A/N: The pace fluctuates in the second part of this story, and I thought an inconsistent pace was more ideal than writing filler that myself and no one else wants to read. Thank you to those of you who are reading this painfully slow-burn rarepair. And thank you to Tempestad, for appreciating some of the things I do (I consider this particular legendarium to be one of the finer things in life).
A word of warning – Eris does some atrocious things in this chapter, but you haven't seen anything yet. There's a reason I jokingly gave this story the tag of having a mildly sociopathic protagonist (it wasn't that much of a joke..). I'm sure Eris would protest, though. Likely, she would blame it on brain damage. She's an underhanded asshole.
You're a smooth operator, you're a real cool sweet potato
Kiss me baby, don't you make me wait
Hug me baby, don't hesitate
Take my heart, and don't give it back – I like it like that
-"Smooth Operator", by Dorothy Dandridge
If it was inevitable for man to be a slave to an idea, why was it that he never chose a virtuous idea to surrender himself to? Why was it always sex, money, or violence? Has man truly advanced past his primitive ancestor, or has he done so, yet is afraid to move forward? If it is the former, he has a long ways to go yet, and if it is the latter, he needs only to admit his desire to return to his previous form – this instead makes him a traditionalist, rather than a nihilist, and since reputation among his primy peers is yet another vice of his, calling himself a traditionalist will act as a temporary bandage for this hypothetical, nihilist man.
"No, I'm afraid that's where you're wrong, what's your name again?" She asked the blond man sat in front of her snarkily.
"Arcade Gannon, researcher for the Followers of the Apocalypse." He grumbled in response, apparently embarrassed at the attention from those surrounding. Nearly everyone was watching the table that she, Arcade, and a few others were sitting at.
"Well, Arcade Gannon", Eris took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled out of the corner of her mouth, "I'm afraid credentials have little use here, but I doubt you actually care about them either. But others do, which is why you use the age-old 'I'm a professional' argument. But-" She sighed dramatically, preparing a retort for what he'd said earlier.
She'd met a few people in the Atomic Wrangler after sourcing some Med-X for the Gomorrah workers she planned on grilling later this evening. The drugs were the main course she'd come looking for, and Arcade was just an appetizer, warming her up for the talking she'd be doing later. He was a man who was rather on the tall side, with blond hair a couple shades lighter than hers. His lips were thin, and he wore rectangular eyeglasses, for which she desperately wanted to call him 'four-eyes', but that was a low blow, even for her.
The Follower was also astute and was easily seeing through the fallacies she was feeding to the rest of the table, who'd thus far been watching their debate with bated breath, pretending they understood what she and the doctor were talking about.
"How many people are slaves in this world? Hell, in the Mojave alone? And before you retaliate with something clever, take into account that while everyone here is a slave, most are likely unaware of it. Or worse, they're a slave to freedom, and they make no secret of this. Freedom is their master, and they are its slave, for whom they would follow even unto death. Now Caesar's boys, they're fully accepting of this dynamic, even if they are unaware of most of its implications, which is a philosophical sin, however, this alone speaks volumes about them. They don't fight against the inevitable, and the inevitable here, is that they, and we, are all slaves." She proposed, inhaling from her cigarette once again.
Onlookers' eyes were widened at her controversial statement, a trooper clad in an NCR cap even sneered in disgust, but did nothing else, as his ideals forbade him from attacking others for their ideals alone. This was yet another point she wanted to broach at some point when given the opportunity – moderates always lost against extremists.
"No one can be a slave to freedom. Slavery is antithetical to freedom in every way, what defines them is what makes that claim invalid. There can't really be respite between the two, ethics aside." Arcade replied, pushing his sliding eyeglasses further up his nose.
