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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gal’s mouth nearly drops open.

“ What? But, that’s -”

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

She’s going to die today.

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

The words don’t reassure her at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit shit shit. She’s going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No.

Charon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gal tilts her chin up and draws the knife across.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that, the killing gets easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...yeah.” he says cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That segue relaxes Charon’s shoulders a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The huff of laughter is all the answer she needs.

--

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

They find out before long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.” is all Charon says back.

Silence again takes over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he been bothering you?” Charon asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The word doesn’t seem to compute with him.

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

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

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

“You’re awfully sentimental for a guard.”

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Gal grins and leans in closer.

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That thought makes the churning in her stomach worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your own, smoothskin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charon grunts, and doesn’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gal -

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

- R

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

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

She can do that. She can.

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

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

She picks a direction and sets out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, better not to say.

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

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

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

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

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

God, that seems like such a long time ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

Gal wakes up in the morning to a warm arm slung across her waist and her legs in a tangle with Charon’s. There’s just enough light in the room for her to make out his face, slack with sleep.

She keeps still and just watches for a while, memorizing the planes of his face and the way the shadows play over his skin. It feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done to see him like this. She gets the impression that Charon doesn’t sleep easily around other people. Though Charon’s facade of easy confidence is pretty believable in waking hours, she imagines she can see a certain relaxation in the line of his shoulders that hasn’t been there before.

She’s just thinking about wiggling closer when a scraping sound comes from outside the room. Charon’s eyes pop open like he’d never been asleep and focus on her face.

“What time is it?” he grumbles, disentangling his legs from hers and sitting up. The few tufts of hair left on his head are sticking up at wild angles. His voice is gruffer than usual. Gal sits up too, not bothering to pull the blanket up over her bare chest. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker down from her face for a split second.

“Dunno. But I think Willow’s awake, and I told her I would go ingot hunting with her today, so I guess I better get dressed.”

Noting that her clothes are on Charon’s side of the bed, she very deliberately crawls over him to reach them, rather than walking around. Charon responds by letting one hand press on the small of her back briefly as she shrugs her bra and shirt on.

When she slips out of Charon’s room (fully dressed), Willow is leaning into her open doorway with a frown on her face. She’s already dressed and has a shotgun hanging across her back. She turns, sees Gal, and looks her up and down pointedly. Gal notices that her shirt is tucked into the front of her trousers and fixes it with a flush.

“Were you in there all night?” Willow asks. Gal nods silently, still blushing. Willow turns and looks at Charon’s closed door.

“Huh.” she says thoughtfully. Then, apparently dismissing whatever she’s thinking about, she turns to Gal and gestures towards her bare feet. “Go put your boots on and we’ll head out. Best to start early.”

Ten minutes later, they’re out the front door and headed down to ground level. The sun is just now lightening the sky; the people around are a mixture of tired workers heading home and grumpy early risers still half-asleep. The route that Willow takes them out goes directly past Midea’s apartment. Gal glances at the door nervously, but it stays resolutely shut.

“The working slaves don’t get treated as well as we did. Don’t get involved.” Willow says in warning as they walk. They turn down an alley that Gal hasn’t explored yet, past signs for a place called ‘the Mill’.

When Willow opens the door to the Mill, a huge blast of superheated air swarms over Gal. The inside of the mill is dark, punctuated by dim lights and spots of bright orange heat. Slaves mill back and forth, cutting metal, shoveling coal, and transporting red-hot steel. Here and there, guards lounge against the walls, watching over the workers.

The slaves look overworked and underfed. Most have the pallid expression of a person who never sees the sun, dark bruises under their tired eyes like swatches of purple paint. Gal watches as one woman stumbles and falls to one knee, then slowly pushes herself back up as if the movement pains her.

One of the guards off to the right of them is kicking a man on the ground in the stomach repeatedly. His barks of laughter as the man spits up blood puts her hair on end.

“This is horrible.” Gal shouts over the crashing din. Willow shrugs, but Gal sees in her eyes that she’s disgusted too. “Fighters are prized possessions. You have to have skill to last in the arena. These slaves are nothing but worker ants. Every time one dies, they have a replacement already on hand. So no reason to treat them well.” Willow explains. Gal watches as a hollow eyed woman shovels coal into a furnace and then looks away. She never thought she’d be grateful to put her life on the line every day to ensure her own existence, but it looks like even in slavery, some people are more blessed than others.

Gal doesn’t realize she’s stopped in place until Willow grips her arm and tugs her forward. Her eyes hold a glimmer of sympathy.

They make it through the Mill with no incidents. Gal breathes a sigh of relief when Willow leads her through another door into a smaller room. The air is still stiflingly hot, but the blasts of direct heat from the furnaces has let up somewhat and there are no slaves in here, just a single man in armor, eyeing them.

“We’re going out to the Steelyard.” Willow says to the man, gesturing to herself and Gal. The man looks them both up and down and then grins. His teeth are yellow and rotted.

“I know you two. You’re Charon’s bitches. What makes you think you’ll last even a minute out there?” he asks nastily. Willow steps forward swiftly, grabs the man by the collar, and shoves him into the wall. She has his hunting rifle in her hand and is holding it out to Gal before the man even has the sense to look scared. Gal takes the rifle and ejects the magazine and the chambered round, pocketing the ammo.

“What do you say we drag you along and have a little contest? Think you’d stack up?” she says, slamming him into the wall again. The man lets out a curse, but relents and holds his hands up.

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Give me my fucking piece back and get out of my face.” he says. Willow drops him like a sack of potatoes and heads for the door at the end of the room. Gal gives him back the rifle; the man swipes it from her hands with a glare and follows them through the far door.

The door leads back outside, to an area is fenced off all the way up to the ceiling. A walkway, also completely enclosed by iron fencing, leads off into the distance. She can see another door on the other side. Something skitters above them; Gal looks up to see a vaguely human-shaped creature, hunched over on all fours, crawling across the fencing.

“That’s a trog.” Willow says as they make their way to the other side. “Used to be a person, but disease turned it into that. They’re the reason ingot hunting is so dangerous.”

“Those and the crazies that live up on the blast furnace.” the slaver interjects with a nasty snicker. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll blast your heads off.”

Gal gets the feeling that he doesn’t appreciate their attitude. He unlocks the door for them and swings it open, gesturing them through sneeringly. Willow stops just before she goes through the doorway and fixes him with a look.

“Charon is expecting us back at 5. If we’re not there, he’ll know who’s to blame.”

The slaver scoffs and lets out an expletive, but nonetheless, he looks cowed. Willow must be convinced because she gestures to Gal and crosses through the doorway. The slaver shuts it behind them without ceremony.

The area they find themselves in is an extension of the factory, but this part looks dilapidated and unused. Directly in front of them is a metal walkway that goes up and towards the roof of one of the buildings; to the left is a set of steps to the ground. It’s eerily quiet, after the loudness of the Mill and the bustle of the Pitt.

“You ready?” Willow asks, glancing at Gal. Gal unholsters her pistol and looks around nervously.

“Not really,” she says honestly, “But no time like the present, I guess?”

Willow snorts and moves off along the walkway. “Good answer. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll be in front, and you bring up the rear, so it’s your job to watch our six. These things can climb, so make sure you’re looking up as well. If you have any doubts, just shoot it.”

They follow the walkway up onto the roof of a low building and stop while Willow checks out the way ahead. The silence is starting to make her nervous. She realizes that part of her nervousness is that this situation somewhat parallels her first foray out into the Vault; then, she’d been scared, out of her depth, and clutching a pistol for dear life too.

“Hey. Look over here.” Gal follows Willow’s gesture and catches sight of a pale pink creature hunched over a body just in front of them. It looks up at them and lets out a strange chattering noise. “That’s a trog. Take care of it. I’ll watch our backs.” Willow says. The trog slides over the body, still chattering, and creeps closer, then suddenly breaks out into a run. Gal takes her stance. She sights in on the encroaching creature and pulls the trigger. Slow and steady, just like she’d practiced. The trog stops, blood blooming on its chest, and falls off the walkway.

“Not bad.” Willow says sincerely. Gal grins and lowers the pistol.

The body is a dead slaver with chunks ripped out of his throat and one arm. Willow goes through his pockets, comes up with several mags’ worth of ammunition, and picks up the rifle that had been lying at his side. Gal keeps lookout while she checks it over.

“It’s a 93 - Chinese Assault Rifle. It’s in good shape too.” Willow says, reassembling it. “Here, you take it. You said you had a BB gun when you lived in the Vault, right?”

Gal holsters her pistol and accepts the rifle. It’s heavier than her bb gun, almost ten pounds probably, and longer, but the feel is the same. Sighting down it makes her feel like she’s back in the Vault, pinging little wooden targets again.

“Yeah. My dad got it for me when I was ten.” she says as they continue on. “Not much good for anything but shooting radroaches, but it was something.”

They continue on over the roof of the building and down the other side. All is quiet. Gal sees a few trogs here and there; they they scramble out of sight rather than approaching. The sight of a human-esque thing, naked and morphed into something really unrecognizable is disturbing in various different ways.

A half hour into their hunt, a scream pierces the air. Gal brings her rifle up to the ready as Willow lets out a curse. Carefully, they make their way towards the source of the scream.

Another yell comes from around the corner of a building. Willow gestures to Gal to hunker down next to the wall and does the same. When she reaches the corner, she swings her shotgun out first and then peeks around the corner.

“Fuck, let’s go!” she snaps, darting off. Gal follows hurriedly, rifle pushed into her shoulder.

In the middle of a courtyard, a slave is desperately fighting off a trog, who has him by the leg and is attempting to drag him closer. Another trog jumps on his torso and lunges for his throat.

Willow runs straight up to the one sitting on the man’s torso and kicks it off. The trog gets a faceful of buckshot and goes down. The other one sees Gal coming and lunges, hissing. It’s on her before she can get her rifle up to take a clean shot. She falls flat on her back, but manages to get her boot in its chest and kicks it off. Rolling, she brings her rifle up and takes aim. Her shot catches it in the leg; Willow’s second round of buckshot puts it down.

“You all right, tourist? Did it get you?” Willow asks, kneeling in front of her. Gal runs a hand over her chest and neck and is relieved to find no damage.

“No, I’m okay. I got too close and didn’t have space to shoot.” she accepts Willow’s hand and lets the ghoul pull her to her feet. “Is he okay?”

“We’ll have to work on close combat with a rifle. Pistols are easier, you can be close and still get a shot in, but rifles are a different story.” Willow turns towards the slave and gestures at his neck with her shotgun. It’s shiny with blood. “Trog got him right in the throat. He had no chance.”

Clad in the same outfit that Willow and Gal had both worn in during their time as fighters, the slave looks disturbingly vulnerable laying on the ground. A piece of sharpened metal, similar to the shank that had almost been used on her and Willow in the slave quarters, is his only accessory. He has the same pallor as the other slaves. Somebody with ribs that prominent couldn’t possibly be expected to be successful out here.

“They send them out here without weapons?” Gal asks incredulously. Willow nods, arms crossed.

“Like I told you. Slaves are replaceable. Weapons are expensive, and dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“That’s…” Gal trails off. What? Disgusting? Deplorable? Completely, absolutely unfathomable? Capable of destroying her faith in the human race? “...Awful.” she decides on.

Willow turns away from the corpse. “...yeah. It is. Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight.”

They have no luck finding ingots outside, so eventually they turn to scouting for a building that doesn’t look too dangerous. Willow, with some checklist of desirable traits that she doesn’t share, finally chooses a building and leads them to an entrance.

“Alright, here’s the deal.” the ghoulette says lowly. “Buildings are fucking dangerous. The close quarters make it easy for somebody to pop out and get you before you even know it. So stick with your pistol. We scout the whole building together in silence, make sure it’s empty, and then we pick it over. Don’t stop until we know it’s clear.”

Gal nods, slings the assault rifle across her back, and pulls out her pistol. She grips the handle of the door as Willow directs, yanks it open as quickly as possible, and flattens against the side of the building. There’s no sound from inside the building. Willow peeks into the gloom cautiously before stepping in. Gal follows, easing the door shut behind them.

The lighting inside is dim. The narrow hallways, built of steel and concrete, feel kind of like the Vault - if the Vault was covered in a layer of rust and grime and smelled like a mixture of garbage and death, anyway. Most of the shelves along the walls are empty or filled with junk.

They creep through the first room completely silently. Gal’s eyes dart side to side nervously, attempting to see into each nook and cranny in the dark rooms. To her relief, nothing jumps out at them.

The next room is narrow and rectangle-shaped, with some type of big machinery in the middle. Willow heads to one side; Gal follows her lead.

Just as Willow hits the end of the machinery, she lets out a curse and brings up her pistol. Gal stumbles backwards to give her space and hits the ground hard as something yanks on her pants leg. She turns; a Trog chitters at her angrily and lunges for her calf. She kicks it in the head as hard as she can muster and then squeezes off a round. The bullet takes the trog in the arm; it shrieks in pain, but comes back at her in full force. Just as it’s leaping towards her face, Gal jams her pistol under its head and pulls the trigger again.

The Trog collapses on top of her, covering her in warm, strange-smelling blood. Cursing, Gal shoves the trog off of her and scrambles away from it. Willow, standing over the body of another dead trog, is wiping off the blade of her combat knife on its tattered shirt.

“Wipe your face and let’s go.” Willow says lowly. Gal obediently scrubs at her face with the front of her shirt, careful not to push any blood into her eyes, and follows.

The rest of the building is empty. Willow doesn’t relax until she’s fully checked every nook and cranny, but finally she shoves her pistol in its holster and takes a deep breath.

“That was more exciting than I wanted it to be. I was hoping we wouldn’t encounter anything.” Willow looks over at Gal and grins at her. “That’s quite a face full of make-up you’ve got on, tourist. Should have been quicker on the draw.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Gal says drily, swiping at her face once again with the edge of her sleeve. She feels sticky. “See any ingots?”

There’s nothing lying out for the world to see, but a large safe is tucked into one corner of one of the rooms, still unopened. Willow fiddles with the lock for a minute but finally gives up, scowling. “No chance. Guess we’re shit out of luck.” she says.

Gal leans over the computer on the desk next to the safe and taps a few keys. The monitor blinks on as the tower whirs into life. Frowning thoughtfully, Gal seats herself at the desk and pulls the keyboard towards her.

“Maybe not. Give me a minute here.” she says distractedly. Willow shrugs and leans on the desk next to her, pulling out a flattened pack of smokes.

Gal starts the boot-up process a couple times, getting the name of the OS and some other figures, and then goes to work in the administrative settings menu, which someone has left stupidly connected to the log-in screen. It takes the changing of half a dozen settings and several reboots, but she finally unlocks the administrator account. A quick search through the files gives her what she needs.

“Try 43 - 56 - 07.” she suggests. Willow glances at her, eyebrows raised, and twists the dial on the safe. It pops open with an explosion of dust to reveal a whole stack of steel ingots, shiny and untouched.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Willow says with a grin. “Who knew we had a computer hacker at our fingertips this whole time. The things you learn about a person.”

Maybe Gal preens a bit much at the compliment, but hey, her computer skills are pretty good. The literal hundreds of hours she’d spent tracking down manuals for each brand of computer and operating system, reading through them, and then applying what she’d learned in real life until she figured it out was worthy of a little gloating, right?

Gal kneels down next to Willow, accepts the stack of clothes she hands her to wrap around each ingot, and sets to work filling her pack. The ingots are smaller than she’d thought they’d be, but heavy - each one has to be a couple pounds. She puts only 8 in her pack before it starts feeling unmanageable.

“That’s enough. With the code, we can always come back later and get the rest.” Willow says, shoving the last one into her own pack and strapping it down tightly. “You that good with other computers? Our town mechanic has been bitching for a decade about needing to get the security systems up and running in Underworld.”

“I won’t say I have a 100% success rate, but I’ve been pretty successful with every computer I’ve tried.” Gal says. “Why, are you changing your mind about letting me come to Underworld?”

Willow sobers instantly. Setting the pack down, she pulls out another cigarette and lights it. Her eyes are troubled.

“...I know you think this whole thing is about Charon. But it’s more complicated than that. I’ll tell you some of it, but you have to promise this never, never, gets repeated. To anybody.” her gaze is stern, no-nonsense. Gal nods, but Willow studies her for a minute longer before she starts speaking.

“Everybody in Underworld thinks the raid was just a fluke. That somebody found out about us from a merchant or a traveler and decided we’d be a good hit. But it’s not true. We were sold out.” Willow’s voice is iron as she speaks. The movement of her hand, bringing the cigarette back and forth to her lips, is deliberately slow. Too slow.

“Charon knows who it was, and so do I. His employer, Ahzrukhal. He made a deal with a rep of Paradise Falls for every ghoul in Underworld in exchange for a serious amount of caps and his own safety. I was the guard on duty when they were supposed to hit. Charon found out, tipped me off, and I got everybody out before the slavers showed up, so nobody got caught but us two.” Willow mouth twists. “Problem is, nobody knows about the deal but me and Charon, and Charon...well, let’s just say the minute he steps back into Underworld, he’ll be in no position to tell anybody else. So we’re in a bind. Charon has to go back, one way or another, and he can’t tell anybody. If I go back, Ahzrukhal will have me killed as soon as I step in the door. And if neither of us does anything, that rat bastard will pull the same trick again and every ghoul in Underworld will be here in chains.”

The silence in the room is so complete, you could hear a pin drop. Willow finishes her cigarette and crushes it out.

“I… don’t understand. Charon can’t say anything?” Gal asks slowly. “Why not?”

Willow looks at her pointedly. They both know that Gal’s question is straying into territory that Willow has already said she wouldn’t share. Gal asks anyway.

“So you go back, tell the town, and they get rid of this Ahzrukhal guy. Problem solved, right? There’s no way they’d keep him if they knew what he did.”

Willow picks her bag up and plunks it down on the desk to pull at the straps. Her mouth is pressed in a thin line. Gal thinks she reads frustration in the line of her shoulders.

“If I tell anybody in Underworld, they’ll be killed before they can do anything about it. Ahzrukhal has assets and his conscience is as nonexistent as the future of this damn country. Just trust me on this, smoothskin - any plan that leads with me walking into Underworld ends with me and possibly everybody else dying.” Willow picks the pack up, jerks it over one shoulder, and makes towards the door. She stops halfway across the room, eyes squeezed shut, and sighs.

“I’m just...tired of people heaping secrets on my plate and expecting me to just deal with it. And I keep thinking there’s an answer to all this somewhere, but I don’t know what the fuck it is.”

With that, Willow moves towards the door, Gal trailing behind.

-

Gal goes back to meet with Midea the next day. She wants to find out what it is she needs to do, because she’s tired of lying to Rory. He’d looked heartbroken last night when she’d come by and said she had no leads.

Midea receives her cheerfully, motioning her into her little apartment and shutting the door firmly behind her.

“So, is there any news?” Gal asks, seating herself in one of the rickety chairs. Midea gives her a warm smile and nods.

“Yes, everything is in place. We had to get in touch with somebody at the palace who can let you in. You’ll go in disguised as a cleaning slave - there’s so many of them, nobody will notice a new face.”

Gal leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. “And what’s the favour that I need to do in return?”

Midea sobers up instantly. Though the door is shut tight and locked, she still eyes it to double-check, before leaning in as far as she can towards Gal’s ear. Her voice is a low murmur, just barely discernable over the sounds of the mining outside.

“We’re staging a revolution.” Midea says quietly. “The slaves. All of us. We don’t have much in the way of weaponry, but we outnumber the slavers five, sometimes ten to one. We’re going to drive them out and take the Pitt for ourselves.” Midea stops for a moment, looking uncomfortable with the subject, but drives on. “The problem is the disease. We need the cure, and if we drive Ashur and his wife out without securing it, they’ll take it with them. We’ll get you into the palace and allow you and Connor safe passage out of the Pitt once we’ve taken it, but you have to give us the cure.”

Gal frowns. It sounds so… simple. Too simple. Her gut tells her something else is going on here, but she can’t figure out what.

“What is the cure? How will I know I have the right thing?”

Midea shrugs. Her eyes drop for a minute, then come back up to Gal’s face. “We’re not sure, but we know Connor works directly with it. If you find Connor, you’ll find the cure. At that point you should have no trouble identifying it.”

Gal looks at Midea’s open, pleading face, and decides it’s just nerves making her paranoid. Creeping around the palace doesn’t sound like a great idea while there’s a revolution on, so of course she’d be feeling this way. But it’s the best plan they’ve got. Better to be a part of the revolution than an unfortunate casualty.  

“I want safe passage for Charon and Willow too. The ghoul fighters. And Connor’s brother Rory.” she says firmly. Midea shrugs.

“Done. We’ll let them out with you and Connor once we have the cure.”

“When should I be ready to go to the palace?”

The answer is the most unexpected part of the visit.

“Tomorrow.”

Rory is vehemently opposed to her plan. Namely, that he’s not involved.

“So many things could go wrong, Gal. Let me be there. Let me help.” he says desperately. Gal shushes him, looking around the tables filled with raiders around them. Nobody seems to be paying attention to them, but just one nosy person could turn the tables and ruin everything..

“Rory, no. It’s going to be hard enough for me to get through without getting caught. There’s no way to explain a fighter guard and a slave making their way through Haven together.”

“At least tell me when you’re going.” Rory demands. His eyes glitter with determination. “I can’t just sit here and wait, knowing Connor is in there and not knowing when I’ll get him back.”

She knows exactly what will happen if she tells him. Gal breathes out slowly, looks Rory in the eye, and lies to him one last time.

“The day after tomorrow. The slaves are going to do something tomorrow to set the stage. Then, the day after, I’ll be able to slip into the palace and find Connor. I’ll bring him straight to you, Rory, I promise. Just do me a favour and stay inside until then. Lock your doors and don’t let anybody in, okay? Not until I come with Connor.”

Rory stares her down. He’s pursing his lips so hard that a vein is pulsing noticeably in his temple. There is silence between them for several seconds.

“Fine.” he says tightly. “I’m going to trust that you know what you’re doing. Though I’m not sure I really believe that you do.”

Gal pushes away from the table, squeezes his hand once, and leaves.

--

She doesn’t get a chance to see Charon again before the next day. When she comes home, he’s in his room. “He gets migraines.” Willow tells her. “They’ll go away once he’s back in Underworld, but they’re getting worse every day. ”

Gal has to be certain that this whole complicated plan is going to work out, because the idea of getting killed and not seeing Charon again is pretty unbearable. She’s not worried about Willow and Charon getting out of the Pitt safely - they certainly don’t need any help looking after themselves. They’re waiting for the right time, and they’ll know that the slave revolution is the right time. And once Gal helps Rory and delivers the cure, she can follow them to Underworld.

Everything is going to work.

For some reason, chanting that in her head doesn’t help her fall asleep that night.

--

“You remember the directions?” the slave asks her one more time. Gal, busy fidgeting with the pistol shoved into the back of her outfit, nods distractedly. It’s only been a few days, but she’s gotten used to wearing things that covered her whole body. Armor, even. The slave outfit feels even flimsier in comparison than it had before.

“Good. The rebellion starts in an hour. So don’t waste any time.” the slave shoves a broom in her hand and disappears without so much as a ‘goodbye’. Gal’s too nervous to be annoyed by the brusque treatment.

The entrance to Haven looms before her. It’s a tall, pretty building with a cement bust set into the wall above the entrance. Hastily cobbled-together sheet metal covers holes in the foundation. Behind her is a statue made of wire and metal that depicts a man in chains struggling to free himself. Gal isn’t sure how anybody could look at that every day and not be sick.

She knows that she needs to get to the third level past the guards and into the section that houses Haven’s family. She also knows that Charon is here somewhere, working, and that even the mud and grime she’d scrubbed into her hair and onto her face isn’t going to trick him. If she runs into him, she’s going to have a hard time convincing him to let her go through with her plan. It feels a little like playing Hide and Seek, only with more dire consequences.

With a deep breath, Gal clutches the broom in front of her and makes her way to the entrance to Haven. At least nervousness is an acceptable look for a slave. Gal’s not sure she could play any other role, scared as she is.

The guards don’t immediately see through her disguise and descend on her. In fact, they barely look at her; ducking her head, she passes them by and slips down a hallway towards the staircase.

Though Haven is in better shape than most of the buildings in the Pitt, it’s still crumbling and dilapidated in places. The wallpaper is peeling from the walls in the hallway, and gravel and bits of plaster crunch under her sandals. She holds the broom in front of her, ready to stop in place and  start sweeping if anybody comes by.

The other slaves, either recognizing her as an outsider or aware of her role in the upcoming rebellion, give her curious looks as they go about their own tasks. She doesn’t look at or talk to anyone. The less attention on her, the better.

It takes her a good 45 minutes to go up all the levels and find the right area, because she gets turned around twice and has to spend a good twenty minutes sweeping in one room while a group of guards lounges in the corner, catcalling at her and hurling insults. Finally, she sees the landmarks her guide had described and finds herself in Ashur’s personal area.

Now to find Connor and the cure.

She hears a commotion start up on the lower levels. Rushing back to the stairs, Gal peeks over the balcony to the ground floor and sees guards pouring out the front door. One peels off, grabs a slave, and shoots him through the head. Gal immediately drops the broom and pulls the pistol from the back of her skirt. The time for blending in is over.

Cautiously, Gal makes her way through the winding hallways. She ducks into a closet at the last second and successfully avoids a half-dozen guards that come barreling down the hallway. The closet yields up a faded jumpsuit that Gal struggles into  as quickly as possible. It’s too big, but maybe if she doesn’t look like a slave, people will be less likely to shoot her.

As if anybody here cared a wit about the people they shot anyway, slaves or not.

Feeling a little more confident after her costume change, Gal heads down the hallway at a faster clip, coming to a T. Looking one way, she turns the other and collides with somebody’s chest hard, sending her stumbling backwards.

Things go downhill very fast from there.

Gal raises the pistol, even as she’s trying to gain her footing. The man, dressed in faded armour, holds his hands up automatically but doesn’t look concerned about Gal shooting him. Instead, he looks royally pissed.

“I knew you were lying to me.” Rory hisses angrily. “I had a hunch you were coming to the palace today, and I was right. What the fuck, Gal?”

Gal lowers the pistol, glaring at Rory.

“That’s my line Rory. What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay home!” she hisses. “You’re going to get us found out and shot!”

“No, I’m going to go find my little brother and get him out of here.” Rory says harshly. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Gal opens her mouth to reply, but catches a glimpse of someone moving behind the blond-haired man. Before Gal can pick up her pistol, Charon has Rory by the throat, unconsciously holding him up as a shield. Gal lets out a curse and meets Charon’s eyes, recognizing the shock and confusion there.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Charon says, squeezing his arm tighter around Rory’s throat. The man scrabbles at Charon’s arm, trying to get him to let go, but he might as well be a small child for all it bothers the ghoul.

If she could have imagined a worst-case scenario, this would be it. She thinks about lying, but it wouldn’t be any help. Everything is unraveling and she doesn’t have time to think up something convincing.

“I’m here to help Rory. His younger brother is a slave that works in Haven. I was going to get Connor out and take him to Rory, but Rory showed up here like I asked him not to.”

Rory’s fumbles at Charon’s arm are getting weak. Charon loosens his arm a little bit and allows the man to take in a grateful gulp of air. Then he yanks Rory’s pistol from his hip and his rifle from across his back and tosses them down the hallway, out of reach. Rory stumbles away as Charon releases him.

We have to get out of here.” Charon says to Gal. “The slaves are rebelling. This is going to be our best chance to leave.”

Gal looks up at Charon, eyes pleading. “We have to find Connor first. I can’t break my promises, Charon.”

“You can’t leave with him.” Rory wheezes, one hand on the wall to support himself. His voice is scratchy from the previous pressure on his throat. Charon looks at him coldly, like he’s a particularly vile insect that needs to be crushed.

“Gal, you can’t trust him. He’s not who you think he is.” Rory continues. Gal gives him a confused look.

Charon doesn’t look much more enlightened than she is, but he strides forward, grabs Rory by the collar, and slams him into the wall. Rory lets out a pained grunt as his back hits the flaking wallpaper. Gal lets out a curse and tries to push Charon off of Rory, but Charon keeps his cold gaze on the blond man’s face.

“There’s another reason Ashur let you out of the fighting ring, isn’t there?” Rory says lowly. “Because he’d heard of you before. You and the things you do in Paradise Falls. He knows you would make a better business partner than a slave.”

“You talk too much.” Charon says, leaning in towards Rory’s face. The corners of his mouth are drawn back in semblance of a snarl. When his fingers twitch towards the pistol at his side, Gal grabs his arm with both hands and yanks it away. Charon finally glances at her briefly, but only for a moment.

“Charon, what the fuck is he talking about?” she demands. Charon doesn’t answer. “ Tell me. ”

“If he won’t tell you, I will.” Rory interjects. His voice gets stronger the longer he talks, and he doesn’t look particularly concerned to be pinned to a wall by a man that could kill him half a dozen different ways. “Charon does trade in Paradise Falls. Not in goods. In people. He brings in girls from the Wasteland and sells them into slavery. I heard talk about him when I was there, but I didn’t connect the pieces until he was brought into the Pitt and searched. That picture of Connor I gave you? It came from his little black journal. It was tucked in with drawings of all the other people he’s brought to Paradise Falls and the prices he got for them.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under Gal’s feet. She looks numbly at her hands, gripping Charon’s forearm, and lets go. Charon keeps his hold on Rory, not looking in Gal’s direction even once. The snarl slides off his face, replaced by a familiar cold, blank look. The same one she’d seen the first time they met. The one that had scared her to the bone.

Charon is a slaver.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Gal whispers. “How…”

The ghoul doesn’t stop her as she reaches into the pocket on his armour and pulls out the little black journal. She’s seen him pull it out countless times, now that she thinks about it, but she’s never really bothered to ask what it was for. The cover is leather, soft and faded around the edges with several scratches. Gal opens it, hands shaking.

The first page she turns to is a composite of sketches of a girl in a white dress. Her face in each shows different emotions - happy, sad, distant. In one sketch, a bruise blooms across one cheek. The bottom of the page is labeled ‘Liza’. She swallows and flips the page.

The drawings are interspersed between pages of writing in spiky black ink. It’s too small and cramped to read easily. Gal flips a few more pages and finds a full-page sketch of a girl with bushy, dark hair, and thin features, wearing a faded shift. Despite her thinness, she’s pretty, with big dark eyes that hold some nameless emotion in them. This picture is labeled ‘Sophia’.

She flips through the rest of the pages more quickly. The back of the journal has a list titled ‘payments’. Some of them are innocuous - ‘whiskey’, ‘ammo’, ‘travel rations’. One just says, ‘Sale - L.’ A few lines down, the list reads, ‘Sale - S.’ These prices are significantly higher, in the thousands of caps.

Liza. S. Sophia. Gal flips through a few more times and finds more names. Each is of a young woman; each is labeled carefully in the list with the word ‘sale’ and the first initial.

Gal finds, sandwiched between a scene from a dark, smoky bar, and a sketch of Willow, a spot where a page has been ripped out. Gal fumbles the drawing of Connor from her pocket and smoothes it out on the journal. The torn edges line up perfectly.

“ How could you. ” she whispers. Charon is looking down at Rory’s chest, where his fist is buried in the man’s collar. His face is impassive. He doesn’t look at Gal.

“Leave.” she hears herself say. Charon lets go of Rory and steps back, but doesn’t walk away. Gal very nearly draws her combat knife.

“ Leave. ” she says again. “I won’t ask a third time.”

Charon takes another step backwards, turns on one heel, and disappears out of sight. Gal realizes after he’s gone that she still has his journal clutched in her hand. For reasons unknown, she tucks it into her jumpsuit, rather than tossing it aside. A shiver runs down her spine; her skin feels strangely cold, and numb.

Rory is leaning over, hands on his knees. His face is red from lack of air. A blackish-purple bruise is forming around his throat. Gal stifles the overwhelming urge to punch him and turns to walk down the hallway silently. When she looks back, she sees that Rory is following.

They see more and more people as they get closer to the center of Haven, but they turn out to be harmless. Nobody pays them any attention; everyone is too focused on fleeing the building to care anymore. She and Rory find the laboratory just where her guide had said it would be. Gal grabs the doorknob with one hand, pistol in the other, and throws it open.

On the other side, a woman with short, dark hair and brown skin stands, her other arm twisted around the bicep of a young boy. The boy, blond-haired and scared-looking, is holding a swaddled baby to his chest. The clothes he’s wearing are tattered and worn. His ears stick out to each side, like he hasn’t quite grown into them yet.

“Connor.” Rory says from behind incredulously. The boy sees Rory and tries to dart forward with a cry, but the woman yanks him back by the arm. Then, seeing Rory trying to push past Gal and into the room, she turns her pistol and presses the barrel to the boy’s head.

“Stop right there or I shoot this boy in the head.” the woman says. Rory freezes in place, eyes narrowing. Connor clutches the baby tighter and lets out a sobbing hiccup. The baby, just as in tune with the situation as everybody else, starts crying loudly.

“You must be part of this little rebellion.” the woman says sneeringly. “It was a valiant effort, but I assure you, we’re getting out of here alive, and you’re all going to die.” she takes a few steps backwards, towards the other door in the room. Rory lunges forward; the woman’s finger tightens on the trigger. “I wouldn’t do that if you want to see this boy alive ever again.”

Besides the gun and Connor, the woman doesn’t appear to be carrying anything else. Her lab coat has no pockets. She wouldn’t leave the cure behind, would she? No, it wouldn’t make sense to.

Unless...Gal’s eyes fall on the swaddled baby. Despite a red face and fat tears rolling down its chubby cheeks, it looks completely healthy.

The only healthy baby she’s seen in the Pitt at all.

“The slaves have Haven surrounded.” Gal lies with as much conviction as she can muster. “Give up the boy and the cure, and you won’t be harmed.”

