Treacherous

Synopsis: Charon commences his service to the mysterious and cruel Ahzrukhal; Sage and her team arrive in the Capital Wasteland, to Arcade's displeasure. (T)


Underworld, 2275.

They will never take you from me, my light! Don't be afraid. We are free tonight!

Feels good to rule the wastes, Red. You should try it some

Do you take this woman

Maybe you'll sit and sigh, wishing that I were near...

feel like honesty, industry, AND prudence is a bit much to ask from us. Pick one or two and

How much is that doggie in the window~?

Congratulations, Gabriel. Your training is complete.

Master... Master, please...

Charon.

He'll have... your nose. My eyes. Your hair, if we're lucky

...and maybe, I'll say, 'maybe'...

Call me Aud

Open the door

Master, help me!

"Charon."

He awoke with a start, dragging stale oxygen into ragged lungs. The action lanced sharp pain through his body, every cell clamoring to inform him that something was very wrong.

Ahzrukhal frowned at the dying man on his bed for a second longer, then continued. "You overslept. Night patrons will start arriving any minute and I won't have your sorry corpse making them uncomfortable."

It was cruel, and accurate, and Charon could do little but stare in response. Ahzrukhal challenged the eye contact and made him blink away.

"Eat quickly and get down to the clinic. Don't bother Doctor Barrows."

Charon dragged himself up and to the corner table to force down the food laid out for him. The contract required his employers to feed him — a shame "properly" was deemed too complicated an addition for the illiterate young slave to memorize, or he would still have been blowing up mole rats. His aching muscles and lurching stomach raged against him as he ate.

He became aware of Ahzrukhal studying him, though fever complicated his definition of "awareness." The ghoul frowned studiously. "You'd better either die or become useful quickly."

Charon couldn't guess which would come first, but he had a preference.


He sat silently on the examination table, averting his eyes and sparing no mental effort to be anywhere but here. If the doctor had expressed concern at his apparent lack of mental capacity, it never reached him. Only Ahzrukhal's commands broke through his subconscious, and even those were swiftly forgotten.

Charon resented Doctor Barrows for trying to keep him alive. The chore mostly consisted of checking his vitals and telling him to drink water. Charon didn't really care to do anything anymore, given the option, but the doctor persisted.

Despite his best efforts not to listen, a sentence stood out in the two ghouls' conversation. Charon wet his lips. "What did you say?"

Barrows tapped his clipboard pensively. "I said you seemed to have passed the point of no return."

"...Had I not already?"

The doctor shook his head at the clipboard. "No, no. You're not a ghoul, just a very sick human. But it's only a matter of time now. It's the cartilage that marks the —"

"But. When I arrived in Underworld."

"Your illness had just crossed over into the advanced stages at that point. Your levels are in the thousands now — which is good, because you'll begin to feel better soon. We increased it gradually to protect your mind from the necrosis — a strategy I'm testing."

"You could have cured me but did not."

The doctor's lips tightened and he picked over his words. "We thought that would be unwise."

Ahzrukhal rolled his eyes. "If you'd been paying attention for the past week, you'd have known that already. Not that it matters. The good doctor got to do his research, I got a much sturdier bouncer, and most importantly, nobody had to pay for Radaway."

"Most importantly," the doctor corrected uncomfortably, "based on your symptoms, allowing the mutation to run its coursewas less of a risk to your life than attempting to heal you."

Charon felt his cracked and peeling face burn with mortification. "You chose wrong," he whispered, staring at nothing.

Barrows grit his teeth strangely, tapping the clipboard against his palm with nervous energy. "Look, medical ethics aren't really a thing anymore, alright? You weren't well enough to give assent and I wasn't willing to cause potentially irreversible damage by keeping you human."

"This isn't irreversible?" Charon asked, unable to conjure the hard edge his voice should have at a time like this.

His eyes darted, intimidated regardless. "That's what I'm studying."

"Doctor," Ahzrukhal smiled predatorily. "He's fine."

"It isn't as if we like living like this, but it's better than not living at all."

"He's fine."


Charon's life, already a string of injustices, grew darker than ever before. The only time more abjectly miserable than this had been those first few months under Cassius, and even then, he'd had the hope that he might someday hope again. Identity lost, body and soul desecrated, surrounded by strangers and enemies. The sickness passed, and he could only watch as he lost himself piece-by-piece.

