[color=aba000][u][b]Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Morning, November 18th[/b][/u][/color]

Pastime at the Meld was an oddly tense affair. Amber slouched in her indoor rocking chair, threading a needle across tight fabric. Temporarily relieved of serving the homeless, Charlotte casually flipped through the lunch section of her recipe booklet, attempting to utilize her remaining supplies to the utmost. Isabel, neither cook nor craftswoman, hurriedly scribbled a spreadsheet onto a blank page, which would hopefully supplement the trigonometric reference material she'd forgotten on her journey over. The singular noise was an axe's thwacking outside.

Amber intermittently glanced at Isabel. For a fortnight, she'd wanted to reminisce about the Failfest revelries with a companion. Isabel would throw a fit if she discovered that they'd seceded in jest. Floyd (perhaps rightfully so) didn't assign Isabel any excursions, so she busied herself in the kitchen, eternally within earshot of the homestead's every corner. Apparently that was a habit of Vault 48's queens, as Charlotte's station was the table's opposite end.

"Charlotte," Isabel inquired. "One plus the squared tangent is the squared [i]cosecant[/i]?"

"Secant," Charlotte responded. "You divide both sides of the Pythagorean theorem by the square of the cosine."

"That's what I did," Isabel countered, considerably calmer than her reputation allowed.

"No, cosine to the negative first is the [i]secant[/i]."

Isabel rechecked her formula. "Funny, the way that works. Thanks!" She sounded eerily cheerful.

"No problem," Charlotte assured. "Happened to me plenty."

The men were similarly useless. Bradley forbade disturbance during his outdoors woodworking, despite the plethora he caused. Daniel didn't invite Amber on his frequent outings. He likely thought they didn't intrigue her enough to warrant accompaniment, though she longed for anytime alone together, no matter the boredom. The only individual who more often left the abode was Justin, commonly to drink, waste caps, and bring back surprisingly competent gossip and negotiation positions. And so Amber was abandoned to cherish the pleasantries herself, her cool frustration channeled into her artwork. Charlotte had taught her to cross stitch, and the student had quite handily surpassed the master.

Daniel entered the living space, his newsboy's cap displaying his intentions to leave. "Hey, sweetheart, how's it going?"

Amber smiled, her teeth on full display, her eyes concealing her musings. "Fine, honey! And you?"

"Just swell, knowing that you're happy," he announced, his earnest goodwill nonetheless an unintentional lie. He approached the wall of crafts and perused the contents with a keen eye. "Say, I'm headed to market, and I need something to trade. How much of my allowance do you want for these three potholders?" He pointed out his quarry to his fiance.

"A kiss," she stated bluntly.

Daniel was taken aback. Still, he helped Amber to her feet and lovingly complied. "You drive a hard bargain, Miss."

"Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad," she quipped. "Care for another?"

"You're making us sick," Charlotte interrupted. Bradley's thwacks continued at a steady volume. "Get a room, or stop it."

"Protocol permits displays of affection in dining, sleeping, and similar relaxation quarters, in manners that don't disrupt urgent or vital duties," Isabel denoted.

"Like you'd know, Isabel. You've never had a boyfriend," Charlotte commented.

"I read the manual. Haven't you?"

The romantic mood long since deceased, the Nine of Clubs squeezed the hand of the Nine of Hearts, collected his recently purchased goods, and departed forthwith with a smile.

[color=aba000][u][b]Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Noontime, November 18th[/b][/u][/color]

Having reached his destination, Danny doffed his cap and lowered it to his heart. He felt remorse over lying to his girlfriend, but he understood the consequences of clouded judgment. No, he'd make his decisions alone. Well, not completely.

He stood patiently at the doors. With gifted artwork no longer a concern, he better appreciated the architecture: the faux pointed arches, the tasteless titanesses above the main hall. What felt familiar were the patrons rushing past him to enter.

He flagged down someone who looked official. "Pardon me, I seek an audience with Fa-" he shook his head, "with Don Dominic Omerta. If you'd-" He didn't complete his sentence when his contact walked away. He realized that, unlike a castle, he required no permission to enter, only to approach the king. He donned his hat again and marched inside.

[color=aba000][u][b]Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Reception Area - Noontime, November 18th[/b][/u][/color]

A stranger to this type of establishment, he was shocked by the gaudiness of the facility. A Vaulter like him comprehended practicality and simple pleasures, and this gold and red behemoth far outreached his scope. He stumbled around trying to gather his bearings before realizing the receptionist was just to his left.

Daniel sheepishly approached the desk. "Howdy! Um, apologies. What's your name?"

The lady had clearly remembered him from the prior debacle. "Clarice. You're that yokel leader, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am he. Greetings, Clarice. I hoped to have the audience of Don Omerta, if at all possible."

"For what purpose?"

Daniel swallowed, doffing his hat again. "Advice, for certain discreet matters of state." From his experience, the rich and powerful desired naught else than to be considered rich, powerful, and wise. He didn't intend to exploit that truism; honestly, he was desperate for stable counsel. Henry was no longer around to mentor him; Henry was in fact responsible for this kerfuffle. Daniel entrusted nobody from the Vault with the fate of the colony, and some schmuck would lead him astray. Watts was a refined but untested man of culture. Dominic knew the price of kingship. Floyd's coffers couldn't afford it, but he knew those who could.