I KNOW this lead-up thing is going on forever. And ever. AND EVER. But soon now. Soon. There will be payoff, I swear to you.

You'll see a character pop up in this that defies canon a little. In my defense, I thought it was a fitting reassignment. As always, I did do some blatant assuming again (seriously, though, why doesn't Moore have a company clerk?) so hopefully it doesn't suck. Consolidating this part, so this chapter is longer than usual. Trying to hustle things along a little.

Thanks to all the folks stickin' with this btw! :3 Hopefully I'm not boring the pants off of you.

[ 17 :: Hamburger ]

The month of preparation came and went with little fanfare, and when the day finally came to depart, the morning rife with tension, Sarah found that she was relieved to finally be going through with it. Walking out of the A Ring and into the Citadel courtyard, she spotted both Knight Captain Dusk and Scribe Jameson standing alongside the Vertibird as it was undergoing its last few weapons checks, the both of them turning their attention to her as she approached.

"You're getting that look again," Jameson remarked as Sarah came within earshot.

Sarah arched her eyebrows at Jameson, her look met with a wry, knowing smile from the older woman. Coming to a halt alongside the stocked and fueled Vertibird at the center of the Citadel's courtyard with their small crew nearly assembled and ready to go- save one, though he was soon to follow- the Sentinel found it difficult to keep her slight anxiousness at bay, a fact that was apparently showing up on her face.

Still, she was obligated to fire back with a curt, "What look?"

"That look," Jameson said, her smile broadening. "Could it be you're finally looking forward to this little outing?"

Sarah pursed her lips to get rid of her own barely restrained smile, though it did little to curb the scribe's amusement. "Maybe."

"I'm psyched," Dusk chimed in cheerfully, packing the last of her gear into the Vertibird's storage compartments. "Never been to the Chicago ruins before."

"For the last time," Sarah said flatly, "we're going to Colorado. We're only going to Chicago if, by some miracle, these talks actually go the way we want them to."

"Oh." Dusk paused. "Right. Well," she said, shrugging, "never been to Colorado, either. Honestly, I'm just happy to get a chance to see travel the countryside by vertibird. Not many people do these days."

Sarah cleared her throat, and said, "We'll just hope you don't get airsick this time."

"Once," Dusk huffed, the power helmet she wore obscuring her expression but doing little to downplay her indignity. "That happened once, and it was thanks to that crappy squirrel meat we got from a street vendor."

Sarah smirked as she went to double-check the gear packed into the cargo hold. "Sure it was."

"Man, that was awful," Dusk muttered. "I couldn't put my helmet back on for weeks."

"At least the lot of you have had a chance to be on board," Jameson remarked, artfully cutting off any attempts made by the Paladin to explain the comment, "It's been ages since I've been on one."

"Was that for the trip out here?" Sarah asked absently, the bulk of her attention going towards running a mental checklist of their inventory as she scanned the contents of the cargo hold.

"It was, actually," Jameson replied, smiling faintly. "I was still an apprentice then."

Sarah grinned. "And I was, what... three? Four?"

Dusk chuckled. "I wasn't even born yet."

The smile fading to a faintly exasperated expression, Jameson said, "I didn't bring it up so the two of you could make me feel old."

"If it does, just close your eyes and think of Rothchild," Sarah said helpfully. "That'd make anyone feel younger."

"Or nauseous," Dusk amended.

"...Or a little of both, maybe," Jameson said under her breath.

Sarah let out a short laugh, surprised by the scribe's candid aside. "Do I detect a hint of resentment, there?"

"No," Jameson said. "Just a fair indication that the both of you are a bad influence on me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sarah replied, taking a step away from the storage container once she was satisfied that they had everything they needed. "Looks like we're all ready on this end," she told the other two women.

"Should I close up the cargo hold, then?" Dusk asked, nodding towards the open hatch.

"Not just yet," Sarah said, nodding her head in the direction of an approaching Knight. "Gallows still needs to pack a couple things."