His name. The dream of a child in Meg's arms. His sniper's eyes. The red hair that had marked his tribal bloodline. His ears and nose, slowly and then all at once.

Ahzrukhal had no sympathy. For a pittance he let the doctor study the process, testing mystery cures that might slow the body's degeneration. Charon relinquished his opinion on the situation. Why should it matter how quickly his skin rotted off? His goal — his only goal — was getting his employer paid.

That job took an unholy variety of forms. Within the month, Charon was bouncer, debt collector, enforcer, chem trafficker, and aggressive negotiator as well as lab rat. Time passing brought even more.

As much as time could be said to pass in Underworld. In general, one day was like the next. Same patrons, same dim lighting and heavy air, same promises from Winthrop that he was working on it. When Charon went out on a mission, it felt like it could have been an hour or a year since the last time. He measured the days only by the progress of his flaking skin.

There wasn't an evil in the world in which Ahzrukhal didn't dabble. Charon held stakeouts for Talon Company, quelled riots with the slavers, learned power armor with the Brotherhood Outcasts (he never figured out how that deal had gone down). The bartender had his fingers in everything, high to low. He even managed the occasional deal with Tenpenny Tower, as long as Charon wore a helmet with a mask. The caps he made — and oh, how he made caps — were shuffled around as "investments," while he and his employee lived humbly in Underworld.

Charon couldn't guess what all the investing was for. He assumed it wasn't for anything — Ahzrukhal liked to be on every side of every conflict, to pull the strings even without an agenda to further. He might never cash in all the favors he was owed. He was happy just knowing he could if he wanted.

All, of course, at the expense of the bouncer. No petty errands, that was the rule — but Ahzrukhal explained away the contracts' terms with ease. He claimed to have been an attorney once, a word Charon had never heard before. He learned it had to do with interpreting contracts, so he had no choice but to take his employer's word as law. If "petty" had a specific legal definition, if "violence" meant something narrower than Charon had thought, what argument did he have? Ahzrukhal was a master of loopholes, and Charon was unarmed.

So he waited.


Charon hauled himself into the bar, ignoring the stares. He carried a sack of caps and several shells fewer than he'd left with. He was stone, cold steel, a spring coiled too tightly. His feet were lead, and his eyelids burned like his trigger finger. He dropped the bag on the bar.

"You're back early," Ahzrukhal said, eyes on the money. "Far too early."

"You referred to this a 'time-sensitive mission.' I completed it in a time-sensitive manner."

"And I appreciate efficiency. But you'd better not have cut corners, Charon. All six targets, alive. No substitutions, no deletions. When I make a promise, I—"

Charon placed a hand on the counter in front of him, loud enough to get Ahzrukhal's attention. "I have not slept in four days."

Ahzrukhal suddenly turned thoughtful, but not in the right way at all. Charon could see the profit margins shifting in his employer's eyes, and he knew he should have kept his mouth shut. "Well, aren't you a trooper?" he thought aloud. "I wonder how well you'd function if I had you on duty tonight."

"If that is what you wish." Charon fought to keep his cringe internal. In truth, he'd been handling the lack of sleep surprisingly well. He'd trained for it, after all. Still, his body begged for rest, and he wasn't eager to meet this new exploitation.

When he was still managing full sentences the next morning, Ahzrukhal's smile grew.


Ghouls didn't technically "need" food, as long as there was background radiation available to give their bodies energy. Most ghouls never learned this firsthand, because they never reached the point where hunger should have given way to starvation. Their stomachs still growled, and they still felt the effects of low blood sugar, but their bodies would never destroy themselves for energy.

That, they found, was the situation with Charon and sleep. Did he suffer? Yes. Did he ever reach the point where his body forced him unconscious? No. Ahzrukhal, who cared much more about the second question than the first, made use of it.

It wasn't a normal quality in ghouls, and Charon had certainly never noticed it in himself before he'd turned. Just one cruel reality among the rest, he supposed. The doctor couldn't figure it out either, but he recommended that Charon keep getting a full night's rest. Ahzrukhal had solemnly agreed, and then never let Charon sleep again.

