A/N: Welcome to the last part of 'Do It Again'. I intend for this part to be the longest in the story. It fills me with sadness to finally be nearing the end to this, but I am also excited to see Eris' story come to a conclusion. She is like a living, breathing person to me, at this point. I hope anyone reading this enjoys, and I do hope that I've conveyed the changing dynamics of this world in a realistic way.
Johnny's playroom is a bunker filled with sand,
He's become a third world man.
Smoky Sunday, he's been mobilized since dawn
Now he's crouching on the lawn, he's a third world man.
Soon you'll throw down your disguise, we'll see behind those bright eyes
By and by, when the sidewalks are safe for the little guy.
- "Third World Man", Steely Dan
Cities as a guiding beacon for mankind are nothing new. For thousands of years, it has been the city, or the city-state, that has earned itself glory, rather than any sort of unplaceable nation. The notion of the nation is a rather new one. The notion of glory for the nation is even newer, a wholly modern concept.
It was specific circumstances wherein the concept happened. She supposes that the Hegelian notion of the inability of the individual's consciousness to be fully realized as an individual, is perhaps a contender for its origin. In this idea, the individual's consciousness is only ever realized once it is subordinate to the greater collective, which is the state.
Trying to dissect the definition of 'the state', is a fruitless endeavor. It is as soulless as the collectivism she'd like to critique, and it's with great regret that she abandons the dissection – proverbial gloves and scalpel and all – and lights another cigarette in the lobby of the Gomorrah, where she sits unbothered by every other patron. With smoke billowing about her face and through the strands of her golden hair, she looks more intimidating than she actually was.
Or was that true? Her latest endeavor with House had been the defining moment in asserting this city's chain of command. Only before, she'd been teetering between their equal and their superior, but now, it is an entirely different story. To those that know her – the old tribals of Vegas – she is less approachable, on a kind of unreachable pedestal, a fact that makes her uncomfortable. To the newcomers, she is an inviting face. And to the Mojave as a whole, she is a figurehead of shifting power dynamics, possibly a symbol of Vegas' rise to power.
Perhaps, she thinks, she is putting far too much thought into it, as she's terminally inclined to do. Could it simply be hubris that leads her to these conclusions? She wonders, with no tiny amount of self-deprecation, what Cook-Cook might say about her.
"You ain't shit." After all, he is a stellar standard to which she should compare herself to.
In all but name and shifty aesthetic, the Gomorrah has changed in only the course of two weeks. House's master plan was to gradually disseminate the Chairmen, separating them by allotting them to a different casino, not only as a return to the less tribalist past, but also to disincentivize any further disruptions or uprisings among his employees.
Nearly all the hookers were still employed in the Gomorrah, and Marjorie remained manager of the Ultra-Luxe, however, new employees were being hired from outside of the Strip. It was a clever scheme, carefully crafted in the long-game fashion she associates with him, designed to exchange power from all of those outside of the Strip directly to the Strip itself. Already, some of the lower ranking Impersonators, or Kings, were setting aside their tribal identity for the prestigious opportunity to work on the Strip.
She reminded him frequently that letting them believe the casinos were their own property, out of a neglect to mention it, as he had to both the Omertas and the White Gloves, was a great error. It was one of the first pieces of advice he'd taken from her without that painfully long waiting game he played, wherein he accepts the idea only after careful reflection, only after making the idea in his own image. This time, he'd accepted that she knew more about how the tribals needed a severe hierarchy of he and them to garner any sort of boundaries and respect.
Only, the issue of tribals was being corrected. The people of Freeside and Westside, and the citizens of the NCR, were not tribals, but drifters, tradesmen, business owners, and probably not members of formal tribes.
