"...That's all you caught..." A voice echoed on the fringes of his consciousness.
"...I'm gonna be sick..."
"...Bet it could start a fire by rubbing its hands together..."
He finally opened his eyes, the Wasteland sun burning bright and turning his vision into a muddled splattering of brown. The ghoul sat up and rubbed at them until he could see a coherent image in front of him: A locked cage.
"What the...!" He said with a start, jumping to his feet. "Where the....How'd I... Where am I?!"
"Paradise Falls." Answered a voice from behind him. He turned around, realizing that he was not the only one caged in.
"What the Hell is Paradise Falls?" He asked, feeling his stomach sinking lower and lower into his gut as the gravity of the situation slowly began to the set in.
"Slave-traders. They go and kidnap people from the Wastes, then sell them as forced labor." The man answered from his sitting position, leaning against a small pile of rubble.
"Slave-owners? That can't be...Shit! Shit!" He couldn't believe what a stupid move he made last night, going against Helike's wishes. "Well, come on! We can't just sit here. All they got separating us from the outside world is one lousy lock. All of us can beat 'em!" He looked around at the rest of the slaves, only now realizing how the majority of them were backed up a good ways away from him, some literally cowering in the corner. "Well? What's the matter with you?"
"They've never seen something like you, before. Scares them." The informative man answered again.
"I ain't nothing to be scared of! I'm a man just like any of you!" He was beginning to become extremely annoyed at dealing with people.
"Don't bother. Most of these poor people have been put through Hell and back to crush their will, to make them malleable for servitude." The man stood up, stretching. "They are incapable of trusting you, or caring."
"Yeah? And what about you? You seem pretty well-adjusted."
"Tip number one at surviving in this place: Don't be noticeable. Never speak, always make eye contact while in a lineup, hide whenever possible. That's how you don't end up like one of these poor bastards, and that's how you stay in the relative safety of the pens and not in some psycho's shanty who will just as soon blow your brains out and come buy another one."
"That's crap!" The ghoul fired back. "I'm not going to 'beat the system' by acting exactly like they want me to act! A cowardly bug under their feet!"
"A lot of people who come through here have that kind of attitude. Trust me, unless you do things my way, you won't last." The man leaned over to peer past the ghoul's side. "Looks like the head Slaver's coming over right now to inspect his new pack. Better shape up."
The hostage young ghoul turned around, seeing a rather sharply-dressed fellow making his way over to the cages with an entourage of men in combat armor, wielding assault rifles, in tow. The slave who had been dispensing advice imperceptibly slunk away, off into some corner, disappearing.
The sharp-dressed man produced a key from his pocket, unlocking the gates that held the ghoul in. He swung them open, allowing himself and his followers inside. The ghoul looked him over keenly. He was tall, his skin baked a handsome tan by the Wasteland sun. He somehow managed to find some Pre-War tuxedo in perfect condition, wearing it underneath a long, black duster that nearly swept along the ground. He seems to have hung any sort of metallic item arbitrarily off of pockets and lapels to make a jingling noise when he walked. He stopped a few feet away from all the slaves.
"Alright, then, boys." He said, his voice a sort of aristocratic facetiousness that the ghoul immediately despised. "Present your latest catches."
A portion of the armed men accompanying him broke off and went into the crowd, each one grabbing a slave, pulling him or her forcefully up and over to form into a line in front of the sharp-dressed man. One of them grabbed at the ghoul, who decided that the amount of guns in the area was a good incentive for him not to resist at the moment. He let himself be lead into the formation. The sharp-dressed man began looking over the new meat, stopping immediately upon spying the irradiated Wastelander.
"Jesus, Shotty, what did you do to him?" He asked, looking him up and down with a genuinely perplexed look on his face.
"Nothing, boss. Baron says he's called a ghoul. He's just like a real human, only, ugly." The slaver at the ghoul's side informed. The captive looked this 'Shotty' over subtly, noting that he was holding a Chinese assault rifle and had a knife sheathed at his hip.
"Shotty, are you stupid?" The boss said bitingly. "You know that 95% of slave-selling is presentation. Who's going to want something that looks like it started melting before we even found it?"
