Sentinel Irving, Hidden Valley Bunker

The Head Paladin and his fellow Helios One survivors had proven to be troublesome. They were unable to see the bigger picture, unable to see the Brotherhood's greater purpose. They cited the letter of the Codex without understanding the spirit of it. Was it a matter of honor or vengeance for the defeat at HELIOS One? Was it to compensate for their heresy and disgrace of their former Elder, the same man who led them into disaster? Or was it just the result of years of isolation without having a chance to act upon their duties?

In any case, he could not pursue his mission if he had to watch his back for insubordination and mutiny. Nor could he pursue it if his authority as Sentinel was undermined. Hardin may have opted to play with him for now, but Irving's authority would evaporate if he allowed himself to be led around by a subordinate like a Bighorner on a lead.

And he was not going to allow his mission to be jeopardized by these insubordinate fools. The relief team was on his way, but he would not be able to join them in person, for there was another matter that needed addressing.

Bingo, I've isolated the necessary frequency. This should get you into contact with someone important."

"Excellent work, scribe. Return to your quarters and stand by," he ordered the radio operator scribe-the only other person in the radio room. After the scribe departed, Sentinel Irving proceeded to lock the door before returning to the radio equipment. He fiddled with it, closely watching the monitors and instruments. Finally, he reached the necessary frequency that the scribe had mentioned.

"Attention, to whoever in the NCR is listening. I have urgent information regarding the Brotherhood attack on NCRCF. Repeat, I have urgent information on the ongoing attack..."

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

Gloria Van Graff - Van-Graff Regional Headquarters - After Midnight November 18th

The communications room was uncomfortably still as Gloria and her two radio engineers sat in silence. After Major Addams had hailed them at the prison, Gloria had ordered the engineers to keep a lock on Colonel Abernhaty’s encrypted channel. They had discovered the frequency several months before and with a little help from their friends at the La Brea Institute had been able to decipher the messages that were communicated within. She knew Addams had contacted the colonel about the Brotherhood’s attack and she hoped to see how the colonel may respond.

Though she had pledged reinforcements to Major Addams at NCRCF she had instead sent her troops to Helios One instead. Half the journey would be done by train, the other half on foot. If they moved fast they would be at the energy facility within the next two hours. Ideally they would arrive before a second strike by the Brotherhood. But even if the prison attack was a diversion and the Brotherhood's true target was Helios One. Her troops would surround their forces at the site and massacre them. Once more the Brotherhood of Steel would face death at Helios One. Hopefully this one was a more permanent death.

The radio static crackled and the soft click of a microphone could be heard. Gloria held her breath as she listened.

"Attention, to whoever in the NCR is listening. I have urgent information regarding the Brotherhood attack on NCRCF. Repeat, I have urgent information on the ongoing attack..."

The voice was firm, not panicked but there was an undertone of concern and urgency. Gloria couldn’t recognize it. The frequency went quiet and she exhaled.

“Where is the signal’s source?” She asked the engineers.

“It's roving, looks like they’re bouncing it off several towers south of here.”

“How many?”

“Six it looks like.”

“Which one is the largest?”

“A signal sourced out of Black Mountain.” The engineer shook his head. “There is no one out there though. Whole area is irradiated”

Gloria couldn’t make sense of it at first. Anyone using the radio station at Black Mountain would need to perform at least semi-regular maintenance of the facility. Not many groups had the knowledge or resources to conduct such a task. Especially on the hostile and remote mountain. It wasn’t the Van Graffs and if they were seeking contact it couldn’t be the NCR. Gloria smiled, it left only one likely candidate.

“Isolate every tower they are using for that signal. Get their coordinates.” The radio crackled and the soft click came again. Gloria’s command died in her throat as she froze to listen.

“This is a secure channel. Just who might you be?”

Gloria recognized the voice, it was Colonel Abernathy. She motioned to the engineers to begin a separate recording for the conversation.

"You can call me Irving," the Sentinel replied, leaving out the part that he was with the Brotherhood of Steel. It was a moot point- aside from House, the Brotherhood was the only entity in the Mojave with this level of comms technology, and it wouldn't take the Colonel much to put the pieces together. "We don't have time for formalities, so I'll make this quick."

Irving hesitated for a moment, gathering the strength to do what he was about to do.

"The Brotherhood of Steel attack on the NCRCF is just the first of a multi-pronged plan of attack by the Brotherhood to weaken and hinder the NCR presence in the Mojave. Meticulously planned, but very sloppily executed."

"Sloppily executed" was a gross understatement for the mutinous actions that Hardin and his loyal troops had carried out. Irving had fought the NCR long enough to know how quickly the most well-laid plan fell apart upon contact with the enemy, but this was in another league altogether. No doubt Hardin was banking on the Sentinel and his more loyal forces to jumping into the fray and ensuring their attack came back onto the rails.

"The Brotherhood attackers will be anticipating the NCR's attempts to send aid to the NCRCF and consequently will have laid mines on the tracks leading to and from the prison. Any locomotives sent to reinforce the penitentiary will be disabled if not destroyed. Meanwhile, with the facility compromised and the NCR presumably scrambling to respond to the attack, the strike force will be swiftly marching north towards their next target- the Van Graff headquarters south of the city."

It was with a heavy heart that the Sentinel gave this information to the enemy, but a house divided against itself could not stand. It was imperative that the subversive, insubordinate rot of this chapter be cut out, even if it came at a heavy cost.

Gloria felt a flash of fear at Irvings words. She hadn’t expected her family’s company to be a priority target of the Brotherhood, much less a direct assault on their headquarters. It made sense however, the compound would be a treasure trove for the Brotherhood. Filled as it was with preserved knowledge, technical hardware and stockpiles of energy weapons. The loss of the facility would be a devastating blow for the Van-Graff corporation in the region and a catastrophic failure for Gloria. Her family would never let her forget it and she could expect a grueling punishment when word reached the matriarch. That was if she survived the Brotherhood's assault.

Could she believe Irving though? Gloria had never dealt with the Brotherhood directly and had no way to discern if the voice was genuine. She wanted to believe he was sincere but why be so forthcoming? The Brotherhood were supposed to be a violent, xenophobic, tech-worshiping cult. Why would one of their own betray the ideals of their people to assist a most bitter enemy? The man didn’t bargain or demand anything in exchange for the information but gave it freely. Irving had been able to crack into a encoded radio channel that the Van-Graffs had only had access to for a few months. But his warning came only after the assault on the prison had started.

“It could be a trick.” She whispered. An engineer turned his face at her and she scowled at him to return to his work as the radio crackled again.

“Irving, this Colonel Abernathy of the 3rd Infantry.” There was a pause and Gloria cranked the volume knob. “Tell me where we took them. Tell me their names. Until I know you are a legitimate source from the Brotherhood, I have nothing further to discuss. Over.”

"Very well, I will verify," Irving answered. "Your Brotherhood captives were Knight Keyes and Knight Maven. Knight Keyes was taken to Black Mountain."

Gloria sat still. mouth slightly agape as the revelation dawned on her. The ambush at Black Mountain a month prior! The 3rd infantry had officially labeled the incident as a raid by the Great Khans on an infantry patrol but there had been rumors that the Rough Riders were there and escorting a prisoner. Gloria hadn’t paid it much mind, the colonel’s soldiers had been arresting and imprisoning people in the region for five years. But this exchange between Irving and Denver proved there was more to the story. The prisoner was a member of the Brotherhood and they had clearly orchestrated the ambush to free them.

Gloria sat back and smiled. This information was priceless and with the recording as evidence, she would be able to bring it before her aunt. Once word got out that the ambush and the assault on NCRCF was a result of Denver disobeying direct orders so that he could continue his secret little war against the Brotherhood, he would be finished. The president would ensure that Denver face a court-martial, be stripped of his command and sentenced to prison. Gloria could hardly stop from licking her lips. Colonel Abernathy had been a thorn in the president's side since her election and now Gloria had the solution to rid him in her hands.

Still, she couldn’t get ahead of herself. For all she knew a Brotherhood strike force was enroute to her position. While she had sent the majority of her CSF troops to reinforce the garrison at Helios One, a skeleton guard still remained. About a dozen agents supported by four Mr. Gutsys, a couple of sentry bots and a handful of protectrons. There was no need to panic and raise the alarm, but she would still increase the watch and ensure preparedness. She moved away from the radio and relayed the orders to her lieutenant.

Head Paladin Edgar Hardin, South of Van Graff Headquarters

"This is it," the Head Paladin spoke to his subordinates as they approached the old REPCONN building. "This is where the weapon distributors now in charge of the NCR are operating. They may have been alerted to the attack at the prison, but we should still have the element of surprise."

"You two, take up sniper positions," he commanded to a pair of recon-armored knights. He continued issuing orders, commanding three paladins to their left flank, two to the right flank, with the rest of them taking up the center. In just a minute he had delegated orders to his entire team.

The Sentinel's original plan was to bring along a scribe and Eyebot to spread a computer virus into the Van Graff's computers, but they didn't have time to wait- they needed to act now. If Irving had truly been kicked out of his foolish caution, the eyebot ought to be on its way. Even if it didn't, Hardin was certain he wouldn't need weapons of cyberwarfare to put this place out of commission.

Hardin topped up his Gauss Rifle's magazine and replaced its power cell, then signaled for the attack to begin. The Brotherhood Paladins advanced towards the building, firing red, green, and blue projectiles at anyone in their way. It was long past time that they correct the mistakes that started with Elijah.

The Meld - Late Afternoon, November 18th

Sister Genetta Williams - Followers of the Apocalypse

The door swung open and Genetta found herself staring down the barrel of a very serious-looking firearm. Time seemed to freeze.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Kings boys’ lightning reflexes kicking into gear, but even as their hands began the descent to their holsters, her brain had made the calculations.

Two women, who looked like ordinary frontier folk, albeit healthy and less radiation-scarred. One of them holding a rifle. No frightening military gadgets, no high-tech sci-fi apparatus. If they truly wanted strangers dead, or to make a terrifying display of force, this wouldn’t be their vanguard: a woman wielding a single rifle.

This was familiar to Genetta. It was no dystopian horror, such as an army of mechs or plasma-wielding footsoldiers that might be found in an Enclave bunker. It was a scene that she might encounter walking into a homestead, or a bar in a settlement that had just fended off Legion scouts. A single woman, whose practical frontier hospitality could turn into hostility at the sound of a Raider’s footsteps.

Genetta raised her arms in front of the Kings guards in a gesture of placation. Even as she did so, there was a sound from behind her, and she spun around to see another Vault dweller, a male this time. She just had time to process the axe he’d set down beside him (lowered is good! her brain interjected) when he broke into a warm greeting that seemed surreal, given their welcome.

The dark-haired woman holding the gun explained. It was as Genetta had suspected - recent aggression from outsiders, always a possibility on the frontier, had sent these three into high alert.

The Kings boys relaxed their muscles a notch, and everyone seemed to take a breath.

That was fortunate, because the second Vault woman almost jumped on Genetta and began dragging her away by the arm. Genetta did not resist, and the Kings guards trailed behind her, still primed for action, but mollified by the presence of a single unarmed woman.

When they were alone, the Vault Dweller burst into an extraordinary monologue. Despite herself, Genetta’s brain began making notes on the flood of cultural information issuing from the young lady’s conversation. Genetta knew body language and customs could vary wildly between settlements, but something told her this young woman was bored, lonely, and very keen for someone new to talk to.

I never thought about how lonely it must be for people with the wrong psychological profile to live underground, sealed into a single community. I’ve never met a young lady who’s quite this effusive and forthcoming. Vault-Tec definitely didn’t screen all their initial entrants, let alone their descendants. Quite the opposite - reports suggest that in some Vaults they deliberately chose individuals with vulnerable personalities and placed them in high-stress situations to observe the outcomes.

Genetta swallowed. “Um, Miss… Amber, I think the other lady called you? A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you for being so friendly - I was afraid at first that our reception would be none too friendly. Do you mind if we backtrack a bit? Say, start with introductions? My name’s Miss Genetta Williams. And I’m with a group called the Followers of the Apocalypse. I would love to learn… well, everything about you. And as for us - well, I wouldn’t really say we’re America. We’re part of what’s left on the surface.”

Amber glanced to the shut egress. If that comprised a tamer reception than expected, the Followers of the Apocalypse endured tragic lifestyles indeed. Pitiable creatures. Whatever this self described surface residue desired, she'd accommodate within reason. Amber mustered a smile, for their sake. "And a pleasure to meet yours! I'm Miss Amber Whitaker, eventually Missus Amber Floyd should my beau ever muster the conviction to pop the question!~" The last sentence's inflection trailed into a mournful sour note, which Amber quickly corrected.

"Everything about me… Well, I was born in Floor Eight's Birthing Facility to the King and Queen of Spades. I got assigned the Nine of Hearts, so they transferred me to the Bentons, who nurture hydroponics on Level Three." She whipped from her pocket an old yet nearly pristine condition playing card to that effect. "Mister Benton was a benevolent father figure after his spouse passed. I knew the Whitakers merely as loose acquaintances. As a Heart, I managed the dining facilities, so I had ample conversation opportunities in their daily routine. Apparently they're respectable folk among their kin, operating the electricity generators down on Seven.

"My heritage is likely my most interesting aspect," she stated. "The greater portion of my life was expended mopping the floors and sanitizing the machinery, as Nines are instructed. I cross stitch and crochet like everyone else nowadays. I fashion potholders and handkerchiefs at fifteen caps apiece." She snapped her fingers. "I was provided a solo assignment for the Women's Chorus! We compiled a Stephen Foster medley, and I was selected for one stanza of 'Swanee River.' My merit earned me a placement for 'I Heard the Bells' in the wintertime compilation!" She reflected on her prior deeds. "The diner once fended off a Radscorpion, but that's not exceptional, I don't think, certainly not in the wasteland. And furthermore a rather dreary subject." She shuddered at the notion.

