[color=aba000][b][u]The Meld - Morning[/u][/b][/color]

Lacking air conditioning, adequate plumbing, and electricity, the Meld greeted passersby rather inhospitably. Nonetheless, a pair of welcome signs (posted at the property's front and tacked onto the entrance) announced, "Now Serving: Breakfast Amenities, Six Caps."

One stranger accepted the invitation, a pleasant rarity, and sat at the table consuming eggs and bacon. The wayfarer ate quietly, nary a sound occupying the kitchen save the faint crackle of the furnace. He occasionally glanced at the opposite wall, on which a dozen small crafts hung from pegged nails. "Potholders, Handkerchiefs, Et Cetera: Fifteen Caps" was painted on a once discarded wooden slab beneath them.

Having concluded her occupational duties, Charlotte warmed her digits beside the dazzling glow, hesitant to choke the flame so soon after ignition. Amber rounded the corner, accidentally bumping her peer's hands into scalding metal in passing. "Ah, watch it!" Charlotte exclaimed, facing her assailant. Running water absent, she sucked the tips of her fingers to keep them from permanent burn damage.

Amber turned around and bowed meekly. "My apologies; I'm terribly sorry!" She bore a lavender dishcloth, presumably another item to hang from a nail. Resuming her haste, she rearranged each article for the seventh time that week and set the rag in its rightful position.

The stranger placed his fork down, the tips of its prongs touching the ceramic surface, as was proper etiquette. Searching his pocket for straggling caps, he inquired: "I don't recognize this location. You arrived in Vegas recently?"

"We've been active for several years," Charlotte commented, "But we established a restaurant a couple weeks ago. How was your meal?"

The patron perused his plate. "Nothing original or unique, but it was simple and nice: how I appreciate my eggs, usually. An excellent product, worthy of the caps."

A wave of self satisfaction engulfed Charlotte; compliments like those didn't generally come from her compatriots. This was validation of her place in the wider world. She suppressed her inmost glee, responding with a milquetoast, "Well, feel free to come back anytime!"

The diner scooted his seat out but was interrupted by a pompous rapping at the door. Sun rays pierced through the cracks made by each pounding on the doorframe. Amber exchanged looks with her peer, mild trepidation covering both. It wasn't the rhythmic taps of familiar residents, and the guests's entrances were rarely so forthcoming. Well, it might be... Charlotte eyed her husband's rifle and breathed carefully. "It's open!" she squeaked.

The door gave way. A massive, tall, olive skinned, dirty blonde, hulking female blocked the light. She stomped her way in. A male of similar build, height, and complexion followed, considerably gentler in entrance. The woman pointed at the client. "Who is he?"

Charlotte responded just as authoritatively. "A guest of import. Why do you ask?"

The consumer looked up at the two colossi. "If it's any bother, I can depart-"

"No, you're fine. Amber will run your tab," Charlotte assured. On cue, the redhead finished sprucing her arts and crafts section to assist the gentleman. "Isabel: It's an honor," Charlotte saluted.

Isabel responded coldly. "We are in a professional environment, in the presence of an outsider. You will address me by my title and suit, Queen of Hearts."

"Ages have passed since the Vault, eh?" Charlotte lamented. "Protocol demands that colony policies overrule Vault policy on colonial holdings. Danny has habitually addressed us by our given name as opposed to our title."

"Rules, not policies," corrected Isabel, looking down her nose at her colleague. "Unless expressly written, historical precedent will not forego decorum."

Potentially afraid of invoking the newcomers' ire, the customer murmured to Amber, "Are these prior patrons of yours? I've never seen them around the Strip."

The giantess did overhear him, walked towards him, and placed her hand upon his former chair. "I am Isabel Moore, Queen of Clubs." She motioned to the giant. "He is Justin Moore, King of Clubs."

"Are you two married or something?" was the obvious reply.

The chair creaked and groaned under Isabel's grip. Her eyes alit with flame and frustration, though she remained still and statuesque. "No, we are siblings."

"Good thing we had Hinshaw's reforms; otherwise, we'd have been both!" blissfully quipped the male, wholly ignorant of (or purposely ignoring) his sister's irritation. "Nobody expected brother and sister to draw a royal marriage; that's a one in seventy two-"

"Justin: Shut it," Isabel uttered through gritted teeth. "Especially not before outsiders." She returned to the matter at hand. "Our Happy Trails contacts informed us that you spent roughly five thousand caps on a painting."

"Yes, to improve relations with the NCR's recently appointed emissary," Charlotte countered.

"Be that as it may, it's raised concerns over your expenditures. I need you to open up your books."

