Hello out there! Anyone still use this site?
This story was originally posted on Archiveofourown, but since most of the Fallout3 fanfiction, especially concerning f!LW/Charon, is over here on FF, I figured I'd cross-post. If you want to check me out on AO3 (the only story posted there is this one), my penname is s0ymilk. I'll post story warnings at the bottom of each chapter.
PLEASE review this story, whether you like it or hate it! I'm looking for any and all compliments/criticism to make it better, so pleeeeeaaaase review and let me know what you think!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fallout 3 or any of its characters. This is purely a fanwork.
Gal only finds Underworld because of the ghoul smoking outside the building when she stumbles past, dodging nailboard blows from an especially quick Super Mutant. The ghoul watches them dance, raising her rifle when Gal darts her way. She lowers it again when Gal sends the mutant crashing over the lip of the metro entrance and continues puffing on her cigarette. Gal peeks cautiously down at the mutant and shoots it through the head, just to be sure, before she approaches the woman in armor.
"You must be lost." the ghoulette says between breaths of cigarette smoke. Her face is nonchalant as Gal joins her in leaning against the stone. She offers Gal a smoke, shrugging when Gal waves it away and slides down the concrete to sit on the ground. The air is cool this time of night, but she's only just feeling it after her playtime with the Super Mutant.
"Nah, I just like taking midnight strolls. I find the nightlife to be soothing." Gal says dryly in response, balancing her assault rifle across her knees. The wall feels cool against her back.
The woman snorts, amused. "Another smoothskin with a deathwish... welcome to the Mall, tourist." she jibes as she puffs on the cigarette. Her relaxed stature is completely at odds with the ruins around her. Gal can see something large and hulking across the way, and she knows the ghoulette sees it too, but her weapon stays at her side regardless.
"Me?" Gal says, giving her a look. "You're the crazy one standing out here smoking a cigarette with super mutants running around. At least I was shooting things!"
The ghoulette shrugs. Her cigarette is burnt down to the filter, so she stubs it out under a booted toe and lights another. "Those knuckledraggers? Nah, they don't bother us Ghouls. Maybe they see us as kin or something."
They wait in silence for a few minutes, until the ghoulette's second cigarette is just ash under her fingertips. Gal's happy to be stationary for a minute, so she takes the chance to rub at the dirt and sweat on her face. The woman stubs her spent butt out against the wall and flicks it out into the abyss that surrounds the metro entrance. The butts lying around the area tell her her companion doesn't do much sweeping.
"You live around here?" Gal asks. The ghoul nods and jerks a thumb at the entrance to the Museum of History behind her.
"Underworld. Ever heard of it?" Gal shakes her head. "It's city full of ghouls, down in one of the exhibits in the museum. We've got a hotel, couple bars, even a doctor who'll fix you up if you can manage to not be an asshole human while you're here. Head straight past the skeleton and the hairy thing to the door in the far wall."
Gal nods and pushes off the wall, resettling her pack on her back. "I'll be sure to keep my asshole comments to myself. Thanks, Miss...?"
"Willow." the ghoulette says with a bark of laughter. The amusement makes the exposed muscle along her jaw tighten and shift. "No Miss. Til next time, sight-seer."
Gal gives her a wave in farewell and pulls the heavy museum door open so she can slip inside. The directions were spot on; past a giant reptile skeleton all in pieces and a large four-legged beast covered in hair, there's a giant skull set in fake stone with a door under it. The text about the door reads 'Underworld Journey.' Thinking she's on the right track, she pushes the door open and walks into Underworld.
The inside looks just like every other museum she's visited since leaving the vault. But with the people inside, milling about and chatting in groups, it looks like it might have two centuries ago; bustling and full of tourists. The only difference is, these tourists have patchy heads of hair and their skin is ripped and sagging. There's not a single person in here who's not a ghoul. As she makes her way through the front lobby, men and women passing through and lounging against the walls give her all sorts of glances: curious, suspicious, blank, wary. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise, to feel the weight of so many gazes on her, but she pretends she doesn't notice as she glances around for a place to stay.
