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The Serpent Lives On

Sheesh. Look at this amateur. A goddamn mirelurk could do a better job hackin' away at someone's hair than whatever the hell he's doin' with those scissors. Pfft, this'll be a cinch.

He pushed off from the post he had been leaning against outside the Publick Occurrences office, bending down to pick up the worn leather vest next to his feet. The faded green snake emblem on the back caught the sunlight as he shrugged it on over his sleeveless gray shirt. He zipped up the front, still remembering what it felt like before he had cut the sleeves off the old jacket. A passing security guard spotted him and shook his head, muttering something that sounded like, "Another damn hooligan."

A wry smile stretched over his mouth. All in the past, pal. I ain't ever gonna be a square like you tools, but hey—everyone's gotta grow the fuck up sometime.

He hauled his oversized pack over his shoulders and strode toward the open Super Salon building up ahead, stopping in front of the entrance to size up the barber as he finished with his last customer. An older woman wearing a Red Rocket jumpsuit sat scratching her head on the shop's couch. She ignored the newcomer as she counted the pile of caps in her lap, her permanent scowl growing even more pronounced as the numbers obviously failed to add up. Around them, the late afternoon bustle of Diamond City brought life to the air, and he wondered to himself why it took ten years and a favor request before he thought to move north.

As soon as the customer stood and walked out, the barber turned to greet him, but he cut him off.

"Yo. How long you been runnin' this joint? The way you cut hair, you shoulda gone out of business ten minutes after you started."

"Say what?" the barber exclaimed, curling his lip. "And just who're you supposed to be?"

"Butch DeLoria, the new barber in town," the older man replied as he stepped forward and filled the space with his imposing presence. "So beat it, junior. I've been watching you work since I got here, and it's a damn travesty how you've brainwashed all these people to think your haircuts are any good."

"What the fuck—"

"John, what's going on over there?" the sour-faced lady called in an equally acerbic voice.

"Ma, this bastard thinks he can just march in here, insult me, and take over my shop," John answered, glowering at Butch. "Take a hike, asshole. Who do you even think you are—"

A loud thud interrupted him as the heavy pack landed on the floor and issued a clanging noise that revealed thousands of bottle caps inside.

"Here's how this is gonna work," Butch began as he nudged the pack forward with his boot and crossed his arms. "I'm gonna buy you out, and you're gonna get lost. You've done enough damage to the locals' hairdos, all right? Also, your whole jock vibe and shitty varsity jacket make me sick."

John opened and closed his mouth as his eyes bulged in outrage, but his mother rose to her feet and made a beeline for the pack of caps. Butch waited, smirking, as she kneeled down and peeked inside. Not five seconds later, she straightened and addressed her son.

"Take the offer, John," she ordered, placing her hands on her hips as she eyed Butch warily. "There's at least ten thousand caps in there."

John shot her a betrayed look. "You can't be serious, Ma. This is a family business! We don't even know who this guy is. He could be swindling us, or worse—he'll redo all my hard work these past few years. My reputation will be ruined!"

"Trust me, any change to your reputation right now would be a fucking improvement," Butch drawled. "So, we got a deal? That pack is worth more than your entire damn shop. Play it smart and sell upfront. I don't wanna do no hostile takeover or nothin'."

As John sputtered a stream of choice words, his mother pinned Butch with a suspicious glare.

"So what's the catch, stranger?" she demanded. "There's got to be a reason you're so eager to buy out some shoddy barbershop in the middle of the city's slums. If you're this filthy rich, you could buy yourself a place in the Upper Stands and start your own business there."

"Yeah, so why don't you go do that?" John snapped before his mother elbowed him in the ribs.

"'Cause that ain't my style," Butch declared, shrugging. "Anyway, why the hell are you asking questions when I've handed you cash on a silver platter? You in or not?"

"All right," the woman said when her son opened his mouth again. "We'll sell. But if you're doing something shady and get caught breaking the law, this transaction was legitimate, and we're not involved. Understood?"

Butch grinned and inclined his head. While he had never possessed the charisma to deal well with people, he knew to cover his bases when making a pitch. "Sure thing. I'll sign a contract for ya, whatever. Glad we could work this out nice and easy."

"Hello, does anyone realize I'm still here?" John barked. "It's my shop, too. Don't I get a say in any of this?"

"No," came the simultaneous responses as Butch and the woman—Cathy, she said—shook hands.

John threw his arms up in frustration and kicked the styling chair. "Well, I guess I'll start packing or something."

