Gingy

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Calvin Lovegrove

Smith Residence

Cal strolled into the bedroom after Ashley. He allowed the detective to absorb the atmosphere; this place had become a harrowing temple of nostalgia -- an empty slice of proof that a man once lived here. No longer. His watch was over, and it had been replaced.

"You look like shit." Calvin folded his arms and a smirk rippled its way onto his face. "Although I'd be questioning your empathy if you looked otherwise. I am sorry for your loss."

He began to peruse the various objects in the room, turning over the clothes left on his bed and checking the drawers, simultaneously aware that he would find nothing. Yet again, The Florist had conducted a "perfect" murder. Calvin had read the files. If The Florist was a creature of habit, then there would be no prints and no possible leads outside of the normal information -- time of death, wounds, context.

Calvin reached into the breast-pocket of his suit and pulled out the file. He quickly perused the murders of Alison Fitzpatrick and Julia Prudence. Every detail checked out.

"Detective Smith was promoted to Ad Vice in my absence. My suspension has come to an end, and the rest of our desk is busy keeping kids out of the morphine-candy store." He paused and perused the file again. "There is nothing conclusive at this site. The coroner should pack up and we should return to Club Carousel. We need to peruse its ledger and obtain a list of clients for the last two nights."

"There's no way in hell that this smart a fellow would have left any trace at a place of business, but we can see if there are any repeat customers between the two nights and see if there were any strange consistencies between the two evenings. It's a long shot, but unless you have any other evidence, it's what we have."

Calvin hollered into the hallway. "Coroner...arrange for Detective Smith's remains to be sent to the morgue. We're done here."

War Never Changes

McCarran Air Traffic Control Tower

“This is the Aegis Risk Management Vertibird ‘Courser’, requesting landing permission, an approved approach vector, and wind heading plus speed,” he spoke into the radio, turning on the Vertibird’s lights and beginning to slow down the vehicle. After some hesitation, the pilot got landing permission.”

“Permission granted. Please proceed to the runway and allow inspection of your vehicle.”

Upon landing, the Aegis Risk delegates would be met by a securitron. Unlike the other delegates, it did not have a personality fashioned for them, as their visit had been a bit of a surprise. A group of securitrons would then roll forth and guide them to the Gourmand of the Ultra-Luxe, the site of the convention.

Robert Edwin House - President, C.E.O, and Sole Proprietor of the FZM
Lucky 38

"People like us Robert...we're few and far between now. Echoes of the Old World, ghosts of the past. That's what these people call us. This wasteland....its a nightmare, a horror-show, full of degenerates and mutants, murderers and psychopaths...and all the while these new 'nations' if you can call them that, squabble over our country like rabid dogs fighting over the carcass of a long dead animal. It sickens me. But perhaps there is hope, hope that the Old World will reclaim what it had once lost. Hope that one day, the world will be ours again....and perhaps, just perhaps, we'll create a far better world, better even the one that existed before..."

“Jesus, Thomas. Are you certain that these words are not being uttered by your real mouth?” Robert scoffed and addressed the algorithm again. “I am glad that you feel the same way as I. Technological visionaries must rule our progression into the future – the lion’s share of these pretenders wouldn’t know what to do with the breadcrumbs of the old world, even if they possessed them.”

Mr. House looked at Jane. “Jane, I want you to prepare for the transfer of my transmission to the Gourmand. Day Two is underway and I am nearly done conversing with Dr. Milburne.” He returned his vision to the holotape. “I will be pleased to see what we can accomplish together, Thomas, but I have to admit that your creation does not sound infallible; you dropped these ‘synthetics’ on my doorstep, but if you had not intervened, they would have lived an entire lifetime outside of your jurisdiction. My securitrons do not have the mental capability to stray from their goal. I have no need for subterfuge with them – they only know their programming.”

“I have forged an alliance with the Midwestern Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, a partnership that is very valuable to me. They are perhaps the only post-war children whom I would deem worthy of scouring through old world tech. Unlike their western power-armored contemporaries, they seem to have a meticulous grasp on the use and progression of technology, as I. Therefore, if we are to parlay, then we will have to open a conversation with the Brotherhood of Steel…it doesn’t take the logic of RobCo’s founder to understand that the concept of your ‘synths’ could confuse or even anger their leader, ‘Barnaky’.”

