Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

Wilde

I took Remington’s advice and kept my eyes closed for the ride. In a tragic way, Charon and I were both connected there–two darkened states of mind with nothing but the pure thunder of The Cowboy’s engine to cocoon us. A connection, I feared, that would be there for the last time.

I could only wait. Regret and pray–clumsy, nonsensical strings of thought that unraveled against what felt like the speed of light. Jesus, Why hadn’t I listened to my dearest friend? I should’ve just moved on, chased the leads on my father. I shouldn’t have pushed him.

You shouldn’t have hired him. An ugly, dark thought in my heart rose: If you weren’t so damn scared to be alone, he’d be safe in that smelly bar.

And trapped.

You think that matters? After all the shit you’ve dragged him through?

Yes! Absolutely anything would be better than rotting against four unbending, unchanging walls for all time–I would know. But the ugly thought lingered. By the time Remington sped into The Mall and towards D.C.’s history museum, I couldn’t tell if the tears caking my face were from self-admonishment or strain. Remington’s speed defied wind and sound. I felt I was in a long, dark tunnel, even before we hit the Metro. Light was fading into another burst of sunset when we reached our destination, down into tunnels, for real this time. My stomach was grateful for the easy, slow stop in front of the long escalators leading up and out of Museum Station’s entrance.

Remington killed the engine. A shot rang out, missing us by a mile. An alarm. A figure coughed atop the platform as I adjusted my eyes in the purple light of dusk:

“Oh. Tourist?”

“Willow.” I exhaled, relieved I didn’t have to bluff with my broken plasma rifle or adjust to Charon’s beast of a gun once my eyes adjusted to sight.

“Sorry I fired that warning shot. Reflex. Is that…?”

“Help us get him to Barrows, would you?” I found the strength to call up just as my fingers found Char’s pulse–he was stable, but still unresponsive.

“Shit… Yeah.” Willow rushed down, readied her hands as Remington stooped to release my partner’s safety belts in silent concentration. The three of us made it to the old Mammoth outside Underworld’s entrance before our arms gave out from the effort.

Remington–naively, inappropriately–lit a joint before Willow cursed and spat at him to snuff it out.

“You can smoke in here.” He pointedly objected, shaking his head.

As if a shy actress on cue, Carol came slipping through the double-doors that divided the Ghoul City from the Museum of History’s vestibule. She lit a cigarette and nodded, her reaction delayed.

“See?” Remington gesticulated in her direction, though he did not try again. Willow looked out for murder, engulfed in the same fight-or-flight process I was.

Carol looked up when she heard Remy’s whining. She looked dazed, pulled her cardigan tighter around herself by the flickering light of a barrel while she processed the four of us, then rushed forward.

“Oh, Christ! What happened?” Carol’s low heels clacked against the marbled, newly swept floor.

Remington spoke when I could not, “Get the doc, Ma’am.”

Carol disappeared, swift and purposeful, through the doors to Underworld.

It would’ve been a comfort if Charon moved at all. He was still breathing, but there was no indication he would wake or respond to stimuli. I stroked his burnt temples, sweeping the sparse strands of fiery hair back from his ruined ears.

“Tourist…” Willow met my eyes with a sistering gaze, “It’ll be alright. Charon’s a strong one.”

People kept saying that to me, but did they know? How could they know?

Have a little faith

Barrows appeared in haste–stimpak in one hand and stethoscope in the other. He commanded us to stand back and dropped carefully down before my companion. Checked Charon’s heart, his lungs. He pierced the meat of Char’s thigh with the Stim, right through his ruined pants and looked to me, words near accusing:

“And? What brought him down?”

Carol

Barrows brought his arms under Charon’s midsection before lifting him up and turning for the steps to the Underworld concourse. Barrows was small, but mightier even than the average ghoul–sending the smoothskins in the room scratching their heads before he even reached the first step.

“He gonna be alright, Doc?” The one with the weird southern accent called.

Barrows grunted for me to open the door, but I was already holding it for my old friend.

“Dunno. You kids stick around for the night, I might have an answer. I might not. That’s life.” He sounded sharp. Protective.

And he was off, Underworld’s entrance shunting closed, a gossip-train of murmuring ghoul commotion no doubt waiting for him and his patient on the other side.

