. You know this.”

   “I know I had asked you to just hang around Moira’s shop until I got back! How hard is that?!”

   He came up another step, towering over her. “I did not mean to fail you. I ensure it will not happen again.”

   She meanly chortled, “You failed at hanging around?!”

   He looked at her simply. “When you had ordered me not to die.”

   The statement knocked the breath from her lungs. She met his eyes, that unwavering flame she had relit with the carried torch of desperation. She had imagined the weight of her soul into it, foolishly thought it was pure will and steadfast stubbornness that made her ferryman step off the bow of his boat to shore for her. There was the contract. It would always be the contract. Her face and name were nothing more than a title of ownership to this ghoul who followed her heels and bestowed her flowers and should be charged with crimes against humanity for culinary terrorism. 

   The reminder stung like a slap in the face, and she turned away to keep moving. “I don’t want to argue about it anymore…let’s just go.”

   She stared at the rise of Tenpenny Tower from a safe distance and didn’t speak until he broke the mutual silence first. 

   “I advise we begin moving before nightfall.”

   She sheepishly kicked at a rock with her toe. “It feels wrong not to warn them,” she admitted.

   He looked back over to the tower. “It is not your concern.”

   She didn’t argue (as she normally would have) and instead carried off toward it. She nearly barged into him by how quickly he intercepted her path.

   He growled, “Why are you like this?”

   A curt shrug of her shoulders. “Maybe because I wish someone would have done the same for me.”

   He narrowed his eyes, but eventually came to sidestep out of her way. They came closer to the gates, which were, for once, wide open. 

   A guard positioned out front waved to them and shouted, “Hey, you! Mister Tenpenny wants a word!” 

   Evelyn openly looked around. “Me?”

   “Not you,” he scoffed. He then pointed to the big guy. “You.”  

   They shared a glance. She nodded. 

   “Very well.” Charon holstered his gun and placed a firm hand on her lower back to push her forward. 

   The guard raised a hand. (Stop! You’ve violated the law!) “Whoa now, I only said-”

   Charon came close and bent down enough to be face to face. “Move.”  

   The giant blood spatter wasn’t even fully dried (nor the tiny bits of flesh scraped and removed) as they crossed the courtyard, ignoring the sidelines of frantic chatter while they were seen to the elevator. 

   The head of security stepped inside with them. “I’m here to ensure the safety of Mister Tenpenny and his residents.” 

   The absolute disgust at being in their presence was rolled out on a red carpet as they began the ride up and into Tenpenny’s suite. Evelyn made a mouthing of ooh at the multitude of flowers as they were led through the doors to the balcony. So this is where Charon cultivated her floral arrangement after casually committing a horrific act of murder.

   “Don’t waste his time,” the head of security growled. “Or mine.” 

   The doors were closed, and Evelyn marveled at the sight of an endless wasteland before her. She could spy Megaton from up here! 

   “Quite the view, isn’t it?” a weathered old man with the most bizarre accent delightfully inquired, waving them toward his seat. His gnarled fingers made a castling across a chessboard. “A shame Mr. Burke is no longer with us- he was a rather good sport when it came to games.” He glanced over to Charon before lowering his eyes as he moved an opposite knight. “But I must say, the way you had carried out his death was delightfully entertaining.”

   Evelyn felt her insides squirm. What a twisted little man!

   “Tell me, ghoul, what do you think of my tower? It is a rather marvelous feat I have created, isn’t it? Quite, marvelous.”

   Evelyn cleared her throat, a thousand tiny spiders crawling over her skin when he snapped a distasteful glare her way. “Why do you not let ghouls live in the tower?” (Or, better yet, why would they want to?)

   Tenpenny pursed his lips at the question, but then he seemed to grow bored with his own thoughts and resumed his solo match on the board. “It would be an absurdity otherwise. You come from the wasteland, I presume? But of course you do- just look at you - well, why would I invite a bunch of flea-bitten bulls into my china shop? Do you know what a china shop is? Of course not.”

   “They’re just people,” she bristled. “They can’t help that they’ve ghouled. All they're asking for is a safe place to be.”

   “They appear quite safe in the tunnels, so I’ve heard,” he countered snippily.

   “It’s a wonder you’re not down there then,” she scoffed. 

   He warned, “Careful, girl.”

   “Or what?” she brazenly challenged. “I can tell your perception is absolute dogshit, seeing as to how it’s the two of us and a very long way down.”

   Tenpenny straightened to look her in the eye. “Are you dare so threatening me-?”

   “It’s the wasteland,” she growled, encroaching closer until he was shrinking back down in his seat, his faux hot air at once dispelling. “I wouldn’t feel so safe in your little high tower any more than I would out there. You’re right, I am from the wasteland, and I sure as shit know a hell of a lot more about surviving in it than any of you do.” 

   She picked up the queen and captured the rook. The king had nowhere to run.

   Checkmate. 

   “There’s no room for enemies when there’s no such thing as friends,” she said lowly. She took a step back, one hand placing itself on her hip.

   Allistair looked down at his board, blinked, and then formed a wry, dry smile on his face. “Well, well.” He picked up his glass, assessing her over the rim in a manner that made her want to leap over the edge itself. “You’re the girl from the Vault? I am surprised that I had not made the correlation earlier. I have heard…interesting stories, about you.”

   He then clapped his hands and snapped upright with sudden vigor, mildly startling her. 

   “Convince the others of these ghouls, and I might consider it.”

   “Um…” Evelyn looked behind for advice. Charon shrugged. “Okay.”

   Her hands were shaking by the time the elevator doors closed and they began their descent to the main lobby, the most challenging part yet to come.

   A nudge in her side made her look up. 

   Charon gave her a succinct nod. “That was…good.”

   “Thanks,” she breathed, still unsure of the unexpected bravado herself. “It just…came out. I don’t know. I think I was just so mad that I didn’t care.”

   For the first time upon entering, she allowed herself a moment to marvel at the wonder of what a Pre-War wasteland would have appeared to be like. Glistening chandeliers, marble flooring, and ornate crown molding on the walls gave an inevitable lull to the air that carried a taste of bubbly champagne on ice. Music flowed with the present company drifting about their leisurely day, or, as leisurely as could be as they stared on with terror and repulsion at their inclusion in the mix. She drank in perfect hairdos, ironed dresses, and manicured nails.

   “Did you ever come to places like this?” she whispered. 

   The question went unanswered as a woman came around and pointed at the big guy. 

   “Guards! Guards! It’s back, hurry!” she exclaimed with a panicked screech. 

   “Keep your panties on,” a security guard drawled as he walked by, also not withholding his visible disgust. “Tenpenny has allowed the ghoul entry inside the tower.”

   She held a hand over her heart, petrified. “I DARE say-!”

   Evelyn grabbed Charon’s hand and led him away from the woman’s midlife crisis. “Okay, we won’t bother speaking with her just yet…or at all.”

   They took a hard right, dipping through the first door that held the least amount of occupants, which happened to be just an elderly lady running the cafe. She backed up a few steps as they approached the counter, her eyes wide and lower lip trembling at the sight of Charon.

   “Now, now I-” she warbled.

   Evelyn slowly held up her hands. Jesus, were these people or feral cats?!

   “Um, hi,” Evelyn started sweetly. Best to hit these people where it felt best- their wallets. She squinted at the board behind the counter. “May we please get a, uh-” She turned to the necrotic elephant in the room. “What do you want?”

   He simply shrugged.

   “I’m, I’m afraid that I don’t serve ghouls,” the granny croaked. 

   Evelyn gave her best that’s too bad face. “Are caps not acceptable here?”

   “They most certainly are.” She gave Charon a look like he might have her for lunch instead. “But-”

   “We can pay.” Evelyn plopped down a healthy bundle, the remnants of her Murphy&Barrett betrayal. “I’ll have the mirelurk cakes, please.” She again turned her head, laying the charm on thick. “Charon?”

   His head slowly swiveled to the frightened woman, grounding out as though he were made of stone, “Mirelurk cakes.” An elbow in his side. “…please.”

   Granny stared at them for a good moment longer and then snapped from her trance as Evelyn began to count caps onto the counter. 

   “Um, well…alright, two orders of mirelurk cakes, coming right up. Please…have a seat, and I will bring it to you shortly.”

   They picked their seats on either side of each other, with Evelyn daintily sitting down and placing her hands politely in her lap. Charon nearly went through the bottom of his chair from the amount of force he sat on it with.

   A small crowd had gathered just outside the doorway leading back to the lobby, the curious faces whispering amongst themselves none too quietly.

   “What are they doing?”

   “Oh God, poor Margaret.”

   “Next it’ll be eating a human!”  

   “Here you are.” The woman’s hands shook, rattling the plates down. “E-enjoy.”

   “Thank you, it smells absolutely wonderful,” Evelyn beamed. 

   She lightly kicked the ghoul’s shin under the table. 

   Charon whipped around so quickly that it almost gave the poor woman a stroke. He rasped, completely monotone, “Thank. You.”

   She scurried from view, and Evelyn sawed off a small piece of her food to chew whilst Charon forwent all cutlery (and tableside manners) and shoved an entire cake inside his mouth. He looked over after feeling her blatant staring. 

   “Yes?” he growled, bits of food flying from his lips.

   “Really?!” she hissed.

   The woman soon returned at the sight of their empty plates. “How were the mirelurk cakes? It’s my own mother’s recipe.”

   “The best I’ve ever had!” Evelyn complimented genuinely. 

   “That is nice to hear, dearie.” She then turned, anxious and suddenly much more quiet. “…and, you?”

   Charon drummed his fingers on the table and rasped, “It was not good.”

   Evelyn’s jaw dropped to the floor. “Charon!”

   “Oh?” All at once, the woman seemed rather intrigued than insulted (or disgusted). She beckoned to his vanished serving, her fear of him swirling down the drain.  “And what did you not like about it?”

   He gave her an unflinching stare. “Everything.”

   “Thank you for the food.” Evelyn scooted her chair back, indicating their departure, but the two at her side became unyielding to the other. 

   “I suppose you care to educate this old woman on how it’s done, then?” 

   Charon seemed to seriously consider it. “I may.”

   “Speaking of educate,” Evelyn candidly interrupted. “I don’t suppose you wouldn’t mind having some ghouls as neighbors? I know they would absolutely love your dishes.”

   The woman didn’t back off from her staredown with Charon, but answered, “I guess not…if they know what good food is.”

   “Wonderful!” She tugged at Charon’s hand. “Come on, big guy!” 

   He let her lead him to the shop just across- Boutique Le Chic. Everyone scrabbled out of the way, only to reconvene once they had cleared through. Another woman was behind the counter, but her unholy screeching kept them from intruding inside.

   “NUH-UH, NO, GET IT OUT, OUT!” She waved her hands wildly around and reached for a broom handle to threaten them with. “GUARDS?!”

   Evelyn took the door handle for herself and slammed it shut. Her clenched fist around the knob rattled it in place until Charon placed his hand over her own. 

   She shakily took it away. “Sorry.”

   “Shall I dispose of her?”

   “Oh my God, you can’t just say that!” she whispered. “Someone might hear you!”

   He raised a brow, nonchalantly adding, “I do not see the issue.”

   Her sweaty hands were wiped down her thighs. “I’ll deal with her later…”

   A crossing through a tense crowd- they wavered and muttered and gasped. New Urban Apparel was the next mark on the roadmap, and the man turning from his inventory immediately leaned over to the side and dry-heaved at their entrance.

   “Um, excuse me-?” Evelyn ever-so politely inquired.

   He outright ignored her as he miraculously recovered from his ailment and snapped at her back, “Get your rotten paws off my merchandise, zombie!”

   Evelyn spun her head around. Charon was…running a hand down the seams of a beautiful, dark burgundy dress like a selection of fine wine. He took it off the mannequin and came forward with it.

   “Don’t-don’t come any closer!” the man yelped, his back coming against the wall. “Just take it, take it-!”

   Charon swiveled on his heel right beside her, holding it out for her to take. 

   She gave a confused look. “What?”

   “Do you like it?”

   “Uh…” She blinked. “I mean, it’s beautiful, sure, but-”

   Charon’s eyes drew down to slits and then he stormed around the room, nabbing things off their pedestals to carefully scrutinize. 

   The cowering proprietor had a moment of courage as he leapt from behind his register. “That is a vintage, circa 2076, and I will not have you-!”

   Charon snapped as he got too close, “Get out.”

   He gasped, “Why-!”

   Charon rounded on him, snarling, “Get out. Now.”

   A stifled sob wracked his chest as he fled from his own store. 

   Evelyn’s eyes became crossed and her brain was on a medium toasty setting as she tried to process just what the fuck was happening. 

   Charon stepped over to her, practically thrusting the items under her nose. His voice was like scalding hot water. “This?”

   A clasp of pearls and an ivory comb. She once again rewarded him with a totally dumb look and gently took the items from his iron grip before they could be crushed into dust, laying them on the counter before they were charged with ransacking the place. 

   “We’re trying to convince people to let Roy and the others live here, remember?” she softly explained. 

   Charon’s scowl deepened into pure loathing. “As you wish.”

   Sheesh!

   “Let’s try around some more…I don’t think that guy’s planning on coming back anytime soon.”

   There was a crashing commotion of shouts and doors slamming from the main lobby. So, perhaps never. 

[kidotm]

A Helping Hand

  “Now, just know, I have nothing against ghouls myself! Why, I even had a ghoul manservant, back in my younger days!” A wheezy laugh that nearly turned into a coughing fit. “Herbert ‘Daring’ Dashwood, at your service!” 

   They were climbing the stairs to the second floor, Charon following her following some geriatric smoothskin who was droning on and on about things that he paid little mind to. His sole attention was drawn inward on a most crucial matter, his body on autopilot and vision tunneled as he walked down the halls.

   There was no ‘light’. She had looked upon the flowers as she had with everything else- the dress, the jewelry, the nice things he had offered her. It was no different than how she looked at him. He didn’t understand. 

   He must have done something wrong.

   They were invited inside the old coot’s private quarters, his rambling and nonsensical stories seeming to have no end. He gauged Evelyn’s body language. She was smiling…stiffly, although indistinctly enough. He stood by the doorframe, waiting on their leave. Dashwood tapped a curled fist on his chest. He stared down at the frail, translucent skin and bulging veins (he could string out as fishing line) that dared to touch him, even amicably. 

   “Why…you may have just given old Argyle a run for his caps! Then again, I suppose you’d have to, with chaperoning this nice young lady around! The wastes are a dangerous place, that I know!” 

   Charon crossed his arms- a warning to leave well enough alone. He got the hint, whistling as he tottered off. Evelyn accidentally brushed against something on a table while nervously watching their interaction, scattering it to the floor. She bent over to pick up a holotape, her brows crossing as she read the label. It appeared to have interested her.

   This ‘Daring’ moved faster than his creaky joints should have allowed. “Oh, you’ll have to excuse my older years, it tends to leave things lying around in places it shouldn’t be.” A somewhat forced chuckle, and he placed the holotape on a higher shelf out of sight. 

   Out of theirs, that is.

   He offered her a seat, poured her a small glass, and talked her fucking ear off. Charon could see the polite wonderment on her face at the retelling of this smoothskin’s adventures- a rather toxic influence. 

   “But here I am, stealing the entire show! What was it you came here for again?” 

   (They didn’t)

   Evelyn faintly smiled. “I’m trying to help the ghouls have a home in the tower. Would you mind telling Tenpenny about it?” 

   Dashwood toasted his glass to her. “Of course not! It would be a nice change in pace from the bloated egos you see floating around! Good on you, girl!” 

   They left, and she closed the door with a sigh. 

   “He was nice, but I thought we’d never leave,” she sneakily confessed as they began to return to the main lobby.

   A resident woman came incredibly close to him, scrutinizing him like a sideshow attraction. He slightly leaned back. 

   She clicked her tongue. “Does it do any tricks?” 

   Evelyn bristled, “Excuse me?”

   The woman gave her a look like she was stupid. “I said, does it do any tricks? Surely Mister Tenpenny didn’t allow just any ghoul in the tower.”

   He intercepted Evelyn’s wrist before it could crack the smoothskin’s teeth out, giving her a subtle shake of his head when she looked up at him. It would only hinder her mission. Instead, while giving his full attention back to the woman, he cupped his entire jaw with one palm and swiftly dislocated it. His left eye began to spin out of control. Both women gasped in stupified shock. With a grunt, he reset the mandible, his eyeball stuck in the corner of its socket until he smartly smacked his cheek. 

   The woman’s lip was curled as though she had smelled something rancid. “Well, that was…” She then wandered on by, her voice growing faint as though she were in a dream. “…something.”

   Evelyn gave him a bewildered expression. “What the fuck was that?”

   He worked his jaw a few times and rubbed it. He had not done that (intentionally) for some years. He rasped as though the answer were obvious, “You wish for the ghouls' entry into the tower.”

   “But, she was…”

   He leaned down. “I am helping.”

   She blew out a breath and a little quirk of a genuine smile graced her lips. “Thank you.”

   He nodded. They met with a few more smoothskins before convening in the bar lounge; she had some drinks. She traded witty comments with the only smoothskin that was willing to still be in the same room with him, (on account of his obvious dependency for alcohol), but then the tone of her voice became less pleasant and something borderline cruel after his one too many comments about ‘the zombie’.  

   She sweetly mocked, “I guess I would also have to be plastered every day just to survive being someone like you.”

   The smoothskin had a look as though she had physically slapped him. He licked his chapped lips and sat forward in his chair, ready to fire off in return, but Charon gave him a silent, deadly warning by the subtle stiffening of his posture, and he instead left the room with a brunt kick at the garbage can.

   He relaxed as soon as she turned to him. She had that same cheeky grin on her face from when they had returned from Rivet City. It curved his dick with a wicked jolt. His head followed her hand sliding up his thigh and coming to stroke his bulge. 

   “Think they’ll let us stay the night?” A dip downward over his balls, her fingers clawing through the leather. 

   He cornered the first guard still roaming the halls. On instinct, (and fear), the smoothskin went to draw his gun from the holster at his waist, but Charon planted his larger palm over his own and squeezed, hard.

   “A room,” he rasped.

   The smoothskin went high-pitched. “Get-get-back- you-”

   Another squeeze, a few of the knuckles cracking. The smoothskin gasped and curled inward in an attempt to escape the pain of his bones being crushed. 

   “A room. Now.”

   “Upper- upper-” CRACK. “Fuck! Top floor!”

   She giggled when the elevator began its journey to the penthouse suites and wormed her hand into his pants, swiping at the translucent bead on the tip of his cock to then suck off her fingertips. The night guard was absent. The first door on his right was tried, locked, and then unlocked with a firm twist. It was vacant. 

   Good enough. 

   (He braced a chair under the handle just to be sure)

   When he turned around, his pants hastily unbuckled and already past his ass, he found her sprawled over the graciously sized bed in a dead sleep, mouth wide open with a hint of drool. He looked down at his eager cock and shook his head, making to carry out his nightly maintenance instead. 

   He pulled her suit out of the duffel bag and scrubbed it in the tub, closely inspecting for any tearing or loose stitches before being hung to dry. Her own pack was snooped through as he sat on the edge of the bed, being without shame as he pulled out that journal to sneak a peek inside. He looked over. She could’ve been a corpse, for as heavy as a sleeper as she proved to be. (He checked her breathing). The pages fluttered open, and he was mindful not to let any of her flowers slip from their place. 

   A doodled picture. His face. Horribly illustrated, and more akin to angry scribbling than actual artistic talent. He squinted at it. The eyes were misaligned and looking at the opposite sides of his head. He appeared constipated. The word grr was written beside it. The whole thing was circled with a heart. He very precisely began to rip out the page, but the sudden rustling of her moving made him slam it shut and tuck it underneath the sheets. 

   She had rolled onto her belly, mumbling to herself and making frustrated noises. “Charon,” she whined, her voice muffled in the mattress. “What’s his name?”

   His? 

   “Who?” he questioned.

   “His name,” she stressed, not even opening her eyes. “Moira.”

   It took him a few minutes to process the absurd and terribly vague correlation she provided, but he understood.

   “The mercenary,” he affirmed.

   “Do you know it?”  

   “I do.”

   “Oh thank God,” she breathed, and then she squirmed into a new position and fell back asleep.

   He didn’t know what to think of that. He reached back for the journal, skimming through the pages and newly written material for any hint of a gruff smoothskin. There was none. He pocketed his portrait away.

   By the time she had awoken many hours later, there was a plate at her side along with her freshly laundered vault suit. She propped herself up on her elbows, appearing disgusted with the fact that she had slept in her clothes. 

   The plate serving two blackened pucks was regarded with care. “What is it?”

   “Mirelurk cakes,” he answered. 

   She hastily sat upright and crossed her legs together. “Oh, from downstairs?” 

   “Yes.”

   Discarding all previous formal manners, she took a wolfish bite into one, and then paused. The cake was slowly removed, a much smaller piece was nibbled off, and she placed it back on the plate. 

   “You made this,” she said bluntly. 

   “Yes.”

   A closed fist came to her lips as she chewed. “They let you in the kitchen?”

   “It was not occupied.”

   Her eyes grew wide. “You broke in?!”

   The holotape she had been eyeing earlier was procured from his side satchel and presented for her convenience, at least to derail the argument she was about to ensue. 

   It worked, for she exploded with, “You stole this-?!”

   He ever so slowly began to withdraw it, but her fingers reluctantly took ownership before it could disappear. 

   “Okay…but we’re giving it straight back,” she said with a holier-than-thou attitude. She took another bite of her breakfast.

   He knew she would like it.

   Nearly everyone in the tower had made acquaintance with the not-so-alone Lone Wanderer and her one-trick-having ghoul manservant. Charon kept relatively quiet as they convinced a few more residents to become open-minded, and convinced a few others that leaving was the better option. They eventually returned to one of the first stores they had previously been declined entry to, the shopkeeper balefully glaring after they came back around. Evelyn very quietly closed the door for privacy. She was their last one before she pitched the ball to Tenpenny.

   The woman shrieked, “You might have been able to get the others, but you’ll never convince me, you ugly, wretched thing! I swear, I’ll-!” 

   Evelyn tucked her hand inside Charon’s, pulled him down slightly, and gently turned his head to share a kiss. He remained still and stared at her as she gave a sugary smile to the woman recoiling in disgust. 

   “Then I guess you won’t be minding a lot of that, but don’t worry, we usually keep the rest behind closed doors.” She winked.

   The pitch of her voice rose to an insane decibel. “You filthy harlot! Zombie-lover! I knew it! You maggot whore!” she frothed, scurrying around the room and pulling things off shelves. “I won’t have this! This is-is- an abomination!”

   Evelyn flinched as a plate was suddenly hurled at her face, but it was caught midair. Charon growled and snapped it cleanly in half, the ceramic pieces dropped to the ground and crushed underfoot as he took a step forward. The woman fled the store while Evelyn kept him at bay with a firm hold of his hand.

   (And that was everyone) 

   They rode the elevator to the top, and she looked up at him. He raised a brow muscle down at her in return. 

   “What were you going to do to her?” she asked.

   He faced forward again, his voice flat. “Do you truly wish to know?”

   She opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned as the doors began to slide open. “No…I guess not.”

   Tenpenny was surprised at her success in swaying the pretentious masses. “I’ve been hearing word of you rallying the support of the others in favor of these ghouls…but I suppose that settles it, then.” He dismissively waved a hand at them. “Well, what ever are you waiting for? Go tell these new tenants of mine to come along and be on their best behavior.”

   They did, and Roy laughed in her face. 

   “What? You’re telling me Tenpenny is suddenly okay with having a bunch of ghouls move into his hoity-toity tower?”

   “He is,” she simmered. “And we worked pretty hard to get it that way, so, you’re fucking welcome.”

   Roy again laughed and raised his arms to the others. “You hear that, boys? We’re going to get what we finally deserve!”

   A mask of differently stitched skins was given as a ‘reward’...if she could call it that. (It made her want to gag just holding it). As she crammed it down to the bottom of her pack to never see the light of day again, she watched as Roy shuffled Charon to the side, the former conversing in low tones while the latter glowered in nonverbal response. Whatever offer Roy tried to sell, Charon wasn’t buying, for he dutifully followed her down the train tracks to leave the metro tunnel behind forever. 

   “What did he want?” she curiously inquired. 

   Charon cracked his neck. “It was not important.”

   They began the trip to Megaton, making camp under the stars when her legs became too tired and her stomach wouldn’t cease its growling. Charon began to craft some nightmare-inducing recipe while she sorted through her pack, in consequence discovering the holotape she had forgotten to return. 

   “Woops,” she muttered, then shrugging her shoulders and inserting it in her Pip-Boy. 

   “Despite the harshness of the Wasteland, I've discovered in more than a few here a compassion that is unheard of in the Commonwealth. Perhaps it's the daily struggle for life here which gives appreciation for life in general, whether human or android. In a few days, I'll be a free man...a new man. Let me say thank you now for referring me to Pinkerton in Rivet City, because I will not remember any of this soon.”

   The tape clicked off, and she glanced over at her personal chef. He didn’t seem interested in the message. She unclipped the holotape, running a finger over the scrawled title on the cover.

   A free man…a new man…

   She pocketed it away and rubbed her cold hands by the cackling fire. “Did Roy ask you to stay?”

   Charon didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

   “Why didn’t you want to?” 

   He ripped open a package of deviled eggs to throw in the mix. “He is not my employer.”

   “You know what I meant,” she said quietly. 

   There was no further discussion on the matter, and so she silently ate her ‘dinner’ (how did he think up these things?!) before falling asleep to the nightlife sounds of the wasteland. She only turned once in her sleep, solaced at the sight of him on the opposite side of the fire, before drifting into many dreams.

   They continued onward in the early morning, when the sands were still cool and the sky was still dark, the heavy colors overhead breathed into her lungs like roots digging deep. Compared to the elegance of old-world brick, Megaton was an ugly wart blighting the landscape, but it was still home. 

   Yowling old man Walter, and all. 

   He met them at the gates, overseeing their entrance into town from his perch outside the water treatment plant. “Girl! Now just where in the dang hell have you been?! I got two leaks on the west side that I can’t climb up. Come on! I already got the pieces all retrofitted for you to put on!” 

   Without even having the decency to drop off her stuff in her own home, she was soon strapped with tools and lugging sheets of scrap metal to the designated points around town. Charon, too, had left his things behind in the water plant to join her in her mundane tasking as she trudged up the hill and began to shimmy her way to the respective leaks. It was strange to see him without all of his signature gear…he had kept his knife.

   She felt a giant shudder of the piping after she had reached the first one, causing a squeak to leave her mouth as she held on for dear life. An earthquake?! She turned her head- the big guy had simply stepped over the railing and walked down the line, completely balanced and now standing over her, looking down at her straddling the sides of the pipe. 

   “Uh,” she said. “I don’t expect you to have to help me…”

   He evaluated the leaking stream of water and then plopped on his ass (making the entire structure unpleasantly judder), motioning to the tool bag at her waist. Without a word, she handed over the items and sat on the other side, both leaning over the seep as she placed the sheet metal over while he expertly cold welded it into place. They together assessed their work- it was by far the most efficient method she had come by.

   “Thanks.” She smiled, and he only nodded and looked over at the next one to fix. 

   They took their places on either side of a much healthier leak, and as he was prepping his tools, she grinned with evil intentions and jammed the sheet metal over it to create a strong spray that soaked him. The downright disappointed, wet dog look he gave her made her giggle uncontrollably. That only seemed to sour him more. 

   “Oh, come on, it’s hot as fuck. Feels good though, huh?” she laughed. 

   He nabbed away her patch and returned the favor, both soon sopping wet to their core and leaving the repair site with squishy boots and a neverending chuckle from her chest. Walter looked them over, shook his head, and paid them for their troubles. 

   As was the more recent tradition upon returning home, she divvied up the caps equally and handed over Charon’s share, to which he always just stared at and she eventually left in the downstairs locker for him to use whenever he saw fit. They organized their inventory, her filling Wadsworth’s bin to the brim with her crusty leathers and rank vault suit while he retired to his workshop. After a decent scrub in the tub and a change into her fresh, dry jumpsuit, he came into her room and held over two items for her to take while she snacked on some cakes at her desk. Her knife, newly sharpened and without evidence of its prior use, and a jar filled with a golden honey-like substance. 

   She held it up to the light. “What is it?”

   “Moira has asked me to give it to you,” he rasped, watching her struggle in opening it. “She said it is…strong.”

   Almost immediately she stopped trying to uncork the thing. Who knew just what the hell that mad woman gave her. Would it explode? She wouldn’t put it past her. It was placed on the table for later consideration. 

   “I’ll ask her about it, then.” 

   He gave a nod of his head. “That would be wise.”

   She stretched, popping a few joints and giving a pleased sigh. “Want to get a drink?”

   It was a slow afternoon. Gob was working the bar, living under a visible gloomy cloud as they came to take a seat. 

   “Hey there smoothskin,” he rasped rather dully, already popping them both a beer. “How’s life?”

   She glanced around. Nova was seated at a table in the corner, wearing a pretty blue dress and openly flirting with Moira’s mercenary who seemed smitten with their conversation. 

   Evelyn gave the bartending ghoul a look of understanding. “I guess I can ask the same.”

   He shrugged a sad, kicked-puppy sort of gesture. “Always better than it was, at least.”

   Charon stood from his chair, his drink untouched. “I wish to speak with you.”

   Evelyn and Gob both stared, stunned at the request. 

   Gob pointed to himself. “Me?”

   Charon nodded. “Yes. Alone.” He then looked down at her. “I will return.”

   They disappeared in the back room, leaving her free to her own devices to observe the blossoming relationship while she nursed her cold beverage. The pair soon rose from their seats to walk on by for the stairs.

   Nova winked. “Hey sugar.” 

   “Glad to see you made it back in one piece,” Fresh-Off-The-Market casually told her as they passed. “Get those ghouls in the tower?”

   Evelyn tipped her beer, chin in hand. “Sure did.” 

   They closed Nova’s door just as the one for the back room opened. Charon came to her side, openly serious and intimidating.

   “What is it that you like?” he demanded, more of an interrogation than a simple question.

   She blinked. “Huh?”

   Gob smacked a hand to his face and shook his head. He then looked to the corner and noticed the absence, his expression downcast and glum. 

   “And she’s gone,” he mumbled, a forlorn playing of strings at his back as he went about behind the bar. 

   Charon growled at her, “Will a weapon suffice?”

   Evelyn slapped her bottle down, startling the moping ghoul and raising the brow of the one breathing down her neck. 

   “Okay, Gob, I really am sorry, but you’re turning the saloon into a grieving parlor.” She spun in her seat to eye the big guy. “I honestly have no idea what it is you’re asking me.”

   Gob just woefully glanced up while Charon gritted his teeth and drummed his fingers on the counter. 

   “Why don’t you ask Moira for a drink?” she offered more gently.

   Gob balked. “Moira?”

   “Why not?” she reasoned. “She’s honestly really smart- totally crazy- but she’s also a super sweet, kind person and incredibly open-minded. It doesn’t hurt to ask. I think she would love to.”

   The ghoul scratched at the back of his head, a piece of flaking skin peeling under his fingers. “I don’t know…”

   “It’s just a thought.” She paid for their drinks and tipped a few more. “Speaking of which, that’s who we’re off to see next. Take care!”

   Charon irately grumbled to himself the entirety of the way to the store, folding his arms and glowering in the corner while she conducted business. Whatever bug had decided to crawl up his ass, she was more than inclined to let it die there.

   Moira slapped down the power first with a brilliant smile of success. “Here we are! This little bastard was probably done for if you hadn’t brought it to me, but, look, good as new!” She wiped at a stray hair across her nose and clapped her hands together, redirecting her ray of sunshine across the room. “How’s it going, big guy? Get that experiment taken care of?”

   Evelyn turned with a quirked eyebrow, but he only curtly nodded. 

   “Wonderful!” Moira beamed. 

   “Um, so,” Evelyn began as she took the power fist off the counter. “That jar you gave me…”

   “You got my little present? Just wait until you open it!”

   “What is it?”

   A giggle. “Oh, but that’s the surprise!”

   They were soon alone in the retreat of her home, him inspecting the power fist she had repaired and her once again trying to unscrew the lid on the jar. 

   “Jesus,” she breathed, her face bright red as she heaved all of her might behind the twist. “How the hell am I supposed to open this thing?!”

   Charon ignored her, shaking his head in disapproval and none-too-mindfully dumping the mechanical fist on the table. 

   “I could have done better,” he rasped with a bitter undertone.

   Evelyn paused with her feeble display of strength to throw him a glare. “What the hell are you so mad about?”

   He snarled and pointed to the thing as though it were nothing more than weighted garbage. “It will have to be redone.”

   “What?” she huffed. “Moira knows what she’s doing. She fixes my shit all the time.”

   “Maybe she shouldn’t,” he said reproachfully. 

   Big guy was using contractions…he must be really mad.

   She again tried loosening the top with a heavy grunt, but to no avail. She slammed the thing on the table. “Well you didn’t offer to help, so I don’t see why you’re bitching about it now!”

   “You did not ask,” he said flatly with a cross of his arms.

   “Because you were mad at me!”

   “You were being a brat.”

   She threw up her hands and angrily stomped over to the locker for her rusty screwdriver, brandishing it at him like a sword. “Why is this even an argument now? It’s fixed, it’s paid for, and it’s done!”

   She sat her ass back down on the chair and began to worm the tip of the screwdriver under the lid for some leverage, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth in rapt concentration. 

   Charon stalked over and swiped the jar from her, easily twisting the airtight lid off with a loud pop! He set it back down. “There.” 

   With a roll of her eyes, she snarked, “Thanks.” 

   He just grumbled under his breath and went to climb the stairs to his workshop. 

   She peered inside the jar and cautiously sniffed. “That’s weird…I don’t smell anything.” Curiously, she dove the tip of the screwdriver inside and held up a thick webbing of the goo for closer inspection. 

   “What the hell is this stuff?” she muttered. Did she eat it? Hmm.

   An abrupt, hot bloom radiated in the pit of her groin, and she squirmed in her seat as the feeling intensified. Beads of sweat peppered her forehead, her breathing growing labored, and her underwear thoroughly soaked. She shakily stood, unzipping her jumpsuit with trembling fingers and gasping at the tingling sensation crawling along her skin. 

   “Holy fuck,” she breathed, turning for the bath to find Charon already back downstairs, his limbs twitching and eyes absolutely predatory. “What the fuck is-?”  

   He interrupted her concern with a single stride over, grabbing at her waist with both of his huge palms and pulling her flush to him, every single thought kissed into utter oblivion.

The Jar of Eternal Happiness

Chapter Summary

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   There was no attempt at making logical sense of what was happening. One moment he had been devising mental schematics on refurbishing her power fist, the next, he wanted his dick inside of her- now.

   "What is-?" she breathed in his mouth, but he bit her lip and sucked her tongue in a nasty kiss with a clack of their teeth and a grope through her hair.

   Her fingers anchored around the back of his neck as she pulled herself closer, grinding her hips against his groin with a lusty moan. She rutted through the fabric against the hard outline of his cock, feebly attempting to sate the ravaging fire that burned between them with every exchange of their lips and desperate pants moistening their skin. She was clumsy in taking off his clothes, forcing his hands to leave their place of worship to pull his shirt up and over his head. She licked his scarred nipple, making him grunt at the unexpected sensation, and then he gripped her by the skull as she worked her way down, that swirling tongue feverishly blazing a trail the entire way. His knees began to buckle as she slurped him down, her fingers frantically touching herself below, the wafting scent of her that he inhaled forcing him to brace an arm against the railing of the stairs lest he lose total control. 

   The contract pinged inside of his head. Ping…ping…ping. It was something bearable enough to ignore, for now. 

   He untangled his fingers from her hair to help jerk himself off, the saliva from her tight, hot mouth sliming her face. He couldn’t tear away from the sight of those ridiculously blue eyes looking up at him with a blurred line between unholy worship and aggressive lust, an unmistakable come fuck me flutter to her lashes. She gagged and swallowed and wouldn’t look away. He grabbed at the side of her face with a smack, teasing the cheek with a taut pull and leaving a reddened handprint in its image.

   Ping. Ping. Ping.

   It wasn’t enough to get him to come. 

   A sudden clasp of his hand around her throat choked her- he found the sound devilishly tempting, but he refrained with what little higher-cognitive sense still harbored inside of his mind and simply brought her to her feet. She wheezed, a bloom of pink tinging her skin from lack of air as she held onto his wrist, and she smiled. A growl, low and vibrating and enough of a deterrent to anyone sane that he was not a man of kind nature or merciful understanding, but she was still stupid. She goaded him with a mean laugh, a slap in the face from the sing-song trebles bubbling within her throat.

   Do your worst. You don’t scare me.

   He squeezed, nicely.

   Ping. PING. Ping.

   He was neither gentle nor hesitant in stripping her bare. The jumpsuit was wrapped around her ankles, her boots still laced tight as he altogether lost the remnants of his patience and spun her around to jam her into the bookcase. A ceramic vase crashed after it took a nosedive, a few books toppling over each other and the wooden frame itself wobbling in protest at the extra weight it held. He took a palmful of her underwear to shove it to the side, the soaked fabric held tightly in his grip being ripped at the seams.

   She gasped, the desperation thick in her throat, “Fuck me.”  

   With a swipe of his boot, he married her feet together and plunged straight inside, the initial resistance he felt pushed through until he bottomed out. She whimpered, a visible shudder running down her spine as he began to pound her, her knees knocking into the shelving and her knuckles growing white as she held on to the sides. Her ass clapped against his waist, the ivory skin jiggling with every thrust and the musky wetness drooling down his balls as he bent his legs slightly to thrust her harder, faster, his fingers digging into her flesh at the hip and pulling her to him with every jab.

   She cried with sugary praise, “Fuck, Charon, God, you’re so good.”

   It should have brought him over the tipping point, but it didn’t. It wasn't enough. He needed more of her. He pulled away.

   “Put it back," she whined, high and absolutely filthy.

   He grabbed her by the arm and forced her to the couch, dropping to his knees to finish ridding her of her boots. They fell with a clunk one at a time to the side before he flung her jumper over his shoulder. She scooted the stretched panties to the floor and unclipped her bra. Her legs spread wide, that glistening center wholly inviting and a beautiful flush of pink.

   “Put it back,” she demanded breathlessly with a hint of delirium. 

   He instead placed the broad flatness of his tongue to it and returned the earlier favor. He lapped up her cunt like cool water under a scorching sun, drinking her in as she squirmed and choked on her own needy whining. Her skin was flushed and hot, beads of sweat rolling down her tits and around the coupled folds of her stomach. He bit her clit and sucked on it, stretching her perky nipples as he pulled them with his fingers. She grabbed fistfuls of what remained of his hair in an attempt to escape and yet be taken all at once. 

   “Please,” she pathetically begged, her eyelids fluttering as her head tilted back. She screwed her eyes shut and prayed to him, parched for the deliverance of promised ecstasy. She slapped both hands around the sides of his face and yanked him upward, swirling her tongue around his own and exchanging heated breaths like they needed it for air.

   He crouched over, his greedy cock magnetized to her pussy that welcomed the fat head with an audible sucking sound. He brutally fucked her, devouring her begging that was borderline insanity in his mouth with every stab to her core. Her legs were pinned down, folding her in half, her toes curling and body beginning to twitch. The couch exhaled and the wooden frame creaked with every jolt, every ruthless plunge inside making her cry out and hold on to his shoulders for dear life. 

   She pleaded, “Keep fucking me, Charon, keep fucking me!”

   His hips snapped forward, his cock meeting that juicy center that summoned a trembling moan from her lips, and then he just as quickly retreated away. His dick was so wet, the entire length bulging and blazing red and as fucking angry as he always felt, pulsing as it kept pointed like a compass directly to her deliciously swollen pussy. He just realized how massive he was in comparison to her- it was a true wonder how it all fit.

   “Fucking hell,” she snarled, snapping to her feet and pointing to the couch where she had previously been soaking it. “SIT.”

   He did, a hot rush stroking his cock as she took her rightful place in his lap, his dick marrying up to the spot as she lowered herself onto it. The lift up between her thighs paled any drug-induced high he could ever hope to inject himself with. She was a salted sugar, a liquor on fire, a perfect woman at a perfect place at the perfect time. She still had his handprint on the side of her face. It looked so beautiful there, a temporary tattoo he wanted to be permanent. 

   "Fuck me,” she commanded. 

   The contract listened, and he obeyed. 

   She had no idea what she was asking for. 

   His palms came down to smack her ass, fiercely latching on. He spread his legs, just a fraction, and then he bucked up into her like a madman, driving himself well above and beyond her limits. Every thrust was somehow more filling than the last- PING PING -he was sure to rip her in half, but her mewling sweetly sunk encouragement like sharp teeth in his brain.

   “Yes, yes right there, fuck, fuck fuck fuck!”

   He lunged out with a snarl, clamping around her throat and biting down, keeping her in place when she tried to move away from the unrelenting pile-driver that was destroying her from the inside out. He sucked on her pulse, tasting the salt of her skin as he stuck a finger over her ass and tried to wiggle it in. She gasped, forcing him to bite down harder (PING), his grunting heavy as her cunt spiked wave after wave after wave of molten pleasure. Nothing else in the world mattered but how full he made her feel.

   It was so fucking good.

   He let her go and huskily rasped in her ear, “Come.”

   And she broke.

   She mumbled something completely unintelligible, a twist of words and mutilated tongues that spoke of the one true divine her body was peaking on- she went limp, and he kept her propped upright to keep battering away as she lost all will and strength to even meet him halfway.

   “Keep going,” he snarled.

   “Fuck,” she sobbed. “I, I can’t!”

   He upped his pace, his rhythm hard and fast, fucking her like an animal in heat.

   She wrapped her arms around him. “Charon!”

   He clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her cries and getting her to come again, those disbelieving eyes rolling in the back of her head as her mind drifted to the edge of nothing. A single tear fell down her cheek.

   It was finally enough.

   He held her entire body down as he blew, pulsing deep inside, a brief groan escaping him as he rocked his hips into her, chasing that fading euphoria before it could dissipate completely. A light press of her lips to his invited a more sensual desire that both pursued as he was still twitching, lazily indulging himself as she finished milking him until he had nothing left to give.

   The house smelled of nothing but pure, heavy musk. His clouded mind became clear; the itch in his blood finally soothed. He took out his cock with a loud sucking noise, the white, thick dribble leaking out. He stood over her, every defined arch of muscle quivering as his eyes were, for once, hooded and relaxed. 

   “My God,” she barely breathed, the exhaustion sinking her bones through the cushions like an undignified grave.

   He wiped a thumb through his exposed nostril and looked her over, a new painting with the same subject and setting he would want immortalized for his sole viewing pleasure. “Can you stand?”

   She didn’t even try. “No.”

   With a grunt, he left her there as he walked with aching slowness up the stairs and to her room. A neat little balled-up thing called, her bed sheet, was tossed from thin air over the railing and landed (with a perfect scorecard of ten) on her face. She winced as she gingerly wiped herself clean.

   He came to behold the jar with one hand. The once honey-colored ooze had crystallized into a dark brown shade. It had to have been the instigator.

   With a feeble groan, she rolled into a seated position on the couch. A major feat. “What the fuck was that stuff?” 

   “I do not know.” He openly stared at her. “But it was strong.”

   “I wonder if she even knows,” she muttered. 

   “Perhaps she has more,” he casually remarked as he hoisted up his pants, cinching the belt tight. He sat down on the chair to don his boots before tucking his shirt over his head, inspecting a hole at the hem with his thumb. “I will ask her.”

   He went for the door, and she called over, “Wait, you can’t just go now! The shop is closed.”

   “I shall knock.”

   She said with an ugly snort, “That’s not how that works! Charon-!”

   And he was gone.

   He walked up the hill, his boots clanging along the metal catwalks as he passed the saloon on a straight march to Craterside Supply. He rattled the doorframe with a solid tap of his fist. No one answered. He tried again, just a little louder this time, and then stood by with his arms folded and expression vexingly grumpy. Nothing. He tersely exhaled through his nose and spun on his heel back for home, catching a glimpse inside the rowdy bar from the door opening just as he passed. The loony bin smoothskin was there, seated on a barstool. He dipped in and hovered over her just as she took a drink from her glass, effectively making her spit it out from fright.

   “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth to wipe away the evidence. “Hiya, you kind of scared me!”

   Charon nearly bent himself in half to speak with her privately. “I need more.”

   She blinked. “Of…?”   

   “That jar.”

   A beaming smile made him lean away a bit. She said, “You opened it! Did it work?! I would love to hear all the fascinating properties of-”

   Charon growled and smashed a fist on the countertop, interrupting her tirade. “Do you have more?”

   She was unfazed by his ire. “Sorry, it was my only one! But-!”

   “I see.” He shrugged off the rest and left. 

   Evelyn was still reclined on the couch upon his return, stark naked and slowly enjoying purified water and stale potato chips while perusing the screen of her detached Pip-Boy. She looked down at her nearly empty box and shuffled some broken pieces around after he closed the door. She tossed the carton into the bin, missing completely, and licked the salt from her fingertips. His eyes sidled over to watch, and she lightly laughed, the sound pleasing and satisfied. 

   “No, I’m done. Aren’t you tired?”

   He shrugged. 

   With a stretch of her arms over her head, she yawned and squinted down at her map. He watched her every move. She zoomed in on a little marker labeled Scrapyard that Walter had earlier input for her. 

   “I guess we should get that scrap metal sooner rather than later,” she mused, mostly to herself. She glanced up. “What about tomorrow?” A cheeky smirk. "If I can even walk."

   “If that is what you wish,” he dryly rasped.

   “What do you wish?” 

   He shook his head. “My thoughts are not necessary.” He stared at her, emotionless. “Where you go, I shall follow.”

   She crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious of her nudity. “I’m asking for your input.”

   “I have given it,” he replied. “You are my employer.”

   She sighed, rubbing her brow. “I’m not asking as your employer…I’m asking as, you know...” 

   He continued to stare. He obviously didn’t.

   “As like, a…partner.”

   His voice was hard. “You are my employer. You are entitled to my combat services.” His eyes challenged her to argue otherwise with his statement. 

   She hugged herself again, throwing her gaze down. “I was just asking for your opinion, that’s all.”

   “I do not have one on the matter.” 

   “You do sometimes.”

   He relaxed, if only slightly. “If it comes to your safety, then yes.” 

   She twirled a strand of hair around a finger and brushed it along her lips. “Okay.” He took that to be the end of their conversation and went to help himself to something to eat, when she spoke quietly, “If you didn’t have a contract, would you still want to be here, with me?”

   The answer was instant. “There is always a contract.”

   “But if there wasn’t.”

   He shook his head, stressing every word like a crack through ice. “There is always a contract.” 

   The fridge was rummaged through as she limped up to her room and closed the door. He listened very intently just outside it as she played that same holotape from before, over, and over, and over.

   “-a free man...a new man. Let me say thank you now for referring me to Pinkerton in Rivet City-”

   He closed his door.

Call of the Wastes

   (There is always a contract)

   “Ow.”

   The wrapped bundle of icy Nuka-Cola bottles was shifted to the side as she carefully rolled out of bed; the aftermath of their fuck left her feeling as though she had been fisted by a super mutant. 

   Said Cunt Destroyer widened her door with a plate of food in his hand. She had wisely learned to give up asking what of. (It went down easier that way).

   “You have not eaten,” he observed after inviting himself inside. 

   She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, squinting at the time on her Pip-Boy. Almost noon. “It's a little hard to get down the stairs.”

   “I see.” He placed the green jiggling gelatinous mass on her desk. “There is more when you are ready.”

   “Thank-” 

   He left the room.

   “...you.” 

   (Always a contract)

   She stared at her late breakfast and chose to curl back up with her ratty blanket and lumpy pillow, easing the makeshift ice pack between her thighs. Aside from the never-ending load he had blown inside her, he hadn’t been rather eager to impart anything else. She wondered if he might have regretted the entire thing after their ‘conversation’, and she knew it was a losing game to ask.

   “Hey, Charon.”

   But she did it anyway.

   He reappeared in an instant. “Yes?”

   She slowly turned her head to peek over her shoulder. “Are you mad at me?”

   “No.” The cogs visibly turned behind his eyes, and he directed a knife hand at her food. “Shall I bring it to you?”

   “Um.” A glance- rookie mistake for the faint of heart. It moved. “That’s okay. I’ll get up in a few…I was just wondering about last night, is all.”

   He gave a single nod of his head and then once more left her alone.

   (Always)

   There wasn’t much conversation to be had between them, or more so, any at all. He seemed to almost be avoiding her, stomping on invisible eggshells with that stiffness in his shoulders and hard line to his mouth. 

   She tried to blow off the tense atmosphere after spinning the taps to her hot bath closed, her voice extremely shy as she motioned to the tub of rising steam. “Do you want to join me?”

   But he was walking up the stairs with a metal box full of tools in his arms, not even sparing a look her way. “No.”

   Another endeavor was made as she took the initiative and whipped up some lunch- a passable entrée of fried tatos and cubed melon. 

   “Hungry?” she asked with a hesitant offering of a fork. 

   But he only stalked over, gave the plate a look of complete disgust, and shook his head. “It does not appeal to me.”

   A final attempt was given as they saddled themselves with their bags, her hand ever so slightly held out in search of his. He only stared at it with not a single readable thought on his face, and she ultimately withdrew. Normally, his cold shoulder would be chalked up to typical Charon-esque behavior, (and promptly matched with equal pettiness) but she could only muster the strength to glumly ask, “Are you ready?”

   As an employer, and her the employee. Not partner, nor friend, or an aphrodisiac-induced fuckbuddy, but as the contract holder and the hired combatant. 

   He nodded. “I am.”

   Their steps were kept to themselves the entire hike to the scrapyard that Walter had requested of her to visit. The stockpile for the piping was running dangerously low, and there was rumor that the place was teeming with valuable goodies still ripe for the taking. 

   Her boots brushed against a bushel of hubflowers as they climbed a small hill, her feet dislodging a few rocks that were sent tumbling down. She wiped at the sweat dewing her forehead, her breath slightly labored. 

   She could see Butch giving Amata his sweetroll that Old Lady Palmer had gifted the class, stammering and blushing dark as he asked her to be his girwfwend. They were six.

   “Do you sleep with other employers?” she blurted, unable to summon the courage to look behind and below as she continued the climb.

   “No.”

   “Did…did you have a girlfriend, back at Underworld?” 

   She couldn’t help but then glance over. The thought had never strictly occurred to her before, when the seething giant had been chained to his post and generally terrified the local community. She skidded on slippery slate, but his hand snapped out and nabbed her back upright before she could eat shit and swallow all her front teeth.

   He again answered, “No.”

   He let her go. They reached the summit, the outline of the scrapyard just in their sights. 

   “You never liked…liked, someone, back in Underworld?” He turned his head to stare at her, and she just curtly shrugged her shoulders, her voice a little defensive. “What?”

   He seemed to ignore the question after a few moments, for he turned back to look down at their intended destination and only replied with, “Be cautious.”

   She blew out a breath as he took the first step in descending the slope, her lips muttering a disgruntled, “…right.”

   “This is it,” she declared after the chain link gates to the automobile graveyard were met. The empty duffel bag she had tagged along was unzipped, her eyes already mapping out suitable pieces of salvage within. She unhooked the latch, and the gate swung open with a loud squeal. “I’ll be quick.”

   She completely missed the eye roll at her back as she immediately took to begin her harvesting, whereas he kept a sharp eye on their surroundings with a casual hold on his gun.

   The heel of her palm was nicked on the sharp edge of a plate she pulled off the shell of a car, a beaded drop of blood melted on her tongue after she gave it a lick, the injury otherwise ignored. 

   “I do not understand the question,” his raspy voice suddenly spoke behind her, a roll of gauze in his hand that he already began to wrap her palm with.

   She paused in rummaging through a discard pile as he tended to her. “Huh?”

   “I do not understand,” was all he said, his face completely blank. She rattled her brain for their earlier conversation.

   “Oh, um.” A small sheet of metal was shoved into her bag, a stray hair blown off the tip of her nose as she kept her head down. “You never, like, you know…wanted to be with someone? Like all the time? Can’t stop thinking about them…that sort of thing?”

   The rip of a zipper turned her head. Big guy was taking a not-so-discreet leak to the side, not even bothering to turn his back for any semblance of privacy as he hung himself in the palm of his hand. He met her gawking stare with a raised brow muscle.

   “No,” he answered plainly.

   She hotly flushed and spun away on her heel. “I’ll be over here,” she mumbled as she waded deeper into the maze.

   A turn around the bend, a shiny new pile of junk to rifle through. Something of an interesting texture was felt as she dug around, and as she heaved with all her might, she was met with the unfortunate happenstance of holding a mangled, shriveled corpse. She backpedaled with a yelp, tripping over a rusted fender and landing on her ass. The disfigured face stared at her, silently screaming as it plopped in her lap. Before Charon’s name could even form on her tongue, a rustling from inside the trunk of an automobile made her scramble to a standing position. The blade at her hip was ripped free, held tightly in her hands as she took a stance and prepared herself for the fight to come. A low growl rattled the frame, the entire rear end shuddering as the creature burst the trunk open-

   A slobbery, mangy, doofus-looking dog popped out with a cock to its head and an inside-out ear flap. It blinked. She blinked. It sniffed the air, one of its heterochromia eyes slightly skewed to the side, the other one (seemingly in charge of the single brain cell) fixated on her.

   Evelyn slowly lowered her weapon. “Oh.”

   The eyes swapped the cell. The dog jumped out, bushy-tailed and drool-galore as it bounded up to her, loudly sniffing her feet as it circled with a furious wagging of its tail. It then looked up, smiled, and plopped its dirty tush on her boots, that lolling tongue hanging down a quarter mile.

   “Evelyn,” a deep rasp made her turn her head. Charon beckoned her with one hand to himself as he kept the muzzle of his shotgun pointed at the canine’s head. “Come, slow.”

   The dog bumped her with its snoot, all wet and slimy and cold, speaking the language of its ancestors. “A-woo-woo-woo!”

   “Uh.” Her hands came down to stroke through its fur, but her hesitance made the pup lose patience and take matters into its own hands as it began to scratch its back against her legs. She wobbled, nearly losing balance from the big animal using her as a personal scratching post. “Hey!”

   A glint around its neck caught her eye. A tag fastened to a makeshift collar had a name crudely scrawled into the metal- Dogmeat.

   “You’re someone’s pet!” she exclaimed, amazed by the newfound knowledge that the filthy beasts could be tamed. Her hands continued to stroke through the dirt and the…dried blood coagulated through its thick, black fur. “Charon, look, a dog!”

   “I can see that,” he deadpanned. His weapon never lowered, but he stole his eyes away to consider the long-past carnage just off to the side, a few more bodies discovered amidst the heaps of junk.

   “Where’s your master?!” Evelyn got down to one knee- a fatality. The dog licked her face and breathed its disgusting swampy breath straight up her nose. She giggled, “Ew!”

   The ghoul investigated the corpses, stooping over one in particular and collecting his bag. “This may have been him.”

   She stood and dusted the hair (impossible) from herself. The dog yapped, excited as she came to inspect the body. It closely followed at her heels. Charon shouldered the foreign pack as she pointed to the deceased scavenger with a question directed at the animal. 

   “Is this him? Was this your master?”

   It just panted. 

   “You are speaking to a dog,” Charon rasped dryly.

   “Do you want to come with us?” she offered, ignoring the nasty glare the ghoul flogged her with.

   The dog barked. 

   Charon came to stand uncomfortably close to her shoulder. “I do not advise this. It has killed. It will do so again.”

   She crossed her arms, a sad little pout jutting her lower lip. “...but look at him!” He did. The dog’s left iris was slowly drifting to the corner of its eye. “He’s cute!” 

   Charon shook his head. “It is dangerous.” He lifted the barrel of his gun. “I will ensure it does not suffer.”

   “No!” Evelyn dove into his line of fire. He scowled at her stupidity, but she only turned to clap her hands on her thighs and beckoned to her new companion. “C’mere boy, get on little doggie!”

   The dog flattened to the ground and spun circles as it ran forward, the duo watching this dusty fur missile speeding around the yard with the threat of flying saliva flinging from its jowls. 

   Charon released a midlife crisis of a sigh. 

   (She had a dog!)  

   She hummed and sang and hugged her new loyal friend, Dogmeat, who, in turn, sniffed her butt and slapped her skin with his wet tongue. The time spent in the scrapyard went unnoticed as she happily collected the resources required and, occasionally, tossed a sun-bleached femur for Dogmeat to retrieve. 

   Charon merely stood on the hood of a car for higher ground and surveyed their surroundings, refusing to wipe the glower from his face. 

   “Charon! Watch this!” She snapped her fingers. “Dogmeat, sit!”

   He listened obediently.  

   “Now shake!”

   He extended a paw, and they exchanged pleasantries. 

   She beamed, ruffling his mane as he panted contentedly. “Good boy!”

   The ghoul had never turned around.

   They returned for home, Evelyn’s mood considerably happier until a horrible stench burned her nose with all the power of an atomic bomb. "Pee-ew!" she gagged, glancing down at their furry tagalong. "Dogmeat, you stink!"

   Charon slightly turned his head, his tone flat. "That was not the dog."

   She nearly died.

   The stars speckled the sky and Megaton’s twinkling lights ushered them past the gates as they all stood outside her door while she unlocked it for them to enter.

   Charon immediately planted a boot in the dog’s side as it came to barrel past. “No.”

   “That’s okay Charon!” she chirped, already spinning the taps to the bath. “He can come in!”

   Dogmeat zipped straight to her kneeling beside the tub, being hugged around the middle as she lifted him over and in. 

   Charon beheld the sight with a grimace. “It should be outside.”

   Evelyn rubbed her hands through Dogmeat’s soddened fur, scrubbing away the grime. The water was instantly browned. She gave him a weird look. “Why?”

   “Because that is where it belongs.”

   She scoffed, the reasoning obvious, “But this is his home now.”

   Charon slammed the door shut, shaking the entire house. The wet dog shook all over inside the tub. “I see.”

   As Evelyn rubbed the dog down with her own personal towel, the ghoul minded his business and made no further comment on their four-legged guest while he performed his craft in the small kitchen dwelling. Dogmeat leaped to the table with a most eager smile on his face at the sight of food being presented.

   “No,” Charon snarled down at him. “Not for you.” 

   Evelyn only had to take a single glance at the steaming pile of brown slop and the begging mutt before her brain fired up with a brilliant idea. 

   “I’m going to go eat in my room,” she explained as she took the serving in her hand. “Thanks!” 

   Charon grabbed the dog by the collar, beginning to drag him to the door. “I shall put it outsi-"

   “That’s alright, he can come up and sleep with me.” She whistled. “Come on boy!”

   Charon let go, and the dog bounded up the stairs in chase. He didn’t intrude on her after she closed her door and fed the plate to her saving grace. 

   “Good dog,” she whispered as he licked up the remains. Dogmeat took up a good deal of space in her bed, but rather than imagine a thick wall of unrelenting muscle and a stone-cold attitude, she nestled her face in the smell of damp fur and warm affections. “Good night, boy.”

   The mongrel was obsessed over. He couldn’t see the appeal behind it. It was dirty (something she normally despised), it smelled (something she usually complained about), and it was pointless to keep around. Even the robot gave it a baleful eye as it went about sweeping up the endless supply of shed hair. 

   So it made no sense to him as to why she was so happy with it.

   They slept in the same bed. He found them curled together, the dog lifting a single ear flap upon his entry (even though he didn’t make a sound). They spent her meal times together in her room. They wandered outside the front gates for the dog to do its business. She spoke to it as though it had the ability to reply, their one-sided conversation leaving him behind in the midst of it all. The dog was read to. They shared a snack cake on the couch. She lovingly brushed him till he shined and overly praised him for being the best boy and good boy and I love you so much you stinky dog-butt.

   He’d never seen her smile so wide and for so long, before.

   Charon reclused himself in his workshop, only cracking his door open enough to peek through and witness whatever activity the two fixated themselves on. 

   She was tying a red bandana around its neck. He didn’t know where she had gotten it. 

   “So handsome,” she cooed.

   It farted and sneezed simultaneously.

   Charon made her favorite dish that following evening, plunking down at the table with two bowls and two spoons and an impatience brewing in his gut. When she came down to him waiting on her, the meat of dog a bur in her side, he gestured to the empty chair across.

   “I have made dinner,” he proclaimed. 

   “I smelled it,” she observed with a neutral tone. The pair of serving dishes were stared at with surprise. “Oh, are we eating together?”

   He stiffly gave a nod of his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

   The dog lay at her feet as they took their utensils and ate their food, hers slow and meticulous, his vehemently scarfed. He looked over his food to her eventually just slopping spoonfuls over the side for the mutt to catch.

   He shook his head, shoveling another mouthful in, a wet spray of soup flying off his tongue. “You should not do that. It is a bad habit.”

   She gave him a look of disgust. “Someone’s talking,” she muttered.

   He stabbed his spoon in the air down at the dog that had no thoughts behind its eyes. “It can hunt for itself.”

   “I’m not going to risk him starving or getting hurt,” she sniffed, ladling a healthy spoonful over. “It’s fine.”

   Charon slammed his fist on the table, shaking the entire thing. “It is not.”

   She scooped a much bigger portion this time, throwing it into the bottomless pit of teeth below. 

   “It is,” she scathed.

   He abruptly stood, shoving his chair back. “I will not risk myself in combat for it.”

   Her eyes narrowed as she reached for the pot and dumped the remainder overboard, her morning leftovers for breakfast disappearing straight down an awaiting gullet. 

   “Maybe you shouldn’t for me either,” she seethed, slamming the thing back on the table and stomping up to her room. Her door slammed shut.

   He was left alone downstairs, his bowl only half empty, whereas hers had been licked clean. The robot tidied their mess as he stood a hairsbreadth just outside her door, listening to the hushed conversation she carried.

   “Just give him a little time…I know I had to.”

   He swiftly vanished inside his own room when her shadow darkened the crack of her door.

   “We’re going to Moira’s,” she curtly announced as they bounded down the stairs. 

   We. Not I. The dog had been elevated to the status of a fucking person. 

   He burst out before she could make it to the base of the stairs. “I will follow.” 

   She perched her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. “Why? I’ll have Dogmeat with me.”

   The look he gave her was one of utter absurdity. “Are you implying it to keep you safe?” he growled. What a fucking stupid notion. He glared down at the mutt. Its lazy eye had switched sides again. “I will come.”

   Craterside Supply already had a customer at its door. It was Gob. He was wearing a stained, mismatched suit, awkward and stiff as he just stood there. He had a bottle in his hand. He gave a small wave as they approached. 

   “Oh, hey smoothskin, I was just- uh-”

   The door swung open, the light from inside bathing all three of them. Moira grabbed at Gob’s hand, sweeping him off his feet. “Sorry, but we’re closed!” 

   The door slammed shut in their faces. They shared a look. He inwardly shuddered (for he could only imagine what she was succumbing him to).

   “Well,” Evelyn mused, “I guess we’ll come back later.” She began to walk back for home, when she abruptly turned and gestured to the bar. She rushed out, “Doyouwantadrink?”

   The saloon was crowded. They managed a table in the far corner, but she didn’t take her seat. 

   “I’ll buy.” She turned an interesting shade of red. “What do you want?”

   He surveyed the room, drumming his fingers on the table. “I have no preference.” 

   She took off before he could accompany her, the dog taking his place as her shadow. A wandering hand veered a little close to her backside, and the mutt nipped at it, sinking its teeth deep enough to draw blood. The man yelped and whisked his newly-to-be severed limb to his chest, and Evelyn was left none the wiser as she propped herself against the bar counter and ordered their drinks. The dog just scratched at its chin, lolling its brightly red tongue to the side. She returned with two beers, clinking their glasses together after he raised his for a drink.

   “Cheers!”

   He didn’t give any in return. It must have made her feel some sort of way, for she mumbled an apology and then refused to look at him. He watched her watching the crowd, the lip of the bottle brought to her mouth for small sips.

   “I want to go back to Rivet City,” she spoke a little loudly, making herself heard over the commotion. 

   “Very well.” He finished his beer.

   “Is that alright with you?” She was now staring at him, that creeping blush along her neck and cheeks now branded a fiery red.

   He narrowed his eyes. “You know of my answer.”

   “But I want to ask.”

   “I prefer you do not,” he groused, sliding his bottle to the side. “It is a waste of time.” The look he gave rippled a visible shudder down her spine. “Do not waste mine.”

   He was suddenly abandoned as she made to leave. He was left alone at their table, his bottle empty whereas hers was half-full.

   The dog once more accompanied her to bed when she tucked herself in that night. He checked on her, just as he always did, but she called out to him in the darkness before he closed her door. Her voice was thick, as though she had been crying.

   “Please don’t come in my room anymore.”

   The dog’s eyes glowed at him as he obliged her request. He left back up the hill to find the groping perp caught with his pants down and seated on a toilet in the otherwise empty head. He locked the door.

   When she had left the next morning for their “walk”, the visiting caravan and a few volunteers were busily combing around for any hint as to their missing member.

   Evelyn threw a stick for the mutt to chase. “Weird. Wonder what happened?”

   Charon didn’t answer.

   The dog returned without its item. Instead, it carried a dismembered, bandaged hand.

   “Ew, no, bad Dogmeat!” Evelyn scolded. “Drop it!”

   It had been ravenously chewing on a finger. 

   Everyone had gathered around the severed appendage and declared it to be the remains of their missing caravaner. 

   “It’s rare, but we do get yao guai around these parts,” Simms had voiced, effectively dispersing the search party. 

   Before they could make their way back through the gates, the sheriff directed their attention to a swirling cloud of black smoke in the nearby distance. 

   “That there’s Grayditch,” he said. “Only home to a few settlers, but honest folk, all the same. Might be worth checking up on them. After all,” he gave Charon a pointed look, “it pays to take care of one another.”

   Evelyn sighed, "Yeah, sure. We were just about to head out, anyways."

[kidotm]

The Boyfriend: PT 1

 Hey Dad? 

   Yes? He replies softly before leaving her room. 

   She’s all tucked in with the lights out and Mother’s Bible left on the nightstand. Tonight was Daniel and the Lions' Den. She wonders what a lion looked like, felt like (soft, rough?). Did they smell of desert air and grassy plains? How cool was the river they drank from along the rich soils of Jordan? She’ll never know, but if she asks her father, he will give an answer. He has an answer for everything. 

   Do you still miss Mom?

   He pauses, but he doesn’t turn to look at her, not in the eye, anyway. His voice is soft, like stardust falling from the sky to lightly sprinkle the crown of her head. Yes…very much.

   Was it a terrible thing she didn’t feel the same? How could she, for a mother she had never met, even though at one point they had shared the same heartbeat. How cruel, never to hear it beat again. 

   Will you always miss her? 

   He’s silent, and then, I don’t know. 

   She doesn’t know what to say in return to such a confession. 

   Why don’t we get to bed, sweetheart? It’s late.

   Yes, Dad. I will. 

   She dreams of being in the lions' den, but she isn’t quite there, yet. She’s with her mother, all snuggled and warm and safe, but the lions are hungry, and they do not discriminate. She’s pulled into this world a little too early, and much too violently. It’s full of teeth and screams and despair, rips and tears and blood and sinew. She’s gone just as soon as she came.

   Where was God then? 

   The house reeked of smoke- it was on fire. 

   Evelyn tumbled down the stairs, crashing to her hands and knees at the bottom as the front door flew open and a whirring of Wadsworth’s fan began to operate in an attempt at dissipating the suffocating fumes. Dogmeat whined in her left ear (with a wet nose) as she got to her feet and braced an arm over her mouth to stem any more toxic inhalation. 

   “Holy shit!” she coughed, “what-?”

   The outline of Charon’s back appeared as the smoke began to drift away. He turned around with a pan and a grimace on his face. (It must be bad). She continued to wave her hand around and blinked back tears as he shuffled two giant, charred, pie-shaped delicacies onto two separate plates. One split in half, spilling out an almost molasses-thick orange ooze that produced something of an awful stench. His frown deepened like a chisel in stone as he poked and prodded the thing with a spoon.

   The sight made her heart flutter. “Oh. That’s oka-”

   He looked her dead in the eye and rasped matter-of-factly, “They are perfect.”

   The pan on the stove quite suddenly burst into flames, and he quickly smothered them out with a deafening clanking of a lid. His head swiveled on his neck a near 180 degrees as she just dumbly stood there. 

   “Sit,” he said. 

   She hesitantly did so with a fold of her hands in her lap, as she watched him pat the side of his head after a patch of hair had caught alight. He then straightened, turned back around, and set down another (smaller) plate under the table with a third (smaller) black pie. Evelyn gasped in surprise at the offering, but he just shrugged in annoyance at her slight smile.

   “If it is going to travel with us, then it cannot slow us down,” he said evenly. He took ownership of his weary (and heavily abused) chair. “I am sure you are hungry. Let us eat.”

   All of her teeth began to hurt after nearly ten minutes of chewing. A loud crack made them both pause and look to the other, and then Charon rooted around the back of his mouth for a cracked molar before flicking it in the bin. The bent tines of her fork played with her food whilst Dogmeat’s tongue noodled around her ankle, begging for her scraps after having inhaled his own.

   “It’s pretty smoky in here still,” she eventually said, only a partial-lie. She scooted her chair back as he continued to saw saw saw at the corner of his elephant's foot. “I’ll be outside for a bit.”

   The faint breeze rippled the edges of the contract that was being held so delicately in her hands. So illegible, so stained, so stupid. Such a stupid, stupid, stupid thing. She should shove it in her mouth, chew it to paste, and spit it back out. Better yet, she should swallow it, see just how far the big guy’s hands can travel down her throat in chase. Why did she want to be with someone who was made this way? Someone who followed orders, who risked life and limb, who had no conception of free will or…or who made her godawful food, who presented her with real flowers, who was given the choice to be anywhere but here with her. But would he still, if he truly could? What was he to her…what was she to him?

   The waft of his peculiar scent, smoky gunpowder and salty musk, all bottled together with a hint of wrath, sprang up her nose with the deep inhale she made. She wanted to spray it along her wrists and rub it inside the dip of her neck.

   “I will need supplies,” Charon politely informed her as he came to stand beside her at the railing. He took notice of the contract still in her hands; the tarnished, yellowed slip of paper so translucent in the sunlight. His eyes snapped to her face. “Is there something wrong?”

   “No.” She folded the thing to dig a hole in the pocket at her waist. She was going to burn it, let the ashes float from her smudged fingertips along the westerly wind, and say goodbye. Get on with her life after seeing to a debt that she was still entitled to pay. She said, “It’s nothing.”

   He didn’t care to comment on the outright lie as he dutifully fell in step behind herself and the scruffy dog, waiting with his arms folded and posture menacing as she went to invite them inside the supply store. It was locked.

   Knock Knock

   “Shall I check the bar?” Charon asked.

   “No.” 

   Knock knock knock!  

   She took a step back and copied his stance. In all the months she had been living in Megaton, Craterside Supply had never been one to close its doors during business hours. She knocked again. “That’s weird. Maybe something’s happened?”

   She could practically taste the dryness off his tongue as he rasped, “Is that a bad thing?”

   “Ha-ha.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and only when she looked away, did he return the gesture. “I just want to make sure that-”

   Her concerns (and fist) halted in midair as the doorframe swung open. The woman (of Charon’s waking nightmares) appeared, dressed in nothing but a wrinkled, hem-fraying suit jacket, her hair frizzy and skin abnormally flush. 

   “Oh, well hey there!” Moira casually remarked. “I thought I heard someone knocking at my door!”

   Both ghoul and girl craned their heads to peek up the stairs at the blur of motion that had materialized. It was none other than Gob, completely butt naked (aside from a pillow hiding away the family jewels). Evelyn immediately spun around, burning as hot as a Roman candle, whereas Charon just squinted, not reciprocating the right to privacy.   

   “Oh, I am so, so sorry!” she stammered. “I-I didn’t-!”

   Moira waved her hand, completely unperturbed. “We’ve been at it all night. I was sort of needing a break!”

   Gob choked from above, mortified, “Moira!” 

   But she continued without so much as a bat of an eyelid, “Guess we’ll put on some pants!”

   “That’s totally okay- we can come back-!”

   “Oh don’t be silly! We’ll be right out!” And the wind from the door blew in their faces. 

   A loud bang came from inside the store, followed by the high-pitched whirring of some machinery. The dramatic opening of the door startled them both as Gob reappeared in a frankly disheveled state, busily fastening buttons and keeping his eyes glued to his feet as he bumbled out. He was quickly spun around at the elbow and shunted against a pair of tipped toes and puckered lips, Moira’s wet smack audible for the entire town to hear. The amorous air was almost sickeningly thick enough to be mistaken for tear gas. 

   “Don’t be shy, handsome!” she brayed.

   Gob’s entire face melted into a sloppy wet puddle of loving mush. “Y-yeah.”   

   The clouds broke overhead, the sun came shining through, the birds sang out in heavenly chorus. It was as obvious as a holovid scene when the hero and the heroine were finally embraced under predestined stars of eternal happiness…and it made Evelyn feel absolutely deranged with envy. Cupid had strung her bow, let off a volley, and yet had somehow forgotten to save an arrow for herself. 

   Charon had never acted like that. Charon had never looked at her like that. Charon would never…be like that.

   “I-I’ll, uh, see you later,” Gob hummed as he spun around and swayed along to an invisible tune, a new record spinning for his outlook on life. 

   Moira was twiddling her fingers through her hair, a dreamy sigh floating from her chest as she watched him go. “Wow,” she breathed. “Isn’t it all just…something?”

   Dogmeat hacked, eyes bulging from his skull as his tongue extended like a spyglass.

   Moira turned her eyes to the loudly choking canine at hand. “Aww! Now just who is this cute little guy?”

   “Dogmeat,” Evelyn answered without so much as a hint of usual enthusiasm. “May we come in?”

   “Of course!” They all stepped inside as she took her place behind the counter. “What is it today? Grenades? Ammo? Radioactive cave fungus-?”

   Evelyn wandered the store for her usual round of window shopping as Charon immediately began to preemptively resupply his inventory. Dogmeat occasionally brushed her hand with his nose, loudly panting. A corroded ring with a dull stone set on a display stand was picked up. She looked down at her callused hands, studied the grease-stained fingers and unclipped hangnails. They were hands not worthy of the fashion magazines she had leafed through in the Vault; were much too ugly for the women wearing silk dresses and pearl earrings dashing beautiful smiles. She slid it on a finger, frowning at how well the piece seemed to suit her. Moira was talking a mile a minute whilst Charon just shoved things inside his personal pack, his demeanor giving his best I am ignoring you impression. Her heart jumped in her throat when she turned to have her nose smushed into the big guy’s leather jacket. She backed up a step and rubbed at the tip.

   His eyes were drawn down to the ring still on her finger.

   “Do you like it?” he rumbled. 

   She took it off to set it back on the display. The wasteland was no place to consider such frivolous things. “I mean…it’s kind of pretty.”

   It was soon plucked between his thick, scarred fingertips, and before she could protest, he set it on the counter and pulled out his drawstring of caps. “This as well,” he rasped. 

   “Ooh!” Moira picked it up, closing one eye as she held it up to the light. “I forgot all about this! Supposedly, Wolfgang said it belonged to a princess from a wasteland far away across the sea.” She handed it back over for the ghoul to take. She shrugged. “Supposedly. Five caps.”

   Charon stiffly spun around with the ring curled inside his fist. “Here.” 

   She held out an open hand, and he dropped it. He then stared at her with such intensity all she could do was mumble out an awkward, “Thank you.”

   Both turned their heads to Moira’s cheeky smile. “It’s in the air.”

   “Let’s go,” Evelyn said, striding for the door as he just turned his head to stare after her. 

   Nova and What’s His Face were met just off to the side, sharing a smoke and some lowly uttered goodbyes. 

   “You know where to come find me,” Nova purred.

   “So I do,” he drawled with a grin.

   A nudge in her side. Charon gave a nod of his head to the gates, and they set off for the rising tower of smoke in the distance, Dogmeat’s legs skittering across the sand as he investigated ahead. She briefly looked over her shoulder, once, twice, and then the third time was met with a raspy disgruntled, “Is there something wrong?”

   It was a losing battle to ask…

   “Um.”

   …but she did it anyway.

   “Are you okay?” She fought not to flinch when he snapped his toasty glare around. “You seem…angrier, than usual.”

   He replied sullenly, “I am fine.”

   “Okay,” she mumbled, willing her eyes to stay forward. She could hear the sound of his boots trudging through the sand and rocks so close behind her. The shoddy jewelry glinted on her right ring finger. With a wobble of her lower lip, she hesitantly turned around to face him. “I-I mean, it’s, it’s just-”

   He very slowly raised a brow as she just continued to spew word vomit. 

   She finally blathered, “-like, I guess, doImakeyouhappy?” 

   The muscle nearly disappeared into the creases of his forehead. “Happy?” he repeated, clearly not understanding. 

   “Yeah, like.” She slapped her hands at her sides and looked off into the distance back towards Megaton, squinting against the bright rays of the sun. “Someone you like like, to be with. You know…happy.”

   He stared at her. “Why do you insist on asking me this?” 

   A shrug of her shoulders; she couldn’t meet his hawking eyes. Her voice became quite small. “Maybe because…I want to be with someone who makes me happy.”

   His eyes narrowed into slits, the question being spat out between the sharp edges of his teeth like an interrogation. “Does your safety not make you happy?”

   “I don’t mean it like that,” she exasperated. “It’s more like, well…a boyfriend, or something.”

   The moment the sentiment left her lips, Charon took a step back, and his entire attitude changed into rigid hostility. He didn’t say anything, and so she braved the open waters of her pathetic confession.

   (But there is always a contract)

   “A…boyfriend,” he deadpanned. 

   “Yeah.” She felt a tingle up between her thighs as his chest expanded from the deep breath he took, his thoughts in clear conflict behind his blank stare. He then looked at her with such annoyance she muttered, “You know what? Forget I said anything.”

   She stomped on past, hearing the angry, indistinct grumblings wafting under his breath as they continued towards Grayditch. The big ghoul eventually took lead the closer they encroached upon the razed settlement, the still-licking flames and wispy smoke beginning to make the air difficult to breathe. 

   Charon halted their steps. “I do not think we should continue.”

   Before she could give a reply, a shriek snapped them both to the threat at hand. A child had come dashing out of the rubble, waving his arms around and screaming at the top of his lungs, “HELP! HELP MY PAPA!”

   Charon stood his ground between the boy and herself with his weapon raised, whereas Dogmeat excitedly began to sniff their new friend. She could see the blood on his arms, coagulated and scabby. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. 

   Charon warned, “Get back.”  

   Evelyn came between them, reaching for the scared child with a bend to her knees and a low soothing hum to her voice. “It’s alright, come here.”

   The boy instantly nabbed at her instead, dragging her away with his dirt-stained, grubby little hands that were cinched tight around her forearm. “Please please please help my Papa!”

   They all found themselves climbing small mounds of rubble and stumbling over giant carcasses of ants-

   A sharp squeak left her mouth as their protective roles switched and she suddenly clung to the boy. Without another thought, she tightly held his hand and began to force him in the opposite direction towards relative safety and lack of six-legged freaks. “Holy fuck-!”

   “Let me go, lady!” he wailed, thrashing around until she was forced to release him. They squared off against one another in the middle of the road, his earlier panic resolving into stubborn defiance. “My Papa has been fighting those things, and I need you to go help him!”

   Charon said bluntly, “He is dead.”

   Despite her internal agreeance, Evelyn gasped, “We don’t know that!”

   “That is not a risk worth taking.” He scanned the area, then looked back down the way they had come. “Let us move. Now.”

   She was more than familiar at the sight of that unspoken anger in his eyes. Do not do this. With a defeated slump to her shoulders, she motioned for the boy to come with them. “Megaton isn’t far. We’ll go back and-”

   “I have no one else,” he sobbed, so small and as frail. “It might be too late.”

   Her fingers hovered midair upon reaching for his arm. He was crying fat, ugly tears that rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin, snuffing a disgusting wad of snot up his nose. It had her gut sinking like a heavy stone in deep waters at the sight of that fragile, glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Papa would be okay. Cook him breakfast. Tell him to brush his teeth, don’t wander too far, tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight. Slowly, her fingers curled back to her side.

   Why did you leave me, Dad? What did I do wrong?

   The single look she gave to the ghoul made him gnash his teeth but relent with a nod of his head. He wrapped a gloved palm around her elbow before they took off in hot pursuit, his tone urgent and low. “Stay close.”  

   Dogmeat kept at the boy’s side as he scurried deeper into the fiery pit that was once his home. Without uttering a single word, he silently turned to them both and pointed to a blackened building, the flames mirroring inside of his wide eyes. Charon guided them to a rusted preservation shelter, heaving it open with his bare hands. He gave them both an expectant look. 

   “Get in.”

   The boy began to wildly shake his head before the ghoul lifted him off the ground to plant him inside. 

   “Stay,” he commanded. He then turned to her and made the same request. 

   She crossed her arms and stood her ground. “I will-ugh, hey!”

   Charon had simply tossed her along and threw the mutt in for good measure before he began to heave the contraption closed, the sunlight waning with every inch. His face was soon the only thing left visible in the crack as he declared, “I shall return.”

   The shelter was snapped shut, and the three were left cramped, frightened, and in total darkness. Minutes ticked by, the boy’s grimy hand finding her own and squeezing it tight. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked with a tremble in his voice.

   She licked her lips, returning the small comfort shared between them. The air was beginning to grow stifled and smelled of dog, Dogmeat’s panting the only sound besides their whispers. 

   “Yeah…he’ll be back.” She stared at the closed door, felt the confining metal all around them, tasted the blood, and smelled the sand. “He always comes back.”

   Charon opened their hideaway, dully saying, “He is dead.”

   The boy didn’t fight with her this time around. The light in his eyes had been promptly snuffed out, leaving two glass orbs that occasionally reflected dead emotion whenever they passed the lingering flames. Something skittering from underneath a hole in the rubble made her freeze and whip him behind her, and then she felt the incredible heat and screamed. She didn’t hear his shrieks, the snarling, or the thunder of shotgun blasts, or register the dark underground she was pulled into. Her hand was wildly smacking at her left arm, the blistering and popping and crackling consuming everything as Charon feverishly ripped off the sleeve before the molten flames could melt her suit into a second skin.

   “Fuck, fuck- hold on!” she choked, wheezing on her own rush of adrenaline and self-induced morphine as the scorching pain made her want to amputate her own limb.

   You’re fine-you’re fine, seenotsobad-oh my God it smells-fuck-the skin-

   Her pack was cut from her shoulders with an easy slice of a blade. It was simply dropped to the concrete as Charon ravaged around inside her bag for that heavenly sight of a syringe. The Med-X felt like a drop of sugar on her tongue, dissolving into her nerves and lacing spun cotton candy in her limbs like the after high of a good fuck. He shot up one more when the tingling sensation in her left fingertips became annoyingly aware and she whimpered. The drift of muttered words swelled her ears, a voice held underwater, but she was too busy enjoying the light reflecting on the surface. Her fingers traced the hardened, disfigured plastic of her Pip-Boy- a knob had melted to the base and refused to spin, unlike her vision, which swarmed around and blended together and oh shit she was going to pass out much too soon-

   She didn’t feel the shake on her shoulder. Didn’t hear the sobs, or feel the tears and spit on her face. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. 

   Do you think if Mom knew she was going to die, she would have still wanted me?

   Oh, honey, now how did you ever come to think of such a thing?  

   Perhaps the better question would have been to ask whether or not he still would have wanted her…for if he did, then wouldn’t he have stayed? Was she not worth enough for him to just leave? To fend for herself, to struggle to survive every day just to see another sunrise, or sunset, to see her friends, to sleep in her bed…to be with him.

   A gasp!

   She startled upright, her fingers grazing the cold concrete which filed her nails in the most spine-crunching way. Eck. Evelyn blinked, choked up on her spit, and smudged a few fingers in her eyes, the greasy oil leeching into her retinas and making them burn slightly.

   The burn!

   She looked down, her arm strangely numb and grotesquely wrapped in a multitude of bandages. She was afraid to touch it, for what if it had become a mangled mess of blackened flesh and sweltering bumps and-

   A pair of hands, both powerful and insanely gentle, cradled underneath her jaw to turn her face back upward. 

   “Are you in any pain?” Charon asked quietly.

   Her eyes whipped up and over, her sense of situational awareness painfully nonexistent. They were in a small maintenance room, the flickering light overhead occasionally fritzing out and then coming back to life. The sound of water droplets from a pipe gave an eerie echo in the silence between them. 

   She shuffled upright, her voice thick and croaking. “…where are we?”

   “The metro,” he answered simply. “You have been out for a few hours, now I advise you to hold still.” 

   The wrapping was being unfurled, beginning at her shoulder as he began to slowly wind it down. She stared at the thin line of his mouth, how heavy it was, so stern. She turned her head, blinking against the dreary lighting. The boy was slumped in the far corner with Dogmeat curled at his back, both seemingly fast asleep. He really was nothing more than a scrawny kid, slathered in soot and blood and piss and God knows what else. 

   Charon casually inquired, “What does a boyfriend do?”

   Evelyn stared at him, in disbelief at the words that had just left his mouth. “You want to talk about this…now?”

   He nodded. “There is time.” The dressing came down to her wrist, and she caught sight of the angry, raised flesh, somewhat in wonderment that it didn’t hurt. 

   “We-well,” she awkwardly began, breathing in the closeness of him like he was a candle and she was the flame. “A boyfriend, like, holds hands, k-kiss, and stuff, talks about everything…has sex.”

   The eyebrow raise was back, but he didn’t look up from her injury. He questioned with the utmost seriousness, “Is that not what we do?” 

   “It’s a little more than that,” she added weakly. “It’s like, two people who want to be together…forever.”

   He lifted his head, her bare hand gently held in his. “Are you considering handing over my contract?”

   “N-no, but-”

   He assessed the mottled and flaking skin, his fingers tracing the worst of it. “Then I shall be this boyfriend you require.”

   The term was said so strangely she almost barked out a humorless laugh. She winced as he gingerly moved her crispy appendage to expertly rebandage it.

   “Uh, that wasn’t what-”

   “They’re everywhere- they’re everywhere-!” the child shakily rattled, over and over and over till her ears bled and her anxiety turned her mouth into musty cotton. He flinched as Charon stormed over to the door, scraping it against the floor as it swung open. “No, don’t, they’ll get you too-!”

   “I will throw you outside if you do not stop screaming,” the ghoul snapped.

   There was a loud sniffle, and then the child began to rub gooey snot and tears all over his face with the backside of his hand as he broke down into hysterics. “I don’t know where else to go! Those fucking ants are still out there!”

   Evelyn scolded. “Charon, stop it!” 

   He growled but obeyed as he closed it, shaking his head as she stood and wiped the dirt from her backside and legs. The boy in the corner quivered; Dogmeat watched the room with strangely glowing eyes, unusually still for a dog of his nature. She stood over the fatherless child- one of the same, and not of the last. They were to roam this earth of their volition, unguided, and forced to grow years beyond their own.

   Evelyn bit her tongue with enough pressure to squash it into ground beef. “I’m really sorry about your dad…what’s your name?”

   He looked at her, drawing his knees to his chest. “Bryan. Bryan Wilks.”

   “Evelyn.” She held out her right hand, the ring glimmering in the dim lighting. “Let’s get out of here.”

Let’s Not Do That Again

   The dog he could live with. The boy he could tolerate (for now). These utterly reckless, truly reprehensible, downright fucking stupid endeavors she dragged him head-first into…he had something to say about. He always had something to say about it, but whether or not he actually chose to give his straightforward and crass opinion was altogether another matter- but today it did. 

   It mattered. 

   “I didn’t think there’d be fire-breathing fucking ants!” she growled. 

   Charon snarled in return, “Because you do not think!” 

   She scoffed, “Ooh, yeah, good one!” She mimicked with an atrocious impression of him, “You are stupid!”

   He held up her burnt arm, as though the sizzled flesh wasn't enough of an eyesore to notice. “And look what it has cost you.” He scowled at her before she could unwrap it completely. “Do not do that.” 

   She scratched at it, peeled it, frowned and hissed whenever her nails dug in too deep. He had felt her pain. He saw the flames run up along his once perfectly pale freckled skin, mindlessly eating away at everything until it was charred to an ugly stain of shit. He had shut every part of himself down and banished the child and dog from his world as he hid them away in their own little corner. (Safe). Stop screaming. Stop fucking screaming I cannot concentrate when you are making those awful fucking sounds-

   He had put his hands in her mouth and ripped her wide open, her teeth smushing her eyes into jelly, but then she had stopped and gone completely limp, and that gave him an entirely different reason to panic. 

   The boy had intruded on their safe space. Cried. Loudly. Don’t go. Don’t go like Papa. Don’t die.

   Charon had snapped. She is not going to die.

   He had checked her pulse (strong, steady), she was going to live, but now the way was shut, and it forced them to venture deeper below the surface. 

   “Hurry,” Charon had snapped, nabbing the snot-nosed kid by the elbow to shove him forward and around another bend. “Keep going.”

   The ants had completely infested the underground, forcing them to backtrack their steps and go in circles like some hellish merry-go-round and trip down stairs and become completely fucking lost. The buzzing was at their heels. They were sprinting through the abandoned subways, their breathing ragged and muscles strained, but the rate at which his ammunition was expending was enough of a kick in the nuts to continue to push, and fast. The boy was tired; Evelyn was exhausted; the dog panted loudly with a lolling tongue that dragged along the floor. They could not return the way they had come; the ants far outnumbered them to try and escape with brute firepower alone. 

   A rotating light had beckoned to them from within the bowels of the murky tunnels, signaling a way out. Charon had herded his band of cats to the exit only to be met with a locked service door and password-protected terminal. Evelyn had flown to the keys, her fingers tapping over them with haste. The chittering had begun to grow somewhere down along the service line. A click!

   “Got it!” 

   The mutt had been the last to squeeze past the maintenance door, its tail barely escaping a painful detachment. Charon had then turned to his small squad with his grim expression. An empty room- a dead end. Nonetheless, Charon needed time to think, to strategize. He would get them out. He had to. 

   She was cradling her arm again. 

   “You are out of Med-X,” he bluntly noted.

   She shot him a dirty look. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” She turned her head, groveling under her breath, “Stupid smoothskin.”

   His scowl worsened. He imagined he wasn’t doing a very good job at being a boyfriend. He got down to one knee and began to rummage through his array of supplies for anything that could give him an edge. He was nearly out of shells. They were all out of grenades. Close-range tactics were suicidal (for even he wasn’t fireproof, in spite all the atomic flaying he had already endured). 

   “What the hell is this?” 

   Evelyn’s (predictable) scavenging made him pause with his mission planning. She was holding a black velvet garment of a very unique design to her chest, letting it waterfall down until it barely kissed her thighs. It was a nice thing, not unlike the one she had back in her room. Their eyes immediately met, and she held it away as though it was a strange animal that had bitten her.

   “What a weird thing to keep down here,” she mumbled. 

   (It disappeared within the depths of her bag)

   “We’re trapped here, aren’t we?” the boy said plainly, addressing no one in particular. The dog just wheezed. “We’re going to die…just like my Papa.”

   Evelyn said nothing, but the lines deepening in her face spoke of her thoughts.

   Charon couldn’t suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He grumbled, “We are not going to die.”

   Whether or not they took him at his word, he didn’t know. The boy sat on the floor in one corner with the dog curled at his feet while Evelyn messed with the screen of her damaged Pip-Boy. 

   “Useless,” she said before stowing it away. She then held up the sliced webbings of her straps and glared at him before tying the ends together to form a makeshift sling. 

   A braying of gunshots made them all jump to their feet and look to the door. Charon held up a hand, signaling them to stay as he carefully went forward and prepped a blast at whoever had the unfortunate luck of trying to share their hiding place. Charon planted the muzzle of his shotgun directly to their forehead. 

   A half-naked smoothskin weirdo grunted in surprise, dropping his gun. 

   “Holy- don’t shoot!” He held his hands up in plain sight as he kept raising his eyes until they met with Charon’s threatening snarl. “The fuck-?! Look pal, I’m just here for the nightwear!”

   All three questioned in unison, “The nightwear?” 

   “Grady said it’d be here, that’s all!” The smoothskin hopped on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable to be nearly deepthroating the end of a gun. Charon put a little more weight behind it- stop moving. “I didn’t think anyone else was down here besides all these fucking ants!”

   “Do you know a way out?” Evelyn suddenly materialized at his elbow. “I have it, and I’ll give it to you if you can help us.”

   The smoothskin went to answer, but Charon sharply interrupted, “No. I do not trust him.”

   “He may be our only way back to the surface!” Evelyn reasoned with a hiss.

   Charon's voice boomed like a rolling thunderstorm. “I want to keep it.”

   An echo of surprised noises came from the both of them. 

   Evelyn squeaked, “You do-!?”

   The smoothskin said, “Hey, hey! Fine, alright, keep the damn thing! I ain’t looking to hand over my life for it.” 

   “Good.” Charon leaned over, bellowing his hot breath over the smoothskin. “Now go.”

   He did, with a trip down the subway line and a hot coal in his step as he scurried away, more than likely to be roasted and devoured. Charon turned to her, his weapon relaxed at his chest, rasping, “We too should leave.”

   They came to dip into another stairwell, opening the door to another smoothskin.

   Everyone (but the ghoul) yelped, “Ah!”

   Charon shoved the stranger back inside to allow them room to enter before slamming the unwanted pyro pests out. 

   “My-my, you startled me!” the man exclaimed with a high nasally voice. 

   The boy exclaimed, “Dr. Lesko! You made it! You’re alive!”

   “Well of course I am,” he stated as though it was a simple fact. He adjusted his cracked spectacles. “Now, who are you? And what are you doing in my private lab?!”

   Charon gave a nod, dead serious. “I am the boyfriend.”

   The scientist blinked, completely caught off guard and stupidly repeating, “The boyfriend?” 

   Evelyn pointed to the door with her good arm, her face growing nuclear. “Shut up! Just what the fuck are those things?! What the hell are you doing down here?!” There were beads of sweat perspiring on her forehead; she must be in pain. 

   A dull throb began to tattoo inside his skull. It was nothing in comparison to the earlier wave he had been struck with when she had caught aflame, but it was annoying enough that he interjected.

   The smaller man was wrangled by the collar of his lab coat, the simple noose being tightened until he was gasping for air and seeing stars. Charon shook him, snarling, “Med-X. NOW.”

   “Brgahhh!” he choked instead, a shaking finger pointing to the top drawer of a filing cabinet. 

   He dropped him like a sack of flour, ignoring the boy’s frightened crying and Evelyn’s snarky reprimand as he ripped the cabinet open and took to cramming the entirety of the medical supply stash inside various satchels and pockets on his person. 

   A wheezing, “You-you can’t just take everything-!”

   Charon whipped a glare around, mustering enough ire into his stare that the man withdrew his former protests. He then gently took Evelyn by her right elbow, guiding her to a chair. “Sit.”

   She didn’t argue. An abnormality. 

   With a flick of the cap and the poke of a needle under her skin, he depressed the entire dose and became relieved when she finally appeared relaxed. She rolled her head to the egghead still cowering in the corner.

   “What the fuck is going on?”

   The goofy smoothskin began to ramble in a most unpleasant manner that made his fingers twitch. Charon didn’t understand the majority of what was said, but she apparently did, or at least enough that it roused a strong reaction from her tired limbs. She snapped out of her chair, bracing her weight into his.

   “People are dead!” she shouted. “People have lost their lives because of you, you stupid fuck! This is all your fucking fault!”

   The smoothskin couldn’t be any less bothered by her angry outburst. “It is the price to pay for science-”

   Evelyn saw red. Charon recognized the flash behind her eyes like the bloom of an atomic mushroom cloud. She momentarily glanced down to the pistol at his thigh, and so he simply unholstered it to let off a single shot. The egghead’s brain exploded all over the wall. The child screamed, as did she. He assumed it was what she wanted. Ahzrukhal never had to ask.

   (…but why was he suddenly comparing?)

   Her hands were at her mouth, the swell of fury gone and overcome with shock. “Charon…oh my God.”

   He secured the latch over his pistol just as the child began to cry; a long, drawn-out, melancholy sort of woe that was sure to carry down the remaining subway tunnels. 

   “Quiet,” he growled with a show of teeth.

   Evelyn exploded, “Why the fuck would you do that?! He might’ve been the only person who could’ve helped us-!”

   Charon began to take inventory around the room. Food, water, and surprisingly, some ammo. No shells, but he could make do with his smaller sidearm.

   “-who knows just how long we’re going to be fucking stuck down here! At least maybe he could’ve told us what-!”

   Charon snapped around with a nasty glower at her incessant rambling. “There is no reason to be loud. He is dead.”

   “Because you blew his head off!” she snapped.

   There was another door that he cautiously scoped out of, and yet another subway line that led somewhere even further underground. No exit in sight. He came back and bolted the door shut. Evelyn had taken to the terminal, her face pinched in concentration and tongue sticking out to the side, the fiasco with the scientist already blown over. He shook his head when she failed a second hacking attempt. 

   “Dammit,” she muttered, scratching at the swath of bandages over her arm. “If only I knew the password…” She looked up to him already staring at her. “Maybe he had it on his person?” she reasoned, albeit lamely. “In case he…forgot?”

   Charon irately sighed and rifled through the pockets of the dead smoothskin. His fingers met something.  “Found it.”

   She gained entry and scrolled through meaningless dialogue text boxes. Whatever she was reading through, he cared little for. He had a job to do, and every minute that passed risked their presence becoming known. Perhaps if he were to use the child as bait…

   The boy questioned out of thin air, “Whoa, what is this stuff?”

   They briefly gave him their attention before resuming their tasks. Charon did a whiplashing double-take. The boy was holding up a jar with a very familiar, golden, molasses-thick liquid.

   Evelyn stupidly questioned, “Is…is that, what I think it is?” 

   The child went to open it.

   “No!” they both shouted, and it frightened him into dropping it. 

   The jar rolled along the floor (miraculously intact without a single crack) all the way to Charon’s boot. He swiped it up to carefully inspect it, treating its contents with all the respect of an atomic bomb.

   “Holy shit,” Evelyn marveled at his elbow. “It is.”  

   Charon scowled at the boy. “Where did you find this?” 

   He pointed to a metal crate in the corner, and they both stepped over to peer inside. Multiple jars, each filled with various amounts. A metal clipboard beside the unexpected treasure trove was picked up. 

   “Ant queen pheromone?” she read aloud. Her eyes widened and Charon peeked over her shoulder in mild curiosity. “It’s an aphrodisiac. Holy shit, Moira.”

   “What’s an-” The boy scrunched his face in serious thought. “Afrodeeziak?”

   “Uh-”

   Charon stooped down to collect the other jars, cradling them like a newborn child. “They are not to be played with. It is dangerous.”

   The boy accepted the vague explanation, nodding sagely. 

   Every single jar was delicately wrapped in fabric before being nestled inside his pack. He lifted his head to Evelyn’s gawking. “Yes?”

   “You’re seriously taking them all?”

   He nonchalantly answered, “We have use of them.”

   "Whoa, do they explode, or something?!" the child asked with wonder. 

   Evelyn grew flustered and resumed back to the terminal. "Let's just try and figure a way out, okay?"

   The hours slowly passed. The body was dragged outside. The child and dog took to the only mattress for sleep. Evelyn poked and prodded through various containers for anything of further value, but they were severely limited. Charon cleaned his gun and sharpened his blade as they struggled to come up with an escape plan. He could hear the ants just beyond their door picking the egghead clean, the occasional sharp cracking of bones piercing the air. 

   "We can't stay in here forever," she told him, fiddling with the ring on her finger. He was glad she liked it.

   “It will be difficult,” Charon began. “But not impossible.” His eyes came to rest on the child peacefully asleep. “He will have to stay.”

   “What?!” she blurted, smacking her trap shut after the boy shifted. She lowered to a whispered hiss. “What?! We’re not leaving him down here!”

   “I do not believe he will survive,” Charon reasoned logically. “He is a hindrance and will put us all at risk. It is for the best.”

   “Jesus Charon,” she said with disgust, taking a step back to eye him critically. It made him feel…strange. “He’s just a kid who lost his only family. Maybe have some empathy.”

   “That,” the ghoul replied darkly, “is what will get you killed. You are my employer, and it is my duty to protect you. I cannot extend that same service to him.”

   Again, there was a sort of glazed-over, deadened look in her eyes as she regarded him. It was alienating. “He’s coming with us.” There was no room for argument in between her words. They nailed into him, the hammer of her stare beating down with every second. 

   hescomingwithushescomingwithushescomingwithus 

   Her little whispering voice was crawling just behind the rods in his eyes, crushing the bridge of his nose, sliming over his teeth, and swallowing his tongue. He was sweating, so hot and flush he might puke all over himself. 

   hescomingwithushescomingwithushescomingwithus 

   “Stop it, stop it, stop it-” Charon gasped, beating the sides of his skull with his fists. “Fucking stop-!”

   “Charon?”

   The big ghoul turned with a shuddering inhale- the mantra was gone. 

   Evelyn was standing but a few feet away, cautious, regarding him as though he were a feral animal, vicious, a killer, kill-

   (But she wants him with us)

   “Charon?” she repeated, her eyes wide and uncertain. Her hand was hovering in the air for him. Her voice cracked, unable to uphold itself any longer. “…are you okay?”

   The veil lifted, his thoughts once again his own. They were cornered in a pinch between a train car and the crumbling brick. How far did he wander? 

   “Let’s go back,” she suggested, her voice thick. Her hand was still there for him to grab.

   (Take it)

   He did not remember walking this far. That was a problem. She spun on her heel after dragging him back to the stairwell.

   “Look, I know this is all of my fault, okay?” she said with a slight sob hitched in her throat. “But I think I figured out a way to get us out of here, and if it works, we’ll go straight back to Megaton for a bit to figure out everything. Just…” Her clammy hand fell to her side. His fingers twitched. He wanted it back. “…don’t ever leave like that again.”

   He could only nod, for he himself did not quite understand what he had done. What would a boyfriend do?

   (He couldn’t remember)

   “Okay.” She stepped back into their hideaway before he had the chance to ask her. “Tell me what you think of this.” 

   It was a simple plan. Nothing too complicated, but it came with great sacrifice- it required use of (almost) all of the ant queen pheromones. 

   Charon had his arms crossed, his expression extremely grim with a low hang to his frown. He looked from the sacred jars to the terminal to her expectant face. It was almost like the dog’s when it had performed a trick. Pet me. Tell me I’m a good girl. He wished to, but just in other ways. 

   (Which was now out of the question)

   “And once they’re all gathered, we can make a run for the surface and back to Megaton,” she finished. For a moment, he believed her to have made a decent general. Perhaps in another life. “We can come back and wipe out the nest another time, with better guns and more people to help. If what that asshole had on his terminal was true, then it should work.”

   Charon thought it over, revised it, and then set it in motion. He had to give her credit; it was the best option they seemed to have. He bent down to shoulder his pack. “Very well. I shall go. Do not leave this spot until I have returned.”

   She followed him to the exit. “Be careful. Don’t get your ass any more fried than it is.”

   He snorted, his eyes hooded as they stared at her cupid’s bow. He had the insane urge to kiss her, but she had already retreated behind the door. The pale, pink hue of her lips was all he could think about as he stealthily crept down the tunnels and set the jars (save for one) in a suitable position away from the nearest exit points. The big ghoul then walked a way down the service line, equipped his pistol, and proved his long-range marksmanship with perfect shots, the glass shattering and ooze splattering all over the train tracks. He made his way back to the lab, the droning sound of insects quickening his pace. 

   It fucking worked. His crazy smoothskin and her crazy ideas. He would have expressed his gratitude and commended her for her ingenuity if it were not for the fact that they still had to make their escape. 

   He initiated in grabbing her hand, the dog and boy along in tow. “Let us go.”

   The frenzied ants swarmed through, their numbers easy to avoid as they simultaneously provided some sort of waypoint back to the street level. The biggest, brightest grin on her face was impossible to go unnoticed in the dark underbelly. He still very much wanted to kiss her. 

   “We made it!” the boy exclaimed. He dug his heels in the pavement as they went to dash for the open wastes. “Wait, my Papa…”

   Evelyn let go of Charon’s hand to take hold of the boy’s. “I’m sorry, but we'll have to come back later.”

   He swiped it away. Brat. “No! I have to bury him before those things come back and-”

   Charon lifted Evelyn over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring her undignified squawking as he spoke monosyllabically to the boy. “It is not safe here. Stay. Leave. The choice is yours.”

   She bitched, "Charon!”  

   The dog barked, whining in the child’s ear as though to usher him along. Charon began to march straight off when he heard the patter of small feet hurrying behind in chase. 

   “W-wait for me!" he begged. "You promise we’ll come back?”

   Charon said flatly, “No.” 

   Promises were something never to be kept in the wasteland. Better he learned it now.  

[kidotm]

These Boots

 “Hold still,” Charon growled.

   “Ow!” Evelyn hissed. “Ouch!”

   The smoothskin doctor appeared unimpressed with her bitching- annoyed, even. He removed another piece of melted vault suit from her skin with a slight shaving from a scalpel. The Med-X didn’t seem to wholly dampen the pain of it, thereby making him annoyed. 

   “I do not advise us going back,” Charon rasped. His eyes squinted when she let out another whimper. “It is too dangerous. You could have been killed.”

   “God, can’t you be more gentle?!” Evelyn berated the practitioner before giving the ghoul a reproachful glare. “After what we’ve been through, ants are your no-go? And you say I'm the one being dramatic.” 

   “They breathe fire,” he astutely reminded her. He watched another piece of burnt skin being peeled away. It may as well have been his.

   “We won’t be going back alon- yow!” She retreated her arm to her chest. “My father was never this rough!”

   “Yeah, and I’m not your father,” Church said pointedly. “I don’t have to treat you-”

   Charon coldly interrupted with, “You do.”

   The smoothskin quickly reconsidered. “Okay, I have to treat you, otherwise you’ll more than likely die from sepsis. You want that? No? Good. We’re almost done, anyhow, then you can leave and hopefully never come back.”

   The smoothskin was true to his word. They were soon walking the streets, her arm grossly bandaged to the point it was stiffened straight. 

   “Fucking ridiculous,” she said, waving the limb around like an improvised baseball bat. He swerved his head from a swing. “Just look at this! Look at my vault suit! It’s ruined!”

  A favorable outcome, all things considered. 

  She continued, “And my Pip-Boy is now garbage! I pray to God Moira can fix it…so far she’s been able to fix everything.”

  He watched her attempt to scratch at an itch just above her butt, her right arm unable to make the distance, and her left just plainly unable. Her motor mouth was still revving a mile a minute, so he reached over with the tips of his fingers and gave her a good scratch. 

   She balked like a startled brahmin. “What are you doing?”

   “You appeared to have an itch.”

   “Do you just take notice of everything?”

   He thought long and hard for a moment, their stride continuing without a hitch, and then, “Yes.”

   She harrumphed, a strange sound. “Well I can handle my own bodily needs, thank you very much.”

   The plunge of his gaze straight down to her groin made her bloom hotter than the Mojave sun. He deadpanned, his face perfectly stoic, “I do not think so.” 

   She squeaked, mortified, “Stop it!”

   They came to the door. He opened it for her. She had to dip in sideways to fit her arm through the entryway. The boy and the dog were lying in wait on the couch, the child fast asleep with his mouth gaping open and excessively drooling. 

   “What are you going to do with him?” Charon rasped as she went over to drape a thin blanket over the boy. 

   She sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I was going to ask Simms his advice, maybe he’ll have some better options.” She altogether appeared haggard and exhausted. They hadn’t eaten or slept upon their return. There was a sour smell about her. 

   “You should sleep,” he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

   The yawn behind her hand appeared enough persuasion as she made to sluggishly climb the stairs, fruitlessly reaching for that itch once again. “Wake me when he does.”

   Charon did no such thing. She needed to rest, and he could handle the brat while she slept. The boy woke while he began to prepare an early dinner. He rubbed at his eyes, coming to stand a little too close for Charon's liking. The child stared at him, and he stared back. The robot folded his blanket as it tidied around, the dog trotting up the stairs to her room.

   "What?" Charon grumbled. He cracked an egg into a bowl. He didn't know what animal had laid it.

   The boy said, "I need to use the bathroom."

   Charon turned away, stiffening his shoulders. It was his first line of nonverbal defense- leave me alone. "It is outside."

   The boy didn't move. With painstaking slowness, Charon swiveled his head around. "What?" 

   "Can you show me?"

   "No." The ghoul bumped into him as he turned for the fridge, forcing his feet to move. "Outside."

   "But I really have to go!" 

   Charon said with a dismissal, "That is not my concern." He peered down the neck of a brahmin milk bottle. He did not know if it was expired, but it didn't impede him from pouring it into the mix anyway. A tug on his belt. He snapped a glare down and shook him off. "Do not do that."

   He whined, "I can't hold it much longer Mister!"

   The bowl was banged down on the counter as Charon stomped to the door and opened it. The child obediently followed until he was grabbed by the collar and plopped down on his butt outside. 

   "Up the hill," Charon growled, nabbing the handle to shut him out. He returned to his culinary creation, blinking at the chemical reaction that was suddenly taking place. 

   A knock on the door. 

   Charon nearly sent him flying by the force at which he flung it open. "What now?"

   The boy wiped at his runny nose. "I don't want to go alone, what if those monsters come back?"

   Charon rolled his eyes, going to leave him once more when the child nabbed at his hand. The ghoul gave the boy a stare lethal enough to drop a man dead. "Let. Me. Go." 

   "Please Mister! Please!"

   The ghoul was soon leaned against the outside of the head (lest the boy wake Evelyn with his complaints), his stance very much reminiscent of his past life as a bouncer. A shadow slunk from the creeping edges of night, ending up at his feet. Charon didn't move. It was the ex-raider. 

   They carried on a silent standoff before the smoothskin slime croaked, "You going to let me in?"

   Charon didn't move.

   "...what, you think you own this shitter, rotbag?"

   Charon didn't move. 

   There was the muffled sound of a toilet flushing from within, followed by the loud rattling of the hand sink piping. Charon stood straight just before the door opened. 

   The child stepped out, and Jericho barked out a laugh. "Hell is this? You got yourself some little kid? Playing Mommy-"

   Charon had already motioned for the boy to return to the house, outright ignoring the taunts thrown at his back. Evelyn was already awake, nursing a Nuka-Cola at the table and giving them a curious once-over. 

   "Where were you?" she questioned. The mummified appendage was pointed like a broadsword at them, the boy going to seat himself in his chair. “I thought I asked you to wake me up.”

   Charon shrugged. “You are awake now.”

   He ladled two servings in their appropriate bowls, ferrying them over for her and the boy. It was black and bubbling. He was sure she was hungry. Her arm awkwardly poked out to the side, her eyes trained on the dish presented to her. They then went as wide as the bowl when the child guzzled his meal straight down. 

   Charon kicked the back of his chair. “You are not a dog.”

   Evelyn merely stared at him as though he might explode. Charon could not decode the look in her eyes- fear, perhaps? Was she afraid he had eaten too quickly, make himself sick? He went to reprimand the boy with a box to the ear for unnecessarily giving grievance when the child slammed his bowl straight down on the table, his eyes overflowing with tears and nose runny with bubbling snot. 

   Evelyn reached her good hand over to console him. “Oh my God, are you okay-?!” 

   “It’s… it’s…” Bryan bawled, “Just like Papa used to make!” He sniffed, the webby goop sucking straight back up from his chin. His glistening eyes looked straight up at Charon. “Mister Scary Guy, your cooking is the best!”

   Evelyn placed a hand on his forehead, visibly concerned as she muttered, “No fever…concussed, maybe? Shock?”

   The boy continued to sob, relenting Charon into giving him seconds. (Whatever made him stop crying). Evelyn had slid her bowl under her chair for the dog to have after he had turned back to the sink. 

   “We’re going to visit Simms, he’s the town sheriff,” she gently explained as the boy licked his bowl clean. “...do…do you have any other family?”

   The perfectly sparkling dish was slowly set down, the crying having ceased despite the lingering sadness on his face. “My Papa tells me about Vera, but I don’t know where she is…always said something about a big ship somewhere…”

   Evelyn blinked. “Rivet City.” She shared a glance with the ghoul over his head. “That’s actually where we were headed.”

   The boy pleaded, “Do you think you can take me there?! I-I promise I won’t be bad, and, and I can find my own food, and-”

   She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy. A lot just happened in a very short amount of time. We’ll go, but not right now.” She clunked her useless arm on the table. “At least, not until I get this thing off.”

   Charon grumbled to himself. He decided with absolution that he did not like children. 

   The sheriff came by of his own ambition upon learning of their return, eager to be informed of the happenings of Grayditch. He did not appear very enthused by their findings and solemnly agreed with Evelyn’s future course of action. Much to Charon’s relief, he gave the boy temporary lodgings, stating that he would be more at ease with another child for a friend before they made to depart for Rivet City. 

   The boy, however, was mildly upset with the proceedings. “Aw, I wanted to be with you guys.” 

   Evelyn got down to one knee to be at his level, scratching the mutt behind the ears. “Tell you what, you can keep Dogmeat with you until we’re ready to leave, deal?” 

   “Hmm, okay…” The boy took off at the sheriff’s side with the dog encouraged to follow. “Just don’t forget about me!”

   They watched them disappear down the hill. Evelyn hummed, somewhat sadly, "It's strange...it's almost like he's okay with everything, even though his dad just died."

   Charon gave her a sidelong glance. "He is used to it. It is the wasteland; it is the way things are."

   "I guess that says something about me," she said softly. 

   He didn't know what to say to that.

   The bandage over her arm was finally allowed to be unwrapped later that evening, leaving her free to escape the grimy prison of her vault suit for a bath. Charon, too, stripped his gear, coming to stand at the side of the tub for an invitation.

   She didn’t lift her eyes away from his rising cock. “Um…can I help you?” Her legs slightly parted. “You do know this tub is way too small for us both, right?”

   “We have bathed before.”

   She tickled pink. He was nearly poking her in the eye. “I wouldn’t have called that bathing.”

   “Then I shall wait.”

   “Naked?”

   He scratched at his chest, unbothered by his nudity. She did not seem to take offense to it, at least, not anymore. “I am in no hurry.”

   She went to dunk her head below the surface. “You are so weird.”

   He couldn’t help but feel disgruntled when she didn’t initiate anything between them, and he puzzled over the conditions of being a boyfriend when she just dressed in her towel while his erection stood at perfect attention. He bathed, sullenly, splashing water over his shoulder (and the floor) as she retreated to her room to continue with her business. He seriously considered rubbing one out when she came back down the stairs, fresh in her green jumper with her Pip-Boy and pack in her arms. 

   “I’m going to Moira’s to get my stuff fixed, I’ll be-” He stood, the water cascading from his body and sloshing all around the tub. She was staring at his dick again. He was more than eager to please her with it, but she only finished with, “-back.”

   He groused, a little more than malcontent, “I shall come with you.” He came across harsher than intended, and it was doubly shown by the thin purse of her lips. 

   The climb to Craterside Supply was halted at Gob’s Saloon. She turned to him, frowning.

   “Why don’t you wait for me here, maybe we can get a drink?” she proposed. She juggled the crap in her arms. “I won’t be too long, and you won’t have to endure Moira’s newest craze.”

   For once, he took her up on the offer. He entered the bar and took a seat at the counter, sullen and pissed off as the bartender came forward. The frustration building within him reared its ugly head at the submissive ghoul.

   Charon spat, “You lied to me.”

   Gobtholemew instinctively flinched at the seething bite snapped his way. He subconsciously ducked his head- a well-ingrained survival tactic- before coming to realize there was no clench of a fist being pitched at his skull. He repeatedly blinked at the big ghoul taking port in his chair, his massive size swelling the harbor that was the bar. 

   Gob said, “Er, sorry, what?” 

   Charon cracked his knuckles, setting his hands on the counter to repeat with, “I have not seen it. It does not exist. You lied to me.”

   Gob glanced around the room. It was unusually packed for the middle of the day, but no one else seemed to hear the big guy’s insurmountable rage building in his voice or witness the rigidity stiffening his spine. 

   Gob licked where his lips had once lined his mouth. “I, I don’t understand-”

   Charon leaned forward. “The light.” 

   “Oh.” Gob willed his shaking hands to steady, the fear of death having soiled his briefs. “Um, I mean, well.” He coughed some phlegm. “I don’t know what to tell you…”

   “You have seen it,” Charon demanded, an accusation. “You know it to be real?”

   “Y-yeah,” Gob answered, although his response was none-too-confident. He picked up a clean glass and abraxo-soaked rag, simply going through the motions. He gave the giant shotgun strapped to Charon's back a wary look. “Did-did you maybe, uh-”

   “I have done what you have suggested,” Charon continued with a grump. “And it does not work.”

   The door opened, and they turned their heads to Evelyn stepping inside, the ivory moonlight illuminating her outline and dancing in a snowfall with the color of her earthy hair. She lifted her gaze, meeting Charon's grim outlook on life with her characteristically warm one.

   “Oh.” Gob’s eyes went wide as he stared at the back of Charon’s patchy head, his words going unheard. “…you really don’t see it, do you?”

   Evelyn came to sit beside them, adding to their company. “So.” She spun once on her stool. Then again. The third rotation was halted by his knee. “Moira can’t fix my Pip-Boy.”

   Charon raised a brow in minor disbelief. “You had said she can fix anything.”

   “Yeah, I thought so too, but she doesn’t have the parts or the experience,” she bellyached, sighing as she slumped over the counter. “…but there is someone else.”

   “Who?”

   She blew a stray hair from her face, her voice far too muffled for him to hear. 

   “Who?” he repeated. She again mumbled some unintelligible response, and so he nudged her chair.

   Her index fingers tapped together. “...Winthrop.”

   Gob hastily made for the other end, muttering something along the lines of, “Should probably inventory the stock.”

   Charon knew his face was less than pleased. “Him?”

   “I’m sorry, do you happen to know anyone else?” she sardonically asked. He released a sigh and pinched the folds between his eyes as she just scoffed, “I thought we were over this-!”

   “Very well.”

   The two-worded response effectively stemmed her foretold blathering. The corners of her eyelids creased- suspicious. “Wait, what…really?” she hedged. When he only nodded, she outwardly looked relieved. “Oh, well, okay, um, I guess we can-"

   Charon shook his head, crossing his arms. “No. Not we. I.”

   The look on her face was absolutely dumbfounded. “… I?”

   “Yes. Me. Not you.”

   “Why?!”

   “I will return when it is finished,” he rasped. “Unless you wish it of me to come back sooner.”

   She held up a hand. “Hold on! I didn’t say yes-”

   The brow rise made another guest appearance. “Did you have to?”

   The silence was something of a dizzying spell. He could see her massaging her cheek with her molars. He was old whereas she was young, and he was not new to this, (unfortunately, Ahzrukhal hadn’t been, either). She had not yet learned the stipulations of his contract, both to his advantage and drawback, and if he was allowed the room to flex his situation, then he would. 

   “You want to go, alone?” she affirmed. 

   “Yes.”

   “And you want to stay in Underworld until Winthrop finishes my Pip-Boy?”

   “It requires less travel.”

   “Doctor Barrows told me you aren’t even allowed back.”

   “He is of no issue,” Charon reassured her. When she gave him a look full of doubt, he continued with a promise, “I, will be of no issue.”

   Chew chew chew. 

   She asked with a small voice, “And you’ll be okay?” 

   He gave a cantankerous sigh. “I will not kill him.”

   She flushed a deep red, quite like himself. “That wasn’t what I was referring to!”

   “I will be fine,” he said. He faced the bar counter once more, ready for his order. “I shall leave when you require it of me.”

   She copied his positioning, giving a wave to the ghoul bartender. “Okay…”

   Gob dawdled to them, sliding two beers to their elbows. "On the house."

   "Thanks," Evelyn said, struggling to pop the top off. 

   Charon set the lip of the cap to the edge and easily popped it with a sharp pull before trading beverages with her. "Here." She gave him a faint smile, and then he caught the bartender staring at them with a strange expression from the corner of his eye. He challenged Gob with, "What?"

   Gob spun around, tending to another customer. Charon chose to ultimately ignore it. He must be scaddle-brained from his earlier interaction with Moira still...whatever that entailed. 

   (He couldn't help but be somewhat curious)

   Three days had then passed, and he dutifully remained in Megaton. The Pip-Boy seemed to be the least of her concerns very suddenly, and she just moseyed around the town performing mindless busywork. Leak patch here, caravan trade there…they found themselves on the outskirts, exterminating a burrow of molerats that had made themselves too comfortably at home. Charon finished eviscerating the last rodent, handing it over for her to string on a metal pole to then cart back to sell. The meat fetched a decent price, and the settlers seemed to find usefulness for their skins. It was easy caps, and she seemed content in doing it, which meant he did, too.

   The dog had wandered off again. 

   “Dogmeat!” She whistled out into the empty wastes. “C’mon boy! Let’s go home!” It appeared like a summoned skinwalker, seemingly floating across the sand. “Where do you go?” she asked, but it predictably didn’t answer. 

   Charon hoisted their bounty over one shoulder, the line of carcasses dripping fat drops of blood in a trail behind them. They went over the habitual motions of trading and selling before returning to her stilted house on the hill. Another day passed. The sheriff stopped by for a brief visit. 

   “Bryan’s a nice kid, and I know Harden loves having him around, but the boy needs to be with his family. He keeps talking about this Vera in Rivet City. You said you were making a trip there, weren’t you?” 

   Evelyn twirled a strand of hair around one finger. “I mean, yeah, I am, it’s just my Pip-Boy is busted, so I need it fixed before we can go.” 

   “I understand, but if this drags on any longer, I may have to send him off with Wolfgang.” The sheriff tipped his hat. “You folks have a good day, now.”

   She closed the door, leaned against it, and didn’t lift her eyes from the floor. 

   Charon had stood close by, his bag already packed and ready for the road. “Shall I go?”

   But she just gave him a hesitant, halfway-house sort of smile and shook her head. “No…not yet, it’s not urgent.”

   Another day, and the boy came. 

   “Are you going to Rivet City soon?! Mr. Simms says he’d feel better if I went along with you guys, since the caravans get hit by raiders often, but I don’t care, I think it’d be cool to hang out with a guy named Wolfgang, I mean, how awesome is-!”

   Evelyn held up a hand, damming his bursting fountain of youth from spitting all over her. “Yes, we’ll take you, it’s just going to be a while, but soon.”

   “Aw man,” he pouted, discouraged at the thought of missing a highly ill-conceived adventure. “Okay. You know where to find me when you do!”

   He scampered off, and Evelyn closed the door, leaned against it, and stared at the floor. 

   Charon slammed a hand above her head, irritably rasping, “Why are you waiting?”

   She ducked underneath to escape back to her room. “I’m not! It’s just not a good time.”

   He watched her stomp up the stairs. “Is there a reason? You know I am capable.”

   All at once, her easy-going, relaxed sort of nature from the past few days flew out the window as she spun around at the top, glowering down at him. “Yeah, so capable you don’t need me tagging along to slow you down!”

   He was bluntly honest. “Yes. There may be ferals still roaming the area. It is best for me to go alone.”

   “Peh!” She disappeared for a moment before coming back out to chuck something down at him.

   He caught it with one hand, rotating the Pip-Boy around for better scrutiny. It had sustained heavy damage. He doubted even the mechanic could fix it. 

   “Well there, now you can leave!” She slammed her bedroom door, her voice smothered behind the frame. “Have fun without me!”

   She had asked him not to enter her room anymore, and so he honored that request. Knock Knock Knock. His fist fell back to his side.

   “Did we forget something already?” she snarked after ripping away the barrier between them.

   He frowned. “I do not understand. Why are you upset?”

   She seemed taken back, the fire slowly fading to ash. “Are…are you asking me of…my feelings?”

   A nod. “Yes. You had said a boyfriend talks about everything.” He paused, then held up the Pip-Boy. “So I am talking.”

   She muttered under her breath, “You are way too literal.” He ignored it. She leaned in the doorway with her arms defiantly crossed, shame burdening her brow. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just upset that I’m getting left behind, is all. I feel like I can never do anything by myself.”

   Charon considered her words carefully before his own. “I understand,” he agreed. “I do not know how you had survived this long without my aid.”

   Wham!  

   The ghoul clenched his jaw after the door had been rudely slammed shut in his face. 

   She called out, “See you whenever!” 

   The metal shrieking of the gates was his fanfare as he left out into the open wasteland, his eyes set on the ruins of D.C. Footsteps in chase made him turn around with his hand on his shotgun, but he relaxed his stance when he saw it to be Evelyn. He began to assume the worst when she didn’t slow down and instead grabbed him by the sides of his arms. 

   “What is-?” 

   The fleshy weight of her lips smacked the rough sandpaper of his mouth, the tips of her toes digging into the earth as she reached as high as she could go, instinctively dipping him down to meet her. He was momentarily stunned and couldn’t formulate a proper response as she pulled away. 

   “Be safe,” she breathed, slightly exerted from her sprinting. “If anything happens, forget the fucking thing and come home.” 

   His hand rested on the spot where she had kissed him, and he could only dumbly nod.

   “Good.” She began to backpedal towards the gates. “I’ll hopefully see you soon.”

   Charon stood in his spot for a stretch of time, his hand still in place, her presence long gone and the wind beginning to pick up from the eastern waters far offshore. He stared at his gloveless fingers, a memory ghosting her touch from weeks past. She was frosted cake, a ribboned icing, a creamy inside. It left a sweet taste on his tongue, and he couldn’t help rolling it around to savor the entire walk to Underworld. 

   Boom. A point-blank shot straight to the chest.

   He was an asshole.

Crazy Little Thing Called-

   The horse had left with its rider, swept by the swift rays of the sun as it traveled into ruin and dust. The beat of her heart was still dancing to a small quartet, the bones in their hands and the horsehair in their bows shaking with ripe pleasure to the ballad of her lips on his. There was nothing in the world that she wanted more than to have that big, dumb, animated corpse of a man welcome himself back home and tell her he missed her. It was a fool’s dream, (and a rather big one, at that) but she longed for it, all the same. 

   It’s all she did that first day, staring at the door, waiting for that stupid ogre to come barging inside, but then night fell and she was sent off to bed, lonely and wallowing in a pit of brewing pandemonium.

   It wasn’t supposed to go this far. 

   Charon was soon to be a free man…a new man. His contract had been inked with her blood the day she had walked through that door and paid to have him, for she paid, and he was hers. Her very own walking gun, packing in both heat and dick, just for her. 

   Ha, Amata! I bet Wally and Butch can’t beat that!

   Evelyn had laid in her bed, staring at the blackness until white spots had begun to cloud her eyes, wondering maybe, just maybe, if it would be best if she didn’t wake back up at all. He would be someone else’s problem, someone else’s to ponder over and doubt, someone else’s to wrestle these conflicting emotions with of being with a man that held no ownership of himself…but she awoke, alone, and she tried not to think about him, yet it was all that was on her mind. 

   Charon. The ghoul without a surname, or an independent purpose. A trapped man…a…slave. No matter what he said, he was still bid to do as told, and she had only come to fully understand that the moment he had been denied to leave the boy.

   Just what sort of person was she?

   Dad, did you always want to be a doctor? 

   I did. There was something about helping others that always drew me. 

   And that’s it?

   Why, sweetheart, does there need to be anything more?

   “Gob.”

   The bartender turned to her as she sat herself on the far end away from the other patrons. He held up a choice between a beer and a Nuka-Cola, but she denied them both. She surreptitiously said, “I need to ask you something.” 

   Gob looked over her shoulder for that trapped man. “Gone already?”

   “Yeah.” Her fingers tippy-tippy-tapped on the counter. For once, her nails were clean. The ring perched there, bloated with years beyond its prime. “Do you think I’m a bad person…for having him?”

   There was a sad crease to his frown. “If it does, then I guess that makes two of us.” When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Are you thinking of…you know?”

   “I think I found someone who could help him.” 

   “Does he know?”

   “No. He just gets angry whenever we talk about it.”

   There was that mutual understanding under the blanket of silence before Gob pulled it back from over their heads. He rasped, “If it means anything, you at least make him happy.”

   Evelyn gave him a look like he had just told her the world was actually upside down. “...I do? Did he tell you that?”

   “Smoothskin, I’ve known Charon since my time back in Underworld, and trust me when I say that I didn’t think such a thing existed for the guy until you came along.”

   The tips of her fingers went to brush the knobs of her Pip-Boy, its absence lingering like a phantom limb. "What was he like? Did you know him at all?"

   Gob breathed out a heavy sigh, the past clouding his present as he traveled back in time to simpler days. "I didn't. None of us did. To be honest, we were too afraid. Ahzrukhal just showed up with him one day, and it only took a single 'incident' for us to wise up and leave well enough alone."

   She said, sadness tightening her throat, "I can't imagine what he's had to endure."

   Gob gave her the soda anyway. "I hope you can help him, smoothskin, I really do."

   She left the worn leather of her bar stool, the Nuka-Cola rolled between her hands as she climbed to the second story. The saloon's second-in-ownership and former prostitute greeted her with that charismatic charm only years of personal customer service could buy.

   “Hey hun, how’s life treating you?” 

   Evelyn felt the tips of her ears burning; she wasn’t sure if they would start smoking. “I need advice…for the fun stuff.”

   “Sure, come on in.”

   Nova listened with all the patience of a saint, dwelling on her smoke and occasionally lifting a plucked eyebrow. When Evelyn’s very personal intimate affairs had been laid on the table, Nova stubbed out the finished butt and blew some white haze in the air. 

   “Not gonna lie, you make him sound tempting.” She winked. “But afraid I’m still not into ghouls.”

   Evelyn bypassed the light tease. “I’m not very experienced with any of this.”

   “And honestly, honey, count that as a blessing,” Nova said with a low purr. It was anything but seductive. Her claws were out, and her teeth were sharp. “There’s only one profession in the wasteland that can give you that, and look at me, a washed-up junkie trying to find some better purpose for it all.” She waved off Evelyn’s pity. “I’ll share some secrets with you, but then you have to tell me how it went. Ain’t nothing better to gossip about when you’re stuck in this shithole town.”

   Evelyn left with all of her remaining innocence stitched into a neat little red A just above her left breast. Like the good student she was, she took her notes and asked her questions, going so far as to express her doubt when it came to the intricacies of certain...things. Wadsworth gave her unruly hair a much-needed trim; the few, rare, faded magazines of beautiful women and outdated (unpractical) fashion advice she had kept stashed away were leafed through and scattered around the place, their sepia-tinted smiles and water-discolored dresses watching her every move and every doubt.

   The nightwear was delicately draped around her shoulders and down her back and barely keeping her breasts in place. The ladies looked on with minor amusement at this young woman playing dress up, staring at her battle scars and the puckered skin marring her left arm. The grimace that had been on his face whenever he had stared at it had been just as hideous as he was, and now she was, too. The lingerie was swapped out for its red counterpart, and still her arm was no less inconspicuous as it had been before.

   She eventually blinded her little printed gossipers by ripping out their eyes and tearing apart their smiles while the edge of her knife came to lovingly lay along the seams. A few slices gave her ruby-satin ribbons, forfeiting the absurd desires from her head. The black one was held up as her next victim, but she couldn't bring herself to gut it and strip it. He had said he wanted to keep it. The knife was tucked away in the safety of its sheath, the nightgown eased into her steam trunk like a swaddled babe to the cradle. (Hush now, go to sleep). 

   A pounding at her door made her rush down the stairs, breathless and much too excited to think properly as she misinterpreted I can’t believe I forgot I locked it! with It’s obviously someone else. (It was, much to her disappointment). Her face became crestfallen when the cosplaying cowboy appeared at her doorstep. 

   “Howdy,” Simms drawled. “We just had the last caravan arrive with some scorch marks on their brahmin. I’m afraid those ants you told me about are already moving out, and fast. We’re forming a search-and-destroy party, and I’m asking for you to be our guide. Seeing as it is, we’ll be needing all the help we can get.” He squinted at the lack of muscle hovering over her shoulder. “Your friend ain’t around?”

   “No. I don’t know when he’ll be back.” The scars on her arm tingled. Charon would be none too pleased with her gallivanting around without his direct supervision...but the situation was growing dire, and she was given the chance to fight her own battle. She wouldn't be useless. “We’re going to need guns, and lots of them.”

   The ferals lingered. He simply strode past, frowning at his confirmed precautions as they groaned and stumbled and stared at him with cataract eyes. It was a disguised blessing she had taken him at his word, despite it being an outright lie. The Mall had not changed. He took the off-beaten path, as was usual, out of range and scope from the Brotherhood’s perch alongside the Washington Monument. 

   Willow had her back turned to him, busily trying to strike a flame with a rusty lighter. She muttered and cursed under her breath as she failed to spark a light. The darkening of her skies made her squint and turn around, the cigarette dropping from her mouth as she gasped in surprise. 