Her first stop is at the hotel on the second floor, Carol's Place, because it's late and she wants to know she won't be sleeping curled up in a corner if she can help it tonight. Carol herself is manning the desk, looking drowsy. She perks up when Gal enters the room and inquires about a bed politely. "Don't get many of your kind around here. Not for the last... well, five years or so." Carol says conversationally as Gal scrounges around for her bag of caps. She'd seemed surprised when Gal asked about a room. Gal finally finds the bag and counts out 120 caps, as promised. The bag looks a lot smaller after she's parted from that 120, but only because she's got a lot more stashed away. Better not to flaunt your wealth out here. People start thinking it might be worth it to put a bullet in your head. "I'm from west a ways. A place called Megaton." she stops and thinks for a minute. "Actually... do you know a guy named Gob? Gobtholomew? He told me he was from here." Carol's eyes light up. "You know my Gob? He's my son! Well... not really, ghouls don't really work that way - how is he? He's been gone about fifteen years now." the look in Carol's eyes is bright and fond, and it makes Gal's stomach roil a bit to think of taking that away from her. She clears her throat and tries not to make it sound like she's lying through her teeth. "He's ... working in a bar. He seems to like it okay." Carol smiles and moves from behind the bar to lead Gal to her room. She seems more relaxed now. "That's wonderful! He always was a strong boy, my Gob. I worry about him out there in the Wastes but it looks like I've been worrying for nothing. Oh, wait 'til I tell Greta... well, then again, maybe I won't." Carol stops in front of a bed surrounded by flimsy privacy screens and gestures. Gal had been hoping for a real room, with some privacy, but privacy's a hard thing to come by nowadays. Still, it's a bed, and it looks relatively clean and not covered in bodily fluids, so she counts that as a win. "Do you think..." Carol says hesitantly as she watches Gal dump her pack at the foot of the bed, "if you are headed back to Megaton anytime soon... would you mind carrying some letters for me? I've been wanting to write, but it's hard to find someone headed that way." Gal smiles at the ghoulette, who's wringing her hands in the folds of her dress. "Yeah, of course. It's not problem at all. I'll be here a few days, I think, so that'll give you time to write out whatever you want to send." She doesn't expect to find herself suddenly pulled into a tight embrace. Carol hugs her like she's the last person on Earth, head buried in her shoulder. Gal can only awkwardly wrap her arms around the ghoulette's torso from this angle, but the touch isn't unpleasant. It's been a while since someone touched her that wasn't trying to murder her. Carol gives her one last squeeze and lets go with a little laugh. "Sorry, dear, I suppose I got a little carried away... well, I'll make sure to get those letters written as soon as possible, and consider your room paid for for as long as you're staying. No buts," she says sternly, wagging a finger when Gal opens her mouth, "I insist. Now, can I get you anything else before I close up for the night?"
Carol assures her that her things are safe in the room; nevertheless, she secures her pack to the bed frame with a cable lock after the woman leaves to go to bed. It's not the most secure method but she doesn't have much other choice and she's tired of lugging the heavy damn thing around. Gal looks at the bed with longing, wanting nothing more than to pass out on it fully clothed, but she resists the urge tiredly. She needs to prowl around some and get a feel for the town before she blinks and her throat gets slit.
Underworld is small, much smaller than Megaton, but busy. She'd seen a shop and some bathrooms on the first floor, and maybe a doctor's area as well; the top is where Carol's Place is located, and what looks like another bar called Ninth Circle. She's the only human in a sea of ghouls, but that's not surprising to her. After she's shed her armor, pulled on some (relatively)clean clothes, and shoved a pistol through her belt at the small of her back, she goes out in search of alcohol. People are still wandering through the halls, though it has to be close to 2 AM, and there's a few drunken patrons scattered along the hallways, deep in drunken sleep. The ghouls here are dressed in regular pre-war era clothing, and not armor, which is a good sign. She crosses the top floor, skirts a stumbling ghoul, and pulls open the door to the Ninth Circle.
The inside is dingy and filled with smoke that sits bitterly on her tongue. Across the room, a bar takes up most of the corner, and tables are scattered throughout, half-filled or sitting empty at this time of night. There's a man standing behind the bar, wearing an ill-fitting suit and pouring shots for a trio of women with a leer on his face. He's got strange, exotic features that make her lip curl a little bit. Still, when she bellies up to the bar and slaps some caps down for a whiskey, he pours it and shoves it at her with little ceremony. Gal tosses the whole thing back, orders another, and takes it back to her table to nurse as she people watches.