"You know, I find the word antithetical to be a slippery slope, redundant, at best. Legionnaires are slave to many things, chief among them being martial superiority and fascism. Now, if martial superiority is an idea, and an idea is a noun, it is most certainly a thing that one can swear themselves to. Freedom is an idea, a noun, a thing. Therefore, it is semantically possible to be both a proponent of freedom and a slave to it." Arcade seemed to think this over for a moment, and briefly, she was disappointed that he wasn't at least offended. "And if one can be a slave to anything, then truly, none of us are free. In this way, Caesar's onto something."
It was excellent food for thought, in her opinion, and she could admire Caesar's logic without swearing fealty to the man. Observers looked to each other, searching for the approval of their peers before commenting on the discussion going on. They, like so many, feared speaking their mind, lest they be marked a man or woman of reason, because it was at least reasonable to know your enemy, and if you wanted to get even more advanced, you could even sympathize with your enemy. The Legion wasn't her enemy, it was barely even her acquaintance yet.
And just the same, the attendants in this bar were also little more than acquaintances with the Legion – they barely understood someone they labeled as their enemy, and yet they had the chutzpah to use said label without accepting her challenge? The doctor was the exception, of course. The atmosphere was ablaze, the stares at their table were burning into the side of her head, but that was never an unpleasant sensation for her. If social intrigue could be contained in a canister, she would have no reason to be a smoker. But perhaps.. that was stretching it?
"Girl, I don't know how you can say that when you've been out here long enough to know what the Legion is all about. I mean, you heard about what they did in Nipton, right? Burnt the mayor alive, threw some kind of fucked up lottery for the survivors who didn't fight back. That is some fucked up shit, and I'm wonderin' how you can defend it 'sall." One of the more outspoken women said, addressing her.
The doctor was watching her now too, and he was probably thinking she was going to back down and scold Vulpes Inculta's brilliant, albeit unnecessarily violent scheme that showcased the Legion's hypocritical attitude towards utilitarianism. If the Legion was truly utilitarian, they wouldn't waste any lives unless they were at war with them. Surely, not everyone in Nipton had a worthless life. But these people didn't need to know that. She lived to shatter people's expectations of her.
"I'm sure most of you have heard of the Bitter Springs Massacre, yeah?" She asked the table, all heads nodded, and Arcade's brow scrunched in curiosity, probably curious where she was going with this. If the man was as quick as she thought he may be, he might have known already where she was going.
"We're all aware that this instance was a terrible loss of life – for everyone involved. Most people would blame the NCR for this, but there's another, more despicable angle. Could it not be that the Khans kept their women, children, and elderly there, to act as some kind of sick meat shield? It's not the first time this has happened in history." She said, though she herself could not recount one instance of it happening in history. If anyone was going to catch her bluff, it would be the doctor, but as it was, he was listening intently. "Nipton was just the same. The Powder Gangers living there were hiding behind traders, civilians, and a few unsavory types. Those Powder Gangers, and the whores of Nipton, let innocents be slaughted, and did nothing. Then, they cried about the cruelty of the Legion, even though they did nothing to stop them. Can you see the pattern here, or is it just me?"
This got them thinking quickly, as she'd intended. Her lips curved up into a smile, and her wasted cigarette lay forgotten between her fingers. Did she really care about what others thought? No, not really – but she knew she liked making them think. Just then, she lit another cigarette and flipped her hair back with her free hand. It was stifling in there, and she realized then that she was becoming so accustomed to the Strip and its air conditioning – she couldn't remember a time she'd sweated in the 38. It was never a good idea to get too comfortable. If one had to speak with the lowlife, one had to live like the lowlife. Occasionally.
She had her doubts that any of these clowns knew as much about Nipton as she did. After all, she was the one who'd stepped into the merry scene after it had happened. She got a firsthand, genuine experience of the Mojave's political organism up close. The smell was awful the first time she got a whiff, but spending time in Freeside and those couple of days at the Fort had trained her nose to look the other way.
