My Echo, My Shadow and Me
4: Losing Touch
Console me in my darkest hour
Convince me that the truth is always grey
Caress me in your velvet chair
Conceal me from the ghost you cast away
The first thought Charon had when he woke up was that he was a Grade A idiot.
His second thought was of alarm as he wondered where his shotgun was.
But mostly, he was simply thinking about how much of an idiot he was. What was he, fucking fifteen again? Maybe all of those years of bouncing at the Ninth Circle had made him soft. Maybe it had been too long since he'd been close to a woman. Or maybe, just maybe, he was nothing but a fucking idiot. There was giving the girl comfort during a dangerous situation, and then there was that. Taking her hand despite his better judgment. Holding her, for far longer than necessary. Too much too soon. The girl was going to get the wrong idea about him, and fast, if he kept this up.
Which he wouldn't.
He wasn't an egg—she couldn't crack his shell open and let the soft insides poor out. And if he was an egg, he was a hardboiled one, and an irradiated one at that. Hard outside, hard inside. Except for that tiny yellow part, right in the middle. But it was that part of him that he kept most closely guarded. He'd been hurt there once before, and he didn't plan on it happening again.
Distance. Emotional distance was what he needed. He had a duty to do and he couldn't let any sort irrational feelings cloud his judgment and prevent him from doing his job. Kate was just a frightened little Vault girl looking for some reassurance—she didn't mean anything by her actions, and Charon didn't need to be reciprocating them. He'd only turn out the fool in the end.
There was opening up, and then there was Opening Up. He could talk. He could chat. He could engage Kate in whatever sort of intelligent conversation she so desired, but him opening up to her did not include his feelings. Should not, in fact.
With a groan, Charon brushed the bandage wrapped around his head, then let out a small sigh. He sat up, gingerly, and looked around.
Kate's room was filled with an unholy effluence of "collectible" junk. The desk across from the bed was covered in bobbleheads, Nuka-Cola bottles and various children's toys, including multiple chess sets and teddy bears of varying sizes. The sheet metal walls were covered in an odd assortment of posters, all seeming to have come from the museums in the Mall—from a blow-up of Abraham Lincoln to one of the early lunar lander modules to an advertisement for the Vaults, every intact poster Charon could recall from the museums were plastered on the walls. The floor was quite possibly the messiest part of the room, however—it was littered with empty water bottles, wrappers, various broken pencils and crumpled sheets of paper and, both freshly covering and just barely visible underneath everything, blood.
Charon touched his forehead again. He remembered very little after he and Kate had left the Super-Duper Mart, and in fact, he wasn't even sure he made it all the way back here before passing out. How Kate had managed to get him the rest of the way to Megaton, into her house and all the way upstairs into her room was a complete and utter mystery to him. Though, frankly, he wasn't sure he cared—all that mattered was the fact that Kate was alive, and he was still around to help keep her that way. Still around to perform, quite possibly, the one task he was good at.
Stretching his muscles and sighing with relief as his stiff joints cracked (how long had he been in bed, anyway?), Charon sat up, tossed the covers away from his legs and swung them to the ground. As he stared at the sickly flesh on his legs for a few moments longer than was necessary, he realized he was missing something perhaps as important as his weapon: his armor and gear.
Charon suddenly felt both very cold and very naked. What if that bucket of bolts came gliding up the stairs, flamer and saw at the ready? How could he possibly defend himself? More importantly, what had Kate been thinking? Stripping a man of his armor was, in Charon's book, the most grievous of sins. A more thorough sweep of the room confirmed that his gear was not in sight, at least, nor readily at hand, should something require his deadly attention.
With an almost-frustrated sigh, Charon pushed himself from the bed, swaying slightly but catching a hand on a nearby shelf and steadying himself. He shuffled from the room, kicking aside the garbage and grabbing the closest thing to a weapon he had noticed in Kate's room, without digging through her file cabinet and desk drawers—an old, rusted letter opener. While it was more likely he wouldn't require it before his gear was returned to him, he figured it was better to err on the side of caution.
At the stairway railing, he paused and then peeked over it, checking for "Wadsworth," and then, for Kate. Failing to see either of them, nor hearing any sounds of them, Charon put his guard up, raising the letter opener before him. Cautiously, he tip-toed down the metal steps, the grating digging into the molted flesh of his feet—had taking his socks off really been necessary?—and pushed against the wall, ducking down to get a better view of the living area as he descended.