----

After awhile, the Colonel Bogey March becomes less timekeeping than farcical. Danny’s and Eve’s footfalls lost rhythm, wholly off sync as their destination came into view.

Eve had better views at her height. “Amber talks with some cowgirl before the Meld. A couple strangers are with them.”

Nines stopped exercising his harmonica and stowed it. “You shall bring the strangers aside; I’ll discuss with Amber,” he stated. Eve halted, beholding her former subordinate with clear distaste. Floyd continued a few yards ahead before turning back. “Objections?”

They locked stares, and Eve blinked. “None… sir.” She resumed pace. Danny quietly exhaled, careful not to disclose how effortlessly she would have overwhelmed his gambit.

The Ace tromped ahead, touching Genetta Williams gently on the shoulder, increasing pressure as the Follower was made aware of her presence. “Redirect yourselves over here. We’ll answer your concerns shortly.”

Amber lit up at the sight of Eve Cannon in equal parts joy and panic. “Hey, Faye- sorry, Eve! What brings you to-”

Eve silenced her with a smile, though her eyes brimmed with curiosity. After stowing the three newcomers carefully at the side wall, she located Bradley and sicced him on them. She then opened the door and passed in.

Reflecting briefly on the new situation but reluctantly accepting it, Amber rushed to her beau and enveloped him. To keep from stumbling over, Daniel stepped back and twisted around, using his girlfriend’s momentum to lean her downwards. The gesture was far more romantic than he’d planned but nonetheless appreciated by both lovers. “Sweetheart,” he crooned. “It’s been a few hours. Already I missed you.”

Amber melted. This was the romance she sought for so long. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled herself up to kiss him. “For you, honey? I’d wait a lifetime!”

Daniel propped Amber up and dusted her off. For a brief moment, the world’s burdens had stepped aside, but he recalled his obligations. “Amber, might we converse in private?”

Amber checked the three visitors in the distance who tried to scrounge up discussion with the would-be axe murderer. “We are ‘in private,’ honey.”

“No, I’d prefer a getaway,” he clarified.

Amber gasped. Such a romantic showing, followed by the desire for privacy together, implied a very specific matter. She caught her breath. “Yes, certainly, as faraway as you desire.” She squealed silently as Daniel guided her.

Nines couldn’t get straight to business. “How’s everyone holding up?”

“Fine, fine,” Amber stated, restraining herself from bursting with energy. Amid the emotional commotion, a data point did arise. “Faye arrived today, recently in fact! She wants to live here in exile, if you’d permit. She submitted to your jurisdiction (her words). You’ve picked up her sister, it appears!”

Daniel looked to the Meld’s doorway. Whatever combustion he’d have expected it to cause, no heard no proof of ignition. Best not to ruminate on the situation.

Horowitz Farmstead - Evening, November 18th

He nodded towards his beloved to signal their destination. “So, I’ll cut to the chase. I talked with Don Omerta, who pledges to contribute soldiers and freshwater in exchange for pre-war technology and the technicians to utilize it.”

Amber cocked her head, staring blankly into a small patch of dirt. “To what end?”
Daniel nodded. “I’m usurping Vault 48, and concluding its infighting.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? You’ve no qualms with the endeavor?” Daniel’s jaw was agape.

She fixated upon him. “Danny, honey, I followed you outside the Vault, to the furthest perimeters of our faction. I forfeit my life to venture beside you. I’d stick my head in a Deathclaw’s jaws if needs must. If we travel homeward to end this odyssey, then what a blessing it’s been! I’ll remember this in frailty and old age.” Amber clutched her beau’s palm for effect. "No ambition of yours will deter me. Nobody else on Earth valued me as you did. We huddled alone against the world's machinations; I would perish if I let go. Between you and any other mortal thing, you are my volition."

With his free hand, Daniel brushed his fingers through her fiery bobbed hair. Beyond upholding Henry’s legacy, far beyond the pacification, he now knew the end purpose of his schemes. “I will adorn you in gold and silv- no, platinum and rhodium. Silver is beneath you. You’ll wear the finest silks, or the comfiest fabrics. Fresh flowers will daily rest upon your head. You’ll bear gemstones crafted a millennium ago, a continent away. When those inevitably pale in luster beside you, I’ll hire tinkers to cut new gemstones to match your beauty. If the world comes to a second apocalypse, the survivors will recognize you by name. They’ll call you the Last Great Queen among Men.”

Amber chuckled as she parsed Daniel’s Dutch beard with her own digits. “If you intend to drown me in luxury, honey, remember me as I was now.” She pecked him on the cheek. “So, that’s all?”

Nines blinked. “Yes… that’s what I desired to share. Why do you ask?”

Amber deflated slightly, perusing her surroundings. The quaint scenery was serviceable. Streetlights from olden days failed their function in the nautical twilight. Vines clung to rustic ruins with vain intentions. “Well, in an area this secluded, I’d hoped for… a romantic benchmark of sorts?”

It took Floyd a full minute to realize the implications. “Ah. Okay, I mean, if you wanted it presently.” He pulled out a box and unveiled the brass fitting within. “Remember when the ice cream machine broke? You recruited me to find the missing fixture. I did, eventually, after it was already replaced. Anyways, I regarded those times fondly, as a first date of sorts. I’d saved this for an opportune occasion, but,” he shrugged, “What the heck. Wanna get hitched?”

The Nine of Hearts threw herself around the Nine of Clubs. “Absolutely! Of course, yes!” Daniel felt small droplets on his shoulder. “That is simultaneously the most romantic, yet charmless proposal! You truly are hopeless, aren’t you, Danny?”

Floyd grinned. “That bad, huh? If you don’t approve of it-”

“It surpasses all the gold in the world!” Amber seized the brass ring and placed it on her finger. Though Daniel had estimated cautiously, the perfect fit still astonished him.

“So, shall we go inform the troupe?” he propositioned.

Amber wiped her tears. “I will if you won’t!”

The Meld - Evening, November 18th

Charlotte’s cocked lever action was the least tense element regarding the reunion. Faye’s face was flush. Eve barely maintained composure. As an infant would take first steps, Faye paced herself towards her long lost friend. They promptly broke into lunges towards each other. In the split second between launch and impact, Isabel’s eyes beckoned Charlotte to pull the trigger. Charlotte strained her better judgment to avoid doing so.

The sisters embraced, with strong surety that only familial passion instigated. Palms outstretched across each other’s spines; their arms pressed themselves closer together. The kitchen chair creaked as Isabel relaxed upon it.

Faye’s words would be indiscernible amid her breaking voice had they not been repeated frequently. “I’m so sorry," "I’m glad you’re safe," "It’s good to see you again," "Please forgive me.”

Eve had had a brief moment to mentally prepare herself. Then again, she always managed her emotions more methodically. Her chin hovered over her sister's shoulder. Her mouth pressed against Faye's head. The same waterworks flowed, but her words started with “There, there;” “There’s nothing to pardon;” “It’s alright now,” descending in volume until the lone possible receptor in range of Eve’s voice was Faye’s ear. The length Eve took to speak to her former rival was slightly too long for sweet nothings. Gradually, Faye’s muscles weakened, until she less embraced her sister than clung to her for stability. Eve's firm, sororal grasp alone kept her from collapsing.

Isabel nodded to Charlotte. “That’s genuine leadership, there. I’m grateful to be honored by the presence of the Ace of Diamonds.”

Faye pulled away from her sister, struggling to keep upright. “I can do that,” she vowed. She passed an uneasy glance to Isabel, then to Charlotte.

“Be valiant for my sake. For both of ours,” Eve assured.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Well. You both have ventured far. Can I fetch either of you refreshments?”

Eve complied with social norms, to a point. "I'll check the pantry, if it pleases you." She meandered over to the food cabinet to parse through the offerings. She pointed a digit at a small box, soon palming it as a basketball player would the ball. "Toast'ems. They don't serve these anymore back at base."

"Good riddance," Isabel countered. "Tasteless empty calories, the bunch. Give me bacon and eggs."

"Hey, I appreciate Toast'ems!" Eve protested. Isabel immediately surrendered the argument. "What will you have, Faye? Toasted Oats? Apple Bits? Fruit Rings?"

Faye had selected a chair and now silently perused the table's intricacies. "Whatever works, I guess."

"She likes Apple Bits," Eve covered as she fetched a bowl and poured out a decent helping.

"Milk powder didn't arrive with the latest shipment," Charlotte cautioned.

"She'll eat them dry." Eve pushed the bowl to Faye, who reeled it in in catatonic fashion. Spotting her sister's hesitance, Eve opened her own pack. "You know, Toast'ems come in packs of twos." She unsheathed a frosted thin rectangular pastry and with its corner poked Faye's nose.

Faye puffed out a small burst of air, revealing a smile. Whatever ailment befell her slowly evaporated. "Which flavor is this one? There are only a couple quality ones."

At once, the door opened. “I got engaged!” Amber exclaimed. Had she announced it from Black Mountain, they’d have heard it on the Strip. It filled the homestead with pure volume.

Danny with hands outstretched quipped casually: “She said yes! Can you believe a fellow like me would find a damsel that gorgeous, eh?”

“We must definitely have something special, then!” Charlotte commented, rattling her noggin to keep it from ringing. “How’s about pie?”

Gloria Van-Graff

The Brotherhood attack came as Irving had promised. Just two hours before dawn Gloria received confirmation from her guards of incoming energy weapons fire. The Brotherhood assault struck hard and fast and within minutes the compound was breached. She ordered the remaining guards to withdraw into the interior of the compound. A sentry bot and four protectrons were sent out to engage the attackers and keep them away from the main structure. While the robotic defense would be enough to deter even a determined assault by other forces, Gloria knew they would do little but slow the Brotherhood. She hoped that the heavy fire of the sentry bot and the relentless assault of the protectrons would suppress the Brotherhood long enough to give herself and her employees enough time to retreat.

Gloria loaded her plasma defender and holstered it behind her back. She had dressed herself quickly and simply with a black duster bearing her family's name thrown over her casual clothes. She had considered fetching armor and weapons from the armory but they would make little difference now. It had been years since Gloria was in a proper firefight and given the armaments used by the Brotherhood, ballistic armor would do little to protect her. Instead she had ordered one of sentry bots to be deployed within the armory itself. It would be a nice surprise for the Brotherhood. The remaining protectrons were set to a roving patrol protocol within the hallways to harass and slow the attackers when they inevitably made their way inside.

Gloria moved out into the hallway and formed up with her guards by the executive office. Inside, engineers were preparing three separate holotape recordings of the radio conversation between Denver and Irving. That conversation was her golden ticket and the only way her aunt would forgive her losing this facility. Without it, there would be little point in surviving the night. To ensure it reached its intended target Gloria had ordered her guards to split into two teams. One team would retreat out of the rear of the facility and escort two Mister Gutsys that each held a holotape of the conversation. They would draw the attention and fire of the Brotherhood away from the facility and more importantly away from Gloria and her team. Gloria would lead the others away from the facility via an underground tunnel.

It was an unfinished service tunnel in the basement of the facility. The tunnel led north and connected with the Vegas metropolitan sewer system. When the Van-Graffs took over the headquarters several years ago they had discovered it and originally sealed it up as the Green had already taken over most of the sewer system. However, with annexation looming closer Gloria had recently ordered the tunnel to be re-opened and rebuilt. She had intended to use it to move troops quickly and discreetly in and out of the city. Now it was her only choice to survive the night.

By the time the engineers were finished the Brotherhood forces had breached the building. Her guards were anxious as the attackers pushed deeper into the facility, swatting aside the robotic defenders. The wreckage of corpses smoldered and bubbled as they were devastated by the power of the Brotherhood’s weapons. In the confines of the old Repconnn Headquarters the power armored warriors were unstoppable and Gloria knew her window of escape was narrowing. With haste she grabbed her favorite engineer and sent the other ones with the surface-team. The two groups parted ways outside the armory and she didn’t look back as she led the rest of them to the maintenance room on the first floor. Behind three metal shelves and almost hidden from sight by an old auto-vac was the tunnel.

The entrance was a small rusted hatch with stenciled lettering that had long since chipped away into an indecipherable word. Inside the tunnel looked closer to a mine shaft than a proper civic project. The walls were bare earth and every four feet wood wooden pitprops stood to keep the tunnel from collapsing. Some of them were recent, others had been there since before the war. The stability of the tunnel was unknown and there hadn’t been time to verify if it still opened into the sewers or not. The first twenty yards were lit with electric lights connected by black wires that hung directly from the chalky walls.. After that Gloria and her employees used chem lamps and their hands to navigate.

It was cool and dry in the tunnel and pitch black beyond the few feet illuminated by the lamps. The tunnel was narrow, only three feet at its widest. As she scraped and pushed herself through she was thankful she hadn’t grabbed any armor, even her duster was becoming a nuisance in the cramped confines. The sounds of furious battle grew ever more distant as they pushed further into the tunnel. Aside from the shuffling of feet and armor the journey was silent. Gloria had spoken little that night and she could feel the unease from the men around her. Conversation, she feared, would only give them opportunity to voice their concerns and she couldn't allow that. Armed men panicking in an enclosed space was a recipe for disaster. All she had to do was keep them moving and eventually they would reach the sewers.

She recoiled her hand when she felt something wet and fought a yelp from escaping her mouth. The men around her stopped, and she grabbed the arm of the guard in front of her and swung his chem lamp around. The tunnel wall was damp.

