The Third Rail.
MacCready led me to the side of the Old State House and the former subway entrance beneath the building. Another neon sign proclaimed "The Third Rail" in the entrance. He was moving with purpose and I had to stretch my legs to catch up with him. We breezed past the well dressed but obvious bouncer, another Ghoul who ignored MacCready, but greeted my approach with, "Hancock says newcomers are welcome in the Third Rail. Go on in."
"Thank you!" I tossed over my shoulder as I strove to keep up. I barely had time to register the patchy tiling, the curved tunnel, and the stairs leading down to what was obviously an old subway station-turned-bar. Clever. A beautiful woman in a sequined red dress was singing in one corner, and there were several other patrons scattered about on various bits of scrounged furniture ranging from couches to old diner booths. MacCready had claimed a small two-seater table in the back corner, and I hastened to join him, not quite trusting the good intentions of the other patrons. He was sitting with his back to the wall, and I scraped the other chair around to be next to him, against the other side of the corner, rather than have my back exposed. His perpetual frown deepened slightly when I first rearranged the chair, but when he saw my precautions, he nodded.
"So, this is obviously a bar." I began. "Do they serve food here, too?" My stomach had been nagging at me for hours, the not-apples I ate this morning having worn off quite some time ago.
"If you want to call it that," he said, digging into his pocket. "Here," and a handful of bottlecaps poured into my cupped palms. "Go get us a couple of beers and whatever's on the menu."
I looked at the pile of bottlecaps, then back up at MacCready. "I thought I was the boss here," I said, tentatively testing my authority. Act like it, huh? I didn't really want to go. While my panic attack had departed, hopefully permanently, the last thing I wanted was to push my stability with too many stimuli. My hopes were dashed when he shook his head firmly.
"Sorry, boss! It's 'you point, I shoot' not 'you point, I fetch drinks'." He ostentatiously leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, a mocking grin teasing across his features. "I'm paying, so you can fetch and carry this time. Go get the beer and some food. Hell, get us a job if you can." His voice was challenging, adding, "We could both use the caps."
I sighed. All right, you can do this. You're armed; you're wearing a bloodstained jacket for godsakes, no one is going to mess with you. Closing my fingers around the pile of caps, I made my way over to the bar, trying to move with a confidence I didn't entirely feel. Behind the bar was another robot. This one, however, didn't even come close to looking humanoid. A roundish silver body was held aloft with a small rocket propulsion system, three large metallic arms moved swiftly and decisively to mix drinks, take payment, and generally keep business moving swiftly. A small Union Jack was painted on the front, and a dark brown derby hat sat perfectly balanced on top of its... head? As I bellied up to the bar, three extendable eyes turned to face me. "What'll it be?" Of course he has a British cockney accent.
"This your place?" I asked, trying to start off on the right foot. All three eye lenses widened and narrowed in unison at my question.
"What? Nah, gov'. This place is Hancock's. Old Charlie just keeps the floor clean and the drinks dirty. So you buyin' or what?"
"Uhh, I'll have two beers and two of whatever is for dinner." So Hancock owns this place. Guess he's pretty powerful... better stay on his good side as much as I can. "Oh, and can I get a glass of water?" I know MacCready said to get two beers but I wasn't much for alcohol, being a serious lightweight on that front. I figured I could do with water and let the sniper have both beers. Maybe it would mellow him out a bit. "And if you happen to know of any, umm, jobs that need doing...?" I hazarded. What the hell, why not? Charlie the robot bartender went still for a moment, then swung into action.
"Tap water? Your funeral, mate." He jibed, loading up a tray with two bottles, cutlery, two largish platters of a chunky stew, and a glass of liquid that almost looked like water. "That'll be 40 caps, up front." I counted out the caps, putting the remainder on the tray to give back to MacCready. "As for a job..." he said, metallic voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "I may have a proposition for you."
My hands froze in the act of picking up the tray. "I'm listening," I replied, trying not to sound too eager. A job?
"I got a certain anonymous client who's payin' top dollar for a cleanup job. Got a little bit of a rat infestation, you could say. Three locations. Everything inside. No witnesses."
"Rats?" I think I can handle some rodents. But, "No witnesses?" I asked, curiously. It was an odd requirement.
"Yes, mum," and Charlie chuckled a little ominously. "The client has a certain reputation to maintain, and the job's in town, so we can't use any of our regular... exterminators. The job's 200 caps. Payment after it's done. And don't worry... I'll know when it is. "
200 caps sounded like a lot to me. "Okay. How does this work?"
"Lucky for me you have one of those fancy Pip-Boys. I'll mark the locations on your map, you go and clean 'em out without anyone seeing. Come back here when you're done and we'll square up." He gestured with one of his arms. I re-balanced the tray, holding my Pip-Boy out to him. A couple of quick taps on the screen and, "All right, you're set. Now stop crowding my bar."
