Gingy

Carousel

Calvin Lovegrove

The Apartment of Danielle Raymonde

Cal beckoned for Ashley to follow as he hasted through the courtyard, his eyes laser-focused on the path ahead of him. In the past year Cal had made this exact walk dozens of times, but now he could only hope that a smidgeon of Dani’s incredible talent had rubbed off on him… He had to look like he’d never seen this place before. The detectives found themselves in a beautiful, lavish lobby filled with sculptures and mirrors. A very faint pink hue resided in the décor and lighting of the room. It always gave Cal a degree of comfort; this lobby was the decontamination room between the grime and decay of his world and the high-life that towered above. He stared at Ashley for a moment. Cal was kidding himself; he knew very well that by bringing Ashley Gallagher here, he was smuggling a grenade into this world.

A hallway of elevators awaited the detectives in the back. Calvin took a determined step forward. He knew which to take. Second from the right. It wasn’t long, however, before the detective froze and re-assessed. He had briefly stepped out-of-character. Right, then. He sauntered over to the front desk and leaned against the edge. “NYPD. We’re looking for Danielle Raymonde.”

“Hey! I know you, you’re---” The burly, bald, bowtie-fastened man at the desk aborted his sentence. The look in Cal’s eyes seared through this man’s well-meant intentions and immediately subdued him. “Oh….uh…Sorry. Thought you were someone else. Please excuse me.” A painfully insincere chuckle parted from the man’s lips and he pointed toward the hallway. “You’ll want to take the second from the right. Apartment 752.”

“Thank you,” said Cal with a completely calm, monotonous tone of voice. The pair departed for Danielle’s apartment.

The hallway was masked in a nearly uncomfortable number of stripes, which lined both the walls and the floors horizontally in a myriad of different colors. This place was regal, yet uneasy. Upon arriving to 752, Cal gently knocked on the door. “I’ll take point, Ash. I’ve met many ‘Danielles’ in my life.”

After a moment, the door slowly opened, and a face emerged from the opening. She was as beautiful as Lovegrove had made her out to be; her long, perfect strands of strawberry blonde hair curled around a face that was far too fair to be wrapped up in this hurricane of a case. “C-can I help you?”

“NYPD. Detectives Lovegrove and Gallagher. May we please come in?”

“What is this regarding?”

“It is regarding two murdered women in the Carousel Club.”

A horrified grimace erupted across Danielle’s face, erasing the angelic grace and replacing it with shock. “…murders? I…I was just there!” She now looked extremely distraught. “S-sure. Come in.” She fully opened the door and beckoned the two detectives inside before shutting it behind them.

Calvin and Ashley helped themselves to a seat on Danielle’s couch, while she departed to the kitchen. She returned with a bottle of scotch and a glass for each of the detectives. She poured a generous amount of spirits before sitting down and overtly redirecting her attention to Detective Gallagher. Cal cursed under his breath. He could tell that Danielle had already grown wary of his acting performance and had probably decided to ensure he had no opportunity to fail her under pressure.

“I am so sorry to hear of this…if there’s anything I can do…please.”

War Never Changes

Mr. House - El Dorado Substation

“…We were never in any real danger. Most likely what happened is a failure to properly disperse the intense amount of energy on this end. Overloaded the fragile pre-war system and caused the mess you see here. Would you agree with that Robert?” Thomas turned to the television monitor with a grin.

Robert’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze cut straight through the monitor. Completely disinterested with the mutilated caravan guards on the floor, he gave a half-smile toward the silhouette of Thomas Milburn. “You crazy bastard…a teleporter? If I had even begun to hypothesize molecular travel, I would not have shrouded it in this ancient facility. But I suppose that it is fortuitous that your quick journey has brought you -directly- to New Vegas.”

Upon Robert House’s command, a pair of securitrons rolled into the station, their intimidating cartoon-soldier computer screens staring intently at the arriving party from the Institute. The flickering digital image of Robert’s face slightly bowed its head. “It has been so very long, Thomas…centuries, now, since I have seen your face. I hope that you are not disappointed in return; you and I have found different means to weather these many years.”

The two securitrons motioned toward the door and House spoke again. “I hope, then, that you will accept an invitation into my home. Once you have had your fill of the giant cascade of lights, there is much at work underneath them. We have made it this far because we have visions…meticulous ones…I suspect that they are not terribly different from one another.”