   “Ch-Charon-!” she rasped. “What the hell are you doing here?” The look of shock quickly reverted into a scowl. “You know better than to sneak up on someone like that.”

   He went to sidestep around her, but she intercepted his path. He growled, but she stood firm.

   “You’re not allowed back at Underworld,” she said flatly. “Barrows-”

   Charon shoved her to the side with a brute shove of his arm. “Move.” 

   The smaller ghoul stumbled a few steps, and he was mildly surprised she didn’t fall flat on her ass. She yipped at his heels and chewed on his ankles, following him all the way to the front steps with her insufferable bitching rolling his eyes. 

   “-you can’t just keep going around-!”

   Charon spun on his heel and picked her up by the sides, hoisting her a few feet in the air and shaking her like a ragdoll. Her remaining teeth clacked loudly in her skull, her weepy eyes bulging. Charon set her back down, leaving her in a spinning daze. The entirety of Underworld fell silent as he stepped through the doors. He faced them all, tall and broad and with a face that never enticed a conversation. A woman to his side dropped in a dead faint. 

   “He’s back!”

   “What if he’s here to finish the job?!”

   “Should we run? Should we hide?!”

   Charon’s leather creaked, his heavy steps echoing with every footfall, the fleeting whispers filling the concourse like the buzzing of flies. Charon came to Winthrop’s door and knocked. 

   Politely. 

   It opened, and the ghoul immediately slammed it back shut. 

   “Jesus, somebody help!” he shouted behind the frame.

   Charon slowly turned his head, surveying the room. No one dared to make a move against him. The Mister Gutsy continued to float up the staircase, its programmed disposition unable to retaliate against ghouls. Everyone was watching with bated breath as he again raised his fist. 

   Knock Knock Knock

   It locked, and Winthrop cried out, “Just, just leave me alone!”

   Charon took a step back and assessed his situation for a few minutes. 

   KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

   Winthrop’s door nearly flew off the hinges, somehow miraculously holding their defense against the onslaught of his iron fist.

   “Open the door,” Charon commanded. He again beat on it. “Before I do.”

   A click, and the handle turned. Charon mustered all of his patience into allowing the timid ghoul to slowly widen the frame, one eye wide with trepidation. 

   “Y-yeah?” he garbled. 

   “Let me in.”

   “I-I don’t think that’s-”

   Charon crammed his head into the crack, his wrathful face the epitome of nightmares as he glowered down at him. “Now.”  

   Winthrop allowed him entrance, standing far off to the side as Charon took to his private workbench to set his pack on it. He closed the door, shakily beginning, “So…uh…”

   The Pip-Boy was dug out and set down, and then a beautifully plump burlap sack of caps was plopped along beside it. “I need you to fix this.” 

   Winthrop registered the thing in question. “Holy…is, is she-”

   “She is fine,” Charon said curtly. He made a knife hand at the Pip-Boy. “Now fix it.” 

   Winthrop ever so slowly came around to stand beside him, his one eye flitting back and forth between the wrist computer and himself. Charon crossed his arms, leaning into the table and propping his leg.

   The ghoul took the Pip-Boy in his hands to inspect it under a table lamp. He fiddled with the knobs and frowned at the flickering screen. He eventually rasped, “Lucky it still works. I can’t imagine the damage until I crack it open.” The hefty payment was picked up next. “Wow…this is all from her?”

   “No.” Charon gave him a flat stare. “It is from me.”

   “Works all the same, I guess…”

   “When will it be complete?”

   Winthrop set it down and blew out a sigh. “At the moment, I have no idea. It’ll take me a few hours to take it apart, another couple of days to put it all back together, and that’s if we have what we need.”

   Charon became sour, making his way to leave. “I will be waiting until it is finished.” 

   “...that’s it?” 

   Charon stopped. 

   Winthrop said, “You’re not going to…you know…talk about what happened?”

   I will be of no issue. 

   "You made me lose an eye, and fortunately Barrows was able to save my arm," Winthrop continued, his words smacking Charon's brick wall of a back. The big ghoul didn't turn to address his speaker or the accusations. "Whatever...whatever I did in the past, to you, to make you feel that sort of way towards me...well...I guess, I guess I'm sorry."

   Charon stared at the door before turning partway to look at him. The one eye was beseeching, the other having been stitched closed; the awkward limp to his arm proved his discomfort, more than likely from being dislocated and reset. He appeared sincere. 

   Charon's boots sighed as he walked out; there was nothing to say in return.

   The double doors to the Chop Shop flew open with the angry doctor storming out, making him pause and raise a brow muscle at the manner in which Barrows kept a considerable distance from him. The nurse brought up the rear with a scalpel at the ready. 

   “I told that smoothskin of yours that you aren’t, under any circumstances, welcome back in Underworld anymore!” Barrows snapped. 

   Charon half-pivoted and started forward to him. They immediately kept the spacing, bumping open the doors to retreat back inside as he inched closer like an inevitable death sentence. Charon shoved a boot in as a makeshift door wedge before the doctor could secure the latch. 

   Barrows backed up into a gurney, his hands raised in defense. “We-we can talk this out! There’s no need for-!”

   But Charon ignored his pleas and took to removing his shotgun and pack, setting them to the side before working on his armor. They just watched him, stupid and silent. Charon unlatched his chest piece, running the leather strap through its ring. “I need you to examine me.”

   Barrows’ eyes followed along with the removal of his jacket. “Um…what?”

   Charon stripped down to his tattered shirt and pants and boots, his voice deep and full of gravel. “I require an examination. I am turning feral.”

   They all stared at each other. Nurse Graves coughed and was the first to make a move. 

   “Oh…well…that’s, unfortunate.” She motioned to a chair. “Please, take a seat.”

   He did, swiveling his head to the sleeping smoothskin woman that was in the corner. 

   “Doctor,” Graves said. The ghoul didn’t move, prompting her to snap, “Barrows!” 

   A flinch. “Er, sorry, yes?” 

   She inclined her head to Charon. “The patient.” 

   “Oh, uh. Right.” 

   Barrows cautiously approached him as though his teeth might sink into his throat and rip away the flesh. Charon relaxed, looking at the far wall as the ‘ghouling’ expert took to slowly examining him. The longer he scoped him, the more at ease he became and the more enthused he grew. 

   “Hmm. Might have to take some samples. Look here.” He held up a finger, making him follow. “Now here.” A light in his eyes. “Open wide.” A grunt. “Brush your teeth.”

   Charon closed his mouth and rubbed his jaw.

   A clicking of a pen. “Tell me what you’ve been experiencing.”

   Charon did, in full detail, the episodes of his turning. Barrows made some indistinct sounds, scribbling away on a notepad of his prognosis. 

   “Uh-huh, and you said they’ve only been occurring very recently? Nothing during your time here, or before? You’re Pre-War, right?”

   Charon answered the first question. “Yes.” Then the second. “No.” Then the third. “Yes.”

   “And for how long do you find yourself in these episodes prior to returning ‘normal’?” 

   Charon leaned forward on his knees, thinking long and hard. He had to be honest with himself, as he was proving to become a liability and a danger to his employer. As much as it truly frightened him, understanding when he would finally turn was the better (and bitter) outcome than allowing it to consume him fully without any sort of self-awareness. 

   He rasped, “When I am around her.”

   “Who, the smoothskin?” 

   He nodded, straightening. “Yes.”

   The nurse and doctor shared a look. She suddenly held up a hand to her mouth, a crooked smile forming underneath. 

   “Oh dear,” she giggled. 

   Charon snarled, “Are you implying this to be amusing?” 

   Barrows held up a hand. “Easy. No. Going feral isn’t anything to snub your nose at (or lack of, heh), but you’re not.”

   Charon didn’t blink. “I am…not?”

   “No. Your symptoms don’t even ring anything close to turning.”

   The big ghoul again snapped a growl at the chuckling nurse. “Then what is it?”

   Barrows clicked his pen closed and rolled away on his chair, hovering over the limp smoothskin to chart her vitals. “I’d say you’re a little taken with your smoothskin…not that anyone can blame you.”

   “She is pretty,” Graves agreed.

   Charon didn’t say anything. He didn’t understand. 

   Barrows looked over his paperwork when he didn’t go to leave. “Was there something else? Besides an apology for the mess you made last time?”

   Charon shook his head and angrily stood. He began to grab his things to redress. “I do not know what you mean.”

   “Smitten, bewitched, adore-” Barrows half-distractedly rambled, his eyes scanning a steady heart rate. 

   Graves finished with, her voice unusually warm for someone so decrepit, “Love.”

   The big ghoul barked out a harsh laugh, clipping his side satchel full of grenades into place. “No.” He turned to them both, flexing to his full size and snarling, “That is not it.” Charon swung the doors open so dramatically they smacked into the walls, splintering the trim cleanly off. 

   Barrows called out after him before the doors swung shut. “Stop doing that! Don’t go destroying the place aga-!”

   Charon met each and every one of the residents’ eyes with downright loathing. He was going feral, and the supposed ‘expert’ was too blind to see it. 

   Love?

   Charon did not know of such a thing. 

   Love. 

   Such a word did not exist in his vocabulary. 

   Love. 

   The more he considered it, the more it sounded foreign; a bizarre entanglement of syllables and consonants that made no sense when left on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to scrape it off and spit it at his feet, but he could only feel the hard lump in his throat as he continuously swallowed it down. 

   They had it misunderstood. 

   The residents respected him with a wide berth as he climbed the stairs, replaying the habitual motion of returning to his post while his mind brewed over the doctor's diagnosis. The patrons scattered like roaches, hiding in their tiny crevices when he strode through the door into The Ninth Circle. Charon took his seat at his usual table in the corner, his things already set to be cleaned and inventoried before he realized just what it was he had done. He took note of the deathly silence. Everyone was standing stock still, staring at him as though he had dragged himself up from the depths of Hell itself, a mold of cinder and liquid flame. 

   I will be of no issue.

   He came up to the bar, for once, of his own volition, and set his hands on the counter. He frowned at the surface. How many times had he been standing in this exact same spot? How many years had it been, being bid to things he had come to regret and loathe and then suddenly become completely numb to? How many years would it have been, that he would still be sentenced here if she had not come for him?

   (It did no good to dwell on such things)

   Charon leaned away and reviewed the shelves. All of Ahzrukhal's private selection had been drained dry, leaving a limited inventory of cloudy vodka and questionable whiskey. It would appear no one had taken up his mantle of distributing goods. He didn't have to give much thought to the stash of Jet; only the familiar sweet tang now seeped from the wallpaper.

   The bartender groveled, "Did...did you need something?"

   Charon turned to the doors, half-expecting Ahzrukhal to return from his piss and begin barking at him to return to his hole. His hands automatically tightened into fists, the joints popping in his wrists as his knuckles cracked. 

   It was his sole regret that he could not kill someone twice. 

   "Excuse me," a voice rasped politely at his elbow. 

   He looked down at a ghoul woman he had never come to see before standing beside him. He noticed her friend in the corner with the others, apparently horrified at her bravery. 

   "No, don't!" she hissed. "You don't know Charon!"

   The small ghoul continued, blatantly unfazed at the warning, "Are you perhaps going to buy a drink? Maybe two? It gets rather lonely around here...don't you think?" 

   Charon recognized that look, that smile. It was the same one Evelyn gave him before he fucked her mind out of her skull. In a way, it was surreal to see it given by another woman. He did not think Evelyn would like that. He was not stupid. 

   She batted her eyes- a seduction tactic? She demurely said, "So, how about it?" She ran a hand down the length of his sculpted arm. "I do love a strong man."

   There was that word again.     Love.

   Charon glared at her unwarranted touch, nastily suggesting with great vehemence, “Get your fucking hand off me. Now.”

   The woman cowered like a dog to a whip, returning to the safety of the others and being told with a hushed see, I told you! He returned to his seat, glowering at the others as they held a collective breath and waited for him to do something. Anything. Maybe shoot up the room, crack some skulls, throw a body or two over the balustrades-

   He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.   I will be of no issue. 

   Charon took a mental inventory of his stock and went back downstairs, rounding into Tulip’s shop.   She timidly greeted him as he perused through the selection she had. “Uh, welcome back…I guess…”

   Charon outright ignored her as he went about his business until the mechanic’s voice made him turn his head.

   “Hey Tulip, you wouldn’t by chance have an extra set of fuses, would you?”

   “I might, but you'll have to go digging around for it,” she said, a smile on her mouth after Winthrop turned to rifle through the correct bin.     Charon watched her watching him. It reminded him of a much-too-strange of a woman and a very passive bartender. Charon then gave his attention to the mechanic, rasping, “It is done?”

   “No.” Winthrop shoved his hands into his overalls after coming up empty-handed. “Good news- I can fix it. Bad news- I don’t have the parts.” 

   Charon rolled his eyes; a waste of time. “Then it is useless.”

   “Well, not exactly,” Winthrop said. When Charon just gave him a look, inclining for him to continue, he explained, “You've seen the smoothskin Barrows has been treating? From what I’ve heard, she’s the leader of Reilly’s Rangers…I don’t know exactly what they do, but Quinn has done trade with them before, and apparently they come across all kinds of stuff. It might be worth asking.”

   Charon considered his options for a moment.

   If anything happens, forget the fucking thing and come home. A suggestion, and an interpretative one, at that. 

   He gave a nod of his head. “I will ask.”

[kidotm]

BFG Committee

  The smoothskin was in a coma. Barrows was not pleased with his request.

   “What? Are you crazy?! You think I’m going to let you disturb my patient for something so-”

   Charon jangled some caps in front of his face. 

   He begrudgingly took them in spite of how easily they lined his pocket. “Okay, but I’ll wake her up. I know your methods, and I don’t need you putting any more holes in her that I’ll have to patch up.”

   There was a good reason she was incapacitated. The smoothskin flailed and shouted, stumbling all over the place and knocking over medical equipment as she frantically tried to don her gear and get back to ‘the fight’.

   “My team needs me!” she screamed as the doctor and nurse attempted to calmly rationalize with her. “I can’t believe I’ve been here this long, who knows what the fuck could be happening to them!” 

   Charon rubbed out his eardrum with the nub of his fingertip, unpleased with the proceedings. When she refused to just fucking sit back down he felt his short fuse ignite, leading him into holding up the smoothskin in the air with his hand around her neck. Barrows added to his temper.

   “Charon, do not kill her-!”

   “Be quiet!” Charon snarled, giving a light squeeze. She wheezed but obeyed, a faint shake of her head telling him that she was listening loud and clear. “Good. I am in need of a Pip-Boy being repaired. I was told you have what I am looking for.”

   She choked, her face turning the color of her pink hair, forcing him to drop her. She crashed to her knees, groaning and hacking up spit. 

   Barrows grumbled at his shoulder, “Can’t complain, she’s still got all her teeth.” 

   The smoothskin got to her feet and heavily leaned into a table for support. It was evident she was still recovering from her previous injuries. 

   “Okay, look,” the woman spat. Charon found it amusing that she thought herself in any way threatening with her teeth bared and shoulders tensed. “I’m going to start over, and you’re going to fucking listen. I’m Reilly, with Reilly’s Rangers, and I’m knee-deep in shit right now. My team, if they’re even alive, needs help. They might be still trapped at the Statesman Hotel and-”

   Charon cut her off. “I do not see this to be my problem.”

   “-and if you’re willing to help me, then I’ll get whatever fucking thing it is that you need.”

   Charon tilted his head. “You can guarantee this?” 

   After a labored breath, she nodded. “Yes. I give you my word.”

   Charon crossed his arms. “What is it that you require of me?” 

   The smoothskin went on into explaining her plight: she was indeed ‘knee-deep in shit’. Charon pensively rubbed his jaw as he considered the task she was asking of him. Mowing through an entire brigade of pissed off super mutants to then (maybe) find her team still alive was comparable to lighting himself on fire to discover when he would stop burning (and he unfortunately already knew the answer to that one).

   Nurse Graves gently touched the smoothskin on the shoulder as she went to throw on her gear. It had seen some heavy combat and was just in as much garbage condition as she was. 

   “Hey, unless you want to die before making it out the front door, I suggest you take it easy and lie back down.” Barrows flicked at a syringe he held- a sedative. 

   “I can’t!” she said. He could hear the distress in her voice from how inadequate she was at hiding it. “If you’re not going to help me with this, then I need to go myself!”

   “No,” Charon finally spoke. He kicked himself off the wall to point a finger at her. “You will slow me down, or die.” 

   The immense relief on her face was the sun bursting through a cloud of gray. “You’re going?!”

   “I am.” Charon sharply exhaled. Nothing was ever so simple for her…but he would return with the Pip-Boy as it once was. He knew she wanted it. He growled as he went to exit, “Speak with Winthrop before you choose to leave. He will give you a list of what is needed.”

   “We’ll follow your lead.”

   Evelyn swallowed. The small rag-tag group was waiting on her, patiently-

   “Let’s get moving, kid.” Jericho put a smoke to his mouth. “Before I need to take a shit.”

   -okay, maybe not all, but the rest stood in their spots with their mouths shut and eyes stern. Some of the men Simms had collected had never seen combat, and she wasn’t sure if everyone would be returning home. 

   “Jericho, shut your damn mouth.” Simms gave her a nod of encouragement. “Whenever you’re ready.”

   Evelyn had questioned his absurd faith in her leadership after anointing her the tip of the spear, but he had chuckled and raised the brim of his hat. 

   “Caravans tend to talk, and I always listen. Arefu? Canterbury Commons? GNR-?”

   (Shit, she had forgotten about Three Dog. Was he even still alive?)

   “-Tenpenny Tower? And now you’ve just brought home a boy, in one piece, back from Grayditch as it’s burning to the ground. I’ve heard the stories, and I know someone who can handle themselves and others when I see it.”

   (Charon would have strongly disagreed)

   “It’s good to not get overconfident, but don’t sell yourself short. I remember the day you walked into this town, beaten and blue and crying for your dad-”

   (Yeah, this is exactly the sort of pep-talk she needed to hear right now…)

   “-and then you walked right up to that bomb and told me it wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” Simms placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and with a torch to carry. It made her suddenly miss her dad and want to begin crying all over again. “I have complete trust in you, and so will they.”

   Now, looking upon the band of ruffians with their sand-crusted guns and overlapping beer bellies, she wondered what that cowboy sheriff had been smoking that day. Evelyn tightened the grip on her stick-thingy (that Moira had modified from repelling molerats to ants), squared her shoulders, and puffed her chest. 

   Fake-it-till-you-make-it-

   “Alright, I’m ready.”

   -and pray to God Charon was somewhere down the line to pick up what was left of her ass when she failed. 

   They kept a somewhat orderly fashion, coking and joking at her back as she led the troops down the path and into Grayditch. There was no encounter with the fire-breathing insects, yet, and the chuckles and mutters doubting her instincts made her blister with boiling fury. The leathers she wore covered her scarred arm well, but she held it up for them to see all the same. “One of those things nearly killed me with a single attack, so I suggest you shut the fuck up and pay attention to your surroundings.”

   Simms barked, “Unless you want to be on Jenny’s menu for roast tonight, listen to what she’s telling you.”

   Jericho snorted, but they all heeded the warning. 

   She frowned. This wasn’t going to go as smoothly as she would have hoped for. She dropped her arm and motioned them onward. “The nest is in the tunnels, so have your guns ready.”

   Jericho sarcastically drawled, “Aye aye, Captain.”

   The first ant caught them by surprise. There was the scream of a man, thick with dread, and then the bright burn of orange, yellow, and red reflected in her eyes as she watched him go up in a fiery whirlwind of blackened flesh. 

   “Get it out! Get it out!” 

   The man’s high-pitched shrieks nearly ruptured her eardrum as it bounced off the brick walls and echoed down the subway. Evelyn felt her arm catch fire; she went to scream and slap at it before realizing there was nothing there. The barrage of gunfire hailed throughout the tunnel, deafening everything as the party decimated the sole fire-breather to minced ant meat.

   The burning man went sprinting ahead, his hot-red glow briefly lighting the way before he descended into darkness, disturbing everything and anything within the deep. The distant wailing soon ceased- the remaining group stood by and listened. There was no sound to be heard, and everyone quickly reloaded while Jericho spat his cigarette to the side.

   “Fucking Christ,” he growled, stalking up to Evelyn as she tried to covertly recover from her mental episode. His gross breath made her gag as he came too close. “You said you knew how to get us down there!”

   “And I told you to watch your fucking back!” She picked up her bizarre line of defense (the stick), after having dropped it. “Those things are everywhere.”

   Simms stepped up to them, his gun at the ready. “Hey! Now isn’t the time. Let’s keep it moving.” 

   Jericho gave her a nasty side-eye as she brushed past.

   “It’s this way,” she called over her shoulder. 

   Their footsteps clambered on, repetitively clanking and stomping without an ounce of stealth as Evelyn cautiously scoped around corners and occasionally halted them with a solid fist. A charred corpse came to be in their path, each person carefully stepping around so as not to be touched by the lingering flames. 

   Simms shook his head, sighing heavily. “Sorry, Roy.” He lifted his boot to respectfully pass. 

   “Fat bastard brought it on himself.” Jericho loudly hacked and spit, the body crunching like dried leaves as he stepped right over him. He balefully glared at the dirty looks from all around. “What?”

   Simms again shook his head, albeit for other reasons. 

   “Shh.” Evelyn cocked her head to the side, the pupils of her eyes widening as they stared into the darkness. “I hear something.”

   A faint buzz droned low in her ears like the humming call of drums over a distant field, but her eyes failed to see anything in the gloomy underground haze. Everyone kept very still. Time ticked on, the murmuring growing louder until it seemingly vibrated under her skin. 

   “What the hell is that?” someone whispered. 

   “Shh!” Evelyn hissed, and then something wet plopped on her cheek. Alarmed, she wiped at it and looked down. The slime oozed from her hand like a silky spiderweb, and she glanced up.

   A blinking of a thousand small suns stared down at them.

   “THEY’RE ABOVE!”

   Charon had preemptively decided it best to conserve as much ammo as possible for the upcoming fight. 

   The first raider he had come across he had simply dragged by the neck to the toilets, holding him under a stagnant bowl of water with absurd strength until the splashing and kicking had finally ceased.

   The next two had been too preoccupied squabbling amongst themselves that they hadn't noticed his perfect pitch of a whiskey bottle into their campsite fire, erupting a wall of spitting flames that had bought him enough time to slide down the escalator and sink his knife into one of their throats, whilst he had grabbed the boot of the other to simply flip him headfirst into the barrel of fire.

   A fourth had been snuck up from behind down the subway tracks and had his neck cracked in the crook of his arm.

   A fifth had been impaled with a pool stick through her eye, the body left to collapse over the game of billiards. It sank the eight ball in a pocket. 

   He grunted to himself, rolling his shoulders, “Good enough.”

   Charon mindfully looted every biting bullet and scrap of explosive he could find- he was going to need it. A Grognak comic was picked up and leafed through before being tucked away in his pack. 

   (He had noticed she liked to collect them)

   After the inconvenient hurdle of raiders had been dealt with, he found himself back in Metro Central, pondering over the directory board as his fingers traced through the film of dust to make a straight line to Vernon Square. The remainder of his time underground proved fairly simple as he passed the twitching ferals and occasionally rummaged through a bin or two. Navigating alone was overall a much better experience for him, if not, (he stubbornly refused to admit), a bit lonely. 

   Vernon Square was quiet…he did not like that.

   He trekked the courtyard, straining his hearing for any sign of a possible ambush or firefight, and it was only when he made it to the entrance of Our Lady of Hope Hospital that he heard the blasting boom of grenades billowing smoke from the topside of the Statesman. 

   It was a miracle they were even still alive. 

   The hospital door was creaked open, his shotgun at the ready as it made like the muzzle of a hound, sniffing the air for that whiff of danger. His steps were silent, eerily so, as he entered the main lobby and whipped his eyes in every direction. It would not be his first time encountering super mutants in a direct firefight, for he preferred to pick his battles wisely, but if this was his only chance at getting what he wanted, to then ensure she received what she wanted, then he would blow the place sky high if need be. 

   A sickening squelch came shucking around the corner of the first hallway, and he immediately opened fire. 

   A centaur. Nasty, unimaginable creatures of mutation gone two strands too far. The first cracking gunshot ripped away its putrid face, splitting its tongue and dismembering one of its many hands before it fell over and lay still. He stepped up and gave it another dose of lead, just to be sure.

   The smoothskin had briefed him quickly with the down-and-dirty (and frankly muddy) scope of their situation, and as he wandered through the lower levels, he found a spark of respect for her and her team. The pile of bodies and splatters of mutant remains sticking to the ceilings and the walls were damn near in every room- they had put up one hell of a fight, and by the sounds of it, continued to do so. 

   Charon didn’t have the chance to use their strange, unspoken neutrality as an element of surprise, for the mutants opened fire as soon as they had caught wind of him. They snapped their jaws at him, inhaling great gulps of air and speaking their single-syllable words like boorish, oversized children. Super mutants may be bigger, stronger, and a lot more in number than himself, but Charon was overall experienced, swift, and leagues more intelligent. 

   The ghoul immediately hit the deck, crouching behind the cover of a few secretary desks that were soon ripped to shreds by the many teeth of a 5.56mm. His fingers slid into a pouch for a grenade, chucking it overhead and then taking a brief moment for the dust to settle. He whipped his shotgun over the top to-

   A bigger super mutant had entered the room, armed with a minigun and laced with clips of ammunition, the distinct whir of the barrel spinning forcing him to haul ass. 

   “HA-HA!” 

   The bullets whizzed through the air and peppered holes like Swiss cheese in the wall just an inch or so behind him as he sprinted across the room, making sure to pass one of the uglies as he did. The sound of flesh turning into pink mist and agonized shrieks was just at his heels.

   “WRONG. ONE.”

   A chalky haze of concrete dust blinded everything as he stood stock-straight behind a support pillar, waiting for the inevitable pause of a reload. The bits of plaster were steadily chipped away by the hands of its clumsy sculptor; a single bullet making past his defense to graze the edge of his bicep. 

   The gun stopped firing.

   “NEED. MORE.”

   Charon spun out and went to aim high, but a swirl in the dust beside him made him turn to a mutant having snuck up on him. He sniped his new opponent with perfect accuracy, pumping shot after shot after shot until it spurted blood from where its head had just been, its body falling backward with an earth-trembling thud.

   Charon whipped back around to the muzzle of the minigun suddenly launched at his chest and slamming him into the pillar, dragging him up until his feet dangled cleanly off the ground. He gasped, the knowing sharp pain in his chest tattling on the fractured rib he had just earned. The ghoul growled as his gun was smacked out of his hand, the mutant giving him an ear-to-ear chilling smile. He grabbed at another grenade while drawing his knife. 

   Before he could become an additional resident for the morgue below, Charon sunk his blade into the mutant’s mouth, the cold metal sinking nicely through its tongue and the bone of its jaw with the handle propping open the roof of its mouth, his other hand diving the grenade as far down its throat as it could go. The sensation was overly hot, slimy, and its breath was something of a most brutal nature, that it somehow burned his already dulled sense of smell. 

   The mutant’s eyes went wide, and then it exploded into macabre confetti.

   Charon fell to his knees, spitting out the bits of guts and bone that had landed on the edge of his mouth and wincing as he went to stand. A Stimpak was retrieved and injected at the base of his ribs, the combat knife wrenched free to be sheathed while his shotgun found its way home on his back. After a few moments of allowing the drug to work its miracle, he rotated his torso to check for any further injury. He was clear. The minigun was eyed as he saddled the ammo clip over his shoulders. 

   He cracked his neck with his new toy in hand and looked around at the absolute massacre he had committed. The mutant’s skull was squelched as he stepped right over it, making way for the upper levels.  

   “Teach you to mess with me.”

   The fire came from everywhere, creating a tornado of heat and melting concrete into magma. Evelyn whacked the wiggling antennas of the nearest ant scaling down the wall towards her, making it furiously shake its head before emitting a sharp squeal and exploding. 

   She shouted, “We have to run!” 

   The team was preoccupied with fighting for their lives, unable to heed her call. Bullets clinked and soon littered the entire floor as the men wildly sprayed and yelled, the ants squealing and moving in one never-ending wave to defend their queen and nest. 

   “It’s got me!” one of the men screamed, pointing his poorly maintained rifle at the giant bug’s head. Its massive pincers clamped down, squishing the flesh and snapping the bone of his leg as he continued to pull the trigger until a heart-dropping click click click- jammed. 

   Evelyn rushed over, her stick held high above her head for a massive smackdown, but then the ant quickly scurried backward into a hole, dragging the settler along with it. She dropped her weapon and dove down to catch his hand, his grip so painfully tight around her forearm that she cried out.

   He sobbed, “Don’t let it take me!”

   “I have you! I have you!” Evelyn heaved with all of her might, but he wouldn’t budge. “I-!”

   A spray of blood doused her face, and she coughed, blinking away the stain on her skin as she felt the weight suddenly become very light. With a grunt she pulled, coming up and away with him. Everything past the elbow was gone- his fingers didn’t loosen their hold. 

   Simms shoved her from behind, yelling over the fight, “Let’s go!”

   Evelyn pried the limb free to fall with a plop, forgoing her weapon as she began to sprint down the tunnels and heard the footsteps following along in chase. The service door to the lab was just down the way- they could make it. 

   “In here!” 

   She opened it, ushering everyone along inside to then have herself and two of the others help her slam it back shut. They leaned their weight into the frame before a heavy thud made them jump back. 

   thud

   thud

   thud

   “They’re comin’ out of the goddamn walls!” Jericho barked. He rounded over to her, his skin bright red from standing too close to the sun. “What the fuck kind of show are you running, huh?!”

   “Easy Jericho-” Simms began with a hitch to his chest.

   “Oh no, I ain’t dying down here!” he snarled after whipping around. He unclipped the empty magazine from his gun, carelessly dropping it as he reloaded a new one from his waistband. He angrily shook his head, his eyes madly shining and five-o-clock shadow singed. “I told you this was suicide!” 

   “They can’t get in here,” Evelyn voiced, loud and calmly and with a level look to the ex-raider turning back to her. “We’ve hid in here before. For now, it’s safe-”

   “Safe?” he meanly chortled, and then the empty humor became a crazed glaze-over of mild insanity. “Just how the fuck are we supposed to leave then?!”

   “We have to destroy the nest.” Evelyn pointed to the terminal, turning all their eyes to it. “The scientist that started all of this is dead, but his work isn’t. There’s a queen brooding further underground just outside that other door. If we take her out, it affects the whole colony.”

   “Yeah, well good fucking luck with that,” Jericho sneered. He took a seat on the only chair and kicked his legs up on the table. “I’m going to stay. Right. Here.”

   Simms groaned, sinking to the floor, a pool of red rippling at his feet. Evelyn quickly knelt beside him, lifting back his duster to expose the slice to his abdomen.

   “Damn bastard got me,” he breathed, his forehead slick with sweat. 

   “Shit.” Evelyn gently helped him become more comfortable before snagging a Stimpak and gauze from her pack. The wadded bandaging was instantly seeped through, sodding the entire stash. She injected him. 

   “Whatever your plan is, kid, do it now, and do it fast,” Simms wheezed. “I plan on going home tonight.”

   “Great, just fucking great.” Jericho slammed his feet to the floor and began to pace. 

   Evelyn gave Simms’ fingers a light squeeze before standing up to the others. A brahmin mucker, a drifter, and an ex-raider were all that were left from their original party of seven. She didn’t know the men who had died, or whether or not they had family waiting for them to come back home to. She could see Bryan, Harden, and Dogmeat standing just outside the gates with the others, a sort of heart-crushing hope to their distant gazes when they had watched them all walk away. 

   “Do either of you have kids? Family?” she asked, and everyone seemed confused by the question. 

   After a few seconds, the brahmin mucker awkwardly raised his hand. “I do.”

   “What’s your name?”

   He dropped it. “Clancy. Clancy Jones.”

   “Well, Clancy Jones, our Sheriff is in no condition to go anywhere until we clear this place. I’m going to ask you to stay here and keep an eye on him, can you do that?” 

   He nodded, outwardly relieved at the assigned duty. “I won’t go nowhere.”

   “Good.” Evelyn crossed her arms and gave a jut of her head to the other two. “That leaves the three of us. I don’t know how many more are down there, or just exactly where the queen is, but we don’t have any other options. She is down there, somewhere, and we’re going to find her and end this.”

   Jericho eyed her in a way she couldn’t interpret- it brewed a bad sense in her gut. He simply said, “Whatever.”

   The drifter motioned to her lack of weaponry. “You don’t have a gun.”

   “You-” Simms winced, reaching for his holster. “Can have mine.”

   “I don’t use guns,” Evelyn said firmly, bringing the small bag on her back to the front. She dipped a hand in to showcase a grenade to the room. “I meant to save these for the queen…but I’ll use them where I have to.”

   Jericho grunted, doubtful, “You even know how?”

   She pocketed it away and met him dead-on. “Pull, toss, and duck.”

   The heavy firepower was a welcomed friend. His shotgun, for the first time in many years, took a deep breath and propped its feet up as he let the minigun handle most of the lifting. It cut through drywall and flesh alike, toppling even the largest of mutants with minimal effort and one-hundred-percent satisfaction. 

   (Guaranteed!)

   Charon had crossed the radio tower that acted as a bridge between the hospital and the hotel, using the preset traps the smoothskin had warned him of to his advantage. So long as he kept his distance to prevent an earlier mistake, Charon was, in all practical sense, invincible. 

   Hotel room after hotel room after hotel room was serviced to the best of his ability, leaving the sheets riddled with holes, the bathrooms in need of complete remodeling, and previous guests obliterated into dust as he casually walked the halls, firing without tact until everything had been laid to waste. 

   Charon climbed a flight of stairs, taking aim at a grenade bouquet above a mutant’s head to submerge them both in a fiery blast of powder and smoke, drawing his back around the corner for a split-second to escape the seismic blast. He then continued his ascent while blood slowly cascaded down the steps, his boots splish-splish-splashing as he made his way to the top. Theo, the wasted smoothskin Reilly had told him about, was lying in wait in a dozen or so jigsaw pieces. He knelt to punch in the code she had given him for the ammo box, helping himself to their stash for a quick resupply. 

   The hallways he trudged through were filled with corpses. He spied an Eat'o'tronic 3000 still ripe for the pickings, and he sacrificed some extra ammo in his already bulging pack for a few boxes of snack cakes. They weren’t to his taste, but he had seen the empty cartons lying around in her room at one time. A sudden shaking of the entire building made his feet waver, the sediment from the upper floors raining down to temporarily blind him. He had to hurry- he was running out of time. 

   Reilly’s team appeared to have fared better on these floors, clearing the way for him as he stepped through an open door for a sledgehammer to come sailing down where his head had just been. Charon swiftly backpedaled and swung the tip of the hammer with the end of his minigun before the mutant could raise it for another swing, smashing it perfectly back in the mutant’s face. He spied an elevator on the far end and rushed over to it, thumbing the up arrow as he took advantage of reloading. 

   Nothing happened. He growled, pressing it again. The light illuminated, briefly, before blinking out. With a deep sigh and roll of his eyes, he finagled the panel off and crossed some wires together, ignoring the jolt of electricity that zipped down his arm and waggled his elbow. The panel was snapped back in place, and he again pushed the button. 

   The doors opened, the cheery sound of music transforming his world as he stepped inside. They closed, and he stood there, covered in every bit of gore and filth biologically possible, his eyes staring at the numbers overhead taking their turn to glow while the soft sashay of the music played.

   A ding, and the doors opened. 

   She couldn’t stop shaking. Her fingers tightened around her satchel full of explosives, her teeth chattering in her skull. She was just so scared. She could feel them ripping her arms off, chewing on her lips, devouring through her spine to pop out of her belly-

   Jericho got in her face before they made the descent. “You better not fuck this up.” He saw the way she trembled. “You going to piss yourself?”

   “It’s freezing down here,” she lied, and he knew it. The man had endured the wasteland enough to know, had killed and tortured and raped enough souls to recognize that fear in her eyes. She took the first step despite how much her feet wanted to turn back and run the other way. “Hurry.”

   The first batch of ants were unaware of their presence. Evelyn unpinned a grenade and threw it, somehow making a beautiful arc in the midst of them. The explosion stunned her hearing, but the sight of the goop slathered on the cavern walls made the future tinnitus well worth it. She smiled even though her hands were still shaking. 

   I can do this I can do this I can do this

   “Here.” Jericho held out his hand when they came to the next group. “You can’t have all the fun.”

   He was much more practiced with his throw, and the unexpectedly easy journey to the heart of the nest fluttered her nerves with adrenaline and elation. They were going to be fine! Jericho gave her a solid nod after she had swept three more ants off their feet and plastered them to the ceiling, and as they passed underneath, somehow avoiding the thick drops of ant goo dripping down, he clapped her on the shoulder. 

   “Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.” 

   “Thanks.” She smiled at him, in a daze that maybe this was all a dream. Jericho, nice? Her survival skills, not half-bad? She was going to wake up soon. 

   The air changed. It was damp, it was…warm…it reeked something of a tangy sweetness. The three of them crouched, sneaking as stealthily as they could to the edge before peeking around into a cavernous area. A few tripod lights were set around with a sole desk and a terminal while a Protectron stood idly by, its dome occasionally emitting a faint glow of circuitry. This must be it: the nest. 

   “I don’t see anything,” Jericho said in a low voice. “I thought you said there’d be a queen or something.”

   Evelyn strained her eyesight in the gloom on the far side. As far as she could tell, it was devoid of any life. “I…he said in his notes that-”

   “Just go put the fucking things in the middle and we’ll blow it.” Jericho reached around to shove her forward. “Not taking any fucking chances with this, so hurry up!”

   Her bag nearly dropped from her hands as she was thrust into the wide-open; the air shifted, felt alive, crawling around her skin and along the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but there was still nothing. With haste, she wobbled over to the center, clumsily dropping to one knee to unzip her pack and begin offloading as many landmines as she could before a chittering hiss made her freeze. She dared not move, barely breathed, tears forming at the corner of her eyes as something very, very, very big hovered over her. The queen had been in the room the entire time, peeling itself from every inch of the walls…but they weren’t walls, they were her. Her beady eyes glowed as she descended upon her, swallowing the very space and distorting her rationale that something this fucking big and disgusting could even exist. 

   From her peripherals, she could see Jericho slowly bringing his gun up, but the relief she felt spiraled into horror as she realized he wasn’t aiming for the queen, but rather the explosives at her feet. 

   “Jericho,” she whispered, her voice small and shaky. A tear rolled down her nose and wet the backside of her quivering hand. “Please.”  

   “No hard feelings.” The hammer cocked back. “It’s the wasteland, kid.”

   You will die if you cannot take a life. 

   Evelyn dropped the entire stash and ripped her blade free, slicing through the antenna that was beginning to crawl through her hair and screaming a strained warcry. 

   The monstrous screeching made her hands clamp over her ears as she turned to look up and come face-to-face with this mutated abomination, the ant queen. Its body glistened and perspired, the molten fire in its abdomen glowing brightly as though someone had bottled the sun. The queen reared up on her hind legs, crashing into the ceiling and sprinkling rocks and sand down that shook the entire cave. 

   Evelyn sprinted for home base, tripping as the ground beneath her rolled and ended up smashing her face into the dirt. A pull at her elbow made her startle and go for another attack with her blade, but she was instead greeted with the face of the drifter. 

   “Run!” he shouted, helping her upright to move her along. “C’mon!”

   He pushed her forward just as his chest burst open, the queen’s leg turning him into a human shishkebab before it threw him aside to limply crumple into the wall. The queen shook her head, shrieking and waving her antennas furiously around, suddenly confused and turning her attacks on the stationary Protectron instead. 

   Evelyn dashed for the entrance, zipping around the corner to be met with a pair of hands that grabbed her by the throat and pinned her up against the wall. 

   “Should have never brought that zombie into my town!” he shouted over the insect’s wails. He increased the pressure around her trachea, forcing her legs to kick out and breathing to wheeze. “Now you’re gonna die down here, and when that fucking rotbag freak gets back, I’ll make sure he gets his.”

   The knife- it was still in her hand. 

   “Ahh!” Evelyn screamed, slashing the ex-raider across the face and forcing him to drop her. He did, and with a scream of his own as he clawed at the gush of blood and backed away before she could poke out his eyes. She roared, “FUCK YOU!”

   A quick-paced THUD THUD THUD planted her right on her ass, and she looked up with gaping horror as two writhing tarsi wrapped around the sides of the entrance before the queen’s head slowly emerged. It pinpointed Jericho still shouting just below, her mandibles opening wide as she clamped down around him. 

   Jericho grunted, his hands uselessly scrabbling at the hardened exoskeleton trapped around his body. He looked over to Evelyn still laid out on the ground, his words pleading and soft. 

   “Don’t let me die down here.” 

   Evelyn heard a shift in the dirt and looked down. A single grenade had fallen from his pocket, and she brought it to herself with her foot. 

   “Evelyn.”

   She pulled the pin. 

   “Evelyn.”  

   The queen retreated back inside, disappearing into the safety of her nest. 

   “EVELYN!”  

   A crunch told the unfortunate end of the man, whose head dangled from his shoulders as he clung to the barest seconds of life to watch her chuck the grenade. It landed with a roll to the pile of mines, and Evelyn met his eyes for his final moments. 

   “It’s the wasteland,” she said softly.

   And then she ran.

   Blowing the foundations of the place would have been a much better alternative than this. The ghoul grumbled and snarled and became so overly irritated with the various doors and seemingly endless maze of mutants and centaurs that he half-considered just rigging some explosives instead. He was too old for this fucking shit, and after he had swept another dining hall clean with a broad stroke of his minigun, he took a seat and offloaded his burden for a moment. 

   He lit a cigarette, spending a few precious minutes (that he sure as shit didn’t have) to just clear his head of everything. The tobacco smoke rolled off his tongue as he partly widened his mouth to allow it to escape, his eyes squinting into the far-off distance as he wondered just what Evelyn was doing at that exact same moment. 

   More than likely nothing. 

   (…he hoped) 

   When the smoke had been burned to the filter, he sighed and shouldered the minigun back into place, scowling at the third wave of explosions overhead. That smoothskin better make good on her promise…or he would. A faded, but still somewhat legible fire escape map was studied for the quickest access to the roof. He memorized the directions and came to a locked door leading to the lounge. He simply pointed his muzzle at it and spun the thing up, blowing it off its hinges. Upon entering the expansive space, he counted three mutants and an easy day as he raised his weapon and-

   click click click 

   Charon looked down at the malfunctioned piece of equipment. “Are you fucking-”

   The ghoul dropped the thing to his feet before sprinting through the gunfire, everything taking on a sort of slow motion as he dashed for the center of the room. A mutant came charging through, sweeping tables and chairs to the side as it made its way straight for him, and the ghoul unstrapped his trusty shotgun to take a crack at its kneecaps. The mutant tumbled over a table, shattering bits of dining ware and crystal glasses everywhere as Charon leaped over to plunge his knife deep into its eye socket. He heaved. It was stuck.

   Another mutant on the second floor was firing wildly, forcing him to abandon his blade and hoof it up the stairs. A grenade was tossed from the third mutant just feet ahead of him, and with a face of alarm, he punted it back midair with the toe of his boot before diving over the railing to sail back down to the lower level. A table broke his fall, (and his elbow), but it was a much-preferred outcome than the ricocheted blast that slaughtered his foe just up above. 

   The remaining mutant was busy reloading its jammed hunting rifle, snarling incoherent nonsense to itself as it failed to pull the bolt handle back. Charon climbed the stairs, taking his time and breathing heavily as he eventually came forward to the dumb brute still finagling with its weapon. 

   It noticed him encroaching and cried, “STAY! BACK!”

   Charon grunted, raising his shotgun with one arm and firing a single shot into its face. He winced, (his back muscles were tight) leaning over to pick up the rifle the mutant had struggled with. It would have done no good regardless- it was empty. He applied another Stimpak to his shattered elbow, and moved. He came out to the roof, wading past the bodies stacked high in the courtyard before being greeted by what remained of her crew. They were alive, worse for wear, but alive. Charon dropped his line of fire and breathed a sigh of relief. 

   (He blamed Winthrop for all of this)

   A multitude of sights were kept on him as he slowly approached, his hands raised and voice clear. “I am of no threat. Reilly has sent me.”

   They all blinked at him, and then he growled in warning when they all suddenly came too close. 

   They were lucky he had come when he had. They were low on ammo, rationing the remainder of their food, and running on a whiff of fumes. He was sent back to the lounge in search of a fission battery (which he was sure Evelyn would have had on her person) and was able to collect his knife. Charon distributed some ammo and water around as their mechanic went to work on fixing the express elevator that would take them on a one-way trip to the main lobby. He configured his gear and reloaded his weaponry as the woman armed with a minigun came to stand beside him, staring with hooded eyes and a bright grin.

   “Never thought I’d see anything other than this place again,” she teased. He raised a brow at her, resuming his business in wrapping the laceration on his arm, but she continued with her one-sided conversation. “I’m impressed you managed to make it this far, not that I'm complaining.”

   The mechanic waved to them. “It’s good!”

   Their medic, Butcher, let out an exhale. “Alright. Let’s get out of here!”

   Charon was more than happy to oblige.

[kidotm]

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

   It was little wonder as to why Reilly’s Rangers didn’t have more recruits- you only had to be a complete fucking dumbass to qualify, and the wasteland happened to be chock full of them. The ghoul had been forced to follow the remaining survivors in order to get his paid due, and apparently, the mercenary company had never established any sort of route to home base that didn’t involve Talon, mutants, raiders-

  “Is it close?” Charon groused after they had emerged from a manhole cover, everyone sprinkled with bits of blood and bone after an unexpected run-in with a pack of feral ghouls.

   “It’s just through this courtyard,” their ‘second-in-command’ answered. 

   An explosive feud between all of the before-mentioned abominations (for the supreme title of Wasteland’s Biggest Pain-in-the-Ass) was already underway at Seward Square. The ghoul irritably sighed.

   "No."

   Refusing to waste more ammo, he returned to the alleyway and lit up a cigarette, simply partaking in listening to the sounds of guts flying through the air as he blew smoke from his nostrils. The small team joined him, the three huddling together whilst he kept to himself. Only when the courtyard grew quiet and just the cackling fires remained did they make their trek across, listening to the voice of…

   “THE SUN! IT BURNS! Why does it-!”

   Charon whipped his head in every direction for the invisible speaker. The mechanic shrugged his shoulders when he met his unbothered gaze. 

   “That’s the Preacher, or, it’s what we call him, anyway.”

   “BEWARE WORM, I SHALL DESTROY YOU-!”

   Charon removed his hand from his gun. “That is annoying.”

   “Yeah, tell us about it.”

   The compound was tucked away in a corner of the ruins. Charon was the last to be invited inside, having to stoop as he stepped through the hatch. The smoothskin from Underworld had beaten them to home base and received a warm reception at her miraculous recovery. She waded through the throng of handshakes with a smile so wide it should have split her face in half, and the camaraderie didn’t subside when it finally got to him waiting at the end of the hall. 

   She held out her hand for him to shake next. “I don’t know where you came from or what sort of God put you on this Earth, but I would have lost everything and everyone if it wasn’t for you. You sincerely have my thanks.”

   Charon looked down at the offer, not uncrossing his arms or relaxing his grimace. Instead, he raised a brow and flatly reminded her, “The list.”

   “I brought it. Donovan’s going to get you what you need. I don’t speak techy nerd crap, but if it exists, he’ll find it.” She kept her grin, undeterred by his rejection. “Or I’ll search the ruins for it myself.”

   He snorted before making his way past. “I will not save you this time.”

   Their mechanic disappeared inside their storage and munitions for a deep-dive of the parts, muttering sourly to himself and scowling as Winthrop apparently needed ‘next to unicorn farts’. Charon stood by in the briefing room, impatient and growing ever restless as the minutes ticked on. He did not like the time to pass any more than it had to.

   Reilly approached him with a hot meal and a cold beer. “Here. Least we can do.”

   He took it; he was hungry. 

   “Look, I know this is probably the last thing you wanted to talk about right now,” she hesitated, leaning against the table that paid homage to their maps, reports, and recruit dockets. She folded her arms, watching him scarf his food. “How would you be interested in joining our team?”

   Charon didn’t skip a beat between a breath and a bite. “I’m not.”

   “You made the rest of us look like we had our asses growing out of our ears.” She subverted her gaze. “I fucked up, and it nearly got everyone killed. You though…you’re something else. This team could use that.”

   The emptied bowl was set on the table. “I am already employed.”

   “We’ll double it.”

   He shook his head. 

   “Triple.”

   He grew annoyed with the persistence and growled, “No.”

   The medic walked in the room, sensing the tense atmosphere. “Reilly, I think we should talk.” He then consulted Charon. “If you don’t mind me interrupting.”

   When Charon didn’t say anything the pink smoothskin went to follow her second-in-command. She threw Charon a look over her shoulder before stepping out completely. “Think about it. The offer’s there, so long as we are.”

   The ghoul rolled his eyes, but he had to give her credit- she recognized a valuable asset when she saw one. He then passed the time by sharpening his knife before going to search for the mechanic and inquire about his tasking. He passed a door that was slightly ajar, the sight and voices from inside momentarily giving him pause.

   “I was worried about you,” the medic said as he brushed a pink strand of hair behind her ear.

   She sighed, “Yeah, me too.”

   “Are you sure you’re alright? I can give a more thorough exam.”

   She laughed, playfully punching him in the ribs. “Only if it’ll end up like last time.”

   He began to lift her shirt. “Guaranteed.” And then he kissed her.

   Charon stood there staring on, not really thinking and not really watching but somehow transfixed at the couple he spied upon. He then quickly left his peeping spot, striding down the hall with his fists clenched tight.

   “Hey.”  

   Charon felt his eyes begin to focus. The mechanic was standing a few feet away, a rucksack held over for him to take.

   “You okay, there? You seemed like you were out to lunch.”

   Smitten, bewitched, adore-

   The bag. The Pip-Boy. Evelyn.

   Love. 

   Charon received his payment and checked its contents before leaving, forgoing the invitation to rest for the night as he traveled through the dark, his feet swift and mind traveling down a one-lane, dead-end road, the thick fog blurring everything else along the sides. 

   The last raider he had disposed of was still propped over the billiards table, the pool stick ripped out of her skull and held in his hands. He pulled the corpse off by the sleeve of her jacket, leaning over and setting himself up for a shot. Click-Clack. The cue ball sunk an orange solid. He straightened and looked over to the horrified, wide-open scream the woman still had on her blue face.

   He muttered, "I was worried about you."

   She didn't respond.

   The ghoul made his way along the empty subway tracks, booting at a rock with his foot. His raspy voice eerily floated down the line, "Are you sure you're alright?"

   He eventually came to the restrooms where the first raider had his head in the toilet. He moved the body with his boot to relieve himself and thought back to Reilly and what he assumed was her boyfriend. Out of sheer habit, he pulled the handle for a flush (it didn’t) and stepped over to the sink attached to the wall, spinning a tap open. He didn’t remove his gloves as he rubbed his hands together under the frigid, mud-colored spray, staring at the cracked reflection of himself. 

   He observed how his mouth moved. “I can give a more thorough exam.”

   The mirror emitted a nail-biting screech of a sound before it suddenly spider-webbed, further distorting his image. 

   The ghoul exited the metro back to the Museum of History, grumbling under his breath as his brows pinched so closely together they threatened to never part again. “…I was worried about you.”

  “Heard all about your mission." Willow was off to the side, rattling a pack of smokes at him. "Seems to me you somehow managed…not surprising. You could stay, you know.” She squinted. “You can’t really be banished, not from here, anyhow. Not like there's much where else for us ghouls to go.” A wink. "And I could always use the extra backup."

   He turned for the doors, a faint mutter on his tongue. "Are you sure you’re alright?”

   Willow craned her head to subtly observe as he climbed the steps to the Museum of History; the stretch of his back as he pulled at the handle of the weighted door, the ripple of exposed muscle from his left arm. Once disappeared inside from her longing gaze, she released a wistful sigh to herself, cupping one hand around her mouth as she worked to light up her smoke.

   Winthrop was indeed asleep…that is, until Charon opened his door and came to park at his bedside, rattling every bone in his body after putting a hand on his shoulder to throttle him awake. 

   “I have the parts,” he growled.

   Winthrop groaned, wiping at the crust over his eye, “Wh-what time is it? Can’t this wait till-”

   “Now.”

   “Now!” The ghoul sprang from bed directly into his jumpsuit, shaking the sleep from his limbs and yawning into an empty mug. “Wonder if Greta wouldn’t mind a fresh pot…”

   Charon dumped the sack on his workbench and took residence in the corner; a perched owl spying on a field mouse below. 

   Winthrop turned, uneasy and visibly swallowing. “Are you going to be there the whole time? It’s kind of making me nervous…this might take a few days.”

   “One.” Charon held up a single finger. “One day.”

   “I-I don’t know if I-”

   Charon curled his finger into his fist and cracked his knuckles by flexing. 

   “You know something, I think one day is plenty!” Winthrop awkwardly held up his empty cup. “I’m just going to grab some coffee…you…uh…want anything?”

   Charon settled into his spot, his face disappearing where the light could not reach. “No.”

   Regardless of his social shortcomings, Winthrop returned with a second mug filled with a bitter, tar-black liquid. “Just in case you change your mind. It’s fresh." He looked inside it, slightly dubious. "Or so Greta says, anyway.”

   The cup was placed within his reach, but he only momentarily eyed it before studying with the utmost attention how Winthrop began to disassemble and prep the Pip-Boy for repair. 

   Winthrop cleared a lump of phlegm from the back of his throat. “So…how…how is she?” He unscrewed a thin metal plate from the back, careful not to dislodge any wiring. “I mean, I assume you guys work together, or something-?”

   “I am the boyfriend.” 

   A screw fumbled from his fingers to the floor. “Woops.” He bent down to retrieve it, every joint in his body popping. “Oh, so you, and her-?”

   “Yes.”

   He stood, wiping at his face with one hand after collecting the remaining screws in a little safety dish to the side. Charon followed the motions of him removing the cracked screen and disposing of the melted knobs. It appeared he had nothing more to contribute to the conversation. There was an aching slump to his shoulders that was most reminiscent of another ghoul he knew of…he honestly couldn't decide who was the more pathetic.

   “Tulip.”

   Winthrop paused with his tedious work, swiveling his head around to the ominous giant in his corner, blinking his one eye. “Excuse me?”

   “Tulip.” Charon shifted his weight to the other foot, the leather of his jacket creaking. “She would like a drink.”

   The two stared at the other in silence before Winthrop groveled, dumbfounded at his suggestion, “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

   Charon tilted forward. “Tulip. Give her a drink.”

   “Why?”

   “Just do it,” he growled, his patience thinning.

   “What, right now?”

   Charon rubbed his eyes. “Later.”

   “I’m just trying to understand-”

   “You will buy her a drink and get her something nice.”

   “…I will?”

   “Flowers.”

   Winthrop choked, “Flowers?!”

   “They are ‘pretty’.” Charon nodded. “It will make her happy.”

   The Pip-Boy was continued with for the next thirty minutes before Winthrop quietly lamented, “I don’t even know where to get any flowers…”

   Charon took ownership of the second cup, raising the brim to his mouth. “You will find some.”

   Winthrop stayed true to his work- the Pip-Boy had been repaired and was ready to be taken back to her. Charon had studied the way he had taken piece by piece apart and put it back together, for now if anything were to happen to the device in the future, he would know how to fix it himself. 

   Winthrop relinquished it over with a weary sigh. “She’s good as new. Heck, with all the parts it needed, it practically is. The memory core was still good, so she didn’t lose anything data-wise.”

   Charon wrapped it in his jacket (the best protection he could offer it) before placing it snug in his bag. 

   Winthrop’s rasp was thick. “Guess I’ll ask Tulip for that drink…I could sure use one.”

   Charon shouldered his gear. “Do not forget the flowers.”

   The sunrise eloped the sprinting of the moon, that silver sliver dipping behind the far-off mountain ranges with the chill of the night. The sniper sentry above gave him a respectful wave with his rifle upon his arrival, but Charon didn’t return the greeting as he made short timing of unlocking her front door and inviting himself inside. The lights were all on.

   She was asleep on the couch, his noisy entry rousing her. She tucked her legs underneath her and mussed her already unruly hair with her fingers, drowsily mumbling, “Charon?”

   He unstrapped his pack to set it on the table and set to stripping his gear while she slowly came around wiping the sleep from her face. 

   “Was everything okay?” she mumbled, tucking the blanket tightly around her shoulders. “You're back so soon.”

   The Pip-Boy was gently taken out of his bag, held over for her to inspect and approve of.

   “Wow. It’s almost like new,” she said, flicking through the screens. She strapped it to her wrist and gave him wide-eyes after taking notice of the dried gore still on his person. “It wasn’t any trouble, was it?”

   He shook his head and began to pull out more things for her. “No.”

   The few comic books, a skipping rock, and the boxes of snack cakes he had salvaged were neatly put in a pile. When she just stared at everything he inclined his head to it.

   A box of sweets was gingerly picked up, shyly brought to her chest. “Thank you.”

   The beat of his heart hurt. Thump thump thump. Those sea-sprayed eyes were drowning every intelligent thought he tried to anchor down; they all slipped from his hands like casted sails, disappearing into open sky. 

   They both spoke up simultaneously, “I was-”

   “Oh, sorry,” she hastily apologized. 

   He backed up a step and rubbed at the backside of his head, suddenly feeling much too hot under his collar. Neither finished their sentence, and so she bit her lower lip whilst he looked off to the side and scratched at his bicep. 

   She finally piped up, “Um. You were saying?”

   Thump Thump Thump

   He couldn’t meet her eyes. It was too dangerous. “I was worried about you,” he rumbled.

   Evelyn smiled, as warm as summer rain. “I was worried about you, too.”

   He stiffly nodded before rasping, “Are you sure you’re alright?" He began to unzip her jumpsuit, each word somehow more awkward and forced than the last. "I can give a more thorough exam.”

   She madly blushed to the boiling point of a furnace as she shakily met his hand with hers. “O-oh, u-um, I mean, I was pretty lucky with what happened. The ant queen-"

   He stopped, now staring at her as though she had just grown a set of three heads with asses growing out of their ears. “The what?”

   “The ant queen,” she repeated. “If Jericho hadn’t-"

   His gloved hand came away as though she had smacked him, the tone of his voice taking a dive off the bow and into the depths of cold waters. “Jericho? What of him?”

   Her voice came out extremely small; a child in the face of chastising authority. “Um, I thought maybe Simms told you, or Gob, and that’s why you were asking…”

   Charon was already two strides to the door, his shotgun nabbed with one hand while the other went for the handle. “I shall return.”

   “Wait, where are you going?!” Evelyn grabbed at his belt. “If it’s about Jericho, he’s already dead.”

   He stonily looked at the door, saying as flatly as he could, “I wish to know what has happened.”

   With every bit recounted, he felt his teeth further grind until a dull throb in his temples made the pain nigh unbearable. How much sheer dumb fucking luck she had been blessed with to have survived such an ordeal. Charon shrugged her off, a bitter taste settling in his mouth at the thought of Evelyn (no- his employer) placing herself in danger without his knowing. There was a sting of betrayal, a feeling he knew all too well, at her so easily undergoing something she knew he would be most unhappy with. 

   He felt stupid.

   He felt angry.

   He felt the Pip-Boy to have not been worth his absence or time. He didn’t have to take it for her, for she would have not ordered him to, and now he was standing there thinking of all the ways she wouldn’t have made it home.

   “My contract?” he asked after she had finished, ignorant of the fear darkening her face.

   “…what about it?”

   “I wish to see it.”

   She went upstairs and then came back down, holding over the piece of paper that bound him to her. He didn’t take it in his hands- the sight of it in itself was enough of a guarantee. 

   “If you are to undertake such a task without me again,” he plainly said, “then I ask of you to keep my contract somewhere I can acquire it.” He tilted his head down, his voice eerily low. “I will need to give it to my previous employer should you die.”

   His employer tucked the contract close to her heart, and when she lifted her face with a loud sniffle, he could see fat tears ready to fall from her eyes. She said thickly, that summer smile now hardened into frost, "Don't bother unpacking just yet. We're going to Rivet City." 

In Rough Seas

   The pungent smell of gunpowder had flooded her nose. She had flinched, her eyes squinting against that wet spray of blood that slapped her face as Ahzrukhal fell to the floor from a single blast to the head. From the moment Charon had uttered those words, she had felt her blood chill and the marrow in her bones ache; her soul wept about the life she once had. She had truly believed Charon was going to shoot her- then and now.

   He was hovering just outside her bedroom door, watching her through the slip of a crack as she shoved supplies inside her (new) pack and began to lace up her crusted leathers. Damn the grime they were still greased with, damn the way her muscles ached and her heart palpated, damn the way Jericho had stood at the side of her bed last night, screaming in her face, “YOU LEFT ME YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

   The lights had been flipped on. She had felt his presence even after she had closed her own door. She heard his breathing, somehow still alive, with his skin ripped from his skull and his teeth left bared, the wide pupils following her every move through the walls. Wadsworth had remained online to give her solace until she had fallen asleep, and only then did she wake up in those tunnels, everything being licked by the flames until he came to put them out. 

   Charon had come home, and she knew she was safe...but now... 

   “We have to go get Bryan,” she reminded him without turning around.

   ...she wasn’t so sure.

   Charon didn’t say anything. He didn’t acknowledge her statement, offer to retrieve him, or even give a nod of his head. He was very much the man she knew when they had first met. 

   “Your contract.” She held up her journal for him to see. “Will be in here.”

   His eyes slowly roved from the book to her face- he understood.

   “Okay. I’m ready. Are you?”

   He removed himself from sight, waiting just outside his door, not a single visible thought on his face as he looked down the stairs, docked like a creaky ship with stitched sails and blackened cannons, the planks aged with rings and the hull salt-crusted. She ducked her head and stepped past, feeling his foreboding shadow creeping along behind.

   Simms was more than grateful for the relief and pulled her aside before they made to depart. “Great work down there. I don’t think any of us would have made it out if it wasn’t for you.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “I know Bryan will be in good hands.” Simms then looked over to her stoic companion. “Although, if I’m being honest, it makes me feel better knowing he’s back with you.”

   (If she had her way, he soon wouldn’t be)

   Dogmeat returned to her side like a symbiont as they all began the journey to Rivet City. Bryan took a solemn pause at the top of the hill overlooking Grayditch, the settlement now nothing more than crumbled cinder and chiseled headstones. After having licked their wounds from the fight with the ants and their queen, Evelyn and a few of the others had returned with the boy to help bury his father and salvage anything worth taking. There hadn't been much, but no one had expected there to be. 

   “Do you want to say anything?” Evelyn said gently. “We can give you a few minutes. We’re not in a hurry.”

   The boy shook his head and wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “…I just want to go.”

   Evelyn took the lead, following the predetermined route marked on her Pip-Boy while Bryan and Dogmeat followed center. Charon brought up their rear, his eyes sweeping the dully changing landscape. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since that morning, and it continued into nightfall when they set up the first camp at the sewer outpost. The ghoul removed himself from their company and stood guard beyond the campfire's light. Dogmeat became squished between Bryan and herself, each stroking his soft fur and listening to his wet pants echoing down the damp corridors. 

   “Where do you think Papa is now?” Bryan asked her. 

   Evelyn scratched the dog’s ear. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does.” 

   He buried his face, hiding away in a field of brown and black and white. “I hope I can see Papa again someday.”

   The night crept forward; the fire began to die; the boy was soon fast asleep. Evelyn encroached on the ghoul’s secular sanctuary, her hands fidgeting into a knot of trepidation as he watched her every step. She came within a few feet and halted, unable to meet his eerie stare shining through the dark. 

   She quietly asked, “Are you hungry? There’s still some food.”

   He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

   She tried again, keeping her voice low but placing enough urgency on her tongue. “If you’re mad at me, just say that.”

   He didn’t.

   “Do you want a sorry? Fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left and did what I did.” When he remained silent, her arms became as cross as her temper did, her whispering borderline hostile. “Whatever. It won’t matter much when we get to Rivet City, anyway.” 

   She spun on her heel to march straight back to her sleeping roll when he finally spoke up with a deep rumble of a rasp. 

   “You are inexperienced.”

   She backed up a step before halfway turning. He was now standing, those two bright orbs hovering like distantly lit beacons. There was no expression to interpret, but she didn’t need one by the tone he used. 

   He continued, “I cannot trust you with your safety.”

   She faced him, that towering veil of inky black. “I lived, didn’t I? I killed the queen and came back. Not all of us made it, but I’m still here.” Her eyes fell to her feet, the sudden fire burnt to ash. “I can’t expect you to be there for me forever.”

   Something in the ghoul's eyes changed, and he grunted, "I see."

   She went back to bed, staring at the curved ceiling of the tunnel and Jericho's face leering down at her, his voice singing to her well into the hours of late. "I'll make sure he gets his! You make sure he gets his! Oh Evelyn, Evelyn, he'll get his- he'll get his!"

   Charon didn’t so much as look in her direction come that morning. Bryan remained aloof of their passive-aggressive standoff as he yapped a mile a minute, threatening to take the ghoul’s ear off (if it already hadn’t been predisposed of) and holding it hostage while they took to pissing off the side of a bridge. 

   “And then Harden told me about these super scary monsters that drink your blood and eat your brains!” Bryan suddenly stopped his excited chatter as he leaned forward and squinted at the big guy’s goods. “Whoa, why’s it all burnt up and stuff? Did those ants get to you too?!”

   Charon stowed himself away with an audible zip!

   “No,” was all he grumbled, stepping down and taking great care to study their surroundings. She missed the way he looked at her when she sorted through her pack for some breakfast, the ghoul only turning away when she lifted her gaze.

   Charon kept his duty as rear-guard, muttering sourly under his breath as Bryan continued to blather about anything and everything at his elbow. Evelyn returned the ghoul’s cold shoulder by refusing to acknowledge him any further, and by the time they came to the boating shed for their second and last stop, the boy and dog sat between them, Bryan's head whipping back and forth to the two childish adults staring at opposite walls.

   He plainly addressed the elephant in the room. “Are you guys fighting?” 

   Evelyn started, “No-”

   Charon finished, “Yes.”

   She glared daggers over the boy’s head. The ghoul ripped off a piece of brahmin jerky between his teeth. 

   Bryan shrugged, unbothered by the hostility brewing in the cramped spacing. “Will’s parents used to fight all the time. Papa said it’s what grown-ups do.” 

   “We’re not fighting,” Evelyn said flatly. 

   Charon brought up another piece to his mouth before holding out one for the boy to take. “We are.”

   “No, we’re not,” she simmered. She tightly hugged herself, averting to the side and pouting, “It’s just a disagreement.”

   Charon snorted, openly chewing. “It is more than that.”

   “We didn’t have a choice!” Her voice raised in volume, flattening Dogmeat’s ears. “I didn’t know when you’d get back.”

   “You are wrong,” he growled, turning his head to glare. “There is always a choice.”

   “Wow, that’s rich coming from someone like you. Did Ahzrukhal ever get this much sass?”

   The dog whined. Evelyn mentally slapped herself and felt bile rise in her throat. The smolder in Charon’s eyes grew dim, two cold flames burning through the night, the tension enough to crack her skull wide open. 

   He rasped, “The Pip-Boy was my choice.”

   Hot shame flushed her skin and chained her tongue, and she found herself unable to apologize as he left the shack altogether to stand watch for the night. Dogmeat played a living, breathing stuffy as she cuddled him on one side while the boy took his residency on the other, both inhaling his dusty fur. 

   “Is he coming back inside?” Bryan asked with a tinge of concern.

   Her eyes closed. Jericho wouldn't stop grinning at her.

   The morning came, and they set off. She listened to the river lapping at the bank as the dog danced in the tide and the boy asked question after question after question to Charon, who, in turn, answered mono-syllabically. She didn’t see the pile of skippers he slowly and methodically collected in her wake, her nose buried too deep in her screen until they came within sight of the grounded carrier. 

   Bryan parroted her prior shock and awe at the sight of the rusted behemoth, pointing with a loud exclaim, “Cool! Aunt Vera lives on that?!”

   Charon stepped up beside her and unshouldered his pack to pull out a weathered parka and a gas mask. He accommodated his gear for the bulky layer before the mask went over his head, and then he held out a fully gloved hand for her to take. When she only looked down at it, confused, he grumbled, “I am deaf, blind, and mute...remember?”

   Their fingers intertwined, and she swore she felt his thumb gently sweep over her skin...but she surely must have imagined it.

   “Are you two done fighting?” a voice piped up from behind.

   They both turned to the boy. 

   Evelyn explained, derailing the topic, “Ghouls aren’t allowed in Rivet City, so he has to stay covered. Don’t tell anyone, okay? He goes by Grog here.”

   Bryan made a face. “That’s a dumb name. And why? Mister Scary Guy is a good guy.”

   “He is,” she agreed. “But it’s the only way to get him on the ship.”

   “Well,” Bryan said as he kicked a rock in the water, “when I’m an adult, I’ll make it so ghouls can live on it, too.”

   The bridge extended after a push of the button, and they all waited for the Rivet City guards to escort them across. The head of security lowered his rifle, easing his partner to do the same. “I remember you,” he spoke up as they came close. He eyed the two smaller tagalongs. “More friends of yours? Or a permanent move with the family?”

   Her heart skipped a beat, her hand unintentionally squeezing Charon's. “We’re looking for a Vera? This is Bryan, her nephew.”

   “Vera? As in Weatherly?” He studied the child. “Only Vera I know of. She’s the owner of the Weatherly Hotel. I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

   Bryan shot off like a bullet fired from a gun, with Dogmeat yipping and yapping at his heels. Together they bounded forward with as much noise as humanly possible. 

   Evelyn stopped the security guard with an imploring look on her face after they had crossed. “I’m also looking for a Pinkerton?” 

   He shook his head, the name foreign. “Never heard of him.”

   She tried again, refusing to budge after he simply brushed her off. “Please, I heard he lives here and-”

   “Maybe try asking Dr. Li- she’s one of the few who have been on this rust bucket the longest.” With the curt interruption, he beckoned them on with his rifle. “I’m busy, so if you don’t have more pressing matters for me to handle, then keep it moving.”

   Evelyn squinted at the barely exposed and faded name tag he wore on his chest. “Fine…thanks, Harkness.”

   He matched her cool attitude with, “That’s Chief, to you.”

   Bryan had taken first place in the race to the Weatherly, nimbly outpacing the slower-going duo as Charon kept his facade of needing a chaperone (despite his ability to see through the tinted lenses of his mask). A few of the other settlers loudly voiced their displeasure at having nearly been stampeded by the speeding fur missile and rambunctious child. 

   “Hey, watch it, kid!”

   “Who let a dog on the ship?”

   “Where’s your parents?!”

   In the aftermath of their destructive wake, Evelyn apologized, “Sorry- sorry- he’s just excited. First time!”

   Bryan broke the news to his unsuspecting aunt himself, rambling on and on and on while she just stared at him with unprocessed shock. Much to Evelyn's relief, Vera agreed (and quite happily) to Bryan's new situation. “I’m sorry to hear about my brother, but you’re more than welcome to live here with me.” She gave Evelyn the key to a room. “Thank you for keeping him safe. Here. Free of charge. I’m sure you’ll be needing it for the night.”

   Bryan hugged Dogmeat tight. “Goodbye, boy. Thanks for being the best dog.”

   “If we’re ever here, we’ll come visit,” Evelyn promised. “We’ll stop and say goodbye before we go.”

   “You better! Thanks lady, and Mister Sca-oops- I mean! Grog!”

   A weight she hadn’t noticed lifted from her shoulders as the original party left for their room. Dogmeat instantly claimed the cot with a few furious spins before curling in a tight ball, his beady, heterochromia eyes watching their every move as they parted with their respective packs and Charon removed his mask. 

   “I need to go speak with Li,” Evelyn said. “If you want-”

   “Who is this Pinkerton?”

   She fumbled with her suggestion and instead gave an, “Oh. Um…I honestly don't know.”

   “Then why?”

   “He’s someone I need to see.”

   Charon sighed, full of irritation, “Why?”  

   “Why do you suddenly care?” she snapped. 

   “Is that a serious question?”

   “You never bothered with any of it before!” They both crossed their arms simultaneously, browbeating each other with reserved indignations. “Would you rather wait here while I go?”

   He snorted, already going to replace his mask over his head. “That, is a stupid question.”

   “My father said there’s no such thing as a stupid question,” she retorted, high-and-mighty, feeling her hand becoming engulfed in his. There was that sweeping sensation on the back of her hand again, but it was so brief and feather-light she told herself she imagined it.

   Charon stated matter-of-factly, “Then he is stupid.”

   She groveled with a mocking impression, “Then he is stupid.”  

   The science lab gained three new additions to their daily flurry of hectic activities. Evelyn sidepassed a grumbling old man who was openly berating a woman, the hired gun at his side assessing Charon from head to toe. 

   Dr. Li was behind a table, her face pinched with disapproval at the samples before her. “No, this isn’t what I was referring to.” She raised her eyes as they came closer and immediately redirected her chagrin at Evelyn’s presence, instead. “Oh. It’s you again…did you find James?”

   “No, and I’m actually looking for Pinkerton.”

   The scientist quickly went from annoyed to surprised. “Pinkerton? Whatever for?”

   “It’s personal business, but I assume you know where he is?”

   “He’s in the bow of the ship. Fair warning- he doesn’t like visitors.” Dr. Li lowered her eyes to the samples for further study and returned her attention to the chart in her hands. “Are you not looking for him, still? Your father?”

   Charon slowly spun his head around, a creepy motion considering all things. 

   Evelyn held his hand tightly without meaning to. “No. My dad isn’t worth it.”

   Dr. Li pursed her lips tightly as they left for the ship's bow. 

   Charon removed his mask when they were far enough from the bridge, peering up at the dark sky with a frown. “There will be a storm soon.”

   “We’ll be back before it hits,” she assured him. She stopped in her tracks, and he gave her a questioning look as she sheepishly tapped her fingers together. “Um…which part is the bow?”

   A roll of his eyes and a point of his finger, his eyes squinting through the thickening haze and light drizzling mist for any sort of access point. They found one, and Dogmeat galloped ahead with his nose to the dirt, his sharp nails tapping across a rickety makeshift bridge that led to a single hatch on the detached end of the ship. Evelyn eyed the distance to the Memorial; a few super mutants watched them from their catwalks.

   “Do you think they’ll come for us?” she asked, the horrific memory of their previous battle at the radio plaza socking her in the gut. 

   Charon held his shotgun in hand, not taking his eyes away from the potential threat. “I do not think so.”

   The hatch was locked, and she threw her weight into the handle as she tried to force it open. Charon gently pushed her aside, rolling his shoulders and attempting it himself. It wouldn’t budge. 

   “I can try to pick it.” A slender box of bobby pins was pulled out from a pocket. “Just watch my back, okay?” She then bent down to begin testing her thievery skills.

   Charon nodded, his head tilting slightly as her bum raised. “I will.”

   More than one pin snapped from her attempts, and she muttered and cursed under her breath as she held up the sole survivor for all three of them to see. She mumbled, “Shit…” 

   Charon turned to the side and blew out his nostril with one finger. “Do not waste it.”

   (Well, no pressure there)

   “Thanks,” she candidly replied with dripping sarcasm. 

   The pin was inserted, the lock fiddled, and she felt a damp puff of air continuously hit her cheek as Dogmeat ever-so-slowly crept his head forward to eye what it was of great interest that she was doing, her personal space invaded by a drooling tongue and god-awful breath. 

   “Can I have some space, please?” she asked. 

   Charon suddenly appeared on her other side, flattening her existence between the two of them. “Is it done?”

   “No!”

   Neither granted her any extra room, and so she just tersely bitched to herself as she gave great concentration to the task at hand with her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. A wiggle here- resistance. A wiggle there- a smooth turn. The handle was slowly turned the entirety of the way, a faint click telling of her success.

   “Yes! I got it!” 

   It swung open, and they were greeted by the rank smell of rotten eggs and a blockading wall of shell. The mirelurk turned to them, everyone equally surprised at the unwanted encounter. 

   Charon quickly swung the hatch back shut, snarling at her, “You are to wait. Right. Here.” He then ordered the dog, “Keep her safe.”

   Evelyn didn’t have time to argue as he dipped inside and shut her out, the sound of gunshots ringing in her ears. She opened the door in hot pursuit, just in time to witness the ghoul giving a blunt kick to a mirelurk in the chest, dropping it down a shaft before firing off a blast at its exposed face. 

   He turned to her, his gun raised for a split-second before he snapped the muzzle back down. He barked, “Get out!”

   A claw rose from the depths, refusing to commit to its watery grave as it snagged at his boot to drag him down, and the ghoul grunted as he was caught off guard and lost his footing, dropping his gun to catch himself before falling into the pit.

   “Dogmeat, grab him!” Evelyn shrieked, rushing over to grab his hand while Dogmeat closed his sharp teeth around his shoulder pad, both heaving back against the immense strength of the mirelurk. 

   The ants were crawling. Jericho was at her side, his eyes bloodshot and lips missing as he sardonically mocked in her ear, “I have you! I have you!”

   The weight of Charon began to drag down, down, down inside that pitch of black, never to come back, the only token left for her to bring home being a single limb. She screamed, “Get off of him!” Evelyn released him and jumped over, landing atop the mirelurk’s shell. 

   Charon wrapped an arm around the railing from the extra weight, a few rusty bolts popping free from the strain. He snarled, “Evelyn!”

   She straddled the giant crustacean, digging her left fingers through the exposed, soft flesh for a better hold as it bucked and attempted to swipe at her with its disabled claw. The knife in her other hand found a black, glazed orifice- its eye. The blade sank with an almost skin-tingling pleasing sensation by how smoothly it went to the hilt, and then she felt herself begin to fall into nothing as the mirelurk emitted a high-frequency squeal and released its prey. Her right arm was grabbed, the awkward angle and unrelenting force dislocating it. 

   Charon hoisted her over, ignoring her bellied screaming as he swiftly assessed her injury and rasped, his expression pinched and breathing labored, “It is a subluxation. Hold still.” He relocated her shoulder, taking up his shotgun to prepare for any more unwanted guests while she regained her senses as she sat there, cradling her arm close to her chest. He rasped with urgency, “Can you remove your jacket?”

   “Just give me a minute,” she breathed, her eyes screwed shut and stomach hot with nausea from the extreme pain. Dogmeat whined in her ear and licked her nose until a few minutes passed and it slowly began to fade into a dull throb, wherein she gently began to undress her outer layer. 

   Charon knelt beside her, dropping his guard for a moment as he retrieved a stim to help the healing of her strained ligaments and muscles. 

   She groaned at the familiar sensation of the stim performing its miracle serum, cracking an eye open to see him. “Use one.”

   He shook his head. “I am not injured.”

   “I saw you in pain.”

   The look he gave was unfamiliar. “I am fine.” He stood, helping her to her feet and handing over her things. “I advise we leave.”

   “No. If he’s here, we’re going to find him.” She zipped up her jacket, careful of her still-tender muscles. “Hopefully no more mirelurks.”

   Charon halted her before she could step into the next room. “Do not step there.”

   She blinked, then followed his gaze down. A thin wire faintly glinted, and she turned on her Pip-Boy light to expose it. “Oh.”

   “Yes.” Charon crouched to disarm it carefully, rasping dryly, “Oh.”  

   The dog watched their backs as Charon replaced point, freezing their tracks in every room they came through as he dismantled trap after trap. “Someone is here,” he reluctantly agreed, quickly unloading a shotgun rig for its shells. “They do not wish to be found.”

   “He'll change his mind.” Evelyn clicked a first aid kit shut, replacing her spent medical supplies. 

   A final hatch was crept up to, and the ghoul meticulously examined every crevice of its frame for any possible gotcha’s! His fingers lightly felt along the sides as he grumbled to himself, and only when he was satisfied did he stand back and try to open it.

   Locked.

   Evelyn reached for her remaining bobby pin, aghast as she felt nothing but an empty pocket. “Fuck. I think it fell out with that mirelurk.”

   Charon growled, “Then let us go.”

   “But we’ve come this far!”

   “For what?”

   “For…” she trailed off, her eyes wandering around the room for something of use. A glowing switch on the far side caught her attention. Feeling giddy, she stepped over and pressed the button, her intuition proving right when the door swung open with a loud whine. 

   Charon scoped the room with his shotgun. Evelyn stepped in behind, momentarily looking around at the array of surgical equipment and blinking machinery. A gurney with a skeleton hiding under a blood-stained sheet peeped at their entrance, and then the man she had been so desperate to meet turned to them from behind a screen. 

   “What the-?! Who in the hell are you?!” he demanded.

   Evelyn took a breath, half-turned to Charon, and said quietly. “Charon, under no condition do you kill him...do you understand?”

   Charon dumbly lowered his gun, forced to nod before asking, “What are we here for?”

   She ignored him and addressed their unsuspecting host. “Pinkerton? I’m Evelyn, and this is Charon.” She held up her Pip-Boy for him to see. “I’ve heard about you and think you can help us.” She then placed her hand on his chest. “I think you can help him.”

[kidotm]

The Fine Print

 You’ve been working a lot more lately.

   Her father looks up from his cup of already cold coffee- his unusual usual choice of comfort right before bed. Have I, now?

   You’re not even around at breakfast.

   He’s frowning, but he doesn’t seem to see the issue with it. There is always something of far greater importance ticking behind those eyes, the eyes she didn’t happen to inherit. You’re right. I haven’t made much of an effort as of late, and for that, I’m sorry. 

   It’s okay. It would just be nice to see you.

   You know you’re always more than welcome to come visit when I don’t have a patient. He sets his cup down, and his voice is awfully still. But I won’t be around forever, and, someday, you’ll have to make your own way here…but enough of that, let’s get to bed. It’s late, and you don’t want to miss your first orientation as our newest Garbage Burner!  

   James leaves that very next morning, and he doesn’t even tell her goodbye.

   It’s now that she understands he did.

   “Evelyn.” Charon was, for once, truly stunned, his rasp on the edge of disbelief. She had never believed she would see his eyes so woefully sad. “You are relinquishing my contract?”

   How heavy those hands felt the moment she held up the slip of paper for all to take witness of, how sharp the contrast of his eyes glowed. What exactly did he feel...betrayal, excommunicated? There was little to explain to this damned man as she held up his locks of dark hair, shorn from his bloodied scalp and pressed between the pages of her very lips to stain them bright red. She never once understood how Delilah could have done it, how she could have sat there and watched as Samson had wept, how he had mourned the very strength she had forsaken him of, before feeding him to the teeth of those lying in wait…but from the way Charon was staring at her, at the contract she held over for this stranger to take, she did not think she was any more noble. 

   “No.” She kept it high in the air as she met his eyes. “You are, Charon.” When she began to approach the scientist still at his terminal, she reached her hand back inside her pack. “And he’s going to help you.”

   All of the caps she had kept compiled from every single drop of blood spent was hefted out and given as an offering. 

   “You can count them, but I’m sure it’s close to a thousand. There’s another two I’ll bring you once it’s done.”

   Pinkerton's voice was gruff, none-too-happy, and almost bitter. “I still don’t even know what the fuck it is you want.”

   The detailed synopsis of her current life’s mission was unexpectedly derailed by a choppy, wheezy, emotionless sort of barking that she at once turned around to. Charon was laughing, laughing…and it was so humorlessly pitched that it buttoned her up in a pinstriped suit and placed her behind a bar counter, the front sign reading The Ninth Circle.

   Charon smeared a palm over his face, the lines tight around his mouth and crinkled below his eyes, both unwilling to fully commit to the giddy expression; it was somehow more terrifying than when he was angry. 

   “You-you-” he rasped, short of breath and full of cynicism. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

   She could only stare. She’d never expected such a response, but she licked her lips and shyly nodded. 

   There was another eruption from the barrel of his chest like the very blast from his gun, his body folding in half with his hands on his knees as he stared wide-eyed at the floor, unseeing and not all quite there. She feared he'd gone insane.

   Pinkerton groused, unimpressed by the theatrics, “Well, am I going to get any answers or-?”

   Evelyn quickly stepped up, holding over the contract for him to take. “Charon’s a slave and-”

   A bang made them both jump out of their skin; Dogmeat skittered across the floor to hide. 

   Charon had thrown a fist into a filing cabinet, denting the metal and sending loose leaf parchments flying through the air. “I am NOT a slave!”

   “Charon,” Evelyn shakily said. “Calm down.”

   “I wish to leave,” he growled.

   “We can’t-”

   “I wish to leave. Now.”

   “We will, we will! But-”

   She shrunk with her back held up against the door as he snarled over her, “Let. Me. Out.”

   “N-no.”

   The ghoul veered away a fraction. “No?”

   “No.” Evelyn pointed to the scientist standing at bay. “This is for your own good-”

   “I am not sick!” he shouted, slamming the frame above her head. “I am not broken!” Another slam! “Why are you doing this?!”

   “You are a slave, Charon!” she cried, flinching at every beat of his fist against the metal. “You’ve been lied to! This isn’t right-!”

   “What is it that I’ve failed you with?” Charon gripped the sides of her shoulders, firm enough to scare the wits out of her but gentle enough to allow her a chance at escape. He painstakingly implored her with, “I have done as you have asked! Have I not made you happy? Have I not done what a boyfriend is supposed to do?” He lifted her clean off the ground. “What is it that you want?!”

   “You!” 

   The ghoul dropped her, slowly backing up a step as though she had struck him right in the mouth. “...I do not understand.”

   Evelyn grabbed at his hands as though they had been dipped in gold, greedily tucking them close to her chest to feel them against the beat of her heart. “I don’t want your stupid fucking contract! It’s you I want!”

   For the first time, he saw her behind that bar. He left his corner, coming forward with his heavy boots and creaky leather and powerful hands to pour out all of his anger in a tall glass for her to drink. She brought it to her lips, and he watched the swell in her throat as she drowned herself in trying to swallow it all down.

   “You cannot have me without it," was all he said.

   Evelyn held on to his quiet storm, flinching against the whipping wind and the cold water flogging her face. “You are not your contract Charon.” She intermingled their shared body warmth as she pulled herself flush to look directly up into his eyes, both so desperately needing the liferaft that was each other in that big, lonely sea. “Please do this for yourself. Make this your choice.” 

   Charon stared at her for what felt like the end of the world. He then grunted, his left eye twitching as he reached around to swipe at a syringe that had been embedded in the base of his spine. He looked between the scientist and herself with confusion. 

   “Evelyn,” he garbled, and then his eyes rolled into the recess of his skull as he fell over backward, hitting the deck like dead weight. 

   “Charon!” Evelyn fell to her knees, her hands cradling his face. His chest slowly rose and fell, but he would not wake. She snapped at the man slowly approaching, “What the fuck did you do to him?!”

   “I believe a thank you is more appropriate, young lady.” Pinkerton shouldered the syringer, squinting at the incapacitated ghoul taking residence on his floor. “It’s only a mild tranquilizer, but it’s enough to down a brahmin. I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

   Dogmeat poked his head out of a cabinet, whining.

   She squeezed Charon's hand between hers. “...he’ll be okay?” 

   “In a few hours, give or take.” Pinkerton walked back around to his private terminal and eyed the contract she had laid out. “Now explain to me what it is you're wasting my time with?”

   Evelyn gently brushed the patchy hair out of Charon’s eye, saw the roll of his pupils beneath their lids as they constantly swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and while she watched him she said, “I bought Charon from another ghoul named Ahzrukhal in Underworld. He told me he wasn’t a slave, and it’s something Charon believes. Whoever is given possession of his contract bounds his service to them. I’ve tried getting rid of it…but nothing’s worked.”

   “Did you ask this Ahzrukhal?”

   “He’s dead. Charon shot him the moment after he sold him to me.”

   “Hmm.” Pinkerton looked over to them both. “That can’t feel very assuring.” He then puzzled over the faded scripture, the wrinkles in his face multiplying. “I can’t even read this.”

   “I can’t either,” she admitted, sheepish. “He tried to explain it to me when I got it, but I’ve just sort of been learning about him as we go…he’s complicated. He says I’m his employer and he’s the employee, and he’ll follow any direct order I give him…but…”

   Pinkerton gave her the floor. “Go on.”

   “But there’s something really wrong with him. It’s like there’s something in his head he can’t get out.” Evelyn glanced up with tears in her eyes. “Please help him.” She pressed play to the holotape still loaded in her Pip-Boy, her sniffles muffled by the voice that began to play. 

   “-whether human or android. In a few days, I’ll be a free man…a new man. Let me say thank you now for referring me to Pinkerton in Rivet City-”

   She clicked the prerecorded message off, and the scientist sat down at his computer. 

   “Now where in the wasteland did you get something like that?” he mused, his voice lilting but eyes hard. 

   “Will you help him?”

   “Do you even know what that message was about?”

   She shook her head. “I honestly don’t care. You helped someone with their freedom, and now I need you to help Charon with his.”

   Pinkerton chuffed a sardonic exhale of a laugh, shaking his head as he began to type away, muttering, “Extremely naive...The Railroad would love you.” He deeply sighed and stretched in his chair. “Okay. Fine. I’ll bite-” 

   “You will?!”

   Pinkerton held up a finger before she could explode with gratitude. “For the caps, of course. I’ll expect the other two thousand as previously promised, and-”

   “Yes, of course-!”

   “-and-” Pinkerton stressed, “for my own self-study. I am a scientist, first and foremost.” He crossed his arms as he assessed Charon with mild interest. “Never had the chance to study a ghoul before…”

   Evelyn leaned over him with a protective growl. “He’s not a project. He’s a person.”

   A brow on the old man’s face shot up. “Is he, now? You may be surprised. I’ve seen stranger yet in this wasteland.” Pinkerton rolled away from his computer. “You're in my lab now, and what I say going forward goes, no ifs, ands, or buts about it…do you understand?”

   She nodded. “I do.”

   “Good.” Pinkerton clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

   Evelyn remained knelt at Charon’s side, the water dry and shears dull, feeling the steady breath leave his chest as she removed his shotgun for comfortability. She observed the eccentric scientist whirl around the room, muttering to himself as he pulled out wires and flipped switches for various equipment. The skeleton was pulled off the gurney, clacking ‘goodbye!’ with its jaw wide-open as it was removed from sight. 

   “What is that?” Evelyn asked as he brought around a strange device connected to a multitude of wires. It was hooked up to a machine with a red needle bouncing back and forth behind the glass.

   “This will measure his brain waves,” he said, and then he turned with a shout, “You damn dog, get out!”

   Dogmeat had come out of his hiding place, contentedly chewing on the skeleton’s femur in the corner. Evelyn ushered him outside the lab for a moment.

   “It’s just for a little bit, okay?” she assured him, petting his nose. “Don’t go too far.”

   Pinkerton lowered the gurney to the floor, beckoning her over to Charon with, “I only got so many years left, so hurry it up.”

   It took all their strength and a series of straps to roll the ghoul onto the table before it was raised again, Frankenstein's monster deep in his sleep before being cursed to wake. Pinkerton fitted the bundled cap of wires over his head, the elastic bands snapping into place and covering the majority of his patchy skull. A rolling machine with a curved arm was stationed directly over his head.

   Pinkerton nudged her with an elbow. “Come over here if you don’t want to grow a third limb, or five.”

   Evelyn followed him up a flight of stairs to the loft overlooking the rest of the lab, her hands fiercely clutching the rails as she listened to the hums from the machines beginning to warm up. “This won’t hurt him, right?”

   "I honestly can't tell you. I've never actually used this on someone living before." He chuckled at the fierce glare she branded him with. "Kidding, kidding..." He then muttered under his breath as his eyes drew to the screen, "But we'll see."

   A switch was flipped and the entire room went dark. 

   "Don't worry. I have to divert all power when running this, otherwise, it'll blow the fuses." Pinkerton's eyes glowed green from the screen he stared at. "Alright. Here we go."

   The curved arm above the ghoul began to swing in an arc at a full 360 degrees, encompassing his entire head. The twinkling lights of blue and red and green and white from the blinking machinery acted as little stars around the room, with the ghoul being the sun that they all centered themselves around. Evelyn didn't break her eyes away from the entire process as the machine just continued to spin, spin, spin, the loud hum droning in her ears. It continued for a near twenty minutes before it finally began to slow, and when the analysis was complete, all of the lights came on with blinding whiteness, forcing her to rub her eyes from the drastic change.

   "All set." Pinkerton pressed a single key, and then he invited her over after flipping the switch for a bigger screen.

   Evelyn regarded it with building dread. It was a mess of nerves branching from a spinal cord like the roots of a great oak tree. 

   “This.” Pinkerton pointed to a small, opaque disc perfectly centered in the web of it all. “Is what you’re looking for.”

   Evelyn squinted. “What is it?” 

   “Looks to me like your friend down there has an inhibitor implant of some kind. I’ve seen some impressive technology in my lifetime, but this…I’m going to take a guess and say, Pre-War? Military, perhaps. Those guys got all the funding and more, back during the war..."

   "But what does it do?"

   Pinkerton brought up another image, a dazzling display of illuminating parts of the brain. “I’m going to keep this as simple as I can for someone like you. I was able to, we'll say in layman's terms, 'download', the last twenty-four hours worth of data from his brain. Impressive, huh?" Another image, the entire scan suddenly staticky with white streaks. "See these? These are the different lobes, and my very educated guess is going to say that this implant has full control of them...or, at least, at one point it did." He raised a dusty eyebrow. "He doesn't sleep, does he?"

   "No, not unless he's like this." Evelyn peered over the side, worry pouting her lip before his words sunk in and her eyes shined with hope. "Wait, you said it doesn't have full control, as in-?!"

   "It appears this implant was damaged in some way...but can't say how, as I could only take a guess. This might be the reason why he responds to the orders that you give him, for if he doesn't comply right away-" Another image was brought up, and she gasped with horror upon the sight. It was a white bolt of lightning flashing across the screen. “It corrects him until he does." He pulled up another, brighter burst. "Interestingly enough, this one just happened not even in the last few hours before you came in here...did he become extremely upset with something you told him to do?"

   "I mean, he's always upset...you saw that yourself." She nuzzled her lip as she walked step-by-step back through her memories.

   "How does he handle you being injured, in pain, maybe? It seems like he cares about your well-being."

   It suddenly hit her like the burst from a dam. Every scrap, bruise, scar, every bullet, knife, and closed fist. He had tried to hide it so well, but now all she could see was his pinched face and labored breathing as she was sitting there cradling a dislocated shoulder.

   "Oh my God...holy shit. I-I had no idea..."

   "You didn't know. Don't beat yourself up for it," Pinkerton grunted, sarcastically adding, "he does that enough for you both already."

   Evelyn pulled out the single thread between herself and the ghoul. “But, his contract…”

   “The contract doesn’t actually mean anything, but it does to him. Whoever made him this way- be it for an experiment, a weapon, or whatever- designed him to be malleable.”

   “Malleable?”

   “Would you rather have a slave, unwilling and forced by the threat of a collar, or someone who completely devotes themselves to you because it’s what they irrefutably believe themselves for?” Pinkerton began to rub at his chin in consideration of the scans. “He doesn’t think himself a slave because he’s technically right- he isn’t one. I’d say he’s a lot worse…he’s a prisoner, but he doesn’t see the bars he’s behind. What he sees, hears, or thinks, he believes, and then this little implant does the heavy lifting in making sure he complies with that. Of course, it’s a little more complicated than that...but whatever he was used for, they sure went ahead and pulled out all the stops.”

   Evelyn asked the undying question, “Can you remove it?”

   “That,” Pinkerton sighed, stepping away from the screen with an added crease to his forehead. “I don’t really know. This thing is essentially hardwired to his spinal cord, and if he were a machine, then this conversation would already be said and done, but he’s not...it would more than likely kill him.”

   “But you said it’s been damaged? By what?”

   “That’d be something I'd ask him, but hell, he probably doesn’t even remember. There’s a lot of gaps here…and it doesn’t look good.”

   Evelyn blew out a wilted exhale. “...is there nothing else? Nothing at all?”

   “Sorry kid, but if you had asked me to reconstruct his face, then I might've been able to get you a better model, but I’m not that kind of doctor-”

   She sprang with enough excitement that her feet threatened to permanently leave the ground. “My dad’s a doctor! If you had him here, could you do it then?!”

   “We may have a difference in what a doctor is, cause frankly, I've met some of the so-called physicians out in this wasteland-”

   “He’s not a sham,” she bit tersely. “James, my father, is brilliant. You won’t find a better surgeon anywhere.”

   “James?” Pinkerton muttered under his breath. His eyes dulled as they stared through her into another time. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before…”

   Evelyn continued, oblivious to his departure, “I can bring my dad here and you two can devise a way to get that thing out of Charon’s head. I won’t pay the other two thousand otherwise.”

   “Your caps don’t strike much of a threat in me, girl,” he snarked, a stale smile beginning to form. “But I like your attitude. Where’s your dad now?”

   All of her gusto was instantly knocked out of her chest, and she deflated. “He’s…in Vault 112, supposedly, but I don’t know where that is.”

   “Vault 112? With Braun’s little lab rats?”

   “You’ve been there?!”

   “Sure. I needed some, hrm, special parts, for another project I was working on. Here, give me that Pip-Boy and I'll mark it for you. It's quite the hike from here.”

   She held over her arm, and as he began to type in the coordinates leading to her dear old Dad, she absorbed the multitude of Charon's scans with her eyes. "I want you to download those for me, too."

   "What do you need them for? You're not going to try and hack it yourself, are you? A rusty butterknife only goes so far."

   She rolled her eyes and studied the marker he had input for her- Vault 112. Clear across on the other side of the map. "I'm going to need to ask Charon some questions."

   Pinkerton's wrinkles melted with consternation. "I don't think you truly understand the hopelessness of his situation." He held up a finger as her entire ray of sunshine and rainbows suddenly exploded into a spiraling downpour of despair. "Perhaps hopelessness wasn't the exact word I meant to use, but it still stands. You're not going to tell him anything about this. Judging by the way he views that contract, I'm going to bet he either doesn't know or remembers what's been done to him, and something of this magnitude could be catastrophic for his mental load."

   "He has a right to know-!"

   Pinkerton flipped off the screens. "Kid, if you're going to see him through with this, then it's going to be one hell of a ride. This implant is only the beginning of his problems. Did you think that by just having it removed would make everything fine and dandy?" The curve of his mouth gravitated further to the floor. "...who is this really for?"

   The look she snapped at him was enough to maim, but then she caught sight of her own eyes in the reflective screens, and she softened. 

   "It's for him," she said quietly. “...he's worth it all to me.” 

[kidotm]

"Testament"

Summary

"Ghoul meets girl, and all the problems that come with it."

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

F/M

Relationships:

CH x FOC

Stats:

Published: 2023-03-09 Completed: 2023-12-27 Words: 166,925 Chapters: 45/45

Nice to Meet You

   We are born in the Vault.

   Those metallic halls, ever so cold under the warmth of fingertips.

   We live in the Vault.

   No everlasting sky, no clouds of dust stirred by skin-flaying winds.

   We die in the Vault.

  No shit-stained, putrid-smelling, ethic-lacking, grotesque jumblefuck of a mess this world had become.

   Shitshitshitshitshit-

   And no fucking man-eating, monster-sized ants, either.

   The chittering bastards were clipping at her blistered heels (she never imagined socks could have become such a rare commodity) and their bone-breaking pincers nearly snagged the hem of her vault suit a few times. She bounded over rocks and ducked under fallen powerlines like an ersatz Olympic event, pounding her feet against the scorched earth with enough thundering bravado to make a stampeding herd of brahmin envious.

   An ant nipped the backside of her thigh, erupting a squeak from her mouth and a second gear in her legs she didn’t even know she had. The looming eyesore of Megaton came into view soon after, and the burning in her calf muscles told her it was do or die if she even merely thought of slowing down.

   A few gunshots rang out from the sniper’s nest- ol’ Stockholm provided her life-saving pest control.

   Again.

   Evelyn gasped as she finally slowed down at the gates, her hands on her knees and her heart threatening to be puked from her chest. Beads of sweat rolled from the tip of her forehead and down the curve of her nose to drip on her boots; dirt-streaked hair clung to her skin like thin snakes, the loose wisps winding around her throat and licking at her cheeks for a taste of salt.

   The groaning of rusted metal became her fanfare to usher her back inside. Evelyn raised a hand in kind as the sniper just shook his head at her naïve stupidity. With this track record, she was on a straight and narrow road to an early grave.

   Thanks Dad.

   After the gates had closed behind her, a few strands of hair were brushed from her nose (it tickled), and the creeping wedge of her soaked, sour-smelling vault suit was fished from the crack of her ass. She bumbled over the metal plumbing (nearly tripping) towards her new home in this wild atomic wasteland. It had only been a month since she had escaped with her life from Vault 101, a mere month since she had woken up to this never-ending nightmare of parental ghost hunting and day-to-day survival training. Not even all of the downloaded archives in the Vault’s system could have prepared her for this school of hard knocks.

   Thanks, Dad.

   She fumbled with the key in the lock before swinging the door open to a spartan Feng Shui setting. A knife-knicked table that wobbled under pressure, a chair with no backside, a locker that raped her ears every time the door was opened, and a (horrifyingly) stained mattress that she hadn’t bothered to lug up the stairs yet. Although, it was better than the musty, dank body odor seeping from the corners of the common house...so she had that going for her, at least.

   The Mister Handy by the name of Wadsworth hummed about its duties and tactfully bitched about her entrance after she simply stripped her filthy suit to the floor and splashed cold water on her sunburnt skin, dismissing its earlier hard work without even a breathed apology.

   Evelyn nabbed at a wastelander’s outfit, cringing at the texture of the stiff fabric itching like sandpaper along her salt-crusted skin. Dressed, hydrated from a bottle Wadsworth had condensed for her, and somewhat sated after stuffing slimy Cram down her throat, she curled into a ball on her bed (tried not to think about the mysterious bodily fluids she laid upon) and closed her eyes for an escape from it all.

   She dreamt of bright fluorescent lights.

   We are born in the dirt.

   We live in the shit.

   We die as God intended.  

   Alone.

   “How’d it go out there smoothskin?”

   Evelyn raised her eyes over the untouched drink set before her. It smelled like piss.

   “Just...peachy,” she mumbled, belting a loud sigh and spinning her beer bottle in a circle. She righted it before it toppled. “Almost made it to the Super Mart...but ants found me first.”

   The ghoul bartender working behind the counter gave her a half-hearted shrug while spinning a grimy rag inside a glass. “Hey, at least you came back in one piece...can’t say that for everyone.”

   A teasing smile quirked her lips, dampening her mean quip behind a flash of white teeth. “Such as yourself?”

   “I still got all my toes, smoothskin,” Gob rasped with a low chuckle. “Nice try.”

   His hazy eyes then took a quick peek down her vault suit, instinctively making her fingers tug the zipper up to her neck. He didn’t seem to notice the correlation as he went about his job with a damp cloth on the counter and a lighter mood from her company.

   Don’t make anything out of it, kid. Men like these would eye the backside of a brahmin if they knew they wouldn’t get caught doing it. Nova, the saloon’s only working girl, had imparted the sage advice (that only young women who were forced beyond their years would know) the third time she had come around. Every guy is going to stare at you like a piece of meat...just make sure he actually pays for a good cut, first. Sex sells, kid, and you got a nice face with huge tits.

   Evelyn inwardly shuddered at the thought. It was beyond uncomfortable going from the awkward sexual outcast in the Vault to suddenly catching the eyes of nearly every man she passed. She wasn’t stunning like Amata, whom the horny boys had begun to not-so-discreetly pine over, but the stares made her feel vulnerable. If she wasn’t prey outside the walls, then she was just a cornered mouse within them.

   “Ya goin’ to drink that kid, or just stare at it to empty itself?”

   And if she wasn’t busy being either of those things... then she was Moriarty’s new favorite torment.

   The Irish saloon owner (and general prick) leaned in close over the counter, wafting his thick breath down her throat. “If you’re goin’ to be a distraction to my barkeep, I suggest you fucking leave.” He then stood straight, a beaming grin smug on his face. “Alright, girly?”

   Evelyn shrugged herself off her barstool, throwing him a glare. “Sewage smells better than this crap.” She then stomped off and slammed the door behind herself before any nasty remarks could be thrown at her back.

   Still...the biting rudeness dissolved her tough exterior into a sniveling mess by the time she entered back inside her ‘house’. That old fuck was somehow crueler in five minutes than all of Butch’s harassment from the past five years.

   “Oh dear...trouble, Madam?” The floating robot inquired as she burst inside.

   She only threw Wadsworth a withering look, effectively silencing the robot into begrudging comments regarding her uncalled-for attitude. The time on her Pip-Boy read approximately two-thirty in the afternoon...plenty of daylight to test her suicidal tendencies once more.

   “I’m going out,” she informed him after shrugging on her dusty, sun-bleached tunnel snake jacket.

   Butch would have been so disappointed as to its condition...but meticulous care of frivolous things didn’t help in keeping her alive.

   Not much did, actually.

   “I hope to see you alive and well!” Wadsworth remarked cheerily after she stepped back out into the sun. She heard him mutter to himself lowly, “Or neither...perhaps.”

   The squealing metal gates then rolled shut behind her, Stockholm’s head shaking as she set off into the wastes once more.

   Shit-ohfuck-nononono-!

   Super-Duper Mart had been just on the horizon, and for the first time in weeks, her heart swelled with optimistic hope at the sight of possible food, water, and as the sun began to set, shelter.

   Too bad a batch of radscorpions had beaten her there first.

   Her boots kicked up dirt and her screams were lodged behind panicked gasps as she sprinted to relative safety. She wasn’t in a million years about to hightail it back in the dark- even her bar of common sense wasn’t that low- but the longer she fled the more attraction she unwittingly chased; a few mongrels, a molerat, hell, a fucking upright human-sized crab thing became her abomination parade. They all congregated in a nasty fashion of screeching choirs and blood spilt baptisms amongst each other, and by the time she had spared a glance behind herself, the mutated crustacean was happily nibbling on its three-course meal (and twirling a mongrel limb like some macabre baton).

   Evelyn took respite among the boarded-up houses she eventually bumbled into, grateful for a moment to catch her breath and puke spittle to the side.

   Too bad a group of super mutants had beaten her there, too.

   This then led to a brief chase- thank God they were so unbelievably slow- and here the cowardly field mouse came upon an abandoned train station, holing up in a small grocery shop on the corner and barricading herself inside.

   A box of Sugar Bombs was snatched from the top shelf and torn into with animalistic tendencies, a Nuka-Cola was popped and guzzled, and before she had a chance to check her map to see just how fucked her distance from home now was, she heard the tell-tale sound of a certain creature that made everything else in this hellscape seem like child’s play.

   Radroaches.

   The rotting doorframe was slammed open, a crystal clear audible shriek yowled out of her chest and into the nighttime air for all to hear, and just as she careened down some metro steps and tripped on her own foot, a weight of something broke her fall (and almost her face).

   No...not something.

   Someone.

   And by the sheer size, someone big.

   ...shit.

   Evelyn grunted, rubbing her sore nose while tears sprung from the corner of her eyes. She peered up a little too quickly, and coupled with the fact she was overheated from physical exertion, and that a tidal wave of stale cereal and fizzy soda were waging war inside of her stomach...well-

   As far as I can tell, you're a perfectly healthy 16-year-old girl, so, yes, you have to go to class to take your G.O.A.T exam.

   Splat!

   The vomit violently rushed up and splashed over their boots.

   Congratulations, looks like you’re going to be the Vault’s newest garbage burner.

   If anything could have taken her back to that day, she would have promptly grabbed it by the hand and dragged it off herself. Nothing, absolutely nothing was as equal to or rivaling this new embarrassing incident she created for herself (not even the time when she had accidentally walked in on Freddie Gomez and Christine Kendall doing the nasty in the lower level of the reactor). ((Yuck)). Still, she would witness it all a second time than be prepared to face the dire consequences of puking on somebody’s feet.

   Evelyn gagged at the smell of her own sick, wiped the backside of her hand across her mouth, and sluggishly raised her head to promptly apologize. The weight of the stare looking down at her from this ginormous fucking ghoul was so overbearing she felt her knees begin to buckle.

   “Oh-oh my God,” she managed to gasp. “I’m so fucking sorry-” A rancid burp escaped her lips, and before she could continue in her heartfelt tirade, she slapped a hand to her mouth and dashed past the chain link gate into the shrouding darkness of the metro tunnel.

   A faded sign for the women’s restroom made her veer a sharp right, but before she could even make it to the toilet for a decent spot to relieve the rest of her stomach contents, she ended up keeling over with her hands on her knees and screwed her eyes shut as she retched loudly enough to have it echo down the whole tunnel.

   Garbage burner.

   The acid burned her throat.

   I could’ve been happy doing that.

   The blur of tears blinded her vision.

   Who fucking cares, I would’ve been safe.

   Globs of drool hung from her lips like slimy spiderwebbing.

   Why couldn’t you just let me live my life, Dad?!

   After she wiped the mess from her lips a second time, she turned around to a solid brick wall of ghoulish muscle and palpable ire mere inches from herself. She knew she was being loud, but she should have at least heard someone that fucking big waltzing around. The surprise gave her a fright, and she squeaked and bumbled into her own slippery mess as an instinctive reaction to flee.

   She blinked in the dim lighting under the flickering fluorescents. It was too dark that she couldn’t quite make out the detail of him, but he was close enough that she could see he was visibly angry.

   Fair- she would’ve been pissed at the person who puked on her and ditched, too.

   “I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t mean anything by it,” she explained with building anxiety. The dude was just standing there, staring at her...as though he was ready to grab her by the skull and smash it into the tile. Oh God, if he was, she prayed it would be fucking quick-

   “Water,” he rasped.

    His voice was completely flat and void of all emotion, a complete contrast to the raging fire blazing behind his eyes. They glowed down at her like hollow furnaces, blue and piercing in the black shadow.

   She stared at him dumbly, too frightened (and mortified) to respond in a respectful manner. His boot crushed some small rocks as he took a step toward her, his voice low and gravelly.

   “Water,” he repeated.

   With her mouth still slightly slack-jawed, her fingers became their own entity as they fumbled inside her jacket pockets uselessly. She didn’t have jackshit on her.

   “Uh, uh-uh,” she stammered. “I don’t have any.”

   He leaned over, his hot breath choking her own. “Then go get some.”

   Holy fuck, he was huge. He could easily pick her up and toss her across the room. She glanced at the butt end of the shotgun holstered to his back, briefly scented the thick musk of his sweat and gunpowder laced to his leather clothes. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, and at that moment, she had managed to piss him off.

   “O-Okay.” She nodded stupidly, carefully bypassing him like one does a stalking predator to then sprint out of the women’s restroom.

   When she came to the chain link gate a second time, she paused for a moment. Water? Where the fuck was she going to get some...and why? She should just keep going, run as far as her remaining stamina would take her until she returned to the safety of Megaton’s walls. He wouldn’t follow her- she didn’t think- and she would hopefully never see him ever aga-

   An ominous presence stirred her from her thoughts, and she turned her head.

   The ghoul had somehow managed to sneak up on her again, uncrossing one arm from over his chest to wave it at her, the nonverbal message clear. Go. He then refolded it, and as he lowered his face to be partially concealed in darkness, his burning eyes told her another one. You better come back.

   Another head nod, and she now found herself standing just outside the open doorway of the grocery store that was the catalyst of this whole mess. Thankfully, the radroaches had taken their leave, and so she scurried around inside with the light of her Pip-Boy until she found a carton of dirty water. She would come back for the rest of the goodies after smoothing over her little(big)...misunderstanding.

   “Here.” She came back and held it out, forcing herself not to flinch as he took it from her hand. “Sorry it’s not purified; I hope that’s okay...”

   She then watched as he took a swig, and then dumped the remainder over his black boots to rinse off the vomit.

   Oh.

   “Hey, who the hell is this?”

   The unknown voice forced her to squint through the darkness around him, and the big ghoul slightly turned his head to address the question. She could make out another ghoul, no, two ghouls, both armed and noticeably skittish. The one wearing some cracked spectacles lifted a necrotic finger directly at her.

   “This isn’t part of our deal. What the hell is Ahzrukhal trying to pull? You trying to blow our whole operation?!”

   Evelyn wished she could have simply melted into radioactive goo to dissolve through the floor. This was all blowing way out of proportion- she was just trying to get to that stupid fucking Super-Duper Mart!

   The big guy halfway blocking her appearance cracked his neck with a sharp tilt to the side, and then ignored her existence entirely as he turned his back to her. Apparently, she wasn’t even considered to be a minor threat to have him expose himself as such. When he began to march towards them and she slowly (and unsuccessfully) tried to sneak back outside, the spectacled ghoul raised his voice so loudly it made her jump.

   “Whoa there smoothskin, where are you going? Get over here.” He then murmured something to his rifle-toting partner, both keeping sharp eyes on her timidly advancing form. “That’s right, nice and slow, don’t get all jumpy.” He briefly turned to the big guy. “You were just going to let her scram?”

   Evelyn felt incredibly small under all of their glowing stares as she halted within a reasonable distance.

   The red ghoul studied her for a moment with bored interest, a complete 180 from his previous smolder. “She is not with me.” For a second time, he turned away from her. “Let us continue.”

   “Yeah, hold on a second, you’ll get your chems.” The ghoul went to bypass around, but he was grabbed by the shoulder. Even from her spot, she could tell it wasn’t a friendly gesture by any means.

   “Now,” the big guy growled. He ignored the one with the gun aimed at him and spun the smaller one around. “Do not keep me waiting.”

   “Alright- alright. Barrett,” he addressed his partner, wincing as he felt the iron grip tighten, “bring her inside.”

   She stiffened as he came around from behind, bumping her with the barrel of his gun. “C’mon, and don’t try anything, smoothskin.”

   Oh my God, I’m going to get raped, or eaten, or-or-

   A million scenarios whirled around inside her noggin, resurging a new wave of cortisol and adrenaline through her nerve endings at the endless possibilities of how this shitty day was going to get exponentially shittier. She followed them down the tunnel, rounding through a service door that opened up to some sort of makeshift drug den. The ghoul addressed as Barrett forced her to stand in a corner, and she hugged her arms close to her chest while she quietly observed them with wide eyes.

   “Here.” A large duffel bag was set on one end of a table, followed by an equally impressive sack of caps on the other. She didn’t think it was possible to carry around that much money. “Nice doing business with you.”

   The red ghoul unzipped the bag for a peer inside at the wares, being methodical and taking his time as he inspected the stash.

   “Jesus, what? Ahzrukhal suddenly not liking his stock?” the ghoul noted with irritation.

   The big guy ignored him and went about his task as though everyone else in the room simply didn’t exist.

   Evelyn scooted herself as close to the wall as she could when the other two finally gave her their attention.

   “Alright smoothskin, you mind telling me who sent you?” the smallest of the three rasped.

   She furrowed her brows. “Sent me? Look, I was trying to get to the Super-Duper Mart and I...” here she trailed off lamely, feeling heat burning her cheeks, “got lost.”

   “What? Got lost? Where are you coming from?”

   “...Megaton.”

   “Megaton?” The ghoul blinked. “So, you came all the way out here, alone?”

   The implication made her snap her mouth shut before she could respond with something stupid.

   “No...I have friends,” she lied. She hugged herself just a little bit tighter as Barrett’s gaze awkwardly drifted downwards. “They’re waiting for me outside.”

   This seemed to agitate the ghoul even further. “So you did bring someone?!” He scoffed and went about in a craze around the room, beginning to pull items from shelves and place them in assorted bags. “I fucking knew it. We’re going to have to move, damnit.”

   “I won’t tell them you’re here!” she blurted at his unexpected panic. “I’m just trying to get back home. Just let me leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

   “Hah, nice try, smoothskin. I won’t be taken for a fool.” The ghoul tossed something across the room into a bin. “Barrett, go check outside for more of these friends. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”

   The room emptied of just one person, his footsteps swift and muttering peeved. The big guy was still assorting through his inventory...she had completely forgotten he was even in the room; he was so eerily quiet.

   “I’m not here to cause any trouble,” she started, but the ghoul who had quickly left just as quickly entered back inside.

   “She’s lying Murphy. We’re clear for miles around.”

   Murphy paused before shoving a Bunsen burner inside a pack, and instead, he came close to brandish it in her face. “This can go one of two ways, smoothskin, you either start telling just who-”

   A gloved palm landed on his shoulder and cleanly pushed him into some metal shelving. The big guy thrust a finger down at the table where he had set some canisters of jet to the side.

   “These are defective.” He then snapped his eyes at her, his whole aura extremely pissed off. “Get out.”

   Evelyn didn’t argue or question him- not even the other ghoul made a stand- and so she hastily dipped from the room, for once blessing the breath of the cold night air and drinking in its vast open sky.

What's in a Family?

   Being cooked alive wasn’t the first thing she had hoped to wake up to. Then again, sleeping in a dumpster overnight wasn’t exactly ideal in the first place.

   She had booked it for as far as she had dared, flashing her Pip-Boy light around erratically to give it a strobing effect. Creepy skittering and too-close-for-comfort howls made her dive headfirst into the first bin she could find. The freezing temperature, coupled with the echoing sounds of shotgun blasts in the distance, had made her sleep restless. It gave everything a surreal, loopy filter as she struggled to wake.

   She peeled her damp, scroungy hair from her sticky face and crawled out like some scraggly rat, relishing in the slight breeze that rolled on by giving a cool smooch to her throbbing forehead. The crick in her neck stabbed lightning down her spine every time she tried to turn her head fully.

   “Ow,” she muttered as she stretched in place.

   The recount of last night’s embarrassing fiasco made her inwardly cringe, and she almost considered just slinking back inside the dumpster with her fated garbage.

   They could then at least burn together.

   She nursed a warm soda to treat her skull-splitting headache, topped off her nonexistent appetite with some packaged Dandy Boy Apples, and then reached back inside her nest for the metal crate of supplies she had managed to squeak from that grocery store. The screen of her map showed the miserable distance she was forced to make for back home...and, surprisingly, was also the little marker Arefu that Lucy West girl had pinned for her.

   Evelyn raised her eyes- it was just over the ridge.

   Nestled inside her left breast pocket was the letter she had been entrusted with to give to Lucy’s folks (as she had no reason to ever take it out). Lucy did say her father would pay her to act as a courier for them...and caps were something she needed desperately, otherwise; she would soon be forced to sell Wadsworth for parts.

   The metal bin was adjusted uncomfortably against a hip, and she awkwardly began to meander towards the settlement with her goods banging around.

   A disembodied voice called out to her not even five minutes into her excursion. “You aiming to wake the entire Capital with that ruckus?”

   Evelyn whirled her head around to a scavenger waving a friendly gesture from beside a corrugated lean-to shed. She blinked and sheepishly shrugged. “Um. I’m...sorry?”

   Please don’t be a rapistmurdererpsychopath-

   The stranger took in her condition and gently shook his head. “You look like you woke up with the wrong side of a deathclaw.”

   A what?

   If names had anything to bear out in this wasteland, then she fucking hoped to God she would never be able to put a face to it.

   “Don’t worry about me none,” he continued, mistaking her visible fear for himself. “I’m a local trader that sells some odds and ends I happen to find.” He motioned with his chin at her box. “Want to make a deal?”

   She bit her lip and glanced down at her wares. Well. If he wanted her dead to loot her corpse, he wouldn’t bother asking...right?

   The entire exchange went more pleasantly than expected, until he jutted a half-tipped thumb over his shoulder to the murky waters just down below his shack.

   “Water’s a bit cold,” he said plainly after he refused her trade of a box of detergent.

   The insinuation made her face burn as bright as a cherry bomb, but she merely gave a meek thank you and doused herself in the frigid lake with her suit still on, scrubbing the stinging (and slightly acidic) soap into her skin till it tickled pink and felt raw. Trailing waterdrops dripped behind her like breadcrumbs as she trudged towards the crumbling overpass just down the road. A handful of caps would hopefully be some sort of consolation prize after everything she had endured in the past twenty-four hours...

   At the very least, it couldn’t be any worse than her puke fiasco.

   Slam!

   The wind from the door being banged shut breezed back her still-damp curls.

   “Oh my fucking God!” she shrieked, retching to the side with stomach-squelching sounds.

   No sooner had she opened the door to the West residence, than did the smell throw a double-fisted punch directly at her face. It was so thick and damp that it was almost palpable. She could taste it- a fuzzy carpet of rot.

   “Gaaaaaaaah!” She dry-heaved a few times before stomping away to gulp down some ‘fresh’ air. She didn’t have to go back inside to deduce what had happened- they were surely dead.

   First, it was scorpions at the mart. Then, it was making beautiful first impressions with a gigantic fucking angry ghoul. Now, it was playing messenger for some old coot whilst discovering her entire reason for even agreeing to help was already stiff.

   Fuck you, Dad.

   Evelyn relayed the status to Evan King, the self-proclaimed mayor of Arefu.

   “Was their son, Ian, among them?” he asked.

   “I don’t know, I didn’t exactly poke my nose inside more than I had to,” she slightly growled. The sun was beginning to climb, and with it, the sweltering heat and migraine-inducing buzzing over the sands. It did wonders to her temper. “...I think I saw two bodies.”

   Evan then proceeded to beg for her help in locating the boy...and her goodhearted, people-pleasing nature said sure, I’ll risk my life for one idiot who’s more than likely dead! She really wished she would harden her resolve and just say no...but it seemed dear old Dad had imparted more than just his abandonment on her.

   She covered her eyes from the sun and squinted at the reflection it gave on her Pip-Boy screen at the two possible locations Ian had been squirreled away to. Both were within a stone’s throw of Arefu, so she tried her luck with the outdoor cinema first. It was a bust, but she took her time in nabbing anything her sticky fingers could find. She placed them all inside a burlap sack the trader from earlier had given her, cramming all the cigarette cartons and toy cars together like some morally askew Santa.

   Trudging down the hill towards Hamilton’s hideaway proved to be a different story- a pack of molerats found her to be a delectable meal. While she didn’t have much of an issue clobbering a couple of the rodents into pulp, half a dozen of them proved too much for her splintered baseball bat alone. She didn’t have time to consider any other choice but barricade herself behind the chain link gate leading into the cavernous lair. The wrinkled oversized rats sniffled around the dirt for a way to follow as she disappeared deep into the mountainside, effectively trapping her within the darkness of this sketchy fucking place until she found another way out.

   She was going to die down here; she was certain of it. Someone was going to come along and find her mottled corpse like she had with Lucy’s parents. They were going to take a single whiff and grimace at the smell of her. If there was any sort of ironic karma in this world, then it was probably going to be the big guy crushing her skull under his boot and wiping the mess from his heel.

   The light from her Pip-Boy cast a sallow glow throughout the underground maze as she painstakingly crept around every corner and pilfered through every crate. Her bag was growing in size with assorted, mostly useless crap. Whatever. As long as it brought in some caps, then she didn’t care...but her aching shoulder muscles soon did.

   A resident radscorpion made her scream (nearly shit her suit) and busted her childhood baseball bat in half. She held up the fractured end of it, blinked twice, then chucked it at the little hissing fucker before slamming her boots along the catwalks in retreat. She turned a corner and tripped over the body of some unfortunate soul, cursing loudly as her goodies went tumbling about. The brief glimpse of a stinger aimed well and high for her face left little time to dawdle in gathering her senses or things, and so she scrambled to her feet and continued to run until she was sure she had lost the bastard.

   ...in which she was also now disoriented.

   Empty rooms full of random corpses belonging to raiders, roaches, and ruffians made for a graveyard of a maze for her to wander about. Stimpaks and caps were greedily stuffed in her jacket pockets till she was just about jingling a tune, luring her old friend back while she was hunched over busily rifling through a dead guy’s coat. Due to some quick thinking and cowardice display, she managed to trap it inside the room and secure the door, leaving her free to regather her dropped supplies...and find a sledgehammer that weighed nicely in her blistered hands.

   Hamilton's hideaway proved to be a dud as well.

   The molerats from earlier had disbanded, and so she returned to Arefu with the full intention of telling Evan King his presumptions were stupid and completely off the mark, but she instead gave a shake of her head (and was given one more possible location as thanks).

   The metro station. 

   The puke was right where she had left it...as were the ghouls, minus the big guy.

   Thank God.

   She prayed she would never see him again lest she die from straight embarrassment.

   “What the hell?! You again?” Murphy remarked after she shyly shuffled back inside their workspace.

   This time, she held up a hand in an amicable greeting and explained her endeavor. They simply stared at her before glancing back at each other, and without explaining himself, the ghoul led her around to a back room and pointed to a manhole cover glossed with glowing radioactive goop.

   “Have fun, smoothskin.” He eyed her bulging goods (in both senses), his apparent lack of shame knowing no bounds. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any Sugar Bombs, would you? It’d be unfortunate to lose them, you catch my drift?”

   She balked. “Why? What the fuck is down there?”

   “Mirelurks.”

   “Mire-what?”

   Now she had a name for those crab monsters...great. How the fuck was she supposed to get past that?!

   As she dumped her wares on the table to offload the sugary cereal, a landmine was picked up by Barrett and overturned in his hands.

   “You want those too? I don’t use them,” she offered.

   The ghoul gave her a thoughtful raise of his brow. “You should.”

   Barrett proved to be a genius. Laying some mines down and luring the shelled pricks made life a fucking mirelurk-cakewalk. She was so overjoyed watching them explode into softshell pieces that she was tempted to run back and gush of the success. The gloomy lenses of her world were suddenly wiped away, she was unstoppable-!

   A snap from a tripwire slapped the drunken happy smile off her face. The explosion nearly blew her off her feet.

   A plethora of clever traps almost laid claim to her life in multiple instances- it was sheer stupid luck she managed by with only a baseball to the shoulder from a pitching machine. A live landmine was defused, a rigged shotgun peppered holes a mere hairsbreadth from her leg...

   When it was all said and survived, she eventually found them, waving her letter for Ian like some holy scripture.

   The Family was fucking nuts.

   Evelyn pursed her lips, politely nodded, and was forced to listen to the inane bullshit spewed a dozen different ways from a handful of eager lips. She was more unpleasantly surprised than frightened at their teachings- weirdos- but she wasn’t about to argue with a bunch of gun-toting bloodsuckers to make her point. The letter was practically shoved in Ian’s face, her point-blank suggestion of using blood packs was accepted, and her backtrack to the lab was much more uneventful a second time around.

   The ghouls were visibly shocked at her miraculous return completely unscathed.

   “Find The Family?” Murphy rasped as she dusted off her knees.

   “I did, phewf!” She stuck her tongue out to wipe some dirt from it. "Not looking to go back, either."

   “Well, well, guess you’re more resourceful than you look, smoothskin.” He crossed his arms, seemingly in deliberate thought. “...you might be the kind of help I need around here. It’ll pay. Interested?”

   She wiped some snot from her chilled nose. It had been so cold in those tunnels! "What sort of help?"

   Another five days, another trip out into the wastes to gather Ahzrukhal’s laundry list of goods. The ghoul could walk these cracked asphalt roads blindfolded- it’d been years since he’d left the Capital Wasteland, and judging by the circumstances in which he was placed here, it looked like he wasn’t packing his bags anytime soon.

   He learned not to dwell on that notion a long time ago.

   Northwest Seneca Station was at his feet almost instantly- his mind tended to blank on the finer details of his routine trip when he wasn’t busy putting lead in something. Under his accumulation of years and experience, he had become a textbook example of walking destruction- a perfect means to an end for his employer’s tastes. It was all his life had become as of late, and he shut himself down in almost every way not to care.

   “Not going to bother checking it, this time?” the ghoul scientist quipped sarcastically when he merely shouldered the duffel bag of Ultrajet.

   Well...almost every part of him.

   Charon gave a heavy stare at his employer’s supplier. With an almost deliberate movement, he set the bag back down on the table with a loud bang, his glowing eyes silently challenging him to argue otherwise.

   “It was a joke...but alright,” Murphy muttered under his breath as he returned to his work.

   The red ghoul inspected the canisters and shook their contents for any tell-tale sign that the depressor was faulty. Charon honestly didn’t give two shits if they were or not- he was simply spiteful, and in an extra sour mood after a feral mongrel had somehow completely taken him by surprise and managed to nip him in the ass. He was sure to bear a few puncture-sized scars because of it. He half-mindedly listened to the blabbering on the side while his hands and eyes operated on autopilot.

   “...we really need those Sugar Bombs, that smoothskin better come through for us.” Charon felt their stares land on his person. “Or Ahzrukhal’s going to have to go back to dealing Jet again.”

   When he was finished conducting his business, he hefted the bag over one shoulder and left without so much as a glance back. The ghoul paused just outside the chain link gate, staring down at his feet where he had previously been defiled by that bizarre fucking smoothskin.

   She was lucky he hadn’t been in a foul temper that day, or there would’ve been a lot more than just half-digested cereal to be cleaned from his boots.

   He knew better. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and absent nose clean; the canisters from the previous visit had been without flaw...he just needed a reason. An excuse.

   He knew better.

   Evelyn felt a creeping chill slither down her spine that instinctively made her turn her head. There was nothing sinister stalking her- that she could see- and so she shuddered the nasty vibe from her shoulders and turned back around.

   She hadn’t attempted the Super-Duper Mart for another few days after the radscorpion high-speed chase. This time, she came somewhat prepared with her repaired sledgehammer (Moira had charged a pretty penny just for some spit, duct tape, and ‘wishful thinking’). Shooting a gun was out of the question- she was the world’s shittiest shot, and the 10mm handgun Amata had given her was still discarded at the bottom of her locker at home.

   The sweat-stained ballcap she wore was fiddled with at the brim while she studied the building from behind a boulder. It looked empty- the scorpions were long gone- but then a person stumbled out cackling manically to themselves before dropping in a stone-cold heap just outside the door.

   They were dead.

   Raiders...nope.

   She dusted her hands together and walked straight back home. Moira was just going to have to convince some other sorry sucker to help with her ‘research’. It wasn’t worth the risk of being beheaded and feasted on.

   She stripped to her skivvies in the sweltering heat and listened to Wadsworth’s exhaust blowing around upstairs as he ‘dusted’. She had virtually done nothing since The Family incident, and she was still left without a single clue as to where her father had run off to.

   Moriarty had offered a snap at some bait for a hundred caps, which she now had...lugging all that scavenged crap back for Moira to fawn over had been so worth the aching back muscles.

   I’m sorry...I thought your dad told you...

   Your father’s the reason for all this!

   Oh my God...you actually opened it...

   She closed her eyes, fiddling with the knobs of her Pip-Boy to replay the voice of her father from the only note he had left behind; his warm, gentle tone filled her otherwise resentful heart.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   A flick of the switch. Rewind.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   Rewind, repeat.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   She curled into a small ball, remembering her first night in this empty house, how she clung to his ghost as though it were an actual visitor to stave off her loneliness. She had been so desperate for that safety net that she had begun to make herself available to anyone with a problem; anything for a chance to have a friend in this big, scary world.

   Goodbye...I love you.

   Evelyn held up her clean suit (fresh from the sink) and snagged a bottle of purified water to deepthroat as she assembled her gear. The hemming was fraying, there were permanent stains marring the golden numbers, and a few grotesquely sewn tears were beginning to threaten a free peepshow of her ass. The leather reinforcements Moira had equipped her with were in dire need of oiling and stitches, neither of which she had the general knowledge to.

   “I’m heading out!” she called up to the floating robot. She swore she heard him mutter and please don’t come back.

   Gob was on her ass faster than a bloatfly on shit, already reaching under the table for her usual before her butt could even warm the seat. She observed him while he popped off the cap, and for once, she didn’t bother reminding herself that it was rude to stare.

   He had indubitably frightened her during their first encounter, but it wasn’t so much as being scared, rather, it was the complete unknown of it all. People like him existed (and so did vampires, now, too). It was something out of a horror holovid or science-fiction comic book, and the fact that he wasn’t the only thing to have changed in this horrid landscape made future ventures a stomach-flopping thought. He was the first ghoul she had met, and before the previous days’ events, the only one she had known.

   “Like the view?” he jested. “I charge extra.”

   She slid the bottle to herself and took a discreet whiff. He winked at her.

   “Set aside the good kind this time,” he rasped in a hushed tone out of earshot from Moriarty.

   A swig of foamy hops raced down her gullet, and she ran her tongue over her teeth. “Does it hurt?”

   “What?”

   She lamely waved the tip of her bottle at him in apology, now feeling incredibly silly. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

   “Nah...don’t bother me none.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “It did when it...changed, but not anymore.”

   “Huh.” She tipped her bottle back, noticing the unblinking stare he was giving her in return, except it was more...predatory. She gulped both her beer and nerves. She liked Gob, just, strictly as a mutual gabber. With the way he was eyeing her now, she could clearly translate his end as desiring something else.

   It was as Nova had said- he was sweet...and she wanted to keep it at that.

   The Irish arsehole rounded by them, and for the first (and only) time, she was grateful for his interference.