The woman lets out a short laugh and backs up a few more steps. “You’re a terrible liar, girl. Those braindead morons can barely work the mines effectively. The chances of them actually being able to hold a line around this building are slim to none, and we both know it.”

Gal thinks frantically, but she can’t come up with any other way to turn this situation around. She’s still thinking when something rustles behind them.

A shot rings out. Rory goes down at her side with a cry; the woman turns, still gripping Connor’s arm, and flees out the other door. Gal goes to chase after her but a lucky glance behind has her jerking to the side and out of the doorway, avoiding another bullet.

“Well, well, look who it is. I figured you’d be mixed up in this.” a familiar voice sneers. Two slavers in armour march into the room, pistols in hand. When Gal brings up her pistol, the unfamiliar guard takes aim and squeezes the trigger. The pistol in Gal’s hand goes flying as the bullet pierces her hand. Juarez kicks it away and puts another round into her leg. Gal slams to the floor with a pained shriek, vision going black from the impact on her shattered thigh.

“I was really disappointed when the zombie got you released with him. You’re more fun to mess with than the other fighters.” Juarez says. Gal lets out another pained cry when he steps down on her mangled hand with his boot and grinds it into the floor. The other guard is standing over Rory, loading a magazine. Blood stains the right side of Rory’s torso.

“I’ve got to get out of here soon, but I think I have some time to enjoy killing you. At least a few minutes.”

His boot digs in harder. Gal struggles to stay conscious through the pain.

“I even saw your corpse boyfriend making his way out of the city as I was on my way in. Did you really think he’d come to save you? No, he dropped you as soon as he had a chance for freedom. What a waste.”

Despite the overwhelming pain in her leg and hand, the mention of Charon is enough to make her start crying. The truth of Charon’s betrayal is far worse than anything Rory can come up with. Falling limp, Gal lets her forehead droop to the floor and shudders as the sobs overtake her.

Another shot rings out. She looks up, expecting to see Rory’s corpse slumping to the floor, but instead it’s the unfamiliar slaver that falls. His chest is one large, bloody hole. Juarez curses and bring his pistol up. A small, neat hole appears in his chest plate; eyes wide, Juarez tumbles backwards over Gal and falls into a limp heap.

“Tourist? You in here?” Willow calls out. She steps over Rory, laying facedown in the doorway, and spots Gal weakly trying to drag herself out from under Juarez’s body. Willow immediately holsters the pistol and rushes over to roll Juarez’s body off. She takes in Gal’s mangled hand and bloody thigh with pursed lips.

“Has anybody ever told you how stupid you are?” she asks irritably. “Because my definition of stupidity definitely includes coming to Haven on the day that there’s a slave revolt . You’re lucky I ran into Charon on the way to Haven to meet him, or I never would have known where you were.”

“...had to…” Gal says, voice cracking. “...had to find Rory’s brother.” she glances over at Rory, still unmoving. Willow gets the hint and goes back over to him, rolling him over carefully. One shoulder is dark with blood, and his forehead is bruised.

“He’s still alive. Looks like he probably hit his head when he fell and knocked himself unconscious. We’ll get both of you patched up and then we’ve got to get out of here.”

Gal lays back and attempts to breathe shallowly as Willow digs through the cabinets and drawers in the room. She comes back with a handful of stimpacks, a roll of gauze, and medical tape.

“We’re low on supplies here, so I’m going to fix your leg so you can walk and just bandage your hand.” Willow explains as she cuts at the fabric around Gal’s thigh wound with her combat knife. “I didn’t find any med-x, so this is going to hurt. Reflect on your bad decisions while I’m working.”

It does hurt. The bullet passed right through, which means Willow doesn’t have to go digging it out, but the dirt Gal had smeared on her legs means she has to suffer as Willow cleans the wound with a square of wet cloth. Willow injects her leg with a couple stimpacks and then sets to bandaging her hand as the medicine knits the gunshot wound closed.

“Willow…” Gal says, when the pain has lessened enough that she can talk coherently. “Did you know that Charon was selling people into slavery?”

Willow’s eyes flicker to her quickly, and then back to her hand just as fast. “You have a couple broken fingers too. What did that guy do, shoot you and then stomp on your hand?”

Gal stays quiet. Willow presses the gauze pads onto each side of Gal’s palm and starts wrapping with a sigh. “Listen, when we’re out of here and somewhere safe, I’ll explain everything, okay? No reason to keep the whole story from you now.”

Hand finished, Willow trails over to Rory and kneels down next to his injured shoulder. The bullet is lodged in the wound, so she has to spend several minutes digging to find the bullet and extract it. When she finally finds it, she injects their last stimpack into the wound and wraps it with gauze, just like she’d done for Gal. Then, she heaves him up as gently as she can and throws him over her shoulder.

“Can you walk?” Willow asks. “We need to get out of here.”

Gal pushes to her feet with her good hand and limps her way over to Willow. The ghoul pulls out a pistol with her free hand and they make their way back through the building. Gal keeps expecting trouble around every corner, but they don’t see anyone. It’s like the whole building has become a ghost town in the last hour.

When they reach the front door, Willow cracks it open slowly and peeks out. She slams it shut again with a curse.

“They really do have the building surrounded. I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get out and avoid them.”

“They’re waiting for me.” Gal tells her. “I made a deal with them so they’d get me into Haven. If they see me, they won’t shoot.” Probably, Gal thinks desperately.

Willow lets her pass reluctantly. Gal creaks the door open and puts just her hand out, waving it back and forth to alert them to their presence. Then, slowly, she eases out the door, hands up in the air and away from the pistol at her side.

The courtyard, not pretty at the best of times, is a nightmare now. The bodies of raiders and slaves litter the ground, dirt soaking up the blood and making dark spots. Just ahead of her, the giant slave statue that had guarded the bridge is completely aflame. It burns like a torch in the cloudy afternoon. Dozens, hundreds of slaves line the front of the building. All of them clutch rifles, pistols, even simple lead pipes. They are chanting something too garbled to be intelligible.

Gal looks through the line frantically, trying to spot Midea. She finally finds her in the front row off to one side, standing next to a man with an eyepatch. Gal waves to get her attention, then makes her way slowly and carefully down into the crowd. She’s hyperaware of the way the slaves are looking at her, Willow, and Rory; they’re twitchy, nearly crazed.

“Midea.” she says when they finally make it to the pair. “Looks like you did it.”

Midea goes to say something, but the man with the eyepatch cuts her off before she can speak.

“Where’s the cure?” he demands. Gal gives him an annoyed look, but answers.

“I don’t have it. You sent me in there with no backup. The whole place was swarming with slavers, and you didn’t even tell me what I was looking for. And I know why you didn’t. You knew, didn’t you? You knew the cure was a baby.”

Midea looks like she wants to protest, but thinks better of it and closes her mouth. The man, though, looks furious.

“Are you telling me they got away with the cure?” he says harshly, grabbing Gal’s arm. Automatically, Gal pries his pinky off and twists it until he lets go with a curse.

“There was no way we were getting out of there with it.” Willow adds. “Like Gal said, the place was crawling with slavers. She was shot twice trying.”

Gal shoots Willow a grateful look. Willow probably doesn’t even know what she’s talking about, but she supported Gal just the same.

“We’re doomed, then.” Midea says lowly, wrapping her arms around her torso. “If we don’t have the cure, there’s no way we can stay here.”

“Luckily for you, I know where Ashur went, and I know how to get to him.” Willow follows. Gal turns and gives her a surprised look. How could she possibly know that? Willow doesn’t look down at her, just stares directly at the man in the eyepatch.

“He went to Paradise Falls. And if you want to kill him and get that cure, you’re going to need our help.”

--

They retreat to Midea’s apartment to hash out the details - Gal, Willow, Rory, Midea, and the man with the eyepatch - Wernher. It’s nearly the only place in the Pitt that isn’t covered in blood. All around them, former slaves are dragging bodies out of the streets and piling them into carts. Buckets and buckets of water are splashed into the street, trying to get the stains out of the dirt.

Gal is used to blood and death by this point, but the sheer scale of it is sickening. There’s enough slaves lying facedown on the ground to make her wonder if the rebellion was really worth it. Clearly, the cost was high.

Willow puts her foot down as Wernher attempts to start negotiations right away and demands that Gal and Rory be treated first. Gal’s fingers have to be re-broken and set before they can knit themselves back together. They worry over Rory, who has been unconscious for over an hour at this point, but once his concussion is seen to, he comes to hazily and seems no worse for the wear.

“Where’s Connor?” he asks, as soon as he’s coherent enough to speak. The look on Gal’s face must be enough to give it away. Pursing his lips, he turns away.

“They took him to Paradise Falls. We’re going to take the settlement and get him back, Rory. I promise you.” Gal says quickly. Rory is silent. When she goes to touch his hand, he rips it away.

“How exactly do you propose we get into Paradise Falls? The security there is just as tight as it was here, and we’ll be going in almost completely blind.” Wernher says, leaning back and crossing his arms. His one eye is narrowed. He’s a lot colder than Midea is - ruthless, that’s a good word for him, Gal thinks. Midea sits next to him, looking equal parts worried and hopeful.

“We’ll also be better equipped for this attack. We can round up weapons for everyone and make a plan.” Willow replies levelly.

“We don’t know anything about Paradise Falls.” Midea interjects. “It would be suicide.”

Willow considers this. “There is somebody that knows Paradise Falls, and he knows it well. He would be able to help us get into the settlement and attack from the inside out. You’ll need time to prepare for the assault; in the meantime, we’ll bring him to you and figure out a plan of attack.”

Midea and Wernher exchange a look. They seem unconvinced.

“Look, the Pitt is going to be a horrid place to stay.” Gal adds persuasively. “The cure isn’t finished, and who knows how long it will take to finalize? In Paradise Falls, you won’t have to worry about the trogs outside the border or your children being born into squalor. You can spend your time researching the cure. Plus, the Capital Wasteland is better suited to trade, and you’ll need that to keep yourselves going. You’d never be able to survive here without slave labour.”

Midea nods, looking thoughtful.

“I think they’re right.” she says to Wernher. “There’s too many bad memories here. And Paradise Falls is a smaller settlement; it won’t be hard to take, not even as hard as the Pitt was. We can do this.”

Wernher eyes them all. The silence stretches out as he thinks it over. Finally, he nods grudgingly.

“We’ll move everyone to the old fort just north of Paradise Falls. From there, we can start doing reconnaissance and stockpiling weapons. You show up at Fort Constantine a month from the day you leave here, or we’ll find you ourselves.”

The threat is clear. He faces Willow and Gal down with a hard gaze.

Willow is the first to break eye contact. She gets up silently and heads for the door, pausing to wait for Gal with one hand on the doorknob. Gal approaches Rory, searching for something to say. When Rory speaks, his tone is quiet and cold.

“I’m going to go with them to the fort. They’ll need my knowledge of the slavers.”

That’s clearly all he has to say to Gal. She accepts that and leaves without a word.

She and Willow make their way back to their apartment. As the day draws to a close, more and more former slaves abandon their clean-up and turn to merriment. The sounds of yelling, crashing bottles, and loud laughter echo down the streets. Despite the change in ownership, the Pitt sounds just the same as ever. Gal suppresses a shiver at that thought.

When they reach the apartment, Willow locks them in, flips the deadbolt, and attaches the chain. Then she shoves an empty bookcase in front of the door. Gal curls up on the couch and watches her. She accepts the Nuka-Cola that Willow hands her from the fridge but doesn’t drink it. Her other hand clutches at the small black journal she’d taken from Charon. Her thumb rubs at the soft leather cover like a worry stone.

“It’s been a hell of a day. I never expected for you to drag me into a slave rebellion.” Willow says, breaking the silence. She slouches down on the couch next to Gal and takes a long swig from her beer.

“I didn’t mean to. It just kind of...happened.” Gal says numbly. Her fingers play along the divots and bumps on the bottle. Willow takes a second long drink from her beer and empties the bottle.

“I know. It wasn’t your fault. The rebellion or the kid getting taken. You know that, right?”

Gal doesn’t answer.

“You can’t blame yourself for other people’s actions.” Willow continues gently. Too gently. It sounds strange, coming from such a rough-and-tumble woman.

“No, but I can blame myself for falling for other people’s lies.” Gal says sourly. She knows Willow knows exactly what she’s talking about. The image of Charon laying next to her, face slack with sleep, comes to her mind unbidden; she slams the journal down on the coffee table and brings the Nuka Cola to her mouth.

“Tourist. ...Gal. Look at me.” Gal stares at the opposite wall for one more moment stubbornly, then grudgingly turns to face Willow.

“I know what I’m about to tell you is hard to believe, but it’s the truth. I’ve seen it.” she explains. Gal struggles to keep her face expressionless. “Charon isn’t a monster, and he isn’t a slaver. He has no choice but to do what his owner tells him. And his owner, Ahzrukhal, is a very bad man.”

“Yes, Willow, that is hard to believe, because last time I checked, I didn’t see anybody here strapping a collar around his neck.” Gal says angrily. Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes. She blinks them back shamefully, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. “He walked out of here on his own two feet to go back to Underworld. So what is it? What’s making him do it? If it’s not blackmail, what the hell else could it be?”

Willow watches her spit the words out. She mercifully ignores the tear tracking its way down Gal’s cheek. Gal finishes speaking and rubs at her eyes, feeling cold. Her face feels too hot, but her body is shivering like it’s below zero in the apartment.

“Listen to me, Gal. There are things going on outside your Vault, outside these walls even, that are hard to understand.” Willow starts, patiently. “Charon’s case is one of them. Whatever it is that makes him obey the contract Ahzrukhal has, it’s strong and completely unbreakable. When Charon refuses an order, it physically hurts him. I’ve seen him lose consciousness if he fights too hard. You saw how bad his migraines were when he was here. He was having them because Ahzrukhal ordered him to come back as soon as he was able, but Charon wanted to wait until the right time. Until he could get you and I out too.”

Vision blurry, Gal sets the drink on the table and buries her face into her knees, arms wrapped around the front of her calves. It’s impossible to keep from crying at this point; she just focuses on choking back the loud sobs and lets the tears roll down her cheeks freely. A hot, rough arm drapes across her hunched shoulders and pulls her over to lean on Willow’s torso. Gal starts a bit at the touch, but accepts it.

“Charon has been Ahzrukhal’s slave for fifty years.” Willow continues. Her voice is starting to sound rough, like the subject is hard for her to talk about too. “And he may do everything Ahzrukhal’s orders him to do, but he hates it, and he hates Ahzrukhal. He blames himself, even if it’s not his fault. He didn’t want you to know, because he was afraid you’d blame him too. He’s not a monster. He’s a man in a bad position.”

Gal cries for a long, long time. The legs on the jumpsuit she’d taken from Haven are soaked by the time she’s done. Her head pounds like somebody has taken a sledgehammer to it. Willow sticks with her through it all, arm heavy and motionless on her shoulders, torso strong and supportive at her side.

“....so. Let’s say I believe you. Why hasn’t anyone done anything?” Gal asks when her voice is steady enough to handle the words.

She finds that she does believe Willow, even if she can’t quite say it yet. Maybe it’s just baseless optimism, but when she imagines him, she doesn’t see the emotionless fighter he’d tried to project. She sees the man that nearly blew his own cover because he didn’t want to kiss her without her consent. She sees the teacher that risked his own safety to make sure that she didn’t die in the arena. She sees Charon, protective and kind and patient.

“Nobody wants to risk their neck for a man who won’t even talk to them. Even before, when Ahzrukhal was willing to sell his contract, everybody thought it was a trick. You’d pay the money, and then Charon would come out of the shadows and break your neck. You’ve seen how deadly Charon is - with somebody as smart as Ahzrukhal pulling his strings, the chances of anybody getting the jump on the two of them is slim.” Gal looks up and sees that Willow is studying the beer bottle in her hand thoughtfully. “You’d have to find a way to beat the system. If you could anticipate how Ahzrukhal would react, you could beat him at his own game. And I think I’ve figured out how to do that.”

She pauses and looks up at Gal. “I know it’s a lot to ask, after all this information, but I’d need your help. Are you in?”  

“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?”

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.

   Bap bap bap

   “No, come on, come on!”

    BAP BAP BAP

   The Pip-Boy screen flickered, emitted a high-pitch whine, and then went black.

 The urge to kick the doors open and march back to The Ninth Circle was growing more in temptation with the more alcohol she drank. He was forced to stand there, like some gargoyle, keeping his eyes focused on the too-close wandering hands that tried to slip past his field of security. If he hadn’t been given his current orders, he would’ve taken the drunk Russian and repeatedly slammed his head into the table until a red river flowed.

   Charon, you are to escort her to Dukov’s alive and well, and then bring her back the same...I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does. Don’t kill Dukov, or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   His palms curled tightly, his fingers digging into the leather of his worn gloves. He hated this, hated watching the casual refill of her chipped mug and the quiet murmuring of words near her ear. It made his job that much more difficult- it was dangerous to travel at night, and coupled with the fact she was inebriated, it put them both at considerable risk. Once she got her end of the deal done, he would promptly dunk her head in the Potomac and shove his boot so far up her ass-

   “God, it’s so hot in here,” she drunkenly complained, her speech heavy and posture considerably much more relaxed. She stripped the leather jacket from her shoulders, tossing it aside on the rest of her crap.

   His eyes had followed the motion, returning to the sight of Dukov’s quick fingers having pinched the zipper of her suit and slowly pulling it to her breasts. It made her squeak, the flush red of her cheeks darkening.

   “There, much better, eh sweetcheeks?” He grinned.

   Charon snarled at the breach in containment, coming between their seats to cut her off from view. He slammed a hand on the table, splintering the wood. He dramatically leaned downward, his considerable height towering over the smaller man.

   “I advise you to keep your hands to yourself,” Charon rasped with a promised threat.

   “Oh, come on, clown shoes!” Dukov patted him on the bicep, Charon’s head slowly turning to the motion. “We’re just having a bit of fun, ha ha! You and me, we’ve known each other a long time, so, I give you this.” He waved to the women whispering to themselves on the couch. “You go and enjoy the party, alright my friend? Hey, Cherry! Get the ghoul some fucking booze!” He winked with a smirk, his hand already sliding past to run along her thigh.

   Evelyn removed him before Charon could (and snap it in three places) himself. She stumbled away on unsteady feet, mumbling something about bathroom.

   He became her living shadow as she trapezed for a door with a visible toilet, closing her away from the world as she struggled with her suit. The golden stitched numbers 101 on her back were visible to him for the first time, and he felt a ping of recognition from somewhere. He stood guard, eyeing the retired mercenary from across the room with reproach.

   When she eventually came back out, her suit was only halfway zipped up, exposing her soft white belly and cleavage of her tits that had been hidden away underneath. Her sweat-stained undergarment was slightly damp; she reeked of booze. She plastered into him, worming her fingers in the straps of his armor and rubbing her face in his jacket. He was momentarily stunned by the unexpected touch and froze in place.

   “You’re an asshole,” she slurred, beginning to tip backward as she lost balance on her feet. She then righted herself and face-planted into his chest. “Yousmellgood.”

   He awkwardly gripped her by the shoulders and held her away from himself, keeping her propped like a human-sized doll that went limp. Charon snapped his head down as this drunk smoothskin was now beginning to zip her suit farther down, a peek of her underwear band winking out.

   She stopped and looked up at him, her skin a light green tint. “I’m gonna throw up.”

   Alarmed, he shoved her back inside the bathroom, quickly shutting the door as she fell on her ass. She wasn’t going to repeat her mistake from the first time.

   “Ow!” he heard her yelp from behind the frame.

   This was not part of his contractual obligation, so with a quick twist of the handle, followed by a powerful tug, he ripped his side of the knob off the door and dropped it at his feet. The locking mechanism wiggled a few times as she tried to open it, but to no avail. He turned, rolling his shoulders while cracking his neck to the side, and then narrowed his eyes at the Russian sleazeball that was loudly complaining about him ‘breaking my shit’!

   I don’t care how she gets it, just make sure she does.

   Charon started across the room; Hell embodied on two legs.

   Don’t kill Dukov-   Charon was good at hurting people...very good.   -or we’re going to have a conversation, do you understand?

   Almost as good as following orders.

   The sudden drop in the cold water jolted her awake.

   Amata’s face was behind her eyes, got it from my dad’s cabinet in his office, a clear bottle filled with liquid amber, did you remember to lock the door? a taste of fire burning across her tongue, if he finds out, we can say it was all my idea, the giggles, the damp air of the lower floors cooling her brow, you’re so lucky to have big boobs, a teasing squeeze, a strange lump in her throat, who do you want to be your first?

   She hadn’t had a sip of hard liquor ever since that night almost three years ago, just after the G.O.A.T exam, and now she remembered why.

   “Grbfghf!” she gasped, flailing her hands about wildly. They met with the side of a grimy porcelain throne, the putrid stench of stale piss and the texture of coarse hair coating her palms. She felt the pressure from the back of her skull release, and she instantly smacked her head up.

   She had just been swirlied in a toilet.

   “What the fuck?!” she shrieked, scrabbling away on her ass across the cracked tiles. Her eyes darted around, coming to the broad shadow of the retreating perpetrator who had just broken every law in the Geneva Convention. At that moment, everything turned a violent shade of red. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

   The wet slick surface beneath her feet didn’t aid her cause, and she slipped after struggling to stand. Coming to a crash on her hands and knees, it was then that she noticed her entire vault suit was missing...as was her bra.

   Another scream, coupled with the slamming of the door.

   When it was finally flung open to her disheveled appearance, her soaked hair wild about her face and eyes puffy and bruised, every nasty insult that could come to mind was set at her lips, ready to be fired on this ghoul with the intent to mentally maim.

   It died, however, at the sight of him.

   A metallic scraping sound filled the empty echo of the room- the ghoul bouncer was swirling a spoon inside an open can of Pork n' Beans while casually seated on the couch, his shotgun propped at his side to be readily available. His eyes were on the closed door they had entered from, but then he roved them to her.

   He said nothing, and resumed his watch while finishing his meal.

   Evelyn coughed up the itch in her throat, tasting a hint of vile stomach acid on her tongue. It was then she thought back to where they were, and what had just happened. Her body stiffened as though electrified, and she snagged at her things while blabbering profusely.

   She had stripped her clothes after being locked in the bathroom, thinking the most perverse thoughts of-of-ew-(was it ew?) apparently not enough, for her hand was still ripe with her musk and her underwear was soaked and the sight of this ghoul she had been thinking unholy thoughts of-

   “OhmyGod- holy fuck.” Her lips moved a mile a minute, the previous war crime he had committed against her dignity thrown to the wayside as she prepped to leave the awkwardness of the situation. “Nope, never again, oh, Jesus-!”

   An emptied metal can was frisbeed at her head, clunking her in the forehead before making a loud clatter on the floor.

   “OW!”

   “Be quiet,” Charon ordered with a flat rasp. He reached inside a pack (her pack!) and pulled out another can. He unsheathed a combat knife from his boot, slammed it into the lid, and expertly sawed a perfect circle. The aluminum top was flicked across the room, and he dove right in.

   Any other occasion, and she would have been pissed at this guy going through her things and helping himself to her stash- a quick glance to the trash heap detailed he had an appetite worthy of his size- but she was so flustered that she just lamely went about gathering the rest of her gear. She would willingly venture out into the wastes, job or no job be damned...

   A bottle of unopened liquor with the faded label Rosewalda was set beside her jacket on the table...she whirled her head around to the ghoul, and then blinked at the lack of their host.

   A garbled groan trebled down the staircase from a ghostly presence- she could spy one of the women from before smoking a cigarette at the top and observing them with careful eyes.

   Evelyn sputtered, pointing to the thing as though it was a live bomb. “Did...did you-?” Charon tore his gaze from the door once more, his nonchalant attitude betraying nothing. He didn’t finish her accusing statement.

   “You know what, fuck this,” she spat, that buried anger clawing its way to the surface. She thrust her leather jacket on and began to make for her bag...but his predatory glare made her reconsider. “Fuck it, keep it, I don’t care.”

   She stomped for the back door, halted by a firm grip around her wrist. He was so fast!

   “Do not leave,” he growled.

   “This whole idea was stupid! Bring it back yourself, tell your boss I’m never working for his slimy ass again!” she snarled, going to wrench herself free...except this time, he wasn’t letting go. “Hey, hey!” She panicked, beating a fist against his arm. It did nothing, he didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go!”

   He brusquely shunted her flush against himself, ignoring the pained yelp drawn from her lips. “You are returning to Underworld. I will carry out my orders.”

   “What the fuck, are you some kind of fucking robot?!” She grunted as he began to drag her across the floor. “Just give it to him yourself-!”

   Her bag was nabbed, the bottle was tucked inside, and it was pressed up against her chest.

   “Take it,” he commanded, all business. She meekly obeyed. “Do not slow me down.”

   A lump the size of a golf ball was gulped down her throat, and soon, they were exiting Dukov’s Place with the sun slowly climbing over the horizon. She realized she must have been passed out in her drunken stupor, and that he at least had the grace to have let her sleep...even if it was on the bathroom floor.

   When they came to the service tunnels, she glanced back to the one building she hoped to never revisit in her travels.

   “...did you kill him?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.   He glanced over his shoulder at her before continuing down the tunnel. “No.”

   They were left in silence the remainder of the way.

   The bottle was smacked down on the bar counter, Evelyn’s teeth bared along with her resentment. “Here’s your stupid alcohol.”

   Ahzrukhal didn’t seem to take offense to her anger, and only gently handled the merchandise as though it was a newborn babe swaddled in fleece. “Very good,” he rasped, his decayed cataracts fixated on his prize with great reverence. “Yes...very good.”

   He then eyed her with a newfound sense of appreciation.

   “So, smoothskin, I’m most curious about how you managed it, but I guess it comes with the advantage to have some certain...qualities.” He grinned, all of his black rotting teeth on full display.

   “I didn’t fuck him,” she growled, leaning away from the counter. “You can thank Charon for it.”

   Here Ahzrukhal raised a single brow, and then his eyes went to slits as he looked over her to the hulking bouncer back in his place in the corner. “Oh, really, now? That is...interesting.”

   She thrummed her fingers on the counter, waiting for her payment. When the ghoul slid the bottle onto the highest shelf of his collection, she impatiently sighed. He then faced her, wiping a dirty rag along the bar surface.

   “Is there something I can help you with, my dear?” he asked with false innocence.

   “Uh, yeah, my caps?”

   “Why, whatever do you mean?” he rasped curiously. “You said it yourself, my employee had retrieved the bottle for me. This being the case, then you didn’t do the job I had asked...so, what ever should I pay you for? Keeping Charon company?”

   She blinked in disbelief. Was he being serious?

   “Unless you’re here to drink, then I suggest you leave.” Ahzrukhal dismissed her suddenly with a wave of his hand. “I have customers to tend to.”

   She was about to lunge over the counter when a strong force slammed her into it. Evelyn gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs, and she struggled with a pained whine as she flit her eyes upward.

   Charon had her pinned by the back of the head, crushing her into the marble with unrelenting pressure. She let out a cry as she tried to squirm out from his iron grip, but it was akin to moving a boulder.

   Ahzrukhal adjusted his patina-stained cuff link, unfazed by the violence. “Don’t kill her- Barrows will throw a fit.” He then leaned in close, his swampy breath toxic and gross. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, smoothskin. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

   Before she could reply with a biting insult, Charon heaved her upright and carried her by the collar to the door, her jacket acting as a noose. He slammed it open, threw her into the balustrades, and then chucked her pack at her, the contents spewing about.

   “Do not come back,” he rasped before closing her off.

   Evelyn went about slowly gathering her things, the multitude of eyes witnessing the scene making her tuck her ballcap down her face, lest someone see her cry.

   The trip back to Megaton was long, and painful. Winthrop had attempted to catch her attention before she could run with her tail tucked between her legs, but her bruised tailbone and shattered self-worth made the ground a hotbed of coals. The Museum of History became another marker for places she had no intention of reappearing in; she threw a dirty look at Dukov’s Place when she had finally made the journey across the river.

   If there was any consolation to be had in any of this, then it was that at least her bag was bulging with valuable wares that she could sell to keep her afloat till her next job. That absolute fuck of a bouncer had practically cleaned her entire inventory of food...and helped himself to the boxes of shotgun shells she had found in a locked trunk.

   The entire thing had bubbled her up in such a boiling mess of spite and anger that she was already wiggling the locked handle to her house without even realizing she had made it home. She jammed the key inside and forcefully twisted it just as a shadow overlapped hers on the door.

   “Hey kid.” Jericho removed the cigarette from between his bad teeth and blew some smoke in her face. Yuck. “Where’d you run off to?”

   She waved a hand in front of her, coughing up the secondhand lung cancer. “Why the fuck would you care?” she growled, her previous ire (at the thought of Charon) now being locked and loaded in her arsenal for the ex-raider.

   “Whoa, feisty.” He propped an arm over her head and leaned in a little bit closer. She could smell his odor, and it reeked. “Just trying to look out for you, doll.”

   She scoffed, rolling her eyes and finally opening her door. “Whatever, doll.”

   Her wrist was grabbed, very much the same one that the ghoul had bruised before. It stung, and she winced as he applied some pressure.

   “You think just cause you survive a few days out there that you’re tough shit now, is that it?” he breathed over her. He puckered his smoke to his chapped lips with his free hand, his eyes making the journey down her suit. “Remember just who it is you’re dealing with. The world ain’t such a pretty place...much less for your kind.”

   A kneecap was brought up and slammed down the homestretch of his groin. He instantly released her, spitting his smoke to the side and sputtering curses as she dipped through her door and locked it.

   “Madam! It is so good to see you again-!”

   “Wadsworth,” Evelyn interrupted, spinning her back to the frame and leaning against it. “If anyone comes through this door, you have my permission to shoot them.”

   The Mister Handy smacked a single claw to its highest optic, the lens lowering into a stern squint. “Yes, Madam! I will see to my duty as guardian and protector, right at once!”

   She offloaded her pack on the table, hearing a muttered we’re going to die as he floated past to his new post. There was a loud metal groan, and she blinked as she watched the table completely fold in on itself in a heap to the floor, her bag spilling its contents again.

   “Oh, my,” Wadsworth commented offhandedly. “I do hope I will not be left to clean-”

   Evelyn spun on her heel and made directly for the fridge.

   The robot continued with its bitter mutterings, the words floating across the room. “-oh, silly me, of course I will.”

   She ignored it, unzipping her sweaty suit down to her hips and shrugging out of the arms, wrapping the sleeves around her waist as she popped the fridge open and peered inside. A single package of Deviled Eggs was taking sole residence on a shelf. She nabbed it, ripping open the dark-stained packaging with her teeth and sucking down the contents like a famished animal. She propped herself against the counter, smacking her gums in a rude display as her eyes unfocused and she began to see things that were not quite there.

   Things that were almost seven feet tall and shrouded under a brooding cloud of anger and resentment.

   The emptied package was tossed in a bin, and she ‘freshened up’ in the sink before retiring to her mattress on the floor; she really should lug it up the stairs and call it a day. Maybe tomorrow...but the next day bore no such thing.

   She took her scavenged crap to Craterside Supply, managing to deal a good barter for the looted junk, and then had the idiot notion to ask about another ‘research project’ that was more than likely to get her killed.

   Moira blew a rude sound from her lips and waved a hand at her as though she had insinuated something silly. “This next one should be easy! All I need you to do is...maybe...getasdeathlyirradiatedaspossibleandletmestudytheeffects okay? Now, that doesn’t sound so bad, right?”

   Evelyn sat out by the giant atomic bomb for hours, soaking in as many rads as she could until she eventually began to puke blood in her hands. When she stumbled up the steps, she was half-surprised she didn’t melt right through the flooring. Moira pumped her with so much ‘homemade Radaway’ (it’s a secret recipe!) that she expected it to leak out of her ears and nose. She then left the store, nursing a warm buzz in her spine and a pocketful of caps for her troubles.

   She didn’t attempt to make her way through the D.C. ruins in search of Galaxy News Radio again...she had barely survived getting to the Museum of History from sheer luck, and she wasn’t looking to repeat her chances for a crumb of a trail.

   Maybe...maybe you’ll come back for me, Dad. It was the only thing she could hope for. I’m just not made for this world.

   The table was repaired with three whole bottles of Wonderglue (and an entire roll of duct tape) that was left a complete eyesore not worth the amount of sticky residue Wadsworth had to trim from her once beautiful, long brown hair. She kept frugal with her caps and bought minimal supplies to restock her sparse kitchen, taking up the task of cooking to help spread her rations. In the Vault, the appliances had been immaculate, and she had occasionally deviated from the usual premade box in experimentation for different dishes. They hadn’t always come out well...but at least they had been edible. She couldn’t necessarily say the same for her attempts with even more limited ingredients, and a single stove that she feared would blow her sky high someday.

   As the days continued, the temperatures began to drop just as the nights grew darker at the corners of the world. She reluctantly parted with some caps for a few threadbare, moth-eaten blankets Crazy Wolfgang had found during his caravan travels.

   “Consider this a discount, just for you,” he told her, giving a not-so-subtle wink after she handed over the money.

   He held the same look in his eyes that Winthrop had given her upon asking for a drink. Derailed by her ingrained adolescent chagrin, she politely bid him farewell and then planned to never trade with him again in the near future. All of her life in the Vault had been met with ridicule and flashing hormones. The boys she had grown up with had never expressed their interest- Amata was always the prettier one, and the rumors surrounding Christine’s ‘talents’ drew them like flies to honey. Evelyn was just the awkward, weird, antisocial doctor’s daughter. It left her inexperienced and wholly lacking in confidence when it came to bedroom skills...how much that seemed to change out in the wastes. For once, she was looked at, seen, even if she didn’t necessarily wish to be. She didn’t know how to react positively to it, didn’t want to take a chance and somehow fuck it up. It wasn't that she wanted to be the constant center of attention, but it hurt being invisible, too.

