[center][h2][color=a36209][img]https://i.imgur.com/e1MjPZW.jpg[/img]Free Confederation of Texan States, New Austin Capitol Building, President of the Confederation and Governor of New Houston Robert Harris[/color][/h2][/center] As the Confederation Congress hammered through another session, Robert Harris anxiously enjoyed a guilty mannerism of his: fiddling with his old brass pipe. He hadn’t smoked in years to protect his papery ghoulish lungs, but it was still a thing to only be touched in private. The people in the capitol building may be publicly elected officials, obliged to manners and politically correct behavior, but showing any weakness could be dangerous. Especially for a ghoul. Despite holding two of the highest offices in the land, any small weakness arising from his condition could be pounced upon by his opponents. He could see it making the cheap newspapers tomorrow: “President Harris Can’t Control His Hands! Is He Going Feral?” Fortunately, he was obliged to be primarily in his office on this day. When Congress was in session, he wasn’t allowed in the room. A symbolic and ineffectual measure to show an illusion of Congress’s divorce from the executive offices of Texas. Today was especially important, because it was another voting day. For months, policies had been worked out in committees, debated over, bartered for, and bought on some occasions. Hundreds of hours of work from the lowliest aid to himself had led to this. It built up to a few weeks of final decisions, last minute provisions, and voting rituals. He was happy he didn’t have to participate, though he still knew everything that would come out of the room. The Destinists would win the day. An informal association of warhawks, frontier politicians, nationalists, ranchers, farmers, ocean traders, and other interested businessmen. New Dallasians had supported them the hardest of the states, but the others had strong sympathies towards them as well. Their primary goals were expansionism justified on the right of the Confederation’s democratic and humanist ideals, growing Texas’s international presence, westward expansion, and intervention in the Keynesian Civil War. Their name was a blatant reference to the old pre-war ideal of Manifest Destiny. Harris could see why they garnered so much support. The world outside of Texas was becoming an increasingly threatening place. The people were frightened by word of the new war in the Gulf, the onslaught of the Cult and Midwest in the east, and the stunning loss of New California against the Legion. The world was rapidly devolving to a state not unlike the Pre-War days: an age of wolves. He had only supported them lightly, as some of their initiatives were too hawkish. One man called for a full embargo on the Legion and the Midwest, which would be frankly disastrous. Many were hostile to his goals of a peaceful trading relationship with those powers, but he felt he could get it through. There was a knock on the door. Harris set the pipe down, straightened the brown wig he wore, and invited him in, expecting his messenger. It was him, a slight man named Nathaniel, with another man Harris at once recognized and another he did not. It was Base Commander Jensen Banks of the Texas Rangers and Fort Bliss. And with him was a man dressed like a soldier of the NCR. There was a hesitant moment, where no one was sure who should speak first. Harris took the lead, standing up and putting on a grin appropriate for unfamiliar men “Gentlemen?” Nathaniel spoke first. “This is Brigadier General Garcia.” Brigadier General Garcia stepped forward to shake his hand over the desk. Though he looked lean in the uniform, his handshake was firm. His eyes were steely, but watery at the corners. “These men have flown from Fort Bliss to discuss an urgent foreign policy matter.” “The Legion are playing at peace,” Garcia started abruptly. “They’ve called a conference in Santa Fe.” His tone was hard to puzzle out. On one hand, he sounded like he wanted nothing more than to march to Santa Fe with his men. On the other, he sounded defeated. “Lucius’s messenger told us that he’s willing to negotiate terms regarding the final condition of the New California Republic and the status of the NCR troops we’ve been housing at Fort Bliss,” Banks elaborated. He paused and opened a red envelope he’d been holding, pulled out the message, and read it. “I, Caesar Lucius, Imperator of The Legion invite you to a meeting of delegates in the Legion’s capital of Santa Fe to determine the future of the West Coast and of our respective nations. Safe passage is guaranteed throughout Legion territory to all those that bear Caesar's mark.” There was a quiet moment as all four men processed the message. For most of their lives, the Legion had been a far western boogie man. A horde that was the antithesis to what had been worked for in Texas and California for decades. But the game was changing. “Sir, I believe we should leave as soon as possible,” Banks said, breaking the silence. “This could be an unprecedented foreign policy opportunity.” Garcia nodded. “The New California Republic would appreciate Texas taking a lead on this. Tsu