Charlie

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a too-shiny, too-expensive car. A going away present for my first semester of college. The way up my parent’s driveway is pitch dark, not even the streetlamp shining above me could pierce its sense of oblivion. I don’t want to leave the car. I’m angry and I refuse to go inside to greet my parents after the long year away, where my father will lecture me for smoking when I’m going to school on a track star’s scholarship.

I take one peek into the rearview with a restless, blue eye.

“Things between the U.S. and Chinese forces are ramping up, as American Forces unveil improved models of their ‘Power Armor’ prototypes with the hopes of retaking Alaska from–”

I turn the dial.

“CDC says many people can take a break from mask–”

The hell? Nope.

“--will you be? Talk to your local Vault-Tec representative to get started.” The friendly voice on the airwaves speeds up, near imperceptible: “ Spaces limited. Individuals must apply. Spots not guaranteed. ”

Click. Dead. Exhale through the nose. I’m sick of hearing about the goddamn War.

It’s just me and the neighborhood noises now–the lulling song of crickets in the lawn, the rustle of manicured hedges shaking off the day’s drizzling rain. Laughter from inside another house. My ears pick another sound, one that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It’s a dog barking, and I know this dog. The neighbors chain him up from inside their rusted-link fence all day and all night. It’d been that way since Frank and I were children. I hated them for it.

The barking was as clear and incessant as ever, even as the years had aged us all. The pricks on my neck got unbearable, the hurricane in my eye built. The hate became too strong. I drew myself up out of my seat and set off into the night like a phantom, following the sound. The night air was cool and crispy with autumn’s quiet. My feet were crossing the street, into the neighbor’s yard–identical to everyone else’s. There is a single window casting enough light onto the grass for me to clear the fence. The dog doesn’t stop its snarling by the time I approach. His white face looks nervous when he sees me, as if his interactions with humans hasn’t formed enough for him to pass judgment.

It doesn’t take more than a swift movement to loose him from his leash and open the chainlink fence’s gate, letting him off into the night.

“Why did you do it?”

( 2 across, first of the alphabet, six lett

Sorry charlie so sorry)

“I…. just had to.”

My brother was standing before the hood of my car, slamming his hand down on the newly washed hull. The playful smile on his face swept away the cold darkness:

“Where the fuck did you go?” My meaner, louder counterpart greeted, “C’mon, Mom made pineapple upside down cake.”

The memory fades, fractures. Tiny pieces rush through before joining the military. Men and women I’d been intimate with, the long bright halls I’d walk through at CIT. A fight after track practice. The ugly word “expulsion” stands black and white and mean on a piece of paper. Bleeding into the light Ahzrukhal would zap me within that unknown vault.

My brother’s face, tired and wrecked. My own soul, empty. Standing in a corner for a hundred some odd years.

I see the halo of light surrounding the back of the Lone Wanderer’s head, the first day she entered the Ninth Circle. That yellow bark scorpion from New Reno once more. The gold in his exoskeleton beats out the white light in my head, eating it away. And all the pieces of me are in that all-encompassing brightness: An ever-expanding orange sun.

I don’t know where I am. But I’m warm. And I can feel me again.

Wilde

Carol regarded our party with a shrewd eye now, “You all can head in, if you like. I’ve got some soup on…. Just let me finish my smoke.”

Remington waved his hat in thanks and nodded, “Ma’am.” He looked at me with his kind, deep-brown eyes, “You can go on ahead. I gotta tune up the bike and tuck ‘er in for the night.”

“May I… May I go with you?”

“Oh.” The cowboy blinked, “Uhh, sure.”

Willow trailed us, mumbling about getting back to her shift. We weren’t even halfway through the reception hall before Remington bemoaned leaving his guitar back in Springvale: “Some tunes would really lighten the mood right about now.”

“That guitar shit doesn’t do it for me…” Willow yawned and shook herself upright, “You know what I miss? Jazz. And not that big band crap Three Dog plays on the radio, either. The stuff you’d hear underground.”