   None of it seemed to curb the lonely hours of the night, when Wadsworth was powered down at its station and she looked up to the starry sky through the small hole in her roof, a serene moving picture of constellations and galaxies. She would fondle herself and explore the intimacy of her sexual nature without the fear of being overheard by her father in the next room. Sometimes, she would shyly picture Winthrop’s fingers instead of her own, feeling shameful and dirty at the thought while being completely ignorant to the fact that he was doing much the same just some odd miles away.

   One evening she had dreamt of a set of hands curled around her jaw, holding her steady as she was railed from behind without mercy or tenderness. Only after she had woken up did she briefly remember the face that had been looking down at her; a hard-set mouth drawn in a firm line with a pair of blue coals burning straight through the darkness. Her groin had throbbed and the weak orgasm she forced herself with did nothing to sate that inner hunger she had felt...she thought she had banished that brute from her mind, but her sex most certainly had not.

   The passage of time eventually began to twitch her feet and deplete her caps, and she finally succumbed to leaving the safety of the walls once more. She had refrained from snacking on the boxes of Sugar Bombs she had come to collect- that weirdo ghoul in the subway tunnel did say he’d pay her a decent amount of caps for them...but it was a hell of a walk, and she wasn’t looking to make the leg up there just yet.

   That only left her with one other option.

   “So,” Evelyn sighed as she tapped her fingers on the counter at Moira’s store, trying to ignore the eyes of the mercenary drilling a hole in her spine at her back. “Is there anything else other than getting beheaded and chewed on at the Super Duper Mart? Anything at all?”

   The older woman gave a thoughtful tap on her chin. “Hmm, welllllll, there is this one place...”

A Walking Minefield

   “Minefield?” Murphy rasped. “Why are you trying to go there, smoothskin? The name ain’t enough of a clue for you?”

   She shrugged, shouldering her bag after offloading her cargo. Her muscles were killing her. “It’s for some highly respected research, obviously, I’m a woman of articulate business ventures, can’t you tell?”

   “Heh heh.” The ghoul scratched at his elbow, handing over the caps he owed. “Don’t get yourself killed, you’re the only one that’s getting me these Sugar Bombs.”

   “No guarantees,” she replied dryly, turning for the open doorway. “About the dying or the Sugar Bombs.” She paused, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her pack before she spun around. “Do... do you happen to know anything about that ghoul that was here the last time?” Rolling his name off her tongue burst butterflies in her belly. It felt weirdly intimate to say it aloud. “Charon?”

   Murphy adjusted his specs while Barrett raised his eyes over the screen of a terminal.

   “You looking to do business with him, smoothskin?”

   She shrugged, feigning her gnawing interest with a cool attitude.

   Murphy coughed into a fist. “Take my advice. Stay as far away as you can. I might be dealing Ultrajet with Ahzrukhal, but he’s a slimy bastard who always tries to cut my share anytime he thinks he can get away with it.”

   Tell me something I don’t know, she thought sourly.

   He continued, “I’ve been working with him for awhile now, but I still don’t trust him.”

   “Okay, I get it, but what about his partner?” she insisted.

   “What about him? He’s hired muscle. Don’t get in his way, and you might come out with all your limbs attached.”

   She sighed, exasperated. “I mean, don’t you find him...weird?”

   “I find him to be good at his job.” Murphy opened a box of cereal, beginning the lengthy process of breaking the components down. He eyed her when she remained in her spot. “You have a better chance at surviving Minefield than being tangled with the likes of him.”

   It wasn’t too far from the truth. Evading the general wildlife and strolling into the empty town seemed as easy as throwing an intellectual insult at poor Butch’s tiny brain. She had begun collecting a few mines to shove inside her bag, wiping her sweaty hands on her thighs repeatedly from nerves at listening to the erratic beeping. It wasn’t until she was actually set to leave that she was fired upon by some quack with a sniper rifle, his shots lighting a vehicle aflame.

   She stared at it, horrified, and then her brain screamed move! Her boots slapped the pavement as she tried to hightail it to the edge of town before the whole place would explode. She nearly made it when the rusted-out frame blew in a dramatic eruption, lighting off the rest of the surrounding landmines in a deadly domino effect. A piece of shrapnel had the unfortunate luck of making contact with her thigh, but the override on adrenaline didn’t really register the hit until she was a way up the road...and then it body slammed her with all the force of a steel-toed boot to the face.

   “Gah!” she screamed, loud and without shame or sense of self-preservation. A sharp hiss bled from her lips as her fingers automatically went to remove the thing causing her so much pain, but the light touch brought another crescendo of sobbing curses and pounding thrush of blood to her skull. Her ears were ringing from the blasts all around her; she couldn't breathe with all the swirling black smoke in the air.

   She was a doctor’s daughter with no interest in the science of the human body, bleeding out from a piece of junk metal in her leg with no one to come ease her pain.

   I’m here sweetheart, you’re alright, what’s the matter?

   “Dad!” she wailed, coughing from the toxic fumes filling her lungs. “Daddy!”

   It’s just a little scrape, nothing that a bandage and a kiss can’t fix. Mwah! See? All better.

   Her father wasn’t coming, no matter how hard she cried.

   If it weren’t for this supply run, Charon was sure to have gone feral at this point. Ahzrukhal had been most displeased upon learning the truth of his inhospitable negotiations with Dukov, forcing him to speak with the Russian himself before losing a long-standing client.

   His employer had taken it upon himself to make his service most...disagreeable, since then. He had been stripped of his rations and was tasked with reimbursing his employer the potential caps he could have lost by any means necessary. The ghoul was set to return with them along with the run of weekly chems...he was still devising a strategy, and all of them involved some form of murder and stealing.

   It wasn’t his preference, but it also wasn’t his choice.

   The two ghouls in Northwest Seneca station looked up upon his arrival and went about their habitual task of counting caps while trading over stock. The bouncer leaned up against the wall, eerily silent and abnormally sullen as he gave them a look meant to flay the meat from their bones.

   “Smoothskin left her crap behind,” Barrett rasped as he took notice of a sledgehammer propped to the side.

   Murphy shrugged his shoulders, too busy counting caps for the second time. “She’ll be back...maybe.”

   Charon didn’t take an interest in the side conversation...but he couldn’t help staring at her weapon of choice. He knew it was hers.

   “Who the hell wants to research Minefield, anyway?” Barrett remarked to no one in particular.

   “Can’t pay me enough to,” Murphy agreed.

   The rest of the deal was conducted as normal. Charon left with Ahzrukhal’s bidding and glanced up to the sudden spiraling of black smoke off in the distance. If he had to make an educated wasteland guess, it would appear the smoothskin wouldn’t be coming back after all. He expectantly didn’t feel two ways about it- he shrugged the duffel bag higher up his shoulder and resumed his usual travel routine. The ghoul had only just about turned the corner of the grocery store, an intrusive thought pinging around inside his brain. That smoothskin was a little scavver... she was bound to have some caps on her; it would at least be something to start with.

   Plus, she was already dead, and there was no shame in collecting from a corpse.

   His boot made an indent in the dirt as he swiveled around and followed the road to Minefield. The town itself was covered in a thick haze; it was hard to discern just what was where, and he felt it almost to be a complete waste of time until his sharp eyes spotted a trail of blood, fresh. He tracked it to a house on the edge of town, the wind picking up slightly to give him better visibility.

   The door was halfway propped open, bloodied prints decorating the frame and trim. Being ever cautious, the ghoul widened it with the barrel of his shotgun, only closing it behind him when he scoped the living room was clear. The smoke followed him like a rolling fog, and he gave a guttural cough as he inhaled the tarry smell down his throat. A bloated corpse was staring up at him with a slack-jawed mouth, and judging by the decomposition, he would venture it had been cold for at least a week.

   Not the dead smoothskin he was looking for.

   The blotted tracks led him around the side underneath the stairwell, all the way to a back bathroom that was curtained in shadow. His heavy footsteps creaked the floor beneath his weight as he crouched down close to eye level with the girl.

   It wasn’t too hard to deduce the situation- she was dying.

   She was barely propped upright against the wall, slouching into herself like a folded doll. The once bright blue threading of her vault suit was stained dark and more than likely sticky from the loss of blood; her eyes were pinched closed and her breathing came in shallow waves, the skin a sickly pale shade.

   He lifted her arm to gauge the nasty injury to her upper right thigh, and then he noticed the littering of some Med-X syringes. She would at least die in somewhat of comfort- she had either accidentally overdosed herself or simply couldn’t tolerate the amount of pain. Whatever the case, it wasn’t his issue.

   He dropped the dead weight that was her limb, slightly startling her. The ghoul ignored the groaning from her lips as he rummaged through her pack that had been discarded to the side. A hefty bag of caps was pulled out, assessed, and judged enough for Ahzrukhal’s demand. He unshouldered his own bag to stow the currency safely away when her hand shot up and gripped his forearm with waning strength.

   Her lips moved, and he had to read them to understand what it was she said.

   “...Dad?”

   He almost snorted. Not quite. The pack was zipped closed, and she licked her lips before blinking sluggishly at his face.

   “Charon,” she whispered faintly.

   He froze. It was a surprise to him, she remembered him well enough to know his name, hell, it was a surprise she was aware to even know who he was.

   The ghoul looked down at the chunk of metal protruding from the flesh...if he were a man of any merciful stature, he would put a bullet in her brain and end her suffering. He stared at her dirt-streaked face and drooping eyelids, and then she weirdly smiled at him.

   “Asshole,” she mumbled with a string of gibberish to follow.

   This time, he did snort. She didn’t forget a single thing about him. Her small fingers crept up the leathered skin that remained on his arm, traveling across the oiled straps of his armor and jacket until they softly rested over the horrid disfigurement that was his face. She traced him as though blind; a cartographer sketching the rough plains and high peaks; a shipbuilder admiring the knotted wood of a hull that had journeyed a thousand seas, christening it with the thick red wine staining her hands. She leaned forward with all of her weight bearing into his chest, and she kissed him.

   The sensation wasn’t comparable to anything he had ever experienced before- it was his first.

   She pulled away before he could even react, the desperate collide of her lips to his stern mouth as brief as a match lit in the wind. With her chest now heaving labored breaths, she slumped back to the wall and closed her eyes.

   Charon promptly shouldered his bag and made for the door...he knew better.

   (It wasn’t his business)

   A few slaps from his thick fingers to her cheeks only mildly roused her.

   “Wake up,” he instructed, and she only mumbled a low whine of something along the lines of so tired, go away. “Wake up, smoothskin.”

   He dove through her bag once more, hands steady as decades of field medic experience came forth like a kick in the teeth. If he was going to save her life, he had to act very quickly and be very precise. Anymore wasted time or limited resources would most certainly spell her passing. Two Stimpaks were retrieved, but it wasn’t enough. He cursed under his breath, his stride long and steps full of purpose as he scoured the kitchen on the other side of the house for useful items. A first-aid box containing another stim and some water was nabbed, along with a bottle of vodka he took from the fridge.

   It wasn’t ideal, but she would live.

   When he returned, he promptly removed his belt from his pants, the leather snapping in the air as it was pulled from the loops. Holding her upright with one hand while fashioning the makeshift tourniquet with the other, he held her down with careful pressure, and then cinched it, tight.

   “Fuck, stop! Stop!” She sprang alive as though the nerves of her body had been electrified, her bloodied hands scrabbling at his shoulders and chest as she wailed and choked on her own gasps.

   The ghoul uncorked the vodka with a side pull of his teeth, spitting the stopper out as he kept his focus on the task before him. With a quick splash over his hands, he met her fading eyes- she could see him, now.

   “Hold still,” was all he said, and then he soaked her thigh.

   Her anguished screams sounded like a soul crawling from the depths of Hell. Her uninjured leg spasmed as she writhed, her face shiny with sweat as she bawled. Her hands came up and found sanctuary around his forearm, holding onto his exposed flesh as though it were her only tether to this plane of existence. She squinted past the tears and snot at his face, her expression desperate.

   Charon braced his hand over the embedded object; it was deep...it was going to be painful. He didn’t take his eyes from her own and only gave her a single nod before ripping the metal free.

   Evelyn screamed a decibel worth of rupturing his eardrums, fluttered her eyelids as her blue irises rolled in the back of her skull, and went limp.

   He went about injecting the sight, using every stim and carefully holding the flesh closed until it stitched together as a newly formed jagged pink line. When he was satisfied with his work, he then uncapped a bottle of dirty water and splashed some on her face, rudely waking her from her traumatic blackout.

   “Drink this,” he ordered with a sharp rasp, tilting the rim to her lips.

   She sputtered, sluggishly rolling her head around and blinking in confusion. He grabbed ahold of her jaw with one gloved palm and forced her to concentrate.

   “Drink,” he repeated, offering it at a much slower rate.

   The muscles in her neck rolled as beads of water dripped from the corners of her lips, and when she became coherent enough, she gripped the bottle herself with both hands and nearly drowned from guzzling too quickly.

   Charon held the water away despite her whimpers. “You will make yourself sick. Slow.”

   She smacked her lips, and he couldn’t help but stare at them.

   Like the rolling of a thundercloud, he suddenly grew angry and got to his feet, staring down at this pathetic smoothskin who would be dead if he hadn’t intervened. This wasn’t his job. She was not his employer.

   This was a waste of his time, and so he left her there without so much as a single glance back or parted word of good fortune. As he began to make the return trip to Underworld, he could only think about the manner in which she had looked at him, when she had believed herself to die.

A Proposition

   Now, now, young lady, you’re not getting into some sort of trouble, are you?

   No, Overseer. Never mind the scraped knee- the bruise on Butch’s face. There is nothing here of notice. Not the bloody nose, the sniveled whimpers, the angry eyes. Just me, my little fist, and Butch’s right eye.

   Hmm. Okay then, just be sure and get back to your rooms, I’m sure your father is looking for you...

   The burning in her leg didn’t finally soothe into a dull throb for hours. Here she was, waking from some lucid dream about black fire; it was everywhere, scalding her lungs with every inhale and melting her eyelids shut behind a glue made of scaley skin. The folds and lines of her hands were crusted red- water, holy fuck she needed some fucking water.

   Drink, slow.

   A sound of crinkled plastic was heavenly gospel to her ears when she roved a hand around in the darkness. She held it up close to her face, trying to see amidst her caked eyelashes. Her fingers fumbled with the cap, and she more or less doused herself than hydrated her sandpaper tongue.

   You-you heard the Overseer, nosebleed! Run back to Daddy!

   Oh, but sweet little Butch, why would I? I was having so much fun using your face as a piñata. I mean, at least I still have a dad...

   I'm gonna kill you!

   She gasped, groaning aloud as she slowly moved her stiff joints and sore muscles. It felt like she had been run over by a herd of brahmin, what the fuck happened...?

   The explosions, her leg, the ghoul-

   She gingerly felt around her thigh, clenching her jaw in preparation for the pain to come...but nothing did. A thick rope of scar tissue was inquisitively traced over, it was surreal, feeling the aftermath of something she was sure had killed her.

   The light to her Pip-Boy was clicked on, blinding her instantly and emitting a low hiss and garbled fuck. With pings of sharp stars behind her eyes, she rapidly blinked as she timidly roved the light around for better awareness. She almost half-expected a large, shadowed figure in the doorway, pinpricking a chill down her spine. There was nothing. She strained to listen, aware of a low, droning buzz from her left ear...but there was nothing.

   She stretched her feet and wiped at her face, finally looking down at herself. Fuck, she was so tired...and ghastly. Ew, horrid. The entire lower right half of her suit was stained black and stiff when she moved. The tearing had grown to a decent size...she would have to have it stitched back together when she got home. With a slow roll onto her side, propping her head to rest against the wall as she took to regathering her scattered things, she was met with the fuzzy recount of her savior...just what the hell had he been doing here? How did he know she was here?! Was he stalking her?

   Why did he bother to save her life and then just leave?

   The entire interaction was plain fucking weird...and terribly vague. Tried as she might, she couldn’t replay the entire thing, and she grew frustrated at the snippets of seeing the grimace on his face and torturing her memory with that God-awful pain she had endured. She was alive because of him. That much she was sure of...or some other stranger had saved her sorry ass and she hallucinated the entire thing while high out of her mind on pain meds. Yeah. That was probably more likely.

   Her fingers kept wiggling around in her knapsack for a solid ten minutes as she ruminated over everything until she snapped to attention that she wasn’t feeling her cap stash. She opened the bag wide, peered around inside, and then wildly flung the contents out as she dumped it upside down.

   No way. 

   She smacked the bag down and then began to comb around on her hands and knees on the dirty tiled bathroom floor. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. That could only spell one thing...

   He had robbed her!

   “That asshole!” she barked, throwing the last twenty-four hours of trauma from her mind momentarily as she literally began to cry over her misfortune. She threw the sack, wiping at the hot tears tracking streaks down her grimy cheeks. “I’ll-I’ll-I’ll fucking ki-kill you!”

   How long she had saved those Sugar Bombs just for it all to blow up in smoke (quite literally). She sobbed her heart out from nearly dying, to being alone in all of this, and finally being blindsided by some dick that decided nothing in the wasteland was done for free...especially not saving someone’s life. Only after her tears were dried and a headache began to pound in her skull, did she wipe a stringy webbing of snot from her chin (ew) and flaked the crusties from her eyes. The taps were turned full blast in the sink; for once, she didn't care for the smelly brown water she splashed her face with.

   The bloated corpse in the living room had a putrid stench that made her lightheaded- she dashed out the door, completely forgetting about the sniper nested across town (who was fortunately already dead). Her tummy rumbled and groaned, forcing her to dive on her rations (she was back to being dead broke) and consume them without care as she took in the fallout of the landmine catastrophe.

   The fires had long extinguished (for how long had she been out?) and the smoke had cleared. She bumbled around with caution, finding a few landmines that had somehow survived the Great Blowup of 2277. Whatever her eyes spotted, her fingers grabbed. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she needed everything that she could get. She stared at the corpse of an old man; his body having been crushed by concrete debris. She pilfered the sniper rifle, some ammo, and held up a small key that she would go forth to use on the remaining houses to loot.

   If she ever saw that ghoul again...she honestly didn’t know what she’d do. He did save her life, that much she was sure of.

   “Smoothskin, you’re alive,” Murphy rasped, blinking at the sudden dump of cereal boxes on his desk. “How’d it go? No offense, but you look like you’ve seen better days.”

   Evelyn blew a hair from her face- her childhood ballcap had been destroyed in the burnout. “Minefield’s going to need a new name.”

   He raised a brow muscle.

   Another hair was blown. “No more mines.”

   “Ah.” The ghoul leaned back in his seat and began to count the caps for her salvage. “Lucky you’re here, then. Oh, yeah.” He pointed to the far wall where her sledgehammer was lying in wait like a faithful dog. “Forgot your shit.”

   She felt Barrett’s eyes on her from behind as she bent over to securely pack away the bundle of caps. “I honestly completely forgot...I don’t use it much.”

   “You should. You’re the only one I can count on to get me these, smoothskin.”

   She had no snide comment to return with and merely shouldered her gear for the long walk back to Megaton.

   By the time the metal high-rise was within spitting distance, her feet were being dragged through the dirt and the sun had nearly fried her retinas (she most definitely needed a new hat). Stockholm looked down from his perch in the sniper’s nest, shaking his head at her miraculous survival. Folks stared as she ambled through the gates and stumbled like a drunk to her house- she couldn’t imagine her outward appearance at that moment.

   Her front door was opened, slammed, shit dumped at the step, Wadsworth ignored, and she fell face first into her mildew-stained mattress without so much as stepping out of her boots. She had a feverish dream of raging infernos licking her skin and popping her eyes from their sockets, the goo squirting into her palms. She woke drenched in sweat, the night already well underway and creeping into every corner of her home.

   Her father's final message kept her company for a few hours until she could no longer keep her eyes open, no matter how much she struggled.

   You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own.

   The holotape played on repeat, intertwining with her dreams about a dozen needles pinned to her arms and a disfigured face telling her to hush, hold still.

   Goodbye. I love you.

   The morning was met with better fortune and clarity. After nearly expending all of the water in Megaton in cleaning her suit and scrubbing her skin, she allowed Wadsworth to trim off the burnt ends that had been caught in the crosshairs of the explosion. It was completely uneven and made her hair now shoulder length, but thankfully it was such a wild, wavy and curly mess it was impossible to notice.

   Moira met her return with cheeky smiles and enthusiastic jokes shrugging off her near-imminent death experience. With all the caps she gained from her troubles, she didn’t bother asking for another chapter in her research project...at least, not yet. The vault suit, along with Butch’s leather jacket, were left for its stitching, and she exited the store scratching at the itch the brahmin-skin fatigues left on her skin.

   For the first time in a couple of weeks, her ass took residence in Moriarty’s Saloon, her caps laid out and ignorance plain to Jericho’s eyes leering at her from the corner. Gob took her money and set out a beer before a word had even been spoken, both staring at the other in mutual silence as she savored the cold hops.

   “So...where you been, smoothskin?” he finally rasped after Moriarty had stepped outside, leaving them free to gossip.

   “Here...there...” She scratched her chin. “Everywhere.”

   “A real wanderer, huh?”

   “Gob, may I ask you a question?” she sprang out of the blue, and didn’t wait for him to answer as she plowed on ahead. “I went to Underworld awhile ago-”

   “Underworld? You made it all the way out there?” he interrupted. “Did, did you meet someone named Carol? She’s...uh, my mother, kind of.”

   Evelyn became completely derailed from her train of thought. “Wait, she’s your mom? Ghouls can have kids?”

   “No, not like that.” He waved a hand. “It’s a long story. But you met her?”

   “I did, she was very sweet. She’s doing good.”

   The ghoul brightened at that and began to wipe the countertop for some mindless busywork. “That’s good to hear, thanks. Sorry, I kind of stole your thunder, what were you asking about?”

   “Charon.” She blinked as he startled at the name. “Did you know him?”

   Gob gave her a weird look, and his rasp dropped a few octaves, his manner of whispering. “Are you in some sort of trouble with him, smoothskin?”

   “So you do know him.”

   “I’m serious, and you should be too. He’s bad news all the way around.”

   “He actually saved my life.” She waved the tip of her bottle at his shocked expression. “Guessing he doesn’t do it often? I’m trying to figure him out. Like, just what the fuck is his problem?”

   “Ahzrukhal.” Gob slowly set the rag to the side and looked around, as though the utterance of his name would draw him forth like some conjured spirit. “Whatever he says, Charon does. No one really knows why...and no one questions it. I wouldn’t go around asking, it might get you killed.”

   “Why would he work for him? I mean, to me, it seemed like he hates it.”

   “You think I like working here, smoothskin?” Gob said plainly. “Not all chains are visible.”

   Evelyn looked down at her drink, feeling a mixture of anger and foolishness. Was that true? She knew Gob was indentured to Moriarty, but Charon, too? She downed the rest of her beer, wincing at the burn it left in her throat.

   “Nice catching up, I’ll see you sometime.”

   Gob went to reach out to grab at her, but then recoiled his hand back as though she had slapped him. “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you smoothskin?”

   “That’s my agenda for every day,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Wish me luck out there.”

   “Yeah,” Gob rasped quietly as the door swung shut behind her. “You’ll need it...”

   Her suit took three days to finish. Moira had sewn the torn fabric over her right thigh together wonderfully, and she almost had the inclination to inquire about some research...but the very close memory of the whole ordeal in Minefield left little to be desired. Instead, she repacked her bags with the proper supplies for the journey into D.C., a little ember of curiosity lighting the tinder in her belly.

   Gob had met her hopeful smile with a grim one, handing over a few folded parchments of letters he wished for her to impart to his mother.

   “Sorry I can’t pay you,” he started sheepishly, but she waved him off.

   “If she has something in return, I’ll be sure and bring it back,” she offered.

   “Thanks, smoothskin,” Gob finally relented. “Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.”

   She pursed her lips and left without another word.

   The roads were familiar enough that she now traveled with better confidence. The tunnels were still cleared from the previous venture...although something had clearly been eating the corpses left behind. It quickened her footsteps and forced her to hold her sledgehammer with a tight grip, and twice she jumped at her own shadow across the wall.

   Georgetown was eerily quiet...she didn’t believe for a second that it was truly abandoned, so she skittered like a rat to the other metro tunnel that would grant her entrance to the Mall. Once she was down in the dark underground, casually strolling towards the chain link gate, she took a deep sigh and activated the light from her Pip-Boy for better vision.

   A person standing with their back to her in a corner scared the absolute shit out of her, and she squeaked and backpedaled. When she realized it was just a ghoul- albeit, a very thin, dirty, strange ghoul- she placed her hand on her chest and blew out some air from her cheeks.

   “Thanks, asshole, really gave me a heart attack,” she snarked as she made her way past. She kept her eyes on their shaking limbs, were they high on drugs? It was the wasteland, and she had witnessed from afar how raiders behaved when strung out on the latest chem. Did ghouls do something similar...? She hadn’t met a hostile one, not really-

   The ghoul spun around, his maw hanging open and globs of saliva dripping to his feet. She stared, horrified, as he then hissed and waggled his head around like some disoriented dog shaking water from its ears. She then recognized him- the naked man!

   How could she forget?!

   The chain link gate was soon met with her fingers, and she yanked it open and slammed it shut back in his face. A wiry arm shot out and scrabbled at her through a decent-sized hole, and she picked up a rock to pelt it at him before hustling up the steps. If there was anything she was good at, it was being fast. She would have to ask someone about the ghoul living in those tunnels, she would really hate having to run into him countless times...he seemed to have literally lost his mind. In a way, she almost felt sorry for him.

   The ghoul sentry was busily lighting a smoke, watching a super mutant brawl in the trenches with a bemused twinkle in her eye.

   “Hey tourist,” she rasped as Evelyn came around the corner. “Couldn’t get enough of the sights last time?”

   Evelyn looked over to the chiseled stone faces by the entrance, looming, silently judging all who entered. Her last visit had not ended so pleasantly, but she was here, wasn’t she? What for...she still didn’t exactly know.

   “Just...” Evelyn slapped her hands at her sides and shrugged. “Wandering around, I guess,” she said lamely.

   “Strange place to wander to,” Willow commented under her breath. She inhaled on her cigarette, eyeing the smoothskin from head to toe. “I’m surprised you came back alive with Charon, no offense.”

   “So everyone seems to tell me.”

   “For good reason,” the pink ghoul rasped sagely. She turned her head back to the commotion in the pits. “Don’t go around looking for trouble...”

   “So everyone seems to tell me,” she muttered as she finally dipped inside. Her hand settled on the entrance to Underworld for a good long while...what exactly was she doing here? She had gotten the boot last time, and, oh, God, she had forgotten about Winthr-

   The door opened, making her squeak and jump to the side. The ghoul had seemingly been summoned by her trepidation, for he blinked his glowing eyes at her standing awkwardly half-turned away.

   “Smoothskin?” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing standing out here for?”

   Evelyn refused to meet his eyes- she was now bombarded with every moment she had secretly fingered herself to him, and, whew, she really hoped he couldn’t read the lewd thoughts she had about him.

   She thrust a knife hand at the woolly mammoth. “I’m admiring the exhibit. It’s a free wasteland, so I’m told. What are you doing here?”

   He chuckled at her eccentric behavior and widened the doorway. “Busy keeping this place up and running, you...you want to come inside?”

   She tapped her fingers together shyly. “S-sure, thank you.” She squeezed past, almost annoyed he didn’t move out of the way completely. Her nose had to take an inhale of the grease he was lathered in, and her tongue could taste the hint of solder on his clothes.

   The multitude of strange eyes were on her once again, and she forced herself not to stand so straight and rigid. She felt like an iguana on a stick being flourished around a pack of hungry dogs, just waiting to take a bite. She was here for business- she was here for business. That big, red idiot was going to answer for himself. She nearly cringed from embarrassment as Winthrop just stood off to the side, waiting. He’s clearly very interested, that much she can tell. His eyes won’t leave her tits alone for longer than five seconds. Did nobody have basic decorum when it came to dating out here?

   ...did wastelanders even date?

   “So, uh,” he garbled, flustered as they both stood in the corner, expectant of the other to make the first move. “You’re back.”

   She rocked on her heels, holding the straps of her pack with white-knuckled fists. “I am.”

   “You...you want that drink?”

   Minefield was child’s play compared to this. She’d have better luck taking a piece of shrapnel to the face before-

   “I have some in my office,” Winthrop rasped. “It’s a little bit quieter than upstairs.”

   Her face was on fire. She may be inexperienced, but she wasn’t dumb.

   “Uh,” she croaked. Pleasant. Astounding. Applause all around. So full of beauty, timeless grace. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here for something else, uh, first.”

   “Oh, yeah, sorry smoothskin, I didn’t realize,” he began with a huge one-breath rush of apology, but she waved a hand before her with an easy smile.

   “No, no! It’s all good, I’ll just get this sorted and...um...see you around?”

   The ghoul made a strange popping noise with his tongue and seemed more spurned than he did hopeful. "Hope you don't mind me asking, smoothskin, but, uh...you ain't here to do business with Ahzrukhal, are you?"

   All at once, her shy unease became stamped under a hot iron of irritation. What was her business to anyone else?

   He scrambled to continue at the sight of her stern browline. "It's just that, we all heard what happened last time. Barrows and myself had a talk with Ahzrukhal, we figured you weren't at fault. We know what kind of a sleaze he can be...so it just kind of surprised me you came back, is all. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you did."

   Evelyn bit her tongue, unsure of whether to thank him for coming to her defense or berate him for getting involved. It made her feel slightly demeaned, having someone fight her battles for her...but it also felt nice knowing someone cared enough to step in on her behalf.

   He set a hand on her shoulder, the grip warm and ohsoawkward.

   “I’ll be in my office if you need to find me,” he rasped, "and if you still want that drink." He finally strode over to his workspace, glancing over his shoulder as though to ensure she was still there.

   Evelyn glanced around at the peeping eyes that had caught the show, and she hurried up the steps towards The Ninth Circle. She came to the handle, half-flinching from the anticipation that it would be flung open to dump out some poor soul and smack her in the face, but her fingers pushed the frame, and she was welcomed inside the dingy bar...

   ...and he wasn’t there.

   No hulking form, no seething mass, no glaring juggernaut. Just herself and the ghoul that she had no intention of talking to, frowning at her appearance.

   Ahzrukhal drew his eyes to slits. “Well, smoothskin, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

   Evelyn glanced to the corner again- the room felt large, empty, without his presence.

   Ahzrukhal noticed her attention focused elsewhere. “My employee is unavailable, at the moment. I might be inclined to pass on a message for him.” He watched her approach the bar. “For a fee, of course.”

   Oh, of course. She highly doubted he would relay any sort of word regardless. Her butt took a seat, her peripherals noting some other guests slouched in the far corner, a few hits of Ultrajet being sucked down their skeletal throats. They didn’t even acknowledge her entrance. A soft melody was playing on the radio, the reception staticky. Reluctantly, she pointed to a beer bottle on the wall.

   “Ten caps," he rasped.

   Ten?! Robbery!

   She laid them out anyway, inwardly seething at him. She hated him, and although he had japed her out of money and kicked her ass to the curb, she was willing to play nice. Just long enough. The bartender didn’t notice the animosity shimmering around her stiffened shoulders, her crossed brow, her clenched jaw.

   “It seems you have taken quite an interest in Charon.” He dealt the first blow, all smiles, no teeth...none recognizable, anyway. “Were you impressed with a man of his...talents? He’s very good, as I’m sure you know.”

   Yep, my ass still hurts, thanks.

   She licked her lips after the first sip, ran her tongue over her teeth, and looked him dead in the eye. “Why does he work for you?”

   A dark chuckle, like dust from a crack of rotting wood. Musty, wet, hint of mold. “Has Charon been telling you stories of me? I’m surprised.”

   “No...just curious.”

   He raised a brow, leaned an elbow on the counter until he was practically swamped over her, and held out a flat palm. “Ten caps.”

   She didn’t even argue.

   He slid them into the register with a practiced motion and then went about restocking the shelf, his entire performance like some Shakespearean soliloquy. “Charon is...special. He is bound to anyone who is owner to his contract.”

   “Contract? What, like a slave?” She felt her insides squirm and grow cold. This wasn’t a conversation she was sure she should be having.

   Stay as far away as you can.

   Do me and yourself a favor...don’t go asking around about Charon.

   Don’t go around looking for trouble...

   Perhaps their warnings had some merit after all.

   Ahzrukhal seemed genuinely upset over the accusation. “No, he is not a slave. He will tell you so himself. Charon put himself in his place many years ago...I just happen to accommodate him for it.” He again leaned over her, his breath disturbing the fine hairs on the top of her head. “Are you inquiring me about Charon’s contract? He is a very valuable asset.”

   This wasn’t what she had intended at all when she woke up this morning.

   No.

   “I am.”

   Shit.

   “And what sort of proposal are you entertaining me with?” he asked, and she had to forcibly breathe through her mouth to not gag at the smell of his breath.

   “Uh,” she started stupidly. What the fuck was she even thinking?! She wasn’t this sort of person! What a disgusting notion, to own someone! But her mouth fished out the number of caps she had on her person. “Two hundred?”

   He stared at her, and then barked a crude laugh in her face, a mist of spittle dampening her cheek. Disgusting. That alone was grounds for murder. “Come back when you have a serious offer.”

   Her brows scrunched, her naivety speaking for her and burning any bridge for barter. “I honestly have no idea.”

   Maybe five hundred caps-?

   He pondered for a moment, and then stood back. “Two thousand. Give me two thousand caps, and Charon’s contract is all yours.”

   She was sure her jaw smashed into the marble. Two thousand?! Who the fuck had that kind of money to spend?! She would be toiling weeks, no, months for that amount of cold, hard caps.

   He must have read the ludicrous disbelief on her face. “I am willing to negotiate such a price... for, other propositions...” He slowly crept a hand over the counter to her.