These are the first ghouls she's met besides Gob from Megaton and the occasional wanderer out in the wastes. Gob is quiet and constantly afraid of punishment from his keeper if he's caught talking instead of working; nevertheless, they've had plenty of conversations and she considers him a friend. So it's easy for her to look past the nightmarish features and see the normal people underneath. There's quite a few ghouls in here, some in small groups, some alone. The owner watches them like a hawk. A man stumbles in, already in his cups, and slaps some caps on the bar. Another man, almost freakishly tall, leans against the wall, a shotgun slung across his back. He too watches the patrons carefully; hired muscle, likely. It's a pretty normal scene for any bar.
The drunk man is arguing with the owner now, who seems to be refusing his money. After a few loud outbursts and some whining, the owner locks eyes with the bouncer and motions him over. Without a word, the bouncer strides over to the drunken man, grabs him by the arm, and drags him to the door. Caps spill across the floor as the man protests feebly, but the bouncer simply tosses him out the door without ceremony and shuts it behind him. Then he returns to his place on the wall.
He stays there, motionless, for the rest of the time that Gal spends in the bar. She finishes her second whiskey, orders another, and watches. There are no more incidents, and the drunken man's rude exit doesn't seem to shake up the other customers too much. They ignore the bouncer as if he is not there; his stare, clinical and blank, sweeps the room occasionally and then returns to staring straight ahead.
Halfway through the second whiskey, Gal feels the fatigue catching up with her and slams the rest of her drink down. She leaves the empty glass on the table and heads for the door, head pleasantly fuzzy and light. As she leaves, though, she swears she can feel a heavy stare on her back.
–
Gal rolls out of bed the next day about noon, groaning. Her back and shoulders ache from the heavy pack she'd hauled into Underworld, but she takes a med-x and the pain eases. Feeling grimy, she steals 15 minutes in the bathroom to scrub herself down and wash her hair so she can start taking care of business.
Wandering the wasteland can be both lucrative and dangerous. Gal has a good eye for picking out hidden caches and it doesn't hurt that she knows her way around lockpicking. Unfortunately, she's not the only one that is looking for some quick money; this is the first time in ages she's rolled into town without some heavy bandages and bruises. Still, she's got some cuts and scratches to wash out, and she spends a few blissful minutes stretching so she can enjoy the burn in her muscles.
Feeling much cleaner, she grabs her pack and lugs it down to the general store to begin haggling over her prizes. Underworld doesn't get many visitors, which is lucky for her; the owner, Tulip, is willing to give her more than fair prices on everything she's brought and she walks out with enough ammo and provisions to last her through her next foray into the wasteland. She makes another deal with one of the residents for any scrap metal she picks up. After she deposits that squarely in her room, Gal borrows a workbench to do some repairs on her weapons.
Then she takes a nap. This is a tradition.
When she wakes, it's around 8 o'clock in the evening. She doesn't have much more to do before she takes off again into the wasteland, but honestly, she's really just enjoying the vacation, so she heads to the Ninth Circle again to drink her way through a few more glasses of whiskey.
It's much the same as it was the first time. The bartender is leaning on the bar again; when she walks up to him to order her first drink, he gives her a shameless look-over that makes her want to punch him in the face. Unfortunately, she wants the whiskey more, so she reins in the impulse. "Welcome back, smoothskin. What can Uncle Azrukhal get you?" he says with a greasy smile. He leans over the bar and into her space. "Whiskey. No ice." she says shortly. When she hands him the caps, his fingers linger on her palm so long she's half afraid he's going to try to do something weird like kiss her hand. He doesn't, luckily; just pours the whiskey and hands it over. She takes it to an empty table in the corner when she can keep an eye on him. She has more time today so she goes slow on her drink, watching people come and go from her little corner. She's becoming more familiar with the residents of Underworld; she spots Patchwork, the drunk who'd been thrown out the night before, and Winthrop, who offered her the deal on scrap metal. Her silent bouncer is there too, wearing a hole in the wall again. His eyes move over the patrons restlessly, but they never meet hers even though she's outright staring. The armour he's wearing looks old and worn, almost falling apart at the seams.
