Colonel Denver Abernethy - Fort Gulf - Afternoon, October 17th

Denver looked over the Crimson Caravan manifest with careful eyes. The weekly re-supply orders were nearly always the same but years in command had trained him to be ever vigilant for any discrepancies in requisition. Such inconsistencies could be evidence that the quartermaster should be reprimanded for negligence or even investigated for theft. It had happened at Camp McCarran and at Forlorn Hope during the war with the Legion. Swift and brutal punishments ensured that such illicit activities were rarely conducted under Denver’s command.

Satisfied with the manifest, he signed his approval and handed it back to the energetic caravan master, Matt Levi, who had been pacing in front of the desk. Matt had been a sergeant in the NCR and even served under Denver during the Mojave campaign. But when Matt’s enlistment papers were up the man took his leave and joined up with the Crimson Caravan.

“Well Colonel that takes care of that. We should be finished unloading within the next hour or so.” Matt smiled and rolled the manifest up and stuck into his trousers. He had to fight the instinct to salute his old commanding officer. Even five years later it was a habit.

“I appreciate it, Sergeant.” Denver rose to his feet and shook Matt’s hand, slipping him some carefully folded NCR bills while doing so.With a practiced smoothness Matt put the money into his chest pocket and started to leave. Once at the door he paused, looked about the hallway outside then turned around and shut the door.

“I got news from the east.”

Denver raised an eyebrow. “How far east?”

“Close to Two-Sun. One of my contacts has a scout in the area. They radioed in last week and I met with them two days ago in Freeside. The Legion is on the move.”

“We’ve heard similar tales as well over the last few years. All of them have turned out to be hearsay and rumor. Lucius and Lanius have maintained their hold upon the Legion ever since Caesar's death. They’ve been content with subjugating their own people and ruling unopposed. What makes you think this is any different?”

“Because of their oracle.”

“Oracle?”

“A soothsayer. A mystic. Advisors to the Legate.”

“The Legion has had its share of priests and death speakers since the loss of their founder. How does this one change it?”

Matt shrunk slightly from Denver and fiddled about in his pocket like a child returning stolen property. “This is what I was given.”

Denver looked into Matt’s hand. It was a coin, simply made but immediately identifiable as a Legion Denari. Pressed upon its surface was the image of a large eye, arrows crossed behind it and small lines like rays of a sun framed the eye like lashes. Denver didn’t recognize it. He took the coin and flipped it over, the reverse side held a profile of Caesar. That was a familiar and known face.

“This looks freshly minted,” said Denver. Matt nodded in agreement. “How long has this been in circulation?”

Matt shrugged, “Six months, maybe a year? I’m not certain but every trader East of Flagstaff is using them.”

Denver grunted in response. He turned the coin over in his hand and looked out the window of his office down to the front gate. There was some commotion as a convoy arrived and was being searched by the security detail. The Followers of the Apocalypse had answered his call for assistance. He had already been nervous about meeting the doctor sent by the Followers but the news of the Legion unsettled him even more. He looked down at the coin and into the eye and rubbed his thumb over the surface. An oracle powerful enough to be connected with Caesar on their own currency? Now that was news worth considering.

“The scout. Did they give an idea of the mobilization?”

“Nothing specific sir, but they did say it looked like they were preparing for war.”

Denver turned back to face Matt “How so?”

“They said the furnaces glow hot day and night. Slaves toil to bring in the autumn harvests regardless of the weather. All men of fighting age have been rounded up and set into companies for training and armament.” Matt paused for a moment “They’re coming back sir.”

“And so we must be ready for them.” Denver smiled briefly at Matt “I’ll send a scouting party out to confirm and keep an eye on the borderlands. In the meantime I suggest you make your own preparations.”

Matt walked back out of the room and left Denver alone. The colonel sunk into the seat at his desk and stared at the coin in front of him. He knew better than to hope for a different outcome but he couldn;t help but feel as though Matt had spoken true. If the Legion were to return now they would find a Mojave bursting with people and profits but weak and divided in strength. It would be a slaughter unless Denver requisitioned reinforcements. But still, doubtful that the president would believe him, even more doubtful was the Van-Graffs allowing Denver to become the defender of the Mojave. They would use the chaos to replace him, put in their own yes-man. Or worse, strike a deal with the Legion, sacrifice Vegas to save California. Denver chuckled, he knew the Legion well enough to know that bartering with them was like bartering with a coyote. They may take what was given, but they will always return for more.

There was a knock at the door, Denver called them in. It was a young private. She saluted him and stood at attention.

“Doctor Chez Nathan from the Followers has arrived and requested an audience sir.”

Denver stood and slid the coin under some papers on his desk. He straightened his uniform and combed his hair then sat down.

“Send him in please.”

As the doctor entered the room Denver stood again from behind his desk, hands behind his back.

“Welcome to Fort Golf, Dr. Nathan.” He held out his hand for a shake. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I want to begin our conversation with an acknowledgement of the resources and time your organization has spent in getting you here. Given our sorted histories with one another I am deeply appreciative that you all have answered our call for aid. I hope that today can be the start of a new relationship between the 3rd Infantry and the Followers.”

Kedi & Sentinel Irving - Black Mountain - After Midnight, October 18th
( A collaboration with @crimson paladin)

Kedi breathed heavily as their guide trotted out from the radio station towards the figures. His finger fluttered around the trigger of his pistol. It was hard to see them in the black of night but the passing clouds above occasionally gave a glimmer of reflected moonlight off their metal bodies. Kedi wasn’t sure if they were armored men or robots. Even at this distance Kedi could taste the acidic tingle in the air as their energy weapons hummed with power. One of the armored men stepped forth and spoke in hushed voices with the man Kedi had been following.

The young prisoner had said his people could provide aid for the wounded Khans if they would help him get to the top of Black Mountain. It was time for him to make good on his promise. Kedi looked at Daniel, slumped against the wall just inside the station. His face was drawn and pale, his mouth hung open. In the dark Kedi couldn’t even tell if he was still breathing.

With a whistling buzz of small thrusters came a strange spherical creature. A robot that Kedi had never seen before. The Khans around him tightened and one of them leveled a rifle at the metal ball. Then came the crackle of radio static and a brief message was heard from a speaker which took up the majority of the front of the robot.

"I am Sentinel Irving of the Brotherhood of Steel, and I would like to extend my thanks to the Khans for this act. You may not have known it, but this was a high-value prisoner, and his rescue is of great benefit to our organization and a considerable setback for Colonel Abernathy and his superiors. As a token of my appreciation, please accept this Eyebot. It can make deliveries, serve as a highly perceptive sentry, or simply play the radio, and when needed, can serve as a line of communication with us. And feel free to subject it to your gang's initiation rites, because this particular model is quite durable."

Kedi’s eyes narrowed and the sentinel’s attempt at humor was lost on him. He looked past the robot, the figures were slipping back into the darkness below the summit. Pain and anger soaked his mind and Kedi barked out against them, batting the eyebot away with his pistol.

“You promised us help!” He shouted at the Brotherhood members. “You said your people could help mine. Do it!” He stood just a few feet away, the Brotherhood squad had turned to face him. Kedi lowered himself, weapons at the ready. It had been a blunder but Kedi had never been prepared for delicate negotiations. He was a raider, a drug-runner and far too often a killer. Not a diplomat or a leader.

The robot paused as the Sentinel considered his next words. If the "help" they wanted was weapons or ammo, they'd likely not react so strongly. Judging by the tone and anger of the Khan suggested that the "help" he wanted was pretty serious- perhaps medical assistance or aid against the NCR. The Sentinel looked over at a radar monitor next to the radio, keyed to the Eyebot's sensors- if the NCR had pursued the Khans, they'd need to act quickly.

"...I see. I presume that the Knight you rescued offered you assistance in exchange for escorting him to safety. What matter of help do you require, Khan?"

Kedi turned his attention to the eyebot as a voice crackled to life through its audio emitters. He moved closer to the robot with the slinking motion of a stalking cat. He brought the pommel of his knife down hard upon the top of the eye-bot and it jolted as its thrusters re-adjusted and moved it out of arm's reach.

"You can see me?" Kedi asked, his eyes wide with pain and bewilderment. He was close enough that the visual light-receptors of the eye-bot could pick up the tattoos that covered his forearms. So numerous and uniform in their patterns they gave Kedi the appearance of scaley reptilian arms. His long hair had been braided many times over and tied back in a small onion-like bun at the base of his skull. He lowered his weapons and glanced over at the Brotherhood members. Some held their ground, others continued their descent. Panic welled up in Kedi's chest and he instinctively called out to them before returning his attention to the hovering eye-bot.

"We're shot up real good. We need a doctor and fast."

The Sentinel looked at the grainy, black-and-white monitor that conveyed the Eyebot's visual sensors, looking over the Khan and his companions.

"Very well, Khan, give me a moment,"

Irving pushed the microphone away and pulled up another one, one linked to a radio.

"Change of plans, Head Paladin," a portable radio sounded from Hardin's belt. "Send Scribe Pellin back up to the Khans, they were wounded in a skirmish with the NCR and are requesting medical attention."

"Sentinel, is this really necessary," Hardin asked, holding the radio in his power armored hand. "They knew the risks when they attacked the NCR."

"Knight Keyes promised them aid in exchange for their rescue, and with the NCR attempting to consolidate its control, we need resilient allies on the surface."

"Yes, Elder," Hardin spoke, staving off the urge to crush the radio. He did not like this- the Khans were untrustworthy troublemakers in his eyes, little better than the other raider gangs. However, orders were orders.

"Scribe Pellin," he barked, looking at the much smaller figure. "The Sentinel has ordered you to head back up and given the Khans medical aid."

The scribe nodded wordlessly and headed back up the mountain to where the Khan leader and Eyebot were. He raised his goggles and began to open the myriad pouches on his uniform, revealing stimpaks, bandages, forceps, and various other medical tools.

"Scribe Pellin, Brotherhood of Steel," he formally introduced himself to the Khan. "I've been ordered to provide you and yours with medical aid."

Kedi motioned for the scribe to come inside the radio station and showed him Daniel. The Khan had lost so much blood that he looked dead already. Pellin knew that the Khan wouldn’t make it to sunup. He performed triage on the small group of raiders. He administered a stimpak to accelerate clotting and reduce the pain to all the Khans except Daniel.. Kedi kept insisting that the scribe help the wounded Khan and Pellin had to level with the man that Daniel wasn’t going to survive. He had lost too much blood and Pellin’s time would be better spent helping those who were not so critically wounded. Tears welled at the corner of Kedi’s eyes and he blinked them away. He wanted to unleash his fury at the situation on the scribe. Make Pellin feel the pain he suffered in his heart. But he felt a coolness in his body and his breathing came more regularly. At once a heavy fatigue settled upon him. He crouched low near the door and set his back against the wall. Kedi watched as Pellin stitched up his warriors, his blinking became slower until he slipped into an exhausted unconscious sleep.

Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Morning, November 18th

Pastime at the Meld was an oddly tense affair. Amber slouched in her indoor rocking chair, threading a needle across tight fabric. Temporarily relieved of serving the homeless, Charlotte casually flipped through the lunch section of her recipe booklet, attempting to utilize her remaining supplies to the utmost. Isabel, neither cook nor craftswoman, hurriedly scribbled a spreadsheet onto a blank page, which would hopefully supplement the trigonometric reference material she'd forgotten on her journey over. The singular noise was an axe's thwacking outside.

Amber intermittently glanced at Isabel. For a fortnight, she'd wanted to reminisce about the Failfest revelries with a companion. Isabel would throw a fit if she discovered that they'd seceded in jest. Floyd (perhaps rightfully so) didn't assign Isabel any excursions, so she busied herself in the kitchen, eternally within earshot of the homestead's every corner. Apparently that was a habit of Vault 48's queens, as Charlotte's station was the table's opposite end.

"Charlotte," Isabel inquired. "One plus the squared tangent is the squared cosecant?"

"Secant," Charlotte responded. "You divide both sides of the Pythagorean theorem by the square of the cosine."

"That's what I did," Isabel countered, considerably calmer than her reputation allowed.

"No, cosine to the negative first is the secant."

Isabel rechecked her formula. "Funny, the way that works. Thanks!" She sounded eerily cheerful.

"No problem," Charlotte assured. "Happened to me plenty."

The men were similarly useless. Bradley forbade disturbance during his outdoors woodworking, despite the plethora he caused. Daniel didn't invite Amber on his frequent outings. He likely thought they didn't intrigue her enough to warrant accompaniment, though she longed for anytime alone together, no matter the boredom. The only individual who more often left the abode was Justin, commonly to drink, waste caps, and bring back surprisingly competent gossip and negotiation positions. And so Amber was abandoned to cherish the pleasantries herself, her cool frustration channeled into her artwork. Charlotte had taught her to cross stitch, and the student had quite handily surpassed the master.

Daniel entered the living space, his newsboy's cap displaying his intentions to leave. "Hey, sweetheart, how's it going?"

Amber smiled, her teeth on full display, her eyes concealing her musings. "Fine, honey! And you?"

"Just swell, knowing that you're happy," he announced, his earnest goodwill nonetheless an unintentional lie. He approached the wall of crafts and perused the contents with a keen eye. "Say, I'm headed to market, and I need something to trade. How much of my allowance do you want for these three potholders?" He pointed out his quarry to his fiance.

"A kiss," she stated bluntly.

Daniel was taken aback. Still, he helped Amber to her feet and lovingly complied. "You drive a hard bargain, Miss."

"Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad," she quipped. "Care for another?"

"You're making us sick," Charlotte interrupted. Bradley's thwacks continued at a steady volume. "Get a room, or stop it."

"Protocol permits displays of affection in dining, sleeping, and similar relaxation quarters, in manners that don't disrupt urgent or vital duties," Isabel denoted.

"Like you'd know, Isabel. You've never had a boyfriend," Charlotte commented.

"I read the manual. Haven't you?"

The romantic mood long since deceased, the Nine of Clubs squeezed the hand of the Nine of Hearts, collected his recently purchased goods, and departed forthwith with a smile.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Noontime, November 18th

Having reached his destination, Danny doffed his cap and lowered it to his heart. He felt remorse over lying to his girlfriend, but he understood the consequences of clouded judgment. No, he'd make his decisions alone. Well, not completely.

He stood patiently at the doors. With gifted artwork no longer a concern, he better appreciated the architecture: the faux pointed arches, the tasteless titanesses above the main hall. What felt familiar were the patrons rushing past him to enter.

He flagged down someone who looked official. "Pardon me, I seek an audience with Fa-" he shook his head, "with Don Dominic Omerta. If you'd-" He didn't complete his sentence when his contact walked away. He realized that, unlike a castle, he required no permission to enter, only to approach the king. He donned his hat again and marched inside.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Reception Area - Noontime, November 18th

A stranger to this type of establishment, he was shocked by the gaudiness of the facility. A Vaulter like him comprehended practicality and simple pleasures, and this gold and red behemoth far outreached his scope. He stumbled around trying to gather his bearings before realizing the receptionist was just to his left.