“We must be close to the sewers. Keep going.”

The pale dry earth of the tunnel transitioned into a deep brown soil. Small roots poked out above their heads and fungus grew in sheets across the walls and floor. Soon the roots turned darker and larger forcing Gloria and her men to duck and eventually crouch forward. The Green had grown in deep and an acid drip of anxiety began within her gut. What if the sewers were overgrown? What if she came all this way only to choke on Greenlung before delivering news of her defeat? She pushed the thoughts aside, locking them in the dark recess of her mind. She couldn’t afford desperation now, not when she was so close. She bumped into the guard in front of her.

“What's the hold up?”

“The roots ma’m. Too thick I can’t push through.”

She pulled on the man's armor and struggled to push herself past him. They groped and grinded against each other until finally she squeezed her way into the lead. He was right, the roots had grown so thick there was no way for an armored man to pass through. The gap was too narrow and in their exit they hadn’t grabbed any tools with which to cut their way through. She considered for a moment firing at the roots but the energy output was just as likely to collapse the tunnel. Thinking quickly she tore off her duster and dropped her plasma defender and grabbed the chem light from the lead guard. She looked at the man. His face was streaked with grime and sweat and a pained expression of panic underneath.

“I’ll go ahead.” She said plainly, as if she was walking down the hall and not abandoning these men underground. The guards opened his mouth to speak but bit his tongue. He held her gaze for a moment and then straightened his back and swallowed some fear.

“Come back for us.”

“I will.” and without another word she crawled on her hands and knees forward through the roots. The air was damp and warm and close. She clenched the chem light in her teeth and transitioned to her elbows and she pushed and scraped herself forward through a chute little larger than a serving platter. Unable to look behind herself, Gloria couldn’t tell how far she had gone. Eventually even the chem light died but she kept crawling in total darkness. Her fingers probed for handholds in the dark and she felt something firm and gripped it only to feel it slide away. She panicked and slammed her head into the tunnel ceiling. Blood pumped in her ears and with pure desperation she crawled on, blind terror fueling her movements. Her body was bruised and bloody and the joints of her fingers screamed for relief but she continued. Twice more she reached out for a handhold, only to have it slither away. Terrible thoughts brought terrifying visions to her mind and in the pitch black she floundered for the line between real and unreal. Pure animal instinct drove her forward. The holotape, the Brotherhood, her family, even Gloria herself faded in her mind, all that was left was a scared human clawing their way through the dark bowels of the earth.

Was this how she would die, alone and afraid in the dark? She didn’t even know if she was going the right way. Several times she swore the tunnel went down and not up. Had she crawled further and further away from salvation? Her discipline was gone and every doubt and insecurity within her mind reared its ugly face. She had failed, and not just failed but killed herself in her failure. Killed herself in the more terrible way possible, climbed into the mouth of a great beast only to rot and expire within its guts. Exhaustion wore on her desperate strength and her instinct turned to hopelessness. Her movements became languid and floppy and finally she sank her face into the cool moist dirt. She wanted to sob but she didn't have the energy. She wanted to hold herself, but the tunnel was too tight. Her body felt distant and numbness began to creep across her face. She took one deep breath in and the air was different. She sniffed again. The scent was warm, earthy but something else, something rotten. She slithered forward a little more and heard the sound of running water. Low and quiet in the distance but she heard it all the same.

She didn’t stop to question if the sensations were real or not, she didn’t care. If delusion kept her moving then she would chase that delusion. With movement came a chance at life, stillness brought only death.

The Omerta Family and White Gloves

The Royal Court was in session: the courtiers, sycophants, and more than a few jesters gathered before the King’s throne. They each sat silently, waiting with bated breath for their liege to arrive. They didn’t have to wait long, for soon Old King Cole himself arrived with his Queen in tow.

Fat Dom took his seat at the head of the long table with Marjorie to his right, and his daughter Lucy to his left. White Gloves and Omertas leadership alike filled up the remaining seats. They sat facing across from each other either on Lucy’s or Marjorie’s side of the table, but all looked to Dominic to explain the reason for this strange impromptu meeting held within the depths of the Ultra Luxe’s inner sanctum.

We’ve got a problem,” Dominic began, folding his large hands on the table in front of him, “And we need to do something about it.”

“I’ll say we do, those Chairman ruffians..” Marjorie started to say, before Dominic quickly cut her off.

“Not the Chairmen,” He said, hushing her, “Not this time. We’ve got bigger problems than some two-bit wanna-be goombahs.”

Dominic breathed in deeply, and then exhaled, his gaze shifted between each of the assembled members of the Two Families who’s collective power in Vegas proper was all but unmatched,

“Our problem is the NCR: or rather the Van Graffs to be specific. Though the two might as well be the same at this point. More and more they’re encroaching on our territory and burning through goodwill, and its clear to me now that they have no interest in respecting Vegas’s autonomy: if they ever did. We all know damn well too that old Not-At-Home isn’t going to get off his lazy ass in his Penthouse and do anything about it, nor is his little crony Swank. They’ve both given up and accepted their fates. So that leaves us.”

“What’s your plan Boss, what are we going to do? We gonna fight?” One of his Omerta’s pipped up.

“We can’t fight the NCR military by ourselves. It's madness.” One of the White Gloves added.

“What afraid of getting some blood on those gloves?” A second Omerta scoffed.

“Perhaps we can outspend them…hire more mercenaries. Perhaps forces from Caesar’s Legion..” Yet another White Glove chimed in.

“SHUT IT!” Lucy suddenly shouted, quelling the outbursts from both sides.

The bickering former tribals fell silent, and once more Dominic had their undivided attention,

“First things first, we need to find out where we stand…gather allies. I’ve spoken with the Vault Dwellers to the North and they are agreeable to friendship…and will undoubtedly prove invaluable in the long run. But they aren’t a military - and we need friends who are.”

“What are you suggesting dear?” Marjorie asked, one eyebrow raised.

“We send out two letters inviting communication. One to the Brotherhood of Steel, and another to Colonel Abernathy himself. The Brotherhood are not our direct enemies - and are actively at war with the NCR. We’d be fools not to hear them out if they are willing. As for Abernathy - he was recently snubbed by Van Graff leadership, and perhaps he’s willing to entertain other options for his soldiers.”

“As for the Legion - that’s exactly why we need to sort out the NCR problem now. If the Legion invades again they’ll likely just pull back and let us get wiped out in a tide of Crimson. We all know what the Legion does - what it plans to do with Vegas.”

“Crosses, spikes, and a rapine pillaging or two,” Lucy added with a sardonic chuckle, “And the women get the honor to be Officer’s wives if they’re lucky…”

“Exactly - the Legion aren't friends - and I’m not going to trust them as far as I can throw a Centurion. If the Van Graffs won’t clue us in on what’s going on across the Colorado - all that means is it's bad news for us.”

“Are we agreed?” Dominic asked finally.

Nods, murmurs, and pounding on the table followed.

So it was decided.

---

Sent through a complex network of Omerta chem dealers, raiders, and finally the Khans. The Brotherhood letter reaches someone in power with this message:

Leaders of the Brotherhood of Steel, Mojave Chapter:

In the interest of a free and independent Vegas, we wish to extend a hand of friendship and discuss the potential for cooperation against our shared foe.

We suggest meeting on neutral ground to discuss terms. Leave a white horse nettle flower on the fountain outside the Ultra Luxe to indicate your agreement.

[A single white glove is enclosed with the letter.]

---

Meanwhile an NCR officer coming back from leave on the strip heads to Camp Golf with a few hundred extra caps stuffed in his pocket, not won at any Casino, alongside a small white envelope containing a letter.

Colonel,

If you are a smart man, which I believe you are, you’ll likely grasp immediately who this letter is from. We’ve both been betrayed by those who are rotting the NCR from within.

If you’re willing to discuss this more, then put someone you can trust absolutely on leave. Let them have a good time, and give us your reply.

We’ll take it from there.

Sentinel Irving, NCRCF

One of the most important lessons in the Brotherhood was that the best laid plans often went awry, thus it was essential to be able to adapt quickly to changing conditions on and off the battlefield. Even Elder McNamara, stubborn as he was to make any changes in the Brotherhood's doctrine, had firsthand experience with taking command in a disaster and salvaging the situation. In this particular situation, Irving found himself tasked with salvaging the situation that Hardin had created when he prematurely set into motion the chapter's plans for crippling the local NCR occupiers.

With Hardin and his forces heading towards the Van Graff Headquarters, it was imperative that Irving preserve the momentum of the attack and ensure that the objectives of the strike at NCRCF were met. He didn't like that it was started, but it was essential that he see it through. As an old saying went, when you strike at the king, you had better kill him. They certainly wouldn't be able to kill the foe with this strike, but they should at least be able to hamstring them.

Upon arriving at NCRCF, already heavily damaged by Hardin's attack, the Brotherhood would give demands for surrender, promising mercy for the NCR staff and garrison whom Hardin had been prepared to show no quarter to. Assuming the garrison surrendered, the Brotherhood scribes would be tasked with quickly sifting through the prison records to find everyone worth releasing. While those in the work camps would have had ample time to escape in the wake of Hardin's attacks, those still incarcerated in the cell blocks would have to be manually released. The top priority was political prisoners, those who had run afoul of the Van Graffs or Colonel Abernathy, to be released and provided an escort to one of the local towns- or if they desired, to one of the chapter's western surface outposts. The secondary priority was any whose records designated them a members of the Great Khans. Lastly, raiders and petty roughnecks willing to face the Great Khans' initiation would be sent under escort, to Red Rock Canyon. Whether they would pass or fail didn't matter. Those of no use to the Brotherhood, or those of heinous crimes, would be left in their cells for the NCR to sort out.

After stuffing the NCR staff into now-vacated cells for their colleagues to rescue, the Brotherhood departed, causing further damage to the perimeter fences as they left. As evidenced by the fate suffered by the so-called Powder Gangers shortly before the NCR's complete takeover, the prison was unsuitable for defending against the might of the NCR's armed forces.

---

Head Paladin Hardin, Van Graff Headquarters

"Rapier Squad, concentrate fire on that Sentry bot! Max-charge your shots and aim for the chest! Halberd Squad, keep your distance!" Hardin barked on the comms as he unleased a hail of plasma at the Van Graff security bots barring their way. It wasn't unexpected that the Van Graffs would put up a fight. Hardin had hoped to catch them off-guard, but they had clearly been prepared for a fight. As the NCR's new masters, they were probably among the first to receive word of the attack on NCRCF, but once they were inside, it might be wise to have a field scribe take a look at the building's comms to confirm how deeply the Van Graffs had ingrained themselves into the local NCR occupation's inner workings.

Despite the massive bucket of bolts proving to be a formidable obstacle, it could not delay the warriors of the Brotherhood for long. Under concentrated laser, plasma, and coilgun fire, its defenses failed, and it exploded in a spectacular fireball. Undeterred by the deafening and blinding blast, Hardin and his Paladins advanced into the building.

"Snipers, keep an eye on the perimeter and keep us posted if you see anything!" he ordered. If the Van Graffs were to attempt to escape through a back entrance, or if someone sent help, they would need to know immediately. As much as the Sentinel and Elder welcomed the use of the duraframe eyebots for surveillance and scouting, Hardin preferred to place his trust in the eyes and scopes of veteran Knights. Over half the chapter had been lost because their fool of a former Elder had hinged their hopes of victory entirely on unproven technology at HELIOS One, and he would not make the same mistake.

Room by room, corridor by corridor, the Brotherhood's power armored warriors fought their way through the building. If there was one thing that the "Sentinel" hadn't screwed up entirely, it was giving the men men and women opportunity to build combat experience with his incursions into the Green. The Brotherhood lived and died by the superior skill of its warriors, and VR simulations could never prepare them for real combat.

The sound of an explosion suddenly sounded not far from his position. He knew right away that was not the sound of a Graff thug's plasma rifle.

"Hardin, this is Sabre Squad, we've got a problem," a voice sounded on the radio. "The Van Graffs left a Sentry Bot in the armory, and it's already taken out Jacobs."

"We're on our way, try and lure it towards our position." Hardin signaled for his warriors to follow behind. Battling Sentry Bots inside the cramped quarters of a pre-war building was always a challenge.

"Hardin, the Van Graffs are escaping through the rear entrance. Your orders?"

"Halberd Squad, pursue them! I've got another problem to deal with," he ordered, just as he and his squad reached the battle with the Sentry. These things always came up at the most disadvantageous times in battle.

The Sentry Bot fired a missile, striking a retreating Sabre Squad Paladin square in the chest and bringing chunks of ceiling down on him. Hardin and his squad opened fire on the Sentry, drawing its fire. Plasma fire burned through its chestplate, disabled its missile arm, and finally it exploded, demolishing the adjacent wall sections and bringing the above floor down onto it.

"Hardin, Halberd Squad here. The remaining Van Graffs have fled into the wasteland. What are your orders?"

"Rapier Squad, did you spot Gloria among those retreating?"

"Negative, Head Paladin, none that matched her description." Hopefully that meant that Gloria would be among one of the corpses in the building. If she did fall, it wasn't guaranteed that they'd be able to recognize her body- plasma and lasers weapons didn't always leave enough remains to identify.

"Rapier Squad, keep us posted. Everyone else, secure the building. Take out any guards or bots left, and begin salvage. Prioritize energy weapons and Fusion Cores, we have only a limited window before the NCR will retaliate."

His warriors had taken losses, but this was a victory today- a victory that McNamara and Irving had always been too timid to seize. With news of this victory, he hoped the Brotherhood would be directed back onto the correct path.

