[color=1a7b30][b]Commander John Fulman- Leader of the PMC 'Arctic Haven'
10,000 Feet above the Mojave desert[/b][/color]

"Boss, why are we so far from home?" One of the masked soldiers in the Vertibird asked, looking out the window to the desert below. John took a puff from his cigar and looked out the window with him, the sunlight hitting his aging face, the brown-grey beard shimmering in the sun. "We got wind from the Intel team that a bunch of self-avowed nations are calling a big conference in Las Vegas, or 'New' Vegas as the locals seem to call it now. Either way, it means a chance a profit for us. We've done enough work in the Bering Sea, Alaska and Russia, but now it's time we focus on the old heartlands of America." He looked back down to the deck of the Vertibird and fell quiet. The silence didn't last long as the Vertibird lurching him forward violently alerted him back to the present out of reliving his past battles. The pilot, codenamed Randoplh, called to him from the pilot's deck, "Boss! We have a problem! Duststorms over Hopeville! We'll have to fly around or this storm will take us down!" John looked out of the window, the 3D map at Haven Command had a Pre-War America map, this wasn't the site of an urban metropolis in the desert. This was a violent gash in the earth, as if God himself had cut her face with a machete and with it was spewing a dust storm and small human dots below impossible to make out. One of his bodyguards looked out below, a look of terror on his face, "What the hell do you think happened here?" John shook his head, unsure, "I don't know. Looks to be an explosion. Can't have been The War. Look at those houses, they're still standing. If this was an ICBM landing, the city would be vaporized. This is something else. Something worse. Randolph, take us around this storm. Don't try riding through it." Randolph nodded, his face still forward on the controls and out the window as he said, "Sure thing, Biddle."

[color=1a7b30][b]New Vegas, Aerospace Offices[/b][/color]

The Vertibird landed to a small base with room for a helicopter, five trucks a command setup and eight tents. John jumped out onto the earth as thirty men and women in olive drab BDUs stood with their weapons and saluting. "WELCOME, COMMANDER!". John raised a hand, signalling them at ease and to go back to their duties. One of the officers who'd been given command until he arrived, saluted him when he arrived at the command trailer, "Boss! Welcome to the New Vegas TCC. I hereby relinquish command of this base to you, sir." John nodded curtly, "Thank you, soldier. What do you have to report?" The officer stood at parade rest before the command desk inside, giving the report. "Upon arrival to San Francisco, we traveled as a small armed convoy, with a two man NCR team with us to watch us to ensure we weren't trying anything funny. Upon arrival at the Mojave Outpost, we were inspected, paid the border tax and made our way here. We found the securitron of House waiting for their cut too. We've been given permission to temporarily to business here and on The Strip as a business, but we're not permitted to carry a gun either. Otherwise, we're permitted to offer our services on the Strip in a small stall we've set up beside the McCarran monorail and on flyers. We're also permitted to do our exercise drills outside of the city itself, doubling as security during drills in return for a discount on lease. They said only the commander is permitted to enter the meeting though, so we're not permitted inside except you, Boss." John nodded in confirmation and reached for a bottle of refrigerated water, "Thank you, soldier. Dismissed." The man sharply saluted and left the office. John poured a glass, savoring it going down his throat, forgetting how how the south could get. He was impressed at the sight of the bright tower in the distance, not many places with electricity to waste like that.

[color=1a7b30][b]
The New Vegas Strip[/b][/color]

John arrived on the strip via monorail to reach the meeting dressed in a Pre-War general's olive green overcoat and an officer's uniform. He walked down the stairwell, passing a snack vendor and a soldier serving as a crier who quickly saluted him. John nodded, "As you were, soldier" and she went back to calling out to gamblers and vacationers. Meanwhile, John went down the street, stopping before this monstrously large hotel. Once inside, the desert heat was washed away with the cooling relief of air conditioning, but his military bearing kept him from showing the relief it felt on his skin, long used to the arctic climate he grew up in. He was escorted to the conference room, but as a non-nation, felt would be over presuming his place there and instead sat at a table with the bodyguards of the invited and decided to help himself to a stew and a glass of milk and quietly at the table since the conference was yet to start. Clearly he looked out of place to them in his officers uniform, but he was there as an observer. He was no nation, he had no positions to take and none to give. To him, his purpose was two-fold: To find out about the world east of Alaska and who could use their services.