“Oh yeah. Jazz is good.” Remington agreed. “It’s too bad you can’t find a decent horn around these parts. There’s places in New Vegas…”

The two continued to plod on through odd, incongruous small talk while I stewed in that strange numbness known all too well as grief. I was hungry and tired and sick from the long driving, but the thought of taking care of my own needs left me even more exhausted. My hand never left the thick railing of the escalator on the climb down into Museum Station–where Remington’s motorcycle stood hidden and waiting for its tune-up. Nothing came into focus more than the feeling of Charon’s deadweight on my forearms, carrying him up and out of the River Styx. By the time Remington felt it was acceptable to relight his pine-astringent cigar, it was hard to deny it wasn’t the smoke making my vision watery.

“Awright…” Remington’s voice boomed in the derelict and echoing subway tunnels. He tugged the tarp that hid his motor vehicle in plain sight with a magician’s pride, circling the machine with his hands on hips and his cigar dangling between smiling lips. Willow said her goodbyes before heading back out to her post, bootsteps clanking off the dead metal maw of the once vibrant D.C. metro stop. The sound was too much like Charon’s own footfalls, and I gave in, collapsing to the musty ground in a sad heap.

Remington had been digging out a myriad of tools from his stylish saddlebags before he paused, “Hey…. hey.” His voice cooed gently as the cowboy came over to me, kneeling and gently wrapping his arms around my shaking shoulders:

“It’s okay, Vault girl. Let it ride.” And I sobbed, grateful for the comfort in his large arms and odd smelling duster in my shattered state.

“Shouldn’t have gone there…” I blubbered near the end of that strange deluge of tears, wiping my nose shamefully on my wrist. What I wouldn’t give for a drink, I thought.

“Evergreen Mills?” Remington asked, voice low and soft.

“No…” I cried, “Underworld. We never should’ve met… I wish I’d never dragged him through–”

“Aw, c’mon now, you know that ain’t it.”

My breathing smoothed a little, but the thought did not leave. I sat in silent disagreement.

“The past is done and gone, girl. You gotta focus on what’s right here.”

The cowboy inspected his motorcycle with a caring eye all the while. Tinkering, adjusting with his kit of tools. He cleaned each part with a rag, humming deep and warm to pass the time. It was just what I needed to breathe at that moment. When Remington was satisfied and nodding at his machine, an hour had passed.

“Wanderer? Help me with the tarp, would you kindly?”

I took up a corner of the hefty and unassuming fabric. Remington and I shook it out and over the now-cleanest piece of hardware in the wastes for miles. The Cowboy inspected his work with an airy, red-eyed smile tinting his cheeks. He looked to me and cast his gaze to the ground, bashful.

“I don’t know what happened out there to ya’ll, but I’m sorry it did. If you need anything, I’ve got your back.”

His pledge was both childlike and wise beyond years. It warmed the spot in my heart that was hurting, if only for a moment. I met it with a broken smile: “Thank you…. Remy. You’re a true friend.”

The Cowboy adjusted the hat on his head and kicked at some of the subway rubble beneath his boots, “Aw, shucks….” I managed a laugh, pushing out the remnants of tears. Remington scritched at the back of his neck, “So. How ‘bout that soup upstairs, huh? Some food’ll do us good. We should check in with Barrows first, of course.”

I followed Remington up the dead escalator once more, eyes on his tattered duster all the while. Nothing but the clunk of our gear against the empty walls until we hit open air. I still felt that relentless anxiety for Charon, but I was glad to have Remington to keep my spirits from spiraling entirely. I looked back on my time with Mei Wong and found myself feeling the same gratitude. Even Dogmeat was my guide. Nothing would replace my best friend, but it was good to have this strange village to lean on.

Carol

“Took your sweet time getting here.” I called in greeting to the Wanderer and her weird friend playing dress-up when I heard the door ding open. The Cowboy had a syrupy smile on his face and a drooping, flushed gleam in his eye. Wilde looked a mess, but that was to be expected. Nurse Graves had rushed over with an update, and took her cue now to leave. My heart hurt for the girl. But I was taken aback, I had to admit. I thought Charon would be the one to sit down at my bar one day, with Wilde on the operating table. I’d give him a lecture about apocalyptic jet-setting with pretty smoothskins and he’d growl in his scary way and move on. From what I’d heard from Nurse Graves’ quick whispers, Charon had sacrificed himself for the girl. That was… beyond what anyone would expect from the shadowy figure in Underworld’s corners.

The story had struck us all. Underworld was quiet, would be for days. I wiped down the marbled countertop for the pair of adventurers and motioned from them to sit.

