Chapter Text
“Charon just killed Ahzrukhal!”
The exclamation, whispered or shouted, whirls around me as all hell breaks loose. Ghouls fleeing the room, others struck dumb with fear and frozen in place, covering their heads in a pathetic attempt to shield themselves. Still others are running towards the Ninth Circle and halting right outside, the noise increasing as a crowd gathers.
As all this happens, Charon and I are facing each other, the only two still elements in all the chaos. His arms are by his sides, an unthreatening posture, but after spending a few days fighting with him, I know just how deadly he can be without a weapon in hand.
He's waiting, as if he thinks I'm going to pull a gun on him myself. But I'm not a goddamn idiot, and if he's killed both of his most recent masters, I'm not going to give him a reason to kill me too. I am, however, horrified, sad, scared, and beyond all, pissed off. I don't know how to react to this, that murder of a friend in cold blood, so I reset to default.
Anger.
“What the fuck was that?” I snarl, stalking over to his side.
Charon doesn't flinch at my reaction. He only says, “Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded. But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you.”
I stab a finger at his chest, and I note how he represses an automatic movement in his left arm, potentially a reflexive block or even an attack. “He was my friend, you big dumb fuckwad!”
“He was evil,” Charon repeats. “You do not know of the things he commanded me to do.”
My fists clench. “You're insane.”
He says, “We should go.”
“What, before you fucking get lynched? Or banned from Underworld? Fuck you, Charon.” I pinch the bridge of my nose for a few seconds, thinking quickly, and then breathe in. I'm the Hero of the Wastes. If nothing else, at least I have my reputation to help us out.
“What the hell is going on?”
And, the first of them shows up. I turn wearily, seeing the first ghoul who welcomed me into Underworld—Winthrop, the town's mechanic, and I suppose head of security, since he's in charge of maintaining Cerberus.
“Ahzrukhal is dead,” I announce curtly. “There's five thousand caps near the body. Please take that and use it as compensation for damages and for the funeral.”
“And Charon?” the ghoul says, his mouth tightening.
“I've got his contract. If it's alright with you, I'm going to take him with me. Unless you believe that some sort of punishment is in order?” I really hope not. What on earth would they want to do? Kill him? Cut off a hand? Lock him up for one hundred years?
But Winthrop only shakes his head. “Doctor Barrows is the mayor, technically, but I don't think anyone will say anything if Charon walks free. Ahzrukhal... well... there would probably be justification for what Charon did to him.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. Damn. I knew the guy was crooked, but still. What on earth could piss Charon off that much? Did he make him kill someone? Torture, murder, and worse... Could it be that the only reason Ahzrukhal knew he'd done those things was because he asked him to?
Winthrop kneels by the body, and I make an impatient gesture to Charon. “Come on, jackass, you're coming with me. And don't kill anyone else in Underworld, okay?”
“As you wish,” Charon says.
I swing by Carol's Place, fuming mad; I throw open the door and shout, “Hey, Carol! Congratulations, business is about to boom.”
Greta throws me a dirty look, especially when she sees how much breast I'm showing. Goddamn jealous lesbian bitch.
“Carol's busy,” she snaps.
“Nonsense,” Carol says, rushing around the corner. She wipes her hands on a rose-printed apron. “I was just washing dishes. Is there something going on? I thought I heard a commotion...”
She trails off, staring at Charon.
I jerk my thumb backwards. Okay, here goes. “I bought that guy, he blew Ahzrukhal's brains out. Don't cry about it, though, he tried to get me to kill Greta a few minutes ago.”
“Wh... what?” Her eyes are wide and frightened. Certainly not what she was expecting to hear.
“Real asshole,” I agree, “even if he was a good bartender.”
“It was my contract that you purchased,” Charon reminds me quietly, “not me.”
A momentary silence. Carol's watery blue eyes glance between us, and then she whispers, “Helena, I don't know what on earth possessed you to purchase his contract, but the first moment you can, you must sell it.”
I scoff. “After all this trouble?”
“He's dangerous.”
“Ma'am,” I say, “I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. Now, do you have any letters for Gob? He doesn't have any time to write anything back, but he got your mail and was very pleased that you wrote so much to him. He says to tell you that he misses you too, and that he's doing well.”
