1.

"The sky's lookin' pretty tonight, huh?"

Charon doesn't stop what he's doing, shoving scavenged weaponry and ammo into the bag he's hidden by the history museum's entrance, but he acknowledges Willow with a glance once he stands, hauling the pack over his shoulder, then looks up.

There's nothing pretty about sunsets—or anything, for that matter—in this godforsaken wasteland, but Charon hears something about it every time he's around her. He half thinks she's only saying it to get a reaction out of him, since she always waits for a response she will never receive, but sometimes he catches her just staring up at the sky, smoke from a cigarette between her fingers trailing off in the still air, and he feels something vaguely akin to jealousy at how serene she looks.

She smiles at him, tilting her head, and never seems deterred by his silence. It's been years since he's talked to her—decades, maybe; he's lost track by now—but she acts as if it doesn't matter, like the brief, one-sided conversations she has with him are enough. He sometimes thinks about speaking to her, but that is against his standing order to never say a word to anyone here, and he cannot disobey it. He doesn't like talking, anyway; it's unnecessary, and distracting, and...well, he isn't allowed to, so in the end, it doesn't matter what he thinks.

"Goodnight," Willow says, as he starts back off to Underworld. She whistles a tune as she again takes up her walk around the front of the building, and her lighter clicking is what he hears last as the door shuts behind him.

"Took you long enough," is how Ahzrukhal greets him when he returns to the Ninth Circle, lips curled into a displeased snarl.

Charon places the bag down on the floor before his employer and then steps back.

"I am sorry," he says, looking around, scanning over the customers for any signs of danger and then focusing back on Ahzrukhal as he deems no one worth his attention. Mostly regulars, mostly druggies. There's rarely anyone else. "It is hard to find places I have not already looked."

"I didn't ask for excuses, Charon, now did I?" Ahzrukhal says, grabbing the bag and shoving it into a cabinet below the bar counter. "I told you to start looking further out, if you had to."

"You did."

Ahzrukhal glares at him. It's sharp enough that it almost makes him look away.

"I know," his employer says, lighting a cigarette, "you fucking idiot. That wasn't a question. And when I said be back before sunset, I didn't mean during, I meant before. Exactly how fucking hard is looking up? Are you going blind now, too? Or did you just forget?"

"I am sorry," Charon says again, monotone, "but your orders were to return by sunset. Not before. I—"

Ahzrukhal slams his fist down on the counter, and Charon shuts his mouth. One of the closest customers jumps, moving into the other room with a quick, nervous glance back, but no one else pays them any mind. If they've been here before, they're more than used to ignoring it all.

"Don't talk back to me," Ahzrukhal says, very quietly. "Don't. Has it ever ended in your favor? No. But you just keep pushing. I know what I said, Charon. I know what I told you. The problem is that your fucking brain is liquefying. How long before you lose the ability to understand anything at all, hmm? What good are you, if you can't follow the simplest of orders?"

Charon frowns. No, that hadn't been the order. It's true that his short-term memory has never been all that good, only getting worse as time goes on, but he doesn't have to remember orders. They worm into his brain and stay there, something different than just a memory, something stronger. He can't just forget orders, not until they are completed or cancelled. If nothing else, it's what he can count on. Orders are the only certain things he has.

"I can still—" he says, and Ahzrukhal's hand darts up towards his face quick enough he flinches.

"Charon," Ahzrukhal says, grabbing onto Charon's chin and squeezing. His tone is too calm, too soft. "Charon."

Charon reacts as he's meant to, as he knows damn well he should have earlier instead of arguing. He casts his gaze to the floor, lowers his head as much as Ahzrukhal's hold will allow him to. His knees shake, weakened by the automatic urge to kneel he gets whenever an employer exhibits dominance over him, a need to bring himself lower, to display his submission, but that he fights.

"I apologize," he says. "I was wrong. I will be better next time."

"Next time." He digs his nails in, just enough for Charon to feel it, and brings the cigarette to his mouth, wheezing in and then blowing the smoke into Charon's face. "I'm still not happy about this time, Charon. So what can we do about that?"