The first week was the worst, but he adapted. Exhaustion became the norm, and he pushed through. If his performance ever lapsed, caffeine or Psycho was sure to do the trick. Ahzrukhal said he liked his employee better that way — less backtalk, no noisy nightmares.

Charon learned to rest on his feet, a little at a time, ready to jump to attention at any moment. The stolen moments of half-sleep kept him from seeing threats that weren't there, but there were times, when the bar was empty, that he still heard voices. He worried for a bit that he might be going feral, but nothing ever came of it.


From the corner where he stood guard, Charon contemplated the marble floor, in wonder at how Ahzrukhal had never cared enough to clean it. The bar's patrons trod over litter and dust, even patches that used to be vomit, with little care. Nobody cared about much, in this place.

Ahzrukhal would have happily forced Charon to clean it, but at least he could thank the contract for something.

A flash of color lit the corner of his eye, and he looked to see Carol approaching, hands folded prettily over a small paper package. She looked politely unaware that she was intruding on enemy territory, and just as unaware that Charon was supposed to be ignored.

"Dear, there you are. It's been so long since we've spoken."

Charon's mind skipped a beat, disarmed by Carol's friendliness. Most of the people he interacted with were either self-pitying lowlifes or pure evil, and there wasn't much conversation to be had with either. The woman seemed pleased to see him, so light on her feet and gentle.

Charon blinked back to reality. "Why are you here?"

She seemed a bit bruised by his bluntness, but she pressed on. "Well, some of the others have been talking. They're a bit, ah, worried about you. Think you don't have much of a life outside your work."

Charon's scoff spilled over into a tiny, self-deprecating laugh. "If that is what 'they' say, they should meet Ahzrukhal. I am honor bound to his standards."

Carol's head tilted in mild confusion, struggling to gauge his attitude from his flat exterior. "Has anyone thanked you for taking care of that super mutant yesterday?"

He put effort into chuckling this time, in an attempt to be friendly. He didn't like the way it sounded. "No. Like you, I earn my keep."

"Hm. Well, you've earned this." She placed her package on the table in front of him. Charon glanced at it, not entirely unsure it wasn't a bomb. "They're cookies... or as close as we can get to them. I know, it's silly... maybe you'd rather have gunpowder or whatever it is... but it's how an old woman shows her gratitude."

Charon did think it was silly, and the fact that silliness and old ladies and gratitude could still exist in this world made him stare at the package in silence for a beat too long. "That is kind of you, Carol."

That seemed to relieve her. "What do we have, if we don't look out for each other? I hope you have a good day." She turned and left before Charon could say another word, which confused him until he saw Ahzrukhal approaching from the other room. Maybe she knew her enemies better than Charon had thought.

"What was that about?" Ahzrukhal asked sharply. Always impatient.

"She wanted to thank me for killing the supermutant."

"Hm," he grunted, as if this were an unpleasant but somewhat removed piece of news. "I don't want you talking with her. Or the other one. I don't trust them, and I don't trust you not to trust them."

Charon bristled, the simmering rage he'd always held toward Ahzrukhal burning brighter. "You can trust the contract."

"It isn't your obedience that's in question, Charon, it's your ability to keep trade secrets to yourself. I'm running a business, not a social club, and you have all the guile of a warthog." He watched Charon keenly, perhaps waiting for an argument.

Charon stared, refusing to open his mouth and stutter while he gathered the words. What rhetoric could explain how he missed kindness, how even a brute could feel lonely, even a monster needed to sleep, how powerless he was against his own power, how he'd never once killed on his own terms? Charon had heard a thousand pleas from a thousand victims, and now they spoke in his voice.

"Ahzrukhal. I have served you for two years. I might for a hundred or more. If you continue taking from me, there will be nothing left. I... have no defense. All I can do is ask for your mercy."

"Mercy is bad for business."

"There is more to life than business. I can't live this way, please." Charon hated that word.

The ghouls watched each other in tense silence. Charon didn't dare to hope it meant Ahzrukhal was relenting. "Charon, that is the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."

Charon itched to get violent, with no recourse. Ahzrukhal always knew the cruelest thing to say.

"You're supposed to be this intimidating thug. Hearing you get weepy makes me want to heave."

The thug suppressed his rage and tried again. "All I ask for is human decency."