Gal watches him quietly and thinks about how the straps of her pack dig into her shoulder, and what it would be like to have someone to split the weight with. Someone who's handy with a gun and more intimidating than a short girl who looks younger than her 20 years (not that she can't be intimidating on her own, but it takes a lot more effort). She'd thought before about hiring Jericho from Megaton, but she doesn't like the way he looks at her and she wouldn't trust him alone in the Wasteland as far as she could throw him. No one else she's met so far is willing for the job. Since then, she's sort of given up on finding a companion, but she thinks that any merc who can't afford to fix his armour could probably be enticed by the thought of a steady paycheck.
The next time the bartender takes a bathroom break, she takes her chance. Gal figures that while he's gone, she can inquire whether he'd consider a change of occupation and get an honest answer. Quickly, she jumps up from her table and crosses to the bouncer.
He fixes his gaze on her as she approaches, but she can't read anything in his stare. He is incredibly tall, with ice blue eyes and patchy red hair. Even leaning against the wall, she gets the sense that his laxness is a farce and he's only waiting for a reason to pull his weapon. He reminds her of some fierce animal from the wastes in a group of unsuspecting rabbits. She only gets close enough that she can talk to him comfortably; any closer and she'd have to tilt her head up to speak to him. That's not a good way to inspire confidence as a potential employer. This close, he's even more intimidating, and not just because the shotgun on his back is almost as tall as her.
He cuts her off before she's able to make a sound.
"Talk to Azrukhal." he says shortly. His voice has the raspiness that she's found is common in Ghouls.
She opens her mouth again, and again, he cuts her off.
"Talk. To. Azrukhal."
She purses her mouth, turns, and goes back to her table. That same stare falls heavy on her back, but when she turns around, he's again staring at the far wall as if she'd never approached. Azrukhal, the owner, comes back, settling behind the bar, but she doesn't move.
When she goes back to the bar for a refill, Azrukhal offers her free drinks if she'll spend the rest of the night in the bar with her shirt off. She tells him to go fuck himself, and he tells her he'll give her a hundred caps to take her shirt off just for him. She thinks about throwing her drink in his face but decides it would be a waste of whiskey.
Throughout the night, Azrukhal makes a few remarks to his bouncer that needle her skin as well. The tall man is stone-faced through all of them, proving that either Azrukhal is an equal opportunity asshole or the treatment is common for the bouncer. A few more drinks on her part and someone tries to swipe a bottle of vodka from behind the bar while Azrukhal's away. The bouncer breaks one of his fingers and sets the bottle gently on the bar. When the ghoul swings a wild blow at his jaw, the bouncer breaks a finger on the other hand and drags him from the bar with it. His screams of pain echo through the bar, but just as before, the bouncer doesn't say a word, doesn't make a face, and doesn't do anything more but throw him out the door.
Azrukhal laughs as the bouncer returns. "About time you made yourself useful. I was thinking I meet need to... find something for you to do." he tells the red-haired man from the safety of the bar. The bouncer does not grace him with either a reply or a look as he returns to his post.
She finishes her last drink and stumbles back to her room to pass out. She hasn't given up on her idea yet; she's just regrouping for the next attack. Her old self would have never planned to travel out into the wasteland with a stranger at her back, but her new self is far more adventurous. If she had another person to help haul her finds, she could stop living cap to cap and maybe make some actual profit. It would make her feel much safer at night as well, to have someone to stand watches with. Most people in the Wastelands are just trying to get by and make a quick buck, but she thinks she can convince this man that helping her out is a good deal.
Besides, Azrukhal is a dick.
–
The next day, she visits the Chop Shop for medical supplies, repacks her bag, and eats a leisurely breakfast that isn't Cram or Pork 'N' Beans. Then she heads to the Ninth Circle to see whether or not she's leaving with a partner.
The red-haired bouncer is standing outside the bar when she approaches. He gives her that same intense stare, but doesn't say a word. When she moves for the door, he blocks it immediately, and she nearly runs headfirst into his chest.
