Shit Outta Luck (closed rp, mojavemarshmallow)
Ahh, hell yes, the Strip. Land of luck and luxury and the finest drugs money can buy. Shaun's saved a while for his and his mother's bi-annual trip, and now, they're here. He's dropped dear old Mum off at their hotel room in the tops, and gone off wandering on his own. He's had to clean up, much to his distaste, and the neatness of his hair bothers him. As soon as he's out of Mum's sight, he ruffles at his wild curls to release them of the light pomade.
Where to terrorize today? Shaun finds drugs quick enough and a private corner to inject, inhale, snort, chug whatever he gets his hands on. He feels pleasantly fucked over, easing his way along the Strip and looking at buildings as he passes.
Then, it hits him. Vault 21. He hasn't visited there yet, has he? Not that he remembers. Maybe he can fuck around there for a while. He hears there's a different crowd.
So, Shaun pushes his way inside, shoulder-checking a rather fresh-looking gambler to pick his pocket as he does so. There's no "sorry" about the impact, just a short scoff and a shout of, "Watch where the fuck yer goin', tourist!" before he saunters into the lobby and gives a good look around. Oh, yeah, there were gonna be some easy pickings, here. He'd have a pocket full of stolen caps to dump into more chems faster than he could snap his fingers.
But, hey, what's this? A doughy looking kid, wide-eyed and excited, greeting people as they're led deeper into the vault.
Something about him screams, "perfect victim," and Shaun steps in close, hands resting on the back of his own head in an easy posture.
