Disclaimer: I don't own any of Bethesda's game or characters. Kyra, however, is mine. She is a tad clumsy and a true softie at heart, though this is somewhat defeated by the fact she's a complete klepto and addicted to smokes, booze, buffout, and psycho. Charon and Star Paladin Cross put up with her though and haven't shot her yet. I suppose that's a good thing. Though she doesn't want to fire Charon and see what'll happen.

Author's Note: I love this game. Almost as much as BioShock. Om nom nom nom. So here is my hand at a Fallout Fic, I hope it goes alright. And yes, I have a nasty habit of falling in love with my tanks so there is a bit of Charon/LW in here. Haha, I'm so predictable.

Only fault I had with this game, besides the stupid ending and not being able to beat Amata to death, was not being able to form relationships with characters. If this were Dragon Age Origins I'd totally trick Charon into loving me and we'd blow up the Purifier and take over the wasteland.

Listened to Sevendust's Forever an absolutely ridiculous amount of times while playing Fallout III. Don't ask me how many, I am ashamed of myself. Needless to say it became my theme song for the game. That and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros' song Home.

.

.

Would You Like Iguana with that?

By: Lady NeverAfterNon

.

.

Charon was still rather gob smacked over the last few minutes. In the space of exactly fifteen minutes he'd managed to get his freedom (well, freedom from that jack-off Ahzrukhal anyway), shoot his former employer in the head (several times, and it had been glorious), and show the ghoul city his literal and metaphorical ass.

Still, whenever he closed his eyes he half expected that when he opened them he would still be rotting in that damn corner back in the Ninth Circle. Ahzrukhal would have something nasty to say and he'd be expected to beat the living crap out of someone on the creepy bartender's hearsay. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, then popped them open again when he tripped over a rock.

Damn.

The smoothskin was still there, skipping along a few feet in front of him, her dirty black dreads bouncing like millions of fat bungee cords from the back of her head. Every few feet the long silver beat stick she had strapped to her back would slip off and smack her in the leg. She'd attached it so badly that it wouldn't stay on, but it was still stuck well enough that it still stayed on long enough to tangle in that blood red sexy-time lingerie she insisted on wearing underneath all of her armor.

Charon watched the Lone Wanderer do that odd little dance for the umpteenth time to get herself untangled and rolled his filmy blue eyes. He was surprised she was even still alive. Any crackhead who wandered into the waste wearing a bootie call outfit was practically wearing a neon sign that broadcasted: shoot me please, I'm stupid. Even her armor looked like she had taken bits of leather and metal and buckles and slapped it all together with glue and spit.

But then again, he supposed, maybe she knew it. Scars and bruises crisscrossed her badly sunburned white skin. His clouded gaze followed a particularly nasty one down the back of her leg, over the top of her calf to where it disappeared into her heavy duty boots. Obviously she had tried to start something without the proper footwear. Idiot.

He was jerked sharply from his reverie as gunshots struck the rocks beside him. In a flash, Charon had his combat shotgun off of his back and the business end pointing at two raiders who had come charging up over the hill and were looking to try their luck at not dying. Fat chance. The shotgun spat fire and bullets, and the raider who had been holding the hunting rifle slumped backward like a crumpled piece of wet laundry.

As for the other one...Charon leaned onto the butt of his shotgun and watched the other raider and his new employer dance. Charon's mouth was open in blatant stupefied shock. He couldn't help it. They both looked ridiculous.

They were running around each other in circles, the raider's pool cue smacking against her lead pipe, neither really getting a proper shot in, but both trying their damnedest to kill the other. When he figured he he'd been watching them for at least two minutes, and the best either of them had been able to do was get in a couple of good lacerations, he snarled, irritated. His shotgun whipped up and spoke, and the raider's head exploded like an overripe mutfruit.

He watched the Lone Wanderer straighten up and with a rather dignified air, wiped splattered raider bits off of her armor and clothes.

"I had him," she informed him primly, "I'll never get any better if you keep stealing my kills."

He didn't say anything, just watched her with his perfected trademark poker face firmly in place.

He honestly didn't know how she'd managed to survive this long on her own. Well, that didn't matter anymore. She had him now, and he'd look after her. And he was pretty certain he'd do a better job of it than she did.

Speaking of, he spotted some super mutants off in the distance. It was obvious they needed killing.

