Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

Charon

“You sure? Nothing you left behind, nobody you wanted to say goodbye to? ...Other than Ahzrukhal, I mean.”

“Positive.”

“Not even Doctor Barrows?”

“Nah.” I had no idea if I'd ever see him again. In these cases, it was better to say nothing at all.

“Patches?”

I snorted. Her head poked out from the back of the overturned Nuka-Cola truck she'd insisted on searching through, grinning playfully. Searching this place was a bust. These old delivery trucks had been among the first to get ransacked. Stripped for parts and gutted without ceremony. The odds of finding something useful were as slim as coming across a settler in a suit.

A wilted street lamp groaned above the truck. It'd been a few days of too-easy travel. We were outside an old grocery store then—Super Duper Mart, smooths called it. No signs of life, though the morning was getting particularly foggy and making me anxious.

This was raider territory, and the fact that none were screaming out from the woodworks of the long dead shop by now meant trouble.

Dogmeat sniffed the air. She relaxed for a moment, laying down. The tension in my shoulders eased up an inch. I was extremely thankful for the mutt. She was the only alarm I had, sensing danger before it could creep up from the labyrinthian city grounds and too-quiet valleys.

The smoothskin (Wilde, what a strange name) called from within the truck. She'd been attempting to make light conversation ever since our departure from Underworld. It wasn't going to work. I may have been honor-bound to keep danger off her back, but that didn't mean I had to be friendly.

“So why do they call you Charon?”

“It's my name.” I answered bluntly. If she asked something, I'd answer, but it wasn't gonna turn into a damned psychiatry session on my watch.

“I mean why do they pronounce it 'Sharon'. It's usually pronounced 'Kar--nevermind. Tomato, to-mah-to.”

“Nobody says tomato like that.”

She laughed, coughed, “Ugh, God, it smells back here.”

“Be cautious.” I warned.

She ignored me, loudly going through more rotting wooden crates and chattering on brightly, “Interesting name, Charon. Important figure in greek mythos.”

“Hm.” This was not an invitation for her to keep speaking so much as it was an acknowledgement that I'd heard her, but she kept talking anyway. Like I knew she would.

“He ferried the dead to and from Hades' realm along the River Styx. Escorted many greek heros—Psyche, the lovesick Orpheus, the mighty and handsome Hercules...”

“Well, I ain't no Hercules.” That was certain.

She laughed again. I did not understand her persistent optimism. There was nothing funny about this world and very little to smile about.

So far she hadn't given me any clear orders. Just a handful of 'wait here's and a request to 'please stop talking like a robot.' (which I didn't fully comprehend)

I'd had nothing to work with—just follow her and make sure she didn't get dead or worse.

She seemed hellbent on preventing me from even that, telling me to stand outside the old truck and watch for danger. There wasn't any, except for maybe a stray radscorpion or two. Even the raiders were quiet today, which I thought was odd.

It was foggy. Why was it getting foggy.

I noticed a small insignia slapdashedly painted on the rusted blue metal of the dark enclosure Wilde continued on scouring.

A snake in the shape of an '8'. Eating itself continuously.

“This symbol... it could mean danger.” I called.

“I like to think of it as my guardian angel.”

I looked up. There she was, as quick-appearing as my old boss. She lacked the slime and trickery, the smoke and mirrors feeling that shivered down your back in an awful way. Hers was more a mean beam of light through dust, a reaching blade of glass between parched earth. There was greed to her alright, but I knew already it was for vengeance on the behalf of others. I knew, but most of me refused to believe. There was no such thing as uncorrupted piety anymore, especially outside of where I came from.

“Shotgun shells.” She announced, slamming down a crate of ammo.

“And … Nuka Cola?” I raised my eyebrows at the wooden box she was pushing forward with her boot. The little glass bottles plinked with a strange, glowing liquid.

“These are not for drinking.” She winked, setting her rifle aside and opening up her bag. She jumped down from the edge of the bed before I could offer to help, pointed to the snake symbol,

“Ouroboros. Symbol of endless renewal, the cyclical nature of things.”

“Read that in a book too, huh?”

“Well, it got pretty boring in that metal womb they called home. Books and holotapes were all I had.” She faced away from the sun, shielding her brow from the sharpened, mist-ridden wind in a funny little salute motion, “It's not far, now. See that big great hill over there on the horizon? Most would just say it's a deathclaw or yao guai cave, but you walk down it—and bam. 101.”

She half-lifted her pack in the way those not yet used to the constant tiredness always did, pursing her lips disapprovingly as she went on, “Thought I'd die there, you know.”

For a moment I thought there was a chance our lives were somehow not-so-different. The jagged contrasts in our timelines could meet at a point. As with most things, I buried it away. Best not build camaraderie where it would only crash and burn.

I grabbed up the few shotgun shells left in the ammo box, hoping this wasn't some trap. Dogmeat echoed my fears at the exact worst moment, barking into the distance in the direction of the store's front. Wilde was moving to my side in an instant, lifting her palm,

“Don't worry. I've got this.”

“Why the hell did you hire me if--”

“Kindly, hush.” Her face fiercened. She moved quicker than me, almost quieter than a deathclaw, squinting down that fancy plasma rifle's sights like a natural. I followed at a distance and hovered a gloved hand over my own gun, but I wouldn't dare defy an order.

The steps were careful, the air thick. The fog seemed more stubborn and stifling than before. Could hardly see my damned nose, even if I had one.

It was when the most unbent of street lamps came into view and my eyes started to sting that I realized this heavy mist was no mist at all. It was smoke.

“Holy shit.” Wilde whispered, a figure waning blue and as barely-there as her voice, “Tell me I'm not seeing things.”

“You're not.”