Yesterday, he had asserted that the age of tribals was over in the Mojave, that such a way of life could not survive against the growing economy of Vegas, and its, in his own words, 'inevitable dominance'. That was another thing she wanted to challenge if only for the sake of challenging, but when she was able to experience the changes herself, it was difficult to do so without seeming childish and stubborn. There was also the issue of wanting to be supportive of him, while still taking potshots at his ideas. Theirs was a queer and endlessly intriguing relationship, but every human alive believes theirs to be the most unique. Even still, she believes the both of them would make excellent studies for various counselors.
With a cigarette hanging from her lip, dangling with a grace she can only hope for, she waves over a server, a former hooker whom, out of necessity, had been promoted to cocktail waitress.
"What can I get for you?" The other woman asks, having abandoned her tight leathers for a more conservative dress befitting of a server.
In the hierarchy, she must've had some sort of deal with the secretary, who was now, unofficially, the manager of Gomorrah. Officially, Eris was, but her management skills left much to be desired. The server's name was Shantel, known colloquially by several men as 'Shanny', but she had abandoned said nickname as readily as she left hooking to her other, less favored coworkers.
As for them, they'd not gotten the same luck of the draw, but such was life in Vegas. They could now leave without being coerced, and if they'd like to, it was entirely up to them. With nearly all Omerta men gone, there was a power vacuum within the remnants of the tribe, and the former hookers were desperately trying to play the game. What they did not know, was that the game was over. House had confided in her that he no longer had any tolerance for primitive tribal hierarchies, and had indirectly asked her to make sure the message was received. From now on, any kind of power games would have to assimilate into the framework of 'civilized' business, of shadowy cutthroats that dragged their victims out to the desert hills to rob, rather than in the vicinity of Vegas.
"Cosmopolitan." It was an inside joke, which the Omertas were definitively not in on. Eris herself had forgotten why she'd subjected herself to the weakest cocktail they served, but it probably had something to do with their infamous spiking of customers' drinks.
"Gotcha, honey." Her reply was saccharine, an attempt to cozy up to second highest in the chain of command, Eris thinks. Gomorrah's whores were her biggest fans at present.
She doesn't blame them, if her lifestyle choice was that of a hooker's, she'd have succumbed to sycophancy long ago. Her shamelessness was legendary.
At least the establishment, as eminent and highbrow as it always was, still ran smoothly, perhaps drawing in more tourists than ever before. Whether it was correlation or causation, was anyone's guess. Eris thinks it could be both that people were migrating to Vegas anyhow, and that people who had avoided Vegas' criminal, tribal element were now willing to come. Western bureaucrats feared the Mojave's grime underneath the thousand layers of glitter, but a thousand more layers had just been added with the loss of both the White Gloves and the Omertas, and even their discriminating eyes couldn't see through it.
Shanny – or Shantel, as she preferred to be called now, served her tall glass with an enthusiasm that had not existed beforehand.
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she dug into her purse to lift three caps and plant them in the palm of the woman, a 'tip', as House had called it. Supposedly, tipping was a prewar practice that needed to be reimagined within the barbaric postwar world. Formerly, the workers here got a minuscule share of the house profits, small enough to allow them to buy discounted drugs, but not large enough that they could leave with their earnings. Their pimps, however, oversaw the flow exchange of profits to the workers.
Naturally, it was her preeminent duty to set a standard of conduct, to encourage tipping. She understood his line of reasoning – that the people looked to her as a kind of big person, and were likely to mimic her behavior either to fit in or to build a facade of power. Reasonably, there was no excuse for her to disapprove. For as long as she can remember, she is, in reality, a shallow figurehead whom, while clever and possibly even sharp, is constantly performing for the pleasure of other people.
It was a tough pill to swallow, but with the right amount of levity, she reassures herself of the old adage:
"It is what it is."
Smiling sardonically, Eris takes a sip from her cocktail, and lights her second cigarette of the evening. What the people will never know, is that Eris is already a mimicry, a psyche trying to reform itself by unconsciously copying the mannerisms of others. It's her own secret, maybe the only secret she's not tempted to tell everyone in her immediate environment. God only knows she can't keep her mouth closed long enough for the more sensational secrets.
