"Charon, you are, without a doubt. The best fucking cook I have ever met. No lie. Hell, you're better than me!" she said. She threw the bone she had been chewing into the fire.

"Thank you." He said.

She lit a cigarette and offered it to him. He took it and she lit one for herself. The quiet sounds of crickets and the low grunts of the Brahmin lulled Charon. He closed his eyes and leaned against his pack. He wiped the grease from his lips. In truth, he knew the food wasn't fantastic, but it was hard to do something Jack didn't thank him for. He smoked and let his mind wander.

Castles.

He wanted her to tell him more. The way she talked, it was like a rich tapestry spinning out before him.

"Will you tell me about the castles again, Jack?" he popped an eye open, hoping he wasn't disturbing her revere.

"Sure." She blew a smoke ring toward the fire and began in a dreamy voice. "Back in the old days, thousands of years before the Great War, people lived in small villages that surrounded huge building made of stone and surrounded by deep ditch full of water called a moat. Inside the castle, the king, the head guy, lived with his royal family, his servants, his advisors, and most of his militia. The castle's inner yard was a place for trading. It was littered with wooden stalls that sold bread, meat, fruits, clothes, and weapons, anything you could possibly want. There was sometimes a small garden and some livestock, as well, in case of a siege. The village around the castle was full of people that grew crops and raised more livestock. This is where they made the things that were sold in the castle yard. The soldier's families, the church, and the village doctor lived closest to the castle. The shops, inns, and homes were in the outer ring and at the edge were the barns, fields, and pastures. And when the people's enemies showed up, everyone filed into the castle where they were protected.

Megaton . . . it's just perfect. It's the castle. We fill it with people, fill it up. Then, we start building around it. Grow up a good herd of Brahmins, maybe even fence in some Mirelurks around a big pond. Then, we start planting the plants we find. Like those prairie carrots and the little . . . potatoes? Is that what you called them? Potatoes? Yeah. And wild corn. In 20 years, Charon, just 20 years, megaton could be the biggest, most prosperous town in the Wastes. Fuck, the world."

Charon didn't know when he fell asleep, but he knew when he woke up later that night, Jack had placed a blanket over him and sat on top of the bus humming gently.

"I'll take watch now." He croaked and stretched. She jumped the ground and stretched as well.

"Thank god, Lazybones, my butt was going numb." She gave him a good natured pat on the arm and flopped to her bedroll. She was snoring softly before he made it to the top of the bus.

The dream never started the same. If it did, she felt, she could stop it, or do something. But, it never did. It would start in Agatha's cabin with the sound of her lilting violin, or a roll in the hay with Amata, or even her tenth birthday.

Tonight, it had started with her father standing on the one side of the irradiated Potomac and her on the other. He was speaking, shouting something important that she could not hear. Charon had finally found his way into her dreams tonight and he stood beside her with Dogmeat barking alongside him. Charon was pointing behind her, but the things her father was shouting were more important to her. She tried to tell Charon, but it was if she had been born without the gift of speech. She waved him off and turned toward her father across the rapidly widening river.

Then, as with every one of these dreams, she felt more than heard the explosion behind her. It was the murderous dark thing. Some faceless formless dark shape had exploded from the deadly world of blackness she had always suspected had hidden behind her field of vision. It was heartstoppingly fast and it was aimed directly at, not her heart as she thought, but her father.

Now he was writhing, burning, in the invisible flames of radiation.

"Run. Run!" he croaked from behind the rotunda glass. And in the chamber were not Enclave soldiers, but Agatha and Amata, Flak, Shrapnel, Everett, Gob and Nova, and even the loyal Dogmeat. They were all dying, burning, until they were overcome and their faces were bubbling with blood and gore. Her father's eyes grew and grew and popped bloodily on the glass, but he did not die.

"Run. Run!"

She woke up gasping and choking. For a moment she was sure she was below the whole of the dark Potomac and her lungs could not expand. But, a small dusty breeze opened her burning chest. She gasped and tears oozed from her eyes from exhaustion and effort.

She was having a bad dream again. He could hear her whimpering. He slid down the top of the bus and jumped to the ground. When he landed, she was gasping, wide eyed. Tears were streaming from her eyes and she shook. It was an awful shake, too. He stepped toward her.

