Alright, this chapter is short for one reason, and one reason only: my mother is going into surgery in two days, and I wanted to get a chapter out as soon as possible, because I don't know when the next will come. I have to do a lot of chores and prep work around the house for the next two days, so that things are as easy as possible for her when she comes home. Hopefully, I'll get another chapter up… Soon.
She's fairly certain Midea is supposed to be considered kind; All she really seems to be is fucking annoying and self-righteous. No matter how frequently Sallie asks, the slave matriarch isn't forthcoming with information - just vague and unhelpful and there are several times where the former vault dweller seriously considers bashing the woman's skull in with the chair in her room. It's not like she's asking for much, really. Just information on the Pitt, the background of the area, trying to find out where she can get the things she needs while she's here, the essentials. All she ever gets out of Midea is the repeated mention of the cure and Trogs, whatever the hell a Trog is (she's a little to scared to ask), aside from obviously unique to this place, since she's never heard of them before. As long as it's nothing like a Yao Guai, she doesn't care - those things give her the heeby-jeebies. All they did was remind her of the teddy bear she'd had when she was seven, the teddy bear that was probably torn to shreds and stained, the eyes probably melted bits of plastic at the bottom of the trash incinerator, odd as that sounds. That teddy bear and an image of what she imagined was supposed to be a living, yellow stuffed bear on the cover of a book of stories from something like a century and a half before the war: those were all she had ever seen of bears before she came out here.
"You're going to have to go to the steelyard while I get some things straightened out," Midea told her the next day, and she eyed the woman suspiciously. It was probably just her dislike of the woman making everything she did or said sound like she was trying to hide something, she concluded after a few moments. Aside from the fact that she was one of the single least helpful people that Sallie had ever had the pleasure of meeting (and that was considering that she'd grown up with Butch), she couldn't be all that bad. At least slavery hadn't reduced the woman to a pathetic, blubbering mess who could hardly form sentences because she was so damn afraid of who knows what. "They'll have you collecting ingots. You'll want to watch out for Trogs, and see Marco in the mill if you need a weapon."
Great, menial labor. My favourite. "Wait, what? Trogs? Again with these fucking 'Trog' things? What in the everloving, irradiated fuck is a 'Trog'? Why do I need a weapon?" If she didn't get an answer this time, she was just going to tell Midea and Wernher they could shove the cure up their asses, because no way was she going through the steelyard unprepared. She needed at least a vague idea of what she was going to be up against between scouting the area for ingots, especially if it posed enough of a threat that people were fucking scared.
Midea sighed. She had been hoping to skirt the issue, for the most part. "They used to be like us. But between the radiation and the pollutants here… They changed. They used to be like us; Everyone fears becoming one of them. They're monsters. You'll understand when you see them. Just make sure to stop and speak to Marco before you go out there."
Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping at this woman - she really didn't recall ever having this much trouble just holding her tongue when someone was being stupid - she managed a nod. "Thank you. I'll be back here once I'm finished." Good lord, that was like fucking pulling teeth.
Charon still didn't like this. He knew it was orders and he knew that if the raiders hadn't managed to figure out that he was a ghoul over night (not that most of them had a right to judge, since they'd been here long enough for the 'trog' to set in - some of them looked to be in worse condition than he, specifically a raider by the name of Mona), they probably weren't going to… But this place was fucked up. He couldn't enjoy the pleasant buzz of the radiation because of all the pollution, couldn't mention any of his past experiences (not that he was likely to, but his point was that he couldn't), nothing. And so he stayed mostly silent, aside from a few snarky remarks referring to someone's genitalia or lack of skill with a weapon - the one upside to these people seeming to be that, if they thought you were one of them and not a walking corpse, you could get away with pretty much any crimes against them. That included pushing one of them, a bitch called Vikia, out of a window fairly high up - that had earned cheers. He hadn't expected that; Then again, he hadn't expected to push Vikia out of the remnants of a fifth floor window, either. It had just been sort of a spontaneous thing and he'd had it up to here with her bitching about every-fucking-one and their mother was beneath her.
"Hey, you! Yeah, you, you giant-ass motherfucker! It's your fuckin' turn to patrol in the Mill. Get your lazy ass down there, tell Bone she's allowed out!" With a roll of his chalky eyes behind his mask, he nodded, grunted in reply, and stood. Hopefully there'd be a chance to speak to Sallie while he was in there - he wanted to know how much longer she needed, because he wanted to get the hell out of this shithole. This place was like they'd turned up the metaphorically volume on every single problem in the goddamn wasteland and concentrated it into one place; He could practically hear the genes of passing raiders sobbing. That shit wasn't normal. No fucking wonder half this place was crawling with those trog fuckers - between the pollution and the Monongahela, Ohio and Allegheny rivers being fucking clogged with radiations, this place was a veritable hotbed of 'fuck your genes up', and man, he was lucky his were already about as ruined as possible without him going fucking feral. Fuck, if this shit caused him to go feral after years eating irradiated food, drinking irradiated whiskey, he was going to be pissed.
