Helen

The kitchen of Hogwart Ghoulman's mansion smelled aggressively of mildew and three-hundred-year-old grease. Helen stood before the rusted cast-iron stove, her trademark sunglasses shielding her eyes from the harsh reality of the mutated molerat carcass draped over the prep table. She nudged the meat with the barrel of her pipe pistol, grimacing as a pocket of trapped gas escaped with a wet hiss.

"Okay, look," she addressed the carcass, her voice muffled by the silk handkerchief she'd tied around her nose. "I'm a maid, not a butcher. And I'm definitely not touching that slimy bit with my bare hands. It's bad for the skin."

She grabbed a cleaver, swinging it with all the grace of a drunken Brahmin. The blade missed the joint entirely, bounced off the granite counter with a spark, and sent a heavy jar of pre-war mayonnaise vibrating off the shelf above.

Thud.

The jar cracked open on the floor, revealing not spoiled gunk, but the distinct, dull shine of bottle caps hidden inside the paste centuries ago. Dozens of them.

Helen paused, lowering the cleaver. She adjusted her shades, a smug grin spreading across her face. "See? This is why I get paid the big bucks. Intuition. I knew this mayo was suspicious." She crouched down, ignoring the mess to scoop the currency into her apron pocket. "Oi! Dinner's gonna be late! I'm, uh... securing assets!" The grand foyer of the Ghoulman mansion smelled faintly of mildew and ancient, dried blood, a scent Helen had decided to mask by spraying half a can of industrial-grade turpentine into the air. She adjusted her sunglasses, despite the interior being dimly lit by flickering wall sconces, and adjusted the strap of her pipe pistol where it dug into her thigh beneath the frills of her maid skirt. A massive, irradiated cockroach-the size of a small dog-scuttled across the marble floor, chittering aggressively.

“Ex-cuuuuuse me?” Helen huffed, planting a hand on her hip and pointing her 'Combat Broom' (a rusted steel pipe with bristles duct-taped to the end) at the intruder. “Mr. Ghoulman didn't put 'Animal Tamer' on my manifest, you chitinous little freeloader. Scram, or I'll turn you into a rug.”

The roach hissed and lunged. Helen shrieked, not out of fear, but indignation, and swung the broom with her eyes squeezed shut. She missed the insect entirely. The steel pipe clanged loudly against the leg of a precarious antique statue, causing the heavy marble bust above to tip forward. It plummeted with a sickening crunch, flattening the roach instantly into a paste of green ichor and twitching legs. Helen cracked one eye open, surveyed the mess, and blew a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Precision strike,” she declared to the empty room, smoothing down her apron. “Just like we did in the NCR. Totally meant to do that.” Helen adjusted her sunglasses, staring critically at the pile of radioactive sludge congealing in the corner of the ballroom. She nudged it with the tip of her boot. It jiggled aggressively. With a heavy sigh, she unholstered her "broom"-a rusted steel pipe with stiff bristles duct-taped to the end-and gave the hazardous waste a tentative poke.

"Alright, listen here, you glowing glob of nonsense," she muttered, pointing a manicured, albeit grime-stained, finger at the ooze. "Mr. Ghoulman wants this floor sparkling. That means you either migrate to the garden, or I sweep you under the rug. And we're out of rugs."

She swung the pipe with the grace of a drunk batter, impacting the sludge. Instead of moving, it splattered across the pristine marble and onto her maid apron.

"Oh, come on! That is coming out of your paycheck!" Helen shouted at the inanimate goo. She looked around conspiratorially, realized she was alone, and kicked a mostly intact velvet sofa over the mess to hide it. She wiped her hands on her hips, nodding with satisfaction. "Spotless. I am literally the employee of the month. Cleaning is 90% aesthetics anyway." > "Hand over the caps, sweetheart, or I-" the raider started, racking the slide of a shotgun.

Helen shrieked, flailing so hard she fell out of the lounge chair. In her panic, she grabbed her pipe pistol, a weapon held together by rust and prayer. As she scrambled backward, her elbow knocked a half-empty bottle of Nuka-Cola off the table. It bounced off the concrete, hit the trigger guard of her pistol, and the gun discharged into the dirt.

BANG.

The bullet struck a loose pebble. The pebble ricocheted off a metal fence post, pinged off a garden gnome, and struck the raider directly in the right eye.

There was a wet, sickening squelch, and then-defying all laws of physics and biology-the raider simply exploded. Arms, legs, and torso separated in a shower of red mist, covering the patio in a visceral layer of gore.

Helen lay on the ground, hyperventilating, her sunglasses crooked. She slowly pushed them back up the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah!" she yelled, her voice cracking as she stood up on shaky legs, pointing the smoking gun at the pile of meat. "That's right! Total calculation! I aimed for the... uh... geometry! Don't mess with a Fantastic!"