“Such a good girl,” Carol murmurs, distracted. She gives Charon a wary glance, and then focuses on me, putting it out of her mind. Guess it's easier to leave difficult things for later. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a sworn enemy and competitor for over fifty years, suddenly dead--right after he'd tried to have her girlfriend killed. “Thank you. Yes, I have more letters for him... give me a moment to find them.”
She rushes away, and I take advantage of the time by looking through Charon's contract. The lettering is so faint because of the bloodstains, I can barely read it; I catch various phrases such as, the contract-holder... to the best of subject's ability...clause a: subject is unable to perform certain tasks, such as...
Charon clears his throat. “A part of the contract is my ability to recite the document upon command.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Will.. will you do so?”
His eyes glaze over as he says, “The subject within the contract, s. number oh-five-six-two-nine, is permanently bound and conditioned to follow each and every order of the contract-holder, within the spirit of the command and not necessarily the letter. The subject is classified, according to law, as a lethal weapon and any laws broken by the contract-holder are the responsibility of the contract-holder and theirs alone. The subject is required to fulfill all demands at the best of subject's ability, regardless of weather, risk, pain, or any other potential deterrents.
“Objective: subject will protect the contract-holder from any and all threats (robbery, assassination attempts, psychological attacks, inclimate weather being a fraction of potential examples) with speed and subtlety.
“Clause a: subject is unable to perform certain tasks, such as any paradoxical or impossible demands that the contract-holder might have. Example: subject will not attempt to speak French if subject is not fluent in French.
“Clause b: subject has the right to refuse meaningless or menial tasks. Example: subject will not make a triple chocolate mochiatto every morning. Disclaimer: subject may do so by choice.
“Clause c: orders by contract-holder may not supercede any of the clauses nor the primary objective.
“Clause d: physical violence violates the contract. The contract-holder may not order the subject to kill themselves, nor is the contract-holder allowed to order the subject to remain still while being killed.
“Clause e: subject is required to sustain its own life, even at the cost of others, aside from the contract-holder. Subject must stay in good health and will make all efforts to remain uninjured, at the cost of others, aside from the contract-holder.
“Clause f: subject-”
“Here it is,” Carol says, returning. I tear my eyes away from Charon, my mouth hanging open, and shake myself.
“O-oh. Thanks, Carol. Is that everything?”
“Yes, dearie. Please stay safe.” She squeezes me in a hug and adds, “Don't forget what I told you about him, either.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I say obediently. I hug her back, holding back a smirk when I notice Greta glaring daggers. Freaking lesbians. Maybe she'll be a little bit nicer when she finds out that I was offered a reward for killing her and opted not to. “Alright, Charon, let's go. You have anything you need to get?”
“I own nothing,” he says, “but anything I have with me is yours.”
“Huh,” I say. Kinda creepy, but, sure. “Alright, then, what have you got?”
He rattles off a list of things, from his shotgun and armor all the way down to his underwear. I feel my face heat up and he stares at me impassively. “Uh... okay... I guess that's fine for now...”
“Very well.”
I hurry down the stairs, hiding my red face from him. Geez. For a guy who gets all weird about sensitive stuff like that, he sure isn't caring about it now. Is that just because of the contract?
“Hey,” I say, once we're in the metro. “Am I allowed to give you the contract? You know, for safe-keeping?”
“It is allowed,” he agrees, “as long as you are willing to entrust it to me. All your rights to commanding me will remain intact.”
I hand it over and he takes a minute to secure it to an inner pocket of his shirt.
“Take care of it,” I say. “If anyone even comes close to touching that thing, knock them unconscious and bring them to me.”
“It will be as you command,” Charon says.
“Good,” I say. It gives me a kind of spiteful pleasure to have him at my beck and call, although I have to admit that there's definitely a difference in how he's treating me. Not sure what it is, what gives it away. Is he looking at me less than usual? Is he being less sarcastic?
I have Charon with me, I own him, and he's never going to leave me or disobey me. But why is it that now that I have him, this unapproachable man seems even more distant than before?