Daniel sheepishly approached the desk. "Howdy! Um, apologies. What's your name?"

The lady had clearly remembered him from the prior debacle. "Clarice. You're that yokel leader, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am he. Greetings, Clarice. I hoped to have the audience of Don Omerta, if at all possible."

"For what purpose?"

Daniel swallowed, doffing his hat again. "Advice, for certain discreet matters of state." From his experience, the rich and powerful desired naught else than to be considered rich, powerful, and wise. He didn't intend to exploit that truism; honestly, he was desperate for stable counsel. Henry was no longer around to mentor him; Henry was in fact responsible for this kerfuffle. Daniel entrusted nobody from the Vault with the fate of the colony, and some schmuck would lead him astray. Watts was a refined but untested man of culture. Dominic knew the price of kingship. Floyd's coffers couldn't afford it, but he knew those who could.

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah

Daniel swallowed, doffing his hat again. "Advice, for certain discreet matters of state."

Clarice narrowed her eyes at the caravaner. She still didn't like him, not after the chaos he caused in her well-organized lobby, but…it ultimately wasn't up to her. She'd just have to grin and bear it.

"As it happens…" she sighed, "Don Dominic was expecting you to come calling. He said that whenever you showed up, I was to send you up. He's currently on the mezzanine…."

---

Clarice led Daniel through the main floor debauchery of Gomorrah before climbing a set of stairs and ascending to the mezzanine level. Here she knocked three times on a door, before an Omerta-made man opened it. The well-dressed thug looked cross for a moment as he eyed the pair.

“Mr. Floyd to see the Don,” She offered simply in explanation.

The thug’s face softened and he nodded in understanding, stepping aside and allowing the Daniel in.

Dominic was seated at a card table with another dapper-looking gangster seated across from him. An array of playing cards had been splayed out in front of them in two distinct neat ‘fans’. The pair of them were taking turns swapping cards and purposely laying them into their own respective groupings.

Behind Dominic, an immaculately dressed and of course white-gloved Marjorie looked down at her now-husband's card playing with a mixture of confusion and interest. A gold ring with a diamond the size of a sugar-cube sat squarely on her finger.

“Slow down Domy-dear, I can’t understand what’s happening when you two move so quick,” Marjorie pouted.

“Ah honey let us play the game eh? Don’t worry I’ll teach you all the rules later…” Dominic replied as he took a puff on a big cigar clasped between his fingers.

“He might need some help at the rate he’s losing….” Dominic’s rival player quipped.

“Quiet youse…” Dominic chuckled, “I still got a chance here.”

The Omerta thug that had let Daniel in cleared his throat audibly, drawing attention to himself and the newcomer.

“Apologies Don….Mr. Floyd to see you.”

“Ahhh Mr. Floyd, a pleasure my friend..” Dominic said as he, still seated, offered his hand, “Good to see you in person finally. Mikey why don’t you vamoose and let Mr. Floyd here take your seat. You won anyway…”

Dominic’s card-playing opponent tipped his hat with a grin, “Better luck next time Dom.”

“Ah get outta here you cheat,” Dominic fired back with a chuckle. He then ushered Daniel to sit in the open seat. Behind him Marjorie placed her hands on her husband's shoulders and gently began to rub them,

“Mr. Floyd,” Marjorie said with a glowing look, “Allow me to say that The White Gloves greatly appreciate the food stocks you sent. It was dreadful what happened with the recent flooding….those poor people. I felt so sorry for them…living in a slum to begin with and then having it all washed away….dreadful…simply dreadful. When my Dominic here suggested our families sent aid…I was all too willing to open our larders. It is the duty of the privileged to help the less fortunate, is it not? And the greater the privilege, the greater the responsibility of course.”

“Indeed” Dominic added, giving Daniel a wink and a sly grin that said, Just go along with it bud.

“So Mr. Floyd, or can I call you Daniel?” Dominic continued, leaning in, "What can ol’ Dom do for you?”

"We followed Henry Hinshaw, and he respected us. He upheld what traditions didn't disturb our ascension. The whole host of dwellers, from lowly Nines to lofty Aces, labored in harmony according to a singular vision. We entered a Golden Age, the scope of which surpassed that of our prewar ancestors! We obeyed his commands, for they led to prosperity.

"The Aces concurred with his dictates, always accepting with grace their underlings' sacrifice. His final testament relinquishes a fraction of their privileges. Suddenly, the madman has crossed the line! How swiftly they betray his legacy with their authority at stake. Those who cannot comprehend loss of power should never have been granted it. My beloved sister is neither first nor last in the extensive annals of family lost to the Vault. I'll bury her with the card she so covets, and mourn recognizing that the harsh nuclear wilderness cannot abide dotards. Even amidst this apocalypse, we are glory bound! Aces Down; Jacks are Wild!"

"In our storied history, we weren't given understanding of these slips of laminated paper. Our forefathers carved meaning from the void. Unchallenged, universal influence in an individual's hands was destined for failure. Randomly selected Aces would bear that burden together. Their undeserved nature would grant them humility, sparing them from addiction to their status. Their varied lineage and expertise would stifle the dynasties and cliques that hobbled empires of old. Whether brilliantly planned or accidentally fashioned, that system had held for two full centuries by the time Henry Hinshaw assumed control. Hinshaw understood this and honored it.

"And so we cherish our heritage and shun would-be tyrants. I adore my older sister and so pity her. She blindly embraced an ideology which seeks to corrupt her. I hope whatever unblemished remnant she harbors survives the coming onslaught. Otherwise, I'll remain steadfast in my duty, which far eclipses me and my woes. A dozen generations stand with our cause! The Cards Count!"

Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Don Dominic openly welcomed Daniel. He called Floyd his friend. He dismissed a reputable underling to allocate room. Such hospitality from New Vegas's elite unnerved the expedition commander. He half expected Vaulter on the club menu. He accepted the boss's hand, instinctively matching its firmness. Marjorie's recognition of the Meld's efforts partially but insufficiently explained the generosity. It alleviated Danny's concerns enough to allow the response, "It was an honor; no thanks necessary." The gemstone on that baroness's ring finger could focus quite a potent laser.

Daniel swallowed as he took the warm seat. "Daniel... Yes, Daniel works, apologies. My best friends call me 'Nines,' if you'd prefer." His trance vanished. Strangers in strange worlds couldn't afford to be caught in stupor. Technically, he represented an organization on par with the Omertas. Regardless of appearance, this was amicable parley between equals. Then why did it feel so lopsided?

Endemic of the imbalance, Danny produced three handcrafted potholders and placed them on the table. "Prior to talking business, I've brought these humble offerings. I wanted to bestow a fancier gift. As your wife implied, caps are hard to come by nowadays. Congratulations, by the way. Rest assured that once capital flows again, you'll witness a wedding present worthy of ancient royalty. Meanwhile, please accept these labors of love, sewn and stuffed by my own fiance."

He smiled hesitantly. He sought private advice, yet made men surrounded him. Leisure seekers reveled within earshot. Daniel lacked the charisma to suggest that Omerta move elsewhere. He certainly wouldn't ask him if he trusted his spouse. Daniel wasn't overly fond of public torture and execution. Ergo, this scenario must suffice. He pulled a colorless photograph from his pocket. A brief glimpse reminded him of home, well, his birthplace. The Meld was his newfound land. "I request no favors, merely wisdom from the wise."

He displayed the picture before the crime lord's view, pointing out key individuals. "This is our Women's Choir. My precious Amber smiles in the middle there. Beside her is Charlotte; behind her is Isabel. I figured I'd introduce them, since they're all in town." He hoped that the few blurred pipes and cramped background wouldn't reveal the chorus's underground location in Vault 48.

He drew Omerta's attention to the left flank, where a couple conventionally attractive, nearly identical blondes with pigtails had arms around each other's shoulders towards the ensemble's rear. "These are sisters Faye and Eve Cannon." Eve had slightly lighter hair and darker skin; Daniel reckoned a personal touch would clarify matters. "Our faction head, my mentor, assigned the former to rule in his stead when he passed away earlier this month. The current interregnum disagrees with his choice. The latter appears to be their champion.

"They're equally competent by my account," Daniel stated. He paused to reflect. "Eve's more intelligent, but Faye's savvier with people. In earnest, I just realized that now. Frankly, we'd benefit greatly from either management, but we're presently locked in bitter civil engagement. Neither will tolerate joint leadership, despite my attempts to reconcile.

"Eve while younger represents disciplined tradition. She'd integrate us into the central network. Instant communication. Efficient transport. Faye embodies the hopeful expansion of eras past. She's discussed personally her grandiose construction project proposals to expand our headquarters. She might sink us in pursuit, but infrastructure is welcome."

He relaxed in his chair, his discharge of information therapeutic, albeit overwhelming. "Both demanded my support. I gave none. Without a chance to grieve, I can't make decisions of this scale. I've seen your handling of flood relief. You navigate murky situations like making lunch. What would you do in my shoes? I have additional material, if you need."

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah Mezzanine

Dominic took the gracious gift offered by Daniel or “Nines” as he called himself. The potholders were a quaint gift, but none-the-less welcome. The symbolism of the gift was more far important than the practicality of it, and Dominic had certainly gotten stranger gifts from various peoples. He once received a mummified mole rat paw from a friendly Zion tribal shaman who claimed it was “good medicine” and would “bring him luck.”

“Thank you my friend, sincerely,” Dominic said as he handed them to Marjorie.

“Oh aren’t these just darling….” Marjorie crooned as she looked them over, “How very whimsical!”

Dominic then listened intently as Daniel explained his current predicament. Apparently he was having some internal misgivings about how to deal with a couple of heir-apparents within his organization. Two women, both very capable, vying for power. One with the backing of the former leadership, the other with powerful friends: neither willing to give up their ultimate ambition. It was a tale as old as time. Even before they were Omertas, Dominic had seen this scenario time and time again within the old Slitherkin tribe.

He noticed Daniel looking nervously around at the other people seated on the Mezzanine, most were lost in their own reverlies, but he assumed this matter must be a delicate one indeed for his guest and he wasn’t comfortable have an audience: even an inatentive one.

Dominic first turned to Marjorie with a look, and Marjorie nodded in agreement. Business was business, she understood.

“Well I must be off,” She announced suddenly, “ Mortimer is throwing another one of his little soirees later. He’s introducing one of his new dishes….quite the affair you understand. A pleasure to meet you Mr. Floyd. Please stop by the Ultra Luxe anytime you wish, we’d love to have you for dinner.”

With appropriate flourish, Marjorie then left the Mezzanine.

Once she was gone, Dominic raised a hand and snapped a finger. The other guests at the remaining tables immediately stopped their conversations, stood up, carefully pushed their chairs in, and then quietly filed out of the mezzanine without a word. The Omerta thug doorman was the last to leave, and closed the door on his way out.

Now Daniel and Dominic were alone, and the real conversation could begin.

“I have a suggestion for you Nines,” Dominic said after a few moments of silence between the pair, “But I’m afraid you probably aren’t going to like it. That being said, you did come all the way to the King of Sin for advice, so I’m going to assume you’re looking for an answer that one of your fellow compatriots never would think to offer up: or dare to.”

Dominic leaned back in his chair and gave a shrug, “You just explained to me in sufficient detail the strengths and weaknesses of both these women, and what your people might gain from the leadership of each. I may be just an old crook, but it seems to me that the answer to your question is ‘neither’. Neither will ever be happy under the rule of the other, and will no doubt cement distrust and rebellion that could cause fractures within your group. What you need is someone who can take the strengths of both, and blend them appropriately for the betterment of your people. You need a supreme leader at the top, not a pair of bickering sisters unwilling, or unable, to seek compromise.”

“Allow me to lend a sword to your little Gordian Knot…” Dominic gave a devilish grin,

“Have you considered your own claim to power, Nines?”

Vault 48: The Jack's Rebellion

"They engage the generator!" rung across the corridor.

Faye recognized that voice: Walter, Ten of Spades and a reliable confidante. She'd scheduled an assembly with her faction amongst the bunks; that information must have leaked. As she scanned the sleeping quarters, her fellow Vaulters' faces reflected her concerns. The placid council retrieved armaments with a cool vigor. She handpicked the five readiest: "Doris, Uriah, Carol, Kyle, and Eric. Follow me. The rest of you, assemble a replacement wave."

"Damn, my shotgun's jammed," Eric lamented.

"So you four will accompany me," Faye addressed the remnant. She obtained her own pistol and headed out. The radicals' single power station lay tragically a few paces from the front lines. Their only margin was a minuscule strength center which Walt guarded. She hoped he bore the tenacity to withstand a proper assault until the cavalry relieved him.

Faye stopped at the generator's entry and ushered her vanguard in. The thunderous shock of emptied cartridges reverberated throughout the halls. Tardy stragglers occupied the preceding hydroponics garden, anxious for their chance at glory. A pixie cut brunette marched through the doorway; Faye nabbed her collar and dragged her back. "You are dismissed, Nancy."

Nancy held up her laser rifle. "Granted, I wasn't the most competent operator, but I managed the circuitry here. I want to defend my workplace!"
"It's not that," Faye explained. "You turned nineteen a month ago. I won't expend you."
"So what? You're 24!" Nancy retorted. "I order you, from a King to a Jack!"

The distant thump on the ground signaled Walter's final act of valor. In olden times, Faye couldn't refuse Nancy's command, but rank mattered little nowadays. Far too strong to resist, Faye pried her underling from her energy weapon. "My decision is resolute. Paul, confine her."

"Yes, Ma'am," the Nine of Diamonds affirmed. He wrangled Nancy's arm behind her and pressed her against the garden's confines as his commanding officer vanished into the next enclosure. "Remain still, Nan. Don't muck it up again for the professionals." Nancy resisted for a moment but limply resigned. Confused about Nancy's sudden submission, Paul remained wary of breakout. Amidst the sounds and shakes of conflict, his keen senses detected not resistance but a slight tink, tinking.

He loosened his grip and, looking down the hall, relinquished completely. His face grew pale, and words escaped him. He unholstered his revolver and directed it with trembling hands. Finally, he summoned his nerve to yaup: "Radscorpion!"

Faye heard battle cries before her and shouts of terror behind her. An Ace assaulter tromped in and identified a nook within which he hid from bullet fire. Eager to calm the storm, Faye boldly stomped forward, grabbed her adversary out of his cover by his shirt, and tossed him into the dumbbells outside. Her allies' supporting projectiles kept her immune. Overwhelming force pushed the Aces' minions safely past the weight room. "Hold!" she commanded her supporters as she investigated the rear.