The gaping stump of Ahzrukhal's nose wrinkled into a snarl. "Look around, boy!" He didn't wait for obedience. "You see any humanity here? Do you?"

Reluctantly, Charon looked. Cold, empty eyes stared back at him, or into half-empty drinks. At this hour, no one spoke. Spending the decades with the same drinking partners could exhaust topics of conversation. The only sign of life was the sound of Billie Holiday over the radio, masked from here by his employer's labored breathing. "No."

"That's right. So you can kill the attitude. You'll put my patrons off their drink."

"As... you wish."

"In fact, let's make that official. I order you not to hold conversation with the clientele until further notice. Send them to me instead."

The fight knocked out of him, Charon accepted defeat. "Understood."

He waited, but further notice never came.


Aside from the crippling loneliness, Charon was glad for the excuse to be rude to the Ninth Circle's idiot customers. He hadn't had much interest in talking to them to begin with — Badger had come in a few times without recognizing him, and perhaps he would have acknowledged some of the livelier patrons given the option, but solitude had always suited him. The problem was that he now had a social circle composed only of Ahzrukhal and his putrid business associates.

He didn't sweat it. He was done fighting for imagined rights. There was no self-pity, only spite. Spite was about the only thing that reminded him he was alive anymore.

Not that it mattered. There was nothing for him. Twenty-six years of life, and the only thing left was death. Be that in two years or a hundred, he waited patiently for it. He had no wistfulness about the subject; if anything, it passed the hours. For Charon, the only thing more entertaining than thinking about his own death was thinking about Ahzrukhal's.

Ahzrukhal. Two years or a hundred, he'd be dead too. The thought was sweet. Charon didn't hope, but he had one dream: that one day, his employer would either break or sell his contract, freeing Charon to put him down. In all likelihood, Ahzrukhal would outlive him, but Charon found peace in the knowledge that he'd have to die someday. This latest injustice was fuel lost in the fire.

Solitary as he was, Charon did have one warped version of social contact in listening to the radio. He had little patience for Three Dog's exaggerated persona, but he was hungry for news of the outside world, especially news that involved the consequences of his actions in the criminal underworld. Though he might not have admitted it, he was also hungry to be spoken to with respect, even as a member of a vast and faceless listening audience. So Galaxy News Radio held his attention when nothing demanded it in the bar.

"Remember, children," Three Dog lectured. "Our ears are always open to any interesting news you come across — especially you caravanners! I know you pick up all the good stuff. We've got a lotta airtime to fill and this is, as you mighta picked up on, a wasteland. No sports, politics, or traffic updates for you today. So how about some good news for a change?"

That would be a change.

"We've got a new report coming all the way from the wild, wild West — that's Arizona, if any of you aced those geography exams."

Charon's ears pricked up — a phantom sensation, as he no longer had any. This was hitting close to home, and he didn't like it.

"Let me set the scene for you, kids. In one corner we've got the Legion, a slaving empire of chauvinists run by a guy named Caesar. In the other, the New California Republic, the so-called pinnacle of democracy... I'll believe it when I see it, but I know who I'm rooting for."

So did Charon.

"The undefeated Legion advances on Hoover Dam — Oh, the NCR is retreating, this could be it — but the Legion didn't know that the battlefield was rigged to blow! Hoo-HOO, I'll spare you the gory details."

A thrilling defeat, no doubt a crippling one to have sent news all this way. Charon wanted to celebrate, but his heart twinged uncomfortably. There was more.

"The Mojave Wasteland, a big swath of land which includes 'Dazzling New Vegas,' is now under the control of somethin' like civilization. Caesar's not taking the loss well, though: Reports say he threw a big manbaby tantrum that culminated in a neighborhood barbeque, using his general, Joshua Graham, as both the kindling and the fireworks. After dropping the poor warlord into the Grand Canyon, Caesar called it a day — and I think the West rested a little easier. That's what I call giving the Devil his due."

The walls were spinning. Charon groped behind himself for a chair, a table, anything to steady his buckling knees. The Ninth Circle was suddenly depleted of oxygen, and he fought for enough oxygen to allow him to comprehend the words.

He - kindling - what? The general. The Legion didn't have a general. But he had named - what is a firework. Fire, kindling. No, that couldn't -

"What are you doing, Charon? If I wanted you to sit, I'd —"

"Master."