"The angle you're proposing is fresh and interesting, but I don't think the comparison is appropriate, at least ethically. I think anyone would have a hard time likening crucifixion and prolonged torture to war. I agree with you on what the NCR did at Bitter Springs was a horrible loss of life, but we know the Khans aren't an advanced military force, and from their nomadic lifestyle we can infer that at any given Khan encampment, there will be women, children, and the elderly. We know this now, but the NCR didn't know this then, and I don't believe the Khans were expecting to be met in battle at such a place. They're still the victims of this, miss." Arcade retaliated, his voice still measured and gentle.
"Then it's their fault for picking a fight with a greater military force than their own, and that's putting using the weak as meat shields aside. Let's not pretend the Khans are babies who need to be swaddled. The great majority of them are traffickers, and the only thing that separates them from raiders is their strict code of honor. This is in no way an attack of the Khans, rather it is a praise of their strategy. I don't think the Khans need you, or anyone, really, to defend them. Doing so implies they are somehow lesser, that they are reliant on us, when nothing could be farther from the truth." She said, taking a sip of water. "Their brilliant strategy lies in their ability to manipulate public opinion of them through claiming victimhood. If they can't win a battle traditionally, they will win the war by virtue of victimhood, like the Powder Gangers."
"While our conversation has been nothing less than refreshing, I need to return to the Mormon Fort." The doctor said after a few moments of silence, the observers already having gone back to their drinks and conversation.
"How late are you?" Eris asked, confident that he'd set aside some work when he'd seen her entertaining guests with her controversial opinions. The good thing about being outspoken was that it attracted other individuals who also wanted to speak their minds, but were too shy to do so.
The doctor peeked a gaze at the rusty clock in the Wrangler, his brow only rising minutely at the time. Over the past three hours, he hadn't been the most expressible in either voice or form. Where most people's brows would be raising almost comically at some of the nonsense that came out of her mouth, his brow raised only quizzically, or skeptically, rather.
"Two hours. So, I'm afraid I really must be going." He rose from his seat then, and she was reminded of someone especially socially awkward.
He nearly tripped when he was getting out of his seat, and she didn't hide her laugh at his failure. His eyes traveled back up to meet hers, but there was no spite there, or even humiliation. A laugh escaped his lips too, seemingly at his own clumsiness.
"What, my charming personality isn't enough to keep you here?" She asked.
"Maybe another time, if you're in the area? Also, if you ever need medical assistance, find me at the Mormon Fort at the other end of town – I.. I don't do much most days other than research." He stammered, and Eris put on her most reassuring smile at his awkward behavior.
"Sure enough, Gannon. Once my schedule clears up, in, say, three months? Maybe I can find time for you then, then again, maybe not?" She said, and the man nodded in acceptance. "I'm fucking with you. I'll be around!"
The doctor left her at the table, which was surprisingly clear now. She was never very good at paying great attention to sensory detail anyways. She'd had a drink tonight, though she was still saving herself for Gomorrah. If she was going to lose her drug virginity, it may as well be clean.
For the past three nights, she'd been spending most of it in Gomorrah, with Layla or with Joanna, a hooker who was expressing subtle hints at a desire to escape, though she still didn't have her trust yet. The Med-X in her bag would see that through, hopefully – if it didn't, well, she'd just have to come up with something creative. And latest discussion being case in point, she could be pretty creative.
Although not the most perceptive of sensory details, she could feel eyes on her back, though she didn't make to turn around. There were freaks all around Vegas, it's why she was growing to like it – and so it didn't occur to be wary, so she waited for the sensation to go away, or for the creep to show his or her face. She lit a cigarette and crossed her arms, setting her feet on the chair to her left. A minute and three eye rolls later, she called out to the stranger who was still watching her. Likely, it wasn't a stranger if he was watching her still, she was still mostly anonymous throughout most of Vegas.
"I can feel your eyes, creep. Do you need an engraved invitation to face me?" Nothing. "Alright, how about I get a collector to pick out a nice, shiny rock so that I can put in big bold letters: you are cordially invited to stop staring and start talking. Yeah?"