Mr. House then prepared a closing statement to the algorithm. “If you want your work to run alongside mine, then let us truly speak. This coded program of yours is impressive, but superficial. I have a summit to attend to.” With that, Robert re-directed his signal to the Gourmand, and his face flickered onto the terminal screen set up on the end of the table.

“Greetings, esteemed guests, and welcome to the second day of the New Vegas Convention. I open the floor to any delegates willing to make announcements and-or begin discussion.”

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Calvin Lovegrove

En Route to Brooklyn

Noon

Calvin failed to marvel at the massive structures as he passed them by in his convertible. New York was all more of the same – a lie. A catacomb covered in glittering sculptures. His life among the shadows of Manhattan gave him an exhilaration that he could never find anywhere else, but his sentiment always drew him to Ossining. He could see his life outside of Manhattan evaporating before his eyes. Within days, weeks, or months, Evelyn would be gone and there would be no reason for him to ever leave the city again. He’d burn down his house for the quick insurance payout and find himself a place in Manhattan.

Cal still had time, but it was running out. Evelyn and Ossining were slipping through his fingers like a fine powder and Danielle was beginning to envelop his existence. The part that killed him was the fact that it did not particularly bother him. There was a time when Evelyn was his sun and stars; he remembered being twenty. But it was gone. A peaceful life in a darling house with the woman of his dreams, accompanied by a comfortable and menial taskforce at the Ossining Police Station dominated his young mind, but it was nothing more than a dream. Once he’d found it, it was gone. Once he’d felt it, he didn’t.

But Calvin quietly understood that no matter how he’d played his cards, things would have ended up the same. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the cancerous growth inside of his wife. There was nothing he could have accomplished that would have prevented his lust for the neon pleasure of New York’s underbelly. Nothing—not even the bomb—could have kept him from sacrificing his job for the favor of a particular Hollywood starlet. And this, somehow, gave him peace. Nothing that’d happened so far had been anything he could control. Soon, Evelyn would be gone and his glamorous prodding of the underworld would consume his entire life. So be it.

The House of the Fallen Detective

Afternoon

Richard Smith. He sounded like a nobody, but according to the commissioner, he was a solid, by-the-books Ad Vice caseman. Poor thing. That notion alone was the reason he was killed. You didn’t survive Ad Vice by being a pillar of humanity. Cal had remembered Ash—the newbie of his desk—from the months prior to his suspension, but he’d never met Mr. Smith. It was more than likely that Richard had been hired as his replacement, and then killed upon the elapse of Calvin’s suspension. It had all been wrapped neatly into a bow like a Christmas gift.

Calvin parked his car across the street and lit a cigarette as he strolled toward the caution tape-suffocated house. The scene had clearly quieted down from the initial uproar of Smith’s demise, seeing as the only remaining vehicles were that of the coroner, one patrol car, and a civilian car that he did not recognize. He strolled into the house, satirically kicking off the grime of his wing-tipped shoes against the “welcome” mat in front of the door.

Inside, he found the culprit corpse – a young man, gutted on his living room floor and covered in roses. In fact, the fucking things were everywhere. The house had become a sickening garden of them.

“What’ve you got?” muttered Calvin as he shuffled into the room. He narrowed his eyes at the coroner.

The man grimaced. “Oh. You’re back.” He looked at his watch. “You’re late. Very late.” He pointed at the dead detective. “I miss him. He wasn’t a cunt like the man he replaced.” The coroner aptly looked at Calvin.

“Nice to see you too,” Cal said as he knelt and observed the corpse.

“Whatever. People don’t change. It’s only a matter of time.” The coroner took a deep breath and removed a few of the roses from Richard’s chest. “He was killed around midnight last night.” He pointed at the ligature marks on the man’s neck. “Strangled. I gave this whole report to Detective Gallagher hours ago. If you’d been here, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

“Well… I’m here now, so do your fucking job. Then you can go home and complain to your lucky, lucky wife about how much of a bully I am.” Calvin snapped and raised his voice.

