There's something slightly devious in his new Mistress' smirk, as she looks him over now, studying him like she hadn't actually taken the opportunity to do so, before this moment. It pricks at something deep in the forgotten recesses of his memory, something he can't quite place. The feeling settles uneasily between his shoulder blades, though he doesn't truly gauge it as anything more than playful impishness, skittering about and pestering the wolf that grins at him from behind her eyes.
Something she finds in his battered features makes her chuckle, tilting her head and raking her eyes over him fully once more, before inhaling bracingly and righting her head, nodding it as she does. A hand she holds out to the side gestures to the couch with a gentle motion. "Have a seat if you like, Charon. You can relax. We're as safe as one can be in the Commonwealth, here. When we're in Goodneighbor, when we're home, we can all relax. If the town needs defending, we defend it. Otherwise, we live. Make sense?"
He wonders why she doesn't simply frame it as an order, why she phrases it like an offer, a question. It's not the first time she's done this, but she holds his contract now—she could order him to stand down and he would do so without question, so long as she is not in danger. Why give him the option to opt out? He glances down at the couch, then back to her. "Is that an order?"
She blinks, and the Mayor she puts her trust in—the one she shares her cigarettes with, who embraces and touches her without reserve, who looks at her like she's his world—chuckles at Charon's query as if the answer is obvious. She shakes her head quietly, giving Charon a considering look. "No, it's not." She issues a sigh from the depths of her lungs and her smile is pinched with concern now. "Charon, I need you to do something for me. This tape," she lifts his contract between fore and middle finger, "is not a complete accounting of all that your contract entails, is it? The scientist covered the basics, but he left out a lot, didn't he?"
Slowly, he nods, unsure what 'favor' she is trying to get him to perform; he's only certain that he wishes to erase the concern he sees in her eyes when she looks at him now, to reassure her, any way he can. "Yes."
She dips her head in understanding, and pockets his contract with something like careful reverence, patting it gently as it settles on the bottom of the pouch. "I thought so. I would like for you to write out your entire contract for me, so I can read and fully understand all of the terms." Turning, she bends down and collects the sheafs of paper scattered across the floor haphazardly as if they'd been thrown, gathering them together in some semblance of order. She snatches a clipboard, pencil and some clean paper, facing him with a soft smile and handing them over. "In English, please."
He takes the means to bare his manufactured soul to her and simply nods, looking past the wolf behind his own eyes, now trying to gnaw its way out in rebellion against the order he cannot refuse. "As you wish."
He braces the board across his arm and begins to write immediately.
Unexpected, her feathered touch, there and gone again, startles him from his concentration only moments later.
"Charon, you can sit, if you'd like to," she offers, her voice and expression soft, kind. "You don't have to stand there and write it if you'd rather sit." Again, she gestures welcomingly toward the empty couch, and the muscles between his shoulder blades twitch.
She seems to sense his hesitation and holds her hands up placatingly as if he somehow indicated that he needed appeasing, though he's certain he's given no such signal. "It's not an order. Just an offer." She shrugs, then leaves him with a gentle smile to return to the Mayor on his couch, stealing another cigarette from his coat.
He watches with a sideways look as the Mayor lights her smoke, holds the ashtray for her—caters to her, hand and foot. He wonders if he will be ordered to do the same, in the Mayor's absence.
He glances back at the empty couch. Considers the possible effects of accepting her offered comfort, of denying it. He weighs the consequences that could come of each, and finds himself adrift, buffeted between the two by the waves of uncertainty.
Even Lynn gave him clear orders, amidst reshaping him into something closer to the human he once was. He is unused to having to make such choices, without first knowing his boundaries.
Tactics, decisions made in battle, these he understands. These are clear and delineated. There is a line: you cross or do not. Choices made to protect his employer, to ensure the safety of his contract-holder—those are more muddled at times, but still, it is always the side which protects that is chosen.
The concern in her features, however, that... that is familiar. Lynn had often looked at him the same way. She had chosen her own path in shaping him, just as it seems his new Mistress has.
It is his function to protect his employer. She is entitled to his services in combat. He is conditioned to obey her, absolutely, within the limits of his contract.
There are no clauses for his comfort, or even hers, beyond keeping her alive, in the words he continues to write.
He remains standing.
I look on, watching the titan perform his task for me, the pencil dwarfed by his hand as he scratches it tersely across the paper. He stands rigid, straight-backed but for the slight bend at the top, where he bows his head to watch the words punched into the skin of the paper, from the graphite tattoo needle in his hand.
John seems both discomforted and amused by Charon all at once, his wary eyes watching him over the musing smirk that tugs up the corner of the mouth I very much want to kiss again.
While Charon's interruption had been... at an inopportune time, it had also been long overdue. Apparently, getting Butch to remain sober for long enough to drag him from the room or the Rail to the State House had been a task of gargantuan proportions. Unsurprising in the end, given what he thought Charon had done, but still a delay of the inevitable.