Shotty averted his eyes from his boss, knowing that he was wrong. "You're right, Mr. Vic. I'm sorry."
"Just take the thing out back and kill it." The boss, Mr. Vic, ordered. The ghoul felt his back straighten like a bolt of lightning had shot through it. In one blink of an eye, he visualized all the hunting and martial artistry that Helike had learned from his army days and then taught him, and he started moving without thinking. He turned and pulled Shotty's knife from its sheath, bring it up in a crescent motion and slicing the Slaver's neck. Before anyone had time to respond, he caught the dying kidnapper's assault rifle out of mid-air and began firing, strafing left to right and immediately dropping three more of the slavers, focusing on the men with guns instead of the head of the industry, Mr. Vic, who had seemingly found cover.
He fired non-stop for ten seconds before the bullets stop with a click. The ghoul grunted when he realized he was out of ammo and turned to one of the slavers who had been in the lineup with Shotty. The ghoul quickly charged him, slamming the assault rifle's butt into his face with a gooey crack as his nose collapsed into his skull and snatched his own rifle, which he then shot at the rest of the slavers in the slave file who had eluded the first fusillade.
After the second assault, the ghoul noticed Mr. Vic, standing at a pile of bodyguards that had just been struck down. He growled at the slave-owner with a primal rage, kicking up Shotty's bloodied knife into his hands and charging, fully intending to get the boss certified as a ventilation shaft. The desire did not come to pass, however, as he suddenly felt himself lifted off the ground, his insides feeling like they had just caved in. He flew a ways back before stumbling to the dirt.
"Thank you, Warrant." Mr. Vic said to the large man standing behind him, who had just slammed his sledge hammer into the ghoul's stomach. Mr. Vic walked over to the downed slave, kneeling next to him, lifting his upper body up by the collar of his stitched-together shirt. "My, my, my, that was impressive, Charon." He smiled.
"My name's...not...Charon..." The ghoul gasped. "It's-" His head snapped back as Vic slammed an elbow into his forehead. He groaned in pain.
"Let's make it clear now, you abomination, that whatever happened in your past life, before you were shuffled into this cage, is forfeit. It no longer matters. I do not care one whit about what your name is. From now on, you're Charon, because that impressive little display of bloodshed has convinced me that I can turn you into an effective little ferryman of the dead."
"Bastard....You bastard...I should've killed you first..." The ghoul sputtered.
"Ah, your anger is misdirected, young Charon." Vic stood up, dusting the dirt from his knees. "But don't worry, in due time, we'll teach you where exactly you should be directing it at." He turned and walked over to Warrant. "Put him in The Box. We'll start him off with some sensory deprivation."
"Crown, are you crazy? We've got to kill him. He just offed five of our guys, and wounded a dozen others!" Warrant objected.
"Well then, maybe these idiots ought to learn not be off guard, holding loaded weapons, around someone with more combat experience than them, now don't they?" Crown Vic shot Warrant a venomous look. "Now put him in The Box." Crown ceased all conversation by walking off back to his quarters without waiting for Warrant's answer. The large slaver grunted.
"Yes, sir."
The ghoul - Charon - felt himself be lifted up, his feet dragging across the rocky ground of the Wasteland. He began to feel the wind returning to his gut, and tried to struggle against the hold that his captor had on him.
"If I wanted to, I could snap your puny little spine right now." Warrant informed Charon, feeling him squirming in his grip. "So don't bother trying to get free." Charon did not cease, but did looked up at where he was being taken. He recognized it as an old Pulowski Preservation Shelter from before the bombs fell. When he was a young boy, in the months leading up to the war, he and his friends would always use it as a good hiding spot in Hide-and-go-Seek. He was surprised to see one, one that was still in working condition, after all these years.
Warrant pulled out a key and jammed it into the side, where the coin-slot had been torn out and re-purposed into a lock. He turned the key and the door slid open.
"Home sweet home." He said.
"Wait, wait, you can't put me in that god damn thing!" Charon protested, not fond of the idea of being trapped in such an enclosed space.
"Really? Let's see." The large man heaved the ghoul inside, who flung through the door and slammed against the back wall with a metallic thud. He turned quickly to try and run out before the door closed, but he just wasn't fast enough. He heard the lock mechanism click as Warrant pulled the key out.