   Sex sells, kid, and you got a nice face with huge tits.

   He’d clear the place, the only form of foreplay being a shot of something dirty and a scrupulous stare of beady eyes as she shyly stripped. He’d be impatient- hadn’t had the privilege to touch a woman in however many years...too many to count. The front of his suit would be unbuttoned, touch me here, slapping her pale hands to his chest, she’d be hesitant and withdrawn.

   She wouldn’t enjoy it. He wouldn’t care.

   It’d be dry, painful. Much too fast and much too rough. Her eyes would be screwed shut, picturing a different face, something to make this bearable. It wouldn’t be how she’d imagine her first to go...she’d cry about it later.

   Nope, no way. She would rather eat sand.

   Evelyn stood from her seat, grabbing her pack. “Two thousand...I’ll come back when I have it.”

   His eyes leisurely crept from her groin to her face, the disappointment not withheld. “I’ll expect you then, smoothskin...”

   As soon as the doors closed behind her, she felt like a sticky sheen had licked her skin. It made her want to take a shower, a very long, hot, shower.

   Carol’s Place was much more receptive...at least, from one host, that is. Gob’s mother was grateful for the news and letters from her son, whereas Greta appeared more than ready to lance a crusted fork in her throat. A bundle of caps and an offer for a free night was shoved in her mouth, swelling her cheeks.

   “Oh, that’s okay, I told Gob I wouldn’t-”

   Carol waved her refusal away. “I am more than happy to compensate you for it.”

   Evelyn glanced at the other ghoul woman throwing daggers at her face, and chopping something on a board vigorously. She gulped. “I-I mean-”

   “You’re very sweet, dearie. But I insist.” Carol closed her fingers around the currency in her hands.

  The smoothskin was like a parasite- crawling under his skin, skittering across his brain. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, probe at it, grab the goddamn thing with his rough fingertips and squeeze it till it popped, it evaded him. It wormed deeper, eating away at his grey sense of rational until he felt as though he would open his mouth and just scream.

   But he didn’t do any of that.

   What he did do, however, was reroute this carnage he kept suppressed on his more present issues. A raider junkie had just taken a fall from tripping over their own undone shoelaces- he lifted his foot, witnessed the tinge of fear in their eyes, and stomped.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   He nonchalantly looked down and lifted his boot to view the underside of the heel, raising a brow at the brain matter stuck to it. He wiped it off on a thin rail, the clanging metal echoing down the subway tunnel, and then continued.

   Another raider- a woman- rounded from the shadows in what she probably hoped was an ambush. Charon had visibly made out her trembling silhouette half a track away- the loud sniveling and teeth chattering did nothing to help her cause. He brushed aside the lead pipe aimed at his face with laughable ease, grabbed her by the throat with one hand, and lifted her from the ground, slowly choking the life from her eyes.

   Her lips trembled as she struggled to breathe; he couldn’t help but stare.

   They had been chapped, probably due to dehydration, but they had also been soft. He remembered that. A kiss from the tip of her nose had stroked his cheek, felt the leathered sinew of his muscles and white bone. He wondered what she would have tasted like- perhaps salt, sour, a certain rot one has when tinged with death. She had been simmering in it, a homemade brew of loss of youth and a certain innocence.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like him.

   The raider was struggling to speak, her vocal cords vibrating under the glove of his palm. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he refocused, ever so carefully loosening his hold to allow her final words.

   “Was’the matter, zombie?” she wheezed. Her eyes were bloodshot, bulging, she could have been pretty. Once. “You gonna fuck or eat me?”

   She was kicking her feet, the instinct to somehow run away, to survive, was so strong. She was dripping red, a piece of shrapnel from her right thigh. The blue vault suit was blinking in and out of the shadows with every passing of the train. The lights from the windows teased her face, changing from that of the raider to the smoothskin.

   Flash, flash, flash.

   She looked at him with those pretty blue eyes.

   Asshole. That’s what she said.

   He tightened his clasp, felt the muscles roll under his fingertips and the trachea crack, and then he slammed her head into the brick wall.

   Crack, Sploosh, Squish

   There was nothing left to see from those eyes- he had crushed them into paste.

   The door swung open- he automatically looked to it. Another patron, looking to toil their caps away on one vice or another. He looked back to the bar. Ahzrukhal’s oily smile. A finger propped, come here.

   He obeyed.

   Business. Do this. Do that. Go collect my caps, hurry now, don’t be late.

   A walk across the bridge over the Potomac, and he saw her. A flash of sapphire- what sort of idiot wears something like that? So noticeable, a perfect target. If he had a rifle, he could set the sights and take a clean shot. Didn’t even need a fancy scope; a set of irons would do.

   She had dipped inside of the Tepid Sewers, not even noticing his far-off gaze. That whirlwind of color, foreign, bluer than the sky above or the water below. The world did not remember such vibrance- it would eat her, sooner rather than later, take her in its very maws and swallow her whole, reducing her to shit like everything else.

   He was surprised she had survived. He did not think she would.

   He remained in his place, not realizing he had been staring at her absence until he felt his fingers brush his mouth. The palm of his hand was stared at; he felt betrayed.

   He wanted to know if she tasted like the fresh scent of rain.

   The radio. He listened. He didn’t have a choice, it always played. A peek into the window of another time, another age. The guests all gathered round, no matter night or day. And then he listened. The Vault. He wasn’t stupid...but she was. It told him everything he needed to know, as though he had found the missing piece of the puzzle, how easily it slid into place. He could glue the whole thing together now, frame it, hang it on the wall, show her, see, I figured you all out.

   He wondered if she kissed the others too.

   It was the dripping fat sizzling into the fire, the delicious aroma when you’ve had nothing to stomach and it's greasy on your fingertips. You suck on them, not caring if the others see, let them judge. They haven’t known true hunger, what it does to a man, makes him willing, watching that club batter away at the hare. It seizures, blood foams at the mouth, then stills.

   Who wants the eyes?

   They pop in his mouth.

   She’s frosted cake, a ribboned icing, a creamy inside. He catches himself before his fingers touch his lips again...for he hasn’t had them in over a century now.

   He never wants to see her again, even just in passing.

   Boom. She drops, a simple headshot.

   Asshole.

Friends with Benefitting Complications

   Butch.

   What? A snuggle into sheets that smell of chemicals and are stiff from the heated press. She always hated the turnover laundry days of linen- they made her own bed feel foreign, sanitized. She turns over on the lumpy pillow, squints in the dark at the back of Amata’s head. What about him?

   He...was my first.

   Wait, are you serious? She curls the blanket around her, wraps it under her blue feet, shivers. The air recirculation system keeps blowing cold air on their levels...she hopes it will get fixed soon. When? Where? Why?!

   His room, a couple of weeks ago...his mom was out getting trashed on ration coupons. I don’t know. It was quick...he was...nice.

   Butch, nice? I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. She lays her cold heels on the back of Amata’s thighs, erupts a squeal from her. That’s what you get!

   I’m serious! I think he’s honestly a nice guy-!

   If you told me this a year ago, I would have thought you were insane. She doesn’t tell her what she really feels. Jealous. Left out. Weird. She was always weird. Too quiet. Too random. Not pretty enough to feel wanted.

   You don’t hate me for it, do you?

   Hate you? She does. A little. No! I’m happy for you, if you are.

   ...you’re such a good friend.

   According to her Pip-Boy, it was almost seven in the morning. She wiped away the sleep, snacked on her own prepared breakfast (lest Greta truly poisons her), and laced up her boots. She braided her hair beside the banister on the second to the top step, indiscreetly glancing inside The Ninth Circle when its doors opened for any sort of hint at black leather and broad shoulders.

   He still wasn’t there.

   Tulip chattered away aimlessly as she bartered the few things she had found in the tunnels. A courteous hairdressing ghoul by the name of Snowflake offered her a free trim just to work with a real set of hair. Her fist came to pound on Winthrop’s office door. She told herself it was only polite to not stand up the ghoul a second time. She told herself it wasn’t because she was just desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she was setting out to buy-

   The mechanic was almost as surprised at her presence as she was. He widened his door just as the entrance to Underworld opened.

   “Uhm,” Evelyn stumbled, her heart hammering in her throat and choking her words. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the rolling storm that had just thundered on in. “Sorry, I, uhm, came to say goodbye?”

   She barely heard the confused response as she strode through the concourse to intercept him at the base of the stairs. Charon noticed her just as he took the first step, the lines in his face creasing as he scowled. The silence between them felt electrifying- her toes tingled and her mouth went dry as he just stood there, fresh gore blotting his uniform and piercing eyes nailing through her wide ones. So...now what?

   Minefield. There was some unresolved baggage to be unpacked there. Baby steps.

   The dour look he was giving her made her knees weak. “I came here about what happened last time, between us,” she forced herself to say. He was watching her lips move with each syllable she spoke. “You know, back at Minefield?”

   Charon looked around subtly and then gave a sharp nod of his head for her to follow. Well! That wasn’t so hard! Now she panicked. What exactly was she going to say to him? Hey, I know you saved my life and stole from me but I was looking to-

   She didn’t have much of a chance to chew over her words and spit them out, for as soon as they had rounded inside the bathroom beside the entrance, he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her against a stall door. She gasped from the unexpected hostility.

   And then he kissed her.

   ...crudely.

   It was the only word she could describe it as, and it wasn’t necessarily the word she had hoped to use for her first one.

   His mouth was hot and wet and consuming her lips with such ferocity she feared he was trying to devour her instead. Their teeth clacked and his tongue plunged inside, swapping saliva while she whimpered and he growled. One of his huge hands was holding her steady by the jaw; he could have wrapped his entire palm around her throat if he so wished (and she found the image to be as equally arousing as it was terrifying). His other was pawing at her breasts under her jacket, taking one under an iron grip and squeezing till she yelped. He did it again, and she batted at him with a fist while pushing him away. He finally released her, both breathing heavily over the other.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she spluttered.

   Charon narrowed his eyes slightly and loosened his hold to grant her space. She now noticed the very large outline underneath his leather pants. Her eyes widened without meaning to, he could pin her to the wall alone with that thing!

   She blathered, “I-I came about what happened- and-and your contract-”

   All at once, he became an entirely different man. He took another step back, assessed her like she was some form of prey, and then cracked his hands into fists.

   “Ahzrukhal has told you of my contract,” he rasped with a dark undertone, the question coming out more as a statement. He looked as though he was ready to rip her into pieces with his bare hands. “I advise you leave and do not come back.”

   “What?!” she exasperated, wholly confused as she shoved him. He didn’t budge. “You fucking kiss me, and now you don’t want anything to do with me?!”

   It was then, looking up into the shadow of his face, that she was just reminded how extremely easy it would be for him to smear her brains on the pavement. He didn’t have a reason not to- this was the wasteland, people killed for less, and yet here she was, taking a metaphorical stick and poking the very real giant fucking bear with it in the eye. She felt her insides clench at the thought, and just as she went to apologize, and, hopefully, spare her life, he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away.

   “Hold on, wait-!” She jogged to catch up, but he turned around while unholstering his shotgun and aiming the muzzle directly at her face. Her hands immediately flew to the sky, cold fear stealing the air from her lungs.

   His finger rested on the trigger. “Get out.”

   She timidly pointed to the double doors leading back inside Underworld. “My stuff is-”

   A blast rang out, the wind from the shot kissing her cheek. She abruptly fell backward, scrabbled to her feet, and dashed out of the Museum of History, turning her head around to find that he was taking long strides in pursuit. Something of a frightened cry was uttered as she ducked through the doors, flinching from the crack of his shotgun and the blast peppering the space where she had just been. The first step had been horribly miscalculated, and she cursed as it felt like her entire ankle snapped as it rolled out from underneath her.

   “Gruh!” Her skull smacked against the pavement, a blur of creeping darkness and bright stars disorienting her long enough to witness a gargantuan-sized, steel-toed boot kick the doors open. Another shot spat up concrete dust beside her head; she shakily got to her knees and hobbled as quickly as she could manage to relative safety.

   “Charon!” she heard Willow bark, “what the hell is going on?!”

   Neither had a verbal response as Charon adjusted his aim with quick reflexes just as she disappeared around the bend. When there was no longer the stomping of heavy footsteps behind giving chase, she stole a peek back, finding no one there.

   The molerat exploded in a gruesome display of blood and fleshy bits. Some had the unfortunate luck to be sprayed directly in her face, and before she could keel over and gag, a sharp nip bit her in the ass.

   “Ow!” she yelped, swinging the ‘repellant stick’ around wildly.

   So, I finally did it. Yep. It...wasn’t planned. Not even sure it counts, really. What does he look like? Uh, well...he’s big (in just about every way), tall, broody...and looks like he got dropped in the fan shaft...on fire.

   Another rodent blew up with a high-pitched squeal, its body vibrating erratically.

   I don’t know. I kind of hate him, right now, I guess. Maybe. He tried to kill me...he’s a real asshole.

   A loud sigh was exhaled from her lips, and she winced as the sunburn on her face reminded her that she looked like a walking cherry tomato. She really needed a new hat.

   I think I like this one. Yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?   She looked around at the extermination she had provided for Moira’s latest research project, the carnage brutal to any vermin that would so happen to cross these sands. With a swing of the makeshift weapon over her shoulder, she trudged back to Craterside Supply, spying a few raised brows from the locals at her bloodshed appearance. Moira gave her an armful of chems to carry back home- items she could turn around and sell to Doc Hoff, the chemist trader, when he would make the rounds next week. She jammed them in her locker, somewhat rinsed away the stinking mess, and then took a trip to the Water Processing Plant that towered high above the tin can town, a metal crate balanced at her hip.

   In the two weeks since she had limped on home, there seemed to be no amount of shortage to the busy work she kept herself tasked with. Two-thousand caps...after how he had threatened her life, she should’ve nuked that notion from her mind, but the bundles sitting in a secure strong box upstairs said otherwise. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t even close, but she couldn’t bring herself to spend them. Not on lifesaving armor, a decent meal, hell, not even the tub Moira had offered to let go. Oh, how she would kill for a hot bath...but here she was, killing her skin under the sun and her back with this drudgery, instead.

   The kiss almost felt like a fever dream at that point; it was maladaptive to her everyday life. He had tasted like the warm barrel of a gun; metallic, slightly acidic, a hint of gunpowder with a greasy aftertaste. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad...and she found herself wanting to dip her tongue in for a second taste.

   He doesn’t have lips...or a nose...yeah, I know.   She entered the smelly water plant, her footsteps clanging the metal like percussions on a tambourine.

   I miss you, Amata...I wish you were here for me to tell you all of this.

   “Girl, did you get me that scrap metal?” Walter, the grumpy operator (and sole reason Megaton had any purified water at all), questioned no sooner than she had rounded inside his office. “We got more leaks I think around the east side.”

   Evelyn heaved the metal box onto the table, inwardly sighing at the instant relief granted to her sore muscles. “Here’s everything I found out of Sewer Waystation...minus the actual sewer.” The growls and hellish screeching that had come from the black tunnels had derailed any sort of adventurous spirit she had.

   The elderly man came over to poke his nose inside. “Guess it’ll have to do, for now. Keep bringing anymore that you find, otherwise, we’re going to be shit out of luck up here.” He handed her a pouch of tools to get the job done. “Figure you know the drill, same as last time. I’ll count the caps I owe you while you’re gone.”

   Evelyn straddled the metal piping under the hot midday sun, getting absolutely soaked by cold water as she fitted wrenches and reinforced square patches of refurbished steel over the seepages. Her boots made a squish with every step she took back to the plant, puddles forming at her feet as she stood a sopping mess waiting for her compensation in time and labor.

   “Twelve things of scrap metal at ten caps a piece, and two hundred for repairs.” The jingle of money had never sounded sweeter to her ears. “Here you go.”

   Once her hard-earned caps were tallied alongside the rest, she popped a Nuka-Cola from her stash and sat down on the busted chair in her home, prepping an array of sterilized equipment on the table to begin a minor blood transfusion. If donating her own blood to The Family wasn’t desperate enough for income, she didn’t want to know what was. She sipped her sugary soda while she waited for the bag to fill, ignoring Wadsworth’s quiet, bitter disdain towards her after he had learned she had taken a haircut from someone else. She set the empty bottle aside, removed the needle from her vein with a wad of bandage pressed at the sight, and prepped her 'new' pack for a trip to Northwest Seneca station.

   Loneliness.

   That’s what she had tasted like. Not a tingling sweet, not the cold chew of fat, not simple heat and moist flesh of skin on skin. There was desperation...and fear. If she hadn’t forced him back, he wouldn’t have let go. He would’ve taken it way too far. He would’ve done what Winthrop played out behind his eyes every time he looked at her.

   She didn’t come back. Good. She shouldn’t, if she’s smart. They held on to her stuff, said she’ll eventually come around. They questioned him, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Nice smoothskin. Pretty smoothskin. That’s what they said about her. He knew better, he probably knew her better than everyone. Lonely smoothskin. Straight out of a vault, wandering the wastes, not having a single fucking clue.

   He sometimes imagines she’s dangling from a raider noose, somewhere, her body swaying with the breeze and fingers missing. Or she’s sliced into pieces in a super mutant encampment, head in a bucket and skin blue, bloated, mouth open in a silent scream. The wastes are not kind- it’s a horrific landscape to survive in. Most do not, and the ones who manage come to learn it is not something to be taken for granted. It’s a skill, a desirable trait, an experience of sheer dumbass luck and a big fucking gun. He was really good out in that world, really good. Being out there tested his limits every day; his ingrained instinct to survive versus his very simple wish to die.

   He then saw her on a small hill just past Northwest Seneca station, that color of blue. Still a target, just outside of range. She watched him, her hair dancing in the breeze. He knew he was staring, and he shouldn’t have, but he did until she finally disappeared from view.

   Come find me. He had seen it on her face, even though there was no expression made. It’d be easy; she’d leave tracks a mile wide like a drunken yao guai. If he'd been quick enough, he would've caught her in the bottom dip of the ravine, cornered her into the rocks and water with nowhere to run or hide. He was unsure what he would've done.

   He sees her again in another week. The Anchorage Memorial. She’s bandaging her arm, oblivious to everything and everyone around her as she dresses the laceration.

   Found you.

   He draws his gun, steps up so quietly he cannot even hear his own heartbeat inside of his chest, and comes to a stop within two feet of her. Her tongue is out to the side, her brows stern in concentration. Her jacket is removed, the tear in the sleeve mirroring her wound. He lets her finish, she raises her head, and she startles in place as she finally notices him.

   She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with those owlish eyes, so blue. That skin is very much alive, tickled pink, her lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rapid. A glance at the weapon pointed at her, and she finally realizes.

   He could have killed her anytime he wanted to. But he didn’t.

   “Just what the fuck is your problem, anyway?” she asks, her voice trembling with distress and... something else. “If you’re going to shoot me, then just fucking do it.”

   His fingers yank her zipper down just enough to squeeze a palm under the fabric and grab an entire handful of her. She’s on the tips of her toes, almost trying to climb him like a summit with her lips at his mouth and her hands intertwined through the straps of his armor. She’s tugging, trying to rip it right off, but she only manages a gasp of lustful frustration that makes him thrust her up against the memorial.

   He doesn’t know what he’s doing...he’s not sure if she does, either. His pants are much too fucking tight and the dip of her body rubs against him perfectly as he grinds her into the unrelenting stone. She’s whining and moaning and whimpering in his ear, perfectly ruined by the all-too-close spray of gunfire just at their backs. He drops her and instantly arms himself, dealing with the few raiders that had survived a run-in with the native mirelurks.

   When he turns back around, she’s already gone, her taste still fresh on his tongue.

   Anchorage Memorial had been anything but a very simple walk through the park! Once again, Moira had somehow outdone herself when it came to reckless vaultie endangerment, sending her deep within a hoard of mirelurks to plant a probe inside their nest.

   The Stealth Boy she had used was her first trial run with the device- it was extremely disorienting, not being able to see your own self, and so she had scraped her arm on the sharp edge of a broken metal railing. The scent of blood flurried them to her location, forcing her to pitter-patter around like a panicked mouse until she had shoved the device inside a clutch of eggs (and inwardly cried at all the precious loot left neglected). The crustacean smell had been so nauseating, she was sure not to eat another mirelurk cake for the rest of her years.

   The fresh air of the wastes (if that wasn’t an oxymoron to say in itself) did little to help clear her assaulted nose, and as she played doctor and thought over what sort of snippy remark she would give to Moira, she was once again met with him. Although, unlike the previous encounter at Northwest Seneca, he was much closer.

   Close enough to trade tonsils and ohmyGod-

   She never thought herself one for exhibitionism, but...he could have stripped her then and there and taken her like two wild animals caught in the heat of the moment (if it hadn’t been for the rude interruption of death by maiming). It had been enough of a distraction to pull the velvet wool from over her eyes and stuff it in her mouth till she was home, chewing it over and over to savor that remainder of musky flavor.

   Her breast tingled at the thought of how his very large hand had perfectly cupped over it, kneading it with the worn leather of his glove and smearing some gun oil on her bra, the rough exterior of his skin lighting a flame wherever it traced. The base of her groin was so swollen it ached- she braved the common restroom area, dumping a few buckets of cold irradiated water in the public grimy bathtub just for some fraught attempt at relief. It didn’t help much...and she had to put her vault suit back on afterward, inherently aware the crotch area had been previously soaked.

   Winthrop was taken from the high shelf and tossed in the bin, replaced with a much larger, much more threatening sort of man that made her cheeks blush anytime she thought of him. She had somehow developed an intense crush on a seven-foot wall of gristle and death...a part of her was relieved she had the sense to scram before it went too far, but damn the part that screamed at her to have fucking stayed (or stayed fucking, more appropriately).

   She was rewarded for her crustacean tango with a new hat- it was ugly, but at least it covered enough sun from her eyes- and a few Stealth Boys (and a complimentary stim for the cut on her arm...at least, she thinks it was a stim). They all went into her locker to be later inventoried as useful items that she actually wished to keep, sitting alongside the 10mm pistol...

   Don’t let her get away!   She’s a hostile! Take her down!

   I...I can’t come with you, I’m sorry.

   The gun was slammed back inside, fresh tears smarting her eyes at the instant replay of it all. Charon was all but forgotten as she crawled to her bed, snuggling under the scratchy blankets as she looked up to the colors of the setting sun through her holey roof. She fell asleep wondering if there was ever a time in her life when she truly didn’t feel alone...she couldn’t think of one. She dreamed of massive hands holding her down, gun smoke wafting from his mouth into hers as they kissed, before he cracked her neck and laid her face down in a puddle of piss.

Second First Impressions

   Ahzrukhal had been in an extremely foul mood as of late, pushing Charon to break more bones on unruly customers than Barrows could stand to mend. The ghoul doctor had finally come upstairs to set his authority straight after Patchwork had been admitted with both arms missing, the conversation between the two tense and stiff. Ahzrukhal had then cleared the bar (a very rare thing to do), locked his inventory away, and summoned Charon with that waggling finger.

   “We’re going to conduct some business. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

   This always led the bouncer downstairs to Tulip’s, an array of ammo boxes and explosives purchased without a single word uttered between them.

   Traveling the wastes with his employer was always a major pain in the ass. Ahzrukhal walked the streets as though he owned them, not cautious of the lurking dangers or the inevitable threats just looming around the corner. It forced Charon to always be one step ahead- dealing death unto enemies that he may have simply skirted around to save on ammo and time.

   The ferals and super mutants tended to leave them alone, but raiders always had to go and pick a losing fight. Charon had blown their heads clean off their shoulders, leaving a sole raider woman sniveling in the dirt with a mangled leg, courtesy of a grenade he had gifted them. He stepped up to her, intending on snuffing the life from her eyes when his employer came around from behind the safety of his shield.

   “Tie her up,” he rasped, his voice unusually garbled.   Charon did as told, securing her wrists behind her back and leaving her to inhale the earth.

   “Go wait over there, keep watch. I don’t want anything to interrupt.”

   Charon’s expression had never been so perfectly carved from stone. He obeyed, watching the landscape for any hint of danger as he was forced to listen to the labored breathing and grunts, the screaming muffled before it eventually reduced to sobs.

   A snap of fingers. He turned back around. She was slathered in snot and tears, her voice hoarse and eyes dull.

   “Deal with it.”   A raise of his gun, and they continued on.

   Northwest Seneca station took much longer to arrive at than it did when he journeyed solo. For a brief second, he glanced around for that shimmer of color...she was not there. He did not know what to expect- it had been weeks since he had last seen her. He figured she was six feet under somewhere, the worms recycling her into dirt.

   Ahzrukhal preached his sermon to a pair of nonbelievers, his wish of a discounted price for being a loyal business partner going unheeded.

   “Are you crazy?” Murphy had rasped, Barrett at his side with an itchy trigger finger. Charon would have to take him out first. “That’s a lowball offer. You can find someone else to supply-”

   “I do apologize,” Ahzrukhal interrupted, fiddling with his tarnished cufflink. “I had assumed you knew this was not a negotiation.” He then waggled two fingers, and Charon recited the scripture like a faithful little choir boy.

   Barrett took some lead to the shoulder, not adequate to kill, but pain worthy enough to get the point across. Murphy braved a few fists and lost more teeth than he could afford to, finally cracking under his own blood that dripped from Charon’s knuckles. It dribbled back into his mouth as he croaked an understanding.

   They walked up the steps, embracing the overhead of dark clouds...and a trio from Talon Company, the Capital Wasteland’s most notorious mercenary gang. They questioned the whereabouts of a certain smoothskin with a nice price on her head.

   “We heard she sometimes comes through here, does trade with a couple of ghouls. Seen her lately?”

   Ahzrukhal gave a sleazy smile, never one to undermine a business opportunity when it presented itself. “Perhaps...who’s inquiring?”

   “Ow,” Evelyn muttered under her breath, another bobby pin breaking at her fingertips as she tried to wiggle the lock to the cabinet open. “Little bastard. I swear to God, you’ll show me your wares...”

   Another pin broke, another curse. She wiped the sweat from her forehead on the back of her arm, swapped her tongue from one side of her cheek to the other, and blindly fished for another in her pack before trying again.

   It finally gave a shit-eating grin of a click, and she swung it open and began to assort through its inventory with sticky gremlin fingers. A scotch, whiskey, and wine. All perfect bids for Jenny Stahl, the Brass Lantern eatery proprietor, to deal on. She carefully wrapped them in individual pieces of clothing she had found earlier, snuggled them tightly in her bag, and cinched the strap down to begin combing over the rest of the rubble.

   Springvale ruins was a perfect picking ground for minor finds- she had no idea exactly why she had never bothered to roam around it before...perhaps the holed-up raider gang at the Springvale Elementary School had something to do with it. Probably. Maybe. More than likely.

   A giant shadow loomed over her as she foraged inside a garbage can, sending her into a premature grave from cardiac arrest. When she spun around with a shoddy combat knife in hand, she glanced up from beneath the brim of her hat to the ghoul she had not had a reunion with since that steamy memorial visit.

   Charon was staring at the shitty weapon she so confidently wielded at him, slowly raising a brow as he drew his eyes to her face.

   It had been a solid month since she had the chance encounter of meeting him again and-wait, hold on. Chance encounter? All the fucking way out here?!

   Her eyes wildly flit back and forth. “What the hell are you doing here?”   Awesome. Smooth. No, it’s nice to see you again, or, wanna pick up where we left off? Or, even better, thanks for not blowing my head off behind my back, do others get the same courtesy?

   Judging by the blood on his uniform, she supposed not.

   Her mouth opened, a word in her throat, but a piece of folded paper was thrust at her. She swallowed her question and looked at the message being held an inch from her face.

   “Uhm, what is that?” she asked dumbly.

   “A message,” he responded dryly.

   “Yeah, I fucking know that,” she snapped, taking the paper that was being so rudely shoved into her eyes. She unfolded it, her knife still in hand and being held a little too close to her face as she pulled the lettering under her nose. “Why? What is-?”

   She glanced up only to find that he was already leaving.   “Hey! Hey!” She broke into a jog, the action much too déjà vu worthy to be comfortable. “Was that it?!”

   He paused, turned slightly to face her, and spoke in the most monotone voice she had ever heard another human being muster. “Your business is with Ahzrukhal.”

   She nabbed at his bicep before he walked away again, instantly dropping it when he whipped a glare at her. “I’m not talking about my business with him- I want to-oh my God, really?!”

   Charon was setting off once more, completely ignoring her existence. She crossed her arms and seethed at the blatant rejection- did he just hate her now, or something?!

   “Fine,” she called out at his back. “Not like I care, just leave!”

   She sheathed her knife (for her own safety) and briefly entertained herself by angrily blowing an eardrum-splitting tune on a rusted-out harmonica she had found, the note hastily read.

   Have you forgotten my proposition? I suggest you do not delay, as there have been recent inquests I’m looking to give favor to.

   -A

   No, she didn’t forget. She was so close to collecting all two thousand that the caps had to be moved to their own fucking duffel bag. She turned the note over, a bloodstain making the penmanship barely legible...it read like some sort of bounty.

   Caucasian. Female. Evelyn. One thousand fucking caps! What the hell did she do?!

   She snapped her head around when the shadow engulfed her a second time. Oh, boy...he was mad.

   “I was not the one who had left,” he rasped.

   The response was growled so spitefully that she dropped her newfound musical hobby to the dirt. They then just stood there, his entire face creased together in a snarl and hers blank from shock. When it appeared she was too stupid to give a proper response, he swiveled around and stalked off, presumably returning to Underworld.

   She licked her lips, regaining some sense (mostly stupidity), and called out once more. “You’re the one leaving now.”

   That made him instantly halt. He came back around so fast she flinched into a corner of skewed boards and an open fridge.

   A finger was pointed directly in her face, his tone anything but friendly. “Do not push me.”

   She obediently kept her mouth shut, staring up into that cold face of murder until she was reminded of the note in her possession. It was waved around like a flag. “What the fuck is this? Who-”

   “It is none of my concern,” he dismissed her bluntly.

   She motioned with a hand to their impromptu meeting spot. “That’s why you came all the way out here? To tell me-”

   “Talk with Ahzrukhal,” he interrupted her again, this time with a sharp edge to his tone.   Okay, she got it, loud and clear. Obviously, he didn’t handle her ghosting last time too well...she could take a hint. It’s all she did do back in the Vault.

   “Fine, fuck you too,” she simmered. “I guess I should be thanking you for not robbing me this time.”

   His face came so close that she had to plunk her ass on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Both of his hands braced on each side of the gutted appliance, effectively trapping her in place. “I did not have to interfere. Remember that.”

   “I remember other things pretty well,” she rushed without even filtering first. When he stared at her silently, she smacked her jaw shut and burned beet red.

   The ghoul slowly backed away, and then not-so-subtly looked around, erupting a hot bloom in her underwear. Was he seriously-?

   “It is not safe here,” he concluded, his statement said so firmly she almost burst out laughing.

   “Didn’t stop you before.” Once again, she wished she had to input an enter key to vocalize her thoughts. “I-I have a house...just over the hill.”

   It was forced out so painfully shy she turned away. When he didn’t respond or make a move, she mustered the courage to glance at him. He was very still, seemingly gauging the offer. A sharp nod of his head. Lead, I will follow.

   “Oh, uhm, uh, okay,” she said dumbly.

   She awkwardly stepped around him, slipping on some loose gravel and righting herself without any ounce of grace. She tried to ignore the fact she had this monstrous ghoul a few feet behind her, following her to have...she couldn’t even finish her own thought, the notion sure to make her lightheaded and faint. She felt like the eyes of the world were staring at her as they came to the gates.

   Hey, we’re about to have sex!

   Could they read her face, could they tell? She whipped her head around, catching his eyes. He looked...bored. So absolutely fucking uninterested in what they were about to do. Did he do this often? He was old, probably, so she assumed he had experience.

   The town sheriff, good ol’ Lucas Simms, intercepted them before the winding curve leading up to her place. Oh no, he was going to find out they were about to commit the deed-

   “Hey there,” he said with an easy flash of a smile at herself and a warning to his teeth at Charon. “I see your friend here found you. He came poking around, said he had a message to relay...you getting along okay?”

   “Uh.” She again looked over her shoulder. The ghoul was regarding everything, his expression unchanging. “Y-yeah, we’re good. Thanks.” We’re about to go to pound town...I think.

    “Alright, holler if you need anything.” Simms gave a tip of his hat, and she mimicked in kind before he trudged back down the hill.

   Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t even get the key in the lock for a few minutes, and when it finally swung open, she just as quickly dipped inside.

   “Wait here,” she gushed, and slammed it shut before she spun around to yell upstairs. “Wadsworth!”

   “Yes, Madam! Welcome home! What do-”

   “Please go deactivate,” she commanded as she flew into a flurry, chucking empty boxes of InstaMash in the bin and furiously scrubbing dishes in the sink.

   “Oh, why do I even bother...” he muttered as he hovered down the steps to rest at his station.

   Shit, I have all that crap on the table-do I move the mattress upstairs-I probably smell awful-ohmyGODIhaven’tshavedindays-

   The door whined on its hinges as it opened, and she squeaked in surprise as the ghoul rudely invited himself inside. He had to duck his head and dip a shoulder through the frame, his comical entrance comparable to an oversized action figure being forced into a tiny dollhouse. He closed it, his glowing eyes sweeping over the disarray to then circle back on her.

   She wiped her sudsy palms down the length of her vault suit, oh so nervous with her heart battering away at her ribcage. “So, um, do you, uh-”

   Charon unholstered his shotgun and came forward to set it on the table, his boot nudging the mattress to the side. His hands rested at his buckle, and he began to undo his attire from the waist down. Apparently, he wasn’t too shy.