Although, much to her credit, no one else seemed to know the happenings of Cottonwood Cove, despite having told Inculta some time back. The only other person who could possibly spill the beans would be House, and he was notoriously tight-lipped and solitary. In regards to Inculta, she's seen none of him since the Final Solution, two weeks ago. She suspects him of being on suicide watch right now.
Even two weeks later, she is still smug in her victory over the fox. The victory is sweeter than the guilt that trickles down on her spine and melts onto the floor, that is, the guilt for what Inculta must have suffered for his failure. No matter that she met him after he crucified over a hundred Powder Gangers, he was a person that held strong nostalgic value for her identity, which was still in its infantile stage.
Maybe she is softer than she initially thought, she thinks to herself, idly watching the golden liquid swirling around at the bottom of her glass. A murderer can be soft, or he can be hard, just as a tyrant can be basically good while committing atrocities. A tyrant who is cruel even in his interpersonal affairs was a different story, and Eris doubts Caesar enjoys watching people tortured to death. In person, he was more human, less mythologized, perhaps even understanding if not brashly spoken. She suspects the same of countless prewar tyrants.
When the glass is drained, she abruptly stands, and grinds her cigarette butt onto the ashtray, leaving it there with the others. Languidly, she rolls her shoulders – she's never been shy of those displays in public, or any others, in fact. It was an unnamed jazz number that played as she left Gomorrah's lobby, heavy on the brass instruments. She was of the mind that they lent a bold, brazen sound to any piece they were added to. She can't imagine that a piano could ever set a backdrop for a gentleman's club.
That's why she's not a musician.
Tempted as she is to return to the 38 early, she opts for Freeside, hoping that a fight can be picked at the Atomic Wrangler. Few people challenge her anymore, either because she is an esteemed tautologist, or because she really is sharp.
Going out. She begins to type into her Pip-Boy, an established measure between them considering last time she did so, she got her ass beat.
He doesn't deign to respond, a fact that makes her nervous, and, she'd admit only to herself, insecure. These days, he is busier than he ever has been, or perhaps this is a neat excuse to distance himself from her. How cliché, if so. She thought that this kind of behavior was done only in pulpy romance novels. Personally, she has never known a man to distance himself from a woman – it is normally the other way around. He'd allowed her to use the pod only once in the span of two weeks, and only hesitantly. It is with tentative conviction that she thinks he is avoiding her.
Right. That's only natural. If she were him, she'd avoid her too. But it is especially discomforting because while there are many vying for her attention, she only ever wants his. Everything in her life is paved by the ironical.
It won't hurt to stay at the Atomic Wrangler for the night, indeed she's spent many nights here when she'd gotten in rows with House, usually over something so innocuous, for it was the smallest things that set him off.
The evening breeze is cool and whips her back into sobriety, chasing away the small, apathetic buzz the cocktail had given her. Her undone hair moves with the draft, longer than it's ever been before, or so she thinks. Its texture is soft and thick, owing to the rich diet of healthy food that's been catered for her. That sort of comfort and stability should've sickened her, would've sickened her only a year ago.
Heads turn to look at her as she sashays over to the gate with a confident stride that is as sincere as a whore in church. They whisper about her between themselves, they're tourists who are in awe of the element in this city, so decadent and foreign to outsiders. It isn't that she doesn't enjoy smiling and talking small with them, it is that she can no longer go beyond either of those two, because projection of the image was too important. This is why she goes to Freeside for her kicks, everyone there was either openly hostile toward her, or ambivalent, understandable given that they lived in the proverbial toilet of Vegas, and enjoyed the excrement that flowed down from it.
But she gives them what they need, a nod of her head, a titillating smile, and a slightly unhinged jest that her willpower could barely stomach containing. Like a wild dog, she is merely playing at being tamed, only by the will of her master.
