[ 27 :: Some Real Solemn Face-Time ]
Though asked to explain what exactly was going on, Ghost had instead opted to let the holotape she'd brought with her do the talking. Had said that explanations would come after the fact; after Moore knew what was going on. Locating a tape reader and placing it on the table and loading up the tape itself, the ranger didn't ask permission to fetch a bottle of scotch from the kitchen, her presumption earning her an odd look, one that was greeted with another tentative smile.
"You might want to sit down for this," Ghost had said, a faint, grim smile on her face. "Maybe have a drink or two handy."
"It's that bad?" Moore asked, wincing inwardly at the tense quality in her voice.
Ghost let out a short chuckle, seating herself alongside the younger woman. "Worse," she said, hitting the play button on the small device.
As the former ranger poured out a couple rounds of scotch into a pair of glasses, all Moore could hear from the reader was a rustling sound- or static, maybe. Eventually, she could hear muted voices, ones that got progressively louder, ones she immediately identified as General Oliver and Senator William Morales.
"Where did you get this?" Moore asked over the sounds of the two men making small talk, looking sidelong at the woman beside her.
"I'll tell you when it's done playing," Ghost said, pulling a beat-up pack of cigarettes out of her side pocket. "You mind...?"
Glancing towards the cigarettes, Moore shook her head, "Go right ahead," said distractedly. "If it's as bad as you say, I might want one, myself."
Ghost half-smirked around the cigarette between her lips as she lit it, pausing to take a couple puffs off of it. "No one likes a quitter, I suppose."
Affording the former ranger a faint smile, Moore settled back in the chair she was seated on, arms crossing loosely over her chest. Ignoring the drink she'd been offered for the moment, her attention turned entirely to the small device that sat between them, she could feel herself getting tense, even through the preliminary, muffled small-talk.
"I don't want you getting cold feet, here, Lee," she'd heard Morales say. "And you'd be wise to remember that you came to me, not the other way around."
There was no response, just a faint sound of pages turning, the pause giving Moore the chance to glance towards Ghost in silent question. Ghost merely nodded towards the player as she took a long drag off her cigarette, breathing out a plume of smoke to make way for a small mouthful of liquor.
"The public want someone to blame," Morales continued, pausing for a moment to reiterate- "-needs someone to blame. The only way the people back home will see the benefit of this war is if someone... preferably someone that isn't you, answers for how many of our soldiers came home in body bags. Been raising.. ten kinds of hell over..." she could almost picturing him gesturing in an attempt to find the right words, "crimes against humanity or some... peacenik mumbo jumbo-" -another pause, complete with the sound of a lighter being ignited, a few long puffs followed up by the grit-teeth sound of his voice as he spoke around what she presumed was a newly-lit cigar- "-demanding answers from the President and anyone else who threw their weight behind the whole campaign. Now... you and I both know it was necessary to put down some roots out here, but John Q. Public doesn't see it that way. He wants someone to pay for it."
"Just doesn't seem right," Oliver said, hesitant, "laying it all on her like this..."
"We're not laying it all on her, Lee," Morales replied, purposefully making use of the General's given name a second time. "You forget, she's not the primary target. We're just... pointing peoples' eyes in the right direction." A pause; Moore could hear pages turning, heard a couple more puffs taken off that cigar. "Like here, for instance," he said. "Put all these gruesome details in the right hands, and public opinion will do the rest of the work for us."
"Son of a bitch," Oliver muttered under his breath. "How the hell did you get your hands on that?"
"Doesn't matter." Morales paused again. "You need to remember that this woman," he said, "whether or not she knows it, is out for your job-"
"That woman," Oliver said, seeming to resent the Senator's use of the word, "is one hell of a soldier, Bill-"
"-and the administration's aiming to make sure that's precisely what she gets," Morales continued, as if the general hadn't spoken at all. "At the moment, the only thing in your corner is that she's an easy target; brutal enough that even the most peaceful protestors won't mind seeing her put down. And this-" a tapping sound, "-is all it'll take to make sure that happens."
"But if this gets out..." Beat. "Christ almighty... all the work she's done for us, and the best we can give her-"
"-Is a ...'peaceful' resignation," Morales interrupted again, his smile clear in his tone. "If she decides to bargain. But that's her choice, not yours."