Charon does his best not to choke, not to give away how disgusted he is that they're this close.

"I can only improve," he says at length, his entire body rigid with the effort it's taking not to shove himself—or Ahzrukhal—away. "I will. I will improve."

Ahzrukhal's grip loosens a little, and Charon is surprised. He's hardly done enough to deescalate the situation that much, but when he glances up he finds Ahzrukhal not even looking at him anymore, his eyes off to Charon's right.

"We'll talk later," he says, releasing Charon and stepping away. "Alone. Go back to your post. But first, get him out."

He turns to stub his cigarette out on an ashtray, gesturing over his shoulder, and, breathing hard, Charon settles his eyes on the same resident he's forced out twice in the last month, drunkenly stumbling about in the other room.

"I caught him behind the counter while you were gone," Ahzrukhal says, lighting another cigarette, keeping his back facing Charon. "Again. Truly, I am not in the mood. I don't want him dead. He spends good money. I just want him to understand."

"As you command," Charon says, making his way over to the ghoul and wrapping a hand tightly around his arm.

"Charon," Patchwork says, words as slurred together as always, and he looks over Charon's shoulder. "'s he mad 'cause...? No, no, I...I left caps, I didn't even...he was busy, an'...I jus'...wanted a drink, but...but I'm leavin', okay? Ow—"

Charon drags Patchwork out of the bar, to the top of the stairs, and shoves him down, watching as the ghoul cries out and then lands in a motionless, crumpled heap at the bottom, groaning in pain. He doesn't stay to see if the other is alright, or if anyone even helps him, and instead returns inside and to his corner, arms crossed.

"Good boy," Ahzrukhal murmurs. And as repulsed as it makes him feel, as always, Charon doesn't give his employer the satisfaction of a reaction.

When everyone has left and the doors are locked for the night, Ahzrukhal grabs Charon's arm and drags him behind the counter, shoving him to the floor. Ahzrukhal is high, or drunk, or both, and Charon is already fairly sure he'll have to remind the man about the contract's terms before the night is over, but that's really nothing unusual.

"Get the guns," his employer orders. "You're going tonight."

Charon hesitates, and then slowly shakes his head, even as he opens the cabinet and takes out the bag. "I do not think I found enough."

"What? You don't think? What does that mean?"

Charon stays still, on his knees, and anxiously flexes his fingers, then curls his hands into fists. He's been having more and more trouble finding weapons on the runs he gets sent on, but Ahzrukhal is right—always right, according to the contract—and he should be going further, as far as he needs to. He had expected to have more time, though; he had just traded the rest of them off two days ago. Ahzrukhal never sends him off again so soon. And instead of the required fifteen, he only has twelve.

"I do not have enough," he corrects himself. "I did just go—"

"Excuse me? And who are you to tell me when I should send you out?"

Charon pauses, takes a second, and tries to fix his mistake. "That is not what I meant. I would never. I will find more. Right now, if you wish."

Ahzrukhal is very quiet for a moment, and Charon can only wait for whatever comes next. He's been around Ahzrukhal long enough to detect differences, even unspoken ones, and he can tell his employer is furious, even more so than before.

"So you come back late, and you come back without enough. Interesting. Well then." Ahzrukhal makes a sharp gesture with his hand. "Put them back."

Charon does, closing the cabinet as quietly as he can, and starts to get back to his feet.

Ahzrukhal sticks a foot out and trips him, sending him back to the floor with a grunt.

"Oops," Ahzrukhal mutters, and Charon bares his teeth; Ahzrukhal exists specifically to push the limitations of his contract as far as he possibly can.

"While you're down there, though, you might as well do something productive. You know, since you've been anything but. How about some push-ups, hmm? It didn't sound very much like you were sorry, earlier...and to think you could disobey me...to think you could get away with it...it's simply not okay, Charon. I think two hundred might fix it, though. Now."