Dusk stiffened, the shift in her posture clear even through the bulky power armor. "-What? Gallows is coming with?"

The echo of his power helmet's rebreather made the kissy sound Gallows gave Dusk even more absurd than it would have been normally. "He is," he informed her dryly, hauling some of his own extra gear towards the cargo hold.

Dusk muttered something under her breath, approaching Sarah to address her in a hushed voice. "You didn't tell me-"

"-because it doesn't matter," Sarah said, cutting the younger woman off with a raise of her hand. "You don't choose who stays or goes, remember?" She gave Dusk a sidelong 'don't make me pull rank' look. "I do- and you two are the best candidates for the job. I needed a good eye, and- well..."

"Some serious scary?" Dusk deadpanned.

"Which you're sorely lacking," Sarah said. "Look, just play nice, don't let him rile you, and everything'll be fine."

"Sure it will," Dusk muttered.

"Everything'll be fine, Dusk," Sarah repeated firmly. "Just remember: could always be worse."

"Yeah," Dusk said, snorting lightly. "Could be going with-"

"You say 'Colvin' and the next round of leave is going to him," Sarah said flatly. "Just so you're aware."

"Ah, excuse me," Jameson said, raising her hand to get Sarah's attention. "I hate to interrupt, but Gallows is finished loading up his equipment, and the pilot's been given the all-clear."

Sarah nodded, gesturing for Dusk and Gallows to board the Vertibird. She allowed herself a brief glance towards the Citadel's laboratories, but stopped herself short of giving one 'last' look around. Though she wasn't about to discount her misgivings about the mission, she knew better than to dwell on them, even momentarily. With or without the conflict of ideology that'd been going between Dusk and Gallows for some time, Sarah knew unit cohesion was by no means a concern, and knew that in spite of what could prove to be extraordinary odds, she couldn't have been in better company.

[...]

"Have they made their last check-in?" Scribe Rothchild asked as he spotted Elder Lyons in his peripheral vision, his attention turning away from his console.

"They have," Lyons confirmed with a slight nod. "Everything's going well. They'll be out of range within the hour... we won't hear from them again until they have access to the Midwestern comms system."

"I admit," Rothchild said, a half-smile on his face, "I had my concerns, but between you and the communiques we've been getting, I'm rather anxious to see what comes of it." Beat. "Really, the only remaining 'issue' is Sarah and her cohorts feeling a little let down by how- anticlimactic it all is."

Lyons chuckled. "Knowing Sarah," he said, "that sounds about right. But she needed to take this seriously... Much as I'm confident that everything will go smoothly, allowing her that same confidence may, ah- have stunted the negotiation process."

Rothchild chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Once she finds out you played her, she won't be too happy with you."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," the Elder replied. "I'm sure she'll understand. Provided it needs to be explained..."

"Mum's the word." Lyons had nearly turned to leave when Rothchild turned to get his attention again, saying a quick, "Oh- one thing I should mention-"

"Yes?"

"The last communique we got from the Midwestern chapter," Rothchild said. "They mentioned something about a signal coming in from the West."

Lyons gave Rothchild an incredulous look. "They're in contact with the West as well?"

"Eh... After a fashion."

"And what do you mean by that, exactly?"

"It means- that I'm not sure it means," Rothchild said, giving a mild shrug. "All they said was that they think it was intended for us, that it was coded to our radio frequencies. Apparently it was little more than a series of frequencies and coordinates, but..." He shrugged. "We might want to tell Sarah- or Jameson, more likely, to inquire about it when their talks have concluded."

Lyons considered for a time, eventually giving a slow nod of agreement. "Seems odd that the Western chapters would try to get back in touch, save to make threats..."

"My thoughts exactly."

"...but we may as well find out what they've been saying," Lyons concluded, "if indeed they're attempting to re-establish communications of some kind. Whatever form that happens to take." Beat. "Get a message to Sarah and her team... let them know about this before they're out of range."

