Note: So I asked for an idea, and I got a good one from Bloody Pheonix. Thank you! :) This was more of a writing exercise than anything else. Unfortunately, I couldn't think up any good dialogue for Gob―so there is far less dialogue than I had intended. I did manage to figure out some things about Underworld that had bugged me before (especially how Snowflake hasn't starved to death). I hope I managed to answer a few quirks of character for Underworld's residents.
Some people see Carol/Greta's relationship as mother/daughter, others think there might be a more lesbian aspect. This is my take on it. I know it gets a little rushed toward the end. It was my intention to leave it open, but with a defined ending point. Enjoy.
It had been a good turn of events for her.
Greta was living in Underworld for just over three years before she managed to get that woman to take her in. It wasn't like she was inept at manipulation. She'd gone slow with Carol, really slow. It took a steady hand to convince someone that what you wanted was what they wanted, and Greta had been a steady hand for three whole years until she could relax herself enough to truly feel safe.
She wasn't going back out there, not if she could help it. The ghouls in Underworld were shitheads, pieces of trash floating through the Concourse, in and out, back and forth. Risking their lives with those monsters rambling through the ruins to visit the Concourse.
But the smoothskins? God, they were so much worse! Even the nice ones had fear in their eyes, especially for female ghouls. The women had it bad, compared to the relatively intact appearance of ghoul men. Greta had gotten over herself long ago, but every new smoothskin she met just ground the fact that she was a walking corpse into her all over again. But Greta had found Carol, and everything was alright again. With a little finesse, and some hard work, she wormed her way into the woman's heart.
Carol was a real sweetheart. Greta didn't feel bad for taking advantage of her―the woman was lonely, she wanted a for a friend. She wanted for a person to pat her hand, tell her that everything would be okay. For someone to always be there when she was down, to help her over the hurdles of everyday life as a ghoul. Well, Greta was damn good at all those things, and she'd learned the hard way that it was better to put on a big lie than a little one.
Big lies paid better. For her, that was the safety of Underworld. She'd talked Carol into opening the rooms for rent, even bit her tongue and played the catty waitress she knew she needed to be. Most of the ghouls loved it... but when that jerk across the way was no longer the only source of booze and food, there was a rift in Underworld.
Winthrop had not appreciated having new work as Underworlds's go-to-fix-it-guy―when Barrows was too busy to deal with social drama, anyway. Winthrop even tried to talk Carol out of running her Place, which sent Greta's plan into disarray. Greta dealt with him the only way she knew how. Nothing beat a man with a full stomach and a naked woman atop him.
Greta grinned to herself. 'Course, she got her fun out of him. But, more importantly, she'd gotten into the bed of the de facto leader of Underworld. Such power was it, to have fingers in so many pies! Too bad she couldn't figure out Ahzrukhal; he'd not figured her out either, so she was safe enough. For now. Eventually she'd have to cut into his pie―one did not have all the time in the world without making it interesting, somehow. It wouldn't be a problem. Greta was confident she could handle him.
Life was good, for a long time.
The week started decently, she thought. But it went downhill so damn quickly, she was tearing what little hair she had out.
First there was Ahzrukhal's new... bouncer, for lack of a better term. God only knew where the sleazeball obtained Charon, but he'd been proudly showing off his acquisition for the last three days. Like a kid at Christmas! He'd ordered the bouncer to shoot a shot glass off of the head of one of the Ninth Circle's pukey patrons. The poor sap had never set foot in Carol's Place until that day, and he wasn't going back to the Ninth Circle for a long time. Even though he'd not been terribly injured.
Greta watched the debacle from the railing outside Carol's, staring across the way at the doors of the Ninth Circle. Ahzrukhal left them wide open that day and the next one. He was giddy about the situation, his new slave.
Along with the bouncer, some idiot ghoul name Gob had arrived in Quinn's tow. His gentle nature and pleading affect had tugged on Carol's heartstrings. Greta bristled at this. Carol was hers, dammit, and this puke Gob was not going to shoehorn himself into their thing. Even if he was so stupid he hurt, he was a threat.
