A/N: Sometimes, I feel like this fandom is dead, or maybe it's just that Fallout 4 appeals to a wider audience, and thus the Fallout 4 community is more active. It looks like new Fallout: New Vegas fics on here and AO3 are uncommon, but I hope to change that. This game really intensified my interest in the Fallout series, making me appreciate good story writing.

I hope my readers here are happy with the pace I've set with this story. Now that we're into part two of it, the mood is going to shift just a little bit. This part will definitely justify the 'crime' tick that I set for this story's genre. Some shady stuff is going to happen in this chapter and the next few to come. It's the first time I've attempted to write anything gritty or unsavory, so any criticism or praise is appreciated as I undertake this new challenge.

I really enjoy writing from Mr. House's perspective, but I do it so rarely in this story kind of as a treat for myself and others. I feel like Mr. House switches between futuristic sage and corporate executive all the time, and my aim is to capture that well, which I tried to do in chapter nine. Anyhow, the die is cast and Mr. House has planned for Eris to infiltrate the Omertas. You may have noticed that Mr. House has already begun referring to Eris as his protege (only in his head though, for now), I wonder if that could indicate a budding friendship between the two?

I hope you enjoy.

Baby's into running round and hanging with the crowd

Putting your business and the street and talking out loud

Saying you bought her this and that and how much you done spent

I swear she must believe it's all heaven sent

Hey boy, you better bring the chick around

To the sad, sad truth - the dirty lowdown

-"Lowdown", Boz Scaggs

According to popular belief, democracy was the most virtuous of politicking. Through his belief being considered, does man become validated superficially through this system. He is unaware that he is merely given the illusion of choice, as democratic candidates are invariably bureaucratic populists. It was also known that democracy involved far too many checks and balances on those in power for actions to be taken quickly against a threat to the state. Democracy relied on charisma and populism, and in practice did not promote efficiency or collective cooperation. More likely, it made its people divided among each other, squabbling over which populist candidate was more virtuous than the other.

While disliking democracy was a niche counterculture in the Mojave in 2281, its forefather was much older. Everything Eris thought about democracy was regurgitation of Socrates' ideas. Still, she remained neutral.. mostly. Her opinion on democracy was that it was mostly weak in the face of the kind of chaos Mr. House and Caesar were brewing. Mr. House had no love for democracy either, and it was possible it could be for rational reasons, but she preferred to think it was because he was far from being a populist. Eris had yet to meet someone as unpopular with the people as Mr. House was, but she doubted he cared. He was profoundly unsocial and immune to even the most polite criticism. Not that her criticism had been overly constructive.

Speaking of Mr. House, he'd somehow slipped a piece of paper underneath her suite's door during the night, a thought that immediately brought a beam of smugness to her face. As old as he was, he was still impatient. She wondered if he'd hand-delivered it, but a multitude of other, more likely possibilities branched out of that, all of them affirming that delivery by securitron was most likely. Her curiosity towards what he really looked like wasn't at its peak, for it was entirely possible that he was shy, but something told her that wasn't the whole story.

Picking up the note, she noticed that it was typed out by a computer, so it must've been a securitron bearing his message. Odd. Those annoying pieces of metal and human laziness were never that quiet, or maybe she was so tired after her walk back from Nellis that she'd failed to notice two-hundred pounds of metal sliding across the floor last night.

The note read:

"Miss Eris, come to the penthouse at your earliest convenience. We have an important matter to discuss, not counting the current job I hope you've accomplished."

She rolled her eyes at his uncompromisingly demanding method of speaking. He could've signed it with a smiley face, or even a sincerely yours or a Love, Mr. House. The likelihood of that happening was slim to none, about as likely as a Freeside hooker giving a lesson on abstinence. Mr. House wouldn't be half as fun to annoy if he didn't take himself so seriously. His feathers were always asking to be ruffled, and sometimes he held them closely to his body, and those times were more rewarding when she managed to reach in and truly irritate the secretive man.

Imagining Mr. House, the stern and frankly unfriendly CEO of a pre-war corporation, furrowing his brow, lips thin, as he furiously told a securitron what to type to deliver her because of her tardiness was what maintained the silly smile on her face when she got in the elevator to get breakfast from the lounge. Simultaneously, she wondered why he was suddenly being fussier than usual. A slough of explanations floated by in her mind's eye, but none could cover this unexpected social call. He'd never done that before.