Ahzrukhal paused, confused at the title. "Well, well. You've never called me that before."

Charon's wild eyes searched his. "My master is dead," he clarified slowly, impressing the truth on both of them. He couldn't identify the chaos within him — Was that vengeance, or mourning, and could that be rage, or a bit of relief? Good or bad, he felt the loss, and he felt so much of it that he had to bury his face in his hands.

Ahzrukhal considered this. "What does that mean?"

What did it mean? A million implications. It meant Joshua Graham had not been immortal after all, just a man, a man with no eye for deception. A man who marched into a city rigged to blow for a tyrant who had never cared about him at all.

It meant, also, that Charon had been right — that Gabriel had been right when he'd warned him. That when the time had come to prove his loyalty, the legate had made a mistake. Vindication, so sharp and so hollow.

What was more... it meant Charon was no longer a slave. His master was dead, and who could possibly replace him? Which meant —

"The contract."

He didn't need to elaborate. Did Joshua Graham's final order stand? Charon's hand itched for his shotgun, but he couldn't take his chance, not until he knew.

"...Charon. Do you feel compelled to answer this question?"

The order struck him, a feeling so familiar yet so gravely disappointing. He was not a slave, but he was still an employee, and he would do as the contract commanded. "Yes, I do."

Fears relieved, Ahzrukhal smirked. "Good. Now stop moping so you can catch Quinn on his way out. He needs a guard, and I need him to owe me a favor."

Life went on.


Beauty was not to be trusted nor trifled with. Ahzrukhal was doing both.

Women weren't naturally gifted to fight, and weren't often taught. The exception made themselves dangerous. In the wastes, desirability was just another weapon. Meg had used it often against victims, much to her husband's chagrin. It had its pitfalls, though. In this city, a beautiful woman far from home who'd managed to avoid the slavers' chains either had to be very lucky or very, very smart.

Charon watched the woman at the bar with deep dislike. She'd traded her Talon Company uniform for a nightie, a negotiation tactic so glaringly obvious that it came across as guileless. She was friendly and far too curious. The act was good, down to a sharp wince that almost convinced him she'd never tasted scotch before. It all screamed innocence, but anyone who dealt with both Talon and Ahzrukhal knew what they were doing (and deserved what they got).

She and Ahzrukhal were trying to screw each other over, and Charon didn't think either of them was onto the other. The woman had been in and out all week, selling dozens of plates or old books on each visit. Presumably, she was raising money to pay him for something. She was smart not letting him get her into his debt, and Charon warned him, but Ahzrukhal only said that a pretty face encouraged ghouls to drink. Charon had no problem watching terrible people destroy each other.

The woman pulled away from the bar, a hint of grim satisfaction on her face. She began to approach Charon's corner, sending an agitated twitch through his muscles. He'd informed her as bluntly as possible that she wasn't welcome to chat, so she must have been coming over to inform him of a mission Talon had sent them on.

Missions were never good news, but Charon had to admit he'd been getting restless. Supermutants had been multiplying and closing in on the downtown area for as long as he'd been employed here. They choked out the criminal underworld like weeds on their own, but the Brotherhood had become more prolific along with them, and had made matters more complicated by splitting in two. Tenpenny had just lost his right-hand man to sudden "wanderlust." Talon, the news suggested, was itself losing mercs on some big bounty, and even the raiders had been taking a hit lately. It seemed the only thriving business in DC was slaving, and Ahzrukhal only cared to work with Eulogy if he could justify it with some long-dead legal loophole.

Without work to send him on, Ahzrukhal was perpetually irritated at his bouncer, swearing he was as useless as the day he'd been born. Charon hated being useless.

"I'm Aniss," the girl began, smiling uncomfortably.

"Talk to—"

"Slow down, there," she interrupted him. "I have good news?" Charon's eyebrows arched cynically, and she continued. "I'm your new employer." She showed him the contract for proof, nervously awaiting confirmation.

"You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal? So, I am no longer in his service." The change was unexpected, but Charon would not let himself be blindsided. This was a time for action. "That is good to know."

The girl nodded and tried again to introduce herself, but Charon stopped her. "Please, wait here. I must take care of something."

"Oh, okay," she agreed. "Whatever you need." She settled into a chair to wait, holding her rifle and the contract in front of her immodest clothing.