Rothchild nodded, turning his attention back to his console as the Elder departed. And curious though he was about the meaning behind the signal from their Western Brothers, he knew better than to get his hopes up.

[...]

Ending the brief transmission she'd run through ED-E's relays- one that consisted entirely of listing frequencies and coordinates and little else- and hoping that she hadn't used the wrong channels, Veronica sat back on the plush bed she'd taken as her own in the Jacobstown hotel-turned-commune. In front of her, ED-E hovered listlessly in the air, the grating along its front beginning to look more and more like a giant, psychotic smile.

"Hello to you, too," she said, smiling back at the floating robot wearily.

"Hamburger," ED-E replied, Marcus's deep voice coming from its speaker.

Veronica sighed. As hilarious as attempting to program an additional voice interface for ED-E had been at first blush, she was beginning to realize that she might not have the chops to work so intricately with hardware- and software- that she was still trying to figure out. Getting the little eyebot to respond properly with its voice catalogue was still proving to be an incredibly frustrating endeavor, one that she was close to giving up on completely. She found it ironic, though, that 'hamburger,' one of the many words Marcus had been greatly opposed to saying for her, was the one ED-E seemed to reply with the most.

Raul's endeavors had been met with some success, however. Really, she had to hang it to the guy; getting it to communicate with the Black Mountain satellites and boost its signal was a feat unto itself. That she'd managed to establish any sort of stable uplink with the arrays was something of a minor miracle so far as she was concerned, but whether or not it worked would be another matter entirely. For her part, she was pleased enough with the fact that, aside from making the eyebot's voice module completely useless, she'd managed to increase its ability to track her from a distance using little more than a transmitter she'd soldered into her power fist. Still, she'd be damned if she'd abandon her latest... rather pointless new hobby.

And speaking of pointless, she thought ruefully, glancing back up at the omnipresent cycloptic happy-face the eyebot sported.

She'd been hesitant to request the frequency prior to leaving the Strip in the first place, but once she had gotten her hands on it- all thanks to Kette- she was almost positive that it wouldn't be of any use to her. Sure, Kette had given numerous assurance that the information was genuine and furthermore, that she'd been extremely careful about extracting it from the Mojave Brotherhood's databanks, but that didn't mean it was definitely going to work. The whole endeavor was still a shot in the dark; there were absolutely no guarantees that the message would pierce through the mess of background radiation that had settled between the two coasts, and even if it did, there was no guarantee that it'd come through unscrambled.

That said, she couldn't deny the rush of excitement she got from the notion that maybe, just maybe, she'd strike paydirt. The only thing that held her up was the stab of guilt that came from utterly failing to give her new home an actual chance. It had only been a couple weeks since Keene had nearly pummeled her into a fine paste, and ever since, there'd been no further confrontations. Still, nothing had been settled... and the distinct feeling of being relegated to the role of 'Outsider' was one that had persisted. It was enough to prompt her into making the call, but- whether or not she could hardly be blamed for it, it didn't sit well with her. Felt like she was giving up a little too quickly.

Telling herself that an answer was unlikely, that even if they did answer she didn't have to accept the call, she found that she could mitigate those feelings, at least- but only to a slight degree.

"Think they'll ever respond?" Veronica asked aloud to no one in particular, though she aimed it at the eyebot.

"Stop recording, Veronica."

"I though I erased that clip," she sighed, laying back against the bed.

"Hamburger," said ED-E.

"Yeah," she said to the ceiling, her smile fading. "Hamburger."

[...]

Having vacated the lodge in an attempt to get her head together, Veronica hadn't intended on seeking Lily's company when she'd stepped off the porch- indeed, that seemed as though it would only intensify the workings of a guilty conscience- but, seeing the elderly Nightkin peacefully tending to the herd of Bighorners, the idea seemed to have some merit. Having left ED-E back in her room and finding herself in need of some company- company that would give her continued presence in the town some merit, though she wasn't about to admit it- she made her way over to the half-destroyed fences surrounding the small herd, arms draping loosely over one of the weathered wooden posts.