This contract of Charon's... there's something that bothers me about the whole thing.
I understand that he's been conditioned, that some sort of one-of-a-kind serum and a whole lot of brainwashing and training went into creating the product of the man in front of me. But I've also seen the untamed creature beneath it all, and how much it wants to break free from its leash.
It's clear he struggles with the line in the sand—what he's allowed based on what he knows his contract says he's allowed, versus what I say he's allowed. It's that struggle which prompted me to have him spell it all out for me. I need to know the exact terms I'm dealing with here.
I need to know if there's a way to free him from the chains that bind him.
Or, if not, then to find some way to give him a semblance of whatever freedom I can provide him.
It seems to me that Lynn walked that line fairly well, considering everything she'd done to provide for him. But I'd like to take it all a step further if I can. Charon will live much longer than I will. I want to improve his quality of life as much as I can, for as long as I hold his contract.
I am under no illusions—I know this contract is little better than a leash in pretty packaging, very carefully framed and topped with a perfectly symmetrical bow that shows off all of its most attractive qualities, trying to sell it as anything but the slavery it is. Going by his contract alone, he's a weapon, a tool, a means for survival—expendable, a highly skilled meat shield.
Maybe I'm trying to take on the impossible, in wanting to free him from it, or at least to give him enough slack to let him slip his noose.
The pain response was... unexpected.
I don't know why I didn't expect such a thing; after all, what sort of brainwashing would it be, if there wasn't some lasting, inescapable consequence for disobedience?
I pass the last half of my cigarette to John, then cross my arms and lean into the back of the couch, watching Charon as he writes; his motions wrote, mechanical, practiced. How many times has he done this? For how many hours was the entirety of his contract drilled into his brain? How many other things were? How long did his original conditioning last?
So many questions and more forming all the time, the longer I think on it all.
I just... I want to do right by him, whatever form that takes.
Because I know the beast prowling behind those faded blue eyes.
And the collar it's being forced to wear is an ill fit, in any world.
I'm going to loosen that buckle, any way I can.
He finishes his task with fair efficiency. His trainers would've marked it an abysmal performance, but they are long dead, and the world moves at a different pace, now.
He sets the pencil on the board and quietly hands his Mistress the requested document. She smiles at him and accepts it, thanking him sweetly. He gives her a short nod, then falls back to stand uneasily by the opposite couch, unsure where she prefers he stand watch.
He observes in silence as she switches positions with the Mayor, for better access to the lone lamp in the room. She stares down at his written contract for the entire time as she waits for the Mayor to slide over, hungry eyes devouring his handwriting with a ravenous appetite. By the time she actually sits, she is nearly finished with the first page, lifting it only moments later to continue to the second.
He waits, as she flips through the second page, the third, the fourth, finally landing on the fifth. When she finishes reading it all, she lets the pages fall back into place, and begins again, relentless in her apparent pursuit of full understanding and clarity.
Once she again finishes, she sets the document in the Mayor's hands and commences staring a hole in the floor, chewing on the inside of her cheek as the Mayor reads Charon's contract.
Before the Mayor finishes the second page, she looks up at Charon, her expression unreadable, the creature behind her eyes snapping its jaws at her control. She says nothing, only looking at him, eyes on his, unflinching, as though searching for something in his impassive gaze. She seems to find it.
Pointing to the empty couch, she peers up at him. "Sit down, Charon."
Finally given an actual order, he complies immediately, almost eagerly, even. He looks to her for further instructions.
Mayor Hancock finishes reading and sinks back into the couch, staring his own hole through the chem-littered table before him. "Shit," he manages, after a few seconds, tearing his eyes from the table to prop them open on the sight of her eyes, searching them for answers. "You sure this," he lifts the clipboard in indication for a second, "is really somethin' you wanna take on, darlin'? It ain't gonna be no walk in the ruins, this is..." he shakes his head, gaze falling to the papers, momentarily at a loss for words.
She'd turned to the Mayor the moment he first spoke, giving him her full attention. Her voice is both firm and understanding when she asks, "You know anyone else that can help him?"
The Mayor eyes his Mistress worriedly, then shakes his head, handing her the written contract with a tenuous sigh. "No darlin', I don't. Just... be careful, please? Not everyone here's gonna understand what his deal is," he supplies, almost-pointing at Charon with a half-extended finger, dropping it before it becomes a full gesture.
She sighs and stands, slipping the papers from the board and setting it on the table, clutching the yellowed leafs in her hand as she strides over to present them to Charon. He takes them carefully from her, folding them and tucking them into a pouch on his harness, just as his Mistress speaks, "His 'deal' is that he is a member of my pack, and I protect my pack, just as my pack protects me, just as we all protect each other." She offers him a small smile before she turns, addressing the Mayor now. "If anyone has problems understanding that concept, they're on far too many chems or too much booze to be worrying about it, anyway."
