Freeside twenty-one

by xen0n

Jack (or Blackjack to those who know him) is trying to make a decent life for himself stuck in the walled off outskirts of New Vegas known as Freeside. He'll need to keep The Kings gang onside and avoid giving the NCR reason to trouble themselves with him while he tries to deal with the odd mix of people that make Freeside their home away from the Wastes.

I woke up in my grimy room above the Wrangler, feeling a bit worse for wear after a night of drinking and gambling. I'd made some good money at the Blackjack table early on in the night but a combination of the liquor and desperation had seen me place some overly ambitious bets by the small hours of the morning and I'd finished the night no better off than I'd started it. Which was a mercy in a way, I suppose – I've seen plenty get tossed out without even the shirt on their back after a particularly bad run of luck.

Willing the ache in my temples to subside, I gingerly rose out of bed and pulled on the worn suit that was my outfit of choice while inside the gates of Freeside. I kept a decent set of reinforced armor in the closet for those occasions when I had to venture beyond the walls and into the wastes – thankfully, these occasions had been few and far between lately. Freeside had never truly felt like home to me but, after the recent influx of NCR refugees, I got caught up in the idea of being a true local and found myself becoming really tied to the little community that had formed. To say we rallied together to push back against outsiders wouldn't be inaccurate, even if it didn't exactly cast us in a charitable light.

I smoothed my hair and beard in an attempt to make myself at least a little presentable, then stretch out my frame to its full six foot four inch height to iron out a few of the kinks left by sleeping on the lumpy old mattress. Next, I pulled out my shotgun from the weapons locker and slung it over my back. For a little extra protection, I added a well maintained nine mil – the result of doing Mick and Ralph a big favor – to the inside of my jacket and secreted a knife in the holder concealed in my right pants leg.

Locking the door – which would deter only the very laziest thieves, if I was lucky – I made my way down the two flights of stairs to the casino floor and signaled Francine Garret, who was working the bar, for an eye opener. Francine and her brother James own the joint between them and take a real hands on approach to running it – a real firm hand should the need arise. She obliged my request with a generous shot of something that just about qualified as bourbon and I downed it in a single gulp, savoring the warmth it brought as it made the liquor made its way down my throat. Charlie, one of the regulars, turned to me with a chuckle.

"Bit early for that, ain't it Blackjack?"

I shrugged, "Maybe. But it's definitely not too late."

At that, Charlie's chuck turned into a guffaw. "Can't fault that logic," he replied, signaling Francine for his own shot. Although my name was simply Jack, most folks around the Wrangler and many across Freeside called me Blackjack, due to my noted fondness for the game. Some had even started calling me twenty-one for varieties sake. I generally just went by Jack when introducing myself though – started to get too damn silly otherwise.

Flipping a few caps onto the counter to cover the drink, I gave my suit a final pat-down to knock out a few stubborn creases and to dislodge any lingering dust then nodded at Charlie and Francine and made for the door. I had an appointment with The King today and really needed to avoid fucking it up – not being late would be a good start.