Charon

We come to a wall – not one of rubble, but built purposefully. We follow it for a little, and I stop, lean towards it. "Listen."

"What is that?" she asks.

"If I didn't know any better, it sounds like a car. " Her eyes widen in excitement. She hops up and down, like a little girl about to get her presents at her birthday party, wide grin on her face.

I frown, thoughtfully. "We have to find a gate, I guess."

"This wasn't here before?"

"M- Wendy, it's been forty years. I'm sure things have changed." Shit. Almost called her Mallie again.

Wendy

We stand at the gate, arms up, two Brotherhood soldiers in power armor with weapons trained at us. "Charon, I hope you know what you're doing."

"Just relax. They'll know who she is, and who I am. They found us, didn't they?" Point taken.

We stand for a while, and I start to get more than a little impatient. I've been having really bad mood swings lately, now that I think about it. "We've had our arms up for ten minutes already. Probably more. How long's this gonna take?"

"Your bitching isn't gonna make it any shorter." He snaps.

"EXCUSE me?" My left arm goes down to my side, stump on my hip, and my right index finger pointed at him. "And who the fuck do you think you are, talkin' to me like that?"

One of the soldiers says, nervously, "Miss, put your hands up. Please."

Incensed, I wave my stump. "REALLY? HANDS? Is that supposed to be a fuckin' JOKE?"

"Wendy, not helping."

I point at him again. "No. No, now it's fuckin' PERSONAL."

Charon sighs. "Wendy, it won't be too much longer."

"Miss, get your arms up. I've been authorized to – " a rude squawk interrupts him. "Torres, let 'em in."

"Yes ma'am."

Scribe Rothchild meets us when we walk in. "Scribe Rothchild! Nice to see you again!"

"Please…call me Sarah. I'm sorry about the wait. I had a hard time finding a ride here. Would you like a tour?"

"Is that…is that a CAR?"

"Oh, yes. We've had some working for about ten years now." She sighs, irritably. "Not enough, unfortunately."

Charon interrupts. "We need to get to the Citadel."

"And what business do you have there?" she asks.

"We need to know the location of the Enclave bunker."

She laughs. "Raven Rock? We'd love to know that ourselves."

I frown. "Wait – Mal was there. She didn't tell you where it is?"

"Unfortunately, no. A contingent of Brotherhood picked her up at a Satcom array northwest of here." She pointed at the marker on the map of my Pip-Boy. "I've studied the Lyon's Pride records extensively. It's cross-referenced."

"We need to go." Charon said, brusquely. He paused. "Is Underworld still there?"

"Oh, yes," replied Sarah. "I've been escorted through the Museum many times."

"Can we get a ride there?" I ask. "In a car?"

Sarah sighs. "I'll see. All vehicles belong to the Brotherhood right now. We're the only ones with the resources and the pre-war knowledge to operate and repair them. I'll have to see if I can requisition one."

Charon

She waves her arm out the window and laughs gaily. It's nice to hear that sound again.

Why on Earth did they make these things so small? I squirm, trying to find a position that won't make me stiff later. My knees are bent sharply, and I'm hunched over, uncomfortable. Perhaps I was made too big. I don't suppose there's too much I can do about that.

A Brotherhood soldier – without armor – is driving, and Scribe Rothchild is in the front seat, yammering on about the valuable artifacts that she'd found in the museum. Personally, I couldn't give a shit less – I just wanna get there, get a bed, and go the fuck to sleep.

"Where'd all the super mutants go?" I ask.

"Cleared 'em out, 'bout twenty years ago." Said the driver. Hawkins, I think. "We still have problems with raiders from time to time, but they're easy enough to take care of."

Wendy looks at me, her eyes sparkling, twin sapphires.

How long has it been since I've seen genuine joy on her face? How long will it be until I see it again? I can't help but be pessimistic. I feel a little guilty – I should just enjoy the moment, but I can't help but think of the horrors the future might bring.

Greta's standing outside the door, smoking. "Long time, no see."

I nod at her, and hold the door for Wendy – who, after a few steps, stands stock-still in shock. "Are you okay?" I ask. "Yeah, uh…I just – "

"What?"

"I just didn't think that there was this many." I can understand her surprise. It's shocking to see one ghoul, but to see a dozen of them, all at once?

"Come on. Let's get a room. I can show you around in the morning."

