Disclaimer. Don't own anything of this. This Chapter was subseqquently revised. The facts didn't change.
Charon walked silently through the subway tunnels, even though the most common inhabitant, the feral ghoul wouldn't attack him. For whatever reason that is, he thought to himself. Sure, they wouldn't attack him because he was a ghoul himself, but what is it specifically, that ferals don't attack other ghouls? The appearance? The smell? Charon pulled at the collar of his leather jacket and sniffed it. Sweat. Dirt. And the usual tang of rot. He couldn't wait to get to his nearest "Save-Place" after weeks of scavenging and roaming the wasteland. At his save-place there wouldn't be a shower but he could at least heat some water to clean himself a bit with a washing cloth. He rounded the last bend and saw the heavy steel door of his hide-out. He roamed in his pocket for the keys as he heard something. Immediately dropping the keyring he already had his shotgun in his hand. Charon waited for a second before he heard the sound again.
No doubt. Someone or something was near. It sounded like stifled groaning, but he wasn't sure if it was a ghoul, a human or somethign else entirely. Leaving the door behind him, he proceeded along the railways through the tunnel. There were a few heaps of rubbish and debris along the walls which would make a good cover for someone to ambush him. So, he sneaked near and quickly peeked around them, shotgun drawn and pointing at empty space behind the piles. He could still hear the groaning and at the last mound of debris he found the source. A person cowered behind the pile, leaning against the wall. Raider, Charon thought immediately as he looked over the equipment and clothes. Suddenly, the person leaned forward and puked on the floor, almost toppling over and into the vomit. Charon took a step back -he didn't want to ge vomit on his boots - and pointed his shotgun at the head. He wouldn't be able to rest if he knew, there were raiders near to his hide-out. He could see the shaven head behind the frontsight of his shotgun, but at the last moment he refused to pull the trigger. Instead he nudged the person with his barrel. "Hey, get out of here." Fever-bright eyes looked up and tried to fix the gaze upon him. A woman, Charon recognized as he finally saw the dirty and scraped face.
She screamed and tried to skid away from him. "Shut up. Shut up, you dumb bitch. You attract to much attention." She topped shouting for help but still skidded backwards along the subway wall. "It can talk. The corpse talks" She exclaimed and shook her head. Charon growled. Of course, he could talk. "Get away from here or I'll have to kill you." She looked around, as if she was looking for someone who could also hear the ghoul talk to make sure, she was not losing her mind. "I can't" she responded. "Sure you can. Just go back to your squalor friends." She shook her head again. "I can't stand." He sighed. "Too high or why can't you?" she laughed silently. "Yeah. No. But that's the problem. How do you call it? When you don't take drugs but your body wants you to."
He dropped the barrel of his shotgun as a hint of hope crawled into his brain. "Withdrawal" she nodded. "Ja, that's the word." He mustered the woman again. "You don't have the drugs you need with you? I can get you some." he asked her, hoping she would beg him for her fix to proof his suspicions wrong. Her eyes shone with need. "No. you can't give them to me. You can't. I can't" he stepped forward and she shied backwards again. "Tell me, why you can't" he demanded. "I just. I can't. I don't want to anymore. I want to change." "Change what." He compelled her to answer. "Everything." He exhaled audibly. There it was. His guts were right. He remembered the day he had this conversation so clearly as if it was yesterday. He wasn't a drug addict, but at that time he needed to change, too, so desperately. And then there was this person. He had done and give everything for this old unsocial ghoul. "Did you soil yourself?" she starred at him. "Did I what?" he raised his voice. "If you shit yourself." "No. I didn't."
Charon secured his rifle on his back. "I can kill you in more ways you could ever think of. Even without my shotgun. Did I make myself clear?" she nodded as he stepped towards and reached for her. Her eyes widened and she tried to push him away as he picked her up bridal style. "No! Don't touch me!" "Shush! It's not contagious." She still struggled weakly against his grip. "What will you do to me?" she asked with fear in her voice. "If you truly want to get clean I'll help you." "Why would you do that?". They arrived at the door to his "save-place" and he unlocked it with one hand. Inside the small pre-war break room was enough space for an old mattress, a shelf with a few supplies and a hot plate on top of an office desk.
He opened the next door and placed her on the floor of the tiniest bathroom possible. "Don't puke on the floor. You can flush the toilet with the water in the bucket." She already hugged the toilet as if it was her dearest friend and emptied her already empty belly. Charon went back to the main room. She heard him working at the door, probably setting up some traps, she thought as he already returned and threw a blanket over her. "When you're done with puking you should sleep." He pointed to the mattress. "Why," she asked again, hoping for an answer. "Why are you doing this." He exhaled audible as his shoulders dropped. He was tired of remembering.
"A long time ago I promised someone important to return a favour. By helping you I will live up to that promise."