"Need any help?" she asked, inwardly acknowledging that she was entirely too fatigued to make good of the offer.

Lily took note of it, her otherwise difficult to read expression registering mild curiosity, even behind the bulky sunglasses. Raising her head, the elderly Nightkin sniffed at the air; the move was a common one among the town's inhabitants, one that Veronica had become less bemused by over time. It still struck her as odd, even a bit invasive, but if it helped those she was getting to know become better acquainted with her, she wasn't entirely against it.

"Poor dear," Lily said, sympathetic, "you hardly sound like you're in any shape to lend a hand... but I appreciate the offer."

"You mean I don't smell like it," Veronica replied, smiling lopsidedly.

Lily gave a reasonable facsimile of a smile. "That, too," she said, somewhat apologetically. "You'll have to forgive your old grandma for that, pumpkin'. Old habits have a way of outliving their usefulness..."

"It's okay. Seems like it's been useful enough for folks around here..." Veronica paused, considerate. "Does it help?" she asked, curious. "Doing that, I mean."

"Oh, it most certainly does," Lily replied, only too happy to explain the phenomena. "Back in the old days, Master encouraged us to use our senses to get a better read on our enemies. Some of the Nightkin, why, they'd spend days training their noses to pick up on cues like that. 'Least, when it didn't come naturally..."

"How did they train?"

Lily shook her head. "Best you didn't ask, dear." She turned abruptly at the sound of a pair of Bighorners clashing, her heavy hands raising together with a loud clap. "Hey!" she bellowed at them, exerting that scratchy voice of hers to further startle the animals. "I said no fighting!" It didn't seem like it should work- but it did, regardless, the two males backing away from each other slowly. "Honestly," the elderly Nightkin sighed, "those two won't be happy 'til they've gone an' beaten each other to death. Old Muttonhead," she continued, waving towards the Bighorner that still looked ready for a fight, "can't quite seem to catch a break from the youngsters these days."

"Muttonhead?" Veronica asked, grinning.

"Yes," Lily said. "They don't all have names... but seeing as he's been around the longest, there didn't seem to be any harm in giving him a nickname." She shook her head. "He won't last much longer, though... the herd's already decided he's getting too old for them."

Unwittingly noting the parallel therein, Veronica opted to remain quiet on that point. Instead, she watched the old Bighorner as he shuffled irritably to the outskirts of the herd, grudgingly assuming the place the younger bulls had put him in. She didn't have any doubt that, out in the wild, he'd have been left for dead some time ago. Inwardly, she had to laugh at herself for sympathizing a little too heavily with both the mutant and the aptly-named Muttonhead.

Drawn from her reverie by the elderly Nightkin looking abruptly towards the mountain peaks, Veronica turned to glance in that direction as well. Finding nothing, she furrowed her brow, turning back towards Lily curiously.

"You see something?"

Lily kept looking for a time, nostrils flaring as she again scented the air, her muted expression showing hints of intense concentration. "It's probably nothing," she announced, then, shaking her head. "Leo says they're shadows."

Leo. Veronica paused, glancing back towards the lodge. The name was one she would've benfitted from remembering amidst the confrontation with Keene; something told her both Lily's 'other' and this so-called '57' shared a great deal in common. Still, something about the sudden nature of Lily's reaction to- whatever it was up in the hills compelled the former scribe to keep her eyes on the grouping of snow-covered trees that had become the mutant's point of focus, if in fact that had been it. She couldn't see anything there, nor any sign of movement... but she found it oddly difficult to let it drop.

After a while, she finally did... and under the cover of the trees, their eyes locked on the movements of the two individuals tending the Bighorner herd, a group of four soldiers slowly began to relax, the camera held by the squad leader raised to take one last snapshot.

[...]