She follows me up the stairs and into Carol's Place – which looks much as I remember it almost fifty years earlier. Carol is obviously surprised to see me –when Mallie and I left, she probably expected not to see either of us ever again. "Why Charon, welcome back! And who is this pretty young thing?"

"That's Wendy. Wendy, this is Carol."

"Nice to meet you, sweetie! Do you need a room? Something to eat?" Completely disarmed, Wendy replies, "Oh, I'm pretty tired. We just need a place to sack out for the night."

Carol hands her the room key. "Here you go! Right there on your left."

I nod to Wendy to head on over. "I'll pay."

As soon as Wendy is out of earshot, Carol asks, "Charon, where's Mallie? What happened?" I take a deep breath – I knew that I'd have to explain things, over and over again. Maybe after the first time, it'll get easier.

"She's gone." Carol frowns. "Wasteland Pain Syndrome." She gasps, clutches her chest. "I'm so sorry. And her, she's?"

"Daughter-in-law."

"You had a son? But how –? "

"Adopted." I pause. "Can you do something for me?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Tell all this to Greta, so I don't have to repeat it." Everyone knows that Greta's a gossip – the perfect vocation for someone who serves liquor.

"You can go next door and tell her yourself. We took over the bar – it's Greta's Place." She smiles. "She should be back from her smoke break by now."

I stop by the room to ask Wendy if she wants to go to the bar for a drink, and find her curled up on the mattress, out cold. I cover her with a blanket, and head on over to the bar.

Greta slides a beer over to me, rests her elbows on the bar. "So…you screwin' this one, too?" she asks, careful to keep her voice down. The bar's not busy, but it'll be picking up in an hour or two.

"None of your fuckin' business." I growl.

"That's a yes." Great…now everyone's gonna know. "Who is she? You just got real uncomfortable there for a second, like you didn't want anyone to know." It's pointless to hide it from her. She'll find out from Carol anyway.

"My daughter-in-law. Adopted son."

"Good one, Charon. You should be ashamed." She takes a rag, starts wiping down the bar. "Where's the son?"

"Kidnapped by the Enclave." Her eyebrows shoot up – which I find comical, because nothing seems to faze Greta – at least, nothing has in my recollection. "And you guys are chasin' him down, huh?" She shakes her head. "He's not gonna be happy. He's gonna blame you."

"I know."

"So…whose fault was it really? Hers?" she inquires.

"No." I snarl.

She smirks. "No, it was her. I can tell. You're too angry for it to've been you."

"How do you know it was her?"

"Simple. You'd do anything to protect an employer. You care about this one, just like the last one. Her reputation means something to you." She picks up a glass and starts to clean it. "A word of advice: I don't know how many times it's happened, but don't let it happen again. The more you screw her, the harder it's gonna be to tell your son." She sets the glass down on the bar. "So – what happened to Mal?" she asks.

I clench the beer bottle. "She's dead."

"Ah, shit, I'm sorry."

"I miss her…so much…" being back in this place, the place where she came back for me after the whole mess with the purifier, is painful. The bed is gone, but her ghost is here.

"Charon, go get some sleep. You look tired."

"Good idea." I pay her, go back to the room, and lay on the bed.

Wendy

I can't believe how tired I was. I don't even remember falling asleep – I just put my pack down, lay on the bed, and was out like a light.

I'm still a little nervous about leaving the room on my own – I'm the only smoothskin here, after all – so I just decide to lie on the bed and think until Charon wakes up. My mind drifts back in time. I remember before all this started, before Mal started hurting. I remember going to dinner at their house one night, Virgil walking me home, holding my hand. My left hand itches with the memory, and I try to ignore it, then give up, and rub where it used to be. The stitches are long gone – some dissolved, some torn out accidentally. The ugly scars are pink, puckered.

I remember the first time I saw Charon in town, standing behind Mal, quiet, stock-still. Larger than life; larger than any person I'd ever seen. I'd seen ghouls before – lots of them are moving out west because it's more comfortable out there for them – so his appearance didn't startle me. Mal was haggling with a merchant, and he stood guard, one large hand on Virgil's shoulder. I was about seven, I think. My mom explained to me that they were our neighbors, even though we couldn't even see their house, we lived so far away.