She watched him around Carol, trying to gauge her action. Gob was intimidated easily. She could just lead a campaign of terror against him―but her reputation in Underworld demanded that she at least be polite to him, to his face. She couldn't flat out attack him, and others would notice if she started tripping him up or shoving him out of the way.
Gossip was always an option, though there was a chance the words would bounce back on her. Carol was head over heels for Gob. If the words came back, there wasn't much Greta would be able to do except for apologize and try to gain back Carol's trust. It wouldn't be easy to rebuild that; Carol might be as soft on the inside as her squishy outside, but she wasn't nearly as stupid as Gob. Just... lonely.
She might have tried to seduce the dumbass but for Winthrop. That was a good thing she had going, and Winthrop was old-fashioned, just like Carol. Both of the ghouls would be up her ass the minute any word got 'round that she was floozying about with Gob. And word always got around, she'd seen it happen in as little as ten minutes. Underworld was not a big place. Shit that went down there, it always made the rounds.
So her only option was to try to set him up... or pay someone who wouldn't talk about it, to do so. To scare him off, or otherwise make his life in Underworld a living hell.
It was a nasty situation. She admitted to herself that she wasn't entirely sure how she could even do something like that, without getting caught. It would take patience and time. ...She had time.
Her patience was going to wear thin, though. Gob was so damn... good. He didn't even have to try to be good, he just was, an idealistic little puke with dreams of one day going out and finding his fortune. It wasn't even that he was believable―his stupid little stories were only that, stories. For nearly eight years, he talked about riches and fame, and occasionally about the ladies that would swoon over him. Carol would tease him about that.
But Carol believed in him. When Gob stopped talking about the ladies and started in on bringing that fortune home―to Underworld, to share with Carol, whom he had taken to calling Mom―
Greta wanted to kill the dumb bastard. She took her anger out in more creative ways, naturally. Couldn't very well kill Gob, but she was pretty sure she'd managed to successfully poison Nurse Graves. She survived. Greta wasn't stupid enough to kill someone in a way that would make Carol's Place look bad. Carol was her meal ticket, dammit.
"Winthrop," she said, one night, "what do you think of Gob?" She laid her hands on his chest and looked down at him, through the dark of his room.
Winthrop turned bleary eyes onto Greta and yawned, worn out from her enthusiastic attentions. "Dunno," he said. "Never thought much about him. Good guy. Why?"
Greta grumbled to herself. She couldn't be truthful with Winthrop. It was too much, even for her. To reveal anything, especially after a forty-year relationship, felt unsafe. "Nothing. Just wondered if you knew where he came from."
"He's been here for eight years, you could ask him, Greta."
But Greta would not stoop so low as to willingly enter a conversation with Gob. She watched him like a hawk, she saw how Carol played to his stories. She was desperate―
But was she so desperate, that she could go to the enemy?
Ahzrukhal. The name alone, when spoken with a proper diction and hushed voice, was enough to cause any ghoul to shudder. What a rotten fuckwad bastard, a prick within a polecat's ass, an asshole jammed full of slime and shit!
Greta had gone about arranging a meeting in the only way she was sure would get his attention. She issued him a challenge over the railing, on a very busy day for the both of their businesses. She'd made sure he could hear her, waiting until the door opened to admit some puke with a drinking habit as nasty as the flesh that melted from his bones. If she hadn't been so intense with her words, she might have missed his face as the door closed, eyes narrowed and mouth pinned shut.
It was almost beautiful in a sickening, gut-churning sort of way. Carol chastised her, of course. Gob, well, he had nothing to say other than his own equivalent of "Golly gee, Greta, that Ahzrukhal sure hates you!"
She rolled her eyes and went back to doling out the slop that no one would reasonably call food. That was why she served drinks alongside, hmm?
The first indication of success in the plan was when the bouncer Charon came striding through the doors of Carol's Place, slamming them so hard into the opposite wall that the plaster cracked. The big dumb idiot never had much care for how hard he hit things; Greta suspected he did it on purpose to alleviate the boredom or frustration he felt being made to work for that putrid drug dealer. Greta, of course, played it to the hilt. Screaming and hollering as Charon dragged her out of Carol's Place and around the rails, like she was terrified. Gob, the goody-two-shoes, almost hit Charon with a bar stool on his way out―why could he not miss, for once! Then it would be as simple as sitting back and watching while Charon beat the tar of out Gob! But Gob had the shittiest eyesight. Of course he did.