   “You find your dad yet, kid?” he asked with a condescending drawl. “It’s a mighty big wasteland out there...if you’re ready to cough up the caps, I might just point you in the right direction.”

   Goodbye...I love you.   Evelyn interrupted his shite talk with the bundle of currency she was ready to part from. “Spill.”

[kidotm]

The Incompetent Tourist

   Bap bap bap

   “No, come on, come on!”

    BAP BAP BAP

   The Pip-Boy screen flickered, emitted a high-pitch whine, and then went black.

  

  Evelyn panicked, smacking the thing into oblivion as she gasped in sheer terror. “Holy fuck, oh no no-nonononononono!”

   This is not happening now no way oh fucking shit-

   She was so engrossed in her impromptu service repair (or disrepair, more appropriately) that she failed to hear the sound of footsteps clambering down the metal walkway. A raider was just about to snag at the collar of her jacket when she finally turned around at the smell of something grossly unpleasant.

   “C’mere, bitch!”

   Evelyn screamed in alarm, reflexively smacking her broken wrist computer upside the man’s skull. He stumbled back from the blow with a curse, and she took the opportunity to flee.

“You get back here!”

   Shouts echoed down the corridors as she full-on sprinted past the bewildered cannibals and sleeping molerats. Everyone caught a glimpse of the golden-blue human-sized blur galloping at Mach speed right past them, evading outstretched grimy fingertips and barely dodging screeching bullet fire.

   A chain link gate was thrown open, and not for the first time, she blessed the sight of the open sky. She took the metro steps two at a time to the top, wheezing at the burn in her legs and the hitch in her lungs. She didn’t have the luxury to stop and catch her breath, however, for a misconducted symphony with death as its composer was playing everywhere on the surface streets.

   “Oh my God,” she shakily breathed as she took in the sight of the chaos whizzing all around her.

   Super mutants galore firing away at chem-induced crackheads along with some sort of militant type of guys were having an all-for-one deathmatch. Grenades showered concrete dust and slimy gore along the side of buildings; a few lifeless bodies of both species were floating in the green stagnate water of the canal.

   Just as she wrapped her fingers through the mesh of the metro gate did she hear the cries of those from earlier still giving chase. She was going to either risk being caught by raiders in the dark tunnels of the underground, or have her limbs blown off by entering the fray.

   She chose a third option- to hide.

   There wasn’t much in terms of cover. Super mutants were stationed on high ground in the skeleton remains of buildings, the wooden planks used as makeshift walkways sprinkling dirt down as they shook from their relentless stomping. She nearly suffocated herself from smothering her arm to her face to quiet her coughing after inhaling on the dust; she kept low and constantly whirled around like a rat, eyes wide with fear and muscles tensed to spring.

   A dumpster to her right blew up from a stray missile, slamming her into a brick wall. Her ears were ringing- she couldn’t hear! She couldn’t see!

   Oh no, I’m dead, I’m fucking dead- Dad-!

   All at once, it came back, the black smoke whirling away with the cold wind as the music of destruction began to sing once more. Gunfire peppered around; screeches ricocheted for all to hear. She watched a super mutant grab a raider clean off her feet, and then rip the woman in half.

   Her feet pounded against the blacktop of the streets, fuck this-fuck this!

   One of the green giants spotted her and gnashed its teeth together as it began to barrel towards her- she screamed, earning the attention of more. Her footing slipped as she skidded around the side of a building, her heart being sobbed out as she heard them grunting right behind her. Another metro gate was just up ahead- she would take the raiders over the mutants any fucking day.

   Unfortunately, no one had told her about the ferals.

   At first, she had been more than fucking relieved at knocking into someone down in these dark, damp, radroach-infested subway tunnels- she was too stupid and wired on adrenaline to even bother questioning as to why they would be living down here in these conditions.

   The feral ghoul went sprawling on the ground after being tackled in the side like a headbutt from a brahmin. Evelyn immediately sprang to her feet, reaching out to assist them and panting every other word.

   “Oh my God, I am so-so-so sorry-!” Her mouth began to race a mile a minute, her eyes glancing over her shoulder for any sign they would follow her down here. So far, it was just herself and the ghoul. “I don’t know where-”

   The feral hissed, silencing her words into stupefied surprise, and she instinctively snapped her helping hand back to her side as the ghoul made a lunge for her. It was then that the smell kicked her so hard in the nose that tears sprung from her eyes, and as she was laid out flat on her back (with the sledgehammer digging into her spine) she realized this person didn’t have any clothes.

   “What the fuck?! Get off me!” she shrieked, batting her hands at their face as they snarled and drooled thick ropes of saliva on her throat. She brought a kneecap up, and she could hear the silently collective groans from every nutsack around the world as she smashed the flaccid tidbits into flattened pancakes.

   The feral curled into itself as it was shoved over to the side, and without even bothering to question this pervert streaker, she hightailed it towards the other end of the metro to where she could make out the faint light of day.

   Galaxy News Radio better be fucking close, or she was just going to dig her own fucking grave at this point.

   The Brotherhood Knight didn’t take his eyes off the sight before him to address his superior coming up from behind.

   “What is it, Earl? Mutants taking a piss on the Memorial again?” The Paladin briefly paused beside his subordinate, both taking in the sight of a young woman flailing a sledgehammer around like a wild fiend at a few stray mutts. “...who the hell is that? A civilian?”

   Earl would have shrugged if he wasn’t clad from head to toe in power armor. “She just came from the Mall Northwest station like a cazador out of hell...” Their helmets slowly swiveled in motion with her erratic movements. She had lifted the sledgehammer high above her head, the weight of the tip suddenly careening her backward. An ugly squawk left her mouth as she was forced to plop down on her ass.

   The Paladin gave a filtered sigh through the internal mic in his helmet. “Go help her out.”

   The Brotherhood Knight did as ordered, effectively reducing the mutts into bright ash just as they were gnawing on her boots. “Hey, civilians shouldn’t be this far into D.C. You alright?”

   Evelyn raised her head, blowing a strand of hair from her face and reaching for her discarded ballcap that blew off to the side. She blinked at this enormous stature of armor standing before her like some white knight from a fairytale. “Uh, uh, yes. Thank you.” She got to her feet, checking herself for any injury. Some scratches, bruises, and bumps, but nothing she couldn’t treat herself. Her dirt-stained hands wiped at her knees and shook out her jacket. “Uh, Galaxy News?”

   Earl cocked his helmet to the side. “GNR? What about it?”

   “Is...” She meekly looked around now that she had a proper chance to survey the landscape. “Am I close?” The arm of her Pip-Boy was held up like it was the sole reason for this entire happenstance. “It broke awhile ago.”

   The Brotherhood Knight didn’t say anything for a few moments, and she squirmed under his invisible stare.

   “You’re at the Mall.”

   She furrowed her brows, not understanding.

   Earl repeated himself slowly, as though giving his words time to sink in. “The Mall.” He shouldered his rifle to point across the way. “Galaxy News is to the North.” He eyed her, now noticing the vault suit. “Why are you trying to get there? D.C. is crawling with muties.”

   Her entire face had been slowly melting into utter heartbreak with every syllable he spoke, and by the end, she was brusquely wiping her teary eyes and snuffing snot back up her head.

   Earl felt his chest tighten- it was disheartening to watch a pretty face like hers stand there and cry. “Look,” he tried again with a gentle tone. He reached out and took ahold of her shoulder as though she was made of glass. “Why don’t you tell me your name.”

   “Evelyn,” she sobbed.

   “Okay, Evelyn.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s going to get dark soon, and you don’t want to be out in the ruins when night falls. Where are you coming from?”

   She smeared some goop across her chin. “M-Megaton.”

   “Megaton...” He peered over his shoulder- his superior was waving at him to return to his post. “Alright, look, if you stay out here, there’s no guarantee we can keep you safe. You got mutants on one end, and then some slavers on the other to complete this shit sandwich. That isn’t even to mention the Talon jerks that sometimes roam around. We’re about cornered just every which way around here.”

   Evelyn hiccupped, wishing more than anything that she had never left her bed that morning. “Then where the fuck am I supposed to go?!”

   “...you ever heard of a place called Underworld?”

   How the fuck did it all come to this?

   It was completely full circle- the dirt, the grass, the deer, death, the dirt, the grass. She couldn’t believe her fucking luck, or, with this day’s series of most unfortunate events, maybe she could.

   She should have stayed in bed.

   There wouldn’t be the throbbing headache from the crash of adrenaline she was trying to remedy with cola and a splash of whiskey. No sensation that her blistered, sore feet were walking barefoot over Hell’s bed of brimstone and coals. The slobber and teeth marks on her boots from those wild dogs would be nonexistent.

   There was no telling just how this day could get any worse.

   Evelyn glanced around the mostly empty room from her spot, treating her ass on this barstool as though it were a life preserver out at sea.

   Gob had told her some stories of this rumored city when she had first crawled out from the earth, had said there was a whole town of just ghouls; a colony of finely, radiated souls. Her shining metal savior had pointed down the way and she had blindly taken his word for it. She barely remembered what the snippy sentry or wiseass mechanic had even said to her upon admittance- her eyelids were so heavy she could barely keep her head off the counter.

   She should have gotten a bed rather than a drink, but the comfort of a cool glass sounded like Heaven itself blessing this unholy shithole.

   The barkeep sidled on over- she hadn’t even bothered to ask for his name yet.

   “If you would prefer, I have some, private quarters, that you may retire in for the night.” His voice pricked pins and needles under her skin, as though a slimy oil coated his tongue and kept being regurgitated in the back of his throat. Nasty.

   The offer was attempted as a comforting purr, but it only made her cringe away from the mottled green hand gently resting atop her own.

   “Um, no thank you,” she said thickly, rubbing at the bags under her eyes. Didn’t the ghoul downstairs say there was-

   The double doors at her back creaked open on their rusted hinges.

   “Ah, Charon,” the bartender rasped with some interest. Almost instantly, his expression and mannerism went from sleazy charmer to pure annoyance. “You’re late. You were due back yesterday.”

   Evelyn turned with her glass held to her lips, but when she met the eyes of the ghoul standing beside her, she felt her blood slush into ice. The entire cocktail dribbled down her chin to soak her chest. She barely took notice. A sizeable military-grade duffel bag was slammed on the counter beside her, the big ghoul she had made great first impressions with staring down at her with hateful reproach.

   This bar was the dirt, her drink had become the grass, and here she was, a fair doe, looking up into the face of death.

   In their previous encounter, she had only been able to make out the eyes. They had glowed, just like any other ghoul, but they were bright. Two eternal fires, raging inside their prisons of mere flesh and bone, captive from laying anything before them to pure, hot ash.

   The creak of his leather, the hint of gun oil, the dark blood painted across his muscled canvas. A warrior from another time, another soil, rekindled in the body of a new man. Here he stood, as proud and ominous as a trireme sailing through a storm. This ghoul portrayed nothing but the simple message of I can kill you.

   And she didn’t misinterpret a single word of it.

   She had been gaping at him like a fish struggling to breathe; eyes boggling from her skull from the overwhelming pressure of being brought to the surface too quickly. She had been reeled up from the black waters by a solid wire, tugged on by a single finger till she writhed and burned under that unforgiving sun.

   The bartender beside her kept speaking- she had tuned him out completely in fear if she were to look away, the ghoul glaring down at her would sink a knife into her gut.

   “Wha-what?” Evelyn finally tore her eyes from his, instinct begging her to move away from this apex predator. Her foot twitched.

   He was staring at her with a deep frown, but it wasn’t one of concern. “It appears you have spilled your drink; would you care for another?”

   She looked down, now realizing her frontside was soaked and becoming sticky. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. She stupidly wiped at it with her hand, still trying to process the situation through her fog-clouded mind. Everything was taking that dreamy quality, a thick velvet blanket pulled over her eyes.

   “Sorry,” she mumbled, staggering from her seat as she made for the door. She didn’t bother looking behind her to their hawk-like stares following until she was gone from sight.

   The boring eyes of the multitude of ghouls preying on her like owls would a mouse made her feet quicken and hands sloppy. The doors across from the bar were opened with a half-stumble inside, and she gave a weary look to the ghoul (woman?) standing behind the counter.

   “Oh, oh my,” she garbled as Evelyn wobbled through. “I’m guessing you’re the smoothskin Winthrop was talking about...”

   Evelyn flopped her bag at her side and brusquely tried to rub the exhaustion from her face. “Is there somewhere I can lie down?” she asked in a heavy voice. Things were beginning to make little sense, she needed sleep, and now.

   “Of course, 120 caps.” The hostess gave a blink at the bag of currency plopped before her. “Um, it, it will only take me a moment to count-”

   “The morning it’ll be,” Evelyn drawled like a drunken sailor.

   There was little to remember but the sigh of her mattress, the snug pull of sheets, and the fact that despite the ever-growing darkness fading the world from her eyes, she thought to herself, ew, I never took my boots off.

   The mornings were always a bit different. Even though she had spent weeks on the surface, every time she opened her eyes to her head on a pillow, for one very brief second, she believed she was in the Vault.

   The bare floor would be cold under her feet, making her hop and skip to the bathroom to stand under that delicious spray of never-ending hot water. A clean suit and a pair of buffed boots to adorn, a plate of previously cooked breakfast lying in wait on the table, covered from the chill of the room and sprinkled with the usual note- Good morning, I’m off to the clinic. I love you.

   The illusion would normally dissipate with a giant kick behind her eyes, but this time, it was relayed by a necrotic face hovering inches from her own.

   “You still alive, smoothskin?”

   Evelyn rapidly blinked, and then thrust her head back from the stench (God knows how long) of unbrushed teeth and a light misting of spittle on her cheek.

   “Yeah, she’s up,” the ghoul woman before her observed with a snip. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You going to pay for a second night, smoothskin? I’ve got work to do.”

   “Greta!” The other one from the night before came around the side, a slight dip in her walk from walking on a busted heel in her shoe. “Shame on you! Look at the poor dear, give her a hand, will you?”

   Greta rolled her eyes- although subtly- and scoffed. “Sure.” When the other woman had given a nod of approval and walked away, she leaned forward slightly to hiss in her ear, “You stay away from Carol, smoothskin, I’ve got my eye on you.” She straightened herself upright and attempted to flatten some permanent wrinkles from her dress. “Now, you going to eat something? The stew just stopped moving.”

   Before Evelyn could protest, her stomach gave a growling rumble of an answer. She lightly shrugged her shoulders.

   Greta gave a terse nod of her head to the side. “Come on, then, I have other customers to tend to, you know.”

   Evelyn was soon seated and staring down at a chipped plate serving something...indescribable. A few black bubbles blew and popped, wafting a sour stench to her nose. She felt the eyes of the ghoul who had served it unblinking at her face.

   “Well? Not to your flavor, smoothskin?” she asked caustically.

   A fork with missing tines was picked up, and she carefully peeled off a tiny piece of the tarry goo to then politely place on her tongue. She chewed, stopped, and looked back at the ghoul with a forced smile.

   “Thank you,” her voice shook.

   Greta nodded in satisfaction, turning away to resume her duties over the stove. “Just let me know when you want seconds.”

   As soon as she was out of sight, Evelyn spat it back on her plate before her entire empty stomach could remove it first. She scraped at her tongue with her grubby fingertips until another ghoul in a tattered suit came around the side.

   He thoroughly eyed her for a few moments, causing her to bristle under the scrutiny.

   “You don’t look like much,” he grunted.

   “I can easily say the same,” Evelyn snapped without even thinking. She forced the plate across the table and reached inside her bag for a bruised mutfruit. The creeping smell from inside her suit made her grimace, although, it was somewhat hard to tell if it was even hers.

   When the ghoul didn’t leave, she gave him a hard stare.

   “I’m sorry, but can I help you?” she asked with a hint of aggravation.

   “Depends, smoothskin,” he replied, adjusting his tie to lie flat against his throat. “I’m looking for someone to take on a job.”

   She waved a hand in disinterest. Any other occasion, and she would have been forced to obey her good nature, but at that moment she was utterly grotesque, famished...and somewhat strangely horny. A shower, some real food, and maybe a courtesy at some privacy, and she was sure she would then listen to this ghoul’s request. She did for just about everyone else.

   “Not interested, thank you,” she said civilly.

   “Don’t know why I even bother with your kind,” he muttered sourly, not apologizing for the insult as he stalked on past.

   The ghoul hostess that gave her the accommodations came back with a nervous smile showcasing missing teeth and a sack of caps in her hands. Evelyn nearly choked on her breakfast at the realization she had left her entire stash with this woman overnight.

   “Don’t worry, dearie, I didn’t take more than you owed,” she rasped gently as she handed it back. “You were in quite a way last night. Are you feeling better?”

   Evelyn looked up at this woman, the sincerity in her voice almost making her cry. Whoever she was, she was now ranked in her top three of people she would do anything for.

   “I am, thank you.” She genuinely smiled.

   “Oh, my, you are such a pretty young thing.” The woman laughed; the wet sound akin to someone choking. “I’m Carol, and you’ve already met my Greta.” She waved a hand in the air to the ghoul standing beside the stove...staring at her. “Welcome to Carol’s Place, well, my place. I do hope you enjoy your stay...we don’t get too many smoothskins, down here. Try not to mind all the staring, it’s been some years.”

   Evelyn nodded, wiping at the juices running from the corners of her lips with her fingers and then sucking them greedily. Her eyes then unfocused, and she remembered the entire scene from the bar like some rewound sitcom holovid. She gulped, and her cheeks grew hot.

   “You’re not ill, are you?” Carol asked with concern as she mistook the bright red of her face for something else. “Doctor Barrows downstairs is good with humans- I think you should go see him when you can.”

   Evelyn ignored the suggestion, and instead, finally looked around the room for the first time upon waking. “Is, is there anywhere I can, um, shower, or something?”

   It wasn’t a shower, it wasn’t even hot...but it was water, albeit, radiated, but cool, clean water, nonetheless. The working taps in the bathroom by the entrance to the Museum of History provided some private, reflective time to herself as she scrubbed her bare skin while her suit and garments were soaking in suds. She reflexively went to check her rad count on her Pip-Boy...and then remembered her entire dilemma.

   She was stuck in the downtown of the D.C. ruins, in a ghoul city, with no map or know-how of how to get back home. Forget Galaxy News Radio, forget Dad, she was fucking stuck here till who knows how long!

   When her skin tingled and her hair was washed, braided, and tucked under her maroon baseball cap, she left her suit to dry over a bathroom stall while she inventoried her things in her bag and considered her amount of caps. She had enough for a couple of nights, she was sure...but then what? Go back out there? She would be smeared as paste on the pavement quicker than her dad suddenly upending her life and walking away from it all.

   She hugged herself and shivered in her damp underwear as she inspected the Pip-Boy for its possible cause of malfunction. She had a knack for tinkering with things, but she lacked the skill in fixing them. The bomb in Megaton was only disarmed due to having read about it prior- there wasn’t a whole lot of unrestricted material to devour down in the Vault, and so she took what she could sink her teeth into to suck the marrow clean from the bone.

   But this was a whole new city, and these were ghouls, some probably Pre-War...someone around here might know something.

Gainful Employment

   As awkward as it felt, she did try to ignore the staring as she shyly began to retreat back to the safety of her spot in Carol’s Place. The creeping blush along her neck forced her to duck her head to avoid the multitude of eyes and raspy whispering about her person. As unintentional as it was, she had become the spotlight in this isolated city.

   “You look lost, smoothskin,” the ghoul mechanic- Winthrop?- stopped her before she could ascend the stairs. “Needing something?”

   She tucked a curl that had fought for its freedom back behind her ear. “My Pip-Boy’s broken...I need someone that can fix it.”

   “May I?”

   She unstrapped it, handing it over for his scarred hands to gently take hold of. The intimate sight of him tending to it so delicately formed a weird, tight ball in her belly.

   He gave a whistle of appreciation, turning it over and testing a few knobs. “Haven’t seen one of these in a long time...looks like the backlight for the screen is out. Should be an easy fix.” He then raised his brow at her hopeful smile. “For some caps, of course.”

   Damn. She nodded earnestly anyway. “Thank you. It’s very appreciated.”

   “You’re too damn polite, smoothskin...not everyone deserves it,” he chuckled. He motioned for her to follow him to another room that she hadn’t taken notice of before. She practically hovered by his side amongst the sea of strangers lest she be carried out with the tide. “Let’s see if Tulip has what we’re looking for...”

   Evelyn then had to endure a twenty-minute exhibition from the shopkeeper about the entire history of Underworld, and was nearly dragged by the arm around the store being shown weapons and items she had no interest in (or enough caps) to buy. While she and Winthrop discussed the part in question, Evelyn stood over to the side and pored over a book the woman had given her.

   She had her nose buried so deep in the pages that she failed to notice the lettering becoming fainter due to lack of lighting. It was then that she realized the chattering at the counter had also paused. She looked up.

   The big guy himself was looming over her, erupting a squeak from her lips. She had been actively avoiding him ever so cautiously, and it seemed she was about to pay the consequences for it. A quick, desperate glance at the other two in the room for some help proved futile. They were simply staring at him, just as terrified of the large ghoul as she was.

   Evelyn lowered the book to her side, took a deep breath, and gave a timid smile. Was he still upset with her from before?

   “I really am sorry for what happened,” she began.

   The ghoul’s face went from completely stoic to now positively annoyed. With a terse sigh through his nostrils, his gloved palms wrapped around her shoulders with a tight grip (that could easily crush her), and he simply lifted her off the ground to move her a few feet to the side. He was neither gentle nor apologetic, and he dropped her as though she were some contagious leper.

   Evelyn blinked, dumbly watching as he then collected a few boxes of ammo from the shelves that she had previously been blocking access to. He tossed a bag of caps on the counter, and then left.

   “You’re lucky, smoothskin,” Winthrop rasped, turning her head back to him. “Some of the others...haven’t been.”

   “What does that mean?” she questioned, now looking out the way he had gone. “Who is he? What’s his deal?”

   “That’s Charon,” Tulip chimed in, giving her a weird look. “He works for Ahzrukhal, the bar owner upstairs. It’s best to avoid him.”

   Oh believe me, I’m trying. Evelyn then kissed a hefty portion of her caps goodbye as her Pip-Boy was taken away to be repaired.

   She was going to need a job.

   “Whoa!” Patchwork belched in his face, his entire body going limp under his iron grip. “Izzz that anee way to-bleh-treat a cusssstomer?”

   “Come back with the caps.” Ahzrukhal snapped his fingers, his face less than humored. “Get him out.”

   Charon directly obeyed, dragging the town drunk by the nape of his stitched burlap shirt. He threw the door open, perhaps a little too forcefully, for the trim cracked in its casing as it was banged into the wall. With a simple toss, he pitched the ghoul towards the flight of stairs, watching for a split second as Patchwork began to tumble all the way down, barely missing Cerberus.

   A presence at his side made him snap his head around- the smoothskin had been standing there, observing the manner in which he treated unwanted guests. Her bright blue eyes went wide when they met his own, and without a second thought, he tightened his grip on the doorframe and slammed it shut.

   With his arms across his chest, one leg propped up, and his back leaned against the peeling wallpaper, he returned to his designated position in the far corner where the lights never seemed to reach, and where no one ever came to bother him. He preferred it that way, as did everyone else.

   Charon was good at hurting things, very good, and no one in Underworld needed reminding of it.

   The door slowly widened; his eyes were drawn to the motion like a stalking yao guai. The smoothskin came inside, apparently not taking his passive-aggressive hint to leave well enough alone. She attracted more than his own gaze; most young pretty women would. She came to the counter, and his employer didn’t bother to hide his perverted stare from groping her body. Charon couldn’t hear the conversation over the coo of the radio, but when they both turned to look at him, he felt a tightening spring under his muscles.

   “Charon.” Ahzrukhal crooked his finger to beckon him over. Like a dog. “Come here.”

   The ghoul lowered his arms to his sides and took a few steps till he was beside the counter. He felt the smoothskin slightly lean away from him. He didn’t say anything. He never had to. His employer liked the sound of his own voice.

   “You’re going to do a special job for me, do you understand?” Ahzrukhal rasped, a hideous smile curling on his face.

   Charon gave a single nod of his head.

   “Good. Good.” He motioned to the smoothskin still standing in her spot quietly. “Charon, meet Evelyn. Evelyn, meet...Charon. He’s going to take very good care of you.”

   This was the furthest thing she had from her mind.

   She had simply enquired about some work. The ghoul lingering in Carol’s Place had asked her to off some ‘bigoted’ smoothskins...something about the entire conversation felt forced and weird. She passed, coming back around to the bar- she wasn’t desperate, per se, but the pond wasn’t too big to fish in.

   Ahzrukhal (if that wasn’t a fucking mouthful to say) had seemed most...eager...for her help. The job was simple: she was to meet with an associate of his and somehow persuade him to part with some high-shelf merchandise to then bring back for him to sell. The only issue? It was back the way she had come.

   “I’m looking to stay local,” she had stated, firmly. “If I could clear out of the ruins myself, I would’ve left by now.”

   “Oh, but that won’t be a problem, smoothskin.”

   Now she was fumbling with her shit, trying to steady the shaking of her hands under the microscopic gaze of this ghoul that she didn’t want to be within twenty feet of. He said nothing, however, as he stood there watching, waiting...seething.

   “Okay,” she huffed as she strapped the bag over one shoulder, adjusting the strap to her sledgehammer so it didn’t squish her boobs so tightly. “I’m ready.”

   He gave her a once-over; it was as though he was witnessing the most pathetic thing he had ever seen in his entire existence. It deflated whatever sort of little self-esteem she had clung to. Without a word, he spun around on his heel and began to walk off without her, not even turning his head to ensure she was following.

   She kept her distance, eyeing the way he parted those from his path without even meaning to. He was somehow more imposing from behind than he was facing her- his broad shoulders and deep, grooving muscles rippled under the leather of his jacket with every step he took, his abnormally long stride leaving her well behind in the dust.

   “Hey, smoothskin!”

   She turned around to the sight of Winthrop giving a little half-jog to intercept her before she made her way out the door. He held up her Pip-Boy, bestowing it back with a grin.

   “Told you it was an easy fix,” he rasped.

   A knob was flicked, and the screen buzzed that beautiful, emerald glow that made her heart thump pleasingly inside her chest. Good as fucking new.

   “Thank you, Winthrop.” She smiled brightly under her ballcap, not wasting any more time in securing her lifeline and extra appendage back to its rightful place.

   The ghoul gave a bashful chuckle, rubbing at the back of his head. “I could show you how I fixed it, uh, sometime, you know, so in case it goes out again, you could...uh...” He shrugged, now entirely flustered. “Maybe over a drink? Or two?”

   The offer came completely out of left field, and she was sure the hot rise to her face betrayed her. Before she could even consider her reply, a set of strong fingers wrapped around her arm and nearly pulled her out the door.

   “We are leaving,” Charon growled. He dropped his void expression for cold ire, coming between her and Winthrop with an aura of assertive dominance. “Now.”

   He then slammed the entrance to Underworld shut directly in the ghoul’s face.

   “Ow-ow!” Evelyn yelped as she was tugged along, tripping over her own feet down the steps. For the first time since she had met the big ghoul, she felt her own anger bubble up and spill forth. She jerked her arm back to her side, mildly relieved that he let her go. “God, I was coming! That was so rude!”

   Charon rounded over her, slapping the fury from her soul with a look of utter animosity. “Do not waste my time.” He then prowled off across the concourse, again not even peering over his shoulder to ensure her proximity to him.

   The ghoul sentry just outside looked up from grinding her heel over the butt of her cigarette, too stunned to speak as the duo went about their way. Evelyn felt nervous from her reaction of terrified surprise- apparently, Charon didn’t make many friends.

   They skirted around some rubble, out of sight from the Brotherhood sentries as they began to backtrack the way she had come from initially. She halted at the top of the metro steps, and the ghoul paused at the bottom as he failed to hear her footfalls behind him.

   She fiddled her fingers together nervously and bit her lip. “I didn’t have the best experience through here.”

   The ghoul merely stared at her for a moment, and then continued on inside. When she finally followed, she was equal parts relieved and disappointed that he was waiting for her just past the gate, his shotgun in his hands and bright orbs giving any indication he had a face in the pitch-black void.

   “Stay close,” he ordered.

   She could only nod, keeping near enough she could smell his heavy musk. It was pretty potent, and while it necessarily wasn’t a bed of roses, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant, either. It gave her some sense of security in the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in this.

   A skittering in the shadows behind them made her jump nearly ten feet in the air. The ghoul instantly wrapped an arm around her, smothering her galloping heartbeat with his tantalizing body heat and rugged skin brushing against her cheek.

   “Quiet,” he rasped in a low voice, the vibration from his chest buzzing her spine. He then began to shuffle them forward with careful steps, avoiding the assortment of trash to minimize their presence.

   She was completely blind, allowing him to take absolute control while she focused on slowing her breathing. The great beat of his chest pulsated against her steadily like a war drum; his thick fingers occasionally twitched along their spot at her waist. After they came out on the other side unscathed (with no visit from that degenerate flasher) she looked down at the muscled forearm snugged across her chest, and realized she had her hands anchored around it, her fingers digging so firmly in the exposed muscle it made the veins slightly bulge.

   “Sor-” The ghoul dropped his arm and stepped away before she could finish. “...ry.”

   He simply gave a nod of his head to continue.

   The plaza had drastically deescalated from the previous day. Bodies, random limbs, smashed heads splattered on the pavement...she had never seen so much carnage before, and it kept her distracted rather than focusing on where she placed her feet. A solid wall was bumped into; she muttered an ow and rubbed at her nose as she looked up.

   Charon’s head was nearly twisted around on his shoulders, glaring down at her with a forehead-creasing scowl.

   Freaky.

   Sorry, she mouthed.

   His head slowly turned back to a normal vertebrae position, and he carefully leaned out from his spot to survey the scene. Without turning back to look, he reached a hand behind himself to tug her forward, pushing her into a brisk walk as they traveled quickly through the empty courtyard. The beat of heavy footsteps made him abruptly pull her around a corner, and when it continued towards them, he pushed her up some stairs and barricaded them inside a Pre-War townhome. He shut the door without so much as making a single sound, and they listened with rapt attention as the super mutant lumbered on by, entirely ignorant of the prey just lingering inside.

   Evelyn released a loud sigh, snapping Charon’s eyes at her.   He closed the distance between them and rammed a finger in her face. “You are loud,” he hissed.

   Evelyn blinked in surprise- this was the sneakiest she has ever been!

   “No, I’m not,” she argued.   “Yes, you are.”   “Well I didn’t hear anything.”

   “Because you do not listen,” he rasped matter-of-factly. Before she could continue to quarrel with him, he propped the door back open with tedious slowness, his eyes unblinking as he scoped for possible danger. “It is clear.”

   Before Evelyn could even register what he had said, she was already being yanked back out, his hand not releasing its unforgiving pressure as he pulled her toward the underground tunnels.

   He held out his shotgun before his chest, briefly checking the stock before eyeing her doubtfully. “Where is your gun?”

   She crossed her arms and avoided his stare. “...I don’t have one.” The minutes passed and he said nothing, and she was about to defend her reasoning until he continued without her.

   The first raider had been caught with his dick fished out of his pants, pissing in a corner with his back arched and legs shaky.

   Evelyn went to bypass quietly around, but the ghoul propped his weapon over one shoulder, crept up from behind, and swiftly wrapped a muscled arm around his neck, taking ahold of his entire face in one palm and twisting it with frightening power. There was a sickening crack, and he let the body drop.

   She turned her head away when the face of the bent-neck man stared at her, almost accusingly; those glass eyes were sure to haunt her dreams with all the others.

   “I will go ahead.” Charon didn’t look at her. “Wait here.”

   She listened to the grotesque screaming and braying of gunfire- the corpse was kicked over, his face left forever to drown in his own piss.

   Well, when she ever needed to get back home, at least the tunnels were cleared. Charon damn near upended every table, blasted through every rodent, and chucked a grenade into a room where some raiders were seated playing cards.

   Evelyn brought up the rear (about two miles away) and pilfered caps, drugs, and whatever she could deem valuable enough to sell. She must’ve taken too long, however, for the ghoul was suddenly at her side like some vengeful spirit, the loathing on his face forcing her to move.

   Her bag jingled as she walked, and when they exited Tepid Sewers to greet the steadily setting sun, she (halfway) considered just making the rest of the trip to Megaton herself. What the hell would he do? Stop her? It’s not like he was enjoying this much himself-

   “I will drag you back,” he rasped suddenly. He had witnessed her longing gaze in the direction across the river. “Do not make me. It will be...unpleasant.”

   She whirled on him, genuinely shocked...and afraid. “Are you serious? What? Why?”

   “I am to get you to Dukov’s safely and then return to Underworld.”

   “Maybe I don’t want to go back to Underworld,” she reasoned.

   “That is between you and Ahzrukhal,” he said rather dully, as though the conversation no longer interested him. “I will carry out my orders. We will go back.”

   ...o-kay. Evelyn noticed his hands were clenched into tight fists, as though he was struggling with himself not to swing at something.

   “Do you even like working for him?” she probed. “No offense, but he sounds like a dick.”

   Here he raised a single brow muscle, his permanent frown intensifying. He didn’t answer the question, but rather stomped on past toward a fortified building she hadn’t attempted at snooping around previously. He raised a fist, pounded it on the doorframe twice, and then leaned against a pillar with his arms folded in wait.

   She shuffled on the balls of her feet a few times, directing his attention, but he ultimately ignored her.

   The door opened, and they stepped inside.

   “Eh, back so soon, clown shoes?”

   A very thick accent Evelyn couldn’t place greeted them as she blinked through the dim lighting. The face of an older, bald-headed man took in hers as she came around the side, and she instinctively hid back behind the ghoul’s bulk.

   “Hey now, sweetcheeks, don’t be shy, let me get a good look at you!” he yelled in a boisterous voice, his hand slipping past to grab at her.

   Charon intercepted the advancement with swift reflexes, taking ahold of the drunken perp’s forearm and twisting it around with brutish force.

   “Ah, holy shit-!”

   The ghoul leaned down slightly, his muscles flexing as he spoke. “Do. Not. Touch.”

   “Ow-ow-okay, okay-!” Charon kept twisting, and he let out a small scream when there was an audible pop! “I got it! Hands off! Ahh!”

   Charon finally released him with a hard shove backward, satisfied with his understanding of the situation. He then relaxed his hands to his sides and turned his head, his eyes glowing strangely as he motioned her forward with a jut of his chin.

   Evelyn licked her lips, self-consciously trying to keep herself as small as possible. “Um, hi-hi. Ahzrukhal sent me-?”

   “Yeah?” His entire flirty nature went downright sour. He rubbed at his arm, glaring at the indifferent ghoul now standing like a statue beside her. “What the fuck for? I paid for my shipment already.”

   “Uh.” She fleetingly looked up to Charon for some sort of verbal help, but he just appeared bored and apathetic to her cause. “Something about Rosewalda liquor...?”

   The man seemed to actually see her for the first time, and then burst out laughing. It rang around the walls, drawing the eyes of some scantily clad women from the second floor. Evelyn blinked at their lack of modesty and then swept her eyes around the room. Bottles of booze, canisters of Jet, wet sheets...

   She took another step closer to the ghoul, now extremely uncomfortable.

   “He better have a shitload of caps! So, baby, pay up! I want to see that fucking money!”

   Evelyn dumbly shook her head. “He...he didn’t give me any...”

   “Oh? You weren’t expecting it for free, now?” His eyes made a slow rove down her frame. “Maybe...we can work something out, huh?”

   The implication made her flush hotly, and at that very moment, she felt incredibly stupid. That bastard bartender knew exactly what he had sent her here for...her abashment burned into a fiery whirl of wrath.

   “Look,” she snarled, taking a step forward from the safety of Charon’s shadow. “I’m not going to be doing...that...there’s got to be something else. It’s just some fucking booze.”

   He again laughed, wheezing so hard he began to spray spit in the air. “Just some fucking booze,” he chuckled to himself. “You know what, you’re alright in Dukov’s books, baby-” He quickly stopped from coming any closer when Charon began to growl. “Let me get you a drink, and we can talk about this something else.”

   He threw her a cheeky grin, and she glanced up for the ghoul’s suggestion. Nothing. He was too busy staring at the extended hand being offered for her to take, as though he would sink his teeth into it at any moment.

   She steeled her nerves, and forcibly relaxed her arms down against her sides. She did need this job.

   “Okay,” she said. “Just one drink.”

[kidotm]

Dukov's Place

 The urge to kick the doors open and march back to The Ninth Circle was growing more in temptation with the more alcohol she drank. He was forced to stand there, like some gargoyle, keeping his eyes focused on the too-close wandering hands that tried to slip past his field of security. If he hadn’t been given his current orders, he would’ve taken the drunk Russian and repeatedly slammed his head into the table until a red river flowed.

   Charon, you are to escort her to Dukov’s alive and well, and then bring her back the same...I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does. Don’t kill Dukov, or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   His palms curled tightly, his fingers digging into the leather of his worn gloves. He hated this, hated watching the casual refill of her chipped mug and the quiet murmuring of words near her ear. It made his job that much more difficult- it was dangerous to travel at night, and coupled with the fact she was inebriated, it put them both at considerable risk. Once she got her end of the deal done, he would promptly dunk her head in the Potomac and shove his boot so far up her ass-

   “God, it’s so hot in here,” she drunkenly complained, her speech heavy and posture considerably much more relaxed. She stripped the leather jacket from her shoulders, tossing it aside on the rest of her crap.

   His eyes had followed the motion, returning to the sight of Dukov’s quick fingers having pinched the zipper of her suit and slowly pulling it to her breasts. It made her squeak, the flush red of her cheeks darkening.

   “There, much better, eh sweetcheeks?” He grinned.

   Charon snarled at the breach in containment, coming between their seats to cut her off from view. He slammed a hand on the table, splintering the wood. He dramatically leaned downward, his considerable height towering over the smaller man.

   “I advise you to keep your hands to yourself,” Charon rasped with a promised threat.

   “Oh, come on, clown shoes!” Dukov patted him on the bicep, Charon’s head slowly turning to the motion. “We’re just having a bit of fun, ha ha! You and me, we’ve known each other a long time, so, I give you this.” He waved to the women whispering to themselves on the couch. “You go and enjoy the party, alright my friend? Hey, Cherry! Get the ghoul some fucking booze!” He winked with a smirk, his hand already sliding past to run along her thigh.

   Evelyn removed him before Charon could (and snap it in three places) himself. She stumbled away on unsteady feet, mumbling something about bathroom.

   He became her living shadow as she trapezed for a door with a visible toilet, closing her away from the world as she struggled with her suit. The golden stitched numbers 101 on her back were visible to him for the first time, and he felt a ping of recognition from somewhere. He stood guard, eyeing the retired mercenary from across the room with reproach.

   When she eventually came back out, her suit was only halfway zipped up, exposing her soft white belly and cleavage of her tits that had been hidden away underneath. Her sweat-stained undergarment was slightly damp; she reeked of booze. She plastered into him, worming her fingers in the straps of his armor and rubbing her face in his jacket. He was momentarily stunned by the unexpected touch and froze in place.

   “You’re an asshole,” she slurred, beginning to tip backward as she lost balance on her feet. She then righted herself and face-planted into his chest. “Yousmellgood.”

   He awkwardly gripped her by the shoulders and held her away from himself, keeping her propped like a human-sized doll that went limp. Charon snapped his head down as this drunk smoothskin was now beginning to zip her suit farther down, a peek of her underwear band winking out.

   She stopped and looked up at him, her skin a light green tint. “I’m gonna throw up.”

   Alarmed, he shoved her back inside the bathroom, quickly shutting the door as she fell on her ass. She wasn’t going to repeat her mistake from the first time.

   “Ow!” he heard her yelp from behind the frame.

   This was not part of his contractual obligation, so with a quick twist of the handle, followed by a powerful tug, he ripped his side of the knob off the door and dropped it at his feet. The locking mechanism wiggled a few times as she tried to open it, but to no avail. He turned, rolling his shoulders while cracking his neck to the side, and then narrowed his eyes at the Russian sleazeball that was loudly complaining about him ‘breaking my shit’!

   I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does.

   Charon started across the room; Hell embodied on two legs.

   Don’t kill Dukov-   Charon was good at hurting people...very good.   -or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   Almost as good as following orders.

   The sudden drop in the cold water jolted her awake.

   Amata’s face was behind her eyes, got it from my dad’s cabinet in his office, a clear bottle filled with liquid amber, did you remember to lock the door? a taste of fire burning across her tongue, if he finds out, we can say it was all my idea, the giggles, the damp air of the lower floors cooling her brow, you’re so lucky to have big boobs, a teasing squeeze, a strange lump in her throat, who do you want to be your first?

   She hadn’t had a sip of hard liquor ever since that night almost three years ago, just after the G.O.A.T exam, and now she remembered why.

   “Grbfghf!” she gasped, flailing her hands about wildly. They met with the side of a grimy porcelain throne, the putrid stench of stale piss and the texture of coarse hair coating her palms. She felt the pressure from the back of her skull release, and she instantly smacked her head up.

   She had just been swirlied in a toilet.

   “What the fuck?!” she shrieked, scrabbling away on her ass across the cracked tiles. Her eyes darted around, coming to the broad shadow of the retreating perpetrator who had just broken every law in the Geneva Convention. At that moment, everything turned a violent shade of red. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

   The wet slick surface beneath her feet didn’t aid her cause, and she slipped after struggling to stand. Coming to a crash on her hands and knees, it was then that she noticed her entire vault suit was missing...as was her bra.

   Another scream, coupled with the slamming of the door.

   When it was finally flung open to her disheveled appearance, her soaked hair wild about her face and eyes puffy and bruised, every nasty insult that could come to mind was set at her lips, ready to be fired on this ghoul with the intent to mentally maim.

   It died, however, at the sight of him.

   A metallic scraping sound filled the empty echo of the room- the ghoul bouncer was swirling a spoon inside an open can of Pork n' Beans while casually seated on the couch, his shotgun propped at his side to be readily available. His eyes were on the closed door they had entered from, but then he roved them to her.

   He said nothing, and resumed his watch while finishing his meal.

   Evelyn coughed up the itch in her throat, tasting a hint of vile stomach acid on her tongue. It was then she thought back to where they were, and what had just happened. Her body stiffened as though electrified, and she snagged at her things while blabbering profusely.

   She had stripped her clothes after being locked in the bathroom, thinking the most perverse thoughts of-of-ew-(was it ew?) apparently not enough, for her hand was still ripe with her musk and her underwear was soaked and the sight of this ghoul she had been thinking unholy thoughts of-

   “OhmyGod- holy fuck.” Her lips moved a mile a minute, the previous war crime he had committed against her dignity thrown to the wayside as she prepped to leave the awkwardness of the situation. “Nope, never again, oh, Jesus-!”

   An emptied metal can was frisbeed at her head, clunking her in the forehead before making a loud clatter on the floor.

   “OW!”

   “Be quiet,” Charon ordered with a flat rasp. He reached inside a pack (her pack!) and pulled out another can. He unsheathed a combat knife from his boot, slammed it into the lid, and expertly sawed a perfect circle. The aluminum top was flicked across the room, and he dove right in.

   Any other occasion, and she would have been pissed at this guy going through her things and helping himself to her stash- a quick glance to the trash heap detailed he had an appetite worthy of his size- but she was so flustered that she just lamely went about gathering the rest of her gear. She would willingly venture out into the wastes, job or no job be damned...

   A bottle of unopened liquor with the faded label Rosewalda was set beside her jacket on the table...she whirled her head around to the ghoul, and then blinked at the lack of their host.

   A garbled groan trebled down the staircase from a ghostly presence- she could spy one of the women from before smoking a cigarette at the top and observing them with careful eyes.

   Evelyn sputtered, pointing to the thing as though it was a live bomb. “Did...did you-?” Charon tore his gaze from the door once more, his nonchalant attitude betraying nothing. He didn’t finish her accusing statement.

   “You know what, fuck this,” she spat, that buried anger clawing its way to the surface. She thrust her leather jacket on and began to make for her bag...but his predatory glare made her reconsider. “Fuck it, keep it, I don’t care.”

   She stomped for the back door, halted by a firm grip around her wrist. He was so fast!

   “Do not leave,” he growled.

   “This whole idea was stupid! Bring it back yourself, tell your boss I’m never working for his slimy ass again!” she snarled, going to wrench herself free...except this time, he wasn’t letting go. “Hey, hey!” She panicked, beating a fist against his arm. It did nothing, he didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go!”

   He brusquely shunted her flush against himself, ignoring the pained yelp drawn from her lips. “You are returning to Underworld. I will carry out my orders.”

   “What the fuck, are you some kind of fucking robot?!” She grunted as he began to drag her across the floor. “Just give it to him yourself-!”

   Her bag was nabbed, the bottle was tucked inside, and it was pressed up against her chest.

   “Take it,” he commanded, all business. She meekly obeyed. “Do not slow me down.”

   A lump the size of a golf ball was gulped down her throat, and soon, they were exiting Dukov’s Place with the sun slowly climbing over the horizon. She realized she must have been passed out in her drunken stupor, and that he at least had the grace to have let her sleep...even if it was on the bathroom floor.

   When they came to the service tunnels, she glanced back to the one building she hoped to never revisit in her travels.

   “...did you kill him?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.   He glanced over his shoulder at her before continuing down the tunnel. “No.”

   They were left in silence the remainder of the way.

   The bottle was smacked down on the bar counter, Evelyn’s teeth bared along with her resentment. “Here’s your stupid alcohol.”

   Ahzrukhal didn’t seem to take offense to her anger, and only gently handled the merchandise as though it was a newborn babe swaddled in fleece. “Very good,” he rasped, his decayed cataracts fixated on his prize with great reverence. “Yes...very good.”

   He then eyed her with a newfound sense of appreciation.

   “So, smoothskin, I’m most curious about how you managed it, but I guess it comes with the advantage to have some certain...qualities.” He grinned, all of his black rotting teeth on full display.

   “I didn’t fuck him,” she growled, leaning away from the counter. “You can thank Charon for it.”

   Here Ahzrukhal raised a single brow, and then his eyes went to slits as he looked over her to the hulking bouncer back in his place in the corner. “Oh, really, now? That is...interesting.”

   She thrummed her fingers on the counter, waiting for her payment. When the ghoul slid the bottle onto the highest shelf of his collection, she impatiently sighed. He then faced her, wiping a dirty rag along the bar surface.

   “Is there something I can help you with, my dear?” he asked with false innocence.

   “Uh, yeah, my caps?”

   “Why, whatever do you mean?” he rasped curiously. “You said it yourself, my employee had retrieved the bottle for me. This being the case, then you didn’t do the job I had asked...so, what ever should I pay you for? Keeping Charon company?”

   She blinked in disbelief. Was he being serious?

   “Unless you’re here to drink, then I suggest you leave.” Ahzrukhal dismissed her suddenly with a wave of his hand. “I have customers to tend to.”

   She was about to lunge over the counter when a strong force slammed her into it. Evelyn gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs, and she struggled with a pained whine as she flit her eyes upward.

   Charon had her pinned by the back of the head, crushing her into the marble with unrelenting pressure. She let out a cry as she tried to squirm out from his iron grip, but it was akin to moving a boulder.

   Ahzrukhal adjusted his patina-stained cuff link, unfazed by the violence. “Don’t kill her- Barrows will throw a fit.” He then leaned in close, his swampy breath toxic and gross. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, smoothskin. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

   Before she could reply with a biting insult, Charon heaved her upright and carried her by the collar to the door, her jacket acting as a noose. He slammed it open, threw her into the balustrades, and then chucked her pack at her, the contents spewing about.

   “Do not come back,” he rasped before closing her off.

   Evelyn went about slowly gathering her things, the multitude of eyes witnessing the scene making her tuck her ballcap down her face, lest someone see her cry.

   The trip back to Megaton was long, and painful. Winthrop had attempted to catch her attention before she could run with her tail tucked between her legs, but her bruised tailbone and shattered self-worth made the ground a hotbed of coals. The Museum of History became another marker for places she had no intention of reappearing in; she threw a dirty look at Dukov’s Place when she had finally made the journey across the river.

   If there was any consolation to be had in any of this, then it was that at least her bag was bulging with valuable wares that she could sell to keep her afloat till her next job. That absolute fuck of a bouncer had practically cleaned her entire inventory of food...and helped himself to the boxes of shotgun shells she had found in a locked trunk.

   The entire thing had bubbled her up in such a boiling mess of spite and anger that she was already wiggling the locked handle to her house without even realizing she had made it home. She jammed the key inside and forcefully twisted it just as a shadow overlapped hers on the door.

   “Hey kid.” Jericho removed the cigarette from between his bad teeth and blew some smoke in her face. Yuck. “Where’d you run off to?”

   She waved a hand in front of her, coughing up the secondhand lung cancer. “Why the fuck would you care?” she growled, her previous ire (at the thought of Charon) now being locked and loaded in her arsenal for the ex-raider.

   “Whoa, feisty.” He propped an arm over her head and leaned in a little bit closer. She could smell his odor, and it reeked. “Just trying to look out for you, doll.”

   She scoffed, rolling her eyes and finally opening her door. “Whatever, doll.”

   Her wrist was grabbed, very much the same one that the ghoul had bruised before. It stung, and she winced as he applied some pressure.

   “You think just cause you survive a few days out there that you’re tough shit now, is that it?” he breathed over her. He puckered his smoke to his chapped lips with his free hand, his eyes making the journey down her suit. “Remember just who it is you’re dealing with. The world ain’t such a pretty place...much less for your kind.”

   A kneecap was brought up and slammed down the homestretch of his groin. He instantly released her, spitting his smoke to the side and sputtering curses as she dipped through her door and locked it.

   “Madam! It is so good to see you again-!”

   “Wadsworth,” Evelyn interrupted, spinning her back to the frame and leaning against it. “If anyone comes through this door, you have my permission to shoot them.”

   The Mister Handy smacked a single claw to its highest optic, the lens lowering into a stern squint. “Yes, Madam! I will see to my duty as guardian and protector, right at once!”

   She offloaded her pack on the table, hearing a muttered we’re going to die as he floated past to his new post. There was a loud metal groan, and she blinked as she watched the table completely fold in on itself in a heap to the floor, her bag spilling its contents again.

   “Oh, my,” Wadsworth commented offhandedly. “I do hope I will not be left to clean-”

   Evelyn spun on her heel and made directly for the fridge.

   The robot continued with its bitter mutterings, the words floating across the room. “-oh, silly me, of course I will.”

   She ignored it, unzipping her sweaty suit down to her hips and shrugging out of the arms, wrapping the sleeves around her waist as she popped the fridge open and peered inside. A single package of Deviled Eggs was taking sole residence on a shelf. She nabbed it, ripping open the dark-stained packaging with her teeth and sucking down the contents like a famished animal. She propped herself against the counter, smacking her gums in a rude display as her eyes unfocused and she began to see things that were not quite there.

   Things that were almost seven feet tall and shrouded under a brooding cloud of anger and resentment.

   The emptied package was tossed in a bin, and she ‘freshened up’ in the sink before retiring to her mattress on the floor; she really should lug it up the stairs and call it a day. Maybe tomorrow...but the next day bore no such thing.

   She took her scavenged crap to Craterside Supply, managing to deal a good barter for the looted junk, and then had the idiot notion to ask about another ‘research project’ that was more than likely to get her killed.

   Moira blew a rude sound from her lips and waved a hand at her as though she had insinuated something silly. “This next one should be easy! All I need you to do is...maybe...getasdeathlyirradiatedaspossibleandletmestudytheeffects okay? Now, that doesn’t sound so bad, right?”

   Evelyn sat out by the giant atomic bomb for hours, soaking in as many rads as she could until she eventually began to puke blood in her hands. When she stumbled up the steps, she was half-surprised she didn’t melt right through the flooring. Moira pumped her with so much ‘homemade Radaway’ (it’s a secret recipe!) that she expected it to leak out of her ears and nose. She then left the store, nursing a warm buzz in her spine and a pocketful of caps for her troubles.

   She didn’t attempt to make her way through the D.C. ruins in search of Galaxy News Radio again...she had barely survived getting to the Museum of History from sheer luck, and she wasn’t looking to repeat her chances for a crumb of a trail.

   Maybe...maybe you’ll come back for me, Dad. It was the only thing she could hope for. I’m just not made for this world.

   The table was repaired with three whole bottles of Wonderglue (and an entire roll of duct tape) that was left a complete eyesore not worth the amount of sticky residue Wadsworth had to trim from her once beautiful, long brown hair. She kept frugal with her caps and bought minimal supplies to restock her sparse kitchen, taking up the task of cooking to help spread her rations. In the Vault, the appliances had been immaculate, and she had occasionally deviated from the usual premade box in experimentation for different dishes. They hadn’t always come out well...but at least they had been edible. She couldn’t necessarily say the same for her attempts with even more limited ingredients, and a single stove that she feared would blow her sky high someday.

   As the days continued, the temperatures began to drop just as the nights grew darker at the corners of the world. She reluctantly parted with some caps for a few threadbare, moth-eaten blankets Crazy Wolfgang had found during his caravan travels.

   “Consider this a discount, just for you,” he told her, giving a not-so-subtle wink after she handed over the money.

   He held the same look in his eyes that Winthrop had given her upon asking for a drink. Derailed by her ingrained adolescent chagrin, she politely bid him farewell and then planned to never trade with him again in the near future. All of her life in the Vault had been met with ridicule and flashing hormones. The boys she had grown up with had never expressed their interest- Amata was always the prettier one, and the rumors surrounding Christine’s ‘talents’ drew them like flies to honey. Evelyn was just the awkward, weird, antisocial doctor’s daughter. It left her inexperienced and wholly lacking in confidence when it came to bedroom skills...how much that seemed to change out in the wastes. For once, she was looked at, seen, even if she didn’t necessarily wish to be. She didn’t know how to react positively to it, didn’t want to take a chance and somehow fuck it up. It wasn't that she wanted to be the constant center of attention, but it hurt being invisible, too.

   None of it seemed to curb the lonely hours of the night, when Wadsworth was powered down at its station and she looked up to the starry sky through the small hole in her roof, a serene moving picture of constellations and galaxies. She would fondle herself and explore the intimacy of her sexual nature without the fear of being overheard by her father in the next room. Sometimes, she would shyly picture Winthrop’s fingers instead of her own, feeling shameful and dirty at the thought while being completely ignorant to the fact that he was doing much the same just some odd miles away.

   One evening she had dreamt of a set of hands curled around her jaw, holding her steady as she was railed from behind without mercy or tenderness. Only after she had woken up did she briefly remember the face that had been looking down at her; a hard-set mouth drawn in a firm line with a pair of blue coals burning straight through the darkness. Her groin had throbbed and the weak orgasm she forced herself with did nothing to sate that inner hunger she had felt...she thought she had banished that brute from her mind, but her sex most certainly had not.

   The passage of time eventually began to twitch her feet and deplete her caps, and she finally succumbed to leaving the safety of the walls once more. She had refrained from snacking on the boxes of Sugar Bombs she had come to collect- that weirdo ghoul in the subway tunnel did say he’d pay her a decent amount of caps for them...but it was a hell of a walk, and she wasn’t looking to make the leg up there just yet.

   That only left her with one other option.

   “So,” Evelyn sighed as she tapped her fingers on the counter at Moira’s store, trying to ignore the eyes of the mercenary drilling a hole in her spine at her back. “Is there anything else other than getting beheaded and chewed on at the Super Duper Mart? Anything at all?”

   The older woman gave a thoughtful tap on her chin. “Hmm, welllllll, there is this one place...”

A Walking Minefield

   “Minefield?” Murphy rasped. “Why are you trying to go there, smoothskin? The name ain’t enough of a clue for you?”

   She shrugged, shouldering her bag after offloading her cargo. Her muscles were killing her. “It’s for some highly respected research, obviously, I’m a woman of articulate business ventures, can’t you tell?”

   “Heh heh.” The ghoul scratched at his elbow, handing over the caps he owed. “Don’t get yourself killed, you’re the only one that’s getting me these Sugar Bombs.”

   “No guarantees,” she replied dryly, turning for the open doorway. “About the dying or the Sugar Bombs.” She paused, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her pack before she spun around. “Do... do you happen to know anything about that ghoul that was here the last time?” Rolling his name off her tongue burst butterflies in her belly. It felt weirdly intimate to say it aloud. “Charon?”

   Murphy adjusted his specs while Barrett raised his eyes over the screen of a terminal.

   “You looking to do business with him, smoothskin?”

   She shrugged, feigning her gnawing interest with a cool attitude.

   Murphy coughed into a fist. “Take my advice. Stay as far away as you can. I might be dealing Ultrajet with Ahzrukhal, but he’s a slimy bastard who always tries to cut my share anytime he thinks he can get away with it.”

   Tell me something I don’t know, she thought sourly.

   He continued, “I’ve been working with him for awhile now, but I still don’t trust him.”

   “Okay, I get it, but what about his partner?” she insisted.

   “What about him? He’s hired muscle. Don’t get in his way, and you might come out with all your limbs attached.”

   She sighed, exasperated. “I mean, don’t you find him...weird?”

   “I find him to be good at his job.” Murphy opened a box of cereal, beginning the lengthy process of breaking the components down. He eyed her when she remained in her spot. “You have a better chance at surviving Minefield than being tangled with the likes of him.”

   It wasn’t too far from the truth. Evading the general wildlife and strolling into the empty town seemed as easy as throwing an intellectual insult at poor Butch’s tiny brain. She had begun collecting a few mines to shove inside her bag, wiping her sweaty hands on her thighs repeatedly from nerves at listening to the erratic beeping. It wasn’t until she was actually set to leave that she was fired upon by some quack with a sniper rifle, his shots lighting a vehicle aflame.

   She stared at it, horrified, and then her brain screamed move! Her boots slapped the pavement as she tried to hightail it to the edge of town before the whole place would explode. She nearly made it when the rusted-out frame blew in a dramatic eruption, lighting off the rest of the surrounding landmines in a deadly domino effect. A piece of shrapnel had the unfortunate luck of making contact with her thigh, but the override on adrenaline didn’t really register the hit until she was a way up the road...and then it body slammed her with all the force of a steel-toed boot to the face.

   “Gah!” she screamed, loud and without shame or sense of self-preservation. A sharp hiss bled from her lips as her fingers automatically went to remove the thing causing her so much pain, but the light touch brought another crescendo of sobbing curses and pounding thrush of blood to her skull. Her ears were ringing from the blasts all around her; she couldn't breathe with all the swirling black smoke in the air.

   She was a doctor’s daughter with no interest in the science of the human body, bleeding out from a piece of junk metal in her leg with no one to come ease her pain.

   I’m here sweetheart, you’re alright, what’s the matter?

   “Dad!” she wailed, coughing from the toxic fumes filling her lungs. “Daddy!”

   It’s just a little scrape, nothing that a bandage and a kiss can’t fix. Mwah! See? All better.

   Her father wasn’t coming, no matter how hard she cried.

   If it weren’t for this supply run, Charon was sure to have gone feral at this point. Ahzrukhal had been most displeased upon learning the truth of his inhospitable negotiations with Dukov, forcing him to speak with the Russian himself before losing a long-standing client.

   His employer had taken it upon himself to make his service most...disagreeable, since then. He had been stripped of his rations and was tasked with reimbursing his employer the potential caps he could have lost by any means necessary. The ghoul was set to return with them along with the run of weekly chems...he was still devising a strategy, and all of them involved some form of murder and stealing.

   It wasn’t his preference, but it also wasn’t his choice.

   The two ghouls in Northwest Seneca station looked up upon his arrival and went about their habitual task of counting caps while trading over stock. The bouncer leaned up against the wall, eerily silent and abnormally sullen as he gave them a look meant to flay the meat from their bones.

   “Smoothskin left her crap behind,” Barrett rasped as he took notice of a sledgehammer propped to the side.

   Murphy shrugged his shoulders, too busy counting caps for the second time. “She’ll be back...maybe.”

   Charon didn’t take an interest in the side conversation...but he couldn’t help staring at her weapon of choice. He knew it was hers.

   “Who the hell wants to research Minefield, anyway?” Barrett remarked to no one in particular.

   “Can’t pay me enough to,” Murphy agreed.

   The rest of the deal was conducted as normal. Charon left with Ahzrukhal’s bidding and glanced up to the sudden spiraling of black smoke off in the distance. If he had to make an educated wasteland guess, it would appear the smoothskin wouldn’t be coming back after all. He expectantly didn’t feel two ways about it- he shrugged the duffel bag higher up his shoulder and resumed his usual travel routine. The ghoul had only just about turned the corner of the grocery store, an intrusive thought pinging around inside his brain. That smoothskin was a little scavver... she was bound to have some caps on her; it would at least be something to start with.

   Plus, she was already dead, and there was no shame in collecting from a corpse.

   His boot made an indent in the dirt as he swiveled around and followed the road to Minefield. The town itself was covered in a thick haze; it was hard to discern just what was where, and he felt it almost to be a complete waste of time until his sharp eyes spotted a trail of blood, fresh. He tracked it to a house on the edge of town, the wind picking up slightly to give him better visibility.

   The door was halfway propped open, bloodied prints decorating the frame and trim. Being ever cautious, the ghoul widened it with the barrel of his shotgun, only closing it behind him when he scoped the living room was clear. The smoke followed him like a rolling fog, and he gave a guttural cough as he inhaled the tarry smell down his throat. A bloated corpse was staring up at him with a slack-jawed mouth, and judging by the decomposition, he would venture it had been cold for at least a week.

   Not the dead smoothskin he was looking for.

   The blotted tracks led him around the side underneath the stairwell, all the way to a back bathroom that was curtained in shadow. His heavy footsteps creaked the floor beneath his weight as he crouched down close to eye level with the girl.

   It wasn’t too hard to deduce the situation- she was dying.

   She was barely propped upright against the wall, slouching into herself like a folded doll. The once bright blue threading of her vault suit was stained dark and more than likely sticky from the loss of blood; her eyes were pinched closed and her breathing came in shallow waves, the skin a sickly pale shade.

   He lifted her arm to gauge the nasty injury to her upper right thigh, and then he noticed the littering of some Med-X syringes. She would at least die in somewhat of comfort- she had either accidentally overdosed herself or simply couldn’t tolerate the amount of pain. Whatever the case, it wasn’t his issue.

   He dropped the dead weight that was her limb, slightly startling her. The ghoul ignored the groaning from her lips as he rummaged through her pack that had been discarded to the side. A hefty bag of caps was pulled out, assessed, and judged enough for Ahzrukhal’s demand. He unshouldered his own bag to stow the currency safely away when her hand shot up and gripped his forearm with waning strength.

   Her lips moved, and he had to read them to understand what it was she said.

   “...Dad?”

   He almost snorted. Not quite. The pack was zipped closed, and she licked her lips before blinking sluggishly at his face.

   “Charon,” she whispered faintly.

   He froze. It was a surprise to him, she remembered him well enough to know his name, hell, it was a surprise she was aware to even know who he was.

   The ghoul looked down at the chunk of metal protruding from the flesh...if he were a man of any merciful stature, he would put a bullet in her brain and end her suffering. He stared at her dirt-streaked face and drooping eyelids, and then she weirdly smiled at him.

   “Asshole,” she mumbled with a string of gibberish to follow.

   This time, he did snort. She didn’t forget a single thing about him. Her small fingers crept up the leathered skin that remained on his arm, traveling across the oiled straps of his armor and jacket until they softly rested over the horrid disfigurement that was his face. She traced him as though blind; a cartographer sketching the rough plains and high peaks; a shipbuilder admiring the knotted wood of a hull that had journeyed a thousand seas, christening it with the thick red wine staining her hands. She leaned forward with all of her weight bearing into his chest, and she kissed him.

   The sensation wasn’t comparable to anything he had ever experienced before- it was his first.

   She pulled away before he could even react, the desperate collide of her lips to his stern mouth as brief as a match lit in the wind. With her chest now heaving labored breaths, she slumped back to the wall and closed her eyes.

   Charon promptly shouldered his bag and made for the door...he knew better.

   (It wasn’t his business)

   A few slaps from his thick fingers to her cheeks only mildly roused her.

   “Wake up,” he instructed, and she only mumbled a low whine of something along the lines of so tired, go away. “Wake up, smoothskin.”

   He dove through her bag once more, hands steady as decades of field medic experience came forth like a kick in the teeth. If he was going to save her life, he had to act very quickly and be very precise. Anymore wasted time or limited resources would most certainly spell her passing. Two Stimpaks were retrieved, but it wasn’t enough. He cursed under his breath, his stride long and steps full of purpose as he scoured the kitchen on the other side of the house for useful items. A first-aid box containing another stim and some water was nabbed, along with a bottle of vodka he took from the fridge.

   It wasn’t ideal, but she would live.

   When he returned, he promptly removed his belt from his pants, the leather snapping in the air as it was pulled from the loops. Holding her upright with one hand while fashioning the makeshift tourniquet with the other, he held her down with careful pressure, and then cinched it, tight.

   “Fuck, stop! Stop!” She sprang alive as though the nerves of her body had been electrified, her bloodied hands scrabbling at his shoulders and chest as she wailed and choked on her own gasps.

   The ghoul uncorked the vodka with a side pull of his teeth, spitting the stopper out as he kept his focus on the task before him. With a quick splash over his hands, he met her fading eyes- she could see him, now.

   “Hold still,” was all he said, and then he soaked her thigh.

   Her anguished screams sounded like a soul crawling from the depths of Hell. Her uninjured leg spasmed as she writhed, her face shiny with sweat as she bawled. Her hands came up and found sanctuary around his forearm, holding onto his exposed flesh as though it were her only tether to this plane of existence. She squinted past the tears and snot at his face, her expression desperate.

   Charon braced his hand over the embedded object; it was deep...it was going to be painful. He didn’t take his eyes from her own and only gave her a single nod before ripping the metal free.

   Evelyn screamed a decibel worth of rupturing his eardrums, fluttered her eyelids as her blue irises rolled in the back of her skull, and went limp.

   He went about injecting the sight, using every stim and carefully holding the flesh closed until it stitched together as a newly formed jagged pink line. When he was satisfied with his work, he then uncapped a bottle of dirty water and splashed some on her face, rudely waking her from her traumatic blackout.

   “Drink this,” he ordered with a sharp rasp, tilting the rim to her lips.

   She sputtered, sluggishly rolling her head around and blinking in confusion. He grabbed ahold of her jaw with one gloved palm and forced her to concentrate.

   “Drink,” he repeated, offering it at a much slower rate.

   The muscles in her neck rolled as beads of water dripped from the corners of her lips, and when she became coherent enough, she gripped the bottle herself with both hands and nearly drowned from guzzling too quickly.

   Charon held the water away despite her whimpers. “You will make yourself sick. Slow.”

   She smacked her lips, and he couldn’t help but stare at them.

   Like the rolling of a thundercloud, he suddenly grew angry and got to his feet, staring down at this pathetic smoothskin who would be dead if he hadn’t intervened. This wasn’t his job. She was not his employer.

   This was a waste of his time, and so he left her there without so much as a single glance back or parted word of good fortune. As he began to make the return trip to Underworld, he could only think about the manner in which she had looked at him, when she had believed herself to die.

A Proposition

   Now, now, young lady, you’re not getting into some sort of trouble, are you?

   No, Overseer. Never mind the scraped knee- the bruise on Butch’s face. There is nothing here of notice. Not the bloody nose, the sniveled whimpers, the angry eyes. Just me, my little fist, and Butch’s right eye.

   Hmm. Okay then, just be sure and get back to your rooms, I’m sure your father is looking for you...

   The burning in her leg didn’t finally soothe into a dull throb for hours. Here she was, waking from some lucid dream about black fire; it was everywhere, scalding her lungs with every inhale and melting her eyelids shut behind a glue made of scaley skin. The folds and lines of her hands were crusted red- water, holy fuck she needed some fucking water.

   Drink, slow.

   A sound of crinkled plastic was heavenly gospel to her ears when she roved a hand around in the darkness. She held it up close to her face, trying to see amidst her caked eyelashes. Her fingers fumbled with the cap, and she more or less doused herself than hydrated her sandpaper tongue.

   You-you heard the Overseer, nosebleed! Run back to Daddy!

   Oh, but sweet little Butch, why would I? I was having so much fun using your face as a piñata. I mean, at least I still have a dad...

   I'm gonna kill you!

   She gasped, groaning aloud as she slowly moved her stiff joints and sore muscles. It felt like she had been run over by a herd of brahmin, what the fuck happened...?

   The explosions, her leg, the ghoul-

   She gingerly felt around her thigh, clenching her jaw in preparation for the pain to come...but nothing did. A thick rope of scar tissue was inquisitively traced over, it was surreal, feeling the aftermath of something she was sure had killed her.

   The light to her Pip-Boy was clicked on, blinding her instantly and emitting a low hiss and garbled fuck. With pings of sharp stars behind her eyes, she rapidly blinked as she timidly roved the light around for better awareness. She almost half-expected a large, shadowed figure in the doorway, pinpricking a chill down her spine. There was nothing. She strained to listen, aware of a low, droning buzz from her left ear...but there was nothing.

   She stretched her feet and wiped at her face, finally looking down at herself. Fuck, she was so tired...and ghastly. Ew, horrid. The entire lower right half of her suit was stained black and stiff when she moved. The tearing had grown to a decent size...she would have to have it stitched back together when she got home. With a slow roll onto her side, propping her head to rest against the wall as she took to regathering her scattered things, she was met with the fuzzy recount of her savior...just what the hell had he been doing here? How did he know she was here?! Was he stalking her?

   Why did he bother to save her life and then just leave?

   The entire interaction was plain fucking weird...and terribly vague. Tried as she might, she couldn’t replay the entire thing, and she grew frustrated at the snippets of seeing the grimace on his face and torturing her memory with that God-awful pain she had endured. She was alive because of him. That much she was sure of...or some other stranger had saved her sorry ass and she hallucinated the entire thing while high out of her mind on pain meds. Yeah. That was probably more likely.

   Her fingers kept wiggling around in her knapsack for a solid ten minutes as she ruminated over everything until she snapped to attention that she wasn’t feeling her cap stash. She opened the bag wide, peered around inside, and then wildly flung the contents out as she dumped it upside down.

   No way. 

   She smacked the bag down and then began to comb around on her hands and knees on the dirty tiled bathroom floor. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. That could only spell one thing...

   He had robbed her!

   “That asshole!” she barked, throwing the last twenty-four hours of trauma from her mind momentarily as she literally began to cry over her misfortune. She threw the sack, wiping at the hot tears tracking streaks down her grimy cheeks. “I’ll-I’ll-I’ll fucking ki-kill you!”

   How long she had saved those Sugar Bombs just for it all to blow up in smoke (quite literally). She sobbed her heart out from nearly dying, to being alone in all of this, and finally being blindsided by some dick that decided nothing in the wasteland was done for free...especially not saving someone’s life. Only after her tears were dried and a headache began to pound in her skull, did she wipe a stringy webbing of snot from her chin (ew) and flaked the crusties from her eyes. The taps were turned full blast in the sink; for once, she didn't care for the smelly brown water she splashed her face with.

   The bloated corpse in the living room had a putrid stench that made her lightheaded- she dashed out the door, completely forgetting about the sniper nested across town (who was fortunately already dead). Her tummy rumbled and groaned, forcing her to dive on her rations (she was back to being dead broke) and consume them without care as she took in the fallout of the landmine catastrophe.

   The fires had long extinguished (for how long had she been out?) and the smoke had cleared. She bumbled around with caution, finding a few landmines that had somehow survived the Great Blowup of 2277. Whatever her eyes spotted, her fingers grabbed. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she needed everything that she could get. She stared at the corpse of an old man; his body having been crushed by concrete debris. She pilfered the sniper rifle, some ammo, and held up a small key that she would go forth to use on the remaining houses to loot.

   If she ever saw that ghoul again...she honestly didn’t know what she’d do. He did save her life, that much she was sure of.

   “Smoothskin, you’re alive,” Murphy rasped, blinking at the sudden dump of cereal boxes on his desk. “How’d it go? No offense, but you look like you’ve seen better days.”

   Evelyn blew a hair from her face- her childhood ballcap had been destroyed in the burnout. “Minefield’s going to need a new name.”

   He raised a brow muscle.

   Another hair was blown. “No more mines.”

   “Ah.” The ghoul leaned back in his seat and began to count the caps for her salvage. “Lucky you’re here, then. Oh, yeah.” He pointed to the far wall where her sledgehammer was lying in wait like a faithful dog. “Forgot your shit.”

   She felt Barrett’s eyes on her from behind as she bent over to securely pack away the bundle of caps. “I honestly completely forgot...I don’t use it much.”

   “You should. You’re the only one I can count on to get me these, smoothskin.”

   She had no snide comment to return with and merely shouldered her gear for the long walk back to Megaton.

   By the time the metal high-rise was within spitting distance, her feet were being dragged through the dirt and the sun had nearly fried her retinas (she most definitely needed a new hat). Stockholm looked down from his perch in the sniper’s nest, shaking his head at her miraculous survival. Folks stared as she ambled through the gates and stumbled like a drunk to her house- she couldn’t imagine her outward appearance at that moment.

   Her front door was opened, slammed, shit dumped at the step, Wadsworth ignored, and she fell face first into her mildew-stained mattress without so much as stepping out of her boots. She had a feverish dream of raging infernos licking her skin and popping her eyes from their sockets, the goo squirting into her palms. She woke drenched in sweat, the night already well underway and creeping into every corner of her home.

   Her father's final message kept her company for a few hours until she could no longer keep her eyes open, no matter how much she struggled.

   You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own.

   The holotape played on repeat, intertwining with her dreams about a dozen needles pinned to her arms and a disfigured face telling her to hush, hold still.

   Goodbye. I love you.

   The morning was met with better fortune and clarity. After nearly expending all of the water in Megaton in cleaning her suit and scrubbing her skin, she allowed Wadsworth to trim off the burnt ends that had been caught in the crosshairs of the explosion. It was completely uneven and made her hair now shoulder length, but thankfully it was such a wild, wavy and curly mess it was impossible to notice.

   Moira met her return with cheeky smiles and enthusiastic jokes shrugging off her near-imminent death experience. With all the caps she gained from her troubles, she didn’t bother asking for another chapter in her research project...at least, not yet. The vault suit, along with Butch’s leather jacket, were left for its stitching, and she exited the store scratching at the itch the brahmin-skin fatigues left on her skin.

   For the first time in a couple of weeks, her ass took residence in Moriarty’s Saloon, her caps laid out and ignorance plain to Jericho’s eyes leering at her from the corner. Gob took her money and set out a beer before a word had even been spoken, both staring at the other in mutual silence as she savored the cold hops.

   “So...where you been, smoothskin?” he finally rasped after Moriarty had stepped outside, leaving them free to gossip.

   “Here...there...” She scratched her chin. “Everywhere.”

   “A real wanderer, huh?”

   “Gob, may I ask you a question?” she sprang out of the blue, and didn’t wait for him to answer as she plowed on ahead. “I went to Underworld awhile ago-”

   “Underworld? You made it all the way out there?” he interrupted. “Did, did you meet someone named Carol? She’s...uh, my mother, kind of.”

   Evelyn became completely derailed from her train of thought. “Wait, she’s your mom? Ghouls can have kids?”

   “No, not like that.” He waved a hand. “It’s a long story. But you met her?”

   “I did, she was very sweet. She’s doing good.”

   The ghoul brightened at that and began to wipe the countertop for some mindless busywork. “That’s good to hear, thanks. Sorry, I kind of stole your thunder, what were you asking about?”

   “Charon.” She blinked as he startled at the name. “Did you know him?”

   Gob gave her a weird look, and his rasp dropped a few octaves, his manner of whispering. “Are you in some sort of trouble with him, smoothskin?”

   “So you do know him.”

   “I’m serious, and you should be too. He’s bad news all the way around.”

   “He actually saved my life.” She waved the tip of her bottle at his shocked expression. “Guessing he doesn’t do it often? I’m trying to figure him out. Like, just what the fuck is his problem?”

   “Ahzrukhal.” Gob slowly set the rag to the side and looked around, as though the utterance of his name would draw him forth like some conjured spirit. “Whatever he says, Charon does. No one really knows why...and no one questions it. I wouldn’t go around asking, it might get you killed.”

   “Why would he work for him? I mean, to me, it seemed like he hates it.”

   “You think I like working here, smoothskin?” Gob said plainly. “Not all chains are visible.”

   Evelyn looked down at her drink, feeling a mixture of anger and foolishness. Was that true? She knew Gob was indentured to Moriarty, but Charon, too? She downed the rest of her beer, wincing at the burn it left in her throat.

   “Nice catching up, I’ll see you sometime.”

   Gob went to reach out to grab at her, but then recoiled his hand back as though she had slapped him. “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you smoothskin?”

   “That’s my agenda for every day,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Wish me luck out there.”

   “Yeah,” Gob rasped quietly as the door swung shut behind her. “You’ll need it...”

   Her suit took three days to finish. Moira had sewn the torn fabric over her right thigh together wonderfully, and she almost had the inclination to inquire about some research...but the very close memory of the whole ordeal in Minefield left little to be desired. Instead, she repacked her bags with the proper supplies for the journey into D.C., a little ember of curiosity lighting the tinder in her belly.

   Gob had met her hopeful smile with a grim one, handing over a few folded parchments of letters he wished for her to impart to his mother.

   “Sorry I can’t pay you,” he started sheepishly, but she waved him off.

   “If she has something in return, I’ll be sure and bring it back,” she offered.

   “Thanks, smoothskin,” Gob finally relented. “Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.”

   She pursed her lips and left without another word.

   The roads were familiar enough that she now traveled with better confidence. The tunnels were still cleared from the previous venture...although something had clearly been eating the corpses left behind. It quickened her footsteps and forced her to hold her sledgehammer with a tight grip, and twice she jumped at her own shadow across the wall.

   Georgetown was eerily quiet...she didn’t believe for a second that it was truly abandoned, so she skittered like a rat to the other metro tunnel that would grant her entrance to the Mall. Once she was down in the dark underground, casually strolling towards the chain link gate, she took a deep sigh and activated the light from her Pip-Boy for better vision.

   A person standing with their back to her in a corner scared the absolute shit out of her, and she squeaked and backpedaled. When she realized it was just a ghoul- albeit, a very thin, dirty, strange ghoul- she placed her hand on her chest and blew out some air from her cheeks.

   “Thanks, asshole, really gave me a heart attack,” she snarked as she made her way past. She kept her eyes on their shaking limbs, were they high on drugs? It was the wasteland, and she had witnessed from afar how raiders behaved when strung out on the latest chem. Did ghouls do something similar...? She hadn’t met a hostile one, not really-

   The ghoul spun around, his maw hanging open and globs of saliva dripping to his feet. She stared, horrified, as he then hissed and waggled his head around like some disoriented dog shaking water from its ears. She then recognized him- the naked man!

   How could she forget?!

   The chain link gate was soon met with her fingers, and she yanked it open and slammed it shut back in his face. A wiry arm shot out and scrabbled at her through a decent-sized hole, and she picked up a rock to pelt it at him before hustling up the steps. If there was anything she was good at, it was being fast. She would have to ask someone about the ghoul living in those tunnels, she would really hate having to run into him countless times...he seemed to have literally lost his mind. In a way, she almost felt sorry for him.

   The ghoul sentry was busily lighting a smoke, watching a super mutant brawl in the trenches with a bemused twinkle in her eye.

   “Hey tourist,” she rasped as Evelyn came around the corner. “Couldn’t get enough of the sights last time?”

   Evelyn looked over to the chiseled stone faces by the entrance, looming, silently judging all who entered. Her last visit had not ended so pleasantly, but she was here, wasn’t she? What for...she still didn’t exactly know.

   “Just...” Evelyn slapped her hands at her sides and shrugged. “Wandering around, I guess,” she said lamely.

   “Strange place to wander to,” Willow commented under her breath. She inhaled on her cigarette, eyeing the smoothskin from head to toe. “I’m surprised you came back alive with Charon, no offense.”

   “So everyone seems to tell me.”

   “For good reason,” the pink ghoul rasped sagely. She turned her head back to the commotion in the pits. “Don’t go around looking for trouble...”

   “So everyone seems to tell me,” she muttered as she finally dipped inside. Her hand settled on the entrance to Underworld for a good long while...what exactly was she doing here? She had gotten the boot last time, and, oh, God, she had forgotten about Winthr-

   The door opened, making her squeak and jump to the side. The ghoul had seemingly been summoned by her trepidation, for he blinked his glowing eyes at her standing awkwardly half-turned away.

   “Smoothskin?” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing standing out here for?”

   Evelyn refused to meet his eyes- she was now bombarded with every moment she had secretly fingered herself to him, and, whew, she really hoped he couldn’t read the lewd thoughts she had about him.

   She thrust a knife hand at the woolly mammoth. “I’m admiring the exhibit. It’s a free wasteland, so I’m told. What are you doing here?”

   He chuckled at her eccentric behavior and widened the doorway. “Busy keeping this place up and running, you...you want to come inside?”

   She tapped her fingers together shyly. “S-sure, thank you.” She squeezed past, almost annoyed he didn’t move out of the way completely. Her nose had to take an inhale of the grease he was lathered in, and her tongue could taste the hint of solder on his clothes.

   The multitude of strange eyes were on her once again, and she forced herself not to stand so straight and rigid. She felt like an iguana on a stick being flourished around a pack of hungry dogs, just waiting to take a bite. She was here for business- she was here for business. That big, red idiot was going to answer for himself. She nearly cringed from embarrassment as Winthrop just stood off to the side, waiting. He’s clearly very interested, that much she can tell. His eyes won’t leave her tits alone for longer than five seconds. Did nobody have basic decorum when it came to dating out here?

   ...did wastelanders even date?

   “So, uh,” he garbled, flustered as they both stood in the corner, expectant of the other to make the first move. “You’re back.”

   She rocked on her heels, holding the straps of her pack with white-knuckled fists. “I am.”

   “You...you want that drink?”

   Minefield was child’s play compared to this. She’d have better luck taking a piece of shrapnel to the face before-

   “I have some in my office,” Winthrop rasped. “It’s a little bit quieter than upstairs.”

   Her face was on fire. She may be inexperienced, but she wasn’t dumb.

   “Uh,” she croaked. Pleasant. Astounding. Applause all around. So full of beauty, timeless grace. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here for something else, uh, first.”

   “Oh, yeah, sorry smoothskin, I didn’t realize,” he began with a huge one-breath rush of apology, but she waved a hand before her with an easy smile.

   “No, no! It’s all good, I’ll just get this sorted and...um...see you around?”

   The ghoul made a strange popping noise with his tongue and seemed more spurned than he did hopeful. "Hope you don't mind me asking, smoothskin, but, uh...you ain't here to do business with Ahzrukhal, are you?"

   All at once, her shy unease became stamped under a hot iron of irritation. What was her business to anyone else?

   He scrambled to continue at the sight of her stern browline. "It's just that, we all heard what happened last time. Barrows and myself had a talk with Ahzrukhal, we figured you weren't at fault. We know what kind of a sleaze he can be...so it just kind of surprised me you came back, is all. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you did."

   Evelyn bit her tongue, unsure of whether to thank him for coming to her defense or berate him for getting involved. It made her feel slightly demeaned, having someone fight her battles for her...but it also felt nice knowing someone cared enough to step in on her behalf.

   He set a hand on her shoulder, the grip warm and ohsoawkward.

   “I’ll be in my office if you need to find me,” he rasped, "and if you still want that drink." He finally strode over to his workspace, glancing over his shoulder as though to ensure she was still there.

   Evelyn glanced around at the peeping eyes that had caught the show, and she hurried up the steps towards The Ninth Circle. She came to the handle, half-flinching from the anticipation that it would be flung open to dump out some poor soul and smack her in the face, but her fingers pushed the frame, and she was welcomed inside the dingy bar...

   ...and he wasn’t there.

   No hulking form, no seething mass, no glaring juggernaut. Just herself and the ghoul that she had no intention of talking to, frowning at her appearance.

   Ahzrukhal drew his eyes to slits. “Well, smoothskin, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

   Evelyn glanced to the corner again- the room felt large, empty, without his presence.

   Ahzrukhal noticed her attention focused elsewhere. “My employee is unavailable, at the moment. I might be inclined to pass on a message for him.” He watched her approach the bar. “For a fee, of course.”

   Oh, of course. She highly doubted he would relay any sort of word regardless. Her butt took a seat, her peripherals noting some other guests slouched in the far corner, a few hits of Ultrajet being sucked down their skeletal throats. They didn’t even acknowledge her entrance. A soft melody was playing on the radio, the reception staticky. Reluctantly, she pointed to a beer bottle on the wall.

   “Ten caps," he rasped.

   Ten?! Robbery!

   She laid them out anyway, inwardly seething at him. She hated him, and although he had japed her out of money and kicked her ass to the curb, she was willing to play nice. Just long enough. The bartender didn’t notice the animosity shimmering around her stiffened shoulders, her crossed brow, her clenched jaw.

   “It seems you have taken quite an interest in Charon.” He dealt the first blow, all smiles, no teeth...none recognizable, anyway. “Were you impressed with a man of his...talents? He’s very good, as I’m sure you know.”

   Yep, my ass still hurts, thanks.

   She licked her lips after the first sip, ran her tongue over her teeth, and looked him dead in the eye. “Why does he work for you?”

   A dark chuckle, like dust from a crack of rotting wood. Musty, wet, hint of mold. “Has Charon been telling you stories of me? I’m surprised.”

   “No...just curious.”

   He raised a brow, leaned an elbow on the counter until he was practically swamped over her, and held out a flat palm. “Ten caps.”

   She didn’t even argue.

   He slid them into the register with a practiced motion and then went about restocking the shelf, his entire performance like some Shakespearean soliloquy. “Charon is...special. He is bound to anyone who is owner to his contract.”

   “Contract? What, like a slave?” She felt her insides squirm and grow cold. This wasn’t a conversation she was sure she should be having.

   Stay as far away as you can.

   Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.

   Don’t go around looking for trouble...

   Perhaps their warnings had some merit after all.

   Ahzrukhal seemed genuinely upset over the accusation. “No, he is not a slave. He will tell you so himself. Charon put himself in his place many years ago...I just happen to accommodate him for it.” He again leaned over her, his breath disturbing the fine hairs on the top of her head. “Are you inquiring me about Charon’s contract? He is a very valuable asset.”

   This wasn’t what she had intended at all when she woke up this morning.

   No.

   “I am.”

   Shit.

   “And what sort of proposal are you entertaining me with?” he asked, and she had to forcibly breathe through her mouth to not gag at the smell of his breath.

   “Uh,” she started stupidly. What the fuck was she even thinking?! She wasn’t this sort of person! What a disgusting notion, to own someone! But her mouth fished out the number of caps she had on her person. “Two hundred?”

   He stared at her, and then barked a crude laugh in her face, a mist of spittle dampening her cheek. Disgusting. That alone was grounds for murder. “Come back when you have a serious offer.”

   Her brows scrunched, her naivety speaking for her and burning any bridge for barter. “I honestly have no idea.”

   Maybe five hundred caps-?

   He pondered for a moment, and then stood back. “Two thousand. Give me two thousand caps, and Charon’s contract is all yours.”

   She was sure her jaw smashed into the marble. Two thousand?! Who the fuck had that kind of money to spend?! She would be toiling weeks, no, months for that amount of cold, hard caps.

   He must have read the ludicrous disbelief on her face. “I am willing to negotiate such a price... for, other propositions...” He slowly crept a hand over the counter to her.

   Sex sells, kid, and you got a nice face with huge tits.

   He’d clear the place, the only form of foreplay being a shot of something dirty and a scrupulous stare of beady eyes as she shyly stripped. He’d be impatient- hadn’t had the privilege to touch a woman in however many years...too many to count. The front of his suit would be unbuttoned, touch me here, slapping her pale hands to his chest, she’d be hesitant and withdrawn.

   She wouldn’t enjoy it. He wouldn’t care.

   It’d be dry, painful. Much too fast and much too rough. Her eyes would be screwed shut, picturing a different face, something to make this bearable. It wouldn’t be how she’d imagine her first to go...she’d cry about it later.

   Nope, no way. She would rather eat sand.

   Evelyn stood from her seat, grabbing her pack. “Two thousand...I’ll come back when I have it.”

   His eyes leisurely crept from her groin to her face, the disappointment not withheld. “I’ll expect you then, smoothskin...”

   As soon as the doors closed behind her, she felt like a sticky sheen had licked her skin. It made her want to take a shower, a very long, hot, shower.

   Carol’s Place was much more receptive...at least, from one host, that is. Gob’s mother was grateful for the news and letters from her son, whereas Greta appeared more than ready to lance a crusted fork in her throat. A bundle of caps and an offer for a free night was shoved in her mouth, swelling her cheeks.

   “Oh, that’s okay, I told Gob I wouldn’t-”

   Carol waved her refusal away. “I am more than happy to compensate you for it.”

   Evelyn glanced at the other ghoul woman throwing daggers at her face, and chopping something on a board vigorously. She gulped. “I-I mean-”

   “You’re very sweet, dearie. But I insist.” Carol closed her fingers around the currency in her hands.

   Two thousand caps...well, she had to start somewhere.

[kidotm]

Never Forget a Pretty Face

  The smoothskin was like a parasite- crawling under his skin, skittering across his brain. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, probe at it, grab the goddamn thing with his rough fingertips and squeeze it till it popped, it evaded him. It wormed deeper, eating away at his grey sense of rational until he felt as though he would open his mouth and just scream.

   But he didn’t do any of that.

   What he did do, however, was reroute this carnage he kept suppressed on his more present issues. A raider junkie had just taken a fall from tripping over their own undone shoelaces- he lifted his foot, witnessed the tinge of fear in their eyes, and stomped.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   He nonchalantly looked down and lifted his boot to view the underside of the heel, raising a brow at the brain matter stuck to it. He wiped it off on a thin rail, the clanging metal echoing down the subway tunnel, and then continued.

   Another raider- a woman- rounded from the shadows in what she probably hoped was an ambush. Charon had visibly made out her trembling silhouette half a track away- the loud sniveling and teeth chattering did nothing to help her cause. He brushed aside the lead pipe aimed at his face with laughable ease, grabbed her by the throat with one hand, and lifted her from the ground, slowly choking the life from her eyes.

   Her lips trembled as she struggled to breathe; he couldn’t help but stare.

   They had been chapped, probably due to dehydration, but they had also been soft. He remembered that. A kiss from the tip of her nose had stroked his cheek, felt the leathered sinew of his muscles and white bone. He wondered what she would have tasted like- perhaps salt, sour, a certain rot one has when tinged with death. She had been simmering in it, a homemade brew of loss of youth and a certain innocence.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like him.

   The raider was struggling to speak, her vocal cords vibrating under the glove of his palm. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he refocused, ever so carefully loosening his hold to allow her final words.

   “Was’the matter, zombie?” she wheezed. Her eyes were bloodshot, bulging, she could have been pretty. Once. “You gonna fuck or eat me?”

   She was kicking her feet, the instinct to somehow run away, to survive, was so strong. She was dripping red, a piece of shrapnel from her right thigh. The blue vault suit was blinking in and out of the shadows with every passing of the train. The lights from the windows teased her face, changing from that of the raider to the smoothskin.

   Flash, flash, flash.

   She looked at him with those pretty blue eyes.

   Asshole. That’s what she said.

   He tightened his clasp, felt the muscles roll under his fingertips and the trachea crack, and then he slammed her head into the brick wall.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   There was nothing left to see from those eyes- he had crushed them into paste.

   The door swung open- he automatically looked to it. Another patron, looking to toil their caps away on one vice or another. He looked back to the bar. Ahzrukhal’s oily smile. A finger propped, come here.

   He obeyed.

   Business. Do this. Do that. Go collect my caps, hurry now, don’t be late.

   A walk across the bridge over the Potomac, and he saw her. A flash of sapphire- what sort of idiot wears something like that? So noticeable, a perfect target. If he had a rifle, he could set the sights and take a clean shot. Didn’t even need a fancy scope; a set of irons would do.

   She had dipped inside of the Tepid Sewers, not even noticing his far-off gaze. That whirlwind of color, foreign, bluer than the sky above or the water below. The world did not remember such vibrance- it would eat her, sooner rather than later, take her in its very maws and swallow her whole, reducing her to shit like everything else.

   He was surprised she had survived. He did not think she would.

   He remained in his place, not realizing he had been staring at her absence until he felt his fingers brush his mouth. The palm of his hand was stared at; he felt betrayed.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like the fresh scent of rain.

   The radio. He listened. He didn’t have a choice, it always played. A peek into the window of another time, another age. The guests all gathered round, no matter night or day. And then he listened. The Vault. He wasn’t stupid...but she was. It told him everything he needed to know, as though he had found the missing piece of the puzzle, how easily it slid into place. He could glue the whole thing together now, frame it, hang it on the wall, show her, see, I figured you all out.

   He wondered if she kissed the others too.

   It was the dripping fat sizzling into the fire, the delicious aroma when you’ve had nothing to stomach and it's greasy on your fingertips. You suck on them, not caring if the others see, let them judge. They haven’t known true hunger, what it does to a man, makes him willing, watching that club batter away at the hare. It seizures, blood foams at the mouth, then stills.

   Who wants the eyes?

   They pop in his mouth.

   She’s frosted cake, a ribboned icing, a creamy inside. He catches himself before his fingers touch his lips again...for he hasn’t had them in over a century now.

   He never wants to see her again, even just in passing.

   Boom. She drops, a simple headshot.

   Asshole.

Friends with Benefitting Complications

   Butch.

   What? A snuggle into sheets that smell of chemicals and are stiff from the heated press. She always hated the turnover laundry days of linen- they made her own bed feel foreign, sanitized. She turns over on the lumpy pillow, squints in the dark at the back of Amata’s head. What about him?

   He...was my first.

   Wait, are you serious? She curls the blanket around her, wraps it under her blue feet, shivers. The air recirculation system keeps blowing cold air on their levels...she hopes it will get fixed soon. When? Where? Why?!

   His room, a couple of weeks ago...his mom was out getting trashed on ration coupons. I don’t know. It was quick...he was...nice.

   Butch, nice? I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. She lays her cold heels on the back of Amata’s thighs, erupts a squeal from her. That’s what you get!

   I’m serious! I think he’s honestly a nice guy-!

   If you told me this a year ago, I would have thought you were insane. She doesn’t tell her what she really feels. Jealous. Left out. Weird. She was always weird. Too quiet. Too random. Not pretty enough to feel wanted.

   You don’t hate me for it, do you?

   Hate you? She does. A little. No! I’m happy for you, if you are.

   ...you’re such a good friend.

   According to her Pip-Boy, it was almost seven in the morning. She wiped away the sleep, snacked on her own prepared breakfast (lest Greta truly poisons her), and laced up her boots. She braided her hair beside the banister on the second to the top step, indiscreetly glancing inside The Ninth Circle when its doors opened for any sort of hint at black leather and broad shoulders.

   He still wasn’t there.

   Tulip chattered away aimlessly as she bartered the few things she had found in the tunnels. A courteous hairdressing ghoul by the name of Snowflake offered her a free trim just to work with a real set of hair. Her fist came to pound on Winthrop’s office door. She told herself it was only polite to not stand up the ghoul a second time. She told herself it wasn’t because she was just desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she was setting out to buy-

   The mechanic was almost as surprised at her presence as she was. He widened his door just as the entrance to Underworld opened.

   “Uhm,” Evelyn stumbled, her heart hammering in her throat and choking her words. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the rolling storm that had just thundered on in. “Sorry, I, uhm, came to say goodbye?”

   She barely heard the confused response as she strode through the concourse to intercept him at the base of the stairs. Charon noticed her just as he took the first step, the lines in his face creasing as he scowled. The silence between them felt electrifying- her toes tingled and her mouth went dry as he just stood there, fresh gore blotting his uniform and piercing eyes nailing through her wide ones. So...now what?

   Minefield. There was some unresolved baggage to be unpacked there. Baby steps.

   The dour look he was giving her made her knees weak. “I came here about what happened last time, between us,” she forced herself to say. He was watching her lips move with each syllable she spoke. “You know, back at Minefield?”

   Charon looked around subtly and then gave a sharp nod of his head for her to follow. Well! That wasn’t so hard! Now she panicked. What exactly was she going to say to him? Hey, I know you saved my life and stole from me but I was looking to-

   She didn’t have much of a chance to chew over her words and spit them out, for as soon as they had rounded inside the bathroom beside the entrance, he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her against a stall door. She gasped from the unexpected hostility.

   And then he kissed her.

   ...crudely.

   It was the only word she could describe it as, and it wasn’t necessarily the word she had hoped to use for her first one.

   His mouth was hot and wet and consuming her lips with such ferocity she feared he was trying to devour her instead. Their teeth clacked and his tongue plunged inside, swapping saliva while she whimpered and he growled. One of his huge hands was holding her steady by the jaw; he could have wrapped his entire palm around her throat if he so wished (and she found the image to be as equally arousing as it was terrifying). His other was pawing at her breasts under her jacket, taking one under an iron grip and squeezing till she yelped. He did it again, and she batted at him with a fist while pushing him away. He finally released her, both breathing heavily over the other.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she spluttered.

   Charon narrowed his eyes slightly and loosened his hold to grant her space. She now noticed the very large outline underneath his leather pants. Her eyes widened without meaning to, he could pin her to the wall alone with that thing!

   She blathered, “I-I came about what happened- and-and your contract-”

   All at once, he became an entirely different man. He took another step back, assessed her like she was some form of prey, and then cracked his hands into fists.

   “Ahzrukhal has told you of my contract,” he rasped with a dark undertone, the question coming out more as a statement. He looked as though he was ready to rip her into pieces with his bare hands. “I advise you leave and do not come back.”

   “What?!” she exasperated, wholly confused as she shoved him. He didn’t budge. “You fucking kiss me, and now you don’t want anything to do with me?!”

   It was then, looking up into the shadow of his face, that she was just reminded how extremely easy it would be for him to smear her brains on the pavement. He didn’t have a reason not to- this was the wasteland, people killed for less, and yet here she was, taking a metaphorical stick and poking the very real giant fucking bear with it in the eye. She felt her insides clench at the thought, and just as she went to apologize, and, hopefully, spare her life, he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away.

   “Hold on, wait-!” She jogged to catch up, but he turned around while unholstering his shotgun and aiming the muzzle directly at her face. Her hands immediately flew to the sky, cold fear stealing the air from her lungs.

   His finger rested on the trigger. “Get out.”

   She timidly pointed to the double doors leading back inside Underworld. “My stuff is-”

   A blast rang out, the wind from the shot kissing her cheek. She abruptly fell backward, scrabbled to her feet, and dashed out of the Museum of History, turning her head around to find that he was taking long strides in pursuit. Something of a frightened cry was uttered as she ducked through the doors, flinching from the crack of his shotgun and the blast peppering the space where she had just been. The first step had been horribly miscalculated, and she cursed as it felt like her entire ankle snapped as it rolled out from underneath her.

   “Gruh!” Her skull smacked against the pavement, a blur of creeping darkness and bright stars disorienting her long enough to witness a gargantuan-sized, steel-toed boot kick the doors open. Another shot spat up concrete dust beside her head; she shakily got to her knees and hobbled as quickly as she could manage to relative safety.

   “Charon!” she heard Willow bark, “what the hell is going on?!”

   Neither had a verbal response as Charon adjusted his aim with quick reflexes just as she disappeared around the bend. When there was no longer the stomping of heavy footsteps behind giving chase, she stole a peek back, finding no one there.

   The molerat exploded in a gruesome display of blood and fleshy bits. Some had the unfortunate luck to be sprayed directly in her face, and before she could keel over and gag, a sharp nip bit her in the ass.

   “Ow!” she yelped, swinging the ‘repellant stick’ around wildly.

   So, I finally did it. Yep. It...wasn’t planned. Not even sure it counts, really. What does he look like? Uh, well...he’s big (in just about every way), tall, broody...and looks like he got dropped in the fan shaft...on fire.

   Another rodent blew up with a high-pitched squeal, its body vibrating erratically.

   I don’t know. I kind of hate him, right now, I guess. Maybe. He tried to kill me...he’s a real asshole.

   A loud sigh was exhaled from her lips, and she winced as the sunburn on her face reminded her that she looked like a walking cherry tomato. She really needed a new hat.

   I think I like this one. Yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?   She looked around at the extermination she had provided for Moira’s latest research project, the carnage brutal to any vermin that would so happen to cross these sands. With a swing of the makeshift weapon over her shoulder, she trudged back to Craterside Supply, spying a few raised brows from the locals at her bloodshed appearance. Moira gave her an armful of chems to carry back home- items she could turn around and sell to Doc Hoff, the chemist trader, when he would make the rounds next week. She jammed them in her locker, somewhat rinsed away the stinking mess, and then took a trip to the Water Processing Plant that towered high above the tin can town, a metal crate balanced at her hip.

   In the two weeks since she had limped on home, there seemed to be no amount of shortage to the busy work she kept herself tasked with. Two-thousand caps...after how he had threatened her life, she should’ve nuked that notion from her mind, but the bundles sitting in a secure strong box upstairs said otherwise. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t even close, but she couldn’t bring herself to spend them. Not on lifesaving armor, a decent meal, hell, not even the tub Moira had offered to let go. Oh, how she would kill for a hot bath...but here she was, killing her skin under the sun and her back with this drudgery, instead.

   The kiss almost felt like a fever dream at that point; it was maladaptive to her everyday life. He had tasted like the warm barrel of a gun; metallic, slightly acidic, a hint of gunpowder with a greasy aftertaste. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad...and she found herself wanting to dip her tongue in for a second taste.

   He doesn’t have lips...or a nose...yeah, I know.   She entered the smelly water plant, her footsteps clanging the metal like percussions on a tambourine.

   I miss you, Amata...I wish you were here for me to tell you all of this.

   “Girl, did you get me that scrap metal?” Walter, the grumpy operator (and sole reason Megaton had any purified water at all), questioned no sooner than she had rounded inside his office. “We got more leaks I think around the east side.”

   Evelyn heaved the metal box onto the table, inwardly sighing at the instant relief granted to her sore muscles. “Here’s everything I found out of Sewer Waystation...minus the actual sewer.” The growls and hellish screeching that had come from the black tunnels had derailed any sort of adventurous spirit she had.

   The elderly man came over to poke his nose inside. “Guess it’ll have to do, for now. Keep bringing anymore that you find, otherwise, we’re going to be shit out of luck up here.” He handed her a pouch of tools to get the job done. “Figure you know the drill, same as last time. I’ll count the caps I owe you while you’re gone.”

   Evelyn straddled the metal piping under the hot midday sun, getting absolutely soaked by cold water as she fitted wrenches and reinforced square patches of refurbished steel over the seepages. Her boots made a squish with every step she took back to the plant, puddles forming at her feet as she stood a sopping mess waiting for her compensation in time and labor.

   “Twelve things of scrap metal at ten caps a piece, and two hundred for repairs.” The jingle of money had never sounded sweeter to her ears. “Here you go.”

   Once her hard-earned caps were tallied alongside the rest, she popped a Nuka-Cola from her stash and sat down on the busted chair in her home, prepping an array of sterilized equipment on the table to begin a minor blood transfusion. If donating her own blood to The Family wasn’t desperate enough for income, she didn’t want to know what was. She sipped her sugary soda while she waited for the bag to fill, ignoring Wadsworth’s quiet, bitter disdain towards her after he had learned she had taken a haircut from someone else. She set the empty bottle aside, removed the needle from her vein with a wad of bandage pressed at the sight, and prepped her 'new' pack for a trip to Northwest Seneca station.

   Loneliness.

   That’s what she had tasted like. Not a tingling sweet, not the cold chew of fat, not simple heat and moist flesh of skin on skin. There was desperation...and fear. If she hadn’t forced him back, he wouldn’t have let go. He would’ve taken it way too far. He would’ve done what Winthrop played out behind his eyes every time he looked at her.

   She didn’t come back. Good. She shouldn’t, if she’s smart. They held on to her stuff, said she’ll eventually come around. They questioned him, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Nice smoothskin. Pretty smoothskin. That’s what they said about her. He knew better, he probably knew her better than everyone. Lonely smoothskin. Straight out of a vault, wandering the wastes, not having a single fucking clue.

   He sometimes imagines she’s dangling from a raider noose, somewhere, her body swaying with the breeze and fingers missing. Or she’s sliced into pieces in a super mutant encampment, head in a bucket and skin blue, bloated, mouth open in a silent scream. The wastes are not kind- it’s a horrific landscape to survive in. Most do not, and the ones who manage come to learn it is not something to be taken for granted. It’s a skill, a desirable trait, an experience of sheer dumbass luck and a big fucking gun. He was really good out in that world, really good. Being out there tested his limits every day; his ingrained instinct to survive versus his very simple wish to die.

   He then saw her on a small hill just past Northwest Seneca station, that color of blue. Still a target, just outside of range. She watched him, her hair dancing in the breeze. He knew he was staring, and he shouldn’t have, but he did until she finally disappeared from view.

   Come find me. He had seen it on her face, even though there was no expression made. It’d be easy; she’d leave tracks a mile wide like a drunken yao guai. If he'd been quick enough, he would've caught her in the bottom dip of the ravine, cornered her into the rocks and water with nowhere to run or hide. He was unsure what he would've done.

   He sees her again in another week. The Anchorage Memorial. She’s bandaging her arm, oblivious to everything and everyone around her as she dresses the laceration.

   Found you.

   He draws his gun, steps up so quietly he cannot even hear his own heartbeat inside of his chest, and comes to a stop within two feet of her. Her tongue is out to the side, her brows stern in concentration. Her jacket is removed, the tear in the sleeve mirroring her wound. He lets her finish, she raises her head, and she startles in place as she finally notices him.

   She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with those owlish eyes, so blue. That skin is very much alive, tickled pink, her lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rapid. A glance at the weapon pointed at her, and she finally realizes.

   He could have killed her anytime he wanted to. But he didn’t.

   “Just what the fuck is your problem, anyway?” she asks, her voice trembling with distress and... something else. “If you’re going to shoot me, then just fucking do it.”

   His fingers yank her zipper down just enough to squeeze a palm under the fabric and grab an entire handful of her. She’s on the tips of her toes, almost trying to climb him like a summit with her lips at his mouth and her hands intertwined through the straps of his armor. She’s tugging, trying to rip it right off, but she only manages a gasp of lustful frustration that makes him thrust her up against the memorial.

   He doesn’t know what he’s doing...he’s not sure if she does, either. His pants are much too fucking tight and the dip of her body rubs against him perfectly as he grinds her into the unrelenting stone. She’s whining and moaning and whimpering in his ear, perfectly ruined by the all-too-close spray of gunfire just at their backs. He drops her and instantly arms himself, dealing with the few raiders that had survived a run-in with the native mirelurks.

   When he turns back around, she’s already gone, her taste still fresh on his tongue.

   Anchorage Memorial had been anything but a very simple walk through the park! Once again, Moira had somehow outdone herself when it came to reckless vaultie endangerment, sending her deep within a hoard of mirelurks to plant a probe inside their nest.

   The Stealth Boy she had used was her first trial run with the device- it was extremely disorienting, not being able to see your own self, and so she had scraped her arm on the sharp edge of a broken metal railing. The scent of blood flurried them to her location, forcing her to pitter-patter around like a panicked mouse until she had shoved the device inside a clutch of eggs (and inwardly cried at all the precious loot left neglected). The crustacean smell had been so nauseating, she was sure not to eat another mirelurk cake for the rest of her years.

   The fresh air of the wastes (if that wasn’t an oxymoron to say in itself) did little to help clear her assaulted nose, and as she played doctor and thought over what sort of snippy remark she would give to Moira, she was once again met with him. Although, unlike the previous encounter at Northwest Seneca, he was much closer.

   Close enough to trade tonsils and ohmyGod-

   She never thought herself one for exhibitionism, but...he could have stripped her then and there and taken her like two wild animals caught in the heat of the moment (if it hadn’t been for the rude interruption of death by maiming). It had been enough of a distraction to pull the velvet wool from over her eyes and stuff it in her mouth till she was home, chewing it over and over to savor that remainder of musky flavor.

   Her breast tingled at the thought of how his very large hand had perfectly cupped over it, kneading it with the worn leather of his glove and smearing some gun oil on her bra, the rough exterior of his skin lighting a flame wherever it traced. The base of her groin was so swollen it ached- she braved the common restroom area, dumping a few buckets of cold irradiated water in the public grimy bathtub just for some fraught attempt at relief. It didn’t help much...and she had to put her vault suit back on afterward, inherently aware the crotch area had been previously soaked.

   Winthrop was taken from the high shelf and tossed in the bin, replaced with a much larger, much more threatening sort of man that made her cheeks blush anytime she thought of him. She had somehow developed an intense crush on a seven-foot wall of gristle and death...a part of her was relieved she had the sense to scram before it went too far, but damn the part that screamed at her to have fucking stayed (or stayed fucking, more appropriately).

   She was rewarded for her crustacean tango with a new hat- it was ugly, but at least it covered enough sun from her eyes- and a few Stealth Boys (and a complimentary stim for the cut on her arm...at least, she thinks it was a stim). They all went into her locker to be later inventoried as useful items that she actually wished to keep, sitting alongside the 10mm pistol...

   Don’t let her get away!   She’s a hostile! Take her down!

   I...I can’t come with you, I’m sorry.

   The gun was slammed back inside, fresh tears smarting her eyes at the instant replay of it all. Charon was all but forgotten as she crawled to her bed, snuggling under the scratchy blankets as she looked up to the colors of the setting sun through her holey roof. She fell asleep wondering if there was ever a time in her life when she truly didn’t feel alone...she couldn’t think of one. She dreamed of massive hands holding her down, gun smoke wafting from his mouth into hers as they kissed, before he cracked her neck and laid her face down in a puddle of piss.

Second First Impressions

   Ahzrukhal had been in an extremely foul mood as of late, pushing Charon to break more bones on unruly customers than Barrows could stand to mend. The ghoul doctor had finally come upstairs to set his authority straight after Patchwork had been admitted with both arms missing, the conversation between the two tense and stiff. Ahzrukhal had then cleared the bar (a very rare thing to do), locked his inventory away, and summoned Charon with that waggling finger.

   “We’re going to conduct some business. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

   This always led the bouncer downstairs to Tulip’s, an array of ammo boxes and explosives purchased without a single word uttered between them.

   Traveling the wastes with his employer was always a major pain in the ass. Ahzrukhal walked the streets as though he owned them, not cautious of the lurking dangers or the inevitable threats just looming around the corner. It forced Charon to always be one step ahead- dealing death unto enemies that he may have simply skirted around to save on ammo and time.

   The ferals and super mutants tended to leave them alone, but raiders always had to go and pick a losing fight. Charon had blown their heads clean off their shoulders, leaving a sole raider woman sniveling in the dirt with a mangled leg, courtesy of a grenade he had gifted them. He stepped up to her, intending on snuffing the life from her eyes when his employer came around from behind the safety of his shield.

   “Tie her up,” he rasped, his voice unusually garbled.   Charon did as told, securing her wrists behind her back and leaving her to inhale the earth.

   “Go wait over there, keep watch. I don’t want anything to interrupt.”

   Charon’s expression had never been so perfectly carved from stone. He obeyed, watching the landscape for any hint of danger as he was forced to listen to the labored breathing and grunts, the screaming muffled before it eventually reduced to sobs.

   A snap of fingers. He turned back around. She was slathered in snot and tears, her voice hoarse and eyes dull.

   “Deal with it.”   A raise of his gun, and they continued on.

   Northwest Seneca station took much longer to arrive at than it did when he journeyed solo. For a brief second, he glanced around for that shimmer of color...she was not there. He did not know what to expect- it had been weeks since he had last seen her. He figured she was six feet under somewhere, the worms recycling her into dirt.

   Ahzrukhal preached his sermon to a pair of nonbelievers, his wish of a discounted price for being a loyal business partner going unheeded.

   “Are you crazy?” Murphy had rasped, Barrett at his side with an itchy trigger finger. Charon would have to take him out first. “That’s a lowball offer. You can find someone else to supply-”

   “I do apologize,” Ahzrukhal interrupted, fiddling with his tarnished cufflink. “I had assumed you knew this was not a negotiation.” He then waggled two fingers, and Charon recited the scripture like a faithful little choir boy.

   Barrett took some lead to the shoulder, not adequate to kill, but pain worthy enough to get the point across. Murphy braved a few fists and lost more teeth than he could afford to, finally cracking under his own blood that dripped from Charon’s knuckles. It dribbled back into his mouth as he croaked an understanding.

   They walked up the steps, embracing the overhead of dark clouds...and a trio from Talon Company, the Capital Wasteland’s most notorious mercenary gang. They questioned the whereabouts of a certain smoothskin with a nice price on her head.

   “We heard she sometimes comes through here, does trade with a couple of ghouls. Seen her lately?”

   Ahzrukhal gave a sleazy smile, never one to undermine a business opportunity when it presented itself. “Perhaps...who’s inquiring?”

   “Ow,” Evelyn muttered under her breath, another bobby pin breaking at her fingertips as she tried to wiggle the lock to the cabinet open. “Little bastard. I swear to God, you’ll show me your wares...”

   Another pin broke, another curse. She wiped the sweat from her forehead on the back of her arm, swapped her tongue from one side of her cheek to the other, and blindly fished for another in her pack before trying again.

   It finally gave a shit-eating grin of a click, and she swung it open and began to assort through its inventory with sticky gremlin fingers. A scotch, whiskey, and wine. All perfect bids for Jenny Stahl, the Brass Lantern eatery proprietor, to deal on. She carefully wrapped them in individual pieces of clothing she had found earlier, snuggled them tightly in her bag, and cinched the strap down to begin combing over the rest of the rubble.

   Springvale ruins was a perfect picking ground for minor finds- she had no idea exactly why she had never bothered to roam around it before...perhaps the holed-up raider gang at the Springvale Elementary School had something to do with it. Probably. Maybe. More than likely.

   A giant shadow loomed over her as she foraged inside a garbage can, sending her into a premature grave from cardiac arrest. When she spun around with a shoddy combat knife in hand, she glanced up from beneath the brim of her hat to the ghoul she had not had a reunion with since that steamy memorial visit.

   Charon was staring at the shitty weapon she so confidently wielded at him, slowly raising a brow as he drew his eyes to her face.

   It had been a solid month since she had the chance encounter of meeting him again and-wait, hold on. Chance encounter? All the fucking way out here?!

   Her eyes wildly flit back and forth. “What the hell are you doing here?”   Awesome. Smooth. No, it’s nice to see you again, or, wanna pick up where we left off? Or, even better, thanks for not blowing my head off behind my back, do others get the same courtesy?

   Judging by the blood on his uniform, she supposed not.

   Her mouth opened, a word in her throat, but a piece of folded paper was thrust at her. She swallowed her question and looked at the message being held an inch from her face.

   “Uhm, what is that?” she asked dumbly.

   “A message,” he responded dryly.

   “Yeah, I fucking know that,” she snapped, taking the paper that was being so rudely shoved into her eyes. She unfolded it, her knife still in hand and being held a little too close to her face as she pulled the lettering under her nose. “Why? What is-?”

   She glanced up only to find that he was already leaving.   “Hey! Hey!” She broke into a jog, the action much too déjà vu worthy to be comfortable. “Was that it?!”

   He paused, turned slightly to face her, and spoke in the most monotone voice she had ever heard another human being muster. “Your business is with Ahzrukhal.”

   She nabbed at his bicep before he walked away again, instantly dropping it when he whipped a glare at her. “I’m not talking about my business with him- I want to-oh my God, really?!”

   Charon was setting off once more, completely ignoring her existence. She crossed her arms and seethed at the blatant rejection- did he just hate her now, or something?!

   “Fine,” she called out at his back. “Not like I care, just leave!”

   She sheathed her knife (for her own safety) and briefly entertained herself by angrily blowing an eardrum-splitting tune on a rusted-out harmonica she had found, the note hastily read.

   Have you forgotten my proposition? I suggest you do not delay, as there have been recent inquests I’m looking to give favor to.

   -A

   No, she didn’t forget. She was so close to collecting all two thousand that the caps had to be moved to their own fucking duffel bag. She turned the note over, a bloodstain making the penmanship barely legible...it read like some sort of bounty.

   Caucasian. Female. Evelyn. One thousand fucking caps! What the hell did she do?!

   She snapped her head around when the shadow engulfed her a second time. Oh, boy...he was mad.

   “I was not the one who had left,” he rasped.

   The response was growled so spitefully that she dropped her newfound musical hobby to the dirt. They then just stood there, his entire face creased together in a snarl and hers blank from shock. When it appeared she was too stupid to give a proper response, he swiveled around and stalked off, presumably returning to Underworld.

   She licked her lips, regaining some sense (mostly stupidity), and called out once more. “You’re the one leaving now.”

   That made him instantly halt. He came back around so fast she flinched into a corner of skewed boards and an open fridge.

   A finger was pointed directly in her face, his tone anything but friendly. “Do not push me.”

   She obediently kept her mouth shut, staring up into that cold face of murder until she was reminded of the note in her possession. It was waved around like a flag. “What the fuck is this? Who-”

   “It is none of my concern,” he dismissed her bluntly.

   She motioned with a hand to their impromptu meeting spot. “That’s why you came all the way out here? To tell me-”

   “Talk with Ahzrukhal,” he interrupted her again, this time with a sharp edge to his tone.   Okay, she got it, loud and clear. Obviously, he didn’t handle her ghosting last time too well...she could take a hint. It’s all she did do back in the Vault.

   “Fine, fuck you too,” she simmered. “I guess I should be thanking you for not robbing me this time.”

   His face came so close that she had to plunk her ass on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Both of his hands braced on each side of the gutted appliance, effectively trapping her in place. “I did not have to interfere. Remember that.”

   “I remember other things pretty well,” she rushed without even filtering first. When he stared at her silently, she smacked her jaw shut and burned beet red.

   The ghoul slowly backed away, and then not-so-subtly looked around, erupting a hot bloom in her underwear. Was he seriously-?

   “It is not safe here,” he concluded, his statement said so firmly she almost burst out laughing.

   “Didn’t stop you before.” Once again, she wished she had to input an enter key to vocalize her thoughts. “I-I have a house...just over the hill.”

   It was forced out so painfully shy she turned away. When he didn’t respond or make a move, she mustered the courage to glance at him. He was very still, seemingly gauging the offer. A sharp nod of his head. Lead, I will follow.

   “Oh, uhm, uh, okay,” she said dumbly.

   She awkwardly stepped around him, slipping on some loose gravel and righting herself without any ounce of grace. She tried to ignore the fact she had this monstrous ghoul a few feet behind her, following her to have...she couldn’t even finish her own thought, the notion sure to make her lightheaded and faint. She felt like the eyes of the world were staring at her as they came to the gates.

   Hey, we’re about to have sex!

   Could they read her face, could they tell? She whipped her head around, catching his eyes. He looked...bored. So absolutely fucking uninterested in what they were about to do. Did he do this often? He was old, probably, so she assumed he had experience.

   The town sheriff, good ol’ Lucas Simms, intercepted them before the winding curve leading up to her place. Oh no, he was going to find out they were about to commit the deed-

   “Hey there,” he said with an easy flash of a smile at herself and a warning to his teeth at Charon. “I see your friend here found you. He came poking around, said he had a message to relay...you getting along okay?”

   “Uh.” She again looked over her shoulder. The ghoul was regarding everything, his expression unchanging. “Y-yeah, we’re good. Thanks.” We’re about to go to pound town...I think.

    “Alright, holler if you need anything.” Simms gave a tip of his hat, and she mimicked in kind before he trudged back down the hill.

   Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t even get the key in the lock for a few minutes, and when it finally swung open, she just as quickly dipped inside.

   “Wait here,” she gushed, and slammed it shut before she spun around to yell upstairs. “Wadsworth!”

   “Yes, Madam! Welcome home! What do-”

   “Please go deactivate,” she commanded as she flew into a flurry, chucking empty boxes of InstaMash in the bin and furiously scrubbing dishes in the sink.

   “Oh, why do I even bother...” he muttered as he hovered down the steps to rest at his station.

   Shit, I have all that crap on the table-do I move the mattress upstairs-I probably smell awful-ohmyGODIhaven’tshavedindays-

   The door whined on its hinges as it opened, and she squeaked in surprise as the ghoul rudely invited himself inside. He had to duck his head and dip a shoulder through the frame, his comical entrance comparable to an oversized action figure being forced into a tiny dollhouse. He closed it, his glowing eyes sweeping over the disarray to then circle back on her.

   She wiped her sudsy palms down the length of her vault suit, oh so nervous with her heart battering away at her ribcage. “So, um, do you, uh-”

   Charon unholstered his shotgun and came forward to set it on the table, his boot nudging the mattress to the side. His hands rested at his buckle, and he began to undo his attire from the waist down. Apparently, he wasn’t too shy.

   She stared like a wide-eyed mouth breather, unable to look away as the innermost secrets to the ghoul’s family jewels were presented to her with a most...sizeable display. Wow. It wasn’t the first dick she’d seen, (if that accidental walk-in on Wally Mack’s prostate exam in her father’s clinic had anything of weight to it), but it was...distinguishable. Veiny. Red. Long & Thick™. She could pick it out in a line-up faster than-

   She snapped out of it as she realized he was still standing there, staring at her. Right. With a numbness in her fingertips, she set the hat and Pip-Boy aside, clumsily undid her braid, and began to shake out her wavy hair as he stepped towards her, his pants shunted past his thighs and cock standing tall and proud. There was a glistening bead of liquid at the tip that dribbled down the shaft with every violent throb it made. His gloved palm wrapped underneath her jaw.

   “Take off your clothes,” he rasped, and then he bent down to embrace her in a kiss.

   It was certainly messy, but not as uncoordinated as the previous times. He seemed to be figuring out what he liked, lots of tongue, less teeth. She barely pulled her suit off one shoulder before he sloppily pulled away and clamped his mouth around her throat, inviting the intrusive thought of he’s also a fucking vampire-?!

   Regardless, she rewarded him with a soft little moan, and he seemed to eat the treat right out of her hand, for he dragged his tongue up her neck and tugged at her lips a second time in hopes of more. Her boots were shunted to the side as she kicked them away, her hands roving blindly as she peeled her suit and underwear from her body.

   He removed himself, stared at her naked skin like a famished man receiving a delectable meal, and then swallowed a nipple with a hard bite of his teeth.

   “Ow!” she yelped as she squirmed under his heavy, rough hands.

   A grope here, a squeeze there- he wrapped his arms around her to cup the cheeks of her ass in both palms and lifted her off the ground.

   “H-hey!” she stammered, eliciting a loud oof as she was smashed into the bedding with none-too-gentle assertiveness.

   The upper half of his body was still covered, the metal of his armor clinking together and the leather straps rubbing her cheek, his head craned over and breath swamping her face. A press of something hard began to prod in a very wrong place, and she panicked and smacked him in the chest. He immediately halted, snapping his eyes at her with a hint of annoyance.

   She wrapped one leg around the backside of his thigh. “Okay-”

   Another jut of his hips before she could align him properly, and he overshot, his cock sliding along the slickness of her cunt and smearing it over her clit and the lower half of her tummy. The sensation curled her toes and sank a tooth in her bottom lip, and he didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t even inside of her yet as he kept humping her into the bedding. He wasn’t making a single sound, the breathy whimpers escaping her being lost amidst the tumult of his gear clanking and the sad exhale of her mattress with every thrust he pounded.

   “Wait-wait-” she breathed out, the urge for him to continue almost overriding the simple desire to have him fill her completely. He growled as he reluctantly stopped, propping himself upright just as she reached down and grabbed his dick.

   It was so hot and slippery and meaty that she held on tight, having him respond to the pressure with his fingers digging into the blankets and his jaw clenching so hard the muscles popped. With a lift of her hips, she directed the tip at the right entrance, and he obliged her assistance with a solid stab.

   No one had ever talked about the pain. She cried out, clawing at his shoulders with desperation and screwing her eyes shut as she was being stretched. She went to open her mouth, tell him to stop, it’s too much, too fast, but he had already withdrawn and slapped his girth back over her clit, a hot, gooey string spiderwebbing across her stomach and breasts.

   One look at his pinched face told her he was somewhere not of this world- he shivered, his breathing ragged like he was fatally wounded, and he rolled to the side while snorting and brusquely rubbing at his eyes.

   Evelyn looked down at the gift he had left behind, inquisitively smearing a few fingers in it. Gross.

   The dip on his side of the mattress raised up as he stood, his back to her as he went about tucking himself away and then reaching for his gun. He appeared the same as when he had entered- indifferent.

   She blinked as he strode to the door, his hand turning the knob as she spoke her insecurities with a timid voice. “Was...it, um, good?”

   He looked at her- a hot mess with his cum lacing her tits- and nodded. “It was.”

   He then left, and she plopped back on the bedding to stare at the hole in her ceiling. Well. That was something, and she wasn't quite sure what.

A Slight Misunderstanding

   A wince as she sat on the barstool, gingerly trying to get in a comfortable position without making it too obvious that she had been nailed by a one-strike hammer. She hadn’t indulged in a beer for a while now, almost feeling like a stranger as she took residency in Moriarty’s Saloon. Every cap unspent was a cap saved...but that night, she felt like she needed a beer for company and maybe an ear to lean on.

   Moriarty was busy inventorying his latest swindles from unfair prices to piss-distilled beer, leaving Gob free to catch up in some side conversation. She could faintly hear Nova moaning from behind a closed door upstairs- everyone had become so accustomed to the world’s oldest profession that no one bothered to listen- it still made her blush at the imagery it unwillingly conjured.

   “Hey,” Gob rasped with an iced Nuka-Cola in hand, discreetly looking over his shoulder. “Sorry, but I wouldn’t advise it. Caravan’s been off schedule since the last run...Moriarty’s been making it stretch.”

   She set her money down and savored the chilled glass between her clammy hands.

   Hey, can I tell you something?

   Amata, helloooo, we’re best friends. Duh. Of course! She watches her fixing her hair in the mirror of her bathroom. Perfectly straight, dark, thick. Everyone says she has beautiful hair.

   You have to swear you won’t tell-   Are you pregnant!?   No! It’s just...that...well-   Spill the beans! She tickles her in the side, erupting a laugh. She loves to hear her laugh.

   “Never seen you with that face before.” Gob pulled her back to reality, and then leaned in a little. “I know Charon was looking for you- he came in the bar asking before Simms made him step outside. Are you in a bad place, smoothskin? I told you he was trouble.”

   Bad place? Not entirely...but there was this emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a jar full of marbles that couldn’t quite fill the spaces.

   “No. We were just...conducting business.” She shrugged, praying to every God there was above and below that he couldn’t see past the façade. That would be downright embarrassing.

   He didn’t, and he began to sort some liquor on the shelves with a nod of his head. “That’s good to hear...I was a little worried, is all.”

   She plunked her chin in hand, amused. “Were you now? Of little old me?”

   Gob wouldn’t raise his eyes, focusing them intensely on his hands while he worked. “You’re good to me, smoothskin...it’s nice to have a friend.”

   She bit her tongue, momentarily stunned at the blunt statement that felt more like a love confession. Sweet jet and tangy sweat sidled up beside her before she could make some sort of cringy reply.

   “Been too busy to hang with us?” Nova asked snidely with that sultry flair to her voice, a crinkled cigarette between her lips with musk permeating from her pores. Her eyes drew onto Evelyn’s bare throat, and she slightly pulled the collar of her jacket down to expose a blooming hickey. “Oh, who had this honor?”

   Gob was staring at the evidence of her hookup with saucers for eyes before Evelyn could clamp a palm over it. The look on his face when he finally put two and two together about just what sort of ‘business’ she had to attend to glowed a molten firework across her cheeks.

   Nova reached up with the pointy end of her umbrella to poke at the heavy, awkward tension hovering over them like a raincloud. “Was it fun?”

   Evelyn fiddled her fingers together on the counter, shrinking into her coat to make herself as small as humanly possible. “Uh. Sure, I guess?”

   Nova worked a lighter, gave an inhale, and slanted her eyes at the lack of confidence in the response. “First time?”

   “OhmyGodamIthatobvious-”

   “Take it easy, kid. You’d be lying if you said otherwise.” She took a long drag, flicked the ash into a tray. “So.” She lifted one leg over the other, the tear in her stockings stretching just a bit further as she spun on her stool to face her. “Who was it?”

   Gob met Evelyn’s eyes, both privy to the mystery hickey deliverer, and she looked away. “He’s not from around here.”

   The cherry at the end of Nova’s smoke burned a deliciously bright hue, casting shadows on her high cheekbones and underlining the bags under her eyes. A little twinkle of perception caught the hidden message shared between the two. “Didn’t happen to be that ghoul who came looking for you, did it?”

   The absolute mortification on Evelyn’s face told her everything mere words could not.

   “No shit,” Nova mused, stubbing the end of her dying habit out with a last blow through her lips. “Was he packing?”

   Evelyn choked on a sip of her soda like a warthog.

   “Big hands, big feet, big dick,” the prostitute said wisely. She peered down at Evelyn’s groin; the shame having long been abolished from years of work. “Bet that ass is sore.”

   “Okay! Nice talk,” Evelyn rushed, leaving her drink half empty and forcing herself to not limp out the door.

   “Go sit on something iced, you’ll be fine.”

   “Goodbye!” Evelyn swung the door shut, heavily leaned on the railing, and ignored the bustling evening crowd below in favor of the blanket of bright stars overhead.

   I had sex with Freddie Gomez last night, after curfew...we snuck out and did it in the cafeteria.

   Oh my God! First- ew. Second- you little harlot! They laugh, more tickles and belly roll pokes ensue. Butch-

   Doesn’t know! I mean, let’s get real, it’s not like we’re even dating-

   Yeah, but Freddie Gomez is just an asshole, and he shacks up with Christine Kendall, (gross!). He said my skin looks like the color of that fake sliced cheese we get!

   You know he doesn’t mean it.

   No, you don’t know how they talk about us. That’s what she wants to tell her, so desperately. You don’t know of the horrible things they whisper just loud enough for me to hear. They want me to hear. They’re jerks.

   She should have told her that. She should have told her everything, as though it would have somehow let her stay.

   The early morning was always worth the ungodly hours to wake up to. A dark velvet blue crushed with violet petals in the same mortar, some sprinkled golden flakes and misted orange citrus. It was quiet, the busy hours of daily life not yet coming to fruition. She liked to sit just outside the gates, watch the sun breathe life.

   ...which was promptly ruined by a waft of cigarette smoke leeching into her nose. Bleh. She turned her head- Jericho.

   “You’re up early,” he commented nonchalantly, not giving her a return glance as he stared out into the wastes.

   “Could say the same,” she half-muttered as she watched him procure a cigarette packet from his pocket to shake one out for her to take. “No thanks. Smoking’s bad for you.”

   He shrugged. “Whatever.”

   Evelyn returned her gaze to the natural wonder, feeling his eyes drill a hole through her skull. She hated that vulnerable vibe she garnered from being around him.

   He slaps my face more than his balls slap my pussy...he just pays Moriarty extra for the bruising.

   Nova had told her more than she ever cared to know about the ex-raider’s tendencies in bed. She inwardly shuddered, thankful Charon hadn’t dealt out similar treatment...she couldn’t help but wonder if he was reflecting on their experience as much as she was. She assumed not, if she had anything to go by with his immediate departure.

   The smell of cigarette-stained clothes was much closer than she would have liked, and she grew irritated at the lack of respect when it came to personal space. Jericho wasn’t too upset with their last encounter when she had crushed his nuts, so it seemed. She stood up, dusted the dirt from her butt, and proceeded back inside the safety of the walls, aware of his ogling gaze stalking her as she went.

   In an hour or so, the shops would be open, and the settlers would be roaming around like a congested ant farm. She divvied up her loot from yesterday’s short-lived scavenging hunt...and then proceeded to sit and inhale some frosted cakes while she stared at her sheets, newly baptized from a popped cherry. She really wanted to see him again...even if she didn’t.

   Wadsworth came to life from his preprogrammed alarm system, whirring around the place and muttering something of absolutely filthy...I insist you remove your shoes prior to entering, Madam.

   Her eyes zeroed in on the dried mud littered about- most certainly not from her. Hey, can you wipe your shoes off? Wadsworth hates the mess.

   Ugh. Too cringeworthy. Not like her place was clean to begin with.

   Are you hungry? Want a drink?

   Too...desperate for social company.

   You can stay the night; it’s going to be dark soon...

   She slapped her face in her hands and groaned aloud. For Christ’s sake, one quick fuck and she was already planning future visits like she was actually expecting him to show up at some point. Absolutely pathetic. The hickey on her neck was only getting darker, making her wear a thin scarf around it despite the heat. Forcing herself to get along with her day rather than sit and overanalyze the situation was more difficult than she could have imagined. Thankfully, Moira took her crap with an overly beaming excitement like always, not once prying about her new fashion statement.