Calmness she would have. Upon return, the entire hydroponics section was dead or dying, including the beast. Clutching a baseball sized hole in her gut, Nan staggered towards her leader. Her former captor had died protecting her, judging from his lifeless corpse encompassed by chitin claws.

Faye reached out her arms, and Nancy fell into them. As the King of Spades was lowered, Faye analyzed her for hope of potential salvation. She found none. Her sibling Eve's faint soprano arose from beyond the weight center. "What's the issue? Do you request truce?"
"Scorpion!" Faye announced.
A moment's silence. "You have three minutes' respite to attend to the wounded. Afterwards, we shall advance to occupy the reactor."

Faye grit her teeth. This disaster handed the opposition an insurmountable military and numbers advantage. A secure monopoly of power could halt any food production and water purification systems in the facility. Her cause in this civil war was doomed to suffocate to extinction.

"Flee this place," Nancy weakly interrupted Faye's musings. "Henry's legacy is lost without you."
Faye smiled gently. "And go where, Nancy? The Aces control the elevators, and the outdoors is wilderness and Green."
Nancy pointed above her. "Use the-" she coughed, "the vents. You're thin enough to traverse them, and they lead to open air."
Faye's gaze followed Nancy's direction. Wishful thinking, but not altogether implausible. She shook her head. "I should care for you first."
A wheeze prevented Nancy from hearing Faye's protest. "See? Handy advice. If just for that, my life was worthwhile, right?" She briefly flashed a grin. Her countenance slackened, and her muscles went limp.

Uriah appeared beside her, his heavy flamethrower luminous with heat. "She speaks truth, you know. Try the Vegas Meld. Floyd was equally Hinshaw's apprentice. If not support, you'll at least find compassion and haven."
Faye's fallen tears soaked Nancy's dress. "That her sacrifice not be vanity. What leeway can you provide?"
Uriah shrugged. "Eve adores negotiation. Possibly an hour. That failing, I have a flamer. Half that."
Faye nodded. "Recall Doris and Kyle. Some parts of me can't fit in the vent otherwise."
Uriah chuckled. "Yeah, that'll be quite the squeeze. I'd love to learn how the hijinks played out, but I probably won't survive to bid you safe journeys. With that, instead, adieu." He disappeared. "Eve! Fancy a parley?"

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

[Charisma: 7]
[Speech: 60]
Success!

Marjorie had departed when Danny responded, "Indeed, a pleasure to... Have me for dinner, yes..."

Danny refrained from dropping his jaw, but his wide eyes betrayed unfocused panic. Physically, the don exposed himself. On a whim, the loose acquaintance might hurdle the table and strangle Omerta, beheading the criminal syndicate by the time security reacted. Impossible, of course; the notion dodged Danny's mind entirely. Psychologically, a handful of brisk quips from the "King of Sin" paralyzed the Nine of Clubs in equal portions trepidation and contemplation. What mastery. The grizzled rogue master's secret to prosperity was readily apparent.

Daniel blinked to refresh his mental faculties, which sounded logical alarms. "No, this is ridiculous. What, I waltz in and announce my dominance? We don't operate the radio speakers; my buddy Kyle's exclusively safeguarded that since..." Daniel paused. Kyle was an old comrade, partial to neither Cannon. He was likely coerced out of necessity, not fanaticism. He'd implement anything Nines proposed.

"But I'd require leverage," Floyd countered himself. "I manufactured stimpaks. They wouldn't permit me near something as vital as..." Thomas was Amber's brother, Daniel's soon to be in-law. He alone comprehended the pipe network's dizzying schematics. If he sabotaged the system, discovery would last days; repair, years. He was overly protective of his sister, and would obey her every plea. Amber was similarly loyal to Danny, so by proxy Nines controlled the hydraulics.

"Desperate folk come out shooting, and we've garnered a mighty arsenal over the centuries," he considered. "A well positioned frontal ambush ought to mitigate that. I'd need twenty armed men at minimum, and the Meld can field six." He instinctively relaxed, perusing the ceiling in his calculations. "On second thought, it wouldn't take excessive effort to switch the locks on the armory closet, certainly not with an insider."

The Gomorrah was unusually serene. "Shit," Danny remarked. He never cussed. He glanced at Dominic, recalling the scenario in which he'd placed himself. Turns out he did possess a favor to ask of the crime lord. "Sir, I'm not excessively fond of indebtedness. I'd like to earn what favors you bestow. I'll allocate space in my schedule to ensure it. My price is a week's usage of a couple dozen experienced soldiers, and two hundred gallons of freshwater. You'd score a valuable ally in exchange, and your pick of the finer elements of our coffers, even after the square trade of labor." Vault 48 famously had no allocated storage area, but his compatriots had garments and weapons to spare.

He cocked his noggin as his superego resumed ownership. "Wait, why do I crave authority now? I didn't desire this prior. I've no grand machinations!" He focused his attention to a nit on a nearby wall. "But it's possible..."

Sister Genetta Williams – Aces Theater – Early Afternoon, November 13th

Genetta shifted on her stool and adjusted the microphone on the stand in front of her. Her eyes scanned the audience. Lunch hour was always a slow affair at the Aces, but Genetta had never cared about crowds. She’d never harboured illusions about being a musician, had no desire to be part of the biz. She simply loved being around music, and making it.

Tommy Torini of the Aces Theater was one of the few impresarios grounded enough to get amateur acts from the wrong side of the street up on his stage occasionally. And the Tops was the only casino in the Strip that Genetta could enter regularly without wanting to enter a decontamination chamber afterwards.

There were advantages to being in the heart of the Strip, of course. There were things Sister Genetta learned here that were useful to her mission. Many of the Followers, especially the most learned members, were antisocial, and did not care for the nightlife. Those who did enjoy nights on the town preferred Outer Vegas and Freeside. Even the few Followers who were wealthy enough to patronise the Strip found it distasteful. It represented the worst of New Vegas’ inegalitarianism.

But the Lord had commanded his disciples to take His light into dark places.

Now, Sister Genetta’s eyes scanned the half-filled room, and settled on someone she hadn’t seen around for a while. There’s a gal I need to talk to, she thought.

Genetta cleared her throat, spoke into the microphone. “I wanna thank y’all for comin’ tonight, and bein’ patient with an old preachin’ gal. I told y’all I ain’t got the best voice. I didn’t have no teacher, don’t have no natural talent. But I was raised in a home where every one of us sang. I know y’all came up to have a good time, not to hear no sermons. So I hope this rusty old voice of mine weren’t too harsh on yer ears.

“Some of y’all know that history’s a passion of mine. Seems pretty natural, I guess, since we’re livin’ in the end times. I suppose when the world’s ended, history’s all any of us have left. But it was music that really took me into other times and places.

“See, when ye learn a song, ye gotta get inside the head of the person what wrote it. You gotta find the musician’s voice. That means knowin’ the language, the story, the culture that produced that very song. There’s a whole world of history in a single lyric, the story of an entire people in one ballad.

“Now my last song for this evenin’s from long before the War. Like all the best songs, it’s both specific and universal. It’s about a man what left his home, because his people were bein’ persecuted there. Some folks says that in one of the Republic’s many other wars, before the Great War, the Nation was divided over the right to keep slaves.

“Anyhow, we may not understand how it was to live back then. But many of us folks know how it feels to be forced to flee our homes. And go someplace that may not see you as a citizen. Maybe too many of us know how it feels to grow up someplace that you still love, though it ain’t never loved you back.”

Genetta plucked her guitar strings, finding the right key, and hummed, aligning her voice with the tone. Then she began a rendition of Alabama Blues.

When she had finished, to warm applause from the crowd (more for her spirit and emotion than her technical skill, she knew), she bowed and made her exit. After packing up backstage, she moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was kind enough to do mocktails especially for her, knowing how sparingly she drank. He placed two tall glasses before her, and waved away her caps despite her protests. She knocked back the California Cream, then grabbed the Vermont Cooler, and headed in pursuit of the woman she’d spotted from onstage.

Rosalie Clairvaux was one of Vegas’ more put-together victims. She remained dazzling and elegantly turned out. Today she was draped in a slightly faded green cocktail dress, her chestnut-brown locks pinned up in a chic beehive. Chips of emerald glass flashed from her ears, and a dark stole hugged her shoulders.

“Good day, Rosalie,” Genetta said. “My, it’s been a while. How you been keepin’?”

“Oh, Gennie!” Rosalie said, giving Genetta a hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’m keeping well, thank you, darling.”

And she did look well. Only some of the Followers knew of Rosalie’s struggle with addictions - habits fed by various of her wastrel boyfriends. She must have been keeping clean. Genetta had not seen her down at the soup kitchens for a long time.

“Say, Gennie,” Rosalie went on, “there’s something I just have to tell you. Are you still a demon for Old World artifacts, and wild savages, and old books and all that?”

“Yes,” said Gennie, smiling. “I most certainly am.”

“Well, have I got a scoop for you! Remember how surprised we all were when the –” Rosalie’s pretty face wrinkled with revulsion at the prospect of having to say the word Omerta – “... when certain of the Families discovered charity? I mean when they began helping with the relief efforts in the neighbourhoods they’d been poisoning?”

“Oh, yes,” said Genetta. “I’m still wonderin’ about that. Not that we can afford to look a gift Brahmin in the mouth.”

“Well, you must have heard all these rumours floating around about a new Vault being discovered? It turns out that a substantial part of the food being donated comes from them. So they must have food to burn, and some kind of philanthropic streak in their tribe. Maybe. And they have an official outpost not far from here, in the Northern Passage!”

“I had heard a whisper or two to that effect,” Genetta said. “But with the floodin’ an’ all goin’ on, I’ve had no chance to follow any of it up. But you say they were sendin’ food to the kitchens?”

“I absolutely guarantee it! I heard it from three different high-ranking NCR men at soirees I attended. The NCR hasn’t officially recognised them yet. But I do know they sent some kind of delegation to the ambassador. And… here’s the thing that worries me. Word is, they sent some kind of message with gifts to Gomorrah… and the Omertas.”

Gennie froze. “Oh, Rosie… if this is true? A newly open Vault, with resources to spare… all that Old World technology... "

And they’ve actually shown some willingness to share with the Wasteland! They’ve shown no sign yet of the extreme xenophobia and selfishness most Vault dwellers display. But some Vault civilisations are extremely naive, with no experience of the outside world, or bizarre cultural beliefs making them vulnerable to corruption. If they’re allying with the Omertas… or even the NCR… And the Followers haven’t had a chance to understand them or liaise with them yet… I gotta make this a priority!

Sister Genetta stopped just long enough to confirm the rough location of the Meld, kissed Rosalie on the cheek, then grabbed her guitar and was on her way.

Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah Mezzanine

Dominic watched with a sly grin plastered on his face as Daniel “Nines” wrestled with the notion of seizing control. He went back and forth with himself, trying to come up with reasons why it would be impossible, but each point was counterbalanced with a separate reason in favor. Finally, he seemed to quell his mind, and settled on a course of action.

"Sir, I'm not excessively fond of indebtedness. I'd like to earn what favors you bestow. I'll allocate space in my schedule to ensure it. My price is a week's usage of a couple dozen experienced soldiers, and two hundred gallons of freshwater. You'd score a valuable ally in exchange, and your pick of the finer elements of our coffers, even after the square trade of labor."

“Done,” Dominic said with barely a moment’s hesitation. The price for having a worthy ally on his side was paltry, frankly, and he’d gladly pay it several times over if it meant having a man in power within the Vaulters that he could rely on. He was glad that his judgment hadn’t failed him here...Daniel certainly hadn’t disappointed.

"Wait, why do I crave authority now? I didn't desire this prior. I've no grand machinations!" Daniel focused his attention to a nit on a nearby wall. "But it's possible..."

“Because you know that your people need you,” Dominic offered as he sat back in his chair, “Because without a firm hand to quell differences, they’ll fall back on infighting. But you also know how to prevent that, and only you know exactly what’s needed to see them flourish.”

“It's not about craving anything Nines,” Dominic continued as he folded his hands on the table in front of him, “It's simply a matter of duty...but if you can also enjoy the fruits of power, well, then so be it...” he smiled.

“Now as for my price…” He said, thinking carefully, “I don’t require much. You see Nines, I have my own, admittedly selfish, reasons for ensuring your success and also why I was eager to meet with you. For one, I need a firm independent ally outside the influence of the NCR, that is paramount above all else, but I also need some...assistance with another matter.”

He leaned in, “I need someone, or a group of someone's, with some considerable expertise in pre-war technology...RobCo security and network systems, to be precise. As I understand it, RobCo was the primary contractor Vault-Tec used to construct much of their computing network: pip-boys, networked computers, Vault security systems... Naturally, I’d hope your people might have some expertise in that field, and that you might be willing to work with me on my own little project.”

Dominic smiled, “It would be a potentially very lucrative partnership, I assure you, and one that could certainly result in some boons for your people. What do you say? Do we have a deal?” He held out his hand to Daniel.

Chez Nathan & Colonel Denver Abernathy – Fort Golf — Afternoon, October 17th
(A Collaboration with @cymbeline90)

Chez sensed their approach to the Fort before word was passed down to him from the front. There was a subtle ratcheting up of tension, diffusing through the Followers like particles dancing in water. He remained in the back of the wagon, facing outwards, refusing to look at the Fort until the last minute. They were waved through a checkpoint and allowed to draw close to the building that served as the army’s headquarters. A security detail coalesced around them.

“Best behavior, everyone,” Beth muttered.

Chez had seen soldiers act aggressive when conducting security checks, particularly when they were further from the top brass and under less supervision. These men and women, however, were professional and detached. They patted the Followers down and rooted through their cargo with a swift, relentless efficiency. For their part, the Followers offered minimal resistance. Each side understood the delicacy of the situation. They were like strangers forced into proximity at a society dance, going through the steps with stiff formality.

Once cleared, they were signaled to move their wagons closer to the building. Aides appeared, offering to stable and water their horses. The human members of the caravan were invited to disarm and proceed to a mess hall for refreshment, and directions regarding their accommodations.

As they trailed after the aide, Beth muttered into Chez’s ear, “You ever been here before?”

He shook his head.

“I have,” Beth went on, keeping her voice low. “It was a couple years ago. We were on medical dispatch nearby when a couple of NCR grunts got torn up by raiders. We kept them alive until they reached this place.”

“Yeah?”

“There are more guard towers here now. More dead zones around the Fort, too. They ain’t been idle.”

Chez had been too busy looking at the soldiers and their holstered weapons to notice anything else. Trying to appear nonchalant, he glanced around, and saw that Beth was right.

“Well… ” Chez said, “holding the Mojave isn’t easy.”

“True enough. I don’t reckon givin’ it up will be either.”

Trying not to be discomfited by Beth’s words, he walked the rest of the way in silence. They were shown into a mess hall, and the crew, tired and dusty from the road, fell gratefully upon the plain rations that had been set out for them.

