Title: Rancor
Author: Daisy
Fandom: Fallout 3
Setting: The Ninth Circle, Underworld
Pairing: Hinted Charon/Ahzrukhal
Characters: Charon, Ahzrukhal, Derek Segraves (MLW), Ghoul OC: Nora
Genre: Drama/Angst
Rating: T
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 629
Type of Work: One-Shot
Status: Complete
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of gore, OC Death
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Nora and Derek's personality.
Summary: Charon didn't know what to call it, at first. Eventually, he figured Hatred could cover a lot of ground.
AN: Welp, this is my first entry for the weekly writing prompt on the Fanfiction-Friends group on Deviantart. This week's prompt was Hate, and I had been wanting to write some Fallout 3 stuff for a while. I've been playing more and more, lately, so I figured I could just do a little fic. xD I hope you guys enjoy!
Rancor ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At first, Charon didn't know what to call the scorching burn in his gut whenever Ahzrukhal told him to do something. He did note, however, that it was always an order. Some small part of him remembered a time when he was asked instead of simply expected, but it was so far from who he was today that he didn't pay it much heed. The Ghoul that currently held his contract started off just fine, sending him on a few odd jobs here and there, having him guard his bar. But, slowly, things began to evolve the more Ahzrukhal felt he could trust his new slave.
The more that the evil bastard trusted him, however, the less he liked himself.
He was honor-bound to follow Ahzrukhal's every command, couldn't resist wrapping his hands around the necks of those that made the other Ghoul unhappy. The snap of bone between his hands came with barely a twist of his strong wrists, and it didn't take long for his enemies to fall. It was all rather… Well, he couldn't say boring, necessarily, but he most certainly could say that it wasn't his first choice.
Charon didn't dare make friends. Not after the first one. She'd been a frail little thing, for a Ghoul, a sweet girl that didn't wish harm on anyone. She brought him a glowing mushroom on their first meeting, claimed it looked good with his outfit. Nora, she had been called, just a tiny baby, he recalled she'd been nine years old when he'd met her.
And she'd been nine years old when Ahzrukhal had ordered he kill her. As the life drained from her face, the eye he hadn't shot out looked betrayed for a split second before her jaw went lax and her lifeless body decorated the floor. After that, he'd decided that interacting with anyone outside of his job's parameters was off-limits. Anyone who tried would get a simple answer.
"Go talk to Ahzrukhal."
It was in the few moments after Nora's death that he finally realized what the turn in his stomach and drop in his gut was. Whenever he would hear those sing-songed words that beckoned him to do his master's bidding, it was the seeds of hatred. They burrowed in the flesh of him, in his mind, and sprouted. Eventually, those sprouts turned to climbing vines of burning animosity that tethered his very being together. With every death, threat, or extortion he was forced to carry out, the tendrils of his anger only pulled tighter, making every muscle tense. He never could relax, so long as he was in Ahzrukhal's employ.
Then the day came that whatever God was left that listened to the idle thoughts of slaves sent his savior.
Derek Segraves was a mousy, thin older teen. He was quiet and shy, quick to flinch and stutter his way through sentences. He very nearly ended up losing five thousand caps to the greed of the suave and eloquent abuser that was Ahzrukhal, but a deal was made for a thousand. Something or other was the prize, Charon didn't much listen. He figured his hands would run red with blood in mere seconds, but what happened next surprised him.
"Talk to-"
"Slow down, there. I have good news. I'm your new employer."
Whatever happened between one blink and the next was a blur, until he felt the wet, warm spatter of blood on his cheek from shooting someone point-blank. Were he a smart man, he would have wondered if the pleasure he derived from this simple act was normal. In a world like this, though, he figured normality had already turned tail and fled.
"For good or ill, I serve you, now."
Those words had never sounded so promising.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN: