Charon's brow creased. He was harder to read than Gob. "You want to…free me."
"Yes," Truth insisted, beginning to get exasperated. She'd been in this bar far too long and the smell of booze and jet and cleaner was getting to her. But it was the only place she knew of in Underworld to talk privately at the moment.
Charon was quiet for what felt like a long time, studying the contract, studying her. "I do not think that is possible," he said at last.
She'd been prepared to hear that after reading through the contract herself, but the confirmation deflated any hope she'd been hanging on to. She growled her frustration. "What about…" The writing was so hard to read. She adjusted her glasses, embarrassed that she couldn't do such a simple thing without a whole to-do, and pointed at the part she was looking for. "This, here: In the case of violence on the part of the employer…"
He shook his head immediately and Truth wilted. "I would be free of you, but I would still require an employer," he said stiffly. There was something hidden in his tone that made Truth's eyes flicker to the damp carpet.
"I see." She quieted and looked over the contract again, considering her options. She could only see one: she'd have a bodyguard from now on. With that much clear, they established rules. Or rather, Truth established rules and Charon listened, bemused, and agreed to cooperate with her terms, which were that he speak up if she, in her inexperience, were doing something foolish, or if he wanted her to pass his contract to someone else. He didn't think the contract worked that way and she only bothered to get him to agree to speak up if he felt inclined before setting the matter aside. Anything past that understanding could be dealt with after some sleep. Too much had happened that day for her to be able to really figure out how to handle this new situation.
She gathered her things wearily and they found their way to Carol's Place, Truth keeping her head down self-consciously. Carol's Place was bright and clean. The smell of cooked food hid some of the stench of age and ghoul and Truth's mouth watered, she hoped her stomach wouldn't start growling. Two ghoul women stood at the counter, talking in hushed tones, looking more than a little frazzled. They were like a portrait of contrasts: one dressed in faded pink with a face long dressed in dark lines, the other's face bright despite her worried brow and lack of skin or nose.
The dour one looked up and nodded to her companion when Truth slipped through the door with Charon towering behind her. "Oh, the smoothskin!" the second woman exclaimed, perking up a little and leaning over the counter to welcome them. "No need to look shy, Barrows said you'd be coming by. I'm Carol, I run the place with Greta here." Truth took them in, forcing a lame smile and walking forward to meet them at the counter and introduce herself. Carol's eyes moved past her and she looked up Charon, a little stunned. "It's…it's good to see you out of the bar, Charon."
Truth thought she heard him give an acknowledging grunt. Carol only faltered for a moment but her smile seemed genuine, if hesitant. "It's alright if we stay here?" Truth asked, hoping the caps she had left after buying Charon's contract would be enough to pay for a night. The thousand caps she'd given to Ahzrukhal were locked in his safe and while she could have gotten at them easily enough, she did not think Underworld would appreciate it. She trusted that Barrows or Winthrop would find it eventually and put it to good use.
"Of course it is, I've got beds all made up," Carol assured her and led the two of them into the adjoining room where beds were set up along the walls, sectioned off by screens that may have been dragged out of some old hospital. Truth glanced back at Greta as she was led and wondered if Barrows had told the ghoul innkeepers of Ahzrukhal's schemes. She saw no point in asking.
Because Quinn was out of town, there were two beds available in opposite corners of the room; one twice as big as the other. Truth set her things on the smaller bed and sat down to count her caps. Carol stood by amicably, asking Truth about her travels. The vaultie relaxed some as she talked about her trek from Megaton and how things were the same as ever out in the Wastes. She managed to get the innkeeper to tell her about Underworld and the world before the war, smiling as she listened to the old stories. Carol reminded her of Old Lady Palmer, the closest thing she'd had to a grandmother growing up.
When she handed over the caps she recalled why she had wanted to meet Carol in the first place and felt welcome enough to ask, "Hey, do you know a guy named Gob?"
Carol's face lit up. "Gob? Oh yes, he's my son!" she said excitedly, then hesitated and corrected herself while Truth tried not to smirk. "Not like you'd think of a son, of course, we ghouls don't work that way. But he's like a son to me. Why? Do you know him? Is he all right?"
The grin Truth had been wearing vanished like dust in the wind. She panicked. "Uh…" Carol's face fell and Truth knew she'd missed any chance to lie about Gob's predicament. "I think he's a slave…" she admitted quietly. Carol's heartbreak was obvious and she sank into a chair under the weight of it. Truth grimaced and leaned toward her from the bed. "He's a good friend of mine back in Megaton," she said in an effort to reassure, "he helped me out a lot when I ended up out here by myself."
Carol smiled weakly. "That's my Gob, all right," she croaked. Truth caught Greta shooting her a stern look from across the room. Carol excused herself to cry and Truth felt sick at herself.
Greta bustled over with two bowls of something hot and a scowl. "You could have lied," she hissed as she handed a bowl to Truth. The girl took the food hesitantly, she hadn't asked for any. "Carol was perfectly happy thinking he'd gone off and found his fortune."
"I'm sorry, I panicked," Truth admitted. Greta didn't care for her excuse. Embarrassed, Truth looked down at the soup and held it back out to Greta. "Um, I didn't…"
"It's on the house if you can stomach it. I know you humans can be squeamish."
"Oh," Truth said, surprised. It looked edible, she'd certainly eaten far worse than squirrel stew. "Thank you."
Greta stiffened and hesitated. "It was Carol's idea." Before Truth could call into doubt her own lie, the ghoul woman moved past her to hand the other bowl to Charon and muttered a few quiet words to him. He glanced at Truth uncertainly but when she pretended not to notice he took the food and nodded solemnly at whatever Greta was saying.
Truth's pretending not to pay him mind became real when another patron of Carol's, a ghoul who'd come in while she was counting caps, leaned over from the table in the middle of the room. "Hey," he rasped, "I want to talk to you." Truth raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, unable to answer as she tried not to spit out a mouthful of "squirrel." "Yeah, you," the ghoul persisted. "What's the matter? Never seen a ghoul up close before?"
The guilt and embarrassment Truth felt turned quickly to irritation and it took all of her self-control to swallow instead of spitting her mouthful of soup at him. She'd been in the city of ghouls all day, after all. "Of course I have," she snapped, "I didn't crawl out of a Vault yesterday."
He was far too well dressed for the wasteland, better than anyone else in Underworld except maybe Ahzrukhal, and he had an air of unsavory business about him. He laughed at her outburst. "Yeah? You got a problem with us?"
"…Obviously not."
"Even if I called you a milk-sucking, mutant loving, water-stealing daughter of a whore?"
Truth bristled. Her mother was a brilliant scientist; she might as well have been a saint for what she tried to do for the wasteland. "Now you're just being antagonizing," she glowered, forcing herself to stay calm, "What do you want?"
The ghoul's green face hardened but he finally answered her. "I thought you might be able to help me. I could use a decent human like you."
"…I don't think I trust you."
"The feeling's mutual, smoothskin, but that's never stopped a business deal."
Truth shrugged wearily, forcing down another bite of soup, and nodded for him to continue. He leaned forward conspiratorially, introduced himself as Mr. Crowley.
"Before I go on, you don't have anything against killing, do you?"
Truth stopped herself from answering too quickly, instead shoving another mouthful of gristly stew into her mouth. It would be harder to down if she let it cool, after all. In truth, she'd come to find satisfaction in killing when somebody deserved it, more than she was comfortable admitting. She wasn't a monster. After some thought she said honestly "Not if it's for the right cause."
"Or the right amount, yeah?" He ignored her offended snarl and went on, telling her about a list he had of the worst ghoul bigots in the wasteland, people who thought even sane ghouls needed to killed and maintained that it should be done with a shot to the head like in the old zombie films, a reference Truth only understood because of the Vault's small library of entertainment tapes. Her soup became harder to eat the more Mr. Crowley spoke. She was sick with anger and dread. "So," Crowley asked finally, "Are you in?"
"I can look into it…"
"No," Mr. Crowley growled, "Either you will or you won't. I need someone who will commit."
"Fine, I'll do it," she conceded tersely. If these people were as bad as he said, they deserved it.
"Wonderful. I'll pay you, of course, but I have to know they're dead. I'll hear about Tenpenny, but from the others bring back something that belongs to them, like a… like a key." Truth agreed tiredly, perplexed as she was about him wanting a key rather than a ring or something.
Thinking their business was finished, Truth attempted to finish the last of her cooling soup and turned her mind back to the problem of Charon's contract, but Mr. Crowley knelt beside his rented bed and from beneath it pulled a quality rifle fitted with a scope.
"Take this," he said, handing it to her without ceremony and an aghast and irritable Greta snapped "Crowley!" from across the room where she sat on a bed with Carol. Mr. Crowley ignored her with nothing more than a roll of his eyes. "You're going to need it."
Truth drew back. "No, I'm good." She pointed at her pack. "I've got guns." She glanced around nervously and noted Charon watching the exchange with a creased brow. Before she could decipher what it meant, Mr. Crowley was forcing the gun into her hands, saying, "Those shit guns won't last you. I want this done right."