Robert then stared at the remaining scientists. “I want this mess cleaned immediately. In addition, while Dr. Milburne and…” he stared at the menacing red-haired woman. “…his friend…are staying in New Vegas, I want this apparatus transported to the REPCONN facility; there is a far greater conduit of power present, one that will not overload upon use.”

Upon following the securitrons, Milburn and his party would be led to a presidential suite of their choice in any of the three casinos; House would plan so swiftly and exaggeratingly for their arrival that a room outfitted with every possible luxury would be available.

“Enjoy yourself, and pay me a visit in the Lucky 38 when you are ready, my old friend.”

War Never Changes

"The King" – The Palace of Caesar, Santa Fe

Turning away from Barnaky once he had finished, Gladstone addressed “The King” as the man called himself.

“Mr, King, I would be pleased if our nations could come to an arrangement concerning an irritant to the both of our lands. It is my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”

The King interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms. He had tried his hardest to stay in the background and digest the landscape that was unfurling around him, but the High Elder had dragged him into the middle of the discussion.

“I speak for Mr. House when I say that the NCR has no future with the FZM. While we all have adapted our goals, our traditions, and our images to coincide with this changing world, the west coast remains a pale facsimile of old world pitfalls. The fate of President Kimball Jr. proved that even with a regime change, they have not changed. They may very well be left behind…”

“…As a result, many of the citizens on their eastern border have flocked to the FZM, which boasts a higher standard of living and a stupendous amount of labor. Still, the NCR is the largest potential threat on the board—larger than even this terror from the East—and our only chance of preventing inevitably being rolled over by their gluttonous manifest destiny is to ensure that the rest of the west keeps them in check. It is useless to wage a war against the NCR, but the objective is to keep them contained. The trifecta of the Legion, FZM, and Midwestern Brotherhood has done so thus far.”

The King then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and plopped a cigarette into his mouth. He lit the end with a shiny silver lighter and let loose a puff of smoke. “If you want to assist us in applying a tourniquet around the west coast, then I shall welcome it. But only on the condition that you do not abuse our understanding to invade other nations in the west. Much is at stake, and we cannot afford distractions.”

The King then took another drag from his cigarette and loosely pointed at Barnaky and then Lucius. “These are the two you should ensure you’ve convinced. Mr. House values his newfound friendships with the Lord-Paladin and Caesar.”

The King then addressed the two across the table. “Robert House sends his regards and offers his support. As we speak, the Securitron Construction Plant in Big MT Research Center operates tirelessly to double its efforts in production. Should you want it, a force of securitrons and flag-bearing soldiers await to take the train east. Our securitrons have no need for sleep or other provisions and will have no problem following orders to the letter. They are fast and immune to the vast majority of chemical weapons.”

After directing his words to Barnaky and Caesar, he leaned back in his chair. “You need only ask.”

Mr. House – El Dorado Substation, Nevada

Robert’s face flickered onto the dusty, grime-coated screen built into the wall of the El Dorado office. House had always intended on having an eye on this place—as it was the conduit which connected HELIOS One and New Vegas—but had not sent his visage to this room in ages. He trusted Thomas to a strange degree, but despite their correlation in vision, he did not trust him enough to connect this piece of technology to Hoover Dam. Instead, HELIOS—a work in progress, at best—would serve as the spark.

“…You could have at least cleaned off my terminal and done away with the filth…” House muttered as a room filled with scientists, caravan guards, securitrons, and soldiers alike stood before him.

One of the infantrymen retrieved his handkerchief and began to briskly wipe away the grime on the screen. Mr. House scoffed; how unprofessional and meaningless of a gesture. No matter. This group of unmentionables was about to witness history in the making.

“Go on, then. Time is of the essence. I want to see…”

Before Robert House’s screen stood a tall object wrapped in a giant piece of cloth. The delivery party stared at each other squeamishly, trying to deduce through eye contact who would unwrap the hulking ‘gift’ that stood before them. House, as usual, had not given any information to the team about the object they’d shipped from Big Mountain. It was astonishing, really, how all the cogs in the ever-chugging machine of the FZM operated without even being able (or trying) to visualize what the mastermind had planned for the future.

“Show me.”

One of the soldiers bearing U.S. colours tugged at the piece of cloth and unmasked a gargantuan sculpture of technology.

“…The fuck is this?” bellowed a security guard who stared up at the machine.

“Based on my research, it is a source of power. A great deal of power. A gift.” Mr. House had concluded that this ‘gift’ was a means for Robert and Thomas to open easier, less intensive radio communication from New Vegas to Boston.

