Gingy

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones - Town Square

“Hi...err...Welcome to Salem I’m Steve cooper, good to see that more people are arriving” Steve stated as he held his hand out to shake. “Me and my business partner John Kaye are setting up a drug store and brothel in town... if you ever need some chemical help or... som er-“Steve somewhat awkwardly tried to pitch to Lorelei but was distracted by gun fire...

Lorelei seemingly paid no attention to the conflict in the square, perhaps having been numb to the prospects of gunfire. She pursed her lips and narrowed her brow. Her raspy voice was quiet and direct. “Chemical help?” She smirked. “…The town hasn’t even been fully-built and you’re already trying to peddle drugs?” Lorelei let loose a weak chuckle, masqueraded by her breaths, and then met eyes with Steve. The eye contact didn’t last long.

“Stay here... I’m gonna check this out.”

Lorelei watched Salem's token Dr. Feelgood stroll away, but she did not linger on it. She watched the conflict with intrigue, especially the large green man who referred to himself as ‘Rook’. She waited around, even after the crowd dispersed and mutant left, quietly hoping that someone would come to say hello without the ‘hello’ being a loaded statement, packed with a substance proposition. No dice. She stood up and started to wander the other portions of the town, leaving Steve and the others behind.

“Rook not be beaten by metal cart!”

It was the mutant, again. The aggravated holler came from the edge of town. Rook was up to something else. Perhaps if Lorelei had actually listened to what the folks in the square were squabbling about, she’d have known. She strolled in the direction of the reverberating yell.

After a few minutes, Lorelei found herself at the top of the hill, looking down upon an interesting scene – Rook was moving a set of sandbags, arranging them in a way to make it so they could keep someone in town protected from bullets. He repeated the process of moving the cars next, positioning them on either side of the road.

Lorelei waved down at him. She raised her thin, bony arms in the air, showing off her imaginary muscles. “How about you let me move those instead?” She had her usual shit-eating grin on her face, spurred by a refusal to show teeth but an inability to keep her lips from raising into a reluctant smile. She trekked down the hill, carefully ensuring that the slope did not get the best of her traction. She clumsily picked up speed on her way down, but managed to retain control.

After another few seconds of watching, Lorelei walked over to where Rook was working and folded her arms. “Lorelei Jones, at your service,” she said with simultaneous sincerity and satire. She knew she’d be of no help but she had to at least offer. She was being uncharacteristically friendly, but perhaps it was just the ‘third life’ debacle that spurred her to be more ostentatious and chatty. She outstretched her arm, as if to shake the mutant’s hand. She didn’t half-expect to get a handshake in return, but she offered anyway.

In From The Fog: A Fallout Far Harbor Roleplay

For your approval.

Calvin Lovegrove

Name: Calvin Lovegrove

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Race:Caucasian

Skills: Outdoorsmanship, Melee Weapons, Speech

Brief physical description or picture: Cal is enormously tall at 6’4” but has a relatively lanky frame, holding a slim figure and minimal amount of body fat. His face is rather handsome, although his rather silly and large pair of glasses along with gigantic bushy eyebrows manage to offset his appearance. His dark brown hair is almost always slicked up by some sort of material (on a good day, it is hair gel).
Clothing/Armor/Weapons: Calvin is usually seen in his dirty, soaked flannel shirt augmented with denim overalls and large boots. He usually sports a goofy, large fisherman’s hat to complete his outfit. As for weapons, he has an arsenal of rusted tridents and fishing spears, along with a rarely-used revolver, intended for desperate situations.

Brief Background: C. Lovegrove sauntered into town just two years ago, but he fit the atmosphere so well that no one even remembers that he was ever not in Far Harbor. He is a silver-tongued man of the sea – he has a relatively kooky array of mannerisms and tends to find humor even in morbid situations. He is generally gone for days, even weeks at a time, on his small fishing boat he calls “The Lorelei” and generally returns empty handed, although occasionally he stumbles upon a big haul.

Cal’s past before Far Harbor is hazy and he refuses to talk about it. However, in the two years he has been there, he has developed plenty of history for himself. He fears for the town’s future to the extent that he never feels safe in its midst – his solitude comes from his journeys at sea. Occasionally, he is forced to venture out into the island to look for fuel, but the fog’s unstoppable conquest has forced him to use other means. When he isn’t out on the water, he can be found in The Last Plank, drinking himself silly and occasionally striking up conversations with the other tenants.