---

Sentinel Irving, Hidden Valley Bunker

Irving sat at a desk, pondering the events that had occurred. The attack on the Van Graffs had yielded casualties, but the Head Paladin had managed to send his foe into retreat and secured a decent bounty of tech. Likewise, the attack on the NCRCF had allowed them to free a number of prisoners, although the fallout from that would not be as immediately quantifiable as Hardin's work at the Van Graff compound. They'd have to wait and see what effect it would have for the NCR's critics to be once again free to stir discontent.

Hardin's bold attack had won him considerable prestige within the chapter. Already there were some who were speaking that he had given the Brotherhood the kick it needed, or even that McNamara should step down as Elder. Perhaps most tellingly, even Irving was wondering if Hardin was right.

"Sentinel, we've installed the eyebot interfaces to the bunker's security terminal," spoke a scribe as she entered the room.

"Excellent work, scribe. Dismissed." One of his side projects at the bunker was the installation of interface ports for the Duraframe Eyebots. Most of the reverse-engineered Brotherhood models lacked the hacking capabilities, but Irving had brought him one electronic warfare Eyebot fitted with the necessary software and transceiver to perform decryptions. It wasn't a perfect system- it required a comparible receiver to be attached to the computer- but it ought to allow the scribes to bypass computer security much more quickly in the field. In the particular case of the security terminal, if anything went wrong with the bunker's security, the eyebot could be directed to set it right.

"Sentinel, Head Paladin, see me in my quarters," McNamara's voice spoke on the intercom as the scribe left. Irving shrugged, logged out of the computer terminal, and made his way to the Elder's office.

Irving took his seat next to Hardin, who had already arrived.

"Good to see you both here. Let's get straight to business: because of our recent successful operations, and the conflict with the NCR heating up, we will be forced to assume more responsibility than you have become accustomed to. Head Paladin, I need you overseeing our combat operations. The NCR and Van Graffs will retaliate and escalate, and we must be ready. As for you, Sentinel, you will continue to handle the more unconventional duties that you have thus far been spearheading- coordinating with our allies, managing diplomatic matters with the Mojave's many factions, and managing the operations to study and combat The Green. Do either of you have any questions?"

"Negative,"

"No, Elder,"

"Good, because one such unconventional matter has already arisen. Earlier today a message arrived for me, courtesy of the Sentinel's friends on the surface. See for yourself," the Elder spoke as he showed the letter to his subordinates. Irving and Hardin both looked over it carefully.

"I recognize the token, it's the White Glove Society," Hardin remarked. "One of the Three Families, House's pet tribals. It sounds like they are beginning to chafe under NCR rule."

"Yes, and they want our help. Our operations must have made a considerable impression on them," Irving replied.

"No doubt the White Gloves have their own agenda," McNamara spoke, "but I see no harm in opening dialogue with them. Our contact in Freeside will see to it that they receive their reply. You are both dismissed."

Lucrezia "Lucy" Omerta - Sunset Sarsaparilla Headquarters, Outer Vegas

Lucy waited patiently within the small boardroom on the upper floors of the old abandoned Sunset Sarsaparilla Factory in West Outer Vegas. The location had been carefully chosen, and then relayed to The Brotherhood of Steel, under the assumption that it would serve adequately as a neutral ground for them to meet. Out of the way, far from NCR jurisdiction, and completely abandoned ever since the encroachment of The Green had driven any would-be squatters away: it was a suitably dreary location for a clandestine meeting.

Lucy’s men had managed to get the boardroom cleaned up and had even hooked up a power generator to give the place some lights and fresh air blowing through it - but it was still a far cry from where Lucy would have preferred to meet. Her luxurious office within Gomorrah would have done nicely, were it not for the ever-present NCR threat on the Strip which, even if extreme precautions had been taken to ensure security, would have posed an unnecessary risk to both parties. Neither the Family, nor The Brotherhood, could afford tipping off anyone within the NCR of this meeting: least of which the Ambassador.

The Omerta Heir-apparent had with her a few dozen Omerta made-men, a similar number of White Glove Society members, and a small squad of heavily armed Iron Forester mercs all spread out throughout the building for security. Ostensibly they were there to protect her if The Brotherhood turned treacherous for any reason: but the harsh reality was that most likely they’d all be dead if that happened. Only the Iron Forester Mercs had any hope of fighting back on anything approaching an even footing: and they had made it very clear that their ‘hazard pay’ didn’t include fighting power-armored Knights if any of those should show up.

It was a gamble then, but Lucy was betting on the odds of The Brotherhood agents not being the shoot-first type. There would be no point in it, and furthermore, nothing to gain. Both sides had interest in hearing each other out: and that was what she was counting on.

Lucy tapped her fingers on the table in front of her and sipped nervously, and somewhat ironically, on the cold bottle of Nuka Cola in front of her. This was perhaps the most important task her father had entrusted with her to date, and she wasn't about to go and screw it up.

Calm…clear head, She told herself, They’re people…not machines. They can be reasoned with.

“Madam…” A calm, airy voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. Lucy looked up to see a White Glove concierge standing before her, giving a slight bow, “The mercenary Scout has spotted what he believes to be a Brotherhood party approaching the factory.”

Lucy gulped and downed that last of the Nuka Cola, tossing the empty bottle to one of her Omerta thugs. She looked up at the concierge, and if there was any note of fear in his face, it was completely obscured by that damned mask of his. Maybe that was the real reason the Society wore those stupid things after all...

“Then let’s welcome them in…”

Minutes later Lucy could hear the footsteps of the Brotherhood agents approaching the Boardroom. As they entered, escorted by the concierge, she stood up from the table and walked over to offer her hand to whoever looked to be the leader.

“Lucrezia Omerta,” She said politely, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance...I hope you had no trouble on the road.”

Ambassador Benjamin "Benny" Watts - NCR Embassy

It was almost noon and Benny had to make a decision. He looked at the holotape on his desk and sunk deeper in his cracked leather chair.

“I think you should send it in.” Marisol said. She was next to him, half leaning on the desk, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. So casual was her nature one might think her a friend, rather than a subordinate. Benny sometimes had difficult discerning between the two when it came to her.

“I’m not keen on making an enemy of Colonel Abernathy.” He looked up at her, feeling small. “He resents me enough as is, I don’t want to inflame his passions any more than the Van-Graffs already have.”

“What do you think the Van-Graffs will do if they find out you sat on the holotape rather than deliver it? You think Peter and his goons will be any more merciful than the colonel?”

Benny motioned for her to lower her voice. The past month had seen their bond between one another grow, and Marisol had been invaluable in replacing the corrupt embassy staff and hiring more capable and honest people. Still, even with the Van-Graffs regional headquarters destroyed and Gloria missing, Benny feared that some of his staff could be in the pockets of the Van-Graffs. Worse still the most senior Van-Graff in the Mojave was now Peter, a violent man with zero patience. Making enemies had landed him in this position and he believed that making anymore would be a death sentence.

“Denver has given more than thirty years to the NCR. He’s spent nearly a decade holding the Mojave territory for them.” Benny lifted the holotape. “This would take all that away. It would leave him with nothing.”

There was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose, Benny knew that all too well. His eyes fell to a locked drawer in his desk, inside contained the journal of Leonid Tannhauser he confiscated his first night in the Mojave. Benny had read it several times the past few weeks but hadn’t done anything more. He had hoped that ignoring it long enough would make the problem go away. Now, a month later he was confronted with another vital bit of information that he must decide whether to share with his superiors or not. Truly this assignment was a most perverse kind of punishment. Some days he wondered if being caught by the Bishops would be better than this burden of responsibility.

“It would leave him in prison.” Marisol corrected. “Collusion with the enemy and negligent command. It would be an open and shut trial.” She sat up off his desk and turned around to make for the door, slipping her shoes on.

Benny found it hard to argue against. Denver hadn’t been popular in Shady Sands, especially after Secretary Tannhauser almost lost his son in the Khan’s raid. Now with the destruction of the NCRCF and the damage done to the Mojave branch of the Van-Graff corporation. They’d be calling for his execution, nevermind a court martial.

“It’s still a gamble. He would know it was me that sent it in.”

Marisol turned and smiled.

“Everything in this city is.”

She left him alone and for a moment he remained in his chair. Anxiety welled up in his chest, oh how he loathed making decisions. Unable to contain the acid drip inside he stood up and paced around the room. The longer he waited the less chance he had to control the narrative, and controlling the narrative would keep him alive. He looked over at the painting on the wall, the one he had been given by the vault-dweller Danny. He took a step toward it, staring at the lone bear within it. So dwarfed by the vast landscape around it. He had contemplated this painting many times since it was given to him. He had thought it a subtle threat at first, but now he realized the prophecy in it.

He needed to send the tape.

The Meld - Late Morning, November 20th

A newcomer might have surmised that the entire arachnid class of species revived exclusively in the Meld. Glossy fabrics draped across, sometimes between the rustic wooden furniture. Only the trio encased in it knew the madness's method. The heads of Amber, Isabel, and Charlotte popped out. Bradley was wisely dispatched towards hardier missions: felling timber, repelling the Green's fringe forays, other manly matters. A wedding was afoot, and, absent the tailor castes of old, the homestead's women fashioned a gown suitable for their beloved fiery redhead.

Charlotte, the lone veteran in this endeavor, oversaw the process with senses of a hawk. A yardstick and knife her weapons of choice, she carefully cordoned perfect geometric shapes, then sliced them apart with the blade mastery of the fabled samurai. Amid the performance, her ears perked up. "Who did that?"

Amber wasn't the culprit; she was preoccupied sewing lace into her future headdress. Her machine's clacking slowed to momentary pause. She raised her head in expectation. "Is something amiss?"

Isabel ignored Charlotte's urgent demand. She'd lifted the gossamer substance, fumbling underneath it to locate herself misplaced scissors among the hodgepodge of knickknacks she'd accumulated in this accursed side quest. The fabric was so hastily hoisted that wind rushed to fill the void. It made a bulbous shape as the newly formed bubble pocket settled into drapes.

Charlotte stomped over. Her atypical formfitting jeans insured her against bumping her surroundings. With butterfly's grace and rhino's force, she apprehended Isabel's sheet and inspected its fringes. "You tore it!"

"Did not!" blurted the giant in instinctual reply. "I've managed it 'with ladylike fingers,' as mandated! That edge is perfectly intact!"

Charlotte whipped the evidence off the table with an unplanned flurry (and a planned fury), holding it to a light source. Isabel squinted as she reviewed it. "It's just a small tear."

"It's half an inch!" Charlotte retorted. "Do you realize how much this stuff costs? This is prewar material, not homemade knitting! We need every scrap we can save!"

Seconds away from tearing the rectangle entirely in frustration, Isabel deflated. "I'm sorry, Amber."

The bride to be piped up. "What did you- Ah, sugar foot!" The distraction toppled her concentration, The machine veered off kilter, puncturing the frill before decelerating. Time froze. Amber melted into a smile. "Shouldn't be too long to repair, I hope!" She picked at the twine with her index fingernail.

Charlotte reflected upon the example and sighed. "I apologize. I ought not judge too harshly."

Isabel measured a figure in the cloth. "No, I should redouble my vigilance. Seamstresses we are not, but my duty to the Vault must surpass my inadequacies."

"Thank you, Isabel! I appreciate your efforts." It's often difficult to decrypt Amber's demeanor. Did she casually pay attention, merely refreshing the troupe with playful aloofness? Did she keenly follow the dialogue to apply the exact remedy? Charlotte learned not to discern the two hypotheses, and simply gave a flippant thumbs up. "Let's take five. Fresh air will sharpen our wits."

The giantess stretched. "Eve always had gentler hands, and patience for these crafts. Why isn't she here to fabricate this dress?"

"You know exactly why," Amber lied through her teeth.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - North Vegas Strip - Late Morning, November 20th

Daniel by nature walked fast. Ever since leaving the Vault's fortified doors, he relished the vibrant outdoor environments around him. He loved reaching his destination more. Today, however, he led the way to keep his distance from the sisters. They were excellent schemers, and Floyd's gambit remained active. Each one could probably kill him, and opposed to the duo together he had no chance. The cadre slung rifles besides, making the situation yet tenser. They told Isabel he'd mediate as they mended their former rivalry with a leisurely stroll. Perhaps on their journey to Gomorrah, they'd accomplish that. And yet he heard nothing. Flipping eerie.

Eve identified a stone on her path. She primed her calf and impacted it with her instep. It ricocheted off a rusty metal automobile hull, which clanged louder than expected. Nines nearly ducked; the clamor unnerved him.

Faye finally broke the ice. "Shuffles is alright, right?"

"Last I checked." Eve smiled. "Yeah, he's technically your dog, isn't he?"

"We had a whole discussion about it!" Faye squawked. "You don't remember the fetch competition?"

"I recall the baseball smeared with bacon grease," Eve teased.

"You confounded liar!" Faye laughed. "That mutt preferred me, fair and square."

"Better times." Eve didn't concede, but landed the conversation safely. Pressing thoughts weighed on her heart. "We never found your escape routes."

"Oh, that. I used the vents."

"But those circulate back to Filtration."

"Not if, at the temperature moderation unit, you switch to-"

"The exhaust tubing," Eve concluded. "The carbon dioxide won't suffocate you because those facilities don't operate during lockdown. Clever. Must've been a tight squeeze, though."

"My butt still hurts," Faye commented. She glanced roadside. "Nancy recommended that to me. My mind can't conceptualize that she's gone."

"She was so young," Eve lamented. No admittance of culpability, no casting of blame. Purely a reverent acknowledgment of loss.