"You can't keep me in here! You bastards!" He yelled, slamming against the door. "Let me out! Let me out god dammit! Let me out!!" He wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to let his spirit be broken and end up like one of the poor fools in the slave pen. He screamed and beat for hours, which turned to days, in complete darkness save for the paltry sliver of sunlight shown through the slit that had been drilled into the bottom of the door to allow some food through, that was just as quickly closed as it was open.
Exactly one week had elapsed when the door slid open again. The sunlight burned hard on Charon's eyes.
"You son of a bitch!" He growled, though with markedly less intensity than the week before, and moved to try and grapple Warrant. As he stepped out of the box, he suddenly felt as if gravity had begin a slow spin, falling to his knees.
"Feeling woozy?" Warrant asked, smirking. "That's what happens to people who get put in The Box. So much time in total darkness, you begin to forget where the ground is. It'll pass. Now come on, Crown wants to see you." He grabbed the ghoul by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away.
Charon felt himself drop onto something cold and metallic. He tried to stand up, realizing that he was on some sort of playground carousel with the bars removed.
"Charon, my boy!" That familiar, disdainfully haughty voice rang in the ghoul's ear. "Good to see you survived The Box. I had a feeling you would." Charon turned slowly to look at Crown Vic. He wanted to jump at him and tear his throat out, but he was feeling too weak and disoriented to do either.
"You asshole...What are you going to do to me, now?" He growled.
"Just a little behavioral exercise, is all. Nothing too strenuous." Crown gave an award-winning, rictus smile. Several slavers walked in behind Vic, none of them wielding assault rifles this time, but long, thin rods. They all took a position around the carousel, tapping their rods in their hands or on their shoulders expectantly. "Ah, good, we're all here. Well, let's begin."
One of the slavers grabbed the carousel about the edges and gave it a push, sending it spinning. Charon immediately began to wobble and stumble, the effects of moving from The Box to the real world having not left yet.
"Now, Charon, tell me; What do you think of me?" Crown Vic asked.
"You're a...Whoa! You're a god damn son of a bitch!" Without hesitation, the slaver nearest the ghoul lashed the rod across his back, sending a sharp, fiery pain through him. "ARRGH!" He shrieked, stumbling forward. "God damn you!" He growled, only to be whipped again in the leg. He once more yelled.
"Are you happy, Charon?" Crown Vic continued, pretending not to notice the amount of pain and confusion the ghoul was in.
"I fucking hate you!" Another rod bit him in the side. He felt blood running down his leg.
"Is free will always a good thing?"
"Wha-I..What?" The pain and dizziness was sending Charon completely off the mental track. A rod caught him in the back of the knee, sending him onto all fours.
"I said, is free will always a good thing?"
"Stop! Stop! I can't - Gnnnnrrrr!" The stick lashed against the arm supporting him, sending his head crashing to the metal.
"Is free will always a good thing, Charon?"
"I don't know! AUGH!" Another whip against his back.
"Is."
Another rod slashed his back.
"Free."
And another on his side.
"Will."
An aimed shot on the sole of his foot, splitting the skin.
"Always."
And another across his shoulder blades.
"A."
And another on the side of his neck.
"Good."
And another on his thigh.
"Thing?"
"No! Okay?! No! Is that what you want to hear!? No!!" Charon shrieked. He'd say anything to get them to quit at this point.
The carousel came to a stop. Charon lay prone in its center, hands covering his head, blood pooling around his knees.
"Ah. Good job today, my boy." Crown Vic said with a smile. "You've made some real progress." Charon said nothing. "Warrant, take him back to The Box now." At this, the ghoul raised his head.
"What? No! I said what you wanted me to say!" He protested.
"Sorry, young Charon." Crown Vic said, amusement tinging his voice. "We don't give teacher's pets any special treatment, here."
Warrant picked Charon up, off of his feet, his hand pressing into the fresh wounds on the ghoul's back and causing him to moan in agony.
"No! You can't! No!" He cried, all the way back to the Pulowski Preservation Shelter.
"See you next week." Warrant said tersely, tossing him inside and locking the door.