Chez called one of the aides over. “I believe Colonel Abernathy is expecting me.”

The aide nodded. “Someone will be with you shortly, doc.”

Chez found that he had no appetite. He pulled out a notebook and flipped through it, coming to a set of pages filled with disjointed scrawling. Energy conversion, he had written. Airborne pathogen. No survivors?? Unsustainable population growth – infrastructure burden – massive population of displaced peoples. Resource scarcity → conflict inevitable. The Green?? → enormous mass of raw materials. But death by Greenlung — choose. quick death by Greenlung /slow death by resource deprivation.

A young private appeared and bobbed her head at him. “Colonel Abernathy will see you now, Doctor.”

Chez clapped the notebook shut, tucked it away, and followed the private to the colonel’s office.

Colonel Abernathy was a clean-cut and respectable-looking man. Out of uniform, he probably wouldn’t have caught Chez’s eye – or perhaps he would have. There was a sense of restrained power about him. Once you spent more than a few moments with him, you felt that there was something dangerous behind the unassuming surface.

“Welcome to Fort Golf, Dr. Nathan.” Denver held out his hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I want to begin our conversation with an acknowledgement of the resources and time your organization has spent in getting you here. Given our sorted histories with one another I am deeply appreciative that you all have answered our call for aid. I hope that today can be the start of a new relationship between the 3rd Infantry and the Followers.”

Chez took the hand that was offered and tried to make his grip firm and sincere. “The pleasure is mine, Colonel. I believe the people of the Mojave can only benefit from our cooperation. I am ready to pool whatever resources we can for the common good.”

“Indeed it is my concern for the common good of the people of the Mojave that I have called you here today. Please sit.” He motioned to one of the two chairs across from his desk. Denver sat down as well. He paused for just a moment, trying to weigh who this Dr. Nathan truly was. This meeting would be a chance to lay the foundations for a better tomorrow, a safer nation and to heal old wounds. But it depended on how Denver was received and how he presented himself and so he wasted no time.

Chez took a seat in the chair the Colonel indicated. It felt surreal to him to be sitting here with the commander of Denver’s Dogs.

“The Green is a threat to us all. None in the Mojave know this to be more true than your people. Since the first infection of Greenlung in Camp McCarran the Followers have suffered greatly. Both from direct contact and through the societal fallout that the Green has caused. A third of New Vegas covered underneath a mat of vegetation, sporadic outbreaks and now a flood of refugees from the NCR. The Mojave teeters on a precipice and the slightest misstep will send the entire region into a green hell from which there will be no escape.”

“You know this already though or else you would not have come here today. Since you are the one they sent I know that you are not yet hardened against the 3rd or the NCR as a whole. I know you are optimistic and diplomatic. I may not always agree with how the Followers conduct themselves or how you all have responded to certain matters. Nonetheless I trust that your organization and your people have the best interest of others at heart. Therefore I have no option but to trust you.” Denver paused for a moment, allowing Chez to process everything.

Chez listened as the Colonel laid out each blow the Followers had endured. On the one hand, it felt profoundly gratifying to have their losses acknowledged, at last, from someone in the NCR. And the Colonel of all people! He knew, with almost clinical precision, the toll these years had taken on the Followers.

Of course he knows, Chez thought. It’s his job to know the players in the Mojave. That’s how he routed the Brotherhood of Steel, and massacred the Khans. The Followers exist because he permits us to exist. Because we fit into his vision for Vegas. And he knows that we know this. He thanks me for answering his summons, like I had a choice!
“We find ourselves without friends here in the Mojave. The 3rd I mean. The Van-Graff administration in Shady Sands looks at the Mojave and sees an oasis. A dam that provides immense power, a city that bleeds caps and a divided people to be subjugated and taxed. They do not see it for the mirage that it is.” Denver took a breath. “I was born to a dirt farmer back west. I grew up on the land but I am no expert on ecology nor do I claim to be. Yet even I can see the Green for what it is. Inevitable. We cannot fight it. We cannot harness it. We cannot stop it. We must avoid it. For as long as we can. That is why I need your help. You have access to the people capable of performing the work necessary to determine how fast the Green is expanding. How long does the Mojave have? Ten years? Five years? Two? Six months? It isn’t a matter of if the Green conquers the Mojave but when.”

The Colonel was still saying all the right things. Chez, who’d been prepared for the Colonel’s political savviness, found himself being disarmed nonetheless. He’s reminding me that the merchant houses in the capitol view this place as an investment, Chez thought. Their concern for Vegas waxes and wanes with the market. When drought or the Legion incursions lower our value, they’re prepared to cut us off – as they did to his regiment. Now that the dust has settled the vultures have returned. He fought for this place personally. He spent the blood of his own men and women to secure the Bear’s interests in this region. That’s the coin he weighs this land’s price in, not valuations by investors. He even reminds me of his own farming background as he speaks of us toiling the land! Ah, if he hadn’t taken up the rifle, what might this man have achieved with the pen instead? But perhaps it’s good he never studied with the Followers. We already have one Caesar on our conscience.

As the Colonel spoke of the threat posed by the Green, Chez felt a weight settle on his shoulders. The Colonel’s individual words blended together, registered on his awareness, and melded with disparate bits of data floating in Chez’s short-term retrieval. Since Letty had stung him out of inaction, Chez had been rummaging through old Holotapes on the Green, binging on the few reports that remained from back when Followers still had resources to spare.

This Colonel is not a man to frighten easily, Chez thought. And he speaks of the Green as an existential threat to the Mojave. Based on the scattered, outdated data we have, its growth has been explosive, exponential. The Followers should have seen this first. But an organization can only be brought to the brink of extinction so many times before all threats look the same. We’ve been looking inward, trying to rebuild. We cannot see beyond our own immediate survival.

Denver reached over to a small shelf on his desk and retrieved a faded red folder. He opened it, turned it around and slid it across the desk to Chez. Inside was a compilation of reports on the Green, PH sampling of soil, sketches, time-tables of growth, photographs and lists of names, dates, locations. There had been a logic to the way it was arranged but that logic wasn’t immediately apparent.

Chez’s eyes fell on the reports like a herd of Brahmin on clean water. Automatically, his hand slid out and flipped through the top couple of pages. He drank in the neatly tabulated information, dates and images. He felt like a prospector who’d stumbled on a fabled Old World cache.

Then his hand withdrew, as if seared by fire.

He felt the Colonel and himself sitting across from each other, in a nexus of variables, like Bighorn herders in the eye of a radiation storm.

What will the Followers think of me, Chez wondered. Will I be remembered as someone who made the painful choice to work with a ruthless power in order to fight a greater threat? Will I be seen as the traitor who volunteered the Followers’ resources to a warlord? Will I be the stooge who aided and abetted a second Caesar? The truth was, he’d already made the decision. Seeing that folder had only confirmed his choice. The decision had been made when he’d seen the envelope lying on his desk in the medical center, when he’d chosen to come here.

Maybe that’s why the others sent me. So they could have a clean conscience when this goes wrong. So their names will not appear beside mine in future histories of the Followers, when they teach me as a cautionary lesson to the young.

“For the past six years I have worked to learn all I can about the Green. That folder contains some of the most important information I’ve discovered. I offer it to you on the condition that you accept my offer. Work with me, build a team and find out how long we have. If you agree, there will be no secrets between us.” Denver’s eyes held a stern gaze implying there would be consequences if he found out Chez was lying. “If you refuse, you are free to leave. But I will remember your refusal.”

He did not miss the implied threat in the Colonel’s words. But somehow he’d lost the terrible fear of the Colonel that he’d suffered before coming here. The Colonel was a pragmatic, at times ruthless, man. Viewed in that light, his choices made sense. What Chez feared now was how easily he’d been won over. What had the others seen in him that he hadn’t yet seen in himself? He feared how eager he was to take the first step, when he didn’t know how far he might fall.

Chez said, “If what you say is true, this threat is bigger than you or me, Colonel. I may not approve of all your actions, but I can discuss ethics with you. I can’t negotiate with an ecological disaster.” Chez held out his hand. “Consider me on board for this venture.”

Denver felt a wave of cool relief wash over him as the bargain was made. He wasn’t one to trust easily but the Followers were known to be honest people. They spoke directly and clearly even if it didn’t always work in their favor. For that, Denver admired them. Duplicity and selfishness were demons working in the heart of humanity and the Followers were the only people who seemed deaf to them. Still a nagging anxiety chirped within him and Denver thought it best to have some kind of leverage over Chez. If only to assure the man wasn’t agreeing out of fear.

“Thank you. I had hoped you’d agree. However, since we shall be open with each other I have something I must reveal to you.” Denver paused for a moment. He hadn’t yet said these words aloud and wanted to be deliberate with his speech. “Three days ago my rangers recovered irrefutable proof that the Brotherhood of Steel remains active within the Mojave. We captured two provisioners just outside the Gulp ‘n Grub in South Vegas. One of them is being escorted to the NCRCF as we speak, the other is secured within the basement of this building.” Denver paused to let the information settle. Rumors had always persisted about the Brotherhood but most dismissed them. He wanted to be sure that Chez understood the importance of this information.

Chez thought: The Devil and the Deep Green Sea…

Chez felt as though he’d slipped awake from a dream. For a moment, he heard the strains of his mother’s voice, carrying over the rhythmic scraping of a mixing spoon against a bowl, smelled the fragrance of roasting gecko flesh, sweetened by prickly-pear fruit relish.

“I don’t want you…
But I hate to lose you
You’ve got me in between
The Devil and the deep blue sea.”

That’s where I am, Chez thought. Between the Devil and the deep green sea.

So the Brotherhood was still active in the Mojave. And the Colonel had never given up hunting his old enemy. Of course not. Chez could already tell this was a man who hated to leave a job unfinished.

“I believe that someone as educated as yourself is at least partially aware of who the Brotherhood is and more importantly the threat they pose. I’m not ashamed to say that I have a long and violent history with them. I earned my colonelship at the battle for Helios One and I disagreed with my superiors when they ordered me to stand down and allow the survivors to flee into the hills. They believed that the catastrophic losses the Brotherhood sustained during that battle would cement the end of their organization. I knew better. You see Dr. Nathan, the Brotherhood of Steel is not a group of people, it is an idea. A dangerous idea that should’ve been destroyed decades ago. When I was ordered to stop my pursuit that idea was allowed to fester and grow. I did not hunt them with the intent to slaughter them wholesale, I want to make that clear. The wanton obliteration of human life has never been my goal.” Denver put a grim emphasis on his words and suppressed the thoughts of Bitter Springs that bubbled within him. He had done what was necessary.

Chez remembered there had been a name for such strategies in the Old World, back before even the Great War. Before the scientists had split the Atom, and in doing so, had united humanity in fear of their own mutual extinction. Scorched earth tactics, they’d called it. This had been in the period of conventional warfare, before the proliferation of atomic deterrents had made such things unworkable.

“But I did want to destroy them.” Denver continued, “Who they were, how they saw themselves and most crucially how they saw us. The danger of the Brotherhood of Steel lies not in their energy weapons and power armor but in its doctrines and codex. It is an ideology that separates them from the rest of humanity, elevating them to the level of ‘chosen ones’ blessed with the divine right to decide how the rest of us should live. If it were up to them they would watch us die and think themselves the better people for it. I’m sure you agree, Dr. Nathan, that such a worldview is not compatible with the continued survival of humanity.”

A memory came to Chez, surprisingly, from Latin and Ancient History with Arcade Gannon.

There was a city whose people were loved by the goddess Juno,
Above all others on Earth.
Enthroned was she on Tunis’ imperial shore,
Clad in Tyrian purple, her streets of gold,
Her ships swift in fury when provoked to war.

The Carthaginians had struck at Rome’s heart, and the Eagle’s fury in retaliation had known no bounds. The city of Carthage was razed to ashes, so that nothing would ever grow there again. A warning to all Rome’s enemies of the consequences of defiance.

But the Colonel isn’t speaking of that, Chez thought. He claims not to be another Caesar. He speaks of destroying their ideology.

“I have no love for the Brotherhood’s teachings, sir. We respect the democratic principles of the NCR’s constitution, whatever qualms we have about how you put them into practice. The Brotherhood’s ethos, as you say, is elitist, exclusionary, and unlikely to maximize the welfare of the Mojave’s human population, much less the other sentient species. But history has taught us to be cautious about eradicating a people’s beliefs. As any sawbones can tell you, sir, a scorched-earth cure can sometimes be worse than the disease it heals.”

Denver sighed heavily, folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward.

“Nonetheless, we need their help. The Brotherhood has access to technology and knowledge that cannot be found in any other nation or peoples in the wastes. If we are to accurately predict the spread of the Green we will need their assistance. However, I cannot ask them for help. Even if I knew where they were they would not listen to me. They are stubborn and dogmatic people and highly xenophobic. I’ve interrogated enough of them to know that they revile me and the NCR and would sooner choose death over helping us. I’m not going to give them that choice. That is where you come in. As a leading member of the Followers of the Apocalypse you have a recognized neutrality that allows you to operate freely between hostile factions. Do you understand what I am asking of you? I need you to speak to the prisoner below, get her to talk as she hasn’t said anything to us. Find out where the Brotherhood is and meet with them. Tell them what you are working on and ask for their help. I have no doubt the Brotherhood has been studying the Green for as long as I have and though they may be resistant to working with an outsider, you’ll simply have to make yourself indispensable to them.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I will do my best to negotiate with this member of the Brotherhood in good faith. I swear I will do whatever I can to effect a working relationship with the Brotherhood. I am doing this for the purpose of pooling our resources to combat the Green, which you’ve shown me is a threat to all residents of the Mojave. Beyond that, any hostile intentions you have towards the Brotherhood, whether ideological or military, I cannot be a part of at this time. It would require me to consult with the Followers as a whole to endorse an action that would violate our neutrality towards any other faction. Particularly a faction that is heavily armed and likely to be dangerous to us in our already weakened state. I will follow any reasonable command to combat the Green, but hostile actions against a group of people are of a different order.”

Chez spread his arms, trying to be as open as possible. He looked almost pleading as he gestured towards Denver. “Please understand, sir, the Followers have built up a great deal of goodwill among the people of the Mojave by following our own ethical code. That is the only precious resource we have, and one that would end us if we cast it away. There are many ways to destroy the heart of an organization… and I would not be the one to lead the Followers into darkness.”

A host of brahmin-skin yurts encircled a great fire deep within a desert valley. Night had fallen on the Mojave, and strange figures danced around the amber glow of the flame, casting menacing shadows which twisted in the flickering light. Each of the dancers were dressed in various animal costumes and horned headdresses, representing individual spirits or demons equal parts worshiped and feared by the tribe.

One figure stood out above the rest, a great headdress surmounted by the effigy of a snake twisted around it. He held out a gnarled staff and raised his arms high to the sky.