"I'm here to see Azrukhal." she tells him. He looks at her a minute longer, then gives a short nod. She doesn't waste her breath waiting for verbal permission.
Inside, Azrukhal is restocking the bar, humming tunelessly to the radio. The tables are a mess and there's a chair laying in pieces in the corner. Clearly, things had gotten out of control after she'd left last night. Azrukhal turns at Gal's entry and gives her a sleazy smile. The corners of his strangely-shaped eyes crinkle and the muscles in his jaw pull tight.
"Well, well, if it isn't my favourite smoothskin. You're getting to be my best customer." he says, as if he'd forgotten all the nasty things he'd said to her last night. Inwardly, Gal rolls her eyes, but she gives him a small smile to keep him sweet. She's gotten good at playing people since she left the Vault and she thinks that will come in handy here.
"What's with your lackey outside? Does he ever sleep?" she asks innocently, leaning on the bar.
He snorts and picks up another glass to dry. There's something crusty in the bottom.
"That's Charon. He's my... loyal employee." at her questioning look, he elaborates. "I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask, when I ask, without question."
This, to her, sounds a little more like forced servitude than voluntary service. It makes sense from what she knows of their relationship, though. If Jericho were bouncing for the Ninth Circle, he'd never put up with the shit that Azrukhal says to Charon. Gal frowns, glances over her shoulder. Charon is still standing outside the doors. If he's listening, he gives no sign of it.
"That sounds too good to be true." she answers carefully, to appeal to Azrukhal's business sense. He snaps up the bait without a hint of suspicion.
"Charon grew up around a very interesting group of individuals. They... well, I guess you say that they brainwashed him. He is absolutely loyal to whoever holds his contract. Unfailing, unflinching, until the day that employment ends." he says with a hint of smugness. Something in his voice makes her skin crawl.
Nevertheless, she thinks that his words must be true. Charon was certainly unflinching when he broke those two fingers last night, and he hadn't even twitched at the few times Azrukhal had called him an ugly motherfucker. It throws a wrench into her plans though. She was expecting a willing companion, not a brainwashed giant. Charon doesn't look like a simpleton but she doesn't know what she'll do if she has to spend all her time explaining orders to him. Then again, a contract-loyal simpleton sounds better than a regular merc for when she's sleeping in an abandoned house somewhere, all alone with him, so this could be a good thing. She pastes on a slightly conspiratorial smile and nods along.
"Why all the interest, smoothskin?" he asks as he stacks the glasses behind the bar and mops up the rinse water. A bug of some sort skitters through the water, and Azrukhal smooshes it with his thumb. She thinks about the best way to approach the subject and decides to barge right in.
"I want to talk to you about his contract. I'm interested in buying it."
Azrukhal smirks at her and steeples his fingers, leaning his festered chin on them. Gal's pretty sure there's still bug shit on them. She leans back a little bit, not liking the sour smell he gives off when he's too close, but tries not to be obvious about it.
"Would you, now? He's a highly valuable asset to me and to the Ninth Circle. What did you have in mind?" he asks, all fake innocence and naivety. It grates on her nerves but doesn't show in her face. She's starting not to give a shit whether Charon's brainwashed or not; she just wants out of this conversation, and possibly to have the chance to put her fist into his face without Charon breaking any of her fingers.
She lowballs him on the first offer, knowing he'll balk. "I'll give you 1,000 caps for it."
Azrukhal outright laughs at that, as she suspects he would.
"That's an insult for such a fine worker. I think you can do better." he tells her.
"2,000." she counters.
This, he mulls over much more slowly. 2,000 caps is a lot of money for a business owner, enough to keep him running for a month or two at least. She sees the way his face changes and knows he will accept. She'd been prepared to go higher, so silently she sighs in relief; this is already a significant chunk of her emergency fund. Still, a helping hand is worth it, and there's a lot of him to help.
"I suppose that could work... yes... yes. Here's the contract." Azrukhal agrees. He digs a folded piece of heavy paper out of the breast pocket of his overcoat and holds it out, though he doesn't let go when she reaches for it. "And I'll take my payment in full." he adds pointedly, rubbing a thumb over the back of her hand. She digs out the bag of caps and slaps it into his hand, and he lets go of the contract.