Ahzrukhal half-watched Charon approach, cigarette burning another hole in his throat. Charon had rehearsed in his mind this a thousand times. He would get no further satisfaction from theatrics, so he spoke as calmly and politely as always.

"Ahzrukhal. I am told I am no longer in your service."

The ghoul turned, no hint of suspicion in his body language. "That's right, Charon." He drew a tortured breath into his disgusting lungs. "Have you come to say goodbye?"

"Yes."

In one fluid motion, Charon retrieved the shotgun from his back and terminated his former employer before the betrayal even had time to register on his face. Brain and bone painted one corner of the bar as the corpse flew back against the wall. Charon allowed himself the pleasure of another shot, blowing off what remained of the corpse's head before it could come to rest on the ground.

The bar was in uproar, muttering and cursing in shock. Ghouls gathered around, apparently unafraid for their dreary lives.

In all his life, Charon had never murdered of his own accord. He relished it without guilt, then turned to face the horrified girl clutching his contract.


Soft rain drummed the vertibird's hull, not heavy enough to darken the sky or even soak their clothes. Sage breathed in the wet marshiness of the forest's edge and sighed.

DC was green — a healthy vitality fell over the hills north of the city, filled with plant life and birds. This place was alive, in a way Sage had only seen in Jacobstown and Zion Valley. The Pip-Boy promised that the rain was fresh and pure, free of radiation.

Arcade had made the city out to sound like an unlivable atomic crater, but somehow Veronica's Brotherhood fairytales held more truth. They stood now in appreciative silence, listening to the foreign sound of the wind in the trees. Boone was here too, uncharacteristically relaxed, with his beret, shades, and gun safely out of the rain. Oddly, it was Arcade who scanned the forest as if something might jump out at them.

"What's your problem?" Boone asked.

Arcade realized slowly that he was being addressed. "I don't think we should take the vertibird into the city."

"Hm. Twenty-mile forced march only to get redirected again. Good time."

"Remind me again what you do for a living, Boone?"

Sage shared a glance with Veronica, and saw her own amused exasperation mirrored. "What's on your mind, Arcade?"

He huffed uncomfortably. "This area has been an active warzone for a long time. Seeing the vertibird may remind people of a certain remorseless eugenicist regime. I'd rather not get shot down with a Tesla cannon just to spare us a few hours of travel time."

"They say it's gotten better," Veronica ventured.

"Sure it has. Under the loving fist of the Enclave's personal grim reaper."

She grinned from her place among the flowers. "You guys get your own grim reaper? I'm jeal—" She gasped suddenly. "You mean the Lone Wanderer, don't you?"

"The Brotherhood knows about that too? What is he, some sort of folk hero?"

Veronica stood up, hands on hips. "She is a woman and I am going to marry her".

"Wait, wait, wait," said Sage. "I thought you and Mr. New Vegas were going steady."

"Between you and me, I think he's been seeing other girls," she whispered conspiratorially

"As hilariously dysfunctional as Veronica's imaginary love life is," Arcade interjected, "this is a very real person-of-unspecified-gender who did to the Enclave what Cass can do to three pints of moonshine."

"I'm not going to make you do anything you're uncomfortable with, Arcade," Sage said gently. "But I don't think you're being completely realistic about the risk. The Enclave isn't the only faction to use aircraft, and no sane person would shoot down an unidentified vertibird during peacetime."

"Maybe living in secret your whole life can do things to your perception of danger, I admit," he met her eyes, weirdly urgent, "but I was hiding for a very good reason. Remember that, okay?"

The Courier allowed him his moment of gravity, though she still thought he was too worried. He'd become far less secretive about his past once he'd decided he could trust her, but she realized now that she didn't know the half of what he'd been through. "You can stay here, if you want, and try to force the plants to cough up new medicines. We don't mind a little sightseeing."

"Believe me, I'm kicking myself for leaving all my equipment at home." He grimaced. "No, no, I'm coming. I'll fly you in. But I think you knew that, didn't you?"

Sage smirked cleverly, letting him believe she'd expected this all along.

Arcade spent an hour collecting and preserving botanical specimens, then argued another five minutes when accused of procrastination. Finally, they charted a course south, the leaves above waving them goodbye.


