Chapter 1: Unemployment

Charon was deep in thought as he waited for Carol to bring him his food. He sat at the bar of Carol's Place, the dank air of Underworld something he was no longer used to. The lights were dimmed, not for atmosphere, but because of the generator's lack of power. Charon cared little in the long run, he was much too busy in his thoughts. Not a word. No one had said a single word to him since he had entered Underworld. Well, that wasn't counting Patchwork, Snowflake, and Carol. Patchwork wanted drinking money, Snowflake wanted to give Charon a haircut, and Carol would have a smile for a head hunter.

But not Winthrop, not Quinn, not Tulip, not even Cerberus seemed to acknowledge him. It made Charon wonder. Not offended—Charon had had to put up with far to many indignities to be offended by anything anymore, but curious.

They couldn't possibly have been upset with Ahzrukahl. At least, he hoped they wouldn't be. Some of the evil he had done, some of the evil he had had Charon do...

Maybe that was the reason, he mused, for the cold shoulder. Charon had been under orders, sure, but they didn't have to like him for it. He gave a swift glance around the bar. Did they all just loathe him now?

Or.. Charon worried his nearly burned off lips as he mused. Maybe they just hadn't noticed him. Charon recalled his first few days in Underworld. They had ogled him with curiosity, tried to open up conversations, and talked about him obsessively for a short while. But, since Charon's standing orders had been to remain seen, not heard, Charon had faded into the background, becoming little more than added décor of the Ninth Circle. And old habits die hard. On both ends.

Charon was so lost in thought, that when his food was brought to him, he began cutting his Brahmin steak with his knife turned upside down; the hilt uselessly rubbing against the tough meat.

"Well, look at this!" a voice finally snapped the Ghoul out of his trance. "Charon! That you?"

Charon didn't bother to turn. He knew the voice well enough.

"How are you doing, boy?" the owner of the voice patted Charon's back and sat on the stool beside him.

Charon said, "Crowley," but it came out as more of a growl than a name or greeting.

Mr. Crowley didn't seem to notice the violence in Charon's voice, and spoke with far too much ease. "Haven't seen you around in a while. Not since that smoothskin bought your contract and you shot the crap out of Ahzrukahl." Crowley laughed. "That was the best show I've seen in years! It's just too bad it had to be with the only dealer down here, but well worth it, nevertheless."

At the mention of the incident with Ahzrukahl, Charon immediately tensed. However, still not realizing he was holding the knife the wrong way, the blade bit into his hand. With a cry of both frustration and surprise he dropped the now bloody dagger onto the plate.

"Jeez!" Greta ran over to the two Ghouls. "What did you do now!"

Charon's only response was a grumbled curse.

"Alright," Greta tossed a dirty handkerchief in Charon's face. "Wrap that around your wound." She stared at the bloodied food. "And if you want a fresh plate, you're gonna haveta pay. Down here, we charge for stupidity."

"Greta!" Carol's voice sounded like ground in lollipops to Charon. "Leave the poor boy alone! We don't want him running away again, do we?" Carol appeared, smiling at him.

Greta's glare continued, however. "What's he going to do if I don't? Shoot me?"

Now it was Charon's turn to glare. "Just be glad," he replied coolly, "that I didn't get a chance to fulfill Ahzrukahl's final order." He turned back to his hand and began to enfold it in the cloth that had once been white.

Greta stuttered over him for a moment, the understanding of his veiled threat obvious. Finally, she muttered to Carol about taking her break, grabbed her cigarettes, and hurried out the door.

When Carol was preoccupied with the food, Crowley let out a long whistle. "That's some temper you got there," he said. "Where is that bratty smoothskin, anyway? You finally wised up and screwed that contract, huh?"

Charon stared at Crowley as though he had just spoken blasphemy. Crowley, hard as he was, couldn't help but shiver and turn from Charon's gaze.

"Alright, alright. Forget I said anything. So why are you by your lonesome, then?"

Charon looked back to his makeshift bandage, tightening it's hold on his hand. "Orders."

Crowley waited for him to say more, but Charon was intent today on disappointing him. Finally, Crowley sighed in exasperation and said. "Ah, screw you, you freakin' shoot-first-and-ask-later slave. I could have a better conversation with Patchwork on his worst day." Crowley rose to leave. Charon stared straight on ahead, waiting to hear the sound of Crowley's departure. Instead, he heard a pause at the door. "Say, Charon, what are those orders of yours?"

Charon shook his head. He knew now there would be no getting rid of Crowley.

"Charon!"

That screech now seemed burned into his head. He loathed the sound of his own name after how many times she had called it.

"Yes, Mistress?" the words dissolved into bitterness in his mouth. He approached her as she lay in the bed and knelt so they met eye to eye. "I am here to serve."

She laughed her shrill laugh, her cheeks swollen with the multiple Fancy Lad Cakes she gorged herself with so often. "Tell me that again, Charon. I just adore hearing it."

