7.

Charon jerks upright with a gasp, eyes wide in the darkness of the hotel room, and he is afraid.

Screams echo in his ears, and he has to take a minute to discern the past from the present, a nightmare from reality. He puts a hand flat against his chest, feels his heart pounding even through his armor, and is relieved to find he is alone. No employer was ever pleased to wake up to him panting raggedly, or worse, involuntarily letting out a panicked cry, and would rightfully punish him for it.

He only wishes the states of fear he too often falls into, along with the nightmares, were something that discipline could get rid of, that they could be conditioned out of him the way everything else had been. He was never supposed to feel scared, or experience guilt, or regret, or empathy. Everything that he has been forced to do, that others have done to him, should not be constantly on his mind. He isn't supposed to think, he is supposed to kill, to obey, and—

There are footsteps in the hall outside, and the door opens, and his gun is in his hands before his eyes have even adjusted, cocked and aimed at—

The Wanderer gives a tiny yelp, putting his hands up. "It's me! It's me!"

Charon blinks and quickly puts his gun down. Simply announcing that it was his employer instead of an enemy is a much kinder way to stop him than he's used to, which would be something more like, Point that gun at me again and I'll shove it up your ass, contract be damned, or punishing him as severely as the contract would allow for ever aiming it at them in the first place.

"I apologize," he says, swallowing hard. "Please forgive me."

Max gives a nervous laugh, leaning against the wall. "It's...it's fine. 's all good. Man. Holy shit."

Charon closes his mouth to hopefully silence his still too-quick breaths. His fingers curl against the blanket still over him, and...he doesn't recall...how odd. He pulls it off and looks at the boy. "Are you in need of something?"

"Uh, no? I was coming to check on you. Again. You've been out for, like, sixteen hours. I was kind of starting to think you might actually be dead."

Oh. Oh, that's much too long. But given how rarely sleep was given to him, and how often it was cut off within just a few hours whenever it was permitted, it isn't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact his employer had left him undisturbed as long as that. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands; they don't shake, and he doesn't feel at all unbalanced, and it's a relief. "I apologize."

"Don't be sorry," Max says, smiling a bit sadly. The last two times he'd poked his head in, he'd found Charon twisted up in the sheets, mumbling to himself and groaning, but Max decides not to mention it, or even ask if the other is feeling better than yesterday. Absolutely nothing about Charon indicates that he would react well to that. "It's...really gross here, but there're some nice people. Like, maybe three. I wasn't gonna wake you up, but...I do kinda wanna leave as soon as we can..."

To care more about Charon's needs than his own wants? That's… "You should have woke me."

"For the twentieth time, I'm not an asshole," he says, and Charon's eyes narrow.

"What? I'm not! Oh, that reminds me! Guess what?" The boy actually waits for a response, and when Charon only stares, waiting, Max sighs. "You're no fun. I sold all the junk in my bag, and I've got the caps to get you new clothes! Also, I got you a bag. See? For, you know...stuff. I dunno."

Charon pauses, confused, and takes the pack Max holds out to him. Why would anyone waste caps on him? He has nothing to put in this, anyways, unless Max is going to trade his weightier items onto him. "I require nothing."

Max regards Charon in pure exasperation. "Please. Yeah, you do. New armor, too. But you gotta go with me so they can measure you. You're...very tall. Like, the tallest person I've ever seen in my entire life. It's a little scary."

Charon thinks, maybe, he understands; Max is trying to get on his good side. Quite unfortunately for Max, though, Charon doesn't have one. "I do not require gifts."

"They're not gifts, and you are coming down there with me. I'm not gonna have you die because you have shit armor. C'mon, please?"

Charon sighs, but, given what had happened, if new armor is being offered, it would be foolish to refuse. It has never been provided by anyone but him before, and he's sure it never will be again. "I will do as you command."

"You'll feel so much better!" Max says, cheerfully clapping his hands together, like he's genuinely happy to be wasting his money on a ghoul, on his servant that deserves nothing, less than nothing.

"I mean, really, look at this," he continues, rolling his eyes, reaching out to Charon's armor, and Charon catches Max's wrist as if he had swung at him, pulling Max's hand down and away.

Max looks a bit terrified, suddenly, and leans back. "Let go!" he demands, curling his arms around himself when Charon obeys. "What the hell was that for?"

"I apologize," Charon says, but this time he doesn't mean it. He did not hurt his employer, so there is nothing to be sorry about. Startled him, probably, but maybe now the stupid child will keep his damn hands to himself. "It was instinctual."