Does she miss the times before? Perhaps, though that may be because she thought that she was supposed to. Was there really anything to miss? She really longs to unlock the full depth of nostalgia that lay behind her connection to Benny, to Inculta, to these faces that kept appearing and reminding her of who she was, or who she might be.
Her hair flies around her head and neck when the gate opens, and the chill of the desert at night sends shivers down her spine. Wisely, she puts her compact Pip-Boy in her purse, and fastens it securely around her shoulders. The sensation of cold metal on her thigh reminds her that she's armed in the event of an altercation, which isn't unlikely at this time of night in this type of place. Yes, she is too immersed in the comforts of Vegas if she fears confrontations with Freeside hobos and thugs.
In khaki shorts and a snug sweater she picked up off the floor of the 38, she looked patchwork enough to fit in with Freeside, unless she showed her teeth. They were too white to be a regular drifter's, and anyways, people recognized her easily enough. But strolling around in a cocktail dress was dangerous, when the outfit was worth more than most people's hotel rooms.
Where some of the more iconic and recognizable ruins used to be, were now flat lots, deconstructed for recyclable building materials. House was a cheapskate. She'd expect nothing less from someone who modeled themselves as something of an economic visionary. Thinking about him was making her insecure. She imagines it's that feeling a child gets about a sweet they've had before, but because of some unknown sin of theirs, their parent is threatening to take it away from them. Only, she counts on this particular sweet for.. just about everything.
November in the Mojave is surprisingly cold, and she is shivering while she walks the familiar path to Freeside. The familiar putrid odor of the neighborhood is covered only by the smell of loose leaf tobacco burning, the people here couldn't afford the imported, rolled cigarettes that were sold in Vegas' casinos. Unfortunate for them, it's her single greatest creature comfort.
The Atomic Wrangler is crammed with people, packed like sardines really, as she's heard prewar people say. Supposedly, the sardine was a tiny, foul-smelling fish that was sealed with hundreds of others in a tin? How novel those people were, she'd love to contend with them.
Liquor, sharp and crudely brewed, assaults her senses and causes her nose to crinkle up like an old fruit. Like the old, rotten fruits they'd probably used to ferment said liquor. Eris skews her brows, a look she's been told is infinitely critical and unfair for the soft-hearted.
Only a few chairs are available, and those are at the tables of various, motley crews, some of which she recognizes, some she doesn't. There's been a booming influx of people in Vegas and its surrounding parts. A flash of blond hair and glasses in her peripheral alerts her, and cheekily, she slides over to a farther corner of the room, and chooses the last available chair at the table, plopping down unceremoniously.
Any conversation ceases as soon as she makes herself known, and she's currently the subject of the endlessly erudite and studied scrutiny of Followers and an unfamiliar resident, an Hispanic man she's never seen before. He looks like a big, ugly toe.
Though she doesn't look in Gannon's direction, she can feel his stare on the side of her face, and though she feels that their welcoming is less than friendly, she finds herself jumping back into that shameless, annoying child she's always known herself to be. That shameless, annoying child doesn't care if people find her annoying, because she can make it work.
"So.. what were we talking about?" She announces gregariously, filling the hushed silence of the circular table, surrounded by people with whom she was sure she was unpopular now.
In the Followers' eyes, it was predictable that she'd lose points after leaving the scene of the crime a couple weeks ago. Calling it a 'crime' was debatable, however. She decides she's going to do some damage control tonight.
Her wide eyes make her look careless, unaware, perhaps even innocent. One of the Followers, a polite man named Stephan, cleared his throat, and was the first to speak to her, probably out of a need to not offend. That instinct ought to be investigated.
"We were just talking about the Legion's movements southeast of here. The people report that they've gone quiet, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that?" His question was polite, insincere, an attempt to save her face – unnecessary, there's no face to save.
