[color=aba000][u][b]Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 20th[/b][/u][/color]

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]I can fulfill your desires, and all I require is...[/i]

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.


[color=aba000][u][b]The Meld - Late Afternoon, November 20th[/b][/u][/color]

"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."