We walk to Megaton together, more or less uneventfully. I'm alarmed when we pass by the one raider camp I always avoid, and he whips out his shotgun and is looking down the barrel at the raiders below.
“Charon!” I hiss. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“They are a danger to you,” he says quietly, aiming.
“They don't even see us!”
He hesitates. “I am more than capable of killing them all as well as protecting you.”
“Hah. You think so? Okay, fine, but I'm joining you.” My M1 Garand is in my hands already. I hope this helps work some tension out of my system.
“That is acceptable provided you do not put yourself in any significant danger,” Charon says. “What would you like me to do?”
I scan the raider camp. Shitty place to set up, really. They're just below us, about fifty yards away down a steep hill. You never set up in an open area. Although they probably thought they'd be safe, since there's four of them. Only two of them have guns though.
“I've got the girl with the pink buzzcut. You get the asshole in the leather jacket. On my mark. One... two... three.” Our shots both hit our marks, and the raiders fall; a piece of buckshot catches a nearby raider in the arm and he roars.
“Shit, Psycho,” I say, noting the saliva dripping from his mouth. “Kill that fucker!”
Charon grunts in acknowledgment and drops him in three more shots. He takes a moment to reload; the last raider is hiding behind the cover of a massive pre-War farming machine, so I decide to press ahead. I leap forward and slide down the hill, my soft-soled leather boots smooth enough to let my weight take me the whole way. The weight of my M1 nearly knocks me down, though, and I end up sprawled at the bottom.
“Helena!”
“Come out and fight me, bitch!” I ignore Charon's alarmed shout and stand up unsteadily. “I will end you!”
The raider growls and stalks around the side of the tractor; he's a huge fat man with steel armor and armed with nothing but a crowbar.
“Motherfucker,” I curse, and shoot, but he's already halfway through his swing and my shot goes wide. Shit. I can hear Charon swearing up a storm and he takes a few rapid shots at the raider, but most of the buckshot sinks into the raider's armor. The rest of it sprays around us, a single piece finding its way into my own fucking arm. Hurts like a bitch and it's enough to make me gasp and nearly drop my rifle.
“Motherfucker!” I shriek, dodging another earth-shattering crowbar strike. “You trying to kill me too?”
Charon snarls something and his next shot on target—the raider topples and the crowbar falls beside him with a dull thud.
“You goddamn idiot!” Charon roars, sprinting down the hill. He kneels by my side, his eyes blazing. “What the hell were you trying to do?”
I grin weakly, holding onto my throbbing arm. “You know my name?”
“What?” Charon snaps, and then shakes his head impatiently. “Helena. Yes.”
“You've never said it before. I kinda thought that you didn't know my name.”
Charon's jaw tightens and he takes a second to glare at the sky, evidently taking a moment so that he isn't tempted to hit me. “I figured that 'drunkard' or 'woman' would be inappropriate to use with my employer. Shall I go back to using one of those?”
“No, no,” I say, still smiling. “Helena is just fine.”
“Listen,” Charon growls. “I am your bodyguard. Leave the close combat to me.”
“But,” I say, “I'm so good at it.”
Charon ignores my comment, instead preferring to check me over. I gaze up into his eyes, a little overcome that he's paying so much attention to me, but he doesn't notice. He's muttering under his breath, then says, “What happened to those two pistols you had before?”
“I sold them in order to buy you,” I say sweetly.
“You did not buy me,” he says through gritted teeth. “You purchased the contract. What were you thinking, running out into the wasteland with only a long-range weapon?”
“I was thinking that you would protect me,” I retort. “Instead you shot me. Isn't that against your beloved contract of yours?”
“No,” he says, jabbing a finger at me. “Don't you dare try to use that against me. I can hardly carry out my primary objective if you're actively working to stop me. That's your own goddamn fault.”
I pout. “So you're not even going to help me bandage my wound?”
“You did not bring any stimpaks?” he asks in disbelief.
“I forgot them,” I confess. “I was pretty drunk when I left.”
Charon sighs, and without another word he tears a strip off of the hem of his shirt. He hesitates, then looks at me in pained exasperation.
“What?” I say.