Daniel hardly conversed with Nancy in what sparing years they shared, but he recognized respect for the recently deceased. He allocated four minutes for bereavement, until he was barely outside Gomorrah's earshot. "You both understand your objectives?" he announced.

"Plain as day," Eve reported. "I'm to survey the water supply, and rejoin with general understanding of their capabilities in fulfilling the deal."

"And I hang with the muscle, to scout out the best talent in case we're allowed to handpick them." Faye apparently felt uncomfortable regarding the changing fortunes but was too shell shocked to protest.

"To remind you, no subterfuge is necessary," Daniel stressed. "Diplomacy works. We genuinely want to make good on our bargain, and there's no harm in basic assurances. If they play coy with you, return the favor."

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

They nodded and entered the casino in unity. Daniel approached the concierge with a mile wide grin. Would she have knowledge of their confidential history? Of course; she's a secretary. "Howdy," he declared. "We're the gang from the Pinochle Expedition." As if they weren't already immediately identifiable as those foreign yokels. "As per prior agreements, we'd like to offer our services under your employ and double check a few items of the arrangement. Protection, routine maintenance, stacking chairs. Wherever you've use for us, feel free to dispatch us there!"

Eve upheld her chin slightly, while Faye's eyes were distracted by the nearby flashing lights.

Sentinel Irving, Sunset Sarsaparilla Headquarters, Outer Vegas

The Sentinel and his escorts trudged along, their T-51b power armor cutting a very conspicuous figure in the Mojave. It was uncommon for the Brotherhood to travel this close to New Vegas fully armed and armored, but thus far this section of the old city had remained out of the NCR's hands. The Green encroached on this region from both Camp McCarran and the Vault 22 epicenter, so few would be willing to come here, except for those poor fools seeking out rumors of the supposed "treasure" of the Star Bottle Caps.

The Brotherhood's consensus was that the "treasure" was nothing more than a pre-war promotion to convince children to waste their allowance on Sunset Sasparilla, and the "treasure" was probably something like a foam cowboy hat or a sticker shaped like a soda bottle. With no expectation of finding any worthwhile tech in the headquarters, the Brotherhood of Steel had ignored the ruin. Today, however, it would be a meeting place precisely because nobody should stumble across it.

This was a risky assignment, to travel with such a small entourage so close to the city to make contact with one of the Three Families on supposedly neutral territory. However, the Sentinel did not like to take chances, and accompanying him and his guards- both of whom were loyalists that accompanied him from back west- was a single Duraframe Eyebot, its sensors providing the HUDs of their power armor with beyond-visual range warning of any contacts. As a further precaution, a lone knight was hidden on the nearby hill with a sniper rifle, attempting to keep watch for any movement in the thick overgrowth.

As they arrived in the boardroom, the first thing that the Sentinel noticed was that the woman who greeted them was an Omerta, not a White Glove like the masked fellow who had ushered them here. This in itself was a very interesting development- the letter only gave evidence of the involvement of one of the Three Families- the Omertas' involvement meant that this involved two of House's three subordinate tribes.

"No more trouble than usual. Pleased to meet you, Omerta," Irving replied, shaking her hand with the robotic hand of his armor, very carefully as to not inflict any injuries. "I am Derek Irving, Sentinel of the Brotherhood of Steel. I must say, I was not aware that at least two of the Three Families would be involved in this meeting," he remarked, glancing at the masked concierge.

He gestured for one of his bodyguards to stand guard outside with the Eyebot. "Forgive me for not sitting down, but I don't believe the chairs were made for the weight of power armor."

@Andronicus23

Lucy - Sunset Sarsaparilla HQ

Lucy watched with trepidation as the power-armored soldiers entered the room. She had never seen power armor in person before, only heard tales and seen depictions of it in old pre-war military books. Those depictions hardly did the imposing sight of a fully-clad power armored warrior justice however, and Lucy suddenly found herself feeling very small indeed. She’d often wondered how The Brotherhood, despite their small numbers, had managed to take on the might of the NCR - but seeing this soldier standing before her now any doubts she had were erased.

“Yes, I apologize for the confusion,” Lucy replied and motioned to both her Omerta and White Glove guards in the room, “With the marriage of my father, Don Dominic Omerta, to Lady Marjorie of the White Gloves - our two families have become one. I speak for both the Families as a result, and have full authority to do so.”

Irving gestured for one of his bodyguards to stand guard outside with the Eyebot. "Forgive me for not sitting down, but I don't believe the chairs were made for the weight of power armor."

“Of course, of course,” Lucy nodded, “Please do let us know if you or any of your men need any refreshment - we have water and food with us should you want either.”

Lucy then paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts before turning back to look up at the Brotherhood soldier,

“I’ll get right to the point then. Our Family and The Brotherhood of Steel have a common adversary right now: The NCR. It's been made clear to us recently that the NCR, or at least its current leadership in the form of the Van Graff family, have no interest in respecting an Independent Vegas. The Three Families acting as one even recently issued summons to the NCR ambassador to discuss the recent rumors of Legion activity across the Colorado River - and were outright refused. It's now obvious that as far as they are concerned we are a client state at best, and destined for conquest at worst. Mr. House and his Chairmen lackeys won’t do anything about it and are content to just roll over and accept NCR control - we are not.”

Lucy sighed and took a breath, then continued, “The way I see it - we both have aligned goals. Our family wants the NCR’s military and political leadership completely expelled from Vegas entirely and ideally from The Mojave as well - and you are actively at war with them. We can help each other out.”

“Our proposal is this: when the time is right, The Omertas and White Glove families will launch an all-out assault on NCR forces within The Strip, Freeside, and surrounding areas. We have no intention of perpetrating a massacre - and any NCR soldiers who surrender will be captured alive and treated well. No civilians will be targeted. Following this, my father will declare New Vegas free and independent from NCR rule, which The Brotherhood will be asked to formally recognize. Any former citizens of the NCR will be given a chance to become full citizens of New Vegas, along with any captured troopers - provided they lay down their arms.”

“Once that is done,” Lucy gave a warm smile, “We can divide the Mojave peacefully between us. The Families have no interest in locations like Helios One or Repconn, so The Brotherhood will be welcome to permanently occupy such places for their own purposes. Control over Hoover Dam would be shared jointly in the interest of fair distribution of power and water - my family does not have the engineers or scientists needed to operate such a large facility but The Brotherhood obviously does...”

“What’s more, there are things we can offer you in return as well. What our Families lack in brute military strength, we more than make up for in logistical capability - guns, ammunition, and medical chems from The Omertas and access to a vast food surplus from the White Gloves’ extensive network of ranchers and traders all across the southwest…we can provide all of this in bulk to The Brotherhood. Enough to supply a sustained campaign against the NCR, or perhaps The Legion, should you have need of it.”

“There’s a potential for a great partnership here,” Lucy concluded finally, “And a peaceful coexistence in The Mojave. Once the NCR is expelled, we can both turn our efforts to combating and rolling back The Green. Then when that is done, The Brotherhood can finally have a home safe from the aggressive expansion of the NCR - with a firm ally at your back - and we will have our freedom.”

“That was quite a lot to throw at you all at once, ” Lucy said with an anxious chuckle, “So please…let's discuss it further if you have any questions.”

Gomorrah

The receptionist, Clarice, eyed the Vault Dwellers suspiciously but retained her usual polite smile. She still held a grudge against them for that little disturbance they caused in her eternally neat and tidy lobby. If it were up to her, she’d call security and throw the lot of them out onto the street again…..but of course it wasn’t up to her.

“Of course Mr. Nines….one moment,” She said with a polite ‘customer service’ tone that was obviously tinged with subtle resentment. She then dialed a number on the desk phone in front of her and almost immediately someone picked up on the other end, “The Vault Dwellers are here to see The Don. Yes…three of them,” her eyes scanned the trio, first landing on the two ladies and then finally on Daniel, “Mmm hmm, I’ll send them up.”

“Don Dominic will see you now,” She said, and pointed to a series of Elevators across the Casino floor, “First elevator on the left. Take it up to the 9th floor. The Don’s private office is on the right….you can’t miss it.”

---

“Ah Daniel,” Don Dominic said warmly as he stood up from his chair once the Vault Dwellers were let in by the door guard. His office was spacious and lavish, as was to be expected. He walked over and gave Daniel a firm handshake before turning to the two women with him,

“And who are these lovely, drop dead gorgeous, ladies with you? A pleasure to make your acquaintances both of you…” he said, kissing each of their hands in turn like some corny oversized prince-charming.

“Please sit, sit,” He continued, motioning to a nearby couch and a few comfortable looking chairs in front of his desk, “I’m sure you are all here about our arrangement of course. Well let's get down to brass tacks shall we? Four 50 gallon barrels of purified water are prepared and loaded up onto a brahmin carriage, and I have a couple dozen of my best soldiers picked out and ready for your inspection to return back with you. Please let me know if either are in any way not to your satisfaction and I’ll make sure things are made right.”

“Now, that goes for my end of the bargain,” Dominic smiled, folding his hands in front of him, “As for yours….” He suddenly looked up to his bodyguard standing on the inside of the door, and gave the man a curt nod to leave. After the suited guard was gone he turned back to the Vault Dwellers.

“Can’t be too careful…” He said holding up a finger and giving a wink, “Now as for yours…I need some help with a…small matter. What do you all know of a certain Mr. Robert Edwin House?”

Colonel Denver Abernathy - Fort Golf

The officer had come to Denver just after dusk. He was a young lieutenant who had been called back from leave in Vegas two days before but had waited before coming to Denver. He said he was scared and that he didn’t know what to do. He apologized and handed Denver the note. It was from the Omertas. They wanted to talk. Denver had dismissed the man and dismissed the idea on the spot. A dialogue with the deviants who controlled the city? A ridiculous notion. If he hadn’t lost a garrison earlier in the week he’d have had the officer lashed for even conversing with them about such a matter. But he needed the man to work and he didn’t want to draw anymore attention to the matter. Strategically it may be beneficial to hear the king of criminals out but tactically, to enter the city with anything less than a company of armed men was suicide. He didn’t have men to spare or time to waste. The Omertas had waited more than eight years to meet with him. They’d have to wait a little longer.

Denver was exhausted. It had been a grueling four days since the sudden Brotherhood raids and he had barely gotten any sleep. Everyday had been spent in his office with his staff, attending to the growing crisis in the Mojave and attempting to wrestle control of the situation. The normally austere room was now packed full of chairs, radios, stacks of folders, boxes of requisition records and tired officers. There was a light knock at the door before it was opened and a young private stepped in with a tray of cornbread, a pitcher of coffee and a basket of fruit. Denver nodded to her to step forward and she placed the tray on the weathered table in the center of the room. It was dominated by paperclipped files, empty envelopes, pencil shavings and pens. She gently slid these aside to make room and laid the tray where it was easily accessible by all. The other officers paid her little mind but eagerly went after the food and drink.

Denver stood and stretched as the private found her way out of the office. He was handed a tin cup of coffee by his communications officer and he held it gingerly in his hands as he looked down on the Fort from the east-facing window. The first red rays of dawn had just begun to reflect off the surface of lake Mead as his troops stirred from their barracks and mustered for roll call. It all seemed so calm and orderly from a distance. Every man and woman had a role and knew their place. They understood where they fit in the greater machinery of the military and they trusted in Denver to guide that machine with care and resourcefulness. He had earned that responsibility, the burden of command. He had felt secure in it for years. Even during the famines and the Hunger and the growing spread of the Green across the land. He had kept these soldiers fed, paid and healthy. It had come at a terrible cost to many in the Mojave but Denver refused himself to offer any sympathy to those people. It was the way of the world. His duty was to his battalion, and no one else.

Through diplomacy and outright brutality Denver had held a tenuous peace across the Mojave. In a single night of orchestrated violence the Brotherhood of Steel had shattered that hard fought peace. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his anger, even exhausted as he was it wore at him to think of all that had been undone. All that could have been avoided had he disobeyed his orders all those years ago. He should have run down the survivors, the knights, the scribes, the elders, even the children. He should have killed them in the shade of Helios One and left them for the scorpions. In the years since he had let himself grow restrained, hampered at every turn by politicians in Shady Sands and the incessant demands of the Mojave people. He had become a wet nurse for a territory of thieves and degenerates and a lapdog for bureaucratic sycophants. He had failed in his duty as an officer of the Republic. Denver had fallen so low as to actually convince himself that the Brotherhood might be willing to cooperate with him to combat the spread of the Green. He had taken a risk and contacted the Followers of the Apocalypse and for more than a month he had fed, and housed one of their doctors as they attempted to bridge the divide with Denver’s captured Brotherhood knight. Dr. Chez had managed to get Knight Maven to speak and they engaged in minor personal banter but still she remained tight lipped about her people. Only offering the concession that they were in the hills Northwest of Helios One, in a place called ‘Hidden Valley’. Denver had scoffed when Dr. Chez reported it to him at the time and he scoffed at the thought now. How gullible he had been, how soft and weak to ever believe the Brotherhood would be capable of helping anyone else but themselves. Time wasted chasing a dream of unity and mutual aid while the Brotherhood plotted against him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Denver took a slow careful sip of his coffee and puckered his lips at the bitterness. It was a strong batch. Good. He would need it today. He turned away from his regrets and towards his officers. They had made lightwork of the food placed before them and saved just enough for Denver to be polite. They remained in uniform but their shirts were untucked and buckles and laces had been loosened, their eyes were ringed with lack of sleep and they all wore grim expressions of exhaustion and determination. The table between them was a mess of papers and letters, each of them was another problem he had to solve, another choice Denver had to make and another request he had to respond to.

