[u][color=a36209][b]Pontiff Cromwell- McCarran Airfield [/b][/color] [/u] Above McCarran Airport, a brown, battered Vertibird descended. A far cry from what would be expected for an attending delegate, the aircraft- marred with scratches, dents, and welds- looked more suitable for a scrapyard than the VIP-hosting airport it was landing in. After touching down, one of the side doors creaked open, and Pontiff Cromwell stepped from the craft, clad in the ragged robes and scrap metal miter of his station, followed by the armored form of Grand Zealot Richter. Neither of them had ever expected to be invited to a conference of nations. For that matter, neither of them had expected to live to see a conference of nations across the nation. While the Church of Atom was not a nation in its own right, it was evidently influential enough to have gained the attention of Mr. House, the ruler of New Vegas. While many felt it was too risky to attend a supposed meeting on the other side of the continent, it was Atom's will that they attend, Cromwell determined. "Praise Atom we have arrived safely," Cromwell spoke, raising his hands in praise. Even by air it had been a long trip, one that would normally be far too great for a Vertibird, but the Children of Atom were a resourceful group. Unnecessary components such as weapons, ammunition, and reactor shielding had been stripped out to make way for greater stores of coolant and fuel, permitting a range sufficient to attend this meeting so far from home. As a welcome side effect, these modifications also caused the craft to radiate Atom's holy light. A Securitron bearing the face of a soldier approached them. "Sir, this aircraft is emitting unsafe levels of radiation and constitutes a major safety and health hazard to the airfield. Please step away. "Do not worry, robot," Cromwell replied. "This is our vessel, and we are not harmed by its glow." "He's right, the radiation doesn't affect us. We are here to attend the delegation, representing the Children of Atom," the Grand Zealot explained. Despite its lack of facial expressions beyond its default facial image on its screen, the Securitron seemed dumbfounded, as if none of this made any sense. While it stood there silently, another Securitron, this one with a police officer's face on its screen, rolled up. "Welcome to New Vegas, Pontiff Cromwell. I will be your escort in New Vegas. Follow me." Cromwell and Richter followed the robot into the airport, while the first Securitron continued to blankly stare at the Vertibird, seemingly still trying to process what it had just witnessed. Within the airport, the robot led them to a decontamination arch. "Before we can continue to the Strip, you must be decontaminated. Please step through the arch one at a time," it ordered . "Is this necessary, Pontiff? Must we be scoured?" protested Richter. "Do not feel shame in it," Cromwell advised as he ducked through the arch. "Scour oneself and embrace the Glow anew." Richter reluctantly followed suit. Having Atom's Blessing, they did not require scouring, but it was a necessary gesture of goodwill that would go a long way. After decontamination, the robot led them to a monorail, which ferried them to The Strip- a sight unlike anything Cromwell had ever seen. It was nothing like the scrap cities of the Capital Wasteland, or the re-purposed ruins of the Commonwealth. Robots kept watch over the streets, elaborate neon signs glowed brightly even during the day, and finely dressed men and women walked to and from the various businesses. [i]It is a city frozen in time, as if the Great Division had never come to pass here... [/i] Once they reached the station, they followed their escort to the Ultra-Luxe. After Richter (somewhat reluctantly) handed over his Radium Rifle to the doorman, they were led by one of the masked attendants to the Gourmand. "Introducing Pontiff Cromwell and Grand Zealot Richter of the Church of Atom," the attendant dryly announced. The two delegates took their seats at the central table and began to wait. Richter said nothing as he looked over each of the other delegates. "You you recognize anyone, Grand Zealot?" asked Cromwell. "Not specifically, Pontiff, but the robed man is with the Brotherhood of Steel, and judging from those rebreathers I am fairly certain those ones are representing the Cult of Ug-Qualtoth. Be wary Pontiff, for we are among enemies," Richter advised. "Indeed, we are far from Atom's light," Cromwell assessed. The city was flashy and beautiful, but it was a false glow, where none knew of the glory of Atom and of his holy glow. Perhaps, however, this meeting would give them an opportunity to spread his word across the wasteland.