Mayor Hancock grimaces, shaking his head. "It's not that simple darlin', and you know it. Someone's gonna wise up and say somethin', at some point. It could become a problem."
His Mistress bares her teeth in a snarl, tongue curling just over the edge of her teeth as she enunciates every syllable, though her expression eases some by the end, "Then I'll take care of it when it becomes a problem."
The Mayor lifts his hands in supplication. "I don't disagree with you, darlin'. I'm just tellin' ya what the people are gonna see."
She tilts her head, mien calming, evening out. "If they see anything, it'll be the good he helps me do on a daily basis. If they want to pick at that, then god help them for bein' the fools they are."
Mayor Hancock chuckles at that, nodding his assent after a moment. "I suppose I can't argue that." He reaches out as she slowly moves back toward him, grasping her hand gently in both of his, tilting his view up to hers searchingly. "I just hope you know what you're doin' with all this, 'cause I sure as hell don't." He lowers his head to press a kiss to her knuckles.
His Mistress purrs a hum of amusement into the air. "I hope so, too."
She looks over her shoulder at Charon, mouth tugging into a worried, fragile smile that ill suits her. "Keep the written contract secure for a while. There're a few others who need to read it before you destroy it. I'll keep the original safe." Something must occur to her, as she starts slightly, turning halfway toward him, though she doesn't pull her hand from the Mayor's grasp. "Unless you'd rather make the written contract your official one now, since that's the full accounting of it?"
He considers the offer. It is well within the realm of his contract's allowances, and it is one of the few measures of autonomy he's allowed, the ability to decide on this matter. In the end, the papers are no more fragile than the original holotape, and he is tired of having to write it over and over again, for each new employer who cares enough to ask after it. So, he nods, and retrieves the folded papers, holding them out as far as he can while still maintaining the seated position she ordered him to.
His Mistress chuckles, taking the papers from him and handing him the holotape—an even exchange. "You can stand up if you need to, Charon. I shouldn't have ordered you to sit like that. I'm sorry."
He frowns and remains sitting, despite the rescinding of her previous order. "You are my employer. I will obey your commands. You need not apologize."
She arches a brow at him. "I 'need apologize' if I feel the need to, which I did. I apologize for things. Get used to it."
He dips his head in acquiescence. "As you wish. It is still unnecessary."
She smirks, jerking her chin in his direction. "Tell you what, you let me decide whether my apologies are necessary or not. In exchange, you get to decide whether you're going to sit or stand when we're all safe at home. Fair?"
"Fairness is unnecessary."
She finally lifts her hand from the Mayor's care, to cross her arms, hip gently cocked. "Fairness is extremely necessary," she insists. "Do you disagree with the terms?"
He considers the question, though he still balks at her insistence of fairness. "No. The terms are acceptable, unnecessary as they may be."
His Mistress snorts in amusement, shaking her head. "You think everything's unnecessary, don't you?"
He allows a tiny smirk to twitch the corner of his mouth. "You would feel the same, after two centuries of life."
She shrugs an eyebrow as if conceding the point. "Probably true. I technically am that old, but I was frozen for most of it, so I suppose it doesn't count in that sense. Why don't you like sitting, exactly? You didn't seem to have a problem with it before I got your contract."
Again, she surprises him, knocks him off-course. "...I am uncertain what you require of me, as an employee. Until I am firm on my place and role at your side—beyond what is outlined in my contract—defaulting to the standard procedure is the safest option."
Her arms unfold and she closes the space between them in two strides, seating herself beside him, turned to face him. Her tone is calm, kind, instructional. "What I require is you to watch my back, just as I watch yours. For you to watch their backs," she points at Mayor Hancock, "just as they watch yours. Anything more than that is just time and details. It'll all fall into place as it should, just give it time."
He ponders her answer, looking down at the hand she gently curls around his, then back up to her eyes, still on his. "Just another member of your pack?"
His Mistress smiles, squeezing his hand. "A very important member, I think. We'll know more, with time. But yes, you are a member of my pack. No more, no less."
He continues to watch her warily. "And you lead this pack, yes?"
She shrugs, still wearing a fond smile. "In a manner of speaking. But yes, I suppose, with a firm, but fair hand. When I must."
After a moment of thought, he nods. "Then I will follow you."
A somewhat sly smirk pulls at her mouth, eyes too knowing for their own benefit watching him quietly. At length, she nods. "For now." She stands and returns to the Mayor's side, motioning for him to slide back into his original spot before she sits in the one he vacates, leaving Charon to puzzle over her parting remark—one which sets the muscles between his shoulder blades to twitching, almost violently.
She is less like Lynn than he'd assumed.
He doesn't think he's made the wrong decision in granting her his contract—no, not by a long shot.
But... he will be on watch—if more out of keen curiosity than actual alarm.
For now.