She used to be a good person.
She was dedicated to her job, mindful of her deadlines, and overall a decent employee. She mostly kept to herself and laid low. She stuck to her predictable roads and found satisfaction in the familiarity of a routine and life of a courier.
Then she got shot. And not just shot but shot in the head. As in almost died.
And upon surviving being shot in the head, she came to the revelation that being a good person was not only genuinely overrated but fucking stupid as well. Being a good person didn't get you anything but a bullet in the head. And she has no intention of repeating that experience ever again.
So with those intentions in mind, she decided she's going to find the prick that shot her in the head and repay the favor in kind.
That's what brought her to this place.
Fucking Freeside.
She's stuck outside the Strip and revenge free until she can come up with 2,000 caps. Where the hell is she going to find that many caps in this freaking piece of shit town?
Freeside. A place so magical that kids chase giant fucking rats with baseball bats and tear the meat right off their bodies and eat it fucking raw. The same kids smile at her with bloody teeth and lips and thank her for shooting the rat with bits of innards in their teeth. Fucking gross.
She can handle the Mojave. She knows the Mojave. What she doesn't know is how fucking giant rats get that big in the first place.
She hates Freeside.
She hates the pretentious body guards who posture on about how unsafe the streets are. The scariest thing she's seen so far are the giant fucking rats and they pose more of a threat than those strung out thugs who try to beat her with golf clubs and pool cues. When the bodyguards offer her their services for 100 caps she can't help but snort. She has a freaking submachine gun for fuck's sake. It's not like it's rocket science. In the gamble between golf club and submachine gun, she'll take her odds any day of the week.
She hates the drunks that loiter and beg for caps. She hates it even more when they accuse her of poking them when she's standing ten fucking feet away from them.
She hates the child stripper that stands in the intersection and shimmies and shakes and expounds the many "services" available at the Atomic Wrangler. She hates it even more when she enters the Wrangler and gets roped into finding sex slaves for their depraved clientele.
She likes the Van Graffs even less. For people that sell bad ass weapons they certainly have a lot of insecurities and could sure as hell use a lesson in courtesies. Who the hell needs that many body guards for one shit hole shop? You have plasma guns and grenades!
Working for these people gives her the skeevies and is barely worth the caps. After all her work she's no closer to the Strip. She's no closer to getting bloody satisfaction by shooting a beautiful round bullet into the brain of one Benny at the Tops.
She has to talk to "the King." Pssh, "the King." What the hell does this guy think he's king of? Freeside? Ha, he can have it. What a joke.
She walks up to their weird building mentioning something about "Impersonation." She doesn't understand what the hell that sign means but she doesn't much care either. All she knows is that she can appreciate the way the members of the Kings are mostly male. Not only that, but a type of delicious male with style. And it's definitely a style she can get behind.
Secretly she wants their jackets. The smooth black leather is the perfect complement to their slicked back dew. It's enough of a statement to stylishly tell people not to fuck with you.
She similarly tries to exude that message with her leather armor, but it's still armor. And armor is definitely not as bad ass as a cropped leather jacket. Sure, armor can save your ass in a fight and it's super practical. But she's not super practical anymore. Being practical and decent is what got her a hole in the head.
So she's decided that before she's even met "the King," that she digs his message.
What she doesn't dig is being charged to speak with him.