It was as the old adage goes- nothing good happens after midnight. Well, whoever had sprouted such nonsense clearly never imagined living in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Nothing good happened no matter the hour.
The dark was so thick she could saw the big guy's knife into it for a little tasty snack (that he would probably end up eating, anyway). She tripped over her own foot more than once, squeaked at the nightlife sounds of certain impending death (which so happened to be a molerat fart), and scurried along the dirt roads that were the same as they always had been- dangerous.
The bed had simply felt too empty, too big, an entire ocean to swim in with the vast nothingness just below the surface. A stranger dwelling in her own sheets, sticky and wet with not just herself, but of someone else, too. She had listened for the sounds of the door to open, and it had made her feel unwelcome in her own home- she didn't want to wait for him to return, swimming out in that big blue to only leave again, a single head bobbing along the tide.
Bring it back.
That's what he had said.
Bring. It. Back.
She nestled herself in a shoddy shelter made of metal sheets and wrapped her scruffy, thin blanket around her shoulders, sipping on some water and loudly chewing some food as she admired it under that ugly Pip-Boy light. It felt like a sleeping viper, coiled in her hands, the cold metal lifeless and just as deadly. Nonetheless, she cradled it close- keep it warm, don't disturb (watch out, be careful), it bites. The illumination was too harsh, casting it under a foul glow, but even so, she ran the pad of her thumb along it, rethinking the words he had told her, the heat of his hands-
She cut herself.
"Ow," she mumbled, holding the minor oopsie close to inspect the damage. A swell of blood so dark it appeared black streaked down the length of her vault suit after she wiped it away. Some snake charmer she was.
It replaced the bedside company of her old teddy (that she hadn't slept with in over a decade). A child's toy dethroned by a cut of steel that's sunk in more men's throats than she could ever imagine, but it gets tucked in, handle on the pillow, a whispered 'good night', all the same. It gets a name- Sterling.
(She'll never tell him that).
Northwest Seneca station was, for once, met with a brightened disposition and cheery tune at her lips. An extremely faded and staticky radio station had been discovered by pure accident whilst she had been fiddling with some knobs, the tunes barely distinguishable and the radio host completely unintelligible…she wished there was a way to make the broadcast clearer, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
A pile of bodies was the first thing to greet her in the plaza square, just as the wind had picked up and slammed a rancid hammer of air directly in her face. She gagged, attempted to keep her stomach down, and failed, miserably. A hesitant peek and slow shuffle of boots brought her closer to the wasteland's newest (and most certainly not last) fatalities. It was hard to discern where one body began and…well…she was sure there was more than one, unless someone used to walk around with five hands. (Which wouldn't be too surprising, all things considered). The bloated flesh, the signs of necrosis, and the absolutely horrible horrible smell deterred her from inspecting any longer, not even to collect some of the gear that looked leagues better than her own, but she wasn't about to go and peel off the sticky ligaments and muscle from it. With much more hesitance, she crept down to the dank underground and came to quietly knock at the hermit ghouls' doorstep. It opened to Barrett's face barely visible amidst the shadowy backdrop.
"Oh…it's the smoothskin." The door was widened. "Murphy's in the back."
"Smoothskin- smoothskin-" Said chem-peddling ghoul nearly barreled from the other room, his glasses wrapped in thick strands of duct tape and left cheek sunken in. He startled her with his aggressive approach, forcing her against the side of his desk. "We need to renegotiate our terms- double the quota, half the price."
Evelyn was still partially recovering from the initial sight of him before her brain processed the words completely. Her look of shock turned into bewilderment. "Half!? What! Do you know how hard it is to-"
"No time like the present, smoothskin," he interrupted, already reaching for their safety net of caps to pay her with. "You want to do business? Then let's do business."
She didn't unshoulder her bag and instead dumbly looked around, the mental image of the pile of corpses somehow rotting inside her nose. "Did you like get robbed-?"