The scene beneath our feet was grisly. Even by Wasteland standards. A large pile of burning crates and chopped up shelving in a strange mound in the middle of the black pavement underneath the streetlamp. Various body parts were strewn through and about—mostly dismembered torsos and heads. All self-tattooed and spiky-haired. Strange claw marks had ripped through most of their flesh, deep open gouges in near-every limb. Their faces were all twisted up in pained expressions, their eye sockets gaping and empty.

“Who would do this? Mutants? Other raiders?”

“This ain't really mutant territory. Raiders shoot other raiders, sure... but they don't... do this to their own.”

“They took the eyes. Why would they take the eyes.”

“Dunno. But if I had to take a guess, I'd say this 'guardian angel' of yours is anything but.”

“No. No. I've run across those caches innumerable times, but never this... It's just not possible.”

Wilde shook her head, wincing as though she wanted to solidify that point. She may've been a good shot, may've been able to charm a snake into a mongooses' mouth, but she had a lot to learn about the dirt in people. With ugly, anything was possible.

Dogmeat barked another warning.

“There may be danger here.” I insisted gently, an attempt to get Wilde to leave.

“Don't know if you noticed, Charon, but there's danger everywhere.”

Why the first name basis, the playful mocking as though we were equals or friends? It made me insurmountably nervous, especially when I knew how that tune would change drastically with the knowledge that I knew at least three of the disembodied heads before us by name.

Something beyond the smoke screeched as though to illustrate Wilde's rightness—a wordless sound that resounded and filled the empty lot with the bone-chill of a banshee and sliced through the shrouded veil of gray like a knife. It echoed unforgivably from all sides.

Wilde and I both backed away. Something old and rarely felt, something gnarled and clawing rose in my throat and burned my bad shoulder. Fear. Something told me whatever was out there was a warning, maybe even an omen. A catalyst for everything to come rushing forth. I didn't know what 'everything' was, but a conviction chided that I probably deserved it, and I best resign to it.

I could hear... drumming of some kind. Not thunder, not gunshots. Rapid and tapping.

(… hooves ...)

Like the settling after a flashbang grenade, those sounds drifted away. Wilde had done the unthinkable, turned on that little radio of hers. Blasted it as loud as the dial on that pip-boy would turn.

“--listening to the adventures of Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood, and my stalwart ghoul manservant, Argyle! Today's episode: Escape From Paradise Falls.”

Wilde

It was just a move to stop him from moving closer to that scream. To draw him out. Again.

It was also, partially, a way to communicate with whoever was on the other side of the bizzare, smoking carnage.

Charon blinked, his face confused, then angry:

“Turn that damn thing off! You're really good at inviting trouble, you know that?”

“Shh, sh. Listen. You hear that?”

All quiet on the shop front.

“Silence.” I affirmed brightly. It was hard to tell if he was listening. It seemed I was talking to myself even more than before. When he did answer, his voice was paired with wound up annoyance.

“The odds... of...” He trailed off into a low, impatient grumble. He didn't want to argue. He'd been stuck too long following orders. Maybe being a touch more reckless and pissing him off enough would do him some help.

Just try not to get your head shot off when it's time to part ways, my head chided. I flinched inwardly, not wanting to remember the risks

(youll know it when you see it)

because risks made you hesitant, and I'd rather make a decision and be alive to regret it than hesitate and wind up abomination-chow.

“What would you have me do?” I asked, taking up my pack again, “Plasma bullets are hard to come by, and I'm not wasting a bullet in this kind of visibility--”

“We coulda just booked it.”

“You would've shot. And hey, we're alive. Whoever it was didn't want us. No harm, no foul.”

He nodded conflictingly, slouching.

I whistled. Dogmeat paused from distractedly growling at a decapitated raider's empty sockets. She joined Charon's side, across from me. Across and distant, like he wished to remain a small scarred moon in my presence. He could remain cold and walled off as much as he liked—if Dogmeat trusted him, then so did I.

The sky above was lit up like a blood orange. A stark contrast against all the choking smoke. If there was a god, he was stamping a cigar out above all our heads.

“Red sky at morning, shepherd take warning,” I whispered.

I was never very good at abiding the advice of dead men, anyway.

“C'mon. Dust storms will get us before any of these poor souls do. Megaton's this way.”

Charon

“Welcome to Megaton! Do not be alarmed, the bomb has been disarmed!”

I stared distrustingly at the ratty old bucket of bolts before me—it was different from Cerberus. Shaped more like a person, a tiny hat perched atop its conical shaped 'head', reflecting the sun hanging low from behind. It twitched and jerked as though it was contemplating shutting down at any moment.

“These metal man things self-destruct?”

“Huh? The securitron? ...No. Robco tech, I think. Harmless, mostly.”

Mostly. Hmph.

The robot chirped and sparked its near-broke limbs menacingly, looping brightly again, “Welcome to Megaton! Please, do not be alarmed! The bomb has been deactivated!”

Was I going nuts? Did that... thing just reiterate itself in a slightly different way?

I leered down into its blank face, “I ain't afraid of youse.”

It jerked its claw-like hands violently in response, causing its little cowboy hat to plop plainly into the dirt. A fake plastic sheriff's star glinted mockingly at my feet. Dogmeat sniffed.

There was a dusty cough behind me, rattling like movement through bones. Wilde was kneeling down before the source of the worrying sound: a dying man, his body twisted against a misshapen pile of metal right outside Megaton's matching (though substantially larger) gates. His skin was cracked and color-worn—like an old candy bar wrapper or the depleted vein of a river. Empty, windswept, forgotten.

Wilde brought her smooth hands to his face, shushing, comforting the stranger as he continued to wheeze. I didn't see what good false comfort would do for him now, but I stayed quiet. She lifted his eyelids, swiveled his head with a thumb, inspecting him with a shrewd eye.

“Stomach..” He croaked weakly, “it burns...”

Dried vomit caked his tattered shirt. Hair falling out. I hadn't seen a bird in many years, but I was sure vultures would descend upon him by sundown.