The Ninth Circle was miraculously empty. Greta expected that. She was unceremoniously thrust into a seat facing the bar and stared at Ahzrukhal with a hate in her eyes that she knew belonged to someone else.
"Gretaaaaa," he said, hissing out the last letter. "I'm so very disappointed with you, reacting in such a base manner to our respectful rivalry."
"Can it," Greta said. "I got business with you, and it isn't gonna take long for someone to run for Winthrop."
Ahzrukhal's face was solid, he didn't react, but merely waved a hand for her to continue.
"I want Gob gone," she said. "Gone, dead, beat so badly he can't come home, whatever. Get him out of Underworld."
The sleazeball's face cracked a grin and Greta almost regretted the decision, but she knew better than to give him any little amount of leeway. "Well, well," he said. "How... dramatic."
"I'm quite serious, Ahzrukhal. Get him out of here before I end up poisoning him."
The bar owner cackled. "I knew there was something fishy about that Nurse Graves incident," he murmured. "How aspiring." He wiped the bar surface with a grimy rag and his eyes lit up like a Nuka-Cola Quantum. "We will, of course, discuss payment later. There simply isn't enough time for it, now. I will... consult my specialist. Be safe, Greta." He waved at Charon, to eject her from the bar.
Before the bouncer tossed her into the railing, Ahzrukhal gave her a parting shot. "If you challenge me again, it will be the last time!" he called, cackling again.
So... the plan was in motion. Greta played her part. She'd worry about the payment later.
Three years! Three more years of Gob, and three more years of Carol acting like he was he bee's knees, talking about his fortune and gabbing away with patrons. While Greta worked like a damn dog, keeping up the slack. Neither one of the two could see what they were doing, driving the place into the ground. Carol even took to offering beds to folk without payment up front, just so she could spend more time talking to Gob! It was ridiculous. Good for business―but when they couldn't pay, after using the room? How long was that going to go on? Until Greta had no more caps to pay for the shit she whipped up into stew?
It was becoming noticeable to other ghouls that Greta was feeling the strain. The worst of that was that no one else could see how Carol was in the wrong. Every little feeler Greta put out―even Winthrop, her loyal lover, had pooh-poohed the idea that Carol was becoming enamored of Gob.
She wanted to scream! She took up smoking, ducking out of Underworld at night, trying to escape the awfulness. Dammit, she was here first! Carol was hers!
The smoking was beneficial, though. To the plan. Ahzrukhal sometimes sent Charon out into the wastes; on two occasions he sent a message to Greta through the bouncer while she paced and smoked outside the doors. Charon didn't bother to stick around to repeat them or receive a response.
The first one was simply to tell her to be patient. The drug-pushing puke had noticed her nervousness, of course. Greta kicked a barrel in frustration and had to spend the next twenty minutes scooping up coals.
The second message was a little more ambiguous. Charon related it to her in his monotone voice, but she could almost hear Ahzrukhal's insidious tone underneath. "Wouldn't it be a shame," he said, "if there were a fire?"
It took her a few days to figure it out. Well, if he wanted a fire, by God she would give him one. Nothing too big―nothing that would destroy the place. Greta wasn't about to damn herself just to get that idiot out of her way.
She came up with a plan after a few more days of nervous pacing and smoking entirely too many cigarettes. Using her kitchen set-up, she planned to accidentally drop a washrag onto the stove. She was all set to do this when Gob started some new ridiculous story, about some place called Rock Creek Caverns. Greta had to stop and listen to him, because this was a brand new story that Gob had heard from a passing merchant. It was going to be a doozy.
As she stood, silently watching him, seeing Carol's eye alight with excitement for the idiot, her hands grew hotter and hotter until she no longer could bear it. She dropped the pot, flinging it across the room with a yelp, spraying the contents onto two "guests" and catching Gob on the shoulder. He yelled out in pain and the guests were screaming, from the hot mess of stew. Greta's hands went right to her face in horror, as Carol ran for rags to clean the boiling mess from the guests and Gob. That was when the stove decided it was going to have a conniption fit, and exploded.