"As a matter of fact," she begins, unconsciously raising a luring hand to gesture, "I would. They're waiting to see if the Bear is foolish enough to strike the first blow. I know, very un-Legion of them, but they've learned from their first war with the NCR. All of Caesar's agents have withdrawn from society to join their leader, and await his call, and, Lanius' arrival." Two of the Followers winced at the cursed name, infamous even here. "Although, some of it's probably because we foiled their attempt at infiltrating Vegas. Two weeks ago, if you'll believe it." Her brows wiggled tantalizingly. Said information wasn't a secret, but anything can come off as a secret if it's told right, and secrets flattered people.
"Can you tell me which plot you foiled, and how you did it?" Arcade asked smartly from beside her, a note of distrust in his soft voice.
There's the onion. He wants her to lie, believes she will lie, but Eris never really lies, she only inflates the truth with exaggeration and smoke. She decides she'll tell the whole truth, just to shock him, and to keep the Followers in Vegas' fold. They were popular with the impoverished and afflicted, and needed to be won over. For once, she was intentionally schmoozing over a group without any sort of directive from House.
"Good question!" She exclaims, sending a coy smile in Arcade's direction, much to his errant blush. "The Masks over at the Ultra-Luxe, under the supervision of Vulpes Inculta, were planning a gas attack on the citizens of Vegas, and afterward, a nice, opulent banquet, with the people as the first course. Naturally, they weren't alone in this – the Omertas couldn't resist counterplotting, they too worked with the clever, Uncultivated Fox in what was called Operation Racket. They thought that they'd not only terrorize the people of Vegas and its surrounding areas, but get the Ultra-Luxe as a bonus, among other things.." The detail of Operation Racket was too specific to be interpreted as a lie.
"We couldn't forgo justice with so many lives on the line, you know. When push comes to shove, action has to be taken." Her insincerity was masked by the unfamiliar, serious tone she took. Even the movement of her brows matched her grave tones. "The Legion must not be allowed any victory, no matter how small. Although.. I doubt anyone would call the total annihilation of Vegas a small victory." She added, for dramatic effect.
"No, they wouldn't. But we'd be lying if the death of so many didn't make our people.. uncomfortable." Another woman said, a new Follower whose name she hadn't learned.
"What's your name?" Eris interjects smoothly, pulling a cigarette out of her purse and lighting it.
"Amelia Butts." Eris' jaw tightened at the woman's surname, tempted to make a pun out of it, but she kept her eyes on the prize.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Amelia. I don't think we've ever spoken before, but.. we certainly have a lot to talk about, I think you'll agree." She winked, bringing a flush to the other woman's ruddy complexion. "Understandably, any talk of 'death' and 'justice' should make you question the narrative, and frankly, if it doesn't make you uncomfortable, there's something wrong with you. In the grand scheme, though, I find that not all deaths are equal. The deaths of cannibals and pimps are deaths that you shouldn't waste your sweet tears on. Cry for the," she nearly said whores, but stopped herself, "women, who were preyed upon by the Omertas, and the countless people who would've become meals for the White Gloves. They deserve it more."
That was something no one could disagree with publicly. It was the hook, line, and sinker – the trapping of someone between the proverbial rock and a hard place. No one in good faith could deny it, except her, because she's that good at it.
"Surely not all of them were pimps and cannibals though?" Arcade's question was critical, putting the spotlight back on her and off of Amelia, much to Eris' amusement. He'd learned the pattern of her greatest social traps, but she always laid more than he could uncover. So many, that she herself forgot how to retrace her footsteps to find them.
"I can assure you, that only the offenders in the crimes were punished. Indeed, many of the innocent bystanders remain alive, and the casinos have been redistributed to be under their management." She neglected to mention that they had exactly no ownership of the properties, but that was a nuance lost on most wastelanders. The Followers liked the illusion of cooperative ownership.
"Do you mean to say the Omerta's victims have been compensated?" Stephan asks.
"It's a matter of perspective, I suppose. They understand the trade better than the thugs who used to run it," that may have been the most Hegelian thing that ever left her mouth. "Now any money they earn is their own. I'm something of a revolutionary, if you didn't know. If by compensation, you mean that their assets are now within their control, then yes. No more vile Omerta men are coming to collect their hard-earned pay."