“Is he ...ghoulifying?” Wilde asked.

I shook my head, “Rad poisoning. He's a goner.”

“Water... please.” The unknown smooth clawed for her arms desperately. I growled. So did the dog.

“Sh sh it's okay.” It was impossible to tell if her words were meant for me, Dogmeat or the dying pile of rags below.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she reached into her pack, pulling out a pair of plastic water bottles. Their clear surfaces were marked with the words 'CLEAN' in large, black handwritten letters.

“Whatever I can.” Wilde responded.

I knew not to argue, I knew better. But I couldn't help myself:

“That's your water. That sucker's good as ashes. What's the point?”

Her voice was aggravatingly gentle, “You help a man today, he'll remember it tomorrow.”

“Tch. Or the next time he's thirsty.”

She shot me a look, but before she could open her mouth to speak, a deep voice belted from above:

“HEY! WILDE!”

“Lucas.” She smiled and dropped everything she was doing, waving both arms above her head and jumping gleefully.

I glanced upwards. A large and genial looking smoothskin waved from above. His skintone matched the strong, black-brown metal surfaces comprising the intimidating wall of the settlement. He wore a dusty brown cowboy hat, with the same plastic star centered above the brim as the bucket of bolts still chattering across from that dying man. Lucas shouted back down and revealed a white, wide grin offset by a roughly trimmed beard.

I could pay no attention to the friendly conversation that followed between the two, as Wilde's rucksack gaped open and unattended nearby. The thirsty sonofagun had started to move shakily, reaching for the pack and grabbing for the water all at once.

His hand froze like a spider trapped beneath a drinking glass as soon as I moved my boot over it.

“You wanna know what it feels like to get your hand busted to pieces?”

He trembled, shaking his head, terrified. Part of me felt satisfied by the reaction—it brought stability. The expected outcome, grounding me to reality. Part of me felt a pang of shame.

“Take what she gave you and go.” He followed my suggestion, shambling upwards like a drunk and turning his back to me, moving towards the sun. The bottles of rare sustenance sloshed in his rattling hands.

More shouting. “Open the gates!” Rumbling, screeching—metal sparking against metal. Megaton's solid, rusting ebony doors sliding slowly apart.

“Marvel, isn't it? They built it out of old planes. See the turbine engine? There, up above the gates.”

It just looked like a bunch of scrap. I mumbled my sentiments, but Wilde didn't seem to hear me. She seemed so enchanted, I didn't want to repeat myself.

“Hey...” Wilde hesitated, casting a glance to the pile of rubble to the left of us, “What happened to...”

“Fella left. He... he said 'thank you'.”

Wilde smiled.

Didn't know the sense in lying to her. Guess I just didn't want to see her disappointed.
Stupid. I scolded myself, don't. get. attached.

The gates were up fully now. We headed inside. The interior of the fortress was decently large--not as impressive as Rivet city in size, but far more developed than places like Arefu to the northwest. The gates opened straight, steep downhill dirt path. Makeshift scrap shacks—their surfaces weathered and dented a thousand ways--surrounded the beaten, well traveled earth in congested stacks. A chaotic network of pipes, balconies and welded walkways snaked around the homes. Some of the settlers had begun to stop in their tracks or exit their dwellings, leaning on the walkways' railings out of curiosity. They watched Wilde the same way the hungry would eye a loaf of bread. They did not seem venomous or even fearful of me following close behind her, just fascinated. A few whispered to each other and even smiled. A pair of children waved. In an uncharacteristic moment of meekness, I waved back, hoping Wilde didn't turn around. Thankfully, she kept her eyes straight ahead.

I focused on the '101' stitched into the back of her leather jumpsuit. Stepping close, but not too close.

“This your first time here, son?” The large hand patting my shoulder startled me. The man named Lucas was grinning warmly at my side.

“Er... yes.” I distanced myself from the touchy man subtly. I'd been outside the gates, but generally, ghouls avoided smoothskin settlements. Even traveling above ground was ill-advised. The subways were a mess, but at least they were an expected mess.

Lucas continued, “Megaton's a little wary of outsiders, but any friend of The Wanderer's a friend of our little town. Name's Lucas. Lucas Simms. Lemme know if there's anything you need.”

I didn't know how to react. My whole existence outside Underworld felt like struggling to untangle barbed wire with Wastelanders. Here was one swinging his arm around me and calling me 'son' before he knew my name. I was at least 50 years older, maybe more. The hospitality was almost laughable.

Ahead, a haggard looking settler was cupping her hand over Wilde's. I couldn't hear them over the clanging of creaky metal as children chased each other along the upper walkways and some old man shouted from in front of a building marked with a crookedly painted 'atom' symbol. Wilde was shaking her golden spun head. The settler, however, looked determined.

Lucas was still keeping pace with me. I could sense his stare—confused and mildly scrutinizing. Like he just didn't know what to make of things. As soon as I noticed the pair of stimpaks my baffled looking boss had received from someone who likely had nothing else of worth, I knew. These people were not handing me kindness and niceties out of the goodness of their all-accepting hearts. The people were calm and holstered for 'The Lone Wanderer'. That hazy radio-static hero with the Vault 101 jumpsuit. And by extension, I wouldn't get shot at.

This wasn't a simple guard gig in the least. She was protecting me just as much as I was protecting her, whether she was aware of it or not. Safe passage in the land of the living. I didn't know whether to appreciate it or hate it.

“Your dog looks like she found a spot of trouble.” Lucas mentioned conversationally.

Dogmeat was panting tiredly at my feet, eyes on Wilde winding her way back up the path.

“Ran into a slew of mutants at the old hospital in Vernon Square...” Wilde called, “Poor thing persevered, but she deserves a rest. Brought her back to see if someone would watch over her for just a little while.”