“From where?”

“A place that officially does not exist.”

The group of scientists had already begun unwinding wires and attaching power sources by the time the rest of the caravan had noticed. They were clearly on a different wavelength than the brutes who had protected the device; they knew far more than the others.

Before long, the machine was completely wired into the Dorado. Without saying a word, one of the scientists nodded at House – an affirmation that their work had finished.

“Turn it on.”

One of the scientists anxiously shuffled toward the switch. Incredible…such a small apparatus with so much power resting behind it. The man’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around the lever. He gave a glance at Mr. House and pulled.

The machine hummed for a minute and the caravan party shrugged at each other, unamused. “That’s it?”

Mr. House kept an intent gaze on the cauldron of electricity. “Wait.”

The device then whirred into a burst of energy. The lights inside of the El Dorado Substation began to flicker violently. Then, before any of the caravan could react, bolts of electricity began to strike out from the spinning metal. The scientists were frozen in awe and terror, but not for long; a chain reaction of energy electrocuted and completely ripped through its unfortunate hosts. The rest of the caravan sprang to the walls. “What the hell?!”

The crescendo of energy continued to absurd proportions. Something had gone terribly wrong. “Turn that fucking thing off!” screamed one of the survivors. One of the caravan guards attempted in vain to navigate through the field of sparks to turn off the switch, but once he stepped too close, another bolt zapped through the man’s chest and immediately snuffed the life from his limp body. The fever pitch of energy continued. Louder and increasingly violent by the second.

Then, there was only silence. The machine’s first trial-run had finally run through its turbulent lifespan. The remaining soldiers and guards had drawn their weapons, but the substation’s power had overloaded, and the lights were completely blacked out. They waded around anxiously in the dark. Mr. House’s image was gone.

War Never Changes

Robert Edwin House – Lucky 38 Hotel & Casino, New Vegas

The Institute data transfer began immediately but would take some time to complete, as it had to bounce through a number of different pre-war satellites before it would finally reach Mr. House. The schematics Thomas sent he knew House would be able to understand, perhaps not enough to fully comprehend its workings, but then again, he wouldn’t need to. All he needed to do...was build it.

Soon, the Lucky 38’s mainframe catapulted into a surge of activity. An amalgamation of equations and schematics flooded the server and Robert trembled as it overwhelmed the computer. It took a great deal of time, but he slowly perused every detail Thomas had sent him. He had seen the likes of this technology before, but never in all his years had he been presented with such a complex and vast variation of these molecular equations.

“Thomas…what in the hell are you up to?” House muttered as he continued to connect the dots. There was only one reason why he’d have sent him these schematics without context from the other side of this world…It was an invitation—perhaps even a challenge—for House to build it.

House’s terminal beamed down at Jane. “Open a long-range transmission to Big Mountain. To Doctor Klein. Immediately.”

“Of course, dear. You will be hearing from him momentarily,” said Jane in her sultry digital voice.

Before long, the image of Doctor Klein—a think tank whose strange robotic construction bordered on the psychedelic—appeared on the screen opposite from Robert.

“It is…uh…good…to hear from you, Mr. House. How may the think tank assist?”

“As we speak, Doctor Klein, I am sending you an array of schematics. Re-active X-8 Research Center and devote all available resources to building the contents.”

“Interesting. Very intriguing. I will send out a memo shortly, as soon as I am able to review the details,” said Doctor Klein as one of his eye-screens zoomed in and widened.

“Good. I want the product shipped back to New Vegas as soon as it is complete, as I am sure I will have to make my own modifications here in the Lucky 38.”

“This means I want Project Aries on standby while this work takes place in X-8. I want all major resources devoted to these schematics.”

“It will be done, Mr. President,” said Dr. Klein.

“Farewell,” muttered Mr. House.

“The King” – Santa Fe

The King had arrived fashionably late to Santa Fe. The final conversation he’d had with Mr. House back in New Vegas suddenly swirled back into his head, one in which House drilled the importance of being professional to the FZM’s allies, namely the hosting Legion and Midwestern Brotherhood. Unfortunately, arriving on time would have been one of them. There was very little he could have done; the journey had taken far longer than predicted.

Flanked by two soldiers in pre-war Riot Gear donning assault rifles, The King entered the palace. His hands were buried in his zany striped suit-jacket and his eyes were only ahead. Had he arrived on time, perhaps he could have admired the splendor unburdened by stress, but now his only objective was to find the table and sit without much of a commotion.