Charon shook his head in irritation. The girl was curled up in a chair, passed out, with Charon's gear strewn about the table in front of her, along with a multitude of dirtied rags (most of which were either a very dark brown or pitch black with grime) and bottles of cleaning solutions. While he certainly didn't mind the kind gesture, it was his job to be cleaning her gear—not the other way around.
"Wadsworth" was tinkering away in the kitchen, Charon could hear now—dull chinks and pings as the robot washed the dishes and puttered about in the tiny area—and he was relieved that he wouldn't have to put the letter opener to use. It had, after all, been awhile since he'd been forced to use one in combat.
Kate was quietly snoring, drool running from the corner of her mouth all over the red upholstery of the worn-looking chair. Charon, approaching her, dropped the letter opener on the table and frowned. It would be best to carry her upstairs to sleep in her own bed, but that little voice in the back of his head reminded him about the talk he and the voice had about proximity.
He opted for waking her instead. "Miss Kate," he grunted. The girl stirred, but did not wake. He repeated himself, louder this time, and nudged Kate's shoulder. This time, she cracked her eyes open and Charon waited until she focused on him.
"Oh," she mumbled. "Hey. You're up." With a lazy, tired movement, Kate sat up in the chair and wiped the drool off her chin and cheek.
Charon, waiting for an explanation, didn't respond. The two locked eyes, until Kate finally gazed down at the table, as if remembering Charon's gear was strewn across it. Her gaze met Charon's and a sheepish grin spread across her face.
"Sorry about that." She scratched the back of her head and yawned. "Your armor and shotgun looked dirty, so I thought I'd clean it for you while you were out. And," she said, "I didn't think you'd be very comfortable sleeping in it."
Nodding, though not pleased, Charon snatched his greaves and slipped them on, followed by the chest piece, gauntlets, gloves and boots. Finally feeling complete—safe—Charon indicated the upstairs with a flick of his head.
"You should go upstairs and rest properly."
Kate, half-asleep again, quickly perked up. "No, no. I need to keep an eye on you. You've got a nasty bump on your forehead, probably a concussion—does your head hurt, by the way? Feeling dizzy, nauseous? Like you're going to pass out—?"
Charon cut her off. "You cannot very well help me if you are asleep, or too exhausted to treat my injuries." Grabbing Kate forcefully by the arm, he lifted her up and steered her to the stairs. "Go. Rest."
She grudgingly complied and when she was gone, Charon took her seat and grabbed his shotgun, finishing what Kate had started. As he worked, cleaning every nook and cranny of his trusted partner, an ache grew in the center of his forehead, then slowly spread outward as whatever meds Kate had him on wore off. Ever the one to follow his instincts, Charon's first was to ignore it. It wasn't impeding him or bothering him (yet). There was no point to wasting valuable medicine on an ache he knew would eventually go away. He'd learned this when he was a boy, and this pain was nothing compared to some of the injuries he'd managed to inflict upon himself.
Besides, he reasoned, if it really got that bad, he could just go outside and sit next to that fucking bomb for a couple minutes. A little radiation was, quite possibly, the best cure for a Ghoul's headache. Hell, for a Ghoul, radiation was the best cure for every physical affliction.
Shotgun cleaned, Charon stood and slung it over his shoulder. He patted his thigh to check that his pistol was secured, then pulled small notepad from a pouch on his waist, jotting down where he was and when he'd left for Kate. With the meds wearing off, Charon was almost looking forward to spending a little time irradiating himself further.
She was the only employer he'd ever taken such liberty with. Anyone else, and he would have been forced to wait until they got up, so that he could ask for a few moments of leave. Waking them up to ask would have been out of the question, and leaving a note would have been downright suicidal. But he knew Kate wouldn't mind, and that she probably wouldn't even be up by the time he returned. He would only be gone a few minutes—just long enough to let the radiation do a little magic on his forehead.
He made a mental note to tell Kate about that little trait that Ghoul's were so "blessed" with, so that next time she could just set him in a puddle for a couple of hours. For injuries as small as a knock on the head, that's all it took. He'd still have a nasty bump, sure, but the cut would be healed and the more bothersome concussion symptoms would be gone. Coordination problems and blurred vision Charon could always deal with, but it was the fucking headaches that got him.
On the other hand, broken bones, gunshot wounds, accidental amputations—those took a little more care, but once everything was cleaned, set or stitched back on, it was right back to the puddle approach. In Underworld, Barrows had an old x-ray machine he used first to see what the problem was (if it was a broken bone) and then to fix it, after he'd reset the bone and put a cast on the afflicted area. Last Charon knew, the good doctor was on a hunt for any other radiation-emitting equipment that had been in practical use before the Great War.