A creak sounded in the rickety floorboards, and Eris turned her body to face him. Although disguised in plain worker's clothes and a fedora, she could easily tell this was Inculta. Had he watched the entire show? How she hoped he had – it was an inspiring performance, in her educated opinion. One of her best performances, in fact. It wasn't often that she could hold a conversation on why the Legion wasn't entirely lacking in virtue, unlike what the overwhelming majority thought.
"Ah, Mr. Fox. To what do I owe this esteemed pleasure? Shall I wash your feet with my hair for the honor of your presence?" She asked, keeping her voice snarky, though not unfriendly.
"I happened upon town, and I thought it would be most wasteful if I did not check on your progress." He said, taking a seat to the right of her in the robotic fashion she associated him with. Was it robotic or was it simply cautious, cold? "Though, judging by the contents of your bag, I deem it safe to assume your progress has not changed since our last meeting."
Right. She'd indirectly, and thus dishonestly, told Caesar she'd take care of his little problem concerning House. It had been barely two months, edging on three, since then and surely it wasn't time for Caesar to come and get his dues? Even if he was, she didn't doubt her ability to weasel out of it when she needed to most. Besides, Inculta himself had mentioned that he was already in town, but that could imply a number of things in that context. She also didn't question how he knew she had an ego-death amount of chems in her bag, they were bulging out of the side, after all.
His cheekbones were so striking, a feature she'd noticed immediately in Nipton, since his eyes were covered then. The no-nonsense personality he maintained prevented her usual attacks from going any further than the surface, so this meant she had to use different methods with him. Different methods was good, though. Different methods meant she could save her brand from premature death.
"So, you're a connoisseur of profligate drugs? Color me surprised. I never would have considered that you had it in you, you dirty hypocrite. Concerning progress, I've been making progress, just.. progress of a different caliber, dig?" She smirked in his direction, and he smiled back, though perhaps not genuinely. They were being watched from afar by other patrons.
"Progress for the sake of progress? You haven't struck me with that impression before." He replied, adding under his breath, "I overheard the congregation before, and wanted to see it for myself. It is my duty, after all, to catch whispers of my.. family, mentioned by lips such as yours. Your defense of my performance at Nipton was, how shall I put this? Remarkably done, yet you inadvertently left some minor details out. It's no matter, of course – that is one of many lessons we will teach the people of this land."
She wondered if he felt personal pride in that endeavor, something that was his and not Caesar's. As a collectivist who denied his own individual importance, everything he did was only to serve the collective and nothing more, though she wondered if there was an inkling of pride and possessiveness for his actions in Nipton. Perhaps Nipton was his Magnum Opus, his single greatest achievement and point of pride?
If that was so, then it would be a mercy to allow him to have such a victory – at least, psychologically speaking. She was still unsure if she was wholly against a Legion victory over the NCR, but it seemed a good idea to give Inculta this small mercy of having his own, small conquest, for which Caesar had little to do with in its orchestration. Rarely did she feel any sort of empathy for others, but there was this thankfully small part inside of her that was sad with Inculta's inability to realize his Self due to his fanatical service to the Legion, and furthermore, his inability to challenge his master. One could be a member of the collective, yet still be singular, right?
On that note, she realized Caesar handled Hegel's master-slave dialectic incorrectly. If he was truly a Hegelian, he would understand the need to relinquish control over a slave after said slave finally deduces that they have mastered what their master is unable to. Was this a simple oversight or misinterpretation, or did he assume no one else was curious enough to read Hegel but him? She suspected it was a little bit of both – Caesar read Hegel, began to use Hegelian philosophy, realized that there was a one in a thousand chance anyone would understand Hegelian philosophy, and began to interpret it to meet his own ends.
Not that she was judging, though. Caesar's ways were orderly, if not a bit dishonest. Again, no room to judge, as she was in the process of buying sex workers with drugs so they would reveal the plans of the Omertas, risking everyone's lives in the process. A little dishonesty didn't hurt anything. Dishonesty often maintained order, ironically enough. On that, she was sure Inculta would agree.