Charon sighs and brings himself up into position. Stupid bastard of a man. It's always this punishment, one he's long familiar with, at least—one that they were all often given where he was...trained. Programmed. It's one of the few things he still remembers from that time, and probably only because it's been used by so many employers since. It's military, to the point; doing so many will eventually both exhaust and hurt him without his employers needing to do anything themselves, which is only because they can't. The contract forbids purposeful physical violence that could hurt Charon enough he could not continue with his duties, or that would draw blood or leave a lasting mark.

It's a lot harder to leave a mark on him now than it was when he was human, though.

Ahzrukhal likes to flick his face, or swat him across the mouth, or pinch his arm, hard enough to hurt and get his full attention but never anything that would break that rule. It's too obvious every time the bastard really loses his temper and raises his hand towards Charon that he means to strike, to make him bleed, but Ahzrukhal is well aware that the second he does, Charon will no longer be around to do his dirty work. And a man like Ahzrukhal would never do that sort of work himself, so he simply finds ways around the rule.

It disappoints Charon, really; if Ahzrukhal loses his thread of self-control just once, hits him hard enough, then Charon can put an end to him, and never have to hear his voice again, but then...it's been so long. Surely it would have happened already. If an employer was going to slip up, they usually did so within weeks, sometimes even days. He's been stuck here for decades.

"Count them out loud," Ahzrukhal says, stepping lightly on Charon's fingers. "Start over. You weren't counting."

Charon sets his jaw and starts to count, too aware that Ahzrukhal is smirking above him.

"Good. Now...what did you do wrong, Charon?"

Everything, of course. As usual. "Seven...I was, ah...eight...nine...disobedient."

"Were you now?" Ahzrukhal asks, wandering his way over to the bar to pour himself a (fourth? Fifth, by now?) glass of whiskey. It's rare for him to drink anything else, and Charon is sickened by the very smell after so many times of Ahzrukhal drunkenly leaning up much too close to him to purr horrible orders, or worse, call him good boy, or good dog, or pet his hair, or stroke a finger against the too-sensitive patch of skin just under Charon's chin because it's the one thing that never fails to make Charon flinch, however stoic he tries to keep himself.

"You don't sound too certain about it...that was almost a question. Do you even know what you did wrong? Or do I need to find some way to refresh your memory?"

"No," Charon says quickly; whatever further punishment Ahzrukhal has in mind, he certainly doesn't want it. "Eighteen...nineteen...I ignored your...twenty...your suggestion to look...twenty-one...farther out."

"That's correct, Charon. You did ignore me." He comes back over, sitting in the chair closest to Charon, and leans back, taking a long, drawn-out drink. "Is that acceptable?"

"It is not."

"No?"

"No."

Ahzrukhal nods amicably, swishing another mouthful around and then swallowing with a hum.

"Right again, Charon." His words are past the point of slurring together by now, but that's never when he stops.

"Now tell me," he continues after another pause, crossing his legs. "Is there any particular reason you decided it was okay to bring me less? Have I ever given you the impression I'd settle for almost the right amount?"

"No. Forty-two." He's not completely out of breath yet, doesn't usually start to struggle until somewhere around eighty, but a sheen coat of sweat already covers him, drips off from his face and onto the floor.

"I haven't? Good, I didn't think so. You had me worried for a minute there, that somehow I made you think it was okay."

"Never. It was my fault."

"Very good." He sighs, comfortably, and lets Charon continue, watching him.

Charon looks only at the floor, ignores it even as his skin prickles. He doesn't like how Ahzrukhal watches him, how Ahzrukhal looks at him, when so heavily intoxicated, with an unnerving glint in his eyes that he doesn't have at any other time, that Charon really, really doesn't fucking like to think about, so he blocks it out. He's perfectly practiced at doing that.

He hits one hundred, starts to slow down and pant even harder with his mouth hanging open, and Ahzrukhal leans forward in his chair, takes a handful of the bright red hair left atop Charon's head and pulls on it.

"Are you in pain?"

Charon can't really nod, especially now, but he grunts in as much agreement as he has the strength to verbalize. "One-ten...a-ah...yes...ah...one...eleven..."

"That's what I like to hear. Little faster, now, we don't have all night."