If this was the beginning of another dangerous job, she would tell him she needed more books than he allowed her from his private library. She'd treated them all well so far, not daring to bring them with her on her road trips. Besides, she wanted to read some books about pre-war America, Hegel was now old news.

After finishing her breakfast, which consisted of surprisingly well-preserved oatmeal, she sipped black coffee, pulling a cringe at the bitter taste, which was so strong she was surprised it didn't climb up out of her mug and start walking. The '38 had preserved amenities like nowhere else she'd seen, not that she cared too much for material luxuries.

Eris kept her night clothes on, which consisted of some cotton shorts and a tank top, not bothering to change up in her suite, since House was in such a 'hurry'. Maybe she could bait him into commenting on her appearance, but so far he'd had way too much propriety to say anything like that without her prompting him. Usually, all she got was a scoff and a curt dismissal, maybe he'd even call her classless, which was a real treat.

Jane's monitor met her when she arrived in the penthouse, much to her dissatisfaction. It was easy to ignore, though, because robots were like flies on a wall that their human masters spoke through, their importance minimal unless they were a vessel for a human.

"I got your social call, House! I came at my earliest convenience, like you asked. But, I was surprised and only a little disappointed when I found that you hadn't set up a steak dinner with cocktails. I thought your type was supposed to be classy. Looks like I'm not the only one who's classless around here. You really know how to make a woman feel wanted." She announced, cocking a tiny grin in the corner of her mouth when she watched his smug countenance appear in the monitor.

"I deemed your presence here to be urgent. There was no time for formalities, I'm afraid." She snorted at his response, unsure if he was imposing his gravitas willfully or if he took her teasing literally. Probably both. "I assume that since you're here, and don't seem to be in any hurry, you were successful with persuading the Boomers to our cause?"

"Oh yeah. The Boomers are now members of your slave army, courtesy of yours truly. They owe us that much after I dove head first into Lake Mead to find some rickety, old aircraft. You should've seen the looks on those lakelurks' faces when a fucking airplane floated itself out of the waters. It was almost biblical, if it wasn't a tasteless piece of rusted metal."

"I see.." Came his reply, clearly unprepared and awkward as always anytime the threat of sharing personal experiences arose. She wanted to call him an egghead, but she'd likely get to the excitement in a few minutes, after he was done. "Well, I must congratulate you on completing this task. I won't ask how you were able to maneuver through the area around Nellis-"

"Why not? Don't you want to hear the story?" She interrupted him mid-sentence, earning her an indignant scoff.

"No. My concerns are with the task's completion, and nothing more. Although now that the Boomers' firepower belongs to us, we may have a singular advantage when the Battle of Hoover Dam bares its jaws at us. Jane will deliver your payment on your way out. Now, for the urgent business, which won't have you straying too far this time. It concerns the Omertas, and their den of biblical vice, Gomorrah. As the Battle for Hoover Dam looms nearer, my concerns about the Omertas have grown."

She interrupted once again, "What kind of concerns?"

"Let me finish. This is the second time you've interrupted me in the past two minutes alone. Wait your turn, and I'll sate any curiosity you might have. If it's relevant, of course."

In a mock of impatience, she lit a cigarette with the flip lighter that she must've left last time she was here. She kept finding them all over the place, never being able to hold onto the same one for long. The first smoke of the day was always a relief, and the best companion to a book whose subject was her current obsession of the week.

"Concerning the Omertas, I've never expected loyalty, mind you. A consistently underhanded tribe is just as constant to deal with as one that consistently conducts their business honorably. But that's just it - lately the Omertas' cooperative silence has been deafening. Not a single complaint in the past month? They're up to something."

The Omertas were a convenient scapegoat for the average citizen of Vegas, that much she was aware of, but so far the validity of their victimhood status went unconfirmed by her. Having never been to Gomorrah, she rationally deduced that the interior must've been more libertine than the exterior, and the exterior didn't leave much to the imagination. And if House was going down the train of thought she believed he was, then he wanted her to investigate the Omertas - maybe. But why couldn't House investigate it himself? She knew he had cameras practically decorating the Vegas Strip.

But if this is what she had to do to find some kind of stimulation in between knowledge absorption and amateur psychoanalyzing, then this is what she would do. Mr. House would need to start indulging her subtle request for debate, and the subsequent lectures, that came afterward.

"Is this your clever way to prompt me to offer help, so that in the unfortunate scenario that I complain about the job, you can say that I volunteered?" She placed one hand cheekily on her hip, while the other held the cigarette, which was now down to its half life.

