[b][color=1a7b30]President Winters – Shady Sands – Capitol Building Senate Chamber[/color][/b] “Order! Order! We will have order!” A den of vipers, hissing and slithering and fangs bared. Poisonous inequity they stewed amongst themselves. Dealing deals within the shadows in order to carve up the limelight so that they might bask in the sun without interference. A group of politicians, hollering, shifting and thrusting papers. Stirring up sentiments against each other, and seeking to improve their own lot above all else. The similarity of the two images seemed easy to behold for President Winters, sat awry in his chair as the speaker attempted to regain control over the chamber. A few passing remarks between senators, a not-so-veiled insult in the house minutes and lo and behold, arguments abounded. A small nudge, the President notes the gesture of an aide towards Senator Moore, standing up, casting a single eye about with cigarette smoke tracing these motions. Order, some semblance of it, restored in time for her to speak up. “Oh, here we go.” He murmurs the words under his breath to himself. A hand stretches high holding a newspaper aloft for all to see. Before it is brought down, and dropped onto the floor before Winters. A number of inflammatory headlines emblazoned black and white and bold as brass. “Another five hundred cases of allergic reactions in Redding!” Moore turns, acknowledges the shouts of support from her fellow senators and from some of those watching in the galleries around them. “Three hundred in Oregon territory! Three thousand in the Boneyard! Six hundred here in his own constituency of Shady Sands! And many more across our great nation! Our great nation, made less great by the man who sits across from me! Where sir? Is your shame? Have you no heart for our people? More and more you push forwards new technologies and more and more the people suffer for it! Where are our jobs for veterans? Where are the lands our settlers were promised? Where sir, is your head? For you seem to have lost it!” He shakes his head, waits for his own allies to finish cry shame, before taking to his feet, one hand resting on walking stick, the other sweeping the chamber. “I have no shame for there is nothing to have shame for. An unfortunate side effect I admit, oh, woe betide the 50% drop in food prices. Woe indeed for the five-fold increase in nutritional value for our average citizen, for the 87% decrease in hospital admissions for malnutrition and other such nutritional deficiency afflictions. I will not apologise for putting fresh full meals on tables where before there were but flea ridden scraps.” A raised hand, an actor’s gesture, the humble acceptance of the cries and applause of support, letting the waves of opposition merely wash over him. “As for the matter of jobs and land. I can only say that it is such a shame, that we have delays in surveying suitable lands and parcelling them out, because our territories are so vast in size! In the coming days, weeks and months, we will see five thousand families settled across the Oregon and Baja territories! We will see the establishment of new businesses from our good settlers thereon!” It is all true, if a tenuous truth at that. There are still fifty thousand others awaiting lands for awarding, a further twenty thousand job losses estimated in the next quarter. And sitting down, as he ignores the truthful accusations of some of the voices in the braying crowds, he turns to his aide, enquires of his schedule. “When am I to meet Hsu?” “Not today sir.” “I thought it was a JCS meeting today?” “It is Mr. President, but Hsu is engaged elsewhere?” “Where elsewhere? Where has he got to?" [hr] [color=007236][b]General Hsu – Ensenada – Sentry Tower No. 4[/b][/color] The landscape that lies before him, James Hsu thinks, is chillingly familiar of the burning landscape of the Mojave. Rocky, sandy, a high sun above and little else below. “At least there aren’t any fiends.” A musing sentence, Colonel Dhatri aside him lets out a chuckle. “I’ll fucking drink to that sir.” Hsu is tight-lipped, the fingers of his right hand rapping the wooden balcony, before turning to look at Dhatri. “Movement in Colorado?” A sharp nod. “Yes sir. Caravan fresh in from Mexicali, could just be a scout force, they weren’t clear. All these merchants, they count twenty as fifty, fifty as a hundred and on and on it goes. Damn civvies.” Another moment of tight-lipped silence, Hsu turns, looks out over the desert. They stand high, a wooden sentry tower, the walled fortress of Ensenada, the future state capital of Baja, whenever it became a state. Dhatri in combat fatigues, Hsu the same, one dusty though, the other not-so-dusty. “A patrol’s out of the question. No chance of it. Can we