Azrukhal smiles that sleazy smile again and tucks the caps into his suit, and just like that, Gal has a plus one.
"I'll give you the pleasure of informing Charon himself." he says. With that, the conversation is done. Gal has no more reason to act sweet, so she turns and leaves without another word. It's amazing that the conversation has ended without any mention of her taking clothes off.
When she exits the bar, Charon is still leaning against the outside wall. She can't tell from his blank face if he's been eavesdropping or not. When she stops in front of him, however, he spots the folded contract in her hand and blinks.
"I'm your new employer." she tells him, though it clearly isn't necessary. He pushes off the wall and fixes that gaze on her again. It's intense and searching, and it leaves little doubt in her mind that he's a simpleton. What makes him loyal to the contract, then, she doesn't know, but inwardly she's a little relieved.
"Please, wait here." he tells her. "I must take care of something."
Before Gal can say anything, he turns and strides off into the bar. She suspects that he must need to fetch his things or have some last words with his former employer. As she turns to lean against the doorway, watching, her new partner heads straight for Azrukhal, who looks up at him with a satisfied smirk. He asks Charon sarcastically if he's come to say goodbye; Gal wonders how he will answer.
"Yes." Charon says. Without hesitation, he pulls the shotgun from his back and shoots Azrukhal in the chest. A red mist rises in front of the ghoul, and slowly, he falls backwards onto the grimy bar floor and out of Gal's sight. She knows without a doubt that he is dead, but Charon pumps the shotgun and takes another shot. Then, without another look at the corpse he has made, he slings the shotgun across his back and crosses to where Gal is standing in shock.
She blinks at him, once, twice, but Charon's steady gaze does not falter.
"Was that...necessary?" she asks him.
"Yes." Charon says shortly. Gal looks at the now-empty bar one more time and takes a hesitant step backwards. She can see a spray of blood coating the glasses Azrukhal had just washed and left to dry on the counter. Something wet clings to the wall above the bar.
"Let's go." she says. Charon follows without comment.
She leads them quickly down the stairs and to the front door of Underworld, nervous about the reaction to Azrukhal's death. She doesn't want to stick around and find out what might happen to the two of them if someone takes offense. People are only just beginning to enter the bar as Gal and Charon let the door to Underworld shut behind them; then they are alone, but for the skeletons and the great beasts of old standing guard in the giant room, ancient and half-decayed. No one follows them.
"I hope not all your contracts end like that." Gal says as they walk, wondering if she's made a mistake in hiring this quiet, violent shadow.
The words ring out across the quiet room, echoed by their footsteps. Charon's are surprisingly quiet for such a large man; he makes less noise than Gal does as she walks. The silence is a little eerie.
"He was an evil man." is the only reply she receives. She supposes it is somewhat a relief; if Charon had hated his old employer that much, and still had waited to kill him until after his contract had changed hands, that is a good sign she is safe as long as she holds it.
She imagines that when she loses it it will probably be because she is dead anyway, so it does not really matter.
When she pokes her head out the front door of the museum to search the area, Charon automatically brings the shotgun to his shoulder and covers the other side of the door. Willow, smoking a cigarette in her usual spot against the wall, raises an eyebrow at them and tells them it's all clear. She doesn't ask about Charon, but she does give Gal a strange smile.
When they're finally on their way, she tells Charon that they are headed to Rivet City. She doesn't tell him why, and he doesn't ask. Charon walks just ahead of her and about ten feet to the right, his eyes constantly searching the area for threats. He's much better at this then Gal is. For the first few hours that they are together, they travel in silence for most of the way, stopping at a few abandoned houses to forage. Gal's attempts at conversation are met by short answers; he makes no attempts at conversation of his own. Charon follows her orders without comment or complaint (not that they've been difficult - 'look through boxes and find anything useful' is pretty straightforward). A few times, she feels the heavy weight of his stare on her back, but when she turns, he is always looking the other direction.
When they encounter a pack of mole rats in one of the houses, he rushes forward, shotgun at the ready, and blasts the first one right in the face. It falls to the ground with a pained squeal. He reloads and sets the shotgun to his shoulder, waiting for another to get into range.