"I've no doubt about it, Professor Fox. Maybe you could stop telling people you're a businessman and start telling them you're a teacher?" She snarked, though when a couple walked past them, she quickly added, "I'd be your student in a heartbeat."
His brow quirked at that, though his eyes were humorless and blank as they always were. The secrets behind that stoic mask intrigued her, but no one should feel singular for that. Her interest was easily piqued.
"If you're through throwing empty words, which, I assure you, I can see behind, then I will leave you here. Do remember what I said about my father being fair both in rewarding and in punishment. Do not fail him." She knew he was talking about Caesar, though their presence in this 'profligate' bar disallowed them from speaking plainly. That was a pity.
She was quick to reply to that first piece, "What can I say, I'm talkative. I'm a good talker, I like to talk. Who doesn't like to talk to me?"
"I can think of a great number of people whom you'd have nothing but silence to offer." That caught her attention, though she replied only with a guffawing laugh at what she perceived to be a veiled threat.
"Get out of here, fox boy. But don't stay gone too long, I'm clingy and I'll miss your voice too much." She said, lighting a cigarette. She let the smoke blow in his direction before saying in a sing-songy voice, "Ave, true to Caesar."
The vulpine man's face hardened at that last sentence, but he nodded nonetheless and his features returned to blankness. Really, she couldn't help but tease people who took these matters too seriously. Sure, she contemplated the sociopolitical environment of the Mojave at least five times in any given day and felt certain that she'd be cold and dead in the ground before it was all said and done, but it was nothing to sweat over. None of that was going to live in her head rent-free, unless said problem offered free pre-war literature.
"Remember, Courier. You have important choices to make regarding your allies." Was the last thing he said, before joining someone at another table in the opposite corner.
For a few minutes, she watched the spy speak with someone who was likely an informant of his, or, an informant of his Legion. Certainly, there were some clear benefits to ownership being the sole right of a state, but was it the natural conclusion for mankind? Eris shook her head at that thought, distrusting the idea that anything had a conclusion. As far as she was concerned, everything seemed cyclical so far, with no real progression – every human action was due to some repressed psychological urge manifesting in physical form. She wasn't against being proven wrong, though. She welcomed it.
Walking back to the Strip under the cover of night wasn't something she had in mind when she first set out to Freeside, but her attention couldn't be expected to focus on anything for too long.
"Whatcha got in that bag of yours, girly?" A particularly filthy man uttered from one of the poorly lit alleyways. He reminded her of a molerat somehow, and she thought to herself that she'd rather be toothless than have a set like that.
"Drugs." She answered, curious what direction this would take if she answered straightforwardly for once.
Obviously, the man hadn't expected her to say this, and his expression switched to distrust, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. She couldn't help the playful sneer that twisted her lips then, at the sight of his rotten teeth freed from his scabby lips. Most would've had their hand on the trigger already, but she wanted to see what he'd do for the drugs – if he went for them at all. Although she had no knowledge other than of the street variety when it came to drugs, the effect they had on users managed to pique her curiosity, like so many other things. She was a people person though, so anything that could influence them was something that couldn't fail to get her attention.
Waiting wasn't really her style, so she spoke up, "Well? Was that all?"
"N-no. Ain't nobody that straight talkin' when they got the goods." He replied, a weird look passing over his face.
Instead of allowing this to intimidate her, she shrugged and a small smile lit up her face, the sneer wiped off. The urge to light a cigarette was lingering somewhere in the background, and her hand almost went to her pocket to fulfill it. Rather than going that direction, she flipped her hair and quickly formed a reply.
"Well, genius, 'ain't nobody' stopping someone on the road of Freeside at night to have an innocent rendezvous. So, what do you want? A job application for RobCo Industries? A forged permit to enter the Strip?" She paused, then gasped for effect, "Ooh, I know what you want! You want some Med-X, don't you?" Her voice lowered into that of indulgent.