Sighing, she finally had to accept the gun. He left her alone then, to finish forcing down soup and testing the weight of the new gun on her own.
While the smoothskin attended to things, Charon stood at a short distance, giving her enough room to conduct business but staying near enough that he felt he could intervene if the high tensions in Underworld turned against her. Nothing of the sort happened, despite Greta's hissing and Crowley's provocations, and he let himself accept food and thanks from Greta. The most alarming thing aside from Crowley's name calling was his employer trying to refuse the gun the other ghoul offered her. It was in much better condition than her own weapons and her refusal shocked him more than her taking Crowley's job. Mercenaries came in all packages, after all. Why a mercenary would want to free him and lose a spare gun she didn't have to share profits with was beyond him and hardly mattered. Whatever her reasoning, he wasn't going anywhere.
He was mildly relieved when she reluctantly accepted the new rifle and inspected it, handling it like holding a gun was as natural to her as wearing clothes. When she finished her inspection and her food, she took a deep breath and approached him again.
"I figure you should take the bigger bed," she said, "since you're twice my size. So get some rest and we'll head out in the morning."
Charon hesitated. With tensions so high, he couldn't bring himself to stop guarding her long enough to sleep, and probably couldn't ease the anxiety that he might have to shoot someone else from Underworld enough to sleep either. His loyalty to Underworld was born of living among people who had faced at least a few of his own trials in becoming ghouls and who he knew and was familiar with despite being an outsider. That sort of loyalty could not win out in the face of his loyalty to this new smoothskin, born of the programming, and he would not be able to relax until he could get out of Underworld without the contract making him hurt anyone he knew again.
"I would prefer to stand guard," he admitted.
The smoothskin looked uncomfortable. "Here?"
"Yes."
"…Tomorrow I've gotta deal with ferals and super mutants," she said with her arms crossed. Charon's stomach churned. Knowing nothing of her ability, he could at least see that her weapons and armor were shit. "So if you're going with me it'd probably be best to rest up. This is the last safe place I'll have to sleep for a while."
If she was trying to reassure him, she was doing a poor job, but he acquiesced with a quiet sigh. "If that is what you wish, I will try."
She nodded approvingly and then must have noticed her authoritative stance because she relaxed her arms deliberately. "…Do you need anything before we leave? I've got food, ammunition, and medical supplies. I'll split what I have with you."
Charon took a moment to take stock of his small supply of ammunition before shaking his head. He had few personal belongings, nothing that needed to be gathered. "I am ready to leave when you are."
Satisfied with that, she bade him goodnight. As she cleared the bed of her belongings, Charon tried to ignore that one of her rifles looked like it hadn't been maintained in months and another looked to be missing parts altogether and she intended to face super mutants and ferals with them. The unease in him mounted with every second he tried to ignore it. Maintenance was not part of his contract and if he started out doing extra for her, she would demand extra later, try to turn him into a slave again. But if her weapons failed her in the middle of a fight, it was very possible she'd get killed despite his efforts. She showed no intention of cleaning the damn things herself and his brain screamed protect, protect, protect!
"Mistress?" he found himself saying – apparently a mistake because the smoothskin's shoulders tensed up and she turned back to him with a pained expression.
"You can just call me Truth, okay?"
Charon nodded. "If you prefer that. I can repair your weapons if you wish."
"What? No, you don't have to."
He considered her words and weighed them against her earlier order to speak up. "They would work better. Do you plan to do it?"
She became flustered at that. "I…don't know how."
Charon did not know if offering to teach her would anger her and chose to tread lightly, offering to fix them again instead. She was reluctant but in the end she handed over a battered rifle and pistol, but not the bigger gun comprised of a steam gauge assembly and pieces of wood that looked worse. When he asked she told him it was only half built. It turned out she had the parts she needed and ample blueprints. But she if she couldn't repair her own guns there was no chance she could build one from scratch.
She showed him the blueprints and he found himself conflicted. The gun was impractical in every way. Too big, too slow, ammunition consisting of railroad spikes… it was ridiculous. But at the same time, he recalled how building his own gun had eased the burden he carried somewhat. And helping her with this project might convince her he was capable and make the rest of their relationship easier to swallow, make her more amenable to suggestion than Ahzrukhal had been. He offered.
She was wide awake again in an instant, her eyes filled with hunger and anticipation that overrode whatever had kept her from wanting him to do anything for her. She got out the needed parts and they took over the table that was unused now that everyone but Carol had gone to bed.