Calvin highly values the longevity of Far Harbor itself as his port in the storm. That said, he is deeply curious about the dark secrets of the island, and if he weren’t so squeamish about running off into the fog, he would explore it for himself. Instead, he is running low on fuel and will be forced to stay in the town’s midst (or at least fish in a very close vicinity) until the crisis is averted.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones - Outside the Jones Residence

Lorelei folded her arms and stared down the withered two-story home at the edge of the town. Barney had pointed her toward the various empty plots, and particularly recommended this one. She could see why. This house was a lonely one; a perfect fit for a gradual misanthrope like herself. It was nothing like the home she had lost, but it would do. She meandered over the door and opened it, the ruined wood porch creaking underneath her light steps.

This will need work. The place was a disaster. There were a few amenities, namely a leftover couch, broken television, a ruined kitchen, and a few armchairs, but the rest was disgusting. Trash and grime had built up just about everywhere she looked, and the paint that once resided within the house had been shed off by the walls that once wore it.

Lorelei gingerly tiptoed upstairs, carefully testing the ground for nails and dislodged pieces of wood. The second floor featured two bedrooms, a restroom, and what appeared to be some sort of office space. More old world furniture rested here. Both bedrooms were equipped with dusty old doublebeds and the office held a desk, pointed at the back window which faced the ocean.

This was an underrated amenity, Lorelei realized – the ocean rested directly behind her home. A weak, inconsistent fence sat between her house and the slight rocky outcropping which overlooked the water, but she had an unobstructed line of sight toward the ocean wherever she looked. She tossed her pack onto the bed and sat down, scanning the room for the work she would have to do. Nonsense. This would come later. For now, she had to introduce herself at least somewhat to the town, even if it meant standing around the square and watching the others talk.

Lorelei left the house and lazily strolled toward the square, where the local tenants darted to and fro, moving in their belongings and laying claim to the town. She looked up at the massive apartment structures and perused the various abandoned vendor stands in the center. She could imagine them filled with people, a town clutching to life. However, now was the time for them to lay down the bricks, to which she had little interest. She was at her best when she was wandering – the house would just be a formality.

After a few moments of standing at the edge of the square, Lorelei decided to sit on a park bench and watch the passersby as she cleaned the barrel of her rifle atop her lap.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones - Outside of Salem

In the landscape of her imagination, Lorelei was home again. As per usual, she dreamt about the most horrifying catastrophe her life would ever know – the harrowing pillar of smoke over the horizon, on that unforgettable afternoon near Silverton. After seeing the same dreadful afternoon more than a hundred times, she was no longer shocked to bear witness to the unsubtle signature of the fire that consumed her family. She did not sprint to the source, as she had in the original memory; instead, she slowed her steps.

All the previous iterations of the recurring nightmare had ended in the exact same way; no matter how she proceeded, she would find her way to the burned husk of her home and the charred silhouette of her daughter. But, if she could at least try to slow her steps; try to delay the inevitable flagellation her mind had in store for itself, then perhaps she could alleviate the dream in some way.

No. There would be none of that. Lorelei was not allowed to play bystander to her own memory. It was against the rules. Whether she wanted to or not, she found her way to the house – her once beautiful, refurbished Levittown quarter-acre, now reduced to rubble. The second floor of the house had collapsed, leaving a pile of debris caged inside the skeleton of the house’s frame. It had become something far too grotesque to be a home – it was a giant tombstone dedicated to her attempt at a new life.

Lorelei stepped onto the rubble. Her subconscious brain flawlessly recreated the atmosphere – the same ash-infested air pricked at her lungs. Her mild attempt at rose-garden had been demolished by the collapse. The patio she built had withered into nothing underneath the flames. Everything about this place had dissolved.

Inevitably, Lorelei stepped into the skeleton of the house and the crown jewel of the dream lay before her. The burned form of a small human lay before her. No. No. No, no, no. She could not see this again. She fell to her knees, the rocky terrain scraping against her knee. No. Not again. She tried to cover her eyes, but the image had been burned into her brain. It had always been there. It had come to define everything about her. Not again. Please.