Max shoves his hands in his pockets, biting his lip, and looks at the dark bruising beside Charon's mouth from where Ahzrukhal had struck him. "Charon...you know I'm not gonna hit you, right?"

With a quiet sigh, Charon responds, "Physical violence, on your part, invalidates the contract."

"Oh. It—it does?"

"Yes."

"...What counts as violence?" Max asks, and watches as Charon's eyes get a faraway look in them, as if he is reading something only he can see.

"You cannot personally endanger my life. You may not injure me in a way that leaves a lasting mark, or that causes me to bleed. You cannot order me to kill or injure myself, or to stay still while someone else kills or injures me. Invalidation of the contract leaves me to find another to gain ownership of it."

"Well, shit," Max says finally, tapping his foot. "I mean...at least they never really hurt you, right?"

Charon scoffs. He doesn't know how the boy came to that conclusion. Every employer he's ever had has hurt him, twisted the too-vague terms to their advantage, ordered him to do what he didn't want, and harmed him in ways he was helpless to defend himself against, for they didn't directly count as 'violence', or...they had never left a mark.

And then...when he failed...

But...no. No. There's no reason for him to admit any of this, to give an excuse to be hurt, so he doesn't. He never does, not until he has to. Why would he ever give his employers loopholes? He lives in enough fear already. He had been fairly positive that Ahzrukhal—no, don't think about him, shut it out—would not break the contract, and maybe two or three others over the years, but every other employment was spent under the constant anxiety and trepidation of when the contract would be voided. It could be just a blow, or it could be an attempt on his life. The tempers of his employers were never anything less than frag mines waiting to go off if he even breathed too loudly, and sometimes, allowed punishments simply were not good enough for them.

'Allowed' punishments, or, the ones Charon can't say anything about because the contract doesn't say anything about them. He has tried for over a century to avoid certain phrases that had been conditioned into him, to re-word them just slightly. Replace injurewith harm, to encompass anything that could be thought of; change physical violence to anything abusive or immoral at all, anything,anything; add you may not take advantage of your authority, of my obedience...of me. He has tried to manipulate the contract in his favor like so many have done before, but his training was too thorough, the contract too inescapable. It does not allow him to bother with his own concerns, yet leaves employers free to interpret the limits at his expense.

"I was really worried that asshole beat you or something."

Charon sneers down at the boy, disgusted at the relief in his voice. He sounds so sure. He doesn't know anything. And as if beatings were somehow the only thing one could do to hurt him! Charon would have preferred such simple pain over every other method they'd found to use.

He takes a breath, looks away, and says, "If you have no further questions, then we should move on."

"I have a lot of questions," Max says, and Charon heaves a sigh.

"Then you may ask them."

"About your contract…"

"Of course."

"I don't like it."

Charon tilts his head back a bit and sighs again in response.

"What if I, like, ripped it up? Or burned it? Would that free you?"

Charon's fingers twitch at the very suggestion, and his eyes are immediately back on the boy. That is the only thing he wants, and that is the only thing he cannot ever have. There's an ache building in his head from the idea alone. "I would be forced to terminate you before you could destroy it," he replies.

"What? What the fuck? I thought you were supposed to protect me!"

"Above all else," Charon says, reaching up to, as subtly as he can, rub at his temple. "I must keep my contract safe. I must. I am nothing without it. I am to terminate myself if it is ever destroyed."

"To—to what? Jesus. Alright. Forget I said that. Oh, man. There's gotta be something to get you out of it."

And what would be the point in that? He just said he is nothing without it. What part of that doesn't the boy understand? "No. I am bound to serve whomever holds my contract for as long as I live."

Max looks like he might need to sit down for a minute, blowing his breath out. "Well. That's shit. I'll just have to think harder, I guess."

"There is no need to bother yourself with meaningless thoughts."

"It's not meaningless! Don't you want to be free?"

Charon's breath catches in his throat. For a second time, he has no response. Unlike his last employer, however, Max actually waits for an answer.

"I require nothing," he says finally, and Max shakes his head.

"That's not what I asked. If there's a way to free you—"

"There simply is not."

"Don't you want me to try? You don't fucking like being a slave, do you?"

"I am not a slave." It gets more exhausting to say each time.

Max glares, and this time demands, "Do you want to be free, Charon?"

It's a direct question, just the same as an order; it is something Charon cannot ignore or avoid. He exhales slowly, then finally says, "I do not know."

"How do you not know?"