   She stared like a wide-eyed mouth breather, unable to look away as the innermost secrets to the ghoul’s family jewels were presented to her with a most...sizeable display. Wow. It wasn’t the first dick she’d seen, (if that accidental walk-in on Wally Mack’s prostate exam in her father’s clinic had anything of weight to it), but it was...distinguishable. Veiny. Red. Long & Thick™. She could pick it out in a line-up faster than-

   She snapped out of it as she realized he was still standing there, staring at her. Right. With a numbness in her fingertips, she set the hat and Pip-Boy aside, clumsily undid her braid, and began to shake out her wavy hair as he stepped towards her, his pants shunted past his thighs and cock standing tall and proud. There was a glistening bead of liquid at the tip that dribbled down the shaft with every violent throb it made. His gloved palm wrapped underneath her jaw.

   “Take off your clothes,” he rasped, and then he bent down to embrace her in a kiss.

   It was certainly messy, but not as uncoordinated as the previous times. He seemed to be figuring out what he liked, lots of tongue, less teeth. She barely pulled her suit off one shoulder before he sloppily pulled away and clamped his mouth around her throat, inviting the intrusive thought of he’s also a fucking vampire-?!

   Regardless, she rewarded him with a soft little moan, and he seemed to eat the treat right out of her hand, for he dragged his tongue up her neck and tugged at her lips a second time in hopes of more. Her boots were shunted to the side as she kicked them away, her hands roving blindly as she peeled her suit and underwear from her body.

   He removed himself, stared at her naked skin like a famished man receiving a delectable meal, and then swallowed a nipple with a hard bite of his teeth.

   “Ow!” she yelped as she squirmed under his heavy, rough hands.

   A grope here, a squeeze there- he wrapped his arms around her to cup the cheeks of her ass in both palms and lifted her off the ground.

   “H-hey!” she stammered, eliciting a loud oof as she was smashed into the bedding with none-too-gentle assertiveness.

   The upper half of his body was still covered, the metal of his armor clinking together and the leather straps rubbing her cheek, his head craned over and breath swamping her face. A press of something hard began to prod in a very wrong place, and she panicked and smacked him in the chest. He immediately halted, snapping his eyes at her with a hint of annoyance.

   She wrapped one leg around the backside of his thigh. “Okay-”

   Another jut of his hips before she could align him properly, and he overshot, his cock sliding along the slickness of her cunt and smearing it over her clit and the lower half of her tummy. The sensation curled her toes and sank a tooth in her bottom lip, and he didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t even inside of her yet as he kept humping her into the bedding. He wasn’t making a single sound, the breathy whimpers escaping her being lost amidst the tumult of his gear clanking and the sad exhale of her mattress with every thrust he pounded.

   “Wait-wait-” she breathed out, the urge for him to continue almost overriding the simple desire to have him fill her completely. He growled as he reluctantly stopped, propping himself upright just as she reached down and grabbed his dick.

   It was so hot and slippery and meaty that she held on tight, having him respond to the pressure with his fingers digging into the blankets and his jaw clenching so hard the muscles popped. With a lift of her hips, she directed the tip at the right entrance, and he obliged her assistance with a solid stab.

   No one had ever talked about the pain. She cried out, clawing at his shoulders with desperation and screwing her eyes shut as she was being stretched. She went to open her mouth, tell him to stop, it’s too much, too fast, but he had already withdrawn and slapped his girth back over her clit, a hot, gooey string spiderwebbing across her stomach and breasts.

   One look at his pinched face told her he was somewhere not of this world- he shivered, his breathing ragged like he was fatally wounded, and he rolled to the side while snorting and brusquely rubbing at his eyes.

   Evelyn looked down at the gift he had left behind, inquisitively smearing a few fingers in it. Gross.

   The dip on his side of the mattress raised up as he stood, his back to her as he went about tucking himself away and then reaching for his gun. He appeared the same as when he had entered- indifferent.

   She blinked as he strode to the door, his hand turning the knob as she spoke her insecurities with a timid voice. “Was...it, um, good?”

   He looked at her- a hot mess with his cum lacing her tits- and nodded. “It was.”

   He then left, and she plopped back on the bedding to stare at the hole in her ceiling. Well. That was something, and she wasn't quite sure what.

A Slight Misunderstanding

   A wince as she sat on the barstool, gingerly trying to get in a comfortable position without making it too obvious that she had been nailed by a one-strike hammer. She hadn’t indulged in a beer for a while now, almost feeling like a stranger as she took residency in Moriarty’s Saloon. Every cap unspent was a cap saved...but that night, she felt like she needed a beer for company and maybe an ear to lean on.

   Moriarty was busy inventorying his latest swindles from unfair prices to piss-distilled beer, leaving Gob free to catch up in some side conversation. She could faintly hear Nova moaning from behind a closed door upstairs- everyone had become so accustomed to the world’s oldest profession that no one bothered to listen- it still made her blush at the imagery it unwillingly conjured.

   “Hey,” Gob rasped with an iced Nuka-Cola in hand, discreetly looking over his shoulder. “Sorry, but I wouldn’t advise it. Caravan’s been off schedule since the last run...Moriarty’s been making it stretch.”

   She set her money down and savored the chilled glass between her clammy hands.

   Hey, can I tell you something?

   Amata, helloooo, we’re best friends. Duh. Of course! She watches her fixing her hair in the mirror of her bathroom. Perfectly straight, dark, thick. Everyone says she has beautiful hair.

   You have to swear you won’t tell-   Are you pregnant!?   No! It’s just...that...well-   Spill the beans! She tickles her in the side, erupting a laugh. She loves to hear her laugh.

   “Never seen you with that face before.” Gob pulled her back to reality, and then leaned in a little. “I know Charon was looking for you- he came in the bar asking before Simms made him step outside. Are you in a bad place, smoothskin? I told you he was trouble.”

   Bad place? Not entirely...but there was this emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a jar full of marbles that couldn’t quite fill the spaces.

   “No. We were just...conducting business.” She shrugged, praying to every God there was above and below that he couldn’t see past the façade. That would be downright embarrassing.

   He didn’t, and he began to sort some liquor on the shelves with a nod of his head. “That’s good to hear...I was a little worried, is all.”

   She plunked her chin in hand, amused. “Were you now? Of little old me?”

   Gob wouldn’t raise his eyes, focusing them intensely on his hands while he worked. “You’re good to me, smoothskin...it’s nice to have a friend.”

   She bit her tongue, momentarily stunned at the blunt statement that felt more like a love confession. Sweet jet and tangy sweat sidled up beside her before she could make some sort of cringy reply.

   “Been too busy to hang with us?” Nova asked snidely with that sultry flair to her voice, a crinkled cigarette between her lips with musk permeating from her pores. Her eyes drew onto Evelyn’s bare throat, and she slightly pulled the collar of her jacket down to expose a blooming hickey. “Oh, who had this honor?”

   Gob was staring at the evidence of her hookup with saucers for eyes before Evelyn could clamp a palm over it. The look on his face when he finally put two and two together about just what sort of ‘business’ she had to attend to glowed a molten firework across her cheeks.

   Nova reached up with the pointy end of her umbrella to poke at the heavy, awkward tension hovering over them like a raincloud. “Was it fun?”

   Evelyn fiddled her fingers together on the counter, shrinking into her coat to make herself as small as humanly possible. “Uh. Sure, I guess?”

   Nova worked a lighter, gave an inhale, and slanted her eyes at the lack of confidence in the response. “First time?”

   “OhmyGodamIthatobvious-”

   “Take it easy, kid. You’d be lying if you said otherwise.” She took a long drag, flicked the ash into a tray. “So.” She lifted one leg over the other, the tear in her stockings stretching just a bit further as she spun on her stool to face her. “Who was it?”

   Gob met Evelyn’s eyes, both privy to the mystery hickey deliverer, and she looked away. “He’s not from around here.”

   The cherry at the end of Nova’s smoke burned a deliciously bright hue, casting shadows on her high cheekbones and underlining the bags under her eyes. A little twinkle of perception caught the hidden message shared between the two. “Didn’t happen to be that ghoul who came looking for you, did it?”

   The absolute mortification on Evelyn’s face told her everything mere words could not.

   “No shit,” Nova mused, stubbing the end of her dying habit out with a last blow through her lips. “Was he packing?”

   Evelyn choked on a sip of her soda like a warthog.

   “Big hands, big feet, big dick,” the prostitute said wisely. She peered down at Evelyn’s groin; the shame having long been abolished from years of work. “Bet that ass is sore.”

   “Okay! Nice talk,” Evelyn rushed, leaving her drink half empty and forcing herself to not limp out the door.

   “Go sit on something iced, you’ll be fine.”

   “Goodbye!” Evelyn swung the door shut, heavily leaned on the railing, and ignored the bustling evening crowd below in favor of the blanket of bright stars overhead.

   I had sex with Freddie Gomez last night, after curfew...we snuck out and did it in the cafeteria.

   Oh my God! First- ew. Second- you little harlot! They laugh, more tickles and belly roll pokes ensue. Butch-

   Doesn’t know! I mean, let’s get real, it’s not like we’re even dating-

   Yeah, but Freddie Gomez is just an asshole, and he shacks up with Christine Kendall, (gross!). He said my skin looks like the color of that fake sliced cheese we get!

   You know he doesn’t mean it.

   No, you don’t know how they talk about us. That’s what she wants to tell her, so desperately. You don’t know of the horrible things they whisper just loud enough for me to hear. They want me to hear. They’re jerks.

   She should have told her that. She should have told her everything, as though it would have somehow let her stay.

   The early morning was always worth the ungodly hours to wake up to. A dark velvet blue crushed with violet petals in the same mortar, some sprinkled golden flakes and misted orange citrus. It was quiet, the busy hours of daily life not yet coming to fruition. She liked to sit just outside the gates, watch the sun breathe life.

   ...which was promptly ruined by a waft of cigarette smoke leeching into her nose. Bleh. She turned her head- Jericho.

   “You’re up early,” he commented nonchalantly, not giving her a return glance as he stared out into the wastes.

   “Could say the same,” she half-muttered as she watched him procure a cigarette packet from his pocket to shake one out for her to take. “No thanks. Smoking’s bad for you.”

   He shrugged. “Whatever.”

   Evelyn returned her gaze to the natural wonder, feeling his eyes drill a hole through her skull. She hated that vulnerable vibe she garnered from being around him.

   He slaps my face more than his balls slap my pussy...he just pays Moriarty extra for the bruising.

   Nova had told her more than she ever cared to know about the ex-raider’s tendencies in bed. She inwardly shuddered, thankful Charon hadn’t dealt out similar treatment...she couldn’t help but wonder if he was reflecting on their experience as much as she was. She assumed not, if she had anything to go by with his immediate departure.

   The smell of cigarette-stained clothes was much closer than she would have liked, and she grew irritated at the lack of respect when it came to personal space. Jericho wasn’t too upset with their last encounter when she had crushed his nuts, so it seemed. She stood up, dusted the dirt from her butt, and proceeded back inside the safety of the walls, aware of his ogling gaze stalking her as she went.

   In an hour or so, the shops would be open, and the settlers would be roaming around like a congested ant farm. She divvied up her loot from yesterday’s short-lived scavenging hunt...and then proceeded to sit and inhale some frosted cakes while she stared at her sheets, newly baptized from a popped cherry. She really wanted to see him again...even if she didn’t.

   Wadsworth came to life from his preprogrammed alarm system, whirring around the place and muttering something of absolutely filthy...I insist you remove your shoes prior to entering, Madam.

   Her eyes zeroed in on the dried mud littered about- most certainly not from her. Hey, can you wipe your shoes off? Wadsworth hates the mess.

   Ugh. Too cringeworthy. Not like her place was clean to begin with.

   Are you hungry? Want a drink?

   Too...desperate for social company.

   You can stay the night; it’s going to be dark soon...

   She slapped her face in her hands and groaned aloud. For Christ’s sake, one quick fuck and she was already planning future visits like she was actually expecting him to show up at some point. Absolutely pathetic. The hickey on her neck was only getting darker, making her wear a thin scarf around it despite the heat. Forcing herself to get along with her day rather than sit and overanalyze the situation was more difficult than she could have imagined. Thankfully, Moira took her crap with an overly beaming excitement like always, not once prying about her new fashion statement.

   “Fission batteries?! You have no idea how much I’ve been needing these for this project I’m working on!” she chittered, tossing them in a crate with no care whatsoever. “Oh, yeah! Someone came by asking for you by name yesterday, kind of a scary guy! I told him to try Springvale, since that’s where you said you’d be going-”

   Jesus, Moira, remind me to never tell you where I put my spare key.

   Evelyn dumped the currency she had earned into her pack. “Yeah, he found me, thanks.”

   Did he just talk to everyone about her? He was certainly thorough...and now he knew where she lived, would he maybe come knocking if-

   “Hey now! I almost forgot!” Moira spun around, making popping sounds with her tongue as she nabbed something off the shelf. “He came by and left this for you.”

   An olive-green military-grade sheath was set down on the counter, the handle of the blade that was secured inside wrapped in some sort of worn leather. She picked it up, her tummy exploding with electric butterflies as the blade pulled smoothly from its casing.

   Holy shit. It was much better quality than her chipped combat knife, that was for sure. The refined edge told that it was recently sharpened by an expert hand and a trained eye. Something like this would rake in a shitload of caps!

   She replaced the knife back inside and held it as though it were forged from glass. He really left this for her? But why? She couldn’t get two words from his mouth that weren’t condescending (or threatening), and now he suddenly gives her something like this?

   He probably paid you, duh.

   All at once, her happy butterflies exploded into acidic fireballs. Wow. She was so stupid. It was so blatantly obvious she fiercely bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying in public. She did invite him, after all. Amata had never told her anything about gifts from her courtships, and prostitution was a common trade in the wasteland.

   She resisted the tremendous urge to chuck the fucking thing in a bin. It would fetch a decent price with Lucky Harith, at some point, and she couldn’t afford her pride to fuck her over...not like he had done, anyway.

   With much more sullen airs, she went back home and veered on autopilot to her caps stash that was kept locked away in the upstairs bedroom. Out of habit, she tallied her newest acquisition with the latest sum she had been keeping track of on a folded piece of yellowed paper.

   She blinked. She counted again. The same number. She painstakingly went through and counted each and every cap, suddenly flush and nervous and so damn giddy. All those long days, the calluses on her hands from digging through the rubble, the knots in her muscles from lugging a full pack around, the hours spent hiding from every threat and miles she’d walked for every specialty item she could sell...

   Two-thousand and sixty-two caps. She could now buy his contract, give the damn man his freedom as payback for saving her life, and forget about him as this debt would finally be rolled from her shoulders.

   Well, there was no time like the present.

   Out of sheer habit, he went to grab his knife. His fingers brushed the underlying leather of his pants instead, and he was inherently reminded of his impromptu decision before he had left Megaton.

   A quick thrum of his fingers on the table (that was compiled with a very vast array of death-dealing instruments he routinely performed maintenance on). He would need to visit Tulip’s sometime before his next supply run to replace it, and he was certain he wouldn’t find anything near as excellent quality as that one had been.

   The ever-turning rumor mill in Underworld was always filtering past his ears. He generally ignored it, had learned to tune out most things a long time ago, but certain key words had radioed in his attention most eagerly (something he would never admit to).

   Did you hear? Winthrop’s been making something in his workshop, they think it’s for that smoothskin...peh...bastard thinks he’ll finally get lucky.

   Charon hoped she appreciated the knife. It was exponentially better than that walking future tetanus shot she had threatened him with...he might have to kill Winthrop.

   He honestly didn’t expect to see her again unless they happened to cross paths at Northwest Seneca; Ahzrukhal didn’t let his leash drag too far.

   The bouncer stretched his spine in his seat, cracked his neck. He was becoming distracted by these asinine thoughts- it was a detriment, and could be dangerous. The wastes did not take kindly to complacency, and here he found himself sitting at this table, his mind wandering to the sound of her whimpered breathing and the taste of her sweat, rather than focusing on the task at hand. Now his dick was at full attention, and he had the unfortunate timing of needing to take a piss.

   He grumbled, quickly disassembled a 10mm he sometimes carried as a sidearm for a chance to cool down, and then left the bar for the urinals by the entrance. He did his business (at once reminded of her musky smell that still perfumed him), shook the tip, and craned his head from instinct as the front doors to The Museum of History opened.

   That fucking smoothskin was here.

   He would most definitely have to kill Winthrop.

   The zipper to his pants was shunted up tight, and he found his legs making great strides across the lobby in chase before she entered Underworld. She was lugging a giant duffel bag and small pack with her, to which he grabbed the latter and spun her around. She seemed surprised...and, annoyed.

   “It wasn’t like that, between us,” she spat at him. He did not understand the hostility and took a step back. Her angry, scrunched-up eyes quickly took him in from head to toe. Her voice was dripping with resentment. “I didn’t want it, but thanks anyway.”

   “I do not understand,” he rasped. Did she not enjoy the sex they had? She sounded like she had...he most definitely had.

   “You should’ve kept your fucking knife.” When he said nothing, she scoffed, “Whatever.”

   He watched her turn back around and go inside. She did not like it? It was a much better choice than her own selection...should he have given her something else, instead? He came back in, just in time to catch a glimpse of her speaking with Winthrop...and then disappearing inside his office.

   The smoothskin wasn’t his business. She wasn’t his employer. He got laid for the first (and now last) time and that was it.

   (He was going to kill Winthrop)

   With a hidden bitterness, he climbed the stairs back to The Ninth Circle, took his seat, and resumed his usual routine while trying not to think about what had just happened. The minutes passed, his guns and armor cleaned, and Ahzrukhal counted inventory while he threw out a drunk (maybe a little too harshly...as he ended up sailing over the balcony).

   The commotion down below drew out the pair from behind the closed door (and more eyes than he normally cared for) and Winthrop looked up and yelled something he didn’t bother to hear. The door slammed shut, he leaned against his usual spot with his arms crossed and expression lethal, and tapped an index finger along his bicep.

   “What the hell are you doing?” Ahzrukhal hissed from behind the bar. “Watch yourself, Charon. I don’t need Barrows up here again.”

   He gave a terse nod and resumed his silent fuming. The doors didn’t open again for over an hour, and when they creaked on their hinges, he threw the most hateful glare he could have ever constructed, directly at her.

   She completely ignored him, went to the bar, and threw the duffel bag on the counter. It sounded heavy. What in the world was she-?

   “All two thousand,” she said decisively, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

The Contract

   Winthrop was taken out of the bin, politely dusted off, and set back on the shelf...maybe not as high as the bouncer still was (he seemed to almost be glued down), but he was there. The warm greeting and immediate agreeance to help her with a small matter was entirely unexpected after her rude absence the last time...and then he gave her a pair of binoculars (customized with night vision!) and a kiss.

   Small, respectful, on the cheek, not so much a kiss as a brief press of his mouth to her warm skin, but it counted...right?

   “Hope to have that drink, sometime,” he had rasped nervously, and then he stammered as he pointed to the present in her hands. “You know, to-to show you all the features and everything, you’re a real beauty-I mean! It’s a real beauty! Not that-shit-I meant-”

   “Thank you,” she had interrupted, her face redder than a wasteland sunset. “I will...after I take care of something, if that’s okay?”

   “Yeah, of course, take your time. I’m here, I’ll be here, whenever you need me.” He had then forced a chuckle, gave her a very stiff wave of his hand, and then slapped it against his pants and blew out a sigh as she left.

   Every step to the top felt heavier than the last, as though her boots were slowly being filled with lead. The unfortunate patron who was now in a coma in Underworld’s medical facility had been tossed overboard by the very same man she had scathed at and was looking to free. She hoped he wouldn’t give her the same treatment...they would let bygones be bygones and never see each other again.

   At least, that’s what she drilled in her brain like a fever-licked mantra as she came to open the doors and step inside.

   There he was. In the corner. The energy he radiated was like a brewing cyclone over dark waters, visible from a distance, and deadly enough to take caution around. Every inch of chiseled muscle and oiled leather and big hands, big feet, big dick-

   She almost licked her lips at the sudden blinding vision of him taking her over the table. Focus! She was here for business! Important business! Straight-forward, no-nonsense, boring fucking business. Caps. Contract. Congratulatory fuck. (NO!)

   She tossed the bag on the counter before her underwear could soak through at the remembrance of how he had looked at her, how he had felt, how-

   WinthropWinthropWinthropWinthropWinthrop-

   “All two thousand,” she said with absolution, all of her pent-up anger (and sexual frustration) at the bouncer leeching into her tone. Wow. She didn’t mean to sound like such a dick, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’ll be taking Charon’s contract now.”

   The silence was stiff. Ahzrukhal didn’t say a word. She actually thought her rudeness had offended him until he walked to the safe on the wall, spun a quick combo, and popped open the hatch to handle a piece of paper very delicately. He closed it, came back to her, and held it up with the smarmiest grin that only a man of his nature could fashion.

   “I was hoping you had received my message,” his voice rattled. “This will only take a moment for me to count...Charon.” The bouncer snapped off the wall. “Clear everybody out and lock the doors.” He then nabbed the strap of the duffel bag and motioned to a (now free) table. “Shall we, my dear? Drink?”

   “No,” she replied, watching as Charon grabbed the back of someone’s chair to upend them from their seat.

   “B-but I ain’t done yet,” an inebriated ghoul burped into his glass, the collar of his shirt seized to hoist him out the door.

   The bar was emptied save for the three of them, and the bouncer took his place back in the corner, his line of sight in perfect view of her. She kept her eyes down and fiddled her fingers under the table; he would not stop fucking glaring at her! Stop it! I’m fucking helping you, you ungrateful asshole!

   Ahzrukhal took nearly all the damn time in the world. The sun could’ve imploded, as far as she knew. Every cap was inspected (yeah, like she had the time or know-how to forge one) slid into a bin, and mentally tallied. She became bored after the first few hundred, feeling nauseous at this point from the god-awful energy Charon’s eyes were lancing through her. All those weeks of living on the frugal edge, now lining someone else’s grimy (not even one-thousand thread count) suit pocket. Gone. Poof. Just like that.

   She should’ve just given him the knife back and calmly explained herself...but she probably ruined that chance now, anyhow. She stretched in place and sighed.

   “Problem, my dear?” Ahzrukhal flit his eyes up and then resumed counting. He had pocketed a few while she hadn’t been looking. “This is a large sum of money-”

   “Take your time, yeah, yeah,” she snarked, her mood growing sourer with every cap clinking. “What was with that message? Was that a bounty?”

   He again broke focus away from his tally. “You haven’t heard? You must then be considerably lucky. Don’t worry, Charon is an extremely talented asset. He can fill you in on the details, I’m certain. I would be more than...happy, to, once our transaction is settled, and a few drinks are had.”

   Ugh. Whatever. No one else had heard of it, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal, or he was more than likely trying to coerce her into buying protection. Not like that was the reason she was doing this.

   When he finally (FINALLY) ticked the last cap into place, he frowned, looked her dead in the eye, and lied, “I am afraid you have miscounted, as this is only-”

   “It’s two thousand. I had Winthrop count it myself, and he’s more than willing to vouch for it.” Years of dealing with the Tunnel Snakes had strengthened some resolve inside of her. “I think you’re the one who’s miscalculated.”

   Ahzrukhal leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyes a fraction. “...it seems I might have. A deal is a deal, smoothskin.” He then stood, reached inside a breast pocket for that piece of faded paper, and handed it over the table. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

   She took it, squinting at the inked lettering having long since faded from oiled fingers and time. So many worn creases, some dark spots from blood...she glanced up to the sight of the bouncer already walking over.

   “Ah, Charon, come to say goodbye?” Ahzrukhal asked with oozing smugness. Man, she would’ve punched him in the face for that-

   But Charon was instead drawing his shotgun, and rasped a single word that sunk a chill so deep in her bones she shivered.

   “Yes.”

   One moment Ahzrukhal was there, the next, atomized into a wet spray of blood and chunks that splattered the table, the chair, the caps, and her fucking face. The blast from his shotgun was felt, smelled, bitter and choking and suddenly her ears were ringing from the proximity. An eyeball rolled on the floor, the body dropped with a thud, and a seeping river of blood began to pool around her boots.

   She couldn’t move- she was frozen from shell shock- what the fuck just happened?!

   Another blast, mutilating Ahzrukhal’s corpse into ground beef and (not even a hundred thread count) shredded suit pieces. Something landed on her lap- a chunk of rotten flesh with a black indentation in the middle- what was once Ahzrukhal’s fucking ear.

   Charon gave a nod of approval, a very tiny twitch of his mouth like he was struggling not to smirk, and then lowered his gun at his side in one hand, the barrel smoking and his veins rigid from the adrenaline pumping through them. That warrior was staring at her, fresh from the battlefield with the glory of his killings staining his boots, and hers. He then spoke, not meanly, not smugly, not anything, really. A flat, rehearsed, drawn-out shtick he must have repeated dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Something this, clause that. She had no idea, she wasn’t paying attention, her eyes were still drawn to the chunk of ear still in her lap.

   “-and now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

   Her head slowly lifted as she blinked at him, and then she jolted from her seat as life finally animated her limbs (the bit of flesh made a nasty plop), the paper held out for him to take, a drip of blood falling from her fingertip.

   “I don’t want this. It’s yours now.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice. Takeit-takeit-takeit take the fucking thing. “I’m giving it to you.”

   Charon stared at her for so long the sun could’ve reformed, and she’d have no idea. There could be an entirely new world just outside those doors, another start to civilization.

   “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “This is for you.”   “I cannot take that.”

   She snapped it in the air at him, holding it out with her hand shaking. “Please take it, I did this for you, I did this because you saved my life, I owe you, now we’re even, fair and square, here, take it, fucking take it-!”

   The ghoul took his other hand, gently curled her fingers around the paper, and pushed it to her chest. “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   Oh no. No. This isn’t what she wanted, oh no-

   Evelyn looked down at the giant gloved palm still encircled around hers- she was trembling, violently- oh fuck, what the fuck should she do? Leave it? He’d have to take it then, right?

   A banging on the door outside whirled their heads to the sound. “Hey! What’s going on in there?! Ahzrukhal! That smoothskin better be alright!” A voice she didn’t recognize.

   “Open the door!” That was Winthrop. Oh my God, how was she going to explain this to everyone?! “Damnit open the door!”

   A sudden motion flurried around her. Charon poured the caps back inside the duffel bag, emptied Ahzrukhal’s pockets, and then in one fluid motion, hoisted the bag over one shoulder and fucking stood there, waiting, waiting on her.

   Evelyn looked down at the corpse, beyond recognition, (only identifiable by the one thread count suit). “Nope. No.” She threw the contract at him, to which he snatched from the air almost inhuman-like. Her mouth spewed word vomit after she turned to leave. “I’m out- do what you want- I’m not doing this.”

   The door was unlocked, and she thrust them open dramatically to a crowd that gasped and buzzed at the sight inside. She expected the microphones shoved in her face, the flashing of bulbs, the furious scrawling of pens on notepads. Can you tell us what happened?! Is it true?! Did Mr. Ahzrukhal get shot in the head? Are you aware you own a slave, now? She stepped through, the bodies parting to avoid touching her blood-sprayed clothes, the murmuring so loud it drowned her ears.

   “Evelyn.” A hand nabbed at her wrist and turned her around. She looked up with wide eyes, she wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t start to cry. Winthrop pulled her towards the stairs, away from the commotion. “What the hell happened?!”

   She could see Carol standing just outside her shop with the others, a hand to her mouth and head slowly shaking, disbelieving this nice smoothskin who had just delivered her son’s letters a mere hour ago was now Underworld’s biggest scandal of the (literal) century. She was always so nice, none of us had any idea. It’s such a tragedy to the community...

   All at once, it became quiet. The slow footfalls of heavy boots, a creak of leather, a gasp as he came too close. Evelyn watched the crowd give way to this ghoul a foot taller than everyone else, his shotgun still held at his side and deadpan expression giving nothing away. He was fully equipped with items she had never seen him wear before; he appeared ready for war. He looked at her, looked down at Winthrop’s hand still holding her close, and instantly whipped his gun up to bring it mere inches from the ghoul’s head.

   “No! Charon no!” she cried as Winthrop flinched backward, and she took a stand between the two. He instantly lowered it. “Oh my God.” She instead reached for Charon’s arm, tugging him along. “Let’s go-”

   They had to get out of there. They had to leave. She didn’t want anyone else hurt over this. He followed, obediently, just a few steps behind her down the stairs and making a beeline for the double doors.

   “Oh, shit, shit, my fucking bags.” She raced towards Winthrop’s office where she had put her stuff, not even hearing Charon’s steps right behind her until she shouldered her crap and spun around. “Oh, Jesus-”

   The (now ex) bouncer was staring at Winthrop’s bed. That was weird.

   “Smoothskin,” Winthrop rasped from inside the doorway. “Just tell me what’s going on-”

   He didn’t get a chance to finish, as a massive hand cut off his air supply and lifted him cleanly off his feet to slam him into the wall. A scream echoed from just outside.

   “Charon, drop him!” she shrieked in a panic. He swiveled his head a fraction to her, rolled his fucking eyes, and obeyed. “Winthrop, I’m so so sorry-” She squeezed past him as he buckled to his knees and wheezed air back down his throat.

   Charon merely planted his boot on his shoulder and punted him aside to make room. Man, what did Winthrop do in a past life to the guy?!

   “Now hold on there smoothskin!” A ghoul wearing a tattered surgeon outfit raised a hand at her by the front entrance, and then just as quickly lowered it as a shotgun planted in his face over her shoulder.

   “Charon!” she whispered with a hiss as she threw her weight into the doorframe, closing off the multitude of eyes watching them leave. She hurried over to the bathrooms, craning her head around for any sight of a chase. No one had followed them through.

   Evelyn ducked inside the stale urine-smelling restroom, her hands on her hips and face tilted to the ceiling. Okay. Okay, think, breathe. In. Out. Whew.

   “What the fuck was that?!” she blurted (after spinning around so fast she became lightheaded). The ghoul didn’t say anything but stared. Always the staring. Few words, all stares. “Charon!”

   “Is there a problem with what I’m doing?” he asked caustically, and at that moment, she never thought the sound of rude sarcasm could ever be so beautiful to her ears. Okay, he was still an asshole...her asshole, now. He stared.

   “Well, I mean-!” She threw her hands around, as though they explained everything she couldn’t finish saying. A laugh bubbled from her chest; she sounded completely mad. She smeared her face in a hand and-ohmyGod, Ahzrukhal’s goo was still on her skin. EW! She braced over the sink and turned the taps full spin, splashing her face and drowning in cold water to furiously scour away the evidence. When the floor was in need of a wet caution sign and her hair was doused and her jacket was soaked, she wiped the excess away and turned to look at him. Still there. Staring.

   “Stop staring at me!” she snapped.

   He nodded once, turned a precise quarter away from her, and stared at the wall.

   “Charon!”

   He immediately turned back to her.

   Evelyn gaped like a fish praying for water, and then she just strode on past him. She held a hand up when he immediately pursued. “No, no! Don’t follow me!”

   He nodded again. “As you wish.” He unshouldered his bags. “I shall wait here until you return for me.”

   (CUE STARE)

   “...was that a joke?” she asked nervously, watching him prop himself against a stall door, arms folded and expression angry. It was as though he was back at the bar and not some decrepit, hazardous bathroom that had literal shit in the far corner.

   He didn’t answer her, and she scathed, “Fine, fine! Have it your way!” She stomped out, feeling his glowing eyes shadow her until she was gone from view.

   “What the hell happened to you?” Willow asked dryly, dragging on a smoke and completely ignorant to the calamity she was being sentry to.

   Evelyn half-garbled a non-lucid response, dragging her feet and trailing water droplets as she went around the bend. There was no way he’d actually wait for her there...right? He’d have to grow bored and leave...right?

   “Oh my fucking God,” she muttered as she turned straight back around.

   He was still there. Waiting. She didn’t think he moved a single muscle.

   “Shall I join you once again?” he asked stoically.

   Real charmer. Absolute winner. A fucking brainwashed slave that was death personified and had the honor of taking her virginity...even her first kiss.

   God, when I said I really wanted to see him again...this isn’t what I fucking meant.

   Their eyes met, and she nodded (reluctantly).   “Yeah...let’s go.”

Ghouls and Guests Smell after One Day

   The change in hands was a pleasant surprise. The aftermath, however, was not.

   She must have known this would have been the inevitable outcome upon purchasing his contract, but she still refused it. It was nonsense, it was pointless to argue, and it was aggravating. It was some small miracle his conditioning kept him from pitting the base of his thumbs in her neck and just squeezing...at least until she just stopped being so loud. He assimilated very quickly to filter out anything that wasn’t a general order, otherwise, he would’ve gone feral. (He was most certain of that). Her mouth was running a hundred miles an hour, and they were lucky the road to her doorstep had been relatively safe without her screeching attracting anything that was looking for an easy meal.

   A metallic snapping sound granted his ears respite from her mouth. He finally gave her his full attention, for judging by her sudden silence and grim demeanor, something was wrong.

   “Uh, oh...” she mumbled, holding up the broken end of a key. In her fit, she had paid little mind to her strength when coercing her door to unlock, and broke the key in the knob as a result. She looked behind at him, sheepish. “Um...you don’t know how to fix that...do you?”

   He placed his hand over the knob, gave it a sharp twist, and braced his weight in the frame to force it open. He stepped inside, leaving her to gawp at his improvised handyman skills, and was immediately assaulted with an iron pot to the face.

   Thud!   “How dare you, you oversized, pea-brained oaf!” A Mister Handy came whirring down the stairs. “I will defend my Madam’s (ghastly) estate with every ounce of my-!”

   “Wadsworth!” His employer teleported between his loaded shotgun slugs and the robot’s ultimate demise. “Down! Charon is not a threat!”

   He instantly lowered his barrel to the floor from ingrained trigger discipline, although it didn’t wipe the nasty snarl from his face. That pot would’ve crushed his nose if he still had one.

   “But Madam, he broke the door!” it wailed.

   “I know!” She then turned around, motioning with a hand at the entrance. “You broke my fucking door!”