“Great Serpent, hear our pleas! Blessed be your servants here gathered. The Slither Kin! We praise you and beseech you to drive out the enemies of your people.”

A young girl, auburn haired, looked on at the proceedings with fear. Her bright green eyes wide with fright while her arms hugged tightly at a well-worn homemade doll. Someone wrapped a comforting hand around her. The girl looked up and smiled, seeing the reassuring matching green eyes of her mother.

“Be still Little Viper,” She cooed, “It will all be over soon. You must be brave.”

“Old windbag,” A gruff voice added and a fat figure sat down next to her, “Great Serpent this, Great Serpent that. Oooooo...spooky. Ha!” The man grinned and looked down on her with a glowing smile, “But you ain’t scared of that old pruny shaman are you?”

The girl giggled at her father’s joke, “No! But Penelope is!” She continued sadly, holding up her doll.

“Ah well I can help with that!” He said, grabbing the doll and hugging it tightly.

The girl laughed at her father’s antics, but her mother shot him a glaring look.

“You shouldn’t make fun during the ceremony…”

“Beh he does it everytime we go on hunt. He just likes hearing the sound of his voice.”

“Great Serpent, protect your brave warriors!” The shaman screeched, and with a resounding thug he cracked his staff against the ground. The costumed figures around the fire immediately stopped their dancing, and fell down in heaps on the ground as if struck dead by some magic.

The girl looked up at her father, who mouthed a “Finally….” And she couldn’t help but giggle again.

Just as the Shaman had finished his ritual someone stepped into the glow of the circle, another member of their tribe,

“They’re here,” He announced solemnly. The girl looked up at her father, and his expression turned dour. Which immediately set her on edge.

“Little Viper run to your tent and go to bed,” her mother urged, “Do as I say, now…”

Without waiting for explanation, the girl leapt up and ran to their yurt. Rather than hiding under her covers, she peeked out the cloth door, watching intently as her father and several other men of the tribe rose to meet whoever was coming.

She held her breath as their guests stepped out of the shadows, and she had to hold a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. A host of nightmarish warriors entered the campire circle, pale skinned and covered head to toe in cloth stitched with innumerable bones. They wore masks carved from human skulls which covered the top halves of their faces, giving them an inhuman visage. Much to her terror, she saw that some seemed to be dragging sacks which oozed blood like a gaping wound.

To the young girl shivering in fear, they were nothing less than living monsters.

A woman, seemingly their leader, stepped forward. She had on a particularly gruesome skull mask with goat-horns sewn ontop, and wore a bloodied cloak made from human skin draped around her shoulders. She was hauntingly beautiful yet utterly terrifying, the image of a demoness right out of the tribe's mythos.

Her father stepped forward, unafraid of the demon woman’s presence,

“Welcome, would you care to share our fire?”

The demon woman shook her head, but did not reply.

“We’d offer to share a meal, but it looks like you’ve already brought some to go,” Her father said, pointing at the sacks. That elicited a few, nervous, chuckles from his fellow Slither Kin, but then the strange woman hissed back a threat,

“Perhaps, you wish to become our breakfast?”

Slither Kin warriors reached for their weapons, as did the cannibals, but no-one made a move. Her father motioned for them all to be calm.

“Where is your Chieftain?” The woman snarled.

“Out on a hunt,” Her father replied quickly, “But I can speak for our tribe here. We all know what needs to be done…”
“The Boot-Riders are becoming a problem,” Her father continued, “They need to be dealt with. Harshly.”

“You propose an alliance,” The woman hissed, “We don’t ally with prey.”

“Nor do we,” He snapped back, “Watch yourself, those little underground burrows of yours are not so-secret to us, and it wouldn’t take much to smoke you out. We’ve done it before, or have you forgotten the taste of our poison?”

Several of the cannibals snarled, baring sharpened teeth like cornered wolves, but the woman ignored her fellow tribesman's anger. She raised a hand revealing a bladed gauntlet streaked with still-fresh blood, and ran a finger along the crimson ichor before bringing it to her lips and sampling it with a devilish grin.

“Never.....very well Slither Kin, what is it you plan to do?”

Her father returned the expression with a grin of his own,

“Wage war.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucy awoke suddenly with a start, her brow was streaked with sweat and she was panting hard. Memories she’d never truly forgotten had come flooding back to her, and she stared up at the ceiling of her Penthouse suite in Gomorrah. Images from her dream morphed into her vision, and for a brief moment, she thought the plastered ceiling was the animal-skin roof of a yurt.

She sat up and got out of bed, walking over to a nearby chest. She flipped open the lid and rummaged around inside. Her hands gripped a small object, and she pulled it out.

It was a doll, well-worn and covered in the dirt of the road and faded from the burning sun. She held it tightly against her.

“Some things never really change,” She whispered to it softly.

Vault 48: Fallout of the Jack's Revolt

"You agree with the Council's resolution?"

Even in the calmest alcove on the fifth floor, the hissing pipes and churning machinery hampered the tension. Eve pushed out her chair and ascended. "I stand with the Council."

"And you grasp our logic?" confirmed the chairman.

She dissected her peers. "I believe so," she commented, "for select members. For the rest, I'm unsure."

Her apparent indignation rippled murmurs through the surrounding Aces; she remained stoic. The conclusion was hurried, lest the scene lose control. "Then we declare you honorably banished, Eve Cannon, Ace of Diamonds. Fare thee well, that you spread our majesty to whatever destination the winds of fortune lead you."

A gavel struck wood, and gentlemen with rifles appeared to flank her. She identified them: Mark fought beneath her; Kyle revolted against her. She reported to neither and vacated the premises of her own accord. The riflemen hastened to follow.

She spotted a mass of fur down the corridor. She halted and knelt. "Shuffles!"

The canine bounded to meet her; his tail whacked both sides of the hallway. She caressed the hair on his noggin. "The emblem of loyalty and innocence. I'll miss you terribly."

Mark reminded her of the law: "Among your privileges is the right to requisition an animal companion."

Eve contemplated the opportunity but literally passed it by. "I'm relieved of my obligations, and grateful for it." Whether she meant it was an enigma.

The vault entrance was a minute's journey away. Eve touched the firm fortified bulwark. "You can laugh, Kyle. I won't take offense."

Kyle attended to the panel that maintained the locking mechanism. "Recognized. If it were a laughing matter, I would."

As the round behemoth rotated outward. Eve gazed at the ceiling. She whistled, and her familiar mutt rejoined her. "Not every duty is a chore. I accept your offering, Mark. Prosper in my absence."

Mark saluted. "Best of fortunes. Where shall you travel?"

She peered into the verdant wasteland. "The colonies, I reckon," she answered, "to atone for my sins."

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Daniel lifted his index finger. He intended to fulfill the don's errands and earn gratitude. This collateral absent, there was a nonzero percentage of leaving Dominic empty handed, and affronted crime lords yielded, ahem, unique repercussions. What was a straightforward venture had devolved into a catch 22. Scylla was a heavily guarded nuclear bunker upon which he'd bash his ambition to pieces. Charybdis was the bottomless cavalcade of torture methods a robber baron possessed. Floyd's navigation must be damn near immaculate.

Daniel racked his brain to reevaluate the risk. With decades of experience, Paul stood apart from his colleagues. Stubbornness or social ineptitude kept his innermost professional secrets from the fresh recruits, who resorted to dusting off the ancient manuals for wisdom. The latter would placate but ultimately disappoint the don. Convincing Paul, however, would be nearly as monumental a task as the Vault's conquest, a strict factor to the negative.

To the affirmative, in negotiations, Omerta showed nothing but earnest courtesy, defying the caricature his reputation implied. He acknowledged Danny's trepidation and dismissed his spouse to assuage his guest. His reasoning aligned with genuine interest in nurturing the community, regardless of underlying intent. Perhaps he wouldn't be so unforgiving if Floyd returned with naught but a broken sword.

Victory was attainable. Failure was tolerable. And yet...

Vault 48: Dawn of the Reforms

Vault 48 - Floor Ten Hospital

"I present the prototypes, as requested," Daniel announced with a tray. It clattered onto the stainless steel hospital table.

An unruly screw preoccupied Henry Hinshaw. The deathclaw assault last month demanded that he supplement the strained workforce. He lowered his product. "Excellent, Nines. Grace, would you fetch a random sampling from Drawer Fifteen?"

Unused to the manufacturing environment, the Ten of Clubs anxiously embraced her clipboard in the background. "Yes, sir." She skimmed the organizational cabinets for the appropriate marker. The floor's employees assembled as she arrived.

Daniel noticed Isabel's condescending akimbo stance but expectant countenance. She'd wring him via compressor if this was a wild radgull chase. Noise from four placed stimpaks hitting metal disrupted his vivid imagery. He swallowed. "Ready, boss?"

Henry selected from Grace's bounty. "When you are."

They each injected a device into their non-dominant arms. Daniel's arteries pulsated with biologic regeneration. Exhaling in relief but wasting no time, Daniel grabbed a second and repeated the process to similar effect. He hastily fetched the third and final prototype and compressed it.

The sealant broke loose, and red ooze splattered across his abdomen. The peanut gallery towards the rear exclaimed a festive "Opa!" as Grace retrieved a rag. Unbeknownst to them, Danny's palm had jammed into the syringe's glass, which shattered on impact. Henry rapidly applied his leftover stimpak to heal his subordinate. Daniel hissed as he clutched his wrist.

"Two out of three," Isabel noted.

"Ow... But using half the material, and fewer assembly steps," Daniel countered, watching the wound dissipate. "A net gain for production."

Henry discarded the used containers into a hazardous materials bin. "Gains are appreciated, but these aren't dispensed in a vacuum. Expeditions can't afford to carry faulty devices. Critically urgent scenarios necessitate a hundred percent reliability."

Isabel wandered to her station as the gathering dispersed. "I expect overtime to compensate for the delay. We're stretched thin as it is without your useless experiments."

"Overruled," Henry stated. "The attempt was admirable. If the template cannot be improved, though, I'm afraid the project is terminated."

"Thickening the cylinder or tacking scrap to bolster it would be cost inefficient," Daniel lamented, rubbing the scar. "Unfortunately, I concur. Where am I assigned?"

"Making thousands of regular models alongside us, as you could have done had you ignored this vanity entirely," Isabel quipped. "That's efficiency for you."

Henry sighed. "Daniel, let's debrief in the old Radaway facility."

Vault 48 - Floor Six Science Center

The dim indigo enclosure hosted a thousand spiders; Daniel circumvented the cobwebs as he entered. "I apologize for the error. I promise I'll-"

Henry dusted off a centrifuge. "How progresses your relationship with the Diamond girl?"

Daniel blinked. "You know about us?"

"It's obvious to anyone paying attention, Danny. Discretion isn't your specialty."

"Then why hasn't-"

"Charlotte's and Bradley's scandal trump a Nine's affairs. You're dodging my inquiry. Answer."

Daniel shrugged. "Our inaugural outing was yesterday. Far edge of the diner. She had a Reuben; I had a burger."

"Those things can get messy. Did you prepare for that?"

"Took small bites, ate once she was distracted."

Henry inspected a set of test tubes. "What portion was allocated for conversation?"

Daniel reflected on the evening, tabulating the night's topics. "Five parts of seven, I think."

Henry wiped them off with his shirt. "Did she have the larger focus?"

"Yeah, we explored Renaissance sculptures."

Henry filled them with water. The rickety faucet he employed sputtered in reactivation. "And the leftovers-"

Daniel vented his frustration. "I'm sorry. Are we discussing my recent failings or not?"

Henry began assorting various ingredients. "We are. I'm gauging your personality to see where you fit."

A demotion. Danny's dejection was visible. "Please, another chance. I assure you, I'll change for the-"

Mildly irritated, Henry motioned for silence. "Everyone assumes that they fully comprehend the concept of 'change;' I expected better from you. Where's that mortar and pestle?" He found his quarry and mashed the components into fine powder. "Do you recall the evolution chapter in the science curriculum? Specifically the moth story."

Daniel nodded. There were rival genetic variants: white and black wings. For millennia, the dark ones were easier to spot while resting on trees and were consequently hunted easily by the local birds. In the Industrial Revolution, the forest was covered in soot. The light moths were exposed on the bark and thus faced the brunt of new predation. "Sure."

"As much as it'd help our survival, people cannot modify their core natures more than insects their color," Henry declared, pouring his concoction into a vial. He capped and shook it prior to inserting it into a slot on the machine. "We don't change; environments do. We adjust. Folk like Isabel will endure anywhere. Praise be unto them; they are the foundation on which glory is constructed, and will relieve us if we fall."

He packed the remaining slots and activated the contraption. The ambience was a mechanical whir. "We are restless. We are hardwired differently: strong in certain disciplines, weaker in others. If we match our surroundings, our society advances. Otherwise, we're stored for a later age or circumstance as 'diversity.' It's not merely individuals. Ideologies, personalities, skill sets, creeds, you name it: they function the same way. Alas, some perish never properly utilized."

Henry pressed the off switch and held the result to the twilight. He dumped excesses into a sink. "48 notoriously has no built in storage, physically and philosophically. He who doesn't work doesn't eat. Fair enough, I suppose. It simply pressures me to reorganize. You and I recognize that you can't handle the mundane, not that your keen eye and book smarts should be wasted on such."

"Quite fortunate, that your talents have landed you a leadership role," Daniel challenged. Lesser leaders would have locked him in solitary for less, but philosophical aggrandizement warranted his flippant jabs.

"What, you invoke my Ace?" Henry sniffed his creation. "You don't understand. We cannot tell our grand purpose unless we commit to our position wholeheartedly. We push ourselves to our utmost. Enlightenment is realized under stress. Mash concepts together, and cling to what survives. You are my ward not for your intelligence or perception, but because you can weather a beating from the cosmos and bounce up again. Makes experimentation rather convenient for me."

"So, what's my next 'trial'?"

Henry slapped the walls with his free hand. "You'll start on these very grounds. We've exhausted most options but management. I'll assign you a few compatriots, and we'll find your true mettle. Success begets greater responsibility."

Daniel scoffed, "I clearly lack the charisma for that."

"Well, treat it as a date," Henry callously replied. He approached Daniel and gripped his shoulders. "Drown in complacence. Ask 'why?' and die. Relentlessness doesn't guarantee anything, but it's the only path to the promised land. To acceptance or rejection, demand a choice from Fate."

Fumes from the flask tickled Danny's nose. "That's sweet. What is it?"

"I'm going to dump it in the ice cream mixer; this flavor idea lingered in my head for a week or so," Henry guffawed as he stepped toward the egress. He stopped in the doorway. "I have loftier designs than the petty prestige of an Ace. I suspect they'll bear fruit shortly. I might face the fundamental question on everybody's mind but nobody's lips."

"Which is?"

Henry pulled from his pocket a worn card, decked with his signature. "That these are mere slips of laminated paper after all."