Charon meets his eyes for just a moment, unflinching. "I do not remember what it is like."

Max takes a step back and looks at the ground. "How...wait. Wait, wait, wait. How old are you?"

"I do not recall that, either," he says, frowning. "I know I was there when the bombs dropped, but I do not recall much else. I was young. Perhaps twenty. I have aged, but I could not tell you how much."

"Two hundred years? You're—is that how long you've had this contract?"

Charon's mouth is dry, and he cannot swallow. "Yes."

"You don't remember before the war?"

"No. Nothing before my training, and hardly that."

"Your tr—oh, God. What does that mean? Ahzrukhal said—said you were brainwashed, what did they—?"

Charon's breath trembles on his next inhale, too audibly. "I do not wish to speak of it anymore unless that is your order."

Max watches him, hears how shaky his voice is, and realizes he shouldn't have spoken at all. What kind of person asks about something like that anyway? "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-I shouldn't have...I'm sorry. We should just go...I'm sorry."

Not trusting himself to speak, Charon only nods in agreement, quietly following Max down the hall, then pausing long enough outside a door that Max looks back at him.

"What?" Max asks, frowning, and follows Charon's gaze, and then rubs at his face. "Jesus. You don't need permission to—you don't need permission for anything."

Charon still waits, because yes, he does, until he's told otherwise, and Max makes a tiny movement with his hand. "Please don't ask me for permission for that. Especially that. Just...just...go, if you have to. Whenever."

"As you wish," he says, dipping his head a bit in acknowledgement of the order. Well. At least there's that, right? If nothing else.

His hands are still clenched at his sides when he returns, arms rigid, but his headache started to fade once he splashed cold water on his face and forced his mind to go blank, to get as far away as possible from their prior conversation. Freedom is simply not an option he has ever been permitted, nor is it one he ever will be. No matter what Max thinks of, there is simply no getting around it. He will be property, a tool, a weapon, a slave until the day he is finally, finally put out of his miserable existence. And that's that.

He is calmer now, a bit, and he focuses on ignoring the irritating glares he gets from those who pass them. Finally he looks down at Max, at how he keeps wringing his hands and then nervously running them through the amber curls on his head, casting glance after glance back at Charon like he really, truly cares how his employee feels.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Max finally murmurs when they're at the door to the market, turning to face Charon, and Charon tilts his head down. He simply isn't comfortable with the continuous eye-contact Max has been giving and expecting; there have been very few employers who have even allowed such a thing. It set off their tempers, challenged their dominance over him, and was, simply put, dangerous.

"You are entitled to speak as you wish regardless of my personal feelings," Charon says, "but I can assure you that I have very few."

"Feelings?" Max asks, and Charon gives a simple nod in response.

"That's…" With a slow breath out, Max doesn't continue. There's no point; whatever Charon says, Max knows he can at least feel distressed, because that's all he's perceived the ghoul to be since he purchased the contract, and it had been even stronger just minutes before during his prying. And Charon won't even look at him unless he absolutely has to...the distrust is painful.

But that's probably because Max is lonely; there's no way this contractually obligated bodyguard will ever be his friend, and the idea that he's maybe trying to make Charon like him, to get along with him, is just sad.

He opens the door finally and leads Charon down the steps into the market. It's a far more stressful experience than it had been last time, for him; instead of a few kind waves and otherwise being ignored, they—Charon—are getting glares and disgusted expressions as they walk.

"Do I really look that bad?" Max asks, looking up at Charon, trying to lighten the mood, only Charon just blankly stares at him.

"It...it was a joke. I was joking."

"Ah. Very amusing," Charon says, without any hint of amusement at all.

"Can't you smile? Just a little?"

Charon turns his face the other way, and his voice has gone very cold again as he says, "No."

"What's wrong?"

"I serve you for good or ill," Charon replies, monotone, looking ahead, and Max blinks. Ah. So he doesn't want to talk anymore. Well. That's nothing new, then, is it?

He leads Charon over to the clothing tent and waves at the man behind the counter. The man pales at the sight of Charon, dropping his clipboard and taking a step back. "Uh—"

"This is who I was telling you needed new armor, see?" Max says, smiling, picking it up and holding it out, and the man just trembles slightly.

"When we were speaking," the man finally manages, shakily, "you didn't tell me he was a...a—"

"A person?" Max offers.

"A ghoul."

"I didn't think it mattered."

"Oh, it matters…" he says, snatching the clipboard back.

"Why?"

"I do not require anything," Charon says, turning around. "This is unnecessary."