It was the worst day in Carol's Place's history, and Greta was appalled. The resulting fire from the explosion destroyed Carol's Place and left the vent system sucking smoke into other rooms throughout Underworld. Carol would have to scrounge up new beds, new equipment, new everything.
Greta wanted to curl up and die. Carol, of course, didn't blame her at all. "Everything happens for a reason, baby," she said. "We will make it through."
She supposed the only good thing that came out of the incident was that Carol paid her a little more attention than she had before, and Gob found a treasure map when he was helping to clear the wreckage. It was so random, so out-of-place, he immediately tried to find the owner. No owner was found, so Gob spent a few hours looking over the grimy paper and grew very excited.
He was gone the very next day. Greta spent hours in Carol's Place, staring out over the guests, waiting for him to come waltzing back in to say that the map was a bust and "Oh well, there's always next time!" ...But he didn't.
Carol was lost without Gob. She came back to her loving ways with Greta after a week had passed and nothing had changed. Gob was gone, or he wasn't coming back right away. Greta breathed a sigh of relief.
She was in such a good mood she almost forgot to go out of her nightly cigarette breaks. Carol reminded her, actually. It was a bit ridiculous to be smoking for anything other than frustration, but Greta now had a new threat to deal with―
Whatever Ahzrukhal's plan had been, and whatever payment he expected.
The answer came two weeks after Gob had gone. Charon stopped into the lobby and delivered a new message. "He's definitely gone, my dear, no use worrying your pretty little head over it." And a caveat: "100 caps a day, or else. Leave it in the trash can by the Concourse door."
Shit, she should have just killed the dumbass herself. This was blackmail!
Greta sweated out the payments over the next day. She would be able to skim a little off the top, maybe wheedle some out of Winthrop, but one hundred caps a day?! Greta did the math, and realized that Carol's Place pulled in a good bit of money. Half of that went to Barrows as the mayor of Underworld for rent every month. Roughly two thirds of the rest was spent on food. It was an ungodly sum to provide every day for―however long Ahzrukhal expected it. Probably forever, knowing him.
She made the payments faithfully, for a week and a half. She left a note with the last payment indicating it was too high, she needed to talk. The very next day Charon burst into Carol's Place and dragged her out and around the railing again. There was no excuse, this time, for the rudeness. Greta's mouth went dry with terror. The bastard was going to get her found out!
"You have a problem with my arrangements?" was the first thing he asked, after Charon had dumped her onto a stool.
"I can't afford it, you jackass!" she said, her hands clenched, knuckles that would have been white instead straining muscles.
"What a pity," he said, coldly. "I'm sure your boyfriend would love to hear that you finagled a swift kick in the pants for an unwanted little brother."
"You are complicit," she hissed. "I will take you down with me!"
Ahzrukhal regarded her, calmly. "My dear," he said, reproachfully. "I happen to have in my pocket a piece of paper from one of those smoothskin slavers that came in, just yesterday, listing you as payee of a sale." He grinned, sickeningly. "Would you care to read it?"
Greta only growled at him. "Lower the amount," she said. "I can't skim that much off the top and not get noticed. Carol isn't stupid!"
"No, no," he soothed. "I doubt she is, as well. We'll... have to come to an alternate arrangement, then." He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Perhaps Carol's Place will stop selling alcohol?"
"That's bullshit!" Greta yelled.
"Well, I don't think you have much choice, do you?"
Greta glared at him. She had to try to find some way out of this― "Alright, fine," she huffed. "I'll sell the remainder of the stock, and quit. If anyone asks, I'm going to say business is bad."
"That's my girl," Ahzrukhal grinned. "Saying what I love to hear."
Greta left the Ninth Circle on her own, that day, grumpily muttering to herself.
Not everyone was okay with the lack of alcohol being served at Carol's Place. Greta had to fudge her receipts to prove to Carol beyond a doubt that they couldn't afford to restock. She hated that, but it was necessary. Otherwise... she was fucked, because that bastard would take her to court.