Gal isn't used to fighting with an ally, so at first, she's unsure what to do. Finally, she sweeps right to flank the group of rats, using her assault rifle to thin the group before it reaches Charon. The approach works well; rat after rat goes down in sprays of red. None of them get close enough to take a swipe at the pair, and they even both come out of it free of blood.
Charon uses his shotgun like an extension of his arms, looking more at home sighting down the barrel than he does foraging for stimpaks or caps in dusty containers. It's a well-kept weapon, if old; the metal of the barrel gleams, the handle scratched but lovingly oiled. Looking down at her dirty, banged-up Chinese Assault Rifle, she's a little jealous.
After the fighting is done, Gal looks through the dirty window of the abandoned house and notes the setting sun as Charon kicks through the trash on the floor.
"Let's stop here for the night. It's getting late." she calls over her shoulder. She searches around for something to pin over the window, finds a ratty blanket, and begins to put it up. Light can be deadly at night in these abandoned houses, if the wrong things are lurking outside when you're sleeping. When she turns around, Charon is slicing through the thick hide of one of the mole rats with his utility knife, searching for the edible meat inside.
Gal joins him on the floor, drags another mole rat close, and begins doing the same with her own combat knife. Rats are fatty and the hides are tough; it takes considerable sawing and digging to find anything worth eating. Nevertheless, they are able to get a good pile of meat collected and they drag the gutted corpses outside so they won't stink up the house.
The rat meat goes on some old wire hangers over a fire in the house's fireplace, with a pot of water to boil for some instamash. Gal searches the rest of the house for any more useful things, does a little victory dance when she finds a fully stocked first aid kit, and returns to find Charon dragging a mattress into the center of the room, well away from the bloody mess the rats had made. She gives him a questioning look.
"It is safer to rest here, as there is only one entrance. Would you prefer it back in the bedroom?"
She shakes her head, so he leaves it lying on the floor and goes to mix the instamash. He scoops most of the pot into one of the instamash boxes and tops it with charred rat meat. That box goes to Gal; the one he takes for himself contains only rat meat, which is strange, but she doesn't question it. Charon then settles himself across the room, in a corner that leaves him able to see the front entrance.
The silence does not seem awkward to Charon, but Gal is used to speaking when another person is in the room. The problem is, she doesn't know what to say. Charon has done what she asked silently and without question, but he hasn't spoken unless spoken to and she is not sure he will react positively to the questions she wants to ask.
So instead, Gal pulls the contract from her pocket and unfolds it carefully, wondering what it will tell her about her silent protector. The paper is heavy and thick, and feels worn around the edges; the front is covered in heavy black script. However, no matter how long she looks at it, she cannot make out any clear words. The ink has blurred over time, and there are streaks of dirt and blood across the surface, so it might as well be written in a different language.
"I can't read this." she tells Charon, looking up from the contract. He is watching her intently, the empty instamash box hanging loosely from one hand. He's finished in record time.
"Can you tell me about your contract?" she asks when he makes no move to clarify.
He leans forward and throws the instamash box back into the dark recesses of an empty room, then pulls his shotgun against his lap and begins dismantling it piece by piece. She thinks at first that he won't respond, but finally he does.
"You may command me to fight for you in combat. You may command me to perform services, such as carrying your salvaged items or preparing food. Physical violence invalidates the contract."
It is a veritable speech, from what she knows of her companion. But it tells her little that she doesn't already know. There's clearly a lot more written on the faded contract in front of her, but Gal decides that since she doesn't plan to ask him to do anything crazy, it doesn't matter much. The folded paper goes back into her pocket with care.
"You're quite the chatterbox, you know that?" she asks him, finally turning her attention to the food at her elbow. The charred meat is surprisingly tasty, especially paired with the bland instamash, which she normally avoids like the plague. She doesn't usually bother to heat up whatever counters as dinner when she's traveling, so the hot food is a nice change.
Charon tilts his head in acknowledgment of her statement, but keeps his focus on his weapon. She sees in the care he takes with cleaning and polishing why his weapon looks so well-maintained.
"If you wish to have a conversation with me, I will do so. Most of my employers preferred that I stay silent in the performance of my duties."
Gal scrapes the last of the instamash from the box, licks her spoon off, and sets the greasy box to the side. The spoon goes back into her pack for later use; silverware isn't always easy to find in the wasteland.