"No, wait," Max says, putting his hands on his hips and glaring at the shopkeeper while Charon sighs heavily.

"You said you'd help! C'mon, I'll pay you extra!"

"How much extra?"

"Twenty caps."

"Make it fifty."

Max winces, fidgeting uncomfortably. Negotiation is not his forte, but fifty caps is really pushing it. He isn't rich. He doesn't even know how much this is going to cost. "...Thirty-five?"

"Fifty, or leave."

Damn. "Fine, sure, whatever. Just please help him, okay?"

The man doesn't even seem to consider it until the bribe is in his hands, and he watches Charon closely as he places the caps into the register behind him. "Fine. But I don't want to see him back here again after this."

Max beams, looking up at Charon as if expecting him to be as happy. Charon's eyes are instead on the man as he comes to Charon's side with a tape measure. Charon lets out a low growl, and the man jerks back.

"If I die," the man begins, and Max sighs. God, he is not in the mood for this bullshit.

"You won't. God! He just needs armor! He's nice!"

"Nice," the man scoffs, narrowing his eyes as he glares up at Charon. Then, reluctantly, he sighs and goes to wrap the tape around Charon's chest, jumping back again when Charon immediately yanks away.

"What the hell, ghoul?"

Charon shakes his head. No, no. That's too close for anyone to be, that's...uncomfortable, that feels like

'That really bothers you, doesn't it? Being touched—'

He sucks in a startled breath, knocking something off the nearest table with his elbow as he avoids the man's second attempt. "I do not require—"

"Fuck's sake," the man says, reaching out yet again, and this time Charon reacts a little more aggressively, shoving the man's hands away from him.

"I said no," he hisses, trying not to sound as panicked as he suddenly is. He wants to go back, he doesn't care about armor anymore,fuck this. "I do not—"

"Charon!" Max finally says, and then he's touching Charon too, settling a hand on his arm, and Charon flinches. No, stop, no more touching, no more. He needs to get away, he needs air, but all he can do is stand there like an absolute idiot because he hasn't been given permission to do anything else, unable to form words.

"What is wrong?" Max asks, and he just can't read Charon's face. It almost, almost looks like panic, but it mostly looks like he'sconfused. He doesn't understand. Why is he confused, of all things? And what is there to be scared of? If the shopkeeper ended up a threat, even Max would be able to take him out. There's no danger. "Don't you want armor? Please, juststay still!"

Charon instantly freezes.

'I told you to stay still. Don't fight me. Just lay there.'

Something tries to escape his mouth, a plead, or a cry, or a sob, but he bites his lower lip until he tastes blood, refuses to let it out, looking around through slightly blurred vision. Rivet City, he's in Rivet City, not Underworld, never again. His employer is Max, Max, and Ahzrukhal is dead. He's dead. They're all dead. They're all dead. All of them. Please. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. He doesn't want to think at all, because if he keeps thinking, he's going to remember, he's going to remember the things he's done everything he can to bury and yet still can't fucking manage to just forget

"Charon."

He looks down at Max, his chest heaving, and Max looks so concerned. It's refreshing, really. Brings him back just enough to breathe again.

Max. Rivet City. Max. Rivet City.

"Are you...okay?" Max asks, and Charon can't respond right away, doesn't know how to.

"Not really," the shopkeeper replies, and Charon hadn't even felt that he had been touching him again—measuring, he tries to rememberuntil now. He'd gone so numb, his limbs only regaining feeling now, and he fucking hates when that happens. Although in this situation...maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

Max glares at the man, huffing. "Not you. Charon."

"Yeah. That's its name, huh?"

"It? What's wrong with you? Just shut up and do your job!"

It's almost sad. Charon doesn't need a smoothskin's sympathy, and certainly not the disgustingly false sympathy of an employer. The order could have been cancelled the second Max saw he was upset, but here he fucking is, still stuck. So, because it's not a real question, he doesn't give a real answer. "Yes."

The man wraps the tape tight around Charon's waist, hands coming together at his front, and Charon growls, overwhelmed with anger instead of fear this time. He'll shoot the bastard's hands off the second he can, just watch him—

"Fuckin' feral," the man mutters under his breath, moving away as quickly as he can, and Charon exhales. "How tall are you?"

Charon looks to Max for approval. The boy makes a gesture for him to answer, and he finally says, "I am uncertain."

"Well that's fuckin' helpful," the man says, stepping on the end of the tape measure and holding it as high as he can, still unable to reach it to the top of Charon's head. "Christ. I don't know, either. Six and a half? More? The hell?"