He left her standing there giving him a spectacular evil fish eye, and moved off towards the super mutants and began to jeer at them. "Yeah! What's the matter, can't stand the sight of your own blood?"

It worked like a charm. They were after him like flies on shit. Awesome.

.

.

.

Earlier that day

Kyra swore viciously as yet another Mutant popped out of nowhere just as she finished looting the dead corpse of his buddy. For what seemed the fiftieth time that day she dove to one side almost dodging gunfire, slapped a stimpak into the arm that the green monstrosity had managed to put out of commission, then proceeded to beat the ever living crap out of him with nothing but her lead pipe and a whole lot of angst.

Standing over his dead body she looked him over as she caught her breath. It was just her luck that the mutant had nothing really of value, just his hunting rifle and the ugly green hide on his back.

"I know this is the wasteland and all," she muttered, "but this is getting ridiculous. You'd think that in order to survive in this shitfield they'd scavenge a little. Even the raiders got better goods than this."

She gave the mutant a vicious kick, then hopped about on one foot when his heavy duty armor stubbed her toe through her combat boot. When her dignity finally surged back into control with almost shameful lack of speed, she straightened and keyed open her Pipboy, categorized her wounds and ran a quick inventory.

Kyra's lip curled in disgust. At the Universe, really, rather than herself. She'd already run out of ammo for her shotgun and assault rifle, both of which were ready to come to bits anyway so the point was moot. Her Combat Knife had shattered some five mutants and a mire lurk ago, and all she was left with now was a 10mm and her lead pipe. Not to mention that her stimpack collection was sadly lacking. Utterly. Freaking. Ridiculous.

Gob, bless him, had given her a lovely discount that morning when she'd set out from Megaton, and she had used it to stock up on her cheat shots. Mmmm, stimpaks. Life's little cheats when a dirty questionably stained mattress wasn't available. She'd bought Moira out of shotgun shells while simultaneously managing to slither out of agreeing to her latest bizarre request. She'd congratulated herself then on being extraordinarily lucky. But now that bright and promising morning was looking quite far away, as she used her last stimpak to fix up her trashed arm back to passable and she could feel outright exhaustion lurking at the edge of her consciousness.

She groaned. She poked at her Pipboy morosely. The nearest spot was Rivet City, and boy was she NOT looking forward to dealing with Harkness' bullshit. Honestly, the man must have a radroach rammed up his ass for the way he jumped her whenever she deigned to visit his precious floating bucket. She most certainly did not want to see him deal with someone who was honest to God shady. Though, then again, that might be funny.

Kyra sat down in the dirt and looked up at the sky. Dusk had fallen over the wasteland and darkness stalked at the edge of the horizon. She sighed and massaged her temples. She was not too tired to push on, she told herself firmly. She was NOT. She sighed again. Who was she kidding? Another five minutes and she would be passed out from exhaustion. Then she'd probably be eaten by a super mutant. Ick. she shuddered. The thought of ending up in a gore bag was enough to shock a little bit more energy into her tired body.

She heaved herself to her feet and stared at the hulking form of Rivet City, floating in the dirty water like a beached whale. And she imagined Harkness with his hands on his hips working her over. And not in a good way.

Ugh, maybe she wasn't too tired. She consulted her Pipboy. Nope, not too tired to push on, not at all. Harkness did that to a girl. She was not in the mood to play twenty questions with the man. That and their damn bridge. In hindsight it was extremely practical, but waiting for the stupid thing to swing over was a complete pain in the ass.

Kyra swung her lead pipe onto her back, awkwardly because her arm was still not behaving itself properly, then continued on. She gave Rivet City one last long look. She could barely make out the tiny forms of Harkness and some caravan leader. She shook her head and pressed on.

Anacostia Station flickered in dirty neon lights in the distance. Kyra crept closer and could just make out stairs leading into a deep hole in the ground. She stared at it. Then she looked back at Rivet City. Rivet City or the creepy, dark, most likely raider/feral ghoul infested hole in the ground? Voices drifted over too her from the Rivet City bridge. Harkness was chewing out the caravan leader for something or another. Kyra shuddered.

Creepy dark hole in the ground it was.

She crept into Anacostia Crossing like a ninja, brandishing her lead pipe. Already she could hear the soft skittering of radroaches. She grinned. Dinner was at hand. Come here, little meat puddings with legs. Come to mommy.

