Characters: Butch, the King, Julie Farkas Summary: Butch meets up with the King in Freeside, magic happens.
The kid isn't one of theirs, that much is apparent. His jacket's all wrong, real leather and covered in patches for a gang that the King's never heard of. He's just some drifter, an out-of-towner with the misfortune to cross paths with a gang of NCR thugs on leave in Freeside. He's guessing that the Troopers took one look at the jacket and the slicked-back hair and decided that he was a King and they oughta rearrange his face for him, maybe teach him some manners. Kid's all puffy and swollen, a broken nose and two black eyes. The Followers found him unconscious in the alley behind the Wrangler, bruised and battered and covered in blood. They took him back to the Fort, and Julie sent someone over to the King's, assuming he was one of theirs.
He ain't.
The kid's asleep in one of the Follower's cots, breathing wheezy like he's got a couple broken ribs. And hell, he probably does, knowing the NCR. The King guesses his age at 29 or 30, guesses he might be handsome, underneath the bruises. He's maybe 6 feet tall, dark hair, skin burned brown by the sun. Julie's standing next to the King, clipboard in hand, eager to put a name to her John Doe, find someone to take him home, and get him out of her hair.
"He briefly regained consciousness after we brought him in," she says, tapping a pen against the clipboard. "He propositioned two of my doctors and groped a third. He had a BAC of .33 and refused treatment, but I couldn't, in good faith, let him go. We had to restrain him, pump his stomach, and administer Med-X and Stims intravenously." She relays this information in a sorry-not-sorry tone, barely bothering to suppress her irritation. It's been a long day in the Follower's compound, that much is apparent.
"He's ain't a King," he says.
Julie sighs. "You sure?"
The King shrugs. "I don't know him from Adam."
Julie moves to mark something down on her clipboard, but the King stops her. "Wait. Said he wasn't one of mine, didn't say I wouldn't take him off your hands."
She raises an eyebrow, and the King presses on. "I can't leave him here. Tomorrow morning, he'll be back on the street, and what if those goons come back to finish him off? I don't take him in, he's dead by sunrise."
A frown creases her forehead and she continues drumming the pen against her clipboard, thinking. "If he's a stranger, protocol dictates I can't release him to you," she says, thoughtfully. "But there's nothing that says I can't send him your way once he wakes up. You send one of your boys around tomorrow morning, I'll make sure he leaves with a King."
Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 1a/?
Summary: Butch meets up with the King in Freeside, magic happens.
The kid isn't one of theirs, that much is apparent. His jacket's all wrong, real leather and covered in patches for a gang that the King's never heard of. He's just some drifter, an out-of-towner with the misfortune to cross paths with a gang of NCR thugs on leave in Freeside. He's guessing that the Troopers took one look at the jacket and the slicked-back hair and decided that he was a King and they oughta rearrange his face for him, maybe teach him some manners. Kid's all puffy and swollen, a broken nose and two black eyes. The Followers found him unconscious in the alley behind the Wrangler, bruised and battered and covered in blood. They took him back to the Fort, and Julie sent someone over to the King's, assuming he was one of theirs.
He ain't.
The kid's asleep in one of the Follower's cots, breathing wheezy like he's got a couple broken ribs. And hell, he probably does, knowing the NCR. The King guesses his age at 29 or 30, guesses he might be handsome, underneath the bruises. He's maybe 6 feet tall, dark hair, skin burned brown by the sun. Julie's standing next to the King, clipboard in hand, eager to put a name to her John Doe, find someone to take him home, and get him out of her hair.
"He briefly regained consciousness after we brought him in," she says, tapping a pen against the clipboard. "He propositioned two of my doctors and groped a third. He had a BAC of .33 and refused treatment, but I couldn't, in good faith, let him go. We had to restrain him, pump his stomach, and administer Med-X and Stims intravenously." She relays this information in a sorry-not-sorry tone, barely bothering to suppress her irritation. It's been a long day in the Follower's compound, that much is apparent.
"He's ain't a King," he says.
Julie sighs. "You sure?"
The King shrugs. "I don't know him from Adam."
Julie moves to mark something down on her clipboard, but the King stops her. "Wait. Said he wasn't one of mine, didn't say I wouldn't take him off your hands."
She raises an eyebrow, and the King presses on. "I can't leave him here. Tomorrow morning, he'll be back on the street, and what if those goons come back to finish him off? I don't take him in, he's dead by sunrise."
A frown creases her forehead and she continues drumming the pen against her clipboard, thinking. "If he's a stranger, protocol dictates I can't release him to you," she says, thoughtfully. "But there's nothing that says I can't send him your way once he wakes up. You send one of your boys around tomorrow morning, I'll make sure he leaves with a King."
"When will he wake up?"