They waste no time in Underworld, stopping only briefly at the Outfitters to trade off the necklace of hunting rifles for a few electronic scraps and all the chems they can carry. His new employer spares the armour only a second's look before dismissing it. Too tall, they say gesturing at him. Too short, they shrug at the meagre offerings. Their entire posture affects something not dissimilar to a wince; they appear contrite. Charon has done more with less. He does not mind.

They leave Underworld with little fanfare. The few ghouls that had been present to witness the… business transaction are now trickling from the bar's doors, stumbling and disoriented from shock. Some are rather more vocal than others. His new employer seems to think it pertinent to leave sooner rather than later. Charon agrees.

It's dark out when they leave. It's lucky, because Charon's eyes are so used to the Stygian atmosphere in Underworld that he doubts he would have been able to adjust to the sun quickly enough to deal with all the Super Mutants, quickly enough to protect his employer.

It doesn't matter, though, because someone has killed every last one of them.

"Watch your step," his employer rasps as they slip through the fluorescent green goo liberally spattering the floor. They're obviously only remaining upright thanks to the suit's internal gyroscopic stabilizers; Charon himself is doing just fine in his combat boots apart from the squishy sensation that's getting right in between his toes. He'd sigh, but he's above that kind of thing, and also really sort of wants to make a good impression on his new employer. Anything for an easy life.

They only walk for a few hundred metres, anyway, until they duck into the Metro. The lighting's just as bad as he remembers from last time, except for more of those piles of goo radiating light along the way, drawing out a path they seem to be following. His employer picks their way across the terrain with little care for their surroundings, while Charon followed much more cautiously, until eventually they came upon a utility room… a locked utility room.

Charon could have offered his services – should have by all rights – but before he could open his mouth, the lock had been jimmied open and he was ushered inside, his employer locking the door behind them. It's dark, until they kick an armoured boot at a fission battery on the floor. The lantern it's connected to flickers to life, and they grumble at it nonsensically for a second before bustling around the small space. There are the usual metal shelves on either side of the small space and a mattress on the floor. The lantern is balanced precariously on one of the battered shelving units, its too-short electrical cord with its peeling rubber coating posing a health and safety nightmare and isn't it strange what his training will make him consider a threat in a world filled with radiation and mutation and evil people like Ahzrukhal—

An unseen office chair lounges unobtrusively in the corner, squeezed in between the back wall and one of the chairs; he only notices it because his employer is himself trying to squeeze into it. The metal armour is making the positioning difficult, but they're managing, even if the electric coils on their back do make the worst screeching sound as they scrape down the metal wall of their encampment. Charon watches all of this, and stands stock-still just inside of the door, feet carefully not treading on the mattress. He would not, would not assume

"Please, sleep," his employer states. "I'll keep watch."

The chair is facing the door: it is tactically sound.

He lowers himself stiffly to the ground and reclines mechanically upon the makeshift bedding. The mattress is bare and smells of mould and old blood and sweaty traveller. He doesn't like it, but he's smelt worse – including probably himself at this point, covered as he is in parts of plasma goop and his old boss. I will not sleep, he thinks, I will just rest.

Soft hisses from the corner: pneumatics and hydraulics settle into place as the armour does so. His employer is fidgety, or maybe, he thinks, vigilant.

Maybe I will nap, he amends to himself, but only a short while.

He is lulled to sleep by hisses and beeps and quiet clanks and fidgeting feet and it is wonderful.

When he wakes it is to a very familiar wheezing clatter – not the hissing of pneumatic armour, but the soft, sharp puff of a jet inhaler he knows all too well. The empty vessel is stashed in the bag once again, and he listens to his employer with his eyes closed for a moment or two. Their breathing is laboured for a second, but he shortly hears the distinctive click of a helmet slotting into place: air filters whirr and render their breath static. Charon opens his eyes.

His employer is fidgeting once more, now, he realises, the effects of the jet. It can't be healthy for his employer. Charon sits up, offers to take watch. They shrug awkwardly, ask: "Are you rested?"

"Yes," he replies, almost surprised as he takes stock of himself. He is not tired, never tired thanks to the dubious blessings from his past, but he is… better than usual. A few hours' sleep must have done some good. His employer is silent for a while, and he can almost feel their gaze burning into him despite the layer of metal between them. Finally, they relent.

"Good," they say, followed by, "Let's go," so they go.

It's light outside now, but the sun is high in the sky – past its apex, in fact, but that doesn't make sense because it was dark when they left Underworld, so…

"How long did I sleep?"

He immediately regrets asking, berating himself internally. Luckily, his employer doesn't seem to mind.

"A few days?" they shrug, an estimate. "It's good you woke up. You must be hungry." Charon grunts his assent, in shock. "Thought so. When'dya last eat?" Charon shrugs again. His employer spits a few choice words angrily that their helmet garbles beyond comprehension. Charon can't find it in himself to be offended. He's damaged goods and he knows it. They meander around for a bit outside. His employer looks at their wrist a lot, while he looks around them, keeping vigilant. He doesn't know what they're doing, but his place is not to know, or question. His is just to do.

They stop eventually by the burnt out shell of an old car. It takes a minute for his power-assisted employer to wrench the hood open and expose its innards. He must look more puzzled than usual because his employer starts talking to him, explaining.

"It isn't healthy," the tell him, "To suddenly eat if you haven't in a while." They're cracking open the packaging on their supplies and packing them around the car's old fusion reactor. Charon can feel the tingle on his skin, the soothing heat, from here. It's a wonder his employer can handle it. He briefly entertains the idea that his employer might be a ghoul – their voice certainly grates enough through the helmet's speakers. "Sure," they continue, "I could just get you to sit in the car, but it's always quicker to go for the more direct route." It's probably more than he's heard his employer say at any one time, but for all the words he doesn't understand what they're saying. A few minutes have passed now, and they hand him a bottle of water. It's warm in his hands, and tickles his throat on the way down. More than anything, it's clean. He doesn't understand.

"Why not the river?" he croaks after he's gulped down the bottle. After all, they are close enough, and purified water is hard to find – and expensive when you do.

"I wouldn't wish that water on my worst enemy," they snarl, and the tinny dissonance the helmet provides sends a shiver down his spine. He makes the executive decision not to complain again. His employer's anger appears short-lived, however, as soon enough they are forcing more food on him, encouraging him to eat as much as he can. "The radiation should heal your stomach," they assure him, and then when he protests, they reply, "Well, it's not like I can eat it," which is true, and that puzzles Charon even more. Nevertheless, he doesn't question it too much.

"Done?" they finally ask.

"Yes," he replies. He feels stronger than he has for years, ready for anything.

"Then let's go. It's not too far."

As is his lot in life, Charon follows.


Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. A bit of a slow start, I know, but next chapter (fingers crossed) things will get heated up a little bit. Please let me know if you liked it!