“I, ah... I need you to remove your jacket.”
I look down at myself. Shit. Amidst all the conflict, I'd forgotten what I was wearing. My breasts are nearly popping out of the bra, and my chest is sweaty and streaked with dirt. And, of course, due to dear Nova's suggestion, I'm not wearing anything on top except for the bra and the jacket.
On second thought, maybe I don't need bandaging after all... I'm a busty girl, but that's because I eat exclusively Fancy Lad Snack Cakes. I'm not fat, it's impossible to walk and fight as much as I do and be overweight, but I haven't got a flat belly. I haven't particularly cared until this moment.
I imagine Nova's indignation if I let this chance pass by though.
Charon says impatiently, “Your modesty is charming, but if you want me to take care of this...”
Shit. I clumsily undo the pin holding my zipper in place, and then turn away from him to unzip it. My face has gone red again. Calm down. You saw him shirtless too, didn't you? And it's not as if he's really going to think anything of-
I flinch and nearly let out a tiny squeak as his fingertips touch my bare skin—he helps me out of one arm of the jacket, then drapes the loose part over my shoulder to keep as much of me covered as possible. My cheeks flush at his gentleness. My mind goes blank.
“Did the bullet exit?” he asks.
I check the other side of my arm. “Yes.”
His hands are calloused, but there's nothing about them that would differentiate him between ghoul or human, if one were to go by touch alone. I close my eyes. If he goes about touching me any longer, I might start to think that-
“Ack! Jesus fucking Christ!” I snarl, as Charon ties the bandage. “You're supposed to stop the bleeding, not make a goddamn tourniquet!”
“Do you want it to be effective?” he growls.
“Yeah.”
“Then that's how tight it has to be.”
I tenderly poke at the bandaging. It's stupid, but something inside me is secretly thrilled—the cloth is still warm from his skin. I disguise my pleasure by busying myself with my jacket.
Charon says, “I think you should go back to your old armor.”
I glare at him, pinning the zipper in place. “Why?”
“You may not have been injured if you had been wearing something thicker.”
Dammit. Yes, he's right, but that's just one less tool I can use to try to catch his attention.
“It's more comfortable,” I insist.
“Traveling light is advisable,” he says. “I agree. If you have excess supplies, I will carry them for you, if that's the trade-off.”
I let out a disappointed sigh. “Fine.”
At this rate, Charon's never going to see the matching panties.
“Good morning, madam,” Wadsworth says as I open the door. “I see you have brought a guest.”
“Actually,” I say, “he's going to be living with us from now on.”
“Very well,” Wadsworth says. The robot whirrs for a moment, registering him in the database, then says, “Er... Madam, you do realize that you only have one bed?”
I flush. Stupid. I'm not even prepared for the slightest thing. “Oh, uhm... I didn't think about that. Charon, I guess you can sleep in my bed for now, I'm fine with the sofa-”
“That will be unnecessary,” Charon interrupts. “I do not sleep.”
“...what?” He can't be serious.
Charon continues, “I have lost consciousness before, due to injuries during combat, but I do not sleep nor have any need of rest.”
“That's insane,” I say in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?”
“I will not lie to you,” he says.
I bite my lip. He's a liar. One of the last things Ahzrukhal had said to me... before, you know, getting shot in the fucking head.
“Well, why?” I ask.
“I would tell you if I knew. An effect of the conditioning? Perhaps some sort of mutation specific to myself alone? There are ghouls who only need to sleep for one hour, although I am the only one I know to be incapable.”
I cross my arms. “That's unhealthy.”
“I have found no ill effects,” he says.
“Doesn't mean there aren't any. Okay, here's an order for you: you have to lay down on the sofa and close your eyes for at least one hour every night.”
Charon looks affronted. “That is pointless.”
“It'll put less stress on your heart,” I say, “as well as improve circulation. Closing your eyes will help relax your mind as well.”
Charon grumbles and I shush him. “My dad is a doctor. I studied under him during my free time. I do know a few things, Chare.”
“Charon,” he corrects. “Unless you want to rename me.”
I hesitate. Rename him? Again, absolutely creepy. To think that I'd have the choice of doing something so controlling... “No. Why don't you like nicknames?”