Right on cue, Lorelei’s real eyes fluttered open and her conscious mind jolted awake – a portal from one nightmare to another. These episodes had become slightly easier to shrug off over the years, but put in perspective, this meant nothing. She still viciously fought the urge to sleep, and as per tradition, once she had been deprived for long enough, she lost. She kicked off the blanket and rolled onto the hardwood floor. Dream-torment aside, she had set up camp in a tall building a half-mile from the hollow shell of a town that was once known as “Salem”, many years before her time.

Lorelei recalled her father's musings about the ‘witch trials’ somewhere among his final days. He was fascinated with the brutality and mystery of it. He was superstitious. She was not. But the fact that dozens of nobodies were picking this strange slice of ruin to call home captivated her interest. She had been watching them, through her scope. She grabbed her rifle resumed her watch. There was little of interest; a few other newcomers had happened by, but there seemed to be no chance of dark magic on the horizon. Boring.

God rest his soul, but father was wrong about this place. Lorelei collapsed the blanket and shoved it into her pack. There were no cruel energies at work here. But maybe—just maybe—the enigmatic mythology of this town would make for a good place to hide. She’d given up on rebuilding her life. She had to wipe the slate clean. She had to begin again. For a third time. She grabbed her things and abandoned her makeshift watchtower, starting toward the town. It didn’t take long for her to run into ‘civilization.’

“You there!” hollered a hoarse male voice. A figure emerged from one of the ruined buildings on the outskirts of the town.

Lorelei simply stared him down. An older bloke, armed with a rifle not terribly unlike her own and wearing a smug look on his face, carefully shuffled toward her.

“Are you here to help us build the future?”

Is that what they’re calling this? Lorelei narrowed her eyes at him and gave a very slight shrug of her shoulders.

“Do you even know what you’ve stumbled upon, lass?”

Lorelei nodded.

“Then I’d suppose I should welcome you to Salem, then.”

She nodded again.

“The name’s Barney. Pleased to meetcha’.” The oddly friendly and cordial man offered his hand.

Lorelei stared at the extended arm and did nothing. She looked him dead in the face and nodded a third time.

“You mute or something?”

“No.”

“Then can you tell me your name?”

“Lorelei.”

“A rather pretty name, if you don’t mind me saying,” Barney muttered.

“Hmph.” Lorelei folded her arms.

“You’re probably wondering if you can come in.”

Lorelei nodded again.

“Yes. I implore you to explore the possibilities this slice of Boston has to offer. A great home could be waiting for you,” said Barney.

“Uh huh.” Lorelei. Her gaze darted past the older bloke and toward the mass of buildings behind him.

“You are free to choose one of the empty houses and give it a test run. You like it, you can stay. You don’t, and you can leave! It’s failproof.”

“Nothing is failproof,” said Lorelei. Her rather morbid assertion did not seem to dampen Barney’s spirits at all. The man smiled at her and pointed toward what she presumed to be the “Salem” in question.

Lorelei bowed her head in quiet thanks and brushed past Barney. Past the forgotten ruins and toward the cursed town. This was it. Her third life. Try not to squander it.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones

Lorelei Jones

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Birthdate: June 30th, 2263

Birthplace: Ruins of Seattle, Washington

Personal Information

Current Occupation: Hunter and scavenger. She has spent most of her life sifting through the ruins of the Old World as well as hunting for game and generally manages to find just enough to make it from day-to-day.

Work Ethic: If you can manage to get Lorelei to be passionate about something, she will pour her entire being into it. If the task at hand is not something that interests her, then she will solely rely on her talent (even if there is none to speak of) to get her through.

Combat Strategy: Lorelei never allows herself to be compromised in close-range. She is at her most comfortable at high ground with a scope, where she can carefully dissect a situation and articulate her plans in a stepwise motion.

Experience: Rumored to have been liable to kill from a half-mile away. Her time spent in the wastes turned her into an excellent survivalist; she understands terrain and traverses it exceptionally well, and has developed a very tough exterior.