"Yeah, you do that. We'll finally be living it up at the Upper Stands, son," Cathy told him as she yanked on the pack straps and struggled to lift it. "Help me with this thing, will you? I don't know how this man managed to lug around all these caps by himself." After a glance at Butch's ripped arms, she added, "Oh. Probably because we got a bodybuilding beefcake over here."

Butch stuffed one hand in the pocket of his jeans as his other came up to stroke his goatee. "'Bodybuilding beefcake.' Now that's a business name to consider."

"Don't you dare!" John cried as he assisted his mother with their new monetary fortune. "I'll never be able to sleep knowing what a godawful name 'Super Salon' was replaced with."

"Relax," Butch told him, stepping around to the rear side of the building to fetch a second smaller pack that contained his personal effects. "I had the name picked out before I even laid eyes on this crummy place."

He rifled through the contents as John and Cathy spent the next half hour moving their belongings out of their corner cellar room. Once they enlisted the help of a few other residents, Cathy led the way to the Upper Stands, her eagerness evident in the speed with which she flew up the ramps. John, however, lingered at the front of the shop, casting a forlorn gaze over the establishment. Butch ignored him as he tore down the No Smoking sign and lit a cigarette.

"You'll… you'll look out for this place, won't you? Make sure it'll still be running and taken care of and stuff?" John asked him, looking ready to latch onto the nearest column.

"Sure, sure," Butch assured him in a dismissive tone, blowing out a cloud of smoke and checking his reflection in the mirror. "I was one of the top barbers in the Capital Wasteland. I know how to run these things. Now skedaddle. I got work to do."

John stayed in place when Butch reached into his inner vest pocket and produced three torn pieces of black leather, each one bearing the same snake emblem as the one on his back. The younger man watched as he set them in a line on the nearby dresser. Two side by side, a space, and then the last one. The arrangement appeared to hint at a missing third piece.

"So… you're some rich hotshot from the Capital who came all the way to the Commonwealth to run a barbershop?" John questioned, his continued presence eliciting a vexed sigh from Butch. "Maybe you can see why that has red flags all over it?"

"Look, kid. Your mom was right. I got my reasons, but they don't have anything to do with any of ya." His fingers skated over the empty space of the third snake emblem. "It's something personal."

John remained silent for a while before piping up again. "I'm going to regret asking this, but what do you intend to rename the shop?"

The weathered lines in Butch's suntanned face deepened as he grinned and swiped a hand through his typical barrel roll hairstyle. "'Serpent Cuts.' Long story, but from here on out, this place is under Tunnel Snake jurisdiction."

With a flick of his wrist, the Toothpick switchblade appeared in his hand. Its serrated edge gleamed in the light, the handle worn and nicked, but still dependable for several more years to come. John shuffled in apparent unease at the sight of the well-used weapon. Putting out his cigarette, Butch moved to tower over the intimidated man.

"So. I won't say it again. Unless you want the fangs, get the hell off my turf."

x-x-x-x-x

He used the luminescence of the neon sign to double-check the directions in the handwritten letter. Valentine Detective Agency. Confirmed by the arrow through the glowing heart.

No mistaking it. This has gotta be the right place.

In the late evening hour, a cold stillness settled across the city's atmosphere. He adjusted his collar to shield his neck from the cool breeze and gripped the metal item in his left hand as he lifted his wrist. Blinking down at the time on his Pip-Boy screen, he frowned. Almost midnight. Setting up the barbershop had taken longer than he'd thought.

He folded the letter and slid it into his vest pocket before rapping his knuckles on the wooden door. A slight commotion resounded from inside as someone moved across the floor and knocked over what sounded like stacks of papers. He tapped his foot impatiently, listening to the grumbled cursing that accompanied the footsteps trudging toward the entrance. When the door swung open, he found himself facing a frazzled-looking woman dressed in office attire.

"Sorry, but we're not taking any new cases right now," she declared before Butch could even get a word out.

His arm shot forward to block the door when she tried to close it. "Hold it. I don't got a case that needs looking into, I just need to talk to this Valentine guy."

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "May I ask what for?"

Butch glanced around behind him and then bent closer. "He's a synth, right? I hear he's an older model. I need to find out if he knows anything about some Institute place."

"Some… 'Institute place'?" the woman repeated, her voice taking on a disdainful intonation. "You're not from around here, are you? If you need to catch up on your Commonwealth history, please take your questions to anyone else around the city. Nick doesn't have time to—"

"All right, you got me. I ain't from this part of the map, no," Butch interjected, shifting his weight as he worked to keep his temper at bay. "But I need to talk to the man. See, I got this thing…" He held out the object in his left hand, showing it to her in the dim lighting. "And I gotta know how it works."

She squinted at it and quirked an eyebrow in bewilderment. "What is that?"