She was biding her time. Patient. She watched people come and go. She waited until some fresh blood came into Underworld, to make her move.
His name was Snowflake, and she had his number the minute he walked through the Concourse doors. That perfect coif, the outfit, everything, fit a dandy. She wasn't planning to seduce him. It wouldn't work anyway, if her suspicions were correct. She wanted an accomplice.
Within five months of living at Underworld, Snowflake was hooked on jet. It was a beautiful thing, seeing someone fall so far in such a short time. The man had literally nothing to do with his time except to huff chems and occasionally trim a scalp. When new flesh graced the floor under his table he was always high.
Greta knew who was supplying him, too. She'd waited and watched, and she understood what was going on. Ahzrukhal might want to hide his little side business, but it wasn't happening. Greta needed to figure out how to use that to her advantage... to steal back the receipt or find something on the bastard. She was more patient than she had ever been in her entire life; there was nothing else she could be. Not with that implied threat.
She took a few caps and asked Carol if she could get a haircut, just for the thrill of it. Carol waved her off, looking sad. She hadn't been the same since Gob left, but what the hell could Greta do other than provide her own stellar company? At least Snowflake was happy to see her. He chatted nonstop while he snipped away at the ends of her skin and hair. Greta cringed at his annoying nature.
When he had finished, it was time to start the new plan. Greta paid him far too much, and he blinked in surprise at the amount. "This is―" he started to say.
"Consider it a tip," Greta said, putting on her best nice face. "For being so helpful in the future."
Snowflake's eyes narrowed at her. He wasn't dumb, like Gob. He knew something was up. "So, what am I being helpful for?" he asked.
"I need you to... be extra friendly with Ahzrukhal." She smiled at him, knowingly.
"Not even if you got me drunk," he snorted, and thrust the money back at her. "There are some lines even I don't cross, Greta."
"That's a shame," she said, trailing a hand across his shoulders. "Poor fellow like you, might like to have a little bit of security for the future."
"Yeah, but I am not going to sleep with―that!" he shuddered. He was willing to play ball, she gave him credit for that!
"Just the once, Snowflake dear," she soothed. "Just once. I will make sure you have jet every few days, and a free meal at Carol's whenever you want."
"How do you know he'll even―"
"He won't." Greta patted his hair. Holy shit, it was real! I owe Winthrop 10 caps. "What I want you to do is come on to him, annoy him. Get him... distracted. Make a big scene." She grinned. "And if you can get Charon to beat you a little, well... I can certainly make it worth your while."
"You're crazy," he muttered. "How do I know you'll keep up your end of the bargain?"
"Honey, I've been here for almost sixty years. I'm not going anywhere, and you know what happens if you spread a story around!" She patted his hair again. She still couldn't believe it was real. "Free food, free chems... all for a little bit of pain?"
And would you believe it, the barber came through for her. It was less than a week later that Snowflake stirred up the rat's nest across the way. Residents of Underworld came flying to see the hullabaloo, the screeching noises that echoed around the Concourse. Greta found herself standing at the doors along with everyone else, watching Ahzrukhal and Charon dealing with the barber.
Snowflake was going to be lucky if he had any teeth left in his head after they were done with him. Greta guessed that Ahzrukhal didn't particularly care for Snowflake's gift of gab or his personal inclinations. She winced with each punch delivered by the bouncer. Every strangled gasp for mercy. It was... inevitable, of course. But Greta would not fail in her plan.
While they were distracted, she sneaked behind the counter and stole away the contents of Ahzrukhal's safe. Later on, she would gift the chems and caps to Snowflake. He'd done his part brilliantly, and her gifts of free food were seen as sympathy. Even Carol had no objections.
Afterward, she stared at the receipt―that Ahzrukhal had correctly said listed her as receiving payment for the sale of Gob―and burned it in the barrel outside the Concourse. She watched the paper disappear into the flames.
She would not have to worry, anymore. No nights kept awake, wondering when the bastard might turn her in. No days spent staring across the railing, her mind running over all the possible scenarios that might occur. She was free of the puke, and free of Gob.
It had been a good turn of events for her.