Bemused, I picked up the tray and walked back to our table. Well, no one tried to kill me. That's a good sign. And I got a job! MacCready was still leaning back in his chair, hands cradling the back of his head. He looked to be watching the singer on stage, but I got the distinct impression that those eagle eyes of his missed nothing going on. I slid the tray on the table and took my seat next to him.
"What took so long?" he griped, grabbing one of the beers and a platter of food. "Ugh, Radroach surprise. Oh well, at least it's hot." He tucked in, practically inhaling the meal in a way that only a hungry young man could manage without choking. I sat there for a moment, stunned at the display, then his words sank in.
"Radroach surprise?" I echoed, looking dubiously down at the platter in front of me. "You eat bugs?"
MacCready took a swig of beer and explained, mumbling around mouthfuls of food. "After the war, the bugs mutated into something you'd rather not deal with, roaches being one of the most common. The silver lining is that they have a good bit of meat on their bones." He paused, "well, not bones, but you know what I mean? Lots of stuff got irradiated, and mutated in bad ways."
I felt my stomach drop. "Rats?" I asked, guessing the answer. To cover my trepidation, I speared a lump of radroach and tried it. It was... not good. I probably would be able to keep it down, but it was definitely something you ate to keep alive, and not because you enjoyed it.
"Rats, yeah," MacCready nodded. "Mole-rats, actually. Those fuc-errr, those bastards can burrow underground without you knowing and jump right out at you." He took another swig of beer. "And their bites are nothing to sniff at. Why do you ask?"
"I may have gotten us a job," I began, and he sat up suddenly with an intense look, "getting rid of some rats in town." I picked at the plate, managing a few more bites. It was food, and I was hungry. Maybe radroach is an acquired taste. I hope so. It certainly explains why everyone is so lean, if this is the kind of food they have. I grabbed for the water to wash it down.
"You," he said, suspicion coloring his smooth tones, "got us a job already?" His eyes flicked from me to the robot bartender and back again. "Rats. I see." Noticing the glass in my hand, he caught at it, too late to stop me from taking a drink. "What the hell?" he exclaimed.
The water was terrible! It tasted loamy and metallic, nearly burning my mouth and throat on the way down, settling into my stomach with an uneasy nauseating lurch. My Pip-Boy crackled in response. I set down the glass hard, grabbing for the second beer that MacCready had swiftly opened, pocketing the cap, you sneak, and taking a swig of the skunky stuff. "What the-?" I spluttered.
"Yeah boss, you don't want to drink that stuff if you can help it." He lectured unnecessarily as I gulped another mouthful of terrible beer. "The water's all irradiated here, unless it's labeled otherwise."
"Lesson number eight, or is it ten now?" I couldn't help the sarcasm in my voice. The food was barely edible, the water was irradiated, bugs were monsters big enough to serve as a meal, people had to walk around armed to the teeth. I had to find a hint of humor in this, however dark and caustic, or I was going to lose my grip. To my surprise, the bitter sniper actually half-grinned at my jab.
"I don't know. I lost count when we got to 'people are people even if they're a robot'." He actually chuckled quietly, sarcastically. "Maybe you should write a book- 'The complete idiot's guide to getting yourself killed in less than a day in the Commonwealth'." I just stared at him. That... was actually funny, but I couldn't let him know that.
"Ha." I said, dead-pan, and went back to struggling through my meal.
"Anyway, boss, what's this job you got for us?" He leaned forward with a serious expression, dropping his voice a little so as not to be overheard.
"Charlie said that an anonymous someone wants us to clear out three warehouses." A nod in response. "They have a rat problem, and can't risk their reputation, so we have to do it unseen. He was very firm about no witnesses for some reason." I finished my plate and looked up to see an intense blue gaze. "He's paying 200 caps."
"That's all?" MacCready closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Fuc- I mean, geez boss!"
"What?"
"Time for another lesson. Always haggle for a better price." His voice was emphatic. "Always." He tapped the table, a little irritably. "People are always trying to either rip you off or plant a knife in your back. You have to keep an eye out for number one." His voice was bitter, and there were shadows in his eyes that spoke of hard experience. "You should have gotten at least 100 caps each to clear out a warehouse, even if they're just in town." He finished his beer. "Oh, and you do realize we're not going after rats, right?" he added, almost too casually.
"What do you mean?" I was confused. If molerats really were that big and dangerous, hiring a couple of guns to clean them out made sense. It's not like one could get traps that big.
"Charlie was being coy. We'll be hunting down people." He shook his head at my blank expression. "People that our anonymous employer wants dead. Welcome to mercenary work, boss."