"As your employer, it is my prerogative to assign you a given task, not to wait for your approval." Every time she got closer to cracking the puzzle that was her employer, the puzzle itself expanded, turning a 100-piece puzzle into a 1,000-piece. Very exciting.

"Yes yes, House. I'm just giving you a hard time, no need to take yourself so damn seriously." She said, stomping the cigarette out, effectively suffocating it.

"When the future of Vegas, the city I built, is no longer at stake, maybe I'll take your thoroughly unsound advice into consideration." He said, then sighed dramatically, reminding her of herself for a moment, a moment. "Suffice to say, the contract I have with the Omertas does not permit me to directly interfere with their private affairs outside of the monthly allowance I give them. That's all you need to know about that. This is why I need you on the ground there. Find out what they're up to, and abort it while it's in its cradle."

"So I guess you support abortion? There are several groups in the Mojave alone who would disagree with you." She replied offhandedly, gearing up for an argument. Her time at Nellis was surprisingly, and much to her extreme boredom, free of conflict.

"For the most part, it matters little if they agree with me or not. The residents of Vegas make their life in my city. It is safe to say I know best how to direct it." Eris thought to herself that in the event that annoying Mr. House no longer brought any fun, the Mojave would also turn into some kind of rainforest. Highly unlikely. His proverbial (and literal) buttons were so easy to push, and there were so many she probably still didn't know about.

"I disagree with that, actually. A fresh perspective on your city could be enlightening for you. I'm sure Caesar also thinks he knows best how to direct it, or even General Oliver. They all think they know how best to do it, but it's the product that matters. So far, you haven't shown me your leadership capabilities, and I say this constructively. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're not tyrannically massacring a bunch of poor people like you probably want to, but I've yet to see you prove to me how qualified you are." There was something to be said about tautology, and how difficult it was to pull off, and sometimes, how easy it was to pull off without anyone else noticing.

"Do you really deem me stupid enough to show my hand when it's still this early in the game? It's fools like Caesar who lose, for they care too much about the appearance of strength. You'll find I care very little for appearances, and this is why I will inherit the dam. Furthermore, I counsel you to stop speaking with authority on matters you know very little about. Have I ever divulged to you that mass murdering the less fortunate had any part in my vision? No? I thought not. As my employee, you are not authorized to pry into my personal life and its details. You may have more privileges than I allow the others under my employ, but don't forget your place. I don't take being compared to a tyrant lightly!" His loud, furious voice boomed around her, causing her to cover her mouth while she laughed at the outburst.

Eris had a problem, she knew it. Although not the most self aware, she wasn't daft. It was easy for her to get underneath others' skin, it just happened naturally. She reminded even herself of an annoying little fly that just wouldn't stop buzzing in front of someone's face. Except what made her different from most flies was that vinegar attracted her just as much as sugars.

"Is something funny?" He asked, his aristocratic accent full of righteous indignation. The flood gates released then, and the hand covering her mouth could no longer muffle the guffawing. "I will not be made a fool of in my own residence!"

"S-sorry, Mr. House. It's just that-" She caught her breath again, coughing a little afterward. Damned cigarettes. "It's been over four weeks since I was here last. Which means four weeks without having anyone intelligent to speak with. Someone intelligent usually implies someone interesting enough for me to tease, okay? You should feel flattered. All these people want my attention, you see? You're getting it right now."

No, there wasn't anyone asking for her attention, but there was an opening to make herself sound more important than she actually was, and no one was immune to flattery, right? House seemed to have a high opinion of himself, and stroking his ego right now might be the solution to a problem that could've arisen down the line. Plus, she was kind of running out of options.

"Fine, you win." She conceded, huffing and crossing her arms at his silence before.

"I expected nothing less. Because I'm not a tyrant, I will leave this small disagreement behind us." He replied, sounding minutely relieved. Her brow raised at that, confused at this sudden change. Though, she imagined it was another psychological trick of his, similar to when he referred to them as 'our' when he talked about his plans, like she was part of the collective.

"I thought you implied you had nothing to prove to me." She couldn't help but say it, and immediately bit her lip afterwards, cringing at what she was about to say, "Okay, you're right. Let's move on for now."

"You may find that this task will require a deal more delicacy than the others. Violence will not be permitted within these city gates unless I deem it necessary. I will have you report back every suspicious detail you pick up in Gomorrah - within reason, of course. While the Omertas there are fanatically loyal to one another, there is one degenerate among them that I know of. In exchange for payment, the receptionist at Gomorrah gave me whispers of what was going on there. A few months ago, she clammed up. Odds are that she's scared, but I've had no opportunity to approach her. Start with her."