   “Fission batteries?! You have no idea how much I’ve been needing these for this project I’m working on!” she chittered, tossing them in a crate with no care whatsoever. “Oh, yeah! Someone came by asking for you by name yesterday, kind of a scary guy! I told him to try Springvale, since that’s where you said you’d be going-”

   Jesus, Moira, remind me to never tell you where I put my spare key.

   Evelyn dumped the currency she had earned into her pack. “Yeah, he found me, thanks.”

   Did he just talk to everyone about her? He was certainly thorough...and now he knew where she lived, would he maybe come knocking if-

   “Hey now! I almost forgot!” Moira spun around, making popping sounds with her tongue as she nabbed something off the shelf. “He came by and left this for you.”

   An olive-green military-grade sheath was set down on the counter, the handle of the blade that was secured inside wrapped in some sort of worn leather. She picked it up, her tummy exploding with electric butterflies as the blade pulled smoothly from its casing.

   Holy shit. It was much better quality than her chipped combat knife, that was for sure. The refined edge told that it was recently sharpened by an expert hand and a trained eye. Something like this would rake in a shitload of caps!

   She replaced the knife back inside and held it as though it were forged from glass. He really left this for her? But why? She couldn’t get two words from his mouth that weren’t condescending (or threatening), and now he suddenly gives her something like this?

   He probably paid you, duh.

   All at once, her happy butterflies exploded into acidic fireballs. Wow. She was so stupid. It was so blatantly obvious she fiercely bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying in public. She did invite him, after all. Amata had never told her anything about gifts from her courtships, and prostitution was a common trade in the wasteland.

   She resisted the tremendous urge to chuck the fucking thing in a bin. It would fetch a decent price with Lucky Harith, at some point, and she couldn’t afford her pride to fuck her over...not like he had done, anyway.

   With much more sullen airs, she went back home and veered on autopilot to her caps stash that was kept locked away in the upstairs bedroom. Out of habit, she tallied her newest acquisition with the latest sum she had been keeping track of on a folded piece of yellowed paper.

   She blinked. She counted again. The same number. She painstakingly went through and counted each and every cap, suddenly flush and nervous and so damn giddy. All those long days, the calluses on her hands from digging through the rubble, the knots in her muscles from lugging a full pack around, the hours spent hiding from every threat and miles she’d walked for every specialty item she could sell...

   Two-thousand and sixty-two caps. She could now buy his contract, give the damn man his freedom as payback for saving her life, and forget about him as this debt would finally be rolled from her shoulders.

   Well, there was no time like the present.

   Out of sheer habit, he went to grab his knife. His fingers brushed the underlying leather of his pants instead, and he was inherently reminded of his impromptu decision before he had left Megaton.

   A quick thrum of his fingers on the table (that was compiled with a very vast array of death-dealing instruments he routinely performed maintenance on). He would need to visit Tulip’s sometime before his next supply run to replace it, and he was certain he wouldn’t find anything near as excellent quality as that one had been.

   The ever-turning rumor mill in Underworld was always filtering past his ears. He generally ignored it, had learned to tune out most things a long time ago, but certain key words had radioed in his attention most eagerly (something he would never admit to).

   Did you hear? Winthrop’s been making something in his workshop, they think it’s for that smoothskin...peh...bastard thinks he’ll finally get lucky.

   Charon hoped she appreciated the knife. It was exponentially better than that walking future tetanus shot she had threatened him with...he might have to kill Winthrop.

   He honestly didn’t expect to see her again unless they happened to cross paths at Northwest Seneca; Ahzrukhal didn’t let his leash drag too far.

   The bouncer stretched his spine in his seat, cracked his neck. He was becoming distracted by these asinine thoughts- it was a detriment, and could be dangerous. The wastes did not take kindly to complacency, and here he found himself sitting at this table, his mind wandering to the sound of her whimpered breathing and the taste of her sweat, rather than focusing on the task at hand. Now his dick was at full attention, and he had the unfortunate timing of needing to take a piss.

   He grumbled, quickly disassembled a 10mm he sometimes carried as a sidearm for a chance to cool down, and then left the bar for the urinals by the entrance. He did his business (at once reminded of her musky smell that still perfumed him), shook the tip, and craned his head from instinct as the front doors to The Museum of History opened.

   That fucking smoothskin was here.

   He would most definitely have to kill Winthrop.

   The zipper to his pants was shunted up tight, and he found his legs making great strides across the lobby in chase before she entered Underworld. She was lugging a giant duffel bag and small pack with her, to which he grabbed the latter and spun her around. She seemed surprised...and, annoyed.

   “It wasn’t like that, between us,” she spat at him. He did not understand the hostility and took a step back. Her angry, scrunched-up eyes quickly took him in from head to toe. Her voice was dripping with resentment. “I didn’t want it, but thanks anyway.”

   “I do not understand,” he rasped. Did she not enjoy the sex they had? She sounded like she had...he most definitely had.

   “You should’ve kept your fucking knife.” When he said nothing, she scoffed, “Whatever.”

   He watched her turn back around and go inside. She did not like it? It was a much better choice than her own selection...should he have given her something else, instead? He came back in, just in time to catch a glimpse of her speaking with Winthrop...and then disappearing inside his office.

   The smoothskin wasn’t his business. She wasn’t his employer. He got laid for the first (and now last) time and that was it.

   (He was going to kill Winthrop)

   With a hidden bitterness, he climbed the stairs back to The Ninth Circle, took his seat, and resumed his usual routine while trying not to think about what had just happened. The minutes passed, his guns and armor cleaned, and Ahzrukhal counted inventory while he threw out a drunk (maybe a little too harshly...as he ended up sailing over the balcony).

   The commotion down below drew out the pair from behind the closed door (and more eyes than he normally cared for) and Winthrop looked up and yelled something he didn’t bother to hear. The door slammed shut, he leaned against his usual spot with his arms crossed and expression lethal, and tapped an index finger along his bicep.

   “What the hell are you doing?” Ahzrukhal hissed from behind the bar. “Watch yourself, Charon. I don’t need Barrows up here again.”

   He gave a terse nod and resumed his silent fuming. The doors didn’t open again for over an hour, and when they creaked on their hinges, he threw the most hateful glare he could have ever constructed, directly at her.

   She completely ignored him, went to the bar, and threw the duffel bag on the counter. It sounded heavy. What in the world was she-?

   “All two thousand,” she said decisively, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

The Contract

   Winthrop was taken out of the bin, politely dusted off, and set back on the shelf...maybe not as high as the bouncer still was (he seemed to almost be glued down), but he was there. The warm greeting and immediate agreeance to help her with a small matter was entirely unexpected after her rude absence the last time...and then he gave her a pair of binoculars (customized with night vision!) and a kiss.

   Small, respectful, on the cheek, not so much a kiss as a brief press of his mouth to her warm skin, but it counted...right?

   “Hope to have that drink, sometime,” he had rasped nervously, and then he stammered as he pointed to the present in her hands. “You know, to-to show you all the features and everything, you’re a real beauty-I mean! It’s a real beauty! Not that-shit-I meant-”

   “Thank you,” she had interrupted, her face redder than a wasteland sunset. “I will...after I take care of something, if that’s okay?”

   “Yeah, of course, take your time. I’m here, I’ll be here, whenever you need me.” He had then forced a chuckle, gave her a very stiff wave of his hand, and then slapped it against his pants and blew out a sigh as she left.

   Every step to the top felt heavier than the last, as though her boots were slowly being filled with lead. The unfortunate patron who was now in a coma in Underworld’s medical facility had been tossed overboard by the very same man she had scathed at and was looking to free. She hoped he wouldn’t give her the same treatment...they would let bygones be bygones and never see each other again.

   At least, that’s what she drilled in her brain like a fever-licked mantra as she came to open the doors and step inside.

   There he was. In the corner. The energy he radiated was like a brewing cyclone over dark waters, visible from a distance, and deadly enough to take caution around. Every inch of chiseled muscle and oiled leather and big hands, big feet, big dick-

   She almost licked her lips at the sudden blinding vision of him taking her over the table. Focus! She was here for business! Important business! Straight-forward, no-nonsense, boring fucking business. Caps. Contract. Congratulatory fuck. (NO!)

   She tossed the bag on the counter before her underwear could soak through at the remembrance of how he had looked at her, how he had felt, how-

   WinthropWinthropWinthropWinthropWinthrop-

   “All two thousand,” she said with absolution, all of her pent-up anger (and sexual frustration) at the bouncer leeching into her tone. Wow. She didn’t mean to sound like such a dick, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

   The silence was stiff. Ahzrukhal didn’t say a word. She actually thought her rudeness had offended him until he walked to the safe on the wall, spun a quick combo, and popped open the hatch to handle a piece of paper very delicately. He closed it, came back to her, and held it up with the smarmiest grin that only a man of his nature could fashion.

   “I was hoping you had received my message,” his voice rattled. “This will only take a moment for me to count...Charon.” The bouncer snapped off the wall. “Clear everybody out and lock the doors.” He then nabbed the strap of the duffel bag and motioned to a (now free) table. “Shall we, my dear? Drink?”

   “No,” she replied, watching as Charon grabbed the back of someone’s chair to upend them from their seat.

   “B-but I ain’t done yet,” an inebriated ghoul burped into his glass, the collar of his shirt seized to hoist him out the door.

   The bar was emptied save for the three of them, and the bouncer took his place back in the corner, his line of sight in perfect view of her. She kept her eyes down and fiddled her fingers under the table; he would not stop fucking glaring at her! Stop it! I’m fucking helping you, you ungrateful asshole!

   Ahzrukhal took nearly all the damn time in the world. The sun could’ve imploded, as far as she knew. Every cap was inspected (yeah, like she had the time or know-how to forge one) slid into a bin, and mentally tallied. She became bored after the first few hundred, feeling nauseous at this point from the god-awful energy Charon’s eyes were lancing through her. All those weeks of living on the frugal edge, now lining someone else’s grimy (not even one-thousand thread count) suit pocket. Gone. Poof. Just like that.

   She should’ve just given him the knife back and calmly explained herself...but she probably ruined that chance now, anyhow. She stretched in place and sighed.

   “Problem, my dear?” Ahzrukhal flit his eyes up and then resumed counting. He had pocketed a few while she hadn’t been looking. “This is a large sum of money-”

   “Take your time, yeah, yeah,” she snarked, her mood growing sourer with every cap clinking. “What was with that message? Was that a bounty?”

   He again broke focus away from his tally. “You haven’t heard? You must then be considerably lucky. Don’t worry, Charon is an extremely talented asset. He can fill you in on the details, I’m certain. I would be more than...happy, to, once our transaction is settled, and a few drinks are had.”

   Ugh. Whatever. No one else had heard of it, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal, or he was more than likely trying to coerce her into buying protection. Not like that was the reason she was doing this.

   When he finally (FINALLY) ticked the last cap into place, he frowned, looked her dead in the eye, and lied, “I am afraid you have miscounted, as this is only-”

   “It’s two thousand. I had Winthrop count it myself, and he’s more than willing to vouch for it.” Years of dealing with the Tunnel Snakes had strengthened some resolve inside of her. “I think you’re the one who’s miscalculated.”

   Ahzrukhal leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyes a fraction. “...it seems I might have. A deal is a deal, smoothskin.” He then stood, reached inside a breast pocket for that piece of faded paper, and handed it over the table. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

   She took it, squinting at the inked lettering having long since faded from oiled fingers and time. So many worn creases, some dark spots from blood...she glanced up to the sight of the bouncer already walking over.

   “Ah, Charon, come to say goodbye?” Ahzrukhal asked with oozing smugness. Man, she would’ve punched him in the face for that-

   But Charon was instead drawing his shotgun, and rasped a single word that sunk a chill so deep in her bones she shivered.

   “Yes.”

   One moment Ahzrukhal was there, the next, atomized into a wet spray of blood and chunks that splattered the table, the chair, the caps, and her fucking face. The blast from his shotgun was felt, smelled, bitter and choking and suddenly her ears were ringing from the proximity. An eyeball rolled on the floor, the body dropped with a thud, and a seeping river of blood began to pool around her boots.

   She couldn’t move- she was frozen from shell shock- what the fuck just happened?!

   Another blast, mutilating Ahzrukhal’s corpse into ground beef and (not even a hundred thread count) shredded suit pieces. Something landed on her lap- a chunk of rotten flesh with a black indentation in the middle- what was once Ahzrukhal’s fucking ear.

   Charon gave a nod of approval, a very tiny twitch of his mouth like he was struggling not to smirk, and then lowered his gun at his side in one hand, the barrel smoking and his veins rigid from the adrenaline pumping through them. That warrior was staring at her, fresh from the battlefield with the glory of his killings staining his boots, and hers. He then spoke, not meanly, not smugly, not anything, really. A flat, rehearsed, drawn-out shtick he must have repeated dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Something this, clause that. She had no idea, she wasn’t paying attention, her eyes were still drawn to the chunk of ear still in her lap.

   “-and now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

   Her head slowly lifted as she blinked at him, and then she jolted from her seat as life finally animated her limbs (the bit of flesh made a nasty plop), the paper held out for him to take, a drip of blood falling from her fingertip.

   “I don’t want this. It’s yours now.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice. Takeit-takeit-takeit take the fucking thing. “I’m giving it to you.”

   Charon stared at her for so long the sun could’ve reformed, and she’d have no idea. There could be an entirely new world just outside those doors, another start to civilization.

   “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “This is for you.”   “I cannot take that.”

   She snapped it in the air at him, holding it out with her hand shaking. “Please take it, I did this for you, I did this because you saved my life, I owe you, now we’re even, fair and square, here, take it, fucking take it-!”

   The ghoul took his other hand, gently curled her fingers around the paper, and pushed it to her chest. “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   Oh no. No. This isn’t what she wanted, oh no-

   Evelyn looked down at the giant gloved palm still encircled around hers- she was trembling, violently- oh fuck, what the fuck should she do? Leave it? He’d have to take it then, right?

   A banging on the door outside whirled their heads to the sound. “Hey! What’s going on in there?! Ahzrukhal! That smoothskin better be alright!” A voice she didn’t recognize.

   “Open the door!” That was Winthrop. Oh my God, how was she going to explain this to everyone?! “Damnit open the door!”

   A sudden motion flurried around her. Charon poured the caps back inside the duffel bag, emptied Ahzrukhal’s pockets, and then in one fluid motion, hoisted the bag over one shoulder and fucking stood there, waiting, waiting on her.

   Evelyn looked down at the corpse, beyond recognition, (only identifiable by the one thread count suit). “Nope. No.” She threw the contract at him, to which he snatched from the air almost inhuman-like. Her mouth spewed word vomit after she turned to leave. “I’m out- do what you want- I’m not doing this.”

   The door was unlocked, and she thrust them open dramatically to a crowd that gasped and buzzed at the sight inside. She expected the microphones shoved in her face, the flashing of bulbs, the furious scrawling of pens on notepads. Can you tell us what happened?! Is it true?! Did Mr. Ahzrukhal get shot in the head? Are you aware you own a slave, now? She stepped through, the bodies parting to avoid touching her blood-sprayed clothes, the murmuring so loud it drowned her ears.

   “Evelyn.” A hand nabbed at her wrist and turned her around. She looked up with wide eyes, she wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t start to cry. Winthrop pulled her towards the stairs, away from the commotion. “What the hell happened?!”

   She could see Carol standing just outside her shop with the others, a hand to her mouth and head slowly shaking, disbelieving this nice smoothskin who had just delivered her son’s letters a mere hour ago was now Underworld’s biggest scandal of the (literal) century. She was always so nice, none of us had any idea. It’s such a tragedy to the community...

   All at once, it became quiet. The slow footfalls of heavy boots, a creak of leather, a gasp as he came too close. Evelyn watched the crowd give way to this ghoul a foot taller than everyone else, his shotgun still held at his side and deadpan expression giving nothing away. He was fully equipped with items she had never seen him wear before; he appeared ready for war. He looked at her, looked down at Winthrop’s hand still holding her close, and instantly whipped his gun up to bring it mere inches from the ghoul’s head.

   “No! Charon no!” she cried as Winthrop flinched backward, and she took a stand between the two. He instantly lowered it. “Oh my God.” She instead reached for Charon’s arm, tugging him along. “Let’s go-”

   They had to get out of there. They had to leave. She didn’t want anyone else hurt over this. He followed, obediently, just a few steps behind her down the stairs and making a beeline for the double doors.

   “Oh, shit, shit, my fucking bags.” She raced towards Winthrop’s office where she had put her stuff, not even hearing Charon’s steps right behind her until she shouldered her crap and spun around. “Oh, Jesus-”

   The (now ex) bouncer was staring at Winthrop’s bed. That was weird.

   “Smoothskin,” Winthrop rasped from inside the doorway. “Just tell me what’s going on-”

   He didn’t get a chance to finish, as a massive hand cut off his air supply and lifted him cleanly off his feet to slam him into the wall. A scream echoed from just outside.

   “Charon, drop him!” she shrieked in a panic. He swiveled his head a fraction to her, rolled his fucking eyes, and obeyed. “Winthrop, I’m so so sorry-” She squeezed past him as he buckled to his knees and wheezed air back down his throat.

   Charon merely planted his boot on his shoulder and punted him aside to make room. Man, what did Winthrop do in a past life to the guy?!

   “Now hold on there smoothskin!” A ghoul wearing a tattered surgeon outfit raised a hand at her by the front entrance, and then just as quickly lowered it as a shotgun planted in his face over her shoulder.

   “Charon!” she whispered with a hiss as she threw her weight into the doorframe, closing off the multitude of eyes watching them leave. She hurried over to the bathrooms, craning her head around for any sight of a chase. No one had followed them through.

   Evelyn ducked inside the stale urine-smelling restroom, her hands on her hips and face tilted to the ceiling. Okay. Okay, think, breathe. In. Out. Whew.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she blurted (after spinning around so fast she became lightheaded). The ghoul didn’t say anything but stared. Always the staring. Few words, all stares. “Charon!”

   “Is there a problem with what I’m doing?” he asked caustically, and at that moment, she never thought the sound of rude sarcasm could ever be so beautiful to her ears. Okay, he was still an asshole...her asshole, now. He stared.

   “Well, I mean-!” She threw her hands around, as though they explained everything she couldn’t finish saying. A laugh bubbled from her chest; she sounded completely mad. She smeared her face in a hand and-ohmyGod, Ahzrukhal’s goo was still on her skin. EW! She braced over the sink and turned the taps full spin, splashing her face and drowning in cold water to furiously scour away the evidence. When the floor was in need of a wet caution sign and her hair was doused and her jacket was soaked, she wiped the excess away and turned to look at him. Still there. Staring.

   “Stop staring at me!” she snapped.

   He nodded once, turned a precise quarter away from her, and stared at the wall.

   “Charon!”

   He immediately turned back to her.

   Evelyn gaped like a fish praying for water, and then she just strode on past him. She held a hand up when he immediately pursued. “No, no! Don’t follow me!”

   He nodded again. “As you wish.” He unshouldered his bags. “I shall wait here until you return for me.”

   (CUE STARE)

   “...was that a joke?” she asked nervously, watching him prop himself against a stall door, arms folded and expression angry. It was as though he was back at the bar and not some decrepit, hazardous bathroom that had literal shit in the far corner.

   He didn’t answer her, and she scathed, “Fine, fine! Have it your way!” She stomped out, feeling his glowing eyes shadow her until she was gone from view.

   “What the hell happened to you?” Willow asked dryly, dragging on a smoke and completely ignorant to the calamity she was being sentry to.

   Evelyn half-garbled a non-lucid response, dragging her feet and trailing water droplets as she went around the bend. There was no way he’d actually wait for her there...right? He’d have to grow bored and leave...right?

   “Oh my fucking God,” she muttered as she turned straight back around.

   He was still there. Waiting. She didn’t think he moved a single muscle.

   “Shall I join you once again?” he asked stoically.

   Real charmer. Absolute winner. A fucking brainwashed slave that was death personified and had the honor of taking her virginity...even her first kiss.

   God, when I said I really wanted to see him again...this isn’t what I fucking meant.

   Their eyes met, and she nodded (reluctantly).   “Yeah...let’s go.”

Ghouls and Guests Smell after One Day

   The change in hands was a pleasant surprise. The aftermath, however, was not.

   She must have known this would have been the inevitable outcome upon purchasing his contract, but she still refused it. It was nonsense, it was pointless to argue, and it was aggravating. It was some small miracle his conditioning kept him from pitting the base of his thumbs in her neck and just squeezing...at least until she just stopped being so loud. He assimilated very quickly to filter out anything that wasn’t a general order, otherwise, he would’ve gone feral. (He was most certain of that). Her mouth was running a hundred miles an hour, and they were lucky the road to her doorstep had been relatively safe without her screeching attracting anything that was looking for an easy meal.

   A metallic snapping sound granted his ears respite from her mouth. He finally gave her his full attention, for judging by her sudden silence and grim demeanor, something was wrong.

   “Uh, oh...” she mumbled, holding up the broken end of a key. In her fit, she had paid little mind to her strength when coercing her door to unlock, and broke the key in the knob as a result. She looked behind at him, sheepish. “Um...you don’t know how to fix that...do you?”

   He placed his hand over the knob, gave it a sharp twist, and braced his weight in the frame to force it open. He stepped inside, leaving her to gawp at his improvised handyman skills, and was immediately assaulted with an iron pot to the face.

   Thud!   “How dare you, you oversized, pea-brained oaf!” A Mister Handy came whirring down the stairs. “I will defend my Madam’s (ghastly) estate with every ounce of my-!”

   “Wadsworth!” His employer teleported between his loaded shotgun slugs and the robot’s ultimate demise. “Down! Charon is not a threat!”

   He instantly lowered his barrel to the floor from ingrained trigger discipline, although it didn’t wipe the nasty snarl from his face. That pot would’ve crushed his nose if he still had one.

   “But Madam, he broke the door!” it wailed.

   “I know!” She then turned around, motioning with a hand at the entrance. “You broke my fucking door!”

   His brow muscle nearly twitched right off his face. He should’ve shot Winthrop before she had stopped him...it would have been another nice memory to replay while having to listen to this.

   A grumble rolled off his tongue as he moved past her to set his bags on the crudely fashioned table. There was a loud groan, a crack, and the table folded in half as the obscene layers of duct tape that held it together ripped perfectly down the middle. Her jaw hung so low he was sure it would touch the floor. He took a seat on the tiny chair (the severe dip of the base slightly worried him) and he looked to her, awaiting his orders. After her earlier outbursts, he was completely unsure as to what she would require of him.

   For once, she kept her lips sealed tight, sat at the foot of the stairs, and waved the robot to its station. “Go ahead and power down, Wadsworth.”

   The Mister Handy gave him a squinted optic (he assumed it was glaring at him) and deactivated at its stand. They both then sat there, the door still wide open, the ray of light from her house casting a thin illumination to the dark beyond. She had her hands in her lap and eyes far-off into the distance. He sat straight (for the chair had no back) and stared at her. After minutes of silence, she looked at something on the screen of her Pip-Boy, and turned her head to meet his gaze.

   “Moriarty’s has rooms to rent. You can stay there for the night since it’s so late and, um...” Her eyes darted to the single mattress that they had just shared yesterday. She turned bright red and hugged herself tightly before looking back outside. “We can talk more about your contract tomorrow. I’m pretty tired...I can imagine you are too.”

   He shook his head. “I do not require sleep.”

   She gave him a weird look. “Pardon?”   “I do not require sleep.”   “I can’t tell if that’s a joke.”

   “It is not.”

   “Um...okay...” She appeared exhausted, wiping at her face with her hands.

   The air between them was stiff and uncomfortable, and then both their eyes landed on the bed. He felt a twitch in his pants. She was giving him that look- the one before they kissed. Then she turned away right as his dick got hard.

   “Obviously I’ll let you decide what you want to do. You know where the bar is, there’s the caps. If you’d rather stay here,” she lamely gestured to the minimalist ruined furnishings, “there’s food in the fridge and the bathrooms are up the hill.” She deeply sighed and looked at the door. “I guess I should try and fix that. Somehow.”

   An expectant look was thrown at him. He didn’t say anything, and she took the hint. She mumbled under her breath as she tried closing the frame- he had also busted a hinge off- and ended up laying strips of duct tape down the side of the trim. She gave him a shrug of her shoulders after he simply shook his head, but he ultimately kept quiet.

   “Yeah, like you got anything better,” she snarked, grabbing the side of her mattress to begin dragging it up the stairs.

   For the next thirty minutes, he remained in his place and watched his employer’s pathetic attempts at lugging the thing up by herself. It appeared awkward to handle and heavy enough for one person to struggle with...he ate a can of cram as he offered no help whatsoever. It certainly wasn’t his duty to. She cursed and wiped sweat from her forehead, and twice had the unfortunate luck of it wobbling off the staircase back to the ground floor. (Twice he had to lift a boot to veer it away from falling on him). A small pile of emptied goods was at his side when she finally made it to the second floor and shimmied it into another room.

   All was then quiet for a few hours. He figured she must have finally fallen asleep.

   A light breeze picked up and peeled the tape away from the doorframe. He didn’t bother reattaching each tedious strip, not even as he left to take a leak. He concluded his business on the wall by the doorstep (to keep any would-be trespassers within scope), rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck side to side as he eventually looked up to the sky. He never had the opportunity to see so many stars when he wasn’t traveling, and the lull of (false) security and zero expectation of being somewhere at a certain time was...relaxing (almost disarming), in a way.

   Charon came back in and performed a wellness check- her door was already slightly cracked, so he widened it to get a clear visual. She was fast asleep, curled in a tight ball and lightly snoring, with a rather large pool of drool darkening her sheets. He closed it, making sure the frame was actually secured this time, and resumed cleaning out her kitchen of anything and everything.

   He snooped through the locker (the door squealed horribly), picking up a 10mm pistol that had dirt crusted in the crevices, and a round jamming the chamber. The slide was pulled, the gun turned over and shaken, and the bullet clinked at his feet. He checked the magazine- it was the only bullet to have been expended. There was a pile of books, something wrapped in cloth, and a sad-looking teddy bear. He didn’t find the knife he had given her; he assumed she had sold it.

   The chair had a permanent dip to it after the hours he had spent sitting in it. He watched the slow rise of the sun chasing away the darkness- it was difficult to tell the passage of time in Underworld, so this was something he would become accustomed to.

   Evelyn awoke early and came down wearing a simple choice of wastelander’s clothes. She stopped before hitting the bottom step, looking out the wide-open front door he had never bothered to shut.

   “I thought about this contract thing a lot last night,” she said indirectly. She was still staring out the entrance, the warm light basking just below her feet. “I’m not gonna lie and say I understand it, or the situation it forces you in...” Her face turned to look at him, just as the sun flooded high enough to swell over her like a golden tide. “If you want to leave with someone else, tell me. If you want to stay here, that’s fine. Just...don’t wait on me to tell you what to do or anything, it’s weird. I just want you to be yourself.”

   He could only nod- she was honest, in that she didn’t understand anything. So long as she held ownership of his contract, he was sure she would come to figure out its boundaries and limitations. They all did...eventually.

   She stretched, satisfied with his nonverbal answer, and went to the fridge. It was empty. “O-kay, guess I need to go out.”

   The house was a disaster. Her door was hanging off one hinge, her table was its own pile of rubble, and a fucking murderous, grumpy ass ghoul was taking permanent residence on the only piece of furniture that had not yet been destroyed by him. YET.

   No matter how she tried to word herself to make it sound like she wasn’t directly ordering him to, he wouldn’t stop following her. Her shadow had grown three times its size- everyone stared. She even slammed the door in his face trying to gain some privacy for the bathroom (and some breathing room), but he merely leaned against the frame outside and growled at anyone that passed too close.

   “Stop it! You’re scaring people!” she finally snapped at him after he made sweet little Maggie burst into tears.

   He gave her a blank look, his tone bone-dry. “I am being myself, as you have asked.”

   Her eyes almost rolled out of her head, and she dipped inside Craterside Supply just to get him off the streets. Moira’s hired mercenary in the corner gave Charon a solid once-over; the ghoul repeated the gesture with a very clear message of I will wipe the floor with you.

   Evelyn rang the service bell more than was necessary and set the duffel bag full of caps on the counter. If Charon was going to eat her out of house and home, then she was going to take full advantage of him while he did so. She tugged at the scarf around her neck- it was hot!

   Charon immediately grabbed her chin with one hand and turned her head to the side.

   She panicked and tried not to flinch away from his unexpected touch. “What the fuck?! What is it?!”

   “You are injured,” he rasped plainly, zeroing in on the purple and yellowed bruising of her skin.

   She pulled away, not meeting his hawk-like eyes as they scrutinized her. Moira’s living theft- preventative was watching them closely. She batted at his hand as he reattempted to inspect it.

   “Stop it!” she hissed lowly. “That was from you!”

   “I do not recall,” he confessed, his deep voice vibrating around the room.

   She glared up at him. “Are you serious?” she asked stupidly. Her face was so red she was afraid it would burst. “From, you know.” She flailed her hands around. “The other day? When we-uh-”

   He remained silent and blinked. He did not seem to draw a correlation between the two.

   She cupped a hand around her mouth as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “When you came over,” she said as quietly as possible.

   “During sex?” Charon bluntly asked aloud, just as Moira bounced behind the counter.

   Evelyn gave a horrified gasp and whipped her eyes forward, trying to ignore the sweltering heat creeping up her neckline. She awkwardly coughed and rushed through whatever Moira was about to say. “What the fuck can two thousand caps get me for my house?!” she blurted, unzipping the duffel bag to spill a load of caps onto the counter.

   It worked, as the eccentric shop owner’s face went from mildly curious to absolutely thrilled. “Wow! I guess all those jobs you’ve been doing have really been paying off, huh?” Moira grinned, turning her attention to Charon. “I see you’re back in town!”

   He said nothing but glared at her.

   “You-you said you had a bedframe, yeah? And that tub?” Evelyn successfully returned the focus back to herself before she could ask for any more details about her (permanent) visitor. “I also need a new table...and chair.”

   “Well, I have a whole layout if you’re interested. Oh! There’s also this working Nuka-Cola machine I just finished putting together! I was going to use it for some experimentation on the properties of-”

   “Yeah, great!” Evelyn never thought of herself as to interrupt someone until Moira had stepped into her life. They would be there for hours. “I’ll take it. We’ll take all of it.”

   “We?” Moira chimed. “Hey now, is this a setup for two?”   Evelyn withheld a groan and motioned to the door. “So...what are we buying?”

   The entire overhaul took the rest of the mid-morning and late afternoon. Her back became so sore she thought she would be hunched over and crippled for the rest of her life as she carried box after box after fucking box to set up a cozier homestead. She knew it had been long overdue...but she guessed she never had much of a reason to have wanted to make it home, before.

   Not like Charon was the reason for it, anyway. Just an excuse.

   A big, grumpy, prick of an excuse that didn’t lift a single finger to help. He even let herself and Moira carry the tub over- that almost threw out her shoulders from their joints, but after settling it in place and having Walter come down to fit some piping, it had been so fucking worth it. It was awkward in the living room and took a whole corner, but yes indeed, it was worthy. A workbench was placed into the spare bedroom, along with some gun racks mounted on the wall. They were the only items he had pointed to when she had asked him of wanting anything.

   “You know,” she tersely remarked after dumping an empty steam trunk at the foot of her ‘new’ bed. “It wouldn’t kill you to help.”

   He was leaned up against the door (that Moira had fixed for her). “Is that an order?” he asked. She swore there was sarcasm in there.

   You bastard. She put her hands on her hips, blowing a hair from her face. “Well, no, but-”

   “Very well,” he replied just as plainly...and then he remained in spot, watching her mill about with those heavy brows and toasty glaring.

   The very last item- the soda machine- was in pristine condition and set to go up the stairs inside a nice little nook by a small table and chair. The bitch was heavy enough with the assistance of a dolly and some straps...and as she looked at the feat before her, she felt frustrated enough to cry.

   “There’s no way I’m getting this up there,” she mumbled. Two people couldn’t fit side by side on the steps...and she wasn’t strong enough by herself. She noted bitterly, “Bet if Winthrop were here, he’d help-”

   The ghoul left his spot, nabbed the handle from her, and effortlessly climbed the stairs with it in tow. The entire house shook after it was set in place, and he leaned over the railing to peer down at her.

   “Is there anything else you require?” he asked sharply.

   She crossed her arms and scoffed. “No, but thank you.”

   She was finally allowed a moment to rest, and plopped on the dusty couch in the center of her living room. She would have never recognized this place if she hadn’t put her own blood, sweat, and tears into the extensive transformation. (Wadsworth only made the comment of oh, joy, even more for me to clean...) It would seem these past few days were all about major changes. Her eyes came to settle on her newfound ‘partnership’.

   She didn’t know if all of those changes were good.

   Simms eventually came by to inquire about her reappearing guest, and she did her best to ensure him that the ghoul would be on his most solid behavior...until a certain ex-raider nearly got himself killed, thereby not even upholding the statement for a single day, that is.

   She had been organizing her stuff upstairs when a knock came pounding on the door. She came down and discovered him missing. It was a swell of relief (she ignored the disappointment) until she noticed his stuff was still in place. She had told him to do whatever...so, whatever. She assumed whoever it was, wasn’t Charon (as she wouldn’t have a door anymore). She swung it open and assumed correctly. Her eyes narrowed at the man.

   “May I help you?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you realize what time it is?”

   Jericho twiddled a cigarette around his lips, leering over her shoulder for a glance inside. “Nice digs. Where’s your fucking shuffler? Heard we got a new maggot farm in town.”

   “That is incredibly rude!” Evelyn shunted the door closed to prevent him from scoping out the place any longer. She crossed her arms and glowered. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Now.”

   He puckered on his smoke, the ember cherry brightening his sneer. “You fucking that zombie, girl? That’s some sick shit.”

   Slap!

   Her palm stung after swinging back to her side, his burning smoke rolling to the ground. The blood under her skin was boiling, and before she could bite at him to fuck right off, he lifted a fist to retaliate. His arm was swiftly nabbed from behind, and then snapped. Charon's outline stepped out of the shadows, his entire visage reading murder. Evelyn startled back as Jericho was hovered off his feet, his windpipe being crushed by a single hand to prevent the cry of anguished screaming as his limb hung at an abnormal angle. She could hear the cartilage of his throat cracking. The ghoul’s fingers reached all the way around.

   Jericho was then dropped to his knees, wheezing faint cries and trying to crawl away from the pair of white-hot flames that burned through the darkness at him. The ghoul unholstered a side pistol and swiftly planted it at the backside of Jericho's head.

   “Holy shit Charon, don't kill him!” she panicked. He obeyed, putting his gun away. “Shit, we have to get him to Doc Church-!”

   Charon nabbed the man by the collar of his jacket, lifted him a second time, and tossed him over the railing towards the medical clinic. They both watched as he rolled down the hill to eventually come to a stop in a pile of brahmin shit. Close enough.

   She gaped at him, and he curtly shrugged.

   “Oh my-come here!” Evelyn brusquely dragged the ghoul by the hand and locked them back inside. “This isn’t The Ninth Circle, Charon! I’m not fucking Ahzrukhal! I don’t need you to potentially kill people! I can handle myself!”

   He snorted, “I do not think so.”   A heartfelt gasp. The ghoul hadn’t said so much as a handful of words to her all day, and he decides to end it with that?!

   “You know what, fuck you!” she growled. “Take that stupid fucking contract, and shove it up your ass with God knows what else up there!”

   She stomped up the steps to her room and slammed the door shut. She took it back. She took every word back. She never wanted to see that hulking, scowling, asshole ghoul ever again.

[kidotm]

Knives and Butterflies

 He didn’t see much of her for the whole next day. That suited him well enough- it was, for once, quiet. The floating robot went about picking up after himself, muttering things in its synthesized voice that he ultimately paid little mind to. It brought her water and food while she completely shunted her existence from the world. He was only ever in her company while she left to use the head, and even then, he could feel her resentment towards him. He was performing his duty to her in keeping her safe- the walking scum he had tried to kill ducked into a building whenever they almost crossed paths. No one would threaten her with him at her side; she was lucky to have survived this long on her own.

   Sometimes, he heard voices drifting from under the crack of her door. They would repeat, fast-forward, play back. He heard her cry.

   He left her alone. It’s what she seemed to have wanted.

   By night, when he was certain she was lost in her dreams, he peeked inside just to ensure she was still there. She was. Asleep, her back to the door and curled in a tight little ball, the shitty pistol she kept laid out on her desk. He checked the magazine. It was empty. He used the workbench, crafted some ammo. It had been a long time since he had the privilege to do as he pleased...it did not go without appreciation. She was much more favorable compared with Ahzrukhal. He checked on her again. Still asleep. He ate some food- she said he was welcome to. A book was taken from the shelf, the pages fluttered open, he skimmed the words without actually reading them.

   A third visit- she had turned over. He took her bag, retreated to the couch, went through her things. A book, full of inked scribbles, some pictures he couldn’t quite identify...he squinted at something that very much resembled himself with the scrawled word, dickbag, beside it. A pair of black socks. The end of what was once her sledgehammer...he assumed it had not lasted very long due to improper maintenance. A...rock? Smooth, flat...and still a fucking rock. A pair of binoculars was the most interesting, and he inspected them carefully. They had night-vision scope capabilities, and he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into modifying them. It was probably the only useful thing she had.

   The curved handle of his knife was met at the very bottom. He slowly pulled it out, somewhat in disbelief that she still had it. She didn’t outwardly use it. She had said she preferred that he had kept it...it was set aside from the remainder of her things.

   He looked up, seeing a handful of white pinpricks through her roof until they eventually became streaks of red and gold. She came down in a different outfit, a simple green jumpsuit, her hair wild around her face. The bruising he had (supposedly) left her was nearly the same hue. She seemed to be in a much lighter mood.

   “Wadsworth usually does laundry on Tuesdays. He said you look like you smell- abysmal.” She scratched at her scalp. “You can take a bath, too, while he does it. Do you have any other clothes?”

   He shook his head. He practically wore his uniform as a second skin, only occasionally going for a dip in the Potomac to wipe away the gore. The ghouls in Underworld were all used to the smell of themselves, anyway. She was still blathering as he stood to begin stripping, unbuckling his armor and setting it down on the table she had replaced.

   “I can see if Moira has anything for-oh my God-!” She spun around after he undid his belt and started unlacing his boots. “Um, hello?! I didn’t mean right now! You couldn’t wait until I left?!”

   His fingers paused in lowering his pants. He blinked at her abrupt bashfulness. “You did not mind the last time.”

   “Well, yeah,” she blubbered, still refusing to look at him. “That was totally different!”

   He did not see how.

   Her eyes flit over, and she squeaked, “Okay, um, just, just- take your time, I’ll be in my room. Let me know when you’re done, and we can see if Moira has some gear that’ll fit you.”

   He watched her hurry up the steps, heard the closing of her door, and was left completely nude in her living room. He took a great deal of time soaking in the tub (even if he didn’t completely fit). A box of salts she had been most excited over was peeled open and curiously sniffed. There was still a faint trace of its former potency, so he shrugged to himself and dumped the entire thing in.

   The robot took his clothes with a disdainful absolutely atrocious, and when the warm water had finally lost its appeal by becoming cold, he marched up to her door and pounded on the frame, water droplets pattering the floor at his feet.

   “Finally,” she muttered from behind, thrusting it open to then slam it back shut. “Where are your clothes?!”

   “Being washed,” he grumbled. He had told her he only had one pair.

   After a few moments, her door gave the barest of cracks, and her hand came out holding a ratty dark blanket for him to take. “Here,” she insisted.

   He complied, wrapping it around his waist and holding the ends together with one hand. She hesitantly widened the space, seemingly relieved at his modesty.

   “Look, I’ll just bring whatever largest sizes she has,” she said, weaving side to side for a way around him. “Um, excuse me?”

   “I will come.” He did not like the idea of her being alone, and the incident from the previous night only reinforced his concerns.

   She waved a hand at his body, her skin nearly as red as his own. “Not half-naked, you’re not!”

   “Then I shall grab my clothes.”

   “But you just said they’re being washed,” she exasperated. “It won’t kill you if I-”

   “I will join you,” he rasped, turning away to retrieve his sopping uniform. His arm was grabbed at the bicep, and he raised a brow at her assertiveness.

   “No,” she said firmly, finally putting her foot down. “I’m going by myself,” she reiterated. “You are more than welcome to stay here.”

   Charon scowled. “Is that an order?”

   Her patience snapped. “I swear to God, if you say that one more time, I’m going to make you take that contract and shove it down a mirelurk’s throat!”

   He stared at her, silently, and then, “Is that an or-”   “Shut up!” she snarled, turning around with her hands thrown in the air. She very much liked to enunciate her point with them. “I honestly prefer not to have you at my side twenty-four seven, or, even better, how about never!”

   The muscle of his brow twitched aggressively. “You are my employer; it is my duty.”

   “Yeah, well, as your ‘employer’, I hate it,” she scathed. “I was only looking to free you from that slimeball and maybe have some sex.”

   She gasped, slapped a palm to her mouth, and the room felt very small. Her face grew so bright with blood he was worried it would pop. That would not spell good for her health.

   Charon glanced at the bed that was pushed against the wall, feeling his mounting erection tenting the blanket. She once again gave him that look- a parted mouth and eyes nowhere near sane. He dropped his decency.

   “Fuck it,” she breathed, her hand coming up to pull the zipper of her jumpsuit down swiftly.

   The metal frame of the bed shook and squeaked with every movement of her. She shimmied her clothes off while he pulled her boots to the floor, his over-eagerness already fisting his cock and widening her thighs with one leg wrapped around him. His other fingers held her at the waist, the tip of his dick meeting that warm, wet invitation that made him breathe tersely through his nose.

   “Fuck, wait-” Her lips ghosted inside his temple, the breathy exhale of her voice absolutely mesmerizing and filling his lungs like hot lead. “Let me do it.”

   The muscles in his core trembled, the fine line between an order and instinct conflicting pain and pleasure like mortar shells on his psyche. She fiercely held on to his forearms as she slowly worked down, his cock rewarded with a mind-numbing squeeze from her efforts, but it was then just as quickly taken away. She did it again, and then again, each effort drawing more of himself inside. He was aware his hands were shaking; his breathing labored. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

   “Okay.”

   He barely heard it, but heard it he did. Like a violent whiplash, his head came forward to thrust his tongue in her mouth and slam her down till her ass smacked his balls, the sensation rolling his eyes in his skull. The sound that bled from her mouth into his was choked- pain. He instantly lifted off.

   “Ow,” she slurred. There was no more hazy glaze-over to her eyes, no more half-lucid tongue kisses. She was wincing and gingerly moving away. “Sorry...”

   He took the hit- it was immediate. A lash at the front of his brain, a pulsating grenade decimating all coherent thought. He suppressed a groan and rubbed at his eyes- he’s had worse...a lot worse. She was speaking, she was apologizing, it confused his already addled mind. He strained to listen, for it could be important.

   “I guess it just takes some getting used to...sorry if I ruined it,” she said a little sadly.

   He rapidly blinked to look at her clearly. He had hurt her. He knew that much. She did not seem to notice that she had done the same.

   “Do you require anything?” he asked, widening her a bit to inspect for injury. She threw her eyes away, retreating from him with the curl of her body into herself.

   “No...I’ll be fine.” Her fingers fiddled with some stained water droplets on the sheets. “...was it at least, nice, for you?”

   He remembered she had asked this the last time. He didn’t really quite know what to think of that.

   “Yes,” he answered bluntly.

   When it appeared she had nothing more to say, he stepped over the pile of her clothes to retrieve his own from downstairs. The robot threw a complaint at his back while he fastened zippers and shrugged his (now flaccid) manhood inside cold leathers. He then came back up, hesitating as he walked in to the sight of her crying.

   She had her knees to her chest and back to the wall, her eyes puffy and face splotchy. “Please close the door. I want to be alone.”

   It was as clear as an order as he’d ever heard her give. He went back downstairs, sat on the couch in his damp attire, and briefly wondered what exactly she had grown upset over.

   Oh, shoot, I totally forgot!   But how?! This is what we do every first Friday of the month! She’s stunned, truly. They’d never miss holovid night, not once.

   I kind of got this thing going on with Wally Mack tonight, but-

   What? Wally Mack? The Wally Mack? That asshole who threw that baseball at the back of my head last week Wally Mack? Are you serious?

   He honestly feels really bad about it-

   Bullshit. You know he doesn’t. He’s just saying that to get in your pants. She can’t believe it. Her best friend. Her once great protector. The girl who ditched all the other mean kids in class to come sit by her at lunch and read comics with. She was being ruined. Ruined by them.

   Look just because you aren’t getting with anyone doesn’t mean you have to be mad at me for it!

   She’s silent.

   Oh, oh my God, Evelyn, you know I didn’t mean that...

   He was just sitting there, waiting, like he always does. That fucking ghoul she doesn’t know what to do with. Does she get rid of him? Tried her best, wanted to be a good person, got in way over her head? She wanted nothing more than to ask her dad, who was still out there, alive or dead.

   Charon stood as soon as she came down the stairs. He didn’t wear a single emotion on his face (unless it happened to be irritation). Nothing from the past half hour could ever transpire from him. He’s a fresh chalkboard she can scribble on, just for him to take the brush and wipe it all away. Clean, stainless. She often ponders what Ahzrukhal made him do.

   She moved past, he expectantly followed. She has an invisible tether laced around his neck; at any point she can just twirl it around a finger, pull it tight. He’d have to obey, the only sign of defiance being his eyes. He could kill a man with a single stare...she was sure of that.

   She wanted to try again, get it done right, this time. She wanted to strangle him with his own stupid fucking cord. She wanted to know what was wrong with her...Amata never made it sound this way. She wanted to talk to someone, have her insecurities heard and understood, but she was sure she would be ridiculed, for no one else ever voiced them.

   A pause. The blade he had given her was on the table...so was her bag. He went through her things?!

   “I see you found your shit,” she said snippily, thrusting the fridge open to nab at a very lonely carton of Salisbury Steak. There were no two ways to go about it...the caps were running low (that giant fucker ate a lot, forget house and home, he would eat her out of town!) and she was going to be forced to take on a job.

   She tossed it on the counter, lit the stove, clacked down an unseasoned pan. He just stood off to the side, silent. The slimy what-was-once-meat was slid onto the hot surface, the loud sizzling pops splattering some grease on her hand. She could feel his eyes weighing her down.

   “You did not like it,” he rasped matter-of-factly.

   “I’m not a prostitute,” she replied, refusing to chip away her cold shoulder.

   “I did not think you were.”

   The bent fork she held to turn over her steak was dropped, clattering to the floor and playing hide-and-seek under the stove. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You were just being nice?”

   There was a slight shift of his weight on his feet. He didn’t have a response for that. It was the first time she’d seen him so uncomfortable.

   “Oh,” she mumbled, busying herself with looking for another utensil. A spoon was drudged up, and she fumbled with unsticking her burnt meal from the skillet. “...it’s a cool knife...but you’d probably use it better than me, anyways.”

   When she shyly roamed her eyes over, he nodded. He had been replaced with a blank canvas again.

   “Very well.”

   The steak was charred. A small nibble determined it inedible, even to her standards. With a cough from the thick smoke that was beginning to cloud the small space, she dumped the entire thing in the sink and ran some water over it. She suddenly wasn’t very hungry, anymore, the entire swarm of rekindled butterflies choking her appetite.

   "Do..." She curled her bottom lip beneath her tongue. He stared, and she could already feel his teeth sinking in. "Do you maybe want to try, again?"

A Super-Duper Good Time

   If she had to credit one thing to the ghoul, was that he was certainly all business.

   Her jumpsuit had been removed again, his array adding to the pile with every tug of straps and buckle being unlatched. He didn’t seem to mind her being a captive audience, her quick turnaround from being respectful to downright shameless going unspoken.

   She studied his body, a sculpture of brimstone crafted by wrathful hands and a critical eye. A grotesque exhibit of bone and sinew, hidden underneath a heavy canvas that she got to pull away, admire, and touch.

   He finally stepped out of his pants (his fucking gloves were still on), and the bed gave a concerning groan as he knelt before her. Unlike the previous times, he seemed very unsure of himself, so hesitant to touch her. His looming body and outstretched limbs overshadowed more than half the bed; a giant old oak, charred at the edges with a white-hot pyre flaming within, the branches strong and thick amidst the ash at its base.

   She scooted back, suddenly shy. “We don’t have to do this, if, if you don’t...”

   The ghoul’s hazy eyes licked up from her bare legs to her face, his right hand slowly reaching down to brush over her thigh and curve inwards. On an unspoken cue, she widened herself the further his rough fingertips traced down, the pad of his thumb giving a light stroke through the dark, soft hairs that hid her away.

   A stretch of her hands, imploring to touch his face. He bent over, completely covering her away from the world, the sharp edge of his jaw and high cliffside of his cheekbones being met with fluttering strokes and gentle traces. The curve of her palm smoothly enveloped the exposed tendons of his cheek. She closed her eyes as the puff of air from his nostrils lightly blew on her face, the hard lines of his mouth meeting her soft lips for a kiss.

   BANG

   They broke apart instantly as her door flung open.

   “I do say, Madame, leaving food in the sink is rather crass.” The robotic butler was completely ignorant of the situation as it went about dusting the room on its automated schedule. “But of course, that isn’t your problem...”

   Charon left the bed to swipe at the side holster he carried, making her sit upright to nab at his elbow.

   “You can’t shoot him!” she gasped.   “I beg your pardon?” Wadsworth cried indignantly, which they both ignored.

   Charon switched the safety off, his tone absolute. “I will dispose of it.”   “No!”   The ghoul nearly snapped his head a full 180, making her recoil. “It is unnecessary.”

   She blew a rude sound. “He cleans my house!”

   “It is annoying.”

   “What the hell isn’t to you?!” When he didn’t have an answer, she huffed and began to dress in the (clean) vault suit the said ‘unnecessary’ robot brought for her, the mood now completely soured. “Forget it. I’m going to Moira’s.”

   A disgruntled grumbling was given in reply as he also began to lay claim to his clothes, neither giving a look to the other as they dressed in curt silence. He dutifully followed her out the door, and she pretended to fiddle with the screens on her Pip-Boy as they waited for the shopkeeper to come down.

   “So?” Moira clapped some dust from her hands and smeared a line of grease down her front side. “How’s it been going? You two been getting on okay?”

   “I think I’m ready for more research, actually,” she said dryly. Moira was the last of all people she wished to voice her weird relationship with this ghoul to.

   Charon, expectantly, didn’t contribute any social commentary.

   “Oh, goodie! I was wondering when my wonderful assistant would be wanting to continue!”

   She dove under the counter to slap a large self-made book onto it, the notes and pictures nearly impossible to translate without context. Moira skimmed some pages, humming in good cheer as she went along.

   “A-ha! Here we are! We’ll go ahead and be studying the effects of serious injury, so I’ll just need you to go out there, break a few limbs, and come right back!” She lifted her head with a wide, go-lucky smile beaming at them. “Easy, right?”

   Ghoul and girl both stared before sharing a glance. The glower on Charon’s face was easy to read- no fucking way.

   “Uh.” Evelyn licked her lips. If she were completely honest, she didn’t find any appeal in it either. “Anything else?”

   “Hmm...” Moira flipped back a chapter. “Hey, now! I almost forgot, we never finished the first segment! We still need to see if combing the Super-Duper Mart is worthwhile for food and possibly medical supplies.”

   Evelyn thought for a moment. It had been literal weeks since her last trial run, and raiders didn’t tend to last too long in one place...she again looked to her companion. This time, she wouldn’t be going at it alone, and he was very good at what he did.

   “Okay,” she agreed after turning back. “Super-Duper Mart it is.”

   Charon truly could not comprehend how she had survived this long.

   He had decided to follow her lead in the beginning, waiting and observing the situation before diving in headfirst. It sounded good on paper, but was shit when implemented by her standards.

   “I don’t see anything. Looks clear.” She shrugged, handing over the binoculars for him to verify.

   He grumbled under his breath as he roved the scope around. Fresh cuts of presumably human flesh were littered outside for the birds to pick clean. She would have been caught dead on her oversight.

   “Too bad there was no way for Winthrop to put a thermal setting on these,” she commented offhandedly. “Although, he did say he could add some features...”

   Charon thrust the gear from his face to inspect it more carefully. Was this what he had been rumored working on? He looked at her- she was still chittering nonsense and not paying him any mind. With a slight bend of the frame, he snapped it in half.

   “These are defective,” he rasped evenly.

   “What?!” She went to reach for them. “Where? Are you sure?”

   He pointed out the minuscule crack down the line, and she pouted, “Aw...maybe I can see if he can fix it-?”

   He tossed the piece of junk over his shoulder. “I will find something of better use.”

   He jutted his chin to redirect her eyes forward, and she relented, “...okay.”

   He waited for her to pull out a weapon so as to gauge the best sort of tactic for their approach, but when she continued to sit there and do nothing, he elbowed her bag. “Where is your gun?”

   She immediately became defensive. “I told you; I don’t use one.”

   Anything other than a ranged weapon would spell fatality with her. He would have to adapt...but when there was no other sign of anything else being brought forth, he gave her a look.

   “I was going to use these,” she said a little uncertainly, pulling out two landmines from a side pocket. “Like, put them at the entrance...lure them out...”

   He handled one, thinking it over. It would do. He could improvise. It was his job. “Very well,” he agreed, taking them both before making his way down the hill.

   He set one at each entrance, rigged their charge, and then beat a fist against the frame, nearly shaking it off its hinges. With careful steps around the side of the building for cover, he cradled his shotgun at his chest and glanced over to his employer, hiding in her spot like a mouse. She shyly waved.

   A raucous commotion could be heard building up from inside, and the first door opened to the sound of high-pitched beeping and a shout of surprise. Charon waited a breath after the ear-ringing explosion, then snapped his gun level as he came around the bend, automatically taking the first shot of opportunity as a raider barreled out and slipped on some splattered guts. The side of their head misted onto the third fiend giving close chase behind, blinding them temporarily and emitting a howl loud enough for the entire wasteland to hear. A slug blew their face apart, bits of bone and peels of skin sticking to the frame to then slough off at his feet.

   The remaining few quickly got smart, but not smart enough as they rerouted through the second entrance- a severed arm still gripping a rusty blade smacked him in the thigh as he flashed his muzzle inside, performing a quick scan for any more hostiles. It was quiet, but he kept strict situational awareness while motioning her to come down.

   She was tinged green in the cheeks, staring at the carnage that had transpired in less than ten minutes. A pistol was scooped up, the sticky flesh shook off, and the magazine briefly inspected. He then held it out for her to take.

   She looked at it with a deep grimace, her sickly color going sheet-white. “Umm...”

   “It is loaded,” he simply rasped, thinking back to her other pistol that had been jammed.

   He waited for her to take it, but she still just looked at it as though it would bite her. With a quick draw upwards, he held the gun perfectly straight and aimed down range at an imaginary target.

   “Aim. Pull.” His finger ghosted the trigger. He held it out a second time.

   With great reluctance, she took the thing with shaking hands; it almost seemed to weigh her down when she touched it. Somewhat satisfied, he gave a nod and then readied himself.

   “Stay close.”

   They slowly entered, mindful of their steps and surveying the mart- it was ghostly and dark, the empty shelving and scattered tins not promising anything worthwhile. Constructed catwalks over the aisles would have given a raider a clear visual of the duo, but they were lucky the threat had already been dealt with as they navigated the empty halls.

   At least, so his employer thought.

   She quickly took off in an unknown direction before he could properly clear the area, bounding over a counter and already rifling inside a few bins with her sack open and eagerly awaiting its next meal. Before Charon could bark at her foolishness, he saw the movement in the shadows and disregarded the chastisement as she whipped her head around to the encroaching presence.

   The raider had a lead pipe high above his head, ready to be brought down to fracture her skull in two. She held the pistol with wide eyes and an open mouth in a silent scream, the only crack of a gunshot coming from his own weapon. The drug-fueled fiend blew apart in the side, a splash of guts whipping her suit and blood spraying her face.

   Charon stalked straight up to her; his temper far more terrifying than the close encounter with death itself. He towered over her as she shrunk back from his lashing ire.

   “Stay. Here.” He then left, securing the perimeter and ensuring no other guests would appear unannounced. When he was certain they were safe, he rounded back to find her still frozen in spot. The gun was lowered at her side, her entire arm trembling. Her face was ruddy. She had been crying.

   “Are you injured?” he rasped.

   A simple shake of her head, a close of her eyes.

   “Why did you not shoot him?” he questioned.

   She could not freeze like that in the future- her survival also rested on her own reaction timing just as much as his did. Charon was good, but not invulnerable to error.

   No answer, but a hard bite of her lower lip and some more tears racing down her cheeks. He looked down at her, at this young smoothskin woman that had been sheltered in a Vault and had somehow persisted this long, who had laid claim to his cock and his contract. She was an anomaly to him.

   “You have never killed someone.” It was a simple fact, but it came out more as a flogging than an observation. She flinched, visibly pained. “You will die if you cannot take a life.”

   He then spun on his heel, keeping watch as he waited for her to gather whatever supplies she needed to fulfill her task. When her bags were bulging and her tears were dry, they left the remains of the Super-Duper Mart behind them. He did not care to comment on the fact that the gun had been abandoned, as well.

   The tap was spun, her fingers dipping in the tepid water, eyes glazed over and far gone. She could see that face, holding no sanity or merciful regard for her own life. Smell his terrible breath, taste the sugary lace of chems from his clothes.

   She turned her head to the ghoul sitting on the couch, taking no subtle hint whatsoever to take his leave and grant her her privacy. She would have been frustrated if she did not feel so hollow. He had saved her life...now more than once.

   “Thank you,” she said softly, turning his head from the front door to her. “For what you did, today.”

   “It is my duty,” he responded in that gravelly, somber tone.

   She turned to the side, flicking at the surface of the water to create ripples across its smooth plane. “If...if I gave your contract away, would you shoot me, like you did with Ahzrukhal?”

   Their eyes met. He betrayed nothing. “No.”

   “Guess that’s good then,” she mumbled sarcastically under her breath. The flat side of her hand smacked the water a few times. “I’d like to enjoy a bath before it gets too cold.”

   He didn’t move, and she tersely huffed, “Um, that kind of means I’d like to be alone, please?”

   The front door was once again stared at; he was paranoia on steroids. “It is not safe. I will keep watch.” When she was about to groan some form of objection, he added, “There is nothing I have not seen.”

   She choked on her argument (and some spit) but persevered to preserve whatever moral decency she had. “I would like to bathe in peace and quiet!”

   “I am not the one being loud,” he rasped flatly.

   “I’m not going to ask again!”

   His head whipped to her so quickly that she nearly fell into the tub from fright. With a very faint narrowing of his eyes, he said, “Would you rather I stand watch outside?”

   The inside of her cheek was nibbled on. That asshole. The ghoul wasn’t exactly a crowd pleaser amongst the locals- he frightened them and generally kept everyone at bay...besides Moira, who seemed to be the only person willing to be within two feet of her and her abominable bodyguard. Having him perched on her doorstep just to growl at anyone passing by like some angry dog would only escalate the rumor mill she was sure was already spinning around about her.

   Yes. (That was the reason).

   Not because it was cold and the air was slightly damp, casting a chill on anyone beyond the warmth of indoors, not due to the fact he would be left out in the dark, exposed to the elements while she enjoyed the refreshment of a salted bath...

   “You can keep watch in here,” she said dully. “I’m not going to ask you to go outs-”

   “Very well,” he interrupted, somehow sinking his weight even further into the broken springs and pressed cushions.

   He’s a person not a dog-he’s a person not a dog-he’s a fucking asshole and he should totally be left out in a doghouse!

   She sighed and reached for the box of scented salts she had the foresight to purchase from Crazy Wolfgang eons ago...the box was already opened, and she tipped it upside down to discover it was already empty. Her head slowly roved to the ghoul that was keeping vigilance on her unmoving doorframe, her nerves fraying one thread at a time.

   “You used the whole thing?!” She was flabbergasted. It was almost comical, and she let out a breathy giggle at the thought of this giant one stop bullet-in-the-brain shop ghoul taking a nice reprieve with lavender-infused crystals.

   The empty box was thrown at the bin, missing completely. She heard a ghost of a snort from him.

   “I really don’t know what to do with you,” she mumbled to herself, unstrapping her Pip-Boy to set it aside. She rubbed at the area around her wrist and unlaced her boots, pausing at unzipping the suit from her body. “Can’t you, like, watch the door from somewhere else, at least?”

   The couch breathed relief after he stood, his shotgun taken with him as he went upstairs. Every single step reverberated around the house...it appeared when he wanted to be heard, he absolutely made sure everyone would listen. The creak of a chair met her ears from directly above her, and she glanced up at him spying from the little nook beside the Nuka-Cola machine. The light didn’t exactly illuminate the corner very well, so only his faint outline and glowing eyes were visible.

   “You went from being obnoxious to just being a creep,” she muttered.

   A zipper from his pack was opened above, and as she began to unbraid her hair and unshoulder her suit, a large splash of water drenched her before she could even undress completely. She gasped loudly, looking around at all the water soaking her floor. An item had been tossed into the tub...it was another box of salts- Clementine Chamomile! That dickbag had found a replacement at the mart and somehow decided that this was the best opportunity in presenting it to her.

   “Ugh!” she bitched, retrieving the sopping wet carton before it could further clump and dissolve.

   Screw this! She knelt by the ceramic, scrubbed the blood from her face and neck, quickly wrung out her hair, and stomped up to her bedroom. She threw the shadow demon in the corner a nasty glare before shutting herself inside.

   The jumpsuit was hoisted back on, her boots angrily laced tight, and her scarf wound a dozen times around her neck- she dark-humoredly considered fashioning it into a noose. She flung her door open and stormed back downstairs to throw her blood-spattered vault suit into the tub. (Might as well not waste reasonably clean water).

   “I’m going to give Moira the scoop,” she called up, her eyes trained on fastening her Pip-Boy back in place. “You can-”

   “I will stay here.”   Evelyn paused in securing the latch, looking upwards with serious doubt. “...really?”

   A nod was given. “Be cautious.”

   “Um, okay?” She shook her head, feeling uneasy rather than relieved at this sudden change. She lingered in the living room for a few minutes and fidgeted with the straps of her pack, unsure as to why she was feeling so anxious.

   “Is there something you require?” he rasped plainly.

   “No...” She went for the door. “Be back in a few.”

Preconceived

   Evelyn left Craterside Supply with a few anecdotes on avoiding obvious dangers whilst returning with some oversized clothing items for the big guy, a used leather armor set for herself, and a whole new research chapter to endeavor for the both of them. She shouldered her bag and went to step past the saloon when the brief idea of enjoying some actual privacy redirected her feet inside.

   It was the typical evening crowd. Gob was busily wiping a spill from Walter’s tipped beer while Nova made easy chatter with a dusty caravan trader, coercing him to spend some caps for a little promiscuous company. The ghoul turned to address his newest customer, the usual brightening of his expression turning grim.

   Evelyn took her seat at the bar, giving a tiny wave of her fingers. She shuffled around a few pockets in her pack, laying out a bundle of letters to discreetly slide over. “Sorry about the wait. I got kinda busy, lately.”

   The ghoul snuck a glance behind him as he hid the postage inside his pants. “Hey smoothskin, you, uh, look good. Wasteland hasn’t spit you back out yet.” Gob set a beer down, his eyes nervously searching around the room for her absent stalker. “I’ve been hearing some stories about you...”

   “Yeah...he’s...staying, for awhile.”

   Gob leaned forward, his rasp coming out as a hiss. “Smoothskin, what the hell are you thinking?!”

   She shrugged, entirely unsure herself. “It’s like you said, not all chains are visible.”

   “That didn’t mean you had to go around and take ahold of them yourself!” He noticed her visible frustration with the onset of her frown, and he sighed. He shuffled on his feet, wholly uncomfortable. “He...he hasn’t hurt you or anything, has he?”

   “No,” she said a little sadly, refusing to meet his eyes and instead peering inside her glass. “He’s not like that, with me, at least.” She looked over to the prostitute eyeing her from across the room. Nova winked.

   Evelyn set out some caps, and then a few more. “Can I please get a shot? Whatever is safest, thank you.”

   A glass was poured, and she tipped the rim to her lips, immediately gasping from the liquid fire racing down her throat.

   “Thanks, Gobbie,” she said with a cheeky grin as his eyes widened. “Yeah, your secrets aren’t so safe.”

   “Just don’t go saying it out loud,” he rasped quietly. “Nova would never let me live it down.”

   “No promises.” She smacked her boots to the floor, sidling around to whisper to Nova. “I really need to talk to you.”

   The prostitute took out a cigarette and motioned to a corner table, speaking around her briefly to the future client. “I’ll be upstairs in a minute, honey.”

   They took their seats. Evelyn fiddled with a fraying thread on her jumpsuit, her neck already creeping with an uncomfortable heat.

   Nova lit her smoke and eyed her critically for a moment. “So, what’s the scoop? Heard about the ‘big and ugly’ in town.” She lifted a hand in apology at the quick scowl on Evelyn’s face. “Sorry...I don’t know how you do it.”

   Evelyn pulled her beer to her chest and licked her lips, trying with all her discretion to keep their conversation private. “...I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, with...you know.” She flamed, too embarrassed to continue any further.

   The other woman took a big inhale, raising a brow and quirking a smile as a tease. “Still hurts?”

   A shy nod; the tips of her ears burning.

   Nova blew a cloud over the table, gazing off to something across the way. She appeared to be in deep thought for a moment. “His thumb should be some good foreplay.” She looked back at her. “And try to relax. When you got that figured out, come back and we can talk about the fun stuff. I got to go work now, sugar.”

   Evelyn turned in her seat to watch her leave and was met with a giant brick wall of leather standing at her back. She looked up, horrified. Charon was preoccupied with staring at his thumb before giving her his full attention.

   “You did not return,” he merely rasped.

   “OhmyGod! How long have you been standing there?!” she squawked. When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up a hand to stop him, hissing, “You know what? Nevermind! I said I was going to be right back!”

   He nodded. “Yes.”   “Did you take that as fucking literally?!” There was no answer, so she guffawed, “Of course you did. Jesus.” She moved around him, making a beeline for the door.

   Moriarty whistled at her. “Caps are always welcome at my saloon...but your friend there pays double.” He gave Charon a distasteful look, as though he had smelled something rancid. “What the hell you looking at, fucking shuffler?”

   “Whatever,” she muttered as they continued to leave.

   A crash of glass and a shout made the room grow quiet.

   Moriarty shoved Gob aside, the ghoul tripping over his lack of balance in a heap on the floor. Everyone stared as the proprietor stalked up to his bartender.

   “That’s coming out of your pocket, you hearing me, zombie?” He punted the tip of his boot into the ghoul’s side, earning a loud groan. “Eh, what the hell is that?”

   It was the first instance Evelyn had witnessed physical abuse towards the ghoul, and as she involuntarily took a step forward to say something, Moriarty bent over to swipe at the stack of letters she had just delivered.

   “Fuck are these? Letters? From whom?” he spat, and ripped the sheets into pieces, each tear drawing a pained whine from the ghoul. “You trying to pull one over on me?”

   Evelyn came around the side, her pent-up anger from the past few days finally bursting the carefully crafted dam she had built. She failed to notice the entire stillness of the room; the lack of intervention from the others who simply watched with tight mouths and passive eyes.

   “That wasn’t your business!” she snapped, and the room seemed to fall on her. “You don’t have to-!”

   “Was this your doing, kid?” Moriarty interrupted, encroaching on her and completely ignoring Gob still sniffling about on the floor. He came uncomfortably close to give a snarling threat, and then he was gone. “Hrk!” Moriarty was smashed into the bar counter, erupting a scream from across the room. Charon had simply grabbed the entire side of the man’s face with one palm and brusquely applied pressure until Moriarty’s head swelled like an overripe mutfruit.

   Patrons rose from their seats and Gob scrabbled away. Evelyn couldn’t help but stare. The big ghoul wasn’t looking to release the crushing force without some form of word from her lips, and for the very first time...she considered not saying anything at all. Moriarty struggled, his arms flailing uselessly and eyes bulging from their sockets. The entire color of his skin darkened a deep shade, the veins on his forehead protruding until they seemed ready to pop.

   Her hand gently rested on the ghoul’s bicep that was holding the man down at her unspoken command. The amount of power surging beneath her palm was frightening and awe-inspiring all at once.

   “Let him go,” she said softly. Charon turned his head to her, showing no exertion whatsoever. She nodded, and he released.

   Moriarty immediately crashed to the floor as his knees buckled, a strange croaking sound emitting from his throat as he struggled, globs of drool dripping to the floorboards.

   She looked around the room. They all stared, afraid, of her. Without a word, they left the bar, everyone in their path quickly darting from their way. After the door had closed behind them, a buzzing drone came alive from the inside, and she simply stared at the railing that the bar owner had perched on many a time to oversee the hive of activity in the town below. It made her think of Alphonse, high up in his Overseer's office, looking down on his subjects as they went about their lives.

   “Would you have killed him?” she asked quietly.

   He nodded.

   “Okay...let’s go home.”

   She had sat there at the table, far too silent to not be unnerving. He had locked the door and taken his position to blow the first intruder into chunky mist. A knock had come calling, and he tried to dissuade her from answering it first with no success.

   “It’s Simms,” a voice muffled through.

   She opened it- they spoke. Charon eyed the town sheriff with a very clear challenge if he so thought of using more than just words. Their conversation was succinct and brief. She retook her seat, looking far into the distance at something he was too blind to see. He patiently waited, keeping as reserved as she was until she came to stand before him.

   “May I use your knife?” she asked.

   Without thought, he unsheathed it and held it out by the tip. She carefully took it, so very tender and delicate with its lethal nature.

   “I’ll be right back,” she said.

   Almost immediately, he stood. If he had any hair left on the back of his neck, he was sure it would be electrified. “I will come.”

   “You’ll stay here.”   It was a clear command. His hands curled into tight fists. “I advise I do not.”

   “It’s alright...” She turned for the door. “I won’t go too far.”

   The absence of her presence concluded after ten minutes. He had waited in the doorway, staring out into the dark without actually being able to leave, listening for any distant screams or muffled cries that she may be in danger. She returned with the knife in hand and no sign of injury.

   “Thank you,” she said after bequeathing his blade to him. “I know it’s late...but there’s someplace I want to go. It’s for a job. Do you want to come?”

   She was inane. Of course he would.

   She dressed in an entirely new outfit of some badly-needing-oiled leathers, shouldering her gear and leading him underway of a moonless sky. She didn’t seem to make any particular effort in scouting for dangers- twice he halted her pilgrimage to deal with some radscorpions. She simply buried her nose in the green glow of her Pip-Boy, fiddling with the knobs and dials on a detailed map she used as a guide.

   A crumbling overpass engulfed her in shadow; one moment, there, the next, gone. He followed, his boots crunching some gravel beneath his heel and shotgun readily propped at his chest. The pack from her shoulders was removed and set down, the eerie glow of her wrist computer providing the only source of illumination. His eyes adjusted- he watched her as she began to undress.

   “What are you doing?” he rasped, swiveling his head around on a dime for possible dangers. There was no answer.

   The Pip-Boy was set on her bag; her shoes unlaced and stepped out of. A wiggle from her leathers; the underwear cast aside. He stared, simply because he couldn’t help in doing so. The buckle of his belt was met with certainty and all lack of awareness to the precarious position it put them in as her fingers undid the leather strap, before coming down to unzip his steadfast erection. The words of caution were translated as a terse sigh through his nostrils, and she bent down to put her lips to it.

   His shotgun was nearly dropped from his hands, but he quickly snapped back upright and gave a poor attempt at scanning the empty, dark wastes around them as he tried not to let the sensation of her hot, wet mouth muddle his thoughts. A swirl of her tongue over the tip released a backward tilt of his head and a stifled groan. He then felt his shaft slowly being worked down her throat, and he had to harness every ounce of will not to plunge himself completely when she stopped almost halfway.

   A loud, gagging sound made him glance down, his jaw tight and knuckles bone-white as he gripped his gun so fiercely he could have snapped it. Her lips were stretched, a web of drool swaying down her chin. The tip of her teeth abrasively stroked at the scarred skin of his cock as she pulled up and away, her mouth widening as she gasped for air. His eyes became slits as she turned around and leaned over a giant slab of concrete rubble, the look on her face becoming all the invitation he needed for some semblance of regaining sanity.

   Her legs widened as he rested his shotgun over one shoulder, his freed hand coming down to squeeze a handful of plump white flesh that faintly glowed in the absence of light. He was throbbing, painfully so, but he remembered the words the prostitute had given and reached underneath to cork his thumb in her. He gave no warning or gentle entry, and she clawed at the rock with a stuttered moan.

   “Fuck-fuck, go easy, please,” she panted, closing her eyes and kissing her forehead to the cool slab of stone.

   He nodded, forcing himself to tear his eyes away to charade the role of protector as he fingered her with unrhythmic, rough thrusts. The desperate little breaths and fevered whisperings of fuck and yes scratched at the composed psyche behind his eyes. He felt the hot, slippery mess trace around his wrist and soak his glove, could feel the silky flesh tighten around his thumb. He curled it inward, and listened to the most amazing sound leave her lips that he’d never heard a woman make before. He considered stroking himself just as she reached around and grabbed at him, the touch magnetizing his cock straight to her pussy. He came as soon as she had mounted, and he tightened his fingers around her ass to stop her from further riding him. She turned her head slightly, her hair falling over her face.

   “I am done,” he managed to croak out, withdrawing himself slowly and shuddering at the sensitivity. He tucked his chin to his chest, the urge to take a piss retreating his steps a few feet away while he listened to the sounds of her outfit being put back together.

   After his own decency had been cobbled with one hand and his neck cracked to the side, he turned around to the sight of her perched atop the boulder, staring down at the little screen with hooded eyes. She still had not braided her hair, and she scooped the entirety of it over one shoulder, a tidal of waves and curls framing one side of her face. He lowered his shotgun to his side, having never parted from it.

   “Does it bother you...killing people?” she asked quietly, and when he remained silent, she looked at him.

   “No,” he finally replied, his guttural rasp still tinged with husk.

   “Did it ever?”

   His answer came a little slower. “Yes.”   “What changed?”

   He didn’t know. Or maybe cared not to. She blinked at him, owlishly. Waiting. He resisted the urge to look away. He redirected his gaze to her lips; the cupid's bow an emerald shade.

   “Everything,” he grumbled.

   “Everything...” She looked around at their surroundings, as though she was noticing where they were for the first time. “Yeah. I can see that.”

   He didn’t further the conversation, and she led them on.

[kidotm]

A Simple Side Quest

 The entire weight of the world seemed to crash on her shoulders after a mere half hour of walking toward the next point in Moira’s chapter. She rubbed at her eyes and twice stumbled over something, almost faceplanting into the dirt before she caught herself back upright.

   The black backdrop of the night did nothing to stimulate her senses; she needed to sleep before they continued any further. A nudge at her shoulder from the ghoul’s elbow made her turn her head in the direction he jutted his chin to. The faint outline of a trailer was difficult to distinguish against the contrast of rock formations, and she would have missed it completely if not for her companion.

   “Just a few hours,” she mumbled as one does when drunk on exhaustion.

   Charon briefly poked his head inside and ushered her in, and she had only laid into her pack before completely drifting off with an open mouth and light snore. The break of dawn filtered through her eyelids, waking her from sleep and forcing her to groggily sit upright. A glob of drool stained her skin. Charon was seated in the doorless entry, his gun cradled in his lap and eyes scanning the horrific great beyond of dirt and radiation. He glanced at her as she pulled water and boxes of food from her pack.

   “Here,” she said thickly, her voice still fresh with sleep.

   He wordlessly took it while she dug around for her own breakfast. The time on her Pip-Boy read way too fucking early to be up and alive, but she chewed the bland contents and tried not to notice the dense pressure between them.

   “Nova doesn’t take ghouls,” she randomly blabbered.

   When he turned his head, his expression blank and not understanding a word she had just said, she cleared her throat and looked down at her lap full of crumbs.

   “The prostitute, back at the bar...she told me she doesn’t take ghouls. It’s just, I mean, I hope you don’t think you’re stuck with me, or anything.” She tried to muster all of her past insider knowledge into her tone, the false bravado sounding short on her ears. She hoped it didn’t on his own (or lack thereof). “I know how it works.”

   The beating of her heart hurt as she braved a look at him.

   “I do not understand,” he said plainly.

   “You know...” She swayed her head side to side, once again not meeting his eyes. “Having sex, thing.”

   Charon stood, and the topic seemed to have come to a swift end as he waited for her to do the same. The day passed on, the sweltering heat of the sun casting a shimmer in the air above the lifeless landscape; she pointed to a lone high-rise building in the distance as they came closer to their intended objective. It seemed so very out of place.

   “What is that?” she asked, the past few hours of taciturn silence between them having finally been broken.

   Charon glanced over, his dusty boots sinking in the sand. “Not safe,” he rumbled at her back.

   “Yeah, that really answered my question,” she muttered.

   He either did not hear, or ignored her sarcasm as they came upon the RobCo Facility, the cool air wafting from beyond the opened door making her sigh in relief and eager to step inside. Charon halted her by the shoulder before she could escape the burning on her skin.

   “I shall enter.” He bypassed her, armed and ever-ready to encounter a fight. He gave her a quick nod of his head to have her follow in step behind him, and she dimmed the screen of her Pip-Boy as they traded the blinding sun for damp darkness.

   A skittering across the tiled floor made her latch onto him, and he berated her with a scowl as he rudely shrugged her off. The ghoul then paused in the middle of the room, training his shotgun's line of sight at the sound as it quickly scurried their way. A radroach stepped into the dim lighting under the cracked fluorescents, and he relaxed his stance whereas she grew stiff and held onto him a second time.

   He growled and shook her off again. “Do not do that.”

   She was staring at the bug with the widest eyes. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered.

   Charon raised a brow, looking back at the wasteland’s most common pest. “My contract entitles you to combat services.” He aimed the tip of his barrel at the thing. “That is not combat.”

   When she didn’t move a single muscle (he didn’t think she even breathed), he rolled his eyes and moved on without her. Whatever the reason she dragged them here, she was sure to snoop around and pilfer every nook and cranny, therefore he had to preemptively ensure the building was secure.

   “Wait here,” he rasped, the hissing and waving antennas on the floor being crushed into goo beneath his boot.

   The facility was home to nothing but vermin and strewn piles of robotic scrap. He passed the door leading to the management offices, rounding back to the lobby to proceed with his employer. She was not there.

   He roved the newly emptied halls, poked his head inside a few spaces. “Evelyn?” he called out, briefly considering that she may have made her departure back outside.

   He had opened the door and was about to vacate the building when a blood-curling scream pounded his feet back through the halls, the metal catwalks groaning under the force as he raced towards the sound of certain death. He must have missed an enemy. He did not know if he would make it in time-

   The ghoul burst into a room on the factory level, assessing the situation before him at lightning speed. Evelyn was sitting on an overturned trashcan...that was moving.

   She caught sight of him as it veered towards the stairs. She cried, “Charon!”

   He lifted his gun. “Move.”

   She didn’t need to be told twice. She scrabbled behind him just as the can tipped over, a sizeable radroach crawling away to safety.

   Charon slowly lowered his weapon, throwing her a rather dirty look.

   “That thing is fucking huge!” she sniffled, trembling all over and hugging herself tightly. “I-I panicked and thought I’d trapped it...”

   He released an aggravated exhale through his nose, drilling all of his frustration into the flatness of his tone. “Do not scream for me like that again.”

   “I was terrified! I didn’t do it for fun!” she defended herself with a nasal whine. She looked back to the dark crevice the insect had disappeared through. “...do you think it’ll be back?”

   His only response was a curt nod of his head for her to continue. With great reluctance, she navigated deeper into the recesses of the building, pocketing anything she could wrap her fingers around until they came to a door.

   “Guess the mainframe is through here,” she mumbled to herself. There was a turn of the knob and a loud squeal as she opened it, and then she just as quickly slammed it back shut. Her hand came away from the frame, and she backed up a step before looking at him. “I’ll wait here.”

   Charon grumbled sourly under his breath as he stomped around inside, disposing of mutated roaches and territorial molerats with the brunt force of his heel. He wasn’t going to waste shells on such insignificant pests. A few Protectrons in sealed units were quickly considered, but they appeared to be inactive.

   He opened the door. “It is clear.” His head turned to watch her scurry past and proceed to open a vending machine and clean out a fridge. He turned down the offer of a box of snack cakes that she held over to him.

   They continued up some stairs, and she sucked the frosting from her fingertips (that made him feel a certain way) as she darted for the control room that he had previously scoped. Her pack made a loud thud after being whisked from her shoulders to the floor, and she dug around all the useless crap she had scavenged for a peculiar item that she held up for him to see.

   “Easy peasy.” She smiled, attaching it to the mainframe. “I guess this is supposed to like, control old tech or something?”

   He didn’t pay attention as she continued to ramble and type some keys in. (He really didn’t care).

   A sudden alarm began to blare, and the pod beside them containing a dormant Protectron hissed as it opened. She looked over, horrified, and he nabbed her by the elbow to shove her back toward the door.

   “Go!” he barked, knocking some sense into her empty head as she took his advice at a sprint.

   He popped a slug in the side of the robot’s dome, shattering the protective glass around its processing unit and spitting smoke from short-circuiting wires. Its arms flailed erratically, the synthesized voice cutting out before it tipped on its side. Another one was at the base of the stairs; he shoved into it with all of his strength to careen it into the wall- the things were suddenly everywhere.

   “Go!” he repeated, and she ducked from the laser fire pinging all around the room with just enough ounce of luck to not get hit. He, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. It instantly melted through his leather jacket, cauterizing the flesh as it burned. He ignored the scalding sensation while she burst back into the main hub of the building, his steps inches behind her own.

   A loud gasp of realization inflated her lungs as she spun around on the metal catwalk, her eyes bulging with distress. “Oh no, my bag-!”

   Charon clipped a new drum magazine on his shotgun and knelt down to scoop her over one shoulder as she tried to run past. The metal bastards were roving the facility like a kicked hornet’s nest, enticing him to make an immediate departure. He ignored her squeaky protests and roughly jostled her before making their way down to the lower floors, his palm anchored tightly over her ass to keep her in place.

   She clamped her hands over her ears as he fired away with his weapon in one hand, the recoil from its destructive firepower causing his arm to faintly flex with each blast he aimed. The sharp smell of gunpowder made her sneeze, and she bit out a pained cry as something burned across her left butt cheek.

   Charon growled at the sharp throb in his brain from the slip-up- she squealed like a stuck pig and wildly kicked her legs as her leather armor caught fire. He smacked at the flames a few times to put them out.

   They reached the front lobby without further injury, and he kicked the doors open to the sky of early dusk to retreat around the corner of the building. He set her down, spun her around, and tilted her forward into the wall to grab at the sides of her ass, inspecting the visible scorch mark to proceed with treatment.

   “Ow!” she whined, feeling his hands wrap around her waist to begin unbuckling her belt. Her leathers and underwear were shunted past her thighs, ripping some of the melted fabric that had glued to her skin. “Stop!” she choked.

   His fingers pressing into the flesh froze on command.

   “Fuck.” She screwed her eyes shut and dug her forehead into the cool concrete. “How bad is it?” she asked with a shaky breath.

   He squinted, judging the depth and measure. “You will live.”

   A few deep breaths were drawn in, and then she pulled away from the wall, wincing as she carefully pulled her decency back in place.

   He grabbed at her hands before she could finish. “What are you doing? You are injured.”

   “Yeah, I know,” she replied with pinched brows. “I’ll be okay. Are you okay?” She tried to study him, but it was evident she was distracted by the pain.

   He ignored the question. “I have a Stimpak.” His fingers were already unlatching a side satchel at his waist.

   She caught sight of the wound in his side. “Use it.” Her hand stopped him before he could turn her around. “On you.”

   He stared.

   “I’ll wait until we get back to Megaton,” she painfully gasped with a wave of her trembling hand.

   The rapid firing of pain receptors inside of his brain nearly dove his index and middle finger in his eyeball sockets to rip his skull clean off his shoulders. His hand tightened over the stim, nearly shattering it from the pressure he applied.

   “I advise you do not,” he rasped through clenched teeth. “Let me tend to it.”

   “I, I can’t,” she confessed, wincing as she took her first step. “Moira-”

   Her back drew flush up against the wall in fear from how fast he descended upon her, his massive frame eating her existence away from the rest of society.

   “I will tend to it. Now.” His eyes bored into her own, and she faintly nodded. With a spin and second undressing, he poked the needle in her flesh and patiently waited for it to heal. Satisfied (and relieved of the agonizing throbbing in his head), he left her butt naked to the side as he finally considered himself.

   His armor was shed, his leather jacket shrugged out of, and his tattered black shirt was raised for proper viewing of the already disfigured skin. It was cauterized, so there was no reason to waste medical supplies. He lowered his shirt and reached for his jacket.

   Her hand intercepted him, and he growled.

   “Whoa, hold on, you don’t have anymore stims?!” She appeared genuinely worried for him, and he couldn’t help but resent her for it.

   He had two more.

   “It will heal,” he said evenly.

   “But you used one on me!”

   “Yes, you were in pain.”

   “Oh, and like you’re not?” she scoffed.

   He thought for a moment. “No.”

   “Well, that doesn’t matter!” she snapped. “Use one!”

   He scowled, “Is that an order?”

   “Ugh!” She threw her hands up, and he hurriedly went about equipping his things as she stomped off in Megaton’s general direction. “Fine! Die! See if I care!”

   As much as her spite wished to carry her home just to stomp up the steps to her room and slam the door in his face, her stamina wouldn’t hear a single word about it. Her noodled appendages carried her as far as the previous night’s camping site, and she slumped like a corpse in the corner of the trailer where their garbage still remained undisturbed. Morning came much sooner than she would have hoped for, and she awoke to the bitter smell of cigarette smoke. The weight of her head felt immensely heavy as she lifted it off the cold, uncomfortable floor to narrow her crusty eyes at the lack of courtesy.

   Charon was seated, just like before, dragging his lipless mouth on a smoke and eyeing what she herself could not see. He turned his head slightly to look at her while she rubbed at her face.

   “You smoke?” she drawled, pulling a few stray hairs from the corner of her mouth.

   He exhaled and flicked the butt away. “No.”

   An ugly snort came between them. “I just stress you out that much?”

   There was no answer, and she huffed as she rose and nearly tipped over, her brain not comprehending that it was time to be awake.

   “No, no no.” She held a hand up as he made to follow her out into the wastes. “I just need to pee, give me, like, five minutes.”

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   Her eyes drew to very thin slits. “...you’re not taking that literally...are you?”

   The lack of a verbal reply, (coupled with his weird, innate paranoia) hustled her feet around a few rocks and scored her a world record for the fastest piss ever made. Her companion was still waiting in place (the big guy didn’t so much as blink), and she just sighed at his obedient nature as he followed in step behind her.

   She honestly didn’t know what to do with him.

   The thought plagued her the entirety of the way home. Albeit, he was really resourceful and excellent in combat when it came to saving her burnt ass, but it was, just, too weird. Too unsettling. His contract was a lump of hot coal sitting somewhere in his pocket (for she refused to carry it, hoping he would get the message and just leave).

   His obvious dislike for her was demoralizing. The sex they shared was...not what she had envisioned all those lonely nights. She still liked him, but she feared him, too. It felt so utterly wrong to just hand him off to someone else like some unwanted pet...he was a person, but her person, all by a flawed design she had no intention of appreciating. She turned around to face him fully, stopping them in their tracks along the dusty road, looking up into that gruesome visage of distilled wrath. A vintage bottle of corked hatred, violence, and apparently no smoking.

   “Do you like, erm, working for me?” she asked. "Have you thought about working for someone else?"

   He blinked at her. She stared at the too-cool-for-medical-school hideous sear he bore so nonchalantly.

   “Do you intend to pass on my contract?” His voice was so flat, so uninterested. He had to feel some way about it.

   “Would you want me to?”

   He seemed to think for a moment, and then finally rasped, “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “You are so frustrating!” she tersely snapped. “I literally don’t understand a single thing about you! What is it that you want?”

   He scanned the horizon. He didn’t say anything, and it was obvious he intended not to.

   “Fine, whatever. I don’t really care.” This time, her petty behavior blessed her feet with seven-league boots, and the gates of Megaton ground metal on metal as they opened to their arrival.

   The massive saloon billboard just up the hill made her heart hammer in her throat and dew sweat on her neck. No one gave them accusatory looks or hushed any whispers as they passed by. She tried to ignore the hot bubbling of anxiety splashing inside her chest as the knob to her house was wiggled. It was locked. Her pack was...still at the fucking RobCo facility. She slowly turned a dirty look to the ghoul, who glowered at her in return.

   “You’re lucky I have a spare,” she bit at him, stooping down to turn over a rock for her only copy. He seemed genuinely surprised.

   “I advise you do not leave that there,” he rasped with caution.

   “Oh, please” she grumbled, twisting the handle and stepping inside. She tossed the key on the table. “Wadsworth, we’re home!”

   The robot flew down the stairs in such a rush she barreled backward into Charon, who firmly planted a hand on her back to shove her off. Wadsworth waved a few limbs around, not saying a single word.

   “Um...” she started uncertainly, “Are you okay?”

   The robot ceased its movements and then slanted its optics at the ghoul behind her.

   She looked over her shoulder. Charon was already setting his things aside and...running a bath. Cool. (She guessed she would just take one later). ((Inconsiderate Jerk™))

   She sighed and began to walk up the stairs. “Did you hang up my vault suit?”

   There was no reply, (not so much as a single snark) and she glanced over to her home helper. Again, it waved its limbs around.

   “What, did the mainframe get you too?” she half-joked, and then she felt the neuron connections in her brain slowly spark electricity as she observed how it pointed to the ghoul.

   I will stay here.

   She took a stomping step back down with every word she spoke. "Oh, my, God. You. Didn’t.”

   Charon was busily removing his gear, glancing up at her without a single emotion betraying his face. He neither confirmed nor denied the unspoken accusation.

   “You did!” she gasped. “Charon! What the hell?!”

   He looked over to the Mister Handy and shrugged, reverting his eyes back to his business. He took a seat to remove his boots, and she watched them being neatly set aside. His pants dropped. Out of deeply rooted civility, she turned away and continued up the stairs, her muted robot close at her heels.

   Wadsworth followed her into her room like some sad puppy, performing a silent number with limited features of rotating claws and shifting optics.

   She sat on the edge of the bed, chin in her hands, thinking over everything while not thinking about much of anything at all. She eventually laid on her freshly made sheets, staring at the ceiling until she succumbed to a quick nap that felt like literal centuries. Her leathers were stripped to build a micro-habitat in the corner of her room, the vault suit feeling icky despite being clean on her sweaty, unwashed skin. She came down to Wadsworth washing dishes and Charon dressed in the clothes she had acquired for him, his hands meticulously stitching together the tear in his jacket.

   He didn’t bother to look at her for more than a moment, perhaps assuming she had no orders for him to care to. His fingers dug in a needle, curved it out, and pulled. The strange grace he had was almost awkward to watch- she didn’t think someone his size or nature could handle something so delicately.

   “Is there something you require?” he asked sharply, his shoulders tensing due to her unflinching stare.

   “Where’s your contract?”

   His fingers stopped their weaving. Without hesitation, he reached inside a hidden breast pocket inside his jacket and pulled out the folded piece of paper, holding it out for her. She took it. It felt dirty, as though the ink would stain through to her fingers and she wouldn’t be able to scrub it away.

   “What if I ripped it up? Burned it?” she tested.

   “I would make another,” he said simply. It didn’t seem to bother him whatsoever. He then resumed his sewing.

   She put it in a small side pocket, making for the door. “I’ll be-” The screeching of his chair as he stood nearly rolled her eyes out of her fucking skull. “Oh. Silly me.”

   Charon zipped up his jacket and clipped his armor back in place. The shotgun (that had been neatly cleaned) was picked up by one hand and attached to its rightful place at his back. She stared at him...she felt sort of, well, sad.

   “Let’s go,” she said a little glumly, and he didn’t comment on her forlorn attitude as they left for the saloon.

Under New Management

   “Welcome to Moriarty’s,” Gob began before he turned, “shit, uh, I mean, welcome to Gob’s.”

   He froze at the sight that had walked in.

   Evelyn took her seat with Charon standing awkwardly behind her. She spun around. “Please sit and act normal, for once. We’re not going to get stabbed, or anything.”

   He flexed his hands into fists, but relented and took a spot against the wall at her side, folding his thick arms over his chest and hawking her every move for any subtle cue.

   She laid some caps down, sharing another look with Charon. “You want something?” A simple shake of his head, his glower flaying Gob’s soul from his body as he slowly shuffled closer. She hissed, “Stop it!”

   Gob not so subtly tried to ignore the homicidal elephant in the room glaring poisoned-tipped arrows at him. “So, uh-”

   She thrust a thumb over her shoulder. “I saw the sign. Gob’s Saloon. What happened?” She ignored the thick lob of spit jamming her throat. No one was giving her second glances...for now, everything seemed okay.

   Charon growled as Gob set a beer down.

   “Yeah,” he rasped uncertainly. “Moriarty went out for his usual smoke. The railing came off the side, and he went along with it. Wasn’t too pretty.”

   She turned, offering Charon her beer. “Here.”

   He stared at it but didn’t budge.

   She sighed as she came back around, twirling her bottle in circles on the countertop. “That’s...umm...” She shrugged. “Unfortunate?”

   “Damn lucky if you ask me, smoothskin.” Gob picked up a rag. “It’s almost too good to be true, if I’m being honest. I keep waiting for him to come back through that front door.”

   Evelyn took a swig, distracting her tongue for a moment. She had done it- it had worked!

   A faint whiff of cigarettes and the sweet tang of jet sat beside her.

   “Hey kid.” Nova gave her a wink, looking up at the giant ghoul. “You got him wrapped around that little finger, huh?”

   Evelyn ignored the weirdly specific comment that was absolutely true (and for all the wrong reasons). She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling much too hot under her collar. “So...how is, everything? Better?”

   Nova pulled out a crinkled cigarette and gave her a teasing grin, completely ignoring the specter glaring down at her. The smoke was lit. “Moriarty being gone is one of the best things to have ever happened to this town...and probably, one of the worst.” She flicked the ash to her boots. “No one contested to Gob taking ownership of the bar...hell, he pretty much ran the place himself already, but it’s still living under the shadow of Moriarty’s thumb." She gave Charon an appreciative once-over. "I think your guy can help with that.”

   Evelyn kept her eyes on her drink. “Keep the drunks in line and the assholes outside?”

   Nova winked. “Bingo.” She tilted her head to the side, the bare skin of her throat an ivory river down the open seam of her shirt. “What do you say, big boy?” Charon didn't grace her with anything, and so she muttered, "Not much of a talker, is he?"

   "You have no idea," Evelyn mumbled in return. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. She was inwardly stalling...but this is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why was it so hard to spit out the words she had been chewing on all day?

   “May I talk to you?” she whispered conspiratorially to Gob. “Alone?”

   The necrotic duo shared a glance over her head. Nova raised a freshly plucked eyebrow.

   “Uh-” Gob started uneasily.

   Evelyn stood and pointed at her deathstalker bodyguard. “Just wait here, okay?”

   Charon muttered something sourly, shifting his weight to the other foot and surveying the few patrons.

   The other ghoul followed her into the back room, where she closed the door and fumbled with her pocket.

   “What’s this all about, smoothskin?” Gob couldn’t beat the nervous tick from his tone even if he tried. She assumed he would perhaps die with it.

   Evelyn tucked a hair behind her ear, the stocked items on the shelf suddenly becoming of great interest. “Charon shot Ahzrukhal.” His eyes grew wide at the information, and she felt her lips move at such speed she feared it would never cease. “I can’t be with him anymore, Gob! He needs to be somewhere, I didn’t want the stupid thing, I tried to give it up, God, he’s-he’s-”

   The door burst open, a shotgun hounding through the small space to land directly on the innocent ghoul cowering in the corner.

   “Charon!” She darted in his line of fire. “I told you to wait!”

   The red ghoul scowled and lowered his gun. “I heard you in distress.”

   She instead turned to Gob, who was still flinching a mile a minute. “See, see?! This isn’t- hold on.” She snagged the bigger ghoul’s arm to drag him completely inside and shut the door from potential eavesdroppers. “Okay. I’m just going to keep it simple. Gob, this is for you.”

   The piece of paper was held out, both pairs of hazy eyes zeroing in on it.

   Gob still wouldn’t move.

   Charon burned a hole through her skull.

   “What?” she snapped up at him. Her voice grew a little hoarse. “I told you I didn’t want it!” When she swiveled her head back to the new bar house owner, she shook it. “Gob, please. Just take it, and, and, and everything will make sense.”

   Her feet took some slow steps to build a bridge between them, his eyes never leaving that flimsy piece of paper.

   “Smoothskin,” Gob finally rattled, his garbled voice sounding like a tin can being kicked in the wind, “what are you doing?”

   “This is Charon’s contract.” Her fingers tightened on it, as though she thought twice about letting it go. “It’s why he is the way he is. It’s what I tried to help him with. It’s why he’s with me.”

   Gob licked the cracked edges of his mouth, for once addressing the big guy hulking across the way. “Is-grk-is that true?”

   Charon's hands were molded fists, a faint tremble coursing through them, barely susceptible to the naked eye. He gave a single, slow nod.

   Gob shook his head a little, and then furiously. “Smoothskin...that’s-”

   “I know.” The contract was curled down to her side, and she took a breath before facing her newfound problem. “Well? Do you have anything to say about this?” He didn’t. “Yeah, don’t know why I thought you would...”

   “Why are you doing this?” Gob asked her suddenly. He went for the door. “You know what? Nevermind. This is too much.”

   “Wait, Gob.” She got in his path, and the hulking mass at her back made him hesitate in brushing past. “I don’t know what to do.”

   He smacked his hands to his chest. “And you think I do?! No.” Another sidestep, and she reluctantly let him go. “Sorry smoothskin, but I don’t want any part of this. I got my own issues to worry about.”

   Gob left them alone, and she eventually came out to raised voices.

   “As of yesterday, I’m retired. Take your ass upstairs and get the job done yourself,” Nova said testily to a most unpleasant, familiar face.

   Jericho.

   “That’s a load of shit,” he scowled in return, taking hold of her arm despite her squirming. “Moriarty ain’t been dead for more than twenty-four hours, and you think you and that rotbag over there now run this joint?”

   Gob came over, a baseball bat in his hands...that was shaking. “Let h-her go, Jericho. I-”

   “You what, zombie?” the ex-raider spat, eyeing the weapon being held so timidly with a chuckle. “You going to hit me, huh? Don’t think I won’t fight back?”

   Evelyn took a step forward to intervene, but Charon halted her at the shoulder. He then stepped past, and everyone became quiet as he slowly came close, just standing and staring at the man.

   Jericho sneered, “What the fuck are you looking at, you ugly motherfucker.”

   Charon gave no reply- he didn’t so much as blink. He took a step, and then another, and Evelyn witnessed a bead of sweat drip from Jericho’s forehead. Nova was released, and he scrambled back a few feet before Charon came too close.

   “You know what? Fuck this,” he growled, unable to hide the slight terror in his voice. “This place is a shithole anyway, beer smells like piss.” He shoved a few others from his path as he gave an uneasy look over his shoulder to the unmoving mountain of burnt flesh.

   “Outta my way!” he barked, and then the door swung shut behind him.

   Nova let out a breath. “Thanks, big boy.”

   Evelyn felt a scratch on the inside of her eyeballs at the nickname.

   Gob lowered his weapon, sheepish. “Yeah...thanks.” He watched the duo then leave his bar, the wheels turning inside his brain.

   There was no comment to be made, partly because he felt no certain way about her offer of his contract to another. He was unsure as to why she was so adamant in exchanging it, especially if not for something of value in return. He felt he did his duty to her well...he did not know what he had done wrong. Ultimately, this was her decision to be made, and he did not have a choice in the matter.

   Although...it would come with its perks.

   He was watching her speak with the store owner that he was most inclined to put a bullet in. She was most certainly trying to dispose of his employer (which made his job that much harder) with these bizarre ‘projects’ she endeavored her on. How his employer did not see the underlying motive in her death befuddled him. She just must be stupid, that much he was confident of.

   “...and that would conclude the final chapter. D’aww! We’re so close to finishing! So! Did you want to start with Rivet City’s history or the library? Oh! We almost skipped over serious injury, and we can’t forget that!”

   Evelyn gulped. “Um...how bad of an injury, again?”

   They were both startled after he slammed a fist on the counter, rattling everything on the surface. “No.”

   “Charon, please go wait outside,” she ordered him dully. “Sorry, Moira. What did you need to study?”

   The shock on the woman’s face quickly reverted back to ecstatic eagerness. She rubbed at her chin in consideration of how to maim his employer. His hand crept off the counter back down to his side. Evelyn completely ignored his silent ire.

   “Very well,” he growled, turning on his heel as Moira began to detail the obvious plot of her demise.

   “Well, maybe a broken limb or two should do the trick-”

   The door was slammed shut with all of his brewing anger and strength, shaking the foundations of the building and echoing his unwanted sentiments. He eyed the railing for a split second and then made up his mind just as quickly. He laid out his left arm across the metal piping, locking his elbow and curling the fingers tightly in his palm. He ignored the curious eyes of random settlers watching him, released a deep exhale through his nose, and then slammed his other arm directly over and down. A sharp snarl ripped from his throat as his left shoulder and elbow dislocated whilst a visible chunk of white bone poked out from the flesh. He came back after the white stars had faded, dropping his skewered limb on the table between them. Their yapping instantly died, and Evelyn’s eyes went wide.

   “There,” he groused through clenched teeth.

   “Holy shit Charon-!” She instinctively reached out to touch it.

   “Don’t,” he snapped at her, and then he gave the crazy smoothskin his best glare and motioned to his injury.

   “Um, o-kay!” Moira rubbed her hands together, clearly unsettled by his tactic. “Let’s get you over here for a moment, shall we?”

    He drowned out the meaningless blathering as she took notes and asked questions he gave nonverbal answers to. His employer nervously watched and fidgeted more than usual. The hired mercenary in the corner seemed to placate himself around him...it brought some small sense of self-satisfaction.

   “Okay, now just hold still...” The bone was reset, and he grunted, brusquely rubbing at his eyes. She stood back, seemingly satisfied with her work. “There! All done! No biggie, right?”

   "He also has a burn in his side," Evelyn said sharply. "Can you look at that as well?"

   He threw her a nasty glare. "That is not necessary."

   "It is." Her tone left no room for arguing. "Go ahead."

   He grumbled as he stripped down to his shirt to raise it enough for the smoothskin to treat. When she finished, he collected his assorted gear as he inwardly seethed.

   Evelyn didn’t say another word to him. She pocketed some caps and pulse grenades and then refused to so much as look at him while she stomped back home. He watched her eye the saloon once more before entering. She blustered upstairs and into the spare room she let him work in, and then came back down with his duffel bag in hand. She thumped it on the table, shoved the payment she had received inside, and then threw it at him.

   "Here,” she spat. “Your contract is in there too. Get out.”

   He blinked. Why was she suddenly so angry? She was crying.

   “I cannot,” he rasped much too calmly, as though the woman before him wasn’t having some sort of cataclysmic meltdown. “You are my employer until my contract-”

   “I don’t care!” She went to the door and flung it open, waving her hand at him. “Go pick your own! Goodbye!”

   He set the bag down. “Was there something I had done wrong?”

   “You broke your fucking arm!” she practically shrieked. “You won’t let me help you when I try-”

   He interposed with a snarl, “I do not need help.”

   She ignored him and continued in her ranting. “-like dear God, you are not normal, by any means! I’m not suited for this, you’re just way too much! I came out of perfectly living in a Vault to realizing my whole fucking life was one big lie, and I don’t need you complicating that any further!” She crossed her arms and stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. “Now please leave. Grab whatever else and just get out of my life."

   “Is that an order?”

   “I will shoot you if you don’t go!”

   “Violence on your end invalidates our contract,” he rasped automatically. When the light of her teary eyes brightened, he threatened, “I will be forced to retaliate by any means necessary.”

   She visibly thought it over, and then her shoulders slumped. Good...he wasn’t in the mood to blow her to chunks, anyways.

   There was a stiff silence thinning her lips, and so he picked up his bag and resumed up the stairs, depositing it on the workbench whilst she slammed the door to her room. The conversation appeared to be over.

   The same passage in one of her many scavenged books had been reread (without actually being read) a hundred times over before the knocking came at her door. She had been determined to die in the small space amongst her sheets, literature, and smelly laundry (slowly becoming its very own fauna in the corner) until the knocking persisted. It hadn’t even been a whole three hours since her spat with the ghoul...and the thought of being around him after threatening to kick him to the curb made the notion of biting off her tongue much more appealing.

   He was in the workspace she had granted him. The door was closed. She didn’t hear it open a crack as she answered to her guest. It was Gob.

   “H-hey smoothskin,” he rasped. His frown deepened at the sight of her woe. “Are you okay?”

   She gruffly wiped at her eyes. “Just peachy. Thanks.”

   “I hope this ain’t a bad time, but, uh, I was wondering if we could talk about earlier...” He looked over her head. “About...about that, uh...”

   She glanced back to the lingering shadow at the top of the stairs. A shake of her head, her arms crossed over her chest. “Um, yeah, yeah, of course.” She widened the frame to allow him to meekly dip past. “So...you thought about it.”

   Gob wrung his hands together and looked up at Charon with obvious apprehension. “Do you, want to, uh, come work at the bar?” He licked his lips, his raspy voice almost belting out a few squeaks. “You’ll-you’ll get paid, and you can have a room...”

   Evelyn hugged herself just a little bit tighter, finally addressing the specter glaring down at them. “Well?”

   Charon didn’t say a word, and she expected he wouldn’t. He had said it was her decision...

   “Okay.” She motioned to the big ghoul, her throat constricting as she pointed up the stairs. She felt the floor swirl under her feet; an imaginary tide rising up her floorboards. “Your bag...please.”

   He gave a curt nod before dipping inside his workshop. When he presented her with it, she reached inside and handed over his life-binding indenture. It was perhaps for the best, for the both of them.

   “He’ll tell you everything about it,” she said thickly.

   “Um...okay.” Gob squinted at the lettering, and then flinched when Charon rounded over him. “H-h-hey, Charon...uh...”

   She felt immensely awkward standing next to the man she had just coldly evicted from her life. “You’re really not going to shoot me?” she asked.

   Charon snorted, taking the strap to his bag and shouldering it. “No.” He then turned to his new employer. “I am ready.”

   Gob bobbed his head, and then awkwardly left. “Don’t be a stranger to the bar, smoothskin.”

   Evelyn didn’t say a word as they made their way up the hill. The big guy didn’t even bother looking back. Well...whatever. What was done was done. She had that asshole idiot out of her life (somewhat) and she could go about living hers (which was even more questionable).

   She didn’t realize she had just been standing in her open doorway, glancing up the way they had gone, before a strong breeze of hot sand cleansed her nose. With a growl, she slammed her door shut (locked it) and finally, finally, FINALLY, ran a hot bath and soaked in the delicious waters (with some added scoops of Clementine Chamomile) that she so desperately deserved. The tub became a disgusting hue of brown after mere minutes of vigorous scrubbing and shaving, so she unplugged the drain and waited in a ratty towel on the couch to take another.

   A knocking came at her door, loudly- enough to shake the dust right off the frame.

   No way. She glanced down at her attire. “Um, just hold on a minute-!”

   The knob turned, snapped, and her door was once again opened with brute force. Thankfully, all the hinges remained in place, but her jaw dropped as the behemoth prick casually walked inside.

   She almost lost her towel from the shell shock. “Charon?! What the fuck?! What are you doing in here?!”

   He gave her a look, closed the door, and proceeded to walk upstairs to the workshop. The sound of scraping and metal clinking met her ears as she chased after him. That giant fucker was in her house, tinkering on a fucking gun.

   “Are you not going to tell me what the hell it is that you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

   His eyes flit over, annoyed, as he reached for the doorknob, and then he closed her own door in her face. The sounds of work continued, and she felt the tremendous urge to scream.

   Wadsworth fled from her room while she angrily pulled on her vault suit and stomped up to the saloon, not even taking the time to braid her hair or lace up her boots properly. The few patrons enjoying their early evening rounds all stared as she burst inside like a vengeful spirit.

   Gob saved a glass he had dropped from the sheer surprise.

   “We need to talk,” Evelyn demanded.

   They once again met in the back room, and the ghoul instinctively flinched from her wrathful aura, unused to being victim to her vicious temper.

   She threw her hands in the air, pacing around like a frantic madwoman. “What the hell is Charon doing in my house?! You took his contract! Did you send him back?!”

   “What? No, smoothskin,” Gob rasped uneasily. “He was sort of scaring away the customers... besides, it’s usually pretty slow around this time, so I told him he could go out whenever-”

   “Yeah, well, he broke my door and is acting like he still lives there!”

   Gob was unable to meet the blazing fury in her eyes, tilting his head down and rubbing at his neck. “Oh.” He eventually shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

   Her mouth opened, hung there stupidly, and then it slowly closed before a few bloatflies could swarm inside. What could he do? Order him to stay put? Become another Ahzrukhal, (or a Moriarty) have him on a short leash, cooped up in a bar, forced to live a certain life because of her insistence and meddling? She didn’t think Gob even knew how to demand something from someone, anyway.

   “I guess...nothing,” she said, the fire fizzing itself out. “Sorry. I’ll try and talk to him myself.”

   (Already a failed endeavor).

   She trudged away on lead-filled boots, not meeting the curious looks from everyone. The door was opened to a prefilled space of her nightmare of an annoyance. Charon stepped in, forcing her to step back before he ran her over. She maneuvered around him, his head slowly swiveling on his shoulders to eye her departure. She closed it on his unflinching 180 stare.

   She came to twist the knob to her house...it was locked. She blinked. He...fixed it? She tried again, putting a little weight into it. No budge. Her key was fished out from a very discreet place on her person (her bra, more precisely) and she didn’t bother securing it again lest he intrude whenever he apparently felt like it.

   The fridge had been wiped out of everything but the snack cakes. His clothes were in Wadsworth’s laundry bin. She snooped around upstairs- which, in itself, was utmost ridiculous- this was her house! A picked-apart gun was laid out on the bench, and judging by the thick odor killing her sense of smell, she determined it had been recently cleaned. The sound of her front door closing made her jump and quickly rush out, as though she had been intruding on something she had no business of getting in to (absurd!).

   Charon climbed the steps, and she met him at the top of the landing with what she hoped was a worthy scowl.

   “Okay, look, I get that I told you-”

   His fingers took hold of the zipper of her suit, and it made a loud zip as it flew to her crotch, a breast being whipped out into one gloved palm before his mouth came down to swallow her tongue. With one hand on her back, he ushered her into her room and closed the door.

   The change in hands came with its perks.

   He unshouldered her suit and shunted it off with her boots, ignoring her squeaks as he shoved her onto the bed. The entire frame wiggled as he grabbed both sides of her waist and slid her flush to him, one of his hands releasing his pent-up raging hard-on. It would be a lie if he told her he hadn’t been thinking of this the moment his contract had been liberated from her service.

   His glove rubbed the tip of his slimy, drooling cock, his eyes narrowed in on the sight of those glistening pink folds that he impatiently slipped a finger into. Her head slapped back into the bedding as her legs came up to squeeze him in a vice grip, the weak panting he induced from her lips nearly buckling him on top. The hot gush of liquid over his hand gave him the strange urge to fit another finger inside- it met with some resistance, and her hands flew down to grip his forearm as he squirmed it past, the silky interior clenching down as he fingered her.

   She had her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open, and the noises she cried (for once) extremely pleasant to listen to. His vision narrowed in on her hand as he witnessed her perform the most peculiar thing. Her own fingers rubbed at a spot just a little bit higher than his own, and he couldn’t help but stare at the glorified reaction it got.

   She blinked up at him rapidly, confused and flushed as to why he suddenly stopped. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

   He withdrew to replace her fingers. “What were you doing?”

   Her mouth snapped shut, her entire face bled bright red, and she gaped at him with something along the lines of mortification.

   “Um...” she stammered, “my...uh...you don’t know what a clitoris is?”

   He stared. 

   “It’s like...a sweet spot?” she offered.

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   He caught a brief hint of that annoyed fucking expression she had before he began to rub it himself- what felt like a little, smooth bead catching between the rough texture of his ghoulified fingertips. She was much more generous with the cursing of his name, her toes curling at his sides and her other hand blindly grasping out for his cock.

   He swiftly indulged her with a fat push of the stiff muscle, the lips of her cunt stretched tight as he stabbed inside. A grunt escaped him while she mewled high and loud, and he forewent her ‘sweet spot’ in favor of fucking her fast and heavy with a fierce hold on her hips. The metal bedframe rattled obnoxiously as he pumped away, his breathing growing labored as her frantic prayers melted into intoxicating encouragements. The tight grip she had on him stuttered a growl in the pit of his chest as he felt himself grow too close much too soon, his eyes glued to her bouncing tits.

   “Fuck, Charon, yes, fuck.”

   Her words brought him to the edge, and as a last-ditch effort to keep himself from coming, he leaned over to smash his mouth to her own, his hands wrapping underneath the soft skin of her back to hold her close.

   It was here.

   He gave a few, quick, shallow thrusts before spilling as deep as he could go, her pussy milking him for everything he was worth. Her tongue still licked at him as he waited, unmoving, for his load to finish. He pulled off and stumbled a few steps back to grab at a folded shirt to wipe himself with. Being considerate, he tossed it at her to clean the oozing mess between her thighs before he left for the bar.

   The saloon was empty save for his employer wiping down the counter, glancing up as he came forward.

   “Uh,” Gob began awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the relationship between them. “You don’t have to watch the bar, no one ever tries anything...” Neither moved, and Gob scratched at his head. “You, you can stay upstairs in the spare room, or-”

   “I do not sleep.”

   “Oh. Sorry.” Gob appeared genuinely troubled. “Then what do you do?”

   “Whatever my employer requires.”

   “...right.”

   The door opened, and the smoothskin he had just fucked silly came inside, her face still ruddy and a barely susceptible limp in her step.

   “Hey,” she said a little thickly to his employer, not meeting his eyes for longer than a moment before she blushed. “I need to buy some food.”

   “The usual?”

   She nodded. “Sure.”

   Gob disappeared under the counter as she unshouldered a new pack. A few cans and a couple of boxes were crammed inside.

   His employer took her caps. “Where are you headed this time? Not going to wait until morning, at least?”

   “Up north,” she replied vaguely. She once again stole a look at him, then left. “Thanks.”

   “Crazy smoothskin,” Gob muttered under his breath. He resumed cleaning up, and Charon followed her.

   She was just outside the bar, her gaze focused on the railing that had been fixed with some rope and a sun-bleached strand of caution tape. Her head slowly broke away to blink at him.

   “Did you know?” she whispered.

   He did. “Yes.” The stripped screws had made it obvious to someone who knew what they were looking for.

   “Does that make me a bad person?”

   He did not know...not anymore. He didn’t reply, but instead unclipped the sheath holding his blade. It was held out for her.

   She looked at it, and then carefully began to take it before his grip tightened, forcing her to meet his eyes.

   “Bring it back,” he instructed.

   She scoffed, her mood instantly turning bitter. She let go. “Then you might as well just fucking keep it.”

   He brought her hand up to take hold of it again. “Bring. It. Back.” With a simple nod of his head, she finally slipped away from him.

   "Um...okay." She looked him over, at once awkward and shy. "Thanks...big guy."

   He watched her walk past the gates until the void of the wasteland swallowed her whole.

Partnerships

   It was as the old adage goes- nothing good happens after midnight. Well, whoever had sprouted such nonsense clearly never imagined living in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Nothing good happened no matter the hour.

   The dark was so thick she could saw the big guy’s knife into it for a little tasty snack (that he would probably end up eating, anyway). She tripped over her own foot more than once, squeaked at the nightlife sounds of certain impending death (which so happened to be a molerat fart), and scurried along the dirt roads that were the same as they always had been- dangerous. 

   The bed had simply felt too empty, too big, an entire ocean to swim in with the vast nothingness just below the surface. A stranger dwelling in her own sheets, sticky and wet with not just herself, but of someone else, too. She had listened for the sounds of the door to open, and it had made her feel unwelcome in her own home- she didn’t want to wait for him to return, swimming out in that big blue to only leave again, a single head bobbing along the tide.

   Bring it back.

   That’s what he had said.

   Bring. It. Back.

   She nestled herself in a shoddy shelter made of metal sheets and wrapped her scruffy, thin blanket around her shoulders, sipping on some water and loudly chewing some food as she admired it under that ugly Pip-Boy light. It felt like a sleeping viper, coiled in her hands, the cold metal lifeless and just as deadly. Nonetheless, she cradled it close- keep it warm, don’t disturb (watch out, be careful), it bites. The illumination was too harsh, casting it under a foul glow, but even so, she ran the pad of her thumb along it, rethinking the words he had told her, the heat of his hands-

   She cut herself.

   “Ow,” she mumbled, holding the minor oopsie close to inspect the damage. A swell of blood so dark it appeared black streaked down the length of her vault suit after she wiped it away. Some snake charmer she was.

   It replaced the bedside company of her old teddy (that she hadn’t slept with in over a decade). A child’s toy dethroned by a cut of steel that’s sunk in more men’s throats than she could ever imagine, but it gets tucked in, handle on the pillow, a whispered ‘good night’, all the same. It gets a name- Sterling.

   (She’ll never tell him that).

   Northwest Seneca station was, for once, met with a brightened disposition and cheery tune at her lips. An extremely faded and staticky radio station had been discovered by pure accident whilst she had been fiddling with some knobs, the tunes barely distinguishable and the radio host completely unintelligible…she wished there was a way to make the broadcast clearer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

   A pile of bodies was the first thing to greet her in the plaza square, just as the wind had picked up and slammed a rancid hammer of air directly in her face. She gagged, attempted to keep her stomach down, and failed, miserably. A hesitant peek and slow shuffle of boots brought her closer to the wasteland’s newest (and most certainly not last) fatalities. It was hard to discern where one body began and…well…she was sure there was more than one, unless someone used to walk around with five hands. (Which wouldn’t be too surprising, all things considered). The bloated flesh, the signs of necrosis, and the absolutely horrible horrible smell deterred her from inspecting any longer, not even to collect some of the gear that looked leagues better than her own, but she wasn’t about to go and peel off the sticky ligaments and muscle from it. With much more hesitance, she crept down to the dank underground and came to quietly knock at the hermit ghouls’ doorstep. It opened to Barrett’s face barely visible amidst the shadowy backdrop.

   “Oh…it’s the smoothskin.” The door was widened. “Murphy’s in the back.”

   “Smoothskin- smoothskin-” Said chem-peddling ghoul nearly barreled from the other room, his glasses wrapped in thick strands of duct tape and left cheek sunken in. He startled her with his aggressive approach, forcing her against the side of his desk. “We need to renegotiate our terms- double the quota, half the price.”

   Evelyn was still partially recovering from the initial sight of him before her brain processed the words completely. Her look of shock turned into bewilderment.  “Half!? What! Do you know how hard it is to-”

   “No time like the present, smoothskin,” he interrupted, already reaching for their safety net of caps to pay her with. “You want to do business? Then let’s do business.”

   She didn’t unshoulder her bag and instead dumbly looked around, the mental image of the pile of corpses somehow rotting inside her nose. “Did you like get robbed-?”

   “Ahzrukhal,” he rasped, hooking a thumb in her pack to unzip it himself. (He ignored her indignant hey!) “Guy came with his dog- that ghoul you asked about- beat us within an inch of our lives. He’s put us in a tight spot, and you know what they say about shit-” he waited a moment, and then finished with, “-it rolls downhill.”

   She let him finagle the Sugar Bombs free before she dropped her bag on the table. “Ahzrukhal’s dead. Charon shot him…I saw it myself.”

   The words hung in the air, and then Murphy removed his glasses with a shaky hand.

   “…you’re not messing with us, are you?” he rasped quietly.

   Barrett cleared his throat, and now that she turned her head to properly study him, she could see the still fading memory of a brutal beatdown…signature Charon-style.

   “That would explain the late shipment,” he concurred.

   “Charon doesn’t work for him anymore,” Evelyn lamely explained. “He’s in Megaton, now.”

   A small heh left Murphy’s mouth, and then he disappeared into the back room. Before she could follow, a jarring commotion of equipment sent flying strung with violent cursing made her freeze in place.  

   “That’s just fucking fan-tastic!” Murphy yelled after coming back inside, but judging by the cynical tone of his voice and the wild sneer in his eye, it was obvious it was anything but. A Bunsen burner was launched into space by a smack of his hand. “Now what the hell are we supposed to do?!”

   “Murph,” Barrett attempted calmly. He nudged his head towards their frightened guest.

   “Who the hell are we supplying?” Murphy continued unapologetically. “Huh?! I got my teeth knocked out, and for what?!” The question seemed to run off the last bit of steam, for he plunked into a chair with his head in his hands.

   Evelyn crossed her arms. “Why not deal in Underworld yourself?” she offered, but the absolute scathing look Murphy gave her made her withdraw her suggestion with a purse of her lips.

   Barrett stepped into her line of sight beside his downtrodden partner. “Barrows doesn’t appreciate the chems we supply.”

   “Barrows? I don’t think I met him.”

   “He’s the ‘mayor’,” Murphy grumbled, “so they say.”

   “I mean, you have people there who buy.” She shrugged, attempting to placate the situation with all the shrewd barter experience she was years off from ever having. “Isn’t there someone else who could deal instead?”

   “You really need the caps that bad, huh?” The implication of his statement made her bristle.

   “No.” A lie. Big guy was probably chewing on her walls at this point. “I mean, well…" She stamped her foot. "Look, I’m just trying to help!”

   “Help…huh…?” The scientist shared a telepathic message with his companion, then got to his feet. “Okay, smoothskin. You looking to make a deal?”

   A tight ball of nerves formed in her belly. Whatever it was, she was sure to get suckered in…and nothing good ever came of her noble intentions, yet.

   It had been a long night.

   He had left the bar repeatedly to enter her home. He had sat on the edge of her bed (the metal frame groaned considerably under his weight) and rummaged through her assorted collection of books. Nothing had been read. A bath had been drawn, and the rest of the (two-thirds) scented salts had been used. The Mister Handy had washed his clothes. He had sewn a few holes he never had the time (or luxury) to tend to. He had replaced the hinges on the downstairs locker to cease its squealing. The bedframe had been greased to quieten its protests. He had cleaned her pistol that she did not take. Her tired leathers had been given new life with a generous oiling and patient stitching.

   He blamed it on lack of instruction. Ahzrukhal had ordered him to stand in the corner, be quiet, keep watch over the bar from these filthy miscreants. 

   Gob gave no such direction. Told him to…take a break, room’s just down the hall, ergh, let me know if you need something.

   They were almost at an impasse with each other. Gob didn’t give orders…but neither did he. They walked in constant circles around each other, waiting for the other to slip up and dangle a piece of bait for the other to snap at and hold on to, something familiar to tug on and swallow before being reeled in.

   The quiet evening turned into the break of day.

   He was now out on the front step of the bar, eyeing the town with scrutiny for potential dangers. None were found. He came back inside. Paced. Heavy boots, old floors, both creaking with every step. A cigarette had found its way to his mouth, the carton nestled in the tight leather space of his warm pocket. The first burned straight down to the filter. The second hadn’t fared that much better. His employer watched him. Charon made him nervous…no…afraid.

   “Do…you want a drink, or something?” Gob flinched after he snapped his head around on a dime. “Sorry, you just look, anxious, is all.”

   “I am fine,” Charon growled, going for another cigarette. He didn’t like the woolen texture over his tongue, too dense, too thick, but it didn’t curb his hard-set mouth from pinching one free, frisking himself for a lighter. His eyes flitted over to the former prostitute as she made a remark about how he could (probably) out-chew a brahmin of tobacco.

   “So, how you liking the job?” she continued. Evelyn had said she didn’t take ghouls, not that it mattered much, seeing as to how she didn’t take anyone at all anymore...he didn’t like her eyes- it was as though she knew something he didn’t.

   The ghouls shared a glance. She wasn’t aware of their honor-bound relationship.

   Gob gave a dry cough. “Urm, do you want to take another break? It’s always slow in the mornings…”

   Charon threw him a scathing look, and then he stomped outside, slamming the door so firmly it became wedged in the trim and got stuck. He went back to her creaking house hanging by thin stilts on the side of the hill. The fridge door was angrily thrust open (he accidentally pulled the handle clean off) and the only dish for his eyes to feast on was a little folded note. He took it, wolfing down the words as a key slipped from his fingers to the floor.

   Stop breaking my door! I want this back when I come home. 

   There was a little scrawled picture of what strikingly looked similar to his face, the word ASSHOLE glaring next to it.

   The hill overlooking the Super-Duper Mart was just a hop and a skip back toward home, and bed, and maybe something big and thick and somewhat crusty with sweat and dirt and completelynaked-

   She slapped her hands to the side of her burning face and looked down at her feet. The cracked binoculars Winthrop had gifted her were still in their spot like an abandoned puppy, waiting to be picked up and given the same amount of affection as Sterling (the knife) now had. Her pack made a loud zip after it was closed, the dysfunctional piece of equipment turned junk to maybe salvageable treasure tucked nicely between her fresh pair of underwear and journal. 

   She didn’t waste any more time in getting to Underworld after that- not when she had a mirelurk catch wind of her scent and proceed to chase her into the tunnels. Thankfully, it either lost stamina or found another delectable meal to savor, for she arrived at the Mall alone and unscathed (it didn’t stop her hand from touching Sterling once in a while for comfort, though), but that wasn't the worst part of it all. Now…she had to face the music of the atrocities committed here. She had to be confronted, and talk, and face…conflict. Murphy had promised her some good caps if she pulled off a dealer for him to work with…

   Big guy was more than likely turning Wadsworth into a five-course meal, by now.

   A deep breath- for luck, courage, and posterity-

   “Smoothskin?” That raspy rattle, and the curling of what was once an eyebrow above a thin tendril of smoke. “…welcome back.” The sentry of Underworld, stationed at her post, as casual as ever with her sudden appearance.

   “Willow.” Evelyn raised a hand and slapped it on her thigh, her face already burning a million degrees at the inevitable questioning she was sure to receive. “How is…uh…”

   “Good,” she answered, shifting her weight to the other foot as she leaned against the side of the building. She scrutinized her with those cataract eyes. “Charon’s not with you?”

   “No, no! He’s, uhm, no longer with me! Just myself, you know, me...just me.”

   Willow gave her a look. “If you say so…you’re a little weird, tourist, no offense.”

   “Oh.” They then stood there, and Evelyn pointed to the door. “Can…can I go inside, you know, after…uh…”

   “Oh, of course. I’m sure Dr. Barrows would like to speak to you, anyway. Some things are different around here…kind of unheard of.”

   “Gotcha. Speak to Barrows.” She quickly corrected, “Dr. Barrows! Woops!”

   “Whatever, tourist.”

   Evelyn scurried past. One citizen of the ghoul city placated- check. Her palms began to sweat as she came to the doors, and she seriously considered just going all the bumfuck way back home at the thought of everyone turning to stare-

   Too late, she ripped off the proverbial band-aid and slipped inside.

   And everyone stared.

   “Smoothskin!”

   A voice, and it was familiar! She could cry. Instead, she shyly lifted a hand and waved to the mechanic who not-so-subtlety showered her with his ever-growing affection. The ghoul wrapped her in the most awkward one-sided hug before he unlatched himself.

   “Hey, you’re back!” He slapped a hand down on her shoulder, and then removed himself altogether as though he had just groped her boob instead. “Sorry-it’s just, after Ahzrukhal-”

   Evelyn tugged him into a corner, the most public privacy she could hope to get before facing everyone again. “No one’s mad, are they? I can totally explain-”

   “What’s there to explain? That Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard?” he scoffed, waving away her doubts and insecurities with a simple flick of the wrist. Poof. Gone. Viola. “Yeah, that day was sort of hectic, but then we went snooping through his terminal…and, well, let’s just say Charon did us a favor. Which-” He nervously glanced around. “-is he…?”

   “Not with me, anymore. I mean, we were never together, it’s just…” She thought for a moment. He stared at the pout on her lips. “Complicated.”

   “Complicated,” he repeated.

   “It’s nothing,” she finished. “Um. Well…okay, cool. No one, like, hates me, or him, or anything?”

“I don’t hate you,” he offered, and then he stuttered on his next choice of words (making them unintelligible) before sternly folding his arms instead. “So, what brings you back? I’ve heard you’ve been, er, busy.” She gave him a look, and he awkwardly continued with, “it’s just, you know, with the bomb…and that town…Arenfu?”

   “Arefu,” she automatically corrected, stunned by this present stalker's admittance.

   Winthrop leaned in closer, oblivious as to how she shrunk away, his rasp lowered an octave. “Great job with the nuke. I’ve seen a few during my time, and I’ve never heard of someone disarming them successfully-”

   She rudely interrupted, “How did you know all of that?”

   He blinked, and the look he gave her somehow made her feel completely stupid.

   “Galaxy News Radio,” he casually supplied. “What, you don’t listen to your own broadcasts?”

   “Broadcasts?” she questioned.

   His chin was in his hand, expression thoughtful. “Well, I guess the signal is pretty weak. Can’t imagine the output beyond-”

   A concerning rattling sound turned their heads to a vent just above them. Some smoke began to lazily drift out, and Winthrop cursed under his breath as the air suddenly quit recirculating.

   “Damn place keeps falling apart,” he mumbled. The weight of his sigh made him crumple into nothing more than a very sad, very old man. He gave her a half-shrug, more out of apology than unease. “I don’t know about you, but that drink sounds good to me.”

   Between the soles of her feet hurting so terribly they burned, the sunburn on her nose beginning to itch and peel, and the thought of the big guy swallowing her house whole, the sound of a cool refreshment made her wholeheartedly agree. She smiled.

   A few caravanners had their hands broken for waving a gun around after being questioned on their tab. His employer disapproved of his tactics, which meant he would have to improvise in the future.

   “He’s just doing his job, Gob.” The smoothskin woman, however, was unfazed by his characteristic violence. She snuffed out a lit match with a flick of her wrist, languidly hanging the end of her smoke over a dented ashtray. “People are going to take advantage now that Moriarty’s gone.”

   Charon tuned out the discussion regarding his ‘overreactive nature’ and went to sit on a barstool at the end of the counter. A cold bottle of beer was slid down to his elbow, and he turned his head.

   Gob began, “I can get you something else…”

   Charon popped the bottle cap off with a side-pull of his teeth and then noisily downed his drink, a few drops wetting his mouth before snaking down his throat. It was emptied no sooner than it had been put to his lips.

   Gob hesitantly went to give him another before his fingers swiped at something underneath the counter. With a deep frown, he pulled out the remnants of Carol’s letters Moriarty had tarnished.

   “Guess I owe her an apology,” he sadly quipped to himself as he gently laid them on the surface to be reassembled.

   Nova watched the way he tended to them like delicate puzzle pieces. “Why don’t you just go tell her in person? No one’s keeping you here.”

   Gob lost all enthusiasm in his task, glum. “I wouldn’t last five seconds out those gates…”

   “Just take big boy with you- it’s what you hired him for.” Her eyes crept over to the ghoul in question. “I got the bar.”

[kidotm]

Thirty-Day Return Policy

   Winthrop was everything Charon was not- polite, understanding, patient, and capable of stringing along more than just a few words. However, they were both awkward in the way that neither had a single clue how to go about getting in her pants. Winthrop was what her father would have deemed 'an overall nice man'...although it was hard to assume if he would have approved of a ghoul (much older in age) vying for a roll in the hay with his (much younger) naïve daughter. Then again, she was much more certain in her assumption that Charon would not have been his first choice...or last. Oh, dear old Dad, if only you could see what had become of your once shy, awkward bumbling sprout that had no luck with the pretty boys. The secret relief he had felt then for her lack of suitors was sure to be horrendously shit on the moment they (ever) reunited. 

   The door to Winthrop's office had been closed- making it intimate and crowded- and she had stood in the corner as though it was her own claimed safe haven, keeping her presence small and reserved while he hastily fumbled around, picking up discarded laundry for last-minute tidying.

   “Sorry, sorry,” he rasped, tossing a pair of filthy oil-stained jumpers under a bench as though it rendered them invisible. “Wasn’t, uh, really expecting company.” He then turned around. "I mean, I invited you, it's just-"

   She awkwardly cleared her throat and kept her eyes on the assorted projects at his worktable. “It’s fine.” He smoothed out his crumpled sheets, inviting the invasive thought of what he would be like under them. She mentally slapped herself and pointed to the radio in the corner. "So- ahem- you said I have broadcasts? Like...of me?"