Not to mention his collection of Glowing Ones, though he only used them for healing fellow Ghouls when it suited his current experiment. Any other time and Barrows would tell the Ghouls they would skew the results.
Charon left the house quietly and had to raise his hand above his eyes to block out the afternoon sun. Around him, Megaton was a mess of makeshift ramps and steep, dirt hills with steps dug into them. Occasionally, the steps were lined with the same sheet metal that the rest of the city was constructed of, though it only seemed to be common on the first few and last few steps, as perhaps a helping hand when going up or down. Charon took the quickest way down to the bomb he could see—around the right side of Kate's home and down the trail that descended behind it. On the way down, Charon passed an older resident, bent over one of the numerous large pipes surrounding the city and attempting to fix a leak that was spraying partially filtered water all over the trail.
The man paid Charon no mind and Charon returned the favor. It's not like he was looking for conversation, anyway—hell, as far as he was concerned, the entire town could just ignore him.
He turned left as he reached the bottom of the trail and was sitting on the end of one of the water pipes moments later, untying the laces on his boots and tugging them off. Setting them down on the dry ground, he then pulled his socks off and shoved them inside a boot. He dipped his feet into the water and let out a breath as warmth spread over his feet and a gentle tingling shot up his legs, through his chest, his arms, to the tips of his fingertips and then, finally, coalesced over his forehead. Only a Ghoul could appreciate the warmth of such extreme radiation. Most anyone else and they'd have themselves out of the water and checking their feet for burns and lesions.
Behind him, he could feel the staring eyes of a number of Megaton residents as they drank and ate their morning away. Charon had absolutely no problem ignoring them—what did he care if they found him as detestable as their resident Ghoul, or how strange he must look to them with his feet dipped into highly irradiated water? Of course, in that regard, he was no different than the crazy on the other side of the bomb, knee deep in the water and shouting nonsense about Atom and Atom's Salvation and Atom's Chosen People. What a load of shit, Charon contemptuously thought. And more and more people were "believing" in it everyday. Charon wanted to give the idiots a nice taste of his shotgun. Charon couldn't help the fact that he was a Ghoul, and likewise, nor could Gob, that radiation was almost like a magical cure-all for them—aside from curing their Ghoulism, of course—and that a raider had decided to try and split his head open with a fucking baseball bat.
There was an itching along the cut on his forehead as his skin stitched itself back together. A small injury, it wouldn't take long to heal. It was the growing headache that would keep him with his feet dipped in radioactive water the longest.
The problem was, the longer he sat, the larger a crowd both he and the Church of Atom crazy attracted. Up until now, Charon had blocked all of them out, staring ahead at the water and the bomb, indifferent. But as the crowd continued to grow, Charon found himself slightly interested in what the hell the furor was about.
Of course, as it turned out, it was Charon. The God damned fool from the Church was making a grand speech, and Charon was the subject—the lovely centerpiece.
He decided to tune in.
"Oh, Great and Bountiful Atom, we of the Church today thank you for delivering us yet another of your Holy Children! Those who have been transformed into your image and now live sacred lives in your Eden—the Holy Underworld! We, Adopted Sons and Daughters of Atom, have been graced by not one, but two of His Children! It is a wondrous, holy day, that we shall observe in the coming weeks and months! Atom has surely Blessed us!"
The crazy waded through the water toward Charon, and the Ghoul eyed the man's the legs. Even through the murky water, the damage that had been done through the everyday exposure was obvious—Ghoulification had started, and it would only be a few more months before the idiot ascended or transcended or whatever the hell it was they called it. All Charon knew was that any Church of Atom nut job was not a fellow Ghoul to him, and never would be. Ghoulism was by circumstance, chance, accident—not on purpose or as the result of some sick, unbelievable cult following. Charon wondered how many Atomites had died attempting to become a Ghoul (sorry, one of Atom's Chosen Children) and how many had succeeded over the years. However many it had been, this idiot—Confessor Cromwell? Charon could hardly be bothered to remember or care—was about to achieve the Atomite's lifelong goal.
Cromwell knelt as he reached Charon, falling to a knee and hold his hands up as if praising Charon, or asking for forgiveness.
For his sake, and everyone else's, Charon thought, scowling, it had better be forgiveness.