"Pretty sure I know what choice she'll make," Oliver said, "and bargaining won't be a part of it."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Trust me," Oliver said, "only thing you'll get out've her is a fight. Hell, we'll be putting together a firing squad in no time..."
"I thought the punishment for war crimes was hanging," Morales remarked, casual enough that he may as well have been talking about the weather.
Moore didn't stop herself from closing her eyes at that, absorbing the hit as best she could, only half-hearing Oliver reply, "She deserves better..." partly under his breath. "Shit, Bill, 'least you can do is make sure it doesn't come to that."
"Mm... I suppose one is more dignified than the other..."
Resisting the urge to stop the recording as Morales continued- false assurances made that he'd do his best to see that hanging wasn't one of their 'options'- voice too muffled to hear the words clearly, Moore shifted in her chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows against the table, a brief look shot in Ghost's direction. "You mind if I have one of those?" she asked, gesturing loosely to the pack of cigarettes on the table, reluctant to meet the other woman's gaze.
It was a good thing Ghost wore sunglasses; she wasn't sure she could take the look of sympathy in those unnaturally pale eyes. "That was fast," the sharpshooter said, sliding the pack and a lighter over to her.
"For reasons that should be obvious," Moore said mildly.
Fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it, she turned her attention down towards the holotape player, only slightly relieved by the heaviness of the smoke she drew into her lungs. Ghost, for her part, didn't offer any immediate reply; instead, she turned her attention back to the recording.
"-can't happen," was all Moore heard of a long-winded comment from Morales when she tuned back in. There was some rustling; papers being brought out of a briefcase, she'd assumed. "And you know it can't." He paused. "All those... unfortunate details aside, there's a couple other matters I wanted to go over with you today... fill in some of the blanks on these reports. Oh, and there's the small matter of her second in command, of course..."
Second in command.
Moore shut her eyes at that, breathing out the smoke she'd held briefly in her lungs. It didn't come as a shock that it wasn't just her they had in their sights, but that did little to lessen the impact... of this revelation, or anything else.
[...]
The effort it took to listen to the remainder of the recording was more than she was willing to admit. The discussion came in fits and starts- comments, here and there, bits and pieces of her history that even she had trouble following, indications of things they'd found that left going through every mission, every action she'd made through the years that could be considered even vaguely dubious. She'd already known the extent of what they knew, but some of it, even she wasn't entirely aware of, as was the nature of missions she'd been sent on during her tenure with the Rangers. Sometimes, all they told you was to get something done; they didn't have to tell you why. Often, it was better that those involved had no idea; better not to think about the moral ramifications, the ethics involved.
It was a method she'd employed with her troops on some occasions, during those times she'd sent them to complete tasks that, in the sober light of day, would leave them questioning whether or not the ends justified the means. It wasn't their place, or responsibility, to know, or wonder; that was her responsibility, one she never dreamed of turning against them. It had never occurred to her that the protective ignorance that had been granted to her by her superiors might some day be used against her- that she might be saddled with not only the results, but the intention behind it. Oliver had access to all that information, had all the tools necessary to fabricate as many damning stories as necessary. Knew the bullet points in her history that she was neither proud of nor regretted... ones that she'd hoped to keep in the past, away from public knowledge.
And here they were, ready to out all of it.
The best she could do was keep her mind off of that fact; go back to the implication that the administration- maybe even the President himself- wanted Oliver out of his position as General, hints that she was being groomed to take his place, in spite of the information they were outlining. Deliberate over the question that raised; namely, what the hell had Oliver done to make her the better choice?
It was a question not even Ghost could answer, once the tape concluded; they were following what few leads they had, she said, but it was something the administration was keeping well under wraps. An embarrassment of some kind, maybe, something to do with the recent victory in the Mojave, or the years leading up to it. As keen as Moore was to speculate on those small details, Ghost, with all her usual bluntness, got her back on track, pointing out to her the reason behind the mandatory leave she'd been placed on. Morales and Oliver were keen on conducting interviews of some kind, something that would let the Senators back home know how their troops were faring. Similar interviews were being conducted at McCarran and some of the other posts, apparently, but Colonel Hsu, along with the other commanders, hadn't been given the same order to stay home.
"Not unusual to have politicos sniffing around," Ghost said, "s'pecially during an election season."
"I don't know what use Morales would have for it," Moore said, doing her best to maintain her equilibrium. "He's not up for re-election."
"No," Ghost said. "But Kimball is."