Organizations/Affiliations: Independent

Style: Lorelei wears different iterations of the same outfit almost every day. She wears a long hunting coat with many accessories attached – such as extra shells, bear traps, tourniquets, a knife, and a vial of antivenom. Underneath the coat, she usually wears a tee of some sort and a pair of well-worn jeans.

Preferred Weapons: Her father’s scoped bolt-action rifle, which has seen years of use, and a desert eagle pistol with some sort of inscribed sigil on the grip that has been taped over.

Habits and Mannerisms: Lorelei will often hum underneath her breath while idle and is very fidgety; she will always be moving in some way shape or form, whether it be running her fingers through her hair or tapping her hands on a solid object. She will generally smile and chuckle if she runs out of possible options to respond to a situation, even if it is a particularly bad one.

Medical Information

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Blood Type: O-

Preferred Hand: Left-Handed

Eye Color: Hazel

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Hairstyle: Whatever suits her on the current day. Her hair is medium/shoulder-length, but occasionally puts it up into a ponytail or bun to keep from waving into her face.

Skin Tone: Pale.

Complexion: Freckled.

Makeup: Occasionally scrounges some together and puts it on, playing make-believe as one of the leading ladies of the old world, but it never lasts.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Body Type: Ectomorph

Build: Decent muscle mass considering her small frame, but recent malnourishment has rendered her quite thin.

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 120 lbs.

Cup Size: B

Shoe Size: 7

Birthmarks/scars: One lone distinct scar runs vertically down the right side of her face.

Energy: When in good health, she has exceptional endurance, gained from her cross-country treks with the 80s.

Senses: They are very potent and very accurate, rendering her paranoid of her surroundings on many occasions.

Addictions: None to speak of.

Mental Disorders: Anxiety.

Expressiveness: If one manages to get close to Lorelei, then her faux tough exterior will dissolve and her rather silly, creative nucleus will be apparent. She generally articulates her thoughts and emotions in an enigmatic, riddle-like way, and only those close to her can aptly solve said riddles.

Biography

Lorelei says very little of her old life. She's from a place far west; this much is known. However, the details and the motives are vague, and she intends to keep them that way. There is a layer of shame that clouds her memories, and only the recent days have any sort of articulation...

She spent several years in the Capital Wasteland, living on her own amid the chaos of the wastes and scavenging like a desperate vulture. Lorelei was a nostalgic one; over the years, she'd collected many old world relics and became well read in the texts of the pre-war landscape. It wasn't long before she grew bored of her lifestyle and scenery and moved on, trudging toward the Commonwealth and setting up inside Goodneighbor. There she remained until the word of a peculiar settlement emerged. Lorelei had to see Salem for herself.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones

Lorelei Jones

Gender: Female

Age: 27

Birthdate: June 30th, 2263

Birthplace: Woodinville, Washington

Personal Information

Current Occupation: Hunter and scavenger. She has spent most of her life sifting through the ruins of the Old World as well as hunting for game and generally manages to find just enough to make it from day-to-day.

Work Ethic: If you can manage to get Lorelei to be passionate about something, she will pour her entire being into it. If the task at hand is not something that interests her, then she will solely rely on her talent (even if there is none to speak of) to get her through.

Combat Strategy: Lorelei never allows herself to be compromised in close-range. She is at her most comfortable at high ground with a scope, where she can carefully dissect a situation and articulate her plans in a stepwise motion. Her time with the 80s, despite having fled their midst, has altered her reasoning to become very pragmatic and self-serving.

Experience: Former member of the 80s tribe, renowned for her incredible firing accuracy – was rumored to have been liable to kill from a half-mile away. Her time spent with the 80s turned her into an excellent survivalist; she understands terrain and traverses it exceptionally well, and has developed a very tough exterior.

Organizations/Affiliations: Independent ever since her severance from the 80s tribe.

Style: Lorelei wears different iterations of the same outfit almost every day. She wears a long hunting coat with many accessories attached – such as extra shells, bear traps, tourniquets, a knife, and a vial of antivenom. Underneath the coat, she usually wears a tee of some sort and a pair of well-worn jeans.

Preferred Weapons: Her father’s scoped bolt-action rifle, which has seen years of use, and a desert eagle pistol with some sort of inscribed sigil on the grip that has been taped over.