First was the rescue and relief of the NCRCF. It had been a massacre. Out of a garrison of fifty soldiers only fifteen survived, most of them injured. The civilian support staff had likewise suffered greatly at the hands of the Brotherhood, numbering only twenty out of seventy-one. There were conflicting reports of whether some had run or were taken prisoner. What they agreed upon was the mutiny of Lt. Newman and a handful of others against Major Addams and his command staff. They had beaten the senior officer unconscious and threatened his staff into cooperating with the surrender. The only silver lining to be had was that the Brotherhood had locked the mutineers up with the rest when they seized the facility headquarters. Then all that remained was the court martial of Lt. Newman and the other troopers who surrendered the prison to the Brotherhood.

The trial had taken place the night they returned from the ruins of the NCRCF. The survivors had been taken to the infirmary and assessed for injuries. They hadn’t the ability to take the dead back to the fort and instead arranged for them to be taken to Sloan and buried in their cemetery. Those suspected of participating in the mutiny were led to the basement of the resort building and held there while arrangements for a trial were made. As the chief commanding officer in the region Denver had presided over the trial and he knew that an example had to be made of the insubordinate troops to avoid further acts of insurrection among his army. Therefore he ensured it was a short trial and in less than an hour Lt. Newman and the others were found guilty and executed by firing squad. They wrapped the bodies in plastic tarps and buried them in a mass grave with no marker two miles outside Fort Golf. Their personal belongings were divided up among the other survivors and their last salary and notice of prosecution and death was mailed to their next of kin through the Mojave Express the next morning.

Denver had stayed up all that first night going through the personal files of the soldiers killed in the Brotherhood attack. Those with families had their personal effects, salaries and hand written letters of condolence mailed back the next day. Those without any family to contact instead had their squad decide what to do with their things. It had pained Denver to pen those letters and watch his soldiers grieve for one another. Even after a lifetime of soldiering, it never got easier.

Then came the assessment of the damage done to the Van-Graff regional headquarters at the old Repconn building. Unable to go himself, Denver sent ranger Holmes and his other veterans. When the rangers arrived to conduct an investigation they were blocked by Peter-Gabrial Van-Graff and his CSF agents. All they could report back to Denver was that the facility was a near-total loss. Extensive structural damage was evident and the entire staff was either wiped out or missing, including Gloria Van-Graff. It had given Denver some smug satisfaction knowing that the Van-Graffs had suffered that night as well. Even if their injuries were parallel to his own. Likewise, the Van-Graff’s were deeply self-concerned and that enabled him to conserve his resources and focus his efforts on the other pressing matters. First they had sorted through their requisition records and found a copy of the prison staff and their assignments. Through a process of elimination they were able to determine which private contractors and support staff had been killed in the fighting. Like his own men, they had been buried at Sloan but without extensive personal files it would take considerably longer for Denver and his staff to track down next of kin. Still, it had to be done and while much of that work was conducted by his junior officers Denver personally involved himself with the scouring of the remaining prison records.

The records recovered at the NCRCF were in dismal shape, much of it destroyed or seemingly stolen by the Brotherhood. What use they would have for those records Denver couldn’t help but wonder. Yet with what remained Denver had started a list of those prisoners who escaped in the fighting. These names were cross referenced with the bodies, but due to exposure, scavengers and the weapons used by the Brotherhood the corpses were largely unidentifiable. Still, to avoid growing chaos in the region Denver had issued orders to local militias in Primm, Goodsprings, Nipton, Sloan and NoVac to coordinate and assist each other in the detainment and prosecution of any fugitives. The process had only just started but given his history with the territory he doubted the ability and integrity of the towns to comply. Even as he called upon them for aid the people of the Mojave responded to him with lists of grievances and armfuls of requests. He eyed the fresh stack of letters on the table in front of him, took another sip of coffee and sat down.

The first one was from Mayor Cynthia Myers. Two more missing persons in Primm, teenage siblings by the name of Nash. They were the niece and nephew of the operator of the local branch of the Mojave Express. There had been a series of disappearances in the town the past few months, enough to convince the people there had been foul play. Mayor Myers had asked for Denver’s assistance before, and since she had signed the Articles of Incorporation she was entitled to it. Denver had sent ranger Holmes to investigate the matter after transporting Knight Keyes to the prison, but the Great Khan ambush had derailed that. Now it had been another month and without his intervention two more people were gone. But this letter was more than a call for an investigation, Myers had a suspect and a request. There was a small village of mutants just north-west of Primm called Jacobsville. It was sheltered in the canyons and hills but little more than a collection of junked sheds housing refugees and desperados. Denver first heard of the place from years ago when Jacobstown was abandoned but hadn’t concerned himself with a community of freaks living on the edges of the Mojave. They had seemed content enough to keep to themselves and aside from a passing mention or a disparaging word he hadn’t thought much of them till now. Many of the townsfolk of Primm blamed the disappearances on the mutants and now the mayor formally requested that Denver raid the settlement and find the people or evidence of their abduction.

In the past Denver would have been more acquiescent to such demands, hell he probably would have been excited at the excuse to gun down a few vagrant mutants. But the Brotherhood attack had consumed his attention and resources. He couldn’t intervene, he hadn’t the time or the human resources to stretch himself out on a wild gecko chase. But he had to do something, or he would violate his own contract with the town. So he would ask Gloriana to send a rough rider or two to investigate and corroborate the town’s suspicions.

Glorianna. His heart sank at the thought of her name. He shuffled through the letters looking for her name. It was at the bottom. Still dusty and stained with what looked like sweat. Denver just sat and looked at it for a moment. He didn't want to read it. It was never good news and only ever about one subject. The Legion. Every letter only added to the amount of Arizona that had been raided and enslaved. The Legion had been less than a hundred miles away in her last report. He feared how close they could be. He picked up the letter, opened it and read it. When he finished he took a deep breath and spoke.

“The Legion is less than fifty miles from the Colorado. They’ll be here in three days by Glorianna’s estimate.”

The room was still. The staff officers looked at each other and then back to Denver. The communications officer spoke first.

“Should I put the word out to the other garrisons sir?”

Denver nodded but then held up his hand

“Don’t tell them how far. Just say they have one day to prepare themselves for immediate deployment. I don’t want the troops to panic.”

“What about the dam? Should we contact the Van-Graffs?”

“No.” Denver paused, a bit surprised at his abrupt answer. “No.” he repeated again, more sure of himself. “I’ll communicate to them directly.”

There was another soft knock at the door, the young private had returned. She saluted Denver and the other officers this time then stepped forward and handed another letter to Denver.

“From a courier sir, it just came from Vegas. It's from the ambassador.”

Denver checked the letter and saw the seal of the republic in wax. He broke the seal and read the letter. He was ordered to the embassy for a ‘strategic reassessment meeting’ to combat the growing crisis in the Mojave. The letter was spartan and didn’t offer any elaboration other than the fact these orders came from the president herself and that a senior member of the Van-Graff administration would be there to oversee the conversation. He was expected there no later than noon tomorrow. Denver wanted to chuckle, a dry weak laugh to work against the pain in his chest but it would be unprofessional. He couldn’t warn his staff of an imminent enemy only to laugh at the fact he was being called away. He folded the letter and put it into his chest pocket.

“Anything of importance Colonel?” Asked his chief of staff.

“Just a meeting in the embassy.”

“They’ve never asked for you before.” voiced another officer, concern in her voice.

“The situation has changed. The peace of the Republic is gone and now we must all shoulder the responsibilities of that fallout. Even if it means I must rub elbows with the scum of the Strip.” He smirked and the officers nodded in response, satisfied with his answer.
Even as he assuaged the fears of his comrades Denver knew his future as a commander and a freeman was in jeopardy. He had been so preoccupied with the threats posed by the Brotherhood and the Legion he had neglected the danger of Shady Sands. Public opinion against him had grown with Secretary Tannhausers’ condemnation following his son’s near death. The people Denver once relied on to let him know how the administration felt about his grievances were gone. Denver's eyes and ears in the capital had dried up and he was left wondering how much was the president ignoring and how much was she considering. He was short of allies and he needed any help he could get.

But was he desperate enough to get that aid from the Omertas? The Don was an avatar of every vice Denver abhorred. Could he make a deal with a man like that? It would be a gamble and there were few things Denver hated more than gambling.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 18th

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?"

Justin Moore - Fort Golf - Morning, November 19th

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.

Frank Karrington - Hopetown (Canyon Wreckage), Jacobsville, Western Mojave Wasteland

It was a sleepy early morning, but nonetheless an early morning that had made it hard for Frank to do anything but get ready for his job. A job. Heh, that was something he hadn’t thought he’d manage in a place like this with mutants and ghouls and even some of the weird crap you usually heard about in ghost stories elsewhere. Either way, the people here had taken him in and kept the Greenlung people out, given him a job to do, and hell he’d even gotten married in the last year! It fared far better than starving out in the wastes, dyin' to fiends, gettin' shot up by other Raiders, and much less rotting under the boot heel that was Denver and his thrice-damned soldiers trying to enforce their ‘order’ on the Mojave Wasteland while some freaky plague and green stuff was tryin' to take over the whole Mojave and everything else in the blasted Wasteland.

Despite the whole thing with mutants being around, though, things seemed to go generally pretty well in this neck of the woods. Same rules for everyone, discretion was good, and frankly the whole community felt far more tight-knit than some ramshackle farmstead father out West where the Brahmin Barons went to play. Sure there were more humans here than mutants, but even when one went farther in past Hopetown that proportion of mutants to other people changed it was generally a safe place to live for the most part from top to bottom. Generally. He’d been deeper in a few times out of curiosity, or for some regular training as a settlement guard anyways, but he didn’t envy the poor sods who had to holdout on the other opposite end of things deeper into the Divide. Freaky ghouls that even made the normal ones take pause, and even things that made the bigger mutants have to fight and struggle. Them, struggling that bad! It was a hell of a thing, but he was frankly glad they were around in that place to keep the other end of things secure along with the rest of em' to be sure by this point.

Still, the front door of his family’s humble home shack creaked open as usual as he moved to step outside, its placement closer to where some said an old bus and other prewar debris was originally sitting there like a doorway into the Divide with those words "Lonesome Road" scrawled onto them for some reason. That in mind, it made sense to him that his home was near the top of the hill near the back of Hopetown itself and likewise had quite enough a view down the brief incline and scrap-paved new road that meandered down quickly from the Divide’s entrance (cliffside constructions and secondary gate, with two sniper-mounted watch towers climbing all the waup up onto either side of the cliffs themselves, aside) all the way to the rotund market area located basically just behind the front gates at the foot and front of Hopetown. It was all sitting nestled in the rocks and hills, with internal walls used to further shore it up, caressed in its neat little hiding spot that for the most part tried to stay concealed and hidden. Or, well, at least wasn’t in the open air and easy to get sight of. Just a nice little corner of the Mojave, fortified up and tucked away from the viewpoint of those living in Primm proper for the most part.

Front gates and front walls themselves sat hidden and crested in the rock as well, as did the front walls on either side of them, but they were distinctly not built to be visible from the side either. In fact, the ones who had built it all seemed to not get too close to the old playground for the most part either. Avoided it like some freak cave animal avoided the light, though he supposed that was the same type of thinking that went into making this part of Jacobsville in the first place. Don’t stand out like a sore thumb. Don’t make a big silhouette. Tuck things away nearly into the natural surroundings, and make sure it was well-protected. Very front of the whole operation even only went as far down as the last old wreck that had been on the incline before Hopetown itself had popped up into existence, if not held back some feet more. Made the front gate squished against the market circle itself just about, but it still at least had more room down there to operate and move in than might meet the eye from farther back. Was big enough to work guard shifts in for one thing, some doing the paperwork and storing it in their little buildings to either side of the front gate and the others standing outside armed and ensuring traffic flowed smoothly while keeping an eye for trouble.

Still, as he walked out onto the main road proper and tried to move in place among the moving people, Frank would easily spot a large green blob just across the street waving at him with a stupid grin. Big mutant type. Green, not so smart, and with the biggest muscles anyone had seen. Heh. It was that time of morning already, wasn’t it?

Weaving through the traffic, mostly to avoid the latter party unthinkingly bolting through it to talk to him, Frank would approach the large super mutant with a casual smile. Big guy was smiling himself as well, though, that much was easy to tell. Seemed a bit happier than usual, even, now that he thought about it. Even so it wasn’t hard to still notice the large scars, Deathclaw sized to be sure, that raked across the big guy’s face. Made him seem a bit scarier than some until you heard anything come out of the guy’s mouth.

“Frank-human!”

Yup. Just as jovial and childlike as anything. Big kid for the most part in some ways, but that was ‘Grub’ for ya. Happy and friendly to a fault, but hell the big green guy was good company. Also good people to have around in case of something going down in the market, as he’d also seen in the past, but that was not something he wanted to dwell too much on right now either.

“Grub! How ya’ doin’ today, you big green lug?”

The super mutant gently ‘fist-bumped’ with Frank as he walked up to him, as the idea of a ‘hug’ had gone out the window a long while ago for….reasons. Reasons the regular doctor (not to be confused with the other doc down in the market) was more than happy to help explain to Grub in easier terms for him as well too. Still, the edges of the super mutant’s mouth even then had remained in the best example of a smile he could manage all the same.

“Am good! Boss lady say I do good job cutting weird meat up yesterday! Was happy.”