A lovely woman approached and greeted him. “Salve, I am Hannah of New Canaan. Welcome to Santa Fe on behalf of my husband, Caesar Lucius. And welcome to our home, please make yourselves comfortable inside.”

The King awkwardly bowed his head. “Uh…great. Thank you. I will show myself inside.” At that, he motioned toward his guards to disperse and entered the meeting room where a handful of delegates had already arrived and were embroiled in conversation.

He found his way to his seat, nodded slowly, and sat down, quietly observing the others and once again immersing himself in the tumultuous landscape of the west.

War Never Changes

New Vegas, Ultra-Luxe Casino & Resort
Miss Kate Rowsell

Kate rolled her eyes as she looked down at her drink, one that had now become dry. What kind of dinner party would let one of its guests even get close to seeing the bottom of their wineglass? She lazily held it in the air and the server—a debonair fellow hidden behind an elegant white mask—poured. She nodded and gazed at the rest of the partygoers, completely uninvolved with the conversation that was rolling around the large white table.

As a little girl, she’d coveted and dreamed of becoming one of the leading ladies of yore, sporting a sparkling dress and immaculate hair, becoming a conduit of talent and beauty that not a soul could ignore. Here she was, invading her fourth glass of wine and tuning out the rest of the table. She was surrounded by a patchwork of celebrities and strangers, but the unifying principle was that at the very least, every single guest at the table acted important. She’d never come to consider herself a celebrity, but ever since Miss Rowsell’s residency at the Aces Theatre, she had become one of the most coveted faces in New Vegas.

Kate was, in modest terms, a gorgeous, glamorous, and resourceful woman from California with an intoxicating set of lungs and a private life that was often the interest of public interest and scrutiny. It did not come as a surprise that that she’d been invited to this shiny and shallow dinner. This particular gathering, however, was quite curious; Dean Domino, a legend of pre-war entertainment and now the leader of the Chairmen, sat on the opposite end. She had not uttered a word to him, but the ghoul’s eyes had idly remained affixed to her own from across the table for much of the evening.

“Do you always look so deeply uninterested, Miss Rowsell?” asked the man sitting next to her – a rather handsome dark-haired man, wrapped in a velvet coat and sporting what looked like a 100-cap haircut.

“Oh…I’m just tired, that’s all,” muttered Kate as she looked around. She reached into her purse for a cigarette and plopped one into her mouth. The man did not allow her to reach for her lighter; he offered his, igniting the cigarette. She exhaled a plume of smoke and nodded at the man. “Thank you.” She then glared at him inquisitively. “I don’t recognize you. Are you one of Mr. Domino’s ‘doctors’?”

The man chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “Heavens, no. I am but an investor in happiness, my girl.”

Kate furrowed her brow as she took another smoke. “What in the world does that mean?”

“I am only a representative of this ‘happiness’. I do not know if it is truly my place to describe what it is. My name is Mr. Townley.”

“Kate. Kate Rowsell.”

“Yes, I know. Do you really believe that there is a single soul in New Vegas who does not your name?” Mr. Townley lit a cigarette of his own and smirked. “I doubt that even Mr. House could ignore the likes of you.”

Kate found herself blushing, not because of the man’s rehearsed charm, but the very thought of crossing the mind of the man in the tower. This entire world of theirs had been his brainchild, and she had spent many nights gazing at the Lucky 38, wondering what sort of hidden realm rested within. “You are too kind. But your answer doesn’t satisfy me.”

“I am but a layman of the Starry Glory, Miss Rowsell. A realm of discovery and splendor in this dirty, complicated world.”

Kate grimaced with disgust and crossed her legs in the other direction in dramatic fashion, turning away from the man. “You’re one of the crazies? One of the sales-priests? What the hell are you doing here?” She’d turned away from Mr. Townley with such abandon that her masterpiece of a dress had shown just a hint of the woman’s thigh, a section of her skin that itself was a wasteland of fresh needle-marks.

Mr. Townley stared down at the woman’s leg and frowned. “There is nothing ‘crazy’ about escaping, my dear.” He gently tapped his finger against the flawed skin—the hidden indicator of one of the woman’s darker secrets—and smiled. “And our escape is one that is far more tangible than this one you have here.”