get a flyover?” “You’d know better than me sir, the planes work, but operational go-ahead means a request to the JCS, would Venken go for it?” “Doubt it. She might be stubborn, but with how little budget she has if something goes south, I’d do the same. What funds can we rustle up? And can we get a local?” “Last time I did that, she killed all the fiends, then kicked our asses at the hoover dam and laughed all the way to the bank. Mexicali’s borderland. We might find someone who hates the legion, but we might one of Vulpes’ in sheep’s clothing.” A heavy sigh, Hsu raises a hand, pinches the brow of his nose, before lowering it, looking out over at the desert, that damnable desert, raps knuckles on wood, before making a final heavy tap. “Do it.” Turning around, seeing the twinkling lights and raggedy huts of Ensenada, Hsu muses to himself, silently this time, that he’d rather be home at Vault City, retired, and maybe taking a walk in the market. Couldn’t be anything happening there. [hr] [b]Marcus Wolfe – Vault City – Market Square[/b] Row upon row of blue jump-suited humans stand tall before him, and appraising them with a proud eye Marcus Wolfe steps up to the platform. Today is the day he sets out his rallying call across the NCR, starting here in Vault City, a tour across the NCR, finishing in Shady Sands, with hopefully enough success to make him Senator, and if a few other of his fellow candidates win, as President. “Humans! One and all! I salute you! And greet you warmly, for we are all one and the same, and we know that what faces us will require one mind, one voice, one species. Our republic divided and decrepit. And why?” None speak, the onlookers moving around the vast crowd of blue jump-suits pause, wondering what reason he’ll give. Wolfe leans forwards, speaks to the crowd as if he was addressing an individual alone, a soft voice that is carried by the speakers to the back of the marketplace, and feels more like a conversation, than a speech. “Because no voters before have ever had the chance to vote for what they feel, what they know, needs to be done. Reform? No other party offers it. They offer the same old offers, land and food. Yes, good and true, if delivered. And time and time again, what do we get? No land and no food. Or no land worth farming, and no food that can be eaten without sending you to hospital.” A few nods, a gathering murmur, a few non-uniformed party members in the market crowd, stirring things up, encouraging the swayed to speak up as well. To sway ever more voices and votes to him. “Well, I do not promise you land and food and reform. No, I guarantee it! As city comptroller, I cleared the slums and rebuilt the shining suburbs that created and secured a thousand jobs and homes for our veterans. Did I not do that? I did. Did I promise that? No, I guaranteed it. And I did it, I did not dither and delay, as Senator Dyke does. She umms and errs and sits in Shady Sands even now, espousing dithering and delay. I say, no more! No more dither and delay! Now is the time for vim and vigour! For a new way. A new direction. Not backwards, not sideways, not staying in the same place! No. Forwards! Forwards! Forwards!” His voice grows to a roar as shouts of approval echo across the square from the onlookers, not just his own people now, but many others too. The sick and downtrodden, who see this man, hear his words, remember his actions, and say yes. Yes. Forwards! “And so, let us go forwards! Forwards as one mind! Forwards as one voices! Forwards as one species! Forwards as One!” “Forwards as One!” And as the crowd before him raised their fists as one, saluting him, Marcus Wolfe smiles, for who can beat him now? Mad Moore? Withering Winter? Or that mutated freak from the boneyard? [hr] [b][color=ed1c24]Ted Jones – The Boneyard – Communalist Party Headquarters[/color][/b] “Well done everyone! That was a fantastic turnout and response to our rally!” Standing atop a chair, Ted Jones smiles and gives a small bow at the whoops and cheers of his supporters, his wrecked skin stretches as he motions for quiet, and drives a fist into an open palm. “Now! I know we’ve worked hard these past few days, but we’ve got further to go, take a moment to breathe everyone, because it’s a full sprint next. We’ve got the state capitol debate at the end of this week, and then we’ve got the counter-march against that bastard Wolfe next Monday after that! And we want to send that fascist packing home tail between his legs, don’t we?!” More cheers, cries and even a few bawdy shouts that gain many laughs, Jones smiles and nods, before motioning for silence again. “Alright everyone! I’m going to prep for the debate starting now, but I expect at least to see a few hangovers tomorrow okay? Not to hungover