"Oh, Great Son of Atom," Cromwell began, and now down on both knees, inched closer to Charon, "share your wisdom! Your Holy Words! How we lowly Adopted Sons and Daughters can hope to take on your Perfect Form!"
Cromwell's hands came to rest upon Charon's feet as the man bowed to all fours.
"Get the hell away from me," snarled Charon, his arm already slackening to slip his shotgun into his grasp.
"He speaks!"
Charon growled, long, low and irritated. "Don't make me repeat myself," he spat.
Cromwell dropped his head closer to the water and when Charon felt lips on the tops of his feet, it was the final straw. The idiot was lucky Charon had tolerated him this long. With deft movement, Charon had his shotgun unslung from his back and aimed dead center on Cromwell's head.
"Get up," Charon snapped, "and leave me be."
The Confessor returned to a kneeling position, a humbled look upon his face even with the barrel of Charon's shotgun pressed against the skin of his forehead. Headache now in full force, and the radiation only beginning to dull it, Charon was in no mood for anyone's shit, least of all anyone who thought he was some sort of god. Cromwell smiled at Charon, brightly, as if the shotgun didn't even exist.
"Won't you come to the service later today and tell your tale, oh Chosen One?"
What sort of fucking fantasy land did this guy live in anyway? Someone's got a gun to your head and you still continue to bother the living hell out of him?
"That's it," Charon said, near-tempted to rip Cromwell's head off. "If you don't get the hell away from me in two seconds..."
The crack of the butt of Charon's shotgun against Cromwell's forehead was gratifying, and Cromwell was unconscious immediately, tipping backward into the irradiated water, blood spurting from his nose and drenching the bottom half of his face. Charon would have been more than content to watch the man slowly drown, but two fellow Atomites were in the pool and pulling him out before Charon had even slung his shotgun back over his shoulder. The two didn't meet Charon's gaze as they dragged Cromwell away, though Charon wasn't sure whether to attribute it to fear or "holy reverence."
Fuck, he hated Atomites. They were such an annoyance to Ghouls they weren't even allowed in or near Underworld, especially not after the last time, where one had tried to kidnap Quinn and found himself on the receiving end of Cerberus's flamethrower. Willow shot them on sight. Atomites were worse than bigoted smoothskins in Underworld, and the Ghouls who resided there wouldn't even let Atomite Ghouls in, if one ever managed to make it to their so-called paradise.
Charon scratched under his bandage, watching as chunks of skin flaked away to settle on the water's surface below. With a tug, Charon loosened the bandage, quickly unraveled it and then ran his fingers across his forehead, feeling for a cut or pain from the swollen lump there. The cut appeared to be gone, however, and the lump less swollen and producing no pain as Charon prodded it. As if it was the proverbial cherry on top, his headache had faded and within another minute or two would be completely gone, and Charon wouldn't need to return for another radiation treatment for a few hours.
Dipping his fingers into the water, he scooped up a handful of it and splashed it over his forehead and face, hoping to speed up the process. He was sick of sitting around and staring at the ramshackle buildings and worthless people already. Every single one of them was either a nut or a bigot, and if this was a shining example of what humanity had become—or still was, even, though it was difficult for Charon to say not having been born before the Great War—Charon was more than glad to be a cynic. After everything he'd been through, he couldn't believe in the goodness of humanity like Kate did. He no longer saw it—maybe never had.
He yanked his socks and boots back on as soon as his headache was gone and shoved through a small crowd of Atomites huddling a number of feet behind him on his way back up to Kate's home. They shrieked and scattered at his touch before dropping to their knees, hands clapped together and eyes squinted as they murmured what he imagined was some ridiculous praise for having been blessed by Charon's touch.
He would never understand Kate's unyielding desire to help these people—or anyone, for that matter. To Charon, all they were was scum—worthless people who didn't deserve what little they had, himself included.
If a few more bombs suddenly decided to fall and finish the world off, Charon thought it'd be a good thing. End this miserable existence, and with haste.
It was all Charon could do to hope that when Kate realized the futility of it all, she wouldn't be too crushed. No matter how naive it was, he hoped she kept at least one shred of hope for the lingering decency in humanity. She was a shining light in the darkness for them all, and it was up to them to drag their crippled bodies to her—not the other way around.
Charon was back inside Kate's home before anyone even realized he was gone.
*
By the time Charon was a quarter of the way done with one of the books he'd grabbed off Kate's shelf (Gone with the Wind, and though Charon couldn't say he'd been enjoying it so far, as with any book, he felt obligated to finish it), Kate was lumbering down the stairs, wiping sleep from her eyes and yawning.