The coroner seemed slightly shaken up. “Um…Detective Smith fired one round into the wall.” He pointed at the bullet-pierced wallpaper above the mantle. “I can assume that he fired at his assailant and missed before being subdued.” The coroner then shrugged. “No sign of Detective Smith’s weapon. The culprit must have taken it for himself.”

Calvin folded his arms. “Death by asphyxiation, then?”

The coroner looked mournfully at Cal and nodded. “Yes. He sure tried to put up a fight.” He pointed at a pair of scratches on Smith’s arms. “And then…he was gone.”

“So we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes, we’ve been able to hypothesize some of his—.”

“Uh uh.” Calvin outstretched his palm toward the coroner’s face and looked away. “I’m going to get it directly from the horse’s mouth. Not an over-glorified nurse. Is Detective Gallagher still here?”

The coroner sighed. “Yes. He’s wandering the house, seeing if there aren’t any breadcrumbs anywhere else. I told him that it was a waste, but—.”

“Enough,” Calvin interrupted. “Thank you for the help.” He wandered through the dead detective’s house until he saw the silhouette of Ashley Gallagher standing in the hallway. Calvin approached the man. He smirked, but relinquished it. This man’s partner had been killed. It was the wrong time for humor. “Describe what we are dealing with, and I will help you with this case. I want to know everything.”

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Calvin Lovegrove

Ossining General Hospital

Afternoon

“What ever will you do without me?”

Calvin blinked. “What?”

Evelyn had reached from her hospital bed and straightened her husband’s tie. It killed her that it had become this difficult; she’d done this hundreds of times over the years, and now she could barely manage to find the concentration in her fingers to correctly align the fabric. She’d perfected this ritual so many times that even in this monotonous hospital room—where she would likely spend the remainder of her days—she found complete peace in doing so.

Cal looked at his wife and stared into her bright blue orbs. His face said nothing at all – it was stuck a flat, resoundingly neutral expression. Unbeknownst to his wife, it was a perfect equilibrium of joy and complete sadness. It both uplifted and killed him to know that even in the home stretch, she’d still find herself upholding the mannerisms that had completed their happy life before today. Before all of this.

Calvin took his wife’s hand and cupped them with his own. “I’m not going to have to do this without you. You’re going to be just fine.” Over the years, he’d become spectacular at manipulating the truth, but he felt an unusual regret about this particular lie. It was ovarian cancer. She had a few months to live, at best.

“Don’t do that, hon. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’ve got to start planning for where your journey will take you without me.”

Cal’s hand balled up into a fist. “No. I won’t. There’s no need for it.”

Evelyn took a deep breath and let go of Cal’s hand, letting her bodyweight sag into the plush hospital bed.

After a moment of silence, Calvin spoke softly. “Hon, my vacation is up. I’ve got to go back to work.”

Evelyn smiled at Calvin and touched his cheek. “Of course you do. You’re ambitious. Can’t keep you away from your superhero duties.”

Calvin pursed his lips. Even in a moment as intimate and innocent as this, he’d always woven a web of lies. But he could not bear to tell his wife that he’d been given a six-month suspension without pay as punishment for embezzling N.Y.P.D funds.

“I’ll come to see you as soon as they allow. They’ve been known for keeping me busy every hour of the day. I—“

“You don’t have to say that to me. I know how much you love your work.”

“I’m going to go,” said Calvin as he fought the urge to break down in front of his wife. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Go get ‘em.”

The Apartment of Danielle Raymonde

The Following Morning

“I think you’re losing your nerve.”


Calvin rolled off Dani’s naked form and took an exasperated breath. “Am not.” He reached over to the end table and plopped a cigarette into his mouth before lighting it. “I’m going back to work tomorrow. Got a lot on my mind, is all.”

Dani pulled up the blanket and covered herself before turning over to face Cal. “I know you’re going back to work. For the first time in half a year, you’re finally going to be of some use to me.”

