It must be tough without Charon grumbling by your side. Or rather, without his mighty shotgun. Either way, Point Lookout was exhausting — no reliable allies, no combat support, no annoyed chiding. And all thanks to that bastard boatman who refused to take you two and whose brains it was so nice to smear on the nearest wall. Especially knowing that that son of a bitch cut out a piece of your brain while you were laying senseless.

Oh, dear Capital Wasteland. That same dusty air and endless sparse grass, not even yellow, but painfully gray. But one thing remained unchanged: the coming reunification.

Of course he'll be in the Underworld. Of course, in the Ninth Circle. Charon sat on a bar stool, leaning against the counter and hunched over. In front of him stood a shot glass of what looked like whiskey. He was talking to one of the ghouls; they were speaking too quietly and it was too loud around him to make out the words. You could have sworn you saw a hint of smile on his face — damn, he actually could smile? — before it disappeared immediately as he spotted you.

Charon turned slowly, meeting your eye with his usual lifeless stare.

"Welcome back," he rasped. Maybe he wasn't too pleased with your arrival, actually...