Of all the things Brigadier General Cassandra Moore had thought she'd be doing upon receiving a promotion, wading knee-deep into regional and Republic-wide politics hadn't part of those expectations. Furthermore, there were matters concerning the occupation of outlying farmland that was being treated with a confounding amount of urgency. It was only a week after her promotion that she'd been given the orders to start drafting up strategies to secure the new territories from their present inhabitants, nearly two months since the Fiends had been eradicated.

While normally, she'd find the efficiency refreshing, something about it wasn't sitting well with her... and for the life of her, she couldn't tell what it was.

On the local front, Colonel Hsu had picked up an incredible amount of the slack when it came to further securing the region, but for all the legitimate good that did, Moore was busier than she ever had been in the past. And considering there wasn't even a war on, that seemed like a feat in and of itself. One of the things she'd been tasked with, she hardly minded- sending out bloodhound units to track down and destroy what remained of the Legion's forces had been more satisfying than taxing- but some of the others...

Her former affiliation with the Rangers made her feel personally obligated to be involved in cleaning up the mess the late Chief Hanlon had made of the organization. Acting on an ailing conscience, he had, in the span of an hour, sewn the seeds of distrust, thrown everything the Rangers had done into question... and had made many in military and political circles question whether or not the organization's autonomy and lack of greater oversight had created a liability rather than an asset.

The impact ran so deep that by the time she'd heard about his duplicitous plan to hinder the occupation of the region- and what he'd done when it was exposed- her resentment towards his decision to commit suicide had grown every minute of every day she had to deal with what he left behind.

Miserable old bastard didn't even have the decency to stand in front of a firing line. Figures.

And lo, the moment the news went viral- coming in as it did on the coat-tails of what state officials back home were calling a 'highly contraversial and questionably heavy-handed strike' against the Fiends, though they'd referred to them as 'misguided natives' to put a fresh spin on it- plans were already underway to up-end the entire program. Moore was certain that if the military didn't involve itself in the process, the Rangers would be de-fanged and de-clawed and, unsurprisingly, that was precisely what happened. General Oliver- his grudge against the late Hanlon's elite speaking for him more often than not- had denied her many requests to be on the advisory panel tasked with finding a solution to the problem, and had all but banned military involvement in the proceedings.

In the end, she could only watch the chain of events from afar- and she did, no matter how much it turned her stomach to see it happen. There was no way to maintain the organization as it had been, and there seemed to be little interest in turning the wreckage into something that at least vaguely resembled what had been, in the past, a highly respected and incredibly effective force. Sadly, there seemed to be no end of obstacles when it came to doing just that; as irritatingly sluggish as they could be when drafting up new legislation, the Republic's Senatorial boards had been amazingly swift when it came to dismantling the organization. That, too, reeked of foul play, but unlike the orders she'd received concerning the occupation of new territories, she didn't have to wonder why she took poorly to it.

But then came the distractions that should have been menial, but became all-consuming. Those were the ones she truly hated.

Ambassador Crocker, even more puffed-up with self-importance after being appointed a position of greater political power, had been instrumental in shafting her with a new set of duties. He hadn't hesitated to put his new authority to 'good use,' as he put it. He was exceptionally talented when it came to bending the ears of the soft-minded senators and limp-wristed congressman back in California, and they, in turn, used their clout to bend the ears of receptive military commanders. If they were still engaged in an all-out war, all the behind-the-scenes chatter wouldn't have made a difference. Domestic policies would have been undercut by military objectives in unsecured territories, but as it was a time of peace in a region that the NCR now claimed, the military was forced to bow to the judgment of the government back home.

That being the case, General Oliver, riding high on 'his' latest victory, ever the Golden Boy of the NCR hierarchy, had brought Crocker's... suggestions back to her. It didn't matter that Crocker's ideas made sense- that she was an ideal candidate and indeed, one of the few active members of the military able to make the preferred impact... but considering their history together, she was convinced he'd mostly just done it to screw with her.