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Daniel came to realize that he'd already reached the precipice, that he was obligated to steer. Striking the sails would drag his vessel and his beloved comrades to the depths. Defeat was preferable to inaction. As the self alleged "King of Sin" highlighted, the firmness to quell differences was his alone. He was heir to Hinshaw's memory and legacy. His other digits unraveled, and he firmly reciprocated Dominic's extended offer. "We do indeed. God bless our partnership. We'll provoke Fate as one."

He reseated himself, invigorated by the thrill of a life altering decision; he needed a moment to relax. He then finished his points: "If I may, I seek to marry my girlfriend in short order. I've arranged the proposal, the wedding lists, the catering, et cetera." He presented a minuscule box and flashed a piece of an aged brass fitting. "Everything except the location. Having recently married yourself, you've likely perused several. Amber admires proper traditional styles, so I figured you'd have advice. Is there any candidate you rejected for its quaintness? That sort of venue ought to sate our tastes."

The Meld - Afternoon, November 18th

Amber's ears perked up. The rapping on the door was rhythmic but uncommon. Charlotte recalled the sequence. "It's Faye," she concluded.

"I'll retrieve my shotgun," was Isabel's blunt reply. She disappeared around the corner. In a flash, she reappeared, placing cartridges in her gun's chamber, to discover herself in the sights of Faye's pistol. The rogue had barged inside. "Look," bargained the Jack, "you loathe me for my revolt. I consider you a mindless lackey. We have reasons to press our triggers, but I'm prepared before you.

"That granted," she explained, "I submit myself to the jurisdiction of the Nine of Clubs. We can either live in sleepless paranoia for our stay's duration, or lower our firearms and assume goodwill. Or would you prefer that I expose to the world here and now the vast emptiness in that thick skull of yours?"

The aggrieved hulk considered her choices, then extracted the bullet. "It'd be a waste of a Vaulter. Goodness knows there's a shortage." Her gun dropped.

"Kick it," Faye commanded.

Isabel kicked it.

"Charlotte, I entrust you with her weapon," Faye holstered her handgun and removed her belt, "and mine. Is that agreeable?"

The newfound responsibilities perturbed but didn't unnerve Charlotte. "Agreed."

"Welcome back, Faye!" Amber diverted.

Isabel attempted a brief levity. "Been ages since I had an arm wrestling partner. No man or woman in attendance can challenge me!"

"We'll spar soon," Faye assured. "First, Charlotte: a singing lady is heading for the Meld. I caught a glimpse of her, but I can't give you a description. She bore a guitar, at least. I figure you have an hour until her arrival."

"A customer? We closed weeks ago," Charlotte hypothesized. "Thanks. Duly logged. For the worst case scenario, I'll grab my husband's lever action rifle. Can't be too careful in Vegas," she winked.

Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah Mezzanine

"We do indeed. God bless our partnership. We'll provoke Fate as one."

"Excellent," Dominic smile broadened, "Then we'll be in contact further regarding the details of our arrangement. Please - don't hesitate to contact me directly if you need further assistance in your endeavor as well...military or otherwise. As for the rest, let me know who best to contact and I will send some basic details regarding what sorts of systems we may be dealing with. Their discretion would also appreciated in this matter."

"If I may, I seek to marry my girlfriend in short order. I've arranged the proposal, the wedding lists, the catering, et cetera." He presented a minuscule box and flashed a piece of an aged brass fitting. "Everything except the location. Having recently married yourself, you've likely perused several. Amber admires proper traditional styles, so I figured you'd have advice. Is there any candidate you rejected for its quaintness? That sort of venue ought to sate our tastes."

Dominic laughed a hearty chuckle, "Well as you might imagine, my Marjorie was quite thrilled at the prospect of making her wedding the most expensive, luxurious affair possible. So therefore it was held at her very own Ultra Luxe and there never really was a second choice. But...."

He thought for a moment, giving Daniel's query some genuine thought. He didn't want to appear flippant with a response,

"Naturally either the Gomorrah or Ultra Luxe is at your disposal should you desire either venues...free of charge of course. I would not suggest going to The Tops. Swank, the proprietor, and I have a bit of a...disagreement going on currently and he's quite likely to charge your exorbitantly knowing that we are associates now."

An idea came to his mind, and Dominic perked up, "There is Vault 21...right across from the Ultra Luxe here on the strip. Sarah Weintraub is a good friend to the Omerta Family, and she has an exquisite venue. The Vault hosts a pre-war styled ballroom which may be exactly what you are looking for in terms of aesthetic. I'd encourage you to check it out, and please if you do, mention that Dominic sent you."

Corporal Yazan Mohammad - Freeside - Morning, November 18th

Yazan was alone. The wastes of the Mojave stretched out before him, just barely visible in the dim starlight that strained through the clouds overhead. Ahead of him lay his comrades, asleep in a semicircle just below the rocky overhang of a small knoll. He felt their presence as sure as he felt the ground below his feet but he could not see them. Some dull ache in his chest that told him that just a few yards ahead lay the peace and security of his friends. He walked slowly towards them. It was more of a trudging motion as his legs were unsteady and he had to consider each step carefully like a crippled man learning to walk again. A cry broke the still night and the sound pierced its way into Yazan’s chest and tightened his gut into a painful knot. Gunfire erupted ahead of him and a chorus of strained voices grew to match the cacophony of automatic weapons.

He tried to run towards the violence but stumbled blindly, falling and standing and falling again. His movements were languid and irregular as his body refused the orders of his mind. Tears of frustration bit at the corners of his eyes as he seethed with every breath. The voices of his comrades grew wretched and twisted and though he could see nothing he knew they were being butchered. Slaughtered like animals in the dark. In despair he slumped to his knees and pounded at the dirt below but even that felt forced and weak. Yazan lay there in defeat sobbing meekly as his friends pleaded for their lives, begged for a quick death, cried for their mothers and soiled themselves in pain and fear. He shut his eyes against the horror and tried to scream but only gurgled like a strangled infant.

Yazan opened his eyes. He was alone in bed. For a moment he sat there and breathed, his body still trembling and sweating as the echo of his friend’s screams rang in his ears. The embassy bunk room was awash with the soft light of morning. Yazan rubbed his face and sat up. He grabbed his cup of water from the night before and drank deeply. It had been exactly one month since the attack and he hadn’t slept through the night since. The exhaustion was taking its toll on him and others were starting to notice. Just two days ago he’d sworn he had a conversation with Andrew and Leonid about the attack. Except he hadn’t. Leonid had been shipped back to his family’s home in Shady Sands and Andrew was still in the medical hospital at Fort Gulf. Sgt Kinney said he’d found Yazan alone in his room mumbling incoherently to the wall. Or had he dreamt that as well?

Yazan sighed and swung his legs over the bed, stood and dressed himself. His arms felt leaden and it was as if he moved through a daze. One moment he was pulling up his trousers, the next he was buttoning the top of his fatigues. Then he was in the small mess-hall they had put in at the embassy. It was little more than a glorified coffee station that served boiled oats and corn cakes. He sat numbly chewing on a crumbly piece of cake slathered with pear-jam.

“Where have you been?”

The voice came as a shock and Yazan jumped in his seat and choked on a bite of cake. He looked up at Sgt McKinny who stood arms crossed in the doorway. His expression was stern but he stepped forward to pat Yazan gently on the back as he struggled to swallow the cake.

“We mustered in the courtyard fifteen minutes ago.” McKinny sighed and sat down next to Yazan. “Are you okay corporal?”

Yazan nodded.

“Yeah I’m fine.”

McKinny grunted then stood and looked out the door to make sure they were alone. Satisfied, he closed the door and sat next to Yazan. For a moment he just looked at Yazan like the young man was a puzzle decipherable only through long periods of observation.

“Are you okay Yazan?” His voice was soft and Yazan almost physically recoiled at hearing his sergeant say his first name.

“Yeah.” Yazan’s voice was almost a whisper.

“I know this has been a difficult transition. Not just for yourself but all of us. I hadn’t expected to be reassigned to the ambassador’s honor guard. Not after what happened. But we grunts don’t get to make the decisions, we just have to survive them and find a way to keep living. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“You mean the ambush.”

McKinny nodded.

“That wasn’t our decision. But we survived and now we're living with it.”

“I know.” Yazan’s voice cracked.

“Do you? Because I don’t think you do. It's no different than the Hunger. Some of us made it, some of us didn’t. That’s how you have to look at it. You cannot keep thinking about how you should’ve done this, or would’ve done that or could’ve done something else. Forget it. You were there and you survived. That's what's important. A lot of people didn’t make it. Remember them, and keep on living for them.”

Yazan nodded but he felt distant, like he was watching himself. The emotions within him had become so muddled and mixed that to find the words to express them felt as futile as finding a single poker chip in the wastes.

“Do you understand?”

“How.” The word felt obtuse in Yazan’s mouth and he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to say it but he continued. “How do you deal with the feeling?”

“The fear? The pain?”

“No. The joy.”

McKinny's face puckered into a kind of sour confusion.

“What joy?”

“The joy you feel when you look at your dead friends and you’re happy it's not you.” Tears stung at Yazan’s eyes. “How do you not hate yourself for it?”

“You do. But you keep going.” McKinny stood and smoothed his fatigues. “Now finish your breakfast and let's go. We have work to do.”

Sister Genetta Williams – Followers of the Apocalypse – Morning, November 20th

The rocking movement of the caravan almost lulled Genetta to sleep, as always. The heat of the sun and the steady motion took her back to her childhood. She remembered the comfort of friends and kin huddled around warm campfires at night. Fire had seemed like magic to a little girl, an alchemical trick of orange flame and eerie shadow, fed by her father’s ministrations.

“Atom’s gift,” her father had called it. “By day a column of smoke, by night a pillar of fire. He sent forth his messenger, a great whirlwind of flame, to lead his people through the wilderness.”

They had eked out a living in the radiation-blighted wilderness, sheltering within their circled caravans from raiders, mutants and tribals. Behind her father, rising from the night horizon into the sky, was the blazing Vegas skyline, always casting its neon shadow over them.

“They ate and they drank,” her father proclaimed, “they built their towers and were exceedingly wicked. And atomic fire and plutonic brimstone was rained down upon them. Babylon, the glory of cities, shall be ashes, even as the cities of the plain. We are all that remains of the Old World. We have been as firebrands snatched out of Atom’s fire - but still we have not returned to him!”

A shout from the forward caravan brought Genetta back to the present.

“We’re coming up to the outpost!” yelled Scuppy. “Must be them Vault folk. Ain’t no other civilisation hereabouts for some ways.”

A couple of the Kings bodyguards riding with Genetta tittered. Dash, a well-intentioned young man who could be a little brash, nudged his buddy Clive.

“Hey Clive,” Dash said, “you heard the rumours about these folks? Somethin’ don’t add up about a Vault handin’ out free stuff. What do you suppose is wrong with ‘em? Five caps says Vault-Tec turned them into super mutants. Half-giant ant, half-ghoul super mutants, brainwashed to fight the Red Chinese.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clive replied, “that don’t make a lick of sense. I reckon they’re maneaters. All that food they provided to Freeside? You ever hear of a Vault sharing its food like that? Like as not, they’ll lure us up there and then we’ll find out all their pies is made of people, only by then it’ll be too late ‘cos they’ll have pushed us into a skillet and turned us into waffles.”

“Now you’re the one talkin’ nonsense. Every knows the -” Dash lowered his voice - “White Gloves have cornered the market on the Devil’s bacon around these parts. They ain’t about to let no Vault compete with them. Slim Johnson told me he saw one of those Vault fellers get wet in the rain, and the feller blew a fuse and sparks came out. Slim says they’re all synths from the Commonwealth, here to steal our faces and memories so’s they can infiltrate Vegas.”

“Slim Johnson couldn’t find his ass with a gotdamn Satellite Assisted Tracking module–”

“Boys,” Genetta interrupted in a low voice, “please mind your tongue when we get near these folks! I know y’all ain’t Followers, but when you’re escortin’ a sensitive mission like this, you gotta abide by our protocols. This ain’t a true first contact, because the Vault’s already reached out to various parties in Vegas. But we know they have superior technology and firepower, and resources to spare. We have to be careful not to negatively influence their perception of the outside world. Please be on your best behaviour.”

“Yes’m, Miss Genetta.”

“Sorry, Miss Genetta. Won’t happen again.”

The caravans pulled up a little ways from the Vault outpost, so as not to alarm anyone. The settlement appeared small and low-tech, but it was safe to assume the Vault dwellers had been tracking the Followers’ approach for a while - at least, they had the equipment to do so. The outpost’s location and its use of supply lines to send goods to Vegas meant that it was likely accustomed to trade caravans. It never hurt to be cautious when intruding on someone else’s turf, though.

Genetta, another researcher, and the two Kings bodyguards broke off from the main group. Genetta flipped a switch on the small recorder at her belt.

“This is Genetta Williams. We are now approaching the public outpost of the Vault-dwellers identifying themselves as the Pinochle Expedition. This is the first organised contact from the Followers of the Apocalypse. Our primary objective is to establish friendly relations. Given time, and the cooperation of the Vault-dwellers, our secondary objective is to study and document their society. If their values are compatible with ours, we may be able to form a mutually beneficial alliance.”

With Genetta leading the way, they walked towards the Meld. Their boots crunched over sand and undergrowth.

“The hairs are stickin’ up on the back of my neck,” Clive muttered.

Genetta took a deep breath. Would she end up a data point, a result for or against the Followers’ belief in the fundamental goodness of humanity?

She stepped across the threshold.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Early Afternoon, November 18th

Daniel instinctively thought to direct the Omertas homeward, but he couldn’t guarantee the willing participation of all inhabitants. Isabel particularly would hoist his noggin on a pike. Who among the colonists would he entrust with such precarious secrecy? Amber was broadly apathetic to the internal struggle, and her adoration of him surpassed her loyalty to the homeland. Apparently the sentiment was mutual, as he’d committed high treason. "The Meld's diner (on Vegas's northern perimeter) closed for flood relief efforts. Have your envoy ask for breakfast and, failing that, express intention to converse with either myself or Amber. That should maintain confidentiality."

A free wedding, a further debt, was hardly Danny’s interest. Amber regaled her dream marriage aplenty to Daniel, and casinos were far from that vision. The only category beneath that would be Vaults, Dominic’s secondary option. Daniel would locate a facility independently, but nonetheless wished to part in amicability.

He stood up and refit his newsboy’s cap. “You humble me, Don. I’ll relay your choices once I propose to my beloved, whom I intend to give the ultimate decision on these matters. I do hope to introduce her; she’s the fiery beacon of solace in the wretched world post apocalypse. My own personal Lady Liberty.” He bowed humbly. “With your permission, I’ll arrange to set the pieces in motion.” With a faint smile, he departed.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Early Afternoon, November 18th

No sooner had he reached the exit than he spotted an unexpected, perhaps unwelcome familiar face of yellow hair and lightly tanned complexion. Her heated discussion with the doorway security likely centered around the canine sitting patiently at her hip. Was that Shuffles? Gosh, Daniel last encountered him as a puppy. The mutt had grown swiftly!