He only stares at me and I give up. “Alright, fine. By the way, what was your name before Ahzrukhal changed it?”
“My previous name is irrelevant.”
“Not unless you liked it better.”
“I do not have a preference,” he says dryly, “but Charon is a better name than some of the things that I have been called over the years.”
“I imagine,” I say. I wonder what his first name might have been, after he was ghoulified and picked up by his first post-War contract-holder. They must have been especially rude back then, with so little being known about ghouls, and with the ferals just starting to run amok.
Charon is looking around. “Where are your stimpaks?”
I shrug. “Beats me.”
The ghoul only sighs as we both look over the apartment. Despite Wadsworth's cleaning, I have a tendency towards hoarding... which means that things clutter the entire area. Books on shelves, cute knick-knacks that I've found, expensive jewelry recovered from ancient corpses, and multiple sets of clothing, mostly armor. Vault 101 jumpsuits and a security uniform, three complete sets of clothing from Talon mercenaries, and a mish-mash of comfortable pre-War clothes that I'd picked out of dressers. Then there's the guns and ammo, and the scotch.
As much as Charon gripes about my alcoholism, I can tell that even he is impressed when he approaches the glass cabinet that houses the bottles—or, as I call it, my 'alcohol altar'. I have vintages from any number of years back, some of them from recent years, brought down by caravans from the north, but most being my favorite brands: Johnnie Walker, Talisker, Glenfiddich. I hoard the good stuff and pull them out during celebration or sometimes on the first day of my period, when I drink myself into a stupor while laying in the fetal position.
“This is very unhealthy,” Charon finally says.
“Shut up, I saw you admiring them.”
He doesn't reply and says, “Mightn't your robot know?”
“What, where I put my shit? No, he just cleans up messes. I don't like it when people organize my things.”
“Ah,” Charon says grimly.
I appraise him. “I hope you're not a neat freak, Chare.”
“Your habits will be respected by me,” he says dutifully.
Huh. I was kind of thinking he would argue about the epithet again. Maybe he's getting used to it.
I roll my shoulders. I stink like booze and sweat. “Wadsworth, we get any rain up here recently?”
“If you are inquiring about the hot water, there should be a suitable amount,” my robot butler says.
“Thanks,” I say, and head upstairs.
One of the biggest things I've missed since leaving the Vault was hot showers. So, with some of the scrap metal and spare piping I'd begged off of Walter, I managed to fashion a hot water heater that sits right on top of my house. It collects rainwater, and is heated automatically from the burning sun in the spray-painted black tank. It can hold about fifty gallons, which is perfect for a small bath. Better yet, since it doesn't need a power source, it's easy to maintain. Since the piping leads directly into my bedroom, I don't even need a pump to draw out the water.
The only downside is that the water cools down to lukewarm during the night, but warm water is still better than risking a freezing-cold dip in the highly radioactive Potomac.
Charon follows me to the foot of the stairs, watching me suspiciously.
“I'm going to take a bath,” I call down to him from my bedroom, closing the door. “You're welcome to what's left of the water afterwards.”
I smirk as I stand naked above the steaming water, dumping essence of lavender into the bath. Ghouls have a bad sense of smell, but even Charon'll be able to smell this on me when I'm done.
He clears his throat from outside the door. “What will you have me do while I wait?”
Is it just me, or does his voice sound a little husky?
I grin. I'm sure it's just my imagination, but I'm fine with pretending. “Whatever you want,” I say. “Look around, eat something, crack open a bottle of Port Ellen? Scope out a new dark corner to sulk in?
“Or,” I add, dropping my voice a little, “you can stay outside the door and talk to me.”
Charon's sigh is audible, even as I step into the water. “If it is conversation you desire, then that is what I shall provide. It is a part of the contract.”
“Gross,” I say. “Then go away, do something else.”
He says, “I will continue to look for stimpaks.”
I drop my head back into the water, irritated. Well, that's no fun. He's forced to talk to me? I want him to talk because he wants to, not because of that dumb piece of paper.