"And, once I'm inside, how can you assure me that I won't be a blonde pile of goo on the floor within a minute? They know I work for you, so what do I tell them?" She asked.

"I'm letting you take liberties with those details. Tell them whatever you need to. You're resourceful enough to find a way. So find it."

Okay, this happened to be one, just one, thing she did enjoy about Mr. House, and that was him giving her creative liberty to solve problems. She was almost positive that he would've let assassinating the Boomers' leaders fly under the radar as long as she got the job done. As someone who cared about the hows, and especially how creative one could get with them, it wasn't so bad to work for someone who didn't care about it.

But how to infiltrate the Omertas? Eris wished she could say she was familiar with the dynamics of Vegas by now, but she was only familiar with Swank and his boys, and that was pushing it, because between House and his demands, she didn't have much leisure time to spend here, and constant grilling of the residents would only make her look suspicious, she might as well put 'I work for Mr. House' on her forehead. She supposed she could ask House for more details, but she was uncertain if he knew either, since no one seemed to be really personal with him.

"House? You still there?" She asked suddenly, unaware of how long she'd been standing in front of the monitor thinking of how to go about grand espionage.

"I assume since you're standing here gawking, you have questions?"

"Nice, answering a question with a question. And I don't gawk, I stare, listlessly. I'm a brain damage patient, you know? I could file a discrimination report on you to the board of... corporate abuse, or whatever beacon of materialism still stands in these trying times. But, before you attack me on the basis that I am indeed a mentally disabled person, I did want to ask some things about the Omertas, if I'm going to be getting cozy with them, I want to know everything you can tell me. Don't leave anything out." She said, then added a sly, "please", with a wink.

"As you're well aware, the Omertas were once a fearsome tribe that called themselves the 'Slitherkin', and their most profitable capital was through human trafficking. Due to our contract, that barbaric practice is not allowed within the walls of Vegas, though I am quite sure they've found loopholes. As I said before, they are reliably underhanded, a trait I can admire, so long as it doesn't intrude on my own affairs. Many of the show girls you'll find on the Strip's streets are affiliated with the Omertas, and I've always found, through surveillance, they're keen on taking alternative methods of payment, as their addiction demands it.."

The implications were not lost on her this time, and it didn't surprise her that Gomorrah's hookers were chem addicts, there was no way anyone sober had the willpower it took to lay some of the clowns that showed up in the Strip. If Eris learned anything during her time here, chems were as valuable as caps in most circumstances. Acquiring them without being trafficked was a problem, though, and she'd need to head to some of the sketchy corners of Freeside, so as to avoid finding the Omertas' suppliers and accidentally crossing them.

A plan was forming, though she was never that good at following a plan linearly. It was there, though, and maybe it would work.

"One more thing, or maybe two, depending on how you answer this one." She said. House's silence told her he was waiting, never one to waste breath on validation that he was listening. "Do you know who supplies the Omertas' chems?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you, even if I did know. Suffice to say, I'm sure they're reaping the benefits of whatever plot the Omertas are forming, comfortable in their yurts."

Damn, he really was desperate now if he was looking for loopholes in the contract to give her dirt on the Omertas. The Khans dwelt in yurts, everyone knew that, and everyone knew they were some of the biggest suppliers in the Mojave, but would the Omertas really be that easy to track? Not that she was going to the Khans anytime soon, this reinforced that she wouldn't go near any of the Khans if there was any chance the Omertas had the same idea. The last thing she wanted to do was give herself away so early in the game.

Unfortunately, at least two Omertas knew her face, which was actually a huge setback. Sometimes, she hated her mouth and how she couldn't resist opening it at the most inopportune moments.

"Second and last question, I promise. Got any wigs?" She asked, crossing her arms and leaning back on the railing, suddenly she had the urge to sit down and think about all the possible ways this scheme could end, most of them ending in her death, or worse, her captivity.

"I've given you the entirety of the presidential suite. If you can't find what you need there, I'm sure you'll find one elsewhere. You've proven your resourcefulness already."

Always, he gave compliments in such an underhanded way. Only if he was simultaneously insulting or denying her requests, did he actually compliment anything she did. It would've been funny, if it were more helpful. As it was, she was alone in this, and though she was sure House would trade information for dirt on the Omertas, she was actually a little nervous about this job. She wasn't skilled at subtlety, her cunning was a little more hot-blooded than that. But the nervousness was a good feeling, and this gave her a real opportunity to learn more about how this city's underground worked.