That mere distraction alone kept Daniel from a heart attack. At first sign of rebellion, the Aces' champion appeared at the conspiracy's location. Maybe the Gomorrah had a backdoor-

Eve Cannon hailed him. “Nines! What are you doing here?”

Daniel swallowed and approached. “Salutations, Eve. I could say the same.”

“I’m honorably exiled,” announced the Ace. “I’ll visit your base of operations soon. I figured it’s been a while since I enjoyed myself. A few drinks can’t hurt, right? What of yourself?”

Quick wit summoned, “Simply congratulating Dominic Omerta for tying the knot. I brought Amber’s potholders.”

“Pleasant,” the Ace remarked. “So, considering the pets policy at this establishment, shall we stroll back to your home?”

Several miles alongside the enemy. What fun. “It’d be an honor. I’m certain we’ll find revelry along the way.”

The Meld - Afternoon, November 18th

Charlotte focused attention beyond the wooden barrier. “I’m hearing footsteps and conversation. It's no lone wanderer.”

“Apologies for the accidental deception,” Faye explained. “I just saw the one.”

Charlotte inspected the chamber of her rifle. “I reckon two others, judging by the pattern of sounds. One’s currently monologuing. Amber, would you mind opening the door? I'd prefer both hands on my firearm.”

“Certainly, boss!” Amber complied, her perky demeanor unfitting of the potentially tense situation. When the entrance was opened, Charlotte lifted the barrel toward the newcomer’s forehead. “State your intentions.” The reckless and astute might notice no loaded cartridge through the tube.

Charlotte spent a moment to glance past her guests. At a most inopportune time, Bradley had returned from collecting driftwood, softly arriving at the ensemble's rear with his ax in hand. Misinterpreting the scenario, he’d discarded his bounty and prepared to strike. He raised his chin, expectant of a signal to commence.

“Why haven’t you pulled the trigger yet?” Isabel demanded.

Unruly ebony strands of hair fell across Charlotte's countenance to hinder her view, but she wouldn't deviate from gripping her lever action. “Be patient,” Charlotte insisted. "I'm waiting."

Bradley interpreted that he was to instigate the combat. He swung his ax backward and silently charged forward. Thank God that his wife's keen perception caught him. “Stop, Bradley!”

Bradley redirected the metal head's momentum to his left, striking the soil beside the visitors. His stealth purposely ruined, he acquired an air of joviality and extended a formal salutation. “Pleasure to meet you! I’m Bradley Lewis, Jack of Diamonds.”

Charlotte sighed. “And I’m Charlotte Lewis, Queen of Spades. Matrimonial relations, not blood. Please forgive our… unorthodox greetings; this is the second gun related standoff we’ve weathered in under an hour. I still ought to deal with fallout from the former, so, if you’ll excuse me,” she provided a wry, mildly embarrassed grin. “Bradley, I need strength. Inside. Amber, would you-”

Before Charlotte concluded her sentence, Amber jumped out from behind the door, grabbing the female Follower’s shoulder and walking her away from the structure and towards the homestead's quieter parts. Finally, an opportunity to unload her gossip! She watched for Bradley to close her egress, then rattled off her baggage. “Alright, so for Failfest – it’s a festival on October 28 that celebrates multiple things malfunctioning simultaneously; don’t worry about it – for that, Danny – he’s the leader of our local branch – decided to declare independence from Vault 48 for a day. Now, we unanimously enjoy that idea. So, how do Americans celebrate freedom?”

Amber didn’t wait appropriately for an answer; her speeding mental faculties must have implied a response from her guest. “Fireworks and apple pie, exactly! But they stopped exporting apples a year ago, so Charlotte resolves to bake a cake instead. Fair enough. I design the Pinochle Expedition's flag, which adorns the confection via the icing. We have orange, black, and green for food coloring after celebrating the Fourth of July because those luxuries are usually shipped in April – go figure – but I fabricate something that looks decent. And to top it off, we have sparklers that will be inserted into the batter. We constructed a makeshift table outdoors, so we place our creation outside and light the sparklers. Thing is, Bradley had placed the fireworks below the surface so they wouldn’t get soaked in any potential rain. A spark flies off and hits the explosive powder. The table, the dessert, the entire assortment gets blown to smithereens! Thankfully we revel at a comfortable distance, so none are injured. Charlotte cries for hours, but, I dunno, I suppose that matches the spirit of the holiday, don’t you?”

Amber blinked and paused, as if to refresh herself. In her vain desire to talk from weeks of relative silence, she’d overlooked the desires of her newfound acquaintance. “I’m sorry; did you have anything to share?”

Somewhere in Outer Vegas

The Chairmen were antsy.

Lucy watched with bated breath from her hidden position on the hillside as the two groups below exchanged niceties. On one side was a heavily armed group of Chairmen goons, wearing their usual tan suits. On the other was the caravan group they were making a deal with. Several large crates full of weapons and body armor were stacked neatly behind the caravaner's brahmin: they were arms dealers looking to make a quick load of caps in Vegas by profiting off the recent conflicts.

Despite their always-present smug self-assurance, it was clear the Chairmen were out of their element. The leader of this little war-party kept fidgeting with his suit jacket and playing with a decorative lighter in his hand, flipping it back and forth like some kind of stress relief toy. The rest of the Chairmen shifted uneasily side-to-side, and kept a white-knuckle grip on their 9mm submachine guns.

It wasn't hard to see why. The boys from The Tops rarely left the strip anymore, and when they did it was almost always because they were forced to. The Omerta-White Gloves alliance was starting to choke them out, business was suffering, and they were woefully outgunned. They had to find some way of turning the tables, and seeking out third party arms dealers was about the only option they had at this point to compete with the Omerta’s substantial armory. Conflict was coming, it was inevitable, and they knew that they couldn’t fight to win as things were now.

Lucy intended to make sure it stayed that way.

A deal seemed to be reached, the Chairmen leader shook the hand of the caravan master and some of the Chairmen moved to pick up the crates. They were laughing, joking with each other and with members of the caravan. They were starting to relax: starting to drop their guards as they came to believe that, now, there was no reason to fear.

The caravan master, still laughing, moved off to the side of the road, yelling something loudly about ‘needing to take a leak’. The rest of his group backed up or subtly slipped themselves behind cover. The Chairmen didn’t seem to notice, they were too busy opening the crates and inspecting all the new shiny toys they’d just purchased.

The caravan master suddenly dove into the ditch. That was the signal. Lucy stood up from her hiding spot, as did the small army of Omerta made-men she had with her.

“This is for my mother you bastards!” She shouted, and immediately began unloading the full clip of her 12mm submachine gun. The rest of the Omertas followed suit, unleashing a hail of lead on the Chairmen below. The poor saps barely had time to register what was happening. Some tried to run, others tried to fire back, but most found themselves turned into well-dressed swiss cheese.

In less than a minute it was over, and once the smoke cleared Lucy casually strode down the hill towards the highway. She gave one of the dead Chairmen a firm kick with her high-heeled boot and then spit on the ground.

“Shit you guys don’t mess around,” The Caravan master said as he slunk up next to Lucy after crawling out of the ditch he’d been taking cover in.

“Double the pay as agreed,” Lucy replied as she turned to him with one hand on her hip, and the other holding up her gun, “But we were never here. These Chairmen were hit by raiders, understand? You mention the word Omerta to anyone, and we’ll make sure you wind up with a few extra holes yourself. Got it?”

“You won’t have anything to worry about from us,” The Caravaner replied as he held up his hands, “We’re out of here…heading back to Cali.”

Lucy nodded in approval, then turned to her men, “Let’s go boys. Take the guns, leave the bodies..”

A Collaboration with @crimson paladin


Major Addams - NCRCF - Midnight, November 18th
Addams woke with startle as the alarm pierced the still night air, muffled though it was by the thick walls of the administration center. He was dressed in his night clothes, his boots hastily tied and his service pistol in hand when he made it into the central admin office. The building had no true windows but the second story held a number of slotted viewports.The metal shutters had been open to let in the night air and through these openings Addams could hear the crackle of gunfire and the snap of energy weapons. They were under attack, that much was clear. But who their assaulters were and their purpose was unknown. There was a call on the radio, Addams picked up the receiver as several other officers entered the office.

“This is West Tower One. The perimeter fence has been breached, I repeat, the camp has been breached. Over”

“This is Major Addams. Can you ID the attackers? Over.”

“No sir. But they’re heavily armed and armored. Over”

“Understood, provide overwatch and keep us updated. Over and out.”

Addams turned towards his command staff. They’re faces were white and their eyes wide with fright. A few of them were veterans of the Legion war but most had been recruited in peace time. Few had seen a battle in person and none had believed the prison would be attacked. They had been trained to suppress riots and catch escapees not withstand a siege. Addams knew that their resolve hinged upon his own. He swallowed the fear that grew within him and set about his duties.

“We need three signal flares fired. That’ll draw up reinforcements from Sloan and Primm if any patrols are in the area. We’ll call up Fort Gulf and update the colonel on the situation as well. However, we won’t be seeing any backup tonight. Our forces are too few and too far to support us immediately. That means we must hold. We don’t know who we’re dealing with but that doesn’t matter. We’re third infantry. That means we don’t back down and we don’t give them an inch. Hooah!”

“Hooah!” came the response and the soldiers jumped into position. Addams pointed to a lean officer with short cropped hair near the doorway.

“Lt. Newman. Gather the suppression team and raid the armory. I want machine guns on both western towers and every trooper armed to the tooth.”

The young man hesitated and looked at Addams, his wide white eyes and thin nose giving him the appearance of a confused owl.

“Shouldn’t we recall the men? Hold here for reinforcements.?”

“You’d have me start this defense with a call to retreat?” Addam’s sneered and Newman avoided his gaze. The lieutenant nodded, grabbed a few others and set off for the armory.

Addams joined another officer at the viewport and was handed a pair of binoculars. He peered down into the mayhem that consumed the work camp. The fence had been blown in and despite every spotlight from the prison being centered on the camp the dark black smoke from burning tents and shelters obscured the battle. Bodies ran everywhere, in ragged lines and tightly packed squads. Some were isolated and fought from the cover of makeshift shelters, others ran headlong out the breached fence into the night. Some lay sprawled in contorted and uncomfortable positions in the dirty alleyways and streets. An arching snap of light flashed across Addam’s face and smoldered into the concrete wall surrounding the viewport. He ducked instinctively then popped up and continued his observation. The attackers were wielding energy weapons, their forms bulky and they advanced through the camp using balanced infantry tactics. A sickening revelation dawned on Addams and he had to place his hand on the wall to keep his knees from buckling.

A call came from the communications officer they’d made contact with Fort Gulf. Addams pushed off the wall and grabbed hold of the radio’s microphone.

“This is Major Addams. The prison is under attack. Seeking immediate reinforcements. Over”

“This is Colonel Abernathy. We are mustering a relief party now. Can you identify the hostiles? Over.”

Addams held the microphone for a second unsure of what to say. He looked at the communications officer. A young woman with a look of genuine fright chiseled upon her face.

“It is the Brotherhood of Steel. Over.”

There was a pause and the other officers in the room looked at Addams, he avoided their eyes. And kept focused on the microphone. He only heard static and wondered if his message had been received or if the Brotherhood had jammed their communications.

“Understood Major. Hold them. Over and out.” Was all the colonel said and Addams knew what it meant.

The administration office was quiet when Addams put the microphone down. He could see in their movements and eyes that the soldiers were terrified. None other than himself had faced the Brotherhood in battle before. They had thought them all dead and gone if they were even real to begin with. Now they were faced with the terrible reality of pre-war firepower in the hands of fanatics. Addams knew that with a concentrated effort the Brotherhood would blow their way into the office and kill them all. There would be no prisoners taken, no quarter given. He expected the same treatment Denver and himself had given them at Helios One.

With few options left and his desperation growing, Addams made a bold choice. There was only way they could receive reinforcements within the hour. He looked at the communications officer, she was sweating.

“Call up the Van-Graff headquarters.”
-----------------------------------------------------

“Save your ammo for the 3rd, and make every shot count!" Hardin commanded his troops as they advanced into the work camp, cutting down any barricades in their way. The Sentinel's plan for attacking NCRCF called for ignoring any NCRCF employee that didn't shoot back. Irving's rationale was no doubt because he was soft, while Hardin's was simply because without the support of the entire chapter, they couldn't afford to waste any time or ammo blasting fodder.

The NCR soldiers in their way would receive no such mercy, however. Long had Hardin and the Mojave chapter been denied vengeance for the disaster at HELIOS One, and they would forestall it no longer.

The Head Paladin had little concern for what would happen to the prisoners that managed to escape. With any luck, the NCR would be thrust into a dilemma of whether to commit to fighting the Brotherhood or commit to scooping up the prisoners before they can start to inflict damage to their presence. NCRCF held a mix of political prisoners and hardened raiders, and both shades of escapees could potentially cause real harm to the NCR in the Mojave.

The work camp was only the first step, however- ahead lay the fenced prison complex. As foreboding as it may be for lesser men and women, it was meant to keep unarmed prisoners in, not keep power armored soldiers out.

-------------------------------------------------------
Hidden Valley Bunker - Midnight, November 18th

"Sentinel! Sentinel! Wake up, something serious has happened!"

Irving was stirred from his sleep by a frantic scribe.

"Report, Scribe. What is the emergency?" he asked, still a bit drowsy but almost fully awake.

"It's Hardin, sir. He's gone forward with the attack on NCRCF!"

"What?" the Sentinel jolted from his bed. "How? Did the Elder approve of this?"

This was serious. The attack was meant to be a last resort if the NCR further interfered with the Brotherhood's operations. Now that it had been carried out, now that the Brotherhood had escalated, there would be no going back.

"No, but Hardin claims that both you and McNamara are guilty of violating the Codex, and has rallied almost half the chapter to his side. He doesn't yet have enough support to have you two removed, but he believes he has enough support to go ahead with our plans to liberate NCRCF."

In the time it took for the scribe to explain that, the Sentinel was already halfway dressed.

"Fire up our radio transmitters!" Irving commanded. "If Hardin has followed the plans to the letter, the NCR needs to be warned about the mines before they try to send reinforcements!"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Major Addams crouched low under the viewport and was just able to make out the advance of several squads of brotherhood soldiers from the work camp. They moved carefully, two at a time advanced to the prison walls while the others provided suppressive fire. More than once he saw one of the attackers drop to a knee before crashing to the ground in a hail of gunfire. Lt. Newman had been able to get heavy weapons to the guard towers but Addams knew they wouldn’t be able to hold them back much longer. The attack had gone on for nearly a quarter of an hour and he knew that soon the NCR soldiers would run out of ammo. The prison armories had never been stocked for prolonged engagements and without reinforcements Addams feared his troops would surrender. He couldn’t allow that.

