21. Broken

Summary: A month has gone by and Butch is getting really sick of sneaking.

Author's Note: Please ignore Butch's bad typing. It hurts me too, but I doubt he's as much of a comma addict as I am. Also, he has a science skill of 30 – 100 so this scenario is totally plausible.

—0—

This was getting fucking ridiculous, Butch decided, staring at the back of Cynthia's head as Brotch droned on about something no one was ever going to need to know. She was right there—right fucking there—and yet god forbid he talk to her or it'd get back to the stupid doctor and all hell would break loose. And it certainly didn't help that her dad had her working so many clinic hours now she might as well be a nun for all the more they saw each other. And yeah, he could sort of see the point of the whole practice-and-you-won't-kill-somebody-later thing, but there was practicing and there was prison and the two things probably shouldn't look so goddamned similar.

Butch let his head fall with a heavy thunk to the desk, deciding that there was a good possibility he'd die of boredom before he turned twenty. But then, even figuring out when that would be was a goddamned trial because it depended on which birth certificate you were looking at—the real one his mom kept stashed away with his father's stuff or the fake one the Overseer had filed.

"Something you'd like to add, Mr. Deloria?" Brotch drawled, peering at him over the tops of his glasses.

In Christine's corner of the room, Butch heard somebody laugh and lifted his head from the desk with a monumental effort, thinking of all the things he'd like to add.

He'd like to add that this class was a joke and he was getting too damn old for this shit. He'd really like to add that the Overseer was a corrupt son of a bitch driving the vault even further into the ground and what kind of goddamned brainwashing was going on that nobody remembered anything except the shit the Overseer said you could remember? And while he was going around adding something, he'd damn well like to add that he wasn't some kind of axe-murdering rapist and that Cynthia was old enough to fuck whoever she goddamned wanted to.

"You know what?" he said, slamming a hand down on the desk. "Screw this shit. I'm outta here."

For a second, the room was dead quiet as he stood up and strode for the door. But then Mack pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit up, snapping Brotch into attention. Butch heard him shouting from the hallway—something about delinquents and contraband narcotics, but Paulie was already at his side, Mack sniggering as he strode out of the room after.

"Good move, Deloria," he said, punching him in the back as he strode past. "If I had to sit in Amata's stench cloud much longer, I was gonna hurl."

"Whatever."

Butch shrugged, pulling out his own cigarettes and feeling like a world class idiot. As if the doctor needed another reason to prove he was a walking felony. He'd be twice as hard on Cynthia now. Probably wouldn't let her step outside the goddamned office until she was thirty and turning into a goddamned clone of her…

And suddenly, Butch had a brilliant idea.

*

Cynthia stared at the projection Brotch was lecturing about, trying to pay attention but finding the idea of strangling Christine with her own entrails to be far more attractive. She was back there just yapping away and while Cynthia couldn't hear most of it, she'd heard her own name far too many times for comfort. That little bitch thought she was just queen of the fucking world. And everybody knew her mom was fucking around with the Overseer—or trying to anyway—but it wasn't like that was going to do anything. That son of a bitch didn't play favorites with his own daughter; there was no way he'd give extras to some whore down in C level.

A flashing light caught the corner of her eye and Cynthia stopped, staring down at her Pip-Boy as words flashed across the screen.

Hey baby, it scrolled. Check me out.

Cynthia bit the inside of her cheek and forced her eyes back up onto the screen. Butch was an idiot. A world class, grade-A idiot that had just given her father even more fodder for the Why Butch Fails as a Functioning Member of Society argument. But right now—if this wasn't some kind of virus everyone was reading—he was a fucking genius.

So… come here often?

Trying hard to keep her eyes on the screen, Cynthia ever so casually snuck a glance at her screen and then ever so casually snuck a glance at Freddie's screen in front of her.

Butch was a genius.

These things have a disabled program called an 'address locator' whatever the hell that is.

"Unless your father is paging you, Miss. Barlow," Brotch snapped, catching her attention. "You'll be tested on this tomorrow so I suggest you pay attention."

Cynthia rolled her eyes and looked back at the screen, trying to read the map of… some continent that didn't exist anymore, probably.

"Sorry, Mr. B."

I guess back when they made these things the program made sense. Whatever. You can type on it. That's the good thing.

Cynthia slipped her hand under the desk and started pushing buttons, wondering if Butch knew enough of Morse Code to understand I'm-going-to-fuck-your-brains-out-later-but-so-help-me-you'd-better-shut-up-now-before-I-kill-that-whore-Christine-for-saying-my-name-for-the-eighty-second-time-today. Apparently not, as the screen continued to scroll text and Christine continued to send her dirty looks while muttering something about Butch's taste in women—anything that moves, I swear.

So type something Igor. I'm hacked into your pip-boy so I can see it.

Right, so… the map of… Europe had a lot of little places on it before… it didn't have a lot of little places anymore. And there was… a thing… called the United Nations that lived… in… Europe… before it didn't…

The useless button to the left of the screen will bring up the keyboard now. It projects though so watch it.

Using all her skills at filing prescriptions into the computer while eavesdropping on her father's conversations, Cynthia brought up the keyboard projection and typed as quickly with one hand as she possibly could while still staring at the screen.

I'm in class, you dorkface, and Brotch is already giving me the death eye so knock it off.

Years of space invaders though had made Butch a fairly fast typist. After he finished laughing at her expense—and she'd known him long enough to know when he was laughing at her expence—the message wasn't long in coming.

Come on. Even you have to admit this is pure genius. Now you won't die of boredom when your dad signs you up for the new nunnery.

Cynthia started to type and froze, realizing that Brotch had just asked a question and was scanning the room for an answer. Thankfully, though, the ever chatty Christine was a more appealing target than the geeky doctor's kid. After all, it was far more fun to pick on somebody you knew would never be wielding a scalpel in your vicinity.

Look. You've got fifteen minutes before Brotch lets us out if he's not so pissed with your little performance he keeps us here forever. I'll meet you in the old access tunnel.

Christine failed miserably in answering whatever question it was Brotch was smirking about and had to submit to Amata's overwhelming genius when it came to useless facts about long dead societies.

What about Stanly?

Overwhelming genius that was taking an awful long time to explain something that could not possibly require that much explanation.

Well we won't fuck there then. We need to find somewhere my dad doesn't know about. The hideout's the first place he'll look for me when I don't show up for clinic.

Cynthia glanced at the clock on the wall, willing Amata and Brotch both to stop talking and just run away together already. There was so much sheer geekish sexual tension flooding the room right now that—

Cynthia stopped, an idea occurring to her.

Butch—how sober is Ellen right now, do you figure? she typed, grinning like an idiot as Brotch finally, finally started to wind the lecture down. Because there's no way in hell my dad will think to look there.