Now that the Omertas were out of the way, their inner workings could come to public awareness, and a narrative could be constructed around how justice was placed in the hands of the little men and women. Eris is fool enough to delude herself into thinking she's neither one of the big men, nor one of the little men, but an observer of both. This is, of course, not true, but as she has no hankering to put herself in either of those categories, she refrains.
A server stops and refills the beer glasses of those around the table, the alcohol smells putrid to her.
"Was that really how the Omertas operated? They determined the share of their prostitutes arbitrarily?" Came the slighted question of Amelia, and Eris' lips quirk at the way she managed to divert their attentions wholly toward disgust with the Omertas.
"Careful with how you use the word 'arbitrarily', it can bring a whole lot of misunderstanding. Yes, they did determine the cut that the prostitutes received, I won't even bother telling you what it was – it was a percentage under ten percent. What I will tell you is that it was only large enough of a cut to buy their drugs, which is what was keeping them there in the first place. Nasty bastards, weren't they? Giving their hardest workers only enough to get dopesick but never enough to build a life for themselves. No more of that, though. Mr. House's tolerance only extends so far." It brings her a kind of fulfillment she never would've imagined, giving a salespitch for him, like a propagandist. In another world, she might've been the Goebbels to his Hitler, only they were most certainly not statists.
"But was it not Mr. House who hired them to oversee the casinos in the first place?" Arcade smartly asked, trying to corner her into exposing herself as a fraud. This time, she was no fraud, she truly did believe Vegas was better off without the two families running it. Logic demands that the Chairmen were next, but she hoped that would be a mostly peaceful dissemination, subtle enough that they wouldn't even realize they were being assimilated out of their tribal identity.
Even still, she had to answer Arcade's question carefully. Representing House was teaching her a lot about doublespeak, because the man was complex, and often did good things for the people underneath a veneer of egocentric self-gain. To his misfortune, people rarely ever cared about anything but the immediate, and she didn't fault them for it.
"Undeniably. He also gave them free reign within their own casinos, underneath a contract which held that they'd not return to their sordid former lifestyles. They kept the pretense that they were following those reasonable contracts, until it became clear that they were dissatisfied. It's hard to go from enslaving and drugging travelers, to being proprietors of a strip club. Likewise, it is equally as hard to go from cave-dwelling cannibals to refined, highbrow chefs. They hated the people, hated the thought of living a more peaceful lifestyle, and worse, having to meet the demands of their customers. All of this only became more obvious as time passed, and when such a threat is thrown at normal people – not a battalion mind you – it's concerning. It would've been different if they were planning an assault on the NCR, or Mr. House's securitrons." This here was the winning ticket with the other Followers. Altruistic in practice, there's no way they can deny that what she did was in the 'right'.
"Suppose there are some that just.. can't be rehabilitated." Was her cherry on top, painting House in a kind of light that made him look like a savior.
A solemn silence fell over the table, and when she looked to Arcade, she gave him a secret wink. After having been in her company several times, there's no way he's buying it, but there's no way he can attack what she says without casting himself as a villain, because he has no evidence outside of his own intuitions. She's never admitted anything to him.
Although, the thought of his disappointment in her was slightly hurtful, and if there was a way to repair it, she'd like to find out.
"What of the Chairmen? Will they remain in their position? Forgive me in advance for my ignorance of the Strip, I've only ever been once, and that was months ago." Stephan admitted. Among the Followers, he was popular, a rake too, all the women loved him. He wasn't overly tall, but he had dark features against a pale tan, and compassionate eyes that could easily portray any amount of attention he wanted to give, illusory or sincere. He was not a scholar among the Followers, but a charming physician and socialite.
"The Chairmen are charmers, practically made for Vegas. Sophistication suits them." She winks at Stephan, and the look he returns is suggestive. What he doesn't know, is that she is in love with a disembodied voice. "It'd suit you too, Stephan." She purses her lips like a sly fox, "and you too, Amelia."
