"I can't," he finally breathed, making his employer look at him quizzically. The revelation of what he was finally going to do struck him hard and he almost fell to his knees. His detest for his new employer, Miss 101, was beyond what he'd ever felt before and he was tired of this, so tired. It pained him to know that he would finally take it upon himself and end this charade. He would betray his master, his father, his God.

He'd never be worthy of his love again.

"I'm sorry," he practically wept, grabbing his head in an effort to steady and steel himself. Enough was enough, it had to be done. He breathed deeply, reaching behind his back.

His body, this vessel, was destroyed and unworthy. The first had defiled it. He was an unfit soldier now, infected, sick. They'd then toyed with his principles, making him question orders he never would have; making him take second guesses about his actions while on this makeshift leash. And now, they would make him end the only thing he had left of any merit. His loyalty.

"I'm so sorry." He could feel the hot sting of tears as he lined up the shot and pulled the trigger, watching the bullet tear into her body.

It was bittersweet, as much as he wanted that insufferable cunt dead, breaking the contract had never been a likely plan. Any satisfaction to be had was drowned out, suffocated by the all encompassing gravity of his betrayal.

Looking down at her bloody body still gasping for air he couldn't help but feel that she'd been the one to come out of this better.

It wasn't fair.

Life was far from fair but this... He'd been good for so long, he'd obeyed while they'd taken everything from him and even in death they'd won. This was the first time he'd had his hand forced and it made him want to vomit like he was ten years old and at the exercises all over again.

The gurgle below drew his erratic attention, he'd gotten her straight in the chest, through the lungs and she was drowning in her own blood. She spat up pitifully, in too much agony to actually move from her spot in the drenched sand. Looking into her face made the sheer hate wash over him again. Hate for what she was, hate for what she thought she could be to him, do to him, and hate for what she'd taken from him. He pressed a booted foot against the gaping hole in her chest, doubting she'd even feel the spikes on the bottom in the end.

She tried to scream, only swallowing more blood and he growled, feeling no pleasure from her pain.

He pressed harder.

A wound like that wouldn't take long to kill the recipient. Her body soon grew limp and he removed his foot, sinking to the ground. He was nothing now, there was nothing left. All ties had been destroyed. In 25 years he'd never felt this alone. Completely lost, removed from any purpose. This was a mistake, he should have listened! What had come over him to do this!?

Everything he'd promised, gone with one bullet!

He finally realized that he'd been leaning on her body, shaking uncontrollably from the terror that gripped him now. Blindly, he reached under her vest, because it was always there. She'd waved it in his face after purchasing him, exuberant with the prospect of her new pet and taking care to show him that it was 'safe' in her pocket. He'd only been too glad to leave, still reveling in the afterglow of executing his late employer, and had been already happily imagining her demise in the same fashion.

He knew he didn't deserve to have it but allowing it to stay on a corpse was infinitely worse.

His bare fingers brushed over a different texture and it felt like they'd been burnt as an old thrill ran through him from the notion of finally holding it in his hands. He looked up, pulling the yellowed paper out and watching it almost glow in the twilight.

She'd treated it carelessly, it was just a piece of paper after all. Even the thought of its triviality was ludicrous to him. It was faded and stained from abuse, something he'd have never allowed. To him this was something to be revered, worshiped, cherished. It was glorious and the meticulous handwriting and signature flooded him with memories and old wants. He could already feel another apology making its way to his lips but they would never be enough.

He looked down at the cooling body, soon to be food for the creatures of the wastes, and still felt nothing. Had she really been the one to drive him too far or had it just been a convenient excuse to finally break free? He supposed it didn't really matter after the fact, she was dead; he'd willingly destroyed one of the last things he held dear but...

He had his own will now. To go where he wanted, to choose for himself; he'd only needed to sacrifice his integrity to get it. And he knew exactly what he intended to do. The trail was gone, but he would search for as long as he lived.

He could only wish hopelessly that he would be forgiven.

A/N: The LWs disposition and order were purposely vague to highlight Charon's relationship with the contract here, so it's pretty wide for interpretation. Same goes for the absence of his name. Though the wordiness is probably due to lack of sleep...

It's my own version of Charon from a story I'm working on. This is just a what-if situation to if he actually snapped and is pretty removed from the plot.