has his hands full.” Harris had no need for hesitation. “Very well. Once the proper notifications have been made, we will leave.” “There is one more matter, Mr. President” spoke Nathaniel. “Congress has done it. The isolationists have ceded ground. They’ve authorized you to use military force against the Southern Liberal Alliance, operations in Oklahoma, and a number of other things.” Harris nodded grimly. War would have to wait until matters in the west were solved now. [center][h2][img]https://i.imgur.com/HsD6KHj.jpg[/img][color=a36209] Santa Fe, President of the Confederation and Governor of New Houston Robert Harris[/color][/h2][/center] Santa Fe was a surreal place. The aqueducts and crucifixions reminded him of the old Pre-War historic epic holovids, where slaves fought in coliseums and legions marched through the streets towards victories in Gaul. Only those images had been transplanted from books and Hollywood to the American Southwest. It was a kind of false reality, a place built on artificially placed symbols. An attempt to shroud the institutions of despotism with a romantic sense of purpose and nobility. But as he walked through the streets of the place past hundreds of people doing their jobs, it was hard to call their culture fake. Countries had tried to claim the legacy of Caesar for centuries after the original anyways. They had flown from New Austin to Santa Fe in a quick enough journey, but they had been delayed by taking the precaution of stopping in Fort Bliss to clear their small plane with the Legion over the radio before entering their airspace. From the only recently refurbished Santa Fe Regional Airport, they had been quickly led by finely armored Legion warriors into the city by foot. The airport was underpopulated except for a few ominous Midwestern jets. The entourage of Texans and Californians in suits and military gear was at odds with their ancient surroundings. Their escort had no reaction to Harris’s ghoulism nature, but the average citizens of the Legion gawked. Meanwhile, both Texan and NCR rangers in the company wore the infamous Ranger combat armor. A coincidence arising from the Pre-War Ranger School in Fort Bliss that trained U.S. Army Rangers for the Gobi Desert. The Rangers were considered necessary in heart of Caesar's power. A turn of events could lead them into a firefight. The building they were eventually led into was surprisingly modest. A classically styled Pre-War library that was further romanized and embellished. A faded “Santa Fe Library” sign was curiously left up. The praetorian guards in the courtyard snapped to attention with impeccable decorum. Rather than being faced with another gauntlet of soldiers upon entering, a brown haired woman in a simple dress faced them. “Salve," she said, "I am Hannah of New Canaan. Welcome to Santa Fe on behalf of my husband, Caesar Lucius. And welcome to our home, please make yourselves comfortable inside.” “An honor to meet you,” Harris shook her hand. And then Jensen repeated the gesture. Garcia, however, was distracted by one of Caesar’s trophies. It gave himself a moment of pause. Inside a glass case, on a carefully folded NCR flag, was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol, a well made leather holster for it marked with the NCR Bear and three stars, and a Tankers helmet, as well as what appeared to be a red vehicle ID plate emblazoned with the three white stars of a Lieutenant General and a NCR military ID card. On a small brass plate attached to the case was a simple statement "Taken in battle outside Phoenix". The ID card read “Kimball”. It was a hell of a trophy: the horns of a leader of the free world. Before entering the conference room, Garcia said “the remains of our late president shouldn’t be in Legion hands. We should get Caesar to give them back.” Harris nodded and then swept the entourage into the room. It was the Lion’s den, to be sure. Caesar Lucius sat at the head of a table seated by Brotherhood autocrats and a man from New Vegas. One was a robot he knew to be the mouthpiece of Barnaky, while the other dressed like he rode a panzer here. Their entrance came in the middle of his talk. “...my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.” He flashed a ghoulish smile, while the rangers took up positions around the room like the other guards. “I’m sorry for our interruption. We are here to represent the Free Confederation of Texan States, as well as the New California Republic.” They took their seats at the wooden table, with Harris sitting closest to the other powers. He waited moments for the other interactions to cease, or for any talk directed towards them, before stating “I come here hoping for peaceful negotiations and the normalization of relations and trade between our countries. There are several worrying matters to address as well, such as the state of the Most Serene Key Republic, the final negotiations with the New California Republic, and the smooth expansion of Texas into Oklahoma.” He shuffled his hands for a half second, smoothing papers he had set in front of him in a nervous slip. “I also wish to hear of conflict with the Cult in the north.”