And thanks to him, her initial meetings with the former Scribe of the Mojave Brotherhood, both clandestine and otherwise, had been something of a primer for things to come. Moore had found herself dealing with the Brotherhood on a semi-regular basis, trotted out like an old warhorse for what were, essentially, over-glorified photo-ops with the 'ambassadors' their new so-called allies sent. It had been stressed to her on numerous occasions that, with their new diplomatic ties still in their infancy, a great deal of care had to be put into keeping clashes to a minimum- and the Brotherhood's plans to begin regular patrols along the I15, the 95 and other trade routes made the need for local support even more pressing.

"Considering your reputation, you're the best chance we've got for establishing a little trust in our new allies," she'd been told, by Oliver himself. "

"If I may, sir," she'd said, maintaining as respectful a tone as she could manage under the circumstances, "calling them 'allies' seems a bit premature. I'm willing to bet that their interest in patrolling the roads serves them more than it'll ever serve us."

"That's the kind of attitude we're hoping we can put a stop to," Oliver replied dryly. "There's a few... 'high profile' types-" -Kimball's campaign financiers, she thought ruefully, same ones who lobbied to have you put in charge- "-who're hoping that this is the first step towards peace with Brotherhood back home."

You're kidding, right? Moore arched an eyebrow at the General, saying, "Permission to speak freely, sir?" in a none-too-happy tone.

"Permission denied," Oliver replied, seeming to know full well what she was angling at- and rightly so- eager to dismiss her and get on with his day.

It was aggravating; ever since Kimball had drawn her name from the short list of Colonels up for promotion, Oliver had been far more heavy-handed when it came to his dealings with her. 'One star to my four,' was a phrase he'd become particularly fond of.

Aside from being profoundly irritating, however, it was neither here nor there; it didn't matter whether or not she got her say. The response would undoubtedly be the same. There were plenty of people back in California who, no matter their history with the technophillic tribe, were aching to get a trade agreement signed with the Brotherhood. It was futile, of course, but she knew better than to argue with individuals who were more smitten with dollar signs than they were with logistics.

As for her, she could argued that she was better left to continue overseeing the clean-up that needed to be done in the wake of the Legion's retreat, argued that the region would accept the Brotherhood's presence on the basis that everyone was still raw from the last war, but she'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that whatever she had planned to do, Colonel Hsu could handle well enough on his own.

She didn't doubt that- Hsu was more than capable- and while she was grateful that she and the Colonel had developed a less confrontational dynamic over the last month and a half, she was nonetheless a bit... jealous of the duties he'd been handed, if only thanks to how deeply she despised her own.

Even if she recognized the necessity of the meetings held with both the Brotherhood ambassadors and some of their higher-ranking members, she hated being so thoroughly immersed in region politics, hated even more the notion of being more of a symbol rather than a respected military commander. It didn't matter that it was just for a short period of time. It undermined her honesty and her integrity in several respects, had forced her to hold her tongue whenever her colleagues had asked what her actual opinion of the situation happened to be. Once in the spotlight, she knew, it was almost impossible to get out of it until the public grew weary of you- and men like Ambassador Crocker were undoubtedly getting no end of amusement out of seeing her put to use in that capacity.

And then, on top of all of that, there was still the task of coordinating a new effort of expansion, one that had presented a couple snags of its own. She'd been given a direct role in overseeing the proceedings, and, upon securing what few working cameras there were in the area, had assigned two hand-picked squads to do reconnaissance on the territory her superiors were so interested in. Once that was put into motion, she was withdrawn from diplomatic duties, the dreaded spotlight already starting to divert its attention elsewhere.

The task at hand? Seizing resource-rich territories from a bunch of super mutants. Far from thrilling, but definitely more in her area of expertise than shaking hands with ambassadors and feigning congeniality for the sake of public appearances.