Six radroaches later, she straightened and wiped her mouth off with one filthy hand while dragging the flat of her little knife against the leather of her armor, cleaning the brown goo off of the blade. She burped, then covered her mouth out of habit, mortified. She half expected Amata to be behind her, ready to smack her upside the head for her lack of social graces. Then she shook herself. The only things for miles were super mutants, feral ghouls, and raiders. And she seriously doubted whether they'd be upset at her lack of table manners.

Kyra sheathed the short, rather useless little blade, and pressed on through the tunnels. She had a nasty feeling that they could go on forever, and she was so NOT in the mood for forever. Some of the lights were still working in patches and that was almost worse than no lights at all. Shadows flickered uncomfortably along the walls, and the patches where they clashed with the harsh florescent lights brought to life monstrous shapes that were almost alive.

The Lone Wanderer skirted the patches of bright light, and stuck to the darkness. The lights screwed with her night vision most painfully, and the few seconds of blindness she suffered as she stumbled out of each patch of light was horrid.

It seemed like days went by down in those tunnels though she knew it was only a few hours, and she began to wonder if she would ever find her way out at all. She picked unhappily at the few raider camps she stumbled across, knowing she needed junk to sell for caps, but was afraid to weigh herself down. She had no idea when at all she'd make it to a safe haven, assuming she did make it at all.

Kyra looked up blearily at the new patch of light that popped up and punched her rudely in the eyeballs, started, then began running and stumbling towards it. Actual light, and not the florescent ghosts that flickered on and off in the tunnels.

She threw the metal gates open with a loud bang and ran gasping into the fresh air. She collapsed at the top of the stairs and looked out over the trashed, wide open area that her Pipboy informed her was once the National Mall. Air. Beautiful delicious air. The Lone Wanderer sucked it into her lungs greedily. She pulled off her motorcycle helmet and dropped it next to her with a loud clunk. She ran her fingers through her hair. The helmet had matted her dreadlocks to her head in awkward clumps, and she carefully unstuck them one by one.

"Having a good time, tourist?"

The raspy voice that came from just over her left shoulder nearly scared her out of her skin. Kyra jumped a foot into the air and flopped awkwardly over to her left, landing on her butt in the dirt. The lead pipe she'd grabbed for got stuck between her armor and her dress and she ended up almost wrapping herself into a pretzel attempting to get at it.

After thirty seconds of trying to un-stick herself she realized that she hadn't died yet and the scary something wasn't attempting to attack her, so she must be safe for the moment. On top of that she realized she must look extremely stupid flailing about in the dirt in a too short dress and armor trying to get at a weapon that was out of reach and stuck.

She sat up with as much dignity as she could muster, coughed, fluffed her dreads out with one hand, then laced her fingers together primly on her knees. She looked up.

"Yes?"

The ghoul woman in front of her said nothing, and was instead taking long drags on her smoke. The grin she had tugging at the corner of her shriveled lips suggested the air of one who had just been treated to an off color joke and had loved it.

Kyra frowned, "Don't think I'm a tourist. I think they were all killed off when the Apocalypse happened."

The ghoul woman snorted, and smoke shot from the remnants of her nose like a dragon. "Oh come on. Here you are in the mall of our nation's fine capital, taking in the sights and visiting the monuments. Face it, you're a tourist."

The Lone Wanderer sighed. "Point to you. The Washington Monument is rather impressive. Being so pointy and all. I'm Kyra by the way."

The ghoul grinned, displaying a mouth full of yellow and decaying teeth. "The name's Willow. Smoke?"

Kyra eyed the cigarette dangling in Willow's brittle fingers, shrugged, took it, and pulled in a long drag. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the nicotine hit her like a sucker punch, and she sighed happily. Willow chuckled at her obvious bliss, sounding like an old 50's Chevy engine trying to turn over and failing.

After a few more drags Kyra handed back the cigarette and got to her feet, grunting as her limbs protested any movement that involved leaving the patch dirt she'd been sitting in.

"Know any place I could put myself back together?" she asked, attempting to sound casual but failing. Badly.

Willow let loose another jet of smoke. Kyra fought not to drool. It was bad enough that she was addicted to the stuff, letting it show was another matter entirely. She was NOT going to bum smokes off of a random stranger she just met, no siree. Daddy dearest taught her manners, yes, yes he did. Or at least he tried.