The smoothskin – Truth, he reminded himself again – hovered beside him, helping as she knew how but just watching quietly for the most part. When Charon finished and handed the gun back to her, she was surprised by the weight and almost dropped it. But then she hefted it to her shoulder, testing the weight, examining his handiwork appreciatively. It was awkward in her hands, bigger than the guns she'd been using. She set it down on the table and thanked him quietly.
"…Sure," he grunted unsurely and reached for her assault rifle to begin cleaning. In his peripheral he noticed a wavering in his employer. He dissembled her gun.
"Could you teach me how to do it myself?" she asked suddenly. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do it for me."
"If you wish," Charon answered, relieved that he wouldn't have to decide whether to press the issue himself. "Can you get this far?" he asked, motioning at the dissembled parts. A shade of embarrassment crossed her face and Charon quickly put her gun back together and started again, slowly, showing her each step until she could do it herself.
She understood quickly enough once she could see how everything fit together and her hands were agile and precise with the small pieces. "I always had someone to fix my stuff growing up," she explained at one point, "and now I just pick up any gun that's better than the one I'm using. But if this railway rifle works well, I want to keep it up."
When she did go to bed, she was pleased with herself and he was mildly reassured. She was courteous and willing to learn, good signs that this employment would not be as bad as the last. She was asleep by the time he finished cleaning his own gun and nobody had tried to start more trouble so, because she had insisted, he took to the bed Carol had made up for him.
Through his unease he was shocked at how comfortable it was to lie in an actual bed that gave under his weight. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a bed. It was strange and he still slept nervously, waking every hour or so to make sure all was well.
If the smoothskin had similar trouble sleeping, it wasn't obvious and she was still soundly asleep when he rose early in the morning. She didn't wake up until after eight and when she did she seemed momentarily confused, unsure of where she was. But she recovered quickly and after sharing a breakfast with Charon and a brief conversation with Carol where the smoothskin took a letter addressed to Gob into her care, they were ready to go.
Once they left Underworld, she surprised him by heading for the museum's west wing rather than outside. "I'm helping some runaways. They asked me to get some old photographs from here," she said, "and later I'm gonna try to clear the Lincoln Memorial of super mutants for them."
Charon nodded, grumbling to himself that at least he knew her weapons would hold up now, and followed. She had the old assault rifle in hand when she pushed the door to the first floor halls open, not the new rifle Crowley had given her or the railway rifle she'd been so excited about. She hadn't had a chance to see how either fired so that was practical enough, Charon supposed, making sure his own gun was loaded as the door fell shut behind them.
A growl filled the air in answer to the sound of the door and then they were surrounded by ferals that were emaciated beyond resemblance to their old selves. They ran at the smoothskin, the scent of her unruined flesh reading as fresh meat to them, and she and Charon shot them down as they ran out of the adjoining rooms and down the stairs. Charon was disappointed to find that after seventy years guarding a bar, fighting in a chaotic setting did not come as easily as it should have. At the same time, he welcomed the chaos and commotion as old friends. The violence and adrenaline was refreshingly different from the quiet monotony of Underworld – this was what he was built for.
His employer managed herself well enough that he could forgive himself the rust on his abilities and he pulled through when it counted. She ducked behind a broken pillar to reload just as another feral shambled down the stairs toward her.
"Hey, hey!" Charon bellowed from across the room, causing the feral to falter long enough to fix it in his sights and fire. His employer looked out from behind the pillar, gun at the ready, in time to see the feral ghoul collapse and shot a broad grin at Charon before getting up.
When the ferals stopped coming at them, the smoothskin did a round of the first floor, happily picking up caps and other useful things she found, to see that nothing else would jump out of them, then dropped her pack on a counter in what had been a cafeteria. She wrestled the railway rifle out of her things and loaded it with railroad spikes, took aim at the doorway across the room as Charon stood out of the way and watched with mild interest.
The chamber whistled when she fired and the kickback nearly knocked her into the wall behind her. On the other side of the room, the railroad spike lodged into the wall to the left of the doorway with a loud thunk. Grumbling, she adjusted her posture and braced better before firing again twice. The shots were closer to the doorway, but still hit off to the left. Charon helped her make adjustments to the barrel and sights until it fired correctly. By then she was grinning in spite of herself, delighted with the weight and power of the gun, and she thanked him a few times as she inspected the railroad spikes lodged in the wall and succeeded in retrieving a few of them.
The railway rifle stayed in her hands as they searched the rest of the wing for the photographs she was looking for and, whatever Charon thought of its practicality, she was pleased enough with its performance to stop to inspect the wounds it left with poorly disguised fascination and to carry it out of the museum when they left with every intention to keep using it.