[color=00aeef][u]Sister Genetta Williams – Aces Theater – Early Afternoon, November 13th[/u][/color]

Genetta shifted on her stool and adjusted the microphone on the stand in front of her. Her eyes scanned the audience. Lunch hour was always a slow affair at the Aces, but Genetta had never cared about crowds. She’d never harboured illusions about being a musician, had no desire to be part of the [i]biz[/i]. She simply loved being around music, and making it. 

Tommy Torini of the Aces Theater was one of the few impresarios grounded enough to get amateur acts from the wrong side of the street up on his stage occasionally. And the Tops was the only casino in the Strip that Genetta could enter regularly without wanting to enter a decontamination chamber afterwards.

There were advantages to being in the heart of the Strip, of course. There were things Sister Genetta learned here that were useful to her mission. Many of the Followers, especially the most learned members, were antisocial, and did not care for the nightlife. Those who did enjoy nights on the town preferred Outer Vegas and Freeside. Even the few Followers who were wealthy enough to patronise the Strip found it distasteful. It represented the worst of New Vegas’ inegalitarianism. 

But the Lord had commanded his disciples to take His light into dark places. 

Now, Sister Genetta’s eyes scanned the half-filled room, and settled on someone she hadn’t seen around for a while. [i]There’s a gal I need to talk to,[/i] she thought. 

Genetta cleared her throat, spoke into the microphone. “I wanna thank y’all for comin’ tonight, and bein’ patient with an old preachin’ gal. I told y’all I ain’t got the best voice. I didn’t have no teacher, don’t have no natural talent. But I was raised in a home where every one of us sang. I know y’all came up to have a good time, not to hear no sermons. So I hope this rusty old voice of mine weren’t too harsh on yer ears. 

“Some of y’all know that history’s a passion of mine. Seems pretty natural, I guess, since we’re livin’ in the end times. I suppose when the world’s ended, history’s all any of us have left. But it was music that really took me into other times and places. 

“See, when ye learn a song, ye gotta get inside the head of the person what wrote it. You gotta find the musician’s voice. That means knowin’ the language, the story, the culture that produced that very song. There’s a whole world of history in a single lyric, the story of an entire people in one ballad. 

“Now my last song for this evenin’s from long before the War. Like all the best songs, it’s both specific and universal. It’s about a man what left his home, because his people were bein’ persecuted there. Some folks says that in one of the Republic’s many other wars, before the Great War, the Nation was divided over the right to keep slaves. 

“Anyhow, we may not understand how it was to live back then. But many of us folks know how it feels to be forced to flee our homes. And go someplace that may not see you as a citizen. Maybe too many of us know how it feels to grow up someplace that you still love, though it ain’t never loved you back.”

Genetta plucked her guitar strings, finding the right key, and hummed, aligning her voice with the tone. Then she began a rendition of [i]Alabama Blues. [/i]

When she had finished, to warm applause from the crowd (more for her spirit and emotion than her technical skill, she knew), she bowed and made her exit. After packing up backstage, she moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was kind enough to do mocktails especially for her, knowing how sparingly she drank. He placed two tall glasses before her, and waved away her caps despite her protests. She knocked back the California Cream, then grabbed the Vermont Cooler, and headed in pursuit of the woman she’d spotted from onstage. 

Rosalie Clairvaux was one of Vegas’ more put-together victims. She remained dazzling and elegantly turned out. Today she was draped in a slightly faded green cocktail dress, her chestnut-brown locks pinned up in a chic beehive. Chips of emerald glass flashed from her ears, and a dark stole hugged her shoulders. 

“Good day, Rosalie,” Genetta said. “My, it’s been a while. How you been keepin’?”

“Oh, Gennie!” Rosalie said, giving Genetta a hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’m keeping well, thank you, darling.”

And she did look well. Only some of the Followers knew of Rosalie’s struggle with addictions - habits fed by various of her wastrel boyfriends. She must have been keeping clean. Genetta had not seen her down at the soup kitchens for a long time. 

“Say, Gennie,” Rosalie went on, “there’s something I just have to tell you. Are you still a demon for Old World artifacts, and wild savages, and old books and all that?”

“Yes,” said Gennie, smiling. “I most certainly am.”

“Well, have I got a scoop for you! Remember how surprised we all were when the –” Rosalie’s pretty face wrinkled with revulsion at the prospect of having to say the word [i]Omerta [/i]– “... when certain of [i]the Families[/i] discovered charity? I mean when they began helping with the relief efforts in the neighbourhoods they’d been poisoning?”

“Oh, yes,” said Genetta. “I’m still wonderin’ about that. Not that we can afford to look a gift Brahmin in the mouth.”

“Well, you must have heard all these rumours floating around about a new Vault being discovered? It turns out that a substantial part of the food being donated comes from them. So they must have food to burn, and some kind of philanthropic streak in their tribe. Maybe. And they have an official outpost not far from here, in the Northern Passage!”

“I had heard a whisper or two to that effect,” Genetta said. “But with the floodin’ an’ all goin’ on, I’ve had no chance to follow any of it up. But you say they were sendin’ food to the kitchens?”

“I absolutely guarantee it! I heard it from three different high-ranking NCR men at soirees I attended. The NCR hasn’t officially recognised them yet. But I do know they sent some kind of delegation to the ambassador. And… here’s the thing that worries me. Word is, they sent some kind of message with gifts to Gomorrah… and the Omertas.”

Gennie froze. “Oh, Rosie… if this is true? A newly open Vault, with resources to spare… all that Old World technology... "

[i]And they’ve actually shown some willingness to share with the Wasteland! They’ve shown no sign yet of the extreme xenophobia and selfishness most Vault dwellers display. But some Vault civilisations are extremely naive, with no experience of the outside world, or bizarre cultural beliefs making them vulnerable to corruption. If they’re allying with the Omertas… or even the NCR… And the Followers haven’t had a chance to understand them or liaise with them yet… I gotta make this a priority![/i]

Sister Genetta stopped just long enough to confirm the rough location of the Meld, kissed Rosalie on the cheek, then grabbed her guitar and was on her way.