My attention turns to the strip of linen on my left arm. Carefully, I tease open the knot and unwind it. Unfortunately I've bled on it a good bit, but it's the first thing that he's ever given me. I wonder...
I blush and I look around quickly, even though I know there's no one in here with me. Then I hold the fabric up to my nose and sniff. Leather and sweat, the smell of rot and sickness. I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping that Charon was vain enough to wear cologne, but I guess as a slave he's not privy to such luxuries.
He's a ghoul, I tell myself, folding the linen and tossing it at my bed. It unfurls before it gets close and drops to the floor. You'd better get used to the smell.
I spend extra time scraping my skin clean, until all of me looks fresh and pink, going as far as to scrub the lint out of in between my toes. My long brown hair floats in the water behind me, stripped of the grease and muck of the tunnels.
I let out a long breath. I'd forgotten how relaxing baths were. Almost as good as draining a whole bottle of scotch after a long day, and falling asleep in my bed.
I'm disappointed that Charon can't sleep. I won't ever get to spy on him resting, won't get to see what sort of face he makes when he's relieved of all cares and tension. I won't be to startle him awake ever either, which sounds like a lot of fun.
“Helena,” Charon says.
I scowl. “Oh, you're back again? What is it?”
“I found a stimpak. It was in a basket filled with heroin and ecstasy. Do you have any other habits you would like to tell me about?” he rumbles.
I roll my eyes. “I collect it, okay? That shit's stuff raiders would die for. So I figure anytime I find it, I might as well take it back home with me.”
“Well, you have enough to kill the whole town.”
“Okay, so just don't do that and we won't have any problems, okay? Jesus.” I sit up, shivering as my breasts react to the cold air. “Just roll it under the door.”
There's a pause, then he says, “It won't fit.”
“Don't be a pussy, just shove it through.”
He growls, “So you want it to get stuck?”
“No. Goddammit.” I grab a towel and wrap my hair, then haul myself out of the water. “Fine, just hold onto it for now.”
“That's what I was intending to do. Aren't you decent yet?”
“Uhm, no,” I say, my panties half-way up my legs. “You're so impatient. Haven't you ever waited on a woman before?”
“Rarely,” he says. “I have had few female employers, and never for long.”
“Huh. They probably got too annoyed with your dumb ass and sold you off the first chance they got.”
“Occasionally,” he says. “Others were killed, and others betrayed. I have changed hands within a week before.”
“How long do you think I'll last?” I ask, pulling a studded leather vest over my head. More raider chic, as Nova calls it. I got this one off a girl raider myself, actually. I like it because it covers my entire chest but leaves my arms bare. Nova will be mad that I've stopped showing off my cleavage, but enough is enough, especially if Charon is griping about it.
“I am not sure,” he replies. “Your drunkenness and foolishness would suggest a short amount of time, but your skill with a gun may keep you alive for a year or three, depending on how much you allow me to protect you.”
I make a face. Really? He's that unimpressed with me? “I was hoping that you'd at least give me a decade. I sort of want to know what being thirty feels like. Maybe even forty or fifty. You know, if Jericho can live to be sixty-five, then I should be able to live for awhile!”
“Jericho?”
“A friend of mine. Sort of. He's a lot like me, you'll definitely hate him.” I open the door and Charon takes me in, his eyes moving down from my wet hair, flushed cheeks, and bare feet. But I can't tell what sort of effect it has on him, because he only hands me the stimpak and looks at the bath.
“It is your request that I clean myself?” he asks reluctantly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I've been having to breathe in your zombie smell all the way from Underworld.” I point. “Bath. Now.”
He throws me a dirty look and closes the door. There's a slight pause, and then I hear the sound of clicks and thuds, practiced hands pulling open buckles and letting pieces fall to the floor. My ears go hot and I feel my body pulse. Damn, not good. I hurry away. I will not listen to him undress, I will not be a pervert, I will not be a pervert, I will not...
I repeat my mantra silently, hurrying downstairs and throwing open the doors to my alcohol altar. I just need to get myself extremely fucked up and forget that he's up there, is all.
Easy.
...yeah, right. I lower myself onto the sofa and take a gulp of cheap booze. Something tells me that this is going to be a real long day.