"Mistress? Are you well?"

She jerked her head toward his voice and gulped in a huge breath. But, she did not answer. She sat and hiccupped with small sobs. Then, she dropped her head into her hands and curled into a ball on the ground.

"Fine . . ." she finally whispered. "Go watch . . ."

For a moment, he felt the urge, the need, to place a hand on her shivering shoulder, stroke her hair, touch her wet face, k-

He gave an instant about face and crawled back to the top of the bus. He began to mentally recite the lines of his contract. For awhile, he heard her whimper quietly. Then, she was silent. But, he could still hear it in his mind.

She stepped into the Ninth Circle by direction of the amiable Snowflake. By now she had a raging Jet habit and was nursing two other infant addictions with Psycho and cheap whiskey.

Why she wanted to speak to him, she had no idea. The only thought that her strung out mind would volunteer was that he had not looked at her the same as the other residents of Underworld. It was not a look of distrust, fear, and perhaps even a little jealousy. It was a simple look of appraisal. As if he were only assessing her threat level, before his eyes fell back to the strong-jawed ghoul behind the bar and the old safe.

So, her hands in her pockets to keep them from shaking, she walked over to him. His face did not change, but she felt his full focus hit her. She began to ask him if he had a moment to talk, but he barked,

"Talk to Azruhkal."

"Okay, sorry." she mumbled as she steered away.

She sat at the bar and Azruhkal greeted her and handed her drink.

Before she could even begin to thank him for the kindness, he smiled wickedly and said,

"Five caps, please." he oozed fake niceties.

She distrusted and hated the ghoul almost as soon as she began the conversation. She asked about "the big guy in the corner" and was appalled with the nonchalant way he explained to her who Charon was and what he did. Azruhkal's line of bull about slavery being an abomination did not fool her in the least. She would have loved to leave, but something about what Azruhkal was telling her, something about the angry way he had mentioned Carol's Place, made her stay. She could hear things in people's voice sometimes and what she heard was greed. It was painfully obvious to her that he wanted caps. Lots of them.

Azruhkal did not see it, and Jack never noticed it, but Charon could see from across the room the glinting spark in Jack's eyes. He quickly learned in her employ that was the spark of the evil cold hearted actress she could become in any situation that would benefit.

"So how much for your boy over there?"

Azruhkal lifted a ruined eyebrow. She saw him reevaluate her immediately. He suddenly saw the heartless kindred soul in her that she wanted him to see.

"I have been losing a lot of business to Carol . . ." he began.

Charon could not hear the conversation, but his guts were churning, knowing that Azruhkal was offering up his contract for the discrete death of Greta. He himself had convinced Azruhkal that it would ruin business if Charon were to kill Greta, even on the pretense that she was going feral.

Jack walked out, looking a shade paler than she had come in. Azruhkal shut down the bar and handed Charon a cold plate and a warm cup.

"Perhaps you will not have to work for me much longer, Charon. I know that will please you to no end. Stay here tonight and watch my safe. If she comes looking for my caps, blow her head off." He walked away chuckling sickly.

Charon stared at his plate of dried iguana bits and decided the whiskey was sufficient for his appetite tonight. He could feel an emotion rolling around his stomach. Regret and pain for Greta. She was dry and about as warm as her own rotting flesh, but she was a good cook, loved Carol as much if not more than every other ghoul in Underworld, and really did care for her cursed brethren. While he collected his silent grief for the ghouless and buried it in a deep dead place, he contemplated what was surely to become his new employer.

At about four in the morning, he got up from his table in the corner and peeked out the main door, waiting and watching to see if Greta would start her five thirty shift as she did every morning, smoking on the stairs while Underworld slept. She did not. Charon sat at his table and waited for Azruhkal and the wanderer to come.

Charon's eyes creaked open and for a moment, he was confused. This was not the Ninth Circle. Then, he heard Jack whistling and giggling. It rushed back. He sat up and was surprised to find the fire crackling merrily, boiling a few Mirelurk eggs in the hanging pot. He looked toward the direction of Jack's laughter.

She was rolling around in the grass with a giant fuzzball. Dogmeat must have found them last night. They weren't that far from Megaton after all.

He sat back to wait on breakfast and began to read Tumblers Today, Jack's favorite magazine.