They landed in the National Mall, surrounded by a canyon of marble. In the center stood an obelisk, visible even from many miles away, and at either end was a palace, damaged by war but still standing. They started toward the side with fewer foxholes, skirting around the artificial body of murky water toward a columned edifice surrounded by tents.

The tents and building were crawling with animals and quick-moving people. A graying man in a stovepipe hat came out to greet them, a look of cautious optimism on his face. "Welcome, visitors, to the Temple of the Union! I am Hannibal Hamlin. I trust you're not here to make trouble."

"Won't start any, can't promise we won't finish some," Sage responded coolly. "What have you got going on here?"

The man assessed the threat posed by the four armed strangers, and elected to keep up his positive attitude. "We are a community of escaped slaves, sheltered in the memorial to the great abolitionist President Lincoln."

"Lincoln, huh? Ulysses would love this." Sage looked up the steps into the memorial, surprised to find that she knew the stone man who towered above them, though the memory was lost.

"Ulysses?" Hannibal smiled in recognition of the name. "Is he an escaped slave too?"

"Uh... yes, actually."

"Eyes on target, Six," Boone reminded her. "The nerds are escaping."

Veronica and Arcade were, indeed, exploring the Memorial and its many enshrined artifacts. It struck Sage that this had once been a very important landmark, and, more worryingly, that that might actually be the president's hat on Hannibal's head. "We actually came to ask for directions."

"Of course. I'll do my best to guide you."

"We're looking for Underworld. The ghoul city?"

He pointed, surprisingly, to somewhere in the Mall. "Ah, just past the Washington Monument, in the Museum of Natural History. There are signs."

"Hey, nerds, we're going to a museum," Sage called. "Thank you for your help."

"My... pleasure."


As it turned out, no signs were needed. The museum was crawling with figures in hulking power armor, setting up a perimeter and giving curt instructions to each other.

"What is all this?" Sage asked no one in particular. The man in charge, indistinguishable from the others except by voice, spoke up.

"This area is under lockdown. Civilians are not permitted to enter or exit at this time."

"That so...?" she muttered, glancing at her companions. They hung back, except for Veronica. "Sir, you're speaking to Paladin Sage and Journeyman Scribe Santangelo of the Mojave Brotherhood. We need to pass through that barrier." Sage fervently hoped the armored soldier wouldn't ask for proof; her title was mostly a formality, and Veronica didn't carry identifying information above ground.

"Santangelo? I recognize the name. How did you get out all this way?"

"Flew," Veronica responded brightly. "And boy, are my arms tired!"

He stared at them a few moments, helmet expressionless. "And who are they?" he asked, motioning to Boone and Arcade behind them.

"Oh, them?" asked Sage. "They're not with us."

"We have no idea who those guys are," Veronica agreed.

He paused again with a sound like a restrained sigh. "All paladins have clearance to enter. Scribes are permitted only under orders from a proctor. Please conduct your business quickly and be on your way."

"You won't even notice me," Sage promised, hopping the wooden barricade.

"Paladin?"

"Yeah."

"Filtration systems are required within the building."

This struck the Courier as very odd, and somewhat concerning. "Oh. Silly me." She snapped the rebreather over her head and entered.

The inside was visible by torchlight, crowded with more Steel. Annoyed by the rebreather, which wasn't a filtration device anyway, Sage fastened her helmet for nightvision. The new sight advantage illuminated the towering skull which unmistakably framed Underworld's doorway. She pushed through, ignoring the soldiers and their strange equipment.

Ghouls sat quietly in clusters, or stood under the Brotherhood's questioning. They seemed unharmed, but distressed by the sudden invasion into what looked like a quiet little underground town. Sage approached the only ghoul sitting alone, a shabby-looking thing with hair sticking up in every direction.

"Sir, what's going on here?"

The ghoul turned bewildered eyes on her — either blackout drunk or completely crazy, she realized with chagrin. "Someone stole their youth and boiled their... icebergs. It wuzzn't me. Everyone always blames me for everything..." he trailed off.

"Okay. That's... do you know a Gabriel?"

"Gabe?" He either yelped or hiccuped. "I don't know a Gaverell... She's not here."

"Well... you wouldn't happen to know who the bartender is, would you?"

"Mm. Greta. Bring me back a drink, okay. I'm good for it."