The settlement was called Jacobstown. For some time, the NCR had been aware of the community, but aside from a few overzealous brahmin barons and Bighorner ranchers making noise about wanting the land they occupied for themselves, there'd been little interest in securing the territory. Resources were spread too thin, and the military needed every able-bodied man and woman they could get their hands on to serve in their fight against the Legion. Now that they had a stable foothold, however, the need to produce a greater yield of meats and other animal products for what would inevitably become a steadily growing populace had brought both the military and the civilian government to an agreement on the matter. True, there were some abandoned farms that already built that purpose, ones that needed only to be brought back from years of neglect, but the barons had been right: fewer territories were better suited for Bighorners specifically, and the reports of a surplus of wild herds populating the area had significantly raised interest, both local and otherwise.

The only point of irritation had been the information Moore's clerk had dug up about the barons' prolonged interest in the locaton; in the efforts of trying to secure the help of the military earlier in the year, many of those vying for control of the land had already sought to provoke the mutants into giving them a reason to attack... an attack that would have obligated the military to respond. Finding out about that hadn't changed her orders any, but it had made her far more leery about the entire operation. Even so, she was determined to make the solution more elegant and more- straightforward than what had been attempted in the past. She had ordered several scouts to the area to find the best points of entry, had asked the Ranger station posted nearby to monitor all communications and had, lastly, begun speaking with Crocker about his tree-hugging take on diplomatic measures. She'd been pleased to find that he had no objections to exercising 'extreme prejudice' on the matter.

Everything was promising to go smoothly, until one of her scouting units tasked with taking photos of the community had come back with a surprising revelation. The hour was late, and it was nearly time for her to call it a night when the news arrived.

"Ma'am?"

She looked up from her desk to see her clerk standing in her doorway, a curious look on his face. The man had been transferred over to her when, a few months prior to the second battle of Hoover Dam, her old clerk had the nerve to be promoted and moved into a combat role. The moment it happened, she'd demanded a replacement, and they'd found one that was perfectly suited to the assignment.

Upon seeing the man's record, she'd asked them if they were joking. When she was informed that, no, they were quite serious, she'd given herself some time to think on her request. The stack of paperwork looming at the far end of her desk had ultimately been what made her accept, however dubious the candidate's record.

Hailing from a squad of, quite simply, the biggest pile of fuck-up she'd ever seen, the man in question was a pacifist by nature. He would have made a better cook than infranty. But, turning the idea over in her head, she couldn't say those weren't bad traits to have in someone who was assigned to longer stretches of desk duty than even she was. Pacifists could be badgered, frightened, and generally antagonized into doing what was necessary without much effort, provided he ever got the inclination to slack off- as his record so eloquently stated he had, to an epic degree. Not his fault, the board assured her; it was a distinct clash of personalities and 'poor leadership' that caused the biggest problems, saying nothing about his attitude towards fighting. But, once the squad was broken up and its members reassigned, there was some hope for improvements- and thanks to her request, they were certain they found a spot where the last remaining member of the group could fit.

But there was the small issue of his name.

O'Hanrahan. She nearly withdrew her request altogether based on the prospect of being forced to say it out loud.

Still, with an inbox that was getting increasingly packed with every kind of form imaginable, she took a chance that maybe she'd get used to hearing it.

Unsurprisingly, she never did.

That said, there were worse choices to make; if O'Hanrahan was anything, he was prompt, hard-working and strangely impenetrable to insults. He hadn't batted an eye when she'd told him to get rid of the ridiculous cowlick hanging over his forehead, either, and went ahead and did it that same day. And while she wasn't sure she liked him all that much, she'd at least benefited from her decision to take him on as a clerk.

"Private," she greeted him as he stepped over the threshold, not at all surprised to see him holding yet another stack of completed papers; she'd nearly told him to wait on presenting the paperwork to her when she saw a manilla envelop containing a stack of photographs. "Are those from the scouts?" she'd asked, a slight raise of her head giving him implicit permission to enter.

"Yes'm," O'Hanrahan replied, dutifully making his way over to her desk. "Whole mess'a photographs they got for you today."