"Not until next November."
"You know as well as I do that there's no time like the present to start up a smear campaign... give the folks back home something to turn over in their heads as they're prepping the new candidates."
"Guess they'll have to," Moore said absently. "They weren't able to pass the bill on term limitations..." She trailed off; the thought was a dead-end, another distraction. Then again, so was, "By the way, since when did you get so interested in politics?" but that hardly stopped her from asking.
"Since they started dicking over the people I care about," Ghost replied bluntly, no matter how understandable the desire to get off-track. "Listen, whatever Kimball's doing, it's not sitting well with some of the cronies they got lurking around Shady Sands. They want him out, and they're looking to use anything they can get their hands on to make sure that happens. You, Hoover Dam... that's all a part of it. And this whole 'interview' thing? Is just the beginning." Beat. "Take it Oliver didn't mention anything about it when he contacted you."
"Not a word," Moore said. "Not that that's any big surprise." Raising a hand to run it absently through her hair, fingers tracing a faint line down her jaw and coming to a halt at her chin, she just looked at the holotape reader blankly; Ghost allowed for the pause, realized full well that what the soon-to-be former General had just heard was plenty to digest. "And I suppose," she said eventually, the bitterness in her tone just barely masked, "that the goal of this is to assess how they feel about me, specifically? See if they can't add some proverbial fuel to the fire?"
"That'll be part of it, 'least... so far as Morales is concerned. But they're not gonna come right out and say that it's what they're looking to hear. Gotta make sure it looks like it's all on the level so none of your men go squealing to you about it when you get back; make 'em feel like it's them they really care about, give 'em a warm, fuzzy feeling to take home with them."
Resting her chin against her thumb, forefinger drawn lightly over her lips, every move speaking of agitation rather than contemplation, Moore considered what few options she had. She liked none of them, but that, too, was no but surprise.
"How did you find out about this, anyway?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the reader.
"Better you didn't know," Ghost said, the reply earning her a curious look from the younger woman alongside her. "I'd like to tell you, believe me... but the farther away you are from all've this, the better off you're gonna be."
Arching an eyebrow, Moore said, "Define 'better off,'" her tone dry. "And what do you mean by 'farther away?'"
Ghost paused- and smiled, slightly, expression somber. "The less contacts you make," she said, "the more they'll keep at it like it's business as usual. If they think you know- I mean, really know what's going on, they'll make a move before you're ready to deal with it."
"And neither you nor Elise has found anything that could circumvent the- intended outcome?"
At first, Ghost didn't reply; instead, she seemed to deliberate on her answer, hesitant to say anything, one way or another. Then, "Be better to think of Morales as a mouthpiece," was said gently, "and try not to get your hopes up. This thing... whatever it is... it runs pretty deep."
Those words, the recording she'd heard... though she'd absorbed some of it, the shock was still waiting in the background, ready to seize at her thoughts. It would've been easy to succumb to it, invite it in- but allowing for that, for the inevitable crash that would come for it, wasn't a luxury she could allow for. Not now.
In lieu of that, only one question came to mind: "What's my best case scenario?"
And reluctant though she may have been, Ghost, at the very least, gave her an answer.
[...]
"Are you gonna be okay?"
The question was ridiculous, posed as Ghost prepared to leave Moore to her thoughts, leave her to consider what she'd heard- but she'd given her reassurances that yes, she was fine, all the while thinking, Oh, sure, in the back of her mind. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I have the option of choosing from several promising new careers, after all- as a prisoner, as fertilizer or, potentially, as a permanent fugitive. Life's just a bed of roses, isn't it? And after several hours of waiting, turning those unfortunate realities over in her mind, she found herself pushed to do something about what she'd heard. Take matters into her own hands, in what few ways she had available to her.
One was clear- the other... was unfortunate, but necessary.
Later that evening, walking the streets of Freeside, the fading sunlight illuminating the figures of derelicts coming out for their usual rounds of nocturnal predations, she had to wonder, briefly, what Hanlon would say about the situation. If ever she could use the old man's guidance, as much as she hated to admit it, it would be now. Even more, she hated the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was right to try and sabotage the campaign in the Mojave, that he knew something she didn't.
Make the people back home look at the reasons for engagement. Make them examine it, determine its worth.