Grub was in the end, well, just one local mutant that lived in the Hopetown part of Jacobsville. Name was pretty normal as far as he knew anything about mutants in this mish-mash of a place in general, though, but he seemed to recall how to cut up meat pretty good given he worked at the meat place down in the market. Or, well, perhaps remembered a little and the boss had made him ‘pretty pictures’ to help him do his job as the mutant had once told him. But where else on this side of the Mojace was one going to find some odd specialty butcher shop? Eh? Primm? Place was NCR turf, and like hell if most here wanted anything to do with the place or the NCR itself to boot. That much they could all agree on.

“Really? Eh…how ‘weird’ was the meat?”

“Looked like small, thin Brahmin with strange horns and two heads still! Very dry, tough, and sit in metal box of lots of strange white stuff when I see it. Boss lady said it was ‘from really far away’, so I be veeeery careful with it. She watch me too, tell me where to cut this time. She smile when I was done too. Say I do good job!”

“That’s great! Er, did she….call it anything?”

“Uhh…vin-eeeee-seeen?”

Grub put a finger to his chin as he tried to pronounce the unfamiliar term, his brain seeming to put all the steam it had going into that too. At the same time, though, all Frank felt was his left eyebrow raising up as he tried to parse what he was hearing. Vineesen? Was that some fancy pre-war word or something? Eh, not that it mattered much now. Better to not burn the big lug out too early in the day with the thought stuck in his dead, not unless he wanted to get an earful from Grub’s boss later for it.

But what kind of meat was Grub even trying to describe here? Didn’t sound like some malnourished Brahmin, could be for all he knew though, but at this rate who really knew. Not like anything that ran around the Mojave or too close to it, at the very least, but maybe someone had brought it from far away to get it cut up to sell at a price hike and big profits. Wouldn’t be the first time something strange like that popped up out of the blue and left without another word, that was for sure.

Frank pulled up his hands to wave at the big guy, trying to get his attention before it was too absorbed into the thought to do anything else.

“Don’t worry about it, big guy, I’ll ask her later myself, ok? No worries. You don’t have to think about it. I promise.”

“Oh! Ok, Frank-human!”

Whew. Ghoul lady running the shop Grub was at certainly had her ways….and Grub seemed content to work for her too. Yet the most surprising thing was the raw patience she’d seemed to give toward Grub’s adjustment to the place after he’d tried to help the guy find work at the market and she’d taken an interest in him. Had been a big surprise with her getting the big lug comfortable like she had, all despite the thing he’d heard and seen with regards to her temper…and her abnormal skills with a knife. Still, Grub seemed content enough with his job despite the at times shady nature of things his boss seemed to dig her claws into. Even had the lug delivering some packages to the front gates a few times that he could remember, though, so she had him well-trained and kept him happy it seemed at least.

“Well, for now I need to hurry if I want to get to my post this morning. My boss lady is gonna’ not be happy if I don’t. So I’ll see you later, ok Grub?”

“Ok! See you later, Frank-human!”

With that, and a hasty goodbye wave, Frank would try to dart back onto the main road and through the two moving lanes of foot traffic. He had become accustomed to things for the most part, but if he ran late a second time this week he was not gonna’ be a happy camper either. If Grub’s boss was shady and great with knives alongside having a temper, then his boss was grumpy and one heck of a shot with a gun while having all the ‘discipline’ and rigidness of a damn Brotherhood Knight! Seriously. Plus on top of that if Maurice didn’t shut the hell up about having to do early morning duty or wanting to ‘be promoted’ to a sniper one day he was going to let some of the others kick his ass one day…but not enough for the pretty keen-eyed ghoul to be unable to come back to work the next day or where he’d have to cover for him. Please no, never that again if he could help it.

Even still the mooing Brahmin, clatter of metal, smell of cooking foods, the clap of shoes moving up and down the Hopetown road itself, it was all enough to get him back in ‘the zone’ as he liked to call it. Normals sounds in a normal workplace that got you in the working mindset, as far as he was concerned, though you still had to keep an eye and an ear out for things. It was, to be blunt, his literal job to keep his eyes and ears peeled at that.

Still, all the way down at the front gate and the market was his own domain in a sense too, he felt, where he helped the other five guards there keep tabs on people, record those coming in and out and some things like that, kept his eyes and ears open for trouble, etc. Three on each side of the front gate, two standing out there armed and ready and keeping tabs on things and one in the shack-like booth on each side keeping the paperwork and such in the shade. A standardized format. Was honest work, and hard work at times, but hell if it wasn’t better than ‘underpaid caravan guard’ in his opinion. Naturally didn’t need raiders or others wanting to give them a bad time walking in, morons trying to rush or gun their way inside, or other trouble like NCR. It was to keep their own safe, to be a show of force to asshats, even if defensively, and they helped keep tabs on who came in and who went out for the day to boot.

The market itself, however, didn’t seem to be much busy yet. Mostly some individuals, maybe three pack brahmin he could see with some others, etc. Butcher shop and the market doc were seemingly getting ready to open up in their own ways, Junk shop was already selling something, and the other stalls were getting ready for the day’s business all the same in turn. The one or two spots to get grub seemed to already be serving something for the ‘early risers’ too, though, and it was an almost heavenly smell sometimes at the end of the day if he’d had to skip lunch over something going on at the gate.

“Hey Frank! Front gate duty again? Maurice beg them to put you there to suffer with him again?”

Frank’s head popped up, the man lost in his thoughts for a moment and almost tripping over his own two feet, only for a peal of laughter to his left to drag him out of the moment. With a huff and a light eye roll, he looked over to see the smirk of a certain young redhead leaning against the nearest stall. Small ponytail, freckles for days, hair as red as a fire, but couldn’t tan for the life of her. That was Amelia, one of the young regulars who traversed the market and helped ‘visitors’ seeking discreet assistance get to where they needed to be either in Hopetown or farther back into Jacobsville. Not a formal role or real job, though, but one the kid had managed to work out for herself. Plus for how savvy the kid was with a 9mm pistol and sneaking about she was just how old again? Only 19 years old now? Still, Amelia knew the Hopetown area and as far back as the Silo like the back of her hand. Seemed to take pride in it too after being a pickpocket in the Mojave who pissed off the wrong gambler and having to ‘start over again’ after a near-death experience.

“Yeah yeah, ha ha hha, but no. Volunteered for it while I’ve got the chance, even taking on a bit extra before Maria pops and we’ve gotta’ take the time for our new kid.”

“She’s that close already?”

“Doc Patricia said she was, last we checked a few days ago, at least. Got us excited to see if it's a boy or a girl, but either way I’ve been told we’ll need to try to be ready to handle the kid.”

“You, having a kid of your own? What’s next, tiny green people landing and dancing in front of the gates? But good ta’ hear Maria’s doin’ well. Tell her I said ‘hey’, would ya’?”

“Heh. Yeah, I will. She’s been wondering how you're doing’ these days, but despite your comments this morning I’ll tell her you said hi this evenin’.”

The redhead would roll her eyes in turn and give him a light punch on the shoulder before leaning back against the side of her chosen ‘vantage point’ to look out at the market. Was enough to make the edges of Frank’s mouth tug back once more, however, and to hell if it was a smirk this time either. Heh. The kid still reminded him of his sister years ago, least’ before their family had split up a bit and-...well, he’d not talk about it right now. Naturally reminded him in the best and worst ways of her though, for what it was worth. Smartass mouth and everything.

“Just get going before my potential customers come in, ok?”

With a nod, though, Frank would hurry along.

As he walked closer and closer to the entrance of the Hopetown Market, the reinforced inside barrier people had to walk around on one side or the other to come in or out of the gate standing as tall as it ever had, he’d find his waking mind wandering a little in that regard. That little wall, though, was mostly for cover and to keep anyone from being able to throw or shoot right into the market beyond. It also provided cover for the guards themselves in the case of a shootout of some kind in part at the entrance. Was certainly working out better thanthe caravan guard gigs he’d run in the past, especially after his fifth and final client out in the Mojave decided to cut and run before paying his large due in caps. All because he tried to tell him going through a Green-infested area was a ‘bad idea, no really, yes really’! Cheapskate. Conniving asshole. Fancy-suit-wearing wine-chugger. Hoped the Green had gotten the guy for his trouble and caps, but perhaps a Deathclaw finding him would be better now that he thought about it.

Ah. But no, no, Maria had told him that was not very nice to imagine, even if part of him wanted to keep doing that to soothe the old pain of the event a bit. And that was before the pregnancy!

Already, though, he could see the three on the other side checking people in, which meant-

“Frank!”

A female ghoul standing on the right side of the gate called out to him, waving the man down as he walked over with a casual wave of his own. She was donning the same outfit and attire they all did as guard, from the reinforced leather, to the sewn-in plates of metal in it, to the same general choice of gun and knife and pistol depending on what they had to assign to guards. Admittedly, though, Dorene the ghoul had very few strands of hair left on her head. Usually liked to wash where she could, though, and ‘take care’ of herself as best she could of her body still regardless. Couldn’t blame er’, for a ghoul she did the best of anyone he’d seen in that regard. Human or not.

“Hey Dorene. Grub an’ Melia’ got me on the way for a few seconds. But, eh, is Maurice already given’ you the usual headache already?”

“No, he’s been stuck on paper duty so far. He gets stuck with you for just a shot while around midday, though, before you rotate back into paper duty for the end of the day.”

A sigh of relief slipped out of Frank's lips before he could think twice about it. Maybe today he’d make it back with his sanity intact for once. But minimal work with Maurice right there next to him? Eh, that was also a bit fishy. Call him superstitious, but something like that usually meant something else would ‘compensate’ for it all in the end. Blargh. But at least they’d be checking people out and not ‘in’ this time.

“How’s Maria doing this morning, by the way? Does she need anything? Sickness getting to her too badly at all today?”

The mild worry in her voice was audible, but he'd expected that much of Dorene as it was.

She did used to be a sister to, eh, one of his wife’s ancestors it seemed. Once reason she’d always been a close friend of the two of them for a hot minute. Call it sentimental, but hell at least Dorene was a good relative to have around for sure too. Was really good with some of the basic stuff, taught Maria more when they’d first learned she was pregnant even, but had practically learned to use a gun for the past two centuries too. Had been excited for the coming baby to boot, perhaps even more than Maria or himself for that matter, from what he’d seen.

“She’s fine, Dorene, but it's gettin' harder for her to move these days. Usually she stretches stuff out over the course of the day to avoid overexertin' herself, but even with me takin’ up a couple of things more at the house to help too she sometimes doesn’t like to take her time still as much as she should. Wants to get everything extra ready for the kid as soon as she can beforehand....”

“Oh! My sister was always like that, but it's still good to know we’re of the same mind on her pacing things out. For her and the baby’s sakes. I’ll have to talk to her again, maybe, after work this evening I mean.”

“Sure, I think I need the backup as it is. Plus we’d be happy to have you for dinner, though it’ll be pretty late. Night shift guys’ll be late tonight, remember?”

“Oh shoot….I had almost forgotten that. Well, for now let’s get you out here before the boss stops covering for me for a second. I told him I’d make sure you got here in time.”

“He’s coveri-, ah for fricks’ sake! Ok, ok. Please lead the way before we get the full earful today.”

Yup. It was going to be another day. Another guard duty. Another lovely time spent under the shade of the walls and main gate, underneath the seemingly eternal constant that was the heat of the persistent Mojave Wasteland sun.

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah

“Exactly correct my dear. My, my: ravishingly beautiful AND intelligent - a potent combination. HA!” Dominic replied with a hearty chuckle, “But yes Mr. House is, was, a true genius in his time. Only a fool would deny it - he was a captain of industry beyond any other and its only because of him that New Vegas is here at all. I feel nothing but gratitude towards the man for what he did for us - indeed the Mojave itself owes him a great debt.”

“However…” Dominic continued, his voice lowering into a more somber tone, “While one cannot deny the inherent brilliance of the man, one also must acknowledge that his glory days are well and truly past. He’s a broken man now - the NCR crushed his last shred of pride and has reduced him to a shell of his former self. He no longer has the drive, or the will, to see his plans for New Vegas carried out. The man wallows in self pity in his literal ivory tower day after day, and never talks to anyone. The only interaction anyone, even his most loyal employees, has with him is through the silent monotonous protocols of his remaining Securitron police force.”

Dominic sighed, clasping his hands in front of him as his gaze shifted between all three of the Vault dwellers,

“And this is where I must ask for your help, and your discretion: as the Omertas newest friends and allies, I hope I can trust you on both accounts.”

“House must be removed from power,” Dominic said finally, exhaling a breath like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, “His not fit to rule Vegas anymore. The Three Families need to take over now, and ensure direct rule over Vegas. We’re pretty much doing that as is - but we lack the control over House’s systems and network that would allow us to ensure so much more is done for the people of Vegas.”

“For instance the flood that just recently wrecked so much devastation on Outer Vegas?” Dominic added with a sneer, “Do you know how much aid House gave or how many of his securitrons helped in the rescue efforts? None. 0. Zip. The families stepped up and did the work that House himself should have been coordinating. It's beyond inexcusable: as Chief Executive of New Vegas he should have been leading the charge and ensuring his people's well-being. Instead he did nothing.”

“Understand, I have no interest in killing House. Indeed I’d like to ensure the exact opposite - I want him to enjoy a peaceful retirement as he well should, free of the burdens of leadership that he obviously no longer has any interest in taking part in. But for that to happen - I need technological expertise that the Omertas simply don’t have, and I need the help of outsiders I can truly trust and rely on.”

“What do you say?” Dominic finished finally, looking at each of them in turn with a hopeful expression.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 20th

Eve suspected that Don Omerta had laid the flattery on too thick. Now he'd removed any doubt. She adjusted her albeit minimal seating to signal decreasing interest. Perhaps the facade was only discernible when diagnosed at a direct angle; a passing glance at Faye detected a pinch of jealousy. The Ace chortled quietly. Jacks always hungered for, yet could never handle, grandiose accolades. Her sister embarrassed the delegation in pursuit: "I- In fact, many of our computers utilize the Unified Operating System, designed by Robert House!"