   "Yeah, Three Dog talks about you a lot, ever since you came out of that Vault."

   "What's a Three Dog?"

   Winthrop apologized, "sorry, he's the DJ for Galaxy News, always talking about 'fighting the good fight'..." He then seemed to mutter to himself, "whatever that means." 

   Evelyn kept her personal business regarding her father in their mental filing cabinet labeled Childhood Trauma: Daddy Issues Special Edition, for herself to review at a later time. It felt like a gross breach of privacy at having a faceless entity privy to all of her affairs, and to then have them spat forth for the entire wasteland to hear without a single snivel of her consent.

   She dove through her bag. “Um, I didn’t mean to bother you with this, but…”

   The cracked binoculars were handed over for him to study. All at once, his fluster washed down the drain. A hmmm, and he held it under a table lamp for a closer look. “That’s odd.”

   “What?” she questioned, leaving her literal comfort zone to peer at them. “…can they be fixed?” 

   “I thought the reinforced casing would be enough…but they took some serious damage.” He glanced up. “You must be quite the adventurer, smoothskin.”

   She blushed at his genuine tone. “Not really.”

   “Well, more than most of us here, anyways.” He set them beside some tools before snagging a clear bottle and two chipped mugs from a shelf. “I can fix them, but it’ll take the rest of the day. Need to see if Tulip has a spare liner.” A cup was poured and slid over. “I know Barrows wants to speak with you. He’s usually next door…and I need to fix the vents before anything else, so, uh, get nice and cozy.” He took a long swig from his own helping and then pointed to the bed with its grimy sheets. “If you don’t want to waste your caps upstairs, you can crash here. I don’t get much sleep with all the work I do.”

   The response was timid and delivered with a stiff nod, “oh, um, thank you.”

   They both stared at it, the invitation not overtly subtle. 

   "Greta makes terrible food," he blathered, trying to lighten the density between them. "Not that that's a reason, or anything, just, uh-" He stared at her lips. "Can I kiss you?"

    She made a face as she finished her vodka. With the alcohol now boiling her blood, she figured, why the hell not. "Sure."

   He seemed to brighten and become completely petrified all at once. Their cups were set to the side, and he stood close as he seemed to rethink his request. "I'm, not very good at this- it's been a long time."

   Unable to handle the awkwardness of it any longer, she tipped up on her toes and gave a small peck to his mouth. It felt...oddly like she had just done something completely out of line, as though the action itself was the worst sin to have ever been committed. She backed up a step just as his hands came to her waist.

   "I really need to speak with Barrows- Dr.- for a quick sec," she said breathlessly. "Sorry. It's important."

   "Oh." The utter disappointment in his voice was felt in the marrow of her soul. His hands came away. "Yeah, of course, uh, was this-"

   "Fine!" she somewhat lied, already making way for the door.  "I just remembered I had to ask him something, but, I'll be around?" 

   Winthrop turned, sullen. "I should probably take a look at those vents..."

   The crowd of (no-having) nosy guests just outside the door jumped at her emergence, skittering around with gutterings of didn't see ya there smoothskin to that was awfully quick... She ducked her head from their predatory stares through the double doors of The Chop Shop, only to immediately slam herself back into them. A ghoul seated at a terminal spun around in his chair, going from pensive mutterings to mild annoyance at the intrusion. 

   "Yeah?" he gargled. 

   Evelyn didn't respond, too frozen with fear at the sight just beyond the viewing window that divided the room. A ghoul- glowing- was dragging a tongue from one end of the pane to the other, completely out to lunch in both mind and physique.  

   "There's-there's-" she stammered, and then she squeaked as a second one suddenly popped up into existence, its bright bright bright eyes roving wildly like a powerball in a pinball machine. Ding, ding ding ding, dingdingdingding-

   "Never seen a glowing one before?" the normal(ish) ghoul mused. "They're harmless...so long as you stay on this side of the room." He wheeled over, scrutinizing her for any visible injuries. "So, you finally decided to come down here, huh? I treat all patients, if you got the caps." When her bulging eyes didn't leave the horrendous sight, he snapped his fingers a few times to successfully divert her attention. "Did you need something, or were you here to explain why I had to mop Ahzrukhal off the floor?"

   She went to speak, swallow, and breathe all at once, which ended in the unfortunate consequence of inhaling her spit. Her chest wracked as she coughed up her entire being, her purpled face in her hand as she keeled over to the side.

   "Hmm." Barrows watched on with all the professionalism of an ethical-abiding doctor in the modern wasteland...in which he just watched. He quipped, "you're going to lose a lung that way, which, if you do-"

   Evelyn took a deep breath, wiped the drool from her chin, and then flinched as a glowing one banged its head into the glass. She wheezed, "I'm here to speak with Dr. Barrows..."

   "Speaking." He folded his arms over his tattered surgeon's outfit, the dried blood unmistakable on his uniform. "You going to answer my question, smoothskin, or do I have to perform triage first?"

   She sluggishly waved a hand, inching closer to the door as she noticed both nuclear ghouls suddenly at rapt attention in her presence. "I didn't ask Charon to kill him, if that's what you're implying-"

   "Listen, I don't know the guy beyond the patients I've had to fix- which, believe me, was a lot- but he's been here long enough for me to question his motives. I don't care what they are, so long as they don't involve anyone else getting hurt." He leaned forward in his chair. "I'm assuming he didn't come back with you?"

   She shook her head. "No...I don't think he would care to, anyway."

   Barrows gave her a look that she couldn't quite decipher, and then dramatically rose from his seat. "Well, that takes care of that. I'm busy, smoothskin, so out with it. Did you need a procedure done? Maybe thinking about donating a sample...?"

   "Uhh, no," she said, and without making eye contact with the glowing guests on the other side, she took in the room. It was as much a medical clinic as she ever saw one: plastic privacy screens, soiled gurneys, various (unsterilized) equipment...a foot. A laid-out ghoul that was very much deceased (and horrifically sawed open like a child's toy succumbed to an 'operation') made her back up a step into the good doctor himself. 

   "You can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs...or, in this case, some ribs," he joked with a heh. 

   She gasped, "I knew this guy!" She could (unfortunately) recognize those wrinkly sacks in a lineup anywhere. "What happened to him?"

   Barrows gave her another look. "Wait, really? You knew him before he went feral?"

   She turned, and all of her blessed innocence was once again put on display for the wasteland to take a heaping bite out of. "Feral?" 

   Charon never had his patience tested quite so frustratingly, which was ironic in the sense that Gob was by far his easiest employer to date. Gob took suggestions like second nature, allowing Charon to beautifully prep for the warpath of gunpowder and blood toward a place he honestly had no intention of ever returning to. He had taken time with his arsenal, tending to the tools that he used to cultivate the community garden full of abominations and rot. When his weaponry was set, his shoulders squared, and his eye trained on the horizon, he then had stood at the gates with his employer, and waited.

   And waited.

   And fucking waited.

   "Is there a problem?" Charon had finally groused. The atmosphere had turned that hideous sepia-brown, tinting the wasteland a fitting shit-colored hue. There was no shade of blue to ease the strain it put on his eyes. A breath of wind had picked up, whipping sand into their faces and filling the cavern of his nostrils. He turned and placed a thumb over one side, snorting it out.

   Gob flinched at his tone. "Sorry, it's just..." He took a deep breath of the dusty air, almost hesitantly, as though it would somehow inflict him harm. "It's been awhile since I've been out here." He looked up at him. "I know what you did, to Ahzrukhal, if you don't want to head back, or..."

   Charon shifted his weight, mildly irritated with the sand now lodged in his ear canal. "It is of no issue. You are my employer. Lead, and I will follow."

   "Right..." Gob puffed his chest, closed his eyes, and then took the first step, and then another, and another, and...Charon wasn't following, making him pause to turn. 

   The bigger ghoul jutted his head to the east. 

   Gob kicked his mental nuts and curtly nodded. "Oh...sorry."

   They didn’t speak unless needed, at first. Gob kept by his side like a flimsy shadow, his initial silence agreeable and a prayed-for Godsend after experiencing the gabber that was the smoothskin, but then they made their way into the sewers, and his employer's initial I can't believe I'm doing this somehow rolled into Moriarty this and Moriarty that and you know, I always thought Ahzrukhal was a terrible person- not you, though, I'm glad you shot him-

   Charon expelled the loudest, annoyed sigh he ever had the compulsion of making. It shut his employer right up...until they left the sewers. 

   "Sorry...was I being too loud?" Gob meekly asked, nearly barreling into his side at the sound of a radroach disturbing some rubble.

   He didn't answer, just trudged on towards the next underground tunnel with his shotgun settled tightly in his hands and his teeth grinding themselves into dust. 

   Gob gaped at the sight of the Brotherhood patrols stationed around the Washington Monument. "Whoa, things have changed since-" A grunt redirected his head. Charon motioned for him to follow around. 

   Willow met them at the entrance, her smoke dropping from her lips at the sight. “Well I’ll be…” she started in disbelief, “Gob! I didn’t expect to see you back here, much less with Charon.” She turned her head to the bigger one that easily overshadowed them all. “That young smoothskin you left here with is inside. I told her you both were cleared with what had happened…though Barrows might still be uneasy with the whole thing, you running off like that.” There was a twinkle in her eye. "I'm sure Ahzrukhal deserved his dues-"

   Charon didn’t care to listen to the rest of the pleasantries exchanged, didn’t feel the multitude of eyes on his person as he strode through the concourse like he owned the place, didn’t hear the hushed voices linger at his elbow while his boots stomped over by Winthrop’s shop, opening the door and-

   "Hey." His employer, out of breath after having sprinted to catch up. "I'm going upstairs to Carol's."

   "Very well," Charon acknowledged, and then he intruded on the occupant whilst closing the door on the small crowd gathered at his back, the disappointed garbles at once silenced. 

   “Whoa-!” The smaller ghoul dropped something from his hands at his desk- those fucking binoculars- and jumped back. "Charon, what're you-?!"

   She wasn’t here…but her pack was at the foot of the bed. His bed. He turned to the flustered mechanic that was brandishing a wrench at him. Charon simply raised a single brow muscle at the warning.

   “I-I don’t want any trouble,” Winthrop rasped with a wobble.

   The door opened.

   Evelyn barely had time to lift her head to question anything before Charon grabbed her by the fucking face with one hand and squished it together with his meaty fingers, a surprised choke stemming from her throat and a shout at his back. He lifted her till she was nearly face-level.

   “You said north,” he growled.

   “Grfkhb!” she sputtered, scrabbling at his forearms for a release while spittle flew from her chapped lips.

   He complied, and she nearly headbutted his crotch at the drop. A loud thwack bounced off the armor plating on his shoulder, and he slowly spun a stone-cold glare to the ghoul behind him.

   “You should not have done that,” was all he said as he made a move for him. 

   "Charon!" The smoothskin jumped on his back and was clonked in the face by his elbow as he prepped another swing at Winthrop's head. There was a pained gasp, and he failed to notice the fact he had broken her nose. 

   Winthrop flew into the table, scattering bits and pieces of scrap metal and tools everywhere like a busted piñata. The terrified shriek that left his mouth drew the attention of the others beyond the door, including his employer. 

   "Charon, Charon!" Gob panicked. 

   He immediately pulled away, looking down at the weight clinging to his leg. The smoothskin, dazed and bespattered in her own blood, holding on like a monkey on a tree limb. He growled and shook her off, watching with a burning fester as she crawled over to the unconscious ghoul on the floor. 

   "Winthrop," she faintly called, smacking his cheek with a few fingers. "Winthrop."

   A warbled groan indicated he still lived. 

   “Pl-please go wait out in the lobby,” Gob managed to shakily get out, and Charon picked something up before he gave a hard pivot and stalked past a parted crowd, the voices at his back intensifying once he was out of sight. 

   "Everyone move!" Dr. Barrows lept into action, studying the scene quickly. "Get him to the clinic- Nurse Graves, help the smoothskin up." 

   A ghoul woman that Evelyn was now being informally introduced to gently took her by the arm. "Easy does it now. It's not so bad, let's get you cleaned up-" She reached out as Evelyn slipped away. "Smoothskin!" 

   Evelyn burst through the doors and descended the front steps so quickly she tripped, nearly eating shit for a late lunch. She came to find the broody bodyguard half-hidden in the shadows by the Mammoth exhibit, his stiffened back to the world. 

   She ignored the warm, thick drip of blood rolling off her chin, the taste of copper down the backside of her throat. "What the fuck was that?!” she nearly screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. It eventually became quiet again, the eternal flames in their respective trash bins cackling to themselves. She continued, "you broke my nose!" 

   Nothing…he almost seemed to be pouting like a sullen teenage girl, awfully reserved with a frosty chip on his shoulder, giving a perfect thousand-yard stare across the way. 

   “Fine. Whatever.” She began to stomp back up when he turned his head. 

   “You said north.”

   She halted mid-step. “Excuse me?” 

   Charon turned more, looking her dead in the eye. “You had said you were going north.” 

   “So?! What business is it of yours?!”

   His eyes narrowed a fraction, but then he turned to silently seethe to himself again.

   Gob came out, his hands wringing together so pitifully it made her heart sink.

   She gasped, “oh no, is he-?”

   “Barrows said he’ll probably lose an eye…and maybe an arm.”

   A hand came to her open mouth. “Oh my God.” 

   "You don't look so good yourself, smoothskin. You should get that patched up." He shakily rubbed at his head, more miserable than his previous days under Moriarty combined. He looked over at the bigger ghoul with open fear. “I guess I should talk to him.”

   Evelyn threw one last hateful glare over her shoulder before taking refuge back inside, dipping into Winthrop’s office for her things. The looks and heated rumor mill whirling around gave her the impression she wasn’t going to be much of a welcomed guest after being a close bystander to a second gruesome (near) murder. Regardless (of the public poll rating being zero), she entered The Chop Shop a second time. Murphy’s deal was now the furthest fucking thing from her mind.

   "Come sit over here." Nurse Graves directed her to a gurney on the opposite end of the room, away from the chaos that was Winthrop on life support. Graves turned her patient's head away from the sight and tilted her chin up. "A Stimpak should do once it's reset."

   Evelyn was now staring at the comatose body that had been hidden away behind a screen. A pink-haired woman that was-

   "Ow!" she griped as the nurse pinched her nose back in place without warning. She blinked past the swarm of tears.

   "Sorry," Graves rasped, applying a needle to the skin. "Give it a few minutes, and you should be good. You can discuss payment with Dr. Barrows."

   Evelyn had to refrain from rubbing at it as the creeping itch of a thousand ants began to tingle on her face. She stared at the only other smoothskin that was lying deathly quiet on her bed, her shallow breathing the only indicator she was even alive. She felt the wind from the door as it opened and turned her head.

   Gob began coughing in his hand. “Smoothskin, can I talk to you for a second?”

   She warily looked around for the big guy for a moment. No sign. “Um, sure.”

   “Thanks.” He then shoved a hand inside a pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. He immediately advanced toward her as she jumped up and began to shake her head in disbelief. “Look, I, I know I asked you-”

   “No way!” She refused to touch it, taking two steps back for every one he made. Her back came to the wall.

   “He nearly killed Winthrop,” he rasped desperately, pointing to the ghoul as though he were already a headstone. “Smoothskin, if I hadn’t made him stop, there wouldn’t be anything left of him.”

   She eyed the paper being held over, the sheet wavering as the ghoul shook. “But, I don’t-”

   “I told him I can’t hold onto this, not after something like that.” Gob set it gently on the bed. “I asked him if he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere-"

   "Let me guess," she groveled, "you are employer until my contract changes-"

   "-and he asked for you.”

   “Me?!” 

   "How's the nose?" Barrows interrupted. "Darn, still attached. If you ever grow tired of it..."

   Evelyn dropped her voice to a deathly whisper, ignoring the doctor at their side. "I can't take it!"

   "I don't know what to do!" Gob practically shouted for all to hear.

   Barrows eyed the piece of paper out of line in his medical facility. "What is that?"

   She snatched it up, unzipping her suit to stuff it in her bra. Both men eyed the generous display of bouncing cleavage that was begging to be set free. 

   "Nothing," she scathed. "How much for the stim?"

   He dropped the topic at the sound of caps jingling. "Fifty. Supplies aren't cheap."

   Fifty?!

   "Yeah, I see that face, smoothskin. Consider yourself lucky I'm giving you a discount."

   DISCOUNT?!

   "It's okay, smoothskin, I got it," Gob reasoned, "I owe you...for that."

   At once, she deflated at his sincerity, her fingers fiddling with some straps. "...is he still out there?"

   He nodded. "I think he's waiting for...you know."

   Ugh. She shouldered her pack and went to step up to Winthrop, but Barrows blocked her path. 

   "He needs to rest. Ahzrukhal was one thing, but this is unacceptable." He crossed his arms, giving her a solid I'm not angry, just disappointed dad stance. "Charon seems to like you, so I'll let you pass on the message."

   She spat out a loud pfft! "What makes you think that?!"

   Barrows jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You don't have a cracked skull and collapsed lung. Trust me, you got off easy. I've never met someone who's only walked away with minor injuries around him."

   "Sure, fine," she dully replied.

   That seemed to relieve the good doctor, for the tension melted from his shoulders. "Good. Now, if you're done with business in this city, then I suggest you clear out."

   She gave one final glance to Winthrop, so still and wheezing on his cot, and then looked back to Gob. "Are you coming with us?"

   He shook his head. "Quinn said he'd get me back...tell Nova I'll be a few days, and, uh, look out for her, while I'm gone?"

   Evelyn ducked out of Underworld, for what she assumed was perhaps the last time, standing on the top step to stare at the unmoving statue. Maybe if she took his contract, rolled it into a little scroll and tucked it under his tongue, maybe he would walk out those doors and into the Potomac to never be heard from or seen again...but no such luck. The deathly specter inclined his head after the doors closed behind her, his expression bored.

   “What the fuck is your problem?!” She stomped over, unzipping her suit a second time to retrieve his contract and wildly wave it. “I told you I didn’t want this! Do you hate me that much that you want to just, I don’t know, spite me or something?!”

   The ghoul said nothing but shouldered his bag, waiting on her to direct him once again. She ignored his cling-wrapping presence mirroring her every move as she went straight past. He unexpectedly halted her by the shoulder to spin her around, giving her a critical eye as he observed her already bruising face. 

   She threw him off, snarling, “yeah, that was no thanks to you."

   Charon fully withdrew. "I did not intend-"

   "I really don't care," she snapped. "Maybe next time use your words instead of your fists- you're lucky you didn't kill Winthrop."

   He remained silent as she fumed into the bathroom and angrily scrubbed at the dried, darkened warpaint until she heard a faint mutter. She wiped away the mess and whipped her soddened hair over her shoulder. “What? I didn’t hear you.”

   “You did not say you were returning to Underworld,” he rasped flatly, holding the shock of her eyes with the unrelenting steel of his own.

   The lightbulb finally clicked.

   “Hold on..." She licked at her damp lips. He watched. Attentively. "Were…were you jealous? Did you think I left to see him? Winthrop?” He suddenly became wary for a moment, cracked his knuckles, and then cast his eyes down, uncomfortable with his proximity to her. “Jesus Charon…no. I don’t think of him like that.” She then mumbled under her breath, “at least, not anymore.”

   He bobbed his head in a nod, self-conscious as he eyed her head to toe, then admitted bluntly, “I like having sex with you.”

   The absolute wild drumming of her heartbeat that tattooed her ribcage was somewhat pathetic. He might as well have told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met; it was a fucking weird, very Charon-istic compliment if she had ever heard him give one.

   She stammered, suddenly shy, “I-I like having sex with you, too…”

   Neither made a move, and when the stifled discomfort was too much to swallow, she bashfully went to exit the Museum of History, feeling his aura suddenly very up close. The peek behind spoke volumes of just how intimate he was to her, his hands twitching at his sides and his breathing like large bellows onto a fire. They once again left the wandering sentry behind in the gossiping dust as they made their way for home.

A Feral Fantasia

   They descended into the metro tunnels. Her heart was skipping a mile a minute- bum bum- her face grew hot- bum bum- the entire oh you broke my nose but not yet my heart euphoria lifted her on cloud nine. She was almost giggling to herself, ignorant of the weird looks he gave her as she hopped and twirled down the steps.

   He liked her!

   She glanced over her shoulder, the grimace on his face at her silly antics instantly poking a sharp pin in her heart-shaped balloon.

   Well…he said he had liked her. Sorta.

   The darkness impeded her vision, as always, and she automatically clicked on her Pip-Boy light. It illuminated Charon’s alarmed expression before he smacked a hand over it, smothering the brightness as best he could.

   “Turn it off!” he hissed.

   She panicked, flipping a knob for the radio instead.

   “HEY EVERYBODY, THIS IS THREE DOG, YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD-!”

   Evelyn’s squeak bounced off the walls with the booming announcement, echoing down every tunnel before she finally silenced it. The loud thud thud thud of her heartbeat pulsing in her ears seemed to render her deaf until a hair-raising hiss came from almost every direction.

   Charon shoved her, his tone urgent. “Move.”

   She didn’t argue, but scrabbled for the service door just ahead, the sound of claws against concrete drawing a whimper from her mouth. A blast from the big guy’s shotgun blasted at her back, and then another, another, the white muzzle flash illuminating their silhouettes like moving pictures against the wall…and it was at that moment she saw the multitude of the distorted limbs and gaping maws.

   Pitch black. Snarling. Flash. A row of black teeth ready to devour her face. A scream. Pitch black.

   Charon’s fingers reached around her waist and unsheathed his knife, flipping it in one fluid motion to then drive it straight into the feral’s throat. With his body pressed against her, he pushed her forward as more could be heard scraping over each other up the escalators. The door was opened and slammed shut in the faces of many, their souls screaming in unparalleled agony as the frame shuddered and jolted. He wrapped both hands around the wiggling knob and leaned his weight into it, the muscles of his sculpted arms bulging from the effort.

   “Go!” he growled. When she remained frozen in place by fear, he whipped his head around and snarled, “Run!” 

   She ran across the rickety gangplank leading up to the main courtyard, her lungs begging her to slow down and her mind screaming to find someplace to hide. She nearly collided with a group of individuals that were traversing down the same path she was so desperate to escape from. Everyone was startled by the random encounter, and she pointed behind her with a huge draw of air down her lungs.

   “Ferals,” she managed shakily, squinting her eyes through the haze of early dusk at the particularly well-armed trio aiming their guns at her. “Down, in the tunnels-”

   “You that Vault Dweller?” one asked, taking her good intentions and shoving it right back up her ass. He took in her vault suit. “The one on the radio?”

   She kept silent for a moment, now really studying this entirely new threat that had come knocking at her door. Their armor pinged a faint draw of recognition. She never had the chance to answer, for they all raised their weapons at once at something behind her just as she felt a heavy blow knock her to the side.

   “Oof!” she gasped, and then a gloved palm swiped over her mouth before she was rolled under the footbridge, Charon snugged underneath her in a narrow trench in the earth.

   The planks above them rattled and dipped under the weight of so many- they shrieked and screamed and cried as their shoeless feet bounded toward their new foes. The dust and dirt that rained down wafted up her nose. Bullets began to hail, laser fire zinged through the air.

   A desperate scream. “No! Get off me! Get off-fgchck!”

   Flesh could be heard being torn apart from fat and ligament and bone. It slapped against the pavement. Mashed between rotten molars. Chew chew chew. The scuffing of boots, the repeated help me help me please don’t leave me here-

   She trembled. Her hands tightened around the stronghold that was the ghoul beneath her, always so still, a breathing statue. They were forced to lay there, listening to the sounds of the carnage above, one of them slowly being devoured alive. She couldn’t take his sobbing, his hopelessness- it made her begin to cry. She clamped her hands over her ears, closed her eyes. A solid beat pounded against her spine, slow and steady and deep. An echo of a tympanum, beaten upon by heavy hands, vibrating through her core. She could listen to it in the early hours of dusk, the sands still warm as she lay in the ocean tide, overlooking those dark waters with the scent of citrus and jasmine in the air.

   A rancid odor forced her eyes to open. A feral, sitting not more than a foot away, its open maw drooling blood with a chunk of skin dangling between its teeth, staring at them with milky eyes. A low whimper built in her throat as it crept closer, the horrid stench almost making her gag. She felt Charon’s palm tighten over her mouth as he slowly raised his other arm, offering it just below the feral’s chin. It sluggishly lowered its lipless mouth and sniffed, smearing some slime along the patchy muscle of his forearm.

   A rattle of gunshots peppered somewhere in the distance, and it whipped its head around with a sickening crack of its vertebrae before scrabbling off with the others. Their hideous snarls soon became nothing more than the low moans of those left behind, and yet he did not release her. The seconds became minutes, and by the time her shot nerves snapped at the suspense and she went to struggle away, a creak sounded right above them, a large slop of drool dripping between the splintered cracks to slather her left cheek. A disfigured face only conceived in nightmares smooshed itself between the gap, eyeing her with an inhuman grin. She retched. It heard. Charon whipped the barrel of his shotgun straight up and blasted it into chunks of meat and musty wood splints. He quickly sat up, shoving her over and out of the trench back to the courtyard. Her ears rang from the close blast- for a horrified moment, she feared she was deaf.

   She paused at the sight on the surface level. It was a fucking slaughter-fest. The low whimpering was coming from a wet sack of bloodied flesh that was still moving- the remains of one of the men she had run into. He weakly raised a shuddering hand that had two fingers- the others had been bitten off, leaving only chewed stumps. The lower half of his jaw had been ripped away, his upper lip barely moving, but the pain in his face was clear- please, don't let me die here, don't leave me alone, please help-

   Charon pushed her between the shoulder blades towards the entrance to the sewers, and then quickly wheeled her back around as they turned the corner. A few ferals, skittering along the road and investigating the area with their chins to the ground as they sniffled a faint scent, one occasionally making a squawking noise and raising its blind face. With absolute silence on his end, he very carefully pulled her back around and down a set of stairs. The last sight she had before being consumed in total darkness was the creeping ghouls crawling over to the still breathing mercenary, his guttered cries haunting her as they descended below.

   The arm she clung to was the only solace in that infinite pitch. Her fingertips dug into the coarse muscle and leathered skin, the endless grooves of wrinkles and knotted scars held captive by her steadfast grip. She refused to let go, followed blindly as he somehow ferried her around twisting turns without any source of light. He then abruptly disappeared from all sense of touch. Before she could panic and call for him (the thought of being torn apart by invisible teeth making her cry), a service door was slammed shut, locked, and a heavy workbench was pushed against the frame. They waited in total blackness for a few minutes, the sudden silence overwhelming and anticlimactic all at once. With hesitance, she clicked on her light again only to enhance his broad back, his hands still braced against the blockade and head slightly bent forward as though in prayer. He said nothing, but eventually leaned away until he was retreated in shadow, his presence felt rather than seen.

   His glowing eyes were suspended high above in the empty air, his phantom voice sending chills down her spine. “Are you hurt?”

   She managed to blink, tearing her eyes back to the barricaded door. “N-no, I, um-”

   “You are shaking,” he rasped with an eerie calmness.

   It was true. The light was bouncing and trouncing and having funfunfunfunfun all over the walls.

   “I’m scared,” she confessed.

   Only until his eyes disappeared did she redirect her light around the room. Broken beer bottles, their amber refraction glittering the walls; scattered tin cans, a few fashioned together in a single line with some wire; some boxes of detergent, busted crates, a person hunched over in the corner-

   She yelped and jumped into the ghoul behind her. He didn’t budge an inch.

   “He is dead,” he commented as though it was on the weather.

   She hugged herself, the warmth at her back a small comfort. “Can we, like…get rid of him?”

   He sighed tersely through his nose but proceeded with the request. The pale-blue corpse was almost a husk, thin and gaunt underneath the rags it wore, its jaw slack on its hinges and eyes long recessed into dark pits. He opened the cabinet doors below the workbench and rudely shoved the body inside, the bones snapping as he finagled it to fit.

   “I didn’t-!” she began, but then he forced them shut, hiding the body away forever inside an oversized drawer. He shrugged at the face she gave him. She muttered, “You knew what I meant.”

   Charon set his bag down against the far wall opposite the barricaded service door, unstrapping his shotgun before taking a seat on the floor. He adjusted the side pistol on his thigh, giving her a cool stare.

   “I suggest you sleep.”

   The words left the tip of his tongue like a casted spell, coiling fatigue around her bones and hanging weights from her eyelids. She rubbed at the latter, yawning with a heavy nod of her head to then sit beside him. He instantly leaned away as she married her bag to his own.

   “I don’t have cooties,” she mumbled as he moved an inch to avoid touching her.

   The Pip-Boy was removed from her wrist and propped on the floor to keep the light on the door. With her blanket retrieved and wrapped around like a shawl, she whispered ‘goodnight’ and was out. She hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep until she felt herself being shoved aside. Her head had been in his lap, and she brushed her hand against something thick in his pants while he tried removing her. He was rock fucking hard, and the thought of unzipping it made her cunt wet.

   “Oh,” she whispered, and he paused in pulling her away after she put a hand on it. She looked up at him, the faint light not even reaching his face. “Do, do you-?”

   He responded instantly, “Yes.”

   She crawled into his lap, her breath hot and damp and sour across his face, her tongue lathering into his mouth and teeth dipping in the stern line of his lip. The heft of his hands came up, demanding in their taking, snatching themselves underneath her suit as he practically ripped it from her body, the delighted gasp she exhaled moving his mouth to a freed nipple. He noisily sucked on it, frothing over the perky nub while one palm squeezed her ass. The Pip-Boy was bumped into, clattering across the floor with the light now reflecting their silhouettes against the wall. The bits of pebbles dug into the skin of her knees as he got straight to business, flipping her around and bending her over on all fours in complete subservience to him, their roles completely switched.

   Charon spread her legs wide, propping her ass in the air for the tip of his weepy dick to catch. His eyes never left the sight of that initial lipping of her cunt over the head. “You will need to be quiet,” he instructed, and when he thrusted, she was anything but.

   He automatically smacked a hand over, catching her jerky whimpers and stuttered moans in the palm of his glove as he gritted his teeth and paid little mind to being attentive, the stabbing of agonizing pain melting into unadulterated pleasure with every plunge. A sick game of wills, the battle for obedience being challenged by the indulgence of sex, and he couldn’t differentiate between the two when it came to the white light behind his eyes.

   Her head turned, watching his large shadow melting into hers with every thrust he gave, the spear of his cock vanishing and rematerializing over and over and over as he buried himself inside. The white of her eyes glimmered as they rolled in the base of her brain, her body growing limp and malleable enough that he could push in just a bit farther, feel that impenetrable wall of flesh that jolted a spark of electricity through her nerves, whiplashing a seedy moan from her lips with every stab.

   His fingers came down to grope at her clit, clumsy and uncoordinated and on a completely different fucking map. She came down to chart his course through the dark curls of her groin, and he scratched at the supposed ‘sweet spot’ with his rough texture until her voice suddenly became high-pitched. It gave him the most invasive thought of taking the backside of her head and repeatedly slamming it into the pavement till something gave way, her skull, maybe.

   He came instead.

   The ghoul went to stand after the minute of dignified silence, his knees feeling every bit their age as they cracked. He stifled a groan and tottered backward, snorting past that euphoric rush swelling through his veins with a harsh rub at his eyes. His dick was limp and dripping all over his boots, that sweet musky scent quickly enveloping everything else. He didn’t bother wiping himself as he jiggled it back inside. The zipper to his pants was shunted up tight and flat, and he turned back to the scene of her milky legs shaking with his contribution drizzling out; it felt good knowing it was his. 

   When she was clean and dressed, she once again took her place beside him, drifting into sleep and his body like a loose sail caught on a gentle breeze. He grabbed her by the face and forced her weight to fall the opposite way, to which she eventually curled into herself for an undisturbed few hours before she awoke with a fright.

   Her words were slurred, unsure and timid. “You’re not turning feral, right?”

   He turned his head. “No.”

   They were now rushed, insistent and demanding, like a child. “Like, never, right? You’ll never turn feral? You won’t…be like them?”

   He turned away and shifted his weight, spreading his legs out just a bit wider. “I do not know.”

   It was quiet. He assumed she may have fallen back asleep until she suddenly said, “I don’t want you feral…the world is cruel enough.”

   He almost grunted at the sentiment. He agreed. He listened to her breathing become soft and steady once again, his eyes on the door, and his gun always at his side.

   The skin of her throat was being peeled between sharp teeth and sticky saliva, (bang bang!), pulled, tight tight tight until it was so strained it could snap back into place (bang bang!), but then it started to tear, riiiiiip, (BANG BANG).

   Evelyn fought the constricting blanket around her legs like a live snake, struggling without a single coherent thought as to what was happening-

   Charon clamped a hand around her mouth, his voice tight. “Do not scream. You are safe.”

   She took the inhale of air after his release like a deep drink of water. After a moment of clarity, she remembered where they were and the events leading to that point. She pulled on the collar of her suit as an invitation for the chilly air to grant relief to her hot, sweaty skin. It went unnoticed how Charon stared at the slight peek of her bra that had winked out. The blanket was shoved into her pack while she rummaged around for…for…she glared over at her companion.

   “Will you stop eating everything?” she rudely snapped, and then a single can of Pork n' Beans was held under her face. “Oh, thanks, you’re so considerate,” she sarcastically drawled.

   He nodded, deliberately and with a straight face. She struggled in popping it open with a rusted screwdriver while he simply watched.

   “Can we leave now?” she asked, reaching over for her Pip-Boy to check the time. Morning. Early. She had to pee. Bad.

   “There are too many on the surface,” he rasped. “We will have to go underground.” He pointed at her Pip-Boy. “I am familiar with the tunnels. I advise you leave that off.”

   She nicked her thumb on the edge of her opened lid and hissed an expletive, jamming it in her mouth to gum on. “You went outside?”

   “I have.”

   “And they don’t, bother you?”

   “Ferals are of no concern to me,” he vaguely explained.

   She redirected the light to her thumb, the blood dewing on her skin and bouncing bright red under the glow.

   The ghoul was suddenly at her side and crouched nearly face level, scaring her out of her wits with his lack of warning. (His perfection in stealth was most disarming and exceedingly ungrateful when entirely unnecessary.) He grabbed at her hand, inspecting the minuscule cut for a moment before wiping it clean with a swirl inside his own mouth. The noise of surprise that left her was unattractive, but he paid her no mind as he dipped a few fingers into a small satchel at his waist to wrap her thumb with a wad of sweat-sullied bandages.

   She stared at the newly mummified finger. “Um…thank you.” They both stood and gathered their respective gear, and she nervously fiddled in place while he leaned out to visually scope the tunnel.

   “It is clear," he observed.

   “You can go first. I need to pee.”

   He rolled his eyes but did as he was told, waiting on her absurd privacy request with folded arms and a scowl.

   She came out with a blind grope of her hands through the dark. “I can’t see anything without my light. How will I-?”

   Something was pressed into her open palm…they felt familiar enough, and she ignored his suggestion and ticked a button on her Pip-Boy to illuminate the object in question. The binoculars. She gawped at him, turning them over in her hands. 

   She guffawed, “You took this? Why?”

   He simply rasped, “They are better.”

   When she didn’t say anything, he stiffly pointed to the side of them, clearly wholly uncomfortable. She flipped a micro switch and then held them to her eyes, peering down the once-blackened subway with perfect clarity. He reached over and flipped it again, and something entirely new came into view. Heat signatures. She pulled them away, amazed.

   “You did all this, for me?” Well, that explained the noise that had woken her up.

   He awkwardly nodded, not seeing to continue the conversation, and motioned for her to follow.

Not All Who Wander (with a Grumpy Ass Ghoul) Are Lost

   The tunnels were ever murky, smelling of mildew and decomposing flesh; pressing a thick odor on the back of the tongue that you couldn’t wash off no matter how hard you scrubbed. It was so eerily silent that just the faintest noise would elope on the wings of a butterfly to summon whatever ancient eldritch slumbered in its tomb. She kicked a bottle with her toe, skidding it across the floor for a millisecond (straight for a one-way trip down the escalator), until he quickly caught it under his boot, preventing a near-total repeat of yesterday’s incident.

“Sorry,” she breathed at his back. “I can’t really see what’s at my feet with this thing.”

    He muttered something she only caught snippets of do not understand and still alive.

   “You may hold on to me,” he relented with a grouse. When she immediately went for his hand, he brusquely redirected her to the strap on his back. “Here.”

   They slowly descended, her hand clenching his leather strap like a lifeline in choppy waters, her retrofitted eyes taking in everything that dwelled in the abyss. Charon came to a halt. A few lanterns illuminated a sectioned-off portion of the metro, and he grumbled to himself at the nuisance it created. There wasn’t a detour worth taking to get around.

   “Wait here,” he rasped as he removed her hand…or at least tried to. He spun an evil glare around as she refused to release him. “Let go.”

   “Don’t leave me here alone!” she sniveled.

   “It is only for-”

   “No!”

   He grated through clenched teeth, “It is for your safety. I advise you remain-”

   “I won’t get in the way,” she promised as though she was reciting some feverish prayer. “Just don’t leave me here. Please.”

   A drawn-out, I’m too old for this fucking shit sigh gave her the green light. He brought his face uncomfortably close.

   “Be quiet.”

She nodded, and he started forward with her toddling behind. A mother duck and its duckling (if the mother duck was seven feet tall and the resurrected image of the harbinger of death, and its duckling was a pretty thorn in its feathered behind). Said mother duck craned his head around a piece of propped plywood for a better visual of the area. Said duckling stared at his butt after he was forced to lean forward. Charon jolted a micro-fraction as something touched his ass. He swiveled his head around so quickly it could've spun off as a dreidel.

   “What is it?” he snapped.

   She gave him a sheepish look. “Nothing…sorry.”

   With a glower and shake of his head, they stepped swiftly and soundlessly through the raider encampment, his hands and low growls occasionally discouraging her kleptomaniac habit as she tried to loot anything within reach. A few coma-induced Jet junkies were sprawled on sheets of tatty blankets, blissfully unaware of their presence as they crept on by. A single sentry, enjoying a smoke and a thumb of whiskey, failed to notice the giant sneaking up at his back. His awareness of the threat was made much too late after a hand stifled his shouts and a knife cleanly sliced through an artery. He was dead in minutes.

   Evelyn did her due diligence and kept as quiet as her overly-loud nature permitted, shadowing the ghoul as he led her through tunnels and down escalators and past doors and up stairs and-

   “Where are we going?” she finally hissed, scoping the binoculars around after they came to another halt. She spied more ferals, twitching and snapping at one another, down another service line. Besides the occasional tick of her Geiger counter, they had completely avoided all dangers during their excursion through the subway tunnels.

   Charon nabbed the binoculars from her hands, ignoring her questions as he grumbled to himself. A few minutes passed until he gave her her eyes back, and he continued to slink along the tracks with her in close pursuit. They entered a large lobby area of the metro, the faint rays of sunlight drifting through portions of the collapsed ceiling. It cast a spooky glow through the abandoned passageways, and she was only able to see unaided for a moment before he led her down another escalator to the depths farther below.

   A partially lit directory by the billboard track that read Metro Central caught her eye. She pointed to it, whispering, “There’s-”

   “I know where we are,” he cut her off, his voice sharp and a tad more annoyed than usual.  

   They wandered down another tunnel- a few feral dogs greeted them with slobbery jowls and less than innocuous affections. Charon broke his own ground rule and blasted them into stew-sized chunks. A locked service door was kicked down; the janitor's closet led to a dead end.

   “Are you sure-?” she questioned as she pilfered what she could before he dragged her out. “Hey!”

   Another traverse across the station, another line. A couple of feral ghouls were dismembered by the blast of his shotgun, his initial caution slowly being whittled away with every door they rounded into. She began to flip through the maps of her Pip-Boy but was unable to pinpoint their exact location due to his long stride threatening to leave her behind (even though he wouldn’t dare to).

   Charon forced them to pause as he reloaded a new drum magazine, his indistinct mutterings becoming snarls and his scowls burning into loathe-filled glares. Evelyn traced a strange, faded symbol on the wall with a fingertip, one of the few that she had noticed during their journey.

   “What is-?” She turned her head to him stomping away.

   He slammed a hand over an electrical panel beside a large service door, opening it to a waft of damp air that smelled of wet earth. A large cavern. He trudged on forward, and she listened to the sounds of bullet casings hitting the deck. He came back around, his armor misted with blood and his expression ever-so irate.

   “Let us continue,” he rasped, the underlying rage just barely contained.

   She tiptoed around the carnage, up some metal catwalks, and into another subway system. A new billboard- Red Line.  

   “Charon, are we-?”

   He didn’t even look back. “We are not lost.”

   “Just how long has it been since you’ve been through here?”

   He was utterly silent, and she blew out a breath of hot air; forced to follow in the aftermath of his raging storm, listened to the booming thunder as he took his frustration out on anything that moved. Just when she was about to gripe about his construed sense of direction after entering an abandoned car tunnel, he shoved her into the concrete wall with a flattened palm stemming her complaints. The side of his eyes turned her own to a pack of ferals- healthy in number, sluggish, and oblivious of their new guests. One slid out of a busted window within the skeleton of a bus, slinking to the floor with a groan. She nodded, and he slowly released her to press her forward, guiding her steps as they cut straight across until they made it through the other side, finally emerging into open sunshine. With an elated sigh, she closed her eyes to the sun and breathed the open (fresh?) air.

   “Thank God.” The Pip-Boy was brought up, the screen set to full brightness as she scrolled through the menu. “So. We’re-?” An expected glance was given to her companion, who was frowning at the giant billboard plastered on the side of a building. She placed a hand above her eyes, reading, “GNR. Galaxy News?!”

   Charon was already pivoting back around just as she began to bound away. He suddenly had a hold of her elbow, sweeping her off her feet with how abruptly he stopped her momentum.

   “There are more tunnels,” he rasped plainly.

   She shrugged him off, pointing with excitement. “No, this is perfect! I’ve actually been trying to find this place for my…” Her enthusiastic rant tapered off, and she at once became sullen. “…my dad. I heard he came here.”

   Charon raised a brow muscle but didn’t press the topic. Rather, he motioned with the barrel of his gun at the building. “You wish to proceed?” When she eventually nodded, he declared, “Very well. I must inform you that the Brotherhood is not friendly with ghouls.”

   “The guys in the shiny armor?” He nodded, and she questioned with a genuine, “Why?”

   He gave her a look she couldn’t describe. “They are not impartial as you are.”

   It was apparent that was the extent of his heightened vocabulary and conversation, for he then just stood there as his usual stoic self, waiting on her to carry on.

   Step by step, she came closer to possibly reuniting with her father. Inch by inch, the looming radio beacon called, broadcasting an inaudible signal that only seemed to play for her- a record, skipping- Goodbye. I love you. Goodbye. I love you. Goodbye. I love you. The building seemed to transform into a living entity, its walls bulging from its heavy breathing, the cracks and dust moaning with every sigh. The wind cried in her ears, the chorus of screaming from the throats of many wailing within its walls, hands pushing at the frames and pounding to be let out- by God, let me out!

   Charon nudged her with his elbow.

   She had been standing in place, frozen stiff and staring with widened eyes at the once-more plain and crumbling structure, the metallic halls and florescent lights recessed into the far reaches of her mind. She rubbed at her forehead. “Sorry…just a little tired, I guess.”

   The closer they got, the more her head whipped around for a way inside, the sun-faded billboard taunting her with its inviting message- ha-ha! So close yet so far, sucker!

   “How do we get in?” she pouted. A single door was visible on an upper floor, but with no way to possibly reach it. “Can you get me up there?”

   He glanced up. “I do not know.”

   They maneuvered up a few levels over some concrete debris until she was standing directly below it, her hands reaching for the sky and stars above. “Okay, just-whoa!”

   Charon had cupped her ass with both palms and lifted her straight up, her fingertips barely skimming the broken platform. When it was obvious she couldn’t hoist herself over, he set her back on her feet.

   “A little warning next time, thank you,” she said curtly.

   He shrugged. “You did not mind before.”

   She waved him off with spoiled cheeks and looked around. “Isn’t there more than one way inside?”

   He simply pointed up a small path of some rubble, indicating a way around to the front of the building. The ghoul stepped up first, sure-footed and with laughable ease as he then watched her slide back down on her ass, her cheeks hitting every sharp rock on the descent.

   “Ow!” she whined, rubbing at the site and discovering a slight tear. With a huff, she tried again, biffing it near the top and only escaping the previous fate as Charon caught her by the arm. She dusted herself off, trying to recover some semblance of dignity. “Thanks,” she said.

   He nodded, and then simply watched (again) as she slid on some slippery slate (on her first step) all the way down the other side, her body rolling a few feet before knocking into a dumpster. He carefully stepped forward, sliding all the way down with a precarious balance on a mini landslide. 

   “Yeah, thanks,” she bit out after spitting out some rocks.

   He nodded. “Are you injured?”

   “Are you injured?” she groveled with a horrible mocking impression. The inquiry was left unanswered as she stalked off, tracing a side avenue until they came into an open courtyard. The biting end of a laser rifle was instantly planted in her face.

   “State your business, civilian,” the mic-filtered voice rudely inquired. The last term was nearly spat out, as though it was something repulsive that had been chewed on.

   Before she could even blink (much less reply) the rifle had been snagged from their hands, the butt end of it cracked into the front of their helmet. The Brotherhood soldier staggered back with a pained gasp and was quickly on the other side of their own tactic.

   Charon snarled a warning, the rifle held steady and surely in his hands.

   Evelyn immediately placed a hand on his arm, the exposed muscles of his bicep taut under her touch. “Charon-!”

   “What the hell is going on here?” A second soldier stepped down from behind a fortified defense at the base of the plaza, his gun held down at his side. “Initiate, you mind explaining why a ghoul has a hold of your rifle?”

   The initiate snapped to attention, her hands balled at her sides and feet at a perfect forty-five-degree angle with her heels married together. “They surprised me, Sir!”

   The other seemed to sigh. “Go take ten, then report to Jackson for field day duty.”

   The initiate slammed a fist to her chest, then walked off…but not without a slight sulk in her step.

   The Brotherhood soldier gave Charon a calculative assessment. “I wouldn’t suggest looking for a fight, unless you got the firepower to take on an entire squad.” He redirected his helmet to Evelyn. “I’m Knight Hammond, second in command at the GNR outpost…and, you are?”

   “Evelyn,” she said, and she moved her hand over the rifle that was still pointing downrange at Hammond’s head. She gave the ghoul a look. “And this is Charon, we’re very friendly.”

   Charon grumbled something irately that she couldn’t transcribe, but he lowered the gun regardless.

   “What is a civilian doing this far in the ruins?” He waved a knife hand at her suit, soiled and stained and fraying. “Much less, a vault dweller?”

   Her lips parted to speak, and then her weight left the ground. Grenade. The plume of dirt blasted around them, filling her lungs with hot sand. Charon had picked her up, unnaturally quick for a man his size and stature as he sprinted for some cover. Another explosion set off to their right, blinding them in a cloud of dust and sweeping the ghoul off his feet. All sound went out in her ears, leaving behind nothing but a faint ring.

   She coughed, squinting past the swimming vertigo that swayed her head. “Ch-Charon?” Her own voice was muted, she could only feel the vibrations in her throat. There was a swirling pattern in the haze before her eyes, and then a nasty green snarl emerged. She screamed, and all the sound in the world came back like a kick in the teeth.

   A shout. “Light them up!”

   The super mutant reached out with its sausage fingers, its rancid smell like nothing in comparison. The gaping mouth opened, close enough that she could taste the distasteful odor of its breath as it swamped her face like a cloud in a bog. She whipped onto her back and began to scoot away, kicking at its outstretched hand with the heel of her boot.

   “No-no!”

   The super mutant dipped forward with a violent jerk, grunting as it lost balance and toppled forward to crash just inches from her. The ghoul on its back jammed the muzzle of his gun firmly at its temple, blowing its skull wide open to splatter them with gory confetti. He dismounted and pulled her behind some cover of piled sandbags, grabbing her by the chin to force their eyes to meet.

   “Are you hurt?” he rasped, loud and well enough for her to hear.

   “No!” she shouted in return, and he seemed satisfied as he then pulled a grenade from his pocket, ripping the pin out with his teeth to lob it into the fray.

   She could hear the brutish yelling of super mutants. Her hands shook, her face hot and sweaty, her breathing much too fast. She slowly peeked around and quickly shrunk back. This was insane! She had come so close…her eyes took in her contracted bodyguard, his steady breathing, his calm demeanor, his quick-fire shots. He was risking life and limb for her, forced to.

   The battlefield was chaos. She watched a soldier go down, his gun skittering across the pavement and his hands raised in front of his helmet as a super mutant stepped up to them, his entire ribcage being smashed inward under the weight of its stomp. A band of more soldiers appeared from the ruins, rallying their battle cries and spraying the courtyard with lead and lasers. Charon ducked her head back before a stray bullet could kiss her goodnight.

   “Stay down!” he barked. He had a laser burn on his left arm, cauterized and sizzling black flesh. He seemed to assess an escape route through the warzone, for he then sat down beside her. “You are to run for the entrance. I will cover you-”

   She gaped at him. “I’m not leaving you here!” She shrugged off his hand before he could push her up. “If you stay, I stay!”

   The ghoul stared at her. “You will die.”

   It was stated as a crystal-clear fact, an absolute. It wasn’t a matter of what if. It was cold, it was blunt, it was carved in stone- a commandment sent by God.

   She bristled, her voice thick, “I haven’t yet.” With a blink past the angry tears swelling under her eyelids, she waved at the gun on his thigh. “I can do it.”

   He hesitated, but then the strap to the holster was unbuttoned, a single snapping sound that somehow cut through all the noise at their backs. The pistol was unholstered and held out in the palm of his glove. With great reluctance, she took it, staring at the well-maintained piece of equipment as though it would swallow her whole.

   “Stay close,” he cautioned.

   The ground suddenly shook beneath their feet, the still-standing structures around them threatening to collapse with every groan and shudder rippling through their supports. The earth quaked, it juddered underneath her. Boom boom boom. It was surely splitting in half, ready to send her back down in that pit, to bury her, put her back where she belonged- now, how did you get out, you silly little vaultie?

   They looked over, and for the first time in a very long time, she prayed.

   A colossal super mutant, towering over them all like a child with dolls, gnashing its teeth and bellowing a roar so loud it disrupted the air around it. It picked up a soldier at its feet that peppered it with lasers like pelted stones, brought them to its mouth, and bit their head clean off their shoulders. 

   A wild scream. “GET ON THAT FUCKING FATMAN NOW!”

   Evelyn turned and puked; the sour stench insignificant compared to that sickly odor of death intoxicating the air. A muffle of words- she didn’t hear them. A rush of wind- she didn’t feel him leave. She was too busy trying to stay alive, trying to keep her feet on the ground and not fall upwards through the big empty sky, oh God, how big it was, how vast, how did no one trip and get sent away, so blue, so terrifying. There was so much noise- too much gunpowder tarring her lungs and itching her throat. All the smoke was killing her, how it blinded! The air wouldn’t stop vibrating, it rattled her bones! God, where were you? Why do you let this happen?!

   A seismic blast ripped a scream from the pit of her belly. The Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy went dramatically off-scale, but she didn’t hear it, she couldn’t see. She was curled in a tight ball, her head in her knees and her eyes screwed shut against the world-

   The rickety wooden shack door is at her side, bangs against the trim with the hot wind in its sails.

   (bang bang bang)

   The sun. The sun, how bright, how bright, she had never seen something so scorching, so painful, something so far, far away it blisters her skin and melts her hair. She could see it, behind her eyes, no matter how hard she presses the heel of her palms against them.

   It was quiet. Much too quiet. No thrum of the air recirculation fans, no faint buzz of the sickly-pale lights, no carried whispers down halls or echoed laughter beyond open doors. Just the sigh of the wind, the clacks of the door.

   (bang bang bang)

   It was too open. There was too much space. It’s going to scoop her up, up and away, a brittle leaf carried by the breeze.

   It did just that, and she began to scream.

   “Stop it!” a voice barked at her.

   She opened her eyes. The ghoul seizing her by the wrists and throttling her quite suddenly became the most wonderful thing in the world to hold onto. He could keep her anchored, not let her fly away. Charon stood as she tried to find comfort in his arms, brusquely lifting her to her feet and holding her upright as her knees began to buckle.

   “Get up,” he rasped harshly. “You are safe.”

   With a sniffle and wipe at her wet face, she looked down at the discarded pistol at her feet. She had dropped it, too broken and bruised to defend her own skin. He bent down to retrieve it, securing his weaponry with a turn of his back to her. He didn’t meet her weepy eyes. She was forced to face the gruesome fallout alone.

   A breeze picked up, and it brought along the scents of sweet shit and blooming decay. The once empty courtyard was now the newest textbook addition of wasteland warfare; the Brotherhood were dragging their lifeless to the side, preparing a makeshift grave; the behemoth was sprawled into the side of the ruins, its charred body crumbling into hot ash. Its mouth was wide open, its eyes boiled from their sockets to forever stare up into the empty sky. A goliath, struck down by the hand of a single man- a slingshot at his belt and a nuclear warhead in his pouch.

   War never really did change.

   She turned to him, as exhausted as he never showed but should have felt, his broad shoulders always so unyielding to the pressure, his stern mouth never wavering for anything less than a reprimand.

   “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, but it came out more like a croak. “I-I couldn’t...I tried-”

   His eyes flit up, just once, then back down to his gear. He heard her, as clear as a fucking crystal bell, but chose to say nothing.

   A woman stepped forward, blonde flyaway hairs framing her face. “You okay, kid?”

   “Y-yeah,” Evelyn blubbered. “Sorry, I-”

   “Civilians shouldn’t be this far inside the ruins. I suggest you go home once the route back is clear,” she interjected. She then gave her a full appraisal, and wasn’t very impressed.

   Evelyn blinked over at Charon, but he kept unusually quiet and made no suggestion.

   “I actually came here, for something,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to get in the way.”

   “Look, I’m not telling you how to live your life, I’m just telling you how to keep living it.” The woman then turned her head and gave a twirl of her fingers in the air, the mechanical suit whirring with the motion. “Set up a perimeter, check for any more casualties. I want this building secured before nightfall.” When the group behind her back disbanded to their duties, she gave Evelyn one last glance. “You got a name, civilian?”

   “Evelyn,” she said sheepishly, then pointed to the ghoul at her back. “Charon.”

   “Charon.” The woman gave a nod of her head, polite and respectful. “Thanks for the hand.” She then left, barking more orders across the courtyard for everyone to hear.

   Charon stepped past for the entrance, only stopping to half turn his head and give Evelyn another look, as though he was actually seeing her for the first time, before continuing to walk away.

Dinner & Diatribes

Chapter Notes

Yes that title is in reference to a song by Hozier. Yes I associate his music with Charon please and thank you and you're welcome.

   It was a rat dropped into a tank full of snakes, except this rat had sharp teeth, scars of experience, and watchful eyes. Charon strode past the helmet-clad soldiers, heard their muttered insults wafted under their breath. No one said anything outright concerning his presence, however. The brawl with the behemoth saw to that.

   Everything was a mess. The stretchers were rushed by, those unlucky enough to survive writhing on their cots until a round of Med-X was slapped on like a band-aid, the medics talking over one another as the medbay quickly became overrun. He grabbed his employer by the arm as she had stood in the corner and began to watch a man’s leg being amputated, the anesthesia administered but not yet quite set in; there wasn’t much else that needed to be seen. He tightened his grip around her, and she finally looked up at him.

   “My Dad isn’t here,” she said dully. He wasn’t sure how she deduced that upon just entering, but he wasn’t going to question it.

   “Hey, outsider,” a voice called to her, turning both of their attention to a soldier stripped down to his base orange uniform. He gave her an easy smile (and him a not-so-subtle nervous glance). It was obvious he was mildly afraid of him.

   Good.

   The soldier approached anyway, awkwardly rubbing a hand through his dark hair. “So. You made it.” He wasn’t even acknowledging Charon’s presence anymore- it was as though she was the only thing in the room.

   His employer gave him a strange look. “Um. I’m sorry, do I-?”

   “Oh, right- I was in power armor at the time. Back at the Mall, you had asked about GNR…Underworld?”

   Her face lit up. “You were the one who saved me from those dogs.”

   Charon’s eyes drew down to slits as he made a threat assessment of this man…he didn’t look like much. The ghoul settled for folding his arms and leaned against the wall.

   “Glad to see you didn’t forget, and that you’re still in one piece.” A hand was held out. “Earl, Senior Knight of the Brotherhood. I know you had told me your name, but I’m only good with faces…”

   She gave hers in return, her mood considerably lighter. Charon's eyes zeroed in on the contact as they shook.

   “Evelyn.” She smiled. 

   (Earl might be a problem)

   “Are you hungry at all? Injured? I heard you were out on the front.” Earl warily looked over (Charon’s mouth curled in a silent snarl), continuing with, “It was one hell of a show.”

   His employer turned around just as he regained a neutral expression. “…how about you?” She pointed to the burn on his arm. “Will you please get that looked at?”

   Charon nodded, stiffly. It seemed to appease her enough…and yet she walked at this soldier’s side through the organized pandemonium.

   (He might have to kill him)

   “Head’s down that way, chowhall is just right here-” Earl slapped the side of the door he had escorted them to. “-I have to run a few reports, let me know if you need anything.”

   “Actually.” She dropped her voice. “I’m looking for-” Her stomach growled, and she blushed a violent red.

   Earl chuckled. “I’ll come back in an hour, how’s that sound?”

   She sent him off with a shy little wave before (finally) addressing Charon’s looming presence again. “See? Impartial.”

   He rolled his eyes, muttering to himself with disdain as he began to ransack everything from one of the few fridges, the wire shelving rattling and becoming displaced by his brute tendencies. He dumped the entire armful on the small table she had chosen to take a seat at.

   She caught a rolling can before it could take a nosedive off the side. "Maybe we should just get you a whole brahmin when we get home."

   He ignored the tease and began to strip his weaponry, piece by piece, alongside their dinner. She watched the piling with a blank face, blinking as it easily outgrew the portion of food. Charon sat down, the chair groaning under his bulk, and grabbed the first item closest to him. The box of BlamCo Mac & Cheese was ravenously emptied, a puff of stale cheese powder blowing around his face after he ripped it open with his teeth. He set it to the side, loudly belched into his shoulder, then dug into another. Evelyn only sat in her seat with her hands underneath her thighs, her expression disgusted by his tableside manners. With an index finger, he scooted a can of Cram to her.

   “You are hungry,” he rasped matter-of-factly.

   Her eyes flit over, but she shrugged and wiped at her nose. “I guess.” 

   “You should eat.” He tossed the second empty box over his shoulder.

   “You can have it.”

   He tapped on the lid. "Eat."

   “Oh, now you’re fine with sharing?”

   His combat knife was unsheathed, slammed down to the hilt through the top, and a perfect cutout of a circle was made. He frisbeed the metal disc across the room. 

   “Eat,” he repeated.

   She sniffed and searched for a utensil with her eyes. "Unlike yourself, I prefer not to-"

   Charon half-turned, reaching over to the countertop, and looted a dented spoon to shove it into the slimy surprise. It made an unappetizing squelch as it sunk down. She gave him a look but relented, only eating half until she eventually passed out with her head in her arms on the table. He finished it (along with the other items) before the soldier returned for them.

   The smoothskin couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke to him. “There’s a few extra cots in the lower barracks…does she need assistance or-?”

   The ghoul leveled a flat look with him before reaching over and placing a hand on her shoulder, shaking her none-too-gently. “Wake up.”

   Her teeth chattered in her skull as she was jostled, her eyelids fluttering as the whites of her eyes showed. She batted him away before wiping the stringy glob of drool from the corner of her lips. She slurred, “Okay-okay!”

   The compound was much calmer than before, those fit enough to resume their duties going about the building like a collected hivemind. Everyone turned their head to stare as they passed. A freshly-shaven crewcut baited Charon with, “We missed one.”

   His employer pivoted on her heel a lot faster than he would have anticipated. Charon grabbed her by the shoulder to keep her forward, but she shrugged him off.

   “Apologize,” she spat sharply off her tongue.

   Charon reattempted to peel her away. He found the insult harmless, but the situation, not so much. “Let us go,” he rasped lowly for her to only hear.

   “I want him to apologize, first,” she scathed, and his fingers loosened their hold a little. He blinked. She was suddenly so angry over something that he was more than accustomed to. She shoved the soldier in the chest, surprisingly making him back up a step. “Did that make you feel big, little man? Too much of a coward to say it to his face but not behind his back?”

   The man went to retaliate with a nasty sneer, but Earl intervened before Charon could.

   “You heard her, Initiate Lowes. You owe him an apology, and frankly, you owe your brothers and sisters here one, too, for dishonoring their names with such gross misconduct. He saved their lives, and now you owe him yours.” He looked around at the quiet crowd that had gathered at the end of the halls. “You all do.”

   “With respect, Sir,” the initiate said through clenched teeth, “I don’t recognize zombies as people any more than I do with muties.” He met Charon’s toasty glare. “Just food for the worms.”

   A fist nailed him in the teeth, earning a choke from his throat before another was thrown at his lower gut. Evelyn jumped him as he tilted over for a split-second, tackling him to the ground with a raining Hail Mary of lead-filled punches. Charon’s face contorted into alarm as he nabbed at the hissing, spitting, yowling cat of an employer. She somehow managed to keep Lowes' arms pinned with her legs, leaving her sense of wasteland justice free to conduct its sentence. Charon was surprised and completely caught off guard- she was much stronger than he would have thought- and he was forced to wrap an arm around her waist to hoist her up. 

   Earl lassoed the insubordinate just as Charon reined her behind him.

   “Stop it!” Charon growled at her, holding her face with one hand to force her eyes away from her target. “Don’t.”

   Earl barked, “Back up, Lowes!”

   “What the hell is going on here?” A voice cut through the commotion and the soldiers snapped to attention. A Brotherhood member still dressed to the nines in power armor strode down the hall, his hands laced behind his back as he slowly sauntered over. “Initiate Lowes, are you inciting a misdemeanor while your brothers and sisters are laying out as food for the worms just outside these walls?”

   The initiate shook his head, not breaking his thousand-yard stare from the wall. “No, no Sir!”

   “Well, now you’re lying to me.” He turned to stare at the two sore thumbs standing off to the side, his brow quirked at Evelyn’s darkened scowl. “Senior Knight Earl will see to it a counseling report is written up regarding your behavior and punishment, Initiate Lowes. I hereby authorize the recommendation, Senior, so there will be no need to route it.” He turned back to the others. “If there are any more incidents regarding our guests, you will be expected to take a walk straight to Paladin Gunny and have someone worth wearing the armor come take your place. Everyone is dismissed.”

   Evelyn glowered at the initiate as he stalked on past, his hands wiping at his bloodied nose to smear it along the bruising on his face. A few of the others crowded around him, speaking in hushed tones before disappearing.

   The soldier in power armor turned back around. “Knight Sargeant Wilks. I'm in charge of this outpost. I apologize for the actions of my subordinate.” He glanced over to Charon. “With that said, I don't take too kindly to those who have overstayed their welcome. Sentinel Lyons has granted special permission for you two after your help with the behemoth, but I'm the overall figure of authority around here...so you best keep that in mind, ghoul.”

   Charon replied with a, "Very well," before his still-bristling employer could speak her mind plainly. When they were motioned to follow the Senior Knight once more, he leaned down to her level to mutter, “Do not hesitate once you throw. It is not as effective.”

   She turned her head to stare at him, and then all at once grew shy under his eyes. “...I won’t.”

   They continued on in silence to their quarters for the evening- a small, backdoor room that was nothing more than a glorified broom closet, spartanly equipped with a bunk bed and an empty footlocker.

   "Sorry about the cramped spacing, but I figured you wouldn't want to be bothered after all of that," Earl explained. 

   "It's perfect, thank you." She smiled. For him. (Again)

   Charon's brow twitched.

   Earl dumbly nodded, seemingly stalling to leave. "Oh, yeah, you said you were looking for-?"

   "My father," she finished, subconsciously inching ever so closely to the smoothskin. "James? I was told he came through here...it would have been at least a month ago."

   The Senior Knight briefly looked over her head to Charon smoldering down at him. "I was just recently transferred here, so I'm afraid I don't know, but if you go around back through the lobby to the recording studio, I'm sure you can ask Three Dog. He tends to hear a lot about what goes on in the wasteland-" His eyes suddenly snapped down to her Pip-Boy. "Wait, hold on- are you, 'The Lone Wanderer', he's always broadcasting about?"

   "The Lone Wanderer?" she repeated.

   "Well, there's this kid that came out of a vault- Vault 101- that he talks of. She's done some crazy stunts. Disarmed a nuke, saved an entire town-"

   Evelyn blew out a sigh. "...that's me. It's not as cool as it sounds."

   Earl chuckled and raised a hand to pat her on the shoulder, but the head-tilting sleep-paralysis demon at her back made him awkwardly lower it instead. "Don't downplay yourself. That's impressive enough for just one person. I can't imagine coming out of a completely sheltered life to facing the entire wasteland alone." He jutted his chin at her companion. "But I guess you're not really alone, huh?"

   She turned, and Charon's dark scowl immediately lightened to his disinterested facade. "I wouldn't have made it here without him," she stated.

   Charon gave a succinct nod and crossed his arms. When she gave an involuntary yawn, Earl stepped out the door.

   "It's nice to meet you again, Evelyn." His eyes roved to Charon, finding himself caught under another nasty glare that sent shivers down his spine. Earl coughed, "May steel be with you."

   The door closed, leaving them alone with only a battery-powered lantern to keep the dark at bay. She plopped on the bottom bunk; the frame creaked. Charon took a seat on the opposite side of the room on the floor, making her frown. 

   "Do you want the other mattress to sit on?" she asked. 

   "No," was all he replied with, and then he began to unpack his things and undo his straps and satchels for routine maintenance. He quietly assessed the laser burn from earlier, pressing a few fingers to the blackened, crisped edges of his flesh.

   "I have stims."

   "No," he repeated. It seemed to be more superficial in nature, for he left it alone and continued with his weaponry instead. 

   Her fingers fiddled with her boots. "Did...did you know, about me?" she shyly inquired, not meeting his stare after he raised it. "On the radio?"

   He looked back down at his work, popping a tin can of grease open to smear a finger inside. "Yes."

   "Why didn't you say anything?"

   The shotgun made a loud snap after he removed the drum magazine. "It was not necessary."

   She thought back to the men in the courtyard and leaned forward on her knees. "Did you know people are after me?"

   "I do." He gave her a cool stare. "You should have taken that bounty more seriously."

   "Bounty-?" The puzzle piece made a final fit in her smooth brain. "That's from them?!"

   "It is."

   "And you knew this?!"

   "I do."

   "You didn't think to casually mention, oh, I don't know, that-"

   He bluntly interrupted with, "I will keep you safe. It is of no concern."

   The bluster she had worked up slowly fizzled itself out as she watched him empty the chamber of his sidearm. "...you shouldn't have to."

   "It is my duty," he said stonily.

   She softly replied, "I wish it wasn't."

   His fingers paused for just a split-second, his eyes looking into empty space, and then he resumed with his nightly tasking. "I advise you to get some sleep."

   Don’t call her that.

   Call her what, nosebleed? I’m just saying it how it really is. He laughs. They all do. They crowd at his back, many at the hands of one.

   Amata cries.

   She sees red. It takes two to pull her away. One being her dad. A true father-daughter moment. They’ll snap a picture, put it in a frame, he’ll wrap an arm around her shoulders and say see? Look at you! Only eight years old and already putting the others in their place. Daddy’s so proud!

   She’s never seen him so disappointed.

   Charon wasn’t in the room when she woke up. It was two am.

   She rolled out from the bottom bunk, tore the scratchy blanket down to her feet, reached for her boots that were snugged beside her bag, laced them tight. A wander down the halls- the soldier on watch pointed to a door that led outside. Charon was leaning against the railing, drifting on the smoke of a cigarette. The moon was high in the sky, a bowl full of milk, the stars speckled drops from a cat who had lapped at it.

   He turned his head, just enough to catch her in view, his eyes glowing strangely under that pale-white light. His voice was flat, uninterested. “Is there something wrong?”

   She hugged herself from the chill in the air, wishing she had her leather jacket in company. It wouldn’t be left behind again, no matter how sweltering the heat was during the day. She stepped up to stand beside him.

   “No. Thought you said you didn't smoke.” She studied the outline of the colossal, the still-glowing embers deep within its burning flesh trailing lines of bright red. “…so, you did that?”

   He blew a smoke-filled haze from his nostrils. “Yes.”

   “Wow.” Her palms came to rest on the cold metal railing, her fingers drumming along the edges. “Were you…scared?”

   He stubbed out the butt end of his dying cigarette on the bar. Shook his head.

   “How do you not get scared?” she whispered.

   His eyes landed on her face, her lips, before glancing over at the giant mutant as he reached for another habit to burn down.

   “I do not know,” he answered stoically. “I do not…remember.” He tensed, clearly uncomfortable. Those eternal blue flames once again singed her mouth; she could almost taste him on the tip of her tongue, a drink of dark wine and a lick of salted meat. He suddenly scowled, leaning away from her after he had unintentionally gravitated forward. “Not here.”

   The bulge in his leather pants said otherwise. It was by some small miracle it didn’t rip straight through; he perhaps wore the hardest-working zipper in the entire wasteland.

   “There’s a lock on the door,” she said quietly.

   “No,” he growled, “it is not safe.”

   "We can go back inside-"

   He glowered down at her. "You know what it is that I imply." He turned, somewhat sullen. "You are much too loud." 

   Without skipping a beat, she said bashfully, “It’s hard to be loud with your mouth full.”

   His eyes raised up from tapping the cigarette carton in his palm.

   She leaned over the railing to squint through the moonlight for any hidden figures. “Is there-?”

   “They patrol every thirty minutes,” he rasped, the statement said so factually that she almost rolled her eyes at his ingrained paranoid behavior. His fingers came down to unleash his already drooling cock. “There is time.”

   She got down to her knees, the cold concrete uncomfortable through the skin of her suit. He bent slightly as she tilted her head forward, her lips miles apart as he eagerly helped himself inside. The slick dew coated her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and she gagged at the horrible, briny taste. He thrust forward, running a race she hadn’t even shot off to start.

   “Hold on!” she hissed after pulling away, a trail of spit spiderwebbing from her lips to his tip. She wiped it off with the back of her hand. “You’ll choke me. Let me do it.”

   There was an irritated exhale high above, but he relented with a nod and instead worked for a cigarette again. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, experimentally darting her tongue out to lap at the underside of his shaft, feeling the grooves of veins and thick muscle on her ride to the top. She sucked on the tip just as he had sparked a flame, and she looked up while he puffed the end of his cigarette to life, the lighter making a sharp snap after he closed it to pocket it away inside his jacket.

   One of his hands came down to tip his dick in a perfect lineup for the back of her throat as she began to swallow him, but the back of her tongue raised up to stop it. He didn’t even fit halfway. She slurped the head, sucking on it with a little hum in her throat after he reached down to grope her chest. She obliged him with a nice view after she unzipped her suit to her navel, his fingers fishing her tits out to cup them in his palms. Charon lipped his smoke to the corner of his mouth, tilted his head back, and blew a tobacco-filled cloud to the sky. His hands came to the sides of her head; she occasionally felt a twitch of his fingers, a faint tightening of his palms around her skull.

   Globs of saliva dangled from her chin as she swayed back and forth, back and forth. She had no idea what she was doing…but he appeared to enjoy it, even if he didn’t make a single sound besides his terse breathing. She licked, swallowed, gagged, and brought a hand up to awkwardly jerk (what couldn’t fit) off. The rhythm was stilted, but he didn’t seem to mind. A sudden tensing of his cock was followed by a twitch and a blast of- yuck!

   She slurped off, coughing up the thick, hot, chalky cum as it continued to lace her neck and chest. It was flung from her fingertips with an ew!

   Charon closed up shop downstairs after flicking his cigarette away. “What is wrong?”

   She blinked her pretty eyes up at him, slightly annoyed. “What?”

   He gave a jut of his chin downward.

   “I don’t understand,” she said dumbly.

   He only grunted. 

   “…did you not like it?” she finally asked, and the insecurity in her voice was so undeniable that it made him, for the first time, in a long time, panic.

   His words came out as an absolute, for he had to make sure it would clear out any doubt in her mind. "I like it."

   “Oh,” she replied simply, and then she chewed her bottom lip. It bobbed his knob. “I-I’m not really experienced with this, um-”

   “Why did you not take it?” he asked with all the finesse of a blunt hammer.

   Her jaw dropped for an entirely different reason. “Like, the whole thing?” He nodded, and she said flippantly, “One: do you see how big this thing is?!”

   He tilted his head for a moment, studying the range and depth of her mouth with a critical eye (like a fucking landscape surveyor), and then nonchalantly shrugged. “I do not see the issue.”

   “Two: it’s gross! You try it!”

   The door opened. An unwanted guest strode out in an orange uniform with their own cigarette perched at their lips. He froze in the doorway upon the sight before him; the smoke fell to his feet, his expression unchanging.

   Charon lunged, wrapping an arm around the soldier’s neck in a chokehold faster than she could stuff her sticky boobs back in her suit.

   “Charon!” she gasped.

   The soldier went limp.

   “Oh my God-!” she began to panic.

   “He is not dead.” Charon carefully laid him out flat. “I advise we leave.”

   “Now?!”

   He curtly jutted his chin at her to move along, closing the door on the unconscious smoothskin outside before propping a garbage can under the handle. 

   “We’re leaving him out there?!” she hissed.

   He nudged her all the way to the empty barracks where their gear had been stowed, wasting no time in equipping himself.

   “Wait, I have to meet this Three Dog,” she begged after he scooped her bag up by the strap. “My Dad-”

   “You have said he is not here,” Charon replied evenly, spinning her back around for the door.

   “I mean, I don’t think he is.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “But I wanted to ask around.” When his grimaced deepened, she implored, “Please.”

   He gave another I’m losing more hair than I actually have sigh and disapprovingly eyed the mess he had left behind. “It would be wise to tend to that, first.”

   He stood guard outside the bathroom door, making certain no one would walk by to sneak a peek through the busted frosted window at his employer undressing as she washed in the sink. He turned his head- just a quick glance, ensuring she was moving with a purpose. He observed as she scrubbed her suit in the frigid spray, catching her mumbled snippets of never doing this again. Her hands cupped her breasts, her nipples perky and tight from the cold, water dripping from her bare skin to the floor as she ran a wet hand up her neck-

   The door flung open; the shitty latch had busted from his added weight after he had leaned into the frame. She squeaked at the intrusion and attempted some modesty as he stumbled a few steps before catching himself. He snapped to attention, pivoted on his heel, and walked straight back out. The door was slammed shut...and slowly swung back in.

   Charon grumbled to himself, harshly rubbing at his eyes as he kept his back to the open frame and listened to the sounds of the taps being spun closed.

[kidotm]

Charon Killed the Radio Star lol

 There were no armed Brotherhood soldiers wandering the halls of the recording studio. It was as though they had entered an entirely new world, one void of the smell of stale sweat and the commotion of heavy footsteps. A low buzz of someone speaking drifted down a staircase, a murmuring invitation that she followed as an uninvited guest. They were greeted by a man hunched over a holotape recorder, his head in one hand while a cigarette took refuge in the other.

   “It is I, Three Dog-!”

   He paused the tape, mumbling something too low for her ears to pick up. With a click, he rewound the recorder and stubbed out his smoke in an overfilled tray, rubbing at his face before spinning around in his chair.

   “Gah!” He jumped, slapping a hand over his chest. “Man, have you ever heard of this thing called knocking?!”

   “Sorry,” she began.

   “Do you know what time it is?!” He spun around again, peering at a clock over the rim of his tinted glasses.

   “Early, I know, I just-”

   “I was wondering when you would finally be coming around.” The radio host fumbled her defense with a brilliant white grin. “And here she is! Miss One-o-One! The Lone Wanderer, herself-” He repeatedly jabbed at the air with a finger. “-in, the, FLESH! Ha ha! Now, I bet you’re sitting here wondering, just who the heck is this guy-?!”

   “Uh.” Evelyn felt her mind blank due to the dramatic introduction. She heard Charon take a seat on the edge of a desk behind her, the entire metal frame groaning like an old man being put to bed. She fiddled with a knob on her Pip-Boy. “Well-”

   The DJ flipped the recorder off and theatrically stood from his chair. “-why, I AM-!”

   “Three Dog,” she candidly interrupted, wiping the fatigue from her eyes and hiding a yawn behind her hand, to which she then reached over for a polite shake. “I’m Evelyn, and this is Charon. I’m looking for my dad, James.”

   Three Dog visibly deflated, but returned the formalities all the same. “Dang, kid, straight to the point, huh?”

   “Did he come here?”

   He removed his glasses to wipe them clean. “He did, couple of months ago-”

   An ice pick chipped a chunk out of her chest- months ago?! It had already been that long?!

   “-but as you can imagine, your old man ain’t here.”

   She crossed her arms, the weight of the world crumbling down on her shoulders. “Did he say where-?”

   “Whoa now, one thing at a time. Look, I know you want to find your dad, but this is the wasteland, and as I’m sure you know by now, ain’t nothing gets done out of the pure goodness of our hearts.”

   Evelyn began to remove her pack from her shoulders. “I don’t have too many caps, but-”

   Three Dog held up a hand. “You can hold on to your caps. I’m actually looking for a favor, of sorts.”

   She warily asked, “…what is it?”

   The more the disc jockey elaborated, the more she felt the urge to just sit down and cry. So, not only had she been chased by ferals, had a near-death experience in a shootout with super mutants, was close to being flat broke, and was still stuck in the middle of the DC ruins, but now (to top it all off), the only other person with information regarding her father was coercing her to go out and retrieve a fucking satellite dish to repair his shitty broadcast signal.

   What a bitter cherry to swallow. The rancid aftertaste it left behind slithered all the way down her gullet like a stone to her gut.

   Three Dog clicked his tongue as her face melted into a puddle of grief. “Hey now, I didn’t mean to make you cry-”

   She blubbered, smearing goop across her cheek, “I just want to find my dad! I’m not some fucking adventurer, or, or, or this stupid ‘Lone Wanderer’ you keep telling people about! I got kicked out of my vault cause my shitty father up and fucking left without even telling me!”

   He looked thoughtful. “The wasteland’s a cruel place-”

   “Yeah, no shit!” she snapped, wiping her wet palms and slimy fingers down her thighs. “I came all the way out here and all I get for it is just some other fucking excuse as to why no one can just help me!”

   “I understand your frustration,” he coaxed, sitting back down in his chair. “But I’m frustrated, too. We’re two sides to the same coin, out there fighting the good fight. I’ve heard about what you’ve done for the people, for the less fortunate and the downtrodden souls just trying to survive. Your dad was a standup guy-” He paused in reaching for another cigarette when she abruptly spun around on her heel. “Kid-?”

   “I don’t care, anymore! Get your stupid dish yourself.” Her boots stomped down the stairs, her fists balled at her sides with her companion closely at her back.

   Charon halted her in the main lobby before they were in view of the soldier on duty. “I have misplaced something. Please wait here.”

   She whimpered, rubbing her fists into her teary eyes. “Y-yeah, sure. I just want to leave.”

   He nodded and reentered the recording studio for a few minutes before rejoining her again. “I am ready.”

   She didn’t look up from the screen of her Pip-Boy as she led them out to the courtyard. Charon veered toward the alleyway they had initially come from, but she snuffed snot up her nose and pointed to the ruins.

   “I was able to make a map for home. I’m not going back in those tunnels.”

   He looked up at the remains of the behemoth, the sunken bones from within beginning to show. “Very well.”

   They carefully made their way through the skeleton of an old school, the corpses of mutants and soldiers alike leaving a nice little breadcrumb trail for them to follow. She occasionally, almost subconsciously, looted whatever visible goodies she could find, her bag soon becoming a plump tick on her back. A school desk was opened, and she coughed from the dust it wafted, rummaging through the assortment of (mostly) useless crap. She was being abnormally quiet and broody, barely sparing him a second glance as he entered the room by shouldering the broken door open.

   Charon picked a box of shotgun shells right out of her hands, ignoring her frown. “It is not wise traveling at night. I suggest we keep moving.”

   She stuck her tongue out at him. He raised a brow muscle at her childish tantrum.

   “I’m just trying to get something out of all of this,” she remarked bitterly, stepping into the next room.

   Charon laid a palm flat over the top of the next desk, preventing her from opening it. When she scowled, he rasped evenly, “You have come away with your life.”

    She scoffed; a vile spat of disdain cut between her teeth. “Only thanks to you. I’m fucking useless.” He didn’t have a reply to that, and she resumed snooping through a wooden crate instead. A bottle of wine was held up for close inspection- the cork was still intact. The layer of grime was wiped away, the two-hundred-year-old label completely illegible. She muttered to herself, “Garbage burner.”

   He drilled a hole through her spine as she took off down a gravel path into another collapsed infrastructure. Her eyes were kept on the screen of her map whilst his were ever-perceptive of the dangers around them, and he narrowly avoided a head-on collision after she had suddenly stopped with no warning. His instincts immediately swiveled his head on a dime, but there was nothing he could make out that was a threat.

   “What is it?” he rasped.

   She turned to raise her eyes up at him, the moonlight making them shine like never-ending wells of water. “I mean, should I do it? Go get that dish?”

   Charon stared at the vulnerability plainly written on her face- the self-doubt, the noble, altruistic calling that she would sooner rather than later answer to. He didn’t understand why it made him so angry, why it bred an infective horde of dark, twisted thoughts about things that he wanted to do to her. There was a lone boat harbored somewhere deep inside his mind, a swarm of hands rising from the black waters and clawing over the hull, their fingers digging into the rotted wood- let us in.

   He took a step back. The shotgun nestled in his hands was being held with unnecessary force. His jaw had been clenched so tightly it strained his neck.

   “You are my employer,” he forced himself to say, “where you go, I will follow.”

   She pursed her lips and didn’t look at him after that, blindly following the invisible line on her Pip-Boy until they came to the entrance of a metro. The frustration heavily weighed down her brows as she furrowed a grimace at the inevitable. Her fingers fiddled with some more neon-green images, the screens flickering faster than he could register from over her shoulder.

   “I think there’s another-” She was rudely interrupted by the ear-piercing screeching of the gate as the chain link scraped against the concrete, her companion half-hidden in the impermeable darkness.

   “I shall return, be cautious,” he rasped before disappearing completely into purgatory.

   Evelyn folded her arms as an instinctive way to stave off the loneliness she felt. Five minutes passed, and then ten. “Charon?” she called out, keeping her voice quiet enough so as not to attract unwanted attention. No response came from within, no glowing orbs illuminated behind that curtain of black. She glanced back up the stairs.

   “It is clear.”

   The voice made her jump a foot in the air as she turned to him just suddenly being there. She made an ugly noise and stamped her foot. “Will you please not do that?!”

   He ignored the request. “Let us continue. This place is not safe.”

   A trip down an escalator, a traverse along some tracks, and a few bodies of a mummified nature were met. The tripod lights powered by generators still brightly shined despite their operators being well beyond deceased; their clothes hung on to the mere wisps of their bones. A couple of them displayed clear signs of having been chewed on…by something big. She couldn’t help but inch a little closer to the ghoul.

   “What did that to them?” she asked frightfully.

   Charon didn’t bother giving the corpses a second glance- he had already cleared the area and investigated it thoroughly. “It has moved on.”

   “Totally didn’t answer my question,” she muttered.

   An Eat’o’tronic 3000 showcased a few items through its cracked plastic screening, and she let go of her tether to promptly snatch at a box of snack cakes. She spotted another faded, painted Brotherhood insignia on the wall beside it, an arrow pointing back the way they had come.

   “Why does the Brotherhood hate ghouls?” When he didn’t reply, she turned, the packaging being ripped open. “I mean, mostly everyone in Megaton doesn’t seem to have a problem, so what’s theirs?”

   Charon gave her a strange look before scoping back down the tunnel over her head. She was once again given silence.

   The map of her Pip-Boy led them into another service station, the lights (for once) still operable and guiding their way, soaring her spirits (with something as basic as lit corridors). Charon brusquely pulled her behind him before she could go bounding off by the nose of her own excitement.

   He held a finger to his mouth. “Listen.”

   She did, and her small tumble of joy was promptly thrown to the ground and stomped on by the hissing of ferals.

   Charon pushed her into a corner. “Wait here. I will see.”

   She was left in the company of a headless mannequin. (At least it didn’t glare at her). When she started the endeavor of researching the exact whereabouts of the Museum of Technology, a sudden great explosion shook the very walls and made her scream, the mannequin toppling over and rolling along the metal flooring. Charon sprinted back around the bend at the end of the hall.

   She panicked, “What the hell was that?!”

   “It is clear, but we should hurry,” he rasped quickly. “Come.”

   He grabbed her hand to tug her along, guiding her through the swirling black smoke that she couldn’t see past or breathe through. Her eyes watered, her lungs choked up, and her feet tripped over charred bodies and down stairs until they were through another metro tunnel, the air at once cleared by the draft. She hacked into her elbow; the vault suit was lightly dusted with ash (ew). 

   She hideously groveled, “What happened back…”

   She looked down- his left hand was still holding her right at his side while he gently bent her other arm to take a view of the map himself. He was so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. Whatever he saw in her eyes when he looked up made him instantly drop all touch.

   “We are close,” was all he said, and then he pointed down the end of the tunnel.

   He once again left her waiting at the base of the stairs to survey the landscape before waving for her to join him. A small smile of relief was on her face at the sight of the river separating them from the familiar roads leading back to Megaton. A bridge offering dry passage was just a hop and a skip down the bank.

   “God, I’m so ready for a bath and bed,” she wistfully sighed, walking along the stone wall at the water's edge. She held her arms out for balance, an amateur trapeze artist. “…and then maybe, maybe, I’ll think about Three Butt's request.”

   “Rivet City.”

   She blinked over at the random mumbled outburst. “Huh?”

   Charon met her confused expression with a glower. “Rivet. City.”

   “I don’t-”

   He looked away to their surroundings, muttering, “It is where he went.”

   She stopped. They stared at each other. The wind made a lonesome cry as it passed.

   “Did…oh my God, did you-?!”

   “He would not listen,” he snarled, crossing his arms with an undeniable grump.

   She guffawed; an uncalled-for sardonic laugh belted from her chest. “What the hell did you say?!” She mockingly rasped in her best Charon expression, “Tell me where he went before I make you.”

   He side-eyed her, his voice completely serious. “…I did not think you had heard.”

   “CHARON!” she shrieked. “Why the fuck would you do that?! You killed-”  

   “I did not kill him,” he flatly refuted. He then squinted his eyes far off into the distance. “He should survive.”

   Her hands flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe this-!”

   He growled; his hackles raised with his growing ire. “His request was unreasonable, and we cannot go back after what that soldier had witnessed.”

   She wailed to the open sky, “Oh my God, Charon-!”

   “Your father left for Rivet City,” he snapped, annoyed at her melodramatic theatrics. “We should continue. It is not-” He whipped his head around, and unexpectedly pushed her overboard.

   The frigid water made a splash as she sunk to the bottom, the weight of her pack dragging her down until she struggled out of the straps in a fight for the surface. Air- she needed air! She emerged with a loud gasp, coughing up whatever had seeped inside her lungs as she paddled for the opposite shoreline. She didn’t hear the drop of another body into the water as she wildly hyper-focused on making sense of what was happening.

   Charon was still stranded on the other side of the river, duking it out between two raiders that yipped and squealed like rabid hyenas. She went to shout for him, but a grab at her ankle swiped her off her feet and stole the words from her mouth. A rock bluntly hit her in the back of the head as she flopped down like a caught fish.

   “You ain’t getting away!” A bald-headed man deliriously grinned, crawling from the depths of the river like a nightmarish sea creature. “Come here!”

   She screamed so fiercely it bloodied her throat, earning a direct slap to the face. She groaned as she forced herself to try and sit up, but his larger size kept her pinned against the sharp stones and wet sand. A few fingers were shoved in her mouth, and she gagged.

   “Keep that fucking mouth shut,” he breathed in her face. “Or I’ll give ya something to scream about.”

   Her left hand shot up and jammed a thumb in his eye; the screech nearly blew out her eardrums. He scrabbled off, giving her enough freedom to grab a decent-sized stone to nail him in the side of the head with. With a grunt of pain, he fell over, and their roles reversed as she straddled him. The stone came down.

   What’re you going to do about it, nosebleed?!

   Your mom’s lucky she’s dead! She never had to meet you!

   Going to cry to Daddy? Huh? That’s it, run home, get out of here, freak!

   The taste made her stop. So warm, coppery. She brought a few fingers up, swiped them along her lips, pulled away. It was almost black in the moonlight. The rock fell from her palm back to its brethren; the only one that was red.

   He was unrecognizable. A plump of meat, still pulsing, still wheezing (such an awful sound).

   …still alive.

   There was so much of it on her. She wiped at it, wiped some more, began to scream and shout and panic as she frantically tried to claw it off. No! No!

   A force pulled her up and off, and before she could say anything to make it better- please don’t tell my dad, I didn’t mean to, I can get a Stimpak- Charon’s boot raised up and then stomped straight back down, the remaining goo splattering where she had just been. The body twitched, then stilled.

   He was holding her face, moving it every which way.

   “You are injured,” he calmly stated. “I will-”

   But she shoved past him, diving back into the cold river, the blood that stained her clothes tainting the water around her. She dove, came back up, dove down, came up, dove-

   She couldn’t resist the tremendous surge of power as she was pulled to shore, the ghoul not kind in his nature as he reeled her out of the water.

   “My bag’s down there!” she screamed, squirming and fighting and yanking to be let free.

   “I have it!” he shouted right back, pointing to the sopping-wet pack he had retrieved. The anger and volume of his voice scared her, and she quickly stepped away from him as he reached for her. “You are hurt.”

   She motioned to the laceration on his waist. “So are you!” 

   He snarled, the remnants of his patchy hair dripping water down his face. “It is fi-”

   Her lungs nearly fractured her ribcage from the outburst. “STOP TELLING ME IT’S FINE!”

   The words echoed on for miles; neither made a move. He simply stared at her, emotionless, every bit of crumbling brick she had toppled down suddenly rebuilt and sanded over. An impenetrable wall she could never hope to scale or tunnel under. He picked up her bag and held it over for her to take. She eventually did, looking down at the straps as he waited on her to take lead. All of her wrath extinguished like a flame at the end of a match- there was a burn on her fingertips. She shouldered it, and he silently followed her home.

   It was the heaviest thing she's ever had to carry.

No Take-Backsies

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

   Megaton had never looked so fucking beautiful before.

   Was it the safety of its looming walls, built upon the remnants of what was once an airworthy ship? Perhaps the allure of the people that dwelled within, offering the utmost basic (but enticing) services such as hot food and cold beer? Or maybe it was due to being the only place in the world she could proudly call her own- it wasn’t much, but damn if it wasn’t home...that she was currently locked out of.

   “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. She had completely forgotten about her little ‘peace offering’ to the breathing gun at her back, (he hadn’t so much as grumbled unintelligible nonsense since their walk on the roads) and so with a sigh, she turned to finally face the music. “Did you-?”

   The key was already inserted and the door swung open. He then held it over for her to take possession of.

   “…thanks,” she awkwardly said. No terse nod, no Neanderthal grunt, no smoldering glare. He was so passive it was like he wasn’t real- the headless mannequin had had more life to it.

   The light switch was flipped on. Wadsworth was docked at its station, but it was obvious the good little house bot had performed its duties impeccably during her absence. She unshouldered her still-sopping wet bag by the couch before plopping down on the broken springs. Charon remained standing in the open doorway, staring at her.

   Her hands nestled under her thighs, the suit cold from being damp. “Are you coming inside?”

   He rasped, almost robotically, “If that is what you wish.”

   No fucking way. Forget the Ninth Circle- Charon must have come straight from the Tenth. 

   She wiped at her eyes. “Oh my God- you know what I mean.”

   The door closed. He now stood inside, staring at her. There was no holding back the groan of frustration as she untangled her tousled hair from its fraying braid. Ouch. The gash on her head needed tending to, and it only added to her irritation.

   “Can we please not go through this again?” she pleaded.

   If she was hoping for the usual dour response, she was shit out of luck, for he gave a single nod, placed his bag down, and then left the house. There was a loud creak from the frame- he was leaning against it while standing guard outside. She didn’t even try to pop open that can of pickled worms as she applied a stim to her injury and just went straight to bed, the exhaustion deep within her bones overlooking the dirt behind her ears and the light ticking of built-up rads in her system. 

   The raider crawled into her dreams, snaked a mottle tongue down her throat and decayed before her very eyes. His skin sloughed off, wet and sticky and rank as he choked her screams with it. His eyes were glowing, his teeth were pulling out her hair before the world suddenly became very bright. The holey sheet was soaked- her body odor was atrocious enough to pucker her own nose. She smashed the heel of a palm into her eye and tried to slow her breathing, looking over to the permanently defective Mister Handy at her bedside.

   “Hey, sorry,” she slurred. “…I’m okay.”

   The robot blinked an optic and then awkwardly laid a claw (in what she assumed it thought was tenderly) on the top of her head.

   pat pat

   It accidentally ripped a few hairs out before floating away.

   Evelyn tiptoed out in a fresh green jumpsuit, throwing the tattered blue and gold in Wadsworth’s bin for a good scrub and repairs. The door to the spare room was wide open- he wasn’t inside. (He wasn’t even in the house). The tiny space felt incredibly too big without him, so she closed it to grant privacy to his things.  She came down and noticed her gear had been hung up and laid out to properly dry sometime in the earlier hours of the morning.

   “Thanks, Wadsworth,” she causally remarked as she went for the fridge…there was a new handle on it. Hmm, weird.

   There was no food...she honestly didn’t know what she had expected. The caps in her drawstring purse were light, but it was a minor concern considering it would be replenished after the haul she’d sell to Moira. Her hand hesitantly wrapped around the doorknob, let go, took a firm grip, and came back off. She instead raised a fist and knocked, quietly. (She felt like an idiot). It opened, partly, to Charon’s face halfway in the crack.

   “Um…” she began. “I need to go out…please.”

   (Please?)

   Like a secret password- open sesame! -she was granted full passage through her own door to the bright light of the sun and the hot wind. She mumbled a thank you before stepping past and making her way down the hill with Charon at her heel. The only decent food in all of Megaton was wafting a palatable scent up her nose as she took a seat at the outside bar of The Brass Lantern. Jenny Stahl ambled down from another customer at the far end, her face screwed up in displeasure as though she smelled something terrible.

   “Hi Jenny.” Evelyn smiled. “Can I get the brahmin special? Two?”

   “Fifty caps.”

   Evelyn halted from forking over the egregious charge. Did she hear that right?

   Jenny rudely held out a hand. It was very unlike the previous occasions when she had ever ordered from her. “I charge double for ghoulfuckers and shufflers.” Every word came out as a nasty flick of dirt in the eye. “You’re lucky I’m even serving you.”

   The settler at the end chuckled into his beer.

   I didn’t raise you to be this way- you know better.

   But Butch called me ugly and made everyone laugh at me. They spit on me. I don’t know why they don’t like me. I just want them to like me. I just want to have friends.

   You have Amata. Isn’t she your friend?

   Evelyn glanced over her shoulder to Charon standing a few feet to the side, his hands behind his back and his eyes always carefully watching her for a sign, any sign. She then really looked around, and she saw it. The loathing, the scrunched-up faces like they'd just stepped in shit. The muttered curses, the whispered jests- get that fuckin’ zombie cur outta here, one’s damn already enough. Charon ignored it all. It was like he didn’t even notice, but he did; he always did. She had been walking blind with her hands clamped over her ears, the ignorance made from the little world she had kept herself in. The Brotherhood didn’t have a problem with ghouls…everyone did. It was near impossible to miss the animosity towards them after the scales had fallen from her eyes.

   “You know what?” Evelyn cheekily smiled, whisking her purse back into her pocket. “I’ll hang on to these. You’re a fucking bitch, no wonder Leo uses.”

   Jenny’s face dropped, appalled, as though she’d never expected the polite, keeps-to-herself vaultie to ever say such a heinous thing. Her face grew red, then purpled as she scathed at her retreating back. “Don’t ever think you’re welcome back at my stall!”

   They kept moving. People stared and gossiped and pointed all the way to the saloon until they were hidden away from the peeping crowd. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, a face from what felt like centuries ago being the first to greet her.

   “Hey kid,” Nova called over with that sultry flair. She was standing behind the counter, counting caps into a register. Her eyes flitted between the two of them and back to the door. “Gob with you?”

   Evelyn came to the front while Charon took to the wall, his arms across his chest. “He’s still in Underworld.” She then quickly rushed at the lift of an eyebrow, “It’s a long story, but he said he’ll be back soon.”

   Nova looked at the ghoul. “You still working here?”

   Charon didn’t reply, and Evelyn answered for him with, “No. He’s…with me. Again.”

   “Alright.” Nova shrugged. And it was left at that. “Need something?”

   Reassurance. Validation. A hug. A glass of water. New socks. An orgasm. A good, long cry. A simple kiss. (Maybe not all in that order).

   “Food. Whatever all my caps will get me.” 

   An armful of assorted cans, boxes, meat wrapped in brahmin skin, and bottles of soda were inventoried and put away in the comfort of her tiny kitchen. Evelyn tucked her loose hair behind an ear and took out a pan as she looked to the front door. He had gone back to his post outside, leaving her to the privacy of doing whatever the fuck she wanted…a quiet, distasteful meal (the leftovers placed in the fridge), a nice bath (the soap was gone, again?!), and a long nap (more like, an early bedtime).

   Another night, another dream, another sunrise. The extra food had been left untouched. There was no evidence of another bath having been run. She chewed a strand of hair and stood awkwardly in the middle of her own house, staring at the door. She wrote in her journal- doodled a little comic of Charon chasing Wadsworth on every little corner of each page, the stop-motion animation brought to life after she flipped through it. Ate a snack. Had another long soak. Studied the ugly scar on her thigh from the Minefield fiasco. Marveled at the work Wadsworth had put into her leathers- they were like new! She eventually just stared at the closed-off space he would've normally been in.

   Knock Knock

   The front door opened, again with only half of his stony visage visible. She twirled a curl around a finger. He somehow felt so intense whilst being perfectly flat.

   “Can you come in? Please.”

   He obliged and closed the door behind him, his arms crossed and face impassive as he looked down at her. Her eyes gravitated to her shoes, unable to meet his cataract eyes.

   “I’m…sorry, about the other night. I didn’t mean to lose my shit at you.” Phew. What a big girl moment, britches pulled up and ethereal father proud. She glanced at him for a reaction.

   He somehow wore an even more deadpan expression than before.

   She weakly tried again. “Um…I noticed you haven’t eaten anything.”

   Nothing. Fucker didn’t even blink.

   “Do you, like, want to at least talk about it?”

   An animation to his face- his mouth moved. He rasped flatter than the midwestern plains, “if conversation is what you wish, then I shall provide it.”

   Her hands flew to her hips, her temper taking her attempt at any sort of repentance and smashing it underfoot.

   “Okay, I've forgiven you pretty easily for everything up to this point,” she seethed. “Not only did you get me kicked out of Underworld, but you also tried to kill Winthrop- who was my friend- and now I can’t even go back to GNR for anything because Three Dog may or may not, be dead. You’ve hurt people, and now you’re being a total dick to me because I, what? Yelled at you to take care of yourself? How is that in any way fair?” There was nothing but silence on his end, and she threw her hands up. “Well?!”

   He leaned forward, just the slightest, but she couldn’t help but instinctively cower. He rasped, “You did not yet wish for conversation.”

   “Ugh! Fuck it!” The scavenged loot was shoved inside her bag. “I’m going to Moira, maybe then I’ll get some conversation.”

   A gloved palm immediately landed on the doorknob before she could open it. “I am employed for your safety.”

   She could’ve taken her eyes out of her head to roll them across the floor. “I’m not going for a job, just want to sell all this stuff.” He didn’t let her through. “Seriously?! What, do you not believe me?”

   “I will oblige if that is what you wish.”

   “Are you expecting me to order you?” she loudly gasped, stabbing a finger in the air at his face. “You can’t keep me a prisoner in my own house!”

   Charon raised a brow, as though the notion was wholly absurd. “You are my employer, I will-”

   She cut him off by spinning around to stomp up the stairs. “You know what? Do whatever the hell makes that little brain of yours happy, cause God knows I sure as shit don’t.”

   She then slammed the door before giving him a chance at another sarcastic reply. Her bag was thrown in the corner before she took a seat on the edge of the bed (too angry to notice that it didn’t squeak). This was far from the first time she had been sent to her room, but it was the first in which she had put herself in it. When the boredom became too much she quietly peeked back out- he was gone, but not really.

   “Wadsworth!” she whispered with urgency. “Come here!”

   The loyal little bot did as commanded, slanting an optic at the conniving energy she flaunted about as she smushed her face against a hole in the corrugated paneling to peep outside, her eyeball twisting around for a better angle. The bed frame was pushed from its spot, and she drew an invisible square on the wall for the Mister Handy to take note of.

   “I need you to cut a hole here for me,” she said. 

   By the time her Pip-Boy eventually came to read seven in the evening, she was left with exactly one hour before Moira closed for the night.

   She lifted the escape flap, closed it, bolted the small latch down, and tugged on the knob. The hinges held, and although they weren’t completely aligned, they did their job. Perfect. She grinned at Wadsworth, and if optics could speak, they would be telling her she was the densest Madam he had ever come to serve.

   “Dad could never keep me in my room. I took apart an entire section of the paneling and would sneak through the wiring in the walls till I got to the vents…probably not too smart, now that I just said that out loud.” Wadsworth only shook his three heads. She dismissed his condemnation with a curt wave of her hand, hoisted her full pack on her shoulders, and cinched the straps down tight. “Wish me luck!”

   The timing was perfect. The wait for night to fall had proved wise in that no one noticed the smuggling vaultie crawling out of the side of her house like a worm from a mutfruit. She threw a leg over one of the many water pipes snaking around the town, the settlers going about their lives with nary a clue of the person shimmying just above their heads. She slowly inched along before being able to grab ahold of a metal railing to hoist her bag and then herself over, her feet on the catwalk within minutes of her initial escape. She patted the dust from her clothes and threw a thumbs up to the robot that had been watching her through the improvised window. Wadsworth closed the secret passageway, and she was off. 

   Craterside Supply was full of smoke. She wafted a hand through the air, coughing into her elbow and escaping back outside to allow it to dissipate.

   A distorted voice called to her from the back. “Aw, shucks, sorry about that! You can come in now!”

   When the air was breathable again, she reentered. Moira came over behind the counter, a gas mask fitted over her face.

   “Well hey there! Haven’t seen you in awhile!” she happily greeted from within her containment suit.

   Evelyn looked over to her hired gun in the corner- he too had a mask on. “Uh, what is-?”

   “Woops!” The mask was unlatched and lifted over, a few sweaty stray hairs flying around her flushed face. “My latest batch of Nuka-Cola fizzy bombs hasn’t been working out so well lately, which, if you’re interested-”

   Evelyn heaved her bag on the countertop between them. “Sorry, I was actually just looking to trade some stuff.” She glanced over at the merc undoing his own safety attire, his manner entirely unfazed by the day-to-day antics his eccentric employer got up to.

   The random junk was happily scooped into a metal bucket. “Aw, well that’s too bad…”

   Evelyn couldn’t help herself as she pocketed the sweet load of caps into her purse, the burlap edges all plump and fat from their filling. “…you talked about Rivet City before, right? Like, go there, find out its history?”

   Moira beamed. Hook, line, sucker. “I think it would be a swell addition to the Survival Guide! You know, learn about how to rebuild society with old tech and so on, and Rivet City would be the perfect example of that. Here, if you want, I can mark it on your Pip-Boy, just in case you think about it!”

   “Okay.” She reached her left arm over. Charon was going to be so pissed (but only if he ever found out...). “Thanks.” 

   Moira snorted. “Oh no, thank you!”

   Evelyn left and stared at the little marker on her screen. Dad was there…at least, he should be. She had become so engrossed by the indicator that she almost failed to notice she was walking up the steps towards the front door of her house...and grumpy-ass guard dog. Woops. That would have been unpleasant. She dipped back under the railing of the catwalk and onto the water pipe she had used as a homemade jungle gym, heaving herself up and beginning the journey back to her room. It was much more difficult, the strenuous effort of fighting gravity and her body's weight making her sweat and curse the entirety of the way. When she got to the top, she straddled the pipe, wiped at her forehead, and pushed on the hatch- it was locked from the inside. She tapped on it.

   “Wadsworth! It’s me!” she whispered.

   It unlocked and the little door was swung inward, revealing a face that she most definitely had not been expecting.

   “You have returned,” Charon rasped, his statement a non-withheld accusation.

   She gasped, pitching backward from the unwanted surprise and feeling her body fall through empty air before he shot an arm out to grab at her, pulling her through as though she weighed nothing.

   “Ow, ow, my arm- hold on!” She was tossed onto the bed, bouncing off the mattress to hit the deck. “Ow!”

   For a very brief second, she noticed a hint of pain across his face before he sharply shook his head. He then turned, closed the makeshift escape route, bolted it, and slammed the heel of his boot down on the lock. It warped and snapped, rendering it completely fucking useless. All of that hard work, gone in an instant.

   “Hey!” she protested, but when he wheeled around on her she shrunk back and snapped her yapping trap shut.

   “That was very stupid,” he snarled. “If you had been injured, I would not have known.”

   “I came back just fine!” she growled in return. “You can’t just box me in here because you’re a paranoid, sulking brainwashed slave-”

   “I am not a slave,” he rasped with an underlying threat to his tone, taking a few steps forward.

   “-who doesn’t know how to communicate their feelings like normal people do. Guess what, big guy? You’re stuck with me because I’m stuck with you. You want to be with someone else? You know you don’t have to ask, but if you want to be here, with me, then you have to give me some space.”

   His fingers kept twitching at his sides, his tone so dry it put the Sahara to shame. “Was my post not suitable for your space?”

   "You know what I mean!” she practically shouted, their bodies now mere inches apart. “I had said I was sorry, what more do you want from me?!” His burning eyes snapped over to the bed, and she meanly laughed up at his face. “Are you serious? That’s it?! Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not really in the mood for sex when you already keep fucking me over!”

   Knock Knock

   “Ugh!” She stormed out and stalked to the front door, opening it with a bite of her teeth at the throat of the unwanted guest. “What?!”

   The waft of alcohol was so potent it nearly knocked her off her feet. She leaned away, breathing through her mouth to stem the stench.

   “Now really isn’t a good time,” she tersely addressed the drunken ex-raider at her doorstep. She didn’t have to look behind her to know Charon was breathing down her neck to stare at the man- she could feel him. “Go home, right now.”

   The door was swung shut, but a boot dipped its path to prevent it from closing completely. Jericho leaned into the open frame, halfway inviting himself inside. The neck of a whiskey bottle was precariously held between two fingers, slowly brought to his cracked lips as he eyed her from head to toe. 

   “Everyone knows,” he slurred, squinting his blackened eyes up at the menacing figure behind her. He popped a shit-eating grin, as though the ghoul was on the other side of a sheet of glass; a zoo animal kept in its cage. "Zombie."

   “Jericho, leave,” she threatened, "and don't ever come fucking knocking at my door again."

   He held up his hands, the liquid sloshing around in the bottle. “Jus’ tryin’ to place nice, doll.”

   “Play nice with your friends, assuming you have any.” She pushed him out, but he grabbed at her forearm and pulled her towards himself. Her eyes widened with alarm, but not for her own safety. “No, don’t-!”

   Jericho squeaked, (a strange sound for a grown man of his nature); a cheeky mouse caught in the snare of a wrathful lion as he was forcibly removed. Charon tucked her back and rammed the butt of his forehead against his own, breaking the man's nose. Jericho grunted and stumbled, realizing the error of his ways a smidge too late after the ghoul wrapped a gloved palm around the backside of his head and slammed it into the railing, the loud metal ting reverberating in the air. He crumpled to the ground, the used and abused whiskey bottle rolling away, and Charon simply went to close the door. Jericho’s leg got caught in the frame, and so Charon swept him over with the side of his boot like tidying dust under a rug. The body slowly slid under the rails, slinking into the darkness as it tumbled down the hillside.

   He was then able to successfully close the door, turn back to her (as though nothing else had just taken place), and declared, “if there is nothing else you require, then I will resume my post."

   “…is he dead?”

   He reopened the door just enough to crane his head out, studying something for a moment. “I do not think so.”

   “Are you going to stand out there all night again?”

   A simple nod.

   The sigh that left her was enough to inflate the house and float it up to the starry sky. “If Simms comes around...just come get me." She then hugged herself, chewing her lower lip and stalling for something profound to say to amend their earlier argument. She came up with nothing and finally relented with, "At least eat something, or take a bath, or whatever. You live here too... it's my place as much as yours.”

   She went for bed, not witnessing the way he looked at her as she walked upstairs, not hearing the creak of her door in the early hour of the morning, or noticing the vault suit being laid out on her desk just before she awoke, the fabric thoroughly cleaned, and the tears perfectly stitched.

The Irradiated Brick Road

   The sheriff had come around later that morning. Charon stood by in the corner, quiet as a ghost, as they conversed about the incident from the night before and his…general presence, amongst the local community.

   “There’s just been some complaints I’ve been getting,” Simms reasoned. "And frankly, I like to know who visits my town-"

   “Charon isn’t a fucking guest. He lives here, in our house,” she scathed. If she had feathers, they would be more than ruffled. “If people have a problem with that, then they can just fucking remember who it was that disarmed the atomic bomb in the middle of town and who regularly fixes the only water source going around. I've never seen Jericho busting his ass up there, or anyone else, for that matter.”

   “Hey, if you want to preach you can join the church.” Simms raised his hands. “I’m with you, but I’m also here to keep the peace. All I’m asking is that you don’t go out looking for trouble, and if you find it, to steer clear.” He tipped his cowboy hat to her, and then to Charon before he left. “You folks have a good day, now.”

   Evelyn sunk onto the couch, curling over the arm on one side and drawing both legs underneath herself, already appearing exhausted by the rise of the sun. She tucked her wild, wavy hair behind one ear and just stared at him with those big blue eyes. He’d looked at her countless times: watched her sleep, checked for injuries, waited for any subtle cue pertaining to an order...but something about her in that instant made him feel a swell of molten heat rise from his chest, crawl up the back of his neck and tighten the muscles in his cheeks- he’d never felt anything like it before. He darkly wondered if it was a sign of going feral. (If that were the case, he’d have to take precautions).

   She broke away first, a faint color of rose spoiling the tan on her face, and she became preoccupied with some loose stitching on the hem of her green jumpsuit. He, too, roved his gaze around- the room suddenly felt constrictive- but he somehow found his eyes placed on her again. She could’ve been painted in that moment, immortalized like the faded canvases he had once seen in the Museum before they had been used as tinder for the fires. It would have been a simple piece with a basic subject; no flowing gowns, ornate jewelry, or picturesque backgrounds of mountains, oceans, or forests. Just a young woman in an oil-stained utility jumper, seated on a ramshackle couch, pulling at a thin thread.

   He would have liked to look at it.

   “So…” She broke the pregnant silence with an awkward birthing of words. “I know we just got home, but there’s still a few things I need to do.” She hesitated, as though bracing for the fact he would argue in some way. He didn’t; he was tingling with that bizarre feeling again. She continued, “The reason I went to Underworld was to help Murphy get a new dealer for his Ultrajet, since, you know, you killed Ahzrukhal.”

   The words hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer, knocking the strange warmness from his chest clean out of the ballpark- it was the most unexpected thing he’d ever heard her say. She had returned…to peddle chems?

   She licked her lips at the trademark scowl creasing his wrinkles together. “I was just trying to help out with another source. He said he’d give me a cut since I already supply them…it seemed like a good deal at the time.”

   “Chems will get you killed,” he growled. “It is dangerous. I know this.”

   “I’m not looking to sell them myself!” she defended, rising from her spot. “I was just going to find someone who…” She trailed off, the miniature wheels turning in her mind. “Oh! I should ask Hoff!”

   Charon narrowed his eyes to slits.

   She bounded to the door. “There’s a caravan run today, too!” She flipped through the notes on her Pip-Boy before going to leave. “…aw, it’s Wolfgang…Hoff isn’t supposed to be here for at least two more weeks, but, maybe…”

   She was out the front gates faster than he could attempt to dissuade her next harebrained scheme. The caravan trader- this Wolfgang- smiled as she approached…it was obvious he liked looking at her, too.

   (Another name was added to his Might Have to Kill list)

   “Ah, if it isn’t my fellow traveler.” Wolfgang gave a small bow. “A delightful sight for these weary eyes, come, my good Madam, what can Crazy Wolfgang offer you? Some oddities, some ends? Crap, junk, garbage? I carry all sizes.”

   “Doc Hoff,” she replied, crossing her arms.

   “Hoff?” He made a show of looking over at his brahmin, the two heads chewing cud simultaneously. “I don’t believe I packed him today…”

   “Ha ha,” she sarcastically quipped. “What route is he on? I really need to talk to him.”

   “Another one lost to the finer pleasures. Be honest, is it the hair?” He grinned. (His armed escort standing off to the side rolled her eyes). “I’m afraid Hoff’s brahmin went lame. He’s back in Canterbury Commons until he gets another.”

   “Where’s that?”

   “Here, I’ll mark it for you on your Pip-Boy.”

   Charon dwarfed them with his shadow as he closely oversaw the interaction. The trader didn’t betray anything other than a nonchalant attitude.

   “Bodyguard?” he asked, looking directly up into his face. Charon gave him his best glower for his viewing pleasure. “He is…tall.”

   “His name is Charon.” Evelyn went to take her hand back to her side, but not before her knuckles were grazed by his lips.

   Wolfgang winked. “Always a pleasure.” 

   (The list was edited with his name moved to the very top: Might Have to Kill)

   “Um, we gotta go,” Evelyn nervously replied as she grabbed at Charon's hand (that was reaching for his neck) and forcibly began to lead him away (more like drag). “I just remembered I have a ton of things to do. Anyways, thanks, bye!”

   “Farewell.” Wolfgang waved, oblivious to the danger he had put himself in.

   Charon kept his head rotated around, lancing hateful daggers at the trader’s face until he was out of view. When she finally let him go at her front step, she hissed, “No trouble, remember?”

   He merely growled...but then looked down at his palm where hers had just been. It had been so tiny in his own.

   The door was left wide open as she went to her room. “I’m going to pack- do you need anything from Moira’s before we go?” She stopped halfway up the steps to turn around. “Since I’m assuming you’re coming with me.”

   His mind expeditiously filtered through his organized thoughts of inventoried gear. “I require a few items.”

   She pointed to the locker. “Caps are in there. Do you want me to, um, come with you?”

   He shook his head. “It is not necessary.” He watched her disappear, hearing the loud zip of her jumpsuit as she presumably changed. He grabbed the burlap purse of currency and marched straight to the town supply store, ignoring a certain pair of beady eyes watching him pass. He did hear the mumbled asshole, though.

   The merc that stood guard in the corner greeted him with the usual- a terse nod- whereas the shop owner always had a too-wide of a smile on her face.

   “What can I do for you?” she asked with great enthusiasm.

   He felt the urge to squint against the energy she beamed. “Shells. Grenades.” He dumped the bag on the counter, pointing a finger at a box of bullets on the back shelf. “Two of those.” His eyes looked over the array of items, coming to a pause on a knife she had displayed. “May I see that?”

   “Sure! Just don't cut yourself!” she joked, setting out all of the requested items for him to peruse through.

   Charon picked up the knife, studied the blade. No chips, cracks. It was of decent quality, (not comparable to his), but still respectable. He set it aside. “I will take this as well.”

   The bag of caps was a little lighter, but his arsenal was restocked, and that was all that really mattered (in his mind). He deposited her money back inside the laughable security of the locker before getting to work in the spare room. It only took him a few minutes to hone the blade to a suitable sharpness, which he would then test on a scrap of brahmin hide until it melted through like hot butter. He crafted a sheath; basic and plain, but one of durability that would get the job done. By the time he was packed and waiting by the door, she was still in her room, studying the map of her Pip-Boy. He interrupted her deep-set thinking by coming to her side. Waiting didn’t normally bother him…but for some reason, he was entirely impatient.

   (He wanted to give her the knife)

   She looked up at the foreboding presence that filled the room before becoming enraptured by her screen again. “Are you ready?”

   “Yes,” he deadpanned. She was wearing the vault suit…she must really like it, despite it painting the biggest fucking neon target on her back. The knife was thrust between her face and the little lines she traced- he couldn’t help feeling extremely annoyed.

   She raised her eyes. “…are you giving this to me?”

   “I am,” he groused through clenched teeth.  He dropped it in her lap, and then he planted the tip of his thumb into his neck right below his jaw, pressing on the exposed carotid vein just enough to pronounce it. “Here.”

    “Um.” She blinked as he stomped back out. “Thank you?”

    He remained downstairs, arms angrily folded with his index finger tapping erratically at his bicep. He felt much too hot- it must be this new sensation buzzing through his veins. It would have to be brought to her attention, sooner rather than later. It could be dangerous.

   Then she came out, the sharpened little toothpick (proudly) displayed at her hip, a sun-faded ballcap on her head, and a blow of (bubblegum?) at her lips. Snap! She looked down at him with a faint smile.

   And he suddenly forgot what he was about to say.

   She didn’t know what to say at this point.

   Charon remained an intolerable asshole- more so than ever. Every look she got was a loathing snarl. Every grumble was a thinly veiled curse. Every chance he had, he reminded her that she was the absolute bane of his existence.

   Well, fuck you too.

   The ghoul kept his distance, not willing to be within five feet of her and sniping the wasteland's grotesque finest with terrifying accuracy. Despite her best efforts at not trying to ruin his life any further, she could feel his eyes, just fucking staring at her. If he had been hoping that she would prove more self-sufficient with the gifted blade, then he was sorely disappointed. She had at least attempted to parry with a feral dog, but once the mutt nearly nipped her, he had intervened and blown it to mist...he didn't let anything close to her after that.

   Garbage burner.

   When they arrived at Northwest Seneca under cloudy skies, the previous pile of Talon Company corpses had been picked clean with their bones strewn about. A cracked femur was sent spinning across the courtyard after she had kicked it from her path. As they descended into the metro station, she realized that it was the second time they were here again, together. She almost went to reminisce about it with something along the lines of, hey, remember when I spilled my guts on your shoes, but the cold glare of murder on his face (that seemed specially reserved for her) made her keep the special memory to herself.

   Barrett opened the door, whipping his head back with a surprised shout at the uninvited guest at her back. Both had their guns out and leveled on either side of the doorway.

   “Whoa, whoa!” Evelyn held her hands up, attempting to soothe the wasteland’s fucking ugliest horses. “Charon, don’t shoot!”

   “What the fuck is this?!” Murphy rasped from behind the safety of his hired gun. “I trusted you, smoothskin!”

   “Charon’s with me. I hired him,” she said calmly, her hand firmly planted on Charon’s bicep. 

   “You ain’t going to pull a fast one on us-!”

   “Charon, drop your gun,” she ordered. He complied, but not without a nasty growl erupting from his chest. She put herself in Barrett’s line of fire, keeping a cool poker façade. “Unless you want to go through the hassle of finding your own dealer, you’ll get that fucking rifle out of my face.”

   Barrett looked over. Murphy nodded. The tension was lifted, and the spectacled scientist looked over his glasses at her.

   “Who’d you get us?”

   The news wasn’t well received- the idea of supplying ghoul-intended chems to a smoothskin was an entirely different risk of its own, but with no other option to be had, she got her samples to bring to Doc Hoff.

   “Remember, if things go south, you didn’t get these from me,” Murphy reminded her.

   They had then proceeded on the road to Minefield, walking under an angry, green-hued sky to another particular reminiscence of, remember that time you saved my life and fucking robbed me? The fires had long been burned away; the scent of smoke drifted to the four cardinal winds. A peal of thunder vibrated the very air, the severe clicking of her Geiger counter making her heart flutter with panic.

   “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice fearful, but also awestruck. She looked up to the heavens, the black clouds occasionally flashing neon green. The landscape was quickly overtaken by an early night; a strike of lightning illuminated the world for a split second.

   Charon grabbed her arm, directing them to the very house of her first near-death experience. The raider corpse from before was long gone- a black stain of blood through the front door told its own horrifying tale.

   Evelyn assessed her condition as the rads continued to build, her blood itchy under her skin. “Fuck- I’m going to need to take some Rad-Away, and I forgot the Rad-X in my locker.” She glanced up as Charon blocked the door with a desk. “What’s going on?”

   “Radstorm,” he answered. He turned, and a burst of green light through the boarded windows lit his outline for a moment. “Do you have what you require?”

   “No,” she confessed. “I don’t carry it. Last time it popped in my bag and ruined my stuff. I didn’t know radstorms were a thing…”

   He grunted, beginning to climb up the stairs. “I shall look around.”

   The rain began to fall. It battered away at everything on God’s irradiated earth, soaking the parched sands with nothing but poison. A lantern was found in the kitchen and connected to a small battery, being placed on a table in the main foyer to provide some warmth in the otherwise gloomy atmosphere. She could hear the ghoul upturn the entirety of the second floor: drawers slamming open, mattresses being tossed, a shatter of a medicine cabinet.

   She disappeared into the darkness of the bathroom, where she had once crawled like a wounded animal, barely clinging to the notion of life. She stood in the spot he had, looking down at where she had been, trying to picture the scene through his eyes. A silly girl. A stupid girl. A pathetic excuse for a wastelander. Evelyn-Smell Ya Then-Has An Ugly Face Again! The empty bottle of vodka and expended Med-X syringes were still littered on the floor. The metal shard he had pulled out was picked up, lightly traced over with her fingertips. It seemed like such an insignificant thing to die from- no less fitting for someone like her.

   You will die.

   Charon came back down, rasping to an empty room, “I did not find any.” She heard him walk around in search of her. "Evelyn?"

   "Here." She stepped back out into the main part of the house. "Sorry..."

   He stared at the thing she held, then turned for the front door. “I shall return.”

   “No!” She rushed over, reaching for him, making him freeze in place before he could move the barricade. When he looked at her, ever emotionless, she awkwardly explained, “It’s just…I’ll be fine, until it passes. I don’t want you to go out there.”

   He straightened, tall and unrelenting. “It does not affect me.”

   She threw her eyes down. “I would like you here.”

   He was silent for a moment, studying the fragment, and then rasped, “Very well.”

   The storm continued, every chime of lightning and toll of thunder making her angsty after she had taken a seat on the musty couch. Charon remained off to the side, hidden away from the soft light of the lantern. She gently patted the spot beside her.

   “It’s better than standing outside,” she lamely joked.

   He shuffled his weight but otherwise made no intention of moving. She looked down at her hands, struggling for something to say. The fragment was on the end table beside her; she didn't know why she kept it. The cushion suddenly had a severe dip on its right side. He had awkwardly taken a seat, sitting as far from her as possible. A laughable attempt- his size swallowed a good deal of space between them, their knees touching as he spread his legs for comfort. His eyes were focused on the door. She could see the tendons quivering in his jaw as he ground his teeth.

   Her voice was a whisper, as though he was something easily spooked. “Why did you save me?” 

   His fingers began to thrum on the arm of the couch, b-b-r-r-rum, b-b-r-r-rum, but he didn’t answer.

   “Do you want to leave Megaton?”

   His fingers paused. He turned his head. She felt incredibly small under his milky eyes, just looking down at her.

   “We don’t have to stay there. We can find somewhere else, someplace better.” She couldn’t tear away from him- there was an irrational fear he’d jump for her throat if she did. “I know you’re not happy with me, and until you find someone you want to…be, with…we can leave. Go wherever you want.”

   If she wasn’t beginning to grow delirious from the slight effects of radiation poisoning, she would have sworn on her mother’s grave (and perhaps father’s) that he wanted to kiss her, that he did kiss her, hot and nasty and with a bite of his teeth on her lower lip, that he was unzipping his massive cock for her to bounce on like a pogo-stick, taking fistfuls of her hair that he pulled on as he heavily breathed in her ear. She didn’t really know. The world was too dark for her to see and too muffled for her to hear, so very cold and wet. Maybe…maybe she just imagined it all, in the throes of the storm.

[kidotm]

When the Night is Over

That strange feeling was firewater in his veins. It was bubbly, spitting from the strike of metal being welded together; iron fused with a delicate weave of copper. The spatter made her hiss as he grabbed her skin, his gunpowder fingerprints smudging her ivory caste, corrupting it with something less than satin sheets and flawless diamonds. The warmth of her lips had tasted like death. Ashy and cold, it bloated his tongue with an odor of edible despair. He pulled away, unsure. He had felt death many a time in his hands, but now it stained his mouth.

   It’s what he’d first imagined of her in all those days gone past.

   She looked up at him, her eyes the barest of slits, and smiled before leaning over the side. There was puke on his shoes. (Again). It was blood- pure heaves of sticky red insides, coating his boots and sullying her chin.

   “I don’t feel good,” was all she managed to say before dropping like a fresh corpse in his arms.

   At that very moment, the contract suddenly wielded a very large hammer, brandishing sparks from the anvil that was his skull as it smote down- clang clang clang! The forge was molten, brimstone agony, as it dipped its steel to then skewer it straight between his eyes like a plunge in oil (hiss!). It made his inner ears ring and pulsate so powerfully he almost smashed his head into the wall to make it stop- make it fucking stop! He’d never acted so fast in his entire fucking life as he ripped the door off and bolted headfirst into the tempest.

   The storm stretched wide, its claws pulling at the bones of the house to make it heave and shudder. The wails and shrieks screamed all around as the cold drop of rain battered his face, whipping him from every direction. Every clap of an unadulterated energy spike was a white-hot rod of steel lancing down his spine. It filled him to the brim with vitality, overflowed his cup, but he couldn’t drink it quick enough, couldn’t have two words make sense without the need to dig his fingers into something and just pull tight to either fuck it into submission or eat it raw while it still breathed.

   The second house across the street was empty. He ravaged through it like the hurricane outside, upending everything and anything as he desperately searched for the aid he required. They were too far from any settlement, had too little time before the radiation poisoning would beget serious consequences.

   Do you want to leave Megaton?

   The third one had exactly what he required; a fallen first aid kit behind the toilet, the bag and surgical tubing camouflaged under a thick coat of dust. He came back to her, just as he had done before, holding the rope that he would toss as her lifeline, to pull her back from where he had led many before that he was now twice calling her from, from the edge of a place that he could not follow.

   We can find somewhere else, someplace better.

   She wasn’t there.

   He came to the back bathroom and found her, small and quivering like a beaten dog with no hope left in its life, guided only by the commanding purpose of survival. The discarded syringes crunched under his boots; the empty vodka bottle was kicked aside into the wall. The cold rain dripped from his body and freckled her face as he crouched down.

   Go wherever you want.

   Her veins nearly popped from her skin, black and angry and ugly; her fingers swollen and bright red. The sleeve of her arm was cut into with the edge of his knife and ripped away, his hands working swiftly and sure and steadily.

   Why did you save me?

   “Evelyn,” he rasped, holding her chin tight to force whatever waning consciousness she still breathed to listen. “Do not die.”

   The poke of Rad-Away, the stench of acidic puke, (a faintly muttered prick). She trembled, moaned, screwed her eyes shut and wailed with the echoing heartbreak of the skies that had sought to curse her so. His hands nestled under her arms whilst hers clenched over his shoulders, both anchored to the other as she rode wave after wave of extreme nausea and boiling blood.

   “Don’t leave me,” she sobbed, repeating the mantra over like a broken record, one he had set the needle to the moment he had embedded it under her skin. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

   Bit by bit, the Rad-Away purged her system of the accumulated radiation and tossed whatever lining was left of her stomach onto the floor, the sour webbings of spit smeared away by the glove of his hand as he kept her from falling over into her own sick. Her body grew spent as the bag emptied, and he carefully picked her off the floor to leave that personal purgatory he never sought to return to. The contract was now reduced to a dull pounding; the sides of his skull ached, but he could handle it. He's fared much worse.

   As he climbed the staircase with her head lolled against his chest, her eyes became so heavy he almost feared they would never open again, but they did, and she looked up at him.

   “Stay with me,” she whispered with a croak, her throat raw and abused. “…please.”

   Her small hand snugged under the leather strap of his armor. He stared at it while laying her in the empty bed upstairs, disentangling her fused limb from himself so that they may become their own entity once again. The scruffy, thin blanket she kept in her pack was draped across her curled form, almost as an afterthought, before he finally sat on the edge of the bed with her blood still dyeing his boots. He stared out the thin cracks in the boards that were nailed over the window. The quiet calm of the night was beyond their door; the storm had passed. He watched her sleep well later into the early powder of dawn; the glow beyond a light shade of baby blue.

   When she finally awoke with the birthing of the sun, groggy and eyelids fluttering as she raised herself up, she went to press her lips to his. Charon halted her advancement with a firm grip on her shoulders, the prickling of irritated confusion twitching his fingers against her skin. She blinked through the foggy layer of sleep dusting her lashes as her mouth quirked in a frown.

   “Ugh…” she groaned as she laid back down. “…what happened? Where are we?”

   Charon stood and reached for her bag, pulling out a bottle of purified water for her to drink. “You were ill from radiation poisoning,” he dryly enlightened. The look he gave her was not one of relief or concern, but rather a, I told you so. “You were dying.” It was said so matter-of-factly it came out like an extreme inconvenience for him.

   The bottle was lazily slurped from as she exerted as little energy as possible, her eyes squinting against the slowly brightening illumination of the room before she flitted her eyes to her Pip-Boy screen. The little marker indicating their location made her tersely sigh, some water dribbling down her chin.

   “Are you well?” he asked, his eyes chasing that bead of water like a fox down a rabbit hole.

   She chortled, “No.”

   “Is there anything you require?”

   “No.” She closed her eyes. “I just need a minute…thanks, big guy.”

   “It is my duty,” he gravelly rasped.

   His heavy footsteps marched off; his weight pressed into the floorboards a little more forcefully than was necessary- he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t go through the rotted wood as he stomped down the stairs. While he obsequiously waited by the front entrance for her to attend to her more ‘private needs’, he spied that little metal fragment on the side table, glistening under the halo of the sunlight.

   (He suddenly didn’t like this place)

   The small cast of her shadow eventually came down the steps, her fingers and eyes fiddling with the tear in her vault suit that he had come to purposefully inflict. He heard her mutter something along the lines of Wadsworth and not happy. There was nothing about the previous hours etched in the lines of her face for him to read; she truly did not recall any of it. That would have suited him fine, preferred, even…but for a reason he could not fathom, it didn’t.

   “Have you eaten anything yet?” she asked with a little hum in the back of her throat, replacing that earlier desperate begging with impish inquisitiveness.

   “I do not like this place,” he answered instead. She gave him a look as though he had just spouted some foreign, dead language from a second head. He continued, “I advise we leave.”

   She briefly looked over to the couch and caught sight of the black spew that had poured from her very lips where there should have been them. It didn’t bait any comment, however, for she stepped outside to blink and sneeze in the face of the full light of the sun. Charon hovered an appropriate distance at her back as she made off into the wastes…she didn’t give one single glance back.

   The once-parched earth was somewhat puddled here and sodden there, making his employer slip and slide more than once. Rather than the fresh scent Pre-War rainstorms used to carry, there instead lingered a tart, almost acidic haze in the air that slightly burned the back of the throat, something he didn’t really notice anymore until he was forced to listen to her incessant coughing. His feet stopped of their own accord- a first in his books. The blue and gold of her body kept swinging away as she bumbled on towards their destination; this stupid smoothskin that somehow put herself in everyone’s business (his own included).

   “I do not know.”

   Her boots paused in the splash of a puddle. She turned to look behind herself and noticed the distance that had been put between them. Her brows furrowed.

   “What?” she asked.

   Charon retreated his eyes to the far distance- something that couldn’t drag him under like the breach of a high tide.

   “I do not know,” he repeated. “Why I had saved you.”

   He relented his stare back over. There was no change to her expression.

   “Oh…” she finally said a little sadly, and then she half-heartedly shrugged. “Maybe it’s because you’re actually a good person?”

   He didn’t know what to say to that, much less what face to wear in response, and so it remained blank as she started forward again while he stared just a little while longer, just enough until he felt the need to take a step of his own.

   It had all been a dream, yes, one hellish scream in her ear sort of dream. His tongue had been snakes, his fingers vines with thorns, his needy breaths turned into thundered shrieks. The imagination of Charon kissing her like she was an idol to be worshipped had all been woven together from some horrible, nasty little part of her brain like a loom on fire, the dark crimson thread cut straight from her veins. She had begged him not to go, to not leave her in that horrible place where the venom was poisoning her blood and the quicksand was filling her lungs. He must have stayed, for he was still there when she awoke…then again, it’s not as though he had much choice to be.