Kate recoiled and fixed her dress. She looked down at her leg in horror; Mr. Townley had seen something impure; something no one there was supposed to see. She frowned and stood up, addressing the older woman at the end of the table. “It has been lovely, Marjorie, but I must retire for the night.” She left abruptly, dragging the back of her sparkling blue dress with her, and took the elevator alone to the lobby.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened and Mr. Townley’s velvet silhouette stood in front of the opening. “How did…? What?” She shook her head and sighed, brushing past the man. Nothing about this evening had made the slightest bit of sense to her.

“You did not give yourself a chance to understand, dear girl. We are what you have been looking for,” said Mr. Townley as he followed and walked alongside her.

“…What? What do you want?”

“You’re afraid, but not of me. Not really. You’re afraid of what this alluring life is going to turn you into.” He pointed at Kate’s leg. “You’re retreating to a world of your own because this one is not all you thought it was. But it could be.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t know you.”

“It is in my line of work to see people as they really are. Often, they themselves cannot see, but we do. Many of those who sit around you, wearing thousand-cap suits and masking themselves in glamor, are the ones who need it most,” said Mr. Townley. “And I see it in you, too. I can see longing beyond your face; I see a girl who is disillusioned with the empty glamor of high society.”

“How do you…nevermind. Your little church just FIXES these people?” asked Kate.

“We give them what they need to fix themselves. The Church of the Starry Glory is not about me. It is not about our prioress. It is about something far greater.” He gave an affirming nod and a bone-chilling smile. His expression then transformed into a far more stoic one. “You can find our home in South Vegas. It is hard to miss. You will be welcome there. All are welcome.”

“I don’t know…”

“Think about it.”

New Vegas, Lucky 38 Casino & Hotel
Mr. House & “The King”

“I, Caesar Lucius, Imperator of The Legion invite you to a meeting of delegates in the Legion’s capital of Santa Fe to determine the future of the West Coast and of our respective nations. Safe passage is guaranteed throughout Legion territory to all those that bear Caesar's mark.”

The King sat down in his plush checkered chair—astonishingly lacking his usual accompanying drink—and slowly nodded as Mr. House finished reading the Legion’s letter. “So…now we’re partying with Caesar?”

“Perhaps. For now. This summit will not resemble the parlay we orchestrated in the Ultra-Luxe. I will be utterly shocked and impressed if the topic is anything other than the Cult from the East.”

“So, we’re going?”

“You are going.”

“Oh. Okay, boss. Why me? You saw what happened last time you left me alone with those cats,” said The King with a defeated sigh.

“You won’t be dealing with the NCR. You will be dealing with Caesar. He is far more logical. Perhaps less predictable, but nonetheless, you will do well...I must channel my attention to Big Mountain. Project Aries has begun, and if it sees the light, then the human military I have crafted will be an anthill compared to what’s next.”

“What’s ‘Project Aries’, boss? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“As of now, it is only an endless, shapeless vortex of numbers. But soon, it will be real. And then it will be worth talking about.”

War Never Changes

The Free Economic Zone of the Mojave

---

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The King – Lucky 38 Casino & Resort, New Vegas

The King plopped a cigarette into his mouth, lit the end, and stirred the ice in his half-empty glass of whiskey. Robert House’s hulking monitor stood before him, but no face emanated from within; only static. It was more than likely that he was occupied with another transmission. The King shrugged and sank into the plush checkered couch facing the screen. Time had elapsed since the New Vegas Convention. The King hadn’t been in this business long enough to know if it had been a roaring success or total failure. He had a feeling that the answer resided somewhere in the middle, but if nothing else, it was a complete disaster for him. It was his audition, and he had failed. But, still, here he was.

By the time Mr. House’s debonair avatar graced the screen, The King was staring at the bottom of his empty glass.

“I’m sorry I’m late, your kingship,” said Mr. House snidely. “My conference with General Owen lasted longer than was expected.”

The King shrugged and gave a half-smile. “You’re the boss.”

Mr. House quickly dismantled the small-talk and dived straight into more pressing concerns. “Your place is, as it seems, is not at the diplomatic table. But I still have use for you, as long as that faulty heart of yours will allow.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Now for a matter of housekeeping—no pun intended—much is in motion, none of which will be slowing anytime soon. You still have a role to play in this.”

“Alright.”

“First, there is the matter of The Tops.”

“Dean Domino. What an interesting story,” muttered The King.