“Doc Church could use some company to cheer him, I think. Be good for his patients, too.” Lucas nodded.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

Lucas tipped his hat in response, whistling lowly. Dogmeat perked up, but not without whining at Wilde first.

“Go on.” She said. Dogmeat scuttled off, close behind Lucas' feet.

Wilde then turned her attention to me, “Gotta drop some stuff off. My house is this way.”

The path opened into a large circle, the stacks of shacks and outer walls grew taller and more dizzying. Lanterns and tiny lights were strung overhead, already quietly burning in the almost-dusk light of the cloudy sky, their delicateness a stark contrast among the hulks of metal people called 'home'. Where Underworld had order, here there was mostly chaos. Sloppy signs and crooked doors. A greasy looking stand right on the corner of where the path and the cul-de-sac met stood out—a hanging neon sign in chinese characters.

What stood out more was the fact that I understood what they meant.

Perplexity at my own mind got swept under quick. The sight of a small atomic warhead, wedged into the earth and surrounded by a tiny pool of sick green—irradiated water. The old fellow you could hear shouting from all the up at the entrance was balancing on a crate in front of it, the painted atom symbol above his head on a silver of metal nailed above a sad looking entrance. A group of settlers had gathered to hear him speak.

“You got a goddamn bomb out here? That's sleeping death!” I couldn't hide my shock.

“Town was built around it. Relax, it's disarmed.”

“How do you know? If they told the truth this wouldn't exactly be prime real estate...”

“I disarmed it. This way.”

The old fart's gibberish ceased for just a moment, then his crazed eyes glazed over to me:

“See here! A chosen Son of Atom! He hath passed through the fiery eye unscathed, and ascended! No longer bogged by sickness, stripped of the worldly burden of time! Frozen! Between this life and death, to bring wisdom and--”

And blah and blah-de-blah-de-blah.

“Children of Atom,” Wilde explained, “They worship the bomb. I guess they like you.”

I bowed my head made lifted my hands as though to sweep hair from my forehead, but really I just shielding away from the hyperfocused eyes of the crowd. Crazies, all of 'em. Ghoulification was no gift. It was not bestowed, or a condition to be coveted. No use crying over it, either. As with most things, it just was.

We passed an elderly couple on the way up the nearest walkway. Old man whistling a patriotic pre-war song. His wife smiled at Wilde, then me. An eyebot—a spherical radio type machine bobbing along cheerfully--accompanied them. The Enclave radio played clearly from it, “President Eden” babbling on nonsense about how 'the Enclave would save America' and what not. Hardly any soul listened to that shit anymore. It was senseless myth, a far-off farce. If there was any form of powerful underground government out there I sure as hell hadn't seen it yet.

We turned left on the walkway. What Wilde called home was on the second 'level', overlooking most of the town's activity. Plain and square, it appeared unremarkable from the outside.

On the inside though, it was apparent this lady had a problem.

A serious hoarding problem.

“Ok. Before you say anything, it's not a mess... it's a sophisticated system.” Wilde's voice trailed off as she stepped lightly over several piles of pre-war junk before dropping her rucksack down with a clank.

I stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open for a bit. Never had I seen a place so big, yet filled with so much crap. The large square room was packed. Towered Vault-Tec terminal parts dominated one wall coupled with homemade shelves of books—most of them burnt beyond recognition. A funny looking stand with a few old Vault-Tec bobbleheads sat against the opposite wall. I made my way over to it, (taking care to avoid all the holotapes and old newspaper scraps scattered along the floor) bent in front of it, tapped one gently with a finger. The bobblehead's wobbling cartoon features smiled back, winking and frozen in a perpetual thumbs-up.

“Really rare, those Vault Boys. I'm trying to find them all.”

Wilde was leaning in the doorway of what look like some kind of kitchen. Another small room next to it. Restroom, I guessed.

“There's med supplies upstairs.” She pointed. Balconies surrounded the main room on all sides. A nuka-cola machine, workbenches, a medical station that almost rivaled Barrows' setup. Little strings of light matching the ones outside hung every which way from the cold scrap metal ceiling.

“Moira... the lady at the general store? ...She tried to hang some lewd lamp up there... I had to take it down...” Wilde blushed and fiddled at her pip-boy absentmindedly. She recovered quickly, “Bathroom's down here. Plumbing works and everything. Kitchen's no good yet but I'm working on it... There's a locker right here with ammo and extra guns and everything.”

She motioned to the lockers beside the bathroom's closed door.

“Big place.” I replied. Most people I knew were lucky to have a cot to call their own, “You rooming with someone?”

“Well, there's Dogmeat. Other than that, just Wadsworth.”

Wilde

Charon gave me a strange look.

“Wadsworth!” I called, “Come meet Charon.”

Wadsworth zipped down the stairs. Wadsworth was a RobCo Mr. Handy—same as my childhood robot, Andy.

Charon's face quickly switched to “grim frown mode”,

“Another robot.” He tensed.

“Good to see you're alive and well, madam!” Wadsworth chirped pleasantly.

“Wadsworth, this is my... Charon relax, he's harmless. He came with the place.”

Charon crossed his arms obstinately, “It's got a circular saw attached to one of its.... tentacle... things.”

“It's quite useful for slicing cake!” Wadsworth quipped, “And the occasional amputation, as needed.”

This wasn't going well.

“Um... Wadsworth? Why don't you tell a joke.”

“Ah, yes. Ahem. ...Two atoms are in a bar. One says, 'I think I lost an electron.' The other says, 'Are you sure?' To which the other replies, 'I'm positive.'”

I laughed. Charon remained unmoved:

“I don't get it.”

“Without an electron an atom becomes... you... you still don't...” I tucked some hair behind my ear, “Nevermind. Let's regroup. I have a duffle bag around here... somewhere...”

“Don't need it. Got pockets.” He raised his hand, walking over to my own pack and stooping over it, “...But may I make a suggestion?”