Calvin blew raspberries and shot Danielle a look of haughty derision. He leapt out of bed and slipped into his clothes. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t have a said to word to me these past six months if you were only motivated by our arrangement. I'm an unemployed man, yet here I am in your bed.”

Danielle huffed. “Fair.”

Calvin folded his arms. “What was the ‘arrangement’, anyway? It’s been so long—become so routine—that I’ve lost track of what the original terms were.”

Dani smirked at the disgraced detective. “In exchange for the unrequited love of a mysterious multi-millionaire film icon, you’ve abused your shiny police credentials to cover my dirty tracks.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds terrible, Dani. Glamorous, but terrible. Makes you sound delightful and makes me sound like a fink.”

“Exactly. You're the dirty cop and I'm the fallen angel.”

“Who’s been taking care of your shady business these past six months, baby? Got something to tell me?” asked Calvin as he played with the Dani’s strawberry blonde hair.

“Me. How helpless do you think I am?”

Calvin finished attaching his tie and tossed on his heinously expensive coat. “Very. You put up with me to get it fixed.” He gazed at the woman in the bed and marveled at her face. She'd gotten to this stage of her career through sheer skill and cunning, but there was no denying that she had an unforgettably stunning face.

Danielle turned onto her back and lit a cigarette. “Shit, the six months are already up?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Asshole.”

Central Police Station

Noon

“Piece of shit shows up late on his first day back.”

A group of patrolmen enjoyed a smoke break on the steps toward the police station as Calvin rolled up in his jarringly glamorous car. He rolled into the parking lot and hopped out of his black Delahaye 135 convertible.

Calvin winked at the boys in blue standing next to the door. Despite the attire, hey were every bit as green as the last he’d seen them. He opened the door and took in the halls of the police station. Ah. Despite everything, it was good to be back. Cal bolted up the stairs and rushed to his office. Despite the break, they had never asked him to get his things. That was how simultaneously important yet unimportant he was to the force. He knew they’d come crawling back for him.

Cal barely had time to sit in his office chair before the commissioner barged into the room. “Lovegrove.”

“Sir,” he said sarcastically.

“Can it with the attitude. You’re back on planet earth, kid.”

Calvin stood from his chair and shook the commissioner’s hand. “Of course. It is good to be back. I’ve had the itch.”

“Good. There’s been a murder.”

“Then call one of those humps from homicide.”

“It's one of our own, Cal. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands. A very, very smart one. This one requires more finesse than they’ve got to offer.”

“Am I going to have a partner?”

“We’ll see.” The commissioner handed Calvin a file. “Catch up, and then get your ass over to the crime scene. 1520 Thornton Avenue, Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn? Fuck. Raking into my gas money already.

The commissioner shot Calvin one last glance as he was leaving the office. “Happy hunting.”

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Calvin Lovegrove

Danielle Raymonde

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Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Late Evening

Alison put the finishing touches on her bedding. She’d created a fortress of blankets on Emerald’s floor, and for now, that would have to substitute for her apartment. She wasn’t allowed to get any of her things; Julie, her boy-toy, and the entire place were still part of an ongoing investigation. Emerald hadn’t returned yet. She was under the impression that the woman would be on her way up once closing time – an unearthly hour of 2:30 – arrived. That was fine. It gave her a few hours to reflect on her own.

After washing her face, Alison submerged herself into her incredibly comfortable blanket-fort. She’d set it right next to Emerald’s bed. As much as she didn’t want to be in the woman’s hair, she was still wary. She didn’t know why, though; her roommate’s murder seemed to be a crime of passion. Nonetheless, the darkness of that morning still lingered with her.

There would be no more of that. Alison had come to New York to find happiness. And that was exactly where she would head. Manhattan was a dirty place, filled with many secrets, but she would carve a fulfilling existence out of it. She knew she could – she had to.

After a while, the door to Emerald’s apartment slowly opened and Alison smiled. She’d finally come home. Alison kept her face planted into the pillow as she tried to formulate the words she wanted to say to Emerald. She had to keep her ‘cool’ this time around – some form of gratitude, but far less intense than what she had offered earlier.