“Yes, indeed. He’s a clever rat; I had half a mind to send in my securitrons after his little coup d’etat, but as it turns out, the chairmen are now behind him. I guess I should not be at all surprised. The man is much more resourceful and cunning than Swank, who I suspect has either flown far away or is floating in the Colorado River. Either way, he is out of the running.”

“Strange, really.”

“Not exactly. He accomplished more than his predecessors combined with only a pistol and a can of gasoline. That man oozes the aura of the chairmen. Now there is only a question of keeping him in line, which has been surprisingly easy thus far. Perhaps too easy. I want you to keep an eye on him. Our concerns have ballooned to the national landscape, but our capital must proceed in an orderly fashion.”

“I’ll see what I can do, boss,” said The King as he bowed his head.

“You two were made for each other. I see no reason to worry. Now, the most pressing matter is that of the Brotherhood of Steel. And you do have a role to play in that as well.”

“So…I’m not done with the diplomacy table?”

“It’s different. There are many dimensions to our alliance, a bond that is crucial to our future. They desire an audience with the Boomers. I don’t want that to happen without supervision. The Brotherhood will be sending in a representative or two to New Vegas. Give them the presidential suite in the Tops and then escort them to Nellis. I will assign two securitrons to your detail.”

The King nodded. “Right. And if Mr. Domino tries anything off-camber while your brotherhood envoys are here?”

“Hmm. Then he will be dead.”

“Ah.”

“We are very close to becoming a crucial cog in this current climate. The Brotherhood has already shapeshifted our mass of deserters and civilians into a well-trained fight force. There is much work to be done—much doctrine to instill—but I think the Brotherhood realizes that their handiwork in The Divide will yield direct returns. I have no doubt that Barnaky will soon call for my aid against the Cult to the East, and I will have to answer. But before that happens, we must rig the odds in our favor. And for that, I will need privacy. You have work to do.”

The King slowly rose to his feet, picking up his glass and brushing dust off the lapel of his suit jacket. “Right. Okay, then.” At that, The King departed the Lucky 38, trudging over to the Monorail Station to inquire about the potential of the incoming Brotherhood envoys.

Mr. House then switched gears. He ordered a securitron to plug in a dusty holotape—the gift from Thomas Milburn—which sat on the adjacent desk, who then brutishly shoved the apparatus into a nearby computer terminal. Robert spun the data until he could articulate a clear signal. He embedded the invitation with an encoded message.

ROUND TWO?_ROBERT HOUSE_LUCKY 38 HOTEL & CASINO RESORT_

---

Lieutenant Grace Boucher & General Ivor Owen – Hopeville, The Divide

“I need updates for Mr. House, Lieutenant. The census was distributed as planned, yes?”

“Yessir.” The rather short uniformed woman, sporting a beret and a ponytail of wavy brown hair, held up a clipboard as she walked along the concourse of the missile silo with the General.

“Well? Spit it out.” General Owen’s sleep deprivation had bled seamlessly into his mood. The entirety of the Divide had been overworked for more than a month.

“The headcount we have received is 7,500. The amount that are currently fit for service is closer to 5,000. The cleaning sweep is finishing its final stages, removing rubble from the canyon and beginning to piece together apartments for officers on the far reaches of the valley. The Ashton Recovery Project is proceeding as planned, but they predict that it will be three more months before we see any considerable results.”

“Damn. Mr. House was hoping to start rebuilding by the end of the first month. But he will have to understand that he has stretched us very thin, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Equipment is proceeding as planned. U.S. Army Combat Armor is in surplus, which will allow for standard issue, while we are currently repairing the suits of Riot Gear and Power Armor we have managed to scavenge. Training is humming along as planned, but it will be some time before the Brotherhood are finished.”

“We won’t have time. Mr. House has just ordered me to have a bulk of our force at the ready, primed for cross-country travel. He is waiting for word from the Brotherhood. Hopefully that is motivating the Brotherhood to work as quickly as possible.”

“It seems that way. They have accelerated their process, but I doubt they will be nearly ready by the time Mr. House calls for them.”

“We will have to make do.”

Carousel

Calvin Lovegrove

En Route

Cal said nothing at first; he slowly stuck the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. He ran his fingers through his sweaty pompadour--dislodging a few hairs from their neat combover--and began the unholy drive to Danielle's. Goosebumps ran up his arms; her home was a place of sanctuary for him, and now he was forced to be the one to defile it. For the first few minutes, he said nothing, his eyes lingering on the scenery as if he was looking upon New York for the final time. He knew he was not, but Cal was well aware that no matter which way this case splintered, it would eviscerate him.