“You don't need to ask, alright? Just talk. I need ...input. That's what I hired you for in the first place.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck nervously, staring off at some old ads I'd hung up on the wall to try and liven up the place. Then he straightened, stiff as a board. Nodded. He still seemed to have trouble looking me in the eye,

“You need to travel lighter.”

“Ok!” Finally, something. If this partnership was going to work, we had to communicate.

He unzipped the main compartment of my plain, reinforced backpack.

“It's just books in here.”

“Yeah, well. Books are important.”

“Can you eat a book. Can you kill someone with a book.” He looked up at me with those intensely blue eyes.

“Technically, with enough force—Oh, fine.”

It took quite some time, but we got through it. Pretty much everything but med supplies and what I found in the cache at Super Duper Mart went on a shelf or in the lockers.

“Fixer?” He asked. There was a note of confusion in his voice at the sight of the small tin of pills meant for treating chem addicts.

“For Gob. Keep it.”

“You know Gob?”

I nodded. I wanted to mention that Gob was right here, in Megaton, but Charon pried no more into that subject—he merely stood up, mentioning I was out of food. He walked tentatively to the kitchen (if you could really call it that), carefully stepping around holotapes and other various knick-knacks I had yet to find a place for. He returned with a few dry vault rations and every single box of Fancy Lad Snack cakes I had.

“Essential.” He growled, dropping the boxes down before my cross-legged position.

“Is... this... all you eat? Really?” I pointed at the Snack Cakes.

“Essential.” He reminded.

Jesus, how was he able to function? How was he even alive?

Regardless, I packed away the junk food. Charon had moved over to a bookself, distracted for a moment. He stared at a framed picture of my father and I'd taken years before (shot by Jonas), then to the larger, framed cross-stitched piece my father had insistently shown me everyday since I could remember.

I quoted the etched stitching out loud, almost automatically:

“Revelation 2-1-6: I am the Alpha and Omega,
the beginning and the end,
I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the waters of life,
freely.”

“...My mother made it.” I finished quietly.

“No picture of her?” He inquired.

“She died giving birth to me. That little verse is all I have. I try... I try to...” I looked down at my hands, picking at the callouses forming on my flesh for just a moment.

I tried remembering her face. Her voice. On very quiet nights, I swore that I could. Sometimes it was a blessing, others it was a sharp and stabbing kind of pain.

“I think she would've been proud of you.”

Charon's comment was unexpected, almost unbearably so. A wave of strange emotions welled up inside me. Silence settled between us for a short while. Nothing but the sounds of Wadsworth puttering about upstairs, the creak of metal and some chatter heard through the thin walls outside. It was not uncomfortable, but it felt deep, resonating. In fact, it was the first time I didn't feel the need to speak since I could recall stepping out of the vault. It felt comfortable.

“Charon?” I wondered why my voice was so soft-sounding. Maybe it was because I didn't want to break that moment just yet. But I had to know, I needed answers. And this seemed like the right time to ask.

He turned his head, seemed surprised by the tone of the question.

I took a deep breath, hoping that what I was about to say didn't press to hard, “About Ahzrukhal...”

“I don't know how I came to be in his service.” He said quickly. His voice was gruff again.

“No... I … Why'd you kill him?”

Charon blinked.

“Pardon me, I just don't want to make the same mistake.” I could feel my voice shake. Had I said too much? Too quickly? It was so difficult to tell here. Usually it was easy, figuring people out. With Charon, I was finding little to grasp onto.

“He was an evil bastard.” Was all he would say.

Again, silence. But this time, I felt the urge to fill it with something, anything. I looked down at my nervously fiddling hands and blurted the first guilty, “evil” that sank into my mind like a rock:

“When I was young, I spit on a sweet roll and gave to a boy I didn't like.”

Wadsworth could not make him laugh, but for some mysterious reason, that did it. It started as a half-chortle, crescendoing up to full howl. Like an old furnace starting up—rusty, a little frightening, but bursting with warmth. His teeth were straight, slightly yellowed, but his smile was wide and comforting. It brought a beaming sort of grin to my own face in return.

The laughter came to a full stop abruptly. Charon cleared his throat. We worked in silence the rest of the time, rearranging everything within the confines of my pack.

“We can't live on fancy lads alone.” I mentioned. Silently, Charon reached into his leather jacket. He revealed three thin, brown square packets of varying size. He hid it away so quickly I could only catch a glimpse of one label--'MEAL, COMBAT READY'.

I wanted to ask where he found those, but I had a hunch already. We had similar things back in the Vault. Instead, I concentrated on repacking the Nuka Cola bottles I'd acquired back at the Super Duper Mart. Flashes of the slaughtered raiders entered my mind. The pounding of drums and an otherworldly scream, suddenly shifting into the sirens of Vault 101's sirens alerting the guards of a young woman with a BB Gun and a softball bat. Kill on sight, the loudspeakers had commanded.

Friends, boys I'd dated, girls I'd passed notes with in class. All shouting and banging from within little windowed rooms, “This is all your damn vault. You and your no-good father.” The aforementioned childhood bully whose sweet roll I'd ruined on my tenth birthday—begging me for help with his drunken mother as radroaches overtook her, getting me halfway through the trek to The Outside in return. Even gave me his jacket.

“Careful with them bottles.” It was Charon drawing me out of the bothersome, hiccup-y images this time around. It took me a moment, but I realized I'd been clutching two bottles by the caps so tightly that the skin between my thumb and forefingers were an angry red. I put them into the bag shakily, zipping it closed.

“You'll get used to it.” He said simply. But there was a little something like a lie in his voice.

“How?”

“Welp.” He grunted, rising to his feet and adjusting his shotgun, the belt of pouches around his waist, “Best thing to do is find someplace or something to help you forget. Even it's just for a little while.”