   His brow muscle nearly twitched right off his face. He should’ve shot Winthrop before she had stopped him...it would have been another nice memory to replay while having to listen to this.

   A grumble rolled off his tongue as he moved past her to set his bags on the crudely fashioned table. There was a loud groan, a crack, and the table folded in half as the obscene layers of duct tape that held it together ripped perfectly down the middle. Her jaw hung so low he was sure it would touch the floor. He took a seat on the tiny chair (the severe dip of the base slightly worried him) and he looked to her, awaiting his orders. After her earlier outbursts, he was completely unsure as to what she would require of him.

   For once, she kept her lips sealed tight, sat at the foot of the stairs, and waved the robot to its station. “Go ahead and power down, Wadsworth.”

   The Mister Handy gave him a squinted optic (he assumed it was glaring at him) and deactivated at its stand. They both then sat there, the door still wide open, the ray of light from her house casting a thin illumination to the dark beyond. She had her hands in her lap and eyes far-off into the distance. He sat straight (for the chair had no back) and stared at her. After minutes of silence, she looked at something on the screen of her Pip-Boy, and turned her head to meet his gaze.

   “Moriarty’s has rooms to rent. You can stay there for the night since it’s so late and, um...” Her eyes darted to the single mattress that they had just shared yesterday. She turned bright red and hugged herself tightly before looking back outside. “We can talk more about your contract tomorrow. I’m pretty tired...I can imagine you are too.”

   He shook his head. “I do not require sleep.”

   She gave him a weird look. “Pardon?”   “I do not require sleep.”   “I can’t tell if that’s a joke.”

   “It is not.”

   “Um...okay...” She appeared exhausted, wiping at her face with her hands.

   The air between them was stiff and uncomfortable, and then both their eyes landed on the bed. He felt a twitch in his pants. She was giving him that look- the one before they kissed. Then she turned away right as his dick got hard.

   “Obviously I’ll let you decide what you want to do. You know where the bar is, there’s the caps. If you’d rather stay here,” she lamely gestured to the minimalist ruined furnishings, “there’s food in the fridge and the bathrooms are up the hill.” She deeply sighed and looked at the door. “I guess I should try and fix that. Somehow.”

   An expectant look was thrown at him. He didn’t say anything, and she took the hint. She mumbled under her breath as she tried closing the frame- he had also busted a hinge off- and ended up laying strips of duct tape down the side of the trim. She gave him a shrug of her shoulders after he simply shook his head, but he ultimately kept quiet.

   “Yeah, like you got anything better,” she snarked, grabbing the side of her mattress to begin dragging it up the stairs.

   For the next thirty minutes, he remained in his place and watched his employer’s pathetic attempts at lugging the thing up by herself. It appeared awkward to handle and heavy enough for one person to struggle with...he ate a can of cram as he offered no help whatsoever. It certainly wasn’t his duty to. She cursed and wiped sweat from her forehead, and twice had the unfortunate luck of it wobbling off the staircase back to the ground floor. (Twice he had to lift a boot to veer it away from falling on him). A small pile of emptied goods was at his side when she finally made it to the second floor and shimmied it into another room.

   All was then quiet for a few hours. He figured she must have finally fallen asleep.

   A light breeze picked up and peeled the tape away from the doorframe. He didn’t bother reattaching each tedious strip, not even as he left to take a leak. He concluded his business on the wall by the doorstep (to keep any would-be trespassers within scope), rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck side to side as he eventually looked up to the sky. He never had the opportunity to see so many stars when he wasn’t traveling, and the lull of (false) security and zero expectation of being somewhere at a certain time was...relaxing (almost disarming), in a way.

   Charon came back in and performed a wellness check- her door was already slightly cracked, so he widened it to get a clear visual. She was fast asleep, curled in a tight ball and lightly snoring, with a rather large pool of drool darkening her sheets. He closed it, making sure the frame was actually secured this time, and resumed cleaning out her kitchen of anything and everything.

   He snooped through the locker (the door squealed horribly), picking up a 10mm pistol that had dirt crusted in the crevices, and a round jamming the chamber. The slide was pulled, the gun turned over and shaken, and the bullet clinked at his feet. He checked the magazine- it was the only bullet to have been expended. There was a pile of books, something wrapped in cloth, and a sad-looking teddy bear. He didn’t find the knife he had given her; he assumed she had sold it.

   The chair had a permanent dip to it after the hours he had spent sitting in it. He watched the slow rise of the sun chasing away the darkness- it was difficult to tell the passage of time in Underworld, so this was something he would become accustomed to.

   Evelyn awoke early and came down wearing a simple choice of wastelander’s clothes. She stopped before hitting the bottom step, looking out the wide-open front door he had never bothered to shut.

   “I thought about this contract thing a lot last night,” she said indirectly. She was still staring out the entrance, the warm light basking just below her feet. “I’m not gonna lie and say I understand it, or the situation it forces you in...” Her face turned to look at him, just as the sun flooded high enough to swell over her like a golden tide. “If you want to leave with someone else, tell me. If you want to stay here, that’s fine. Just...don’t wait on me to tell you what to do or anything, it’s weird. I just want you to be yourself.”

   He could only nod- she was honest, in that she didn’t understand anything. So long as she held ownership of his contract, he was sure she would come to figure out its boundaries and limitations. They all did...eventually.

   She stretched, satisfied with his nonverbal answer, and went to the fridge. It was empty. “O-kay, guess I need to go out.”

   The house was a disaster. Her door was hanging off one hinge, her table was its own pile of rubble, and a fucking murderous, grumpy ass ghoul was taking permanent residence on the only piece of furniture that had not yet been destroyed by him. YET.

   No matter how she tried to word herself to make it sound like she wasn’t directly ordering him to, he wouldn’t stop following her. Her shadow had grown three times its size- everyone stared. She even slammed the door in his face trying to gain some privacy for the bathroom (and some breathing room), but he merely leaned against the frame outside and growled at anyone that passed too close.

   “Stop it! You’re scaring people!” she finally snapped at him after he made sweet little Maggie burst into tears.

   He gave her a blank look, his tone bone-dry. “I am being myself, as you have asked.”

   Her eyes almost rolled out of her head, and she dipped inside Craterside Supply just to get him off the streets. Moira’s hired mercenary in the corner gave Charon a solid once-over; the ghoul repeated the gesture with a very clear message of I will wipe the floor with you.

   Evelyn rang the service bell more than was necessary and set the duffel bag full of caps on the counter. If Charon was going to eat her out of house and home, then she was going to take full advantage of him while he did so. She tugged at the scarf around her neck- it was hot!

   Charon immediately grabbed her chin with one hand and turned her head to the side.

   She panicked and tried not to flinch away from his unexpected touch. “What the fuck?! What is it?!”

   “You are injured,” he rasped plainly, zeroing in on the purple and yellowed bruising of her skin.

   She pulled away, not meeting his hawk-like eyes as they scrutinized her. Moira’s living theft- preventative was watching them closely. She batted at his hand as he reattempted to inspect it.

   “Stop it!” she hissed lowly. “That was from you!”

   “I do not recall,” he confessed, his deep voice vibrating around the room.

   She glared up at him. “Are you serious?” she asked stupidly. Her face was so red she was afraid it would burst. “From, you know.” She flailed her hands around. “The other day? When we-uh-”

   He remained silent and blinked. He did not seem to draw a correlation between the two.

   She cupped a hand around her mouth as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “When you came over,” she said as quietly as possible.

   “During sex?” Charon bluntly asked aloud, just as Moira bounced behind the counter.

   Evelyn gave a horrified gasp and whipped her eyes forward, trying to ignore the sweltering heat creeping up her neckline. She awkwardly coughed and rushed through whatever Moira was about to say. “What the fuck can two thousand caps get me for my house?!” she blurted, unzipping the duffel bag to spill a load of caps onto the counter.

   It worked, as the eccentric shop owner’s face went from mildly curious to absolutely thrilled. “Wow! I guess all those jobs you’ve been doing have really been paying off, huh?” Moira grinned, turning her attention to Charon. “I see you’re back in town!”

   He said nothing but glared at her.

   “You-you said you had a bedframe, yeah? And that tub?” Evelyn successfully returned the focus back to herself before she could ask for any more details about her (permanent) visitor. “I also need a new table...and chair.”

   “Well, I have a whole layout if you’re interested. Oh! There’s also this working Nuka-Cola machine I just finished putting together! I was going to use it for some experimentation on the properties of-”

   “Yeah, great!” Evelyn never thought of herself as to interrupt someone until Moira had stepped into her life. They would be there for hours. “I’ll take it. We’ll take all of it.”

   “We?” Moira chimed. “Hey now, is this a setup for two?”   Evelyn withheld a groan and motioned to the door. “So...what are we buying?”

   The entire overhaul took the rest of the mid-morning and late afternoon. Her back became so sore she thought she would be hunched over and crippled for the rest of her life as she carried box after box after fucking box to set up a cozier homestead. She knew it had been long overdue...but she guessed she never had much of a reason to have wanted to make it home, before.

   Not like Charon was the reason for it, anyway. Just an excuse.

   A big, grumpy, prick of an excuse that didn’t lift a single finger to help. He even let herself and Moira carry the tub over- that almost threw out her shoulders from their joints, but after settling it in place and having Walter come down to fit some piping, it had been so fucking worth it. It was awkward in the living room and took a whole corner, but yes indeed, it was worthy. A workbench was placed into the spare bedroom, along with some gun racks mounted on the wall. They were the only items he had pointed to when she had asked him of wanting anything.

   “You know,” she tersely remarked after dumping an empty steam trunk at the foot of her ‘new’ bed. “It wouldn’t kill you to help.”

   He was leaned up against the door (that Moira had fixed for her). “Is that an order?” he asked. She swore there was sarcasm in there.

   You bastard. She put her hands on her hips, blowing a hair from her face. “Well, no, but-”

   “Very well,” he replied just as plainly...and then he remained in spot, watching her mill about with those heavy brows and toasty glaring.

   The very last item- the soda machine- was in pristine condition and set to go up the stairs inside a nice little nook by a small table and chair. The bitch was heavy enough with the assistance of a dolly and some straps...and as she looked at the feat before her, she felt frustrated enough to cry.

   “There’s no way I’m getting this up there,” she mumbled. Two people couldn’t fit side by side on the steps...and she wasn’t strong enough by herself. She noted bitterly, “Bet if Winthrop were here, he’d help-”

   The ghoul left his spot, nabbed the handle from her, and effortlessly climbed the stairs with it in tow. The entire house shook after it was set in place, and he leaned over the railing to peer down at her.

   “Is there anything else you require?” he asked sharply.

   She crossed her arms and scoffed. “No, but thank you.”

   She was finally allowed a moment to rest, and plopped on the dusty couch in the center of her living room. She would have never recognized this place if she hadn’t put her own blood, sweat, and tears into the extensive transformation. (Wadsworth only made the comment of oh, joy, even more for me to clean...) It would seem these past few days were all about major changes. Her eyes came to settle on her newfound ‘partnership’.

   She didn’t know if all of those changes were good.

   Simms eventually came by to inquire about her reappearing guest, and she did her best to ensure him that the ghoul would be on his most solid behavior...until a certain ex-raider nearly got himself killed, thereby not even upholding the statement for a single day, that is.

   She had been organizing her stuff upstairs when a knock came pounding on the door. She came down and discovered him missing. It was a swell of relief (she ignored the disappointment) until she noticed his stuff was still in place. She had told him to do whatever...so, whatever. She assumed whoever it was, wasn’t Charon (as she wouldn’t have a door anymore). She swung it open and assumed correctly. Her eyes narrowed at the man.

   “May I help you?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you realize what time it is?”

   Jericho twiddled a cigarette around his lips, leering over her shoulder for a glance inside. “Nice digs. Where’s your fucking shuffler? Heard we got a new maggot farm in town.”

   “That is incredibly rude!” Evelyn shunted the door closed to prevent him from scoping out the place any longer. She crossed her arms and glowered. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Now.”

   He puckered on his smoke, the ember cherry brightening his sneer. “You fucking that zombie, girl? That’s some sick shit.”

   Slap!

   Her palm stung after swinging back to her side, his burning smoke rolling to the ground. The blood under her skin was boiling, and before she could bite at him to fuck right off, he lifted a fist to retaliate. His arm was swiftly nabbed from behind, and then snapped. Charon's outline stepped out of the shadows, his entire visage reading murder. Evelyn startled back as Jericho was hovered off his feet, his windpipe being crushed by a single hand to prevent the cry of anguished screaming as his limb hung at an abnormal angle. She could hear the cartilage of his throat cracking. The ghoul’s fingers reached all the way around.

   Jericho was then dropped to his knees, wheezing faint cries and trying to crawl away from the pair of white-hot flames that burned through the darkness at him. The ghoul unholstered a side pistol and swiftly planted it at the backside of Jericho's head.

   “Holy shit Charon, don't kill him!” she panicked. He obeyed, putting his gun away. “Shit, we have to get him to Doc Church-!”

   Charon nabbed the man by the collar of his jacket, lifted him a second time, and tossed him over the railing towards the medical clinic. They both watched as he rolled down the hill to eventually come to a stop in a pile of brahmin shit. Close enough.

   She gaped at him, and he curtly shrugged.

   “Oh my-come here!” Evelyn brusquely dragged the ghoul by the hand and locked them back inside. “This isn’t The Ninth Circle, Charon! I’m not fucking Ahzrukhal! I don’t need you to potentially kill people! I can handle myself!”

   He snorted, “I do not think so.”   A heartfelt gasp. The ghoul hadn’t said so much as a handful of words to her all day, and he decides to end it with that?!

   “You know what, fuck you!” she growled. “Take that stupid fucking contract, and shove it up your ass with God knows what else up there!”

 He didn’t see much of her for the whole next day. That suited him well enough- it was, for once, quiet. The floating robot went about picking up after himself, muttering things in its synthesized voice that he ultimately paid little mind to. It brought her water and food while she completely shunted her existence from the world. He was only ever in her company while she left to use the head, and even then, he could feel her resentment towards him. He was performing his duty to her in keeping her safe- the walking scum he had tried to kill ducked into a building whenever they almost crossed paths. No one would threaten her with him at her side; she was lucky to have survived this long on her own.

   Sometimes, he heard voices drifting from under the crack of her door. They would repeat, fast-forward, play back. He heard her cry.

   He left her alone. It’s what she seemed to have wanted.

   By night, when he was certain she was lost in her dreams, he peeked inside just to ensure she was still there. She was. Asleep, her back to the door and curled in a tight little ball, the shitty pistol she kept laid out on her desk. He checked the magazine. It was empty. He used the workbench, crafted some ammo. It had been a long time since he had the privilege to do as he pleased...it did not go without appreciation. She was much more favorable compared with Ahzrukhal. He checked on her again. Still asleep. He ate some food- she said he was welcome to. A book was taken from the shelf, the pages fluttered open, he skimmed the words without actually reading them.

   A third visit- she had turned over. He took her bag, retreated to the couch, went through her things. A book, full of inked scribbles, some pictures he couldn’t quite identify...he squinted at something that very much resembled himself with the scrawled word, dickbag, beside it. A pair of black socks. The end of what was once her sledgehammer...he assumed it had not lasted very long due to improper maintenance. A...rock? Smooth, flat...and still a fucking rock. A pair of binoculars was the most interesting, and he inspected them carefully. They had night-vision scope capabilities, and he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into modifying them. It was probably the only useful thing she had.

   The curved handle of his knife was met at the very bottom. He slowly pulled it out, somewhat in disbelief that she still had it. She didn’t outwardly use it. She had said she preferred that he had kept it...it was set aside from the remainder of her things.

   He looked up, seeing a handful of white pinpricks through her roof until they eventually became streaks of red and gold. She came down in a different outfit, a simple green jumpsuit, her hair wild around her face. The bruising he had (supposedly) left her was nearly the same hue. She seemed to be in a much lighter mood.

   “Wadsworth usually does laundry on Tuesdays. He said you look like you smell- abysmal.” She scratched at her scalp. “You can take a bath, too, while he does it. Do you have any other clothes?”

   He shook his head. He practically wore his uniform as a second skin, only occasionally going for a dip in the Potomac to wipe away the gore. The ghouls in Underworld were all used to the smell of themselves, anyway. She was still blathering as he stood to begin stripping, unbuckling his armor and setting it down on the table she had replaced.

   “I can see if Moira has anything for-oh my God-!” She spun around after he undid his belt and started unlacing his boots. “Um, hello?! I didn’t mean right now! You couldn’t wait until I left?!”

   His fingers paused in lowering his pants. He blinked at her abrupt bashfulness. “You did not mind the last time.”

   “Well, yeah,” she blubbered, still refusing to look at him. “That was totally different!”

   He did not see how.

   Her eyes flit over, and she squeaked, “Okay, um, just, just- take your time, I’ll be in my room. Let me know when you’re done, and we can see if Moira has some gear that’ll fit you.”

   He watched her hurry up the steps, heard the closing of her door, and was left completely nude in her living room. He took a great deal of time soaking in the tub (even if he didn’t completely fit). A box of salts she had been most excited over was peeled open and curiously sniffed. There was still a faint trace of its former potency, so he shrugged to himself and dumped the entire thing in.

   The robot took his clothes with a disdainful absolutely atrocious, and when the warm water had finally lost its appeal by becoming cold, he marched up to her door and pounded on the frame, water droplets pattering the floor at his feet.

   “Finally,” she muttered from behind, thrusting it open to then slam it back shut. “Where are your clothes?!”

   “Being washed,” he grumbled. He had told her he only had one pair.

   After a few moments, her door gave the barest of cracks, and her hand came out holding a ratty dark blanket for him to take. “Here,” she insisted.

   He complied, wrapping it around his waist and holding the ends together with one hand. She hesitantly widened the space, seemingly relieved at his modesty.

   “Look, I’ll just bring whatever largest sizes she has,” she said, weaving side to side for a way around him. “Um, excuse me?”

   “I will come.” He did not like the idea of her being alone, and the incident from the previous night only reinforced his concerns.

   She waved a hand at his body, her skin nearly as red as his own. “Not half-naked, you’re not!”

   “Then I shall grab my clothes.”

   “But you just said they’re being washed,” she exasperated. “It won’t kill you if I-”

   “I will join you,” he rasped, turning away to retrieve his sopping uniform. His arm was grabbed at the bicep, and he raised a brow at her assertiveness.

   “No,” she said firmly, finally putting her foot down. “I’m going by myself,” she reiterated. “You are more than welcome to stay here.”

   Charon scowled. “Is that an order?”

   Her patience snapped. “I swear to God, if you say that one more time, I’m going to make you take that contract and shove it down a mirelurk’s throat!”

   He stared at her, silently, and then, “Is that an or-”   “Shut up!” she snarled, turning around with her hands thrown in the air. She very much liked to enunciate her point with them. “I honestly prefer not to have you at my side twenty-four seven, or, even better, how about never!”

   The muscle of his brow twitched aggressively. “You are my employer; it is my duty.”

   “Yeah, well, as your ‘employer’, I hate it,” she scathed. “I was only looking to free you from that slimeball and maybe have some sex.”

   She gasped, slapped a palm to her mouth, and the room felt very small. Her face grew so bright with blood he was worried it would pop. That would not spell good for her health.

   Charon glanced at the bed that was pushed against the wall, feeling his mounting erection tenting the blanket. She once again gave him that look- a parted mouth and eyes nowhere near sane. He dropped his decency.

   “Fuck it,” she breathed, her hand coming up to pull the zipper of her jumpsuit down swiftly.

   The metal frame of the bed shook and squeaked with every movement of her. She shimmied her clothes off while he pulled her boots to the floor, his over-eagerness already fisting his cock and widening her thighs with one leg wrapped around him. His other fingers held her at the waist, the tip of his dick meeting that warm, wet invitation that made him breathe tersely through his nose.

   “Fuck, wait-” Her lips ghosted inside his temple, the breathy exhale of her voice absolutely mesmerizing and filling his lungs like hot lead. “Let me do it.”

   The muscles in his core trembled, the fine line between an order and instinct conflicting pain and pleasure like mortar shells on his psyche. She fiercely held on to his forearms as she slowly worked down, his cock rewarded with a mind-numbing squeeze from her efforts, but it was then just as quickly taken away. She did it again, and then again, each effort drawing more of himself inside. He was aware his hands were shaking; his breathing labored. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

   “Okay.”

   He barely heard it, but heard it he did. Like a violent whiplash, his head came forward to thrust his tongue in her mouth and slam her down till her ass smacked his balls, the sensation rolling his eyes in his skull. The sound that bled from her mouth into his was choked- pain. He instantly lifted off.

   “Ow,” she slurred. There was no more hazy glaze-over to her eyes, no more half-lucid tongue kisses. She was wincing and gingerly moving away. “Sorry...”

   He took the hit- it was immediate. A lash at the front of his brain, a pulsating grenade decimating all coherent thought. He suppressed a groan and rubbed at his eyes- he’s had worse...a lot worse. She was speaking, she was apologizing, it confused his already addled mind. He strained to listen, for it could be important.

   “I guess it just takes some getting used to...sorry if I ruined it,” she said a little sadly.

   He rapidly blinked to look at her clearly. He had hurt her. He knew that much. She did not seem to notice that she had done the same.

   “Do you require anything?” he asked, widening her a bit to inspect for injury. She threw her eyes away, retreating from him with the curl of her body into herself.

   “No...I’ll be fine.” Her fingers fiddled with some stained water droplets on the sheets. “...was it at least, nice, for you?”

   He remembered she had asked this the last time. He didn’t really quite know what to think of that.

   “Yes,” he answered bluntly.

   When it appeared she had nothing more to say, he stepped over the pile of her clothes to retrieve his own from downstairs. The robot threw a complaint at his back while he fastened zippers and shrugged his (now flaccid) manhood inside cold leathers. He then came back up, hesitating as he walked in to the sight of her crying.

   She had her knees to her chest and back to the wall, her eyes puffy and face splotchy. “Please close the door. I want to be alone.”

   It was as clear as an order as he’d ever heard her give. He went back downstairs, sat on the couch in his damp attire, and briefly wondered what exactly she had grown upset over.

   Oh, shoot, I totally forgot!   But how?! This is what we do every first Friday of the month! She’s stunned, truly. They’d never miss holovid night, not once.

   I kind of got this thing going on with Wally Mack tonight, but-

   What? Wally Mack? The Wally Mack? That asshole who threw that baseball at the back of my head last week Wally Mack? Are you serious?

   He honestly feels really bad about it-

   Bullshit. You know he doesn’t. He’s just saying that to get in your pants. She can’t believe it. Her best friend. Her once great protector. The girl who ditched all the other mean kids in class to come sit by her at lunch and read comics with. She was being ruined. Ruined by them.

   Look just because you aren’t getting with anyone doesn’t mean you have to be mad at me for it!

   She’s silent.

   Oh, oh my God, Evelyn, you know I didn’t mean that...

   He was just sitting there, waiting, like he always does. That fucking ghoul she doesn’t know what to do with. Does she get rid of him? Tried her best, wanted to be a good person, got in way over her head? She wanted nothing more than to ask her dad, who was still out there, alive or dead.

   Charon stood as soon as she came down the stairs. He didn’t wear a single emotion on his face (unless it happened to be irritation). Nothing from the past half hour could ever transpire from him. He’s a fresh chalkboard she can scribble on, just for him to take the brush and wipe it all away. Clean, stainless. She often ponders what Ahzrukhal made him do.

   She moved past, he expectantly followed. She has an invisible tether laced around his neck; at any point she can just twirl it around a finger, pull it tight. He’d have to obey, the only sign of defiance being his eyes. He could kill a man with a single stare...she was sure of that.

   She wanted to try again, get it done right, this time. She wanted to strangle him with his own stupid fucking cord. She wanted to know what was wrong with her...Amata never made it sound this way. She wanted to talk to someone, have her insecurities heard and understood, but she was sure she would be ridiculed, for no one else ever voiced them.

   A pause. The blade he had given her was on the table...so was her bag. He went through her things?!

   “I see you found your shit,” she said snippily, thrusting the fridge open to nab at a very lonely carton of Salisbury Steak. There were no two ways to go about it...the caps were running low (that giant fucker ate a lot, forget house and home, he would eat her out of town!) and she was going to be forced to take on a job.

   She tossed it on the counter, lit the stove, clacked down an unseasoned pan. He just stood off to the side, silent. The slimy what-was-once-meat was slid onto the hot surface, the loud sizzling pops splattering some grease on her hand. She could feel his eyes weighing her down.

   “You did not like it,” he rasped matter-of-factly.

   “I’m not a prostitute,” she replied, refusing to chip away her cold shoulder.

   “I did not think you were.”

   The bent fork she held to turn over her steak was dropped, clattering to the floor and playing hide-and-seek under the stove. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You were just being nice?”

   There was a slight shift of his weight on his feet. He didn’t have a response for that. It was the first time she’d seen him so uncomfortable.

   “Oh,” she mumbled, busying herself with looking for another utensil. A spoon was drudged up, and she fumbled with unsticking her burnt meal from the skillet. “...it’s a cool knife...but you’d probably use it better than me, anyways.”

   When she shyly roamed her eyes over, he nodded. He had been replaced with a blank canvas again.

   “Very well.”

   The steak was charred. A small nibble determined it inedible, even to her standards. With a cough from the thick smoke that was beginning to cloud the small space, she dumped the entire thing in the sink and ran some water over it. She suddenly wasn’t very hungry, anymore, the entire swarm of rekindled butterflies choking her appetite.

   "Do..." She curled her bottom lip beneath her tongue. He stared, and she could already feel his teeth sinking in. "Do you maybe want to try, again?"

A Super-Duper Good Time

   If she had to credit one thing to the ghoul, was that he was certainly all business.

   Her jumpsuit had been removed again, his array adding to the pile with every tug of straps and buckle being unlatched. He didn’t seem to mind her being a captive audience, her quick turnaround from being respectful to downright shameless going unspoken.

   She studied his body, a sculpture of brimstone crafted by wrathful hands and a critical eye. A grotesque exhibit of bone and sinew, hidden underneath a heavy canvas that she got to pull away, admire, and touch.

   He finally stepped out of his pants (his fucking gloves were still on), and the bed gave a concerning groan as he knelt before her. Unlike the previous times, he seemed very unsure of himself, so hesitant to touch her. His looming body and outstretched limbs overshadowed more than half the bed; a giant old oak, charred at the edges with a white-hot pyre flaming within, the branches strong and thick amidst the ash at its base.

   She scooted back, suddenly shy. “We don’t have to do this, if, if you don’t...”

   The ghoul’s hazy eyes licked up from her bare legs to her face, his right hand slowly reaching down to brush over her thigh and curve inwards. On an unspoken cue, she widened herself the further his rough fingertips traced down, the pad of his thumb giving a light stroke through the dark, soft hairs that hid her away.

   A stretch of her hands, imploring to touch his face. He bent over, completely covering her away from the world, the sharp edge of his jaw and high cliffside of his cheekbones being met with fluttering strokes and gentle traces. The curve of her palm smoothly enveloped the exposed tendons of his cheek. She closed her eyes as the puff of air from his nostrils lightly blew on her face, the hard lines of his mouth meeting her soft lips for a kiss.

   BANG

   They broke apart instantly as her door flung open.

   “I do say, Madame, leaving food in the sink is rather crass.” The robotic butler was completely ignorant of the situation as it went about dusting the room on its automated schedule. “But of course, that isn’t your problem...”

   Charon left the bed to swipe at the side holster he carried, making her sit upright to nab at his elbow.

   “You can’t shoot him!” she gasped.   “I beg your pardon?” Wadsworth cried indignantly, which they both ignored.

   Charon switched the safety off, his tone absolute. “I will dispose of it.”   “No!”   The ghoul nearly snapped his head a full 180, making her recoil. “It is unnecessary.”

   She blew a rude sound. “He cleans my house!”

   “It is annoying.”

   “What the hell isn’t to you?!” When he didn’t have an answer, she huffed and began to dress in the (clean) vault suit the said ‘unnecessary’ robot brought for her, the mood now completely soured. “Forget it. I’m going to Moira’s.”

   A disgruntled grumbling was given in reply as he also began to lay claim to his clothes, neither giving a look to the other as they dressed in curt silence. He dutifully followed her out the door, and she pretended to fiddle with the screens on her Pip-Boy as they waited for the shopkeeper to come down.

   “So?” Moira clapped some dust from her hands and smeared a line of grease down her front side. “How’s it been going? You two been getting on okay?”

   “I think I’m ready for more research, actually,” she said dryly. Moira was the last of all people she wished to voice her weird relationship with this ghoul to.

   Charon, expectantly, didn’t contribute any social commentary.

   “Oh, goodie! I was wondering when my wonderful assistant would be wanting to continue!”

   She dove under the counter to slap a large self-made book onto it, the notes and pictures nearly impossible to translate without context. Moira skimmed some pages, humming in good cheer as she went along.

   “A-ha! Here we are! We’ll go ahead and be studying the effects of serious injury, so I’ll just need you to go out there, break a few limbs, and come right back!” She lifted her head with a wide, go-lucky smile beaming at them. “Easy, right?”

   Ghoul and girl both stared before sharing a glance. The glower on Charon’s face was easy to read- no fucking way.

   “Uh.” Evelyn licked her lips. If she were completely honest, she didn’t find any appeal in it either. “Anything else?”

   “Hmm...” Moira flipped back a chapter. “Hey, now! I almost forgot, we never finished the first segment! We still need to see if combing the Super-Duper Mart is worthwhile for food and possibly medical supplies.”

   Evelyn thought for a moment. It had been literal weeks since her last trial run, and raiders didn’t tend to last too long in one place...she again looked to her companion. This time, she wouldn’t be going at it alone, and he was very good at what he did.

   “Okay,” she agreed after turning back. “Super-Duper Mart it is.”

   Charon truly could not comprehend how she had survived this long.

   He had decided to follow her lead in the beginning, waiting and observing the situation before diving in headfirst. It sounded good on paper, but was shit when implemented by her standards.

   “I don’t see anything. Looks clear.” She shrugged, handing over the binoculars for him to verify.

   He grumbled under his breath as he roved the scope around. Fresh cuts of presumably human flesh were littered outside for the birds to pick clean. She would have been caught dead on her oversight.

   “Too bad there was no way for Winthrop to put a thermal setting on these,” she commented offhandedly. “Although, he did say he could add some features...”

   Charon thrust the gear from his face to inspect it more carefully. Was this what he had been rumored working on? He looked at her- she was still chittering nonsense and not paying him any mind. With a slight bend of the frame, he snapped it in half.

   “These are defective,” he rasped evenly.

   “What?!” She went to reach for them. “Where? Are you sure?”

   He pointed out the minuscule crack down the line, and she pouted, “Aw...maybe I can see if he can fix it-?”

   He tossed the piece of junk over his shoulder. “I will find something of better use.”

   He jutted his chin to redirect her eyes forward, and she relented, “...okay.”

   He waited for her to pull out a weapon so as to gauge the best sort of tactic for their approach, but when she continued to sit there and do nothing, he elbowed her bag. “Where is your gun?”

   She immediately became defensive. “I told you; I don’t use one.”

   Anything other than a ranged weapon would spell fatality with her. He would have to adapt...but when there was no other sign of anything else being brought forth, he gave her a look.

   “I was going to use these,” she said a little uncertainly, pulling out two landmines from a side pocket. “Like, put them at the entrance...lure them out...”

   He handled one, thinking it over. It would do. He could improvise. It was his job. “Very well,” he agreed, taking them both before making his way down the hill.

   He set one at each entrance, rigged their charge, and then beat a fist against the frame, nearly shaking it off its hinges. With careful steps around the side of the building for cover, he cradled his shotgun at his chest and glanced over to his employer, hiding in her spot like a mouse. She shyly waved.

   A raucous commotion could be heard building up from inside, and the first door opened to the sound of high-pitched beeping and a shout of surprise. Charon waited a breath after the ear-ringing explosion, then snapped his gun level as he came around the bend, automatically taking the first shot of opportunity as a raider barreled out and slipped on some splattered guts. The side of their head misted onto the third fiend giving close chase behind, blinding them temporarily and emitting a howl loud enough for the entire wasteland to hear. A slug blew their face apart, bits of bone and peels of skin sticking to the frame to then slough off at his feet.

   The remaining few quickly got smart, but not smart enough as they rerouted through the second entrance- a severed arm still gripping a rusty blade smacked him in the thigh as he flashed his muzzle inside, performing a quick scan for any more hostiles. It was quiet, but he kept strict situational awareness while motioning her to come down.

   She was tinged green in the cheeks, staring at the carnage that had transpired in less than ten minutes. A pistol was scooped up, the sticky flesh shook off, and the magazine briefly inspected. He then held it out for her to take.

   She looked at it with a deep grimace, her sickly color going sheet-white. “Umm...”

   “It is loaded,” he simply rasped, thinking back to her other pistol that had been jammed.

   He waited for her to take it, but she still just looked at it as though it would bite her. With a quick draw upwards, he held the gun perfectly straight and aimed down range at an imaginary target.

   “Aim. Pull.” His finger ghosted the trigger. He held it out a second time.

   With great reluctance, she took the thing with shaking hands; it almost seemed to weigh her down when she touched it. Somewhat satisfied, he gave a nod and then readied himself.

   “Stay close.”

   They slowly entered, mindful of their steps and surveying the mart- it was ghostly and dark, the empty shelving and scattered tins not promising anything worthwhile. Constructed catwalks over the aisles would have given a raider a clear visual of the duo, but they were lucky the threat had already been dealt with as they navigated the empty halls.

   At least, so his employer thought.

   She quickly took off in an unknown direction before he could properly clear the area, bounding over a counter and already rifling inside a few bins with her sack open and eagerly awaiting its next meal. Before Charon could bark at her foolishness, he saw the movement in the shadows and disregarded the chastisement as she whipped her head around to the encroaching presence.