The Van-Graffs had confirmed they were sending several dozen CSF agents via the railway but Addams hadn’t heard from them since the initial call. He wondered if the Van-Graffs had even told him the truth. They might not be keen to send their private army to a prison break when they were responsible for the imprisonment of half the people there.

Addams moved to the Northern viewport. From there he could watch west tower one provide overwatch fire on the advancing brotherhood forces. There was a break in the automatic fire and Addams watched two young soldiers hastily reload the light machine gun they were using. Just as they closed the action and racked the first round into the chamber, the entire top of the tower was consumed in a painfully bright flash of sickly green light. Addams dropped below the viewport and rubbed at his eyes. They stung and he saw spots when he opened them. He risked another glance at the tower and through the hazy floaters in his eye he saw the top half of the guardhouse was gone. The rest smoldered and smoked. A figure lay stretched out on the top flight of stairs. His back was burned horribly and skin peeled off like discarded clothing. Addams shuddered at the image and dropped back down. He thought he saw the man moving but he convinced himself it was a trick of the light.

There was another explosion and the viewport was clogged with smoke and debris. Addams moved away towards the radio.

“They’ve breached the wall.” The comms officer looked up at Addams. Her eyes were wide and red and she held the emergency radio out for him to take. “What’s your order?”

“Fallback.” Was all he could utter. “Fallback.” he repeated as he moved to another viewport. He wiped his binoculars against his undershirt, his hands were shaking from the adrenaline and fear.

“Fallback to the admin center.” Came the comms officer’s voice over the radio. “I repeat, fallback to the admin center. All soldiers unable to access the admin center should report to the gatehouse. I repeat, all soldiers unable to access the admin center report to the gatehouse.”

Addams didn’t watch her give the command but he heard it echoed outside on the loudspeakers. He peaked up over the lip of the viewport and watched as the Brotherhood forces forced their way into the prison and advanced towards the administration center. A squad of NCR soldiers retreated from west tower two but were caught by the Brotherhood forces and immediately gunned down. Addams had to look away and he buried his face in his hands. He was going to die, they were all going to die. Panic and desperation threatened to overtake him and he got up and walked quickly to the door. He was stopped by the grim-faced Lt. Newman, behind him were several NCR soldiers, scorched and bloody from the battle outside.

“We’ve evacuated the eastern towers but couldn’t reach the rest. We brought those we could to the clinic. Major, we cannot hold out. Where are our reinforcements?” The young officer’s breathing was rapid and shallow.

“No one will be here tonight. We’re all alone.” Addam’s shook his head. “Pull yourself together lieutenant.”

The sounds of battle from outside began to dim. The smoke from burning shelters and towers obstructed most of the view but Addams was able to see the Brotherhood forces breaking into the central prison quarters. Some of the prisoners were killed, others ran off into the night. One squad of Brotherhood warriors congregated around the gatehouse, trading fire with what NCR troops were trapped inside. Then came a noise below. A great pounding that caught the attention of everyone in the administration office. The Brotherhood were beating the armored doors down. Around him his staff began to arm themselves, they looked to Addams for a command.

They would have to sell their lives dearly. That much was obvious to Addams. As long as they held the Brotherhood here in combat they would give Denver a chance to assist them. Or in the very least avenge them. Just as the Brotherhood surrounded and struck at the prison so too would they be penned in the gulch and slaughtered. If only Addams could buy Denver enough time.

Lt. Newman spoke, “We should consider negotiations.”

“Negotiations?” Addam’s eyes narrowed, “Are you stupid? There is no negotiating with fanatics.” The prison had been breached, most of his soldiers had been slaughtered and now the survivors faced a certain death and this office wished to hasten the inevitable? The cowardice was revolting and Addams fought the urge to physically reprimand the lieutenant. “Remember your place Lt. Newman.”

Had he failed them? Addams felt a terrible desperation well up within him. Fear had worn on his nerves and his thoughts and words were bitter. He stepped past the young officer and into the hallway. There were a few troopers squatting, wounded and scared. He avoided eye contact with them and made his way to the first floor. There a gaggle of soldiers were spread out in doorways and around corners, furniture had been hastily piled behind the front door. They shuddered with every strike on the door. Addams wished to share a quick word of encouragement with them. Tell them that help would be there soon, that they only needed to hold just a few minutes more. Instead he told them to fight for their lives, because the enemy would not spare them.

He returned to the administration office and found Lt. Newman standing with the comms officer. Addams moved to speak but the lieutenant cut him off.

“Is it my place to die sir?” Lt. Newman’s face was contorted, his sharp nose scrunched up as if he smelled something foul.

Addams paused but for a moment and with a rapid twist of his body Newman brought the butt of his rifle into Addams’ face. He felt his nose crack and his vision went black. When he woke he was lying on the floor, his hands bound behind his back. A vicious pain throbbed in his face and his left eye was swollen shut.

Below he could hear the terrible rhythm of the pounding on the front doors. Lt. Newman argued with the comms officer before he pushed her aside and grabbed the microphone.

“This is Lt. Newman of the 3rd infantry battalion.” The voice boomed on the loudspeakers around the prison. “I wish to negotiate a surrender.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hardin signaled his men to stop, and took a moment to adjust the speaker on his helmet.

"This is Head Paladin Hardin of the Brotherhood of Steel, a veteran of the Battle of HELIOS One. We have no need to indulge your pleas for negotiation- just as the 3rd showed us no quarter at HELIOS, so too will they receive none."

"Head Paladin, what is the meaning of this?" a familiar voice crackled from Hardin's radio. It appeared that the Sentinel had caught wind of what they were doing and had fired up the comm relay. "Are you mad, acting without approval from your leaders?"

"We had no choice, "Sentinel", your actions were in violation of the Codex," he answered. "I was forced to take action to set the Brotherhood on the correct path. The question is, will you lead us astray again, or will it fall to me to keep us on the path?"

For ten seconds, there was no response.

"Yes...I see," Irving responded, with a hint of concession in his voice. "Very well, give me a report, Head Paladin. How much of the prison has been taken?"

"The outer camp has been liberated, and we are in the process of breaching the prison complex. The mines have been placed, in case the NCR attempts to bring in reinforcements. The NCR was attempting to surrender," he explained, a bit frustrated that the Sentinel was still demanding lenience, but pleased with how resigned he sounded.

"Excellent work, Head Paladin, but this is just the beginning of the strike. Don't waste precious time cracking the NCR's inner defenses, I'm sending a relief force to deal with them and secure the prison. I need you to leave a skeleton crew behind to keep the NCR pinned down until we get here, and take the rest of your men north to strike the next target while the NCR is still flat-footed. I trust you can handle that?"

"The Van Graffs won't know what hit them," Hardin replied, pleased at having forced the Sentinel's hand.

"I'll be maintaining radio silence for the time being. Ad Victoriam."

"For HELIOS One!"

"Consider yourself lucky, Lieutenant," he shouted to the NCR officer. "My higher-up will be taking over here, and he's a far more forgiving man than I. I suggest you not try anything that will spoil his goodwill." He then picked up his radio. "All warriors begin to withdraw. The Sentinel has conceded and will be providing support. We are to head north to attack the second target immediately. Move out!"

It was frustrating to miss the chance to take vengeance upon one of the perpetrators of the disaster of HELIOS One, but the Sentinel had a point- they needed to move and attack their next target, and time was of the essence.

What mattered was that he had made Irving see the light.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - North Gate - Afternoon

The journey's initial mile bore nary a word between Danny and Eve. Cannon, a head above her peer, seemed to relish the silence, basking amid the newer landscape and reflecting upon her fortunes. She plotted each footfall, deftly maneuvering around debris along her path.

Floyd, already familiar with the scenery, languished in light terror, not that his countenance displayed any. He calculated the intricate sequence of events. Should he disclose the conspiracy to the Meld's comrades? The burden of withholding his secrets alone would grind him mentally. Amber was indisputably reliable. The Jack's Revolt was a source of mild contention among Charlotte and Bradley, Bradley supporting the insurrection and Charlotte siding against. Regardless, Charlotte commonly supported Daniel through even his controversial endeavors, and neither lover was overly invested in the conflict. Both could be entrusted. The question then was the order of disclosure...

"You mentioned revelry," Eve stated. "Let's have some." Apparently the placidity lost its luster.

In the absence of strangers, Danny withdrew his harmonica. "Name a tune, then."

"I'd rather not revel thus," she grinned. "Why parleyed you with Don Omerta?"

"As I said," he replied. "To congratulate his wedding."

"Come now," she countered. "You're not one to be chummy with men of such disrepute."

"He has unseen virtues."

"As do I," she pressed. "As do the NCR, and the Brotherhood of Steel, and all characters of the wasteland's remnant factions. Why not fraternize with them?"

"Well, I negotiated with Ambassador Watts prior. The painting expenses must have reached you."

"They have. So it's those with authority," she insisted, turning to lock gazes, looming downwards with that characteristic faint smile. "Are you attracted to folk like me?"

To repay the insult to his beloved, Daniel telegraphed a pommel, the bronze from his enclosed instrument promising an unpleasant experience. Eve swiftly dodged aside, though Daniel didn't intend to make impact. He relaxed his fist. "Infer that again, and you'll see how promptly I shed my decency."

"Then it's ambition," the Ace concluded. "And I desire to hear of it. You've always carried an affinity for self autonomy, but this is something quite separate."

"As if I'd expose myself to the Aces' champion."

"I'm banished in every way but officially," she eased, her hand stopping him in his tracks. "Whatever inner recesses you unveil, none will reach the Council, I assure you."

Daniel sighed. His journey would be halted while he remained aloof. Eve's inquisition proved piercing as ever. Better that his rival understand isolated and defenseless than, for example, in Isabel's presence. "Where lie your loyalties?"

Eve glanced elsewhere, as if the answer was obvious. As she fully realized the implications of Danny's demand, her legs began to tremble in weakness, and she clutched her stomach. After a minute, she summoned her resolve to respond merely: "With the Vault."

"Its inhabitants, or its management?"

She vomited at the roadside and staggered backwards. "Please don't force me to choose," she pleaded.

"They just exiled you! You owe them no allegiance!" Danny shouted, knowing before speaking he elected the incorrect route of argument.

"It was never about my power!" Eve cried, clinging to Floyd's shoulders. "I upheld the Vault's traditions, that our heritage might endure! Surely you agree!"

"And does the current status of 48 resemble that of your childhood?" Nines challenged. "You caused the downfall of our homeland. You and Faye together. Don't hinder my attempt to restore it."

Her vigor exhausted, Eve knelt at his front, still capable of maintaining eye contact at her height. He spoke truth; her eyes reflected her acknowledgement. "I've seen too many brethren perish in my quests. No matter my reservations, I won't contribute to more senseless death from my kin. You'll have my neutrality."

"And you won't inform members of the homestead without my express permission, yes?"

Eve swallowed. "Allow me to confide in my sister. I know she's escaped to take refuge with you. We have methods of silent communication; Isabel won't notice."

Daniel was unacquainted with this information, but he didn't reveal surprise. "Granted," he grunted, assisting his former adversary to her feet. "Gather your strength; we shall show the colony no dissension." The giantess had fallen. Perhaps he was scared for nothing. He resumed pace. To ease their nerves, he performed a tinny medley for the travel back: the Colonel Bogey March. The melody was harried but sure.

Matt Levi - North Vegas - Evening, November 18th

Matt halted and scanned the vacant storefronts of the dark street. It was empty save for himself, his bodyguard and the three brahmin between them. He motioned to an alley next to a burned-out auto shop and led the caravan down a ruined sidestreet. He kept his left hand on the lead and his right on the pistol at his waist. The sun dipped below the horizon and in the blue twilight long shadows began to grow among the vacant door frames and shattered windows.

The brahmin moved slowly, laden with heavy artillery shells and tied together at the neck. Their heads were down as they picked their way through the familiar path. Matt had driven this caravan the same route twice a week for a month now and though his brahmin had grown comfortable with it he had not. In the dilapidated buildings he could hear vermin rustling through debris, the volume of noise an indicator of their immense size. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of a naked tail, hunched form or worse, the black eyes staring through the cracks in the walls at him. The rats ruled these streets and they had no fear of him or any other human as this section of the city had been abandoned since the growth of the Green cut off North-West roads to New Vegas.

The Brackenwood was its official designation. It was the green heart of the unexplainable growth in the region that was forming a noose around New Vegas. Matt had done his best to stay far away from it in his duties as caravaneer. While he was well aware of the dangers of Greenlung the truth of the matter was that when Matt stared at the forest he could feel the forest looking back at him. That feeling scared him more than any fungal infection. While the unseen vermin stalking his steps made him anxious, the thought of being any closer to the Green disturbed him.

The brahmin halted before an old ‘Radiation King’ store. The building was boarded up save for a single window on the second story. Beside the front door three nuka-cola bottles lay in a pile of broken glass. Matt took one of the bottles and flung it through the open window. He heard the dull crash of broken glass then nothing. His bodyguard stepped away from the caravan and scanned the street around them. Further down, a gaggle of large rodents ran between several ruined buildings. Feet shuffled inside the store and a chain clanked softly. A single board on the door slid sideways and Matt looked inside and nodded. The board slid back and the door opened.

Matt had started to unload the lead brahmin when two rangers stepped out the door. He recognized the first one, a veteran ranger by the name of Richard Holmes. Matt knew the man to be a trusted confidant of the colonel. That made Holmes the closest thing Denver had to a friend. The men shook hands but shared no words. The practice was routine at this point and together the three of them unloaded the ammunition while Matt’s bodyguard stood watch. In a short order the brahmin had been relieved of their burden and the rangers were beginning to lock up the store. Matt looked up at them and the veteran ranger halted.

“I know the colonel asked me not to say anything.” Matt started, the ranger furrowed his brow. “But if I count correctly I’ve brought up about a hundred and-”

“He didn’t ask you, sergeant. He ordered you.” Ranger Holmes said cutting Matt off. “You chose to continue to assist us after your enlistment was up. You chose to remain part of the 3rd.”

“I hadn’t meant to disobey the colonel.” Matt's face was flush and he tried to hide his embarrassment at being reprimanded like a child. Holmes’ face softened a bit.

“I know, but these are dangerous times in the Mojave. Sometimes we must keep our friends in the dark so as not to blind them with the light.”

“But the 3rd doesn’t even possess any artillery. How does he plan to shoot all of this?”

“Who said he plans to shoot it?”

“Well what else is ammo for?” Matt was confused, his earlier shame turned to bewilderment.

“Not every problem can be solved by shooting at it sergeant Levi.”