Emerald tapped her on the neck and Alison rolled over. “What?” However, upon looking, the silhouette before her was far larger than she’d expected. Emerald had put on some sort of large coat, and the figure in the dark was strange. “Emerald?”

A laughing began to emanate through the apartment. It wasn’t her. A hoarse, grotesque tone of voice reverberated through the room.

No, no, no, no. The figure grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright. “Please! I—“ The figure interrupted her by slamming his fist onto her lips, breaking several teeth and causing blood to pour out of her gums. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She could not see the figure’s face, but she could smell him. He smelled delightful – like a stunning mix of cologne and roses. She sobbed as he continued to hold her arm. He was strong; his very grip strained her forearm and kept her from moving.

“Help!—“ Her scream was once again silenced as the figure now held his palm over Alison’s mouth. He retrieved a glinting object from his belt, which upon holding out, appeared to be a machete. He jammed it into Alison’s gut and turned the blade. His muted hand could hardly even suppress her screaming. The pain was unbearable. Blood began to gush out of her chest. She made one last attempt to free her mouth and scream, and she successfully wailed into the hallway. “Help me!”

The figure decided that enough was enough. He shoved his blade into Alison’s eye and into her brain, impaling her head onto the wood of Emerald’s bedframe. She was gone. He ripped Alison’s other eye out of its socket and tossed it onto the floor. He retrieved his usual rose from his pocket and planted it inside of her free eyesocket, presenting a sickening bloom from inside her skull. Help would be on the way. He destroyed the window, climbed out of the fire escape, and disappeared into the darkness.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones - Weaver Residence

Lorelei looked back at Steve. "If you're so keen on helping her, then you'll get to do the heavy lifting. If the doctor ran back to his clinic, then we need to get moving." She carefully pressed through the double doors to the large brick apartment complex and drew her revolver. She began speaking in hushed whispers. "There's no telling who'll come after her."

Lorelei guided Steve upstairs. She gingerly trotted up the long set of stairwells. "I'll have to warn you. She's...jumpy. If she's awake, I don't know how she'll react to a stranger being around." She finally stopped at the third floor and pushed into the hallway. "Nothing brash. We are only trying to help her. Don't give her the impression we are there do anything outside of that category."

After Lorelei spotted Eliza's door, she slowly tiptoed toward it, Steve in tow. "...Eliza? I've brought someone who can take you to a real doctor. We're here to help." She peered into the room. Upon there being no sign of hostiles, she holstered her revolver and walked inside. "And before you go all hermit on me, you're going to need real treatment if you want to get out of bed anytime in the next several weeks."

Lorelei stared back at Steve expectantly. "Let's get her to the clinic."

War Never Changes

Robert Edwin House House - President, C.E.O, and Sole Proprietor of the FZM
Lucky 38

"I could say more Robert, but I'm sure you have questions. While I obviously could not attend your convention in person...not until we determined it was safe of course, I wanted to make sure we could have the chance to talk again. If only indirectly. The 'holotape' that A6 placed into the holotape player was more than just a recording. It is a AI system all its own. Something that I designed myself. It is based fully on my own neurological matrix and is programmed to respond to various inquiries. Its response are sometimes...limited, but it is quite capable of answering some basic questions for you. I know its not ideal...but it will have to do for now. So please...ask away."

Robert House was, for perhaps the first time since before the war, at a loss for words. It might have seemed insulting to Thomas, after that whole speech, for Mr. House to leave him with such a span of silence. “Thomas…It’s you. By god, the Old World is waking up, isn’t it? The titans of our old power, finding their way back into the world. If you’re real, then there is much work to be done.”

Mr. House sent for Jane. “Jane, catalogue everything uttered in this conversation. It is of upmost importance.” The securitron, having freshly rolled into the room, suddenly froze and went into some sort of data-stasis.

Robert then proceeded with his questions. “Very well. If it is to be later before we truly speak with each other, then I will banter with this coding you’ve written.” He proceeded. “Then Thomas, I must ask, to what extent has your research exceeded. Have you created your own civilization of them? Your own world? Or are you just as humble and careful as I’d remembered.”