"Nah, I wouldn't want you to strain yourself. How about this – I'll just talk whenever I feel like it, and you can nod once in a while and pretend you're listening. Eat the rest of that mash, while you're up." she replies. Then, with a yawn, she flops down on the mattress in full armour and sets her assault rifle off to the side, in reach if she needs it.
"Wake me up in a couple hours to take watch." Gal tells him, shutting her eyes and relaxing as if she's drifting off to sleep. She can hear the quiet sounds of Charon cleaning each piece of his weapon, and though they are soothing, she forces herself to stay awake. She tracks him as he puts out the fire, uses the bathroom, and reassembles his weapon, then turns her thoughts to route planning to keep herself awake as he settles in to keep watch.
Her new companion comes well-recommended, but she's not stupid enough to take a snooze around a man she barely knows. She has absolutely no guarantee that a ridiculous little piece of paper will keep her safe from the behemoth of a man that's followed her out into the middle of the wasteland, alone.
Gal dozes for an hour or two before the quiet sounds of footsteps bring her back to full wakefulness. Keeping her body still, Gal listens carefully to the footfalls to determine whether she needs to grab her rifle and defend herself, trying to keep her breathing as light and steady as possible.
The footsteps head away from her, and then front door of the house opens and shuts again quietly. Gal frowns and opens her eyes slowly, searching for any sight of Charon in the darkness. She had expected an attack of some sort, not that he would just run off. She is debating going after him, wondering how she will keep him from leaving, when a shotgun blast cuts through the silence of the night.
Gal tumbles off the mattress and scrambles for her rifle, cracking the door to survey the area before she runs blindly into a potentially dangerous situation. She can see a figure standing in the gloom, gun up against his shoulder, and she sees more movement in the dark, but before she can do more than crouch down and bring her rifle up, the shotgun cracks again and the moving figure slumps to the ground. Gal exits the house slowly, rifle at the ready, and approaches the figure with the shotgun.
Charon is standing over the body of a dead raider. A baseball bat is still clenched in his fists. A few feet away, another figure in raider armour has fallen face-first into a pool of his own blood. Charon sweeps the darkness once more and, spotting no more enemies, lowers his gun.
"What the fuck, Charon? Why didn't you wake me?" Gal hisses at the ghoul, keeping her voice low in case more raiders are in the area. Still, even as she's thinking about giving him a piece of her mind, she kneels down by the first raider and rifles through his pockets.
"You did not command me to." Charon replies, pulling a bag of caps from the corpse of the second raider. He tosses it to Gal, who catches it and tucks it into her pocket with a sigh.
"Did you see any more?" she asks. At the shake of his head, she turns back towards the door and motions him inside with a jerk of her fingers, wondering if he's stupid or just sullen and obstinate.
"Alright, look," she says after they are settled back in their room, "If shit's hitting the fan, and I'm asleep, or doing something, or just don't notice, you have to let me know. They could have snuck in here and killed me, or killed you, and I wouldn't have even known." she says. Charon has settled back into his place, back against the wall, shotgun slung over his shoulders. If he resents being chastised, he doesn't show it.
"I will do as you command." he replies shortly, giving her that blank, unreadable stare again. Gal sighs in frustration and rubs at the corners of her eyes, certain now that she has made a mistake. How is she to get anything done if she can't even get this man to talk to her? Gal considers smacking him across the side of the head, but he told her specifically that violence wasn't allowed. Probably just for this reason.
"Well," she starts again after a minute, "I don't want you to feel like I have to give you an order for you to make a decision on any little thing. You've done this before, I'm sure, so either ask me a question if there's a situation you're not certain of, or if there's no time, go ahead and make an educated decision on what to do. Got that?"
Charon's face does not change at all, but Gal swears that she sees a hint of smugness in his eyes as he replies.
"I will do as you command."
Gal huffs out her frustration and lays back down, determined to get some sleep out of this if it kills her. She no longer fears attack or abandonment from this frustrating man; what she does fear is that she may throttle him with her own hands if she has to take another night of frustrating, useless answers.
WARNINGS: Death of a character, profanity, and all the things that make the original game M-rated.
So? How was it?