[color=aba000][u][b]Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 18th[/b][/u][/color]

Floyd wracked his noggin to give the Don the benefit of the doubt. Not three days ago he'd shown him a photograph with these two present lasses towering behind the women's chorus. He'd pointed them out explicitly, even summarizing their strengths and creeds. And yet Dominic asked for their names. Why would he forget so quickly after their introduction? They were the most critical figures to the whole endeavor!

Granted, Omerta's a busy man; a great swath of Vegas politics must have caught his attention. He recalled the photo in his mind's eye. Eve's blonde locks had whitened and frayed slightly under the burden of leadership. Faye filled out her garments further, and her eyes were wearier than in her youth. Neither had washed in awhile; they could be reasonably mistaken for separate characters. Then again, this assumed that Omerta had forgotten. Perhaps he gauged their initial reactions, or merely put up a front to lure their interest.

If the latter, the gambit appeared to work. They hadn't met him before nor known of Floyd's priming. Eve bore a mannequin's poise: her shoulders back, her chin elevated and glancing sideways, her outstretched hand motionless and rigid as the don's lips kissed it. It would've felt as leather, or plastic, save for the warmth and pulse of her rushed heartbeat. "Eve, Ace of Diamonds."

"And a pleasure to make yours!" Faye was more fluid. She curtsied down to his level. Amid the vitriol and adoration, the labels of "traitor" and "savior," she hadn't received a quaint compliment as "gorgeous" in ages. Her blushing cheeks showed her genuine gratitude, like a starving wasteland wanderer presented a five course meal. "And I'm Faye Cannon, the Jack."

In upright posture, Eve placed her rear on the sofa cushion's edge, a hair's breadth away from slipping off onto the ground. She nearly did so when Faye plopped into the couch corner, practically submerged in the plush. Faye swallowed upon the declaration of the reclamation army. Foreigners about to storm her birthplace, and she was to join their ranks. "Excuse me-"

"No, it's perfectly alright," Danny defused. He had a thumb on his lower cheek and an index finger across his lip as Omerta updated him on the conspiracy's progress. He'd hoped to garner repute to inspect the soldiery, to ensure their dependability rather than rely on whatever scraps the Don provided. That said, an entity with influence to gather such resources so readily probably shouldn't be questioned. "It was a prior, now irrelevant, concern. We trust your judgment."

The mention of "House" confused the delegation enough to temporarily set aside their trepidation. Faye looked to Eve, who stared at the floor in recollection. The Ace's mental library hadn't failed her. "A prewar icon, the world's first trillionaire. He specialized in robotics, if I recall." She locked gaze with Nines. "It's quite a niche subject matter. Why do you ask?"

[color=aba000][u][b]Justin Moore - Fort Golf - Morning, November 19th[/b][/u][/color]

Justin rubbed his head in soothing circlets. The evening of drunken debauchery he called "networking" had returned to claim its toll in the form of a massive hangover, worse than usual. Still, he'd fraternized with certain rank and file NCR arrivals sufficiently for usefulness. His career was fraught with instances where the small touches made all the difference. The post session conversation with the janitor that one time in Sac Town was a masterstroke. Let's hope that the good colonel valued the words of his underlings.

He stood just inside the colossal structure's doors as a cadre of troopers intercepted him. "Who are you? State your purpose."

"Ambassador Justin Moore, gentlemen, fresh from Vault 48," he replied nonchalantly, "here to meet with Denver Abernathy, or to schedule an appointment if he's currently engaged. Proposition for an alliance." He smiled. "I had a few drinks with some of your buddies last night."

He raised his arms, an invitation to frisk him. "Better be snappy with it; I've got a date with the Brotherhood of Steel this afternoon as well." The ability to bounce into professionalism from so disadvantageous a mood was what separated the Kings from the Nines. The Meld colonists were likely, what? Sewing, farming, picking off the Green, as he spoke? Nothing hardly as regal as statesmanship.