“Greta made a big pot of our specialty today–Cram and pea soup.” I wiped the dust from a couple of bowls for them. Thinner layers today. ‘Carol’s Place’ had a lot more business now that the Ninth Circle was empty. The drunks and junkies moaned and complained, but the rest of us were relieved and grateful for Charon’s outburst. Another thing no one in this town would dare say aloud.

I called for Greta and she snarked back, tapping a ladle to signal the soup was ready to go. I disappeared for a moment into the little sideroom that served as our kitchen in my Inn, giving Greta a quick kiss on the cheek as I left. When I returned with the soup bowls near-overflowing, Wilde was sobbing again–head a hard knot in her pale-splotchy arms. The Cowboy patted her shoulder quietly.

“You two need to eat.” I set the hot bowls down on the countertop with a satisfying sound, rummaging around for the biggest spoons I could find.

Remington sniffed up the steam and sighed, as a happy little one might. Wilde poked at her portion with a spoon till she caught a glare from me, then sipped at the cram-and-pea filled broth.

“How’s Gob?” I asked, deciding not to linger on the cause for Wilde and Charon’s other weird friend for being here.

“He’s alright..” The flatness in Wilde’s voice made me regret asking, but I worried for my own son and just couldn’t help myself.

“Still running that Saloon?” I asked. And the girl nodded, despondent gaze getting lost on the rim of the chipped bowl I’d given her.

I sighed, something in my heart breaking for her. “It’ll be alright, hon. Finish your soup.”

Greta came in and looked first to me, then to our clientele.

“Suppose you two’ll be staying the night?”

The cowboy spoke now, “Oh, that would be fine, ma’am. I can give you caps up front or…”

“Half now, half later’s fine.” Greta grunted, “...Carol. We’d better find some clean sheets.”

I helped Greta search through the shelves behind us for some bedding. When the door to our little establishment clicked open quietly, it was hard not to whirl around in expectation.

Only Barrows appeared–short frame stooped with the weight of endless work.

“Wilde… A word, please?”

The wanderer shook a little in her eyes before turning in her seat and nodding. She left to speak with Underworld’s doctor, but not without thanking Greta and me for the meal first.

Barrows gave me a small and grim nod before he swung the door shut.

Greta broke the long, awkward silence between us and the Cowboy in the brash way she was known for:

“And? She and Charon going steady or some such?”

Remington chewed a bite of ham product thoughtfully before answering, “I reckon so.”

“Greta…” I scolded, but the moment passed quick, overtaken by collective nosiness. Shadows moved outside my Inn’s door.

We all turned to look out, through the frosted glass on impulse. Even though visibility was low, we could unmistakably make out Wilde’s profile pointed to the marbled floor in consternation outside.

Wilde

“Wanderer? Wanderer, are you listening?”

I blinked up from the hypnotic shine of the marbled floors. I wondered for a moment why so many people seemed incapable of using my name.

“Honestly, I’m not. I’m a mess, Doctor. I apologize.”

Barrows cleared his throat and reluctantly reached up to set a hand on my shoulder.

“It’s good news, I promise.” I felt all I could do was nod, pull myself together, listen. I recalled walking the long hallways of Vault 101 on my tenth birthday–Beatrice handing me that unsettling poem. Someone giving me a message and acting as though I should make sense of it. Instead, it only inspired a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Still, I would stand at attention.

“Charon’s stable, but he’s still unconscious. I’ll have him on fluids and stims for the night, and I suspect he’ll recover in a few days.”

Yes, good news. I could feel all the muscles in body tighten still. Bracing. I could see it on Barrows’ face. There was a caveat. Always, always a catch.

“I think it’s time I take over Charon’s treatment. From what you’ve told me, the Contract seems to be loosening its hold on him, and I need to be there for whatever consequences that entails.”

I nodded. Hearing, understanding. Separate from my body. My heart screamed but my head smiled. I was going to lose my dearest friend, after all.

Barrows lifted his hand from my shoulder, sensing the change in the air.

“Listen. I gave you a job, you did it well. We’ve gotten a real breakthrough, here.” I was too shocked to be angry, too sad to fight. Barrows continued,

“We need to focus on his recovery, now. And he needs to do that here. At home.”

A long silence. He drew an exhale, almost impatient.