   The raider had a lead pipe high above his head, ready to be brought down to fracture her skull in two. She held the pistol with wide eyes and an open mouth in a silent scream, the only crack of a gunshot coming from his own weapon. The drug-fueled fiend blew apart in the side, a splash of guts whipping her suit and blood spraying her face.

   Charon stalked straight up to her; his temper far more terrifying than the close encounter with death itself. He towered over her as she shrunk back from his lashing ire.

   “Stay. Here.” He then left, securing the perimeter and ensuring no other guests would appear unannounced. When he was certain they were safe, he rounded back to find her still frozen in spot. The gun was lowered at her side, her entire arm trembling. Her face was ruddy. She had been crying.

   “Are you injured?” he rasped.

   A simple shake of her head, a close of her eyes.

   “Why did you not shoot him?” he questioned.

   She could not freeze like that in the future- her survival also rested on her own reaction timing just as much as his did. Charon was good, but not invulnerable to error.

   No answer, but a hard bite of her lower lip and some more tears racing down her cheeks. He looked down at her, at this young smoothskin woman that had been sheltered in a Vault and had somehow persisted this long, who had laid claim to his cock and his contract. She was an anomaly to him.

   “You have never killed someone.” It was a simple fact, but it came out more as a flogging than an observation. She flinched, visibly pained. “You will die if you cannot take a life.”

   He then spun on his heel, keeping watch as he waited for her to gather whatever supplies she needed to fulfill her task. When her bags were bulging and her tears were dry, they left the remains of the Super-Duper Mart behind them. He did not care to comment on the fact that the gun had been abandoned, as well.

   The tap was spun, her fingers dipping in the tepid water, eyes glazed over and far gone. She could see that face, holding no sanity or merciful regard for her own life. Smell his terrible breath, taste the sugary lace of chems from his clothes.

   She turned her head to the ghoul sitting on the couch, taking no subtle hint whatsoever to take his leave and grant her her privacy. She would have been frustrated if she did not feel so hollow. He had saved her life...now more than once.

   “Thank you,” she said softly, turning his head from the front door to her. “For what you did, today.”

   “It is my duty,” he responded in that gravelly, somber tone.

   She turned to the side, flicking at the surface of the water to create ripples across its smooth plane. “If...if I gave your contract away, would you shoot me, like you did with Ahzrukhal?”

   Their eyes met. He betrayed nothing. “No.”

   “Guess that’s good then,” she mumbled sarcastically under her breath. The flat side of her hand smacked the water a few times. “I’d like to enjoy a bath before it gets too cold.”

   He didn’t move, and she tersely huffed, “Um, that kind of means I’d like to be alone, please?”

   The front door was once again stared at; he was paranoia on steroids. “It is not safe. I will keep watch.” When she was about to groan some form of objection, he added, “There is nothing I have not seen.”

   She choked on her argument (and some spit) but persevered to preserve whatever moral decency she had. “I would like to bathe in peace and quiet!”

   “I am not the one being loud,” he rasped flatly.

   “I’m not going to ask again!”

   His head whipped to her so quickly that she nearly fell into the tub from fright. With a very faint narrowing of his eyes, he said, “Would you rather I stand watch outside?”

   The inside of her cheek was nibbled on. That asshole. The ghoul wasn’t exactly a crowd pleaser amongst the locals- he frightened them and generally kept everyone at bay...besides Moira, who seemed to be the only person willing to be within two feet of her and her abominable bodyguard. Having him perched on her doorstep just to growl at anyone passing by like some angry dog would only escalate the rumor mill she was sure was already spinning around about her.

   Yes. (That was the reason).

   Not because it was cold and the air was slightly damp, casting a chill on anyone beyond the warmth of indoors, not due to the fact he would be left out in the dark, exposed to the elements while she enjoyed the refreshment of a salted bath...

   “You can keep watch in here,” she said dully. “I’m not going to ask you to go outs-”

   “Very well,” he interrupted, somehow sinking his weight even further into the broken springs and pressed cushions.

   He’s a person not a dog-he’s a person not a dog-he’s a fucking asshole and he should totally be left out in a doghouse!

   She sighed and reached for the box of scented salts she had the foresight to purchase from Crazy Wolfgang eons ago...the box was already opened, and she tipped it upside down to discover it was already empty. Her head slowly roved to the ghoul that was keeping vigilance on her unmoving doorframe, her nerves fraying one thread at a time.

   “You used the whole thing?!” She was flabbergasted. It was almost comical, and she let out a breathy giggle at the thought of this giant one stop bullet-in-the-brain shop ghoul taking a nice reprieve with lavender-infused crystals.

   The empty box was thrown at the bin, missing completely. She heard a ghost of a snort from him.

   “I really don’t know what to do with you,” she mumbled to herself, unstrapping her Pip-Boy to set it aside. She rubbed at the area around her wrist and unlaced her boots, pausing at unzipping the suit from her body. “Can’t you, like, watch the door from somewhere else, at least?”

   The couch breathed relief after he stood, his shotgun taken with him as he went upstairs. Every single step reverberated around the house...it appeared when he wanted to be heard, he absolutely made sure everyone would listen. The creak of a chair met her ears from directly above her, and she glanced up at him spying from the little nook beside the Nuka-Cola machine. The light didn’t exactly illuminate the corner very well, so only his faint outline and glowing eyes were visible.

   “You went from being obnoxious to just being a creep,” she muttered.

   A zipper from his pack was opened above, and as she began to unbraid her hair and unshoulder her suit, a large splash of water drenched her before she could even undress completely. She gasped loudly, looking around at all the water soaking her floor. An item had been tossed into the tub...it was another box of salts- Clementine Chamomile! That dickbag had found a replacement at the mart and somehow decided that this was the best opportunity in presenting it to her.

   “Ugh!” she bitched, retrieving the sopping wet carton before it could further clump and dissolve.

   Screw this! She knelt by the ceramic, scrubbed the blood from her face and neck, quickly wrung out her hair, and stomped up to her bedroom. She threw the shadow demon in the corner a nasty glare before shutting herself inside.

   The jumpsuit was hoisted back on, her boots angrily laced tight, and her scarf wound a dozen times around her neck- she dark-humoredly considered fashioning it into a noose. She flung her door open and stormed back downstairs to throw her blood-spattered vault suit into the tub. (Might as well not waste reasonably clean water).

   “I’m going to give Moira the scoop,” she called up, her eyes trained on fastening her Pip-Boy back in place. “You can-”

   “I will stay here.”   Evelyn paused in securing the latch, looking upwards with serious doubt. “...really?”

   A nod was given. “Be cautious.”

   “Um, okay?” She shook her head, feeling uneasy rather than relieved at this sudden change. She lingered in the living room for a few minutes and fidgeted with the straps of her pack, unsure as to why she was feeling so anxious.

   “Is there something you require?” he rasped plainly.

   “No...” She went for the door. “Be back in a few.”

Preconceived

   Evelyn left Craterside Supply with a few anecdotes on avoiding obvious dangers whilst returning with some oversized clothing items for the big guy, a used leather armor set for herself, and a whole new research chapter to endeavor for the both of them. She shouldered her bag and went to step past the saloon when the brief idea of enjoying some actual privacy redirected her feet inside.

   It was the typical evening crowd. Gob was busily wiping a spill from Walter’s tipped beer while Nova made easy chatter with a dusty caravan trader, coercing him to spend some caps for a little promiscuous company. The ghoul turned to address his newest customer, the usual brightening of his expression turning grim.

   Evelyn took her seat at the bar, giving a tiny wave of her fingers. She shuffled around a few pockets in her pack, laying out a bundle of letters to discreetly slide over. “Sorry about the wait. I got kinda busy, lately.”

   The ghoul snuck a glance behind him as he hid the postage inside his pants. “Hey smoothskin, you, uh, look good. Wasteland hasn’t spit you back out yet.” Gob set a beer down, his eyes nervously searching around the room for her absent stalker. “I’ve been hearing some stories about you...”

   “Yeah...he’s...staying, for awhile.”

   Gob leaned forward, his rasp coming out as a hiss. “Smoothskin, what the hell are you thinking?!”

   She shrugged, entirely unsure herself. “It’s like you said, not all chains are visible.”

   “That didn’t mean you had to go around and take ahold of them yourself!” He noticed her visible frustration with the onset of her frown, and he sighed. He shuffled on his feet, wholly uncomfortable. “He...he hasn’t hurt you or anything, has he?”

   “No,” she said a little sadly, refusing to meet his eyes and instead peering inside her glass. “He’s not like that, with me, at least.” She looked over to the prostitute eyeing her from across the room. Nova winked.

   Evelyn set out some caps, and then a few more. “Can I please get a shot? Whatever is safest, thank you.”

   A glass was poured, and she tipped the rim to her lips, immediately gasping from the liquid fire racing down her throat.

   “Thanks, Gobbie,” she said with a cheeky grin as his eyes widened. “Yeah, your secrets aren’t so safe.”

   “Just don’t go saying it out loud,” he rasped quietly. “Nova would never let me live it down.”

   “No promises.” She smacked her boots to the floor, sidling around to whisper to Nova. “I really need to talk to you.”

   The prostitute took out a cigarette and motioned to a corner table, speaking around her briefly to the future client. “I’ll be upstairs in a minute, honey.”

   They took their seats. Evelyn fiddled with a fraying thread on her jumpsuit, her neck already creeping with an uncomfortable heat.

   Nova lit her smoke and eyed her critically for a moment. “So, what’s the scoop? Heard about the ‘big and ugly’ in town.” She lifted a hand in apology at the quick scowl on Evelyn’s face. “Sorry...I don’t know how you do it.”

   Evelyn pulled her beer to her chest and licked her lips, trying with all her discretion to keep their conversation private. “...I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, with...you know.” She flamed, too embarrassed to continue any further.

   The other woman took a big inhale, raising a brow and quirking a smile as a tease. “Still hurts?”

   A shy nod; the tips of her ears burning.

   Nova blew a cloud over the table, gazing off to something across the way. She appeared to be in deep thought for a moment. “His thumb should be some good foreplay.” She looked back at her. “And try to relax. When you got that figured out, come back and we can talk about the fun stuff. I got to go work now, sugar.”

   Evelyn turned in her seat to watch her leave and was met with a giant brick wall of leather standing at her back. She looked up, horrified. Charon was preoccupied with staring at his thumb before giving her his full attention.

   “You did not return,” he merely rasped.

   “OhmyGod! How long have you been standing there?!” she squawked. When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up a hand to stop him, hissing, “You know what? Nevermind! I said I was going to be right back!”

   He nodded. “Yes.”   “Did you take that as fucking literally?!” There was no answer, so she guffawed, “Of course you did. Jesus.” She moved around him, making a beeline for the door.

   Moriarty whistled at her. “Caps are always welcome at my saloon...but your friend there pays double.” He gave Charon a distasteful look, as though he had smelled something rancid. “What the hell you looking at, fucking shuffler?”

   “Whatever,” she muttered as they continued to leave.

   A crash of glass and a shout made the room grow quiet.

   Moriarty shoved Gob aside, the ghoul tripping over his lack of balance in a heap on the floor. Everyone stared as the proprietor stalked up to his bartender.

   “That’s coming out of your pocket, you hearing me, zombie?” He punted the tip of his boot into the ghoul’s side, earning a loud groan. “Eh, what the hell is that?”

   It was the first instance Evelyn had witnessed physical abuse towards the ghoul, and as she involuntarily took a step forward to say something, Moriarty bent over to swipe at the stack of letters she had just delivered.

   “Fuck are these? Letters? From whom?” he spat, and ripped the sheets into pieces, each tear drawing a pained whine from the ghoul. “You trying to pull one over on me?”

   Evelyn came around the side, her pent-up anger from the past few days finally bursting the carefully crafted dam she had built. She failed to notice the entire stillness of the room; the lack of intervention from the others who simply watched with tight mouths and passive eyes.

   “That wasn’t your business!” she snapped, and the room seemed to fall on her. “You don’t have to-!”

   “Was this your doing, kid?” Moriarty interrupted, encroaching on her and completely ignoring Gob still sniffling about on the floor. He came uncomfortably close to give a snarling threat, and then he was gone. “Hrk!” Moriarty was smashed into the bar counter, erupting a scream from across the room. Charon had simply grabbed the entire side of the man’s face with one palm and brusquely applied pressure until Moriarty’s head swelled like an overripe mutfruit.

   Patrons rose from their seats and Gob scrabbled away. Evelyn couldn’t help but stare. The big ghoul wasn’t looking to release the crushing force without some form of word from her lips, and for the very first time...she considered not saying anything at all. Moriarty struggled, his arms flailing uselessly and eyes bulging from their sockets. The entire color of his skin darkened a deep shade, the veins on his forehead protruding until they seemed ready to pop.

   Her hand gently rested on the ghoul’s bicep that was holding the man down at her unspoken command. The amount of power surging beneath her palm was frightening and awe-inspiring all at once.

   “Let him go,” she said softly. Charon turned his head to her, showing no exertion whatsoever. She nodded, and he released.

   Moriarty immediately crashed to the floor as his knees buckled, a strange croaking sound emitting from his throat as he struggled, globs of drool dripping to the floorboards.

   She looked around the room. They all stared, afraid, of her. Without a word, they left the bar, everyone in their path quickly darting from their way. After the door had closed behind them, a buzzing drone came alive from the inside, and she simply stared at the railing that the bar owner had perched on many a time to oversee the hive of activity in the town below. It made her think of Alphonse, high up in his Overseer's office, looking down on his subjects as they went about their lives.

   “Would you have killed him?” she asked quietly.

   He nodded.

   “Okay...let’s go home.”

   She had sat there at the table, far too silent to not be unnerving. He had locked the door and taken his position to blow the first intruder into chunky mist. A knock had come calling, and he tried to dissuade her from answering it first with no success.

   “It’s Simms,” a voice muffled through.

   She opened it- they spoke. Charon eyed the town sheriff with a very clear challenge if he so thought of using more than just words. Their conversation was succinct and brief. She retook her seat, looking far into the distance at something he was too blind to see. He patiently waited, keeping as reserved as she was until she came to stand before him.

   “May I use your knife?” she asked.

   Without thought, he unsheathed it and held it out by the tip. She carefully took it, so very tender and delicate with its lethal nature.

   “I’ll be right back,” she said.

   Almost immediately, he stood. If he had any hair left on the back of his neck, he was sure it would be electrified. “I will come.”

   “You’ll stay here.”   It was a clear command. His hands curled into tight fists. “I advise I do not.”

   “It’s alright...” She turned for the door. “I won’t go too far.”

   The absence of her presence concluded after ten minutes. He had waited in the doorway, staring out into the dark without actually being able to leave, listening for any distant screams or muffled cries that she may be in danger. She returned with the knife in hand and no sign of injury.

   “Thank you,” she said after bequeathing his blade to him. “I know it’s late...but there’s someplace I want to go. It’s for a job. Do you want to come?”

   She was inane. Of course he would.

   She dressed in an entirely new outfit of some badly-needing-oiled leathers, shouldering her gear and leading him underway of a moonless sky. She didn’t seem to make any particular effort in scouting for dangers- twice he halted her pilgrimage to deal with some radscorpions. She simply buried her nose in the green glow of her Pip-Boy, fiddling with the knobs and dials on a detailed map she used as a guide.

   A crumbling overpass engulfed her in shadow; one moment, there, the next, gone. He followed, his boots crunching some gravel beneath his heel and shotgun readily propped at his chest. The pack from her shoulders was removed and set down, the eerie glow of her wrist computer providing the only source of illumination. His eyes adjusted- he watched her as she began to undress.

   “What are you doing?” he rasped, swiveling his head around on a dime for possible dangers. There was no answer.

   The Pip-Boy was set on her bag; her shoes unlaced and stepped out of. A wiggle from her leathers; the underwear cast aside. He stared, simply because he couldn’t help in doing so. The buckle of his belt was met with certainty and all lack of awareness to the precarious position it put them in as her fingers undid the leather strap, before coming down to unzip his steadfast erection. The words of caution were translated as a terse sigh through his nostrils, and she bent down to put her lips to it.

   His shotgun was nearly dropped from his hands, but he quickly snapped back upright and gave a poor attempt at scanning the empty, dark wastes around them as he tried not to let the sensation of her hot, wet mouth muddle his thoughts. A swirl of her tongue over the tip released a backward tilt of his head and a stifled groan. He then felt his shaft slowly being worked down her throat, and he had to harness every ounce of will not to plunge himself completely when she stopped almost halfway.

   A loud, gagging sound made him glance down, his jaw tight and knuckles bone-white as he gripped his gun so fiercely he could have snapped it. Her lips were stretched, a web of drool swaying down her chin. The tip of her teeth abrasively stroked at the scarred skin of his cock as she pulled up and away, her mouth widening as she gasped for air. His eyes became slits as she turned around and leaned over a giant slab of concrete rubble, the look on her face becoming all the invitation he needed for some semblance of regaining sanity.

   Her legs widened as he rested his shotgun over one shoulder, his freed hand coming down to squeeze a handful of plump white flesh that faintly glowed in the absence of light. He was throbbing, painfully so, but he remembered the words the prostitute had given and reached underneath to cork his thumb in her. He gave no warning or gentle entry, and she clawed at the rock with a stuttered moan.

   “Fuck-fuck, go easy, please,” she panted, closing her eyes and kissing her forehead to the cool slab of stone.

   He nodded, forcing himself to tear his eyes away to charade the role of protector as he fingered her with unrhythmic, rough thrusts. The desperate little breaths and fevered whisperings of fuck and yes scratched at the composed psyche behind his eyes. He felt the hot, slippery mess trace around his wrist and soak his glove, could feel the silky flesh tighten around his thumb. He curled it inward, and listened to the most amazing sound leave her lips that he’d never heard a woman make before. He considered stroking himself just as she reached around and grabbed at him, the touch magnetizing his cock straight to her pussy. He came as soon as she had mounted, and he tightened his fingers around her ass to stop her from further riding him. She turned her head slightly, her hair falling over her face.

   “I am done,” he managed to croak out, withdrawing himself slowly and shuddering at the sensitivity. He tucked his chin to his chest, the urge to take a piss retreating his steps a few feet away while he listened to the sounds of her outfit being put back together.

   After his own decency had been cobbled with one hand and his neck cracked to the side, he turned around to the sight of her perched atop the boulder, staring down at the little screen with hooded eyes. She still had not braided her hair, and she scooped the entirety of it over one shoulder, a tidal of waves and curls framing one side of her face. He lowered his shotgun to his side, having never parted from it.

   “Does it bother you...killing people?” she asked quietly, and when he remained silent, she looked at him.

   “No,” he finally replied, his guttural rasp still tinged with husk.

   “Did it ever?”

   His answer came a little slower. “Yes.”   “What changed?”

   He didn’t know. Or maybe cared not to. She blinked at him, owlishly. Waiting. He resisted the urge to look away. He redirected his gaze to her lips; the cupid's bow an emerald shade.

   “Everything,” he grumbled.

   “Everything...” She looked around at their surroundings, as though she was noticing where they were for the first time. “Yeah. I can see that.”

 The entire weight of the world seemed to crash on her shoulders after a mere half hour of walking toward the next point in Moira’s chapter. She rubbed at her eyes and twice stumbled over something, almost faceplanting into the dirt before she caught herself back upright.

   The black backdrop of the night did nothing to stimulate her senses; she needed to sleep before they continued any further. A nudge at her shoulder from the ghoul’s elbow made her turn her head in the direction he jutted his chin to. The faint outline of a trailer was difficult to distinguish against the contrast of rock formations, and she would have missed it completely if not for her companion.

   “Just a few hours,” she mumbled as one does when drunk on exhaustion.

   Charon briefly poked his head inside and ushered her in, and she had only laid into her pack before completely drifting off with an open mouth and light snore. The break of dawn filtered through her eyelids, waking her from sleep and forcing her to groggily sit upright. A glob of drool stained her skin. Charon was seated in the doorless entry, his gun cradled in his lap and eyes scanning the horrific great beyond of dirt and radiation. He glanced at her as she pulled water and boxes of food from her pack.

   “Here,” she said thickly, her voice still fresh with sleep.

   He wordlessly took it while she dug around for her own breakfast. The time on her Pip-Boy read way too fucking early to be up and alive, but she chewed the bland contents and tried not to notice the dense pressure between them.

   “Nova doesn’t take ghouls,” she randomly blabbered.

   When he turned his head, his expression blank and not understanding a word she had just said, she cleared her throat and looked down at her lap full of crumbs.

   “The prostitute, back at the bar...she told me she doesn’t take ghouls. It’s just, I mean, I hope you don’t think you’re stuck with me, or anything.” She tried to muster all of her past insider knowledge into her tone, the false bravado sounding short on her ears. She hoped it didn’t on his own (or lack thereof). “I know how it works.”

   The beating of her heart hurt as she braved a look at him.

   “I do not understand,” he said plainly.

   “You know...” She swayed her head side to side, once again not meeting his eyes. “Having sex, thing.”

   Charon stood, and the topic seemed to have come to a swift end as he waited for her to do the same. The day passed on, the sweltering heat of the sun casting a shimmer in the air above the lifeless landscape; she pointed to a lone high-rise building in the distance as they came closer to their intended objective. It seemed so very out of place.

   “What is that?” she asked, the past few hours of taciturn silence between them having finally been broken.

   Charon glanced over, his dusty boots sinking in the sand. “Not safe,” he rumbled at her back.

   “Yeah, that really answered my question,” she muttered.

   He either did not hear, or ignored her sarcasm as they came upon the RobCo Facility, the cool air wafting from beyond the opened door making her sigh in relief and eager to step inside. Charon halted her by the shoulder before she could escape the burning on her skin.

   “I shall enter.” He bypassed her, armed and ever-ready to encounter a fight. He gave her a quick nod of his head to have her follow in step behind him, and she dimmed the screen of her Pip-Boy as they traded the blinding sun for damp darkness.

   A skittering across the tiled floor made her latch onto him, and he berated her with a scowl as he rudely shrugged her off. The ghoul then paused in the middle of the room, training his shotgun's line of sight at the sound as it quickly scurried their way. A radroach stepped into the dim lighting under the cracked fluorescents, and he relaxed his stance whereas she grew stiff and held onto him a second time.

   He growled and shook her off again. “Do not do that.”

   She was staring at the bug with the widest eyes. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered.

   Charon raised a brow, looking back at the wasteland’s most common pest. “My contract entitles you to combat services.” He aimed the tip of his barrel at the thing. “That is not combat.”

   When she didn’t move a single muscle (he didn’t think she even breathed), he rolled his eyes and moved on without her. Whatever the reason she dragged them here, she was sure to snoop around and pilfer every nook and cranny, therefore he had to preemptively ensure the building was secure.

   “Wait here,” he rasped, the hissing and waving antennas on the floor being crushed into goo beneath his boot.

   The facility was home to nothing but vermin and strewn piles of robotic scrap. He passed the door leading to the management offices, rounding back to the lobby to proceed with his employer. She was not there.

   He roved the newly emptied halls, poked his head inside a few spaces. “Evelyn?” he called out, briefly considering that she may have made her departure back outside.

   He had opened the door and was about to vacate the building when a blood-curling scream pounded his feet back through the halls, the metal catwalks groaning under the force as he raced towards the sound of certain death. He must have missed an enemy. He did not know if he would make it in time-

   The ghoul burst into a room on the factory level, assessing the situation before him at lightning speed. Evelyn was sitting on an overturned trashcan...that was moving.

   She caught sight of him as it veered towards the stairs. She cried, “Charon!”

   He lifted his gun. “Move.”

   She didn’t need to be told twice. She scrabbled behind him just as the can tipped over, a sizeable radroach crawling away to safety.

   Charon slowly lowered his weapon, throwing her a rather dirty look.

   “That thing is fucking huge!” she sniffled, trembling all over and hugging herself tightly. “I-I panicked and thought I’d trapped it...”

   He released an aggravated exhale through his nose, drilling all of his frustration into the flatness of his tone. “Do not scream for me like that again.”

   “I was terrified! I didn’t do it for fun!” she defended herself with a nasal whine. She looked back to the dark crevice the insect had disappeared through. “...do you think it’ll be back?”

   His only response was a curt nod of his head for her to continue. With great reluctance, she navigated deeper into the recesses of the building, pocketing anything she could wrap her fingers around until they came to a door.

   “Guess the mainframe is through here,” she mumbled to herself. There was a turn of the knob and a loud squeal as she opened it, and then she just as quickly slammed it back shut. Her hand came away from the frame, and she backed up a step before looking at him. “I’ll wait here.”

   Charon grumbled sourly under his breath as he stomped around inside, disposing of mutated roaches and territorial molerats with the brunt force of his heel. He wasn’t going to waste shells on such insignificant pests. A few Protectrons in sealed units were quickly considered, but they appeared to be inactive.

   He opened the door. “It is clear.” His head turned to watch her scurry past and proceed to open a vending machine and clean out a fridge. He turned down the offer of a box of snack cakes that she held over to him.

   They continued up some stairs, and she sucked the frosting from her fingertips (that made him feel a certain way) as she darted for the control room that he had previously scoped. Her pack made a loud thud after being whisked from her shoulders to the floor, and she dug around all the useless crap she had scavenged for a peculiar item that she held up for him to see.

   “Easy peasy.” She smiled, attaching it to the mainframe. “I guess this is supposed to like, control old tech or something?”

   He didn’t pay attention as she continued to ramble and type some keys in. (He really didn’t care).

   A sudden alarm began to blare, and the pod beside them containing a dormant Protectron hissed as it opened. She looked over, horrified, and he nabbed her by the elbow to shove her back toward the door.

   “Go!” he barked, knocking some sense into her empty head as she took his advice at a sprint.

   He popped a slug in the side of the robot’s dome, shattering the protective glass around its processing unit and spitting smoke from short-circuiting wires. Its arms flailed erratically, the synthesized voice cutting out before it tipped on its side. Another one was at the base of the stairs; he shoved into it with all of his strength to careen it into the wall- the things were suddenly everywhere.

   “Go!” he repeated, and she ducked from the laser fire pinging all around the room with just enough ounce of luck to not get hit. He, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. It instantly melted through his leather jacket, cauterizing the flesh as it burned. He ignored the scalding sensation while she burst back into the main hub of the building, his steps inches behind her own.

   A loud gasp of realization inflated her lungs as she spun around on the metal catwalk, her eyes bulging with distress. “Oh no, my bag-!”

   Charon clipped a new drum magazine on his shotgun and knelt down to scoop her over one shoulder as she tried to run past. The metal bastards were roving the facility like a kicked hornet’s nest, enticing him to make an immediate departure. He ignored her squeaky protests and roughly jostled her before making their way down to the lower floors, his palm anchored tightly over her ass to keep her in place.

   She clamped her hands over her ears as he fired away with his weapon in one hand, the recoil from its destructive firepower causing his arm to faintly flex with each blast he aimed. The sharp smell of gunpowder made her sneeze, and she bit out a pained cry as something burned across her left butt cheek.

   Charon growled at the sharp throb in his brain from the slip-up- she squealed like a stuck pig and wildly kicked her legs as her leather armor caught fire. He smacked at the flames a few times to put them out.

   They reached the front lobby without further injury, and he kicked the doors open to the sky of early dusk to retreat around the corner of the building. He set her down, spun her around, and tilted her forward into the wall to grab at the sides of her ass, inspecting the visible scorch mark to proceed with treatment.

   “Ow!” she whined, feeling his hands wrap around her waist to begin unbuckling her belt. Her leathers and underwear were shunted past her thighs, ripping some of the melted fabric that had glued to her skin. “Stop!” she choked.

   His fingers pressing into the flesh froze on command.

   “Fuck.” She screwed her eyes shut and dug her forehead into the cool concrete. “How bad is it?” she asked with a shaky breath.

   He squinted, judging the depth and measure. “You will live.”

   A few deep breaths were drawn in, and then she pulled away from the wall, wincing as she carefully pulled her decency back in place.

   He grabbed at her hands before she could finish. “What are you doing? You are injured.”

   “Yeah, I know,” she replied with pinched brows. “I’ll be okay. Are you okay?” She tried to study him, but it was evident she was distracted by the pain.

   He ignored the question. “I have a Stimpak.” His fingers were already unlatching a side satchel at his waist.

   She caught sight of the wound in his side. “Use it.” Her hand stopped him before he could turn her around. “On you.”

   He stared.

   “I’ll wait until we get back to Megaton,” she painfully gasped with a wave of her trembling hand.

   The rapid firing of pain receptors inside of his brain nearly dove his index and middle finger in his eyeball sockets to rip his skull clean off his shoulders. His hand tightened over the stim, nearly shattering it from the pressure he applied.

   “I advise you do not,” he rasped through clenched teeth. “Let me tend to it.”

   “I, I can’t,” she confessed, wincing as she took her first step. “Moira-”

   Her back drew flush up against the wall in fear from how fast he descended upon her, his massive frame eating her existence away from the rest of society.

   “I will tend to it. Now.” His eyes bored into her own, and she faintly nodded. With a spin and second undressing, he poked the needle in her flesh and patiently waited for it to heal. Satisfied (and relieved of the agonizing throbbing in his head), he left her butt naked to the side as he finally considered himself.

   His armor was shed, his leather jacket shrugged out of, and his tattered black shirt was raised for proper viewing of the already disfigured skin. It was cauterized, so there was no reason to waste medical supplies. He lowered his shirt and reached for his jacket.

   Her hand intercepted him, and he growled.

   “Whoa, hold on, you don’t have anymore stims?!” She appeared genuinely worried for him, and he couldn’t help but resent her for it.

   He had two more.

   “It will heal,” he said evenly.

   “But you used one on me!”

   “Yes, you were in pain.”

   “Oh, and like you’re not?” she scoffed.

   He thought for a moment. “No.”

   “Well, that doesn’t matter!” she snapped. “Use one!”

   He scowled, “Is that an order?”

   “Ugh!” She threw her hands up, and he hurriedly went about equipping his things as she stomped off in Megaton’s general direction. “Fine! Die! See if I care!”

   As much as her spite wished to carry her home just to stomp up the steps to her room and slam the door in his face, her stamina wouldn’t hear a single word about it. Her noodled appendages carried her as far as the previous night’s camping site, and she slumped like a corpse in the corner of the trailer where their garbage still remained undisturbed. Morning came much sooner than she would have hoped for, and she awoke to the bitter smell of cigarette smoke. The weight of her head felt immensely heavy as she lifted it off the cold, uncomfortable floor to narrow her crusty eyes at the lack of courtesy.

   Charon was seated, just like before, dragging his lipless mouth on a smoke and eyeing what she herself could not see. He turned his head slightly to look at her while she rubbed at her face.

   “You smoke?” she drawled, pulling a few stray hairs from the corner of her mouth.

   He exhaled and flicked the butt away. “No.”

   An ugly snort came between them. “I just stress you out that much?”

   There was no answer, and she huffed as she rose and nearly tipped over, her brain not comprehending that it was time to be awake.

   “No, no no.” She held a hand up as he made to follow her out into the wastes. “I just need to pee, give me, like, five minutes.”

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   Her eyes drew to very thin slits. “...you’re not taking that literally...are you?”

   The lack of a verbal reply, (coupled with his weird, innate paranoia) hustled her feet around a few rocks and scored her a world record for the fastest piss ever made. Her companion was still waiting in place (the big guy didn’t so much as blink), and she just sighed at his obedient nature as he followed in step behind her.

   She honestly didn’t know what to do with him.

   The thought plagued her the entirety of the way home. Albeit, he was really resourceful and excellent in combat when it came to saving her burnt ass, but it was, just, too weird. Too unsettling. His contract was a lump of hot coal sitting somewhere in his pocket (for she refused to carry it, hoping he would get the message and just leave).

   His obvious dislike for her was demoralizing. The sex they shared was...not what she had envisioned all those lonely nights. She still liked him, but she feared him, too. It felt so utterly wrong to just hand him off to someone else like some unwanted pet...he was a person, but her person, all by a flawed design she had no intention of appreciating. She turned around to face him fully, stopping them in their tracks along the dusty road, looking up into that gruesome visage of distilled wrath. A vintage bottle of corked hatred, violence, and apparently no smoking.

   “Do you like, erm, working for me?” she asked. "Have you thought about working for someone else?"

   He blinked at her. She stared at the too-cool-for-medical-school hideous sear he bore so nonchalantly.

   “Do you intend to pass on my contract?” His voice was so flat, so uninterested. He had to feel some way about it.

   “Would you want me to?”

   He seemed to think for a moment, and then finally rasped, “You are my employer until my contract changes hands.”

   “You are so frustrating!” she tersely snapped. “I literally don’t understand a single thing about you! What is it that you want?”

   He scanned the horizon. He didn’t say anything, and it was obvious he intended not to.

   “Fine, whatever. I don’t really care.” This time, her petty behavior blessed her feet with seven-league boots, and the gates of Megaton ground metal on metal as they opened to their arrival.

   The massive saloon billboard just up the hill made her heart hammer in her throat and dew sweat on her neck. No one gave them accusatory looks or hushed any whispers as they passed by. She tried to ignore the hot bubbling of anxiety splashing inside her chest as the knob to her house was wiggled. It was locked. Her pack was...still at the fucking RobCo facility. She slowly turned a dirty look to the ghoul, who glowered at her in return.

   “You’re lucky I have a spare,” she bit at him, stooping down to turn over a rock for her only copy. He seemed genuinely surprised.

   “I advise you do not leave that there,” he rasped with caution.

   “Oh, please” she grumbled, twisting the handle and stepping inside. She tossed the key on the table. “Wadsworth, we’re home!”

   The robot flew down the stairs in such a rush she barreled backward into Charon, who firmly planted a hand on her back to shove her off. Wadsworth waved a few limbs around, not saying a single word.

   “Um...” she started uncertainly, “Are you okay?”

   The robot ceased its movements and then slanted its optics at the ghoul behind her.