It wouldn't matter, in the end. Public figures had a way of swaying the national discourse; had a way of making it appear as though it had all been necessary, no matter what could be found in the fine print. Progress, rerouted by the pursuit of fleeting, material goals, the same ones that had nearly sucked the life out of civilization in those years prior to the Great War. Had sucked the life out of it, the results demanding immediate change, or sudden death.
Dismissing the thoughts that followed as hyperbolic, as rhetoric- she was upset, much as she hated to acknowledge it, but there was no need to go overboard- she stood at the gates of the Strip, hearing the tinny music from the loudspeakers and the sound of voices coming from the other side, telling herself that her thoughts held no epiphany. And there, listening to the droning of the Securitrons, the hollering on the Strip, her head forcibly cleared of the questions that dogged at her, she centered in on one sentiment alone:
You'd better be ready for this.
She knew that once the decision to follow through on her intent was made, once everything had been set in motion, there was no turning back. But the alternative, staying on the 'right' course, hoping that by some miracle 'Jodie' and Elise could put an end to her predicament... ready or not, refusing to do anything and simply hoping for the best was no choice at all.
It left her in the same place as the society the Republic sprang from, odd as that was to consider: immediate change, or sudden death.
That in mind, she took a breath- and began to walk towards the Strip's gate.
[...]
Wednesday night.
As always, the Strip was never hurting for patronage- but tonight, a bulk of those patrons had flocked to the street outside the Lucky 38. What had normally taken place on Mondays had been moved to Wednesdays for reasons that revolved around the meeting the Mistress of Ceremonies had been pulled into with General Moore. There'd been some speculation as to what else had been talked about inside the Lucky 38, of course, but no one could come up with a viable answer, save to talk shop about what the courier had collaborated with the NCR on prior to the battle of Hoover Dam.
Thus, the rumor mill had grown rather bored with the possibilities that surrounded the briefing, especially once those responsible for perpetuating it received word that Kette had, in fact, changed the regularly scheduled times of her not-so-little 'gatherings.' Something about the mid-week placement that allowed the courier to dodge out of the overtime fees, that since there were no carry-overs from the weekend shift, the NCR would still get stiffed with the time-and-a-half paychecks. The only thing the local officials could hope for was that the 'block parties' would begin to lose their novelty- and slowly but surely, they were. However, there was still enough of a crowd gathered to make it a nuisance. Just enough to encourage the courier to keep at it.
Not that much was needed in the first place, much to the NCR's irritation.
Standing atop the Lucky 38 awning, Kette surveyed the small crowd before her. Behind her, the newest addition to her 'sermon'- the eyebot many had seen tailing her earlier in the year- its appearance only too memorable in spite of its recent absence- hovered quietly.
The courier cleared her throat as loudly as she could and the sermon began, "Ladies! Gentlemen! Undecideds!" only a slight pause made for dramatic effect. "...I'd like to get serious here, if I may," she continued, either of her hands draped over the golf club propped up in front of her. "I feel we are all in need of some real solemn face-time-"
"-out of my face!," the eyebot beside the courier bleated, much to the crowd's bemusement.
"You'll have to forgive him," Kette said, reaching over to pat ED-E's hull. "The Reverend's had a long journey, and it makes him sad to see so little enthusiasm." She looked amidst the sea of blank faces staring back at her before clapping her hands and pointing towards the open lunch boxes. "Come on, people, I'm serious, here! Those collection trays ain't gonna fill themselves, now, are they?" Seeming to realize that the Game Was Afoot, the crowd hurriedly threw an assortment of caps into the lunch trays. "Remember," she said, "just twenty-five a piece. No more, no less. Can't have arbitrary numbers and make this work, now can we? ...But keep those bets coming, seriously."
Pleased to hear the partition gates open and see more people filtering in through her peripheral vision, she cleared her throat again, looking around as the newcomers took their places, adopting a chiding tone to say, "You guys really skimped last time. I hope things're better this time 'cause, honestly, I'd hate to see our guest be anything less than impressed with your zeal and devotion! Our guest whose well endowed honesty hides behind no fig leaf," a point she made with her golf club jabbed in the direction of the eyebot's low-hanging cannon. "Eh? See?"
Getting little in the way of reaction, Kette straightened slightly, taking the silent rebuke in stride. "Alright," she conceded, "I hear you. I get it. You're doing the 'temperance' thing tonight. That's alright, I can work with that. The big titty committee shaking their funbags behind you might not be too happy about it, but that's not my problem."