"You can help me reach everything I never could," Max says, with the same stupid looking expression he made the last time he tried to make a 'joke', and Charon makes a point to look away. He just wants the shopkeeper away from him, now, because he's too vulnerable like this, and maybe Max is just too stupid to realize. Maybe he hadn't noticed anything. He'd asked Charon if he was okay, but...all this time hiding of Charon perfecting his talent of hiding panic from employers who wanted to use it against him, it's entirely possible Max just hadn't known anything was wrong at all.

The man finally goes back to his desk, writing on a clipboard and murmuring to himself, and Charon takes the deepest breath he has since this started, closing his eyes, relieved.

"He's good with this stuff, at least," Max says, and God, if only Charon could express just how much he doesn't fucking care what his employer has to say.

"I got new clothes from him, too. Did you see?" He flattens his new shirt against him and tugs the sleeves down over his hands. "It's blue. I like blue. It's my favorite color."

Charon looks down at him, void of expression, and says nothing. He had noticed. He notices almost everything. He just, yet again,doesn't care. Max clears his throat, awkwardly, and looks away, and Charon can think of nothing but how innocent the boy is. A favorite color? Who still has time to think about that sort of thing anymore?

Figuring he needs something to focus on, anyways, he regards Max closely, able to see him as clearly as he ever will in the harsh market lighting. The boy is cleaner than the night before, no longer caked in blood and sand and dirt; bathing is just another thing that tells him apart from anyone else in the Wasteland. Generally, no one found it a particularly enjoyable feat to wade into the ice cold water of the Potomac, and finding anything that even mildly resembled soap was a usually fruitless effort.

Now visible is the path of freckles that line the boy's cheeks and nose just under his glasses; other than that, there's no evidence Max has ever spent a day in the sun. He looks just as he would have coming out of the Vault, sheltered in shadow since his birth, an almost luminous shade of ivory.

Because of it, Max will without question get sick from the heat and burnt much quicker than anyone else used to the sun. He'll need to rest more often, stay in the shade when he can, and it will not be an easy task to travel the Wasteland. It's nothing but a hindrance, and all in all, Max is not a particularly interesting sight, but Charon, for whatever reason, has yet to look away when Max meets his gaze again.

"What?" the boy asks, smoothing down his shirt. "It's nice, right?"

Charon blinks. Max is...looking for a compliment? Surely he didn't hear that right. But Max is still looking up at him, almost expectantly, and Charon has absolutely no idea how to respond. How low are Max's standards of himself that he's decided to turn to a creature like his new 'employee' for attention?

"I think it is if you do," Charon finally says, and Max almost looks offended, stepping out of Charon's line of vision, and Charon almost, almost, is amused. Idiot. It's not his job to do such a weak thing as to be kind. Is it nice— what a goddamn stupid question. He'll be relieved when Max becomes an adult, or at least starts to act like one.

He's calmed now, and he remains still, as ordered, watching residents throw appalled glances in his direction as they pass, until, eventually, Max comes back into his line of sight, slowly, regret creasing lines into his forehead.

"Sorry. You can move. Oh God, I'm sorry."

Rolling his shoulders, Charon doesn't bother with a reply. As unnecessary as the apologies are, there seems to be no use in reminding the boy of it. Eventually, he'll learn, the Wasteland will harden him, and he will become one and the same with the others. Charon can't say he'll be disappointed.

Soon, they are walking back to the room, with Max chattering on about something, and Charon with a new set of armor, a pair of clothes, underwear, and boots as similar as he could hope to get to the ones he has. They are...greatly appreciated. More so than he will ever be able to communicate. He doesn't consider them his own, though; Max purchased them, and Max can take them away just as quickly. They're Max's. In fact, everything Charon has is always his employer's; he is his employer's, despite refusing to verbally acknowledge it. He can tell his employers time and time again that he is not their property, that they cannot do whatever they want to him, and he has, but that doesn't mean he believes it. His employers certainly never have. Max is trying to gain his trust, he knows, but employers do not deserve trust. He isn't that stupid. Not anymore, anyway.

He is, however, grateful, he realizes, as Max plops down on the bed and sighs, and he quickly says, "Thank you."

Of course, Max doesn't know that last night and now are they only times he has said it and really, truly meant it in as long as he can remember. The boy looks over at him with a smile, putting an arm behind his head. "You're welcome! You'll be a little safer now."

Without thinking, Charon murmurs, "Safer?"