   She looked over her shoulder. Charon was already setting his things aside and...running a bath. Cool. (She guessed she would just take one later). ((Inconsiderate Jerk™))

   She sighed and began to walk up the stairs. “Did you hang up my vault suit?”

   There was no reply, (not so much as a single snark) and she glanced over to her home helper. Again, it waved its limbs around.

   “What, did the mainframe get you too?” she half-joked, and then she felt the neuron connections in her brain slowly spark electricity as she observed how it pointed to the ghoul.

   I will stay here.

   She took a stomping step back down with every word she spoke. "Oh, my, God. You. Didn’t.”

   Charon was busily removing his gear, glancing up at her without a single emotion betraying his face. He neither confirmed nor denied the unspoken accusation.

   “You did!” she gasped. “Charon! What the hell?!”

   He looked over to the Mister Handy and shrugged, reverting his eyes back to his business. He took a seat to remove his boots, and she watched them being neatly set aside. His pants dropped. Out of deeply rooted civility, she turned away and continued up the stairs, her muted robot close at her heels.

   Wadsworth followed her into her room like some sad puppy, performing a silent number with limited features of rotating claws and shifting optics.

   She sat on the edge of the bed, chin in her hands, thinking over everything while not thinking about much of anything at all. She eventually laid on her freshly made sheets, staring at the ceiling until she succumbed to a quick nap that felt like literal centuries. Her leathers were stripped to build a micro-habitat in the corner of her room, the vault suit feeling icky despite being clean on her sweaty, unwashed skin. She came down to Wadsworth washing dishes and Charon dressed in the clothes she had acquired for him, his hands meticulously stitching together the tear in his jacket.

   He didn’t bother to look at her for more than a moment, perhaps assuming she had no orders for him to care to. His fingers dug in a needle, curved it out, and pulled. The strange grace he had was almost awkward to watch- she didn’t think someone his size or nature could handle something so delicately.

   “Is there something you require?” he asked sharply, his shoulders tensing due to her unflinching stare.

   “Where’s your contract?”

   His fingers stopped their weaving. Without hesitation, he reached inside a hidden breast pocket inside his jacket and pulled out the folded piece of paper, holding it out for her. She took it. It felt dirty, as though the ink would stain through to her fingers and she wouldn’t be able to scrub it away.

   “What if I ripped it up? Burned it?” she tested.

   “I would make another,” he said simply. It didn’t seem to bother him whatsoever. He then resumed his sewing.

   She put it in a small side pocket, making for the door. “I’ll be-” The screeching of his chair as he stood nearly rolled her eyes out of her fucking skull. “Oh. Silly me.”

   Charon zipped up his jacket and clipped his armor back in place. The shotgun (that had been neatly cleaned) was picked up by one hand and attached to its rightful place at his back. She stared at him...she felt sort of, well, sad.

   “Let’s go,” she said a little glumly, and he didn’t comment on her forlorn attitude as they left for the saloon.

Under New Management

   “Welcome to Moriarty’s,” Gob began before he turned, “shit, uh, I mean, welcome to Gob’s.”

   He froze at the sight that had walked in.

   Evelyn took her seat with Charon standing awkwardly behind her. She spun around. “Please sit and act normal, for once. We’re not going to get stabbed, or anything.”

   He flexed his hands into fists, but relented and took a spot against the wall at her side, folding his thick arms over his chest and hawking her every move for any subtle cue.

   She laid some caps down, sharing another look with Charon. “You want something?” A simple shake of his head, his glower flaying Gob’s soul from his body as he slowly shuffled closer. She hissed, “Stop it!”

   Gob not so subtly tried to ignore the homicidal elephant in the room glaring poisoned-tipped arrows at him. “So, uh-”

   She thrust a thumb over her shoulder. “I saw the sign. Gob’s Saloon. What happened?” She ignored the thick lob of spit jamming her throat. No one was giving her second glances...for now, everything seemed okay.

   Charon growled as Gob set a beer down.

   “Yeah,” he rasped uncertainly. “Moriarty went out for his usual smoke. The railing came off the side, and he went along with it. Wasn’t too pretty.”

   She turned, offering Charon her beer. “Here.”

   He stared at it but didn’t budge.

   She sighed as she came back around, twirling her bottle in circles on the countertop. “That’s...umm...” She shrugged. “Unfortunate?”

   “Damn lucky if you ask me, smoothskin.” Gob picked up a rag. “It’s almost too good to be true, if I’m being honest. I keep waiting for him to come back through that front door.”

   Evelyn took a swig, distracting her tongue for a moment. She had done it- it had worked!

   A faint whiff of cigarettes and the sweet tang of jet sat beside her.

   “Hey kid.” Nova gave her a wink, looking up at the giant ghoul. “You got him wrapped around that little finger, huh?”

   Evelyn ignored the weirdly specific comment that was absolutely true (and for all the wrong reasons). She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling much too hot under her collar. “So...how is, everything? Better?”

   Nova pulled out a crinkled cigarette and gave her a teasing grin, completely ignoring the specter glaring down at her. The smoke was lit. “Moriarty being gone is one of the best things to have ever happened to this town...and probably, one of the worst.” She flicked the ash to her boots. “No one contested to Gob taking ownership of the bar...hell, he pretty much ran the place himself already, but it’s still living under the shadow of Moriarty’s thumb." She gave Charon an appreciative once-over. "I think your guy can help with that.”

   Evelyn kept her eyes on her drink. “Keep the drunks in line and the assholes outside?”

   Nova winked. “Bingo.” She tilted her head to the side, the bare skin of her throat an ivory river down the open seam of her shirt. “What do you say, big boy?” Charon didn't grace her with anything, and so she muttered, "Not much of a talker, is he?"

   "You have no idea," Evelyn mumbled in return. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. She was inwardly stalling...but this is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why was it so hard to spit out the words she had been chewing on all day?

   “May I talk to you?” she whispered conspiratorially to Gob. “Alone?”

   The necrotic duo shared a glance over her head. Nova raised a freshly plucked eyebrow.

   “Uh-” Gob started uneasily.

   Evelyn stood and pointed at her deathstalker bodyguard. “Just wait here, okay?”

   Charon muttered something sourly, shifting his weight to the other foot and surveying the few patrons.

   The other ghoul followed her into the back room, where she closed the door and fumbled with her pocket.

   “What’s this all about, smoothskin?” Gob couldn’t beat the nervous tick from his tone even if he tried. She assumed he would perhaps die with it.

   Evelyn tucked a hair behind her ear, the stocked items on the shelf suddenly becoming of great interest. “Charon shot Ahzrukhal.” His eyes grew wide at the information, and she felt her lips move at such speed she feared it would never cease. “I can’t be with him anymore, Gob! He needs to be somewhere, I didn’t want the stupid thing, I tried to give it up, God, he’s-he’s-”

   The door burst open, a shotgun hounding through the small space to land directly on the innocent ghoul cowering in the corner.

   “Charon!” She darted in his line of fire. “I told you to wait!”

   The red ghoul scowled and lowered his gun. “I heard you in distress.”

   She instead turned to Gob, who was still flinching a mile a minute. “See, see?! This isn’t- hold on.” She snagged the bigger ghoul’s arm to drag him completely inside and shut the door from potential eavesdroppers. “Okay. I’m just going to keep it simple. Gob, this is for you.”

   The piece of paper was held out, both pairs of hazy eyes zeroing in on it.

   Gob still wouldn’t move.

   Charon burned a hole through her skull.

   “What?” she snapped up at him. Her voice grew a little hoarse. “I told you I didn’t want it!” When she swiveled her head back to the new bar house owner, she shook it. “Gob, please. Just take it, and, and, and everything will make sense.”

   Her feet took some slow steps to build a bridge between them, his eyes never leaving that flimsy piece of paper.

   “Smoothskin,” Gob finally rattled, his garbled voice sounding like a tin can being kicked in the wind, “what are you doing?”

   “This is Charon’s contract.” Her fingers tightened on it, as though she thought twice about letting it go. “It’s why he is the way he is. It’s what I tried to help him with. It’s why he’s with me.”

   Gob licked the cracked edges of his mouth, for once addressing the big guy hulking across the way. “Is-grk-is that true?”

   Charon's hands were molded fists, a faint tremble coursing through them, barely susceptible to the naked eye. He gave a single, slow nod.

   Gob shook his head a little, and then furiously. “Smoothskin...that’s-”

   “I know.” The contract was curled down to her side, and she took a breath before facing her newfound problem. “Well? Do you have anything to say about this?” He didn’t. “Yeah, don’t know why I thought you would...”

   “Why are you doing this?” Gob asked her suddenly. He went for the door. “You know what? Nevermind. This is too much.”

   “Wait, Gob.” She got in his path, and the hulking mass at her back made him hesitate in brushing past. “I don’t know what to do.”

   He smacked his hands to his chest. “And you think I do?! No.” Another sidestep, and she reluctantly let him go. “Sorry smoothskin, but I don’t want any part of this. I got my own issues to worry about.”

   Gob left them alone, and she eventually came out to raised voices.

   “As of yesterday, I’m retired. Take your ass upstairs and get the job done yourself,” Nova said testily to a most unpleasant, familiar face.

   Jericho.

   “That’s a load of shit,” he scowled in return, taking hold of her arm despite her squirming. “Moriarty ain’t been dead for more than twenty-four hours, and you think you and that rotbag over there now run this joint?”

   Gob came over, a baseball bat in his hands...that was shaking. “Let h-her go, Jericho. I-”

   “You what, zombie?” the ex-raider spat, eyeing the weapon being held so timidly with a chuckle. “You going to hit me, huh? Don’t think I won’t fight back?”

   Evelyn took a step forward to intervene, but Charon halted her at the shoulder. He then stepped past, and everyone became quiet as he slowly came close, just standing and staring at the man.

   Jericho sneered, “What the fuck are you looking at, you ugly motherfucker.”

   Charon gave no reply- he didn’t so much as blink. He took a step, and then another, and Evelyn witnessed a bead of sweat drip from Jericho’s forehead. Nova was released, and he scrambled back a few feet before Charon came too close.

   “You know what? Fuck this,” he growled, unable to hide the slight terror in his voice. “This place is a shithole anyway, beer smells like piss.” He shoved a few others from his path as he gave an uneasy look over his shoulder to the unmoving mountain of burnt flesh.

   “Outta my way!” he barked, and then the door swung shut behind him.

   Nova let out a breath. “Thanks, big boy.”

   Evelyn felt a scratch on the inside of her eyeballs at the nickname.

   Gob lowered his weapon, sheepish. “Yeah...thanks.” He watched the duo then leave his bar, the wheels turning inside his brain.

   There was no comment to be made, partly because he felt no certain way about her offer of his contract to another. He was unsure as to why she was so adamant in exchanging it, especially if not for something of value in return. He felt he did his duty to her well...he did not know what he had done wrong. Ultimately, this was her decision to be made, and he did not have a choice in the matter.

   Although...it would come with its perks.

   He was watching her speak with the store owner that he was most inclined to put a bullet in. She was most certainly trying to dispose of his employer (which made his job that much harder) with these bizarre ‘projects’ she endeavored her on. How his employer did not see the underlying motive in her death befuddled him. She just must be stupid, that much he was confident of.

   “...and that would conclude the final chapter. D’aww! We’re so close to finishing! So! Did you want to start with Rivet City’s history or the library? Oh! We almost skipped over serious injury, and we can’t forget that!”

   Evelyn gulped. “Um...how bad of an injury, again?”

   They were both startled after he slammed a fist on the counter, rattling everything on the surface. “No.”

   “Charon, please go wait outside,” she ordered him dully. “Sorry, Moira. What did you need to study?”

   The shock on the woman’s face quickly reverted back to ecstatic eagerness. She rubbed at her chin in consideration of how to maim his employer. His hand crept off the counter back down to his side. Evelyn completely ignored his silent ire.

   “Very well,” he growled, turning on his heel as Moira began to detail the obvious plot of her demise.

   “Well, maybe a broken limb or two should do the trick-”

   The door was slammed shut with all of his brewing anger and strength, shaking the foundations of the building and echoing his unwanted sentiments. He eyed the railing for a split second and then made up his mind just as quickly. He laid out his left arm across the metal piping, locking his elbow and curling the fingers tightly in his palm. He ignored the curious eyes of random settlers watching him, released a deep exhale through his nose, and then slammed his other arm directly over and down. A sharp snarl ripped from his throat as his left shoulder and elbow dislocated whilst a visible chunk of white bone poked out from the flesh. He came back after the white stars had faded, dropping his skewered limb on the table between them. Their yapping instantly died, and Evelyn’s eyes went wide.

   “There,” he groused through clenched teeth.

   “Holy shit Charon-!” She instinctively reached out to touch it.

   “Don’t,” he snapped at her, and then he gave the crazy smoothskin his best glare and motioned to his injury.

   “Um, o-kay!” Moira rubbed her hands together, clearly unsettled by his tactic. “Let’s get you over here for a moment, shall we?”

    He drowned out the meaningless blathering as she took notes and asked questions he gave nonverbal answers to. His employer nervously watched and fidgeted more than usual. The hired mercenary in the corner seemed to placate himself around him...it brought some small sense of self-satisfaction.

   “Okay, now just hold still...” The bone was reset, and he grunted, brusquely rubbing at his eyes. She stood back, seemingly satisfied with her work. “There! All done! No biggie, right?”

   "He also has a burn in his side," Evelyn said sharply. "Can you look at that as well?"

   He threw her a nasty glare. "That is not necessary."

   "It is." Her tone left no room for arguing. "Go ahead."

   He grumbled as he stripped down to his shirt to raise it enough for the smoothskin to treat. When she finished, he collected his assorted gear as he inwardly seethed.

   Evelyn didn’t say another word to him. She pocketed some caps and pulse grenades and then refused to so much as look at him while she stomped back home. He watched her eye the saloon once more before entering. She blustered upstairs and into the spare room she let him work in, and then came back down with his duffel bag in hand. She thumped it on the table, shoved the payment she had received inside, and then threw it at him.

   "Here,” she spat. “Your contract is in there too. Get out.”

   He blinked. Why was she suddenly so angry? She was crying.

   “I cannot,” he rasped much too calmly, as though the woman before him wasn’t having some sort of cataclysmic meltdown. “You are my employer until my contract-”

   “I don’t care!” She went to the door and flung it open, waving her hand at him. “Go pick your own! Goodbye!”

   He set the bag down. “Was there something I had done wrong?”

   “You broke your fucking arm!” she practically shrieked. “You won’t let me help you when I try-”

   He interposed with a snarl, “I do not need help.”

   She ignored him and continued in her ranting. “-like dear God, you are not normal, by any means! I’m not suited for this, you’re just way too much! I came out of perfectly living in a Vault to realizing my whole fucking life was one big lie, and I don’t need you complicating that any further!” She crossed her arms and stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. “Now please leave. Grab whatever else and just get out of my life."

   “Is that an order?”

   “I will shoot you if you don’t go!”

   “Violence on your end invalidates our contract,” he rasped automatically. When the light of her teary eyes brightened, he threatened, “I will be forced to retaliate by any means necessary.”

   She visibly thought it over, and then her shoulders slumped. Good...he wasn’t in the mood to blow her to chunks, anyways.

   There was a stiff silence thinning her lips, and so he picked up his bag and resumed up the stairs, depositing it on the workbench whilst she slammed the door to her room. The conversation appeared to be over.

   The same passage in one of her many scavenged books had been reread (without actually being read) a hundred times over before the knocking came at her door. She had been determined to die in the small space amongst her sheets, literature, and smelly laundry (slowly becoming its very own fauna in the corner) until the knocking persisted. It hadn’t even been a whole three hours since her spat with the ghoul...and the thought of being around him after threatening to kick him to the curb made the notion of biting off her tongue much more appealing.

   He was in the workspace she had granted him. The door was closed. She didn’t hear it open a crack as she answered to her guest. It was Gob.

   “H-hey smoothskin,” he rasped. His frown deepened at the sight of her woe. “Are you okay?”

   She gruffly wiped at her eyes. “Just peachy. Thanks.”

   “I hope this ain’t a bad time, but, uh, I was wondering if we could talk about earlier...” He looked over her head. “About...about that, uh...”

   She glanced back to the lingering shadow at the top of the stairs. A shake of her head, her arms crossed over her chest. “Um, yeah, yeah, of course.” She widened the frame to allow him to meekly dip past. “So...you thought about it.”

   Gob wrung his hands together and looked up at Charon with obvious apprehension. “Do you, want to, uh, come work at the bar?” He licked his lips, his raspy voice almost belting out a few squeaks. “You’ll-you’ll get paid, and you can have a room...”

   Evelyn hugged herself just a little bit tighter, finally addressing the specter glaring down at them. “Well?”

   Charon didn’t say a word, and she expected he wouldn’t. He had said it was her decision...

   “Okay.” She motioned to the big ghoul, her throat constricting as she pointed up the stairs. She felt the floor swirl under her feet; an imaginary tide rising up her floorboards. “Your bag...please.”

   He gave a curt nod before dipping inside his workshop. When he presented her with it, she reached inside and handed over his life-binding indenture. It was perhaps for the best, for the both of them.

   “He’ll tell you everything about it,” she said thickly.

   “Um...okay.” Gob squinted at the lettering, and then flinched when Charon rounded over him. “H-h-hey, Charon...uh...”

   She felt immensely awkward standing next to the man she had just coldly evicted from her life. “You’re really not going to shoot me?” she asked.

   Charon snorted, taking the strap to his bag and shouldering it. “No.” He then turned to his new employer. “I am ready.”

   Gob bobbed his head, and then awkwardly left. “Don’t be a stranger to the bar, smoothskin.”

   Evelyn didn’t say a word as they made their way up the hill. The big guy didn’t even bother looking back. Well...whatever. What was done was done. She had that asshole idiot out of her life (somewhat) and she could go about living hers (which was even more questionable).

   She didn’t realize she had just been standing in her open doorway, glancing up the way they had gone, before a strong breeze of hot sand cleansed her nose. With a growl, she slammed her door shut (locked it) and finally, finally, FINALLY, ran a hot bath and soaked in the delicious waters (with some added scoops of Clementine Chamomile) that she so desperately deserved. The tub became a disgusting hue of brown after mere minutes of vigorous scrubbing and shaving, so she unplugged the drain and waited in a ratty towel on the couch to take another.

   A knocking came at her door, loudly- enough to shake the dust right off the frame.

   No way. She glanced down at her attire. “Um, just hold on a minute-!”

   The knob turned, snapped, and her door was once again opened with brute force. Thankfully, all the hinges remained in place, but her jaw dropped as the behemoth prick casually walked inside.

   She almost lost her towel from the shell shock. “Charon?! What the fuck?! What are you doing in here?!”

   He gave her a look, closed the door, and proceeded to walk upstairs to the workshop. The sound of scraping and metal clinking met her ears as she chased after him. That giant fucker was in her house, tinkering on a fucking gun.

   “Are you not going to tell me what the hell it is that you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

   His eyes flit over, annoyed, as he reached for the doorknob, and then he closed her own door in her face. The sounds of work continued, and she felt the tremendous urge to scream.

   Wadsworth fled from her room while she angrily pulled on her vault suit and stomped up to the saloon, not even taking the time to braid her hair or lace up her boots properly. The few patrons enjoying their early evening rounds all stared as she burst inside like a vengeful spirit.

   Gob saved a glass he had dropped from the sheer surprise.

   “We need to talk,” Evelyn demanded.

   They once again met in the back room, and the ghoul instinctively flinched from her wrathful aura, unused to being victim to her vicious temper.

   She threw her hands in the air, pacing around like a frantic madwoman. “What the hell is Charon doing in my house?! You took his contract! Did you send him back?!”

   “What? No, smoothskin,” Gob rasped uneasily. “He was sort of scaring away the customers... besides, it’s usually pretty slow around this time, so I told him he could go out whenever-”

   “Yeah, well, he broke my door and is acting like he still lives there!”

   Gob was unable to meet the blazing fury in her eyes, tilting his head down and rubbing at his neck. “Oh.” He eventually shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

   Her mouth opened, hung there stupidly, and then it slowly closed before a few bloatflies could swarm inside. What could he do? Order him to stay put? Become another Ahzrukhal, (or a Moriarty) have him on a short leash, cooped up in a bar, forced to live a certain life because of her insistence and meddling? She didn’t think Gob even knew how to demand something from someone, anyway.

   “I guess...nothing,” she said, the fire fizzing itself out. “Sorry. I’ll try and talk to him myself.”

   (Already a failed endeavor).

   She trudged away on lead-filled boots, not meeting the curious looks from everyone. The door was opened to a prefilled space of her nightmare of an annoyance. Charon stepped in, forcing her to step back before he ran her over. She maneuvered around him, his head slowly swiveling on his shoulders to eye her departure. She closed it on his unflinching 180 stare.

   She came to twist the knob to her house...it was locked. She blinked. He...fixed it? She tried again, putting a little weight into it. No budge. Her key was fished out from a very discreet place on her person (her bra, more precisely) and she didn’t bother securing it again lest he intrude whenever he apparently felt like it.

   The fridge had been wiped out of everything but the snack cakes. His clothes were in Wadsworth’s laundry bin. She snooped around upstairs- which, in itself, was utmost ridiculous- this was her house! A picked-apart gun was laid out on the bench, and judging by the thick odor killing her sense of smell, she determined it had been recently cleaned. The sound of her front door closing made her jump and quickly rush out, as though she had been intruding on something she had no business of getting in to (absurd!).

   Charon climbed the steps, and she met him at the top of the landing with what she hoped was a worthy scowl.

   “Okay, look, I get that I told you-”

   His fingers took hold of the zipper of her suit, and it made a loud zip as it flew to her crotch, a breast being whipped out into one gloved palm before his mouth came down to swallow her tongue. With one hand on her back, he ushered her into her room and closed the door.

   The change in hands came with its perks.

   He unshouldered her suit and shunted it off with her boots, ignoring her squeaks as he shoved her onto the bed. The entire frame wiggled as he grabbed both sides of her waist and slid her flush to him, one of his hands releasing his pent-up raging hard-on. It would be a lie if he told her he hadn’t been thinking of this the moment his contract had been liberated from her service.

   His glove rubbed the tip of his slimy, drooling cock, his eyes narrowed in on the sight of those glistening pink folds that he impatiently slipped a finger into. Her head slapped back into the bedding as her legs came up to squeeze him in a vice grip, the weak panting he induced from her lips nearly buckling him on top. The hot gush of liquid over his hand gave him the strange urge to fit another finger inside- it met with some resistance, and her hands flew down to grip his forearm as he squirmed it past, the silky interior clenching down as he fingered her.

   She had her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open, and the noises she cried (for once) extremely pleasant to listen to. His vision narrowed in on her hand as he witnessed her perform the most peculiar thing. Her own fingers rubbed at a spot just a little bit higher than his own, and he couldn’t help but stare at the glorified reaction it got.

   She blinked up at him rapidly, confused and flushed as to why he suddenly stopped. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

   He withdrew to replace her fingers. “What were you doing?”

   Her mouth snapped shut, her entire face bled bright red, and she gaped at him with something along the lines of mortification.

   “Um...” she stammered, “my...uh...you don’t know what a clitoris is?”

   He stared. 

   “It’s like...a sweet spot?” she offered.

   He nodded. “Very well.”

   He caught a brief hint of that annoyed fucking expression she had before he began to rub it himself- what felt like a little, smooth bead catching between the rough texture of his ghoulified fingertips. She was much more generous with the cursing of his name, her toes curling at his sides and her other hand blindly grasping out for his cock.

   He swiftly indulged her with a fat push of the stiff muscle, the lips of her cunt stretched tight as he stabbed inside. A grunt escaped him while she mewled high and loud, and he forewent her ‘sweet spot’ in favor of fucking her fast and heavy with a fierce hold on her hips. The metal bedframe rattled obnoxiously as he pumped away, his breathing growing labored as her frantic prayers melted into intoxicating encouragements. The tight grip she had on him stuttered a growl in the pit of his chest as he felt himself grow too close much too soon, his eyes glued to her bouncing tits.

   “Fuck, Charon, yes, fuck.”

   Her words brought him to the edge, and as a last-ditch effort to keep himself from coming, he leaned over to smash his mouth to her own, his hands wrapping underneath the soft skin of her back to hold her close.

   It was here.

   He gave a few, quick, shallow thrusts before spilling as deep as he could go, her pussy milking him for everything he was worth. Her tongue still licked at him as he waited, unmoving, for his load to finish. He pulled off and stumbled a few steps back to grab at a folded shirt to wipe himself with. Being considerate, he tossed it at her to clean the oozing mess between her thighs before he left for the bar.

   The saloon was empty save for his employer wiping down the counter, glancing up as he came forward.

   “Uh,” Gob began awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the relationship between them. “You don’t have to watch the bar, no one ever tries anything...” Neither moved, and Gob scratched at his head. “You, you can stay upstairs in the spare room, or-”

   “I do not sleep.”

   “Oh. Sorry.” Gob appeared genuinely troubled. “Then what do you do?”

   “Whatever my employer requires.”

   “...right.”

   The door opened, and the smoothskin he had just fucked silly came inside, her face still ruddy and a barely susceptible limp in her step.

   “Hey,” she said a little thickly to his employer, not meeting his eyes for longer than a moment before she blushed. “I need to buy some food.”

   “The usual?”

   She nodded. “Sure.”

   Gob disappeared under the counter as she unshouldered a new pack. A few cans and a couple of boxes were crammed inside.

   His employer took her caps. “Where are you headed this time? Not going to wait until morning, at least?”

   “Up north,” she replied vaguely. She once again stole a look at him, then left. “Thanks.”

   “Crazy smoothskin,” Gob muttered under his breath. He resumed cleaning up, and Charon followed her.

   She was just outside the bar, her gaze focused on the railing that had been fixed with some rope and a sun-bleached strand of caution tape. Her head slowly broke away to blink at him.

   “Did you know?” she whispered.

   He did. “Yes.” The stripped screws had made it obvious to someone who knew what they were looking for.

   “Does that make me a bad person?”

   He did not know...not anymore. He didn’t reply, but instead unclipped the sheath holding his blade. It was held out for her.

   She looked at it, and then carefully began to take it before his grip tightened, forcing her to meet his eyes.

   “Bring it back,” he instructed.

   She scoffed, her mood instantly turning bitter. She let go. “Then you might as well just fucking keep it.”

   He brought her hand up to take hold of it again. “Bring. It. Back.” With a simple nod of his head, she finally slipped away from him.

   "Um...okay." She looked him over, at once awkward and shy. "Thanks...big guy."

   He watched her walk past the gates until the void of the wasteland swallowed her whole.

Partnerships

   It was as the old adage goes- nothing good happens after midnight. Well, whoever had sprouted such nonsense clearly never imagined living in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Nothing good happened no matter the hour.

   The dark was so thick she could saw the big guy’s knife into it for a little tasty snack (that he would probably end up eating, anyway). She tripped over her own foot more than once, squeaked at the nightlife sounds of certain impending death (which so happened to be a molerat fart), and scurried along the dirt roads that were the same as they always had been- dangerous. 

   The bed had simply felt too empty, too big, an entire ocean to swim in with the vast nothingness just below the surface. A stranger dwelling in her own sheets, sticky and wet with not just herself, but of someone else, too. She had listened for the sounds of the door to open, and it had made her feel unwelcome in her own home- she didn’t want to wait for him to return, swimming out in that big blue to only leave again, a single head bobbing along the tide.

   Bring it back.

   That’s what he had said.

   Bring. It. Back.

   She nestled herself in a shoddy shelter made of metal sheets and wrapped her scruffy, thin blanket around her shoulders, sipping on some water and loudly chewing some food as she admired it under that ugly Pip-Boy light. It felt like a sleeping viper, coiled in her hands, the cold metal lifeless and just as deadly. Nonetheless, she cradled it close- keep it warm, don’t disturb (watch out, be careful), it bites. The illumination was too harsh, casting it under a foul glow, but even so, she ran the pad of her thumb along it, rethinking the words he had told her, the heat of his hands-

   She cut herself.

   “Ow,” she mumbled, holding the minor oopsie close to inspect the damage. A swell of blood so dark it appeared black streaked down the length of her vault suit after she wiped it away. Some snake charmer she was.

   It replaced the bedside company of her old teddy (that she hadn’t slept with in over a decade). A child’s toy dethroned by a cut of steel that’s sunk in more men’s throats than she could ever imagine, but it gets tucked in, handle on the pillow, a whispered ‘good night’, all the same. It gets a name- Sterling.

   (She’ll never tell him that).

   Northwest Seneca station was, for once, met with a brightened disposition and cheery tune at her lips. An extremely faded and staticky radio station had been discovered by pure accident whilst she had been fiddling with some knobs, the tunes barely distinguishable and the radio host completely unintelligible…she wished there was a way to make the broadcast clearer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

   A pile of bodies was the first thing to greet her in the plaza square, just as the wind had picked up and slammed a rancid hammer of air directly in her face. She gagged, attempted to keep her stomach down, and failed, miserably. A hesitant peek and slow shuffle of boots brought her closer to the wasteland’s newest (and most certainly not last) fatalities. It was hard to discern where one body began and…well…she was sure there was more than one, unless someone used to walk around with five hands. (Which wouldn’t be too surprising, all things considered). The bloated flesh, the signs of necrosis, and the absolutely horrible horrible smell deterred her from inspecting any longer, not even to collect some of the gear that looked leagues better than her own, but she wasn’t about to go and peel off the sticky ligaments and muscle from it. With much more hesitance, she crept down to the dank underground and came to quietly knock at the hermit ghouls’ doorstep. It opened to Barrett’s face barely visible amidst the shadowy backdrop.

   “Oh…it’s the smoothskin.” The door was widened. “Murphy’s in the back.”

   “Smoothskin- smoothskin-” Said chem-peddling ghoul nearly barreled from the other room, his glasses wrapped in thick strands of duct tape and left cheek sunken in. He startled her with his aggressive approach, forcing her against the side of his desk. “We need to renegotiate our terms- double the quota, half the price.”

   Evelyn was still partially recovering from the initial sight of him before her brain processed the words completely. Her look of shock turned into bewilderment.  “Half!? What! Do you know how hard it is to-”

   “No time like the present, smoothskin,” he interrupted, already reaching for their safety net of caps to pay her with. “You want to do business? Then let’s do business.”

   She didn’t unshoulder her bag and instead dumbly looked around, the mental image of the pile of corpses somehow rotting inside her nose. “Did you like get robbed-?”

   “Ahzrukhal,” he rasped, hooking a thumb in her pack to unzip it himself. (He ignored her indignant hey!) “Guy came with his dog- that ghoul you asked about- beat us within an inch of our lives. He’s put us in a tight spot, and you know what they say about shit-” he waited a moment, and then finished with, “-it rolls downhill.”

   She let him finagle the Sugar Bombs free before she dropped her bag on the table. “Ahzrukhal’s dead. Charon shot him…I saw it myself.”

   The words hung in the air, and then Murphy removed his glasses with a shaky hand.

   “…you’re not messing with us, are you?” he rasped quietly.

   Barrett cleared his throat, and now that she turned her head to properly study him, she could see the still fading memory of a brutal beatdown…signature Charon-style.

   “That would explain the late shipment,” he concurred.

   “Charon doesn’t work for him anymore,” Evelyn lamely explained. “He’s in Megaton, now.”

   A small heh left Murphy’s mouth, and then he disappeared into the back room. Before she could follow, a jarring commotion of equipment sent flying strung with violent cursing made her freeze in place.  

   “That’s just fucking fan-tastic!” Murphy yelled after coming back inside, but judging by the cynical tone of his voice and the wild sneer in his eye, it was obvious it was anything but. A Bunsen burner was launched into space by a smack of his hand. “Now what the hell are we supposed to do?!”

   “Murph,” Barrett attempted calmly. He nudged his head towards their frightened guest.

   “Who the hell are we supplying?” Murphy continued unapologetically. “Huh?! I got my teeth knocked out, and for what?!” The question seemed to run off the last bit of steam, for he plunked into a chair with his head in his hands.

   Evelyn crossed her arms. “Why not deal in Underworld yourself?” she offered, but the absolute scathing look Murphy gave her made her withdraw her suggestion with a purse of her lips.

   Barrett stepped into her line of sight beside his downtrodden partner. “Barrows doesn’t appreciate the chems we supply.”

   “Barrows? I don’t think I met him.”

   “He’s the ‘mayor’,” Murphy grumbled, “so they say.”

   “I mean, you have people there who buy.” She shrugged, attempting to placate the situation with all the shrewd barter experience she was years off from ever having. “Isn’t there someone else who could deal instead?”

   “You really need the caps that bad, huh?” The implication of his statement made her bristle.

   “No.” A lie. Big guy was probably chewing on her walls at this point. “I mean, well…" She stamped her foot. "Look, I’m just trying to help!”

   “Help…huh…?” The scientist shared a telepathic message with his companion, then got to his feet. “Okay, smoothskin. You looking to make a deal?”

   A tight ball of nerves formed in her belly. Whatever it was, she was sure to get suckered in…and nothing good ever came of her noble intentions, yet.

   It had been a long night.

   He had left the bar repeatedly to enter her home. He had sat on the edge of her bed (the metal frame groaned considerably under his weight) and rummaged through her assorted collection of books. Nothing had been read. A bath had been drawn, and the rest of the (two-thirds) scented salts had been used. The Mister Handy had washed his clothes. He had sewn a few holes he never had the time (or luxury) to tend to. He had replaced the hinges on the downstairs locker to cease its squealing. The bedframe had been greased to quieten its protests. He had cleaned her pistol that she did not take. Her tired leathers had been given new life with a generous oiling and patient stitching.

   He blamed it on lack of instruction. Ahzrukhal had ordered him to stand in the corner, be quiet, keep watch over the bar from these filthy miscreants. 

   Gob gave no such direction. Told him to…take a break, room’s just down the hall, ergh, let me know if you need something.