After a few hours of milling about in her suite, Eris got dressed for a night out, and tonight she thought she might give Swank and his boys a visit and see what they knew about the Omertas, and if her anonymity with the family still remained. If so, that made the job a lot easier. She knew from past experience that following plans wasn't a good idea for her, and keeping an open mind was key.

The next hour was spent smoking cigarettes and reading some pamphlets about Vegas, old pieces of flashy papers that somehow endured. She'd learned that there was once a resort here called 'Caesar's Palace', and she'd found the architecture to be interesting yet found herself wondering what exactly happened to the marvel. It was another thing she would need to ask House about, since he was quickly becoming the answerer of all her questions, and she had a lot of questions. An old record was playing on repeat in the corner of her room, something by Elvis Presley, but she wasn't paying much attention to it.

Yet again, she found her attention drawn to all the clothes left behind in the presidential suite. There was old world lingerie, gaudy yet somehow pleasing in its impractical laces, dresses and finely tailored suits, and more shoes than she'd ever seen. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what the other floors of the 38 held, and maybe House would let her check it out sometime, if she was a good girl. That thought had her laughing out loud to herself, imagining her stoic, holier-than-thou employer telling her she was a good little worker, and decided she never wanted to hear that patronizing tone from him. Maybe she had daddy issues, it was impossible to know really, since she didn't even know her own name or if she had any family at all, and was thus far content with it staying that way. All she knew was that for some reason, a reason she'd need to properly analyze at one point, she didn't like the idea of being like some kind of pet to House.

She imagined that this was a rarity, so many women, and even some men, would immediately trade places with her in the hopes of being doted on by the ever mysterious Mr. House. That's assuming he's doted on anyone in his entire life, she thought to herself. In her mind, he was a brilliant, yet socially inept egghead that lacked the kind of social graces one needed to have real friends. Not that she could judge much, she didn't really have anyone either. She wondered if that would ever bother her, but she doubted it, there were always more people to fill in for the ones that weren't there. Those were the kind of lessons she'd gleaned from Machiavelli's 'Prince' awhile back, and while doubtful of some of his methods, he was right when he said the common folk were either unaware that they were being used, or blissful at the idea of their usefulness, which was a downright revolting idea to her, though again, she wasn't sure why.

The prospect of openly using others was also a little concerning, for so many people did it, and the last thing she wanted was to be conventional. Though really, how could one avoid it if every single human interaction involved some kind of manipulation on either side? That was a matter of semantics, however, something she'd found no one really liked to ponder, and others, like House, thought it was completely useless to ponder on how something is said rather than what exactly is said.

It was getting late, and she'd procrastinated enough. If she was going to make any progress with the Omertas at all, there'd need to be a change to her schedule, and soon. It wouldn't do to have her be seen entering the 38 after every night she went to Gomorrah. So she got dressed in a short, navy halter dress, laughing to herself upon realizing she was probably wearing the priceless couture of whatever upper class gentlemen's wives House entertained in the 38 a couple centuries ago. She wouldn't look much different from the other women on the Strip though, you'd have to look pretty closely to see that this dress wasn't scavved from outer Vegas a hundred years ago. Her Pip-Boy was left on the nightstand next to her bed, and she cozied herself up in Benny's jacket, a relic whose symbolism was too fresh that she couldn't quite shake it off yet.

Upon reaching the casino, she made sure her cigarettes and lighter were in the jacket's pocket, and headed out of the 38 without looking behind her. She wasn't fucking around with just anyone, these were the Omertas, and she would assume the worst from them before she would push down any notions that maybe they'd changed their ways. She'd heard nothing but bad about them ever since she came to Vegas. And besides, people didn't change, and it had only been a few years since they were 'domesticated' by her employer.

It was dark outside already, the sound of sleazy jazz met her ears, along with the smell of booze and the sight of staggering drunks looking to impress the hookers advertising their wares. That same hooker she'd met on one of her first nights here was hanging on the sidewalk, looking for a customer. Maybe the crossdresser would be more helpful than Swank? He'd definitely know more than Swank, actually, so she decided to throw in her lot with him. A coy smile came to her lips as she sauntered up to the strangely attractive, androgynous hooker, whose name escaped her, probably because she hadn't asked.