"See if I'll be your towel boy again!" one of the strippers shouted from her spot outside Gomorrah.
"Hey!" Kette called back, "interrupt me again and I'll use you as target practice!" Beat. "Not with anything that'd really hurt, guys," she assured the crowd, "honest. Seriously, don't hit strippers. It's bad. I wouldn't recommend pelting them with gourd seeds, either."
"-her*hungry Fluff*bursting with seeds," the eyebot announced.
"Or that'll happen," Kette said, pointing her club at ED-E with a sage nod. "Anyway- since I can see you're all just aching for something new, something real- something you've already got a taste for... let the immortal words of Reverend Eddie," she gestured more emphatically towards the eyebot, "entice your hungry spirits!"
"The- The- The *hungry*snack*never*hides," the eyebot ... 'replied.' "So ask yourself,*why wont*a bad batch of that crap shit*magical*teeth! And why wont the Teeth!*shit your bees?"
Kette nodded, idly rubbing her chin with her free hand. "All good questions, am I right?" she asked the utterly dumbfounded crowd. "So tell me more, Reverend Eddie," she said to the robot. "The good people clamor for your wisdom, and- what's that you say? Bets?" She leaned over and held her hand up to her ear, nodding every once in a while for good measure. When she straightened, she cleared her throat, and said, "He's right. This display's got sad written all over it. He was told the congregation were gutsy men and woman of chance! And here you are making a goddamn liar out of me!"
"-a couple old recordings*bursting*the*boy!" ED-E interjected, "its*apples*shooting on*some spent ammunition, and*rifles plundering their teeth!"
"And no one wants that!" Kette continued for the robot. "So come on. It's a low risk game, folks. No fake-outs, no set-ups- hell, Ms. Pasties back there-"
"I told you not to call me that!" the stripper shouted back.
"-made a killing last time around." To that, there was no argument. "So come on, boys and girls. Get in while the gettin's good. And let's hear some numbers out there!"
Immediately a flurry of shouted numbers rose up from the assembly. Going around for one more pass to make sure everyone's number was accounted for, Kette nodded her head, and turned to the eyebot alongside her.
"So what do you say, Reverend?" she asked it, taking hold of the golf club to line up a shot. "Is it gourd-spankin' time?"
"-maybe it's Cakes hamming*my*heart cram," ED-E replied, "tin cans Hitting on*his Fancy*shit, or maybe it's*spankin' a backpack. But that's not accounting for the possibility that*your bees*never*fuck."
"Leave my bees out of it, Eddie," Kette warned him, settling into position and winding up for the shot. "Fo-"
She hadn't even gotten the word out when out of nowhere, an all-too-familiar, all-too-pissed voice shouted, "Hazhir!" the shock of it causing her every muscle to seize up.
The jolt that went through her caused the golf club to slip briefly from her hands; and while the whole thing might have been visually entertaining to those still watching, her flailing attempts to catch hold of it again without pitching herself straight off the awning proved to be an exercise in futility. Giving up on regaining her hold on it, she let the golf club clatter first to the awning and then, unceremoniously, onto the ground.
There was no need to guess whose voice that was. The only woman to ever use Kette's last name with that kind of vitriol was the same one stepping out from the crowd with an intensely irate expression on her face.
Namely: one Cassandra Moore.
"Get down from there," she barked at the petrified young woman. "Immediately. And bring that tin can of yours down with you. As for the rest of you-" she glanced towards the crowd as Kette made a valiant effort of getting down from the awning as quickly as possible without incurring a massive head injury, "get your money and get out of here. The show's over."
The crowd didn't need to be told twice- and if only out of spite, the general didn't bother to remind them to take only what they put into the lunch boxes, regardless of Kette's feeble protests. Turning back to Kette as the young woman straightened out her clothing, Moore approached, using what superior height she had to stare the girl down the moment they were in close proximity. That look... was one that Kette was positive she could have gone an entire lifetime without seeing.
"Inside," Moore snapped at her. "Now." Kette blinked, and just barely had time to get out a single syllable before she was shouted down, a sharply-stated "Move," damn near making her heart skip a beat.
However slow on the uptake, the courier, like the crowd, didn't need to be told twice.
[...]
To Moore, it seemed only too fitting that, as the two of them walked towards the entrance, the eyebot that floated blithely behind them announced, "-you never know what's*prancing*up the mountain."