Habits and Mannerisms: Lorelei will often hum underneath her breath while idle and is very fidgety; she will always be moving in some way shape or form, whether it be running her fingers through her hair or tapping her hands on a solid object. She will generally smile and chuckle if she runs out of possible options to respond to a situation, even if it is a particularly bad one.

Medical Information

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Blood Type: O-

Preferred Hand: Left-Handed

Eye Color: Hazel

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Hairstyle: Whatever suits her on the current day. Her hair is medium/shoulder-length, but occasionally puts it up into a ponytail or bun to keep from waving into her face.

Skin Tone: Pale.

Complexion: Freckled.

Makeup: Occasionally scrounges some together and puts it on, playing make-believe as one of the leading ladies of the old world, but it never lasts.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Body Type: Ectomorph

Build: Decent muscle mass considering her small frame, but recent malnourishment has rendered her quite thin.

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 120 lbs.

Cup Size: B

Shoe Size: 7

Birthmarks/scars: One lone distinct scar runs vertically down the right side of her face.

Energy: When in good health, she has exceptional endurance, gained from her cross-country treks with the 80s.

Senses: They are very potent and very accurate, rendering her paranoid of her surroundings on many occasions.

Addictions: None to speak of.

Mental Disorders: Anxiety.

Expressiveness: If one manages to get close to Lorelei, then her faux tough exterior will dissolve and her rather silly, creative nucleus will be apparent. She generally articulates her thoughts and emotions in an enigmatic, riddle-like way, and only those close to her can aptly solve said riddles.

Biography

Lorelei was born on June 30th, 2263 in Woodinville, Washington – a distant suburb to the sprawling, annihilated skyscape of Seattle. Her mother died in childbirth and her father, Ray, raised her alone. He gave her a shielded life out in the suburban landscape of Woodinville, allowing her to live a relatively carefree albeit hidden existence for the first seventeen years of her life. In this time, she learned many skills that would be considered ‘moot’ in the new world. She developed an interest in film, art, and literature during her youth. These interests manifested themselves into her lonely, but happy life by essentially enacting her to do anything she could to express herself. She’d write on the walls of nearby buildings, create strange sculptures around the house, and scrounge any holotapes she could possibly find.

Unexpectedly, at around age 17, Ray pulled Lorelei out of her shielded prewar-like existence, teaching her important skills, such as maintaining and operating a firearm, foraging for supplies, and other survival skills. She was unaware that his sudden shift in philosophy toward raising his daughter was spurred from a specific motive…Her father had become terminally ill, and kept it hidden from her. He knew very well that he had to prepare Lorelei for life on her own, now that his days were numbered. He continued to train her as well as he could, until he could no longer hide his illness and became bedridden for the next several weeks.

During his time on what would become his deathbed, Ray compiled a massive journal filled with instructions. He had no time left to truly prepare her for what awaited in a life without his protection, so he wrote everything he could – coordinates and directions toward promising homelands that he had heard of through the grapevine, personal anecdotes about the world outside of Woodinville, a handful of personal letters to his daughter, sketches paired with descriptions of various wildlife he had seen in his travels, and a number of blank pages meant for Lorelei herself to finish on her travels. The quality of handwriting and coherence on the later pages declined with Ray’s health, but he kept scribbling in that damned book until he couldn’t any longer.

Ray passed away a week before Lorelei’s 18th birthday. The book, which had turned out to be just short of a godsend, was not enough to pry her away from her home. She buried her father, had her own private funeral, and tried to remain in Woodinville for as long as she could. However, she could not stand to look at the buildings she had walked with him – the streets where they had happily explored, detached from the despair of the rest of the pacific northwest. Ray had left directions and coordinates on how to journey to the city of Las Vegas, where he presumed she would be safe, and she finally decided to follow them. She took his rifle, his pistol, as much food as she could, and headed south. However, she did not traverse the path he had intended, and wound up aimlessly following I-80 as it tossed and turned toward the southwest.