Eris had about fifty caps on her, not enough for much, but maybe enough for a few drinks and a rather interesting conversation with the man. His greedy eyes soaked her in as she approached, and he wet his lips before walking towards her. Tonight, he was dressed in less revealing attire than the last time she'd been paying attention enough to see him. Rather than dark leathers and straps, there was a short, red dress and heels, and he did nothing to hide the bulge that revealed his true identity underneath the dress. It was his boldness that impressed her, lesser so the gaudiness in how he dressed, for that mattered very little. The desperation he must've had to dress like so and rely on the wicked desires of others to fuel both his habits and pockets was intriguing, but not saddening, for she had no doubt he'd chosen this lifestyle, and if not, the gate was only a few steps away.

"Hey baby, I see you couldn't get enough of me last time?" He said, his voice light and high-pitched.

"There was no last time, you tease, or maybe I'm just so forgettable that you mistook me for one of the others?" She replied, looking the hooker up and down in a way that would've been analytical, if she wasn't intending for it to be amicable.

"I could forget the hundreds of men in my life in the blink of an eye, but you? No price is high enough, baby.." He said, twirling his long hair between his fingers effeminately, "Besides.. I don't get pretty girls like you coming to me enough."

"You think you could take us somewhere tonight, just you and me, no strings attached, for a good time? No afternoon delights, nothing like that. Let's just get to know one another, yeah?" Eris pressed, willing to beg if necessary. Her disturbing lack of ego knew no bounds.

The hooker's eyes narrowed. Eris beamed again at the knowledge that this man was shrewd, probably on the lookout for any implications in her words. She was prepared to deliver the caps, even though she was presently running dry, thanks to the poorly planned arrangement she had with House and his library. Still, she had a few hundred she was keeping up in her suite, and didn't mind making the trip back up there at some point to make good on paying the man. Finally, he breathed a heavy sigh, and his narrowed eyes reverted back to their seductive, lidded quality he was sporting before. His head tilted to the side, and hers unconsciously did the same, observing his body language and attempting to mimic it.

"That depends, honey. How much am I worth to you?"

Eris realized then that she'd never done this before. Combing through memories and feelings suppressed by her amnesia helped her only at certain times, though she had no real inclination as to what she'd normally do, maybe because she'd never really done it. Excitement filled her at the prospect of this novel feeling, propositioning a hooker in the early night, what would be a seedy affair to others was really just a ruse to knock the Omertas, a gang she knew very little of, down a peg or two. It was a feeling she was liking, if the anticipation thrumming inside of her body was any indication.

"You? Gee, you're worth only the entirety of my wealth, but before we share any of that, I've got fifty caps here in my pockets just lying dormant, lonely, and unused, for a dame like you to shine her light on a nobody like me. Prior to seeing you out here, I'd planned on drinking my sorrows away, maybe betting on some games of makeshift hacky-sack in Freeside? You ever seen some kid use a ball of copper wiring to play hacky-sack with?"

"'Fraid not.. sounds like a terribly boring evening if you ask me, sugar. You'll be glad you came, that, I can promise you."

"Woah, woah, don't go promising before you deliver, baby. What's your name again?" Eris asked, keenly observing the body language of the man, hoping she wasn't about to get swindled. While obviously shrewd and discerning, the hooker didn't seem to be malicious, though there was a sexual predator in everyone, she guessed.

"Layla, but I can be anyone you need me to be, for the right price, of course." His voice was saccharine, though the low notes of masculinity still seeped into it from time to time.

"You'll find that yours truly is a generous patron, Layla." Eris crept forward, taking Layla's hand and placing it into her own before moving it to her jacket's pocket. To anyone else, it would've looked like an amorous exchange, but she wanted the hooker to know she had the payment tonight.

And if she got her way, she'd be able to pay him in not only caps, but chems too, which she was still trying to figure out. Layla's brows rose minutely, before baring her lips in a sly smile, the dark lipstick there revealing clean teeth, but gums that had an unhealthy color to them, most likely from repeated chem use. She wondered what kind of cocktails Layla enjoyed, now accepting this as a challenge as to how well she could play with people. Debating them and setting their teeth on edge was one thing, charming was something entirely different. She put little thought into it usually, effortless glib and tautology carrying her into a half-earned success. It truly was a mystery how she could somehow put so little effort into something yet still get a reward.

Layla slinked up to her, his perfumed arm going over her shoulder as he led her into the Gomorrah. Eris leaned into it, not having the proper boundaries, be it physical or otherwise, to resist. She was sure that even if Layla had no Omerta-flavored dirt to offer her, she could still learn a thing or two about the workings of the city, and learning was one of her top priorities, as always.