If the statement weren't so daft, it might have been prophetic.
As aggravated as Moore was by the courier's determination to make life even more complicated than it had already gotten throughout the day, she did her best to reign in her temper as she entered the Lucky 38, but Kette- as usual- had ways of making that incredibly difficult.
The question, "Did I do something wrong?" served as a prime example of that particular talent. "I mean... this isn't about the tax codes, is it? 'Cause I swear, I've been-"
"Have you gotten in touch with Veronica yet?" Moore interrupted with a raised voice, a sharp look shot in the young woman's direction. "It's been well over two weeks since we talked about this- I expected to see some progress by now."
"I think that's the first time you've called her by name," Kette remarked, smiling lopsidedly, the expression fading once she saw the impatient look she was receiving. "I mean- Yeah." Glancing towards the eyebot for a moment, and returning her eyes to the general reluctantly, she said, "Yeah... I was meaning to get in touch with you about that."
"When? Next week? A month from now, perhaps?"
Kette squinted slightly, visibly trying not to get defensive. "You didn't exactly give me a time frame you wanted me to-"
"I said it was urgent," Moore said sharply. "Typically, when someone says it, they don't expect it to be a concept that's open to interpretation." Having to forcibly reign in her impatience, saying nothing of the urge to start pacing, she tamed her voice, and said, slowly, as if speaking to someone who could barely understand proper English, "Now... do you have anything to report... or don't you?"
"I haven't talked to anyone directly," Kette admitted, looking properly chastised, "but I've at least made a contact," added with a loose gesture made in the eyebot's direction. "Veronica sent him along with a sweet new voice module."
'Sweet new voice module.'
Resisting the urge to palm her face at what that implied, Moore found herself cut off well before she could so much as open her mouth to speak, an abrupt burst of static calling her attention to the robot alongside her.
"-crispy*bees- are* ramming* our meat to make* that* fun*open market- cut* pen pals," it stated blithely, and paused, as if to consider. If Moore hadn't known any better, she would have sworn the damn thing was glancing from side to side. "And bees," it concluded, as if that somehow clarified everything.
Moore paused, staring at the eyebot blankly, and made it a point to ignore the slight smirk on Kette's face. Then, turning to the courier, she asked, "Is there any way we can talk about this without the insightful asides from the peanut gallery?" as calmly as possible.
"There's the VIP lounge," Kette said, fighting off the faint smile. "Personally, I kind of like the asides." Getting little more than an annoyed look in response, she shrugged. "You stay put, ED-E," she told the eyebot, motioning for the older woman to follow her as she made her way towards the stairs. "I'll be back in no time."
The robot flicked its antenna in recognition, and obediently, it remained where it was as the two women ascended the staircase. Glancing back in its direction for a moment- and seeing it turn to face her as if noticing the attention she was giving it, Moore couldn't help the slightly sick feeling its presence was generating. In and of itself, she couldn't have cared less about the robot, had seen it with the courier before tonight, but what had been said about it...
"Something wrong?" Kette asked, noting the lapse in silence, as well as the general's slight pause.
"I was just wondering," Moore said distractedly as she stepped into the lounge, opting for a more casual route in the hopes that it might stave off a sharper outburst, "why you or anyone else would name a robot 'Eddie.'"
"Well, technically, it's not 'Eddie,'" Kette replied over her shoulder as she made her way to the lounge's bar. "Actually, it's a set of initials. Ee-dee-ee."
"And what's that stand for?"
"Enhanced- ah..." Kette paused, pace slowing slightly as she stepped behind the bar. Once it finally clicked, she said, "Enhanced duraframe eyebot. He's a prototype."
"Whose prototype?"
"Well- don't hold it against the little guy," Kette said, grinning lopsidedly as rummaged around for a clean glass, "but he came from the Enclave. I just happened to have the right parts to fix him when I found him laying around in Primm and, well... the rest's history." She paused, then, turning to look at the older woman curiously. "But you didn't come here to talk shop about ED-E, did you?"
Of course it'd be Enclave. That... just figured.
"I certainly wasn't expecting to," Moore said blandly, placing either of her hands on the bar top. Noting the look of question on the girl's face, she said, "It doesn't happen to have any on-board weapons, does it?"
"Fully operational laser cannon," Kette announced. "It's why he's a 'he," added wryly. Clearing her throat upon getting yet another look of impatience, she said, "Why do you ask?"