   Canterbury Commons was a reserved journey across the thin stalks of brush and endless dead sea of sand, both simply left in the midst of their own thoughts. As the looming silhouette of the town grew closer, the outlines of the buildings went from flat colors on a backdrop to crumbled mortar and-

   What the fuck was she even looking at?

   Besides the littered corpses of giant ants (eck!) and electronic scraps of robotic parts lying in the empty streets, a small crowd of people (including the bald chemist she was there to see) were gathered around a single man who was standing on a small box, his hands waving in the air to appease the rising voices.

   Evelyn looked up at her companion as he finally came to stand at her side. “I see Hoff. We’ll be in and out.”

   He didn’t say anything but gave a curt nod, and so she took the lead to draw closer to the townsfolk and eavesdropped on the general hubbub.

   “This is getting out of hand, Roe-!”

   “I can’t sleep knowing this is going to continue!”

   “Just put a goddamn bullet in them, already!”

Racketeering of agreements and dismays rose up. She once again peered over for the ghoul’s nonverbal opinion of it all…he only seemed mildly annoyed. They patiently waited for the commotion to die away after a seemingly innocuous solution was spread around like a sip from a chalice, subduing the earlier hostility amongst the populace as they went back to their daily lives. The man on the soapbox finally gave them notice as Evelyn pattered off for the good doctor.

   “Hoff,” she called out after him.

   The chemist trader turned around, surprised at her unexpected appearance. “If it isn’t one of my finer clients-”

   She was already holding the Ultrajet in hand, waving it at him with all the discretion of a nuclear bomb. “Can you sell this?”

   Charon growled at her lack of sense, whereas Doc Hoff eyed the canister with a certain scrutiny. Something at her back made him quickly pocket the chem from any prying eyes, and he told her in a hushed voice, “I will see to its appraisal,” and then he left her standing stupidly in her spot.

   “Well.” Evelyn grinned in relief at the smooth transaction, dusting her hands together. “That was easy.” She heard Charon’s grumbled mutter over her shoulder, his disapproval plain.

   “Welcome to Canterbury Commons,” a voice behind them announced. They both turned to a portly gentleman giving them an easy smile. “Everyone round here knows me as Uncle Roe- sorry for the state of appearances. We’ve just been having a little trouble as of late.”

   Evelyn glanced over at the carcass of a giant ant being towed away limb by limb, her face disgusted. “That’s…unfortunate.”

   “It is,” Roe agreed. He then openly stared at Charon and his gleaming arsenal. “I don’t suppose you could lend a hand?”

   Charon instantly whipped his head down to her, the glare on his face an easy read- it is not our concern.

   Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest, her people-pleasing nature blooming despite herself. “Um…” She rubbed the tip of her nose. (It couldn’t hurt just to ask). “…what sort of help?”

   Charon didn’t hide his frustration; in fact, he let it be known to the entire wasteland just how he felt about his employer’s self-righteous sense of stupidity. She had even gone ahead and further insulted him by stating you can stay here, if you want. He shook his head. She nauseated him. A full twenty-four hours hadn’t even had the decency to pass from her last near-death experience, and here he was, already prepping to prevent another.

   At least he got to properly ‘prep’, this time.

   The pulse grenades clinked in his side satchel as they made their way up a small hillside toward a derelict robot repair center where the aptly named idiot, the Mechanist, resided. Charon didn’t really know and cared even less. Where she went, he followed, for so long as she held his contract, this was his way. They came to the main entrance that he propped a shoulder onto, giving her a look to indicate that he was ready to engage upon her word. His eyes followed the motion of her fingers grasping the handle of her knife, unsheathing it to wield it unconfidently before her.

   “I advise you to remain behind me for cover,” he rasped as though speaking to someone lacking in the mental faculties department. “That will be ineffective.”

   She blushed an angry scowl as she pocketed it away with indignity. “You’re the one who gave it to me! I’m just trying to be useful.” A jut of her chin to his pocket drew his eyes down. “Can I at least have one of those- what were they- pulse, grenades?”

   A request, but not an order. He didn’t have to comply.

   “Do you know how to use one?” he countered flatly.

   She quickly rebutted with, “Yes.”

   (An obvious lie)

   His snort was so snappish it ruffled her hair. He was in no mood for her incessant antics at that moment, if he ever was. “I advise to take lead,” he replied as he gradually opened the door to peer inside. “Be cautious.”

    Charon generally only filtered two things among conversations- what it was, and how many. The pulse grenades proved a wise choice against the array of robots they came across. He was (almost happily) disposing of the rust buckets, trading his well-thrown pitches for their erratic lasers as they kept behind solid cover of overturned desks and stayed flush against concrete walls, his employer safe and sound beside him-

   His face nearly melted off into a puddle of pure vehemence and panic as he spun around to find her missing, the invisible outline of where she had just been comically flashing at him in mockery. He found her butt sticking out to the firefight, her sticky fingers busily prying open a locked box inside an office cubicle. Charon lobbed a grenade through the open doorway before storming over and decking the side of the container across the room with the steel toe of his boot, the loud bang making her jump from her skin and the abundance of pilot lighters sprinkling down like hard confetti.

   “Focus,” he growled. “There are more ahead.”

   She huffed at him after zipping her pack closed. “What else do I do then?!”

   He leaned down. “Stay. Close.”

   When he turned back around to deal with the threat at hand, he heard her horribly grovel under her breath, “Stay close, smoothskin, grbergarbrar-ra-ra-ra.”

   (He did not sound like that)

   A Sentry Bot wheeled inside the room, its audio synthesizer announcing, "HOSTILES: DETECTED."

   Without a word, Charon picked her up and carried her like a limp ragdoll as he ran back for the front entrance, only to accidentally drop her when a shrieking projectile blew up the wall just feet to the side of them. He once again lost sight of her as he was forced to stand his ground and blow some decent-sized holes in the bot until a sudden tugging at his waist minutely diverted his attention. 

   “I got it open!” she shouted over the noise, pointing down a narrow corridor.

   He quickly followed and provided cover fire, blasting shell after shell through the doors while she slapped the button closed like an erratic rabbit's foot. The Sentry Bot was nearly a husk of smoking wires and melted metal, but still it assaulted them until the silent hum of the elevator began to make its descent, the softly playing music a stark contrast to the chaos just above. Taking advantage of a moment of safe respite, he leaned into a corner and traded his spent magazine for a fully loaded one, not noticing her standing just before himself until he had finished pocketing away the empty drum. There was a Stimpak in her hand and a certain look in her eye that made him uncomfortable. She motioned to his thigh- there was a chunk of drywall embedded through the leather of his pants at his waistline. The adrenaline coursing through him didn't allow the pain to register until he finally took notice of it. He curiously widened the edges with a forefinger and thumb, tilting his head to inspect the severity of it.

   “Um…” she timidly began, and then finished dumbly, "You're bleeding."

   He considered the offer and then shook his head. “No.”

   "Charon, I can read the word ‘safety’ from the poster still on it."

   He looked her over; the concrete dust graying her hair, the skinned knees of her vault suit, the dirt streaked on her cheek.

   “Are you injured?” he inquired in return.

   “No,” she said. "Just let me-"

   He clenched his jaw and ripped the obstruction free, growling low in his chest as he snagged the Stimpak she held over and injected himself, the warm flow of blood loudly dripping to the floor at their feet. As the chem worked its charm and stitched him shut, he closed his eyes and tilted his head against the vibration of the elevator wall, cracking his neck side to side when they came to a stop. She glared at him. 

   "I am better," he informed matter-of-factly. 

   She didn't seem too impressed with his doctoring method, for she spun on her heel and marched straight out the open doors on the lower level before he could even scope it to be clear. Much to his relief, there was no presence of any more erratic bots and simply just a wack-job smoothskin whose brain had to have been fried under the heat of the wasteland sun. Charon had him backed into a corner and kept the biting end of his shotgun planted precisely at his helmet’s forehead (for a quick shot if needed).

   “You’re really causing a lot of trouble for the town,” his employer reasoned, and then she gave a wide-eyed look like a puppy who’d just been kicked. “Can’t you just…stop?”

   And it fucking worked. They were back on the surface no sooner than they had left it with news of their successful delegation in preventing any further ‘kooky’ incidents. Charon watched her fill her caps bag to the newly stretched seams and trade over the clunky piece of armor the Mechanist had given her (that she had somehow managed to lug all the way down the hill). She kept the helmet, however…he didn’t know what to make of that. When the business was concluded, she grew extremely shy and held up the ginormous satchel of currency for him to take view of.

   “Um…I figured before I divided our share, I’ll buy?” When he only stared point-blank at her, she nervously swallowed. “Food? There’s a diner…I figured you’d be hungry.”

   He nodded. He was. She took her seat and made small talk with the smoothskin who ran the place. Charon hovered at her back, always keeping his keen sense of self-preservation on high alert. When she turned around, she patted the stool right beside her own.

   “…it’s better than standing out in a radstorm,” she weakly jested.

   His weight settled on the cracked leather barstool, the seating just barely gracious enough to allow him to sit comfortably. He listened to her engage in amicable conversation with the man making their food and himself.

   “Charon’s the only reason I’m even around,” she joked over the counter.

   (It was not a joke)

   She then smiled up at him. He felt a violent warm rush to his face- he must have been injured somewhere else and was now feeling the aftereffects. It would need tending to, but before he could rise from his seat to begin assessing himself for the source, their bowls were set before them, and she dug in with all the tenacity of a starved yao guai.

   “This is amazing,” she gushed, beaming from ear to ear.

   Charon began to study something of great interest in his bowl, the injury all but forgotten. It could wait. He, too, took a sip, and then observed her being helped to a second serving. She must have really liked it. He, unfortunately (and fortunately), didn’t have enough tastebuds to know anymore. They promptly wrapped up their fine dining and met with the chemist trader just before the sun could set, and she again was lucky with good fortune (a very valuable thing in the wasteland).

   “A ghoul had conceived this?” Hoff asked. “That does make a lot of sense…” He then looked to Charon, as though the mere sight of him had confirmed something. “Yes, indeed. Where did you say-?”

   “Northwest Seneca metro station,” she easily supplied, her naivety with trust knowing no boundaries. “Murphy and Barrett. I’m sure they’d love to do business with you.”

   After her tasking was (finally) finished (both preplanned and not), they were given shelter in a refurbished garage. The merc smoothskin had offered them the quarters and gave no insult or veiled prejudice to their shared company, and so they took advantage of the privacy in a backroom that had a single bed.

   The light was dimmed. The bedframe squeaked as she rolled over to blink at him. He pulled up a chair to sit close and keep watch on the door. He leaned his back into the frame and crossed his arms, spreading his legs out for comfort. 

   “It’s not so bad here,” she whispered. He turned, watched her stroke the threading of her ruined sleeve. She tucked her hands under her head and gave him an owlish stare. “What do you think?”

   He shifted his weight.

   “It is...” He sat there, thinking, and then, “quiet.” 

   Her hand dangled over the edge of the bed.

   “I'm happy you're here with me,” she softly said, and then she closed her eyes to drift off to sleep.

   She kept her small palm over the side throughout the entirety of the night, just within reach, and more than once, he felt his fingers twitch to take it.

The Way to a Vaultie's Heart (is Through her Stomach)

 It felt like she had docked at a foreign port upon waking to an empty room. These were not her spices in the air; she didn’t recognize the language being murmured. The previous day came rushing behind her eyes like a deep drink of something rich and dry, somehow sating and parching her thirst at the same time. She rubbed at the crusts over her eyes and tried her best not to smell herself as she opened the door with an obnoxious creak, her first encounter for the new day being a young woman strapped in dusty leathers with a gun at her hip.

   “About time you woke up,” the woman snarked. She had to be no older than herself, despite the aggressive assertion. “So, you’re the Vault dweller.” She crossed her arms. “Or I guess you wouldn’t be wearing that stupid outfit.”

   “I guess you’re not the town barber,” Evelyn replied with a dry tone, meeting her eyes dead on. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be walking around with hair like that.”

   The young woman growled with a stamp of her foot. “The fuck you just say to me?”

   A toilet flushing the entire Nile down the drain turned their attention to a figure striding out of the head. Charon took in the situation within milliseconds as he clinked his belt together…and then he just strode on back inside their room, ignoring the bubbling hostility in the air. (That was a first). Something changed behind the girl’s eyes- a cog began to spin the other way. She gave Evelyn a dirty look before marching off.

   “Don’t go walking around with a big head,” she threw over her shoulder. “We could’ve handled it our way.”

   It's not so bad here...what do you think?

   These merchants bit her coins and spat at her passing. These were not her waters. Evelyn boarded her ship and pulled in the gangplank back for home, her map unfurled on the table and her compass forever spinning in circles. She checked in on her first mate and single crew member; the only one to weather a storm for her. He was down on one knee and organizing some inventory away in his pack. Her entrance lifted his heavyweight stare; she was going to ride him straight out to pasture. His eyes followed the slow journey of her fingers bringing the zipper of her suit down; he seemed mildly unimpressed by the show of extra skin, and she at once became hesitant. The ghoul stood, shouldered his bag, and held over her own. He didn’t say a single word.

   With a dark flush of shame at being rejected, she took the offered pack after tidying up her decency, feeling at once silly and stupid when he suddenly came up behind her as she turned for the door, murmuring lowly in her ear, “When there is no one listening.”

   She looked up, confused, until the sound of not-so-stealthy footsteps scampered off, the crack under the door betraying the shadows of their escape. Evelyn quickly snapped it open to the sight of the hostile woman (and her awful mop of hair) dashing around the corner in haste.

   "This place is full of weirdos," she mumbled under her breath as they went to leave.

   Charon followed her outside to the open streets before he tapped her on the shoulder. She blinked in surprise at the unexpected touch.

   “I wish to take care of something,” he requested rather politely. It was very unlike him, to ask, much less without a snarl on his lips.

   She stumbled, “Uh, yeah, sure, you-you know you don’t have to ask.” She parked her ass against a leaning mailbox. “I’ll, um…wait here.”

   He took straight off for the diner where they had previously enjoyed a meal together. Curiosity made her watch him engage in conversation with the man behind the culinary magic; Charon was given a rather strange-looking fruit and pointing to a pot on the stove while asking questions that were just out of earshot…he was always so serious in everything he inquired about. He must have really liked that dish.

   He returned with the fruit now pocketed away and gave a nod of his head. “I am ready.”

   She kicked off and they set out straight back to Megaton, bypassing around Minefield as though it were once again plagued with explosives. She decided to try her luck in getting Charon to divulge the mysteries of the bygone wastes since he seemed to be in something of a good mood.

   “What are those things?” she asked, pointing up a hill to a row of steel structures. 

   His eyes only had to flit over for a second to look at what she referred to. “Pylons.”

   Minutes later, and then, “And that?”

   “Monorail.”

   More time passed. A giant statue far out in the distance was pointed to. “That?”

   This time, his answer was preceded by an annoyed growl. “Not safe.”

   “Oh.” Evelyn kept her lips shut at the emergence of his grumpy disposition- it would seem her happy-ghoul tokens had all been spent.

   They finally arrived at home with the setting of the sun. She happily sighed at the sight of the bathtub, (how delicious of a soak she was going to have) until Charon began spinning the taps for himself. She knew she could hardly complain, for at least he was somewhat back to normal, now. The vault suit was tossed in its rightful bin to be replaced by her favorite green jumpsuit (her only jumpsuit). A couple of hours passed while she lazily lounged in her bed, her time occupied by the turning of a page in a book as she waited for a chance to enjoy some hot water luxury. A knock on the partly closed door to her room made her startle. Charon, knocked?!

   He may be human after all.

   She sat upright and tucked her loose hair behind an ear. “Uh, come in?”

   Charon slammed the frame into the wall by how violently he widened it. “Are you hungry?”

   What the fuck-

   She tried to hide the shock she felt. “I, I guess-” Her stomach interrupted her sentence with a loud whine of affirmation.

   He announced, “I have made dinner.”

   She stared at him. There was no appropriate response to be had except, “…sure?”

   He then just as abruptly left.

   With careful steps down the staircase as though the house was boobied with traps, she eventually came to Charon standing in the tiny alcove of the kitchen. He directed a knife hand to a chipped bowl and bent spoon set on the small table that had accommodation for one. She reluctantly took a seat and politely folded her hands in her lap, watching him turn around to grab at her only pot off the stove. A ladle was dipped inside, and something…seemingly crawled onto her plate. She looked down at the creation. It smelled awful.

   She blinked at it. “What is it?”

   “You like it,” he answered matter-of-factly. (She would’ve thought he sounded somewhat smug).

   She dipped the spoon in; sludge slowly dripped off. “I do?”

   He stood there, waiting for her to taste it. She didn’t know if she’d be able to take a single sip without gagging, but he did make it, for her. It was a start to...something, she supposed, even if she wasn't sure what that exactly was. The utensil was brought past her lips, and she felt a crunch as she swallowed. It was the fucking worst thing she’d ever been forced to try. Greta was pardoned for every past sin made in the name of cooking- dear God-

   She immediately set her spoon down. “Wow, that’s, um…strong.” She blinked back tears, forcing herself not to reach for the bottle of water she so desperately craved.

   Charon took a taste test for himself from her own bowl. She waited for him to realize that he nearly burned her tastebuds from her mouth, but he merely gave her the spoon back.

   “It is the same,” was all he replied with.

   She looked back down at her fate. Fuck. When every last bit was gone (and her stomach felt like the repercussion of an atomic warzone), he gave a nod of approval and grabbed at her dish, filling it to the brim once more before she could vomit in protest. It was clinked back down on the table, and then he left to climb the stairs to his workshop. Once he was out of sight, Evelyn went to make a dash for the sink to toss the hazardous waste, but the sound of him coming back down made her panic and nab at Wadsworth’s back panel, her entire bowl of slop being dumped inside and shut away to (please God) not be seen. She awkwardly leaned against the fridge, inspecting her dirty fingernails as he rounded back to the kitchen, his eyes critically inspecting the suspiciously empty table.

   “You have finished,” he rasped more as an accusation than a question.

   She gave him two thumbs up, fighting the rising, sentient bile in her throat. She couldn’t verbally answer for fear that it would end up on the floor.

   Charon motioned to the stove. “There is more-”

   “Wow! Would you look at the time!?” She diverted quickly with a phony façade of utter shock. She held up her Pip-Boy; the screen was blank. “It’s past midnight already?!” She widely yawned in her hand, (tempting a gag), and pointed to her room just above her head. “I think I’m good for bed. You go ahead and finish it, big guy.”

   A comical pat of her hand on his arm made him raise a brow muscle down at her, but he didn’t comment as she went to her room and shut the door.

   Charon placed the remains of the soup inside the fridge; it would be free for her craving come the morning. He’d considered it a suitable rendition of the recipe back from Canterbury Commons, even if more than a few ingredients had been substituted due to the lack of. It had been his first real attempt at any sort of cooking. She seemed to have enjoyed it. He checked the inventory of food. He was out of key items and would have to request them if he were to make more.

   The robot was held at the end of his index finger- the tip as sharp as any refined blade. “Watch the door. Do not let anyone but myself inside, or I will rip your circuits out.”

   He then noticed a slow drip of something gooey leak from inside the Mister Handy’s components…he’d pop him open later. He predicted his employer to grow upset if the robot was left in further disrepair. After the threat of dismemberment was well ingrained, he left for the saloon with his share of the caps nestled nice and snug against the thigh holster of his pistol. He came to a locked door. He banged on it until the end of a baseball bat was shaking in his face.

   “What-what d’ya want? We're closed!” Gob shouted with a tremble, his teeth clattering in his skull. He squinted through the dark, his weapon only slightly lowered. “O-oh, it’s you. Uh…is everything-”

   Charon directed the bat out of his way, stepping past the smaller ghoul to welcome himself inside. “I require a few items.”

   Gob rubbed at his eyes, apparently woken from sleep. “Jeez, it couldn’t wait until morning?” he groused. When he properly opened them to take note of the glower on Charon’s face, he immediately set himself behind the bar. “Sorry. What can I get for you?”

   Everything in his inventory was laid out on the counter. Charon remained standing as he assessed each and every item. It wasn’t what he needed, so he would have to make further improvements. Gob unsuccessfully hid a yawn behind one hand, his mouth beginning to mutter utter drivel about Charon’s pariah status in Underworld.

   “They had the bar redone-ergh, ‘scuse me-" Gob scratched at his elbow- scritch scritch. He continued to gab, abusing the stoic ghoul’s trademark silence; he then took a shot. Charon blatantly ignored him. “-then Winthrop finally came out of his coma.”

   Gob took another shot as Charon placed caps onto the counter, his eyes not raising from his counting until the total had been piled. Charon finally looked over…the bartender was missing. He heard some slurred mumbles rising from the depths over the side, and so he slightly leaned forward to peer down. Gob was sprawled out, simmering in a drunken haze with an amber bottle keeping company in one hand.

   “Ya gotta tell me,” he rasped in between a nasty burp (‘xcuse me). “How’d ya do it?”

   His eyes were wet and shimmering. Charon had never seen something so utterly pathetic. Nevertheless, he shook his head.

   “I do not understand,” he simply replied.

   Gob took hold of a shelf and braced himself upright by a few inches, his face one of complete amazement and lustful inebriation. “How’d you get Evelyn?”

   Here Charon raised a brow. “Get?”

   He sluggishly nodded. “Yeah, how’d ya do it?”

   Charon didn’t understand. He again shook his head.

   Gob took a drink, wiped the dribbled mess from his chin with a forearm, and licked his lips. “Why’d she say yes, to you? You know? A ghoul.” He motioned a hand at himself. “I didn’t think it were possible, for us. But then you come along…” He stared at something down the neck of his bottle. “And here we are.”

   Charon straightened himself and gave his focus back to his chosen wares, stowing them away in his bag. “She had asked me for it.”

   Absolute silence.

   Gob’s head was suddenly on the counter, his eyes wider than jumbo dinner plates. “…she did?”

   Charon nodded.

   “…you’re not messing with me, are you?”

   Charon shook his head, throwing his bag over his shoulder. His business was concluded.

   Gob blew out a breath. “You…you think Nova would ever ask me?”

   Charon was at the door, but he paused. His hand was on the knob. He looked back to the ghoul who stared up at him as though he were the only light in a very bleak, very dark tunnel. Evelyn’s previous statement about the prostitute came to him.

   With absolute seriousness, Charon rasped, “Nova does not take ghouls.” And then he left.

   The great bowl of Many Unappealing Flavors was on the table by morning.

   It was a different color. 

   It was still boiling. 

   There was an eyeball. It swam like a disconnected gyroscope until it landed on her face to glare at her.

   Charon watched her watching it watching her. He only said, “It will get cold.”

   It’ll get cold, oh my God, what happens then? Does it evolve? Declare itself a man? Sharpen sticks and build fires and-

   Charon leaned over and plucked the eyeball out with his bare fingers. “It should have melted.”

   It should have melted.

   “Um,” Evelyn finally spoke, albeit very small. She twirled her utensil around inside, an oily surface following her every stroke. “Do…did I ask you to cook, by accident, or something-?”

   When she glanced up to gauge his response, she couldn’t believe it. Charon had something on his face she never thought she would ever come to witness in her short lifetime. A barely susceptible frown. She could have rubbed at her eyes, disbelieving of this mirage before her.

   “You did not,” he affirmed. He then looked down at her bowl as though it were ready to jump up and latch onto his face. “Do you not enjoy it?”

   Oh no. She had hurt his feelings. She had offended the big guy.

   “What?!” she guffawed, tightly crossing her legs under the table and clenching her free hand under her thigh. “No! I do! I do! It’s, just, uh, you never did it before…so, you know…”

   He nodded. “I did not know you had liked it.”

   Oh, Jesus. She was so fucked. Now she had to force herself to somehow eat (or cleverly hide) this shit until the angel Gabriel blew his horn and unleashed the day of Judgment upon the land. The joke was on her in the end, though, for Hell was just an entire river of Charon’s soup with the Devil wiggling her spoon between his hooves.

   She plunked her head on a fist and accepted the bereavement of her breakfast. “Thanks, big guy.”

   The majority was crammed down her throat like a turkey being stuffed- with nonconsenting force. Her toes curled and her skin grew green with every swallow, and she quickly learned to plug her nose and screw her eyes shut to help ease each passing. Charon had returned to her nearly expired in her seat, her eyes hollow and lips pale.

   He only took notice of the empty serving. “There is more.”

   She could cry.

   “That’s okay,” she insisted, covering a wet belch into her hand. (Ugh) She quickly got off to a kickstart of a topic to derail his new hobby. “Have you ever been to Rivet City?”

   When he didn’t answer right away, she glanced up.

   “I have,” he rasped slowly. “They do not allow ghouls.”

   “Hmm.” She leaned back in her seat in an attempt to force the room to stop spinning. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

   “I do not think so.”

   Well, if that wasn’t a confidence booster, she wasn’t sure what was.

   She stood, wavering from a belly full of lead. “If Three Dog is right and my dad is there, then it won’t be an issue.” There was a whir of her Pip-Boy being flicked through as she scrolled for a map. “It’s just so far…how long of a walk do you think it’ll be?”

   Charon seemed to seriously consider her question, and then said, “It will depend.” She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Charon the Vague-As-Fuck Mystique, doling out wisdom in the form of few-syllable words. He instead continued with, “When do you wish to leave?”

   With a fold of her arms, she longingly gazed upon the empty bathtub. "I would like to at least finally scrub down..."

   He turned his back to her. "I will cook as you-"

   "But what's the point when I'm just going to smell like a brahmin's ass anyway?!" she quickly exclaimed, nabbing at her things around the house. "Fuck it, let's go now! Dad, here we come!" 

Some Restrictions Apply

   The bottle of purified water was drained to the very last drop; the end tilted up to the sky and then shaken erratically. Evelyn gasped, wiping her damp brow on the newly stitched sleeve of her vault suit. (Thank you, Wadsworth). Traveling during midday under the hot wasteland sun was always a poor choice to be made. Charon looked over to take notice of her sticking her tongue inside the neck of the bottle, absolutely desperate for a hint of hydration. He rolled his eyes and rummaged inside his own bag.

   “Here,” he rasped.

   Evelyn took the offer; the scratched-to-hell plastic bottle was unscrewed, her breathing labored and pits sweat-stained. 

   “Thanks,” she sighed in return.

   With a raise of the rim to her lips, she took a giant swig. It wasn’t water. It was fucking soup. It was blown like a rocket off a launchpad out of her nose all the way down her front. Charon gave her a look like she had gone fully mental. She gawped, her mouth half-full of slime, her voice horrified.

   “I fough eh waz wadeh!” (I thought it was water!)

   “It is not.”

   “Weh ehz eh nawd?!” (Why is it not?!)

   He just shrugged.

   “SHAWON!” (ASSHOLE!)

   “Keep quiet,” he growled, his head snapping around at some imaginary sound. “I advise we keep moving.”

   The suggestion was promptly ignored as she threw handfuls of goop off her chest to sling it on the pavement; her shrieking curses loud enough for everyone and their dead mother to hear until he finally soaked her with some dirty water from his stash. 

   Charon forced them onward well into the early call of dusk, eventually sidetracking them from the outskirts of the ruins to seek shelter. An absurdly large sewer grate was observed from an appropriate distance (behind a dumpster) for threats. 

   “Do not leave this spot,” he cautioned before stealthily creeping forward to investigate alone.

   She watched him step in and then come right back out. He waved her forward, pressing the weight of his hand into the dip of her lower back when she came to step past, his head on a tight swivel for any potential lurkers. Evelyn gasped as her boot sunk into an opaque, sickly-green, stagnant puddle. Her shriek was very quickly cut off by his enormous hand.

   Charon snarled, “Do not do that.”

   She pulled away and retched. (How awful of a smell!)

   “Really, the sewers?!” she snapped, her voice echoing down the miles of tunnels that led to only God knew where.

   He again clamped a hand over to stem her shouting. “It is safe. I have been here before.” He then added after she gave him the side-eye, “Recently.”

   “Guess that’s promising,” she muttered, performing her best ballerina pirouette around the various puddles of piss and shit. 

   They camped around a previously established firepit that consisted of concrete cinderblocks and a barrel filled with tattered books. She observed the big guy set down his things and scrape away the ash from a long-dead flame.

   “This was you?” she asked.

   He nodded. A few hardly legible books were ripped away from their spines and expertly towered for an easy light. The fire was soon cackling away while she combed through the rest of the literature pile for anything salvageable enough to read (and save).

   “I will return,” he announced, walking down the line to prep a few traps for any unwanted guests.

   She shoved her nose inside a novel.

   “Are you hungry?”

   She startled. He had come back and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the fire from her. She hadn’t even noticed his reappearance.

   “Actually,” she began as gently as possible, closing the book for another day, “I wanted to tell you…”

   His face was utterly blank, but she somehow felt he was hanging on to every word she said. She licked her lips. She could do this. She couldn’t possibly go harboring suicidal thoughts over a fucking meal-

   “…that I would like to cook something for us instead!” she rushed, her hands clapping together like a magician performing a trick. Poof! (Here’s the rabbit!) “You know, as a return-the-favor sort of thing.”

   He handed over his bag to her. He didn’t impart a single word.

   She quickly got to work. A small metal pan from her own bag was propped over a bed of hot ash (with a little accidentally sprinkled over as wasteland seasoning) and she carefully considered the contents he had brought along for something edible-worthy. A sizzle of molerat fat. A slab of brahmin. A few dashes of something that smelled aromatic from a little tin in a side pocket. She caught sight of the silent bodyguard meticulously cleaning his side pistol; the slide snapped back into place. He wasn't paying her cooking any sort of mind.

   Whatever her creation, it at least smelled a thousand (no, a billion) times better than whatever Charon had thought he had made. She sliced the meat into strips and gave a heaping portion to the ghoul, not sparing another moment as she shoved a hot piece in her mouth before it had a chance to cool. The burnt tongue was totally worth it…it may be her best work yet. She greedily sucked the grease from her fingertips and looked over. He, too, was scarfing it with his bare hands. Success!

   “So.” She smacked her lips, a cheeky grin beginning to form. “How is it?”

   Charon raised his eyes, the shadow from the flames casting a dark blanket across his brow. He shrugged, giving his attention back to his meal as he finished wolfing it down. “It will suffice,” he rasped.

   Her jaw almost unhinged. “…are you telling me it’s bad?!”

   “It is not good,” he said rather bluntly. He had taken her snow-white bunny and shot a fucking hole through it, spattering gooey bits and springy fluff right in her face. (Ta-da!) His thick fingers settled over his knees; he not-so-subtly stared at her chest. “We are alone.”

   A cruel, disbelieving laugh barked from her lips. He suddenly looked positively annoyed.

   “Sorry, not in the mood,” she snarked, ripping her blanket free from her pack to angrily swaddle it around her shoulders. She kept her back to the fire and curled in the tightest possible ball; a seething worm. “Goodnight.”

   The toe of his boot was her wake-up call the next morning.

   “It is early,” he deadpanned as she struggled to wipe the drool from her cheek.

   He didn’t so much as grump another word to her until they came to the bank of the river. She picked up a flat rock and attempted to skip it across the water. It sunk on first contact. He snorted at her lack of skill.

   “Don’t see you doing much better,” she mumbled as she went to pick up another. The echoing sound of water slapping across the way made her glance up- nine skips. She turned to the ghoul, her prized stone falling out of her hand.

   He was already walking alongside the bank, his gruff voice calling over his shoulder, “We should continue.”

   An impenetrable fortress of concrete walls and large, steel doors (the size of Megaton itself) met them a ways down.

   With excitement, she pointed at it. “Is that it?!”

   “No,” was all he simply said.

   “Oh…” They passed it by at a safe distance. She craned her head up to peer at its enormous stature. “So, what is it?”

   Again, his answer was plain, his eyes only briefly glancing over. “Brotherhood.”

   “Oh.” She stuck her tongue out at it. “Figures.”

   Charon made no snide remark or likeminded comment, his boots creating deep impressions in the sand that she tried to match with her smaller stride, her legs stretching to an awkward gait as she married their prints together. He came to a stop and finally noticed the smaller indents squashing the middle of his own. He didn’t appear too impressed, for he only shook his head and grumbled something she couldn’t transcribe. 

   A ramshackle boating shed became their last stop to rest. Charon had already begun whipping up some eldritch-horror-on-a-plate before the sun could fully set, and she cleared her throat as he threw a pinch of bloatfly scales inside the mix.

   “I’m not really that hungry,” she admitted weakly.

   He paused with his actions, his entire body frozen stiff before he seemingly rebooted to life and tersely rasped, “Very well.” He automatically went to dump the contents out to their natural, purgatory habitat.

   Her hands flew up. “No!”  

   He snapped his utterly sour expression at her.  “You do not want it.”

   She didn't. “I mean, just not right now,” she backtracked. (The biggest bullshit lie her mouth had ever spewed). “But I’d love to have it later…if that’s okay. That’s all I meant.”

   At the sight of him slowly bringing the pot back and unsurely looking down inside of it, she knew she would happily shove that shit down her throat until it put her in a grave.

   He reluctantly gave a self-conscious bob of his head. “I will wake you when it is finished.”

   And he did. The putrid smell alone was enough grounds to evacuate the shack, but she forced herself to sit upright, wipe the heavy sleep from her face, and slurp it down until not a single drop of existential dread remained.

   By the third day, they came to the shoreline of an absolutely massive-er, what exactly was-?

   Charon stepped up a small formation of rocks, directing a knife hand at the sight before them. “Rivet City,” he informed her.

   She came up beside him, blinking against the early afternoon sun at the piece of Pre-War history she was about to step foot on. “Whoa…what is that?!”

   The beaming golden rays illuminated the sides of the hull; discolored patches of sheet metal adorned the entirety of its bones from bow to stern, the length and height of the aircraft carrier unlike anything she could have ever imagined. A few radgulls cried as they flew overhead; a woman was seen dumping something overboard, enticing the flying sky rats for a meal if they divebombed quickly enough. It groaned, the sound echoing like a great beast emerging from the deep, endless black waters of the ocean. It was old, it was tired, and yet it had new life breathed through it once more.  

   “So cool,” she said, awestruck.

   Charon rolled his eyes and continued to be her guide up until the base of a metal platform. He turned and crossed his arms, inclining his head for her to proceed alone. “They do not allow ghouls,” he repeated from before. “I shall wait here until you return for me.”

   Evelyn mimicked his stance. “Wait, you’re seriously okay with me just going at it by myself?”

   “There is no choice,” he growled, his anger beginning to simmer. He looked down at her, his eyes hard. “I trust you will be cautious.”

   She looked across the river to the daunting ship. For once, she could do what she wanted and go wherever without the looming, violent shade at her back. No one would stare, no one would talk, no one would make her feel like she was completely alone in a crowded room.

   He was unblinking, waiting on her to leave him to his post.

   For once, she didn't want that. A wry smile came to her lips, and his eyes narrowed. She suddenly said, “…what if I had an idea?”

   All rational instinct screamed- this was a bad idea.

   From head to toe, he had been wrapped and bandaged and swathed with strips of her blanket that she had taken her knife to, dampening his sense of touch and obscuring his sense of sight. The fabric smelled like her. He must look completely stupid.

   “Can you see anything?” his employer inquired, only slightly muffled.

   “No,” he answered.

   “Hmm…” A touch of her hand inside his own. He didn’t pull away despite how tight his nerves became stretched. “Here, I’ll guide you.”

   She shuffled him forward- he dutifully followed. He couldn’t tell where he was going. A click of a button. A static voice. An intercom. They must be at the bridge. There was a horrible shriek of metal, almost as painful as the pounding urge in his skull to look, what if there was an enemy-

   Footsteps. Rivet City security. They must be at gunpoint, for he felt her fingers tighten. He very much wanted his gun in his hands and this stupid thing off his head.

   “Now stay right there,” a voice called out. A man. “State your business.”

   Her thumb brushed along the leather of his palm. She was nervous.

   “Um,” she began. “I’m looking for my father…I was told he came here?”

   “Your father? Who is he?”

   “James? He’s from a Vault.”

   It was irritating, not being able to see the situation unfolding. Not being able to catch her worried eyes. She tightened her grip; he subconsciously squeezed her in return. 

   “A Vault? I don’t know who you’re talking about-hey now, wait a second, are you that kid on the radio? The Lonely-uh-”

   “The Lone Wanderer,” she corrected. “I didn’t pick the name.”

   “Well, you don’t look to be alone,” he quipped. “What’s wrong with him?”

   “Uh.” Evelyn coughed. “Molerats.” Charon lifted a brow muscle, the expression unseen. She then quickly added, “Big ones, like, enormous. So freaking gigantic." She took her hand away; she must be miming with them. "And it was, uh, after the fire- you know, the fire...the fire that burned- um…he’s very lucky to still be alive. He’s my companion...Grog.”

   Grog?

   Who was this Grog he was impersonating? An old acquaintance? Combative partner?

   ...relationship?

   (He will have to kill him)

   “Oh, well, my apologies,” the man replied with a somber tone. 

   He felt Evelyn place her hand on his bicep. “He’s hard of hearing, unfortunately, and also completely mute, and blind! Did I mention that? Like I said, molerats...the fire…I’ll spare the details.”

   A minute passed, and then, “Come on, and welcome to Rivet City.”

   They started forward again. This stupid smoothskin had somehow managed to smuggle a ghoul in. His stupid smoothskin. Their boots clanged across the metal walkway; a radgull cried out just overhead.

   BONK!

   Charon snarled as his head rang like a church bell calling for the hour. He doubled over and rubbed at the fabric covering his forehead. He must have hit the low overhang of the hatch.

   She gasped, “Oh, shit, sorry!”

   Her hands were suddenly all over him- touch here, press there, are you okay? He merely grunted.

   She coaxed, “Come on, there’s a step-”

   Another hatch. He reached his hand up and felt along the edge of the cold metal and slick condensation that dripped to the floor. He ducked and stubbed the toe of his boot on the lip, making him stumble. He had no idea of his sense of direction after that.

   “Sorry, excuse me, pardon us-” Evelyn called out. He could hear the whispers about them, this seven-foot mummy being pulled around by this pretty, young woman. “He’s blind, sorry, and deaf.”

   A squeak suddenly escaped from her lips. He instantly froze.

   “It’s a tight squeeze in here,” a man drawled.

   Charon’s head swiveled to the voice with a sickening crack in his upper vertebrae. He may not be able to see, but he could feel. With a lightning quick step forward, he shot his forearm out and felt the tender underside of the smoothskin’s neck, bracing it against the hull until he felt something give in the trachea. The smoothskin’s feet dangled from the ground, the boots scuffing the metal; his hands scrabbled at the thin blanket over his arm, his throat gargling.

   “Charon, no! Drop him, drop him!” Evelyn commanded, yanking at the leather of his belt.

   He obeyed, and there was a thunk followed by a loud wheeze of air being swallowed. He was then tugged into moving again; a close of a door, a spin of the hatch.

   “You’re blind, deaf, and mute, remember?!”

   They must be alone. He unwrapped the makeshift shawl from his face, his scowl no less than lethal when he was finally able to lay his eyes on her. She had squirreled them away inside a room full of filing cabinets. He could hear footsteps traveling up and down the halls.

   “This is not working,” he said flatly. “I cannot protect you in this manner. I do not advise it.”

   “It got you in, didn’t it? What else was I supposed to do?!”

   He assessed her condition. “Did he hurt you?”

   She huffed and crossed her arms. “No. He just pinched my ass. Total creep.”

   He would find him. He knew what he sounded like…particularly in pain.

   She cut a hand through the air. She was very dramatic. “This place is so confusing. There are signs everywhere, so I’m just following the one for the science lab. I’m going to go out on a fucking limb and say my father would be there, or at least visited." She was stomping all around the room. Very dramatic. "Or maybe not- maybe he fucking died on the way here and this was a complete waste of our time!”

   He didn’t say anything. She brusquely wiped a tear from her eye before it could roll down her cheek.

   “Sorry, none of this is your problem,” she finally lamented. “...or maybe it is.”

   “It is,” he agreed.

   Her eyes were woeful, her voice a whisper. “I keep telling you it doesn’t have to be."

   They remained silent for a moment before he began to wrap his disguise around his head once more. She took the nonverbal cue and opened the hatch. Her hand returned to his.

   (He again allowed it)

   “Another door," she informed him after some more wandering in fucking circles.

   He was much more adept this time in striding through despite his large frame making it difficult, even without the impediment.

   “Hold on." She halted him. "Just wait here. There's a shit ton of stairs. I don’t want you to fall.”

   Her hand fell away, but not before he tightened his fingers for a split second around her own. There was a stomping of steps down and away. He strained his hearing for any sort of distress in her voice once he pinpointed her from across the room. There was soon a lot of it. He unsheathed his knife and slit an opening for his eyes. He was on a platform, standing at the edge that looked down upon a large section of the ship. His brain passed over the images of machinery and people until it came to land on his employer speaking tersely with a smoothskin in a lab coat. He made for the stairs.

   “I have to go now,” Evelyn snapped as she stalked past the woman.

   She was distraught. She was crying. He reached over a shoulder for his shotgun just as she noticed him approaching. She gasped, wildly looking around the room for anyone that may have noticed.

   “Charon!” she feverishly whispered, rushing to take him by the arm to spin him around. He didn’t, and she heaved. “No! It’s nothing! Come on!”

   He growled, his eyes drawing down to slits at the lab coat’s back that was turned to them. They left the science lab and were once again forced into a two-person group huddle in the room of filing cabinets.

   “He’s not here!” she snarled. He stood like a statue and watched her tantrum explode around them. “He’s never fucking here!”

   A fist was thrown. A yelp. A small dent. She had thrown a punch at a locked drawer and was now hissing and cradling her bruised hand to her chest. It was taken in his palm, his fingers kneading around for any hint of a break. She winced as he applied some pressure with his thumb.

   “I hate this,” she said, miserably. She sniffled. “I don’t know why I bother. He obviously doesn’t care.”

   He let her hand back to her side.

   She rubbed at her eyes with her fists. “I saw a sign when we first came in about some sort of a hotel. I’ll…I’ll figure out what I want to do tomorrow.”

   The trip to the ‘hotel’ was more unpleasant than the trip to Rivet City itself. She was forced to backtrack and ask for directions and somehow still ended up on the wrong side of the fucking ship. Charon felt his patience thin quicker than his nonexistent hairline, and by the time she had muttered a hundredth shit, wrong door, he revealed his peephole to the world and began to subtly shove her in the right direction.

   “Okay, okay!” she hissed after he pushed her to the right. “I see it now! Jeez!”

   The hour on her Pip-Boy read that it was late; a Mister Handy behind a service desk rang up their accommodations for the night. He spun the hatch closed (and tight) and turned around to find her completely naked.

   He growled. This was unfair. “You realize where we are?” he asked caustically.

   “Yeah, with my deaf, mute, blind companion who is so not a ghoul,” she replied with an edge to her voice.

   It was good enough for him.

   She held up a hand as he came forward with his cock winking out for her to take a taste. “I want to see all of you.”

   His eyebrow muscles creased together. He didn't understand. “You have before.”

   She took the end of his belt in one hand and ripped it free from the loops. “Show me again.”

   He took a step back and complied. She got to her knees and undid his laces, helped him with his boots, took a lick and a swallow of his dick while he fumbled with his armor and weapons and that stupid fucking blanket he couldn't unwrap fast enough. 

   "So much pain," she said quietly, almost in reverence, as she watched every part of him fall away.

   Her fingers traced countless scars; the hardships his body had endured over many a trial, some unjust, most unkind, and all for the sake of someone else. Her lips pressed to the one at his waist; a knotted abomination of tangled muscle. She kissed another; a raised groove on his back that curved like a headless snake. The sight of himself didn’t bother him- it hadn’t for centuries. His mind was not molded for self-worth; his skin was not his own, not when it belonged to her in all of its rawest forms. Their eyes met; his cloudy but clear, hers seeing but blind.   "Charon, what happened to you?"

   He couldn't answer that. Not anymore.

   She tasted his mouth as she gently pulled him into bed, the weight of his tip pressed into the edge of her, and then she took him over it.

[kidotm]

What We're Worth

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

   Her leg rode up higher, curling around the thick trunk of his waist, her toes curled and pussy absolutely broken. He pawed at her tits, squeezed hard, the cracked skin of his nailless fingertips scratching and pulling at her nipples. How did the bed not break? It was caught in rough seas, being shaken and rattled down to its very bones. The frame was abused with blunt force, banging against the wall.

   Someone loudly knocked at their door.

   “Will ya keep it down!? Rest of us are trying to sleep!”

   The dense concentration of mortification plunged from a syringe straight into her heart would have killed her if not for the ghoul’s quickened pace, his hands wrapping around her hip bones to slam her home.

   “Fuck, fuck!” she cried. She wanted to beg, to plead, fuck me harder do me faster ruin me Charon, ruin me-

   It all left her lips even though she did not hear herself speak. Charon obeyed, pressing himself closer to drill his cock right through her as though he couldn’t fit enough of it inside. She kissed him, sloppy and uncaring. He rammed his tongue in and nearly choked her. The hard outline of his muscles continuously brushed her clit, plowing it from the fields straight up to the mountain peak.

   He made damn sure the entire ship could hear her.

   And then he stopped.

   When he finally finished, he pulled off and sat on the edge of the bed, his dick growing limp and eyes trained on the door. She laid there, dreamy and dazed, not knowing if this was real or just another night of falling asleep to the stars. Her fingers brushed down the length of his exposed spine; he turned his head to look at her.

   “You can stay in bed,” she whispered, shy, hopeful.

   He turned away. “I must take care of something. I will return.”

   She watched him get dressed, hide away his scars and burns and face, and then leave. She kept her back to the door. She wished she hadn’t said anything.

   He was seated in a chair in the corner when she eventually came to, the time on her Pip-Boy reading rise and fucking shine! She yawned, rolling through her tangled sheets until an arm dangled lazily off the side, her eyes catching his.

   “Sleep good?” she joked, blowing a wavy curl off her nose.

   His eyes slowly roved over to her exposed ass. She wiggled it.

   “So, do I want to know what you did last night?” she inquired, trading her birthday suit for modesty. “How did you even get around the ship?”

   “I took care of something,” he rasped indifferently.

   Mind your fucking business. It couldn’t have been more perfectly stamped on her dumb forehead. With a duck of her head from his toasty glare, she fastened the straps of her Pip-Boy to her wrist and went for the door, holding up a hand as he went to disguise himself.

   “I’m going to take care of something,” she said coolly. “You can wait here.”

   She then slammed it in his face before he could reply, with his stupid scowl, stupid shotgun, and stupid lack of hair. The lobby for the Weatherly Hotel had a new face representing it that morning. All the conversation stopped. She was stared at, all alone in a crowded room.

   “Are there showers anywhere on this boat?” Evelyn politely asked, trying to ignore the hawk-like eyes of the gossiping women at her side.

   “Right down the hall on your left,” the receptionist replied just as plainly. “Here’s the key for the door. It’s for hotel guests only.”

   Halle-fucking-lujah.

   The taps were spun, the water was blessedly hot, and she stood underneath the scalding spray until she felt like her skin would melt off and clog the drain. Clumps of tangled, knotted hair were pulled out and curled around her fingers, (she made a picture with it on the wall) and she brushed at the prickly sensation down her once-smooth legs (if she even gave a damn anymore). Her pussy was still a little sore. The vault suit was scrubbed scrubbed scrubbed free of the sewage smell that had leeched into the threads.

   The spray was shut off. A constant drip from the showerhead.

   Drip drip drip

   Do you even like boys?

   What? She’s drunk. A little more than usual. It’s not like Amata. Her once prodigal, on the straight and narrow, best friend was now a little bent. Some days, the days she’ll never confess to, she wants to just finish snapping her in half. Crack that pretty face, the one prettier than hers, right in two.

   I mean, I’ll obviously still be your friend!

   Says it like a badge of honor to wear. Performing the Vault a golden community service. She’s taken the G.O.A.T and received her lifelong duty- Be Friends with the Weird Girl, Forever!

   So…do you?

   She’s thought about it. Heard enough of the small-brain rumors drifting around the halls of this tiny community to not not question it. The doctor’s daughter might like the girls. A skirt chaser. Problem for the gene pool. But she’s not. She’s in love with Amata, but they’re something closer than simple kisses and holding hands, so she likes to still think.

   You can always tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else.

   And she looks up, but doesn’t see her face. It’s plain, just like everyone else’s. An anonymous entity, just another 101, and she thinks she might start to cry.

   Big baby Evelyn, she’s always crying.

   The hatch was spun shut. She raised her head; Charon was still in his chair in the corner, his expression no less dour than usual.

   “Sorry,” she said quietly.

   She had trailed water down the hall and into the room. Her hair was soaked and scraggly, and the vault suit had been wrung out until she was afraid it would somehow disappear into an invisible pocket of space. A little puddle formed at her feet. Her boots were wet. The Pip-Boy screen was fogged.

   “There’s showers,” she tried again, a little lamely. “There’s a key…it’s private.”

   He didn’t say anything but stared at her. She knew that look, the first of many she would come to recognize, the first page amongst the multitude in the Grumpy Ghoul’s Pop-Up Book- now with interactive grumbled audio for all your translating fun!

   “Are you ready?” she finally asked.

   Ding ding ding!

   He stood and holstered his shotgun on his back before beginning the tedious task of wrapping himself until he became a walking toilet paper roll.

   “Do you want some help?”

   He paused in covering his arm; he only slightly raised his eyes. With a faint nod, he held over the strip of fabric for her to take. She grazed his fingers with her own and it somehow made her knees shake. When the disguise was complete and the door was opened, she turned to find his hand already, just barely, reaching out for hers.

   She pulled him past the reception desk, heard the sniggering behind her back.

   “I see why she keeps him around.”

   “More like hear.”

   “Guess something works under all of that.”

   They passed a duo of security guards.

   “He was always a drunk- it’s no surprise, honestly. Lucky they retrieved what they could before the mirelurks got to him.”

   “Yeah, but you didn’t see the body when we slabbed him up. I’m telling you, there’s no way a fall like that could-”

   They snapped their mouths shut as they passed. One gave them a terse nod and generic warning as a way of greeting. “Staying out of trouble?” The two then dived into details once they were out of earshot.

   The Rivet City Marketplace was much busier than she would have expected. Charon was helped down the stairs, one step at a time, into the throng of people milling about. More than one strange glance was sent their way. The vendors were hectic chasing caps while their customers were shrewd with their deals. She stepped up to the first stall that wasn’t completely swamped, a swatch of ruby-red fabric catching her eye.

   “Ooh.” She went to caress the pretty dress before a sudden snapping made her withdraw.

   “Ah, ah, ah.” A twiddle of a finger. Naughty naughty. “Please do refrain yourself from sullying the merchandise, thank you.” He then held out a hand, most expectantly. “At least until you have paid.”

   Fully embarrassed at being schooled like a snot-nosed child, she bowed her head and automatically reached for her caps stash. It thankfully wasn’t anything to break the bank, and the man smiled an entirely different tune after he counted it into a register.

   “Here, let me get that off the rack for you…a most…interesting piece, indeed.”

   Evelyn lifted the dress- no, not a dress- the lacey, racy, could barely keep her tits from spilling overboard-

   She sputtered and quickly stuffed the sexy nightgown inside her bag before anyone else could notice. “Um, thank you,” she meekly choked out, and then she almost flung her shoulder out of its socket by how hard she tugged the big guy along to the next stall.

   A weathered man leaning against a gun cabinet gave her a weird look as they approached. “I heard about the ‘Mummy Man’ in town…seems they just about let anyone in on this tub nowadays.” He eyed her head to toe. “Course, not always a bad thing…”

   “I’ll spend my caps somewhere else,” she promptly responded with a pivot on her heel.

   “Whoa, hey now.” He hastily came around the side, unaware of the faceless head swiveling along with his every step. “I didn’t mean anything by it…you looking to do business, girl? I might even give ya a discount.”

   She squeezed Charon’s hand. Two fingers tapped her in return. She would take that as a yes.

   “What sort of discount are we talking?”

   With a grin, he bowed and waved an arm over to the assortment of guns on the rack. “What catches your eye?”

   She didn’t have a single fucking clue. They all did. Shiny, deadly, and out of her league in terms of skill. A bite of her lower lip, and she shrugged. This was Charon’s area of expertise, and he had been castrated of any opinion on it all.

   “Got any bullets? For a shotgun?” she asked with a touch of heartfelt innocence and overflowing ignorance.

   “Shells? Sure.” He again gave an overbearing grin as though he were ready to take a chomp out of her. He turned to retrieve a few shoddy boxes and stacked them on a knife-nicked countertop. “That’s three a shell…just for you.”

   “Thanks-?” she started, but then Charon reached up and blindly felt for the boxes, opening one to then trace a bandaged finger along the inside over every single piece of ammunition.

   The man across from them snorted. “What’s he doing?”

   A damn good question.

   “Uh.” She blinked, watching the ghoul continue with the second set. “He…likes to touch things, sometimes, like…to…uh, touch…them.”

   The man’s eyes stayed glued to her tits. “I bet he does.”

   “Okay.” She slapped some caps down. “Here-” She went to finish with pervert, but a thing on the wall stole away her insult. With wide eyes and a single finger, she pointed to it. “What is that?”

   He turned, loudly snuffing snot up his head. “Oh, that?” He pulled it off to clunk it down between them. “This here’s a power fist. Packs one hell of a wallop. Now, unfortunately, this one is a little shot on the hydraulics, so I ain’t too inclined to-”

   “I’ll take it,” she interrupted. It was no sooner a sad little scrapheap on the counter than it was a sad little scrapheap tied to the side of her bag, clanking along for the ride. If it was broken, Moira could fix it…she hoped.

   Gary’s Galley was her last stop- she wrapped away the mirelurk cakes with a watering mouth. The hostess leaned on the end of her broom to openly stare at them.

   “So, are you together?” she asked, a strange lilt to her voice.

   Evelyn nearly fumbled with zipping away the delicious treasures at the implication. She cleared her throat, keeping her eyes down and taking her time. Ziiiiiiiiiii-

   “Uh, I guess. Kind of? It’s…”

   What kind of question was that? Together? Why did she ask it in that way? She knew what she was asking. No one else had asked it like that. He was her…

   -iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

   What exactly was he?

   -iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

   “Complicated.”

   -iiiiiiiiiiip!

   The young woman sighed. “I wish my life were complicated.”

   I got a ticket just for that, Evelyn thought bitterly. She briefly pictured this woman having her world turned upside down, having this murdering tank of a ghoul stalking her every move, telling her it is fine and very well and maybe fucking her senseless and growling in her ear and sucking her tits-

   She held on to his hand a little too tight; tight enough that he tapped her with his fingers until she released him. They were soon crossing the bridge back out into the wastes, the thick haze shrouding them from all eyes.

   Her hand dropped from his. “We’re clear.”

   He reached up and began to unravel himself, every bit of cloth wound into a tight ball to then be shoved into her pack. (Who knew when it would be needed again).

   “We’re going to the Jefferson Memorial,” she said. He gave her a hard stare. “Oh my God, what?”

   Charon turned his head to the domed building just beyond their scope. “I do not advise it. It is not-”

   “Not safe,” she finished, shouldering her bag. “Well, it’s where my dad went, so-”

   “He is dead,” the ghoul rasped matter-of-factly. “Super mutants patrol the grounds.”

   “He’s not dead,” she bristled. “He hasn’t been here for weeks, that’s what Dr. Li, that woman, told me. If it’s been that long, then I doubt he’s over there, too. I just need to find out where he fucking went off to next.”

   Charon paused for a few minutes, then said, “Is it worth your life to find him?”

   She automatically went to answer with a yes…but…she looked down at her feet, gripped the straps of her backpack. To say any of this had been worth it…

   “I…” She felt that tremendous surge of pressure building inside her skull, the prickle of hot tears in her eyes.

   She’s always crying.

   “…he’s my dad,” she said thickly.

   It was all she had left. He was all she had left. She couldn’t say anything more, lest her throat constrict and her eyes begin to bawl and her nose gets stuffed. Those big sky-blues, so ugly in the rain.

   Charon released a deep sigh. “Very well.”

   At first, she protested, loudly. He had to snap at her to be quiet. Then, she begged…that was a first, outside of sex. He again snapped, shushing her sniffles and whiny fucking voice until he once again asked her if her father was worth it. She said yes. He didn’t ask why. He had pointed to the bridge that was still extended. She had shaken her head. She wanted to find her father; Charon wanted her alive. This was the easiest solution. She would die, otherwise. He wasn’t invincible, and she wasn’t very bright.

   “But, Charon-” she blubbered, her fingers worming into his armor. “-what if-what if-”

   “Super mutants are of no concern to me. You will be safe, and I will return.”

   “You promise?” she breathed.

   He looked her straight in the eye. “No.” With a gentle push on her lower back, he directed her back to the ship, and he only turned his eyes away from her retreating form once she had safely walked across, that blue vault suit disappearing in the swirling mist.

   He gave his attention back to the Jefferson Memorial.

   The walk was short. The super mutants were healthy in number and roved the complex in a disorganized fashion. The quicker he approached, the louder they became. Completely stupid beasts, but extremely troublesome. There were far too many for a single combative and sole liability- clearing the compound would take days, maybe a couple of weeks, to properly prep for minimal risk and come away with all limbs intact, but he wasn’t granted that sort of time. This was the most sensible solution.

   One was at the base of the giant metal catwalks that surrounded the memorial. It gnawed on the leg of a yao guai, its bulging eyes roving in their sockets to watch him pass. It grunted. He ignored it, his boots clanging up the footpath. The mutants just clambered on by, shaking the entire platform like a miniature earthquake rolling on through. Only a few so much as turned their head and breathed swamp-like gas at his passing, others, merely gnashed their teeth and shouted single-syllable words. 

   He found an entrance leading inside. She may be right. Perhaps her father was still alive. The super mutants appeared more recent than he would have initially assumed- no hints of piled carcasses or bags of wet gore. He would still have to be thorough, just in case. A centaur slowly watched him enter the main section of the gift shop and begin the tedious task of searching for clues as to her father’s whereabouts. He knew nothing of this man. Not what he looked like, or what his habits were…it may take some time. There were minimal signs of life. Empty coffee mugs, the crusty rings inside telling of more recent abandonment rather than decades. Paperwork not completely illegible, but scattered about and trodden underfoot. He kept out of the general way as he combed through the spaces, eyeing the blinking machinery. Mutants did not have the intellectual capacity to operate any of this. Someone had been here, at one point. He stepped into the rotunda and found a few holotapes in a pile that had not yet had the chance to accumulate much dust.

   He pocketed those and kept searching.

   A carton of cigarettes was swiped from an opened drawer. He drowned out the mindless, obnoxiously loud babble buzzing around him as he proceeded down to the lower basement level, a smoke at his mouth and a cloud of tobacco lingering at his heels. Two mutants were duking it out in a brawl. He sidestepped around and crushed the spent cigarette under his boot. There were a few nets filled with assorted limbs: feet with no toes, chewed-up hands, a few heads with their hair matted and black, their eyes empty. Not good.

   More holotapes, all labeled with the same handwritten signature as before. Project Purity. Maybe her father. He came upon a single closed door and stepped through. A bed, a desk, a scattering of the prerecorded disks just about everywhere. Better Days. That’s what one had read. They had all been neatly organized for the trip back to her. There was no sign of a body. Maybe she won't be so upset.

   A holotape player was poking out from a box full of strewn paperwork, half-buried. He stared at it. The chair sighed under his weight. Another cigarette was lit at his lips as he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, the pile of holotapes now stacked beside him.

   He then picked up the first disc, and hit play.

   Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty. Two hours.

   The vendor back at Flak N' Shrapnel’s gave her a wink as she stormed right up to the counter. “What’ll it be this time? Where’s your-”

   “Shut up and give me something that’ll make you think twice about talking,” she bit out with all the venom of a striking cobra. Her pile of caps was dumped between them. “And make sure it’s fucking loaded.”

   He chuckled and pulled a Chinese assault rifle off the wall, clicking the magazine into place. “Don’t hurt yourself, darling.”

   The bridge became a giant tambourine, beating along with every pounding of her boots as they marched right down the platform and straight into the person she had been too cross to even fucking see.

   “Oof!” she yelped, stumbling back to glare up into the face of whoever was standing in her fucking way.

   Charon was eyeing the rifle shaking in her hands. He raised a brow and placed a hand over it. “What is-”

   “Where the fuck have you been?!” she snarled. She threw the gun to the ground; his face was drawn in distaste. “I’ve been waiting for over two fucking hours for you! What the hell happened?!”

   He bent down to retrieve her weapon of choice but didn’t offer it back for her to take. He replied coolly, “I apologize for my absence. I did not mean to inconvenience you.”

   “Inconvenience? Inconvenience?!” She laughed, loudly and brashly. She directed a knife hand back the way he had come. “I thought you had fucking died! Oh my God, really?! I don’t have any way of knowing if you’re hurt, or if you’re waiting on me, or if something horrible happened.” She was getting too thick with her emotions, and she took a deep breath to get herself in check. “I was going to come and find you,” she finally warbled.

   Charon’s face had slowly gone from mild displeasure to nasty ire. With a clench of his jaw, he took a step back. His fingers were twitching.

   “Do not do that again,” he rasped, a veiled but promised threat. He then angled his body away from her, his leather gloves creaking from the pressure they held on to the rifle with. “He was not there.” When she didn’t say anything, he reluctantly continued with, “He is in Vault 112. It is where he said he would be going.”

   “And that was it?” she asked, hollow and uncaring. “Nothing about…me?”

   He briefly looked at her before throwing his gaze away. “No.”

   Her lower lip trembled. She spun on her heel and planted her hands on her hips before she could make that face he hated so much, the one that reminded him that he was stuck with an absolutely pathetic, lonely, vaultie reject that couldn’t even fend off the time of day.

   “Charon,” she faintly sobbed, her throat in pain from how hard she tried to fight it. “Do you know where Vault 112 is?”

   “No.”

   “Okay, okay, I guess that’s…um.” She brusquely rubbed at her snot-bubbled nose with her sleeve. “I don’t care. Fuck it. I really don’t care.” Her hands slapped at her sides. “I want a drink. Do you want a drink?” She eventually turned around. She couldn’t place the look he was giving her. “Oh, come on, I swear I won’t make a repeat of Dukov’s. Unless…” She winked her wet lashes at him. “You want me to?”

   He instead answered, “He is not worth it.”

   It was a couple runaway tears, then a flood, then a hysterical mess of chaffed eyes and a ruddy nose and cracked lips and a hoarse throat. Charon didn’t offer comfort, dole out chastisement, or do anything at all, really. He stood there, staring down at her with no expression on his nightmare of a face. She dry heaved. He watched. She cursed and shrieked and he remained still and gazed on and didn’t react in any way.

   “I fucking hate him!” she screamed, snatching the rifle back and suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun.

   It’s the taste of hot sand, dry salt. It’s sudden. It’s everywhere. There’s no escaping it, for she’s already made it. The Alpha and The Omega. The Beginning. The End. This is where it’s led to. She’s tried the door, pushed all the buttons, cried and cried and cried. Please let me in. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me out here. Don’t leave me here alone. It’s so lonely. I don’t know where to go. Dad isn’t here. Have you seen my dad?

   She only has the gun. It’s loaded. She couldn’t pull a single shot.

   But now she can.

   “Evelyn,” a single utter of her name. A thick, deep rasp, not something entirely human, but something wholly alive. “Please…come here.”

   She’s curled in a ball, shoved tight, tight, small, so incredibly small, inside a little hovel she had managed to squirrel into. A hand, scarred and ugly and stained with every shade of red, holds out. She takes it, feels the curl of his fingers around her, and lets him pull her up and away.

At the Door

Chapter Notes

A title reference by The Strokes

   It had been three days of unspoken words and downcast eyes. Charon was more than accustomed to the stiff silence from traveling alone, but it didn’t sit quite right with someone like her. It made their steps short and company restless. She didn’t want to eat; she barely slept. He had taken the rifle and chucked it as far as he could manage into the murky waters of the Potomac- an illogical and unpragmatic decision, but he felt better for it.

   They had arrived at the front steps of her house, her eyes just staring at the key laid out in the palm of her hand, and before he went to question her wellbeing, she put it in the slot and turned the lock.

   She got that drink. 

   It had been nabbed from the bin of other stashed bottles that she intended to sell to the bar. The cork was popped, the neck peered into. There was the first shot, then another. No decency for a glass, just the ghostly prints of her lips around the rim, that swirl of golden liquid tenderly swallowed. It was obvious she wasn’t much of a drinker, not that he had assumed she was. He had only set down his bag before catching her chasing that bitter pill with a taste of tequila and his soft cock. 

   His fingers shook as he tried to remain calm- she was much more enthusiastic with her performance than before, coiling him tightly around her hot little tongue as it sloppily kissed his tip, the stiff muscle dragging along the roof of her mouth. He growled as she suddenly swallowed him deep, and he came. She took it all. When she pulled away, a frothy bubble of spit and semen dribbled down her chin. She wiped at it with the back of her sleeve, and then reached for the bottle of booze. 

   “You drink?” she politely inquired, holding it over for him to indulge. He took it to set aside. She pouted, “Are you ever any fun?”

   His eyes followed as she moseyed to the tub with a drop of her clothes on the floor. She turned to look at him, her cheeks rosy red and eyes drunk with lust. 

   “Let’s take a bath.”

   He paused in unstrapping his thigh holster. She was every bit of bare as he liked to look at. She spun the taps, flicked tepid water from her fingertips. His eyes slowly roved up from the dark little curls to her plump breasts to her face, and then back down to his gear. He unclipped a grenade satchel and unholstered his shotgun. A boot was kicked off, and then the other. The zipper to his pants was sharp, his tattered shirt carelessly flung on the couch. The water sloshed up and over the lip of the tub as he settled inside.

   Her knee dug into his thigh while her hands held on to the dip of his broad shoulders as she climbed over him, wetly panting with a deliriously stupid smile on her face. His palms brushed down her back as she straddled his waist, his throbbing cock snugged nicely inside the curve of her ass. Between the two of them, the basin was uncomfortably small, but it was made up for with the tilt of her hips and a plunge straight down to his balls. His skull cracked against the porcelain as he smacked his head back, his eyes closed and breathing terse through his nose. 

   There was no room for his legs to move to simply jackhammer away, and so he was forced to succumb to her leisure with himself. He opened his eyes to her riding him, wild and fierce, her long hair acting as a veil over her face while her fingernails dug into the knotted skin of his chest. She made gaspy sounds, stuttered breaths. It appeared to be quite the effort. He parted her hair to see her.

   The floor was soon soaked with each wave of water that cascaded up and around the curve of her body. She abruptly halted her jerky rhythm, leaning forward with a part to her lips to collide with his. While he wrapped his tongue around her own he gripped the backside of her thighs with both hands, squeezing until he was sure it would leave bruises. He effortlessly lifted her high up his shaft before smacking her ass down, once, twice, and then the repetitive clapping of water and skin drowned her whimpering moans of pleasure. 

   She pulled her face away as he rallied himself home, a barely audible grunt escaping him as he blew as deep as he could go. A soft, coy smile was on her mouth as she slowly began to ride him from the precipice of ecstasy to something borderline insanity. 

   “Keep cumming in me,” she whispered. 

   His eyes rolled in the back of his head. He felt that hot heat inside her, the pressure she gripped him with. His muscles began to shake and his breathing grew heavy. He finally choked out, “N-no more.”

   She stopped, sitting there like a hunter atop her big game trophy while he collected his thoughts and willed his twitching limbs to still. When she remained in place with his cock growing soft inside her, the creeping itch of irritation replaced that of his fading orgasm. 

   “Will you get off?” he curtly rasped.

   All at once, her vixen visage soured. She granted his request, propping herself on the rim beside the spout. 

   “I want to finish bathing,” she said just as snappishly. 

   He stood, the droplets of water raining from his body as he lumbered out. He turned to watch her untangle her hair with her fingers, her eyes feeling his own and returning a heated glare. He gathered his things and walked up the stairs.

   She didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. She avoided his general company. She let her bowl of soup go untouched.

   He matched her cold shoulder with equal reserve. He didn’t offer in repairing the powerfist she had tagged along, watched her waste her caps after trading it over to the wacky smoothskin. 

   “Oh, Rivet City?” The shopkeeper brightened. “Did you by chance get to-?”

   His employer slumped her face in a hand. “Shit. Sorry, no, I completely forgot. I’ll be sure and get to it next time.”

   Next time? So, she would be planning on returning. (He hated his disguise).

   Moira shrugged. “No biggie, just be sure and get the full scoop when you do! Take care now!”

   Evelyn only returned to her room long enough to change into the vault suit. It was her tell-tale sign that they would be leaving, and so he gathered his things to meet her at the door. She didn’t wait for him or bother to see if he followed. 

   She took to well-traveled roads; they must be returning to Northwest Seneca station. She kept him a few steps at a distance; he killed everything with stone-cold vigor. His hunch proved correct after they entered the courtyard and descended the metro steps to bid words of business to the hermit ghouls. 

   “Did it work out, between you and Hoff?” she asked as he set up shop in the dimly lit corner with a neon sign that read Do Not Fuck With. 

   Murphy came over with a bag of caps. “As promised, smoothskin. You’re one hell of a lifesaver.”

   She smiled. She seemed happy with the compliment. “So, what’s next, then? Keep collecting Sugar Bombs?”

   Murphy looked over to his partner, and then went to wrap an arm around her shoulder. Charon growled to make him reconsider if he liked having it still attached to its socket. The necrotic hand dipped back to his side, and he instead motioned to the entrance from whence they had entered. 

   “Well, you see, smoothskin,” he rasped uneasily, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done-”

   Barrett interrupted with, “Hoff can supply us with Sugar Bombs.”

   Murphy whipped a glare at him. “We agreed on being easy!”

   Barrett simply shrugged.

   His employer gasped, the incredulity on her face almost comical. “You’re cutting me out?! After all of that-?!”

   “Hoff’s giving me a better deal than what I pay you for,” Murphy interjected, the salt in the wound being vigorously scrubbed in. “Sorry, smoothskin…good luck out there.”

   They got the boot to the ass and were out the door. Good. It was one less thing for him to worry over. 

  She couldn’t believe it! Give a chem-peddling ghoul an inch, and they’ll take a mile. She huffed, cursed, and loudly stomped her way back to Megaton. Fine! She’ll just have to keep every box of stale cereal for her self from now on, make them rue the day they decided to go ahead and burn that bridge-!

   A guttural cough at her back made her spin around, a furious snarl on her lips. 

   “What?” she growled.

   Her prick of a bodyguard only waved the biting end of his shotgun to an abandoned shack, the long shadows from the waning sun stretching their silhouettes across the sand.

   “I’ll meet you back home,” she said snidely before balling her fists at her sides to storm off down the road once more. 

   His fingers were soon wrapped around her elbow, halting her one-woman army march. “I do not advise-”

   She rudely shook him off. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

   Charon growled, spitting through clenched teeth, “Do not be stupid. It is not-”

   She again interrupted him with, “Ooh! Not safe!” She mockingly waved her hands. “Pfft! Nowhere’s safe enough for you.”

   He took a single step back and glowered at her. “You are being a brat.”

   “Well you’re being a dick!” She carried on once more. “Stay, don’t. No one’s ordering you to.”

   His face went from smoldering ire to a completely blank slate. He remained awfully quiet after that…so quiet, she would forget that he was in step behind her. The continuous fury pounding through every step eventually tired her out and beat the anger from her bones when the highrise of Megaton’s gates came into view. She glanced over her shoulder; he didn’t look at her in return. Rather than face an awkward stand-off in the tiny proximity of their home, she thought it best to hash out the apologies here and now. 

   You’re an adult now.

   She turned around, fiddling with her braid and observing the split ends. (It would need a trim).

   “Hey,” she started, glancing up for his reaction. “Sorry for being a bitch…I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

   He stared at her. Typical response. She would have to nudge a little further.

   She cleared her throat and looked off into the distance. “I know you’re just doing what you do-”

   He marched straight past, his deep rasp hollow and stony. “I advise we continue.”

   Well!

   Her hands flew straight to her hips. “Are we really going to do this every time?”

   He halted. “Be quiet.”

   She gaped at him, his complete uninterest once again hotly burning the tinder in her veins. “Oh my God, I was just trying to-!”

   Charon rushed up and clapped a hand over her mouth, his pungent sweat overpowering. “Stop talki-”

   A bullet whizzed by, inches from her head, but perfectly aligned with Charon’s chest. He grunted, stumbling backward a few steps, and was hit with two more. One went straight through his thigh, the other lodged well into his abdomen. 

   Her hands had flown to her mouth in sheer terror at the sight of blood and the sudden deafening sound of gunfire. Charon didn’t waste a single moment as he grabbed her by the shoulder and face-planted her into the dirt, a wheeze of pain rattling from his throat as he reached behind for his weapon to return the favor. The sand sifted from her clothes as she rolled over, trying to fight the initial instinct to curl up in the smallest possible ball to avoid being hit as she watched a mercenary lose his head all in the span of seconds, the blast smearing a wet cloud of blood in the air. 

   That armor. That bounty. They were here for her. 

   I will keep you safe. It is of no concern.

   Another had barreled around the carnage of his misted companion, the sights of his gun aimed at her forehead. She scrabbled backward, a scream lodged in her chest, she couldn’t move fast enough, this was it-

   The shot rang out just as she raised her hands up and screwed her eyes shut, but nothing came. They opened to Charon clutching at his side with one palm; a steady, thick gush of blood oozed from between his fingers.

   It is my duty.

   “Stop it!” she screamed, clawing her way to her feet despite just how heavy they felt, how they dragged through the sand, why was he so far away so suddenly? “NO!”

   Her shrieks jolted life into the ghoul, animating his limbs once again with ingrained violence as he reached out and nabbed at the mercenary’s arm, twisting it up, then to the side, then crack! The merc screamed, his arm awkwardly askew with a white peek of bone at the elbow (hello there!) and the gun getting kicked around at their feet as they shuffled in a dance. Charon took the lead, the flash of his knife sinking pleasingly in his gut. He twisted it, ignoring the stuttered choking and spray of blood spat on his face, and slit him open from belly to chest. His guts spilled out, a leak of yellow fluid dripping between his thighs.

   The third one came wielding his own jagged blade in a direct line for Charon’s spine when his back was still turned. Evelyn tackled his legs, a mess of limbs and a kick in the teeth and a punch in the face. She screamed and bit and scratched, (I hate you! I hate you! Leave us alone!), her howls completely mad and nipping at the air with blunt teeth. The combat knife rose up, nasty and full of ill intent, but the entire limb was blown off before it could meet its mark. She flinched from the blast, giving the mercenary enough leeway to sit back upright, only for a second blow to snap him back flat.

   Charon stumbled over, his back hunched and breathing labored. With a raise of the barrel, he fired another shot, and then another, and then let his gun drop from his hands to his feet. 

   It was quiet, a lick of a breeze rolling by to kiss their salted brows.

   “Oh my God,” she panicked. She was on her feet, shuffling for her discarded bag that had been thrown to the side. “Holy shit-holy shit-um, okay, okay, I-I have some stims-”

   Charon raised his bloodied palm to his face, squinting his eyes at something in the invisible lines of his hand. His stare dragged over to her, and all at once, the fires seemed to dim. He then fell face-forward with a thud, billowing a puff of dust.

   “Charon!” Her hands were all over him. They pulled away sticky, warm, much too warm. “Charon!”

   He wasn’t moving. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. 

   “Charon?!” She took a shoulder in one hand and roughly shook him. “Get up, Charon!”

   She didn’t care what could hear her. 

   “Get up!” she shouted, tugging at his slick palm with a sobbing cry. “Charon, get up! Wake up!” She threw his hand down and screamed, “I ORDER YOU TO GET THE FUCK UP! GET UP NOW!”

    A low groan. The ghoul ever so slowly brought his arms underneath himself, his entire body quivering from the effort. She dived underneath, sobbing as he crushed her with his entire weight. 

   “You have to help me! I can’t carry you alone! Please don’t die, please get up, please!”

   Charon’s hand shot out, his fingers digging through the silt that had been muddied red. She heaved and gasped as he toppled back to the ground. He didn’t move again no matter how hard she wailed at him to. 

   The bag was torn open, bits and pieces of scavenged junk and personal items scattered everywhere without a single fucking thought as to their value as she procured all of her medical supplies and put all of her strength into rolling him over. 

   She stabbed him twice with Med-X. Three stims were next. She didn’t know how to pry a bullet or check for an exit wound. She was not her father. Her father the fucking good doctor. The one who could help. The one who wasn’t there in her most dire time of need. 

   He is not worth it.

   “Charon, Charon,” she feverishly whispered. A prayer, a name of faith, (I’m calling to you God please answer me). She wiped the sweat and dirt and blood from her forehead with the back of her hand and gently held his face between her palms. “Hey, hey, wake up big guy.”

   Nothing. She ripped off his armor and unzipped his jacket and crushed his chest with the side of her skull as she listened-

   A drum; a solo beat tattooed behind her eyes. 

   Her lips brushed against the clammy skin of his cheek, her breath moist. “I’m coming back, okay? I’m coming back for help. Don’t die, you hear me? I order you not to die. I’ll be back.”

   She had never run so far and so fast, so quick were her feet across the wastes, her lungs threatening to combust into hot ash as she rounded the gates, frantically waving her arms up at the lone sentry with a blood-curdling scream in her throat. 

   “I NEED HELP!”  

   They moved much too slow. She pounced and paced and shouted profanities until they finally came out with a stretcher towed behind a brahmin and followed her out into the pitch black of night. She didn’t have a pin marked where she had left him; it didn’t occur to her to, for she somehow knew exactly where to go, where to find him. They came upon the three corpses and the ghoul, everything right where she had left it, little dolls, expendable playthings. (Look, this one’s my favorite!)

   It took three men to heave Charon onto the stretched lining while Lucas Simms rolled over a corpse with the toe of his boot, a deep grimace etched on his face. Evelyn forwent their things as she kept close to Charon’s side, coming to snap at a man who had so dared declare that they stop to take a break. 

   “I’ll light that bomb in your ass if you don’t keep fucking moving!” she shrieked. She shoved him aside, taking the brahmin’s lead rope for herself. “Let’s go!” 

   The rest of the way was paved with the lines in the sand from the stretcher being pulled along. She darted ahead, instructed them to bring him home, to their home, busted down the front door and upended the living room and dashed up the stairs to throw her mattress over the railing. It slapped with a loud bang on the ground floor.

   “Put him there, put him there!” she directed, holding Charon’s right arm as it flopped over. All three men grunted as they set him flat on his back, the mattress severely dipping beneath the weight. She leaned out of the doorway of her house for a recognizable figure amongst the small crowd that had gathered around the commotion. “Where is-?”

   “Here!” Moira, a shining beacon in the darkness, burst through like a ray of holy light with a neon-green glowing device in hand and an always too optimistic of a smile on her face. “I have just the ticket, at least, it should work-”

   Evelyn tugged her inside and slammed the door shut amongst the multitude of curious faces. “Hurry.”

   They knelt on either side of him, his chest rising with shallow breaths. 

   Oh, how frail, he seemed. So very old, no longer stoic or coldly proud. Her iron tower, crumbled and fallen before her feet. The ashy brimstone stained her hands a dark red, almost black, the flakes dusting him as she peeled his shirt away. He was lying quietly at the bottom of the ocean, a monster sunken to the impenetrable depths in a murky grave of cold sand. She only had to tie the rope off, bring him back to the surface and warm sun.

   This was all her fucking fault.

   “Okay, let’s take a look over here-” Moira pressed a few fingers to the ugly puncture wound in his abdomen, and then raised her eyes with a pitiful look to them. “Oh…I’m so sorry…”

   Evelyn didn’t understand. She motioned with a hand at the blood seeping onto her floor. “What are you waiting for? Fix him!”

   Moira sat back on her heels. “I don’t think we can…”

   Evelyn’s lower lip quivered, and her eyes felt hot. She glanced over to the weird, glowing device Moira had brought along.

   You’re ready to be on your own.

   (He’s all she had left)

   Evelyn reached over and swiped at the device, stabbing it into the side of Charon’s ribcage before Moira could do so much as lift a finger.

   Moira’s eyes went wide after the emptied canister was tossed to the side, its unnatural glow now faded. She exclaimed, “I don’t know what the entire dose will do!”

   Evelyn ignored her callous decision and brought her face close to his, her eyes wildly looking over and carefully scrutinizing for any sign that he would wake up, glower at her, rasp in his deep, grumpy voice to stop it, rarragraw.

   But he didn’t do any of that. 

   Evelyn inspected the wound. “It’s closing…that means it’s working, right?” Her voice broke, her fingers tenderly tracing his permanent scowl. A few tears rolled off her nose, the snot loudly snuffed up her head. “You have to wake up now.”

   He didn’t. Still. Silent.

   “Why isn't it working?!” she cried. She looked up. “You said it would work! It’s not fucking working!”

   Moira looked across to her. “I am so sorry-”

   “Get up!” she screamed, throttling his shoulder with both hands. “Wake the fuck up! You’re all better! I ORDER YOU TO WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

   Charon snapped upright, howling as he clawed at himself and tore away at the skin, making it crack and bleed.

   “Charon!” Evelyn cried as she made to embrace him, but she instead recoiled after he whipped around to her with a hateful expression on his face, lunging for a grab at her throat. 

   He immediately crashed to his knees, wheezing in insurmountable pain and screwing his eyes shut as he beat at his skull with his own fists. 

   “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he snarled.

   “Charon!” she wailed again, and he all at once ceased hitting himself.

   He glared at her and roared, “YOU LEFT THE FUCKING BULLET IN ME!”

   His eyes snapped to the knife attached to her hip. He rudely took it, ripping off his shirt completely to wring it into a tight coil to then bite down on, the handle of the blade flipped in his hand as he then looked down at his waist. The tip was dipped inside the flesh with a strain to his neck and a pained grunt.

   “I wouldn’t-” Moira began, but Charon withdrew and snapped his jaw at her. 

   “Pliers,” he demanded. “NOW.”

   Much to Evelyn’s surprise, (and utter relief), the shopkeeper just raised a thumbs up and burst out the front door, leaving her alone with the ghoul who was acting more feral than sane. Her nostrils flared as she could only stand by and watch, genuinely afraid, while his fingers began to slip and slide over the reopened wound.  

   She licked her lips. “C-can I-?” 

   His neck cracked as he spun to her, the burning embers in his eyes relit and blazing an uncontrollable wildfire. The handle of the knife was still clenched in his fist- he appeared to want nothing more than to fuck her throat with it.

   The door burst open with Moira and the pliers extended. “Here you are-!”

   Charon swiped at them with a growled, “Get out.”

   The door slammed right back shut.

   Charon flexed his other hand before taking a bite of his shirt once more, his brows extremely cross and breathing careful and slow. With a tilt of his head, he began to insert the needle nose pliers, his jaw popping and breathing becoming stunted. 

   The pliers made a wet sucking noise after they came back out beholding gooey, red webbing and a tiny piece of brass. It made a loud clink to the floor. 

   He brusquely rubbed at his eyes, muttering something under his breath that she couldn’t decipher, and felt unwise to ask. A shaky breath was released from the pit of his chest as he let the tool carelessly fall from his hand, his head slightly turning to her standing there frozen in the corner.

   “I require a Stimpak,” he rasped. There was no movement, and he turned further to fully face her. “Stimpak.”

   She nodded, giving the ghoul a wide berth as she pattered up the stairs to retrieve the remaining few she kept in an emergency stash. He only plucked one from her trembling hands, injecting it into the base of the exposed flesh. He scanned her from head to toe as she quietly stood there in case he needed more aid. 

   His eyes lifted, his voice low. “Are you injured?”

   A faint shake of her head.

   The timber had been patched, the sails stitched, and the stern spared. He was ready for open waters, once again, but she didn’t want to set foot on board.

   She sidestepped around him, flinching when he turned a little too quickly to follow her with his gaze. “I’m going to sleep at Gob’s tonight.” 

   He didn’t say anything as she went for the door and stepped right through it, the frame closed between them.

The Bounty

   Gob’s was busy. A wandering caravan had rolled through, enjoying the refreshment of a safe settlement after having gone astray for the past couple of weeks. She weaved through the throng of drunken, garbled singing and reckless fists until she got to the ghoul behind the bar. 

   “Howdy smoothskin,” Gob began, but then he took in the dried blood all over her suit and skin. “Holy-”

   “I need a room,” she pleaded. “I, I don’t have any caps at the moment, but-”

   He waved a hand before sliding a beer to an elbow. “Don’t worry about it. Last door up the stairs.”

   The sheets hadn’t been changed. There was an empty vodka bottle on the table. Someone else’s holey sock was serving as an unwanted guest at the foot of the bed. 

   The knob was fiddled. She had locked it. There was a loud knocking on the other side of the door. She ignored it.

   "Evelyn." That deep rasp. Knockknockknock. "Evelyn?"

   She pulled the covers under her chin and stared at the ceiling. There was no hole to see the stars. The knocking soon ceased. A bout of laughter rose up from the rowdy crowd below.

   She didn't sleep no matter how many times she closed her eyes, willed the muscles to relax, told herself it would all be okay in the morning when everything looked better under a warm, bright light. She dreamed of drifting along open waters, calm and serene, until something snagged her leg with a powerful grip and began to pull her down, down, so far down, until the ray of the sun was smothered by that black water and she couldn’t breathe. 

   She leaned over the edge to the monster crawling out from under the bed. It nabbed at her ankles and snapped them. It had glowing eyes and an ugly sneer and stood by in the shadowed corner of her room, always awake, always watching, always waiting.

   The murmuring of voices and retreating footsteps eventually got her out of bed when the sun was well and high, the sunlight illuminating the empty space.

   She slowly opened the door, afraid of what could be on the other side. Charon was leaning against the railing just outside her door, his arms crossed and expression…exceptionally smoldering. 

   “The sheriff wishes to speak with you,” he rasped, bone-dry.

   He took in her disheveled appearance; she had slept in everything, from the suit to the boots to the blood. Unlike herself, he didn't betray a single thing from the day prior. Besides his armor having been left in the hot sands, he appeared as himself as ever- a withstanding fortress of pure spite and towering bones. He followed her and moved with that unnerving grace of absolute power, parting the crowds just by simply being there. They met the sheriff posted by the front gates, his eyes squinting against the harsh sun as they trudged up the hill. He didn't care to comment on her shit state.

   “Some of us took it upon ourselves to go back out early this morning and get your things,” Simms began, but he held up a hand before she could thank him for the selfless deed. “It wasn’t done as a favor. I was more interested in the men you brushed up against.” He reached inside his duster to pull out a familiar-looking missive. “Care to explain why Allistair Tenpenny wants you dead?”

   She gave him a look. “I don’t even know who that is.”

   Charon suddenly growled, “This is unnecessary.” 

   Both turned to stare at the unexpected outburst, but he didn’t elaborate. With a curt fold of her arms, she gave her attention back to the only source she could glean about her personal bounty. 

   “Who’s Allistair Tenpenny?” 

   Charon stalked between them and snapped, almost threateningly to Simms, “I advise you to leave.”

   Simms raised a dark eyebrow, outwardly unperturbed by the threat. 

   “Charon!” she gasped. 

   Simms tipped his hat up by his thumb. “I care about the safety of this town and all of its citizens, whether it be brahmin, human, or ghoul, and if you know what I’m asking about, then I suggest you don’t keep it to yourself. It’ll get you killed.” He eyed Charon's immediate defensive stance of clenched fists and a loathing glare. “Safe to say, it already did.” 

   The swing was halted mid-air just a few inches from her head; she had jumped in the middle just as he took the first step. The impact would’ve cracked her skull. She noticed the brush of Simms’ hand on his gun inside its holster. 

   “Charon!” She pointed to their house with a barked, “Go wait inside!”

   He stared down at her. No very well or as you wish or even a grumbled complaint, just a pivot on his heel as he stalked off. 

   When he was out of sight, she hugged herself and tiredly apologized, "Sorry, it's just-"

   “I’m going to be honest here,” Simms told her frankly, his usual fair nature sharpened to a biting edge, “I don’t know what the relationship that you two have is, but it’s done more harm than good. Look, I like you, kid. You’re alright, but that ghoul you have tagging along? I don’t trust him.”

   “Charon’s saved my life more times than I can count,” she bristled. “He’s not a bad person, he’s just…Charon.” 

   “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Simms shook his head and sighed. “Those Talon mercenaries are a bad deal, and I know firsthand they won’t stop until they’re dead, or paid.”

   She looked off to the side at the stream of water flowing from the eastern piping. (It would need to be patched, and soon). 

   She asked without meeting his eyes, “Who’s Allistair Tenpenny?”

   Simms shoved his hands in his duster, following her stare before diving into the details of Tenpenny's abhorrence for general wastelanders and his special bigotry for ghouls. He finished with, "Tenpenny Tower is his brainchild, so they say."

   She shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

   “Well he’s heard of you.” 

   She fiddled with her fraying braid and threw it over one shoulder, looking up into the shadow under his brim. “What does he want with me?”

   Simms clicked his tongue and began to walk off. “Maybe you should ask him that question.”

   (She'd rather fix the piping)

   The house was unnaturally quiet when she came inside. The mattress had been removed, the table and chair righted and straightened, and the blood scrubbed from the floor. He was sitting there, sharpening his blade, the long, slow strokes he made along the edge ominous in that tiny dwelling. 

   Shhk Shhk  

   He only raised his eyes to look at her, his hands continuing with their habitual duty. The door was closed at her back, and they were alone. 

   Shhk Shhk

   She awkwardly cleared her throat. “So, um…how are you feeling?”

   He pulled the blade to his face to observe the edge, his voice flat. “Do you require something?”

   She watched him run a thumb down, tilt the knife slightly, his eyes honed in on his practice. When the minutes began to pass and she remained quiet, he gave his full attention back to his work. 

   Shhk Shhk

   She looked down at her feet, unable to face those burning flames that licked away her psyche as though it was nothing more than golden stalks of dried grass. She finally said, her voice timid and thick, “Where’s Tenpenny Tower?”

   Every hair on the back of her neck stood up. She trembled, but finally glanced over for his reaction. He looked unreal, so stiff and narrowed in, an animatronic not yet brought to life. He clenched a fist, once, twice, shook his head and snorted and rubbed at his eyes. She thought him to be in pain before he began to speak, all the while smushing his eyeballs into his brain and flexing his free hand into an iron slugger. 

   “It is southwest of the RobCo Facility.” He clenched his jaw while looking off to the side and tersely sighed, his rasp heavy with underlying rage. “We will be shot on sight.”

   Her fingers wrapped around the doorknob digging into her spine. “You’re not coming.”

   He simply stared at her, then belted out an empty, brutish laugh. It whiplashed a seedy heat right between her thighs. 

   “You cannot be serious,” he rasped, shaking his head again.

   “I am.”

   With an abrupt rise from his seat, he slammed his knife into the table all the way down to the hilt.

   She licked her lips. “I’m bringing someone else.”

   The words seemed to break him; he unhinged, straightened, and then growled, “Who?”

   “I…haven’t asked him yet.”

   “You are replacing me.” He gave an accusatory glare. “Are my services not adequate for your needs?”

   She took a step forward and shouted, “I thought you were dead!” She pointed to the floor where he had just been, so very still and creeping on the edge of someplace else. “If Moira hadn’t come-!”

   The chair was slammed over, the sharp crack frightening her out of her wits. Charon wrapped a gloved palm around the handle of his knife and effortlessly ripped it free. He stormed over, pushing her back into the frame with just his raw anger alone. “Who is replacing me?”

   She didn’t answer- she was fixated on the knife in his hand, something inches from her throat. He could saw right through her spinal cord and perch her head on the wall, tell guests stories of his most obnoxious fucking employer to date. 

   “Who is he?” he demanded.

   She felt her lower lip quiver as she looked up into his face, wholly terrified.

   The ghoul immediately took back a step. He seemed to consider her for a moment seriously, and then said, “You know I cannot hurt you. You are my employer.”

   She whispered, “Even though you hate me?”

   He gave her a weird look. “I do not hate you.”

   She felt ready to burst into tears. “Everything’s been all my fault.”

   “Yes,” he flatly agreed. 

   She rubbed her fists into her eyes, sobbing, “I fuck everything up!”

   He nodded.

   “I hate the wasteland! I hate everything!” she bemoaned, sniffing loudly. “I don’t want to be here!”

   Charon stared down at her as she cried, then calmly rasped, “Where you go, I shall follow.”

   Her wet lashes fluttered as she blinked past them to see him clearly. The small knife he had given her was on the edge of the bookcase, the crusted blood that still coated the edge stiffening her shoulders and tightening her lips into a thin line.

   “We’re going to Moira’s.”

   There wasn’t a single excuse for him to make. The Talon mercenaries had been lying in wait, aware of her consistent routes. He should have known better, had clearer foresight, should have realized it was going to happen sooner rather than later. His clear sense of duty had been muddled. He had been thinking of what to say, something that wouldn’t upset her further while they were in a safe setting (in the predictable event she would argue).

   He had very much wanted her to ask for another bath. 

   These were not the thoughts he was meant to have. 

   He had been more than content to die there. He had fulfilled his duty, kept her safe. It was the inevitable outcome. He had not expected her to bring him back, to be so stupid as to risk herself for his own sake. Something in him had snapped at seeing her there, at recognizing the immense relief on her face for him. It squeezed something in his ribcage; an electric tingle down to his toes and up to his cheeks.

   He must be going feral. He should be replaced. She had every reason to do so. It shouldn’t matter who it was for…but it did. He would ask her again when she seemed to be in a lighter mood, but she only kept her cold shoulder as they stepped into Craterside Supply.

   The obnoxious smoothskin (who he begrudgingly admitted had saved his life) turned around and smeared an entire glob of grease across her forehead. Intentional? He did not know. (She seemed insane in the general aptitude of things). There was that big fucking smile he inwardly squinted against aimed directly at him.

   “Well look at you! Up and about already-?”

   “Moira, can we talk?” Evelyn leaned over the countertop. “Privately, please?” 

   He remained downstairs with the mercenary in the corner. They held a silent stare down while the women took to speaking in low tones just out of earshot above them. 

   “-you don’t go and get yourself in too much trouble now, okay?” Moira chirped as she suddenly came to stand before him. He subtly balked when she crossed her arms and sized him up. “So, do you feel any interesting side effects from my concoction? Oh! How about any abnormalities in regards to, um, changes in the downstairs plumbing?”

   The slight widening of his eyes was the only indication he was horrified. He immediately looked over to his employer who was speaking in turn with the mercenary that oversaw the store. 

   “I’ll meet you outside the front gates,” he heard Evelyn say. “Thanks again.”

   “Whatever, so long as I get paid,” the man grumbled in return.

   Moira was still jabbering away at his elbow. “There was this fascinating thing I had read about ghouls actually healing from immense amounts of radiation, and, well, just hearing what had happened I just had to-”

   He rudely brushed past her just as his employer made to leave. Before the door had even closed behind them, (and Moira had beamed can’t wait to talk soon!) he snarled, “No fucking way.”

   “She just needs someone to watch the store,” she dully dismissed him as they strode down the metal catwalks. “I’m sure it’s easier than being with me.”

   “I wish to be with you,” he rasped with genuine honesty. 

   She looked at him, a glimmer of something sparking behind her eyes, but then it just as quickly faded. “She’s a good person. If something happens, she’ll make sure you’ll be okay.”

   Charon stopped in his tracks just as they came to her door. “You discussed my contract.”

   “I had to.”

   He growled, “You should have let me die.”

   She turned, a look of absurd disbelief on her face, and then she laughed. A great, loud, crystal clear laugh from her belly. It pricked strange pins in him. 

   “You are so dramatic!” she guffawed. 

   She shook her head and went straight to her room. He followed, bracing a hand on the frame before she could close it. 

   “When will you return?” he rasped.

   She unzipped her suit and began to wiggle from her boots, nabbing at the oiled leathers to slip into. He didn’t see why she was suddenly wearing it instead. Her long hair was scooped back and coiled in a bun. 

   “I don’t know.”

   He didn’t like that answer.

   She lamely shrugged at his scowl. “It’s the best I got.”

   Her back was turned as she went to upend her bag on the bed, but she just stared at the sight of the darkened stains on the mattress. 

   “Maybe you’ll like Moira’s better,” she said quietly without turning around. 

   He already knew that to be false. His eyes followed her hands as she went about organizing her things, not once turning to address him again. 

   He shifted his weight. “I wish to take a bath.”

   The zipper to her backpack was pulled. “Go for it.”

   He scratched at his elbow, clarifying, “I do not wish to bathe.”

   They stared at each other. He blinked. Her face bloomed a bright, vibrant red.

   “Oh, um…” She bit her bottom lip. “I-I told him I wouldn’t be too long…”

   He automatically responded with, “It will be quick.” 

   They didn’t draw a bath. They didn’t even make it down the stairs. He bent her over her desk, scattering her things all over the floor and pounding her into the metal frame. He ruined her hair as he pulled at it, snugged an arm around the curve of her breasts and held her tight, growling in her ear while she dove a hand down to touch herself. He placed his palm over her own, cupping her and forcing their fingers to move in tandem through the slick. She tensed, her eyes screwed shut and mouth open. He had the sudden thought of placing his slippery fingers inside, and so he did, rolling the taste of herself around her tongue. 

   He was unfortunately right. It was quick. 

   Moira’s mercenary was awaiting her as previously agreed upon, smoking a cigarette and casually standing by Deputy Weld. 

   He flicked the spent butt to the dirt and turned to greet them. “Hey.”

   Charon stormed up and nabbed him by the collar. “Bring. Her. Back,” he snarled in his face, dropping him without an apology or care. 

   The mercenary stumbled, coughing and attempting to regain his footing. 

   “I’m so sorry!” Evelyn apologized whilst grabbing Charon’s hand to pull him into a corner by the gate. She gave him an imploring look. “Please be nice to Moira.”

   His fingers twitched against her own, the very ones he had just been having his way with. He groused through clenched teeth, “I shall…try.” 

   It seemed to be a satisfactory answer, for she nodded and eventually let him go, moving on in step with the mercenary that glared daggers at him as they set off. 

   Charon waited until they were no longer in sight…and then he steeled his nerves to walk up to-

   “She finally told you to get lost, huh?” 

   A sneering voice made him turn his head slightly. The filthy scum zipping up his pants after a quick leak on the side of the building gave him a respectable distance, but it didn’t seem to apply to his mouth. 

   “Man, you are so fucking ugly.” Jericho hacked and spat at his feet. “Too bad you survived that…not doing anyone any favors.” 

   Charon snorted, then feinted. Jericho flinched from the false move and tripped over himself, plopping down on his ass before slinging curses and slurs as he hurried away. The ghoul shook his head and continued to the general store. His hand hadn’t even touched the knob before it swung open with a rush of air.

   “O-kay!” Moira exclaimed, dressed in a faded yellow biohazard suit. “Let’s get started!”

[kidotm]

Ghouls, (Explosive) Spice, and Everything Nice

 “So…um…” Evelyn blanked at the mercenary. 

   He stared at her, rolling a cigarette around his lips, waiting on her to continue when she just sat there, stupid. She suddenly realized she didn’t even know this guy’s fucking name. 

   “Uh-”

   No, that couldn’t be right. She’d had to have heard it at least once before. She’d been living in Megaton for months now, was a regular patron of the store, occasionally met his eyes in a nonverbal greeting. Perhaps in passing? A casual introduction? Maybe he had a fucking name tag she somehow missed? He was still waiting; this Nameless Man. She could just ask him. That wouldn’t be too rude, would it? Wastelanders didn’t seem to hold the same standard when it came to proper etiquette. He wouldn’t be offended-

   “So,” he drawled out, shaking the frying pan over the small fire he had built. “Evelyn, right?”

   Fuck.

   She scratched at her scalp and pointed to the sizzling contents. “What’re you making?” 

   He shifted his feet through the dirt. “Brahmin belly scramble with roasted Instamash.” 

   Damn, that sounded good. 

   He eyed her practically drooling and reached for two metal bowls from his pack, slopping down a steaming portion for her to take. “I hope you’re hungry.” 

   It was good. Maybe Charon would prefer Moira’s after all…

   The Man with No Name watched her inhale her plate and remarked in between slow chews, “That ghoul, Charon, how’d you come by him?”

   Buy, would’ve been the more appropriate term, but she didn’t care to share that information over supper. 

   She instead leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the starry sky. “It’s a long story.”

   “Well, alright.” He lipped his smoke in one corner of his mouth and spat a disgusting stream of dark spit on the sand. “I got first watch. I’ll wake you when I need to.”

   She curled her spine to the fire and stared at the multitude of holes in heaven’s floor. Every toss and turn from fitful sleep would be met with sore disappointment at the lack of a seven-foot total dickhead. Mystery Merc was just as much an insomniac, however, for they only swapped sleeping arrangements a few hours before the sun came to start the day.

   He fished her nose out of her Pip-Boy screen with a casual nudge in her side, pointing to the looming building in the distance with his rifle. 

   “No need for directions,” he said. 

   She shielded the sun from her eyes with one hand, instantly recognizing the structure from her earlier RobCo adventure. Not safe, is what Charon had told her. 

   Oh. 

   “So, you got a plan in all of this…?” he inquired as they encroached upon impending death. 

   She unlatched the strap of her Pip-Boy, the pearly white skin of her wrist telling of its near-permanent use. She tucked it within the dwelling of her things. “Sort of.”

   He chuckled, but it was lacking in humor. “Can’t say I’m not used to it.”

   A ghoul wasn’t the first thing she had expected to see as they approached the tower’s entrance.

   “You know the answer is no. Get lost, zombie.”

   “Heh.” The ghoul at the intercom smirked. “Cute, real fucking cute.”

   He flipped a giant bird and spun on his heel. “Hell are you looking at?” he spat at them as they passed. 

   Evelyn looked over her shoulder to watch him make a beeline for a trainyard in the visible distance. Due to Tenpenny’s less-than-friendly reputation with ghouls, she was more than surprised he had been allowed to come within a few feet of the place. “He seemed…nice.”

   Unsung Hired Gun at her back grunted. “He’s wasting his time.”

   She stepped up to the plate, mindful of how sweaty and clammy her hands had just become. She pressed the button on the intercom.

   “For the last fucking time, if I gotta come out there and shove my boot where the sun doesn’t shine-”

   “Um, I think you have the wrong person,” she said weakly.

   “Oh,” the voice spoke, and then he cleared his throat. “Er-erhm. You are seen to be trespassing on the private property of Allistair-“

   She leaned her mouth close. “I’m here to see Tenpenny.” 

   Cryptic Freelancer was shaking his head behind her shoulder and sighed, “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

   “Oh? And do you have an appointment, or just enough bullshit to shove off with?” 

   “That’s quite rude!” Evelyn gasped, the severe lack of manners clouding the entire reason for her visit. 

   “What’s the name he’s expecting, then?”

   She thought hard, lying with, “Susan?”

   “Nice try, kid, now get the hell off of Mister Tenpenny’s private property.”

   It clicked off.

   “Shit,” she muttered, pressing the button once more. “Hello?”

   Nothing but static. 

   “Damnit.” She crossed her arms and turned around, lamely shrugging her shoulders. “…got any ideas?” 

   “Yeah, Megaton.”

   Ouch. 

   She tapped her shoe and looked off to where the ghoul had departed. “I might have another.”

   “Did you know the properties of deathclaw excrement can be used as a base for skin cream? Although, it would be a little smelly…”

   Twice he found his hand subconsciously reaching for his gun. 

   “Charon! Take a look at this! Animating the complete nervous system of a molerat with fission batteries! Pretty neat stuff, huh?”

   Twice he actually did.

   “You would think after the fifth time of rigging a baseball into a homemade grenade it would’ve gone off by now…”

   He mentally chastised himself when the most exquisite thought of smashing her head into the counter like an exploding melon curled his fingers and tightened his jaw- he had told Evelyn he would…try.

   “Oh!” Moira bounded up to him, a clipboard in one hand and a scalpel in the other. “How about some samples?”

   He tilted his head forward and snarled, “No.” 

   Moira’s requests in having him strip to poke and prod certain areas was out of the question. The nudity didn’t bother him, but the medical tools in her hand aimed at certain places…very much did. 

   He was simply here to replace the mercenary who was now overseeing the absolute safety and mortal well-being of his employer. (The man he would gut alive if she came back with so much as a fingertip missing).

   “Aw, okay,” she pouted, clearly upset over his noncommittal to genital mutilation. “No biggie. I do happen to need some assistance with some glowing cave fungus! Perhaps you could-”

   Charon leaned down a little further, his breath wafting the stray flyaway hairs around her head. He rasped with a low pitch, “I’m nobody’s errand boy.”

   An employer was one thing. A crackpot smoothskin, was not. 

   He straightened and rolled his shoulders, his head turned to the door for any unwanted guests. “Talk to Evelyn.”

   She let him be after that…a wise decision for her sake just as much as his. He remained at the safety of his post, observing from the corner of his eye how Moira fiddled with fucking nuclear warheads and disemboweled all rational sense from her own brain when playing with radscorpion glands like kittens with yarn. An overpressurized gas canister exploded and launched like a missile right at his head. He barely moved a fraction of an inch before it went sailing through the wall. 

   “Oops!” she had giggled. Giggled. “Now I know what reading to stop at!”

   She must be trying to kill him. He watched her patch up her shop, not so much as offering a single finger to help.

   “Here!” she cheerily said after divebombing in his personal airspace once again. He peered down at the glass jar held in her hands, the golden, molasses-thick substance…unknown. She urged, “Go ahead, it won’t bite!”

   With obvious reluctance, he held it up to see in better lighting. He squinted. “What have you given me?”

   Moira grinned. “Just a little thank you present for all you two have done for me so far! Now! I don’t recommend opening it here- it’s pretty strong- but when she comes back and you two are all cozy at home, go for it!” 

   He did nothing but nod, wholly ignorant of the implications. He would present it to Evelyn to decide what to be done with it. 

   A few customers had then come by to purchase odds and ends, all uneasy with his sudden presence looming in the corner. One, however, almost seemed to seek him out.

   Gobtholemew. 

   “Uh…” Gob garbled after sidling up beside him, attempting to appear discreet as he browsed wares on the shelving without actually giving it serious consideration. “I thought a lot about what you said, to me, that night…”

   Charon remained quiet, his eyes on the door. He gave his best impression of being uninterested in the side chatter, but Gob just kept jabbering as though he were all ears.

   “-and so I thought, it couldn’t hurt a guy’s chances like mine, so, screw it. The business has been good lately, and Nova’s always going on and on about it, so I figured, why the hell not.” He scratched at the underside of his chin. “Have you ever done something like that, for Evelyn, I mean?”

   Charon turned to finally look at him. He noticed a blue dress in his mottled hands, nervously being shifted under the pads of his fingers. 

   “What is it you are asking of me?” Charon rasped.

   Gob held up the dress. “You’ve never given Evelyn something, like a present? I used to read about it all the time, see it on the old holovids.” He gave a tender look at the sun-bleached fabric as though it were the most beautiful thing he had ever been blessed to hold. “Their eyes always seem to light up, you know? I want to see that.”

   Charon didn’t understand the sentiment. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her ‘light up’. He regarded the dress and said, “I have given her a knife.”

   “Oh? What did she think?”

   He thought. Hard. The first one she had dismissed. The second one…had not been seen fit to accompany her. It had been left behind, much like himself.

   Charon shifted, his arms across his chest and mood sour. “She did not like it.”

   “I’m going to be honest, but I’m not surprised.” Gob flinched at the scathing glare that raked hot coals across his skin. “I’m just saying, from what I remember, women like nice things- dresses, jewelry, flowers, you remember those?” He sighed, his eyes distant and mouth curved in a small smile. “What I would do to find Nova some real flowers, the ones that you could put your nose to and smell.” 

   Charon watched him make his way to the counter, wistful and dreaming of things far beyond his reach, and then leave. He hadn’t moved an inch from his spot, whereas his mind had already begun to wander. 

   Craterside Supply eventually came to wind down for the evening, as Moira swept and Charon prepared a spring-loaded shotgun trap a foot from the front door. She gave him a curious look. 

   “Wow, you’re pretty handy with all that sort of stuff, huh?” 

   He tested the length of the wire leading to the knob and rigged it. “I advise you do not leave until I return,” he rasped, and then shut the frame before she could reply.

   The house felt empty. 

   He stood at the bottom of the landing, looked up the narrow stairs, almost expected her to come stomping out of her room like a herd of frightened radstags. He went to climb up when he spied her knife sitting there on the edge of the bookcase. Her door slowly creaked open. The vault suit had been left on the floor, overdue for deep cleaning and his patient stitching. The leathers would prove a much better choice, but it felt…off, like a second skin she was not meant to wear. A peek of something brilliantly red was pulled out from the confines of the trunk nestled in the corner.

   He held up a thin, silk piece of skimpy clothing. It was brought to his chest. He did not know when she had acquired such a garment. He put it back inside. 

   Evelyn liked nice things. 

   He got to work on repairing and general maintenance of his gear, and when he finished, the hour would have been late, and an idea would click inside of his brain like the string to a lightbulb as he prepared her vault suit for a wash. 

   The trap he had left was no sooner disarmed than his hand was on Moira’s shoulder to throttle her awake.

   “What, what’s happened?!” she gasped, disoriented as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Are the mirelurks speaking in code again?!”

   “I require hair,” Charon demanded. 

   She sat up and rapidly blinked at him. “…hair?”

   “Yes,” he said. “It is for…an experiment.”

   Moira clapped her hands together, the drowsiness vaporized. “Well o-kay!”

   Moira’s Anonymous Auditor was well-versed in the ways of disposing of ferals- in that he chucked grenades down the service line until the sounds of growling and screams finally died away.

   “Here.” He tossed one in the air for her to take. “You try.” 

   She stuck her tongue out the side and peered around the corner they had come to. He leaned over to thumb the pin, his arm brushing her breasts. She hoped he didn’t notice the creeping blush along her neck. 

   “Pull, toss, and duck.” 

   “Pull, toss, and duck,” she repeated, and then she did just that. 

   A few ferals exploded into smithereens, and she felt a wide smile crack on her face. He gave her a pat on the shoulder and a nudge to continue. 

   “Not bad, girl. Let’s keep moving.” 

   A shaky ghoul in a fortified portion of the metro came to halt their progression. 

   “We’re looking for a way into Tenpenny Tower,” Evelyn offered. “Maybe we can help each other out?”

   “Hmm.” The ghoul gave her a once-over. “What’s your name, kid?”

   “Evelyn.” She held out a hand, but it wasn’t taken. She awkwardly brought it back to her side. 

   He looked to her partner. “And you?”

   Finally!

   “I’m not looking to make friends,” was all he said.

   Goddamnit.

   Nevertheless, they were allowed an audience with Roy Phillips and the Ghoulie Gang, listened to their blood-thirsty plans to unleash literal Hell on the unsuspecting ‘bigots’ that lived under Tenpenny’s roof. 

   She saw the Talon merc in the courtyard, heard his whimpering pleas in her ear. It made her want to puke. 

   “That’s…not what I’m here for,” she said rather uneasily. 

   “If you’re not going to help us, then you’re no better than the rest of them,” Roy snappishly dismissed her. “What, you got a thing against ghouls too, is that it?”

   His patronizing tone made her seethe. “I’m just trying to help! But fine! Forget it!” 

   “Oh Roy,” the ghoul woman by the name of Bessie had rasped, gently placing a hand on his arm. “Let’s hear the smoothskin out.”

   He grumbled, not shaking his ‘tough guy’ persona. “If she were worth any weight, she’d get us through that access door, no questions asked.” The critical look in his eye was pelted like a stone at her face. “Admit it, you ain’t no different from the rest of them. You just see us as monsters, and so that's what we’ll be- monsters.”

   “Oh please,” Evelyn chortled with a snort. “I’ve fucked a ghoul much scarier than you.”

   She crossed her arms, satisfied at finally having the room keyed in on her words, but then the realization of what she had actually just fucking said slammed into her like a bag of bricks. “Oh my God!” she sputtered, waving her hands around and feeling the heat on her face rise to a temperature suitable to crack eggs on. “I-I mean, well, uh-”

   Bessie choked on her next inhale, but Roy seemed indubitably impressed. (He even checked her out). 

   “Well, well, smoothskin,” he garbled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, but seeing as you know your place in this world, maybe I’ll give you a chance.” He leered over to the mercenary standing casually at her back. “You got something to say about all this?”

   Needs-A-Fucking-Name just nonchalantly shrugged, flicking the ash from his cigarette to his feet. “I’m just here to get paid.” He raised an eyebrow at the mortification on Evelyn’s face. “I already knew.”

   She stammered, “You-you did?!”

   “The whole town knows it.”

   “They DO?!”

   “I like you,” Roy rasped, turning his eyes back on her (chest). “The both of you.” He motioned for her to follow. “Talk to me. The revolution doesn’t have the time, or patience, so you better have something good.”

   The bag had blackened and dripped and smelled of death itself by the time the sun had risen. He ignored the putrid stench that was rank enough to bring a lesser man to his knees, instead welcoming it to work in his favor by the time he could see the tower itself. He paused in his long journey, retrieved the multitude of blanket strips and then proceeded to wrap himself until he was unrecognizable. The gas mask he had borrowed from Moira’s shop had been a preferable alternative to the head wrap, in that he could at least see clearly whilst still being under complete disguise.

   He smashed the intercom button with the pad of his thumb, and waited.

   “You are trespassing on the private property of-”

   Charon pressed the button again, and again, and again. 

   The voice snapped in between the multitude of clicks. “Jus-at-e-hell-i-you-oblem?!” 

   Charon didn’t lessen his barrage of button smashing. 

   “You-ave-anoth-thi-coming!”

   The gate opened, and Charon stepped before a firing squad of three armed security guards.

   “Okay, state your business or you’re-!”

   A piece of crinkled paper was thrust at them. All three stared at it, and Charon took a step forward.

   The one speaking over the intercom held a hand up. “Now wait right there! Roger!” He looked over to his fellow gun. “Grab it!”

   The voluntold guard uneasily shuffled forward, swiping at the parchment when he came within reach. He gagged as the wafting air from the duffel bag hit his nose with all the pleasantry of a behemoth taking a shit. 

   “Now don’t move!” the first one instructed. They all crowded over the piece of paper, and he slowly read aloud, “Molerats…fire…have bounty…Grog?”

   Charon nodded.

   He looked over in disbelief. “Are you saying you have Mister Tenpenny’s bounty on that Vault girl? You?”

   Charon unzipped the bag. Evelyn’s filthy, blood-soaked suit was gently brought out in his palm for them to see. The backside of a Talon merc’s head (that he had collected) was covered with a mussy brunette wig, the hint of bloated flesh making their stomachs turn. 

   “Yeah yeah, okay.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Just, put that thing away, will you?”

   Charon zipped it closed.

   “Come on then, Mister Tenpenny doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

   Charon’s plan had worked for one of two reasons: either Evelyn had made it inside under a different guise, (she seemed to be good at that), or she hadn’t made it at all. He had pushed himself through the night to arrive no later than they would have, so the latter thought made him uneasy. 

   They should be here. 

   He strode on through. A few of the residents wandering the courtyard were left gawking (in a whispered fashion) as this dangerous newcomer was allowed entrance from the wild wastes. He ignored their stares as he was escorted inside. The building itself was impressive, and he had no doubt for himself to be the first ghoul ever actually allowed admittance, adding a tally to his rap sheet of No Ghoul Zone. Perhaps his employer’s techniques were not so stupid after all.

   “Right this way.” The guard at his side directed him to the main elevators. He pressed a button, and they waited for the lift to make its way down. The guard had his nose crinkled for the entirety of the time. “How can you stand that smell?”

   Charon turned his head, the dark lenses of the gas mask boring holes into him. The doors opened, and he stepped in alone. 

   “There will be someone to see you to Mister Tenpenny,” the guard said, pressing the button once more. 

   The doors closed and the lift began to rise. Charon cracked his neck side to side, scratched at the inflamed itch on his ass. A ding announced his arrival on the penthouse floor, and he came to completely engulf the guard at Tenpenny’s door with his shadow. He gave him the letter before he could begin to question the legitimacy of his presence. 

   “Hmm. Well, if you got this far, then I’m assuming you’re clear.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be standing right here once Mister Tenpenny decides your stay is over welcomed.”

   Charon was allowed inside a small foyer with multiple doors leading to different rooms and a presentation of flourishing flowers as the centerpiece. He stared at them. They were real.

   “You’ll find Mister Tenpenny just through there.”

   Charon looked over to the door on his immediate right. He waited for the guard to slip back to his post and close the entrance behind him, and then he made his way through. It opened to a balcony, the vast expanse of the wasteland welcoming him with open arms for miles around. Megaton was visible in the distance. 

   Evelyn was not here.

   (That made him nervous)

   A few chuckles and the clinking of glass made him step forward, his heavy boots creaking with every step as he let his presence be known to the two men dressed in (finer) suits sitting around sipping scotch and playing chess. 

   “Now, now, Mister Burke, you best not be going easy on me, lest you insult my intelligence.” A strange accent, one that could spit snake oil from between his false teeth. Allistair Tenpenny. 

   “I dare not.” The other spoke with a rather…interesting hum to his voice. “You are merely somehow always a step ahead.”

   “Yes, you might be quite right.” Allistair finally turned in his velvet chair to address his company. “Now, what is this? Just who-”

   The note was thrust forward. The Mister Burke took it.

   “I would expect you to apologize for interrupting Mister Tenpenny in such a deplorable fashion, but I can’t say you knuckle draggers have much of a brain to comprehend with,” Burke sneered, but then he read the lettering and gave him a new look. “You’ve brought the girl? The one from the Vault?”

   Charon pointed to the paper in his hands, rumbling, “You are the one who placed the bounty?”

   Burke seemed taken aback by his raspy voice. “Indeed, I am.”

   Perhaps…who’s inquiring?

   Ahzrukhal hadn’t been an employer to turn down any sort of business opportunity, going so far as to skin his own kind to sew the clothes put on his back. His present employer had been lucky his contract had been deemed of more value than the price on her head…otherwise, he would still be in that bar, tossing drunks and ferrying chems. Years in Ahzrukhal’s employ had made him softer than he was forged to be; brittle, vulnerable, a thin fissure liable to break. 

   He realized he had been lucky not to die that day. He could not afford to make that mistake again. It was not in his contract to make mistakes.

   Charon removed his mask and looked down on the men who both recoiled in disgust and fear. He cracked his knuckles by flexing them into a fist. 

   “That is good to know.”

   They were at the gates once more, and she clicked the button. 

   “You are trespassing on-”

   “I’m here about your ‘ghoul’ problem,” Evelyn said. “I’ve got some insider details I believe Mister Tenpenny would be most interested to hear.”

   She glanced at her hired John Doe. He gave a not bad nod of his head. 

   “You again? If you’re going to waste Mister Tenpenny’s time, I’ll happily be the one to put a bullet in you.”

   The gate opened, and the chief of security met them before they could step foot inside. “Give me your name before I even consider letting you through.”

   “I already said it was Susan,” Evelyn reminded him snippily. 

   He looked to her partner. “And yours?”

   Ah-ha, he can’t escape a second time!

   “Yeah, it’s, mind your fucking business,” he growled.

   Are you serious?!

   “What information do you have? I’ll relay it through and see if-”

   “This information didn’t come cheap, and I doubt you’d be the one to get it yourself,” she said with commanding authority. (Charon would be proud). Her hands went to her hips. “I’m willing to help out with your little problem, and maybe do something about that bounty he has posted-”

   “The bounty’s been taken care of,” the security chief said smugly. “So you’re too late on that one.”

   …what?

   A distant scream, growing louder by the millisecond, turned everyone’s head upwards.

   SPLAT!

   A woman, just standing there in her Sunday finest, held up her blood-splattered arms and looked down at her newly baptized dress, the color horrifically dyed from green to red. She erupted into a wild shriek, and then everyone began to move. 

   The security guard ran up to the body that was more inside out than right side up. Evelyn felt her stomach attempt to mimic the nasty sight.

   “Jesus Christ, it’s Mister Burke!”

   A hand wrapped around her elbow, pulling her along back through the gate just as her eyes flew upward to catch sight of a hulking figure leaving the scene of the crime, that permanent dislike-for-everything scowl unmistakable.

   CHARON?!

   She bolted like a wild horse through the chaos, stampeding past residents and security detail alike with rough shoves and breathless apologies. “Move, move-sorry-passing, I need to get by!”

   The main lobby was overlooked, the absolute splendor of the interior blind to her eyes as she scanned for any possible way to reach him. There! An elevator just on the other side!

   …that about five or six goonies were all struggling to cram into. 

   Helpless, she could only stand by and watch as the doors eventually sardined its next meal and took them to the tippy top…and then it just as suddenly came back down, and opened with a crystal bell of a ding!

   Charon stepped out with his shotgun in one hand and the straps to a duffel bag (her newly grotesque-looking duffel bag!) in the other. There was panicked screaming all around, flashes of asses and elbows as the community dissolved into everyone for themselves!

   “My heavens, how did a ghoul get in here?!”

   “Quick, somebody shoot it!”

   “Hurry! It’s going to eat us!”  

   Charon met her gaze from across the room, and they came to meet in the middle.

   “Charon!” she gasped, ignoring the fleeing mice pattering around them. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

   He holstered his weapon, reaching to unzip the duffel bag instead. “I have absolved your bounty.”

   “You what?!”

   A bloom of iridescent reds, yellows, purples, and blues was shoved into her face, the sweet smell of fragrance colliding with a taint of rot. Charon was holding a bouquet of…flowers. 

   The screaming became quiet. The blur of movement faded to black. For a moment, she could only stare at the gift he was holding out for her to take, feeling every bit as shy as when Paul Hannon Jr. had (forced by his father) asked her out to the Vault’s Annual Workforce Appreciation dance.

   For you.

   The stems, freshly cut by the end of a sharp blade, greened her fingers, the grassy scent entirely foreign but very much welcomed in the more primal part of her brain. (Which, speaking of brain, she couldn’t help but notice a fleck of it was clinging to the petals).

   Charon gently turned her around to push her past the wide-open screams and hellish panicked shuffling, the bouquet clutched close to her breast, and the biggest smile she had ever fucking made on her lips. 

A (Ten)penny for Your Thoughts?

   What’s this one about? You haven’t been writing for months. 

   She’s twirling the fake stem in her hands. The waxy exterior has long since hardened, the once snow-white petals yellow with dust. 

   Love. She wants to say. Of a hopeless romantic. Of me. But she won’t say that. 

   The journal snaps shut, the chest of sparkling diamonds and glittering gold hidden away from prying eyes before they can steal a peek. Christine Kendall is a thief. She had stolen a glance, mockingly serenaded the rest of the class with her private words. They had laughed. Who writes poetry? Surely Evelyn, the weird girl. She had thrown the whole thing away. They were right. It is stupid…but her heart can’t help and think otherwise.

   Amata waves the bouquet around. They’re hiding in the farthest corner of the Vault, in the room that would occasionally host a wedding or funeral. She had picked the lock to the trunk and snooped around inside. A bunch of fake flowers and the Holy Bible. 

   Here.  

   Amata grins and holds out the faux arrangement. Puts on a thick, posh accent.  

   For you, my love, oui oui.

   She takes them and lightly smacks her on the head. Oh oui oui, Mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup. 

   Amata wrestles them back. Tug-o-war ensues. Amata ends up with a handful of petals while she has the stem.

   Oops. Not like it was used anyways. No one will notice.  

   Amata tosses them in the air, smiles as they rain down, sticking to her hair like snowflakes.

   The stem is all she’s left with. She looks down at it. Not a single flower remains.

   It’s one day before her father leaves her behind, and her world changes forever.

   It had been one hour since they had hightailed it from Tenpenny Tower, and her world has been changed forever. 

   The trader outpost they had holed up in, Lucky’s, had a single occupant that more than welcomed their caps. He eyed the trio from his corner in the grocery store, claiming to be unperturbed by the seven-foot-tall ghoul as he was regularly kept in business by Roy and the Ghoulie Boys.

   Her pen hadn’t stopped; an ink stain formed on the side of her palm. Those fortune-teller lines were erased under a smudge of black, rewritten by the words melted from her lips like a swirl of hot honey licked off a spoon. They’re delicious, savored, warm in her belly, stirred in a cup of milk flavored with cinnamon and cardamom.

   Charon had leaned over to squint at the frantic scribbling. “What are you doing?”

   She leaned away. “Um, nothing,” she had lied. 

   He had grunted and left it alone.

   The flowers had been pressed between the pages of her journal like a sacred tomb, placed forever to eternal rest that she could visit and pay respects to, look upon those colors that somehow the world forgot to bleed dry, smell that syrupy scent of a nostalgia that she didn’t have but felt parched to remember.

   Charon had watched as she had tightly pressed the binding together between her palms.

   “Do you like them?” he asked.

   She looked at him with a smile. “I do. Thanks, big guy.”

   He didn’t seem very happy with the response, or maybe she imagined it. This man carved his own emotions like slivers shaved from the edge of his knife, only feeding her when he thought her hungry (when she was in fact starving). He seemed to be waiting for something, but he didn’t ask for what.

   A kiss, maybe?

   It wouldn’t be their first, but it somehow made her feel shy and strangely intimate. A tilt on her toes, a lean forward, a close of her eyes and a slight parting to her lips…

   A few seconds passed, and she cracked an eyelid. He didn’t seem to wish in reciprocating with that fat fucking frown on his mouth. Almost immediately she awkwardly coughed to clear her throat and turned to the side. Well!

   She pouted, simmering in her rejection. “Does Moira even know you left?”

   Charon growled, “She is not my employer.” She rolled her eyes, and he continued with, “I was nice.”

   “Can’t help but wonder what that means,” she muttered. 

   “Somehow knew you’d come around,” the Squeaky Third Wheel casually remarked as he came to the side of the cashier’s counter to distribute gifts of food, either not noticing or blatantly ignorant of the thick haze of awkwardness in the air. 

   Evelyn took her plate that he held over and gave a closed-mouth smile. Despite it smelling absolutely aromatic and divine, she suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. “Thanks,” she began, but Charon took both her serving and the rest of her words.

   He thrust it back. “We will be quick.”

   Holy fuck.

   A delicious spread of heat blushed between her thighs as he pressed a hand to her lower back and guided her to the best thing granting any form of privacy- the bathroom. She was already racing to unstrap her leathers and toss them aside when her fingers slowed…and the buckle remained in place…and he just stood there…clothed.

   Were they not-?!  

   “Oh,” she said dumbly and quietly, going about redressing herself. 

   He waited until she had finished before questioning, “Did you wish for more?”

   She was dumbfounded.

   He enlightened with a tilt of his head, “Flowers.”

   “Um…no?” 

   “I see.” He then turned around and opened the door. 

   They ate in stifled silence while the trader and mercenary bartered her owed caps. With a yawn, she fished out her lifeline to secure it back to her wrist and felt her eyes burn in their sockets as she forgot to dim the backlighting in the gloomy atmosphere. The tippity tap’s and pit pit pat’s of her fingers dancing across the screen drew visible interest from the scavenger running the outfit. 

   “A Pip-Boy, huh? Wow. Ain’t seen one of those in a while,” he said. “Ran into a guy that had one just like it.”

   Her head smacked up. “Really?”

   “What was his name?” He rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. “Jim-?”

   “James?”

   He snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” He then gave her a look. “You wouldn’t happen to be another Vault dweller, would you?”

   Charon was carefully watching her from the corner of his eyes, and so she shrugged her shoulders and hid another yawn behind her hand. 

   He is not worth it.

   She didn’t answer the question. 

   …was I?

   They came to part ways with Potential House Husband as he made to return to Megaton and she began to dive deep into the underground back to ‘The Revolution’. Charon halted her by the elbow just after they had stepped through the chain link gate.

   “Would you have wanted something else?” he rasped out of the blue. 

   Her brows furrowed. She was so confused. 

   “Uh…what do you mean?” 

   His teeth grated together, apparently becoming agitated and upset. He asked, his voice snappy, “Did you wish for something else?” 

   She looked down at her feet, and then at his pissed-off expression. “What’s this about? Are you okay?” Her lip jutted out as she put more brainpower into it. “I didn’t order you or something, did I?”

   He released a cantankerous sigh and waved them on. “Let us continue.”

   Sweet Bessie Lynn’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull at the sight of the newcomer walking in their midst. She shyly ducked from their path, inclining her head with a warbled, “Oh…hello.”

   Evelyn reached for his hand and guided him the rest of the way.

   Roy Phillips gave an impressive whistle at the sight of him. “Now, you, my friend, are just what this revolution needs.” He then went straight to business and gave his attention back around to her. “So? Did it work?”

   Evelyn went on to explain the demise of a certain Tenpenny resident, and rather than be upset with the complications, he gave Charon a newfound look of appreciation and respect. 

   “See? Just what we need. You should be with us,” Roy rasped before crossing his arms. “It’s already begun then, smoothskin, with Tenpenny dead-”

   “He is not dead,” Charon interrupted. 

   Roy snapped at him with a glare, “You let that bastard live?!” 

   “He was not my concern,” was all he clarified, and then his lips remained shut, disinterested in the rest of the conversation. 

   “I mean, maybe there’s still a way that-” she started, but Roy brushed her off with a snarl before she could elaborate. 

   “I knew it. You’re worthless for our cause. We’re going to do it our way, so run along, smoothskin, before you're caught in the crosshairs-” 

   He didn’t have much to finish with after Charon snatched him up by the collar and went to slug a home run with his skull in a locker.

   “Stop it stop it!” she cried out, holding up her hands as the ghouls around them balked at the unexpected violence. 

   Charon instantly dropped him, his face more than displeased. “He threatened you.”

   “He’s just an asshole!”

   Roy righted his askew jacket, mellowed at having been knocked down a few pegs on the ‘tough guy’ scale. “You think just because you’re getting smoothskin pussy you’re suddenly better than the rest of us?”

   Evelyn squeaked, “Hey!”  

   He rounded a finger in Charon’s face. “You’re not. We’re the same, we’re both just freaks to them.” He gave Evelyn a hard stare. “...remember that.” He waved them off with a turn of his back and a stomp down some stairs to the lower access levels. “Get out. I got no beef with you smoothskin, but you’re no good here.”

   “I can’t imagine anyone is,” she said condescendingly in return, spinning on her heel to storm back up to the surface. She yelled over her shoulder as they ascended the escalator to exit the metro station, “I was handling everything just fine!” 

   Charon grumbled at her back, “It is done.”

   She spun around at the top step and poked him in the chest. “You’re not even supposed to be here! I didn’t ask you to come out and put yourself in danger for me!”

   He cracked a hand into a fist. “That is my duty to you. You know this.”

   “I know I had asked you to just hang around Moira’s shop until I got back! How hard is that?!”

   He came up another step, towering over her. “I did not mean to fail you. I ensure it will not happen again.”

   She meanly chortled, “You failed at hanging around?!”

   He looked at her simply. “When you had ordered me not to die.”

   The statement knocked the breath from her lungs. She met his eyes, that unwavering flame she had relit with the carried torch of desperation. She had imagined the weight of her soul into it, foolishly thought it was pure will and steadfast stubbornness that made her ferryman step off the bow of his boat to shore for her. There was the contract. It would always be the contract. Her face and name were nothing more than a title of ownership to this ghoul who followed her heels and bestowed her flowers and should be charged with crimes against humanity for culinary terrorism. 

   The reminder stung like a slap in the face, and she turned away to keep moving. “I don’t want to argue about it anymore…let’s just go.”

   She stared at the rise of Tenpenny Tower from a safe distance and didn’t speak until he broke the mutual silence first. 

   “I advise we begin moving before nightfall.”

   She sheepishly kicked at a rock with her toe. “It feels wrong not to warn them,” she admitted.

   He looked back over to the tower. “It is not your concern.”

   She didn’t argue (as she normally would have) and instead carried off toward it. She nearly barged into him by how quickly he intercepted her path.

   He growled, “Why are you like this?”

   A curt shrug of her shoulders. “Maybe because I wish someone would have done the same for me.”

   He narrowed his eyes, but eventually came to sidestep out of her way. They came closer to the gates, which were, for once, wide open. 

   A guard positioned out front waved to them and shouted, “Hey, you! Mister Tenpenny wants a word!” 

   Evelyn openly looked around. “Me?”

   “Not you,” he scoffed. He then pointed to the big guy. “You.”  

   They shared a glance. She nodded. 

   “Very well.” Charon holstered his gun and placed a firm hand on her lower back to push her forward. 

   The guard raised a hand. (Stop! You’ve violated the law!) “Whoa now, I only said-”

   Charon came close and bent down enough to be face to face. “Move.”  

   The giant blood spatter wasn’t even fully dried (nor the tiny bits of flesh scraped and removed) as they crossed the courtyard, ignoring the sidelines of frantic chatter while they were seen to the elevator. 

   The head of security stepped inside with them. “I’m here to ensure the safety of Mister Tenpenny and his residents.” 