I already knew Virgil. He came to my house for school – my mom taught all the kids out in the country how to read and write; before she married my dad, she was a teacher out in town. Before she knew it, there were kids walking miles to learn, bringing gifts from their parents as payment. Virgil was the only one that brought caps.

My mom let me go say hi to Virgil. I think she knew even then that we'd wind up married. She'd get that dreamy look on her face, a soft smile on her lips. I remember how Virgil tugged on Charon's arm. "Daddy, this is Wendy." He towered over me. Well, he towers over everyone, but it was especially intimidating for a seven year old girl, small for her age.

"Hi, sir. Nice ta meetcha." I held out my little hand, and he held out a few fingers, which I grasped eagerly, astonished at the size of him.

"Nice to meet you too," he rumbled, "now run along." I giggled and ran back to my mom, grasped her skirts, glancing back at them shyly.

Later that night, my siblings grilled me on how big he was, what his hand felt like – and a dozen other questions that I couldn't answer. I might be the smallest, but I'm the bravest. At least, that's what my daddy told me.

Charon leads me downstairs, introduces me to a ghoul named Moira.

"Oh, nice ta see ya again, big guy! What can I do for ya?"

"I need a prosthetic made. For my…friend. She needs to be able to shoot a rifle."

I hold out my arm, and she studies it for a bit. "I have an idea. When do you need it?"

"As soon as you can get it done."

"It should take a couple days – maybe three, if I need to fit it again."

"Let us know when it's ready."

"You betcha!" she begins to mutter to herself, cheerfully.

As we turn, a ghoul in a doctor's coat hollers at us. "Charon! I heard you were back. Only took you fifty years." He turns to me. "Hello, young lady. I'm Barrows – the doctor here in Underworld."

"I'm Wendy." It's then that he catches sight of my left arm.

His eyes widen, and he addresses Charon. "Another one? You seem to have pretty shitty luck with employers. At least the last one kept all her parts."

Charon growls. "I don't need this shit right now."

"What happened with Mal?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

Charon grumbles, crosses his arms, and turns away. "She was shot in the leg by a slaver with a sawed-off. Nicked artery. Almost died. Someone was slow on the draw."

"Interesting," I say, waving my stump, "a shotgun got me, too."

He looks closer at it. "Must've been pretty close to take all of it. Someone must be getting sloppy." Charon's back stiffens, but he stays silent.

"It…it wasn't his fault. I pushed him out of the way, and, well, it got me."

He sighs, shakes his head. "Well, at least I didn't have to clean up after this one."

Charon had apparently had enough. He whirls around, grabs Barrows by the shirt, and shoves him up against the wall. "Look, I'm gettin' sick and tired of your sh -"

"Charon, STOP!" I yell.

He immediately drops Barrows and backs off. "Don't hurt anyone here unless they threaten you. Or me. Mal might have let you beat people up for no reason, but I won't."

"Yes, Wendy." Barrows backs up quickly and retreats into the Chop Shop.

"Now, what else do we need to do?" I ask him.

"We need stimpaks. Ammo. We're runnin' low on food, too."

"Well, let's get that, then."

We trade the stuff we stripped off the raiders to Tulip for some stimpaks and ammo. We were able to get food for a ridiculously low price from Carol, who seemed extra nice to me for some reason. Well, she's regularly nice, but even for her, it's out of character.

Later, in the room, I ask Charon, "What did you tell Carol? Why's she being so nice?"

"She must know about Virgil by now. Oh, and before you find it out from someone else, Greta knows…about us."

My heart almost stops. "What? How? You TOLD?!"

"No, she guessed. Wendy, we need to stop."

We've had this conversation several times. All it takes is a moment of weakness, or loneliness, or grief, and we're back at square one. "I know."

"How are we gonna explain it to Virgil?"

"He doesn't have to know." I answer hastily.

He sighs. "Wendy…he's gonna figure it out."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." I snap.

"Wendy…what happens if…" he trails off.

"If what?"

"If we start to have feelings for each other? What then?"

I know guilt is written on my face. I've already started to have feelings for him. It's impossible not to love someone that has comforted you in your darkest moments, seen you at your most vulnerable. I can see it on his face, too. The same look.

"There is no 'if,' Charon." I say. "We already have."

"No, I – " he starts.

I hold my hand up to silence him. "Just let it be what it is."

"What is it?"

"I don't know."