Charlotte complied without hesitation, opening up a newly constructed drawer and pulling out a manilla folder. "If Henry-"

"The Ace of Clubs."

"If [i]Henry[/i] didn't trust Daniel to make the right decisions, he would've sent an Ace instead." She handed the dossier over.

Isabel's pudgy fingers parsed the pages with surprising deftness, skimming certain contents but intensely scanning the numbers. The customer handed off six caps to Amber, questions blatantly lingering in his noggin. Amber noticed and encouraged him: "Feel free to ask!"

"I didn't peg her for analysis," he whispered. "What in tarnation is an 'Ace' in this context?"

Amber's eyes lit up. "Oh, we sort ourselves at birth by cards in a pinochle deck." She recited the ruleset in a manner resembling glee. "Nines do grunt labor, Jacks oversee transportation and storage, Queens are middle management, Kings negotiate and coordinate, Tens do clerical work, and Aces are upper leadership. Among other elements, as duties arise. She just happened to be assigned the role of Queen. It's not what she was built for, but what she was trained for. Potentially what she was born for!"

Isabel shot a momentary death glare at the Nine of Hearts for revealing the Vault's inner workings but resumed her analysis. She pointed to a number. "You spent eight hundred caps on bacon."

"An admitted mistake," Charlotte explained. "We anticipated an initial revenue stream far surpassing our actual. You'll note the same situation with other supplies. We managed to resell the surplus at a discount, as catalogued the following week."

Isabel grunted in acknowledgment and resumed progress. After a minute's silence, she closed the book and returned it to Charlotte. "Your affairs are mostly in order. The few discrepancies I discovered are negligible. That aside, the Ace of Clubs-"

"Henry," Charlotte prodded.

A crack emerged in the chair's woodwork. "[i]The Ace of Clubs[/i] has seen fit to situate myself and my brother under the Nine's purview. I'm to acquire lodging immediately." While doubtless her voice would have boomed throughout the structure, she instead opted for a low, "Where is he?"

Amber escorted her client out the egress before he got any more uncomfortable. "Well, you see-"

The Queen of Clubs tolerated no dotards. "Where is he?"

[color=aba000][b][u]Danny "Nines" Floyd - New California Embassy - Morning, October 18th[/u][/b][/color]

Daniel's mood had soured considerably. Sonny's threat was taken with gravity and sincerity, and the four had left silently and respectfully. As leaders ought, he didn't transfer the natural consequences of the day's mishaps onto his subordinates but took responsibility himself. That meant that, once the artwork was safely transported to the embassy's interior, he alone balanced the masterpiece atop its frame and guarded it from theoretical assailants as his underlings got well deserved rest. The only stimuli he faced, however, were weird glances and redundant inquiries, all of which were unfailingly dismissed with, "Business of the ambassador. None of your concern. Go about your day."

He attempted to avoid eye contact with the secretary while she worked the desk. He recalled her offer to safeguard his deposit; doubtless she thought similarly, she with mirth and he with remorse. He was mature enough to reverse a mistake when it mattered, but the small minutiae of presentation could afford his pride. Sunk cost and whatnot.

Nosy inquisitors gradually decreased in frequency. Casinos operated late into the night, but even then certain hours pushed their limitations. Daniel stayed awake the entire night, whether out of duty or sheer bullheadedness even he didn't know. He was made grumpy, but his senses had dulled him and prevented him from acting upon his foul demeanor. He simply lurked calmly above the jagged bedrock of his emotions, an unfortunate place to be.

When he spotted the emissary, he exercised his last remnant of adrenaline and strolled up to the gentleman. He summoned the finest salutation his fatigue could muster: "Ah, Ambassador Watts! Fancy meeting you here." He mentally cussed himself out for an introduction that asinine, but trudged forward regardless. "As welcome into the region, we present you this exquisite oil on canvas, to remind you of old culture and your new home. Right from the pursestrings of the Ace of Clubs-" ...Henry? "Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs, to your back wall! Let it be known that the Pinochle Expedition will move mountains for its friends: quite literally!"

Daniel's tiptoe didn't flatter as he snagged the top corner of the covering, and he had to repeat the action. Sky blues and white clouds peeked out at first until the entire cover collapsed altogether, revealing the vibrant Bierstadt landscape:
[hider=Mount Corcoran][img]https://media.nga.gov/iiif/b5657933-52bc-4bfa-9bb9-12ea235e7198/full/!588,600/0/default.jpg[/img][/hider]

"If alternative decor can spruce up your office space, please contact us. We have connections and caps aplenty, and we'd love to share in our bounty." He felt his adrenaline's empty light blinking. "Unless there's further business, I must depart. Homesteading is unrelenting work!"