"Ahzrukhal," he rasped, hooking a thumb in her pack to unzip it himself. (He ignored her indignant hey!) "Guy came with his dog- that ghoul you asked about- beat us within an inch of our lives. He's put us in a tight spot, and you know what they say about shit-" he waited a moment, and then finished with, "-it rolls downhill."
She let him finagle the Sugar Bombs free before she dropped her bag on the table. "Ahzrukhal's dead. Charon shot him…I saw it myself."
The words hung in the air, and then Murphy removed his glasses with a shaky hand.
"…you're not messing with us, are you?" he rasped quietly.
Barrett cleared his throat, and now that she turned her head to properly study him, she could see the still fading memory of a brutal beatdown…signature Charon-style.
"That would explain the late shipment," he concurred.
"Charon doesn't work for him anymore," Evelyn lamely explained. "He's in Megaton, now."
A small heh left Murphy's mouth, and then he disappeared into the back room. Before she could follow, a jarring commotion of equipment sent flying strung with violent cursing made her freeze in place.
"That's just fucking fan-tastic!" Murphy yelled after coming back inside, but judging by the cynical tone of his voice and the wild sneer in his eye, it was obvious it was anything but. A Bunsen burner was launched into space by a smack of his hand. "Now what the hell are we supposed to do?!"
"Murph," Barrett attempted calmly. He nudged his head towards their frightened guest.
"Who the hell are we supplying?" Murphy continued unapologetically. "Huh?! I got my teeth knocked out, and for what?!" The question seemed to run off the last bit of steam, for he plunked into a chair with his head in his hands.
Evelyn crossed her arms. "Why not deal in Underworld yourself?" she offered, but the absolute scathing look Murphy gave her made her withdraw her suggestion with a purse of her lips.
Barrett stepped into her line of sight beside his downtrodden partner. "Barrows doesn't appreciate the chems we supply."
"Barrows? I don't think I met him."
"He's the 'mayor'," Murphy grumbled, "so they say."
"I mean, you have people there who buy." She shrugged, attempting to placate the situation with all the shrewd barter experience she was years off from ever having. "Isn't there someone else who could deal instead?"
"You really need the caps that bad, huh?" The implication of his statement made her bristle.
"No." A lie. Big guy was probably chewing on her walls at this point. "I mean, well…" She stamped her foot. "Look, I'm just trying to help!"
"Help…huh…?" The scientist shared a telepathic message with his companion, then got to his feet. "Okay, smoothskin. You looking to make a deal?"
A tight ball of nerves formed in her belly. Whatever it was, she was sure to get suckered in…and nothing good ever came of her noble intentions, yet.
It had been a long night.
He had left the bar repeatedly to enter her home. He had sat on the edge of her bed (the metal frame groaned considerably under his weight) and rummaged through her assorted collection of books. Nothing had been read. A bath had been drawn, and the rest of the (two-thirds) scented salts had been used. The Mister Handy had washed his clothes. He had sewn a few holes he never had the time (or luxury) to tend to. He had replaced the hinges on the downstairs locker to cease its squealing. The bedframe had been greased to quieten its protests. He had cleaned her pistol that she did not take. Her tired leathers had been given new life with a generous oiling and patient stitching.
He blamed it on lack of instruction. Ahzrukhal had ordered him to stand in the corner, be quiet, keep watch over the bar from these filthy miscreants.
Gob gave no such direction. Told him to…take a break, room's just down the hall, ergh, let me know if you need something.
They were almost at an impasse with each other. Gob didn't give orders…but neither did he. They walked in constant circles around each other, waiting for the other to slip up and dangle a piece of bait for the other to snap at and hold on to, something familiar to tug on and swallow before being reeled in.
The quiet evening turned into the break of day.
He was now out on the front step of the bar, eyeing the town with scrutiny for potential dangers. None were found. He came back inside. Paced. Heavy boots, old floors, both creaking with every step. A cigarette had found its way to his mouth, the carton nestled in the tight leather space of his warm pocket. The first burned straight down to the filter. The second hadn't fared that much better. His employer watched him. Charon made him nervous…no…afraid.