"I'm just wondering how much you remember about the talk we had prior to this," Moore said, nodding once as Kette raised a bottle of scotch in silent question. "One of the primary reasons I wanted you to establish contact in the first place?"
"More or less," Kette said curiously, pouring out a couple measures of scotch into the procured glass.
Fixed with a prompting look from Moore, the courier looked uncertain about what was being silently asked of her as she slid the drink over to the general, a complete lack of recognition on her face.
"I really have to spell this out for you, don't I?" Moore said, eyebrow raised. "Do the words 'evidence of modified equipment' ring any bells?"
"Well, yeah, but-" Kette faltered again, looking for all the world like she'd just swallowed something rotten. "Oh." Beat. "Oh, come on. I'd hardly call the voice module a 'modification'- Veronica said herself it barely works right. I mean, me personally, I think it's just fine the way it is, but, that's just my opinion."
Another long pause spanned out between them, the courier again left to appear on edge.
"So, just so I understand this correctly," Moore said, sardonic, doing little to hide her irritation, "are you really trying to tell me that it's not a big deal, simply because you say it isn't? Tell me, is that the same backwards logic- or, excuse me, the same 'expert opinion' that lead you to decide that what I deemed urgent, you deemed negligible?"
"I didn't-" Kette furrowed her brow slightly. "Just... hold up a second. I haven't been negligent, alright? I took you seriously when you asked me to do something about it."
"And have you?"
"Like I said, I made some contacts... ED-E wasn't the only one. I just haven't gotten in touch with Veronica directly."
"Contacts," Moore repeated. "Ones that can help get her out of the area?"
"I think so," Kette said, shrugging. "Might take some doing, but I think it's possible."
"I didn't come here to hear words like 'might' or 'possible,'" Moore said irritably. "Before, you indicated 'definite.' What changed?"
"Nothing," Kette said. "It's probable, just don't know if I can guarantee anything."
"Try," Moore said flatly. "In the meantime," withdrawing a slip of paper from the pocket of her slacks, she said, "I want you to give Ms. Santangelo this frequency when you speak to her," and offered it over to Kette. "Just make sure to tell her not to contact me outside of the times I've listed. Get it done tonight, if possible... tomorrow morning at the absolute latest."
Picking up the slip of paper as Moore took down a sizable amount of the scotch poured out for her, Kette looked it over curiously, the furrow in her brow deepening slightly. "Can you tell me what it's about?" the courier asked, raising her eyes to the older woman.
"Is that your way of saying that you won't pass it along unless I give you that information?"
"No... I'd just like to know, is all. She is my friend..."
"That aside," she asked, then, eyebrow arched in query, "can you think of a single good reason for why I should tell you?"
"I've... been helping you?"
The comment was absurd; and as a result Moore had an incredibly hard time keeping the urge to laugh in check. "How?" she asked, managing to maintain a straight face.
"I made the arrangements you asked, for one," Kette said. "And I've been keeping all of this pretty hush-hush-"
"Is that what you call what I saw outside?" Moore asked pointedly. "'Hush-hush?' Are you trying to tell me that flaunting a piece of modified Enclave technology, a robot that's fitted with a fully operational energy weapon-" -again, there was that urge to laugh, the exasperated smile she wore met with incredulity by the courier- "-and uses a voice every member of the Brotherhood would recognize, actually qualifies as discreet?"
Kette paused, uneasy. "The Brotherhood's seen me with ED-E before," she said tentatively. "And- even if they hadn't, it's not like they can find out when he got modified. Besides, I-" Pausing again, seeming to realize that her assurances were going nowhere, she frowned. "Listen," she said, adopting an apologetic tone, "I get why you're a little put off by that, I do- I should've thought about it. But I don't think it's going to be that big a deal."
"Really," Moore said, smile fading. "How did it get here? Did it travel on its own? Past the I-15, perhaps?"
"I- think so."
"And are you aware of the fact that the Brotherhood's been patrolling that stretch of road? Or did that slip your mind, as well?"
"I'd heard about it," Kette admitted. "But, come on... the chances of one of those patrols running into ED-E-"
"Are enough to warrant concern," Moore said sharply, easing slightly when the courier seemed to legitimately consider the idea. "I didn't get where I am by ignoring what's 'unlikely,' Ms. Hazhir," she continued, voice softened, remaining even. "And arguably, neither did you... but it seems to me that your latest victory's gone to your head. Made you complacent- forgetful."