   The absolute disgust at being in their presence was rolled out on a red carpet as they began the ride up and into Tenpenny’s suite. Evelyn made a mouthing of ooh at the multitude of flowers as they were led through the doors to the balcony. So this is where Charon cultivated her floral arrangement after casually committing a horrific act of murder.

   “Don’t waste his time,” the head of security growled. “Or mine.” 

   The doors were closed, and Evelyn marveled at the sight of an endless wasteland before her. She could spy Megaton from up here! 

   “Quite the view, isn’t it?” a weathered old man with the most bizarre accent delightfully inquired, waving them toward his seat. His gnarled fingers made a castling across a chessboard. “A shame Mr. Burke is no longer with us- he was a rather good sport when it came to games.” He glanced over to Charon before lowering his eyes as he moved an opposite knight. “But I must say, the way you had carried out his death was delightfully entertaining.”

   Evelyn felt her insides squirm. What a twisted little man!

   “Tell me, ghoul, what do you think of my tower? It is a rather marvelous feat I have created, isn’t it? Quite, marvelous.”

   Evelyn cleared her throat, a thousand tiny spiders crawling over her skin when he snapped a distasteful glare her way. “Why do you not let ghouls live in the tower?” (Or, better yet, why would they want to?)

   Tenpenny pursed his lips at the question, but then he seemed to grow bored with his own thoughts and resumed his solo match on the board. “It would be an absurdity otherwise. You come from the wasteland, I presume? But of course you do- just look at you - well, why would I invite a bunch of flea-bitten bulls into my china shop? Do you know what a china shop is? Of course not.”

   “They’re just people,” she bristled. “They can’t help that they’ve ghouled. All they're asking for is a safe place to be.”

   “They appear quite safe in the tunnels, so I’ve heard,” he countered snippily.

   “It’s a wonder you’re not down there then,” she scoffed. 

   He warned, “Careful, girl.”

   “Or what?” she brazenly challenged. “I can tell your perception is absolute dogshit, seeing as to how it’s the two of us and a very long way down.”

   Tenpenny straightened to look her in the eye. “Are you dare so threatening me-?”

   “It’s the wasteland,” she growled, encroaching closer until he was shrinking back down in his seat, his faux hot air at once dispelling. “I wouldn’t feel so safe in your little high tower any more than I would out there. You’re right, I am from the wasteland, and I sure as shit know a hell of a lot more about surviving in it than any of you do.” 

   She picked up the queen and captured the rook. The king had nowhere to run.

   Checkmate. 

   “There’s no room for enemies when there’s no such thing as friends,” she said lowly. She took a step back, one hand placing itself on her hip.

   Allistair looked down at his board, blinked, and then formed a wry, dry smile on his face. “Well, well.” He picked up his glass, assessing her over the rim in a manner that made her want to leap over the edge itself. “You’re the girl from the Vault? I am surprised that I had not made the correlation earlier. I have heard…interesting stories, about you.”

   He then clapped his hands and snapped upright with sudden vigor, mildly startling her. 

   “Convince the others of these ghouls, and I might consider it.”

   “Um…” Evelyn looked behind for advice. Charon shrugged. “Okay.”

   Her hands were shaking by the time the elevator doors closed and they began their descent to the main lobby, the most challenging part yet to come.

   A nudge in her side made her look up. 

   Charon gave her a succinct nod. “That was…good.”

   “Thanks,” she breathed, still unsure of the unexpected bravado herself. “It just…came out. I don’t know. I think I was just so mad that I didn’t care.”

   For the first time upon entering, she allowed herself a moment to marvel at the wonder of what a Pre-War wasteland would have appeared to be like. Glistening chandeliers, marble flooring, and ornate crown molding on the walls gave an inevitable lull to the air that carried a taste of bubbly champagne on ice. Music flowed with the present company drifting about their leisurely day, or, as leisurely as could be as they stared on with terror and repulsion at their inclusion in the mix. She drank in perfect hairdos, ironed dresses, and manicured nails.

   “Did you ever come to places like this?” she whispered. 

   The question went unanswered as a woman came around and pointed at the big guy. 

   “Guards! Guards! It’s back, hurry!” she exclaimed with a panicked screech. 

   “Keep your panties on,” a security guard drawled as he walked by, also not withholding his visible disgust. “Tenpenny has allowed the ghoul entry inside the tower.”

   She held a hand over her heart, petrified. “I DARE say-!”

   Evelyn grabbed Charon’s hand and led him away from the woman’s midlife crisis. “Okay, we won’t bother speaking with her just yet…or at all.”

   They took a hard right, dipping through the first door that held the least amount of occupants, which happened to be just an elderly lady running the cafe. She backed up a few steps as they approached the counter, her eyes wide and lower lip trembling at the sight of Charon.

   “Now, now I-” she warbled.

   Evelyn slowly held up her hands. Jesus, were these people or feral cats?!

   “Um, hi,” Evelyn started sweetly. Best to hit these people where it felt best- their wallets. She squinted at the board behind the counter. “May we please get a, uh-” She turned to the necrotic elephant in the room. “What do you want?”

   He simply shrugged.

   “I’m, I’m afraid that I don’t serve ghouls,” the granny croaked. 

   Evelyn gave her best that’s too bad face. “Are caps not acceptable here?”

   “They most certainly are.” She gave Charon a look like he might have her for lunch instead. “But-”

   “We can pay.” Evelyn plopped down a healthy bundle, the remnants of her Murphy&Barrett betrayal. “I’ll have the mirelurk cakes, please.” She again turned her head, laying the charm on thick. “Charon?”

   His head slowly swiveled to the frightened woman, grounding out as though he were made of stone, “Mirelurk cakes.” An elbow in his side. “…please.”

   Granny stared at them for a good moment longer and then snapped from her trance as Evelyn began to count caps onto the counter. 

   “Um, well…alright, two orders of mirelurk cakes, coming right up. Please…have a seat, and I will bring it to you shortly.”

   They picked their seats on either side of each other, with Evelyn daintily sitting down and placing her hands politely in her lap. Charon nearly went through the bottom of his chair from the amount of force he sat on it with.

   A small crowd had gathered just outside the doorway leading back to the lobby, the curious faces whispering amongst themselves none too quietly.

   “What are they doing?”

   “Oh God, poor Margaret.”

   “Next it’ll be eating a human!”  

   “Here you are.” The woman’s hands shook, rattling the plates down. “E-enjoy.”

   “Thank you, it smells absolutely wonderful,” Evelyn beamed. 

   She lightly kicked the ghoul’s shin under the table. 

   Charon whipped around so quickly that it almost gave the poor woman a stroke. He rasped, completely monotone, “Thank. You.”

   She scurried from view, and Evelyn sawed off a small piece of her food to chew whilst Charon forwent all cutlery (and tableside manners) and shoved an entire cake inside his mouth. He looked over after feeling her blatant staring. 

   “Yes?” he growled, bits of food flying from his lips.

   “Really?!” she hissed.

   The woman soon returned at the sight of their empty plates. “How were the mirelurk cakes? It’s my own mother’s recipe.”

   “The best I’ve ever had!” Evelyn complimented genuinely. 

   “That is nice to hear, dearie.” She then turned, anxious and suddenly much more quiet. “…and, you?”

   Charon drummed his fingers on the table and rasped, “It was not good.”

   Evelyn’s jaw dropped to the floor. “Charon!”

   “Oh?” All at once, the woman seemed rather intrigued than insulted (or disgusted). She beckoned to his vanished serving, her fear of him swirling down the drain.  “And what did you not like about it?”

   He gave her an unflinching stare. “Everything.”

   “Thank you for the food.” Evelyn scooted her chair back, indicating their departure, but the two at her side became unyielding to the other. 

   “I suppose you care to educate this old woman on how it’s done, then?” 

   Charon seemed to seriously consider it. “I may.”

   “Speaking of educate,” Evelyn candidly interrupted. “I don’t suppose you wouldn’t mind having some ghouls as neighbors? I know they would absolutely love your dishes.”

   The woman didn’t back off from her staredown with Charon, but answered, “I guess not…if they know what good food is.”

   “Wonderful!” She tugged at Charon’s hand. “Come on, big guy!” 

   He let her lead him to the shop just across- Boutique Le Chic. Everyone scrabbled out of the way, only to reconvene once they had cleared through. Another woman was behind the counter, but her unholy screeching kept them from intruding inside.

   “NUH-UH, NO, GET IT OUT, OUT!” She waved her hands wildly around and reached for a broom handle to threaten them with. “GUARDS?!”

   Evelyn took the door handle for herself and slammed it shut. Her clenched fist around the knob rattled it in place until Charon placed his hand over her own. 

   She shakily took it away. “Sorry.”

   “Shall I dispose of her?”

   “Oh my God, you can’t just say that!” she whispered. “Someone might hear you!”

   He raised a brow, nonchalantly adding, “I do not see the issue.”

   Her sweaty hands were wiped down her thighs. “I’ll deal with her later…”

   A crossing through a tense crowd- they wavered and muttered and gasped. New Urban Apparel was the next mark on the roadmap, and the man turning from his inventory immediately leaned over to the side and dry-heaved at their entrance.

   “Um, excuse me-?” Evelyn ever-so politely inquired.

   He outright ignored her as he miraculously recovered from his ailment and snapped at her back, “Get your rotten paws off my merchandise, zombie!”

   Evelyn spun her head around. Charon was…running a hand down the seams of a beautiful, dark burgundy dress like a selection of fine wine. He took it off the mannequin and came forward with it.

   “Don’t-don’t come any closer!” the man yelped, his back coming against the wall. “Just take it, take it-!”

   Charon swiveled on his heel right beside her, holding it out for her to take. 

   She gave a confused look. “What?”

   “Do you like it?”

   “Uh…” She blinked. “I mean, it’s beautiful, sure, but-”

   Charon’s eyes drew down to slits and then he stormed around the room, nabbing things off their pedestals to carefully scrutinize. 

   The cowering proprietor had a moment of courage as he leapt from behind his register. “That is a vintage, circa 2076, and I will not have you-!”

   Charon snapped as he got too close, “Get out.”

   He gasped, “Why-!”

   Charon rounded on him, snarling, “Get out. Now.”

   A stifled sob wracked his chest as he fled from his own store. 

   Evelyn’s eyes became crossed and her brain was on a medium toasty setting as she tried to process just what the fuck was happening. 

   Charon stepped over to her, practically thrusting the items under her nose. His voice was like scalding hot water. “This?”

   A clasp of pearls and an ivory comb. She once again rewarded him with a totally dumb look and gently took the items from his iron grip before they could be crushed into dust, laying them on the counter before they were charged with ransacking the place. 

   “We’re trying to convince people to let Roy and the others live here, remember?” she softly explained. 

   Charon’s scowl deepened into pure loathing. “As you wish.”

   Sheesh!

   “Let’s try around some more…I don’t think that guy’s planning on coming back anytime soon.”

   There was a crashing commotion of shouts and doors slamming from the main lobby. So, perhaps never. 

[kidotm]

A Helping Hand

  “Now, just know, I have nothing against ghouls myself! Why, I even had a ghoul manservant, back in my younger days!” A wheezy laugh that nearly turned into a coughing fit. “Herbert ‘Daring’ Dashwood, at your service!” 

   They were climbing the stairs to the second floor, Charon following her following some geriatric smoothskin who was droning on and on about things that he paid little mind to. His sole attention was drawn inward on a most crucial matter, his body on autopilot and vision tunneled as he walked down the halls.

   There was no ‘light’. She had looked upon the flowers as she had with everything else- the dress, the jewelry, the nice things he had offered her. It was no different than how she looked at him. He didn’t understand. 

   He must have done something wrong.

   They were invited inside the old coot’s private quarters, his rambling and nonsensical stories seeming to have no end. He gauged Evelyn’s body language. She was smiling…stiffly, although indistinctly enough. He stood by the doorframe, waiting on their leave. Dashwood tapped a curled fist on his chest. He stared down at the frail, translucent skin and bulging veins (he could string out as fishing line) that dared to touch him, even amicably. 

   “Why…you may have just given old Argyle a run for his caps! Then again, I suppose you’d have to, with chaperoning this nice young lady around! The wastes are a dangerous place, that I know!” 

   Charon crossed his arms- a warning to leave well enough alone. He got the hint, whistling as he tottered off. Evelyn accidentally brushed against something on a table while nervously watching their interaction, scattering it to the floor. She bent over to pick up a holotape, her brows crossing as she read the label. It appeared to have interested her.

   This ‘Daring’ moved faster than his creaky joints should have allowed. “Oh, you’ll have to excuse my older years, it tends to leave things lying around in places it shouldn’t be.” A somewhat forced chuckle, and he placed the holotape on a higher shelf out of sight. 

   Out of theirs, that is.

   He offered her a seat, poured her a small glass, and talked her fucking ear off. Charon could see the polite wonderment on her face at the retelling of this smoothskin’s adventures- a rather toxic influence. 

   “But here I am, stealing the entire show! What was it you came here for again?” 

   (They didn’t)

   Evelyn faintly smiled. “I’m trying to help the ghouls have a home in the tower. Would you mind telling Tenpenny about it?” 

   Dashwood toasted his glass to her. “Of course not! It would be a nice change in pace from the bloated egos you see floating around! Good on you, girl!” 

   They left, and she closed the door with a sigh. 

   “He was nice, but I thought we’d never leave,” she sneakily confessed as they began to return to the main lobby.

   A resident woman came incredibly close to him, scrutinizing him like a sideshow attraction. He slightly leaned back. 

   She clicked her tongue. “Does it do any tricks?” 

   Evelyn bristled, “Excuse me?”

   The woman gave her a look like she was stupid. “I said, does it do any tricks? Surely Mister Tenpenny didn’t allow just any ghoul in the tower.”

   He intercepted Evelyn’s wrist before it could crack the smoothskin’s teeth out, giving her a subtle shake of his head when she looked up at him. It would only hinder her mission. Instead, while giving his full attention back to the woman, he cupped his entire jaw with one palm and swiftly dislocated it. His left eye began to spin out of control. Both women gasped in stupified shock. With a grunt, he reset the mandible, his eyeball stuck in the corner of its socket until he smartly smacked his cheek. 

   The woman’s lip was curled as though she had smelled something rancid. “Well, that was…” She then wandered on by, her voice growing faint as though she were in a dream. “…something.”

   Evelyn gave him a bewildered expression. “What the fuck was that?”

   He worked his jaw a few times and rubbed it. He had not done that (intentionally) for some years. He rasped as though the answer were obvious, “You wish for the ghouls' entry into the tower.”

   “But, she was…”

   He leaned down. “I am helping.”

   She blew out a breath and a little quirk of a genuine smile graced her lips. “Thank you.”

   He nodded. They met with a few more smoothskins before convening in the bar lounge; she had some drinks. She traded witty comments with the only smoothskin that was willing to still be in the same room with him, (on account of his obvious dependency for alcohol), but then the tone of her voice became less pleasant and something borderline cruel after his one too many comments about ‘the zombie’.  

   She sweetly mocked, “I guess I would also have to be plastered every day just to survive being someone like you.”

   The smoothskin had a look as though she had physically slapped him. He licked his chapped lips and sat forward in his chair, ready to fire off in return, but Charon gave him a silent, deadly warning by the subtle stiffening of his posture, and he instead left the room with a brunt kick at the garbage can.

   He relaxed as soon as she turned to him. She had that same cheeky grin on her face from when they had returned from Rivet City. It curved his dick with a wicked jolt. His head followed her hand sliding up his thigh and coming to stroke his bulge. 

   “Think they’ll let us stay the night?” A dip downward over his balls, her fingers clawing through the leather. 

   He cornered the first guard still roaming the halls. On instinct, (and fear), the smoothskin went to draw his gun from the holster at his waist, but Charon planted his larger palm over his own and squeezed, hard.

   “A room,” he rasped.

   The smoothskin went high-pitched. “Get-get-back- you-”

   Another squeeze, a few of the knuckles cracking. The smoothskin gasped and curled inward in an attempt to escape the pain of his bones being crushed. 

   “A room. Now.”

   “Upper- upper-” CRACK. “Fuck! Top floor!”

   She giggled when the elevator began its journey to the penthouse suites and wormed her hand into his pants, swiping at the translucent bead on the tip of his cock to then suck off her fingertips. The night guard was absent. The first door on his right was tried, locked, and then unlocked with a firm twist. It was vacant. 

   Good enough. 

   (He braced a chair under the handle just to be sure)

   When he turned around, his pants hastily unbuckled and already past his ass, he found her sprawled over the graciously sized bed in a dead sleep, mouth wide open with a hint of drool. He looked down at his eager cock and shook his head, making to carry out his nightly maintenance instead. 

   He pulled her suit out of the duffel bag and scrubbed it in the tub, closely inspecting for any tearing or loose stitches before being hung to dry. Her own pack was snooped through as he sat on the edge of the bed, being without shame as he pulled out that journal to sneak a peek inside. He looked over. She could’ve been a corpse, for as heavy as a sleeper as she proved to be. (He checked her breathing). The pages fluttered open, and he was mindful not to let any of her flowers slip from their place. 

   A doodled picture. His face. Horribly illustrated, and more akin to angry scribbling than actual artistic talent. He squinted at it. The eyes were misaligned and looking at the opposite sides of his head. He appeared constipated. The word grr was written beside it. The whole thing was circled with a heart. He very precisely began to rip out the page, but the sudden rustling of her moving made him slam it shut and tuck it underneath the sheets. 

   She had rolled onto her belly, mumbling to herself and making frustrated noises. “Charon,” she whined, her voice muffled in the mattress. “What’s his name?”

   His? 

   “Who?” he questioned.

   “His name,” she stressed, not even opening her eyes. “Moira.”

   It took him a few minutes to process the absurd and terribly vague correlation she provided, but he understood.

   “The mercenary,” he affirmed.

   “Do you know it?”  

   “I do.”

   “Oh thank God,” she breathed, and then she squirmed into a new position and fell back asleep.

   He didn’t know what to think of that. He reached back for the journal, skimming through the pages and newly written material for any hint of a gruff smoothskin. There was none. He pocketed his portrait away.

   By the time she had awoken many hours later, there was a plate at her side along with her freshly laundered vault suit. She propped herself up on her elbows, appearing disgusted with the fact that she had slept in her clothes. 

   The plate serving two blackened pucks was regarded with care. “What is it?”

   “Mirelurk cakes,” he answered. 

   She hastily sat upright and crossed her legs together. “Oh, from downstairs?” 

   “Yes.”

   Discarding all previous formal manners, she took a wolfish bite into one, and then paused. The cake was slowly removed, a much smaller piece was nibbled off, and she placed it back on the plate. 

   “You made this,” she said bluntly. 

   “Yes.”

   A closed fist came to her lips as she chewed. “They let you in the kitchen?”

   “It was not occupied.”

   Her eyes grew wide. “You broke in?!”

   The holotape she had been eyeing earlier was procured from his side satchel and presented for her convenience, at least to derail the argument she was about to ensue. 

   It worked, for she exploded with, “You stole this-?!”

   He ever so slowly began to withdraw it, but her fingers reluctantly took ownership before it could disappear. 

   “Okay…but we’re giving it straight back,” she said with a holier-than-thou attitude. She took another bite of her breakfast.

   He knew she would like it.

   Nearly everyone in the tower had made acquaintance with the not-so-alone Lone Wanderer and her one-trick-having ghoul manservant. Charon kept relatively quiet as they convinced a few more residents to become open-minded, and convinced a few others that leaving was the better option. They eventually returned to one of the first stores they had previously been declined entry to, the shopkeeper balefully glaring after they came back around. Evelyn very quietly closed the door for privacy. She was their last one before she pitched the ball to Tenpenny.

   The woman shrieked, “You might have been able to get the others, but you’ll never convince me, you ugly, wretched thing! I swear, I’ll-!” 

   Evelyn tucked her hand inside Charon’s, pulled him down slightly, and gently turned his head to share a kiss. He remained still and stared at her as she gave a sugary smile to the woman recoiling in disgust. 

   “Then I guess you won’t be minding a lot of that, but don’t worry, we usually keep the rest behind closed doors.” She winked.

   The pitch of her voice rose to an insane decibel. “You filthy harlot! Zombie-lover! I knew it! You maggot whore!” she frothed, scurrying around the room and pulling things off shelves. “I won’t have this! This is-is- an abomination!”

   Evelyn flinched as a plate was suddenly hurled at her face, but it was caught midair. Charon growled and snapped it cleanly in half, the ceramic pieces dropped to the ground and crushed underfoot as he took a step forward. The woman fled the store while Evelyn kept him at bay with a firm hold of his hand.

   (And that was everyone) 

   They rode the elevator to the top, and she looked up at him. He raised a brow muscle down at her in return. 

   “What were you going to do to her?” she asked.

   He faced forward again, his voice flat. “Do you truly wish to know?”

   She opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned as the doors began to slide open. “No…I guess not.”

   Tenpenny was surprised at her success in swaying the pretentious masses. “I’ve been hearing word of you rallying the support of the others in favor of these ghouls…but I suppose that settles it, then.” He dismissively waved a hand at them. “Well, what ever are you waiting for? Go tell these new tenants of mine to come along and be on their best behavior.”

   They did, and Roy laughed in her face. 

   “What? You’re telling me Tenpenny is suddenly okay with having a bunch of ghouls move into his hoity-toity tower?”

   “He is,” she simmered. “And we worked pretty hard to get it that way, so, you’re fucking welcome.”

   Roy again laughed and raised his arms to the others. “You hear that, boys? We’re going to get what we finally deserve!”

   A mask of differently stitched skins was given as a ‘reward’...if she could call it that. (It made her want to gag just holding it). As she crammed it down to the bottom of her pack to never see the light of day again, she watched as Roy shuffled Charon to the side, the former conversing in low tones while the latter glowered in nonverbal response. Whatever offer Roy tried to sell, Charon wasn’t buying, for he dutifully followed her down the train tracks to leave the metro tunnel behind forever. 

   “What did he want?” she curiously inquired. 

   Charon cracked his neck. “It was not important.”

   They began the trip to Megaton, making camp under the stars when her legs became too tired and her stomach wouldn’t cease its growling. Charon began to craft some nightmare-inducing recipe while she sorted through her pack, in consequence discovering the holotape she had forgotten to return. 

   “Woops,” she muttered, then shrugging her shoulders and inserting it in her Pip-Boy. 

   “Despite the harshness of the Wasteland, I've discovered in more than a few here a compassion that is unheard of in the Commonwealth. Perhaps it's the daily struggle for life here which gives appreciation for life in general, whether human or android. In a few days, I'll be a free man...a new man. Let me say thank you now for referring me to Pinkerton in Rivet City, because I will not remember any of this soon.”

   The tape clicked off, and she glanced over at her personal chef. He didn’t seem interested in the message. She unclipped the holotape, running a finger over the scrawled title on the cover.

   A free man…a new man…

   She pocketed it away and rubbed her cold hands by the cackling fire. “Did Roy ask you to stay?”

   Charon didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

   “Why didn’t you want to?” 

   He ripped open a package of deviled eggs to throw in the mix. “He is not my employer.”

   “You know what I meant,” she said quietly. 

   There was no further discussion on the matter, and so she silently ate her ‘dinner’ (how did he think up these things?!) before falling asleep to the nightlife sounds of the wasteland. She only turned once in her sleep, solaced at the sight of him on the opposite side of the fire, before drifting into many dreams.

   They continued onward in the early morning, when the sands were still cool and the sky was still dark, the heavy colors overhead breathed into her lungs like roots digging deep. Compared to the elegance of old-world brick, Megaton was an ugly wart blighting the landscape, but it was still home. 

   Yowling old man Walter, and all. 

   He met them at the gates, overseeing their entrance into town from his perch outside the water treatment plant. “Girl! Now just where in the dang hell have you been?! I got two leaks on the west side that I can’t climb up. Come on! I already got the pieces all retrofitted for you to put on!” 

   Without even having the decency to drop off her stuff in her own home, she was soon strapped with tools and lugging sheets of scrap metal to the designated points around town. Charon, too, had left his things behind in the water plant to join her in her mundane tasking as she trudged up the hill and began to shimmy her way to the respective leaks. It was strange to see him without all of his signature gear…he had kept his knife.

   She felt a giant shudder of the piping after she had reached the first one, causing a squeak to leave her mouth as she held on for dear life. An earthquake?! She turned her head- the big guy had simply stepped over the railing and walked down the line, completely balanced and now standing over her, looking down at her straddling the sides of the pipe. 

   “Uh,” she said. “I don’t expect you to have to help me…”

   He evaluated the leaking stream of water and then plopped on his ass (making the entire structure unpleasantly judder), motioning to the tool bag at her waist. Without a word, she handed over the items and sat on the other side, both leaning over the seep as she placed the sheet metal over while he expertly cold welded it into place. They together assessed their work- it was by far the most efficient method she had come by.

   “Thanks.” She smiled, and he only nodded and looked over at the next one to fix. 

   They took their places on either side of a much healthier leak, and as he was prepping his tools, she grinned with evil intentions and jammed the sheet metal over it to create a strong spray that soaked him. The downright disappointed, wet dog look he gave her made her giggle uncontrollably. That only seemed to sour him more. 

   “Oh, come on, it’s hot as fuck. Feels good though, huh?” she laughed. 

   He nabbed away her patch and returned the favor, both soon sopping wet to their core and leaving the repair site with squishy boots and a neverending chuckle from her chest. Walter looked them over, shook his head, and paid them for their troubles. 

   As was the more recent tradition upon returning home, she divvied up the caps equally and handed over Charon’s share, to which he always just stared at and she eventually left in the downstairs locker for him to use whenever he saw fit. They organized their inventory, her filling Wadsworth’s bin to the brim with her crusty leathers and rank vault suit while he retired to his workshop. After a decent scrub in the tub and a change into her fresh, dry jumpsuit, he came into her room and held over two items for her to take while she snacked on some cakes at her desk. Her knife, newly sharpened and without evidence of its prior use, and a jar filled with a golden honey-like substance. 

   She held it up to the light. “What is it?”

   “Moira has asked me to give it to you,” he rasped, watching her struggle in opening it. “She said it is…strong.”

   Almost immediately she stopped trying to uncork the thing. Who knew just what the hell that mad woman gave her. Would it explode? She wouldn’t put it past her. It was placed on the table for later consideration. 

   “I’ll ask her about it, then.” 

   He gave a nod of his head. “That would be wise.”

   She stretched, popping a few joints and giving a pleased sigh. “Want to get a drink?”

   It was a slow afternoon. Gob was working the bar, living under a visible gloomy cloud as they came to take a seat. 

   “Hey there smoothskin,” he rasped rather dully, already popping them both a beer. “How’s life?”

   She glanced around. Nova was seated at a table in the corner, wearing a pretty blue dress and openly flirting with Moira’s mercenary who seemed smitten with their conversation. 

   Evelyn gave the bartending ghoul a look of understanding. “I guess I can ask the same.”

   He shrugged a sad, kicked-puppy sort of gesture. “Always better than it was, at least.”

   Charon stood from his chair, his drink untouched. “I wish to speak with you.”

   Evelyn and Gob both stared, stunned at the request. 

   Gob pointed to himself. “Me?”

   Charon nodded. “Yes. Alone.” He then looked down at her. “I will return.”

   They disappeared in the back room, leaving her free to her own devices to observe the blossoming relationship while she nursed her cold beverage. The pair soon rose from their seats to walk on by for the stairs.

   Nova winked. “Hey sugar.” 

   “Glad to see you made it back in one piece,” Fresh-Off-The-Market casually told her as they passed. “Get those ghouls in the tower?”

   Evelyn tipped her beer, chin in hand. “Sure did.” 

   They closed Nova’s door just as the one for the back room opened. Charon came to her side, openly serious and intimidating.

   “What is it that you like?” he demanded, more of an interrogation than a simple question.

   She blinked. “Huh?”

   Gob smacked a hand to his face and shook his head. He then looked to the corner and noticed the absence, his expression downcast and glum. 

   “And she’s gone,” he mumbled, a forlorn playing of strings at his back as he went about behind the bar. 

   Charon growled at her, “Will a weapon suffice?”

   Evelyn slapped her bottle down, startling the moping ghoul and raising the brow of the one breathing down her neck. 

   “Okay, Gob, I really am sorry, but you’re turning the saloon into a grieving parlor.” She spun in her seat to eye the big guy. “I honestly have no idea what it is you’re asking me.”

   Gob just woefully glanced up while Charon gritted his teeth and drummed his fingers on the counter. 

   “Why don’t you ask Moira for a drink?” she offered more gently.

   Gob balked. “Moira?”

   “Why not?” she reasoned. “She’s honestly really smart- totally crazy- but she’s also a super sweet, kind person and incredibly open-minded. It doesn’t hurt to ask. I think she would love to.”

   The ghoul scratched at the back of his head, a piece of flaking skin peeling under his fingers. “I don’t know…”

   “It’s just a thought.” She paid for their drinks and tipped a few more. “Speaking of which, that’s who we’re off to see next. Take care!”

   Charon irately grumbled to himself the entirety of the way to the store, folding his arms and glowering in the corner while she conducted business. Whatever bug had decided to crawl up his ass, she was more than inclined to let it die there.

   Moira slapped down the power first with a brilliant smile of success. “Here we are! This little bastard was probably done for if you hadn’t brought it to me, but, look, good as new!” She wiped at a stray hair across her nose and clapped her hands together, redirecting her ray of sunshine across the room. “How’s it going, big guy? Get that experiment taken care of?”

   Evelyn turned with a quirked eyebrow, but he only curtly nodded. 

   “Wonderful!” Moira beamed. 

   “Um, so,” Evelyn began as she took the power fist off the counter. “That jar you gave me…”

   “You got my little present? Just wait until you open it!”

   “What is it?”

   A giggle. “Oh, but that’s the surprise!”

   They were soon alone in the retreat of her home, him inspecting the power fist she had repaired and her once again trying to unscrew the lid on the jar. 

   “Jesus,” she breathed, her face bright red as she heaved all of her might behind the twist. “How the hell am I supposed to open this thing?!”

   Charon ignored her, shaking his head in disapproval and none-too-mindfully dumping the mechanical fist on the table. 

   “I could have done better,” he rasped with a bitter undertone.

   Evelyn paused with her feeble display of strength to throw him a glare. “What the hell are you so mad about?”

   He snarled and pointed to the thing as though it were nothing more than weighted garbage. “It will have to be redone.”

   “What?” she huffed. “Moira knows what she’s doing. She fixes my shit all the time.”

   “Maybe she shouldn’t,” he said reproachfully. 

   Big guy was using contractions…he must be really mad.

   She again tried loosening the top with a heavy grunt, but to no avail. She slammed the thing on the table. “Well you didn’t offer to help, so I don’t see why you’re bitching about it now!”

   “You did not ask,” he said flatly with a cross of his arms.

   “Because you were mad at me!”

   “You were being a brat.”

   She threw up her hands and angrily stomped over to the locker for her rusty screwdriver, brandishing it at him like a sword. “Why is this even an argument now? It’s fixed, it’s paid for, and it’s done!”

   She sat her ass back down on the chair and began to worm the tip of the screwdriver under the lid for some leverage, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth in rapt concentration. 

   Charon stalked over and swiped the jar from her, easily twisting the airtight lid off with a loud pop! He set it back down. “There.” 

   With a roll of her eyes, she snarked, “Thanks.” 

   He just grumbled under his breath and went to climb the stairs to his workshop. 

   She peered inside the jar and cautiously sniffed. “That’s weird…I don’t smell anything.” Curiously, she dove the tip of the screwdriver inside and held up a thick webbing of the goo for closer inspection. 

   “What the hell is this stuff?” she muttered. Did she eat it? Hmm.

   An abrupt, hot bloom radiated in the pit of her groin, and she squirmed in her seat as the feeling intensified. Beads of sweat peppered her forehead, her breathing growing labored, and her underwear thoroughly soaked. She shakily stood, unzipping her jumpsuit with trembling fingers and gasping at the tingling sensation crawling along her skin. 

   “Holy fuck,” she breathed, turning for the bath to find Charon already back downstairs, his limbs twitching and eyes absolutely predatory. “What the fuck is-?”  

   He interrupted her concern with a single stride over, grabbing at her waist with both of his huge palms and pulling her flush to him, every single thought kissed into utter oblivion.

The Jar of Eternal Happiness

Chapter Summary

( ಠ ͜ʖಠ)

   There was no attempt at making logical sense of what was happening. One moment he had been devising mental schematics on refurbishing her power fist, the next, he wanted his dick inside of her- now.

   "What is-?" she breathed in his mouth, but he bit her lip and sucked her tongue in a nasty kiss with a clack of their teeth and a grope through her hair.

   Her fingers anchored around the back of his neck as she pulled herself closer, grinding her hips against his groin with a lusty moan. She rutted through the fabric against the hard outline of his cock, feebly attempting to sate the ravaging fire that burned between them with every exchange of their lips and desperate pants moistening their skin. She was clumsy in taking off his clothes, forcing his hands to leave their place of worship to pull his shirt up and over his head. She licked his scarred nipple, making him grunt at the unexpected sensation, and then he gripped her by the skull as she worked her way down, that swirling tongue feverishly blazing a trail the entire way. His knees began to buckle as she slurped him down, her fingers frantically touching herself below, the wafting scent of her that he inhaled forcing him to brace an arm against the railing of the stairs lest he lose total control. 

   The contract pinged inside of his head. Ping…ping…ping. It was something bearable enough to ignore, for now. 

   He untangled his fingers from her hair to help jerk himself off, the saliva from her tight, hot mouth sliming her face. He couldn’t tear away from the sight of those ridiculously blue eyes looking up at him with a blurred line between unholy worship and aggressive lust, an unmistakable come fuck me flutter to her lashes. She gagged and swallowed and wouldn’t look away. He grabbed at the side of her face with a smack, teasing the cheek with a taut pull and leaving a reddened handprint in its image.

   Ping. Ping. Ping.

   It wasn’t enough to get him to come. 

   A sudden clasp of his hand around her throat choked her- he found the sound devilishly tempting, but he refrained with what little higher-cognitive sense still harbored inside of his mind and simply brought her to her feet. She wheezed, a bloom of pink tinging her skin from lack of air as she held onto his wrist, and she smiled. A growl, low and vibrating and enough of a deterrent to anyone sane that he was not a man of kind nature or merciful understanding, but she was still stupid. She goaded him with a mean laugh, a slap in the face from the sing-song trebles bubbling within her throat.

   Do your worst. You don’t scare me.

   He squeezed, nicely.

   Ping. PING. Ping.

   He was neither gentle nor hesitant in stripping her bare. The jumpsuit was wrapped around her ankles, her boots still laced tight as he altogether lost the remnants of his patience and spun her around to jam her into the bookcase. A ceramic vase crashed after it took a nosedive, a few books toppling over each other and the wooden frame itself wobbling in protest at the extra weight it held. He took a palmful of her underwear to shove it to the side, the soaked fabric held tightly in his grip being ripped at the seams.

   She gasped, the desperation thick in her throat, “Fuck me.”  

   With a swipe of his boot, he married her feet together and plunged straight inside, the initial resistance he felt pushed through until he bottomed out. She whimpered, a visible shudder running down her spine as he began to pound her, her knees knocking into the shelving and her knuckles growing white as she held on to the sides. Her ass clapped against his waist, the ivory skin jiggling with every thrust and the musky wetness drooling down his balls as he bent his legs slightly to thrust her harder, faster, his fingers digging into her flesh at the hip and pulling her to him with every jab.

   She cried with sugary praise, “Fuck, Charon, God, you’re so good.”

   It should have brought him over the tipping point, but it didn’t. It wasn't enough. He needed more of her. He pulled away.

   “Put it back," she whined, high and absolutely filthy.

   He grabbed her by the arm and forced her to the couch, dropping to his knees to finish ridding her of her boots. They fell with a clunk one at a time to the side before he flung her jumper over his shoulder. She scooted the stretched panties to the floor and unclipped her bra. Her legs spread wide, that glistening center wholly inviting and a beautiful flush of pink.

   “Put it back,” she demanded breathlessly with a hint of delirium. 

   He instead placed the broad flatness of his tongue to it and returned the earlier favor. He lapped up her cunt like cool water under a scorching sun, drinking her in as she squirmed and choked on her own needy whining. Her skin was flushed and hot, beads of sweat rolling down her tits and around the coupled folds of her stomach. He bit her clit and sucked on it, stretching her perky nipples as he pulled them with his fingers. She grabbed fistfuls of what remained of his hair in an attempt to escape and yet be taken all at once. 

   “Please,” she pathetically begged, her eyelids fluttering as her head tilted back. She screwed her eyes shut and prayed to him, parched for the deliverance of promised ecstasy. She slapped both hands around the sides of his face and yanked him upward, swirling her tongue around his own and exchanging heated breaths like they needed it for air.

   He crouched over, his greedy cock magnetized to her pussy that welcomed the fat head with an audible sucking sound. He brutally fucked her, devouring her begging that was borderline insanity in his mouth with every stab to her core. Her legs were pinned down, folding her in half, her toes curling and body beginning to twitch. The couch exhaled and the wooden frame creaked with every jolt, every ruthless plunge inside making her cry out and hold on to his shoulders for dear life. 

   She pleaded, “Keep fucking me, Charon, keep fucking me!”

   His hips snapped forward, his cock meeting that juicy center that summoned a trembling moan from her lips, and then he just as quickly retreated away. His dick was so wet, the entire length bulging and blazing red and as fucking angry as he always felt, pulsing as it kept pointed like a compass directly to her deliciously swollen pussy. He just realized how massive he was in comparison to her- it was a true wonder how it all fit.

   “Fucking hell,” she snarled, snapping to her feet and pointing to the couch where she had previously been soaking it. “SIT.”

   He did, a hot rush stroking his cock as she took her rightful place in his lap, his dick marrying up to the spot as she lowered herself onto it. The lift up between her thighs paled any drug-induced high he could ever hope to inject himself with. She was a salted sugar, a liquor on fire, a perfect woman at a perfect place at the perfect time. She still had his handprint on the side of her face. It looked so beautiful there, a temporary tattoo he wanted to be permanent. 

   "Fuck me,” she commanded. 

   The contract listened, and he obeyed. 

   She had no idea what she was asking for. 

   His palms came down to smack her ass, fiercely latching on. He spread his legs, just a fraction, and then he bucked up into her like a madman, driving himself well above and beyond her limits. Every thrust was somehow more filling than the last- PING PING -he was sure to rip her in half, but her mewling sweetly sunk encouragement like sharp teeth in his brain.

   “Yes, yes right there, fuck, fuck fuck fuck!”

   He lunged out with a snarl, clamping around her throat and biting down, keeping her in place when she tried to move away from the unrelenting pile-driver that was destroying her from the inside out. He sucked on her pulse, tasting the salt of her skin as he stuck a finger over her ass and tried to wiggle it in. She gasped, forcing him to bite down harder (PING), his grunting heavy as her cunt spiked wave after wave after wave of molten pleasure. Nothing else in the world mattered but how full he made her feel.

   It was so fucking good.

   He let her go and huskily rasped in her ear, “Come.”

   And she broke.

   She mumbled something completely unintelligible, a twist of words and mutilated tongues that spoke of the one true divine her body was peaking on- she went limp, and he kept her propped upright to keep battering away as she lost all will and strength to even meet him halfway.

   “Keep going,” he snarled.

   “Fuck,” she sobbed. “I, I can’t!”

   He upped his pace, his rhythm hard and fast, fucking her like an animal in heat.

   She wrapped her arms around him. “Charon!”

   He clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her cries and getting her to come again, those disbelieving eyes rolling in the back of her head as her mind drifted to the edge of nothing. A single tear fell down her cheek.

   It was finally enough.

   He held her entire body down as he blew, pulsing deep inside, a brief groan escaping him as he rocked his hips into her, chasing that fading euphoria before it could dissipate completely. A light press of her lips to his invited a more sensual desire that both pursued as he was still twitching, lazily indulging himself as she finished milking him until he had nothing left to give.

   The house smelled of nothing but pure, heavy musk. His clouded mind became clear; the itch in his blood finally soothed. He took out his cock with a loud sucking noise, the white, thick dribble leaking out. He stood over her, every defined arch of muscle quivering as his eyes were, for once, hooded and relaxed. 

   “My God,” she barely breathed, the exhaustion sinking her bones through the cushions like an undignified grave.

   He wiped a thumb through his exposed nostril and looked her over, a new painting with the same subject and setting he would want immortalized for his sole viewing pleasure. “Can you stand?”

   She didn’t even try. “No.”

   With a grunt, he left her there as he walked with aching slowness up the stairs and to her room. A neat little balled-up thing called, her bed sheet, was tossed from thin air over the railing and landed (with a perfect scorecard of ten) on her face. She winced as she gingerly wiped herself clean.

   He came to behold the jar with one hand. The once honey-colored ooze had crystallized into a dark brown shade. It had to have been the instigator.

   With a feeble groan, she rolled into a seated position on the couch. A major feat. “What the fuck was that stuff?” 

   “I do not know.” He openly stared at her. “But it was strong.”

   “I wonder if she even knows,” she muttered. 

   “Perhaps she has more,” he casually remarked as he hoisted up his pants, cinching the belt tight. He sat down on the chair to don his boots before tucking his shirt over his head, inspecting a hole at the hem with his thumb. “I will ask her.”

   He went for the door, and she called over, “Wait, you can’t just go now! The shop is closed.”

   “I shall knock.”

   She said with an ugly snort, “That’s not how that works! Charon-!”

   And he was gone.

   He walked up the hill, his boots clanging along the metal catwalks as he passed the saloon on a straight march to Craterside Supply. He rattled the doorframe with a solid tap of his fist. No one answered. He tried again, just a little louder this time, and then stood by with his arms folded and expression vexingly grumpy. Nothing. He tersely exhaled through his nose and spun on his heel back for home, catching a glimpse inside the rowdy bar from the door opening just as he passed. The loony bin smoothskin was there, seated on a barstool. He dipped in and hovered over her just as she took a drink from her glass, effectively making her spit it out from fright.

   “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth to wipe away the evidence. “Hiya, you kind of scared me!”

   Charon nearly bent himself in half to speak with her privately. “I need more.”

   She blinked. “Of…?”   

   “That jar.”

   A beaming smile made him lean away a bit. She said, “You opened it! Did it work?! I would love to hear all the fascinating properties of-”

   Charon growled and smashed a fist on the countertop, interrupting her tirade. “Do you have more?”

   She was unfazed by his ire. “Sorry, it was my only one! But-!”

   “I see.” He shrugged off the rest and left. 

   Evelyn was still reclined on the couch upon his return, stark naked and slowly enjoying purified water and stale potato chips while perusing the screen of her detached Pip-Boy. She looked down at her nearly empty box and shuffled some broken pieces around after he closed the door. She tossed the carton into the bin, missing completely, and licked the salt from her fingertips. His eyes sidled over to watch, and she lightly laughed, the sound pleasing and satisfied. 

   “No, I’m done. Aren’t you tired?”

   He shrugged. 

   With a stretch of her arms over her head, she yawned and squinted down at her map. He watched her every move. She zoomed in on a little marker labeled Scrapyard that Walter had earlier input for her. 

   “I guess we should get that scrap metal sooner rather than later,” she mused, mostly to herself. She glanced up. “What about tomorrow?” A cheeky smirk. "If I can even walk."

   “If that is what you wish,” he dryly rasped.

   “What do you wish?” 

   He shook his head. “My thoughts are not necessary.” He stared at her, emotionless. “Where you go, I shall follow.”

   She crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious of her nudity. “I’m asking for your input.”

   “I have given it,” he replied. “You are my employer.”

   She sighed, rubbing her brow. “I’m not asking as your employer…I’m asking as, you know...” 

   He continued to stare. He obviously didn’t.

   “As like, a…partner.”

   His voice was hard. “You are my employer. You are entitled to my combat services.” His eyes challenged her to argue otherwise with his statement. 

   She hugged herself again, throwing her gaze down. “I was just asking for your opinion, that’s all.”

   “I do not have one on the matter.” 

   “You do sometimes.”

   He relaxed, if only slightly. “If it comes to your safety, then yes.” 

   She twirled a strand of hair around a finger and brushed it along her lips. “Okay.” He took that to be the end of their conversation and went to help himself to something to eat, when she spoke quietly, “If you didn’t have a contract, would you still want to be here, with me?”

   The answer was instant. “There is always a contract.”

   “But if there wasn’t.”

   He shook his head, stressing every word like a crack through ice. “There is always a contract.” 

   The fridge was rummaged through as she limped up to her room and closed the door. He listened very intently just outside it as she played that same holotape from before, over, and over, and over.

   “-a free man...a new man. Let me say thank you now for referring me to Pinkerton in Rivet City-”

   He closed his door.

Call of the Wastes

   (There is always a contract)

   “Ow.”

   The wrapped bundle of icy Nuka-Cola bottles was shifted to the side as she carefully rolled out of bed; the aftermath of their fuck left her feeling as though she had been fisted by a super mutant. 

   Said Cunt Destroyer widened her door with a plate of food in his hand. She had wisely learned to give up asking what of. (It went down easier that way).

   “You have not eaten,” he observed after inviting himself inside. 

   She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, squinting at the time on her Pip-Boy. Almost noon. “It's a little hard to get down the stairs.”

   “I see.” He placed the green jiggling gelatinous mass on her desk. “There is more when you are ready.”

   “Thank-” 

   He left the room.

   “...you.” 

   (Always a contract)

   She stared at her late breakfast and chose to curl back up with her ratty blanket and lumpy pillow, easing the makeshift ice pack between her thighs. Aside from the never-ending load he had blown inside her, he hadn’t been rather eager to impart anything else. She wondered if he might have regretted the entire thing after their ‘conversation’, and she knew it was a losing game to ask.

   “Hey, Charon.”

   But she did it anyway.

   He reappeared in an instant. “Yes?”

   She slowly turned her head to peek over her shoulder. “Are you mad at me?”

   “No.” The cogs visibly turned behind his eyes, and he directed a knife hand at her food. “Shall I bring it to you?”

   “Um.” A glance- rookie mistake for the faint of heart. It moved. “That’s okay. I’ll get up in a few…I was just wondering about last night, is all.”

   He gave a single nod of his head and then once more left her alone.

   (Always)

   There wasn’t much conversation to be had between them, or more so, any at all. He seemed to almost be avoiding her, stomping on invisible eggshells with that stiffness in his shoulders and hard line to his mouth. 

   She tried to blow off the tense atmosphere after spinning the taps to her hot bath closed, her voice extremely shy as she motioned to the tub of rising steam. “Do you want to join me?”

   But he was walking up the stairs with a metal box full of tools in his arms, not even sparing a look her way. “No.”

   Another endeavor was made as she took the initiative and whipped up some lunch- a passable entrée of fried tatos and cubed melon. 

   “Hungry?” she asked with a hesitant offering of a fork. 

   But he only stalked over, gave the plate a look of complete disgust, and shook his head. “It does not appeal to me.”

   A final attempt was given as they saddled themselves with their bags, her hand ever so slightly held out in search of his. He only stared at it with not a single readable thought on his face, and she ultimately withdrew. Normally, his cold shoulder would be chalked up to typical Charon-esque behavior, (and promptly matched with equal pettiness) but she could only muster the strength to glumly ask, “Are you ready?”

   As an employer, and her the employee. Not partner, nor friend, or an aphrodisiac-induced fuckbuddy, but as the contract holder and the hired combatant. 

   He nodded. “I am.”

   Their steps were kept to themselves the entire hike to the scrapyard that Walter had requested of her to visit. The stockpile for the piping was running dangerously low, and there was rumor that the place was teeming with valuable goodies still ripe for the taking. 

   Her boots brushed against a bushel of hubflowers as they climbed a small hill, her feet dislodging a few rocks that were sent tumbling down. She wiped at the sweat dewing her forehead, her breath slightly labored. 

   She could see Butch giving Amata his sweetroll that Old Lady Palmer had gifted the class, stammering and blushing dark as he asked her to be his girwfwend. They were six.

   “Do you sleep with other employers?” she blurted, unable to summon the courage to look behind and below as she continued the climb.

   “No.”

   “Did…did you have a girlfriend, back at Underworld?” 

   She couldn’t help but then glance over. The thought had never strictly occurred to her before, when the seething giant had been chained to his post and generally terrified the local community. She skidded on slippery slate, but his hand snapped out and nabbed her back upright before she could eat shit and swallow all her front teeth.

   He again answered, “No.”

   He let her go. They reached the summit, the outline of the scrapyard just in their sights. 

   “You never liked…liked, someone, back in Underworld?” He turned his head to stare at her, and she just curtly shrugged her shoulders, her voice a little defensive. “What?”

   He seemed to ignore the question after a few moments, for he turned back to look down at their intended destination and only replied with, “Be cautious.”

   She blew out a breath as he took the first step in descending the slope, her lips muttering a disgruntled, “…right.”

   “This is it,” she declared after the chain link gates to the automobile graveyard were met. The empty duffel bag she had tagged along was unzipped, her eyes already mapping out suitable pieces of salvage within. She unhooked the latch, and the gate swung open with a loud squeal. “I’ll be quick.”

   She completely missed the eye roll at her back as she immediately took to begin her harvesting, whereas he kept a sharp eye on their surroundings with a casual hold on his gun.

   The heel of her palm was nicked on the sharp edge of a plate she pulled off the shell of a car, a beaded drop of blood melted on her tongue after she gave it a lick, the injury otherwise ignored. 

   “I do not understand the question,” his raspy voice suddenly spoke behind her, a roll of gauze in his hand that he already began to wrap her palm with.

   She paused in rummaging through a discard pile as he tended to her. “Huh?”

   “I do not understand,” was all he said, his face completely blank. She rattled her brain for their earlier conversation.

   “Oh, um.” A small sheet of metal was shoved into her bag, a stray hair blown off the tip of her nose as she kept her head down. “You never, like, you know…wanted to be with someone? Like all the time? Can’t stop thinking about them…that sort of thing?”

   The rip of a zipper turned her head. Big guy was taking a not-so-discreet leak to the side, not even bothering to turn his back for any semblance of privacy as he hung himself in the palm of his hand. He met her gawking stare with a raised brow muscle.

   “No,” he answered plainly.

   She hotly flushed and spun away on her heel. “I’ll be over here,” she mumbled as she waded deeper into the maze.

   A turn around the bend, a shiny new pile of junk to rifle through. Something of an interesting texture was felt as she dug around, and as she heaved with all her might, she was met with the unfortunate happenstance of holding a mangled, shriveled corpse. She backpedaled with a yelp, tripping over a rusted fender and landing on her ass. The disfigured face stared at her, silently screaming as it plopped in her lap. Before Charon’s name could even form on her tongue, a rustling from inside the trunk of an automobile made her scramble to a standing position. The blade at her hip was ripped free, held tightly in her hands as she took a stance and prepared herself for the fight to come. A low growl rattled the frame, the entire rear end shuddering as the creature burst the trunk open-

   A slobbery, mangy, doofus-looking dog popped out with a cock to its head and an inside-out ear flap. It blinked. She blinked. It sniffed the air, one of its heterochromia eyes slightly skewed to the side, the other one (seemingly in charge of the single brain cell) fixated on her.

   Evelyn slowly lowered her weapon. “Oh.”

   The eyes swapped the cell. The dog jumped out, bushy-tailed and drool-galore as it bounded up to her, loudly sniffing her feet as it circled with a furious wagging of its tail. It then looked up, smiled, and plopped its dirty tush on her boots, that lolling tongue hanging down a quarter mile.

   “Evelyn,” a deep rasp made her turn her head. Charon beckoned her with one hand to himself as he kept the muzzle of his shotgun pointed at the canine’s head. “Come, slow.”

   The dog bumped her with its snoot, all wet and slimy and cold, speaking the language of its ancestors. “A-woo-woo-woo!”

   “Uh.” Her hands came down to stroke through its fur, but her hesitance made the pup lose patience and take matters into its own hands as it began to scratch its back against her legs. She wobbled, nearly losing balance from the big animal using her as a personal scratching post. “Hey!”

   A glint around its neck caught her eye. A tag fastened to a makeshift collar had a name crudely scrawled into the metal- Dogmeat.

   “You’re someone’s pet!” she exclaimed, amazed by the newfound knowledge that the filthy beasts could be tamed. Her hands continued to stroke through the dirt and the…dried blood coagulated through its thick, black fur. “Charon, look, a dog!”

   “I can see that,” he deadpanned. His weapon never lowered, but he stole his eyes away to consider the long-past carnage just off to the side, a few more bodies discovered amidst the heaps of junk.

   “Where’s your master?!” Evelyn got down to one knee- a fatality. The dog licked her face and breathed its disgusting swampy breath straight up her nose. She giggled, “Ew!”

   The ghoul investigated the corpses, stooping over one in particular and collecting his bag. “This may have been him.”

   She stood and dusted the hair (impossible) from herself. The dog yapped, excited as she came to inspect the body. It closely followed at her heels. Charon shouldered the foreign pack as she pointed to the deceased scavenger with a question directed at the animal. 

   “Is this him? Was this your master?”

   It just panted. 

   “You are speaking to a dog,” Charon rasped dryly.

   “Do you want to come with us?” she offered, ignoring the nasty glare the ghoul flogged her with.

   The dog barked. 

   Charon came to stand uncomfortably close to her shoulder. “I do not advise this. It has killed. It will do so again.”

   She crossed her arms, a sad little pout jutting her lower lip. “...but look at him!” He did. The dog’s left iris was slowly drifting to the corner of its eye. “He’s cute!” 

   Charon shook his head. “It is dangerous.” He lifted the barrel of his gun. “I will ensure it does not suffer.”

   “No!” Evelyn dove into his line of fire. He scowled at her stupidity, but she only turned to clap her hands on her thighs and beckoned to her new companion. “C’mere boy, get on little doggie!”

   The dog flattened to the ground and spun circles as it ran forward, the duo watching this dusty fur missile speeding around the yard with the threat of flying saliva flinging from its jowls. 

   Charon released a midlife crisis of a sigh. 

   (She had a dog!)  

   She hummed and sang and hugged her new loyal friend, Dogmeat, who, in turn, sniffed her butt and slapped her skin with his wet tongue. The time spent in the scrapyard went unnoticed as she happily collected the resources required and, occasionally, tossed a sun-bleached femur for Dogmeat to retrieve. 

   Charon merely stood on the hood of a car for higher ground and surveyed their surroundings, refusing to wipe the glower from his face. 

   “Charon! Watch this!” She snapped her fingers. “Dogmeat, sit!”

   He listened obediently.  

   “Now shake!”

   He extended a paw, and they exchanged pleasantries. 

   She beamed, ruffling his mane as he panted contentedly. “Good boy!”

   The ghoul had never turned around.

   They returned for home, Evelyn’s mood considerably happier until a horrible stench burned her nose with all the power of an atomic bomb. "Pee-ew!" she gagged, glancing down at their furry tagalong. "Dogmeat, you stink!"

   Charon slightly turned his head, his tone flat. "That was not the dog."

   She nearly died.

   The stars speckled the sky and Megaton’s twinkling lights ushered them past the gates as they all stood outside her door while she unlocked it for them to enter.

   Charon immediately planted a boot in the dog’s side as it came to barrel past. “No.”

   “That’s okay Charon!” she chirped, already spinning the taps to the bath. “He can come in!”

   Dogmeat zipped straight to her kneeling beside the tub, being hugged around the middle as she lifted him over and in. 

   Charon beheld the sight with a grimace. “It should be outside.”

   Evelyn rubbed her hands through Dogmeat’s soddened fur, scrubbing away the grime. The water was instantly browned. She gave him a weird look. “Why?”

   “Because that is where it belongs.”

   She scoffed, the reasoning obvious, “But this is his home now.”

   Charon slammed the door shut, shaking the entire house. The wet dog shook all over inside the tub. “I see.”

   As Evelyn rubbed the dog down with her own personal towel, the ghoul minded his business and made no further comment on their four-legged guest while he performed his craft in the small kitchen dwelling. Dogmeat leaped to the table with a most eager smile on his face at the sight of food being presented.

   “No,” Charon snarled down at him. “Not for you.” 

   Evelyn only had to take a single glance at the steaming pile of brown slop and the begging mutt before her brain fired up with a brilliant idea. 

   “I’m going to go eat in my room,” she explained as she took the serving in her hand. “Thanks!” 

   Charon grabbed the dog by the collar, beginning to drag him to the door. “I shall put it outsi-"

   “That’s alright, he can come up and sleep with me.” She whistled. “Come on boy!”

   Charon let go, and the dog bounded up the stairs in chase. He didn’t intrude on her after she closed her door and fed the plate to her saving grace. 

   “Good dog,” she whispered as he licked up the remains. Dogmeat took up a good deal of space in her bed, but rather than imagine a thick wall of unrelenting muscle and a stone-cold attitude, she nestled her face in the smell of damp fur and warm affections. “Good night, boy.”

   The mongrel was obsessed over. He couldn’t see the appeal behind it. It was dirty (something she normally despised), it smelled (something she usually complained about), and it was pointless to keep around. Even the robot gave it a baleful eye as it went about sweeping up the endless supply of shed hair. 

   So it made no sense to him as to why she was so happy with it.

   They slept in the same bed. He found them curled together, the dog lifting a single ear flap upon his entry (even though he didn’t make a sound). They spent her meal times together in her room. They wandered outside the front gates for the dog to do its business. She spoke to it as though it had the ability to reply, their one-sided conversation leaving him behind in the midst of it all. The dog was read to. They shared a snack cake on the couch. She lovingly brushed him till he shined and overly praised him for being the best boy and good boy and I love you so much you stinky dog-butt.

   He’d never seen her smile so wide and for so long, before.

   Charon reclused himself in his workshop, only cracking his door open enough to peek through and witness whatever activity the two fixated themselves on. 

   She was tying a red bandana around its neck. He didn’t know where she had gotten it. 

   “So handsome,” she cooed.

   It farted and sneezed simultaneously.

   Charon made her favorite dish that following evening, plunking down at the table with two bowls and two spoons and an impatience brewing in his gut. When she came down to him waiting on her, the meat of dog a bur in her side, he gestured to the empty chair across.

   “I have made dinner,” he proclaimed. 

   “I smelled it,” she observed with a neutral tone. The pair of serving dishes were stared at with surprise. “Oh, are we eating together?”

   He stiffly gave a nod of his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

   The dog lay at her feet as they took their utensils and ate their food, hers slow and meticulous, his vehemently scarfed. He looked over his food to her eventually just slopping spoonfuls over the side for the mutt to catch.

   He shook his head, shoveling another mouthful in, a wet spray of soup flying off his tongue. “You should not do that. It is a bad habit.”

   She gave him a look of disgust. “Someone’s talking,” she muttered.

   He stabbed his spoon in the air down at the dog that had no thoughts behind its eyes. “It can hunt for itself.”

   “I’m not going to risk him starving or getting hurt,” she sniffed, ladling a healthy spoonful over. “It’s fine.”

   Charon slammed his fist on the table, shaking the entire thing. “It is not.”

   She scooped a much bigger portion this time, throwing it into the bottomless pit of teeth below. 

   “It is,” she scathed.

   He abruptly stood, shoving his chair back. “I will not risk myself in combat for it.”

   Her eyes narrowed as she reached for the pot and dumped the remainder overboard, her morning leftovers for breakfast disappearing straight down an awaiting gullet. 

   “Maybe you shouldn’t for me either,” she seethed, slamming the thing back on the table and stomping up to her room. Her door slammed shut.

   He was left alone downstairs, his bowl only half empty, whereas hers had been licked clean. The robot tidied their mess as he stood a hairsbreadth just outside her door, listening to the hushed conversation she carried.

   “Just give him a little time…I know I had to.”

   He swiftly vanished inside his own room when her shadow darkened the crack of her door.

   “We’re going to Moira’s,” she curtly announced as they bounded down the stairs. 

   We. Not I. The dog had been elevated to the status of a fucking person. 

   He burst out before she could make it to the base of the stairs. “I will follow.” 

   She perched her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. “Why? I’ll have Dogmeat with me.”

   The look he gave her was one of utter absurdity. “Are you implying it to keep you safe?” he growled. What a fucking stupid notion. He glared down at the mutt. Its lazy eye had switched sides again. “I will come.”

   Craterside Supply already had a customer at its door. It was Gob. He was wearing a stained, mismatched suit, awkward and stiff as he just stood there. He had a bottle in his hand. He gave a small wave as they approached. 

   “Oh, hey smoothskin, I was just- uh-”

   The door swung open, the light from inside bathing all three of them. Moira grabbed at Gob’s hand, sweeping him off his feet. “Sorry, but we’re closed!” 

   The door slammed shut in their faces. They shared a look. He inwardly shuddered (for he could only imagine what she was succumbing him to).

   “Well,” Evelyn mused, “I guess we’ll come back later.” She began to walk back for home, when she abruptly turned and gestured to the bar. She rushed out, “Doyouwantadrink?”

   The saloon was crowded. They managed a table in the far corner, but she didn’t take her seat. 

   “I’ll buy.” She turned an interesting shade of red. “What do you want?”

   He surveyed the room, drumming his fingers on the table. “I have no preference.” 

   She took off before he could accompany her, the dog taking his place as her shadow. A wandering hand veered a little close to her backside, and the mutt nipped at it, sinking its teeth deep enough to draw blood. The man yelped and whisked his newly-to-be severed limb to his chest, and Evelyn was left none the wiser as she propped herself against the bar counter and ordered their drinks. The dog just scratched at its chin, lolling its brightly red tongue to the side. She returned with two beers, clinking their glasses together after he raised his for a drink.

   “Cheers!”

   He didn’t give any in return. It must have made her feel some sort of way, for she mumbled an apology and then refused to look at him. He watched her watching the crowd, the lip of the bottle brought to her mouth for small sips.

   “I want to go back to Rivet City,” she spoke a little loudly, making herself heard over the commotion. 

   “Very well.” He finished his beer.

   “Is that alright with you?” She was now staring at him, that creeping blush along her neck and cheeks now branded a fiery red.

   He narrowed his eyes. “You know of my answer.”

   “But I want to ask.”

   “I prefer you do not,” he groused, sliding his bottle to the side. “It is a waste of time.” The look he gave rippled a visible shudder down her spine. “Do not waste mine.”

   He was suddenly abandoned as she made to leave. He was left alone at their table, his bottle empty whereas hers was half-full.

   The dog once more accompanied her to bed when she tucked herself in that night. He checked on her, just as he always did, but she called out to him in the darkness before he closed her door. Her voice was thick, as though she had been crying.

   “Please don’t come in my room anymore.”

   The dog’s eyes glowed at him as he obliged her request. He left back up the hill to find the groping perp caught with his pants down and seated on a toilet in the otherwise empty head. He locked the door.

   When she had left the next morning for their “walk”, the visiting caravan and a few volunteers were busily combing around for any hint as to their missing member.

   Evelyn threw a stick for the mutt to chase. “Weird. Wonder what happened?”

   Charon didn’t answer.

   The dog returned without its item. Instead, it carried a dismembered, bandaged hand.

   “Ew, no, bad Dogmeat!” Evelyn scolded. “Drop it!”

   It had been ravenously chewing on a finger. 

   Everyone had gathered around the severed appendage and declared it to be the remains of their missing caravaner. 

   “It’s rare, but we do get yao guai around these parts,” Simms had voiced, effectively dispersing the search party. 

   Before they could make their way back through the gates, the sheriff directed their attention to a swirling cloud of black smoke in the nearby distance. 

   “That there’s Grayditch,” he said. “Only home to a few settlers, but honest folk, all the same. Might be worth checking up on them. After all,” he gave Charon a pointed look, “it pays to take care of one another.”

   Evelyn sighed, "Yeah, sure. We were just about to head out, anyways."

[kidotm]

The Boyfriend: PT 1

 Hey Dad? 

   Yes? He replies softly before leaving her room. 

   She’s all tucked in with the lights out and Mother’s Bible left on the nightstand. Tonight was Daniel and the Lions' Den. She wonders what a lion looked like, felt like (soft, rough?). Did they smell of desert air and grassy plains? How cool was the river they drank from along the rich soils of Jordan? She’ll never know, but if she asks her father, he will give an answer. He has an answer for everything. 

   Do you still miss Mom?

   He pauses, but he doesn’t turn to look at her, not in the eye, anyway. His voice is soft, like stardust falling from the sky to lightly sprinkle the crown of her head. Yes…very much.

   Was it a terrible thing she didn’t feel the same? How could she, for a mother she had never met, even though at one point they had shared the same heartbeat. How cruel, never to hear it beat again. 

   Will you always miss her? 

   He’s silent, and then, I don’t know. 

   She doesn’t know what to say in return to such a confession. 

   Why don’t we get to bed, sweetheart? It’s late.

   Yes, Dad. I will. 

   She dreams of being in the lions' den, but she isn’t quite there, yet. She’s with her mother, all snuggled and warm and safe, but the lions are hungry, and they do not discriminate. She’s pulled into this world a little too early, and much too violently. It’s full of teeth and screams and despair, rips and tears and blood and sinew. She’s gone just as soon as she came.

   Where was God then? 

   The house reeked of smoke- it was on fire. 

   Evelyn tumbled down the stairs, crashing to her hands and knees at the bottom as the front door flew open and a whirring of Wadsworth’s fan began to operate in an attempt at dissipating the suffocating fumes. Dogmeat whined in her left ear (with a wet nose) as she got to her feet and braced an arm over her mouth to stem any more toxic inhalation. 

   “Holy shit!” she coughed, “what-?”

   The outline of Charon’s back appeared as the smoke began to drift away. He turned around with a pan and a grimace on his face. (It must be bad). She continued to wave her hand around and blinked back tears as he shuffled two giant, charred, pie-shaped delicacies onto two separate plates. One split in half, spilling out an almost molasses-thick orange ooze that produced something of an awful stench. His frown deepened like a chisel in stone as he poked and prodded the thing with a spoon.

   The sight made her heart flutter. “Oh. That’s oka-”

   He looked her dead in the eye and rasped matter-of-factly, “They are perfect.”

   The pan on the stove quite suddenly burst into flames, and he quickly smothered them out with a deafening clanking of a lid. His head swiveled on his neck a near 180 degrees as she just dumbly stood there. 

   “Sit,” he said. 

   She hesitantly did so with a fold of her hands in her lap, as she watched him pat the side of his head after a patch of hair had caught alight. He then straightened, turned back around, and set down another (smaller) plate under the table with a third (smaller) black pie. Evelyn gasped in surprise at the offering, but he just shrugged in annoyance at her slight smile.

   “If it is going to travel with us, then it cannot slow us down,” he said evenly. He took ownership of his weary (and heavily abused) chair. “I am sure you are hungry. Let us eat.”

   All of her teeth began to hurt after nearly ten minutes of chewing. A loud crack made them both pause and look to the other, and then Charon rooted around the back of his mouth for a cracked molar before flicking it in the bin. The bent tines of her fork played with her food whilst Dogmeat’s tongue noodled around her ankle, begging for her scraps after having inhaled his own.

   “It’s pretty smoky in here still,” she eventually said, only a partial-lie. She scooted her chair back as he continued to saw saw saw at the corner of his elephant's foot. “I’ll be outside for a bit.”

   The faint breeze rippled the edges of the contract that was being held so delicately in her hands. So illegible, so stained, so stupid. Such a stupid, stupid, stupid thing. She should shove it in her mouth, chew it to paste, and spit it back out. Better yet, she should swallow it, see just how far the big guy’s hands can travel down her throat in chase. Why did she want to be with someone who was made this way? Someone who followed orders, who risked life and limb, who had no conception of free will or…or who made her godawful food, who presented her with real flowers, who was given the choice to be anywhere but here with her. But would he still, if he truly could? What was he to her…what was she to him?

   The waft of his peculiar scent, smoky gunpowder and salty musk, all bottled together with a hint of wrath, sprang up her nose with the deep inhale she made. She wanted to spray it along her wrists and rub it inside the dip of her neck.

   “I will need supplies,” Charon politely informed her as he came to stand beside her at the railing. He took notice of the contract still in her hands; the tarnished, yellowed slip of paper so translucent in the sunlight. His eyes snapped to her face. “Is there something wrong?”

   “No.” She folded the thing to dig a hole in the pocket at her waist. She was going to burn it, let the ashes float from her smudged fingertips along the westerly wind, and say goodbye. Get on with her life after seeing to a debt that she was still entitled to pay. She said, “It’s nothing.”

   He didn’t care to comment on the outright lie as he dutifully fell in step behind herself and the scruffy dog, waiting with his arms folded and posture menacing as she went to invite them inside the supply store. It was locked.

   Knock Knock

   “Shall I check the bar?” Charon asked.

   “No.” 

   Knock knock knock!  

   She took a step back and copied his stance. In all the months she had been living in Megaton, Craterside Supply had never been one to close its doors during business hours. She knocked again. “That’s weird. Maybe something’s happened?”

   She could practically taste the dryness off his tongue as he rasped, “Is that a bad thing?”

   “Ha-ha.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and only when she looked away, did he return the gesture. “I just want to make sure that-”

   Her concerns (and fist) halted in midair as the doorframe swung open. The woman (of Charon’s waking nightmares) appeared, dressed in nothing but a wrinkled, hem-fraying suit jacket, her hair frizzy and skin abnormally flush. 

   “Oh, well hey there!” Moira casually remarked. “I thought I heard someone knocking at my door!”

   Both ghoul and girl craned their heads to peek up the stairs at the blur of motion that had materialized. It was none other than Gob, completely butt naked (aside from a pillow hiding away the family jewels). Evelyn immediately spun around, burning as hot as a Roman candle, whereas Charon just squinted, not reciprocating the right to privacy.   

   “Oh, I am so, so sorry!” she stammered. “I-I didn’t-!”

   Moira waved her hand, completely unperturbed. “We’ve been at it all night. I was sort of needing a break!”

   Gob choked from above, mortified, “Moira!” 

   But she continued without so much as a bat of an eyelid, “Guess we’ll put on some pants!”

   “That’s totally okay- we can come back-!”

   “Oh don’t be silly! We’ll be right out!” And the wind from the door blew in their faces. 

   A loud bang came from inside the store, followed by the high-pitched whirring of some machinery. The dramatic opening of the door startled them both as Gob reappeared in a frankly disheveled state, busily fastening buttons and keeping his eyes glued to his feet as he bumbled out. He was quickly spun around at the elbow and shunted against a pair of tipped toes and puckered lips, Moira’s wet smack audible for the entire town to hear. The amorous air was almost sickeningly thick enough to be mistaken for tear gas. 

   “Don’t be shy, handsome!” she brayed.

   Gob’s entire face melted into a sloppy wet puddle of loving mush. “Y-yeah.”   

   The clouds broke overhead, the sun came shining through, the birds sang out in heavenly chorus. It was as obvious as a holovid scene when the hero and the heroine were finally embraced under predestined stars of eternal happiness…and it made Evelyn feel absolutely deranged with envy. Cupid had strung her bow, let off a volley, and yet had somehow forgotten to save an arrow for herself. 

   Charon had never acted like that. Charon had never looked at her like that. Charon would never…be like that.

   “I-I’ll, uh, see you later,” Gob hummed as he spun around and swayed along to an invisible tune, a new record spinning for his outlook on life. 

   Moira was twiddling her fingers through her hair, a dreamy sigh floating from her chest as she watched him go. “Wow,” she breathed. “Isn’t it all just…something?”

   Dogmeat hacked, eyes bulging from his skull as his tongue extended like a spyglass.

   Moira turned her eyes to the loudly choking canine at hand. “Aww! Now just who is this cute little guy?”

   “Dogmeat,” Evelyn answered without so much as a hint of usual enthusiasm. “May we come in?”

   “Of course!” They all stepped inside as she took her place behind the counter. “What is it today? Grenades? Ammo? Radioactive cave fungus-?”

   Evelyn wandered the store for her usual round of window shopping as Charon immediately began to preemptively resupply his inventory. Dogmeat occasionally brushed her hand with his nose, loudly panting. A corroded ring with a dull stone set on a display stand was picked up. She looked down at her callused hands, studied the grease-stained fingers and unclipped hangnails. They were hands not worthy of the fashion magazines she had leafed through in the Vault; were much too ugly for the women wearing silk dresses and pearl earrings dashing beautiful smiles. She slid it on a finger, frowning at how well the piece seemed to suit her. Moira was talking a mile a minute whilst Charon just shoved things inside his personal pack, his demeanor giving his best I am ignoring you impression. Her heart jumped in her throat when she turned to have her nose smushed into the big guy’s leather jacket. She backed up a step and rubbed at the tip.

   His eyes were drawn down to the ring still on her finger.

   “Do you like it?” he rumbled. 

   She took it off to set it back on the display. The wasteland was no place to consider such frivolous things. “I mean…it’s kind of pretty.”

   It was soon plucked between his thick, scarred fingertips, and before she could protest, he set it on the counter and pulled out his drawstring of caps. “This as well,” he rasped. 

   “Ooh!” Moira picked it up, closing one eye as she held it up to the light. “I forgot all about this! Supposedly, Wolfgang said it belonged to a princess from a wasteland far away across the sea.” She handed it back over for the ghoul to take. She shrugged. “Supposedly. Five caps.”

   Charon stiffly spun around with the ring curled inside his fist. “Here.” 

   She held out an open hand, and he dropped it. He then stared at her with such intensity all she could do was mumble out an awkward, “Thank you.”

   Both turned their heads to Moira’s cheeky smile. “It’s in the air.”

   “Let’s go,” Evelyn said, striding for the door as he just turned his head to stare after her. 

   Nova and What’s His Face were met just off to the side, sharing a smoke and some lowly uttered goodbyes. 

   “You know where to come find me,” Nova purred.

   “So I do,” he drawled with a grin.

   A nudge in her side. Charon gave a nod of his head to the gates, and they set off for the rising tower of smoke in the distance, Dogmeat’s legs skittering across the sand as he investigated ahead. She briefly looked over her shoulder, once, twice, and then the third time was met with a raspy disgruntled, “Is there something wrong?”

   It was a losing battle to ask…

   “Um.”

   …but she did it anyway.

   “Are you okay?” She fought not to flinch when he snapped his toasty glare around. “You seem…angrier, than usual.”

   He replied sullenly, “I am fine.”

   “Okay,” she mumbled, willing her eyes to stay forward. She could hear the sound of his boots trudging through the sand and rocks so close behind her. The shoddy jewelry glinted on her right ring finger. With a wobble of her lower lip, she hesitantly turned around to face him. “I-I mean, it’s, it’s just-”

   He very slowly raised a brow as she just continued to spew word vomit. 

   She finally blathered, “-like, I guess, doImakeyouhappy?” 

   The muscle nearly disappeared into the creases of his forehead. “Happy?” he repeated, clearly not understanding. 

   “Yeah, like.” She slapped her hands at her sides and looked off into the distance back towards Megaton, squinting against the bright rays of the sun. “Someone you like like, to be with. You know…happy.”

   He stared at her. “Why do you insist on asking me this?” 

   A shrug of her shoulders; she couldn’t meet his hawking eyes. Her voice became quite small. “Maybe because…I want to be with someone who makes me happy.”

   His eyes narrowed into slits, the question being spat out between the sharp edges of his teeth like an interrogation. “Does your safety not make you happy?”

   “I don’t mean it like that,” she exasperated. “It’s more like, well…a boyfriend, or something.”

   The moment the sentiment left her lips, Charon took a step back, and his entire attitude changed into rigid hostility. He didn’t say anything, and so she braved the open waters of her pathetic confession.

   (But there is always a contract)

   “A…boyfriend,” he deadpanned. 

   “Yeah.” She felt a tingle up between her thighs as his chest expanded from the deep breath he took, his thoughts in clear conflict behind his blank stare. He then looked at her with such annoyance she muttered, “You know what? Forget I said anything.”

   She stomped on past, hearing the angry, indistinct grumblings wafting under his breath as they continued towards Grayditch. The big ghoul eventually took lead the closer they encroached upon the razed settlement, the still-licking flames and wispy smoke beginning to make the air difficult to breathe. 

   Charon halted their steps. “I do not think we should continue.”

   Before she could give a reply, a shriek snapped them both to the threat at hand. A child had come dashing out of the rubble, waving his arms around and screaming at the top of his lungs, “HELP! HELP MY PAPA!”

   Charon stood his ground between the boy and herself with his weapon raised, whereas Dogmeat excitedly began to sniff their new friend. She could see the blood on his arms, coagulated and scabby. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. 

   Charon warned, “Get back.”  

   Evelyn came between them, reaching for the scared child with a bend to her knees and a low soothing hum to her voice. “It’s alright, come here.”

   The boy instantly nabbed at her instead, dragging her away with his dirt-stained, grubby little hands that were cinched tight around her forearm. “Please please please help my Papa!”

   They all found themselves climbing small mounds of rubble and stumbling over giant carcasses of ants-

   A sharp squeak left her mouth as their protective roles switched and she suddenly clung to the boy. Without another thought, she tightly held his hand and began to force him in the opposite direction towards relative safety and lack of six-legged freaks. “Holy fuck-!”

   “Let me go, lady!” he wailed, thrashing around until she was forced to release him. They squared off against one another in the middle of the road, his earlier panic resolving into stubborn defiance. “My Papa has been fighting those things, and I need you to go help him!”

   Charon said bluntly, “He is dead.”

   Despite her internal agreeance, Evelyn gasped, “We don’t know that!”

   “That is not a risk worth taking.” He scanned the area, then looked back down the way they had come. “Let us move. Now.”

   She was more than familiar at the sight of that unspoken anger in his eyes. Do not do this. With a defeated slump to her shoulders, she motioned for the boy to come with them. “Megaton isn’t far. We’ll go back and-”

   “I have no one else,” he sobbed, so small and as frail. “It might be too late.”

   Her fingers hovered midair upon reaching for his arm. He was crying fat, ugly tears that rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin, snuffing a disgusting wad of snot up his nose. It had her gut sinking like a heavy stone in deep waters at the sight of that fragile, glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Papa would be okay. Cook him breakfast. Tell him to brush his teeth, don’t wander too far, tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight. Slowly, her fingers curled back to her side.

   Why did you leave me, Dad? What did I do wrong?

   The single look she gave to the ghoul made him gnash his teeth but relent with a nod of his head. He wrapped a gloved palm around her elbow before they took off in hot pursuit, his tone urgent and low. “Stay close.”  

   Dogmeat kept at the boy’s side as he scurried deeper into the fiery pit that was once his home. Without uttering a single word, he silently turned to them both and pointed to a blackened building, the flames mirroring inside of his wide eyes. Charon guided them to a rusted preservation shelter, heaving it open with his bare hands. He gave them both an expectant look. 

   “Get in.”

   The boy began to wildly shake his head before the ghoul lifted him off the ground to plant him inside. 

   “Stay,” he commanded. He then turned to her and made the same request. 

   She crossed her arms and stood her ground. “I will-ugh, hey!”

   Charon had simply tossed her along and threw the mutt in for good measure before he began to heave the contraption closed, the sunlight waning with every inch. His face was soon the only thing left visible in the crack as he declared, “I shall return.”

   The shelter was snapped shut, and the three were left cramped, frightened, and in total darkness. Minutes ticked by, the boy’s grimy hand finding her own and squeezing it tight. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked with a tremble in his voice.

   She licked her lips, returning the small comfort shared between them. The air was beginning to grow stifled and smelled of dog, Dogmeat’s panting the only sound besides their whispers. 

   “Yeah…he’ll be back.” She stared at the closed door, felt the confining metal all around them, tasted the blood, and smelled the sand. “He always comes back.”

   Charon opened their hideaway, dully saying, “He is dead.”

   The boy didn’t fight with her this time around. The light in his eyes had been promptly snuffed out, leaving two glass orbs that occasionally reflected dead emotion whenever they passed the lingering flames. Something skittering from underneath a hole in the rubble made her freeze and whip him behind her, and then she felt the incredible heat and screamed. She didn’t hear his shrieks, the snarling, or the thunder of shotgun blasts, or register the dark underground she was pulled into. Her hand was wildly smacking at her left arm, the blistering and popping and crackling consuming everything as Charon feverishly ripped off the sleeve before the molten flames could melt her suit into a second skin.

   “Fuck, fuck- hold on!” she choked, wheezing on her own rush of adrenaline and self-induced morphine as the scorching pain made her want to amputate her own limb.

   You’re fine-you’re fine, seenotsobad-oh my God it smells-fuck-the skin-

   Her pack was cut from her shoulders with an easy slice of a blade. It was simply dropped to the concrete as Charon ravaged around inside her bag for that heavenly sight of a syringe. The Med-X felt like a drop of sugar on her tongue, dissolving into her nerves and lacing spun cotton candy in her limbs like the after high of a good fuck. He shot up one more when the tingling sensation in her left fingertips became annoyingly aware and she whimpered. The drift of muttered words swelled her ears, a voice held underwater, but she was too busy enjoying the light reflecting on the surface. Her fingers traced the hardened, disfigured plastic of her Pip-Boy- a knob had melted to the base and refused to spin, unlike her vision, which swarmed around and blended together and oh shit she was going to pass out much too soon-

   She didn’t feel the shake on her shoulder. Didn’t hear the sobs, or feel the tears and spit on her face. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. 

   Do you think if Mom knew she was going to die, she would have still wanted me?

   Oh, honey, now how did you ever come to think of such a thing?  

   Perhaps the better question would have been to ask whether or not he still would have wanted her…for if he did, then wouldn’t he have stayed? Was she not worth enough for him to just leave? To fend for herself, to struggle to survive every day just to see another sunrise, or sunset, to see her friends, to sleep in her bed…to be with him.

   A gasp!

   She startled upright, her fingers grazing the cold concrete which filed her nails in the most spine-crunching way. Eck. Evelyn blinked, choked up on her spit, and smudged a few fingers in her eyes, the greasy oil leeching into her retinas and making them burn slightly.

   The burn!

   She looked down, her arm strangely numb and grotesquely wrapped in a multitude of bandages. She was afraid to touch it, for what if it had become a mangled mess of blackened flesh and sweltering bumps and-

   A pair of hands, both powerful and insanely gentle, cradled underneath her jaw to turn her face back upward. 

   “Are you in any pain?” Charon asked quietly.

   Her eyes whipped up and over, her sense of situational awareness painfully nonexistent. They were in a small maintenance room, the flickering light overhead occasionally fritzing out and then coming back to life. The sound of water droplets from a pipe gave an eerie echo in the silence between them. 

   She shuffled upright, her voice thick and croaking. “…where are we?”

   “The metro,” he answered simply. “You have been out for a few hours, now I advise you to hold still.” 

   The wrapping was being unfurled, beginning at her shoulder as he began to slowly wind it down. She stared at the thin line of his mouth, how heavy it was, so stern. She turned her head, blinking against the dreary lighting. The boy was slumped in the far corner with Dogmeat curled at his back, both seemingly fast asleep. He really was nothing more than a scrawny kid, slathered in soot and blood and piss and God knows what else. 

   Charon casually inquired, “What does a boyfriend do?”

   Evelyn stared at him, in disbelief at the words that had just left his mouth. “You want to talk about this…now?”

   He nodded. “There is time.” The dressing came down to her wrist, and she caught sight of the angry, raised flesh, somewhat in wonderment that it didn’t hurt. 

   “We-well,” she awkwardly began, breathing in the closeness of him like he was a candle and she was the flame. “A boyfriend, like, holds hands, k-kiss, and stuff, talks about everything…has sex.”

   The eyebrow raise was back, but he didn’t look up from her injury. He questioned with the utmost seriousness, “Is that not what we do?” 

   “It’s a little more than that,” she added weakly. “It’s like, two people who want to be together…forever.”

   He lifted his head, her bare hand gently held in his. “Are you considering handing over my contract?”

   “N-no, but-”

   He assessed the mottled and flaking skin, his fingers tracing the worst of it. “Then I shall be this boyfriend you require.”

   The term was said so strangely she almost barked out a humorless laugh. She winced as he gingerly moved her crispy appendage to expertly rebandage it.

   “Uh, that wasn’t what-”

   “They’re everywhere- they’re everywhere-!” the child shakily rattled, over and over and over till her ears bled and her anxiety turned her mouth into musty cotton. He flinched as Charon stormed over to the door, scraping it against the floor as it swung open. “No, don’t, they’ll get you too-!”

   “I will throw you outside if you do not stop screaming,” the ghoul snapped.

   There was a loud sniffle, and then the child began to rub gooey snot and tears all over his face with the backside of his hand as he broke down into hysterics. “I don’t know where else to go! Those fucking ants are still out there!”

   Evelyn scolded. “Charon, stop it!” 

   He growled but obeyed as he closed it, shaking his head as she stood and wiped the dirt from her backside and legs. The boy in the corner quivered; Dogmeat watched the room with strangely glowing eyes, unusually still for a dog of his nature. She stood over the fatherless child- one of the same, and not of the last. They were to roam this earth of their volition, unguided, and forced to grow years beyond their own.

   Evelyn bit her tongue with enough pressure to squash it into ground beef. “I’m really sorry about your dad…what’s your name?”

   He looked at her, drawing his knees to his chest. “Bryan. Bryan Wilks.”

   “Evelyn.” She held out her right hand, the ring glimmering in the dim lighting. “Let’s get out of here.”

Let’s Not Do That Again

   The dog he could live with. The boy he could tolerate (for now). These utterly reckless, truly reprehensible, downright fucking stupid endeavors she dragged him head-first into…he had something to say about. He always had something to say about it, but whether or not he actually chose to give his straightforward and crass opinion was altogether another matter- but today it did. 

   It mattered. 

   “I didn’t think there’d be fire-breathing fucking ants!” she growled. 

   Charon snarled in return, “Because you do not think!” 

   She scoffed, “Ooh, yeah, good one!” She mimicked with an atrocious impression of him, “You are stupid!”

   He held up her burnt arm, as though the sizzled flesh wasn't enough of an eyesore to notice. “And look what it has cost you.” He scowled at her before she could unwrap it completely. “Do not do that.” 

   She scratched at it, peeled it, frowned and hissed whenever her nails dug in too deep. He had felt her pain. He saw the flames run up along his once perfectly pale freckled skin, mindlessly eating away at everything until it was charred to an ugly stain of shit. He had shut every part of himself down and banished the child and dog from his world as he hid them away in their own little corner. (Safe). Stop screaming. Stop fucking screaming I cannot concentrate when you are making those awful fucking sounds-

   He had put his hands in her mouth and ripped her wide open, her teeth smushing her eyes into jelly, but then she had stopped and gone completely limp, and that gave him an entirely different reason to panic. 

   The boy had intruded on their safe space. Cried. Loudly. Don’t go. Don’t go like Papa. Don’t die.

   Charon had snapped. She is not going to die.

   He had checked her pulse (strong, steady), she was going to live, but now the way was shut, and it forced them to venture deeper below the surface. 

   “Hurry,” Charon had snapped, nabbing the snot-nosed kid by the elbow to shove him forward and around another bend. “Keep going.”

   The ants had completely infested the underground, forcing them to backtrack their steps and go in circles like some hellish merry-go-round and trip down stairs and become completely fucking lost. The buzzing was at their heels. They were sprinting through the abandoned subways, their breathing ragged and muscles strained, but the rate at which his ammunition was expending was enough of a kick in the nuts to continue to push, and fast. The boy was tired; Evelyn was exhausted; the dog panted loudly with a lolling tongue that dragged along the floor. They could not return the way they had come; the ants far outnumbered them to try and escape with brute firepower alone. 

   A rotating light had beckoned to them from within the bowels of the murky tunnels, signaling a way out. Charon had herded his band of cats to the exit only to be met with a locked service door and password-protected terminal. Evelyn had flown to the keys, her fingers tapping over them with haste. The chittering had begun to grow somewhere down along the service line. A click!

   “Got it!” 

   The mutt had been the last to squeeze past the maintenance door, its tail barely escaping a painful detachment. Charon had then turned to his small squad with his grim expression. An empty room- a dead end. Nonetheless, Charon needed time to think, to strategize. He would get them out. He had to. 

   She was cradling her arm again. 

   “You are out of Med-X,” he bluntly noted.

   She shot him a dirty look. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” She turned her head, groveling under her breath, “Stupid smoothskin.”

   His scowl worsened. He imagined he wasn’t doing a very good job at being a boyfriend. He got down to one knee and began to rummage through his array of supplies for anything that could give him an edge. He was nearly out of shells. They were all out of grenades. Close-range tactics were suicidal (for even he wasn’t fireproof, in spite all the atomic flaying he had already endured). 

   “What the hell is this?” 

   Evelyn’s (predictable) scavenging made him pause with his mission planning. She was holding a black velvet garment of a very unique design to her chest, letting it waterfall down until it barely kissed her thighs. It was a nice thing, not unlike the one she had back in her room. Their eyes immediately met, and she held it away as though it was a strange animal that had bitten her.

   “What a weird thing to keep down here,” she mumbled. 

   (It disappeared within the depths of her bag)

   “We’re trapped here, aren’t we?” the boy said plainly, addressing no one in particular. The dog just wheezed. “We’re going to die…just like my Papa.”

   Evelyn said nothing, but the lines deepening in her face spoke of her thoughts.

   Charon couldn’t suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He grumbled, “We are not going to die.”

   Whether or not they took him at his word, he didn’t know. The boy sat on the floor in one corner with the dog curled at his feet while Evelyn messed with the screen of her damaged Pip-Boy. 

   “Useless,” she said before stowing it away. She then held up the sliced webbings of her straps and glared at him before tying the ends together to form a makeshift sling. 

   A braying of gunshots made them all jump to their feet and look to the door. Charon held up a hand, signaling them to stay as he carefully went forward and prepped a blast at whoever had the unfortunate luck of trying to share their hiding place. Charon planted the muzzle of his shotgun directly to their forehead. 

   A half-naked smoothskin weirdo grunted in surprise, dropping his gun. 

   “Holy- don’t shoot!” He held his hands up in plain sight as he kept raising his eyes until they met with Charon’s threatening snarl. “The fuck-?! Look pal, I’m just here for the nightwear!”

   All three questioned in unison, “The nightwear?” 

   “Grady said it’d be here, that’s all!” The smoothskin hopped on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable to be nearly deepthroating the end of a gun. Charon put a little more weight behind it- stop moving. “I didn’t think anyone else was down here besides all these fucking ants!”

   “Do you know a way out?” Evelyn suddenly materialized at his elbow. “I have it, and I’ll give it to you if you can help us.”

   The smoothskin went to answer, but Charon sharply interrupted, “No. I do not trust him.”

   “He may be our only way back to the surface!” Evelyn reasoned with a hiss.

   Charon's voice boomed like a rolling thunderstorm. “I want to keep it.”

   An echo of surprised noises came from the both of them. 

   Evelyn squeaked, “You do-!?”

   The smoothskin said, “Hey, hey! Fine, alright, keep the damn thing! I ain’t looking to hand over my life for it.” 

   “Good.” Charon leaned over, bellowing his hot breath over the smoothskin. “Now go.”

   He did, with a trip down the subway line and a hot coal in his step as he scurried away, more than likely to be roasted and devoured. Charon turned to her, his weapon relaxed at his chest, rasping, “We too should leave.”

   They came to dip into another stairwell, opening the door to another smoothskin.

   Everyone (but the ghoul) yelped, “Ah!”

   Charon shoved the stranger back inside to allow them room to enter before slamming the unwanted pyro pests out. 

   “My-my, you startled me!” the man exclaimed with a high nasally voice. 

   The boy exclaimed, “Dr. Lesko! You made it! You’re alive!”

   “Well of course I am,” he stated as though it was a simple fact. He adjusted his cracked spectacles. “Now, who are you? And what are you doing in my private lab?!”

   Charon gave a nod, dead serious. “I am the boyfriend.”

   The scientist blinked, completely caught off guard and stupidly repeating, “The boyfriend?” 

   Evelyn pointed to the door with her good arm, her face growing nuclear. “Shut up! Just what the fuck are those things?! What the hell are you doing down here?!” There were beads of sweat perspiring on her forehead; she must be in pain. 

   A dull throb began to tattoo inside his skull. It was nothing in comparison to the earlier wave he had been struck with when she had caught aflame, but it was annoying enough that he interjected.

   The smaller man was wrangled by the collar of his lab coat, the simple noose being tightened until he was gasping for air and seeing stars. Charon shook him, snarling, “Med-X. NOW.”

   “Brgahhh!” he choked instead, a shaking finger pointing to the top drawer of a filing cabinet. 

   He dropped him like a sack of flour, ignoring the boy’s frightened crying and Evelyn’s snarky reprimand as he ripped the cabinet open and took to cramming the entirety of the medical supply stash inside various satchels and pockets on his person. 

   A wheezing, “You-you can’t just take everything-!”

   Charon whipped a glare around, mustering enough ire into his stare that the man withdrew his former protests. He then gently took Evelyn by her right elbow, guiding her to a chair. “Sit.”

   She didn’t argue. An abnormality. 

   With a flick of the cap and the poke of a needle under her skin, he depressed the entire dose and became relieved when she finally appeared relaxed. She rolled her head to the egghead still cowering in the corner.

   “What the fuck is going on?”

   The goofy smoothskin began to ramble in a most unpleasant manner that made his fingers twitch. Charon didn’t understand the majority of what was said, but she apparently did, or at least enough that it roused a strong reaction from her tired limbs. She snapped out of her chair, bracing her weight into his.

   “People are dead!” she shouted. “People have lost their lives because of you, you stupid fuck! This is all your fucking fault!”

   The smoothskin couldn’t be any less bothered by her angry outburst. “It is the price to pay for science-”

   Evelyn saw red. Charon recognized the flash behind her eyes like the bloom of an atomic mushroom cloud. She momentarily glanced down to the pistol at his thigh, and so he simply unholstered it to let off a single shot. The egghead’s brain exploded all over the wall. The child screamed, as did she. He assumed it was what she wanted. Ahzrukhal never had to ask.

   (…but why was he suddenly comparing?)

   Her hands were at her mouth, the swell of fury gone and overcome with shock. “Charon…oh my God.”

   He secured the latch over his pistol just as the child began to cry; a long, drawn-out, melancholy sort of woe that was sure to carry down the remaining subway tunnels. 

   “Quiet,” he growled with a show of teeth.

   Evelyn exploded, “Why the fuck would you do that?! He might’ve been the only person who could’ve helped us-!”

   Charon began to take inventory around the room. Food, water, and surprisingly, some ammo. No shells, but he could make do with his smaller sidearm.

   “-who knows just how long we’re going to be fucking stuck down here! At least maybe he could’ve told us what-!”

   Charon snapped around with a nasty glower at her incessant rambling. “There is no reason to be loud. He is dead.”

   “Because you blew his head off!” she snapped.

   There was another door that he cautiously scoped out of, and yet another subway line that led somewhere even further underground. No exit in sight. He came back and bolted the door shut. Evelyn had taken to the terminal, her face pinched in concentration and tongue sticking out to the side, the fiasco with the scientist already blown over. He shook his head when she failed a second hacking attempt. 

   “Dammit,” she muttered, scratching at the swath of bandages over her arm. “If only I knew the password…” She looked up to him already staring at her. “Maybe he had it on his person?” she reasoned, albeit lamely. “In case he…forgot?”

   Charon irately sighed and rifled through the pockets of the dead smoothskin. His fingers met something.  “Found it.”

   She gained entry and scrolled through meaningless dialogue text boxes. Whatever she was reading through, he cared little for. He had a job to do, and every minute that passed risked their presence becoming known. Perhaps if he were to use the child as bait…

   The boy questioned out of thin air, “Whoa, what is this stuff?”

   They briefly gave him their attention before resuming their tasks. Charon did a whiplashing double-take. The boy was holding up a jar with a very familiar, golden, molasses-thick liquid.

   Evelyn stupidly questioned, “Is…is that, what I think it is?” 

   The child went to open it.

   “No!” they both shouted, and it frightened him into dropping it. 

   The jar rolled along the floor (miraculously intact without a single crack) all the way to Charon’s boot. He swiped it up to carefully inspect it, treating its contents with all the respect of an atomic bomb.

   “Holy shit,” Evelyn marveled at his elbow. “It is.”  

   Charon scowled at the boy. “Where did you find this?” 

   He pointed to a metal crate in the corner, and they both stepped over to peer inside. Multiple jars, each filled with various amounts. A metal clipboard beside the unexpected treasure trove was picked up. 

   “Ant queen pheromone?” she read aloud. Her eyes widened and Charon peeked over her shoulder in mild curiosity. “It’s an aphrodisiac. Holy shit, Moira.”

   “What’s an-” The boy scrunched his face in serious thought. “Afrodeeziak?”

   “Uh-”

   Charon stooped down to collect the other jars, cradling them like a newborn child. “They are not to be played with. It is dangerous.”

   The boy accepted the vague explanation, nodding sagely. 

   Every single jar was delicately wrapped in fabric before being nestled inside his pack. He lifted his head to Evelyn’s gawking. “Yes?”

   “You’re seriously taking them all?”

   He nonchalantly answered, “We have use of them.”

   "Whoa, do they explode, or something?!" the child asked with wonder. 

   Evelyn grew flustered and resumed back to the terminal. "Let's just try and figure a way out, okay?"

   The hours slowly passed. The body was dragged outside. The child and dog took to the only mattress for sleep. Evelyn poked and prodded through various containers for anything of further value, but they were severely limited. Charon cleaned his gun and sharpened his blade as they struggled to come up with an escape plan. He could hear the ants just beyond their door picking the egghead clean, the occasional sharp cracking of bones piercing the air. 

   "We can't stay in here forever," she told him, fiddling with the ring on her finger. He was glad she liked it.

   “It will be difficult,” Charon began. “But not impossible.” His eyes came to rest on the child peacefully asleep. “He will have to stay.”

   “What?!” she blurted, smacking her trap shut after the boy shifted. She lowered to a whispered hiss. “What?! We’re not leaving him down here!”

   “I do not believe he will survive,” Charon reasoned logically. “He is a hindrance and will put us all at risk. It is for the best.”

   “Jesus Charon,” she said with disgust, taking a step back to eye him critically. It made him feel…strange. “He’s just a kid who lost his only family. Maybe have some empathy.”

   “That,” the ghoul replied darkly, “is what will get you killed. You are my employer, and it is my duty to protect you. I cannot extend that same service to him.”

   Again, there was a sort of glazed-over, deadened look in her eyes as she regarded him. It was alienating. “He’s coming with us.” There was no room for argument in between her words. They nailed into him, the hammer of her stare beating down with every second. 

   hescomingwithushescomingwithushescomingwithus 

   Her little whispering voice was crawling just behind the rods in his eyes, crushing the bridge of his nose, sliming over his teeth, and swallowing his tongue. He was sweating, so hot and flush he might puke all over himself. 

   hescomingwithushescomingwithushescomingwithus 

   “Stop it, stop it, stop it-” Charon gasped, beating the sides of his skull with his fists. “Fucking stop-!”

   “Charon?”

   The big ghoul turned with a shuddering inhale- the mantra was gone. 

   Evelyn was standing but a few feet away, cautious, regarding him as though he were a feral animal, vicious, a killer, kill-

   (But she wants him with us)

   “Charon?” she repeated, her eyes wide and uncertain. Her hand was hovering in the air for him. Her voice cracked, unable to uphold itself any longer. “…are you okay?”

   The veil lifted, his thoughts once again his own. They were cornered in a pinch between a train car and the crumbling brick. How far did he wander? 

   “Let’s go back,” she suggested, her voice thick. Her hand was still there for him to grab.

   (Take it)

   He did not remember walking this far. That was a problem. She spun on her heel after dragging him back to the stairwell.

   “Look, I know this is all of my fault, okay?” she said with a slight sob hitched in her throat. “But I think I figured out a way to get us out of here, and if it works, we’ll go straight back to Megaton for a bit to figure out everything. Just…” Her clammy hand fell to her side. His fingers twitched. He wanted it back. “…don’t ever leave like that again.”

   He could only nod, for he himself did not quite understand what he had done. What would a boyfriend do?

   (He couldn’t remember)

   “Okay.” She stepped back into their hideaway before he had the chance to ask her. “Tell me what you think of this.” 

   It was a simple plan. Nothing too complicated, but it came with great sacrifice- it required use of (almost) all of the ant queen pheromones. 

   Charon had his arms crossed, his expression extremely grim with a low hang to his frown. He looked from the sacred jars to the terminal to her expectant face. It was almost like the dog’s when it had performed a trick. Pet me. Tell me I’m a good girl. He wished to, but just in other ways. 

   (Which was now out of the question)

   “And once they’re all gathered, we can make a run for the surface and back to Megaton,” she finished. For a moment, he believed her to have made a decent general. Perhaps in another life. “We can come back and wipe out the nest another time, with better guns and more people to help. If what that asshole had on his terminal was true, then it should work.”

   Charon thought it over, revised it, and then set it in motion. He had to give her credit; it was the best option they seemed to have. He bent down to shoulder his pack. “Very well. I shall go. Do not leave this spot until I have returned.”

   She followed him to the exit. “Be careful. Don’t get your ass any more fried than it is.”

   He snorted, his eyes hooded as they stared at her cupid’s bow. He had the insane urge to kiss her, but she had already retreated behind the door. The pale, pink hue of her lips was all he could think about as he stealthily crept down the tunnels and set the jars (save for one) in a suitable position away from the nearest exit points. The big ghoul then walked a way down the service line, equipped his pistol, and proved his long-range marksmanship with perfect shots, the glass shattering and ooze splattering all over the train tracks. He made his way back to the lab, the droning sound of insects quickening his pace. 

   It fucking worked. His crazy smoothskin and her crazy ideas. He would have expressed his gratitude and commended her for her ingenuity if it were not for the fact that they still had to make their escape. 

   He initiated in grabbing her hand, the dog and boy along in tow. “Let us go.”

   The frenzied ants swarmed through, their numbers easy to avoid as they simultaneously provided some sort of waypoint back to the street level. The biggest, brightest grin on her face was impossible to go unnoticed in the dark underbelly. He still very much wanted to kiss her. 

   “We made it!” the boy exclaimed. He dug his heels in the pavement as they went to dash for the open wastes. “Wait, my Papa…”

   Evelyn let go of Charon’s hand to take hold of the boy’s. “I’m sorry, but we'll have to come back later.”

   He swiped it away. Brat. “No! I have to bury him before those things come back and-”

   Charon lifted Evelyn over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring her undignified squawking as he spoke monosyllabically to the boy. “It is not safe here. Stay. Leave. The choice is yours.”

   She bitched, "Charon!”  

   The dog barked, whining in the child’s ear as though to usher him along. Charon began to march straight off when he heard the patter of small feet hurrying behind in chase. 

   “W-wait for me!" he begged. "You promise we’ll come back?”

   Charon said flatly, “No.” 

   Promises were something never to be kept in the wasteland. Better he learned it now.  

[kidotm]

These Boots

 “Hold still,” Charon growled.

   “Ow!” Evelyn hissed. “Ouch!”

   The smoothskin doctor appeared unimpressed with her bitching- annoyed, even. He removed another piece of melted vault suit from her skin with a slight shaving from a scalpel. The Med-X didn’t seem to wholly dampen the pain of it, thereby making him annoyed. 

   “I do not advise us going back,” Charon rasped. His eyes squinted when she let out another whimper. “It is too dangerous. You could have been killed.”

   “God, can’t you be more gentle?!” Evelyn berated the practitioner before giving the ghoul a reproachful glare. “After what we’ve been through, ants are your no-go? And you say I'm the one being dramatic.” 

   “They breathe fire,” he astutely reminded her. He watched another piece of burnt skin being peeled away. It may as well have been his.

   “We won’t be going back alon- yow!” She retreated her arm to her chest. “My father was never this rough!”

   “Yeah, and I’m not your father,” Church said pointedly. “I don’t have to treat you-”

   Charon coldly interrupted with, “You do.”

   The smoothskin quickly reconsidered. “Okay, I have to treat you, otherwise you’ll more than likely die from sepsis. You want that? No? Good. We’re almost done, anyhow, then you can leave and hopefully never come back.”

   The smoothskin was true to his word. They were soon walking the streets, her arm grossly bandaged to the point it was stiffened straight. 

   “Fucking ridiculous,” she said, waving the limb around like an improvised baseball bat. He swerved his head from a swing. “Just look at this! Look at my vault suit! It’s ruined!”

  A favorable outcome, all things considered. 

  She continued, “And my Pip-Boy is now garbage! I pray to God Moira can fix it…so far she’s been able to fix everything.”

  He watched her attempt to scratch at an itch just above her butt, her right arm unable to make the distance, and her left just plainly unable. Her motor mouth was still revving a mile a minute, so he reached over with the tips of his fingers and gave her a good scratch. 

   She balked like a startled brahmin. “What are you doing?”

   “You appeared to have an itch.”

   “Do you just take notice of everything?”

   He thought long and hard for a moment, their stride continuing without a hitch, and then, “Yes.”

   She harrumphed, a strange sound. “Well I can handle my own bodily needs, thank you very much.”

   The plunge of his gaze straight down to her groin made her bloom hotter than the Mojave sun. He deadpanned, his face perfectly stoic, “I do not think so.” 

   She squeaked, mortified, “Stop it!”

   They came to the door. He opened it for her. She had to dip in sideways to fit her arm through the entryway. The boy and the dog were lying in wait on the couch, the child fast asleep with his mouth gaping open and excessively drooling. 

   “What are you going to do with him?” Charon rasped as she went over to drape a thin blanket over the boy. 

   She sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I was going to ask Simms his advice, maybe he’ll have some better options.” She altogether appeared haggard and exhausted. They hadn’t eaten or slept upon their return. There was a sour smell about her. 

   “You should sleep,” he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

   The yawn behind her hand appeared enough persuasion as she made to sluggishly climb the stairs, fruitlessly reaching for that itch once again. “Wake me when he does.”

   Charon did no such thing. She needed to rest, and he could handle the brat while she slept. The boy woke while he began to prepare an early dinner. He rubbed at his eyes, coming to stand a little too close for Charon's liking. The child stared at him, and he stared back. The robot folded his blanket as it tidied around, the dog trotting up the stairs to her room.

   "What?" Charon grumbled. He cracked an egg into a bowl. He didn't know what animal had laid it.

   The boy said, "I need to use the bathroom."

   Charon turned away, stiffening his shoulders. It was his first line of nonverbal defense- leave me alone. "It is outside."

   The boy didn't move. With painstaking slowness, Charon swiveled his head around. "What?" 

   "Can you show me?"

   "No." The ghoul bumped into him as he turned for the fridge, forcing his feet to move. "Outside."

   "But I really have to go!" 

   Charon said with a dismissal, "That is not my concern." He peered down the neck of a brahmin milk bottle. He did not know if it was expired, but it didn't impede him from pouring it into the mix anyway. A tug on his belt. He snapped a glare down and shook him off. "Do not do that."

   He whined, "I can't hold it much longer Mister!"

   The bowl was banged down on the counter as Charon stomped to the door and opened it. The child obediently followed until he was grabbed by the collar and plopped down on his butt outside. 

   "Up the hill," Charon growled, nabbing the handle to shut him out. He returned to his culinary creation, blinking at the chemical reaction that was suddenly taking place. 

   A knock on the door. 

   Charon nearly sent him flying by the force at which he flung it open. "What now?"

   The boy wiped at his runny nose. "I don't want to go alone, what if those monsters come back?"

   Charon rolled his eyes, going to leave him once more when the child nabbed at his hand. The ghoul gave the boy a stare lethal enough to drop a man dead. "Let. Me. Go." 

   "Please Mister! Please!"

   The ghoul was soon leaned against the outside of the head (lest the boy wake Evelyn with his complaints), his stance very much reminiscent of his past life as a bouncer. A shadow slunk from the creeping edges of night, ending up at his feet. Charon didn't move. It was the ex-raider. 

   They carried on a silent standoff before the smoothskin slime croaked, "You going to let me in?"

   Charon didn't move.

   "...what, you think you own this shitter, rotbag?"

   Charon didn't move. 

   There was the muffled sound of a toilet flushing from within, followed by the loud rattling of the hand sink piping. Charon stood straight just before the door opened. 

   The child stepped out, and Jericho barked out a laugh. "Hell is this? You got yourself some little kid? Playing Mommy-"

   Charon had already motioned for the boy to return to the house, outright ignoring the taunts thrown at his back. Evelyn was already awake, nursing a Nuka-Cola at the table and giving them a curious once-over. 

   "Where were you?" she questioned. The mummified appendage was pointed like a broadsword at them, the boy going to seat himself in his chair. “I thought I asked you to wake me up.”

   Charon shrugged. “You are awake now.”

   He ladled two servings in their appropriate bowls, ferrying them over for her and the boy. It was black and bubbling. He was sure she was hungry. Her arm awkwardly poked out to the side, her eyes trained on the dish presented to her. They then went as wide as the bowl when the child guzzled his meal straight down. 

   Charon kicked the back of his chair. “You are not a dog.”

   Evelyn merely stared at him as though he might explode. Charon could not decode the look in her eyes- fear, perhaps? Was she afraid he had eaten too quickly, make himself sick? He went to reprimand the boy with a box to the ear for unnecessarily giving grievance when the child slammed his bowl straight down on the table, his eyes overflowing with tears and nose runny with bubbling snot. 

   Evelyn reached her good hand over to console him. “Oh my God, are you okay-?!” 

   “It’s… it’s…” Bryan bawled, “Just like Papa used to make!” He sniffed, the webby goop sucking straight back up from his chin. His glistening eyes looked straight up at Charon. “Mister Scary Guy, your cooking is the best!”

   Evelyn placed a hand on his forehead, visibly concerned as she muttered, “No fever…concussed, maybe? Shock?”

   The boy continued to sob, relenting Charon into giving him seconds. (Whatever made him stop crying). Evelyn had slid her bowl under her chair for the dog to have after he had turned back to the sink. 

   “We’re going to visit Simms, he’s the town sheriff,” she gently explained as the boy licked his bowl clean. “...do…do you have any other family?”

   The perfectly sparkling dish was slowly set down, the crying having ceased despite the lingering sadness on his face. “My Papa tells me about Vera, but I don’t know where she is…always said something about a big ship somewhere…”

   Evelyn blinked. “Rivet City.” She shared a glance with the ghoul over his head. “That’s actually where we were headed.”

   The boy pleaded, “Do you think you can take me there?! I-I promise I won’t be bad, and, and I can find my own food, and-”

   She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy. A lot just happened in a very short amount of time. We’ll go, but not right now.” She clunked her useless arm on the table. “At least, not until I get this thing off.”

   Charon grumbled to himself. He decided with absolution that he did not like children. 

   The sheriff came by of his own ambition upon learning of their return, eager to be informed of the happenings of Grayditch. He did not appear very enthused by their findings and solemnly agreed with Evelyn’s future course of action. Much to Charon’s relief, he gave the boy temporary lodgings, stating that he would be more at ease with another child for a friend before they made to depart for Rivet City. 

   The boy, however, was mildly upset with the proceedings. “Aw, I wanted to be with you guys.” 

   Evelyn got down to one knee to be at his level, scratching the mutt behind the ears. “Tell you what, you can keep Dogmeat with you until we’re ready to leave, deal?” 

   “Hmm, okay…” The boy took off at the sheriff’s side with the dog encouraged to follow. “Just don’t forget about me!”

   They watched them disappear down the hill. Evelyn hummed, somewhat sadly, "It's strange...it's almost like he's okay with everything, even though his dad just died."

   Charon gave her a sidelong glance. "He is used to it. It is the wasteland; it is the way things are."

   "I guess that says something about me," she said softly. 

   He didn't know what to say to that.

   The bandage over her arm was finally allowed to be unwrapped later that evening, leaving her free to escape the grimy prison of her vault suit for a bath. Charon, too, stripped his gear, coming to stand at the side of the tub for an invitation.

   She didn’t lift her eyes away from his rising cock. “Um…can I help you?” Her legs slightly parted. “You do know this tub is way too small for us both, right?”

   “We have bathed before.”

   She tickled pink. He was nearly poking her in the eye. “I wouldn’t have called that bathing.”

   “Then I shall wait.”

   “Naked?”

   He scratched at his chest, unbothered by his nudity. She did not seem to take offense to it, at least, not anymore. “I am in no hurry.”

   She went to dunk her head below the surface. “You are so weird.”

   He couldn’t help but feel disgruntled when she didn’t initiate anything between them, and he puzzled over the conditions of being a boyfriend when she just dressed in her towel while his erection stood at perfect attention. He bathed, sullenly, splashing water over his shoulder (and the floor) as she retreated to her room to continue with her business. He seriously considered rubbing one out when she came back down the stairs, fresh in her green jumper with her Pip-Boy and pack in her arms. 

   “I’m going to Moira’s to get my stuff fixed, I’ll be-” He stood, the water cascading from his body and sloshing all around the tub. She was staring at his dick again. He was more than eager to please her with it, but she only finished with, “-back.”

   He groused, a little more than malcontent, “I shall come with you.” He came across harsher than intended, and it was doubly shown by the thin purse of her lips. 

   The climb to Craterside Supply was halted at Gob’s Saloon. She turned to him, frowning.

   “Why don’t you wait for me here, maybe we can get a drink?” she proposed. She juggled the crap in her arms. “I won’t be too long, and you won’t have to endure Moira’s newest craze.”

   For once, he took her up on the offer. He entered the bar and took a seat at the counter, sullen and pissed off as the bartender came forward. The frustration building within him reared its ugly head at the submissive ghoul.

   Charon spat, “You lied to me.”

   Gobtholemew instinctively flinched at the seething bite snapped his way. He subconsciously ducked his head- a well-ingrained survival tactic- before coming to realize there was no clench of a fist being pitched at his skull. He repeatedly blinked at the big ghoul taking port in his chair, his massive size swelling the harbor that was the bar. 

   Gob said, “Er, sorry, what?” 

   Charon cracked his knuckles, setting his hands on the counter to repeat with, “I have not seen it. It does not exist. You lied to me.”

   Gob glanced around the room. It was unusually packed for the middle of the day, but no one else seemed to hear the big guy’s insurmountable rage building in his voice or witness the rigidity stiffening his spine. 

   Gob licked where his lips had once lined his mouth. “I, I don’t understand-”

   Charon leaned forward. “The light.” 

   “Oh.” Gob willed his shaking hands to steady, the fear of death having soiled his briefs. “Um, I mean, well.” He coughed some phlegm. “I don’t know what to tell you…”

   “You have seen it,” Charon demanded, an accusation. “You know it to be real?”

   “Y-yeah,” Gob answered, although his response was none-too-confident. He picked up a clean glass and abraxo-soaked rag, simply going through the motions. He gave the giant shotgun strapped to Charon's back a wary look. “Did-did you maybe, uh-”

   “I have done what you have suggested,” Charon continued with a grump. “And it does not work.”

   The door opened, and they turned their heads to Evelyn stepping inside, the ivory moonlight illuminating her outline and dancing in a snowfall with the color of her earthy hair. She lifted her gaze, meeting Charon's grim outlook on life with her characteristically warm one.

   “Oh.” Gob’s eyes went wide as he stared at the back of Charon’s patchy head, his words going unheard. “…you really don’t see it, do you?”

   Evelyn came to sit beside them, adding to their company. “So.” She spun once on her stool. Then again. The third rotation was halted by his knee. “Moira can’t fix my Pip-Boy.”

   Charon raised a brow in minor disbelief. “You had said she can fix anything.”

   “Yeah, I thought so too, but she doesn’t have the parts or the experience,” she bellyached, sighing as she slumped over the counter. “…but there is someone else.”

   “Who?”

   She blew a stray hair from her face, her voice far too muffled for him to hear. 

   “Who?” he repeated. She again mumbled some unintelligible response, and so he nudged her chair.

   Her index fingers tapped together. “...Winthrop.”

   Gob hastily made for the other end, muttering something along the lines of, “Should probably inventory the stock.”

   Charon knew his face was less than pleased. “Him?”

   “I’m sorry, do you happen to know anyone else?” she sardonically asked. He released a sigh and pinched the folds between his eyes as she just scoffed, “I thought we were over this-!”

   “Very well.”

   The two-worded response effectively stemmed her foretold blathering. The corners of her eyelids creased- suspicious. “Wait, what…really?” she hedged. When he only nodded, she outwardly looked relieved. “Oh, well, okay, um, I guess we can-"

   Charon shook his head, crossing his arms. “No. Not we. I.”

   The look on her face was absolutely dumbfounded. “… I?”

   “Yes. Me. Not you.”

   “Why?!”

   “I will return when it is finished,” he rasped. “Unless you wish it of me to come back sooner.”

   She held up a hand. “Hold on! I didn’t say yes-”

   The brow rise made another guest appearance. “Did you have to?”

   The silence was something of a dizzying spell. He could see her massaging her cheek with her molars. He was old whereas she was young, and he was not new to this, (unfortunately, Ahzrukhal hadn’t been, either). She had not yet learned the stipulations of his contract, both to his advantage and drawback, and if he was allowed the room to flex his situation, then he would. 

   “You want to go, alone?” she affirmed. 

   “Yes.”

   “And you want to stay in Underworld until Winthrop finishes my Pip-Boy?”

   “It requires less travel.”

   “Doctor Barrows told me you aren’t even allowed back.”

   “He is of no issue,” Charon reassured her. When she gave him a look full of doubt, he continued with a promise, “I, will be of no issue.”

   Chew chew chew. 

   She asked with a small voice, “And you’ll be okay?” 

   He gave a cantankerous sigh. “I will not kill him.”

   She flushed a deep red, quite like himself. “That wasn’t what I was referring to!”

   “I will be fine,” he said. He faced the bar counter once more, ready for his order. “I shall leave when you require it of me.”

   She copied his positioning, giving a wave to the ghoul bartender. “Okay…”

   Gob dawdled to them, sliding two beers to their elbows. "On the house."

   "Thanks," Evelyn said, struggling to pop the top off. 

   Charon set the lip of the cap to the edge and easily popped it with a sharp pull before trading beverages with her. "Here." She gave him a faint smile, and then he caught the bartender staring at them with a strange expression from the corner of his eye. He challenged Gob with, "What?"

   Gob spun around, tending to another customer. Charon chose to ultimately ignore it. He must be scaddle-brained from his earlier interaction with Moira still...whatever that entailed. 

   (He couldn't help but be somewhat curious)

   Three days had then passed, and he dutifully remained in Megaton. The Pip-Boy seemed to be the least of her concerns very suddenly, and she just moseyed around the town performing mindless busywork. Leak patch here, caravan trade there…they found themselves on the outskirts, exterminating a burrow of molerats that had made themselves too comfortably at home. Charon finished eviscerating the last rodent, handing it over for her to string on a metal pole to then cart back to sell. The meat fetched a decent price, and the settlers seemed to find usefulness for their skins. It was easy caps, and she seemed content in doing it, which meant he did, too.

   The dog had wandered off again. 

   “Dogmeat!” She whistled out into the empty wastes. “C’mon boy! Let’s go home!” It appeared like a summoned skinwalker, seemingly floating across the sand. “Where do you go?” she asked, but it predictably didn’t answer. 

   Charon hoisted their bounty over one shoulder, the line of carcasses dripping fat drops of blood in a trail behind them. They went over the habitual motions of trading and selling before returning to her stilted house on the hill. Another day passed. The sheriff stopped by for a brief visit. 

   “Bryan’s a nice kid, and I know Harden loves having him around, but the boy needs to be with his family. He keeps talking about this Vera in Rivet City. You said you were making a trip there, weren’t you?” 

   Evelyn twirled a strand of hair around one finger. “I mean, yeah, I am, it’s just my Pip-Boy is busted, so I need it fixed before we can go.” 

   “I understand, but if this drags on any longer, I may have to send him off with Wolfgang.” The sheriff tipped his hat. “You folks have a good day, now.”

   She closed the door, leaned against it, and didn’t lift her eyes from the floor. 

   Charon had stood close by, his bag already packed and ready for the road. “Shall I go?”

   But she just gave him a hesitant, halfway-house sort of smile and shook her head. “No…not yet, it’s not urgent.”

   Another day, and the boy came. 

   “Are you going to Rivet City soon?! Mr. Simms says he’d feel better if I went along with you guys, since the caravans get hit by raiders often, but I don’t care, I think it’d be cool to hang out with a guy named Wolfgang, I mean, how awesome is-!”

   Evelyn held up a hand, damming his bursting fountain of youth from spitting all over her. “Yes, we’ll take you, it’s just going to be a while, but soon.”

   “Aw man,” he pouted, discouraged at the thought of missing a highly ill-conceived adventure. “Okay. You know where to find me when you do!”

   He scampered off, and Evelyn closed the door, leaned against it, and stared at the floor. 

   Charon slammed a hand above her head, irritably rasping, “Why are you waiting?”

   She ducked underneath to escape back to her room. “I’m not! It’s just not a good time.”

   He watched her stomp up the stairs. “Is there a reason? You know I am capable.”

   All at once, her easy-going, relaxed sort of nature from the past few days flew out the window as she spun around at the top, glowering down at him. “Yeah, so capable you don’t need me tagging along to slow you down!”

   He was bluntly honest. “Yes. There may be ferals still roaming the area. It is best for me to go alone.”

   “Peh!” She disappeared for a moment before coming back out to chuck something down at him.

   He caught it with one hand, rotating the Pip-Boy around for better scrutiny. It had sustained heavy damage. He doubted even the mechanic could fix it. 

   “Well there, now you can leave!” She slammed her bedroom door, her voice smothered behind the frame. “Have fun without me!”

   She had asked him not to enter her room anymore, and so he honored that request. Knock Knock Knock. His fist fell back to his side.

   “Did we forget something already?” she snarked after ripping away the barrier between them.

   He frowned. “I do not understand. Why are you upset?”

   She seemed taken back, the fire slowly fading to ash. “Are…are you asking me of…my feelings?”

   A nod. “Yes. You had said a boyfriend talks about everything.” He paused, then held up the Pip-Boy. “So I am talking.”

   She muttered under her breath, “You are way too literal.” He ignored it. She leaned in the doorway with her arms defiantly crossed, shame burdening her brow. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just upset that I’m getting left behind, is all. I feel like I can never do anything by myself.”

   Charon considered her words carefully before his own. “I understand,” he agreed. “I do not know how you had survived this long without my aid.”

   Wham!  

   The ghoul clenched his jaw after the door had been rudely slammed shut in his face. 

   She called out, “See you whenever!” 

   The metal shrieking of the gates was his fanfare as he left out into the open wasteland, his eyes set on the ruins of D.C. Footsteps in chase made him turn around with his hand on his shotgun, but he relaxed his stance when he saw it to be Evelyn. He began to assume the worst when she didn’t slow down and instead grabbed him by the sides of his arms. 

   “What is-?” 

   The fleshy weight of her lips smacked the rough sandpaper of his mouth, the tips of her toes digging into the earth as she reached as high as she could go, instinctively dipping him down to meet her. He was momentarily stunned and couldn’t formulate a proper response as she pulled away. 

   “Be safe,” she breathed, slightly exerted from her sprinting. “If anything happens, forget the fucking thing and come home.” 

   His hand rested on the spot where she had kissed him, and he could only dumbly nod.

   “Good.” She began to backpedal towards the gates. “I’ll hopefully see you soon.”

   Charon stood in his spot for a stretch of time, his hand still in place, her presence long gone and the wind beginning to pick up from the eastern waters far offshore. He stared at his gloveless fingers, a memory ghosting her touch from weeks past. She was frosted cake, a ribboned icing, a creamy inside. It left a sweet taste on his tongue, and he couldn’t help rolling it around to savor the entire walk to Underworld. 

   Boom. A point-blank shot straight to the chest.

   He was an asshole.

Crazy Little Thing Called-

   The horse had left with its rider, swept by the swift rays of the sun as it traveled into ruin and dust. The beat of her heart was still dancing to a small quartet, the bones in their hands and the horsehair in their bows shaking with ripe pleasure to the ballad of her lips on his. There was nothing in the world that she wanted more than to have that big, dumb, animated corpse of a man welcome himself back home and tell her he missed her. It was a fool’s dream, (and a rather big one, at that) but she longed for it, all the same. 

   It’s all she did that first day, staring at the door, waiting for that stupid ogre to come barging inside, but then night fell and she was sent off to bed, lonely and wallowing in a pit of brewing pandemonium.

   It wasn’t supposed to go this far. 

   Charon was soon to be a free man…a new man. His contract had been inked with her blood the day she had walked through that door and paid to have him, for she paid, and he was hers. Her very own walking gun, packing in both heat and dick, just for her. 

   Ha, Amata! I bet Wally and Butch can’t beat that!

   Evelyn had laid in her bed, staring at the blackness until white spots had begun to cloud her eyes, wondering maybe, just maybe, if it would be best if she didn’t wake back up at all. He would be someone else’s problem, someone else’s to ponder over and doubt, someone else’s to wrestle these conflicting emotions with of being with a man that held no ownership of himself…but she awoke, alone, and she tried not to think about him, yet it was all that was on her mind. 

   Charon. The ghoul without a surname, or an independent purpose. A trapped man…a…slave. No matter what he said, he was still bid to do as told, and she had only come to fully understand that the moment he had been denied to leave the boy.

   Just what sort of person was she?

   Dad, did you always want to be a doctor? 

   I did. There was something about helping others that always drew me. 

   And that’s it?

   Why, sweetheart, does there need to be anything more?

   “Gob.”

   The bartender turned to her as she sat herself on the far end away from the other patrons. He held up a choice between a beer and a Nuka-Cola, but she denied them both. She surreptitiously said, “I need to ask you something.” 

   Gob looked over her shoulder for that trapped man. “Gone already?”

   “Yeah.” Her fingers tippy-tippy-tapped on the counter. For once, her nails were clean. The ring perched there, bloated with years beyond its prime. “Do you think I’m a bad person…for having him?”

   There was a sad crease to his frown. “If it does, then I guess that makes two of us.” When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Are you thinking of…you know?”

   “I think I found someone who could help him.” 

   “Does he know?”

   “No. He just gets angry whenever we talk about it.”

   There was that mutual understanding under the blanket of silence before Gob pulled it back from over their heads. He rasped, “If it means anything, you at least make him happy.”

   Evelyn gave him a look like he had just told her the world was actually upside down. “...I do? Did he tell you that?”

   “Smoothskin, I’ve known Charon since my time back in Underworld, and trust me when I say that I didn’t think such a thing existed for the guy until you came along.”

   The tips of her fingers went to brush the knobs of her Pip-Boy, its absence lingering like a phantom limb. "What was he like? Did you know him at all?"

   Gob breathed out a heavy sigh, the past clouding his present as he traveled back in time to simpler days. "I didn't. None of us did. To be honest, we were too afraid. Ahzrukhal just showed up with him one day, and it only took a single 'incident' for us to wise up and leave well enough alone."

   She said, sadness tightening her throat, "I can't imagine what he's had to endure."

   Gob gave her the soda anyway. "I hope you can help him, smoothskin, I really do."

   She left the worn leather of her bar stool, the Nuka-Cola rolled between her hands as she climbed to the second story. The saloon's second-in-ownership and former prostitute greeted her with that charismatic charm only years of personal customer service could buy.

   “Hey hun, how’s life treating you?” 

   Evelyn felt the tips of her ears burning; she wasn’t sure if they would start smoking. “I need advice…for the fun stuff.”

   “Sure, come on in.”

   Nova listened with all the patience of a saint, dwelling on her smoke and occasionally lifting a plucked eyebrow. When Evelyn’s very personal intimate affairs had been laid on the table, Nova stubbed out the finished butt and blew some white haze in the air. 

   “Not gonna lie, you make him sound tempting.” She winked. “But afraid I’m still not into ghouls.”

   Evelyn bypassed the light tease. “I’m not very experienced with any of this.”

   “And honestly, honey, count that as a blessing,” Nova said with a low purr. It was anything but seductive. Her claws were out, and her teeth were sharp. “There’s only one profession in the wasteland that can give you that, and look at me, a washed-up junkie trying to find some better purpose for it all.” She waved off Evelyn’s pity. “I’ll share some secrets with you, but then you have to tell me how it went. Ain’t nothing better to gossip about when you’re stuck in this shithole town.”

   Evelyn left with all of her remaining innocence stitched into a neat little red A just above her left breast. Like the good student she was, she took her notes and asked her questions, going so far as to express her doubt when it came to the intricacies of certain...things. Wadsworth gave her unruly hair a much-needed trim; the few, rare, faded magazines of beautiful women and outdated (unpractical) fashion advice she had kept stashed away were leafed through and scattered around the place, their sepia-tinted smiles and water-discolored dresses watching her every move and every doubt.

   The nightwear was delicately draped around her shoulders and down her back and barely keeping her breasts in place. The ladies looked on with minor amusement at this young woman playing dress up, staring at her battle scars and the puckered skin marring her left arm. The grimace that had been on his face whenever he had stared at it had been just as hideous as he was, and now she was, too. The lingerie was swapped out for its red counterpart, and still her arm was no less inconspicuous as it had been before.

   She eventually blinded her little printed gossipers by ripping out their eyes and tearing apart their smiles while the edge of her knife came to lovingly lay along the seams. A few slices gave her ruby-satin ribbons, forfeiting the absurd desires from her head. The black one was held up as her next victim, but she couldn't bring herself to gut it and strip it. He had said he wanted to keep it. The knife was tucked away in the safety of its sheath, the nightgown eased into her steam trunk like a swaddled babe to the cradle. (Hush now, go to sleep). 

   A pounding at her door made her rush down the stairs, breathless and much too excited to think properly as she misinterpreted I can’t believe I forgot I locked it! with It’s obviously someone else. (It was, much to her disappointment). Her face became crestfallen when the cosplaying cowboy appeared at her doorstep. 

   “Howdy,” Simms drawled. “We just had the last caravan arrive with some scorch marks on their brahmin. I’m afraid those ants you told me about are already moving out, and fast. We’re forming a search-and-destroy party, and I’m asking for you to be our guide. Seeing as it is, we’ll be needing all the help we can get.” He squinted at the lack of muscle hovering over her shoulder. “Your friend ain’t around?”

   “No. I don’t know when he’ll be back.” The scars on her arm tingled. Charon would be none too pleased with her gallivanting around without his direct supervision...but the situation was growing dire, and she was given the chance to fight her own battle. She wouldn't be useless. “We’re going to need guns, and lots of them.”

   The ferals lingered. He simply strode past, frowning at his confirmed precautions as they groaned and stumbled and stared at him with cataract eyes. It was a disguised blessing she had taken him at his word, despite it being an outright lie. The Mall had not changed. He took the off-beaten path, as was usual, out of range and scope from the Brotherhood’s perch alongside the Washington Monument. 

   Willow had her back turned to him, busily trying to strike a flame with a rusty lighter. She muttered and cursed under her breath as she failed to spark a light. The darkening of her skies made her squint and turn around, the cigarette dropping from her mouth as she gasped in surprise. 

   “Ch-Charon-!” she rasped. “What the hell are you doing here?” The look of shock quickly reverted into a scowl. “You know better than to sneak up on someone like that.”

   He went to sidestep around her, but she intercepted his path. He growled, but she stood firm.

   “You’re not allowed back at Underworld,” she said flatly. “Barrows-”

   Charon shoved her to the side with a brute shove of his arm. “Move.” 

   The smaller ghoul stumbled a few steps, and he was mildly surprised she didn’t fall flat on her ass. She yipped at his heels and chewed on his ankles, following him all the way to the front steps with her insufferable bitching rolling his eyes. 

   “-you can’t just keep going around-!”

   Charon spun on his heel and picked her up by the sides, hoisting her a few feet in the air and shaking her like a ragdoll. Her remaining teeth clacked loudly in her skull, her weepy eyes bulging. Charon set her back down, leaving her in a spinning daze. The entirety of Underworld fell silent as he stepped through the doors. He faced them all, tall and broad and with a face that never enticed a conversation. A woman to his side dropped in a dead faint. 

   “He’s back!”

   “What if he’s here to finish the job?!”

   “Should we run? Should we hide?!”

   Charon’s leather creaked, his heavy steps echoing with every footfall, the fleeting whispers filling the concourse like the buzzing of flies. Charon came to Winthrop’s door and knocked. 

   Politely. 

   It opened, and the ghoul immediately slammed it back shut. 

   “Jesus, somebody help!” he shouted behind the frame.

   Charon slowly turned his head, surveying the room. No one dared to make a move against him. The Mister Gutsy continued to float up the staircase, its programmed disposition unable to retaliate against ghouls. Everyone was watching with bated breath as he again raised his fist. 

   Knock Knock Knock

   It locked, and Winthrop cried out, “Just, just leave me alone!”

   Charon took a step back and assessed his situation for a few minutes. 

   KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

   Winthrop’s door nearly flew off the hinges, somehow miraculously holding their defense against the onslaught of his iron fist.

   “Open the door,” Charon commanded. He again beat on it. “Before I do.”

   A click, and the handle turned. Charon mustered all of his patience into allowing the timid ghoul to slowly widen the frame, one eye wide with trepidation. 

   “Y-yeah?” he garbled. 

   “Let me in.”