Sage sincerely doubted that. She tried the hovering robot up the stairs next, hoping he would have a few more circuits intact. "Hey bot, is the bartender here named Greta? I was told he was a man."

The Mr. Gutsy focused on her. "There aren't any men in this town. Just dogs, mangy dogs." His weapons twitched miserably. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my duties."

The robot coasted over to a young knight in respiratory gear and began an impassioned rant about how ghouls were people too. Sage suddenly empathized with the lethargic barricade guard.

She looked around the balcony area for further information. On either side was a shop. Carol's Place sounded like a more likely candidate than Beams and Bullets, so Sage tried the door on the right.

The inside was set up more like a makeshift hotel than a pub, but there was a thick smell almost like food, so Sage continued up to the counter. There stood another ghoul, equally concerned but marginally calmer than the others.

"What's the Brotherhood doing cramping your style like this?" Sage asked conversationally

"I just don't know," the woman confessed. "They're accusing us of something, but they won't say what. I don't think they know, themselves. It's all very upsetting."

Sage wanted to help this bizarre group of people. She knew how suspicion seemed to fall on ghouls sometimes, and she'd gathered that the Brotherhood of Steel was none too tolerant of them. But despite her misgivings, she wasn't about to get more involved with the Brotherhood than she had to be, for Arcade's sake. Beyond that, she knew literally nothing about the situation, and she had a prior commitment. This would either have to wait or become someone else's problem.

"I can't believe they're blockading the whole town like this. I hope nothing comes of it. But I actually came here for some information, and I'd be willing to pay for it. Are you Greta?"

The lady smiled, tense but genuine. "No... I'm Carol. Greta's out right now. But she tells me everything. Maybe I can help?"

"Great." Sage flattened her hands on the table. "Could you please tell me where Gabriel is?"

Carol's face was hard to read in its dissolution, but her voice hesitated. "Gabriel. Now remind me who that is again? I'm sorry, so many people have come and gone..."

"That's alright. He's supposed to have arrived in the past ten years, and I'm told he worked for the bartender."

At this, Carol actually laughed, drawing looks of ire from miserable tenants. "Oh, you mean Charon! Yes, he changed his name not long after arriving here. I couldn't tell you why."

"Yes! Thank you," Sage blurted. So their missing person had a new face and a new name. This was shaping up to be an awkward reunion even under the best of circumstances. "Where is he now?"

"He went to work for this sweet girl named Aniss. They live in Megaton now — My son Gob runs the saloon there." Carol was happy to finally be helpful. Sage noticed that she didn't bother to question her intentions. Perhaps the lady trusted Sage based on her attitude... or perhaps she trusted this Aniss to handle her.

"Yes. Excellent. I will go find... 'Gob.'"

"I'm glad I could help. You go tell him Carol sent you, and send him my love," she beamed, despite her current circumstances. "Ask if he can help you find the Lone Wanderer."

"...Oh."


2262-
Protective Custody
2263-2265 -
2266-
January - Distance, No More
October - Power and Beauty
2267 -
2268 -
Ensnared
The Way Forward begins
2269 -
2270 -
The Way Forward ends
I Can't Help Falling in Love With You begins
2271-2273 -
2274-
I Can't Help Falling in Love With You ends
Tik Tik Boom begins
2275-
Tik Tik Boom ends
Treacherous begins
2276-
2277-
January - Sage destroys the Divide
February - First Battle of Hoover Dam
July - The Mummy Returns
August 17 - Aniss leaves Vault 101
The Prodigal Son
September - To Set the Record Straight
Treacherous ends
November - The Burned Man Walks
2278-
April - James dies (Purity War begins)
June - Guide Her Through the Night
Bitter Springs
September - Project Purity activates
November - Human Capital
2279 -
Adams Air Force Base (Purity War ends)
2280 -
May - Dogmeat's Vacation
August - Boones are married
2281 -
New Canaan is destroyed
October 11 - Sage is shot in the head
October 19 - Sage wakes up
2282 -
ED-E, My Bud
2283 -
January - Second Battle of Hoover Dam
February - To Have and To Hold
April - Awake, O Sleeper
May - Worst-Case Scenario
July - Mercury's Messenger
August - Safe Haven
September - Power and Beauty (pt. 2)/East and West begins
October - East and West ends