I rose along with him, rubbing the pain away from my hands as I thought of the perfect place. “I've got it! C'mon.”

Charon

The Saloon stood on the highest landing, centered over Megaton like a lopsided temple. The slanted sign above it read 'GOB'S SALOON'. 'Gob' was a recent change, judging by the dripping red paint over some other faded name I couldn't make out underneath.

Wilde slipped through the small crowd chattering around the entrance easily. I followed behind, ignoring the raised eyebrows and low whispers. Bent in the doorway, breathed in the smoke. Inside was livelier than any other bar I'd seen. Swathes of orange-y light provided by several lanterns warmed the rusted interior. Clusters of settlers were gathered around dusty wooden tables. There was some cowboy fellow playing to them on a ratty looking guitar, hollering some song about a house in 'New Orleans'.

I could barely fathom it, but there he was. Gob. Happily taking the fixer from Wilde and handing her a small white envelope in exchange. Smiling tiredly from behind the counter as he rubbed at a dirtied glass with an old rag. A curved woman with short, spiky red hair was grabbing Wilde by the arm, smiling and chattering genially. Leading her away to a table in the corner.

Before I could say a word or make a move to protect her like I'd meant to, Gob was shouting my name jovially:

“Charon?! Holy sh-- Ey! Ey Cher get over here ya old bastard!”

What was the harm? Redhead didn't seem to be with ill-intent, Wilde was more than capable of handling her own in a town like this. I grabbed a rickety metal stool at the bar farthest from people mingling nearby.

Gob shook my hand and leaned in to pat my back. He was a neurotic and slouchy kid, young by our standards, he'd turned around twenty years ago. Or was it more than that? I hardly knew. It was tough being post-war. Most times suicide hit the youthful ones before any of the horrors outside. Shock of the scarring, Barrows always deduced.

Gob's green eyes brimmed with shock. Words spilled out fast. He was talkative around his own. I seemed to be the exception to that rule.

“Nice to see another ghoul up here. Most of 'em room down at the Church of Atom. Although they're not much for conversation unless you're looking to get converted. You're not...?”

“No.” I replied shortly.

“Well then what are you doing out here? What brought you outta that corner?” Little radio on the counter interjected loudly with static. Gob leaned, banging and cursing on it with a fist.

“Change of management.” I responded. Gob composed himself and chuckled, asking me if I'd like a drink. I declined, lit a cigarette instead. He moved along to the next question playfully, “Didn't think Ahzrukhal'd ever fire your lazy ass. You a gun for hire now? Fellow named Mr. Burke was looking for one... he skipped town a few weeks back, but--”

“Ahzrukhal had an unfortunate accident. Wilde's my employer now.”

“Funny. Same thing happened to my old boss. God rest his soul.” There was an obvious note of satisfaction in Gob's voice. He looked over his shoulder and stared at the redhead next to Wilde. Sweet on her. Hell, sick in love, I'd venture to say. Poor joe, “You take care of Wilde. She's good people. Helped Nova get off Med-X.”

He was getting lost in her. Sighing. She was telling Wilde a secret. Wilde laughed, a thin brown cigar between her lips. All the while her arms were crossed, obviously uncomfortable with something. Her eyes were locked on the cowboy.

I coughed, trying to distract Gob and myself, “Carol will be happy to know you're doing well for yourself. Got yourself an entertainer, even. Ninth Circle couldn't even claim as much.”

“Ninth Circle was a shithole.” he growled, “No offense... and that crazy cowboy wasn't hired, he's just been camping out here for days--Hey, Orpheus!! Pipe down, will ya? Some of us are trying to hear the damn news!”

The cowboy in the corner crooned and played louder.

“Throw him out.” I looked at Gob.

He rubbed his brow nervously, “Can't. Nova feels sorry for him. I don't trust him. Says he's a bounty hunter but he's looking for just one escaped slave. Claims he's from Los.”

“Texas? Bullshit. Los got blown half to hell. Even still, there's nothin' but rads out there. How come he's not one of us?”

“You're telling me! He's got even more colorful stories than that. A working motorcycle, rare weapons, alien abduction. Just you wait.”

“I'd rather not.” I quipped.

“I always liked you Charon, even if everyone said you were scary. ...You know, in 25 years I've never heard you talk so much.”

I shut up quicker than a mutant's trap. Gob liked anyone who showed him a semblance of kindness, but I was getting far too comfortable since I'd left Underworld. Showing a side that was against the rules. Maybe it was the light of the saloon, maybe it was the damn music. Maybe it was Wilde's infecting brightness. Either way, it was bad for my job—bad for her.

Wilde and the gal Gob called 'Nova' were getting up from their seats in the corner just as the cowboy's braying tapered off into quiet, labored clapping from the audience. He bowed low, dipping his ebony hat low to a reveal a sweaty mess of short, wavy brown hair atop his tan skull. 'WAR IS GOOD BUSSINESS' was written along the instrument's body in huge, sloppy handwriting. Business was spelled wrong. He was muscled and chubby, barrel-chested, with a weathered yet somehow babied face. At first glance, he seemed cocky and dull. He was not exactly a threat, but I disliked him almost immediately.

Gob voiced my dread as The Cowboy tailed and groped Nova flirtatiously, who was making her way through the crowd back to the bar with Wilde.

“Oh, here we go.”

“Howdy. Don't think I've seen ya'll round here.” The crooner tipped his hat in Wilde's direction. Nova giggled charmingly. Surprisingly, the boss did not. She appeared unusually wary and off-put. She took the empty barstool next to me as though she was stepping around a landmine. It put me a little on edge, but I could hide it better. Or so I thought.

Wilde

I would not take my eyes off the man with the guitar, even if I disliked the look of him. The stubborn part of me was convinced he was here to kill Gob. The first friend I'd made out of 101, a friend I'd killed a man for. A man named Colin Moriarty, a man who terrified the town with greed, beat on Gob, and made a fatal mistake when he waved and teased knowledge of my birth outside the vault in my face without concrete answers. Nova and I had done so together--'happy accident', Lucas Simms had called it.