"An android component. I think that's what it's called, anyway."

Her expression grew guarded. "Why do you need to know of its workings?"

"It ain't for me. I'm just the messenger, okay? I know someone who wants to set things right with an android we knew a while back."

"If this is a matter that has to do with helping synths, why don't you go find the Railroad instead? This is their specialty."

Butch bristled. "'Cause… let's just say some bridges already got burned a long time ago," he stated reluctantly. "This is my one lead and last shot for getting anywhere. So can I see Valentine or not?"

She stared him down, seeming to search for any sign that he posed a threat. He accepted the scrutiny, as he had nothing to hide in this part of the assignment. When she appeared to read the frank honesty on his face, she sighed and relaxed her unyielding posture.

"I'm Ellie Perkins, his secretary," she said in a jaded tone as she leaned into the doorframe. "It's now my job to tell people that he isn't here, and I don't know when he'll be back."

Butch's forehead creased in consternation. "Well, where the hell is he?"

"He's accompanying a friend on a very important mission. They stop by the city periodically, but not on any kind of regular schedule. So if you're so desperate to see him, I'd hang around town until he shows up," Ellie told him, her gaze drifting down to the component resting on his palm. "And I'd keep that hidden around here if I were you. Nicky is an exception, but synths and everything related to them are unwelcome in Diamond City. I won't ask how you came by that, but I'm going to hope you don't mean trouble for us."

Butch clicked his tongue, already finding the widespread assumption irritating. "Nah. I'm done with that kind of shit. This is a legit issue that needs dealin' with."

She made as if to say something, but then her line of sight landed on the illuminated contraption on his arm. "Is that a Pip-Boy? It looks different from every other one I've seen. Are you actually from a Vault, by any chance?"

"So what if I am?"

"Interesting. We don't get many Vault dwellers passing through, but you're the second one to come knocking in the past few weeks. If anything, Nicky's been feeling especially charitable to you folks. He'll probably be willing to hear you out when you can catch him," Ellie remarked, and then hurried to add, "But like I said. The only thing you can do at this time is wait."

Butch nodded in disappointment and turned to saunter away. "Right, fine. I'll be around and on the lookout for your boss. Let's just hope mine doesn't run outta patience."

No response followed him as he made his way back down the narrow alley. His grip tightened around the android component, the minor setback sending his mind whirring. Twiddling his thumbs hadn't been part of the plan, and without more details to go on, he couldn't draft together a backup.

So… what now?

A few security officers peered at him as they walked by, but he paid them no heed as he stomped into the barbershop. The android component landed in his open pack next to the sink, and he switched on the string lights hanging down from the ceiling. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried to figure out his next move. Should he wait it out after all? In truth, he would have been fine with that, but the secrecy surrounding his task left him cautious and on edge.

As his eyes strayed to the snake emblems he had nailed to the far wall, he scowled. Friggin' hell, nosebleed. You've got a goddamn army at your disposal. And you still need me to haul my ass up across the country to do your dirty work?

His rising ire dropped back down when he approached the torn pieces of leather. The empty third space stared back at him, a reminder of the intact bond, distant but still present. He pressed his hand against it, releasing a weary breath as his gaze roved over the commemoration wall.

Well… what're friends for, right? Just glad you're still rockin' the insignia. Only two of us left from the old days. Probably should've told ya I had to dig two graves after Paul's while you've been out west.

He stepped back and checked his Pip-Boy again, scrolling through the interface to find the marked date. Only a few days to go. Maybe when they saw each other in person again, she could explain to him just what they would be doing in the Commonwealth. As vague as her instructions had been, he could only assume she wanted him in the dark. But even so, like some schmuck, he had agreed to do her bidding. Anyone would tell him he had come into this blind.

Then again, they shared an extensive history, and he already knew part of the reason she had personally financed and arranged for his relocation. A source on the outside, a clandestine party behind the scenes. Whatever she was planning, it all revolved around a single goal.

Butch drummed his fingers on the spot that belonged to her Tunnel Snake emblem, the question burning in his thoughts. "Why're you still lookin' for that ice queen, Alex?"

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: I'm calling this a follow-up instead of a sequel to "Latticework Vagabonds" because it will feature various people rather than just the protagonists of the first story. As such, it isn't necessary to read "Latticework Vagabonds" to understand the history between the characters. This will mainly follow the major faction quests in Fallout 4, plus a few added individuals and details I'm throwing in as my own spin. Obviously, there will be spoilers galore, so read at your own discretion. Also, some of these chapters will have corresponding artwork of the characters. My painting of 30-ish-year-old Butch DeLoria is linked on my profile.