Charon watched Kate as she came downstairs, and continued eying Wadsworth in his peripheral vision as the robot cleaned. It was a wonder he'd managed to read as much as he had with that damned thing hovering about and encroaching on his personal space.
Kate slumped into the chair opposite Charon, still rubbing at her eyes and looking rather bleary. After another yawn, Kate looked at Charon before immediately ordering Wadsworth upstairs. Then, she nodded at Charon, and said, "Head hurting? I've got some more Med-X, if you need it."
"No. I sat outside for awhile."
"Sat outside...?" Kate said, perplexed.
"Ghouls are healed by radiation."
"Oh." She paused, thinking. "So next time, I should just...toss you in a pool of water and wait?"
Charon snorted. "Yes, that would be a viable option."
Kate pulled her legs up into the chair and cradled them to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She stared at a spot on the wall behind Charon's head and her face grew slack, eyes distant and expression unreadable. Charon closed his book and waited for her to return to reality. After awhile, she spoke, hesitantly, as if unsure how the words would sound as they left her mouth.
"After you passed out," she said, her eyes finally focusing on Charon, "and after I finished bandaging your forehead, I threw up. And I...I searched the raiders' bodies, like you'd said we should, before we went in, but I... couldn't stomach it. The thought of it. Searching dead bodies. Killing. Any of it." She sighed. "I never was great around bodies...injuries. I mean, I was the tech assistant, not the God damned nurse!" She shook her head in disgust.
"I think that... that I threw up more times yesterday than ever have in my life. My throat still hurts."
Charon grunted, feeling his responses were limited by both his stoic nature and unfamiliarity with her situation. "Did you at least retrieve what you were sent for?" he said.
Looking down at her feet, over her kneecaps, she sighed again. "Not really. There wasn't anything left... Raiders used up the medicine and ate all the food months ago, probably." She laughed, her voice breaking a little. "Moira was disappointed."
Moira, Charon thought with derision. Lunatic woman. And Kate, doing this favor for her—for what reward? But he didn't ask.
"How did you get me back to Megaton?"
Kate rubbed her hands down the sides of her legs before gripping them tighter. "Dragged you back on a makeshift stretcher," she answered, grinning lopsidedly. "Has anyone ever told you how fucking heavy you are, by the way?"
Charon gave Kate a blank look. He'd never had anyone care enough to go through all the work to get him back. Most times, if he was injured, he was either ditched or thrown into the nearest radioactive spot, if his employer considered him valuable enough and knew about the regenerative properties radiation held for Ghouls. A few times he'd even been thrown into irradiated water by employers in the hopes that he would die and they would be rid of the problem. What a nasty surprise they always had coming for them when he was fully healed and now considered his contract with them null and void.
"Well, you are," Kate awkwardly finished after a couple minutes of Charon's lackluster attitude and her bright, round eyes searching for a response. "Just thought you should know."
A silence enveloped the room—even more awkward and colder than before. Suddenly, Kate stood and headed to the door, slipping on her boots and a jacket. "Charon—I'm going up to Moriarty's for a little while," she said, her eyes not meeting his, voice wavering. "Please don't be afraid to leave the house yourself. I'll find you when I need you."
No matter how hard she tried, Kate couldn't hide the tears in her eyes and the hurt in her voice from Charon. He'd spent years upon years reading people—noticing the subtleties in their tone of voice, composure and facial expressions. An upset girl wasn't going to pull one over on him.
Alone and contemplative, Charon rubbed his temple absently with his thumb. He knew she was upset (extremely so), that she wanted him to do something—but he couldn't. Charon was not the sort of man to break the promises he made, least of all to himself. While he could rationalize that Kate was lonely, scared and seeking the closest thing to comfort she has (and if a man she's known for only a few days is whom she considered herself to be closest to, then surely she must be frightened), he could also rationalize that she was his employer, he her employee—there was nothing more between them, nor would there ever be. She was a smoothskin, he was a Ghoul—she would never see anything in him, no matter how much he saw in her or how he felt about her.
He banished the thought that rose up to the forefront of his mind—he felt nothing but remorse for the girl. Cute or no, she could mean nothing more to him beyond being his charge.
Gone with the Wind landed on the coffee table with a thud and sent dust scattering from its pages. Charon watched the dust fall for a moment or two before leaving the house himself.
*
"Well, hey there, stranger! What can I do for you today?"