She was sure the working girls were waiting for her in Gomorrah, she had told them she would be there tonight, after all. But as Cato the Elder had said, "patience is the greatest of all virtues". Cato was a dusty, monotonous statesman, though.
"You know what they say: you can't have something for nothing. So, what are you willing to give?" Was her question.
"I got some friends that can get ya the caps tomorrow, girly. No lyin'. Quick as a whistle."
She wondered if he even knew what a whistle was. She certainly had never seen one, at least not out here in the Mojave. A different idea came to her then. This could potentially turn into something entertaining for her, and she knew she'd never see the caps, nor did she intend on delivering these products to anyone except the Gomorrah hookers.
"I got a better idea than that, actually. You up for a little run? A little athleticism?" The man's filthy face twisted into confusion then, and she knew the surprise of the request would override the suspicion.
"Whatchu got in mind?" He asked.
"Do you think you could deliver a message to those robots guarding the Strip's entrance? I need to get word to Mr. House, just tell them that Eris says she'll be reporting in tomorrow, and she's not really feeling up to the challenge of basking in his presence just yet, yeah? Can you do that? Very, very quickly?" He nodded, the confused look still plastered on his face.
A snigger bubbled up in her throat then, but she culled it when he actually turned around and started his run towards the gates. Her hand groped for the piece she had hidden in her pants, pulling it from its tiny holster. A finger flipped the safety off, and she aimed for the man's head. She missed, but hit him in the neck instead. He collapsed like some kind of sock puppet, arms and legs splaying in an amusing manner. A few seconds later, the twitching stopped, and she walked in the direction she'd sent him in.
"Take that, sucker." She said to the heap on the ground, turning away and not awarding him with one more look.
Caesar would probably berate her for wasting an otherwise potentially productive slave worker, as utilitarian as he was. The NCR would probably arrest her for harming an individual who had the right to live as any other, and then they'd force her to live out the rest of her years in prison, living off the tax dollars of the layman. What would House say, though?
More than likely, he wouldn't comment anything other than not wishing to hear her 'barbaric' exploits. He didn't seem to have a high opinion of boasting, at least when it came to violence. No, he was apparently above those things. With that aside, though, she didn't think he'd care for this random addict's death. He would never be productive for the city-state of Vegas – he was too frail to be a manual laborer, too simple to be a thinker, and his appearance too bedraggled to be an attraction.
The first drink went down quickly enough, though her throat was already becoming dry and scratchy by the time she got to the second one. She'd officially run out of cigarettes an hour ago, and though she tried to bum some cigarettes off of the patron in Brimstone, he'd waved her away and told her to pay him 'something good' for a few smokes. She'd asked him if an analysis of the NCR was enough, but he'd laughed at her, as she'd expected.
And that was how she found herself in Layla's private quarters, bumming cigarettes off the hooker in exchange for free doses of Med-X. Eris didn't mind, in fact, it was better if she relieved herself of the unreasonable amount of chems in her possession. It just didn't bode well for any kind of discretion. It was even more dangerous than lugging caps around.
Her thoughts darted to the unnamed man from earlier than she'd put down. It didn't take long for her to justify it – he probably would've jumped her the next day, or attempted to, anyhow. If that explanation didn't work, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, anyways, and she'd had things to do. Besides, it wasn't as if the Mojave didn't see disputes of that nature nearly everyday, especially outer Vegas, a destitute place full of vagrants, that in many ways had the means to be as successful as the city it surrounded, but refused due to small-time squabbles and infighting.
Meanwhile as she thought, beside her, Layla lay on the bed, looking altogether entranced and peaceful, his troubles dulled by the morphine. She wondered how it had came to this, how Layla and the other workers here had gotten hooked on the substance. Did it call to them because of the physical pain, or the mental anguish? His medium-length hair was splayed out, and his lips were mumbling words that she couldn't make out even if she strained.