Charon sighed. "I am here to serve you and no one else, Mistress. You are my employer and I will always do as you command."

Her shining green eyes, the only redeeming quality about her, sparkled at the statement. "That's right, Charon. I own you."

Charon released his only defense into the air like a dying dove. "I am owned by no one."

Another laugh. Her teeth were unkempt and tinged with yellow. "You don't want to admit you're owned by anyone. But, you see Charon, I could ask you right now to get on your knees and lick the dirt off of my floor. And what would you do then?" She rolled so her head fell upside down in a child-like way. "In fact..."

Charon met her gaze without fear. She loved to toy with him as this. The malign twist of her mouth curved to a cruel smile. "Oh, Charon, tell me what you would do."

"I would obey my commander."

"That's correct, little Charon. Charon, Charon, Charon. I do love that name of yours. And, Charon, what would you do if I asked you to pull out your pistol?"

This was a new game entirely. "I would do it," he replied plainly.

"Why don't you show me, just to be sure? The one you've been tinkering with, the .44 Magnum, was it?"

Charon complied with little hesitance, but much worry. "Good. Now, place it against your head." Her voice was sweet lace twisted in poison.

Charon obeyed.

"Don't you see Charon? All I have to do is say, 'I command you to pull that trigger' and you have to obey. Isn't life so easily... expiratory in your case?"

The Ghoul watched her eyes dance up and down him, studying him. She frowned. "Still in denial, I see. Fine," she waved him off, suddenly bored. "Put that gun back, I'm sick of seeing it. You know, Charon, I didn't get where I am living in denial. Daddy left me, I left him and all he tried to teach me." She smiled. "Did I ever tell you about when I found him? I had been getting rides with Caravaners—I needed the protection, they needed someone to abuse. I spent three months of hell trying to track my father down, and when I did, I realized he had forgotten me for nothing but a dead dream. Well, I decided to forget him. He can rot in that stupid old purifier forever. I'm here, and I'm living it up while it lasts." She stood, and reached for the bottle of vodka sitting by the table, starting to gulp it down.

"All right, Charon," her voice sounded tired now. "I have a special present for you."

Charon half expected the package she produced from under her bed to be some kind of bomb, ready to end his misery. He was handed it roughly and ordered to open it. Inside was something he never would have expected: his mistress's Pip-Boy 3000.

"Mistress?" he asked.

"I had it to taken it off of me yesterday. Once that thing goes on, biometric seals keep it on tight. You need either a bone-saw or a professional to get it off." She shrugged and laid back. "But I settled for Moira."

Charon thought that at the rate her arm was fattening, it had been a good idea to take it off. He looked at the Pip-Boy without any idea of what he was supposed to do with the thing.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Charon!" his mistress muttered impatiently. "Put the stupid thing on!"

"As you command," he said simply, fitting the Pip-Boy to his arm. It sealed with a slight hiss.

"It's yours, Charon. I'm not gonna need it anymore. Go now. Get out of here. I don't care where. Just get back here in two months with something to show for it. Caps, food, booze—I don't care. Just do it."

It had been the closest thing to freedom Charon had ever been handed. He looked at his mistress in disbelief for a moment, then nodded. "As you command."

"My mistress needs caps," Charon replied quietly to Crowley now.

Charon groaned inwardly as Crowley returned to his seat, the gruff ghoul chuckling in a way that said he believed Charon lucky to have Crowley happen along. "Well, kid, looks like I've got a surprise."

Charon frowned. "I'm not going off on that smoothskin kill list you've got, Crowley. It's a scam and we all know it."

"What? No, no. Your 'mistress' took care of that job for me. This one's a job I've got from someone else."

"Yea? Name?"

"You'd never guess: Jabsco. Freaking Jabsco! Talon Company Commander Jabsco. Basically, the job's this: there are three former Talon Company Mercs scattered around the Wastes. They're those mercs, so you can guess they aren't nice guys. One's a slaver, one's a raider leader, and one's a new crime boss of the southwestern Capital Wastes. Jabsco wants them captured and taken back to Fort Bannister."

"Why doesn't he just have his own men do it?"

Crowley laughed crudely. "Have you ever met those mercs? All those meatheads know how to do is 'put heads on plates'. Jabsco wants these guys brought back in one piece."

"Just for him to rip them apart?"

Crowley shrugged. "Your call, kid. They are mercs. You feel up to this job—and you know it'll pay well, go ahead and leg on over to Fort Bannister yourself. To get in, all you gotta say is, 'On a platter'."

"Clever," Charon noted sourly.

"Your choice, Charon. You know it'll do your pockets well, and you can bet your life these men deserve nothing more than a knife in the gut." And with that, Crowley finally left.

Charon sat in silence for a long time in solemn contemplation. Finally, he sighed, looked at his Pip-Boy map, and set a course for Fort Bannister.

Author's Note: Please review! Continuation will depend on reaction of readers. For now, it is a really weird, open-ended one-shot ;)