"Uh…yeah? Like, not having to cut bullets out? Hopefully not getting shot at all? I try to avoid fighting. Running is more...my speed." He lets out a laugh so sharp and shrill that it echoes off the walls and then turns pink in embarrassment, and Charon stares at him.

"That was the best joke I ever made, you fuckin' jerk," Max says, tossing his pillow at Charon and watching him still not react at all. "I'll make you smile one day. I will."

Charon closes his eyes for a moment; he just wants this game to end.

"Anyway…" Max says, thankfully changing the subject. "Those holotapes I found? I listened to them. My dad's out west, in another vault, I guess. It's hidden inside a garage, and…" He sighs. "It's somewhere by Evergreen Mills. You heard about that shit on the radio? There's like a billion raiders there."

"You have no need to worry about combat, I shall—"

"You can't take on that many people, okay? You got shot by one fuckin' mutant. I need to be able to help and not...like...well, not get scared!"

"I am capable," Charon says, irritated. "You—" He cuts off and tilts his head down.

"What?"

"With your permission," Charon murmurs, carefully, "I will speak my mind on this subject."

Max gives him a quick nod, but Charon is absolutely sure the boy is not going to like what he has to say. Still, he is allowed to, so he does.

"You went ahead. I told you to stop. You did not listen. I was not injured by my own error." He knows he could stop there, and he should, especially after trying to pin blame on his employer, but he doesn't. After all, he was given permission.

"You have adequate aim, but your reflexes are slow. You cower when you should be reloading. You do not focus only on your target and instead look to everything around you. You spend too much time hesitating in uncertainty when you should have already fired, and it wastes time to adjust your aim again. You are unsteady on your feet, and you shake, and you lack confidence, and you do not hold your weapons correctly. Forgive me," he finishes with, lowering his head again, breathing hard. Oh, what an absolute thrill it had been to say exactly what he wanted to, even when he knows, he knows it's going to bite him in the ass.

Max is quiet for a minute, thoroughly stunned. "Oh."

Charon waits for a counterattack, but Max doesn't continue. He just lays there, looking like Charon had just kicked him.

"I apologize. You permitted me to—"

"No, I...I did. I know I did. That's fine. That's...I'm just..." He groans, tossing his arm over his eyes. "What the hell am I gonna do? I played with a BB gun! That's my experience! I don't like killing people! I don't like blood! I'm scared! I'm the worst person to rescue anyone, but I have to! Fuck! I'm gonna get you killed, and me! And my dad! I'm fuckin' useless!"

Well, yes. But that's why he has Charon, now. "If you wish, and would allow me, I would show you what I believe would help."

Max sits up again, a wide grin spreading across his face. "R-really? You would? Holy shit! Yes, yes, yes! I didn't even think of that! Yes! Please!"

Startled at how eager the boy is to keep listening to his opinion, Charon nods. "If you wish, it would be better to do so outside."

Max nods and jumps to his feet, putting on his armor as quickly as he can and then opening the door. "Here, wait—you gotta change. I'll be down there, the room with the robot. Then we can eat, and then you can show me stuff! This'll be great!" He skips off, and Charon is unsettled, closing the door again and sitting on the bed, rubbing his face. His employer is exhausting.

As much as he knows he protested, he has to admit he is genuinely relieved Max had made him stay. Now, he finally have armor that isn't riddled with tears and shitty sewing jobs. It's not perfect, but the small repairs he could make can be done easily, and will not be life-threatening to ignore for a while. One thank you is hardly enough. And to be getting another meal so soon after the last? At least he is, for now, able to take advantage of being treated better than ever before, and he quickly changes, worried that, if he takes too long, he'll miss the opportunity.

But Max is waiting patiently for him down the hall, still grinning, and has already ordered for them both. His new clothing fits perfectly, the armor snug and sturdy and protective around him, and as he sits down in front of a plate of warm food, Charon might, just for a few minutes, feel okay.

x

"What's up, kiddies? It's Three Dog here again with the only good radio show on the air. I'm sure ain't no one like to listen to Mr. Sir President repeat the same shit over and over again, right? Seriously, what's up with that guy's voice? It's creepy as hell. Anyway, there's been some sightin's of those Talon Company death squad bastards roamin' around, lookin' as thirsty for blood as always. Don't know who they're huntin' now, but I'd keep your eyes open just in case. Maybe they'll all run into the Enclave and we can sit back and watch 'em fight it out, huh? Ah, a guy can dream. Till next time, this has been Three Dog, bringin' you the news, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music..."