Together, they had come to a mutual agreement that she'd pay twenty caps and some Med-X for every visit, which she knew was a bad deal, but it wasn't as if money was what she was after, so she'd agreed. The intrigue was the payment, more like. Discovering how the sociopolitical environment of Gomorrah worked was far more rewarding than caps, which could buy food but not entertainment. Besides, she had plenty of food at the 38.
Eris' fingers absentmindedly fidgeted, so used to grasping onto a cigarette while she was in deep thought. Her mind went through all the possible implications of her practically buying out Layla, wondering if he'd sell out Joanna too and tell her exactly how to get her to talk. She was pretty sure Med-X would do the trick there too, but Eris liked to check out all angles before acting.
Layla himself was quite the character, Eris had discovered. Behind the facade of doting cross-dresser who appealed to the most sadistic and unconventional of fetishes, there was a dreamer who wished he could've been assertively masculine enough to avoid sex slavery. From what he'd told her, one of his biggest heroes was Colonel Hsu, who, from afar, had a feminine idealism which was counteracted by his masculine determination. The hooker had let slip that there was none of that assertiveness and determination in him, and that it was far easier to submit to fate than fight against it for him.
She lounged next to the entranced cross-dresser, watching all the emotion, or lack thereof, flit across his poisonously fair face. Propping herself on an elbow, she traced the sheets, still deep in thought, though preparing to invade the peaceful stillness of the man next to her.
"If there was an opportunity for you to escape this place, would you?" She brazenly asked, aware that the man's faculties were too far gone for him to use self-preservation to cleverly lie.
"In a heartbeat, girl. I think you already know the answer…" His voice trailed off, tone of voice reflecting the blissful apathy that was housed inside of him, "Why.. do you have a proposition for me?" Ah, there was the hope.
"I'm sure, as clever as you are underneath all that lace and leather, you know I can't make any promises. But, I might have something brewing. Possibly."
The face that turned to her was no longer blissful and purposeless, now there was a tinge of hope. It was likely that even if Eris did have a plan, which she didn't, that the hooker would likely be killed if even one wrong move was made. House would definitely not approve of her relieving employees of their employers, and though they weren't exactly on speaking terms right now due to her fuck-up, or more like, due to his sensitivity with niche topics, she was sure he didn't want her toppling the sanctity of Vegas, which was the crowning jewel of her employer.
But.. if she could somehow make it look like an accident? Fake the death of Layla, somehow.. maybe she could reward him appropriately if he met his end of the deal.
"I knew there was something off about you ever since that night. You never want sex, you never want anything the others want. You come in for.. for conversation.. you're casing the Omertas, aren't you? And don't think I'm judging, most of us here are wishful for some kind of end to all this, but we all give in eventually to what they want us to do." He gave a small, sad smile, his eyes lifeless from the overwhelming euphoria, "I was always too pretty to be the man I wanted to be, too soft. I'll always want to be like those strong and capable men, to have a wife and son, even.. It was never my ambition to be a cross-dresser, catering to the most degenerate, most vile of men.."
This, this, was why Med-X was so much better than alcohol. Alcohol turned its users into vegetables by the end of the night, and the vegetable they impersonated changed with each individual. Alcohol was inconsistent in how it effects others, sometimes they were violent, other times, flirtatious, and rarely, personable. Eris preferred bribing with this, and she knew she'd found the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. This was so much more consistent, and she liked consistency, at least, in others.
"I don't usually get to enjoy the waves, when I get a dose. So, thank you.. Also, I wanted to mention that I hope I haven't left a bad impression on you. For a long time, it was hard to see every single client as a business relationship, instead of some twisted, repugnant version of romance. If I wasn't a fucked up bundle of damaged goods, I'd ask you on a date, without all the drag." He said, waving at his form, which was all tight, black leather and straps.