“May I have the contract?”

It was selfish to hang on, I knew. Did I really want to be like Ahzrukhal? Dragging him along on my misadventures until the next Evergreen Mills? Paradise Falls? And could I really live with myself if those adventures proved to be deadlier than the last?

So many questions, and the answer was so succinct and simple: I could not.

I dug into my Vault uniform with a shaking hand.

“Okay.”

Barrows grasped it gently. The paper felt the most fragile it’d ever been as it left my fingers. And with that, I handed over the tether between mine and Charon’s life.

“Thank you. Now, as for your payment.”

I could hear my voice breaking as I turned away, “I don’t want your caps. Just make sure he’s alright.”

When I entered Carol’s Place again, all the eyes on me felt like a sniper’s lazer. I breathed through it, my skin getting hot.

“Ya alright?” Thank god for Remington’s awkward care. I don’t think I could’ve stayed sane without it.

“I’m not.” I said it so so soft, but it was still the loudest sound in the room. I reclaimed my seat, intent on eating–soup now cold. I wasn’t alright. Carol looked to me in sympathy, her dark eyes mirroring my thoughts: But still, the world would turn. And my father needed to be found. In the morning, it would be time to move.

Carol

The Cowboy and the Wanderer finished their meals in silence–the latter reluctant, the former eager. If the girl was going to get a good night’s rest there was no place quieter in the Wastes, and I was content with that, at least. Our rare guests went right to their assigned beds and stayed there. I was just through with drying the dishes when Greta asked if I wanted dessert.

“Later.” I squeezed her hand, “I gotta make sure Barrows ain’t up all night. You know how he gets.” Greta tiffed at this, jealous as ever of anyone who got my spare attention. Easy to brush off after decades together. I stowed away my weathered apron and set out into the shining marble halls of town. No one out tonight, except that damn robot and Winthrop, shining the banisters again. Even Patches was off somewhere else, thank Christ. Any goading about my own nosiness tonight, and I was liable to become as violent as Charon did before he left.

I savored the peace as I walked down the stairs and stayed on the first floor to get to Barrows’ office. The short, familiar silhouette of the city’s father figure was slumped over a terminal monitor in an otherwise dark room. His patient lay on a stretcher closeby–dormant, not dead.

The doctor didn’t bother to turn when I entered. “Isn’t it bedtime for you, kiddo?”

“Speak for yourself.” I crossed my arms and shivered against the chill in the room, wondering why it ran so damn cold down here. “Where’s Nurse Graves?”

“She gets a day off, once in a while, you know.” Barrows regarded his creepy window into the room where he kept feral Glowing Ghouls in isolation, absent of any perceptible emotion and full on exhaustion. He sighed, taking up the stethoscope hanging from his neck to check Charon’s status. I couldn’t see his face screw up in frustration as he listened, but I could sense it.

“Safe up there yet, mister?” This had been an inside joke between us across forever. They were my first words to him when he found me down in my makeshift shelter near the Museum station, to which he’d laughed and offered me a hand.

He did not laugh this time around. “Charon’ll be alright, it’s the girl I’m worried for.”

“She’s sweet on him, Bear.” I sat down in the nearest chair, looking away as he readied the needle on a stimpak.

“Puppy stuff.” The doctor muttered, “But did I tell you? The contract’s wearing off. He disobeyed her twice .”

To this, I laughed. It was warm and dry in the chilly room, crackling like fresh fire. When I looked up from brushing some lint from my dress, Barrows was staring at me to elaborate, quizzical.

“Well, you might wanna be outta the way of his temper when Mr. Rebel wakes up.” I said.

“Pfft. Why?”

“If he feels even half of what Wilde did for him, he’s gonna be real mad at you.” And there was no need to recount what happened when Charon lost his temper.

“I highly doubt that!” Barrows called this out a little too loud as I turned to go, causing his patient to twitch in his sleep. I didn’t bother telling the stubborn old fool he’d be wrong, we would all find that out soon enough.

Wilde

I woke reaching for a leather jacket I didn’t have and a stony, hollow feeling in my heart. I forced myself through the motions of bathing when Carol offered her tub. I found myself dressing slow and labored, like I’d aged ten years. I checked my gear and recalibrated my Pipboy, settling on picking up Dogmeat from outside my first home as the next objective. I was lucky that Remington offered to drive me out there, a little more rest from walking would do me good.