"You. You Bone?" A nod, and half a snarky comment through her lips before Charon interrupted. "Get the fuck out, your patrol is over." He's lucky the mask distorts his voice, or his ravaged vocal cords might be more apparent - as it were, he just sounded vaguely… Sick. "No, out. Orders from higher up. Haul your ass outta here for the day." He waits until she's a safe distance away before taking her spot, leaning against the wall and watching the slaves work. Unlike the raiders, he has no intention of punishing them for slacking - he's been on the short end of that stick too many times to fucking count and he doesn't feel completely comfortable putting someone else through it, act or not. He's just going to stand here and look intimidating, and he's damn good at that, without the weapons or the threats; Someone who stands at over six feet tall is bound to be a little bit scary, and he's had years of practice.
She's been looking for Marco for what feels like hours - in reality, it's been a little bit over twenty minutes. One whole section of the Mill has been searched so far, and nothing except the entrance to the Hole found (along with an ammo press that she was absolutely dying to figure out how to use). As she passes a group of slaves, doing something that looks vaguely like shoveling coal, a familiar voice calls out to her, tells her to stop. Brows furrowed, she looks around for all of two seconds before her eyes land on the source - and it's not hard for her to figure out who it is. Squashing the veritable squeal of absolute elation she feels at the sight of him (When had that started happening? Must be this place.), she takes a deep breath and does her best to sound nervous as she discreetly motions for him to follow. God, is she ever glad that Charon's so much larger than, well, everyone. It may make him stick out like a sore thumb, but at least you could tell he was there, take some comfort in the fact that you were something resembling safe. "Yes?"
"I need to talk to you," he grinds out, before grabbing her roughly by the elbow and dragging her off, "now."
For a split second, she has the decency to look terrified, but then she catches sight of a man with an auto axe, glancing around shiftily. "Charon, Charon!" she hisses, "Go in there! I need to talk to that guy!" All she can do is hope nobody hears as she's dragged into the room and Charon releases her arm, but doesn't relax the tension in his legs, proof positive that he's ready for anything. "Are you Marco?" She hardly waits for a nod before launching into some long winded explanation of why she's there and why she needs the weapon. Marco looks a strange mix between scared and incredibly angry that she's discussing this so cavalierly in front of one of the Pitt raiders.
"Are you insane? He can hear you, shut up! This could get me killed!"
Waving one hand dismissively, she grins broadly. If there's one thing Marco doesn't currently have to worry about, it's being killed by the raider nearest him. "Oh, him? He's harmless," she chimes, turning briefly to wink at Charon, "like a teddy bear." At the disbelieving look she receives as Marco hands over an auto axe, she lets out a snort of laughter. "No, really - this one's on our side. May not act it, but he is."
The ghoul lifts his mask long enough to make it very clear that he is glaring at her, and the look of disgust that crosses Marco's face can't even be hidden. He stays quiet, grimacing to himself - the moment he says something, he's probably going to lose them all a powerful ally in this, and that is far from what they need. It's hard enough without help, and shit, if it takes a ghoul to help him out of this godforsaken hellhole, then he can deal with that - he has to.
"Smoothskin. What is the plan? How long will we be here?" They're in the back of Marco's workshop now, trying to stay quiet as they discuss this. "How long do we need?"
Sallie swears loudly, and it's all he can do not to laugh at her. All her fussing about staying quiet, and she's the one who ruins that by shouting 'fuck'. "I don't know. I have to go through the steelyard, and then report back to Midea…" The girl rubs at her face, taking in a few lungfuls of the near toxic air. "It'll be awhile. I haven't even been able to find out what the cure is, let alone how to get it." She had to figure out a way to get into Lord Ashur's mansion, and something was telling her it was going to take a whole lot effort on her part, which she was definitely not looking forward to in the least. "I'll… Try and keep you updated, if I can. If you can just manage to pop in here every so often, we'll be good." She hoped. This was all assuming that neither of them managed to keel over before they found the cure, be it from the pollutants or the raiders, or even the radiation (which probably would not kill him, unless it made him go feral and got him shot, but would definitely kill her at some point - just because it helped her heal did not mean she ever actually flushed it out of her system without the help of some Rad-Away).
"I can do that, smoothskin." he assures her, almost rolling his eyes. It probably wouldn't be difficult - he'd just have to mention giving the slaves hell and he'd have free fucking reign to do whatever the hell he pleased. That part of this was nice - it was easy enough to lie about his actions, and anyone with half a fucking brain wouldn't sell him out if they enjoyed living. "I will meet you at the same place each day." It may not have been an actually order, but he latched onto it like it was one all the same - he fucking needed that, here, something like his usual life, a small semblance of something resembling normalcy. His employer reaches forward, takes his hand, and gives it a squeeze before muttering a soft 'thank you' and they part ways. He ends up staring at his hand like he's fucking stunted, because he still can't believe she's willing to touch him, gloves covering his hands or not. Even people who claim not to be bigots hate touching ghouls; The way the smell clings to their flesh and never seems to leave.