If there was ever a moment of social discomfort for Eris, this was it. A part of her, the part that was more self aware, knew she had no sentimentality toward Layla, and knew that this was abnormal. That social part of her instinctively opened her mouth to form words, but none came out, and she found herself at a loss for what to say, other than laugh it off and tell Layla that she was just as degenerate as him. So, she stuck with that part, because it was easy, and because it was all she knew. Whoever Eris was before The Incident, was gone and was never to resurface, and that part of her that she knew was her past self was yelling at her from within the deepest corners of her psyche to stop being such an ass.
She ignored it.
"No accounting for taste, huh? I can assure you that I'm not a standard you want to live up to, doll. If it makes you feel any better, I'd accept your proposition to go on a date over the countless others in line." There were no others in line, but Layla didn't need to know that.
He laughed then, mirthful but still empty in that way only Med-X could do to people. His eyes were twinkling now, and Eris laughed with him in equal measure. They laughed together for a few moments, and Eris decided that if she could, she would try to get Layla out, but that wasn't the main priority. Truthfully, she was finding it easy to lose the main priority of this job, and perhaps that was due to the ingenuity of the Omertas' excess?
"So much charm, so much freedom to do what you like. I would envy you if I wasn't so in awe. You're so unlike anyone… I've had, I mean, met before." Layla said, leaning closer. The Med-X had put a silly smile on her face, and Eris was pleased to see that the nonchalance she engineered was enough to relax him.
"Wow-wee-wow! Is that a gun in your dress or are you just happy to see me?" She replied, laughing between words, "In all seriousness, though, I'm sure my ego is about to implode if you don't stop. This is a, ahem, tactical retreat for me. Just announcing it now."
"Fine, fine…" Layla said amiably, rolling his eyes before straightening his face as much as possible with the morphine in his veins, "I know you have an agenda now, you've been skirting around it for some time, and since it's about disrupting this place, I'm in. But I have one condition, and that'll be the last time I ask you for any kind of payment.."
Considering this, Eris tilted her head in curiosity, certain that he'd want either freedom or relocation.
"What would you ask of me? Your wish, after all, is my strong recommendation."
"You don't need to tell me who you work for – I think I know, and I know he has a lot of resources, a lot of influence. The only thing I ask is that you get me out of here when it's all said and done, I know if anyone can do it, you could."
As of now, she didn't know how this would end, but the logical conclusion entailed the Omerta leaders' deaths, and that was only if the plot was seditious enough. There were many factors to this, and for all she and her employer knew, the Omertas were just doing shady business with blacklisted vendors for… heretofore unknown contraband. Thus, she couldn't make any promises with conviction. But, she saved those rare moments of honesty for House these days, he could take it – usually. Through their discussions, she got her daily dosage of honesty, and that was nearly always enough for her needs.
"I'll see what I can do. But I need you to do something for me, before I can make good on that. This isn't for some kinda personal gain, nothing like that. It isn't so you can prove yourself, either.." She paused for effect, sighing, "I need you to inform me about that guy who's staying here, the one all of you are afraid of. I've only heard rumors so far, and while rumors make up the foundation of truth, they're not substantial enough. If you could get me some kind of tangible evidence, well, I think I could be pretty damn close to what I need to give you your freedom. You up for this?"
A spark of fear was in his eyes, but it was dulled by the high. Eris braced for a refusal, mildly irritated by the idea of having to cozy up to another hooker and go through the exact same process as this yet again. She loathed repetition.
"All I know is that his name is Clanden, he's got his own suite and everything. Nobody really knows why, we just know that he's a.. freak, and not the good kind." Her brow quirked at that, as she'd yet to hear Layla use the word 'freak' to describe anyone.
"Find out more about him, but don't take any unnecessary risks, if he's dangerous." Eris said, rising from the bed, eager to find another pack of cigarettes at the 38.
"You're leaving?" He called out to her, and she nodded, giving him a coy look.
"I'll be back tomorrow evening. You know I never stay gone too long.."