It wasn’t long until Lorelei learned why her father’s journal warned of I-80. She was ambushed and abducted by a group of terrifying-looking raiders inhabiting its surroundings, known as the “80’s”. They originally intended to throw her carcass onto an oven and cook her flesh for their own use, but Lorelei’s rifle caught their eye and for entertainment, they put her up to a vicious test. She would hit directly between the eyes on a mannequin they’d found, or she’d be flayed alive. Fueled by fear, instinct, and her father’s impeccable training, she landed a perfect shot and was inevitably rehabilitated into their ranks.

Lorelei had never intended on leading as evil and degrading a life as she would live; she assumed, from the way her father had made it sound, that raiding and pillaging was simply a staple of life in the wasteland. She became a remarkable fighter over her time with the 80s, integrating their toughness and astute sense of terrain into her own DNA. She could land shots from such an absurd distance that she began to make a name for herself – they began to call her “Blood Raven”.

Despite that Lorelei never truly gained a position of power, she became somewhat of a symbol. Once the 80s became egotistical enough to invade the outskirts of NCR territory, bounties began to pile up with the name “Blood Raven” affixed to them. She had become fully indoctrinated into this life – various artistic etchings had been burned onto her back and she wore fearsome red face paint. She looked the part, and she played it.

During her early adolescence in Washington, Lorelei had never truly learned nor understood the expression of sexuality. She learned quickly of its gravity during her life with the 80s, who turned out to be a rabid and free-spirited bunch, pursuing mindless gratification at any given moment. There was very little social construct – pleasure was pursued through any means, through any gender, and it warped her perspective of sexuality. Throughout her early twenties, she was pulled into this lifestyle of raiding and rampant pursuit of satisfaction, and inevitably, it presented her with an enigma – a child.

When Lorelei became noticeably pregnant, conceived by who-knows-who, the inevitable child began to generate hype among her region of the 80s. But in almost epiphanic-like manner, the prospects of bringing a child into the world she had found for herself flooded her with guilt. She fled her tribe and headed east, hoping to gain a great deal of ground before having her child. She knew very well that the 80s would be able to traverse an impossible amount of territory in very little time.

Lorelei only made it to Colorado before she had her daughter, who she named Rachel. She could not continue to travel with a newborn, so she settled down in a cottage outside the ruins of Silverton. She lived there with Rachel for four years and finally accepted that the 80s had either failed to find her, or neglected to follow her at all. However, she was unfortunately inaccurate. After four years, the reach of the 80s spread into Colorado, north of Legion territory, and they traced her to her home. While Lorelei spent a morning hunting for she and her daughter, a group of her former family set her home ablaze, and returned to the ashes of her life, her daughter burned alive inside. It ruined her attempt at a second life, and after a period of grieving, she continued east and shed off her old identity, going only by “Laura” for an extended period of time. She made it all the way to the Capital Wasteland, where she spent a few years in Canterbury Commons.

However, Lorelei became restless and bored and continued to the northeast, finding herself inside the commonwealth. She had spent a short stint inside Goodneighbor before hearing of a new development inside Salem. She felt that building something new would be her chance to disintegrate her old mistakes and forge a new persona, so she took the opportunity without so much as a second thought.

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

"The floor is for rats and dust, you may sleep in the chair." Emerald inhaled abruptly. "It extends, an old bat, but comfy as hell."

Alison frowned and folded her arms, resting them underneath her bosom and lowering her head. She had been grateful for Emerald's help, but she had deteriorated in a matter of days, seemingly not even by events of her own fault. Forces beyond her understanding had thrown away her exciting adventure to New York, and reality had crashed into Club Carousel like a freight train.

"...Thank you. I'll make it up to you somehow. I just don't know how yet...I'll find a job, and I'll help you pay rent until I can find a new place of my own."

War Never Changes

Robert House

Lucky 38 Casino & Hotel

"Mr. House, we're based out of Alaska. Flying vertibirds to and fro is quick to add up in cost. But this airbase offers us a whole new world of possibilities for deployment in the region. In fact, we have men on standby as soon as you give us the greenlight.”

“Very well. The space is yours, so long as you adhere to the F.Z.M’s laws and allow me to keep tabs on what sort of business you are conducting inside my borders. If you have clients that wish to be anonymous, that is your choice. But the decisions I allow you to make within my borders are my responsibility, yes?”

Robert sighed. “With that, I suppose that it is high time we begin the second day of the summit. I suppose that I should be setting everything in order. Was there anything else you wished to speak of? If there are any further formalities, I can forward you a specific document that will simply require your signature.”