He paused again as he drew up another question. “And these ‘synths’ of yours…” He stared at the group of deactivated humanoids through his monitor. “They’re completely malleable? You can shape them…order them to do anything?”

Robert House then managed a chuckle over his intercom. “I am impressed, Thomas. Surprised that you’ve found a way to taste immortality as I have, which I suppose I will ask later. But I am also surprised that you’ve been chiseling at the high-technology sectors. I am impressed.”

War Never Changes

Robert Edwin House – President, C.E.O, and Sole Proprietor of the FZM
Lucky 38, 27th Floor

As Robert waited for the remaining delegates to take their seats in the Gourmand, he returned his signal to a flat-screen on the wall in the Lucky 38 conference room. His enigmatic face flickered upon the computer, revealing the digitally-produced facsimile of his likeness.

The Borgios had all gotten comfortable, although this handful of representatives at a massive table (meant for almost thirty) looked awkward and almost humorous to him. Still, he needed what they knew. That name was supposed to be gone. It was supposed to be erased. Yet there it was, clear as day.

Mr. House activated his microphone. “My name is Robert Edwin House – President, C.E.O., and Sole Proprietor of the FZM. I have hosted you in my home, today, because I received transmissions from a very interesting conversation that you had with one of my securitrons.” He paused. “I do hope you are enjoying your stay. I do not mean to alarm you.”

Robert then paused and took a deep breath. “I want to, however, skip pleasantries because I am deeply curious as to why you have come across the name of Thomas Milburn. That name has been wiped away with the Great War, yet it springs up here on my doorstep. Why?”

A Sharp-Dressed Ghoul
The Tops Hotel and Casino

The ghoul scrambled for the Chairmen’s conference room. He had planned this perfectly – he had raided their vault during a meeting, and it was supposedly still underway. Somehow, none of the guards realized that the two massive duffel bags on his back were far too large for innocent winnings, but he phonied himself all the way into the meeting.

The doorman walked into the conference room and bowed his head. “A…uh… ‘Mr. Domino’ has arrived.”

At the conference table, Swank jolted awake from his bored stupor. “What?!”

Dean walked up to the table and slammed the two duffel bags against the table. “It’s a pleasure, ‘Swank’.”

The other chairmen at the table drew their weapons, pointing them at Dean.

“Uh-uh.” Dean retrieved a lighter from his pocket and pointed the flame at the duffel bags. “These particular goodie-bags have been coated in oil and are filled with your precious coffers. Any funny business, and your entire revenue will be lit on fire.”

Swank waved, motioning for the rest of the guards to lower their weapons. He had a furious, nervous expression on his face. “What do you want, Dean Domino?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I did it?” Dean had a silly, shit-eating grin across his face. He pointed at his sunglasses. “I am clearly a master of disguise. Even after robbing Vault 21, your man at the door couldn’t make the ‘sharp-dressed-ghoul-who-is-liable-to-rob-you-blind’.

Swank rubbed his forehead and sighed. “No. I don’t care how you did it.”

“You don’t? Well, you should.” Dean kept his lighter pointed toward the bags. “I want this casino. For myself.”

“You what?! No!” Swank bellowed. “What kind of delusional cat are you?”

“One who has thought this through,” said Dean in his calculated, articulate voice. “If I burn these bags, you’re through. There’s hundreds of thousands worth of caps and NCR dollars in there. Without them, your casino will go under from debts that you will no longer be able to pay. House won’t bail you out, because he’s been looking for a reason to wipe the slate clean. I will be his voluntary dustpan.”
Swank banged his fist against the table. “I’m not afraid of your silly theatrics!”

“You should be. I drop this lighter, your regime is through.” He looked at the others. “Here’s what I’ll do. You fire this fraud, who was robbed blind under his own nose, and give me the top gig. In return, you’ll have your money back, and everything I stole from Vault 21.”
The other chairmen began to look among themselves.

“You can’t be serious?” Swank folded his arms as he looked at the others.

“Sorry, cat. You’re through.”

