[color=007236][b]Cassandra Moore – Redding – Market Square[/b][/color] One-eyed, cigarette laying lazy between her lips, Cassandra Moore brings up a hand, takes a long drag, moves away the cigarette and blows the smoke out the window over Redding’s market square and the crowd gathered there. A rally by the National Reform party, taking the steps up to the speaker’s lectern, their leader, Marcus Wolfe. As he begins his speech, Moore tilts her head, studies the figure. A tall man, black wavy hair streaked with grey combed and oiled back, a moustache trimmed sharp and a calm voice. His tone is familial and authoritative at once, paternally stern. He speaks out over a crowd, a mix of jumpsuits and ordinary people wearing the National Reform party armband. “How many followers does Wolfe have?” “Across the republic? Or here?” “Both.” “10,000 members nationwide, 500 here.” “There’s a hell of a lot more than 500 in front of us now.” Her aide nods, standing hands clasped together, awaiting orders. Another long drag on the cigarette, Moore glances over the crowd, speaking as she thinks. “Families there, friends as well. Supporters spread out through the crowd. Busy day at the market as well, gets people to stop and listen to him. Pamphleteers, the stall for membership sign-ups doing a brisk trade.” Falling silent, Moore leans forwards a little, catches the tail-end of Marcus’ speech. The man is leaning forwards, holding the lectern, looking at all of the crowd, making those within it feel as if they and them alone are being spoken too. “For what do we need? I ask you this? Reform. Reform. Reform. Out with the old and in with the new! Old laws from a time now gone should be unmade, new laws reflecting this modern age should be made in their place! And this I promise to you, national reform, by the national reform party!” As the crowd cheers and Wolfe descends the steps, fist pumping into the air now and again to rising acclaim, Cassandra looks back at her aide. “Where are most of his supporters?” “Vault City is where you’d expect, but the Boneyard, oddly enough.” Moore frowns, stares at Wolfe in the crowd, shaking hands, kissing babies and having photos took of him. “I’ll bet the Communalists love that.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------- [color=ed1c24][b]Ted Jones – The Boneyard – City Hall[/b][/color] “Big crowd tonight.” The chairman mutters the words to his team as they mill around, waiting for the debate to start, which by the looks of it from the moderator who has just sat down, wouldn’t be too long. “Good luck Chairman!” Such words are quick to be uttered his team as the lights dim and the candidates take their seats, the moderator leans forwards, taps the microphone, announces the candidates. Cheers, boos and applause punctuated the announcement of each candidate, before the debate swung into action. All questions had been agreed on by candidates beforehand, and covered a general topic, which allowed the candidates to argue their view on each issue, before a new question was posed. As things went on, Ted Jones at first felt nervous, then confident, until finally he found himself buoyed by a wave of cheers. He had the crowd on his side, and the other candidates sat nervous. Veldt especially seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure, Zhao lost the room when pressing for the implementation of GM crops in Boneyard allotments, Rodriguez was Jones’ intellectual rival, but lacked support in the room. Finally, as the debates drew to a close, each candidate delivered their closing speech. Drawing the last word, Jones listened, applauded politely, or shook his head in disagreement as he felt necessary, until at last, he could stand and make his speech. Taking to his feet, Jones looked over the crowded room of the State Capitol chamber and began to speak. He pressed home his argument, the erasure of income and social inequality, business regulation, upper income taxes and more. Until, as he came onto the issue of mutant rights, the room seemed to stir. A jeering cry, Jones ignored it, unable to quite see the back of the room where a lot of noise seemed to be emanating from. He rose his voice, and then suddenly, there was a loud cry, something flew from the crowd, clipped the side of his head. Ducking, Jones stands and sees the room fall to pieces, the crowd scrambling into or away from the brawl as blue jumpsuited national reform party thugs try to push forwards towards him. As the police wade in to regain control of the floor, Jones finds himself pulled from the stage by a civil protection agent, ushered to the room where most of the candidates are waiting. He can’t see Veldt, and casting one desperate last look back into the room, with fists and truncheons clashing, he can only find one thing to say to himself. “It’s like 2076 all over again.” ------------------------------------------------------------------ [color=a36209][b]Maria Cruz – San Jose – Trade Board Office No. 24[/b][/color] Ceiling fans spun and spun and spun, circling out hot air and bringing in hot air, not at all helped by the constant state of agitation that gripped the office. Raised voices, lowered voices, the criss-cross of a dozen languages and tongues, and sat waiting at a desk in the corner, Maria Cruz, captain of the NCRMS De La Gado and its attached wagon train. With papers in hand, fanning herself as she waits for the customs official to finish signing the last pieces of bureaucratic red-tape. With a final muttered apology, the last paper is signed, releasing cargo from improper impounding. Standing, muttering a thanks, Maria Cruz stands and gathers her papers, before departing the office, where she meets one of her crew outside. One of the hands, James something-or-over, she can never remember half of their names. “We done?” Maria quirked an eyebrow at the question by the hand, impatience clear in the voice. She nods, hands over the papers, glancing around the square as she does so. “Yeah, get these to the wagonmaster. It’ll take two hours to be ready for moving for the harbour, so I’ll be in the Dancing Diablo if I’m needed.” The hand nods, moves away, leaving Maria Cruz alone. Content with this, the captain turns, makes her way to the local watering hole for most of the foreign traders in San Jose. A crossroad of trade in Central America, along with Panama, and Nicaragua, and wherever else had functioning roads to connect the Pacific to the Atlantic, San Jose these days seemed to be more prosperous than ever. It could be heard in the air, more and more traders moved through the city than ever before. The world had burned, but as with every wildfire, the charcoaled soil became fertile again and new things sprung forth once more. Stepping over the threshold into the Dancing Diablo, Cruz holds up her hand, signals for a tequila from a waitress. Sitting down at a nearby poker table, she takes up a hand, buys in, begins playing and half an hour in, a new player joins them. Maria notes the new voice, a new tone, English-speaking, heavy accent. “Say, that accent, you Texan?” Maria said as the dealer shuffles the deck, a brief break in the game, time for a conversation, a cigarette or just a silent drink. The Texan nods, sips a bourbon and replies. “Yeah, you one of them New Californians?” Maria nods, a talker and a drinker evidently, someone after her own heart. As she takes a sip of her tequila, a thought occurs to her. “Say, how much do they know about the NCR in Texas?”