though, tomorrow we hit the ground running!” And jumping down from the chair, he sets off at a small jog, gathering cheers and laughs, makes a victory lap of the bullpen, before making his way towards his office. The door is shut behind him, his aide Jenny, eyes alight and breathless. “Chairman! That was great!” “Thanks Jenny, but no more time for all that. Has the line-up been confirmed?” “Yes, it’s mixed news chairman, the national reform party have enough signatures, so Veldt will be at the debate as well.” Jones scowled. “Damn. We’ll have blue-suits at the debate then. I wondered why we didn’t see any today, now I know why. They were stumping up signatures for the debate. Long sighted of them, to say they’ve got the brains of Neanderthals.” “Neanderwhats chairman?” “Never mind Jenny, an old expression. We’ve a new world to make, no time to think about the old.” Jenny beams, nodding in agreement, before turning away, then swinging around. A worried frown on her freckled face. “Do you think Wolfe has a chance at the Presidency chairman?” The chairman leans back in his chair, hands steepling, head half shadowed as his eyes trace the map of the NCR on the wall behind Jenny, of the patches of red that he hopes to make a flood across the NCR. “Whenever the people suffer, the elite seek only to improve their own lot regardless, Wolfe is one of them. An elite. He’s just one of them, we need to remember he’s just a single part of the disease, and who knows what rot the rest of them are spreading even now?” [hr] [b][color=aba000]The Cabal – The Hub – A smoke filled room[/color][/b] Shipped in from a small Baja plantation, cultivated delicately, hand pressed and rolled, tarred and toasted with the finest tools, then packaged into hand-made cases. These were El Majadron Cigars, the finest in all post-war America. A hundred dollars a single cigar, the box of twenty lay empty as iced tequila from New Vegas was sipped and the cigars burned into the atmosphere around them. The Redding bull-brahmin leather chairs creaked as at last, a figure seems to lean forwards, waiting for the sounds of a car horn to finish being tooted in the street ten floors below before speaking. “What about central America?” “Central America?” “Central America sounds good. I own a few clippers, they move sugar and cocoa from old Guatemala, fresh stuff, sell it in New Vegas for triple the price, two hundred percent profit after tariffs and taxes. Of course, once we increase supply, prices will drop, but demand will surge.” “How does this benefit me? It ain’t Brahmin ranching country bubba. Squitos size of goddamn footballs in Panama, they’ll be sucked dry before you can say Kimball. And I ship as well, more than you by tonnage, and I want to get more Cuban mahogany. But the canal’s busted, we ain’t gonna fix that.” “Nobody wants to fix that, Christ. It’d take slaves to fix that, fifty men dead a day for, what a single mile per month? No, overland’s where the money is, unload for fees, transport for fees, load for fees. That’ll need lumber and steel for rails, and brahmin to lug those supplies over the hump.” Twelve figures shift, three others murmur, the five speakers fall quiet. Who spoke in the smoke? It’s a mystery to those outside, if there were any, the voices have tinges here, a redding country accent, slick reno tones, polished vault city affectations. “What are we gonna do to clear out the jungle? We hire some mercenaries? I can throw a few fellas to get swallowed by whatever’s in it. Can’t risk those bastards reaching pensionable age.” “No thank you, I’ve had enough of mercs for this year. No raiders left in Oregon but they’re still charging raider protection rates for my lumber convoys.” “Territory fees, can’t help you there, don’t want to hamper my cash-flow from Baja. I’ll throw a few bucks Oregon way for statehood-” A number of voices criss-cross over the other, a threat of sidetrack, a clack of empty glass on coaster. “Central America has my vote. In favour?” A Hub City voice, a notebook on one knee, fingers smudged with pen ink. The stock market’s just three buildings down, she’s the richest of them all. Voices call out aye. An approving nod. “How?” Shady Sands, a trimmed accent, clicks a tongue, folds arms. “Fabricate an incident? Start up a settlement company, secure the shoreline with ex-veterans, propagandise its success, stir up the natives. Clash, stir up the Senate. Clear the way for Moore in the election. We’ve got all we need from Winters, he’s approaching unpopularity, time to swap in for a new honeymoon period.” A hum went around the room, a few counter-suggestions, rebuttals, amendments and then an agreement. Central America, a not-so invisible hand of the market had stretched out, and found an investment.