"Do…you want a drink, or something?" Gob flinched after he snapped his head around on a dime. "Sorry, you just look, anxious, is all."
"I am fine," Charon growled, going for another cigarette. He didn't like the woolen texture over his tongue, too dense, too thick, but it didn't curb his hard-set mouth from pinching one free, frisking himself for a lighter. His eyes flitted over to the former prostitute as she made a remark about how he could (probably) out-chew a brahmin of tobacco.
"So, how you liking the job?" she continued. Evelyn had said she didn't take ghouls, not that it mattered much, seeing as to how she didn't take anyone at all anymore...he didn't like her eyes- it was as though she knew something he didn't.
The ghouls shared a glance. She wasn't aware of their honor-bound relationship.
Gob gave a dry cough. "Urm, do you want to take another break? It's always slow in the mornings…"
Charon threw him a scathing look, and then he stomped outside, slamming the door so firmly it became wedged in the trim and got stuck. He went back to her creaking house hanging by thin stilts on the side of the hill. The fridge door was angrily thrust open (he accidentally pulled the handle clean off) and the only dish for his eyes to feast on was a little folded note. He took it, wolfing down the words as a key slipped from his fingers to the floor.
Stop breaking my door! I want this back when I come home.
There was a little scrawled picture of what strikingly looked similar to his face, the word ASSHOLE glaring next to it.
The hill overlooking the Super-Duper Mart was just a hop and a skip back toward home, and bed, and maybe something big and thick and somewhat crusty with sweat and dirt and completelynaked-
She slapped her hands to the side of her burning face and looked down at her feet. The cracked binoculars Winthrop had gifted her were still in their spot like an abandoned puppy, waiting to be picked up and given the same amount of affection as Sterling (the knife) now had. Her pack made a loud zip after it was closed, the dysfunctional piece of equipment turned junk to maybe salvageable treasure tucked nicely between her fresh pair of underwear and journal.
She didn't waste any more time in getting to Underworld after that- not when she had a mirelurk catch wind of her scent and proceed to chase her into the tunnels. Thankfully, it either lost stamina or found another delectable meal to savor, for she arrived at the Mall alone and unscathed (it didn't stop her hand from touching Sterling once in a while for comfort, though), but that wasn't the worst part of it all. Now…she had to face the music of the atrocities committed here. She had to be confronted, and talk, and face…conflict. Murphy had promised her some good caps if she pulled off a dealer for him to work with…
Big guy was more than likely turning Wadsworth into a five-course meal, by now.
A deep breath- for luck, courage, and posterity-
"Smoothskin?" That raspy rattle, and the curling of what was once an eyebrow above a thin tendril of smoke. "…welcome back." The sentry of Underworld, stationed at her post, as casual as ever with her sudden appearance.
"Willow." Evelyn raised a hand and slapped it on her thigh, her face already burning a million degrees at the inevitable questioning she was sure to receive. "How is…uh…"
"Good," she answered, shifting her weight to the other foot as she leaned against the side of the building. She scrutinized her with those cataract eyes. "Charon's not with you?"
"No, no! He's, uhm, no longer with me! Just myself, you know, me...just me."
Willow gave her a look. "If you say so…you're a little weird, tourist, no offense."
"Oh." They then stood there, and Evelyn pointed to the door. "Can…can I go inside, you know, after…uh…"
"Oh, of course. I'm sure Dr. Barrows would like to speak to you, anyway. Some things are different around here…kind of unheard of."
"Gotcha. Speak to Barrows." She quickly corrected, "Dr. Barrows! Woops!"
"Whatever, tourist."
Evelyn scurried past. One citizen of the ghoul city placated- check. Her palms began to sweat as she came to the doors, and she seriously considered just going all the bumfuck way back home at the thought of everyone turning to stare-
Too late, she ripped off the proverbial band-aid and slipped inside.
And everyone stared.
"Smoothskin!"