She's been called 'flatterer' more times than she can count, but it's the method with the most consistent and reliable outcomes, even with people who are hundreds of years old. People like having their best qualities recognized externally.
Both of her addressees laugh under her flattery, and weren't even aware that she'd avoided answering their questions. Indeed, the Chairmen were charming, and the Strip suited them, but if House had his way – and she's fast learning that he usually does – their name would die and individual Chairmen would be known apart from their family. They'd find ladies and have children with them, and those children decidedly wouldn't be Chairmen, for who wants to raise a child in a casino? She wonders if they'll start their own enterprises, and open up new businesses within Vegas.
It's official. She's now a corporate predator. It was always inevitable, working with an outrageously wealthy robotic engineer and arms manufacturer.
"I'll be the first to admit that it's hard to imagine myself as a casino worker." Arcade's voice is humorless, but what he says is in good humor nonetheless. He must've realized that she works miracles with a crowd, is better at public speaking than one-on-one conversations.
"How about working in a hospital? Does that not strike your fancy?" It is a bold line of questioning, to lead the Followers on, although in her defense, House has implied that he wants to found legitimate hospitals and research facilities.
"Are you offering me something?" This time, Arcade is smiling down at her, humoring her if nothing else.
"No, I was just asking you if you liked it. Kinda like asking you what your favorite color is, with no strings attached." She jests, catching the eyes of everyone else at the table and basking underneath the spotlight, like a cold reptile that wants a sun bath. Like clockwork, she lights another cigarette, and blows the smoke away from the table and into the dim, crowded space of the bar.
"Can you bum me one?" Amelia asks in a subdued voice, she is the shy type, the type that's grateful when someone like her talks over everyone.
"Sure can." Eris hands her the cigarette, and the other woman takes it between her fingers like a novice, and waits for Eris to light it. "Are you one of those people that only smoke when they drink?"
The other woman huffs shyly, taking a sharp inhale from the cigarette and blowing it away. She dislikes the taste – Eris can tell, because she takes a drink of the foul-smelling beer immediately afterward.
"Is it a crime if I say yes?" Amelia answers with a question of her own, complete with that silly, performative guilt that many women have.
Other Followers waited on Eris' answer, watching her closely, especially Stephan.
"Only if you don't inhale." They all laugh at that. It's not a particularly funny joke, it's not going to win her any awards with anyone, but it sets the mood, and reassures her that the Followers are not completely jaded with her.
"Folk are saying that the NCR is refortifying their defenses at the Dam, they claim it's a sign of impending war. What is your take on that?" Arcade asks her, because supposedly she has insider sources. Three months in Legion captivity, and five minutes of Hsu kissing her ass was apparently enough. She knows only what she hears, what she predicts, and what House tells her.
"Well, you know as well as I do that there's been an impending war for ages now. As Stephan mentioned earlier though," she directed a look at him, "both sides are on the move, with Caesar doing the moving and the NCR doing the moving away. The NCR isn't drooling so much that they'd risk an offensive assault on the Legion, they know their strength is in defense. But, it could just as easily be said that the Legion know better than to remain static, since their own strength is in brutal, big-headed assaults. Everyone knew a clash was inevitable, they just didn't know when it would be. It will come when Lanius does, until then, Caesar is just going to poke the bear for weaknesses and hope they take the bait."
"Do you think they will?" The outsider, a Freeside resident, asked.
"Under the wise leadership of General Oliver, they just might, but such a strategy would be the height of unpopular, see. Realistically, if Oliver does take the bait, the blame will fall on Kimball's presidency, and neither he nor any of his officials would ever be reelected. Think about it though. Any battle between them will always be on Caesar's terms, so either way, Kimball's regime may be doomed." Eris finishes with an inhale of her cigarette.