Colin Moriarty was the first man I'd killed up close, leaving me with the occasional shakes and flashbacks. But all's well that ends well. Townspeople seemed happy to hand Gob their caps instead, and Lucas had one less burden to carry on his hefty shoulders.

But Colin had friends. Mr. Burke--who'd mysteriously skipped town after I'd left. Jericho, who more or less stopped showing when he realized Nova wouldn't give him the time of day with Colin no longer breathing down her neck.

And now this stranger with sad puppy eyes, a crooked-toothed charismatic smile and a guitar strapped to his back along with a sniper rifle—pacing around almost day and night. My father always told me life had little to do with coincidence. “Formulas and miracles”, he forever insisted.

The only formula I saw here was one of foolishness or ill-intent. And one of the first things you learn about The Wastes is: the foolish never last very long. The reckless? The heartless? The stubborn? Sure. But fools could count their days on one hand.

“Name's Remington,” The cowboy prattled on in a slow, deep drawl. He stretched his hand out to Charon, who in turn gave him a mean look and turned back around, taking another drag on his cigarette. The cowboy recovered, taking off his hat and running the same hand through his hair, “Er. Don't know if ya'll heard, but I'm lookin' for someone. Someone by the name of Mei Wong. Sometimes calls herself 'Sally Hatchet'. She--”

“Knock it off,” Gob spoke up from behind his post, “We don't take kindly to slavers.”

I nodded firmly. Charon still had his back turned, eyes cast down. Inhaling. Exhaling. A thought crossed my mind that perhaps he thought of me that way. I bit my lip.

Remington placed his hands on his hips defensively. His sleeveless tan duster flared back like the plumage of some offended peacock, revealing a strange pistol on his hip I'd never encountered before. It looked something like a pre-war toy. Retro by design, only shiny and new—brushed silver with stripes of teal light along what one could deduce was the barrel. Plasma? Maybe. It most certainly didn't shoot regular bullets. It begged questions, but I chocked it up to it being my inexperience with post-war weapons.

“I already told you, I'm a bounty hunter. This woman is wanted across the Mojave for robbery, arson, crimes against--”

“What? Is there some kinda law down there where you come from?” A stranger listening in on the conversation chortled. Laughter roared from a few others.

Remington looked flustered and began twisting the brim of his hat with his dirty hands, “N-Now, now,” he stammered, “This is no time for jokes 'n pokes. She's quite dangerous and--”

“Is it true?” Nova perked up as she strutted up next to Gob behind the counter. Gob smiled at her like he was drunk. She didn't seem to notic, “Her eyes can make men turn to stone? Everything she touches falls to ash?”

“Nah, but let me re-it-er-ate: quite dangerous. There's truth in fiction.” Nova's eyes widened and Remington seemed satisfied that he was being taken seriously again, “You two seen 'er? She's short, muscular. Black hair. Got a ghoulified horse. Name of Ghost.”

“You're really pulling it out your ass, now.” Gob laughed, “There's no such thing as a ghoulified horse.”

Charon and I exchanged a quick and knowing glance. There was something like fear between our seats. Electricity.

“Come on, sweet cheeks, speak up.” Remington snapped his fingers at me.

My eyes and mouth formed into thin lines, “Don't call me that, please.”

He ignored me. “How 'bout you, handsome? Huh?”

Charon stayed silent, calmly stamping out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

“Quiet type. Alright.” Remington stepped forward, moved so that he was right next to my partner. He bent low so that he was whispering right into his unmoving ear, “What's your name, hoss? Did you hear 'em? The hooves? Ya'll believe me. I can see it.”

Charon refused to move. He didn't even blink.

Remington frowned and stood up straight. He tipped his hat in my direction, “What's with your boyfriend? You two quarrelin' or some shit? Reckon you get this monk to talk, sweethear--?”

"He's not--"

The angry groan of a bar stool as it moved backwards. A quick flash of color and sound as Charon proceeded to slam Remington's face into the wood surface of the bar. I watched, terrified as he began to pick up the stool he'd been sitting on moments earlier.

Jesus. He was going to kill him.

“Don't!” Nova yelped.

“Stop!! Please.”

If there was any doubt that he was brainwashed left, all that swept away in a moment. He sat back down immediately, like a violent machine unplugged.

Remington stumbled back and clutched his nose. There was no panic in the room now, just stony watching eyes. Most of Megaton was going to side with an acquaintance of mine over any passing traveler. Like mine, Megaton's trust was hard earned and even harder lost.

The cowboy swiveled on his feet close to the entrance. He half-crouched and stumbled like an aggravated brahmin. For a split second I thought he was prepped to charge forth and retaliate. Several had their hands and postures primed for something, anything. Nova shook, lifting her hands to her mouth.

A long, low wailing sound escaped Remington's mouth. I could hardly believe it. He did nothing but cry. Everyone except myself, Nova, and Charon rolled their eyes and turned their backs.

“Oh Harold, not again.” Gob sighed and waved his rag out to me, “Would you take him outside, please? Whether it's from drinkin' or fightin' he always gets like this at some point. Really kills the vibe.”

I moved toward the sobbing mass on the dusty floor, lifting his right arm and gently steering him towards the outdoors, now shrouded in night.

Charon took his other arm carefully.

I hissed, “What the hell was that?”

“I think I got a splinter in my nose....” Remington sobbed.

“You told him not to call you … that name.” Charon blinked, as though he'd just done the most logical thing he could ever think to do.

“I also didn't tell you to go rabid on people in bars! Or is that just a bad habit I don't know about? A funny little side effect of Ahzrukhal's influence?” I gave him a stern look.