Charon jerks his head, tries to tug himself free, but Ahzrukhal's grip only gets tighter, fingers scratching at his scalp.

"I said faster, Charon. Not slower."

"I cannot—" he gasps, and Ahzrukhal nudges Charon's arm with his foot, grinning when it immediately collapses him.

"You can't? How many times are you going to disobey me in one day, Charon?"

Charon heaves for air, only just managing to push himself back up.

"J-just—I need a moment—"

"You don't get one. Maybe if you had told me right away. But you were just going to fuck off back to your corner and hope I didn't notice, weren't you? So, no. Keep going."

Charon growls angrily, yet obeys, has to, forces through the pain that makes his entire body start to violently shake, somehow picks himself back up even when his arms give out, and then finally, finally grunts out, "Two hundred," and slumps, curling into himself with a groan of pain.

Ahzrukhal doesn't give him even a second to recover before pulling on his hair again, forcing him to get to his knees and dragging him closer.

"Well?" he asks, delighted as Charon momentarily betrays his discomfort at the sudden proximity by tossing his head to the side and yanking back with a grunt, his hands flung up like he's preparing to block some sort of attack.

Ahzrukhal loves when he looks like this; when he's exhausted and spent from punishment or lack of sleep, when he can't control his reactions as well as he usually can. He always looks so wonderfully similar to a trapped animal, sometimes even acts it, especially when he's like this, down on his knees at the feet of the one man he hates more than anyone, the one man he can't do a damn thing to. When he gets that deliciously wary look in his eyes, Ahzrukhal wants to do something to claim him further, maybe fasten a collar around his neck, but really, there's no need for a physical show of ownership. Everyone, especially Charon, knows exactly who he belongs to.

"I'm waiting for my apology, Charon," he says, pulling harder. "Do sound more sincere this time, or you'll do a hundred more. Stop—what are you doing? Why are you trying to get away from me? What do you think I'm going to do?"

Charon stills himself, his teeth bared, and then submits, placing his hands on the floor at Ahzrukhal's feet and, as genuinely as he can, murmurs, "I am sorry. I am sorry. I was wrong. I am sorry. I will be better. I will...I will be good."

It's rare for him to be desperate—not desperate, tired, he's just tired—enough to use that phrasing on his own, without Ahzrukhal's encouragement, but it works, just like he knew it would. Ahzrukhal shifts in the chair, leans forward a little more, and chuckles wickedly.

"You'll be good?" he purrs, using his other hand to stroke under Charon's chin, just to see Charon gasp and try to recoil when he can't.

"That sounds much better. Was that really so hard? Hmm? Good boy."

He smirks, holds onto Charon a few seconds longer while he decides whether or not he's really done with him, and then shoves him onto the floor; he definitely doesn't miss the look of relief that flickers across Charon's face as he scrambles back.

"Get up. Get going. Do not come back until you have enough. For this time and the next. You'll be going tomorrow, then."

"As you wish," Charon says, grimacing as he gets to his feet, rubbing uselessly at his arms to try and ease the pain as he leaves.

Willow never looks surprised to see him in any shape, and never comments. She hands him a cigarette, giving a gentle pat to his shoulder.

"Careful," she says as he lights it and sets off, although she knows perfectly well that there are few things out in the Wastes that are any worse than what's always waiting for him here when he returns.

x

"Three Dog here, and this is GNR! Galaxy News Radio, if you didn't already know. And hey...is this signal comin' in okay? You're damn right it is! Our latest news is, of course, about that kid from Vault 101, who jumped out after his father about two weeks back. Hadn't heard much about him since Megaton and that bomb he disarmed—can't say 'good job' on that enough, kid—but low and behold, who turns up and my studio earlier today, after trailin' along with the Lyons' Pride and helpin' them take out a goddamn super mutant behemoth? Mr. Vault Dweller himself! I hear the applause already. And I know that's not just static, because out of the kindness of his heart, he decided to help get a satellite dish to get this station's sweet soundin' signal back out across the Wasteland. Great job, 101. You're really helpin' fight the Good Fight. Until next time, kids, this is Three Dog; bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."