It was clear Greta’d worked hard on the little pastries Carol set out for us at breakfast, but the effort to eat was still a bit much to bear. I wrapped it up in thanks and stowed it away in my pack for later.

Remington jetted me out to Vault 101’s entrance in no time, where Dogmeat waited. I was relieved to find her lounging under an ancient picnic table. She panted quiet after sniffing at me.

My cowboy friend asked me to stop with him in the empty ruins of Springvale, where he revealed his makeshift home. Remington spent the whole day with a gentle heart, soothing me somehow. We talked shop while we cleaned our guns, inviting me to try something he’d brought from out west: “Sunset Sarsaparilla”; Nuka Cola with a wholly new flavor. He brought out his guitar towards the end of our visit, playing sounds and words I’d never heard anywhere–not from my childhood in the Vault, not on Three Dog’s Galaxy Radio.

People, if i ever get up off this old hard killin’ floor

Lord, i’ll never get down this low no more

When you hear me singing this old lonesome song

People, you know these hard times can last us so long

“The loveliest thing I’ve ever heard.” My eyes were still traveling around the cellar, mystified.

“Thank you. Learned that one in Texas, standing in line for soup.” Remington fanned himself and rested his instrument against a wall before asking me: “Are you feeling a little better?”

I nodded, still unsure. Remington’s eyes were wide with sympathy. He rubbed his hands with nervous grace and grabbed a sip of cola. He swallowed, hard and grim. Clapped his hands together again. I could tell he was working out how to tell me something, but before I could even guess he blurted it out:

“Well, uh, I’ve been waiting to tell you, but I think I better tell you now: I know where your father is.”

Penny

“Where you gonna go next, Sally?” I asked Mei as we parted ways at the mouth of my cave.

“Tennypenny tower. Stay away.” Ghost’s tail twitched in punctuation.

She wouldn’t have to tell me twice. The mungo coaxed her horse in the opposite direction of the opening to Lamplight. As a final gesture, she threw something towards me. If it’d been anyone else, they would’ve missed it on account of the sun being in their eyes. But me, I was always the better shot. Failure or not.

I caught it, an innocent necklace of bottlecaps, all strung together on the chain of a pre-war military dog tag. The addition of the caps looked recent, and after a careful glance: unique. Each underside was marked with a deep blue star.

“Keep that safe, will you? Family heirloom. See ya around, Courier!”

Her mare broke into an impossible speed before I could even wave goodbye. I tucked the necklace into a hidden pocket before heading inside, crying in private relief when I felt the cool blast of subterranean air hit my face. Lucky Penny, future Courier, was safe for now.

Barrows

Two days passed before the mighty Quinn came back from his trading routes with more stimpaks. Patches yelled out his arrival and I only left Charon’s side for a moment to leave the office. Quinn, broad and covered from head to toe in pockets, headed straight for me. He reached into his coat to hand off eight Stimpaks.

“There you go, Doc.” Quinn nodded. “Uh… Charon doing okay?”

“Yes. Yes.” I waved the millionth question asker away. “He’s just been sleeping. Catching up on all the nights he didn’t, I guess.”

“You sure about that, man?” Quinn nodded to look behind me, a small amused grin playing at his green face. I turned to face a near heart attack.

“Ho– Jesus!”

Charon would’ve looked like the same grim-faced and imposing figure to any passing acquaintance, standing there in my office doorway, fully dressed. But I’d known the man for years, and already I could sense something different in him.

“Water.” Were his first words out of hibernation. “Any of youse got water?”

Quinn took his pack off hurriedly. “Yeah, man. Sure.”

“Clean. No rads.” Charon’s once-dead eyes were bright with energy, his hand subtly trembled with thirst.

“I gotcha, I gotcha.” Quinn withdrew a bottle, and both of us watched as the giant downed it in less than a minute.

“Thanks.” He breathed to Quinn, who was holding back a peal of laughter.

“I gotta go, Barrows.” And Underworld’s trader moved on. Charon looked as though something had just dawned on him, padding at his newly donned leather jacket.

“I should give him caps. I have caps.”