His face seemed to collapse with guilt. We exited to the 'balcony' out front, settling Remington down against the wall near the entrance.

Charon argued then, “You didn't like the look of him. I didn't like the look of him. You can't just give people the benefit of the doubt whenever the whim hits you. It's... it's idiotic!”

“You're fired.” I snapped.

“Wai—What?!”

“You heard me.” I raised my hands and stepped back from him, “Go back. Go back home to Underworld. It's done. I'm over. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“You can't just... It doesn't work like that. I need...”

He looked up at the murky sky, rubbing at his brow, his shoulder. Something was difficult for him, gnawing at his insides.

“What? What is it?” I should've been more tender. But I had to nip this impulsive, violent streak of his in the bud.

“I need a fuckin' job, alright? This job.” He nearly shouted. It was the first time his voice seemed uneven, “I got nowhere to go. I'm pretty much cast out of the only warm place for a ghoul after what I did. And out here? Heh. Without 'The Lone Wanderer' I'm just another fucking zombie. 'Aim for the head'. And they might as well, cause without work I am nothing.”

Silence. Laughter and drunken shouts swelled and moved from within the saloon. Shadows passed over us. Charon looked down and shuffled his feet like a nervous child. In the light cast from the small threaded bulbs above and from inside Gob's Saloon, I could swear I saw what he looked like before whatever hell tore him up and spit him out. Something gentle and sad. Soft and proud. Someone with a clear and moral code.

“Alright.” I took a deep breath. “Alright. But no more fisticuffs with strangers, alright?”

“What if they--”

“Just ...consult me.”

Charon sucked his teeth finally, “As you wish.”

A cough from the wall nearby. “Don't s'pose one a ya'll could hand me that rag anytime 'fore next Sunday?”

“Oh my God!” I rushed over, holding the rag out to Remington's face. Gently patted his bleeding nose, “Tilt your head back. Not that much. Okay. There you go.”

Charon

Nova rushed out, nearly jumping up and down, “Wilde? Wilde! Three Dog's talking about your Dad on the radio! Quick.”

Wilde's eyes were the size of milk bottle lids. She handed me the bloodied rag, asking if I could take her place for a moment as she zipped away from the scene.

Nova did not follow her inside immediately. She whistled to get my attention.

She regarded me coldly, "If you hurt her..." She finished by motioning an elegant finger across her neck.

"I didn't.... I wouldn't..." But she was already long gone. Jesus. What kind of a town was this.

Begrudgingly I knelt before the man. “I don't have any diseases,” I assured him.

“I was raised by ghouls in Los,” The cowboy took the rag from my hand, “You can spare me the smoothskin diplomacy. ...You ever seen an alien before, Hoss?”

Kid was delusional. I'd only broken his nose, that shouldn't have rattled his head too hard. I didn't argue. Let him keep his comforting lies, I thought.

(the benefit of the doubt)

I blinked, “I'm.... er... sorry I hurt you.”

“You're an overzealous merc. S'happens.”

Something like that, anyways.

“I ain't a slaver.” Remington said quietly.

“I know.” I said, after a small moment of hesitation. This was the first time I'd ever had more than a threatening conversation with a man I'd punched. It felt hellishly unlike me. And yet, I felt better. A little lighter than before. Things kept getting stranger and stranger.

“Where is she? Mei.”

“Near the Super-Duper Mart. But she's probably long gone by now.”

“Dammit." Remington cried fresh tears, "I loved her. I love her. She stole everything but what's on my back. Just wanted to... I don't know, man, I'm a mess.” He sobbed and choked for a few minutes. I told him he was fool. He huffed,

“I know.”

I helped him up to his feet, awkwardly shook his hand when he offered it a second time. Fella gripped like a python. Blood was drying under his nose and on his teeth but he still grinned sheepishly.

Wilde returned from the saloon, staring into her Pip Boy's screen and marching fast.

“He didn't mean harm.” I said to her.

“Good.” She smiled at me, then turned to the cowboy, “Are you alright, sir? I have to get moving.”

The cowboy kid revealed a joint from within a pocket beneath his duster, “I'll be fine. And It's Remington. Remy to my pals.” Not fifteen minutes before Wilde had been eyeing him like the devil and I'd smashed his face into a counter. Boy really was a dunce. Then again, we'd helped him in spite of it. Maybe we all were fools somehow.

Wilde nodded shortly, “You pay Gob, alright?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Wilde threw him a stimpak and began to move down a ramp.

“Ya'll be careful!” Remington's voice rang after us, laughing almost hysterically, “Mei Wong's a live wire! You're lucky you ain't meatloaf already!”

We passed the Church of Atom where the madman sat atop his perch, cheering me on. I turned a blind ear to it. I was genuinely interested now, where The Lone Wanderer's father might've gone, if he was still alive. Buying into the hero myth.

“What'd Three Dog say?” I had to liven my steps to keep up.

She slowed down a bit, double-checked ammo in her belt distractedly, “He mentioned Dad's name... that he'd stopped by GNR studios. Three Dog mentioned his satellite and the shit connection. Then, the rest cut out. Damn that static.”

“So you're headed there in the morning?” I asked.

“No, we're heading there now.”

“Woah woah. You can't make that trek at night. It's dark out.”

“Oh!” Wilde exclaimed, “It's dark? Gee! Did anyone ever tell you that you're quite tall?”

“Smartass.” I countered, “You said you needed advice. I'm giving it. What about Mei Wong? After what we saw at Super--”

Wilde shook her head, “Stories!”

“You're a story. Isn't some of it at least a little true?”

She avoided my gaze persistently, “Look, I'm going. Either give me an alternative or stay back here with Dogmeat. This is too important to delay.”

There was no way I would stay back in Megaton and sit comfortable. I pressed my mind for a while. We were nearly to the settlement's gates by the time an idea came. It was risky, but it could work:

(river styx)

“The subway.”