"The Gates to Underworld are straight through here."

At Kyra's blank expression Willow rolled her eyes and said, exasperated, "You know, city of ghouls? It's right inside the giant skull, you can't miss it."

Kyra stared at her, realized she wasn't kidding, then laughed. She stuck out her hand and Willow shook it.

"Thanks for your help," she said gratefully.

The Lone Wanderer strode off, feeling slightly better. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe the Universe would quite throwing mud at her and send her some daisies. Right. And maybe mole rats could fly. She really should know better by now. Kyra shuddered and resisted the urge to pull her beat stick off of her back and hold it in front of her. She had a feeling it would not bode well to barge into the ghoul's city looking dangerous. Well, not that she looked dangerous she amended, she was about to fall apart after all. It was the thought that counted.

With a deep breath, and a rather pensive look at the massive leering skull right above her head, she pushed open the heavy doors to Underworld. The giant double doors creaked with just as much enthusiastic ominous vigor that one would expect from a city inhabited by ghouls. Kyra glared at the hinges. She'd see the little buggers oiled if it was the last thing she ever did.

She strode in through the doors, and it was like nothing she had ever imagined. Her boots clicked against the marble quietly, and after only the knowing the crunch of dirt, it was almost alien. The slightest sound echoed off of the walls and she found herself hunching inward slightly. She almost felt like she was in church. It was...it was almost CLEAN in here. She stopped.

It seemed as though hundreds of eyes were on her. Ghouls stopped what ever it was they were doing, and stared at her. Kyra offered them a wobbly little smile, then skedaddled up the nearest staircase. Anything to get away from those thousand yard stares.

She stopped outside the first door she came to. The Ninth Circle was inscribed on a plaque just outside the door. Well, that was that then. She sincerely hoped that whoever named the bar was ignorant and had never read Dante's Inferno. She was so not in the mood for a Dante junkie who thought it would be cute to replicate an accurate description of the sin pit for Betrayers.

Kyra pushed the door open and crept in. More stares, but less eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief. Blessed quiet. She looked around. Once they decided she was uninteresting, the ghouls ignored her. She was grateful for that. It was a traditional bar, besides the fact that the patrons looked like the walking dead, and she began to debate on what she wanted to get. A glass of nuka cola and whiskey sounded absolutely divine at the moment. She noticed a ghoul standing in the corner. All by himself. She noticed that the hair dusting his mottled scalp was a rusty orange. She grinned. And he was a redhead to boot. Time to be friendly. She needed all the allies she could get while she played song and dance with her father and the Enclave and the entire bloody wasteland.

She almost chickened out. The man was freakin' huge. "Hi...I was wondering-"

He cut her off sharply. "Talk to Ahzrukhal."

She blinked. "Yeah, but-"

He cut her off again. "Talk. To. Ahzrukhal."

Well, she could certainly take a hint. She huffed, slightly insulted at his blatant rejection. She knew she hadn't had a bath in a while but she didn't think she smelled THAT bad. She turned and wandered over to the bar and sat down heavily onto a dirty stool. Her armor clanked and got stuck, and for a moment while trying to un-stick herself she almost fell off of the bar stool. When she finally got herself back together there was a ghoul in a smelly pinstripe suit sanding behind the bar in front of her. He leered at her suggestively, and her eyes were drawn to the mucous-y green goo staining his skull. She firmly squashed a shudder that wanted most vehemently to make itself seen. She won that battle though. Lucky for her.

"Well now, lookee here. We got us a smoothskin that I ain't ever seen before. I'm Ahzrukhal, and this...this is the Ninth Circle."

He paused for what she could only assume was dramatic effect and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Folks got problems, and I got liquor to sell to 'em. Well, liquor and a few other pick me ups. You need anything, you just let me know sweet cheeks."

He leaned onto the bar, his face uncomfortably close to her own. Kyra didn't move away. Hopefully he'd give her her drink cheap for the show she was putting on. Then again...she gave him a once over. The man was a complete smarmosaur. She leaned back. She suddenly had a sinking suspicion that a simple beer would cost her more than what her lead pipe and stimpak collection together was worth.

She jerked her head towards the huge silent ghoul in the corner. "What's the deal with Mr. Grouchypants?"