At the very least, it would no longer be convenient for Danielle to see him. She was a resourceful and cunning woman, but her arrangement with Calvin was predicted on the ideal that he kept the police away from her. Now here he was, bringing the most resourceful cop the precinct had seen in decades straight to her doorstep.

Finally, Cal decided to speak. "You must not be a man of cinema, Ash." He tried to lace his words with humor, but the delivery came out flat and wobbly. He couldn't even hide how distressed he had become. "...Well, most people learned of her when she was little, back on this weird fucking family values show that they aired in the 30s. Can't remember the name...Righteous Road? Terrible. But something about her drew Hitchcock's attention and she starred in The Grand Staircase as a teenager. Ever since then, she's been a household name. And she's grown up to be irresistible."

Cal bit his lip and tried to more clearly focus on the road, looking away from Ashley. "I don't have any dirt on her. From what I understand, she's a mysterious character, but as far as the NYPD can tell, she's clean as a whistle," he lied. "I have no idea why she would have been at that shitty club. Let alone for two consecutive nights. Sometimes, directors and agents go to public places to have meetings with their clients. Perhaps she was there on business." Again, Cal shifted in his chair. The more he lied, the more he continued to weave a gigantic delicate web that could be incinerated in an instant if Dani couldn't scrounge together an alibi.

After an uncomfortable half hour of driving, Cal parked on the street below a massive apartment structure that looked akin to a castle. He took a deep breath and then looked over at Ash to see if he had anything left to say. Sweat had started to deconstruct his hairdo.

"This is her place, according to the yellow pages," muttered Calvin. Come on, Dani. Do not fuck this up.

Carousel

Calvin Lovegrove

Club Carousel

Calvin made his way to his convertible without Ashley, who had stayed behind with some show-broad with a deer-in-the-headlights look about her. He sighed and hopped over the driver's side door, lighting a cigarette as he landed in the almost addictingly plush seat. He had to be very careful about how he played his cards with Danielle. He looked down the sidewalk he had parked along. At the end of the block, there stood a lone payphone.

What a fucking mess. Calvin rubbed his forehead as cigarette smoke filled the interior of the car. Two different demons were gripping his arms, and he would have to choose one to elope with. On one side, bringing Ashley to Danielle's apartment unannounced would prove to be a nightmare; she was devious but there was no way she would be able to masquerade her relationship with Calvin to a detective as merciless as Gallagher. His facade would burst at the seams; all of the dirty loopholes Cal used to keep Danielle out of prison would rain into the public eye.

On the other side, if Calvin called Danielle and warned her of the impending search, she would have time to rehearse her persona and keep the ruse intact. But this would mean that she would have time to craft her own story and alibi; the truth would be long-gone by the time Gallagher made it there. It would save Calvin's skin, but it would destroy the case. She was the only thread of evidence they had. Fuck. Calvin stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut. He leaned against the car-door and tossed his cigarette on the ground, burying it with his wing-tipped shoe.

Calvin took a deep breath and hurried to the payphone. He pumped in a nickel rung Danielle's apartment. He had to live to fight another day.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Calvin."

"Ugh. I got out of bed for your sorry hide?" Calvin could hear her chuckle behind the line.

"It's a pretty picture, darling. But I've got some alarming news."

"What?"

"You were signed into the Carousel Club on the nights of both of the Florist's murders."

"Yes, but...what?! You don't think that I--"

"No. I don't. You came home long before the first murder. But that's the problem. I'm your alibi."

"Shit..."

"I'm coming to your apartment with a fuckin' gunslinger of a detective--Ashley Gallagher--and he is going to drill his procedure into your goddamn skull until your brain starts to leak through your nose. Be ready for him. Prepare a story if you have to. We're forty five minutes away. Craft an alibi if you have to. If Detective Gallagher finds out about us, he will investigate our dealings and he will find everything. He is the best they have to offer."

"Perhaps it would be better if he was out of the picture..."

"Are you fuckin' crazy, love? No. Don't dig a deeper hole. Do what you do best. Act. I've got a lot on the line, but I'm working this case, Dani. I expect the truth from you later."

"Good luck, Calvin Lovegrove," Danielle muttered, with a raspy and almost seductive tone of voice. The line fell dead. Calvin quickly hung up the phone and sprinted back to his car. Ashley had not yet arrived. He hopped into his driver's seat and waited. Fuck. He'd quite possibly sabotaged the case before it even began.