Though she looked uncertain of whether or not she wanted to ask, Kette said, "Are you saying you don't trust me anymore?" her tone reflecting her expression.
Finishing off the remainder of her drink, with little mind put towards the fact that she'd easily thrown back three shot's worth in the span of so many minutes, Moore said, "Among other things," as she straightened, the glass set on the bar top. "Just give Veronica the frequency. And the moment you get word that your 'escape plan' is a done deal, I want you to contact me so we can go over it in its entirety. I don't want to leave any loose ends when this is finally over."
"Yeah," Kette said gently, still mildly dazed by the hit she'd taken. "Sure. I can do that."
"Then I'll expect to hear back from Ms. Santangelo by tomorrow evening," said flatly. "If it turns out that you're incapable of getting in touch with her, however, leave me a message at the Embassy tomorrow evening. Something discreet... preferably with the back taxes you owe on your profits."
With that, she turned to leave, catching sight of the courier's hand raising slightly, as if that would somehow stave off her departure.
"Wait," Kette said abruptly, scurrying out from behind the bar. "Hold on. You can't just leave-"
"I can't?" Moore replied dryly, eyebrow raised. "That's news to me."
"I just-" Kette met her gaze directly, expression- almost hurt, something that came as a slight surprise to the general. "What did you mean, 'among other things?'"
"I'm sure you'll figure it out if you put your mind to it," Moore replied flatly, ignoring the small part of her that bid her to ease back, to give the girl some breathing room. "But if you'd like me to go over all the relevant points in detail, I'd be more than happy to oblige you."
That stricken look in the young woman's eyes stayed constant, at that, confusion evident. "You don't think I can do this, do you?" she asked, brow furrowed. "You're not even going to give me a chance-"
"Right now, I don't have a choice in the matter," Moore retorted, voice more weighted than she'd intended. "Like it or not, I have to give you that chance."
"But you don't think it's likely."
"I think you'll be more of a hinderance than a help if you keep on the way you're going," Moore said bluntly, catching hints of some peculiar tones echoing from the front entrance, "but that doesn't change the fact that you're a necessary-" She paused, turning her attention towards ED-E at the same time Kette did. The tones persisted, then, the sound of them bidding the general to turn sharply towards the courier to say, "That's Morse code, isn't it?"
"That's what?"
Falling silent for another long moment to listen and shushing the courier's attempts to make heads or tails of what was going on, she heard the eyebot provide the answer that Kette couldn't. It was Morse; it had to be. Even several years out of her tours fighting the Brotherhood, the sound was unmistakable; it was one she and her everyone else that served at that time had learned to listen for, one that invariably signaled a retreat, a request for help- or in some cases, an incoming shock attack.
"I'll explain later," Moore said abruptly, leaving her unfinished drink on the bar to make her way downstairs. "Do you know how to establish a voice connection?" she said back over her shoulder, the courier following behind her.
"Wait- what's this all about?"
"Answer the question. Can you or can't you?"
"I think so..." Kette said, appearing mildly dizzied by the sudden shift in gears. "That was part of the instructions Veronica gave me on how to-"
"Do it."
"But-"
"Do it," Moore insisted, the eyebot still bleating out the tones once they were in close proximity.
Kette sighed, moving towards the eyebot to fiddle with some of the controls, cursing under her breath when it failed to do anything but cause a sudden burst of static. And while it seemed like a fluke for all of a heartbeat, what followed next made it clear she'd done it correctly.
"Scribe Santangelo?" Beat. "Scribe Santangelo, do you read me?"
The speaker was female, one that Moore didn't recognize, but that came as no big surprise. "This wouldn't happen to be one of your 'contacts,' would it?" she asked the courier.
Kette blinked, glancing between Moore and the robot bemusedly.
"Never mind," Moore said, shaking her head. "Just answer them. I want to hear what they have to say."
"But I-"
"How many times do I need to tell you?" she snapped, exasperated. "Just do it."
Kette complied, albeit grudgingly. What the two of them heard from then on out- came as a genuine surprise. Of all the oddities, all the unlikelihoods that Moore had confronted throughout the last few days, the conversation that followed was, by far, chief among them.
Where it would lead was as unpredictable as ever- but at the very least, it presented the possibility that there was some dim hope for a decent outcome