General Jimmy Donovan – Leader of the F.Z.M Military
Hopeville Missile Base

The General watched from his office in Hopeville Missile base as the flood of prospective soldiers walked through the halls of the bunker. This gig was new for him – he had been equipped with the U.S. General’s Outfit left behind in the Divide. In fact, there was an entire wealth of military equipment left behind. There was enough U.S. Army Combat Armor to supply an entire army, and several riot gear suits were left as well. It was strange to think that these vagrants and NCR deserters would eventually march on his behalf. Underneath the old-world flag.

Suddenly, the computer on Jimmy’s desk flickered. He was receiving a transmission from Mr. House.

“General Donovan speaking.”

“Salutations, General. How are the accommodations in the Divide?”

“Satisfactory, sir. Hopeville has been cleaned and repurposed, as have the tents, and we’re putting the final changes on Ashton. The final stretch of the Divide itself, as I have said, will take a great deal of time, but we’re on schedule. We are having to demolish a great many of the fallen buildings, sir.”

“Very good. I trust that training is going well?”

“Decently. We are waiting for the Brotherhood to arrive to grant us some elite training, but we are doing what we can. We can expect a regular-issue of M16s, AK-47s, as well as plasma and laser rifles alike from what’s been left behind here.”

“Err on the side of conventional weapons,” muttered Mr. House. “The energy rifles will be extremely expensive to maintain on a large scale. Once the human military has been more firmly implemented into the scheme of things, then we can talk about plasma rifles.”

“Very well, sir.”

“What sort of numbers have the military invitation brought?”

“We haven’t done an official census sir, but the number is in the thousands. Many of them will be unfit for service, but many of them will be trained into your ranks, sir.”

“And my REPCONN scientists have de-activated the ICBM found in Hopeville, yes?”

General Donovan stared out of his window and nodded. “Indeed. It has been scrapped for parts for you and the Brotherhood’s research alike. Just as you asked.”

“Good. Carry on, then.”

War Never Changes

Robert Edwin House - President of the F.Z.M.

Thomas Milburne.

The name still bounced around the corridors of Robert's mind like a stray ping-pong ball. "How they hell did they learn of that name?" His digitally-degenerated voice echoed through the cocktail lounge of the Lucky 38. The King returned, gingerly stepping out of the elevator like a hound who'd just been just been reprimanded by his owner.

"What name?" asked The King as he made his way in front of Mr. House's monitor.

"There's a strange family staying here, your kingship." Robert referred to The King by title in a condescendingly sarcastic manner.

"Oh?"

"Something's off about this. How the hell do they know that name? It's been erased from history. Only I should know it."

"You haven't told me their name."

"Unimportant. I want you to watch how a real diplomat operates today. You'll get to sit in the Gourmand and keep your mouth firmly shut while I navigate through the mess you've made."

The King folded his arms. "You try dealing with that fucking buffoon of a president, boss. I was thrown unarmed into the cage of a hungry tiger."

"Your analogy is cute, your kingship, but inaccurate. You were a lightweight who was miscast into the ring with a heavyweight. You still don't have the muscle for it. Charisma and sensibility aren't a switch to be turned on and off."

"Fair."

"You'll learn," House said reassuringly.

The King fiddled with the pin on one of his sleeves and ran his fingers through his greased hair. "Round two?"

"Round two."

The King nodded and exited through the elevator.

"Jane, arrange for the conference room on the 27th floor to be occupied by guests. Upon the Borgios' arrival to the casino, they will be guided to it and offered refreshments, should they require."

House re-directed his signal to a large terminal that had been placed on the end of the conference table in the Ultra-Luxe. It wasn't long before The King himself arrived to the Gourmand, sitting in the chair closest to Robert's end of the table. Many of the remaining delegates had gone home. This was a sign of failure -- two wars had been exacerbated in one day of diplomacy, and many factions were forced to return to their warfronts. Round two had to be an improvement. The well-being of the wasteland demanded it.

Robert House's face flickered onto the screen of the terminal.

"Please, everyone, take your seats. The next wing of the New Vegas Convention is underway."