A voice, and it was familiar! She could cry. Instead, she shyly lifted a hand and waved to the mechanic who not-so-subtlety showered her with his ever-growing affection. The ghoul wrapped her in the most awkward one-sided hug before he unlatched himself.
"Hey, you're back!" He slapped a hand down on her shoulder, and then removed himself altogether as though he had just groped her boob instead. "Sorry-it's just, after Ahzrukhal-"
Evelyn tugged him into a corner, the most public privacy she could hope to get before facing everyone again. "No one's mad, are they? I can totally explain-"
"What's there to explain? That Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard?" he scoffed, waving away her doubts and insecurities with a simple flick of the wrist. Poof. Gone. Viola. "Yeah, that day was sort of hectic, but then we went snooping through his terminal…and, well, let's just say Charon did us a favor. Which-" He nervously glanced around. "-is he…?"
"Not with me, anymore. I mean, we were never together, it's just…" She thought for a moment. He stared at the pout on her lips. "Complicated."
"Complicated," he repeated.
"It's nothing," she finished. "Um. Well…okay, cool. No one, like, hates me, or him, or anything?"
"I don't hate you," he offered, and then he stuttered on his next choice of words (making them unintelligible) before sternly folding his arms instead. "So, what brings you back? I've heard you've been, er, busy." She gave him a look, and he awkwardly continued with, "it's just, you know, with the bomb…and that town…Arenfu?"
"Arefu," she automatically corrected, stunned by this present stalker's admittance.
Winthrop leaned in closer, oblivious as to how she shrunk away, his rasp lowered an octave. "Great job with the nuke. I've seen a few during my time, and I've never heard of someone disarming them successfully-"
She rudely interrupted, "How did you know all of that?"
He blinked, and the look he gave her somehow made her feel completely stupid.
"Galaxy News Radio," he casually supplied. "What, you don't listen to your own broadcasts?"
"Broadcasts?" she questioned.
His chin was in his hand, expression thoughtful. "Well, I guess the signal is pretty weak. Can't imagine the output beyond-"
A concerning rattling sound turned their heads to a vent just above them. Some smoke began to lazily drift out, and Winthrop cursed under his breath as the air suddenly quit recirculating.
"Damn place keeps falling apart," he mumbled. The weight of his sigh made him crumple into nothing more than a very sad, very old man. He gave her a half-shrug, more out of apology than unease. "I don't know about you, but that drink sounds good to me."
Between the soles of her feet hurting so terribly they burned, the sunburn on her nose beginning to itch and peel, and the thought of the big guy swallowing her house whole, the sound of a cool refreshment made her wholeheartedly agree. She smiled.
A few caravanners had their hands broken for waving a gun around after being questioned on their tab. His employer disapproved of his tactics, which meant he would have to improvise in the future.
"He's just doing his job, Gob." The smoothskin woman, however, was unfazed by his characteristic violence. She snuffed out a lit match with a flick of her wrist, languidly hanging the end of her smoke over a dented ashtray. "People are going to take advantage now that Moriarty's gone."
Charon tuned out the discussion regarding his 'overreactive nature' and went to sit on a barstool at the end of the counter. A cold bottle of beer was slid down to his elbow, and he turned his head.
Gob began, "I can get you something else…"
Charon popped the bottle cap off with a side-pull of his teeth and then noisily downed his drink, a few drops wetting his mouth before snaking down his throat. It was emptied no sooner than it had been put to his lips.
Gob hesitantly went to give him another before his fingers swiped at something underneath the counter. With a deep frown, he pulled out the remnants of Carol's letters Moriarty had tarnished.
"Guess I owe her an apology," he sadly quipped to himself as he gently laid them on the surface to be reassembled.
Nova watched the way he tended to them like delicate puzzle pieces. "Why don't you just go tell her in person? No one's keeping you here."
Gob lost all enthusiasm in his task, glum. "I wouldn't last five seconds out those gates…"
"Just take big boy with you- it's what you hired him for." Her eyes crept over to the ghoul in question. "I got the bar."