Who was the VP of RobCo back in the day....hmmmm..it was a Mr. Milburn right? Thomas Milburn? No, no that's not right..I'm not sure where I pulled that name from to be honest....Bradburton?

…What the fuck?

“Please excuse me, Commander.”

…Thomas Milburne?

House assumed remote control of the securitron in charge of the odd transmission. The policeman’s face still remained vigilant on the screen, but its voice was more disjointed and ‘human’ sounding. “Mr. House…will be willing to meet with you in the Lucky 38 itself.” The securitron produced a key from a compartment in its armor. “Any misbehavior will see you thrown out of the casino. He will be in touch.”

I have not heard that name in centuries.

At that, Robert House took command of the loudspeakers, which were affixed to the interior and exterior of each casino. He produced a generic, digitally-composed voice:

"The second meeting of the New Vegas Convention will begin at 4:30 -- three hours from now."

War Never Changes

Robert House

Lucky 38 Casino & Hotel

When you get time...I recommend you take a good look at that data and then we'll talk about it. I think you'll agree that you don't want them for neighbors." Barnaky then stopped and looked at the picture again. "Also", he asked, "Can I take this thing out of the suite now?"

Mr. House gave an affirming 'hm' in response. "Yes. I have been keeping an eye on that lot ever since they arrived in New Vegas. Do not worry. If we are to write the future together, I will be invested in ensuring that you are not devoured by that 'cult'. There we have it, then. You may establish an embassy inside the FZM and speak with the boomers about joint-access to Nellis. We will discuss the flow of technology that I salvage from the Divide and we will together work as a wall against the NCR's eastward expansion. You will be instrumental in the training of my human military and I will defend you against the Cult or any other nation looking to invade your borders. These terms will be written soon."

Robert paused. "I am afraid that this meeting must come to a close. I am receiving a transmission from Vault 21."

"Let me get right down to brass tacks, sir. I've been instructed to request permission for Arctic Haven to occupy Searchlight Airport, under your auspices of course. The offer stands at 25% of each New Vegas based contract's value halved for you and all contracts not purchased by you in Vegas 25% of its earnings will go to you and Searchlight Airport"

Mr. House curtly replied. "I am pleased by your concise articulation. You don't seem to be hiding behind flowery language like the rest of this rabble. Then good, let us move to business. I will accept your offer under my terms. I will hold you to the monthly inspection -- I do not care to police the private lives of my citizens, but you are a foreign business and thus that has forced my hand. I will send a few of my men each month to view your dealings and production. I agree with the rest of your terms, so long as you do not leave me in the dark. I wish to be aware of your operations and intentions inside the FZM. One question, though, before we get to writing -- why choose my territory for a stronghold?"

RobCo Securitron Mk II

The Strip

"Would it be possible to speak with President Robert House at some point? Perhaps tomorrow, when the summit reconvenes. Privately, of course. Is this something you could relay to him?"

The Securitron's screen fell blank again for a handful of seconds, and then its persona returned. "Yes. You will be able to meet with him. Request transmission via terminal and he shall decide if he has the time or motive to meet with you."

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

“This city just won’t let you alone will it?” Emerald moved to stroke some of the hair out of Alison's face as a soothing gesture. “What can I do you for, dear?”

Alison took a minuscule swig of the drink and grimaced. Alcohol had not yet become a passtime of her's and the toxicity of Emerald's gift walloped her taste buds like a freight train. "...What's in this?" She shook her head. "No matter, I suppose. A drink is a drink. T-thank you." She hesitantly let another sip of the drink breach her lips.

After a few moments of shivering silence, Alison shot a nervous glance at 'Emerald'. "My roommate...she was killed. Last night." She took a deep breath and downed some more of the alcohol. "My apartment is a crime scene. They won't let me anywhere near it, now." She frowned. "I have nowhere to stay." She glanced around the massive, desolate club. She had never seen the inside anymore. She'd only constructed fantasies of it within her thoughts. She still had not really witnessed it, yet. This empty shell of a nightclub would not spring to life until the evening.

"...I was wondering...if you had a bit of room on the floor...if you could...maybe..."