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kidotm · 3 months

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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?”

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.

#CHxFOC #not mine

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kidotm · 3 months

Text

"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.

#CHxFOC #not mine

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kidotm · 3 months

Text

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.”

"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.”

#final - don't delete #not mine #CHxFOC

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kidotm · 3 months

Text

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.”