Note: Everybody around here's been sick so I've been lacking in my writing, and did some drawing (Clara turned out nice). I have a tumblr under the same name I use on here, if you are interested.

This is my attempt to do what I intended to do in Make It Okay. More contract shenanigans, and more annoying Emily. Definite future content warning! (I know I write trash fiction ya'll, I ain't afraid of that.) Introducing some original characters to keep the plot flowing, since this takes place mostly outside of the Capital Wasteland.


"Hey," Emily said. "Charon. Hey. Hey!"

He ignored her. She was standing on the edge of a broken bridge northeast of the Republic of Dave, looking down at the riverbed below. Charon was digging through a pile of debris at her request, attempting to uncover the end of a footlocker that had fallen off the back of a wrecked truck. She had pestered him repeatedly to help her; with her recent injury she was unable to hold her rifle or anything other than a small pistol. She certainly wasn't going to dig through rubble with a missing thumb tip.

"Charooooon. Charooooon."

He shot her a terrible look. She grinned, slowly, and held up her hand. "Look," she said, and made her hand do the false thumb trick with the severed thumb.

"Why are you still playing with that," he growled. "It is disgusting."

"Says the man who is a ramshackle heap of flesh," she muttered, and lifted her arm. She tossed the thumb tip into the wastes, watching it arc through the air. "You're the one who―"

"Say it again," he said angrily, dropping the footlocker onto the ground. "One more time, Emily!" Sniping at his physical appearance? He was not happy with that. He was not happy with Emily being critical at all of him, especially when―

"You shot off my fucking thumb, Charon!" She put her hands on her hips and winced a little when her left hand hit her side. "And you ruined my fucking Pip-Boy, thank you very much!"

On days like this, he wished he was still under the contract. Charon felt like throttling the girl. He wanted to press his own mostly-intact thumbs into her hyoid bone and squeeze until she went limp. She was taking every available opportunity to remind him that he had injured her, and she was insulting him to boot? Charon growled to himself.

"Stop being stupid-scary and dig up the damn thing. We still have to find somewhere to sleep tonight." She sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Or are you planning to watch me again, all night long?"

"It is an option," he muttered, and picked up the footlocker again.

"Well, I can tell you this," she said and shook her hand in pain. "The next time that happens, you'd better not let me sleep on top of a goddamn ant mound."

"You were tired," he grumbled, squinting at the lock on the container. "And you would not let me shoot that prick in the Republic." She could have slept safely in the Republic of Dave, if she had not irritated Charon into action. ...The frightened look on her face when ants came up under her and woke her up in the middle of the night had been entertaining, though. A smile tugged at his mouth.

Emily scoffed at him. "Dave is alright. We don't shoot people just because, Charon."

Charon shot her an angry glance. "I do," he snarled, "when they are a threat."

She stared down at him. Neither one of them spoke; Emily knew full well what he was referring to, and she was clearly unhappy with his behavior at the Republic the prior day. She had led the man on in flirtatious behavior, with Charon standing behind her. She knew better. She knew he would grind his teeth until they cracked, and she did it anyway. She also knew better than to act so damn horrified when he had threatened the grabby bastard with violence and they were forced to leave the commune.

That image of his thumbs on her neck was starting to become unpleasantly comfortable. He dragged the locker up the side of the riverbed and Emily picked the lock open. She rubbed her neck as she ran a hand through the contents. Her thumb was amputated now, thanks to Charon's judicious use of a stimpak before they had found the missing part.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't upset by the occurrence. It did not please him to have damaged Emily. She was about the only thing in the world he wanted for, anymore. Her... and killing things. He liked being violent, very much. She only made that worse with her incessant flirting and inability to forget that they were... something, together. He was not sure what.

He crouched down to see better what she was doing. She muttered to herself and coughed. The contents of the footlocker were covered in dust.

"Mostly paperwork and..." she lifted out a chain with a sparkling stone attached. "Holy shit, I haven't seen a diamond since I left―" Her face fell, and she sat in silence. She stared at the clear stone, about half the size of a bottle cap, set into a tarnished and intricate display. Charon watched her. Her face shifted from sadness to anger, and back to sadness.

"Can you sell it?" he asked, after a moment. She was thinking about Vault 101, he knew.

"Probably not," she said, and shoved it into a pocket. "It's pretty, though." She looked over the paperwork. "Most of this is just inventory for a jewelry shop, looks like. 'Items received' and so forth." Her eyes narrowed as she read one of the papers.

Charon spun his head at a sound to their right and he stood up. His hands tightened on his shotgun. Nothing but the wind, it appeared, but he kept his eyes open to the horizon.

"Talon Company?" she asked, not bothering to look up from the paper.

"Nothing, yet," he answered. The past week had been harrowing enough for Charon, without those assholes showing up again. Emily's reputation of being the savior of the wastes was not without a downside; even the free food and ammo that she was occasionally gifted would not make up for the constant attacks. She had finally helped Lyons with his water caravans, and now she was the biggest target in the goddamn world.