Ahzrukhal chuckled low in his throat, and she struggled not to go running for a bath of bleach and self-respect.

"That's Charon. Let's just say...well, he's a loyal employee. Don't mess with me, and he won't mess with you."

Kyra raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. Ahzrukhal grinned at her.

"I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask when I ask, without question," he paused, and his eyes drifted towards the neckline of her dress, "You see, Charon grew up around a very interesting group of individuals. They...well, I guess you could say that they brainwashed him. He is absolutely loyal to whomever holds his contract. Unfailing, unflinching, until the day that employment ends."

Kyra's other brow joined its friend. "Huh. How interesting. I'll do a Mutfruit Vodka Slammer."

The ghoul mixed her drink slowly with a frown, obviously put out that she wasn't paying closer attention to his little spiel. He set it in front of her carefully and the moment his hand left the glass she grabbed it. The alcohol slid down her throat and she sighed happily.

Ahzrukhal continued to watch her with his beady glazed eyes. "Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity towards me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear."

Kyra sipped her drink thoughtfully and looked looked back over to the hulking form of Charon in the corner. Heh, teddy bear indeed. Once he realized her eyes were burning holes into him, he raised his gaze to meet hers. The ghoul's filmy blue eyes met hers and he growled at her. She giggled, the Mutfruit Slammer enthusiastically reassuring her that growls meant 'oh baby, oh baby.'

'Oh my god he's a ginger and he can't get away from me. Hallelujah, thank you Universe, Kyra thought.

The Lone Wanderer turned back to Ahzrukhal. She held out her hand. "1,000 caps for him. Give."

The ghoul pretended to think on it a moment. Now that he knew he had what she wanted he was obviously going to milk for all it was worth.

"Hmmm...well he is a highly valuable asset to me and to the Ninth Circle..."

Her hand never wavered. "2,000."

Ahzrukhal caved, the lure of bottle cap currency too much for him to resist. "Done. I'll give you the honor of informing him yourself."

Kyra slapped two bottles full of caps down onto the counter. Ahzrukhal slid over Charon's contract, a dirty almost illegibal scrap of paper, and began to count out the caps greedily. Kyra snatched up the contract and stuffed it down the front of her dress and strode over to the lone ghoul in the corner. She opened her mouth. Before she could get the words out, he beat her to the punch.

He was obviously annoyed at her repeated attempts to get him to talk to her. She wondered absently how long it would take her to bother him into shooting her. She grinned. 'Bet he's wicked fast with that boomstick of his', she thought.

"Talk to-"

Kyra shook her finger at him. "Oh no you don't Princess, you're mine now."

He remained stone faced. "I belong to no one. If you are my new employer, then I will serve you. But first, I must take care of something. Wait here."

Kyra of course did not obey, and followed him bemusedly back across the bar. She watched his progress attentively and her booze addled mind murmured most indecently about his nice broad shoulders. She slid into her seat to watch the show. And she had lovely suspicion that it would be awesome.

"Ahzrukhal. I am told that I am no longer in your service."

Charon's voice was a soft rumble, and anyone who heard it knew to get the hell out of Dodge. Kyra's eyes flicked to Ahzrukhal, who had obviously not noticed the dangerous lilt to his former employee's speech. The bartender glanced up, still engrossed in the process of recounting his new caps.

"Yes, that's-"

Charon had his shotgun out of his back holster faster than the Lone Wander could say, "Oh shit." Thunder and fire roared from the combat shotgun's muzzle and Ahzrukhal's head exploded with a meaty whumph. Kyra blinked. Then noticed that a bit of entrails had landed in the remains of her drink. Blast.

Charon straightened and looked at her. She stared at him. Was that a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth? Little bastard was awfully proud of himself. She hopped over the bar and proceeded to loot Ahzrukhal's corpse. She was kinda proud of him too. He was a wicked good shot. She straightened and cursed. All her two thousand caps had rolled up underneath the bar to where she couldn't get at them. Bugger. She looked up at her new bodyguard.

"Why?"

"Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract I was honor bound to do as he commanded, " Charon deadpanned, "But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting little mole rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you."

If the ghoul had thought that would frighten or dissuade her, he was dead wrong. The Lone Wanderer batted her eyes at him, "I love you already. Let's go."

They both strode out of the Ninth Circle, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction behind them. It was funny how that would soon become a regular occurrence.