   “I-I don’t think that’s-”

   Charon crammed his head into the crack, his wrathful face the epitome of nightmares as he glowered down at him. “Now.”  

   Winthrop allowed him entrance, standing far off to the side as Charon took to his private workbench to set his pack on it. He closed the door, shakily beginning, “So…uh…”

   The Pip-Boy was dug out and set down, and then a beautifully plump burlap sack of caps was plopped along beside it. “I need you to fix this.” 

   Winthrop registered the thing in question. “Holy…is, is she-”

   “She is fine,” Charon said curtly. He made a knife hand at the Pip-Boy. “Now fix it.” 

   Winthrop ever so slowly came around to stand beside him, his one eye flitting back and forth between the wrist computer and himself. Charon crossed his arms, leaning into the table and propping his leg.

   The ghoul took the Pip-Boy in his hands to inspect it under a table lamp. He fiddled with the knobs and frowned at the flickering screen. He eventually rasped, “Lucky it still works. I can’t imagine the damage until I crack it open.” The hefty payment was picked up next. “Wow…this is all from her?”

   “No.” Charon gave him a flat stare. “It is from me.”

   “Works all the same, I guess…”

   “When will it be complete?”

   Winthrop set it down and blew out a sigh. “At the moment, I have no idea. It’ll take me a few hours to take it apart, another couple of days to put it all back together, and that’s if we have what we need.”

   Charon became sour, making his way to leave. “I will be waiting until it is finished.” 

   “...that’s it?” 

   Charon stopped. 

   Winthrop said, “You’re not going to…you know…talk about what happened?”

   I will be of no issue. 

   "You made me lose an eye, and fortunately Barrows was able to save my arm," Winthrop continued, his words smacking Charon's brick wall of a back. The big ghoul didn't turn to address his speaker or the accusations. "Whatever...whatever I did in the past, to you, to make you feel that sort of way towards me...well...I guess, I guess I'm sorry."

   Charon stared at the door before turning partway to look at him. The one eye was beseeching, the other having been stitched closed; the awkward limp to his arm proved his discomfort, more than likely from being dislocated and reset. He appeared sincere. 

   Charon's boots sighed as he walked out; there was nothing to say in return.

   The double doors to the Chop Shop flew open with the angry doctor storming out, making him pause and raise a brow muscle at the manner in which Barrows kept a considerable distance from him. The nurse brought up the rear with a scalpel at the ready. 

   “I told that smoothskin of yours that you aren’t, under any circumstances, welcome back in Underworld anymore!” Barrows snapped. 

   Charon half-pivoted and started forward to him. They immediately kept the spacing, bumping open the doors to retreat back inside as he inched closer like an inevitable death sentence. Charon shoved a boot in as a makeshift door wedge before the doctor could secure the latch. 

   Barrows backed up into a gurney, his hands raised in defense. “We-we can talk this out! There’s no need for-!”

   But Charon ignored his pleas and took to removing his shotgun and pack, setting them to the side before working on his armor. They just watched him, stupid and silent. Charon unlatched his chest piece, running the leather strap through its ring. “I need you to examine me.”

   Barrows’ eyes followed along with the removal of his jacket. “Um…what?”

   Charon stripped down to his tattered shirt and pants and boots, his voice deep and full of gravel. “I require an examination. I am turning feral.”

   They all stared at each other. Nurse Graves coughed and was the first to make a move. 

   “Oh…well…that’s, unfortunate.” She motioned to a chair. “Please, take a seat.”

   He did, swiveling his head to the sleeping smoothskin woman that was in the corner. 

   “Doctor,” Graves said. The ghoul didn’t move, prompting her to snap, “Barrows!” 

   A flinch. “Er, sorry, yes?” 

   She inclined her head to Charon. “The patient.” 

   “Oh, uh. Right.” 

   Barrows cautiously approached him as though his teeth might sink into his throat and rip away the flesh. Charon relaxed, looking at the far wall as the ‘ghouling’ expert took to slowly examining him. The longer he scoped him, the more at ease he became and the more enthused he grew. 

   “Hmm. Might have to take some samples. Look here.” He held up a finger, making him follow. “Now here.” A light in his eyes. “Open wide.” A grunt. “Brush your teeth.”

   Charon closed his mouth and rubbed his jaw.

   A clicking of a pen. “Tell me what you’ve been experiencing.”

   Charon did, in full detail, the episodes of his turning. Barrows made some indistinct sounds, scribbling away on a notepad of his prognosis. 

   “Uh-huh, and you said they’ve only been occurring very recently? Nothing during your time here, or before? You’re Pre-War, right?”

   Charon answered the first question. “Yes.” Then the second. “No.” Then the third. “Yes.”

   “And for how long do you find yourself in these episodes prior to returning ‘normal’?” 

   Charon leaned forward on his knees, thinking long and hard. He had to be honest with himself, as he was proving to become a liability and a danger to his employer. As much as it truly frightened him, understanding when he would finally turn was the better (and bitter) outcome than allowing it to consume him fully without any sort of self-awareness. 

   He rasped, “When I am around her.”

   “Who, the smoothskin?” 

   He nodded, straightening. “Yes.”

   The nurse and doctor shared a look. She suddenly held up a hand to her mouth, a crooked smile forming underneath. 

   “Oh dear,” she giggled. 

   Charon snarled, “Are you implying this to be amusing?” 

   Barrows held up a hand. “Easy. No. Going feral isn’t anything to snub your nose at (or lack of, heh), but you’re not.”

   Charon didn’t blink. “I am…not?”

   “No. Your symptoms don’t even ring anything close to turning.”

   The big ghoul again snapped a growl at the chuckling nurse. “Then what is it?”

   Barrows clicked his pen closed and rolled away on his chair, hovering over the limp smoothskin to chart her vitals. “I’d say you’re a little taken with your smoothskin…not that anyone can blame you.”

   “She is pretty,” Graves agreed.

   Charon didn’t say anything. He didn’t understand. 

   Barrows looked over his paperwork when he didn’t go to leave. “Was there something else? Besides an apology for the mess you made last time?”

   Charon shook his head and angrily stood. He began to grab his things to redress. “I do not know what you mean.”

   “Smitten, bewitched, adore-” Barrows half-distractedly rambled, his eyes scanning a steady heart rate. 

   Graves finished with, her voice unusually warm for someone so decrepit, “Love.”

   The big ghoul barked out a harsh laugh, clipping his side satchel full of grenades into place. “No.” He turned to them both, flexing to his full size and snarling, “That is not it.” Charon swung the doors open so dramatically they smacked into the walls, splintering the trim cleanly off. 

   Barrows called out after him before the doors swung shut. “Stop doing that! Don’t go destroying the place aga-!”

   Charon met each and every one of the residents’ eyes with downright loathing. He was going feral, and the supposed ‘expert’ was too blind to see it. 

   Love?

   Charon did not know of such a thing. 

   Love. 

   Such a word did not exist in his vocabulary. 

   Love. 

   The more he considered it, the more it sounded foreign; a bizarre entanglement of syllables and consonants that made no sense when left on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to scrape it off and spit it at his feet, but he could only feel the hard lump in his throat as he continuously swallowed it down. 

   They had it misunderstood. 

   The residents respected him with a wide berth as he climbed the stairs, replaying the habitual motion of returning to his post while his mind brewed over the doctor's diagnosis. The patrons scattered like roaches, hiding in their tiny crevices when he strode through the door into The Ninth Circle. Charon took his seat at his usual table in the corner, his things already set to be cleaned and inventoried before he realized just what it was he had done. He took note of the deathly silence. Everyone was standing stock still, staring at him as though he had dragged himself up from the depths of Hell itself, a mold of cinder and liquid flame. 

   I will be of no issue.

   He came up to the bar, for once, of his own volition, and set his hands on the counter. He frowned at the surface. How many times had he been standing in this exact same spot? How many years had it been, being bid to things he had come to regret and loathe and then suddenly become completely numb to? How many years would it have been, that he would still be sentenced here if she had not come for him?

   (It did no good to dwell on such things)

   Charon leaned away and reviewed the shelves. All of Ahzrukhal's private selection had been drained dry, leaving a limited inventory of cloudy vodka and questionable whiskey. It would appear no one had taken up his mantle of distributing goods. He didn't have to give much thought to the stash of Jet; only the familiar sweet tang now seeped from the wallpaper.

   The bartender groveled, "Did...did you need something?"

   Charon turned to the doors, half-expecting Ahzrukhal to return from his piss and begin barking at him to return to his hole. His hands automatically tightened into fists, the joints popping in his wrists as his knuckles cracked. 

   It was his sole regret that he could not kill someone twice. 

   "Excuse me," a voice rasped politely at his elbow. 

   He looked down at a ghoul woman he had never come to see before standing beside him. He noticed her friend in the corner with the others, apparently horrified at her bravery. 

   "No, don't!" she hissed. "You don't know Charon!"

   The small ghoul continued, blatantly unfazed at the warning, "Are you perhaps going to buy a drink? Maybe two? It gets rather lonely around here...don't you think?" 

   Charon recognized that look, that smile. It was the same one Evelyn gave him before he fucked her mind out of her skull. In a way, it was surreal to see it given by another woman. He did not think Evelyn would like that. He was not stupid. 

   She batted her eyes- a seduction tactic? She demurely said, "So, how about it?" She ran a hand down the length of his sculpted arm. "I do love a strong man."

   There was that word again.     Love.

   Charon glared at her unwarranted touch, nastily suggesting with great vehemence, “Get your fucking hand off me. Now.”

   The woman cowered like a dog to a whip, returning to the safety of the others and being told with a hushed see, I told you! He returned to his seat, glowering at the others as they held a collective breath and waited for him to do something. Anything. Maybe shoot up the room, crack some skulls, throw a body or two over the balustrades-

   He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.   I will be of no issue. 

   Charon took a mental inventory of his stock and went back downstairs, rounding into Tulip’s shop.   She timidly greeted him as he perused through the selection she had. “Uh, welcome back…I guess…”

   Charon outright ignored her as he went about his business until the mechanic’s voice made him turn his head.

   “Hey Tulip, you wouldn’t by chance have an extra set of fuses, would you?”

   “I might, but you'll have to go digging around for it,” she said, a smile on her mouth after Winthrop turned to rifle through the correct bin.     Charon watched her watching him. It reminded him of a much-too-strange of a woman and a very passive bartender. Charon then gave his attention to the mechanic, rasping, “It is done?”

   “No.” Winthrop shoved his hands into his overalls after coming up empty-handed. “Good news- I can fix it. Bad news- I don’t have the parts.” 

   Charon rolled his eyes; a waste of time. “Then it is useless.”

   “Well, not exactly,” Winthrop said. When Charon just gave him a look, inclining for him to continue, he explained, “You've seen the smoothskin Barrows has been treating? From what I’ve heard, she’s the leader of Reilly’s Rangers…I don’t know exactly what they do, but Quinn has done trade with them before, and apparently they come across all kinds of stuff. It might be worth asking.”

   Charon considered his options for a moment.

   If anything happens, forget the fucking thing and come home. A suggestion, and an interpretative one, at that. 

   He gave a nod of his head. “I will ask.”

[kidotm]

BFG Committee

  The smoothskin was in a coma. Barrows was not pleased with his request.

   “What? Are you crazy?! You think I’m going to let you disturb my patient for something so-”

   Charon jangled some caps in front of his face. 

   He begrudgingly took them in spite of how easily they lined his pocket. “Okay, but I’ll wake her up. I know your methods, and I don’t need you putting any more holes in her that I’ll have to patch up.”

   There was a good reason she was incapacitated. The smoothskin flailed and shouted, stumbling all over the place and knocking over medical equipment as she frantically tried to don her gear and get back to ‘the fight’.

   “My team needs me!” she screamed as the doctor and nurse attempted to calmly rationalize with her. “I can’t believe I’ve been here this long, who knows what the fuck could be happening to them!” 

   Charon rubbed out his eardrum with the nub of his fingertip, unpleased with the proceedings. When she refused to just fucking sit back down he felt his short fuse ignite, leading him into holding up the smoothskin in the air with his hand around her neck. Barrows added to his temper.

   “Charon, do not kill her-!”

   “Be quiet!” Charon snarled, giving a light squeeze. She wheezed but obeyed, a faint shake of her head telling him that she was listening loud and clear. “Good. I am in need of a Pip-Boy being repaired. I was told you have what I am looking for.”

   She choked, her face turning the color of her pink hair, forcing him to drop her. She crashed to her knees, groaning and hacking up spit. 

   Barrows grumbled at his shoulder, “Can’t complain, she’s still got all her teeth.” 

   The smoothskin got to her feet and heavily leaned into a table for support. It was evident she was still recovering from her previous injuries. 

   “Okay, look,” the woman spat. Charon found it amusing that she thought herself in any way threatening with her teeth bared and shoulders tensed. “I’m going to start over, and you’re going to fucking listen. I’m Reilly, with Reilly’s Rangers, and I’m knee-deep in shit right now. My team, if they’re even alive, needs help. They might be still trapped at the Statesman Hotel and-”

   Charon cut her off. “I do not see this to be my problem.”

   “-and if you’re willing to help me, then I’ll get whatever fucking thing it is that you need.”

   Charon tilted his head. “You can guarantee this?” 

   After a labored breath, she nodded. “Yes. I give you my word.”

   Charon crossed his arms. “What is it that you require of me?” 

   The smoothskin went on into explaining her plight: she was indeed ‘knee-deep in shit’. Charon pensively rubbed his jaw as he considered the task she was asking of him. Mowing through an entire brigade of pissed off super mutants to then (maybe) find her team still alive was comparable to lighting himself on fire to discover when he would stop burning (and he unfortunately already knew the answer to that one).

   Nurse Graves gently touched the smoothskin on the shoulder as she went to throw on her gear. It had seen some heavy combat and was just in as much garbage condition as she was. 

   “Hey, unless you want to die before making it out the front door, I suggest you take it easy and lie back down.” Barrows flicked at a syringe he held- a sedative. 

   “I can’t!” she said. He could hear the distress in her voice from how inadequate she was at hiding it. “If you’re not going to help me with this, then I need to go myself!”

   “No,” Charon finally spoke. He kicked himself off the wall to point a finger at her. “You will slow me down, or die.” 

   The immense relief on her face was the sun bursting through a cloud of gray. “You’re going?!”

   “I am.” Charon sharply exhaled. Nothing was ever so simple for her…but he would return with the Pip-Boy as it once was. He knew she wanted it. He growled as he went to exit, “Speak with Winthrop before you choose to leave. He will give you a list of what is needed.”

   “We’ll follow your lead.”

   Evelyn swallowed. The small rag-tag group was waiting on her, patiently-

   “Let’s get moving, kid.” Jericho put a smoke to his mouth. “Before I need to take a shit.”

   -okay, maybe not all, but the rest stood in their spots with their mouths shut and eyes stern. Some of the men Simms had collected had never seen combat, and she wasn’t sure if everyone would be returning home. 

   “Jericho, shut your damn mouth.” Simms gave her a nod of encouragement. “Whenever you’re ready.”

   Evelyn had questioned his absurd faith in her leadership after anointing her the tip of the spear, but he had chuckled and raised the brim of his hat. 

   “Caravans tend to talk, and I always listen. Arefu? Canterbury Commons? GNR-?”

   (Shit, she had forgotten about Three Dog. Was he even still alive?)

   “-Tenpenny Tower? And now you’ve just brought home a boy, in one piece, back from Grayditch as it’s burning to the ground. I’ve heard the stories, and I know someone who can handle themselves and others when I see it.”

   (Charon would have strongly disagreed)

   “It’s good to not get overconfident, but don’t sell yourself short. I remember the day you walked into this town, beaten and blue and crying for your dad-”

   (Yeah, this is exactly the sort of pep-talk she needed to hear right now…)

   “-and then you walked right up to that bomb and told me it wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” Simms placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and with a torch to carry. It made her suddenly miss her dad and want to begin crying all over again. “I have complete trust in you, and so will they.”

   Now, looking upon the band of ruffians with their sand-crusted guns and overlapping beer bellies, she wondered what that cowboy sheriff had been smoking that day. Evelyn tightened the grip on her stick-thingy (that Moira had modified from repelling molerats to ants), squared her shoulders, and puffed her chest. 

   Fake-it-till-you-make-it-

   “Alright, I’m ready.”

   -and pray to God Charon was somewhere down the line to pick up what was left of her ass when she failed. 

   They kept a somewhat orderly fashion, coking and joking at her back as she led the troops down the path and into Grayditch. There was no encounter with the fire-breathing insects, yet, and the chuckles and mutters doubting her instincts made her blister with boiling fury. The leathers she wore covered her scarred arm well, but she held it up for them to see all the same. “One of those things nearly killed me with a single attack, so I suggest you shut the fuck up and pay attention to your surroundings.”

   Simms barked, “Unless you want to be on Jenny’s menu for roast tonight, listen to what she’s telling you.”

   Jericho snorted, but they all heeded the warning. 

   She frowned. This wasn’t going to go as smoothly as she would have hoped for. She dropped her arm and motioned them onward. “The nest is in the tunnels, so have your guns ready.”

   Jericho sarcastically drawled, “Aye aye, Captain.”

   The first ant caught them by surprise. There was the scream of a man, thick with dread, and then the bright burn of orange, yellow, and red reflected in her eyes as she watched him go up in a fiery whirlwind of blackened flesh. 

   “Get it out! Get it out!” 

   The man’s high-pitched shrieks nearly ruptured her eardrum as it bounced off the brick walls and echoed down the subway. Evelyn felt her arm catch fire; she went to scream and slap at it before realizing there was nothing there. The barrage of gunfire hailed throughout the tunnel, deafening everything as the party decimated the sole fire-breather to minced ant meat.

   The burning man went sprinting ahead, his hot-red glow briefly lighting the way before he descended into darkness, disturbing everything and anything within the deep. The distant wailing soon ceased- the remaining group stood by and listened. There was no sound to be heard, and everyone quickly reloaded while Jericho spat his cigarette to the side.

   “Fucking Christ,” he growled, stalking up to Evelyn as she tried to covertly recover from her mental episode. His gross breath made her gag as he came too close. “You said you knew how to get us down there!”

   “And I told you to watch your fucking back!” She picked up her bizarre line of defense (the stick), after having dropped it. “Those things are everywhere.”

   Simms stepped up to them, his gun at the ready. “Hey! Now isn’t the time. Let’s keep it moving.” 

   Jericho gave her a nasty side-eye as she brushed past.

   “It’s this way,” she called over her shoulder. 

   Their footsteps clambered on, repetitively clanking and stomping without an ounce of stealth as Evelyn cautiously scoped around corners and occasionally halted them with a solid fist. A charred corpse came to be in their path, each person carefully stepping around so as not to be touched by the lingering flames. 

   Simms shook his head, sighing heavily. “Sorry, Roy.” He lifted his boot to respectfully pass. 

   “Fat bastard brought it on himself.” Jericho loudly hacked and spit, the body crunching like dried leaves as he stepped right over him. He balefully glared at the dirty looks from all around. “What?”

   Simms again shook his head, albeit for other reasons. 

   “Shh.” Evelyn cocked her head to the side, the pupils of her eyes widening as they stared into the darkness. “I hear something.”

   A faint buzz droned low in her ears like the humming call of drums over a distant field, but her eyes failed to see anything in the gloomy underground haze. Everyone kept very still. Time ticked on, the murmuring growing louder until it seemingly vibrated under her skin. 

   “What the hell is that?” someone whispered. 

   “Shh!” Evelyn hissed, and then something wet plopped on her cheek. Alarmed, she wiped at it and looked down. The slime oozed from her hand like a silky spiderweb, and she glanced up.

   A blinking of a thousand small suns stared down at them.

   “THEY’RE ABOVE!”

   Charon had preemptively decided it best to conserve as much ammo as possible for the upcoming fight. 

   The first raider he had come across he had simply dragged by the neck to the toilets, holding him under a stagnant bowl of water with absurd strength until the splashing and kicking had finally ceased.

   The next two had been too preoccupied squabbling amongst themselves that they hadn't noticed his perfect pitch of a whiskey bottle into their campsite fire, erupting a wall of spitting flames that had bought him enough time to slide down the escalator and sink his knife into one of their throats, whilst he had grabbed the boot of the other to simply flip him headfirst into the barrel of fire.

   A fourth had been snuck up from behind down the subway tracks and had his neck cracked in the crook of his arm.

   A fifth had been impaled with a pool stick through her eye, the body left to collapse over the game of billiards. It sank the eight ball in a pocket. 

   He grunted to himself, rolling his shoulders, “Good enough.”

   Charon mindfully looted every biting bullet and scrap of explosive he could find- he was going to need it. A Grognak comic was picked up and leafed through before being tucked away in his pack. 

   (He had noticed she liked to collect them)

   After the inconvenient hurdle of raiders had been dealt with, he found himself back in Metro Central, pondering over the directory board as his fingers traced through the film of dust to make a straight line to Vernon Square. The remainder of his time underground proved fairly simple as he passed the twitching ferals and occasionally rummaged through a bin or two. Navigating alone was overall a much better experience for him, if not, (he stubbornly refused to admit), a bit lonely. 

   Vernon Square was quiet…he did not like that.

   He trekked the courtyard, straining his hearing for any sign of a possible ambush or firefight, and it was only when he made it to the entrance of Our Lady of Hope Hospital that he heard the blasting boom of grenades billowing smoke from the topside of the Statesman. 

   It was a miracle they were even still alive. 

   The hospital door was creaked open, his shotgun at the ready as it made like the muzzle of a hound, sniffing the air for that whiff of danger. His steps were silent, eerily so, as he entered the main lobby and whipped his eyes in every direction. It would not be his first time encountering super mutants in a direct firefight, for he preferred to pick his battles wisely, but if this was his only chance at getting what he wanted, to then ensure she received what she wanted, then he would blow the place sky high if need be. 

   A sickening squelch came shucking around the corner of the first hallway, and he immediately opened fire. 

   A centaur. Nasty, unimaginable creatures of mutation gone two strands too far. The first cracking gunshot ripped away its putrid face, splitting its tongue and dismembering one of its many hands before it fell over and lay still. He stepped up and gave it another dose of lead, just to be sure.

   The smoothskin had briefed him quickly with the down-and-dirty (and frankly muddy) scope of their situation, and as he wandered through the lower levels, he found a spark of respect for her and her team. The pile of bodies and splatters of mutant remains sticking to the ceilings and the walls were damn near in every room- they had put up one hell of a fight, and by the sounds of it, continued to do so. 

   Charon didn’t have the chance to use their strange, unspoken neutrality as an element of surprise, for the mutants opened fire as soon as they had caught wind of him. They snapped their jaws at him, inhaling great gulps of air and speaking their single-syllable words like boorish, oversized children. Super mutants may be bigger, stronger, and a lot more in number than himself, but Charon was overall experienced, swift, and leagues more intelligent. 

   The ghoul immediately hit the deck, crouching behind the cover of a few secretary desks that were soon ripped to shreds by the many teeth of a 5.56mm. His fingers slid into a pouch for a grenade, chucking it overhead and then taking a brief moment for the dust to settle. He whipped his shotgun over the top to-

   A bigger super mutant had entered the room, armed with a minigun and laced with clips of ammunition, the distinct whir of the barrel spinning forcing him to haul ass. 

   “HA-HA!” 

   The bullets whizzed through the air and peppered holes like Swiss cheese in the wall just an inch or so behind him as he sprinted across the room, making sure to pass one of the uglies as he did. The sound of flesh turning into pink mist and agonized shrieks was just at his heels.

   “WRONG. ONE.”

   A chalky haze of concrete dust blinded everything as he stood stock-straight behind a support pillar, waiting for the inevitable pause of a reload. The bits of plaster were steadily chipped away by the hands of its clumsy sculptor; a single bullet making past his defense to graze the edge of his bicep. 

   The gun stopped firing.

   “NEED. MORE.”

   Charon spun out and went to aim high, but a swirl in the dust beside him made him turn to a mutant having snuck up on him. He sniped his new opponent with perfect accuracy, pumping shot after shot after shot until it spurted blood from where its head had just been, its body falling backward with an earth-trembling thud.

   Charon whipped back around to the muzzle of the minigun suddenly launched at his chest and slamming him into the pillar, dragging him up until his feet dangled cleanly off the ground. He gasped, the knowing sharp pain in his chest tattling on the fractured rib he had just earned. The ghoul growled as his gun was smacked out of his hand, the mutant giving him an ear-to-ear chilling smile. He grabbed at another grenade while drawing his knife. 

   Before he could become an additional resident for the morgue below, Charon sunk his blade into the mutant’s mouth, the cold metal sinking nicely through its tongue and the bone of its jaw with the handle propping open the roof of its mouth, his other hand diving the grenade as far down its throat as it could go. The sensation was overly hot, slimy, and its breath was something of a most brutal nature, that it somehow burned his already dulled sense of smell. 

   The mutant’s eyes went wide, and then it exploded into macabre confetti.

   Charon fell to his knees, spitting out the bits of guts and bone that had landed on the edge of his mouth and wincing as he went to stand. A Stimpak was retrieved and injected at the base of his ribs, the combat knife wrenched free to be sheathed while his shotgun found its way home on his back. After a few moments of allowing the drug to work its miracle, he rotated his torso to check for any further injury. He was clear. The minigun was eyed as he saddled the ammo clip over his shoulders. 

   He cracked his neck with his new toy in hand and looked around at the absolute massacre he had committed. The mutant’s skull was squelched as he stepped right over it, making way for the upper levels.  

   “Teach you to mess with me.”

   The fire came from everywhere, creating a tornado of heat and melting concrete into magma. Evelyn whacked the wiggling antennas of the nearest ant scaling down the wall towards her, making it furiously shake its head before emitting a sharp squeal and exploding. 

   She shouted, “We have to run!” 

   The team was preoccupied with fighting for their lives, unable to heed her call. Bullets clinked and soon littered the entire floor as the men wildly sprayed and yelled, the ants squealing and moving in one never-ending wave to defend their queen and nest. 

   “It’s got me!” one of the men screamed, pointing his poorly maintained rifle at the giant bug’s head. Its massive pincers clamped down, squishing the flesh and snapping the bone of his leg as he continued to pull the trigger until a heart-dropping click click click- jammed. 

   Evelyn rushed over, her stick held high above her head for a massive smackdown, but then the ant quickly scurried backward into a hole, dragging the settler along with it. She dropped her weapon and dove down to catch his hand, his grip so painfully tight around her forearm that she cried out.

   He sobbed, “Don’t let it take me!”

   “I have you! I have you!” Evelyn heaved with all of her might, but he wouldn’t budge. “I-!”

   A spray of blood doused her face, and she coughed, blinking away the stain on her skin as she felt the weight suddenly become very light. With a grunt she pulled, coming up and away with him. Everything past the elbow was gone- his fingers didn’t loosen their hold. 

   Simms shoved her from behind, yelling over the fight, “Let’s go!”

   Evelyn pried the limb free to fall with a plop, forgoing her weapon as she began to sprint down the tunnels and heard the footsteps following along in chase. The service door to the lab was just down the way- they could make it. 

   “In here!” 

   She opened it, ushering everyone along inside to then have herself and two of the others help her slam it back shut. They leaned their weight into the frame before a heavy thud made them jump back. 

   thud

   thud

   thud

   “They’re comin’ out of the goddamn walls!” Jericho barked. He rounded over to her, his skin bright red from standing too close to the sun. “What the fuck kind of show are you running, huh?!”

   “Easy Jericho-” Simms began with a hitch to his chest.

   “Oh no, I ain’t dying down here!” he snarled after whipping around. He unclipped the empty magazine from his gun, carelessly dropping it as he reloaded a new one from his waistband. He angrily shook his head, his eyes madly shining and five-o-clock shadow singed. “I told you this was suicide!” 

   “They can’t get in here,” Evelyn voiced, loud and calmly and with a level look to the ex-raider turning back to her. “We’ve hid in here before. For now, it’s safe-”

   “Safe?” he meanly chortled, and then the empty humor became a crazed glaze-over of mild insanity. “Just how the fuck are we supposed to leave then?!”

   “We have to destroy the nest.” Evelyn pointed to the terminal, turning all their eyes to it. “The scientist that started all of this is dead, but his work isn’t. There’s a queen brooding further underground just outside that other door. If we take her out, it affects the whole colony.”

   “Yeah, well good fucking luck with that,” Jericho sneered. He took a seat on the only chair and kicked his legs up on the table. “I’m going to stay. Right. Here.”

   Simms groaned, sinking to the floor, a pool of red rippling at his feet. Evelyn quickly knelt beside him, lifting back his duster to expose the slice to his abdomen.

   “Damn bastard got me,” he breathed, his forehead slick with sweat. 

   “Shit.” Evelyn gently helped him become more comfortable before snagging a Stimpak and gauze from her pack. The wadded bandaging was instantly seeped through, sodding the entire stash. She injected him. 

   “Whatever your plan is, kid, do it now, and do it fast,” Simms wheezed. “I plan on going home tonight.”

   “Great, just fucking great.” Jericho slammed his feet to the floor and began to pace. 

   Evelyn gave Simms’ fingers a light squeeze before standing up to the others. A brahmin mucker, a drifter, and an ex-raider were all that were left from their original party of seven. She didn’t know the men who had died, or whether or not they had family waiting for them to come back home to. She could see Bryan, Harden, and Dogmeat standing just outside the gates with the others, a sort of heart-crushing hope to their distant gazes when they had watched them all walk away. 

   “Do either of you have kids? Family?” she asked, and everyone seemed confused by the question. 

   After a few seconds, the brahmin mucker awkwardly raised his hand. “I do.”

   “What’s your name?”

   He dropped it. “Clancy. Clancy Jones.”

   “Well, Clancy Jones, our Sheriff is in no condition to go anywhere until we clear this place. I’m going to ask you to stay here and keep an eye on him, can you do that?” 

   He nodded, outwardly relieved at the assigned duty. “I won’t go nowhere.”

   “Good.” Evelyn crossed her arms and gave a jut of her head to the other two. “That leaves the three of us. I don’t know how many more are down there, or just exactly where the queen is, but we don’t have any other options. She is down there, somewhere, and we’re going to find her and end this.”

   Jericho eyed her in a way she couldn’t interpret- it brewed a bad sense in her gut. He simply said, “Whatever.”

   The drifter motioned to her lack of weaponry. “You don’t have a gun.”

   “You-” Simms winced, reaching for his holster. “Can have mine.”

   “I don’t use guns,” Evelyn said firmly, bringing the small bag on her back to the front. She dipped a hand in to showcase a grenade to the room. “I meant to save these for the queen…but I’ll use them where I have to.”

   Jericho grunted, doubtful, “You even know how?”

   She pocketed it away and met him dead-on. “Pull, toss, and duck.”

   The heavy firepower was a welcomed friend. His shotgun, for the first time in many years, took a deep breath and propped its feet up as he let the minigun handle most of the lifting. It cut through drywall and flesh alike, toppling even the largest of mutants with minimal effort and one-hundred-percent satisfaction. 

   (Guaranteed!)

   Charon had crossed the radio tower that acted as a bridge between the hospital and the hotel, using the preset traps the smoothskin had warned him of to his advantage. So long as he kept his distance to prevent an earlier mistake, Charon was, in all practical sense, invincible. 

   Hotel room after hotel room after hotel room was serviced to the best of his ability, leaving the sheets riddled with holes, the bathrooms in need of complete remodeling, and previous guests obliterated into dust as he casually walked the halls, firing without tact until everything had been laid to waste. 

   Charon climbed a flight of stairs, taking aim at a grenade bouquet above a mutant’s head to submerge them both in a fiery blast of powder and smoke, drawing his back around the corner for a split-second to escape the seismic blast. He then continued his ascent while blood slowly cascaded down the steps, his boots splish-splish-splashing as he made his way to the top. Theo, the wasted smoothskin Reilly had told him about, was lying in wait in a dozen or so jigsaw pieces. He knelt to punch in the code she had given him for the ammo box, helping himself to their stash for a quick resupply. 

   The hallways he trudged through were filled with corpses. He spied an Eat'o'tronic 3000 still ripe for the pickings, and he sacrificed some extra ammo in his already bulging pack for a few boxes of snack cakes. They weren’t to his taste, but he had seen the empty cartons lying around in her room at one time. A sudden shaking of the entire building made his feet waver, the sediment from the upper floors raining down to temporarily blind him. He had to hurry- he was running out of time. 

   Reilly’s team appeared to have fared better on these floors, clearing the way for him as he stepped through an open door for a sledgehammer to come sailing down where his head had just been. Charon swiftly backpedaled and swung the tip of the hammer with the end of his minigun before the mutant could raise it for another swing, smashing it perfectly back in the mutant’s face. He spied an elevator on the far end and rushed over to it, thumbing the up arrow as he took advantage of reloading. 

   Nothing happened. He growled, pressing it again. The light illuminated, briefly, before blinking out. With a deep sigh and roll of his eyes, he finagled the panel off and crossed some wires together, ignoring the jolt of electricity that zipped down his arm and waggled his elbow. The panel was snapped back in place, and he again pushed the button. 

   The doors opened, the cheery sound of music transforming his world as he stepped inside. They closed, and he stood there, covered in every bit of gore and filth biologically possible, his eyes staring at the numbers overhead taking their turn to glow while the soft sashay of the music played.

   A ding, and the doors opened. 

   She couldn’t stop shaking. Her fingers tightened around her satchel full of explosives, her teeth chattering in her skull. She was just so scared. She could feel them ripping her arms off, chewing on her lips, devouring through her spine to pop out of her belly-

   Jericho got in her face before they made the descent. “You better not fuck this up.” He saw the way she trembled. “You going to piss yourself?”

   “It’s freezing down here,” she lied, and he knew it. The man had endured the wasteland enough to know, had killed and tortured and raped enough souls to recognize that fear in her eyes. She took the first step despite how much her feet wanted to turn back and run the other way. “Hurry.”

   The first batch of ants were unaware of their presence. Evelyn unpinned a grenade and threw it, somehow making a beautiful arc in the midst of them. The explosion stunned her hearing, but the sight of the goop slathered on the cavern walls made the future tinnitus well worth it. She smiled even though her hands were still shaking. 

   I can do this I can do this I can do this

   “Here.” Jericho held out his hand when they came to the next group. “You can’t have all the fun.”

   He was much more practiced with his throw, and the unexpectedly easy journey to the heart of the nest fluttered her nerves with adrenaline and elation. They were going to be fine! Jericho gave her a solid nod after she had swept three more ants off their feet and plastered them to the ceiling, and as they passed underneath, somehow avoiding the thick drops of ant goo dripping down, he clapped her on the shoulder. 

   “Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.” 

   “Thanks.” She smiled at him, in a daze that maybe this was all a dream. Jericho, nice? Her survival skills, not half-bad? She was going to wake up soon. 

   The air changed. It was damp, it was…warm…it reeked something of a tangy sweetness. The three of them crouched, sneaking as stealthily as they could to the edge before peeking around into a cavernous area. A few tripod lights were set around with a sole desk and a terminal while a Protectron stood idly by, its dome occasionally emitting a faint glow of circuitry. This must be it: the nest. 

   “I don’t see anything,” Jericho said in a low voice. “I thought you said there’d be a queen or something.”

   Evelyn strained her eyesight in the gloom on the far side. As far as she could tell, it was devoid of any life. “I…he said in his notes that-”

   “Just go put the fucking things in the middle and we’ll blow it.” Jericho reached around to shove her forward. “Not taking any fucking chances with this, so hurry up!”

   Her bag nearly dropped from her hands as she was thrust into the wide-open; the air shifted, felt alive, crawling around her skin and along the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but there was still nothing. With haste, she wobbled over to the center, clumsily dropping to one knee to unzip her pack and begin offloading as many landmines as she could before a chittering hiss made her freeze. She dared not move, barely breathed, tears forming at the corner of her eyes as something very, very, very big hovered over her. The queen had been in the room the entire time, peeling itself from every inch of the walls…but they weren’t walls, they were her. Her beady eyes glowed as she descended upon her, swallowing the very space and distorting her rationale that something this fucking big and disgusting could even exist. 

   From her peripherals, she could see Jericho slowly bringing his gun up, but the relief she felt spiraled into horror as she realized he wasn’t aiming for the queen, but rather the explosives at her feet. 

   “Jericho,” she whispered, her voice small and shaky. A tear rolled down her nose and wet the backside of her quivering hand. “Please.”  

   “No hard feelings.” The hammer cocked back. “It’s the wasteland, kid.”

   You will die if you cannot take a life. 

   Evelyn dropped the entire stash and ripped her blade free, slicing through the antenna that was beginning to crawl through her hair and screaming a strained warcry. 

   The monstrous screeching made her hands clamp over her ears as she turned to look up and come face-to-face with this mutated abomination, the ant queen. Its body glistened and perspired, the molten fire in its abdomen glowing brightly as though someone had bottled the sun. The queen reared up on her hind legs, crashing into the ceiling and sprinkling rocks and sand down that shook the entire cave. 

   Evelyn sprinted for home base, tripping as the ground beneath her rolled and ended up smashing her face into the dirt. A pull at her elbow made her startle and go for another attack with her blade, but she was instead greeted with the face of the drifter. 

   “Run!” he shouted, helping her upright to move her along. “C’mon!”

   He pushed her forward just as his chest burst open, the queen’s leg turning him into a human shishkebab before it threw him aside to limply crumple into the wall. The queen shook her head, shrieking and waving her antennas furiously around, suddenly confused and turning her attacks on the stationary Protectron instead. 

   Evelyn dashed for the entrance, zipping around the corner to be met with a pair of hands that grabbed her by the throat and pinned her up against the wall. 

   “Should have never brought that zombie into my town!” he shouted over the insect’s wails. He increased the pressure around her trachea, forcing her legs to kick out and breathing to wheeze. “Now you’re gonna die down here, and when that fucking rotbag freak gets back, I’ll make sure he gets his.”

   The knife- it was still in her hand. 

   “Ahh!” Evelyn screamed, slashing the ex-raider across the face and forcing him to drop her. He did, and with a scream of his own as he clawed at the gush of blood and backed away before she could poke out his eyes. She roared, “FUCK YOU!”

   A quick-paced THUD THUD THUD planted her right on her ass, and she looked up with gaping horror as two writhing tarsi wrapped around the sides of the entrance before the queen’s head slowly emerged. It pinpointed Jericho still shouting just below, her mandibles opening wide as she clamped down around him. 

   Jericho grunted, his hands uselessly scrabbling at the hardened exoskeleton trapped around his body. He looked over to Evelyn still laid out on the ground, his words pleading and soft. 

   “Don’t let me die down here.” 

   Evelyn heard a shift in the dirt and looked down. A single grenade had fallen from his pocket, and she brought it to herself with her foot. 

   “Evelyn.”

   She pulled the pin. 

   “Evelyn.”  

   The queen retreated back inside, disappearing into the safety of her nest. 

   “EVELYN!”  

   A crunch told the unfortunate end of the man, whose head dangled from his shoulders as he clung to the barest seconds of life to watch her chuck the grenade. It landed with a roll to the pile of mines, and Evelyn met his eyes for his final moments. 

   “It’s the wasteland,” she said softly.

   And then she ran.

   Blowing the foundations of the place would have been a much better alternative than this. The ghoul grumbled and snarled and became so overly irritated with the various doors and seemingly endless maze of mutants and centaurs that he half-considered just rigging some explosives instead. He was too old for this fucking shit, and after he had swept another dining hall clean with a broad stroke of his minigun, he took a seat and offloaded his burden for a moment. 

   He lit a cigarette, spending a few precious minutes (that he sure as shit didn’t have) to just clear his head of everything. The tobacco smoke rolled off his tongue as he partly widened his mouth to allow it to escape, his eyes squinting into the far-off distance as he wondered just what Evelyn was doing at that exact same moment. 

   More than likely nothing. 

   (…he hoped) 

   When the smoke had been burned to the filter, he sighed and shouldered the minigun back into place, scowling at the third wave of explosions overhead. That smoothskin better make good on her promise…or he would. A faded, but still somewhat legible fire escape map was studied for the quickest access to the roof. He memorized the directions and came to a locked door leading to the lounge. He simply pointed his muzzle at it and spun the thing up, blowing it off its hinges. Upon entering the expansive space, he counted three mutants and an easy day as he raised his weapon and-

   click click click 

   Charon looked down at the malfunctioned piece of equipment. “Are you fucking-”

   The ghoul dropped the thing to his feet before sprinting through the gunfire, everything taking on a sort of slow motion as he dashed for the center of the room. A mutant came charging through, sweeping tables and chairs to the side as it made its way straight for him, and the ghoul unstrapped his trusty shotgun to take a crack at its kneecaps. The mutant tumbled over a table, shattering bits of dining ware and crystal glasses everywhere as Charon leaped over to plunge his knife deep into its eye socket. He heaved. It was stuck.

   Another mutant on the second floor was firing wildly, forcing him to abandon his blade and hoof it up the stairs. A grenade was tossed from the third mutant just feet ahead of him, and with a face of alarm, he punted it back midair with the toe of his boot before diving over the railing to sail back down to the lower level. A table broke his fall, (and his elbow), but it was a much-preferred outcome than the ricocheted blast that slaughtered his foe just up above. 

   The remaining mutant was busy reloading its jammed hunting rifle, snarling incoherent nonsense to itself as it failed to pull the bolt handle back. Charon climbed the stairs, taking his time and breathing heavily as he eventually came forward to the dumb brute still finagling with its weapon. 

   It noticed him encroaching and cried, “STAY! BACK!”

   Charon grunted, raising his shotgun with one arm and firing a single shot into its face. He winced, (his back muscles were tight) leaning over to pick up the rifle the mutant had struggled with. It would have done no good regardless- it was empty. He applied another Stimpak to his shattered elbow, and moved. He came out to the roof, wading past the bodies stacked high in the courtyard before being greeted by what remained of her crew. They were alive, worse for wear, but alive. Charon dropped his line of fire and breathed a sigh of relief. 

   (He blamed Winthrop for all of this)

   A multitude of sights were kept on him as he slowly approached, his hands raised and voice clear. “I am of no threat. Reilly has sent me.”

   They all blinked at him, and then he growled in warning when they all suddenly came too close. 

   They were lucky he had come when he had. They were low on ammo, rationing the remainder of their food, and running on a whiff of fumes. He was sent back to the lounge in search of a fission battery (which he was sure Evelyn would have had on her person) and was able to collect his knife. Charon distributed some ammo and water around as their mechanic went to work on fixing the express elevator that would take them on a one-way trip to the main lobby. He configured his gear and reloaded his weaponry as the woman armed with a minigun came to stand beside him, staring with hooded eyes and a bright grin.

   “Never thought I’d see anything other than this place again,” she teased. He raised a brow at her, resuming his business in wrapping the laceration on his arm, but she continued with her one-sided conversation. “I’m impressed you managed to make it this far, not that I'm complaining.”

   The mechanic waved to them. “It’s good!”

   Their medic, Butcher, let out an exhale. “Alright. Let’s get out of here!”

   Charon was more than happy to oblige.

[kidotm]

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

   It was little wonder as to why Reilly’s Rangers didn’t have more recruits- you only had to be a complete fucking dumbass to qualify, and the wasteland happened to be chock full of them. The ghoul had been forced to follow the remaining survivors in order to get his paid due, and apparently, the mercenary company had never established any sort of route to home base that didn’t involve Talon, mutants, raiders-

  “Is it close?” Charon groused after they had emerged from a manhole cover, everyone sprinkled with bits of blood and bone after an unexpected run-in with a pack of feral ghouls.

   “It’s just through this courtyard,” their ‘second-in-command’ answered. 

   An explosive feud between all of the before-mentioned abominations (for the supreme title of Wasteland’s Biggest Pain-in-the-Ass) was already underway at Seward Square. The ghoul irritably sighed.

   "No."

   Refusing to waste more ammo, he returned to the alleyway and lit up a cigarette, simply partaking in listening to the sounds of guts flying through the air as he blew smoke from his nostrils. The small team joined him, the three huddling together whilst he kept to himself. Only when the courtyard grew quiet and just the cackling fires remained did they make their trek across, listening to the voice of…

   “THE SUN! IT BURNS! Why does it-!”

   Charon whipped his head in every direction for the invisible speaker. The mechanic shrugged his shoulders when he met his unbothered gaze. 

   “That’s the Preacher, or, it’s what we call him, anyway.”

   “BEWARE WORM, I SHALL DESTROY YOU-!”

   Charon removed his hand from his gun. “That is annoying.”

   “Yeah, tell us about it.”

   The compound was tucked away in a corner of the ruins. Charon was the last to be invited inside, having to stoop as he stepped through the hatch. The smoothskin from Underworld had beaten them to home base and received a warm reception at her miraculous recovery. She waded through the throng of handshakes with a smile so wide it should have split her face in half, and the camaraderie didn’t subside when it finally got to him waiting at the end of the hall. 

   She held out her hand for him to shake next. “I don’t know where you came from or what sort of God put you on this Earth, but I would have lost everything and everyone if it wasn’t for you. You sincerely have my thanks.”

   Charon looked down at the offer, not uncrossing his arms or relaxing his grimace. Instead, he raised a brow and flatly reminded her, “The list.”

   “I brought it. Donovan’s going to get you what you need. I don’t speak techy nerd crap, but if it exists, he’ll find it.” She kept her grin, undeterred by his rejection. “Or I’ll search the ruins for it myself.”

   He snorted before making his way past. “I will not save you this time.”

   Their mechanic disappeared inside their storage and munitions for a deep-dive of the parts, muttering sourly to himself and scowling as Winthrop apparently needed ‘next to unicorn farts’. Charon stood by in the briefing room, impatient and growing ever restless as the minutes ticked on. He did not like the time to pass any more than it had to.

   Reilly approached him with a hot meal and a cold beer. “Here. Least we can do.”

   He took it; he was hungry. 

   “Look, I know this is probably the last thing you wanted to talk about right now,” she hesitated, leaning against the table that paid homage to their maps, reports, and recruit dockets. She folded her arms, watching him scarf his food. “How would you be interested in joining our team?”

   Charon didn’t skip a beat between a breath and a bite. “I’m not.”

   “You made the rest of us look like we had our asses growing out of our ears.” She subverted her gaze. “I fucked up, and it nearly got everyone killed. You though…you’re something else. This team could use that.”

   The emptied bowl was set on the table. “I am already employed.”

   “We’ll double it.”

   He shook his head. 

   “Triple.”

   He grew annoyed with the persistence and growled, “No.”

   The medic walked in the room, sensing the tense atmosphere. “Reilly, I think we should talk.” He then consulted Charon. “If you don’t mind me interrupting.”

   When Charon didn’t say anything the pink smoothskin went to follow her second-in-command. She threw Charon a look over her shoulder before stepping out completely. “Think about it. The offer’s there, so long as we are.”

   The ghoul rolled his eyes, but he had to give her credit- she recognized a valuable asset when she saw one. He then passed the time by sharpening his knife before going to search for the mechanic and inquire about his tasking. He passed a door that was slightly ajar, the sight and voices from inside momentarily giving him pause.

   “I was worried about you,” the medic said as he brushed a pink strand of hair behind her ear.

   She sighed, “Yeah, me too.”

   “Are you sure you’re alright? I can give a more thorough exam.”

   She laughed, playfully punching him in the ribs. “Only if it’ll end up like last time.”

   He began to lift her shirt. “Guaranteed.” And then he kissed her.

   Charon stood there staring on, not really thinking and not really watching but somehow transfixed at the couple he spied upon. He then quickly left his peeping spot, striding down the hall with his fists clenched tight.

   “Hey.”  

   Charon felt his eyes begin to focus. The mechanic was standing a few feet away, a rucksack held over for him to take.

   “You okay, there? You seemed like you were out to lunch.”

   Smitten, bewitched, adore-

   The bag. The Pip-Boy. Evelyn.

   Love. 

   Charon received his payment and checked its contents before leaving, forgoing the invitation to rest for the night as he traveled through the dark, his feet swift and mind traveling down a one-lane, dead-end road, the thick fog blurring everything else along the sides. 

   The last raider he had disposed of was still propped over the billiards table, the pool stick ripped out of her skull and held in his hands. He pulled the corpse off by the sleeve of her jacket, leaning over and setting himself up for a shot. Click-Clack. The cue ball sunk an orange solid. He straightened and looked over to the horrified, wide-open scream the woman still had on her blue face.

   He muttered, "I was worried about you."

   She didn't respond.

   The ghoul made his way along the empty subway tracks, booting at a rock with his foot. His raspy voice eerily floated down the line, "Are you sure you're alright?"

   He eventually came to the restrooms where the first raider had his head in the toilet. He moved the body with his boot to relieve himself and thought back to Reilly and what he assumed was her boyfriend. Out of sheer habit, he pulled the handle for a flush (it didn’t) and stepped over to the sink attached to the wall, spinning a tap open. He didn’t remove his gloves as he rubbed his hands together under the frigid, mud-colored spray, staring at the cracked reflection of himself. 

   He observed how his mouth moved. “I can give a more thorough exam.”

   The mirror emitted a nail-biting screech of a sound before it suddenly spider-webbed, further distorting his image. 

   The ghoul exited the metro back to the Museum of History, grumbling under his breath as his brows pinched so closely together they threatened to never part again. “…I was worried about you.”

  “Heard all about your mission." Willow was off to the side, rattling a pack of smokes at him. "Seems to me you somehow managed…not surprising. You could stay, you know.” She squinted. “You can’t really be banished, not from here, anyhow. Not like there's much where else for us ghouls to go.” A wink. "And I could always use the extra backup."

   He turned for the doors, a faint mutter on his tongue. "Are you sure you’re alright?”

   Willow craned her head to subtly observe as he climbed the steps to the Museum of History; the stretch of his back as he pulled at the handle of the weighted door, the ripple of exposed muscle from his left arm. Once disappeared inside from her longing gaze, she released a wistful sigh to herself, cupping one hand around her mouth as she worked to light up her smoke.

   Winthrop was indeed asleep…that is, until Charon opened his door and came to park at his bedside, rattling every bone in his body after putting a hand on his shoulder to throttle him awake. 

   “I have the parts,” he growled.

   Winthrop groaned, wiping at the crust over his eye, “Wh-what time is it? Can’t this wait till-”

   “Now.”

   “Now!” The ghoul sprang from bed directly into his jumpsuit, shaking the sleep from his limbs and yawning into an empty mug. “Wonder if Greta wouldn’t mind a fresh pot…”

   Charon dumped the sack on his workbench and took residence in the corner; a perched owl spying on a field mouse below. 

   Winthrop turned, uneasy and visibly swallowing. “Are you going to be there the whole time? It’s kind of making me nervous…this might take a few days.”

   “One.” Charon held up a single finger. “One day.”

   “I-I don’t know if I-”

   Charon curled his finger into his fist and cracked his knuckles by flexing. 

   “You know something, I think one day is plenty!” Winthrop awkwardly held up his empty cup. “I’m just going to grab some coffee…you…uh…want anything?”

   Charon settled into his spot, his face disappearing where the light could not reach. “No.”

   Regardless of his social shortcomings, Winthrop returned with a second mug filled with a bitter, tar-black liquid. “Just in case you change your mind. It’s fresh." He looked inside it, slightly dubious. "Or so Greta says, anyway.”

   The cup was placed within his reach, but he only momentarily eyed it before studying with the utmost attention how Winthrop began to disassemble and prep the Pip-Boy for repair. 

   Winthrop cleared a lump of phlegm from the back of his throat. “So…how…how is she?” He unscrewed a thin metal plate from the back, careful not to dislodge any wiring. “I mean, I assume you guys work together, or something-?”

   “I am the boyfriend.” 

   A screw fumbled from his fingers to the floor. “Woops.” He bent down to retrieve it, every joint in his body popping. “Oh, so you, and her-?”

   “Yes.”

   He stood, wiping at his face with one hand after collecting the remaining screws in a little safety dish to the side. Charon followed the motions of him removing the cracked screen and disposing of the melted knobs. It appeared he had nothing more to contribute to the conversation. There was an aching slump to his shoulders that was most reminiscent of another ghoul he knew of…he honestly couldn't decide who was the more pathetic.

   “Tulip.”

   Winthrop paused with his tedious work, swiveling his head around to the ominous giant in his corner, blinking his one eye. “Excuse me?”

   “Tulip.” Charon shifted his weight to the other foot, the leather of his jacket creaking. “She would like a drink.”

   The two stared at the other in silence before Winthrop groveled, dumbfounded at his suggestion, “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

   Charon tilted forward. “Tulip. Give her a drink.”

   “Why?”

   “Just do it,” he growled, his patience thinning.

   “What, right now?”

   Charon rubbed his eyes. “Later.”

   “I’m just trying to understand-”

   “You will buy her a drink and get her something nice.”

   “…I will?”

   “Flowers.”

   Winthrop choked, “Flowers?!”

   “They are ‘pretty’.” Charon nodded. “It will make her happy.”

   The Pip-Boy was continued with for the next thirty minutes before Winthrop quietly lamented, “I don’t even know where to get any flowers…”

   Charon took ownership of the second cup, raising the brim to his mouth. “You will find some.”

   Winthrop stayed true to his work- the Pip-Boy had been repaired and was ready to be taken back to her. Charon had studied the way he had taken piece by piece apart and put it back together, for now if anything were to happen to the device in the future, he would know how to fix it himself. 

   Winthrop relinquished it over with a weary sigh. “She’s good as new. Heck, with all the parts it needed, it practically is. The memory core was still good, so she didn’t lose anything data-wise.”

   Charon wrapped it in his jacket (the best protection he could offer it) before placing it snug in his bag. 

   Winthrop’s rasp was thick. “Guess I’ll ask Tulip for that drink…I could sure use one.”

   Charon shouldered his gear. “Do not forget the flowers.”

   The sunrise eloped the sprinting of the moon, that silver sliver dipping behind the far-off mountain ranges with the chill of the night. The sniper sentry above gave him a respectful wave with his rifle upon his arrival, but Charon didn’t return the greeting as he made short timing of unlocking her front door and inviting himself inside. The lights were all on.

   She was asleep on the couch, his noisy entry rousing her. She tucked her legs underneath her and mussed her already unruly hair with her fingers, drowsily mumbling, “Charon?”

   He unstrapped his pack to set it on the table and set to stripping his gear while she slowly came around wiping the sleep from her face. 

   “Was everything okay?” she mumbled, tucking the blanket tightly around her shoulders. “You're back so soon.”

   The Pip-Boy was gently taken out of his bag, held over for her to inspect and approve of.

   “Wow. It’s almost like new,” she said, flicking through the screens. She strapped it to her wrist and gave him wide-eyes after taking notice of the dried gore still on his person. “It wasn’t any trouble, was it?”

   He shook his head and began to pull out more things for her. “No.”

   The few comic books, a skipping rock, and the boxes of snack cakes he had salvaged were neatly put in a pile. When she just stared at everything he inclined his head to it.

   A box of sweets was gingerly picked up, shyly brought to her chest. “Thank you.”

   The beat of his heart hurt. Thump thump thump. Those sea-sprayed eyes were drowning every intelligent thought he tried to anchor down; they all slipped from his hands like casted sails, disappearing into open sky. 

   They both spoke up simultaneously, “I was-”

   “Oh, sorry,” she hastily apologized. 

   He backed up a step and rubbed at the backside of his head, suddenly feeling much too hot under his collar. Neither finished their sentence, and so she bit her lower lip whilst he looked off to the side and scratched at his bicep. 

   She finally piped up, “Um. You were saying?”

   Thump Thump Thump

   He couldn’t meet her eyes. It was too dangerous. “I was worried about you,” he rumbled.

   Evelyn smiled, as warm as summer rain. “I was worried about you, too.”

   He stiffly nodded before rasping, “Are you sure you’re alright?" He began to unzip her jumpsuit, each word somehow more awkward and forced than the last. "I can give a more thorough exam.”

   She madly blushed to the boiling point of a furnace as she shakily met his hand with hers. “O-oh, u-um, I mean, I was pretty lucky with what happened. The ant queen-"

   He stopped, now staring at her as though she had just grown a set of three heads with asses growing out of their ears. “The what?”

   “The ant queen,” she repeated. “If Jericho hadn’t-"

   His gloved hand came away as though she had smacked him, the tone of his voice taking a dive off the bow and into the depths of cold waters. “Jericho? What of him?”

   Her voice came out extremely small; a child in the face of chastising authority. “Um, I thought maybe Simms told you, or Gob, and that’s why you were asking…”

   Charon was already two strides to the door, his shotgun nabbed with one hand while the other went for the handle. “I shall return.”

   “Wait, where are you going?!” Evelyn grabbed at his belt. “If it’s about Jericho, he’s already dead.”

   He stonily looked at the door, saying as flatly as he could, “I wish to know what has happened.”

   With every bit recounted, he felt his teeth further grind until a dull throb in his temples made the pain nigh unbearable. How much sheer dumb fucking luck she had been blessed with to have survived such an ordeal. Charon shrugged her off, a bitter taste settling in his mouth at the thought of Evelyn (no- his employer) placing herself in danger without his knowing. There was a sting of betrayal, a feeling he knew all too well, at her so easily undergoing something she knew he would be most unhappy with. 

   He felt stupid.

   He felt angry.

   He felt the Pip-Boy to have not been worth his absence or time. He didn’t have to take it for her, for she would have not ordered him to, and now he was standing there thinking of all the ways she wouldn’t have made it home.

   “My contract?” he asked after she had finished, ignorant of the fear darkening her face.

   “…what about it?”

   “I wish to see it.”

   She went upstairs and then came back down, holding over the piece of paper that bound him to her. He didn’t take it in his hands- the sight of it in itself was enough of a guarantee. 

   “If you are to undertake such a task without me again,” he plainly said, “then I ask of you to keep my contract somewhere I can acquire it.” He tilted his head down, his voice eerily low. “I will need to give it to my previous employer should you die.”

   His employer tucked the contract close to her heart, and when she lifted her face with a loud sniffle, he could see fat tears ready to fall from her eyes. She said thickly, that summer smile now hardened into frost, "Don't bother unpacking just yet. We're going to Rivet City." 

In Rough Seas

   The pungent smell of gunpowder had flooded her nose. She had flinched, her eyes squinting against that wet spray of blood that slapped her face as Ahzrukhal fell to the floor from a single blast to the head. From the moment Charon had uttered those words, she had felt her blood chill and the marrow in her bones ache; her soul wept about the life she once had. She had truly believed Charon was going to shoot her- then and now.

   He was hovering just outside her bedroom door, watching her through the slip of a crack as she shoved supplies inside her (new) pack and began to lace up her crusted leathers. Damn the grime they were still greased with, damn the way her muscles ached and her heart palpated, damn the way Jericho had stood at the side of her bed last night, screaming in her face, “YOU LEFT ME YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

   The lights had been flipped on. She had felt his presence even after she had closed her own door. She heard his breathing, somehow still alive, with his skin ripped from his skull and his teeth left bared, the wide pupils following her every move through the walls. Wadsworth had remained online to give her solace until she had fallen asleep, and only then did she wake up in those tunnels, everything being licked by the flames until he came to put them out. 

   Charon had come home, and she knew she was safe...but now... 

   “We have to go get Bryan,” she reminded him without turning around.

   ...she wasn’t so sure.

   Charon didn’t say anything. He didn’t acknowledge her statement, offer to retrieve him, or even give a nod of his head. He was very much the man she knew when they had first met. 

   “Your contract.” She held up her journal for him to see. “Will be in here.”

   His eyes slowly roved from the book to her face- he understood.

   “Okay. I’m ready. Are you?”

   He removed himself from sight, waiting just outside his door, not a single visible thought on his face as he looked down the stairs, docked like a creaky ship with stitched sails and blackened cannons, the planks aged with rings and the hull salt-crusted. She ducked her head and stepped past, feeling his foreboding shadow creeping along behind.

   Simms was more than grateful for the relief and pulled her aside before they made to depart. “Great work down there. I don’t think any of us would have made it out if it wasn’t for you.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “I know Bryan will be in good hands.” Simms then looked over to her stoic companion. “Although, if I’m being honest, it makes me feel better knowing he’s back with you.”

   (If she had her way, he soon wouldn’t be)

   Dogmeat returned to her side like a symbiont as they all began the journey to Rivet City. Bryan took a solemn pause at the top of the hill overlooking Grayditch, the settlement now nothing more than crumbled cinder and chiseled headstones. After having licked their wounds from the fight with the ants and their queen, Evelyn and a few of the others had returned with the boy to help bury his father and salvage anything worth taking. There hadn't been much, but no one had expected there to be. 

   “Do you want to say anything?” Evelyn said gently. “We can give you a few minutes. We’re not in a hurry.”

   The boy shook his head and wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “…I just want to go.”

   Evelyn took the lead, following the predetermined route marked on her Pip-Boy while Bryan and Dogmeat followed center. Charon brought up their rear, his eyes sweeping the dully changing landscape. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since that morning, and it continued into nightfall when they set up the first camp at the sewer outpost. The ghoul removed himself from their company and stood guard beyond the campfire's light. Dogmeat became squished between Bryan and herself, each stroking his soft fur and listening to his wet pants echoing down the damp corridors. 

   “Where do you think Papa is now?” Bryan asked her. 

   Evelyn scratched the dog’s ear. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does.” 

   He buried his face, hiding away in a field of brown and black and white. “I hope I can see Papa again someday.”

   The night crept forward; the fire began to die; the boy was soon fast asleep. Evelyn encroached on the ghoul’s secular sanctuary, her hands fidgeting into a knot of trepidation as he watched her every step. She came within a few feet and halted, unable to meet his eerie stare shining through the dark. 

   She quietly asked, “Are you hungry? There’s still some food.”

   He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

   She tried again, keeping her voice low but placing enough urgency on her tongue. “If you’re mad at me, just say that.”

   He didn’t.

   “Do you want a sorry? Fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left and did what I did.” When he remained silent, her arms became as cross as her temper did, her whispering borderline hostile. “Whatever. It won’t matter much when we get to Rivet City, anyway.” 

   She spun on her heel to march straight back to her sleeping roll when he finally spoke up with a deep rumble of a rasp. 

   “You are inexperienced.”

   She backed up a step before halfway turning. He was now standing, those two bright orbs hovering like distantly lit beacons. There was no expression to interpret, but she didn’t need one by the tone he used. 

   He continued, “I cannot trust you with your safety.”

   She faced him, that towering veil of inky black. “I lived, didn’t I? I killed the queen and came back. Not all of us made it, but I’m still here.” Her eyes fell to her feet, the sudden fire burnt to ash. “I can’t expect you to be there for me forever.”

   Something in the ghoul's eyes changed, and he grunted, "I see."

   She went back to bed, staring at the curved ceiling of the tunnel and Jericho's face leering down at her, his voice singing to her well into the hours of late. "I'll make sure he gets his! You make sure he gets his! Oh Evelyn, Evelyn, he'll get his- he'll get his!"

   Charon didn’t so much as look in her direction come that morning. Bryan remained aloof of their passive-aggressive standoff as he yapped a mile a minute, threatening to take the ghoul’s ear off (if it already hadn’t been predisposed of) and holding it hostage while they took to pissing off the side of a bridge. 

   “And then Harden told me about these super scary monsters that drink your blood and eat your brains!” Bryan suddenly stopped his excited chatter as he leaned forward and squinted at the big guy’s goods. “Whoa, why’s it all burnt up and stuff? Did those ants get to you too?!”

   Charon stowed himself away with an audible zip!

   “No,” was all he grumbled, stepping down and taking great care to study their surroundings. She missed the way he looked at her when she sorted through her pack for some breakfast, the ghoul only turning away when she lifted her gaze.

   Charon kept his duty as rear-guard, muttering sourly under his breath as Bryan continued to blather about anything and everything at his elbow. Evelyn returned the ghoul’s cold shoulder by refusing to acknowledge him any further, and by the time they came to the boating shed for their second and last stop, the boy and dog sat between them, Bryan's head whipping back and forth to the two childish adults staring at opposite walls.

   He plainly addressed the elephant in the room. “Are you guys fighting?” 

   Evelyn started, “No-”

   Charon finished, “Yes.”

   She glared daggers over the boy’s head. The ghoul ripped off a piece of brahmin jerky between his teeth. 

   Bryan shrugged, unbothered by the hostility brewing in the cramped spacing. “Will’s parents used to fight all the time. Papa said it’s what grown-ups do.” 

   “We’re not fighting,” Evelyn said flatly. 

   Charon brought up another piece to his mouth before holding out one for the boy to take. “We are.”

   “No, we’re not,” she simmered. She tightly hugged herself, averting to the side and pouting, “It’s just a disagreement.”

   Charon snorted, openly chewing. “It is more than that.”

   “We didn’t have a choice!” Her voice raised in volume, flattening Dogmeat’s ears. “I didn’t know when you’d get back.”

   “You are wrong,” he growled, turning his head to glare. “There is always a choice.”

   “Wow, that’s rich coming from someone like you. Did Ahzrukhal ever get this much sass?”

   The dog whined. Evelyn mentally slapped herself and felt bile rise in her throat. The smolder in Charon’s eyes grew dim, two cold flames burning through the night, the tension enough to crack her skull wide open. 

   He rasped, “The Pip-Boy was my choice.”

   Hot shame flushed her skin and chained her tongue, and she found herself unable to apologize as he left the shack altogether to stand watch for the night. Dogmeat played a living, breathing stuffy as she cuddled him on one side while the boy took his residency on the other, both inhaling his dusty fur. 

   “Is he coming back inside?” Bryan asked with a tinge of concern.

   Her eyes closed. Jericho wouldn't stop grinning at her.

   The morning came, and they set off. She listened to the river lapping at the bank as the dog danced in the tide and the boy asked question after question after question to Charon, who, in turn, answered mono-syllabically. She didn’t see the pile of skippers he slowly and methodically collected in her wake, her nose buried too deep in her screen until they came within sight of the grounded carrier. 

   Bryan parroted her prior shock and awe at the sight of the rusted behemoth, pointing with a loud exclaim, “Cool! Aunt Vera lives on that?!”

   Charon stepped up beside her and unshouldered his pack to pull out a weathered parka and a gas mask. He accommodated his gear for the bulky layer before the mask went over his head, and then he held out a fully gloved hand for her to take. When she only looked down at it, confused, he grumbled, “I am deaf, blind, and mute...remember?”

   Their fingers intertwined, and she swore she felt his thumb gently sweep over her skin...but she surely must have imagined it.

   “Are you two done fighting?” a voice piped up from behind.

   They both turned to the boy. 

   Evelyn explained, derailing the topic, “Ghouls aren’t allowed in Rivet City, so he has to stay covered. Don’t tell anyone, okay? He goes by Grog here.”

   Bryan made a face. “That’s a dumb name. And why? Mister Scary Guy is a good guy.”

   “He is,” she agreed. “But it’s the only way to get him on the ship.”

   “Well,” Bryan said as he kicked a rock in the water, “when I’m an adult, I’ll make it so ghouls can live on it, too.”

   The bridge extended after a push of the button, and they all waited for the Rivet City guards to escort them across. The head of security lowered his rifle, easing his partner to do the same. “I remember you,” he spoke up as they came close. He eyed the two smaller tagalongs. “More friends of yours? Or a permanent move with the family?”

   Her heart skipped a beat, her hand unintentionally squeezing Charon's. “We’re looking for a Vera? This is Bryan, her nephew.”

   “Vera? As in Weatherly?” He studied the child. “Only Vera I know of. She’s the owner of the Weatherly Hotel. I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

   Bryan shot off like a bullet fired from a gun, with Dogmeat yipping and yapping at his heels. Together they bounded forward with as much noise as humanly possible. 

   Evelyn stopped the security guard with an imploring look on her face after they had crossed. “I’m also looking for a Pinkerton?” 

   He shook his head, the name foreign. “Never heard of him.”

   She tried again, refusing to budge after he simply brushed her off. “Please, I heard he lives here and-”

   “Maybe try asking Dr. Li- she’s one of the few who have been on this rust bucket the longest.” With the curt interruption, he beckoned them on with his rifle. “I’m busy, so if you don’t have more pressing matters for me to handle, then keep it moving.”

   Evelyn squinted at the barely exposed and faded name tag he wore on his chest. “Fine…thanks, Harkness.”

   He matched her cool attitude with, “That’s Chief, to you.”

   Bryan had taken first place in the race to the Weatherly, nimbly outpacing the slower-going duo as Charon kept his facade of needing a chaperone (despite his ability to see through the tinted lenses of his mask). A few of the other settlers loudly voiced their displeasure at having nearly been stampeded by the speeding fur missile and rambunctious child. 

   “Hey, watch it, kid!”

   “Who let a dog on the ship?”

   “Where’s your parents?!”

   In the aftermath of their destructive wake, Evelyn apologized, “Sorry- sorry- he’s just excited. First time!”

   Bryan broke the news to his unsuspecting aunt himself, rambling on and on and on while she just stared at him with unprocessed shock. Much to Evelyn's relief, Vera agreed (and quite happily) to Bryan's new situation. “I’m sorry to hear about my brother, but you’re more than welcome to live here with me.” She gave Evelyn the key to a room. “Thank you for keeping him safe. Here. Free of charge. I’m sure you’ll be needing it for the night.”

   Bryan hugged Dogmeat tight. “Goodbye, boy. Thanks for being the best dog.”

   “If we’re ever here, we’ll come visit,” Evelyn promised. “We’ll stop and say goodbye before we go.”

   “You better! Thanks lady, and Mister Sca-oops- I mean! Grog!”

   A weight she hadn’t noticed lifted from her shoulders as the original party left for their room. Dogmeat instantly claimed the cot with a few furious spins before curling in a tight ball, his beady, heterochromia eyes watching their every move as they parted with their respective packs and Charon removed his mask. 

   “I need to go speak with Li,” Evelyn said. “If you want-”

   “Who is this Pinkerton?”

   She fumbled with her suggestion and instead gave an, “Oh. Um…I honestly don't know.”

   “Then why?”

   “He’s someone I need to see.”

   Charon sighed, full of irritation, “Why?”  

   “Why do you suddenly care?” she snapped. 

   “Is that a serious question?”

   “You never bothered with any of it before!” They both crossed their arms simultaneously, browbeating each other with reserved indignations. “Would you rather wait here while I go?”

   He snorted, already going to replace his mask over his head. “That, is a stupid question.”

   “My father said there’s no such thing as a stupid question,” she retorted, high-and-mighty, feeling her hand becoming engulfed in his. There was that sweeping sensation on the back of her hand again, but it was so brief and feather-light she told herself she imagined it.

   Charon stated matter-of-factly, “Then he is stupid.”

   She groveled with a mocking impression, “Then he is stupid.”  

   The science lab gained three new additions to their daily flurry of hectic activities. Evelyn sidepassed a grumbling old man who was openly berating a woman, the hired gun at his side assessing Charon from head to toe. 

   Dr. Li was behind a table, her face pinched with disapproval at the samples before her. “No, this isn’t what I was referring to.” She raised her eyes as they came closer and immediately redirected her chagrin at Evelyn’s presence, instead. “Oh. It’s you again…did you find James?”

   “No, and I’m actually looking for Pinkerton.”

   The scientist quickly went from annoyed to surprised. “Pinkerton? Whatever for?”

   “It’s personal business, but I assume you know where he is?”

   “He’s in the bow of the ship. Fair warning- he doesn’t like visitors.” Dr. Li lowered her eyes to the samples for further study and returned her attention to the chart in her hands. “Are you not looking for him, still? Your father?”

   Charon slowly spun his head around, a creepy motion considering all things. 

   Evelyn held his hand tightly without meaning to. “No. My dad isn’t worth it.”

   Dr. Li pursed her lips tightly as they left for the ship's bow. 

   Charon removed his mask when they were far enough from the bridge, peering up at the dark sky with a frown. “There will be a storm soon.”

   “We’ll be back before it hits,” she assured him. She stopped in her tracks, and he gave her a questioning look as she sheepishly tapped her fingers together. “Um…which part is the bow?”

   A roll of his eyes and a point of his finger, his eyes squinting through the thickening haze and light drizzling mist for any sort of access point. They found one, and Dogmeat galloped ahead with his nose to the dirt, his sharp nails tapping across a rickety makeshift bridge that led to a single hatch on the detached end of the ship. Evelyn eyed the distance to the Memorial; a few super mutants watched them from their catwalks.

   “Do you think they’ll come for us?” she asked, the horrific memory of their previous battle at the radio plaza socking her in the gut. 

   Charon held his shotgun in hand, not taking his eyes away from the potential threat. “I do not think so.”

   The hatch was locked, and she threw her weight into the handle as she tried to force it open. Charon gently pushed her aside, rolling his shoulders and attempting it himself. It wouldn’t budge. 

   “I can try to pick it.” A slender box of bobby pins was pulled out from a pocket. “Just watch my back, okay?” She then bent down to begin testing her thievery skills.

   Charon nodded, his head tilting slightly as her bum raised. “I will.”

   More than one pin snapped from her attempts, and she muttered and cursed under her breath as she held up the sole survivor for all three of them to see. She mumbled, “Shit…” 

   Charon turned to the side and blew out his nostril with one finger. “Do not waste it.”

   (Well, no pressure there)

   “Thanks,” she candidly replied with dripping sarcasm. 

   The pin was inserted, the lock fiddled, and she felt a damp puff of air continuously hit her cheek as Dogmeat ever-so-slowly crept his head forward to eye what it was of great interest that she was doing, her personal space invaded by a drooling tongue and god-awful breath. 

   “Can I have some space, please?” she asked. 

   Charon suddenly appeared on her other side, flattening her existence between the two of them. “Is it done?”

   “No!”

   Neither granted her any extra room, and so she just tersely bitched to herself as she gave great concentration to the task at hand with her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. A wiggle here- resistance. A wiggle there- a smooth turn. The handle was slowly turned the entirety of the way, a faint click telling of her success.

   “Yes! I got it!” 

   It swung open, and they were greeted by the rank smell of rotten eggs and a blockading wall of shell. The mirelurk turned to them, everyone equally surprised at the unwanted encounter. 

   Charon quickly swung the hatch back shut, snarling at her, “You are to wait. Right. Here.” He then ordered the dog, “Keep her safe.”

   Evelyn didn’t have time to argue as he dipped inside and shut her out, the sound of gunshots ringing in her ears. She opened the door in hot pursuit, just in time to witness the ghoul giving a blunt kick to a mirelurk in the chest, dropping it down a shaft before firing off a blast at its exposed face. 

   He turned to her, his gun raised for a split-second before he snapped the muzzle back down. He barked, “Get out!”

   A claw rose from the depths, refusing to commit to its watery grave as it snagged at his boot to drag him down, and the ghoul grunted as he was caught off guard and lost his footing, dropping his gun to catch himself before falling into the pit.

   “Dogmeat, grab him!” Evelyn shrieked, rushing over to grab his hand while Dogmeat closed his sharp teeth around his shoulder pad, both heaving back against the immense strength of the mirelurk. 

   The ants were crawling. Jericho was at her side, his eyes bloodshot and lips missing as he sardonically mocked in her ear, “I have you! I have you!”

   The weight of Charon began to drag down, down, down inside that pitch of black, never to come back, the only token left for her to bring home being a single limb. She screamed, “Get off of him!” Evelyn released him and jumped over, landing atop the mirelurk’s shell. 

   Charon wrapped an arm around the railing from the extra weight, a few rusty bolts popping free from the strain. He snarled, “Evelyn!”

   She straddled the giant crustacean, digging her left fingers through the exposed, soft flesh for a better hold as it bucked and attempted to swipe at her with its disabled claw. The knife in her other hand found a black, glazed orifice- its eye. The blade sank with an almost skin-tingling pleasing sensation by how smoothly it went to the hilt, and then she felt herself begin to fall into nothing as the mirelurk emitted a high-frequency squeal and released its prey. Her right arm was grabbed, the awkward angle and unrelenting force dislocating it. 

   Charon hoisted her over, ignoring her bellied screaming as he swiftly assessed her injury and rasped, his expression pinched and breathing labored, “It is a subluxation. Hold still.” He relocated her shoulder, taking up his shotgun to prepare for any more unwanted guests while she regained her senses as she sat there, cradling her arm close to her chest. He rasped with urgency, “Can you remove your jacket?”

   “Just give me a minute,” she breathed, her eyes screwed shut and stomach hot with nausea from the extreme pain. Dogmeat whined in her ear and licked her nose until a few minutes passed and it slowly began to fade into a dull throb, wherein she gently began to undress her outer layer. 

   Charon knelt beside her, dropping his guard for a moment as he retrieved a stim to help the healing of her strained ligaments and muscles. 

   She groaned at the familiar sensation of the stim performing its miracle serum, cracking an eye open to see him. “Use one.”

   He shook his head. “I am not injured.”

   “I saw you in pain.”

   The look he gave was unfamiliar. “I am fine.” He stood, helping her to her feet and handing over her things. “I advise we leave.”

   “No. If he’s here, we’re going to find him.” She zipped up her jacket, careful of her still-tender muscles. “Hopefully no more mirelurks.”

   Charon halted her before she could step into the next room. “Do not step there.”

   She blinked, then followed his gaze down. A thin wire faintly glinted, and she turned on her Pip-Boy light to expose it. “Oh.”

   “Yes.” Charon crouched to disarm it carefully, rasping dryly, “Oh.”  

   The dog watched their backs as Charon replaced point, freezing their tracks in every room they came through as he dismantled trap after trap. “Someone is here,” he reluctantly agreed, quickly unloading a shotgun rig for its shells. “They do not wish to be found.”

   “He'll change his mind.” Evelyn clicked a first aid kit shut, replacing her spent medical supplies. 

   A final hatch was crept up to, and the ghoul meticulously examined every crevice of its frame for any possible gotcha’s! His fingers lightly felt along the sides as he grumbled to himself, and only when he was satisfied did he stand back and try to open it.

   Locked.

   Evelyn reached for her remaining bobby pin, aghast as she felt nothing but an empty pocket. “Fuck. I think it fell out with that mirelurk.”

   Charon growled, “Then let us go.”

   “But we’ve come this far!”

   “For what?”

   “For…” she trailed off, her eyes wandering around the room for something of use. A glowing switch on the far side caught her attention. Feeling giddy, she stepped over and pressed the button, her intuition proving right when the door swung open with a loud whine. 

   Charon scoped the room with his shotgun. Evelyn stepped in behind, momentarily looking around at the array of surgical equipment and blinking machinery. A gurney with a skeleton hiding under a blood-stained sheet peeped at their entrance, and then the man she had been so desperate to meet turned to them from behind a screen. 

   “What the-?! Who in the hell are you?!” he demanded.

   Evelyn took a breath, half-turned to Charon, and said quietly. “Charon, under no condition do you kill him...do you understand?”

   Charon dumbly lowered his gun, forced to nod before asking, “What are we here for?”

   She ignored him and addressed their unsuspecting host. “Pinkerton? I’m Evelyn, and this is Charon.” She held up her Pip-Boy for him to see. “I’ve heard about you and think you can help us.” She then placed her hand on his chest. “I think you can help him.”

[rhiannatruex]

foggy infrared

[kidotm]

2278 (fanfic)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Fandoms: FO3 Fandom Relationships: Charon x OC Word count: 2,720+

Chapter 1: A Couple of Angels

Hands tied behind her back. Rope. Cuts on her arms and face. Tape over her mouth. She is dark-haired. Long-legged. She is suntanned almost brown like she spends a lot of time outside. Maybe a farmer? Maybe a raider. 

She is unconscious, propped against a wall and slouching over to the side. Blood is caked on the side of her head. It’s in her hair and all over the side of her face. Matted. Dried. She’s a mess of body fluid and grime and mud. It looks like she fought and even may even have fought hard. There’s bruises forming on her face and arms and the all skin visible to my eyes. Which is a fair amount, she’s not very well dressed. She wears no armor, only jeans and a short sleeved shirt that looks too small for her.

I observe as Vian, my contract holder, and someone she has brought back with her from her outing, a ghoul in a suit, go up and down the stairs. They go about their business hastily, snapping at one another here and there.

The man is not someone I’ve ever seen her with. Not before now. I already don’t care for him. Not at all. He hasn’t shut his mouth once since he walked through the door and doesn’t seem to be planning on doing so any time soon. His griping and bitching is getting on my nerves but he’s clearly no threat to her. They seem to know each other fairly well. They’re arguing like they do. 

I sit on the couch with my gun across my lap. I’m not sure where she found the man and I’m not sure why he’s here. The same goes for the woman slouched unconscious in the corner. I try to act like I don’t care. I try to act like I’m minding my own business. ‘You’re staying home this time,’ she had said. ‘I won’t be gone long, I won’t get into any trouble, don’t worry’ she had told me. ‘Just keep your ass on the couch unless something goes wrong.’

And that’s what I had done. My ass on the couch, eyes glued to the door. Five hours she had been gone. On the sixth hour mark she had returned. Upon her opening the door to the house I had quickly raised my shotgun to fire at the intruder, but it had only been her. And the man in the suit. And the unconscious woman being dragged behind him. 

No explanation was offered. They both ignored me. It’s dark outside, pitch black. The dead of night. It’s unlikely anyone even saw them, so there’s no one to be suspicious. 

At once I had noticed the bomb collar on her neck. Seeing it surprised me. These days, the only time I saw one was on the occasion I looked into a mirror, or a puddle. Something I normally avoided. But now, here one was, on the neck of an unconscious stranger. A very unlucky unconscious stranger. Memories flash through my head as I eyed the device. None of them are good. 

My contract holder has done a lot of nasty things to a lot of nasty people. She has done a lot of unfriendly things to a lot of friendly people. I kick myself, for just a moment, for thinking she wouldn’t take it any further. Not any further than me. Not this far. This doesn’t look good, none of it.

The two of them leave again and I am ordered to watch the woman and make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. While they’re gone, she stirs. I sit on the couch, eyeing her warily.

When she wakes, her in-question raider status goes from possible to very unlikely. She’s perturbed and afraid, but has none of the dope-addled cocky attitude that I’ve come to expect from them. Rain or shine, in their element or not, raiders talked shit 24/7. There was no rest, they took no breaks. Not if they had knife to their throat or a gun to their head. This woman doesn't really hit any of those marks. Just a wastelander?

When the two of them come back- he’s not sure what they had been doing outside- they force the woman up the stairs. I follow them this time. Having any sort of prisoner was relevant to me, like it or not. They’ve already got her tied to the workbench on the far end of the room when I catch up to them. She glares hotly at all of us but doesn’t have much to say to us or for herself. 

Later, I hear Vian and the ghoul in the suit arguing from her room. The man is insisting he doesn’t owe her anymore, insisting that they’re square now. I have no idea what he could mean by that. She had never gone about slaver business, beside myself, while I had been with her. And I had been with her for a while. When had she had time to meet this man and gain a reputation with him? One that made him not question her abducting people?

The man leaves not long after their argument. He's odd. His suit is clean save for the same dust that covers everything. He carries only a pistol, nothing else. He has a full head of dark hair, as well as facial hair, which I've never seen on a ghoul before in my life. He brushes past me angrily, not paying me any mind. He doesn't look back before slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 2: Washing Off the Blood

Come morning, the woman looks ten times worse. Her bruises are now dark and the level of damage is clearer. The morning light coming through the cracks of the walls shines light on what has happened to her.

 The man in the suit is nowhere to be seen. He never came back after he left last night.

I’ve been watching her all night, as Vian ordered. The bound woman has been nodding on and off throughout the night but she never slept for long. Although she's said "piss off, ghoul" multiple times throughout the night, she hasn't really lashed out at him or tried to escape. 

“I don’t suppose you’d let me outta here,” the woman says. I can’t tell if she’s been drugged or if it’s just exhaustion making her slur her words. 

She groans when I don’t respond. 

“Can I have water?” she asks. 

I look at her. Her voice is hoarse. Who knows what Vian would permit her to have, though. It’s best to just not risk it.

“Do you even speak English, motherfucker?” she slurs again, her head falling to the side of her shoulder. She sighs loudly, “whatever.”

The blood that’s dried on her face, hair, and.. well, everywhere, is starting to flake off with her movements. Her hair is a molerat’s nest and she reeks of iron. The ventilation in this house being what it is, the whole room smells of it.

Later that morning, Vian emerges from her room. She unties the woman from the workbench, then re-ties her hands together in front of her. She drags her from the metal floor she had sat on all night to bring her in front of us.

“You smell like hell,” Vian says to the woman.

The woman just looks back at her. 

I back off and little, taking a few steps away without turning my back on them. I don’t like this. I don’t like where this is going and I don’t want to be a part of it. I can’t imagine what Vian has planned for this woman and I don’t want to imagine. What is she going to do, sell her? That was if Vian had captured her herself, which it seemed to me like she had.. That didn’t rule out the possibility that she had went out and bought the woman from a slaver. And in that case-

“Charon.” Vian says.

“Yes.” I reply. 

“You take her to the bathroom and you wash her off. She’s too dangerous to be untied. I don’t need her trying to stab us while she’s loose. Just cut those off her and I’ll find her something else to wear.”

I freeze. Seconds go by, no one says anything. I struggle to swallow. The woman and I meet eyes from across the room and her face goes from totally blank to enraged in less than a second.

“You have to be kidding me!” the woman shouts into Vian’s face.

“Now. Charon.” Vian says.

I mutter profanities under my breath, taking the woman by the arm. The order is already itching in my brain, demanding to be adhered to, urging me on. I drag the woman one handed to the bathroom. Vian wanders off to find clothes, unbothered as the woman shouts and thrashes against my arm. 

We get to the tub. It’ll take several minutes to fill. The pipes make an awful din but the water flows at a heavy trickle. 

I take deep breaths to steady myself. Deep breaths. In and out. We’re not going to harm her, it’s just a bath. I have my back to her as she sits slumped at the bathroom door. I wasn’t dumb enough to leave it open, lest she try to make a run for it and I have to chase her down.

I sigh heavily, willing the ache in my head to go away while the order sizzling in my brain sits idle. I turn to face her. She flinches. 

“Let’s go,” I say. 

She shakes her head side to side vigorously, curling away. 

“Come on. I have to do this,” I insist. “Let’s just get it over with.”

She shakes her head again. “No,” she says.

“Alright,” I say. Her shoulders drop for just a millisecond before she realizes I’m actually leaning in to grab her, not giving up.

If her hands weren’t tied behind her back she would absolutely be clawing the hell out of me. Small mercies. Her legs are free, though. She kicks and tries to bite at me, thrashing against me as she yells stormy words into my ear.

“Charon.” I hear through the door.

“Yes.” I say, gruff. The woman takes the opportunity to stomp on my foot. Hard. I don’t feel it through my boots. I turn to look at her. She looks back up at me, her glare ablaze. Her eyes are narrow. Dark. Her face is covered in speckles and spots. Not unlike mine used to be. 

“You shut her up,” Vian hisses through the door. “I don’t want to hear another peep from this bathroom. We’ll have the whole town eavesdropping at this rate.”

“Yes.” I say again. 

“Good.”

“Get the hell off me,” the woman says.

Suddenly my knife is between us, only inches from her face. “Any more shouting and I won’t just be cutting your clothes,” I tell her. 

The defiant look in her eye wavers at this. If the additional order wasn’t blazing in my mind on top of the first, I would have felt a little bad.

Her shirt is thin and cuts off very easily. She stands quiet and still, seeming ashamed. Or just scared. I don’t know. Her back is turned to me and I can’t see her face. Thankfully. I’m glad she can’t see mine. She doesn’t wear anything underneath her shirt. I take it off of her and toss it aside. 

“Undo the button of your pants,” I tell her. She hesitates and her shoulders shake but she does it. The jeans fall to the floor. 

“Can I leave my underwear on?” she whispers. Her voice trembles.

“Yes.” I say.

She exhales a shaky breath. 

A steaming mist floats up from the tub and into the cool air. The water is lukewarm. She dips her feet in it carefully, then squats down and works into a sitting position.

There’s an assortment of plain, non-scented soap bars on the shelf in this room. Normally a box of shredded soap sits next to the tub but today it’s nowhere to be seen. That would have been too convenient, I suppose. Sprinkle some flakes in for her and let her figure it out? No, that would have been too easy. It must have run out. I don’t even see the empty box anywhere.

I select one of the bars from the shelf. A sleeve from a old shirt from a box full of rags. The rope around her wrists has rubbed her skin raw. It will probably burn once the soap hits it. I dunk the bar into the water at her feet. It suds slightly against the cloth. 

“So what the hell are you, her maid?” she spits at me.

I don’t respond. 

She cringes away from my touch as the soapy cloth hits her back but she doesn’t yell anymore. She has prominent tan lines all over her body, try as I might not to stare. She hunches in on herself, drawing her shoulders forward. She’s a long-limbed person. Lanky, almost. Malnourished, for sure. A lot of people are. Maybe the majority of wastelanders, even. While her face is full-cheeked, I can see her ribs on her back and her knees are even somewhat knobby.

I wipe the cloth along her back, scrubbing at her lightly. This would be a lot easier if she wasn’t so filthy. If she wasn’t covered in grime I could just let her dunk herself in the water really quick and call it good. Unfortunately, that’s not going to cut it. On this thought, I eye her matted hair.

“You’re going to have to put your head in the water,” I say.

She looks at me from the corner of her eye. Now that she’s turned towards me I can see the tears rolling down her face. 

“You’re covered in blood,” I insist. “She won’t be happy if you come out dirty.”

She looks away from me, down at the water. Then she slowly unfurls herself, shaky breath loud in the quiet room. She does her best to rinse the gore from her hair but struggles with her hands tied. I end up doing it for her. The soap doesn’t do much for the grease in her hair but it takes the blood out. The bath water is tinged pink, little bubbles of soap forming alongside the edges of the tub. 

The persistent force in my head is starting to calm now that I’m following through. The ache is subsiding, and with it, my blind desire to obey. As the blinders begin to fade, I begin to actually feel the awkwardness and pain of this situation. Her hair is soft in my hands and I try not to pull at all of the tangles in it. The last time I was doing this, it was with my own hair. It seems like forever ago.

The door opens. The woman in the tub flinches. It’s Vian.

“Okay, good?” she asks. “Here’s some clothes for her,” she sets them on the chair next to the door and is gone again.

I stand from my kneeling position on the floor, my knees crackling and popping on my way back up. She’s already slipping her way out of the tub. She lets me wrap a towel around her. I leave. It’s over. 

I retreat to the couch, grumbling about my sleeves and my front getting wet. The two of them stay upstairs for most of the day, Vian only coming down to fetch food. She has the woman doing something on the computer upstairs but I don’t rejoin them to look. 

Many hours later I’m assigned to watch over the woman as she sleeps again. That night my head is spinning and my stomach turns. The image of a knife tearing at cloth cuts through my mind over and over again. It goes on all throughout the night. The sound of tearing fabric plays sing-songy and mocking in my ears, though the house is dead silent. 

I don’t so much as doze that night. Flashes of today’s events. Flashes of the past. I don’t move as I guard her. I barely blink as I watch the door from above. For the first time in a while, I’m tired. 

[kidotm]

Ignis Fatuus

Rating: MATURE Archive Warning: VIOLENCE, CHARACTER DEATH Fandoms: SNOW WHITE & THE HUNTSMAN Relationships: SNOW WHITE/BRIDGE TROLL Word count: 4,791 +

Chapter 1: The Dark Forest

Crows caw from above their heads and leaves crunch beneath their boots. These woods are dark and wet, the smell of sap strong in the damp air. The area is more swampy than forested, and the trees look more and more unhealthy as they walk the path. Snow follows the huntsman, not entirely knowing where they’re going or if she can even trust him.

“Is this the edge of the Dark Forest?” Snow asks. 

The huntsman confirms that it is. His face doesn’t give anything away about how he feels about their surroundings, but he pulls out a knife from a sheath on his hip. Only the tenseness his shoulders and stiffening movements of his arms give off gives him away.

Snow reaches for the sword that should be on her own hip but only feels empty air. It had been dropped and left behind in the scuffle just an hour earlier. She feels completely defenseless and stressed without it, part of her wishing she could go back and retrieve it. 

They have come to a small bridge made of cobblestone. It’s covered in vines and moss. A large willow tree looms above it, its wet fallen leaves strewn everywhere, including all over the bridge. There are chunks missing from the footpath and the edges of the bridge, it looks like it was built a long time ago. The stream below it is small and moving very slowly. The bridge is very nearly not necessary, the two of them could easily step over the little stream.

On the other side of the bridge, the forest becomes much thicker, the trees more in numbers and closer together. It’s much darker on the other side and many of the trees look like they are dead or dying. It’s more than just the autumnal time of year. It’s clear by just looking that the forest is very sick and diseased. Snow wishes she could have seen it when it was healthy and green, as it must have been at one point in time. 

The huntsman has noticed something, he stiffens even more, bringing the knife higher. He’s taken on a defensive stance. She stays closer to him, listening carefully to their surroundings.

“What is it?” she asks quietly.

The huntsman hushes her as they step onto the bridge. Once they’re higher above the stream Snow can see what has him so nervous. All along the sides of the river, in the water and on the other side of the bridge, lay bones and broken items of all sorts. She spots remains that look all too human as well as what look to be broken wagon wheels and large splinters of wood. Much of it is old and rotted, destroyed by the wear of many seasons. There are other pieces of bone and wood that look startlingly recent. 

There’s a clattering from behind them. A series of clinking and soil being moved, like it was being dug through. The moment turns into chaos in less than a heartbeat. A heavy rumble sounds as an enormous creature shows itself from underneath the ground. It erupts from the ground they were walking on mere seconds ago. It rips up from the ground, a larger-than-life living gargoyle of stone and moss, and snarls at them.

“A troll!” the huntsman yells. He lashes out wildly, landing a slash with his axe before he’s thrown into the air by the monster’s huge hand. He flies like a ragdoll, his knife soaring like a bird away from him. 

The monster whips out with its other hand and sends Snow flying in the opposite direction. She loses consciousness for a second- everything goes dark for a moment- then she’s alert again and scrambling up off the ground. Her head is spinning badly. She looks all around for the huntsman as she scrambles up again. He is nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly a sharp pain shoots down her leg as she tries to stand. She sucks air in through her teeth, tears coming to her eyes. She hadn’t realized she had landed on some of the wagon remains. There is a large shard of wood jammed through her leg. With the adrenaline pumping, she hadn’t even noticed she’d been harmed. The pain sears through her as she lays eyes on it and it takes her breath away.

Again, she looks all over for the monster. For the huntsman. For anyone. 

Then she spots him. The troll is making its way to him, crawling on its hind legs, using its fisted hands to gain momentum. The huntsman is on his feet again, swinging an axe at the creature. There is a slash of red and the troll howls, batting at the huntsman again and missing. The huntsman dodges under the monster’s legs, hitting it from behind, and slashing the creature again. He tries to dodge another blow but is off by mere seconds, giving the troll an opening to swipe at him, sending him flying backwards. 

Snow watches in horror as he lands four metres away in a patch of stones. He doesn’t get back up. The monster growls loudly at him again, sending spit and ear-splitting sound at him. He still doesn’t move. 

Snow is frozen, mouth open as the creature stomps and approaches the huntsman, sniffing at the ground. She wants to scream at it to get away from him but can only stare in open-mouthed shock. 

Once the monster loses interest in him, it sniffs the air again. It then turns its enormous head towards her, spotting her instantly. It huffs at her from a distance, bouncing a little on its arms, then races towards her. Her heart races in her chest as it bounds towards her, roaring. 

Then, without a thought, she opens her mouth wide and lets out a piercing yell of her own. She pushes all of her pain and fear out into it, her whole chest vibrating with the noise. This seems to take the creature off-guard and it slows, circling her a little before huffing at her again through its nostrils. The creature narrows its eyes to slits, peering at her and coming a little closer.

“NO!” she screams, not losing eye contact with the beast as they both breathe heavily. Both of their chests heave. It stares her down but then eventually drops eye contact and backs off. 

The creature makes its way toward the hillside, glancing back at her briefly. After pawing at the dirt a little, it lays down there.

Snow stares at it in awe as it makes itself comfortable like it hadn’t just attacked them out of nowhere and injured the person she was travelling with. And that’s what she told herself, that he was just injured. He would get back up soon enough and they would escape.

She looks over at the huntsman again, waiting for him to move, or even just twitch. Any sign that he’s going to be alright, any at all. He’s just unconscious.

She tries to stand up again, then begins to limp slowly over to him. The creature lets out a low growl, watching her, and she freezes, slowly turning her head to where it sits on the hill. She turns her head back over to the man laying on the ground, his face is covered by his hair and she can’t see his features. She begins to move again. The creature lets out a louder, even deeper growl. A warning. She stops moving again. 

It doesn’t want her to go over to him or doesn’t want her to move at all? She isn’t sure which it is, or if the beast even has reasoning at all, but now that she’s a little closer to the huntsman she can see the degree of the damage. There is blood. A lot of blood. It’s pooled all around his head onto the forest floor. He landed on a patch of rocks, some of them looking dangerously sharp. She wonders if he’s merely been rendered unconscious or—?

Her leg is ready to give out from under her and she’s forced to sit back down, not able to endure the pain any longer. She leans against a broken tree for support and lowers herself to the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in the direction of the huntsman, before finally letting herself rest.

Chapter 2: The Other Troll

She sits in a very old, very large tree stump. There are unknown bugs, beetles, and worms crawling about all over. The bark is dry and falling apart but the stump still grants her some protection from the elements. 

The huntsman’s axe is only metres away from her. If she could crawl over just a bit she would be able to reach it and maybe defend herself, if it came to that again. But crawling over to it would mean taking it from him . It would mean acknowledging that he hadn’t made it. She hadn’t barely known him a day but the thought of taking the man’s axe from him makes her eyes feel wet. She can’t help but feel sorry for him. She hadn’t even known if he was trustworthy. Was he truly going to help her? She had no way of knowing now. She couldn’t help but feel bad about everything he had clearly been through.

That wasn’t all, though. Leaving the stump would also mean giving up her hiding spot. Giving up what little safety she has. The creature had only been turned around for a couple minutes when she took refuge in here, surely it wouldn’t have much of a problem finding her. She can hear it sniffing at the air not too far away. Can it smell her? Surely it can smell the blood oozing from her leg. Does it know where she is?

The sounds of the creature’s fists crushing the dead leaves and twigs on the ground meets her ears as it skulks about. She can imagine the large hulking figure lumbering around. The stretches of mossy stony muscle that could crush her in an instant if it really wanted to. She wonders if it had just been batting them around at first to play with them like a cat with scared birds.

She decides against going for the axe. For now.

Eventually, the monster goes away and she sleeps there for the night. Not well. Her rest is mostly off and on as animals howl in the distance and the dead trees creak in the wind. She’s kept up by the strange noises of the dark forest all night. 

Hours later, she considers again going to grab the axe that’s not far from the fallen huntsman. Maybe nothing would see her in the dark of the night. Maybe she could grab it very quickly and come right back. After a few failed pep talks to herself she decides against it again and stays quiet and still. 

In the very early morning, she wakes up with sticky dew on her skin. The smell of the dead forest blown in the wind that comes through the hole in the stump. The smell is of dry bark, dew, and rotting leaves. It’s a sweet and heavy smell.

 She hears something stomping around. Is it the troll coming back? Or had it ever left the area it had attacked at all? 

 She decides to take a quick peek around the side of the stump, showing her head to the world. She sees nothing but the forest.

The huntsman is still lying where he fell last night. She halfway limps and halfway crawls over to his body, deeming the surroundings safe enough for now. She takes the axe, flinching away from his unmoving face. She shuffles back to her stump carefully, trying not to snap any twigs or rustle too many crackly leaves.

Before she can make it she hears a great rustle of branches and a growl. She snaps her head in the direction the sound came from and is confronted by a monster’s drooling face. She’s not sure if it’s the same one, this one is much lighter in color and far thinner. Its horns are smaller and curled closer to its head. It roars at her again, the sound ear-splitting even from a fair distance away.

The monster closes that distance in a heartbeat. Before she can even try to scramble back into the stump the thing is there in front of her. She rushes and tries to claw her way into the stump but it has grabbed her by her ankles and is dragging her backwards. She screams as her injured leg is grabbed hard. It lets her go briefly and she takes a swing at it with the axe still in her hands but the weapon is batted away from her like it’s nothing but a child’s toy.

She stares up at the monster, its eyes glowing bright and sharp pointed teeth bared wide, spittle going everywhere. There’s then another growl, but not from the monster in front of her. The beast above her is momentarily distracted by the sound and she’s able to scoot back a little. 

She’s immediately glad that she did as not a second later the attacker is being thrown by a bigger troll. She recognizes the beast, this is the same one that attacked them last night. 

Snow manages to crawl back to the hollow stump, tears streaming down her face. The damage to her leg is even worse now, the piece of wood that had been stuck in her leg is partially broken off. The wound has been ripped open even further and it’s bleeding profusely. Her pant leg is completely soaked, now a dark, dark brown. It’s clear she’ll be wherever the huntsman has gone soon. And she will be with her father.

The two trolls outside her stump can be heard fighting loudly as she tries to hold the bleeding. She rips some cloth from her dress and attempts to wrap it around the wound, trying to somehow avoid the terrible splinter of wood gouging through her leg. Touching the wound makes the pain a hundred times worse. Snow has never been injured before and has never had to treat wounds. She tries to think of any information she could have possibly ever heard for treating wounds of this nature. She can think of nothing.

She sits, axe in hand, waiting for the fight to stop outside. She’s leaning against the inner stump in a sitting position, her good leg brought up to her chest and the other splayed out in front of her. At least I’ll go out fighting , she thinks to herself silently. She grips the axe tight.

Eventually the sounds of the fight come to a halt. Her head is spinning and she can’t really say how much time has passed or how deadly the fight had become. She doesn’t dare stick her head out from the stump again, lest it be swiped right off. 

All is silent for a few minutes, all she can hear is the wind and her hard breathing as she tries to keep her breath steady. A nearly impossible task at this point. 

Her ears perk at a rustle of movement. Then the sounds of snuffling and sniffing are in the air. The sound of fists crushing the ground is in her ears again. She trembles, axe in hand. The sounds get closer until suddenly there is the face of a troll taking up the entire entrance to the stump. She jumps as it looks at her. It snorts at her loudly and though she can’t be completely sure, she thinks it’s the troll from last night. 

It snorts at her again and she panics and with a yelp swings the weapon she holds at the monster, then scootches back as far as the small space will allow. As far away from the hole as she can get. It grimaces at her and the face disappears from view only to be replaced by an enormous fist. The creature sticks its huge hand into the hole like a bear sticking a hand into a giant beehive, in search of honey.

 It feels around, then rips the axe from her hands and steals it from her. The brief thought crosses her mind that maybe that’s all it wanted and it would go away now. 

She feels silly for praying that was it when the axe is thrown behind the creature. The troll peaks into the stump again and they stare at each other for too long of a moment. She doesn’t take a single breath. Then the face goes away once more and its hand reaches into the stump again. 

Chapter 3: The Cave

She yells and kicks the hand with her booted leg, the good one, as hard as she can. The beast doesn’t even falter from her blows. The enormous, mossy stone-like hand grabs her legs and drags her out, holding too tight, squashing her injured leg and her uninjured leg together. She screams in agony as the pain rips through her. She can feel blood gushing down her legs, she doesn’t know how she could lose so much blood and still be conscious. Her head swims, her mind bleary. She’s never been in so much pain in her life. She begs the creature to let her go, her words not even making sense to her in the slurry of pain and rage. 

Once it has her out of the stump, everything comes to a halt. She pants heavily, tears streaming down her face… Nothing happens. The creature stares down at her from above, chest heaving. She stares up at it in shock, catching her breath. It tilts its head ever so slightly then leans down low to the ground, closer to her face. And sniffs. She flinches away, shutting her eyes tight and bringing her arms up to cover her face. She expects the monster to sink its sharp teeth into her flesh, to be ripped apart. Turned into a meal.

No such pain comes. After a moment passes she opens her eyes again. It lets go of her legs and grabs her around her middle. It brings her close to its chest and then begins walking. The creature walks on three limbs instead of four, clearly so as not to crush her, shocking Snow with its carefulness. She’s frozen. What could the monster possibly have to gain by keeping her alive? she wonders.

Once the shock of it wears off she yells “put me down!” as though the creature could understand her. She huffs angrily, still in an immense amount of pain. Even though she is being carried rather gently, she is barely holding back tears from the pain she is in. 

The tree stump and the clearing she and the huntsman were attacked in are growing further and further away by the second. The road disappears into the distance along with her only way of navigating the woods. Her head is very light and her vision is becoming dim. Her bandages are long since bled through. She thinks she may be leaving a dotted red trail through the forest as they go.

The woods are filled with strange noises of animals, the squishing of the monster’s footsteps on the swampy land, and sounds she could only assume were coming from other monsters and animals. The huntsman’s body and her only chance of escaping the queen’s wrath grow further and further away. The creature carrying her stomps through the undergrowth, grunting all the while. Paying no mind to her plight.

Eventually, her vision goes very dim and then finally, everything goes totally dark.

She wakes up in the dark. Her eyes are terribly dry and burning badly. She feels around in the darkness for something- anything. There is nothing and no signs to explain to her where she is. She’s totally blind.

Her face feels salty from all the day’s tears and she wished she at least had a little water to clean up with. Her eyes take a while to adjust but when they do it’s clear that she is entirely alone. The monster is nowhere to be seen. 

It takes a while longer still for her eyes to adjust enough to see that she’s in a cave formation of some sort. The ceiling of the cave is fairly low and she can’t imagine the monster getting in here easily. It would be a squeeze. 

Was it the creature that put her in here? Or had someone else found her and brought her to this cave?

 If it had been someone else, where were they now? Would they really have just saved her and dumped her here?

It is freezing. Her damp leather trousers and ripped shirt aren’t doing much to keep her body warmth contained. The stone she sits on is cold, as well. Her butt and her legs are somewhat numb, but she relishes in the absence of the mind-splitting pain she had been in out in the forest. 

Her leg is still very clearly injured, the jagged thorn of wood sticking out of her thigh gruesomely. It’s half the length of her forearm, at least. The blood that soaked her leather trousers has dried into a crust and smells strongly of copper. She has to find some way to clean it before it tries to heal over like that. 

Her hand hovers over the wood, shaking violently. Would she be able to do it? 

All she had at this point were her clothes to halt the bleeding. If she used her clothes to stop it then she would have even less to wear in the cold night. 

She makes up her mind. Tenderly, she places both her hands on the large wood splinter, grasping it, trying to steady her tremor. She breaths, once, twice, and then a third deep breath. She heaves over, dry gagging, puking up nothing. She breathes heavily, shaking, sobbing silently with no tears to show for it. 

She places her hands on the wood splinter again, still in her leg. Another deep breath, another— then she pulls with all her might. It makes a disgusting squelch noise as it comes out of her leg. The wood splinter goes flying across the room as she screams through her gritted teeth. 

Tears flood her vision as the agony rips through her whole body this time. She falls to the floor, feeling the blood gush from her abused leg once more. She scrambles to rip off her cloth corset, the thickest material she is wearing, and wraps it around her bleeding thigh.

She takes several more deep breaths, then lets herself fall against the cave wall again. Closing her eyes tight, trying to think of anything else. Anything but the puddle of blood she’s sitting in. 

Something startles her awake. Had she passed out from the pain? Or had she simply fallen asleep from exhaustion?

She feels something, a whisper of her senses. A little hint that something is off. She rolls her head off of the cave wall and glances around tiredly. 

It’s hard to see- hard to make out anything at all. But a cloud drifts to the side in the sky and the moonlight shines just right, just for a moment. At the cave entrance she can see a figure, a hulking figure. It’s the same thing that brought her here. She knows it though she can only see the outline of the beast. As she stares, the moonlight shines brighter and a pair of glowing blue eyes form from the darkness. Her breath hitches in her throat. It’s the beast. It’s been watching her. 

Chapter 4: The Remains

She must have fallen asleep at some point. She opens her eyes and all of a sudden there’s sunlight peeking in through the cave entrance. She’s already shivering when she wakes. The air feels somehow even chillier now that the sun is peeking out. The stone floor she sits on and stone wall she’s leaning on for support feel like ice on her rump and back.

While the light barely touches the shadows of the cave, outside it is bright. The land is lit up enough for her to see the outlines of the trees. She can see the sun rising over the hills in the far distance. The thick, dark forest looks far less intimidating in the light of the morning. She would like to think everything that happened yesterday was just a bad dream. But that isn't the case. She dares not hope any of the forest's dangers have been mollified overnight. She doesn’t let herself wonder if anything has changed, if anything has left or moved on. It’s still the same cursed place as it was when they were attacked, when the shadow crept all around. The same dangers are still roaming out there. Who knows what roams waiting to catch her scent.

Soon it is bright enough to see the hulking form sleeping outside the mouth of the cave. The creature lays on its side, slowly breathing in and out. It snores lowly. It's apparent that it's in a state of deep slumber. It growls lowly under its breath, and it paws at the ground. She freezes. It’s eyes stay closed. It doesn’t move. It must be dreaming. She wonders what such a monster could possibly dream about? Was it reliving its kill from yesterday? Was it relishing it over in its mind?

Her injured leg is throbbing, the pain having worked its way both up and down her entire leg. She wishes she had something, anything , to take the edge off the pain. Her makeshift bandage is soaked through, but none of the blood on the stone floor is wet. Instead, it has become sticky and dry. She takes this as a good sign, though she is still dizzy. 

Once she’s fully awake she decides to explore the cave a little. It’s hard to see even once her eyes are as adjusted to the dark as they can be. It doesn’t take long to discover that there’s not much to be found here. The cave is too dark to go very far into without a torch of some sort. Because of how it’s formed, even in the brightest part of the day the cave wouldn’t be fully illuminated. 

Hoping her eyes will adjust just a little bit more, she takes a few blind steps deeper into the cave. It’s not long before the toe of her boot bumps into something in the darkness. Struggling against the shadow, she squints with all her might. She wills her eyes to reveal something. Anything that might help, anything that might save her from her wounds, from the cold of the morning air.

There is an outline, just the faintest outline, barely discernible. There’s an old, long burned out campfire. Cold charcoal and sticks lay in a small pile. Nearby it sits a dilapidated tent of sorts, crumpled in on itself. 

She edges closer, then freezes when her foot comes into contact with something. It rattles hollowly, clattering as she bumps into it. Though she can’t quite see it, Snow has a terrible feeling that she knows what it could be. Bones. It sounds like bones, unfortunately.

Eyes adjusting ever so slightly more, she spots a tarp or cloth of some sort lying on the ground next to the pile of bones. Her stomach flips a little before she reaches down it picks it up carefully. It’s a long coat made of hide and a scratchy woolen cloth. It’s heavy and seems like it could be warm. It seems she has no other option at this point. She walks quickly away from the scene, an apology silent behind her lips.

Back near the cave entrance the light shines on the coat and she can now spot the layers of dirt, dust, and pollen that cover it. It appears that whoever’s bones those were, they’ve been sitting in this cave for a long time. The feels terribly for them, knowing they must have met an unpleasant fate. She can only pray she doesn't find a similar one.

She’s not sure when it left but the creature is not at the mouth of the cave when she returns to it. She considers making a run for it while it is gone, but how far would she really make it? Her leg is causing her a great deal of pain and she’s not confidant that she would make it very far in a hurry. Would she even make it very far going slow? She can’t be sure. The monster hasn’t taken much interest in her, perhaps it will ignore her for one more day. 

[kidotm]

Blue Tile

Rating: Gen / Teen

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Fandoms: Fallout 3 - Fandom

Relationships: N/A

Word count: 1,099

The building was pre-war, a crumbling ruin of brick and metal. There were scraggly trees and vines both inside and outside the walls, covering any clues as to what the building’s purpose had been prior to its abandonment. She swore that she had been here fairly recently, just before she had gone to Underworld and met me. Considering that was around six to seven months ago now, I didn’t personally put it in the category of  ‘recent’ . Any number of dangerous animals could have moved in since then. Or dangerous undead or other monsters. I didn’t trust the building’s quiet exterior. It looked harmless and unassuming, like something was slumbering within.

We were passing by this building on our way to another location when she said she recognized it and wanted to stop by. There hadn’t seemed to be anything special about it but I complied with only a little complaining. There was no use in arguing, I would fight whatever I needed to for her. 

The day had been hot and we were both overheated- sweaty and smelling terrible. She said she wanted to make camp there and claimed there were working showers that we could use. I was tense at the mere mention of it but she insisted we stay. I also highly doubted her when she claimed there was functioning plumbing in this random, middle of nowhere building.

I kept my gun raised as we stepped through the doorway, she barely kept hers up at all, not seeming too concerned. I kept my mouth shut, making sure to clear through all of the rooms before letting my arms rest. The inside was old and decrepit. The air was stale and full of dust that we had kicked up in just the few minutes we’d been here. It genuinely didn’t look like anything or anyone had occupied it for a while. 

There was very little in the way of scrap or other things that could be sold here. Something she would normally complain or at least comment about. She had nothing to say.  My concern calms as she sets her backpack against the wall of one of the rooms, along with her gun. I don’t do either of these things, but I observed as she relaxed.

She does her damnedest to convince me to shower in the stall near her. I’m mortified by the suggestion and refuse at first. After some badgering I comply, not wanting to argue it or it to come to the point she would order it. I knew I must have reeked. 

She disappeared behind a wall that separated the shower stall. I stood on the other side, staring up at the shower head skeptically. It was mildewed but not to the point where I couldn’t see the rust of the metal. There was a long streak of rust behind the shower head on the wall, as well.

Then I froze- listening as her clothes dropped to the floor. I glance behind me, to the side. Her clothes are haphazardly laying on the floor. I stood there in my own shower stall, the one she had shooed me into. Boots still on, fully clothed. I listened as she turned and opened the water tap. My throat tight and my heart racing, my mind wandering wildly. My imagination goes places I wish it wouldn’t. I feel ridiculous.

  White tile on blue tile lines the floors. Mildew, spiders, and plants growing through the cracks in the walls. There’s a hole in the ceiling above me big enough to let sunlight in. She said she had showered here before without any problems but I wasn't convinced. Every instinct I have is telling me not to let my guard down. I look down at myself, my old dusty armor ridden with bullet holes and old slashes. The only thing that protects me from life and death besides my gun. 

My previous employer hadn’t exactly put bathing as a priority. Neither for himself nor I. It hadn’t been a luxury I was given often. There was no true running water in Underworld. It was only enough to have a trickle run into a pot for cooking or flushing toilets by force. If you had wanted to bathe, you would be doing so with a bucket and a cloth or sponge.  It hadn’t been a huge deal, most ghouls didn’t have a keen sense of smell and that didn’t exclude me. 

Sometimes I had missed bathing, missed feeling clean. It was not an easy thing to achieve with skin like this. There were too many open wounds, cuts, and grooves. Bathing had been a more pleasant experience when I was completely human. When I had real skin. Even when injured or being watched by the slavers it had been a relief to soak in the water, warm or not. 

If I took my clothes off, which felt like a terrible idea for several reasons, the experience will be filled with singes and the stinging of nerves. The combination of sores, raw skin, and exposed muscles doesn’t react well to the sensation of water. Sometimes the burning was just too much for it to be worth it.

The water here was more than likely irradiated. For her sake, I hoped she at least popped something to fight the rads. Lest she ends up looking like me. Looking like me… I looked back down at myself. The thought of taking all of my clothes off to get under the spray of water had made me feel vaguely nauseous. I was disgusted at myself and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong. 

I technically hadn’t had to do it. She hadn’t ordered me to do it. She could have done so, though I wasn’t yet certain she knew that. My contract went far beyond when and where I used my weapon. Far beyond that. But that wasn’t information I willingly gave up. Not unless asked directly. Not unless forced. 

The water from the stall she was occupying was leaking into my own over the floor through the chunk missing in-between our stalls. Steam was beginning to rise in the air, I could faintly smell the perfumey soap she was using. This wasn’t an opportunity that I should willingly miss out on, who knew when the next chance would be to get a proper bath?

My armor and underclothes ended up on the floor behind me, safe from the spray of the water. I kept my gun slightly closer. The water felt good. And it also didn’t. As always. 

[kidotm]

The Girl and Her Radio

Rating: Gen Aud

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Fandoms: Fallout 3 - Fandom

Relationships: N/A

Word count: 1,628

The girl spent a lot of time down at the restaurant that resided below her home. When she wasn’t at the restaurant she spent a lot of time shut up in her bedroom. Saying she wasn’t the most sociable person in the world was a gross understatement. Her room was only a couple of feet away from the room she ‘gave’ to me, yet she didn't try to take advantage of our being so near to each other. She never asked anything of me nor commanded me to do her bidding. The door to her bedroom was rarely even open, even when she was gone. I had only seen short glimpses of the area- messy with scattered clothes and armor, a chair, a desk covered in gadgets and wire.

I was often left alone in the house. Even though I preferred this, it took some getting used to. Especially after having spent so long working in a cramped and busy bar. The metal walls of the house would creak with the wind... the slow and steady drip of the sink in the kitchen echoed through the near-dead silence. The house was quiet and most of the time I was alone with my thoughts. Often those thoughts were tense and agitated, callous and vengeful. The only consistent noise was the muffled hum of music from her pip-boy. It would often play and lullaby to me through the door, soothing me to calm down. Sometimes it was the local radio, other times it was music I didn’t recognize, music I’d never heard before. The flow of the songs could lull me into a relaxed daze I would never be able to achieve myself.

She must have liked the music, as well. Maybe she had listened to it in the vault, maybe she'd listened to it all her life. Perhaps she also hated silence? Hated the constant, maddening drip-drip-drip of the sink? Needed something to drown it out before it drove her crazy? If that was the case, then we had a thing in common.

She would switch the channel immediately every time the broadcaster started talking- he got on her nerves. I almost missed listening to him talk. I would listen and enjoy his chatter on the radio at the Ninth Circle. Not that anyone would ever get that information out of me. I had enjoyed hearing about the happenings out in the wasteland, and what bullshit the Brotherhood of Steel was up to. It was something to take my mind off the boredom while all I had to do was keep an eye on the drunks in the bar. 

For the last six months I hadn’t gotten the chance to hear news from the broadcaster at all. The closest I’d gotten was “You’re listening to Galaxy News Radio and I’m your host, three-”, “What’s up, wastelanders, this is three-”, and “Hello, capital wasteland, this is thr-”. It never got very far.

The nearest radio beside her pip-boy was in the bar at the back of town. But it sat on the opposite side of my employer’s house, too far for me to venture. I had no interest in straying further than what she had pseudo-ordered, and I stayed put.

I didn’t go outside into the town very often at all. Most of the time the only reason I left the building at all was to leave the town completely. I didn’t explore the area nor did I wander around. I didn’t want to run into the townspeople, friend or foe. It was better that I stayed out of the humans’ line of view as much as possible. It was better for all of us that way, but especially better for my employer and myself. She was crazy for bringing me here to a human settlement. Her merely being near me with other humans could be enough to trigger angry feelings or even suspicion in some people. Had she considered this before buying my contract? Had she considered the effect that living with me under one roof would have on her potential reputation? It had been a risky move on her part. Strange girl.

After she bought my contract, we hadn’t done much but snoop around a few old office buildings before coming to Megaton. She had scarcely picked up anything, and though her pack was full, she hadn't seemed like a scavenger. Not that I had ever thought she was one. She had far too many teeth and her skin was smooth and clear like she’d barely seen the sun. She told everyone we met that she was from a vault, she did this so often and openly it had gotten to the point that I'd grown suspicious it wasn't actually true. She loved using it as a way to open up peoples' boundaries and was careful to not throw the information out in a crowded area, but made no effort to hide it from me. Most people see vaulties as incompetent and innocent- and so they tend to think less about telling her things and trusting her. She knew it at the time I met her and she damn well knows it now.

Her excursions outside of town were far and few. We didn’t leave the confines of the metal walls very often. She didn’t like to venture. On the occasion that we did leave town, the destinations were always specific. Very specific. Very few detours were taken while we were out, if any at all. That suited me just fine. The less danger my employer was in, the better. She’s small, in a boney and narrow sort of way. She hides under baggy shirts and oversized coats but I’ve seen her with less layering to know. And while she's good enough with a gun, she would stand no chance if someone got too close. Our outings were stressful enough, what with her confusing motives and odd inclinations. Being out in the wasteland with her frequently would be a nightmare. I definitely didn't need her getting into trouble that she couldn't get herself out of. I’m glad she’s not that sort of employer. The kind that seems to near suicidally seek out danger and fights for the joy of watching me get them out of it. That gets old fast.

.

Sometimes faint voices could be heard through her door, though I knew damn well no one besides her ever went in or out. I had thought it was her pip-boy for months, blowing it off as the radio or a game. That was, at least, until she left it on the kitchen table one day and the voices still hummed through the door. I could never make out full sentences of it, the volume was too low and the sound was too full of static. That or the years and years of gunshots and explosions had finally done away with my hearing.

A few times I grew nosy enough that I dared come close to her bedroom door- and ballsy enough to tilt my head towards it to try and make out the words. At one point I had been close enough to make out a man’s voice. I had been close enough to hear the girl’s whispers. She had sounded irritated, she had sounded panicked. But always hushed and whispered. Whatever device they were speaking over was set to a low volume… but she was most certainly talking to someone. And someone was talking back to her. And she definitely didn’t want anyone, including me, to hear.

The last time I listened in, I had almost been caught. It was stupid. The conversation, which I could barely make out a few words of, had ended abruptly. There were mere milliseconds between her bedroom door opening and mine closing- carefully- silently. The close call made me feel like a nearly-caught child doing something they ought not to be doing. My heart had pounded in my chest, hard. I couldn’t tell if it was the contract’s effects for nosing in on an employer's business or my own personal awkward embarrassment, if there even was a difference.

She stepped out of her room and paused in front of my door, only for a moment, the faint creak of the floorboards the only evidence that she was there. I only allowed myself to breathe again when I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I convinced myself her stalling was a coincidence and she didn’t hear me listening outside her door. My relief was immense. I haven’t managed to go this long before without pissing off an employer before. She’s the first I’ve been with this long without doing some perceived sin… and then having to atone for it in some, generally unpleasant, way. I in no way look forward to that, regardless of what my sneaking actions might say about me. My own beliefs have turned on me and I’ve become too curious for my well-being. It’s been months and I have yet to see the reason she hired me, the reason she- temporarily - spent a solid fortune on buying my contract. I do little but stay here in this house all day and guard the door.

I sit down and let myself fall back on the mattress. My head hits the pillow- for the first time- and I let out a tired sigh. I think on the voice coming from the other side of the door. The voice that isn't hers. I try to put it out of my mind but it doesn't go away. The ceiling is the same metal as the walls, I can see a few pinholes in the metal above my head where the sky shows through. I close my eyes and accept the momentary darkness.

[kidotm]

Heat Exhaustion

Rating: Gen Aud

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Fandoms: Fallout 3 - Fandom

Relationships: N/A

Word count: 870

  The smell of leather and rust.. gunpowder, soil. They fill my nose. It’s all I can smell. The sun beats down on me. I feel sick, slow, groggy. My cheek presses against his shoulder blade, my chest against his back. My arms are wrapped over his broad shoulders. I sway, just a little, with every step he takes. He marches, without tiring, towards our destination.

     I had half expected him to just leave me there. When I couldn’t go any further, when the heat had become too much- I had expected him to take one look at me, and just keep walking. I barely know him. Although I hold his ‘contract’, I have no way of knowing what he’ll do next. People can be so unpredictable. I sometimes kick myself for taking such a risk, for travelling with this giant of a stranger. Other times I feel at ease with him, like his presence is only natural.

     I had mostly been joking with him when I asked him to carry me. In my heat-delirious and panicked mind that had been a good idea. I hadn’t expected him to just go with the request. I had expected a glare, a grumble.  It hadn’t taken much to convince him. I had been expecting to have to bribe him or maybe even beg him, if it came to that. But before I had gotten the chance to do any of those things, he had offered a leather-clad hand and pulled me up off the ground.

     He let me clamber up onto his back clumsily, and we, or he , continued our trek. My pride has taken a hit, but I prefer that over being face-down in the dirt.

     I have no interest in going back to Megaton. None whatsoever. There’s something about the place that repels me. Something about it makes me want to stay away no matter the cost. Once the town comes into sight, I feel the urge to just tell Charon to keep walking- to go the other way. He would question it, for sure, maybe complain a little, but he would do it all the same. 

     The town grows closer with every step, and I stay silent. What other choice do I have? Where am I going to go? There's no going back to the vault. Not after everything that's happened. I'm not welcome there, not anymore. Then it occurs to me- was I ever truly welcome there? Had either of us been? Had it always just been a farce? 

     I sneer at the thought of it. At the thought of that place. Of the people in it. Of the people who betrayed me- betrayed my father. I despise being so close and yet so far away from that life. The vault sits merely a half-hour walk away from where I live in Megaton. I’ve barely gone a mile and yet my life is so jarringly different, and it continues to prove itself so day after day. There is no going back. Not now. Not ever.

     My head feels heavy and I feel weak. Even though I'm no longer walking, the heat still beats down on me. If I had kept walking I would have passed out in the dirt. I wonder how Charon stands it, I wonder how he can just keep going. I don't have the stamina for this nonsense , I think to myself.

     "I can try walking again," I say, then mumble an apology.

     Charon grumbles a bit, then crouches slightly and lets me climb back down. I'm still dizzy and still nauseous, but I take a few drinks of water and keep going. The water is warm and tastes like the plastic bottle that holds it, but it feels good on my dry throat nonetheless. I had been afraid to try and take a drink while he carried me. All I could picture was making a wrong move and spilling it over him. Just the thought of it mortified me and made me grit my teeth a little.

     “This area isn’t safe,” Charon says, bringing me out of my thoughts. “We should keep moving.”

     I want to gripe back ‘is any place safe out here?’ , but keep quiet. I’m missing the conditioned air of the vault right now. Badly. The cool air that blew out of the vents… a memory comes floods in- lying down on my bed, my face in front of the vent on the wall, letting it blow in my face. 

     I had thought we got to experience seasons in the vault, but it turns out the electric simulations were nothing in comparison to the natural ones. The heat out here could get intense, and the cold could become daunting very quickly at night. The climate changes throughout the year could become dangerous if you didn’t pay attention and deadly if you let symptoms go too far. These challenges made me long for the consistency of life before all of this. When cooling down after a workout was just a press of a button away…

     “We should not linger,” Charon pipes up again. I nod this time in response and we begin walking again. My new home is just a few minutes away.

[kidotm]

The Girl

Rating: Gen Aud Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Warnings Categories: N/A Fandoms: Fallout 3 - Fandom Relationships: N/A Word count: 504

The girl lived in Megaton, of all places. I had nothing against the settlement on a personal level, but I couldn't see it working out long-term. It was all tall walls and creaking metal now, but in a few months that metal would heat up and it would turn this town into a cooking pot. The very thing that makes people feel safe and secure now would be turning on them in a couple of months. The heat will soon become unbearable and it was going to be a very bad place to be soon enough. The town was in far rougher shape than it had been the last time I’d been here. That was a long time ago, though. 

    She tried to be decent and giving but there wasn’t much to be given in the first place. She could cook a bit but mostly ate the food she brought back from the restaurant of sorts that functioned underneath her apartment. She would usually bring something back for me, as well, around noon or at the end of the day. I couldn’t tell if she merely spent a lot of her time there or if she was employed there. She would never let me come with her to this place. 

    Even though we lived in the same house, she didn’t speak to me much. I wondered about the place under her apartment briefly. I wondered if it was because ghouls weren’t allowed and she was just too nice to say it out loud, or she just didn't want to be followed. It wasn’t my place to ask. Most of the time, I didn’t feel like talking, either. I didn’t ever go hungry. That was a welcome change from my last employer.

    She found a mattress during one of her excursions and made me help her carry it on the four-hour-long trek back into town. When we finally got the damn thing into her house I dropped it in the living room, exasperated with her. When she tried to pull it up the stairs she whined at me to help her. I did so, grumbling what I thought about it under my breath. She already had a mattress, how many did she really need? Just sell it. But when we reached the top of the stairs, instead of dragging it the rest of the way into her room, she pulled it into the spare room she only kept a few things in. 

    She let it fall onto the floor- it gave a dusty wheeze when it dropped. She gestured towards it, “there you go,” she said. I watch her, barely curious. “Now you can sleep here, instead of the couch.”

    I hadn’t been sleeping on the couch. I didn’t sleep. I laid there, half propped up on the arm, watching the door. Listening. Waiting for an intruder to show. I didn’t tell her this.

    “I have some more blankets in that box,” she said, pointing towards the side of the room. “Consider the room yours.”

[a-tinynut]

Math building, University of Dhaka ✨

[kidotm]

Not Quite Casual Beginnings

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M + Other

Fandoms: Fallout 3 Fallout - Fandom

Relationships: Charon (Fallout)/Female Lone Wanderer

Word count: 881

Palms to shoulder blades. Bare skin on skin. Mine marred, warwarn, ruined.. Hers soft and inviting. I would long for the times when we would have the opportunity, for the times when she would offer. I waited, not always patiently. Never daring to bring it up myself. Not ever. 

It wasn’t every day we touched. Sometimes we would go a week, sometimes more, without as much as a brush. During those times I would crave it near constantly, despite my best efforts to control myself. She didn’t seem to mind either way, and if she did she hid it well. She clearly had other things on her mind, other things occupying her time. Responsibilities, people to deal with.

This frustrated me sometimes. Sometimes it frustrates me all the time. But it wasn’t normal for someone like her to be willing at all, so I kept my mouth shut. I didn't have as many things to occupy my time. I wasn’t used to being permitted such things as ‘free time’ at all. I would guard her room, I would keep an ear out for danger, I would clean my gun, my tools, my armor. There wasn't much else for me to do. She didn't order me to do things when we were here, not ever. When we were in relative safety she would tell me not to hover, as she put it. To stay behind when she went to visit certain people or when she went to bathe. I didn't really consider those orders, though. 

The implications of the contract didn’t elude her. It bothered her, I knew that much. I didn’t usually care. Sometimes I did. Sometimes memories would come. Unpleasant ones. Memories specifically relating to that part of the contract..that part of the contract being abused. Myself being misused, mistreated. But when we were like this, it was the last thing on my mind. 

The sway of her hips, the movements of her fingers. I watched her when I got the chance, and I got the chance often. I wasn’t as subtle as I once was, she caught me looking fairly often. It was something I never would have done before, not before her. I never would have dared, never would have even been interested. Sometimes she would mock me, tease me. Other times she would smile wryly- smally- warmly- but give no other acknowledgment. I was never scorned for it.

It's nearly night, the sunset is orange out the window. I sit on the edge of her bed. There are papers spread out in front of her on the covers, they look to be letters. They lay forgotten beside us. Her lips are soft, willing. Although my skin isn't as sensitive as it used to be, her’s feel like heaven against my own. She touches me back, holds me, caresses my skin like it doesn’t scare her. Cups my chin, strokes my cheek like she cares for me. I’m not sure this is true, I can’t be sure. She runs her hands over my chest, into my shirt, down my stomach, into the fly of my pants. I brush my hands over her breasts, they hide beneath her thin shirt, only just out of sight. When she kisses my jaw, the sensation goes all around my neck and down my back. 

I had never had much experience before her. I had been bound to the contract for all of my adult life. I had been socially awkward as a teenager, and then I never had the chance to seek someone in that way, I had never gotten the time  after it was created. 

It took me a long time to realize that my feeling ecstatic around her was just the absence of grief. The absence of anger, the absence of hate. In their place; longing, physical want. I was fond of her. I wanted to voice this sometimes. I wondered how she would react. I tried to picture the look on her face when I said the words. I would tell her this willingly, if only she would ask. Sometimes in the middle of our fervor, she would even say that she loved me. Words like this were never exchanged outside of these times. It didn’t bother me. I understood.. or.. I usually understood. There are times when I question myself, there are times that I have my doubts. I try to never let myself think too long on it. What we have is enough, I tell myself, I don't need to go ruining it. Being around a contract holder had never been so easy as this. It had never been so confusing as this, either.

She sits in my lap, curls herself around me. The sun has disappeared from the sky completely now. She closed the blinds on the window, but I can see the nightfall between the cracks. I'm beginning to feel drowsy, my eyes are feeling heavy. I pull my pants back on and she whines a little, gesturing for me to come back to the bed. I give in without a fight. I hold her firm against my chest, nuzzling into her dark hair. She's warm against me. Not as warm as my weapon, but my weapon was no comfort when compared to her.

[potato-lord-but-not]

i’ve always been this cool

[kidotm]

imagine: you've disappeared and charon comes looking for you, you were last sighted with an odd group of people who live in an abandoned mansion. he questions them about your whereabouts.

[kidotm]

imagine / writing prompt: getting separated from the bad batch in a cavern after a collapse, you can hear them shouting and asking if you're alright from the other side

imagine: getting separated from tbb in a cavern after a collapse, you can hear them shouting from the other side and asking if you're alright

you barely hear this, you've just laid eyes on something very interesting, barely visible in the light you hold, what is it?