Depositing the folder on her desk, he'd barely had time to set down the coffee he'd fetched for her when she'd spotted a photo that made her every muscle go tense. There, amidst the towering forms of the FEV-addled beasts, was a peculiar Nightkin with a straw hat tending to a group of Bighorners, an incredibly familiar young woman standing alongside it.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed under her breath.

O'Hanrahan blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Not you," she said, laying the photo down on her desk to point plainly at the former scribe helping to tend with the Bighorners nearby. "This woman. Did they say if they spent any time tracking her?"

"Er... they didn't say," O'Hanrahan said, eyebrows raised, mildly perplexed by her reaction. "'Least, not in the reports. Said somethin' about-" he pondered. "Somethin' about it lookin' like she was workin' with a couple'a them zom-" beat, "ghouls," he corrected himself. "Fixin' generators and the like." He paused again, glancing down at the photo she had in hand. "Kinda peculiar," he remarked, "pretty girl like that shackin' up with a bunch'a mutants."

I wouldn't call it 'peculiar,' Moore thought irritably, a slew of internalized expletives following in the thought's wake.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, glossing over the young man's observation.

"No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "Just the report n'them photos."

"I'll need some new orders drafted up for them within the hour," she said distractedly, turning her eyes back to the photos presented to her. "It should-" she paused, waiting for him to retrieve his trusty pad and paper so he could jot down notes. "It should inform them," she began again, "to return to the settlement so they can get as many photos of the surrounding area as possible. Once that's finished, they're to hold position at the old Ranger station and wait for further instructions." She waited for him to finish writing, her eyebrows arching once he got a chance to look up at her. "You got all that?"

"Yes ma'am," O'Hanrahan said, scanning his notes. "Take photos of the area-"

"-With an eye out for any positions that can be exploited by our sharpshooters," she added as an afterthought.

He jotted the note down. "By... sharpshooters," he repeated under his breath. "Got it. An', ah- after that, they're headed back to the Ranger station 'til you send 'em new instructions." Beat. "Or, you know- somethin' like that."

"Can't read your own handwriting?" she said, vaguely amused. Before he could respond, she continued, saying, "I realize it's late, but I'll need you to draft something up before you head out tonight," Moore said, raising a hand to rub lightly at her temples. "And by the way," she amended, letting her hand drop, "You might want to resist using the phrase 'something like that' in the final copy." Beat. "You're dismissed."

O'Hanrahan nodded and hurried out, the tone he heard her take with him leading him to be decidedly hasty about his departure.

Left alone in what passed for her office, Moore let out a soft, humorless chuckle, loosely tossing the photo onto her desk. "That's twice now," she said to no one in particular.

Twice that the former scribe had put the General in a tenuous position, their past association prone to becoming a liability if it turned out that she'd been helping the mutants improve their technology. Twice that she'd have to try making a deal, or getting rid of the young woman altogether. If the Brotherhood ever found out that one of their own, exile or no, was helping a group of super mutants, and that she had done so under Moore's watch...

Regardless of how little attention Jacobstown had been paid, nothing good could ever come of it. Never mind that during peace talks, Moore herself had been the one to vouch for Veronica when it came to her unwillingness to share secrets with outsiders. As expected, her presence at Hoover Dam had called the former scribe's- and the NCR's own- integrity into question, as it raised the possibility that she was, in fact, doing exactly what Moore had proposed to her in the first place.

It could be worse, Moore knew. Much worse. But it still looked bad- extremely bad, in fact, if their campaign to take the territory lead them to secure any modified equipment the scribe had worked on. Sure, the equipment could be destroyed, but being the one to give the order to have it destroyed in the first place would lead to too many questions, and even more uncomfortable answers.

"That's what you get for sentimentality," she muttered to herself, pulling open one of her desk drawers to unearth a half-drained bottle of scotch, a shot's worth of liquor poured into the coffee O'Hanrahan had brought in.

Won't make that mistake again.