"This is a bust. I doubt we could get very much money for the diamond from anyone." She sighed and stood up. "Even if Tenpenny was still alive."

Charon snorted softly. "I would not think that Phillips would buy it, either."

"Maybe I'll wear it," she said, and pulled it out. "It is very pretty."

"Emily," Charon said, looking around. They could not afford to sit in one place for too long.

"What?" she asked, placing the stone around her neck and looking down at it. She pushed her hair aside and clasped it behind her head.

He could not bring himself to speak for a moment. The necklace―reminded him of something, something he could not put a finger on. She was... Emily was beautiful, and the stone brought out the sparkle of her dark blue eyes as she stared at him. His words died in his atrophied vocal cords.

...Better to be gruff. He could handle the anger she might have. "Put that stupid thing away and let us go back to Megaton."

Emily rolled her eyes at him. She touched her collarbone where the diamond rested. "I think it's pretty." She smiled a little. "I heard someone say once, that diamonds are a girl's best friend. On a holotape... in the Vault." She smiled wider and he remembered.

Charon turned away from her. Shit. He grumbled under his breath. Shit!

Connie Alexander. Why did he have to remember her, now? Why now? Shit!

Emily noticed his angry expression. "You'd better tell me whatever the hell it is you're thinking about," she said. "You know I hate it when you get weird on me." By now, she knew better than to poke at him, but she did anyway.

But he would not have wanted Emily any other way, he knew. Charon broke away from the memory. "I apologize, if you feel I am not allowed to be quiet," he snarled at her. "We are standing in the middle of the open wastes and you are not fully healed. And you persist in getting injured."

"Oh, and whose fault was that, hmm?" she complained.

Charon shot an arm out to her collar, and drew her close to him, baring his teeth at her. "If you did not flirt with random men we would not have been out in the wastes to be ambushed!"

Emily laughed at him. Charon shoved her to the ground, as gently as he could manage. She still yelped a little, landing on her injured hand. He did not want to hurt her, but she was so damn annoying...

"I shouldn't have brought you along," she said, scowling. "I swear, you're so jealous sometimes. Makes me nuts."

"You are driving me to insanity," he growled at her.

She sat up and put her forearms across her knees, staring up at him. "Oh, save me from the big bad monster!" she mocked, grinning meanly at him. She waved her hands in the air like she was fending off someone.

Charon kicked dust at her and his own mouth tugged into a grin as she coughed and spat out the grit. It was... strange, their relationship. If it had not been for his making it okay, he very much doubted he would be traveling with the aggravating girl.

"You asshole," she muttered, standing up. "You're gonna pay for that one." She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Alright, I guess we'll go home."

Emily turned her feet and strode away from him, hitching her pack up on her shoulder. Charon followed. His eyes were on the wasteland, alert to danger.

But his mind was on Connie Alexander.


A memory ~

"You are bound to the contract. You are bound to whoever owns the contract. You will protect and obey the owner of the contract. You will risk your own life, to protect the owner of the contract."

He had no name. None that he had been given, so far. He was not allowed to have a name until whomever bought his contract, gave him one. Thus far, he had not been sold to anyone.

He was sure that his contract would be given an owner, soon. His training was complete; he was an excellent shot, much better than his fellows in the program. Granted, his ability with weapons was limited. But he was excellent at it, and he was excellent at improvisation. So, he expected his contract would be sold quickly.

He was sitting in the dormitory, an unadorned room in which several bunks had been arranged. He was staring at the wall opposite him, and he had not yet had any inclination to rise from his bed. He had not been ordered to, so he saw no need. Two of his fellows were sitting on their respective beds, also staring at the wall. There was nothing on his mind beyond the schedule of the day; he was to report to the courtyard with his fellows for evaluation in approximately two hours.

He waited. His shotgun was laying beside him on the bed, having been cleaned and prepared for action. His armor was clean, if not in good condition. There was nothing he could have done for the aging leather, at any rate. It was simply too old to repair.

If he were to be sold to an owner, he would have to request new armor. Inappropriate armor might very well mean the difference between his taking a shot and becoming disabled. If he were disabled, he could not perform his duties under the contract.

He, himself, was also cleaned and groomed. His red hair had been combed and parted on the side, his teeth cleaned and his breath was not terrible. His body was ready for action, in good health and muscles well-formed. His blue eyes stared ahead. He was similar to his fellows in all these aspects beyond coloring.

He was ready and able to provide services for those who might need it.

"Stand," he was ordered. It was time.

He left the dormitory, into the bright sunlight of the courtyard.

They were examined and given priority over one another, based on physical aspects. He noted that he was considered the top member of the program. A complete success. This was good; he was sure that he was the best.

His contract was sold to his first owner.