Carousel

Calvin Lovegrove

Club Carousel

Cal stared at the bottom of his scotch. "I hope I'm alive once they figure out how to make 'em bottomless.." He downed the remainder of his demented health potion and stared over at Ashley. He couldn't let the boy do all the work. He'd let Detective Gallagher use his awkward charm to reel in the hostess, and then he'd strike. It wasn't long before she'd conjured the ledger.

After making an obsessive taste-test to make sure no drops of scotch were left in his glass, he sauntered over toward Ashley with his arms tucked into the pockets of his coat. He snatched the ledger from Detective Gallagher and held it out so they both could see, flipping to the two dates in question. February 5th and 6th, 1949. He traced his fingers down the two different days, on which hundreds of aliases had found their way onto the paper. Fuck. There was an entire city's worth of names here.

There was little to no chance that the murderer had signed in, and done so under their name, but perhaps if a strange detail had caught the eye of a repeat customer, it could at least be a thread to pull. He sighed as he exasperatedly ran his fingers down the list. He narrowed his eyes. The fuck? He found a name, which had been signed onto both evenings at the exact same time. 10:20 P.M. Danielle Raymonde. "What in the hell?" He muttered.

The hostess furrowed her brow. "You know her?"

Cal nervously quivered his lip. "Y---no. I don't know her personally," he lied. "But if that's the Dani Raymonde, then The Florist is tangling with the top of the tower. She's about as...thrilling...and rich...as starlets come." He narrowed his eyes. It was his job to veil her criminal dealings. This was nothing compared to some of the sinful depravity he'd masked for her. If Danielle had hidden that she'd been at Club Carousel on the nights of the murders from him, then this labyrinth of a case was far more complex than he'd predicted.

"This makes things far more complicated.' Cal plopped another cigarette into his mouth and lit the end. He took a deep breath and let loose a large puff of smoke. "Sounds like we're going to have to question this 'Danielle Raymonde', Detective Gallagher. I know, I know...Popping your Hollywood-leading-lady-chat cherry isn't so attractive when it's done in police procedure. But take what you can get."

"Shall we take my car?"

Carousel

Calvin Lovegrove

Club Carousel

“What’d I miss, Cal?”

Detective Lovegrove looked up at Ashley and murdered his cigarette, crushing its life against an ashtray. He folded his arms and leaned back. “This one is a long shot, Ash. There’s almost nothing to go on.” He stared at the stage and took a deep breath. “Fuck, this place is depressing. There’s no tits and no scotch. Only…despair.” He grunted and pursed his lips.

Cal gestured to the chair next to him and waited for Ashley to sit. He folded his legs and wiped a bit of grime off his cheek. “I am here because a serial killer in the neon jungle is bad for business. It’s bad for everyone – the department looks bad, and the characters who rely on the loopholes in the NYPD suddenly become cynical. Everything falls apart.”

After a moment, Cal frowned and tapped his fingers against the table. “I am sorry to hear about Detective Smith’s passing, but this is larger than him. You cannot take this case on an emotional joyride. If someone is truly cutting up the ladies of the Carousel, then they’re doing it deliberately. They’re trying to destroy the fabric of business that allows the underworld and the NYPD to coexist. That’s the only reason I’m here. If this was a grimy neighborhood in Brooklyn, I’d have walked away.”

Cal then offered a smile. “Well, the only way to walk is forward. Let’s assess what we have…This ‘florist’ is murdering young ladies in the neon jungle, which is about as bold as it gets. By doing so, you risk offing the darling of a crime lord or affluent businessman. It’s either a deliberate scheme or he wants to be caught. However, you can immediately eliminate the latter. Smith comes too close to the truth, and he winds up dead. It’s about as clear of track covering as I’ve ever seen.”

Cal continued. “Even though we would have come to this conclusion by proximity, the killer wants us to know that they’re connected. This is again an impasse – he is either stroking his ego or wants to create a frightening caricature to scare the masses into chaos. Perhaps both. These are not emotional killings – each murder has been silent perfection, carried out with immaculate technique. From what we have to go on, this is about as close to a motive as we can find.”

Cal looked over to the bar. “They’ll listen to you before they listen to the guy on suspension. I want you to walk up to that lovely hostess and ask to see their books. Get a list of all tenants on the nights of the two murders and let’s cross-reference them.”