“Slow down.” I scolded him, shooing him back into my office. “I need to check your vitals.” Charon allowed me that, at least. Gone was the tired acceptance in the boy; he was antsy, itching to get somewhere. His vitals were fine. Better than fine, actually. Ghoul physiology continued to astound–how a man who survived the volts of electricity he had could just guzzle water after an extended nap and get on their feet was beyond me. I scratched my head when my patient leapt from the exam table, zipping his leather armor up and tugging at it in an authoritative manner.

“Now, hang on there.” I reached for his contract and held it up where he could see it.

Charon blinked. Then, he did something so wildly out of character I couldn’t even move to stop it. He yanked the ancient document right from my outstretched hand, stowing it away before I could open my mouth in shock.

“Where’s my gun?” He spun on booted heels, honing in on his gear in the corner, speaking to himself. “There.”

The need to coax him back was strong now, too strong to not react blind. I trailed after him like Midas trying hard to cling to his gold.

“Hey. Hey! ” I had to rush to keep within earshot of the guy, bolting straight out into the hall and past the center statue like his life depended on it. We argued–well, *I* argued–while we moved.

“You have to stay here, Charon. Make sure your faculties are in order…”

“...You’re clearly not stable yet, bud…” I scolded again, hoping to meet aggression with aggression. The ritually shined marble of the Museum moved past us so fast I thought of being on the Metro for a moment, traveling to my vet clinic in Germantown, from a lifetime ago.

Charon ignored me, slamming the door leading out into the vestibule. Some things would never change, after all.

“You’re going out there? What’s out there, huh?” I couldn’t hide the impatience in my voice now, my own greed, “Codependent smoothskins and more trouble? Gonna go make friends with some Brotherhood geeks? Eh?! You belong here! You belong with US!”

We were just outside the Mammoth in the entryway when my patient stopped, echoing bootfalls abrupt in their silence. I sighed, relieved. Certainly he could see reason. Certainly, he’d realized that I knew what was best for him.

Charon’s voice was soft, as quiet as the barrel fire dying nearby. “I belong to nobody.”

“What?” I sniffed, anger and shock shifting to indignation. His own blood on my scrubs, hours and hours of keeping him alive, the whisper of my own son’s name on his lips,

(barrowman, phillip

Linguistics division

This’ll be my last letter, Pop. i’m sure you heard what happened in Nevada…)

and here was the culmination: Charon, too, was leaving me. Here, alone. Such was the way of all fathers, I supposed: Wounds that wouldn’t heal and affection that would never die.

“I belong to me !” Charon gave me a final look, fire in his eyes high with conviction. He didn’t raise his voice like I had, but the words were so unexpected it may as well have been a roar. His hands curled into fists and I raised my own arms reflexively, a worry darting in my head that I would suffer Ahzrukhal’s fate.

Charon did not raise his hands, or his gun. He looked to the Mammoth with a soft reverence, touched its trunk gently one time.

Then, without so much of a glance back or a word, Underworld’s ex-guard dog ran out into the darkness.

Charon

Determined never to bound–by leash, by basement, paper or in any corner of darkness ever again.

Barrows

I kicked at the rubble of the old dino bones on the floor–one thing Winthrop was too superstitious to clean. Something so grand and awe-inspiring to the Old World now went clattering into the fire barrel with a lonely rattle. I could feel Carol stepping into the room like always. Break time.I huffed, played at the few green strands of hair left on my ugly head. I was downright defeated when I shuffled over to take the cigarette my confidant offered.

“Well? Say it.” I groaned.

“Mmm… I told you so.”

Nodded, still angsty. She lit her own drag, “I’m surprised he didn’t punch you, at least.”

“Something’s different, alright.” I inhaled, “I just wanted to talk with him, Carol. …He said my son’s name three times in his sleep. Plain as day. Can you believe that? I don’t know how, but he knew–”

“Hush.” Urgency still stabbed at me. I tapped my foot.

“But he’s the last link, the one clue I have…”

“I know, Barrows. But Charon’s not yours to own. He lived through enough of that. He needs his own way. Find peace with it.”

Carol, my stalwart shore in a sea of bullshit, grabbed me up into a familial hug. It was downright comical how much taller than me she’d become, in my weakness. And it felt like she was holding everyone in that moment: Me and Charon and Wilde and all that was lost–gone forever, or bound to be found. Always, always a bit of both.