Charon was almost staggered by how chipper and exuberant the woman he determined to be Moira sounded. She was the spitting image of how he'd imagined her too—dirty coveralls, an odd look about her face and a downright annoying voice. The epitome of crazy in Megaton.
He took a good look around the store, eyeing the assortment of both junk and useful pieces of equipment (though mostly junk). The workbench along the wall was covered in grease and dirty parts, and Moira's hands matched perfectly. By the looks of it, she was constructing some sort of rocket launcher, but the stray teddy bear sitting just to the side of half-assembled weapon was almost enough to make Charon second guess himself.
An irritated-looking bodyguard leaned against the wall near the bench, a Chinese Assault Rifle strapped to his back and a Chinese pistol hanging from his belt. He gave Charon a fleeting look before returning to his staring contest with the opposite wall. Not even a threat, Charon thought. Chinese weaponry was too unreliable.
Moira was talking. Charon decided to listen.
"Say, I just got in this brand new—well, not brand new, but it certainly looks nice!—fission battery! If I do say so myself, it's perfect for your everyday technological needs—"
"I don't care."
"Oh? Well maybe a Robobrain brain? They're the perfect accessory for your mantelpiece!"
"I'm not here to buy anything."
"But I fixed up this great looking baseball bat the other day—surely you'd love to play a little ball with your pals?"
"Stop pawning your ridiculous experiments off on Kate."
Moira was perturbed. "What? I'm not sure what you mean...unless you're talking about my extremely important research projects for the upcoming Wasteland Survival Guide!"
He held in a sigh. This was going nowhere fast. "If you need a test subject, or a guinea pig, or a hapless half-wit to perform your dirty work, start looking elsewhere."
"Did I mention how wonderful a research partner Kate has been? She's so willing to help out and is so thorough!"
"Moira," Charon bit back incompetent fool and continued through gritted teeth, "you have placed my mistress in danger and as my charge, that is unacceptable. Per my contract, I am required to eliminate all threats to my mistress's wellbeing."
"Hm." Moira scratched her chin. "Contract? Does that make you a slave? I've always wondered how that worked—I mean, how do they continue to keep the slaves cooperative? What's the science behind it?"
As Moira babbled about science and brainwashing and slaves, the bodyguard had perked up, watching Charon closely, hand over his pistol. Charon slipped his hand over his own—a shallow threat from the guard, but a rather deadly one from Charon.
"Do not make me repeat myself."
The woman was talking a mile a minute now and turning around to move to her terminal. Growling, Charon snatched his free hand out and grabbed her arm, though Moira hardly noticed besides stopping and turning to talk at him. But it was the final straw for the bodyguard, pistol now drawn and aimed for Charon's head as he approached, slowly. Smart man—he knew not to fuck around.
"Put the gun down," Charon snapped.
"Get your rotting hand off of her," the guard snapped back.
Charon narrowed his eyes. "You are making an unwise decision."
"I'm doing my job."
"As am I, and you are currently interrupting my sworn duty."
The guard was within arms length of Charon. He held his pistol tighter. "I don't want to shoot you."
"Empty threat. You weren't planning to."
Smiling, the guard shrugged and said, "Good call," before spinning his pistol in his hands and lunging at Charon. In quick succession, Charon released Moira and caught the guard's wrist, twisting it and forcing the pistol from his grip. The guard swung a punch with his free hand but Charon was expecting it, ducking and using the guard's forward momentum to fling the man over his back and onto the floor. The guard let out a groan of pain, clutching at his shoulder. Charon pressed down onto the man's chest, a warning to not get up, and turned back toward Moira.
For once, she was speechless, staring at her hired help incredulously.
"Moira," Charon said, "if you dare place Kate in danger again, this is far from my worst. And next time," he pushed hard onto the guard's chest, forcing a breathy whine from his throat, "it'll be you."
Charon left Craterside Supply to the smell of the guard's warm piss and with no intention of ever returning.
Author's Notes:
(1) A big thanks to everyone who reviewed, and everyone who added ESM to their Favorites/Story Alerts. Makes a girl happy. :)
(2) Chapter title and lyrics from The Killers song of the same name.
(3) A HUGE GINORMOUS THANKS to sparrowinsky, my lovely beta; and Kytten, who also beta'ed this chapter. You're both awesome.
(4) "Tales From the Wasteland: Thistle" was a rather large bump on the head for me to remember that Ghouls are healed by radiation. Thanks, SickleYield. :)
(5) 04/08/2009: Thanks to AliBlack for pointing out an error concerning Gone with the Wind.