The tunes from the radio play a calming jazz melody, but not even a jive could distract from the severity of the Lone Wanderer's condition.

Large gashes from a Deathclaw streak their stomach, staining the cobalt vault suit a deep red as they lay weakly on the cot.

Charon's hands work quick to salve the pain with stimpaks and bandages. The ghoul's face was in its usual grizzled grimace, though this one was focused. Worried.

He grumbles a simple dry plea, "Don't die."