Danny deflated. Honest work. A solid month's labor should have been beyond sufficient to earn the don's loyalty, his troops, the tankers. Why not? The Meld was constructed in that time frame. Quality jobs for decent payment. He preferred uncomplicated transactions like those. Caps, gold bullion, whatever flimsy paper the New California Republic circulated as currency. Weeding gardens, constructing roads, clearing gaming tables, sanitizing toilets! Wasn't this typical activity outside the Vault? To pour heart and soul into meaningful efforts. To return to humble abode, knowing that no action brought harm onto another. To relax upon a recliner, satisfied in one's accomplishments.

Nines was relegated to dealing in favors, drawn beneath Omerta's wing rather than cooperating in symbiosis. VaultTec material he'd supply willingly; the blessings of survivorship were meant to share with those less fortunate. Next, he's to become the hitman himself. This Faustian bargain dragged him far from his comfort zone. He envisioned a medieval saga where the naive prince consulted the banished wizard. I can fulfill your desires, and all I require is...

His "better," more "rational" "judgment" "assuaged" him. Is it a hitman's role to convince a tyrant to relinquish his throne? No murder was invoked but peaceable resolution, to its furthest extent possible. Dominic - if it was permissible to address him by first name - seemed perfectly earnest in his intentions. The ancient billionaire was powerless, or maybe too self preoccupied, to aid the local denizens after the Flood. Vegas would indeed prosper under a fresher face. "Well-"

"Daniel," the younger Cannon bolstered from the couch.

"Yes, right," Floyd smiled. "We hoped for menial, non flashy tasks. Stuff you'd assign to folks for community service credit!" The sheer presence of the big man (in every sense) overwhelmed his bargaining power. "But, if you insist this task must be accomplished, sir, we've a couple questions. How might we manage the Securitron police force, and will we venture alone in this endeavor? They're strong ladies, stronger than yours truly, but, heh, not enough to break or blunt steel. A yokel from the Vaults stands no chance to persuade a genius level intellect, even peaceably, without some assurance of parity." And he surely wished for a peaceful conclusion, in respect and nervousness.

The Meld - Late Afternoon, November 20th

"You're certain I can't assist?"

The arachnid lair had compacted into a quaint bundle of tufts attached to Amber except a handful of excess polygons strewn across the floor and a singular torn square atop the table. Isabel was quarantined to the chair in the kitchen's corner, forced to be content with a dime novel. Amber held her elbows aloft, glancing behind her shoulder to Charlotte. At the bride's waist, Charlotte methodically tugged a litany of strings: lace wrapped over mere twine. The masterpiece was nigh complete.

"Look forward. Hold still. You're messing up my measurements," Charlotte commanded. "And no." A brief knot's jostle, and the seamstress revolved to admire her handiwork, arms akimbo. "The applique on your bodice is off kilter."

The bride to be swayed counterclockwise, the pendulum of fabric swishing upwards. "It's fit for marriage," she assured.

"I won't compromise. Not for this," Charlotte insisted. "You've sacrificed too dearly for our benefit. You've earned this."

"Hey, the asymmetry works," the Nine of Hearts posited. She summoned Isabel's attention. "I'm dressed fashionably, aren't I?"

The giantess lowered her book. The combined strength of her muscles couldn't lift the corners of her lips above a horizontal meridian. It was technically nonetheless a smile, and genuine at that. "Very."

Unsurprisingly, the Queen of Spades was unsatisfied with such a boor's approval. The brute lacked the delicacy to cut cloth, for crying out loud. She opened the door and hollered at her beau: "Bradley! I need your opinion!"

The woodsman barged through the entrance, an assortment of foliage in his clutches. "The Green's encroaching fast on the homestead. We ought to establish tougher barriers." Assuming the target of his focus, he looked the gown up and down. "So, yours was nicer, but-"

"Oh, you're no help," Charlotte lamented.

"Is it criminal to regard my wife as lovelier in her-"

"Not the girl, you lummox, the dress!"

"Let him conclude his statement, Charlotte."

"Prior to interruption, I was about to compliment its simple elegance. Matches Amber's personality to a 't.' Reflects highly on your craftmanship, too." Bradley unwittingly spared himself an evening of outdoors slumber but wasn't quite out of the woods yet. "So, you're gonna snap the portrait, or...?"

"What do you mean?" Amber asked.

Charlotte stamped the floorboards. "That was a surprise for the wedding!" she exclaimed. The reveal subverted, Charlotte resigned herself. "I purchased an antique camera and film for the event. Figured it'd be a nice touch."

Amber beamed, nearly melting in her attire. "Oh, Charlotte! What a gallant present!" Charlotte's gloom persisted; Amber resolved to cheer her up. "Since the cat's out of bag, why don't we test the machinery? Ensure there aren't components missing, you know?"

"A capital notion!" Bradley announced, equally determined to save his wife's demeanor (and himself from her wrath). "It's located among the spice boxes, correct?"

He retrieved the black device and fastened it to a tripod. Amber puffed her chest outward, threw her shoulders back, inhaled deeply, raised her chin, and slackened her jaw: as regal, as ephemeral as the photographs of centuries past. Rigid, statuesque, perfect.

"Oddly decked for a funeral, I say," Bradley quipped.

At once, she exhaled a smiling guffaw, her form loosened, she staggered forth, her clothes swirled round her, and Bradley at that moment captured the image. She almost ripped the linen. "Wait, I wasn't ready for that! Can we take a second one?"

"No dice," Charlotte chuckled. "Too few pictures in the cartridge."

"But Danny's going to see this forever!" she protested. "It's embarrassing. My posture was thrown off; I was a mess!"

Charlotte shook her head. "Darling, you're fit for marriage."

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah

"I- In fact, many of our computers utilize the Unified Operating System, designed by Robert House!"

“Exactly,” Dominic said with a suggestive wink at Faye, “I need UOS experts, and who better than Vault Dwellers like yourselves?”

Dominic then listened calmly as Daniel raised his objections, or perhaps more accurately, concerns about the request. He let out a deep chuckle when the Vault Dweller had finished,

“HA! Now look at the cojones on Danny-boy here. Armed assaults on Securitrons - I like your guts my friend. I’m truly honored and appreciative of your willingness to fight for my family, that's a sincere mark of respect to us Omertas, but I assure you it won’t be necessary.”

Dominic leaned back in his chair and pulled out a finely decorated box of cigars. He offered one to Danny as well as the two sisters before carefully selecting one himself. He held it up as if he was plucking a prized flower, cut it, and placed it in his mouth before lighting it up.

A waft of smoke drew upwards in his office, appropriately christening this backroom deal just like he would any other transaction. Didn’t matter if it was selling guns or chems, hiring hot new ‘talent’ for Gomorrah, or orchestrating the fall of a faceless autocrat: every deal needed a cigar, or three, to be finalized.

“To your point Dany, no, if all goes well you won’t be putting any of your people in any kind of harm. I promise you. Think of yourselves only as….logistical support,” He said with a wide cigar-filled smile, “And if you help us, there’s a lot more in it for you than just water and soldiers. You’ll have a firm ally in Vegas, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the benefits that brings - think exclusive trade deals and your very own spot right here on the Strip for your company should you want it.”

“So I’ll ask one more time, are you up for it? Are you ready to make history in New Vegas with us?”

Fort Golf

The guards didn’t share Justin Moore’s sense of humor. His quip about a meeting with the Brotherhood got him a rough escort straight to a holding cell in the basement of Fort Golf’s headquarters.

The room was small and damp and dark with a concrete floor save for two tiled wash basins built into the ground. It smelled stale like mildew and unwashed bodies. There was a drain the size of a dinner plate in the middle of the cell and a faucet above each wash basin and the sole light source was a dim amber electric light hanging from the ceiling. He was bound at the wrists with an oily rope made from hide. They forced him to sit on a small stool in the corner of the cell and tied his restraint to an old steam pipe with another length of rope. They ignored him throughout the process but as they left one of them turned back to Justin. She had a prominent angular noise with large eyes that were tapered in a shrewd observation of the ambassador. In the half-light of the cell she looked like a hawk spotting prey.

“You better hope you’re useful.”
—————

Colonel Abernathy - Fort Golf

“It wouldn’t take long, Colonel. Another hour, tops and I’ll still be on the Strip before nightfall.”

“You have your orders Richard.” Denver’s tone softened “I need you in Vegas preparing my way. You don’t have long.”

Richard nodded.

“Don’t let him bullshit you.” He looked Denver square in the eyes, as his own burned with the ferocity of friendship. “Don’t believe what you want to hear.”

The two men saluted and then parted ways. Denver descended to the stairs. A corporal greeted him with a salute at the bottom and briefed the colonel as they walked down the detention corridor. It was quiet save for their footsteps. Even in the dim lighting Denver noticed she was young and with sharp features that gave her a harpy-like face. Once they arrived at the door she unlocked and opened it.

Denver stepped inside, with harder steps than usual so as to break the stillness. The door slammed shut behind him. Then it was quiet again. There was a man, well-dressed but disheveled and looking quite panicked sitting on a wooden stool tied to a dirty pipe. He looked small, and rat-like as he sat bound and trapped and at Denver’s mercy.

“Welcome to Fort Golf.”

Denver’s tone was dry and he took a few steps towards the man. He stroked his mustache twice then folded his hands behind his back and walked until he was no more than two feet from the man.

“There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity. But I’m fairly certain I know which side you fall on. When they told me what you said, I thought you were just stupid but then I took a moment and realized even a really stupid bastard wouldn’t stroll onto my Fort joking about having a friend in the Brotherhood less than a week after they attack and murder my soldiers.”

Denver bent his knees slightly and got his face closer to the man.

“So tell me Justin. Are you just a stupid bastard? Or do you know something you ought to tell me?”

————————-————————————-

Marisol - NCR Embassy

Marisol took the invitation under her arm and stepped out of the ambassador’s office. She had never seen Benjamin this excitable. He was so nervous he’d twice made himself sick and was trying on yet another of his flamboyant suits in an attempt to find the most flattering one for the meeting tomorrow. He hadn’t said who was coming but it was clear to Marisol that whoever it may be, they were a powerful individual. She had suspicions it might be a cabinet member or the vice president but she kept those thoughts to herself.

The embassy was a buzz of activity as the building was prepared for the regional strategic reassessment meeting. The conference room had been cleaned and cleared out save for the essentials. More than a dozen other beds had been brought in to accommodate the increased number of Van-Graff corporate security agents. Two other rooms had been sectioned off and cleared but Marisol hadn’t seen anything else go in. The locks were replaced and there was a guard outside them at all hours.

Something about it made her uneasy. Her psychological training had been excellent, better than any she knew but she could never shake the animal instinct in her gut when something was off. Marisol had spent years of her life working to be in this position, she had stocked and recruited nearly the entirety of the staff and she had cultivated a relationship of manipulation with Benny that gave her unrestricted access to the most secretive missives from Shady Sands. Yet within a few days the Van-Graff thugs under Peter-Gabriel had taken over her domain and she found it an increasingly shadowy place where plans were colluded without her knowledge. It was beginning to become intolerable.

Too many years had been invested. Too many lives lost. She wouldn’t stand for her directive to be sabotaged when the execution of it was so close. She deduced that many of the preparations were for the Colonel’s arrival and it didn’t look like a promotion party. They were relieving him of command, and arresting him. No doubt one of those restricted rooms was meant to be his first cell. But if it was so obvious why could Marisol not shake the sensation that she herself was in danger. It was a nauseating unease, one of being watched by a predator, stalked by a hunter just out of sight. She hadn’t felt fear like this since she was a young girl. That's what disturbed her the most.

She stopped by her room before she left the embassy and changed her clothes. Swapping out her more formal outfit of a starched white blouse and long black skirt for a purple pastel dress. Marisol had bought it off a gambler in the Ultra Luxe two years ago and thought the ruffled sleeves quite exciting. It was a bit large for her and she had taken it in at the waist but left the neckline open to show her collarbones. She stared at herself in the small mirror on her dresser. The pale violet complimented her warm skin tone well. Marisol removed the pins from her hair and shook it loose then mussed it about until she was satisfied. She looked decisively less submissive and more assertive and liberated than before. It was a look and perception of herself she had worked to cultivate among the Omerta family in her many dealings with them. Always had she been the warm face at the embassy, the understanding one.

Don Dominic was the unofficial King of the city and he loathed being asked to do anything that wasn’t his own idea. Thus Marisol thought it best to deliver the invitation to his daughter Lucrezia. She was influential in both the operations of the Omerta family and in her father’s decision-making. Marisol had worked hard to build a dialogue with the woman over her tenure at the embassy. It had been a success and the two of them enjoyed a sort of respectful friendship when free from their respective duties. Marisol recognized it on her part as a relationship of circumstance, proximity and convenience. Still there existed in her a gnawing impulse of loyalty to Lucy and her father by extension.

Marisol grabbed a gray wool shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders concealing the invitation underneath her arm. She stepped out of her room, locked the door and left the embassy. She moved with purpose, avoiding people that might stop her in conversation. The midday Strip was busier than usual, but calmer than the evenings. She was able to move past the bustle outside the Tops and the Ultra-Luxe with relative ease before getting to the Gomorroah. While her relationship with Lucrezia had long outgrown the formalities of appointments Marisol still felt it prudent to ask for her at the reception desk.

Marisol was escorted to Lucrezia’s office and told to wait and she would be with Marisol shortly