Deep, dark red gushed out of his mouth, turning his faded grey shirt black. His fists were clenched so tightly it was hard to tell whether he had fingers at all. She'd punched him; shattered her knuckles with a crack against the exposed portions of cheek bone, taking away small chunks of flesh as she pulled her hand back. He knew why she'd done it. And she knew why he'd done it. It was in his contract, he had to.

She had never been so irrationally enraged before. Charon couldn't have known, he just thought she had frozen. He thought she was just frightened, her weapon knocked from her grip. He hadn't realised she'd dropped it on purpose. There was only one raider left. Charon watched from a distance, the raider sat on Marla's chest, gripping her throat. But she wasn't doing anything. In a few strides Charon was close enough to hear the rasping growls the raider was breathing into his emplyer's face. He raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger without thinking. A bouquet of rose-y chunks exploded into Marla's face. She didn't even close her eyes, her mouth was still open and it sickened the ghoul to think of all the human debris that would have landed in her mouth, sprinkled down the back of her throat. Her eyes rolled to him and she began to tremble. Charon hadn't realised it was fury, blind unadulterated anger towards him. She slowly pulled herself up, a hand spreading like disease across her neck, the fingers clawing at the sides of her jaw.

"Fuck off," she growled, kicking dust at his feet. He stared at her, the hostility foreign to him. "That's an order, zombie! Fuck right off!" He flinched at the insult. Oh, it hurt every time he heard it, sure. But this was different. Marla was a good person. Despite all the shit she'd stolen, the people she'd killed, it was all a means to an end. Charon knew this. She was trying to save the Wasteland. Marla was good, she was… his friend. Although he used that term pretty fucking loosely. It hurt so much more when she said it.

"Marla, I saved your life." He began taking slow steps backward, as ordered. He'd seen the way she looked at people who would be dead at her hand, and that's the way she was looking at him.

"I didn't ask you to, did I?" A hiss grew from the back of her throat, turning into a deep rumbling growl.

"It's in my fucking contract; I'm to protect the holder. Value your life above my own, that's how it is, you know that." Marla followed Charon as he walked backwards away from her, her shoulders hunched. If it had been any other situation Charon would have smirked; she looked like a feral. Marla stopped suddenly, and stared down at her hands, caked in the blood of countless others. She shook her head minutely and stared up at Charon, towering over her, albeit from a distance.

"I have an order for you, then, Charon. And you better do it, be a good boy, like your precious fucking contract says you should, hmm?" Charon stared back with curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, he thought, coiling his eyebrows together. Marla grabbed the barrel of his shotgun and held it square between her own eyes. "Pull the trigger, fucker. Blow my face away like you did to that raider, like you did to my fucking salvation." She held his gaze, an unyielding openness in her eyes. Charon could see the pain there; it was all so obvious now. He hadn't been sure if he'd been hearing sobbing during the long nights in the Wastes, but now he knew.

"No." He tried to pull his shotgun back to his side, but she wouldn't relent. Her fingers were coiled so tightly around the barrel they were paper white. "I can't, I have to protect you Marla, not help you off yourself," tears began to form in her wide eyes. Tears wiped away the dirt; soot and blood that had been hiding the dazzling pale of her skin. She cried and cried with that shotgun grating against her skull and Charon felt her skin parting where the metal of the barrel grated against it as sobs wracked her body and she shook like a paper thin leaf. His shotgun was like an extension of his arm, and he could feel everything it could feel. But that wasn't all he could feel. He could feel the raw desperation radiating off the girl in waves and waves.

"That was an order, Charon. You can't disobey me," her voice was weak, but he knew she was right, to an extent. It was a contradiction and Charon wasn't sure what to make of the situation. His contract clearly stated that he had to protect his employer's life with his own, and to obey every order given, but when that very order went against his ultimate task…well, what was he to do then?

His finger quivered against the trigger as he considered fulfilling her command, and with this tiny movement Marla had stared at him with a tiny slither of hope that he would do it. But he didn't. And she began crying again, gripping that fucking gun with such conviction and strength that Charon was surprised the metal hadn't bent and warped to hug her long fingers.

He sighed and realised that no matter what he did his contract would mean nothing. Not between Marla and himself, anyway.

"No, Marla. I'm not doing this," Charon growled at her, yanking his shotgun out of her grip.

And then she punched him.

"You're not my slave anymore, Charon. Go back to Underworld where you belong," voice acidic, Marla glared at him with such disdain and hate that he almost believed it was really directed at him. But it wasn't.

"What is wrong with you? Gimme my fucking contract," his hand lurched out and snatched it from her pocket. She said nothing. "Why the shit are you ordering me to let one off in your face?! And then punch me when I say no! Fuck, Marla…" He was exasperated, confused. He'd never been so confused in his life!

"I hate this place. I hate all these stupid, selfish, dirty scumbags. I'm sick of this. I will never win. I hate what all this Brahmin shit has turned me into!"Her voice rose, unsteadily, into a shriek that reeked of desperation and rang shrilly in the ghoul's rotten ears. Unsure, Charon stepped forward and gingerly pulled this girl – a fucking child – into his chest and cooed into her ear. He didn't notice her wandering hands, or the slight lessening of weight on his hip. He noticed nothing until the blade fell through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. His breath hitched in his throat and he pushed Marla away, ripping his armour and shirt away from his side.

"You fucking stabbed me!" Incredulous, he wiped the ice cold sweat from his brow and attempted to stem the flow of blood, but lost all strength when she lunged and sank Charon's own knife into his neck. Blood erupted from the back of his throat, joining with the blood that slowly pumped out of the cut in his cheek. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat desperately, clawing for breath. His sight was blurring and growing darker.

He watched from beneath hooded lids, dying and cold, as Marla picked up the bloodied contract from the ground. She tore it up and gave it to the wind.

He watched, growing weaker, more tired, as she pulled her scoped .44 magnum from her pack and held it to her temple.

His eyes closed before he saw her pull the trigger, but he thought he heard the shot, somewhere far off in the distance.