Author's Note:
The title of this story comes from the opening stanza of the Pinsky translation of Dante's Inferno.
This story is a continuation of a previous story, The Cost of Redemption - two first-person monologues, which I intended to be one-shots. Read them before you read this, because there's brief references to it.
Being a continuation of The Cost of Redemption, this story is a series of first-person monologues, LW and Charon.
Maleficent begged me to make her a more well-rounded character, and I had no choice but to capitulate.
Please follow the story if you like it; I'll be uploading chapters on a regular basis - if it's not marked complete, then I'm not done yet!
Enjoy.
Maleficent
I take another swallow of purified water, wishing it was liquor. The whisky makes the Darkness go away. Or, makes it retreat, rather – it never really leaves. Now I have to learn how to control it on my own. Well, not entirely. He's still here.
I glance over; see his outline in the dark. We travel at night a lot – both for the stealth, and because I've always felt at home in the dark. I grew up in a hole in the ground – no wonder.
Good thing is, I'm not drunk all the time now. I still smoke a lot, but hey – you only live once, right? Well, unless you're Hindu, I guess. Poor fuckers – if I thought I'd have to live another life, I'd have ended this one a long time ago.
Maybe I'd be born wired right next time.
Maybe not.
I asked Charon what he thought about religion once, after getting cornered by that goofy priest in Rivet City. He'd spread his arms wide, "If there were a god, why the fuck do I look like this?" Good point. I've always felt put together wrong – I feel pleasure in pain. Whether it's myself or someone else, it makes little difference. I drink it in; devour it like a starving dog on a Brahmin steak. What kind of god would create someone like that?
Yeah, I'd say we both have a fair amount of self-hate. It's good to have things in common.
He'd managed to draw me out, get me out of the suite. Get me away from the liquor, really – he likes me better sober. I'm less likely to carve myself up when I'm sober. The numbness makes the Darkness go away, but I can't feel. I bleed, I am alive, see? I told him one time. His face said it all – a puzzling mix of disgust and empathy. He said nothing; picked me up, held me against his chest – I never did it again after that.
So we left. I stopped drinking; had the Doc flush that shit out. It's still hard, though – the meds only treat the physical addiction – the mental part is up to you. I'd begun to love the taste; the burn – the warmth in my stomach, cares melting away. Best not to think about that.
I was weak when we first started out. I'd spent too much time bitching and moaning, drunk off my ass. He'd had to redistribute the weight in the packs – which made me feel like shit; I'm sure he knew. I insisted on carrying the last slave collar I'd picked up – a souvenir, a reminder of what I was. I soak up guilt like Charon soaks up radiation.
I wish some raiders would show up, and then I can let the Darkness out.
It's hard being good. Most satisfaction I get is killing bad people – but they're more of a challenge, I guess, so it evens out. Plus, nobody cares if I take my time, playing with them like a kid tearing wings off a fly. They've done worse to other people, I'm sure.
We're headed to Evergreen Mills. While I was busy being sloshed, Charon fixed my reservist's rifle. It looks brand spankin' new. I can't wait to perch up on the cliffs and try it out. I got plenty of ammo, and plenty of patience.
"Look alive. Two o'clock." A red blip popped up on my screen. No – three.
Crouching behind a boulder, I peer through my scope to get a better look. Raiders. Sitting in the dark, probably taking their last rest before they hoof it back to Evergreen Mills with whatever shit they managed to strip off some poor soul who had the misfortune to cross their path.
"Merry Christmas to me." Charon shoots me a squint-eyed glance – the one he does when he's not entirely sure what I mean. "Wait here." I whisper. "I wanna have a little fun."
He raises his eyebrows.
"That's an order."
He nods his head; grunts.
Showtime.