A dingy jukebox near them was playing jazz, a smooth piano tune that she swore sounded familiar. The chords synchronized with every conversation in the bar, conforming to whatever was being discussed.
"That's not necessarily true. If the Legion sets terms for a violent confrontation, and Kimball only engages them defensively, that only makes his regime look better. Unless they lost, of course, but what is the likelihood?"
"On the likelihood of what? Kimball's regime losing favor, or the NCR's total defeat?" She asks, but it is rhetorical, because she plans on answering both of them. "On both accounts, surprisingly likely, but nothing's certain. There are lots of people out here who believe that the NCR doesn't have the right of the Dam, that their attempt at annexing is just as illegitimate as Caesar's expansion. I may be as bold as to suggest that.. most of us here would agree. Let's suppose the war is long and more drawn out than it already is. Well, Caesar will win, because he doesn't have to go through any democratic process to declare a prolonged war. Heavy losses don't matter to former tribals, but they do matter to the NCR. Ergo," she begins with dramatic flair, "Kimball loses favor with the people – he already has – and any favor he loses is a detriment to him, but if Caesar loses favor, it's no deterrent. He can continue doing what he's doing, especially with Lanius behind him."
"No, I disagree. Even a fascist must lick their wounds, and Caesar will not live indefinitely in any case. If he is pushed back by General Oliver, it's unlikely that he will recuperate quickly enough that the NCR doesn't launch an assault on the retreating legionaries. The rangers can and have taken out entire camps of legionaries before. If even that doesn't ensure victory for the NCR, then Caesar's age will catch up with him, and any dream he has will die with him. The Legion can't survive without the guidance of Caesar, and if they did, it would be as a shadow of their former 'glory'."
"Fair. I like your optimism, it's inspiring." She snarks, then goes on to say, "but I think it comes from a fundamental misunderstanding of how the Legion works. I was their captive, I like to think I know them well. Let's assume Caesar dies either in the field, or from age. Within the year anyways, for the sake of the hypothetical. If Caesar dies, Lanius is heir apparent, and Lanius will march not just on the Dam, but the Mojave itself. All the troops Lanius has subjugated and trained in the east are on their way here right now, and while they're loyal to Caesar in name, their true loyalty would be to Lanius, because he's all they've ever known. If Caesar is defeated, Lanius remains a threat." The name is like an ill omen, anyone with sense would be afraid. But Eris is without much good sense, and she constantly underestimates people.
Lanius is a shining example of the perfect, mythologized terror. As feared by his own people as he is feared by the enemy. Half of those rumors about him were untrue, but a myth is always built on some measure of truth.
"I predict they'll roll over the NCR like a tidal wave, but, it could really go any way. Unlike the NCR, it's not possible to intercept their movements with sophisticated technologies, because they don't use them. That's another one of their many weaknesses turned into a strength. You can't hack an intelligence lab that isn't even there."
But Arcade is not finished, and now they're beginning to return to their usual conversational haunts.
"But you would agree that every standing army has a finite number of people?" Not House's, she wants to tell him, but she can't.
"Certainly." Their conversation is being followed by the others at the table. It always plays out like this, the two of them disagree on some small, insignificant detail and lose everyone else in the process. "At the same time, I'd have to ask you to agree that there are hundreds of tribes to the north and south that Caesar could conquer and assimilate. There's no such source for the NCR's army. Whoever is less morally scrupulous usually has the most advantage, but you're right, that doesn't guarantee victory, it just makes it more likely."
In any event, House will intervene and save the day, and if she knew him as well as she thought she did, he'd enact some kind of price for his well-timed intervention. Again, she worries that her part in his scheme will end as soon as this conflict was resolved. She focused on consistent behavioral patterns, and he was behaving in such a way that indicated he was upset, or otherwise miffed with her.
"It is true that Kimball's war machine is delayed by the democratic process, but if that weren't the case, we'd be living under abject tyranny, and without being checked, a hundred or more Bitter Springs' might have occurred." Arcade said, like an afterthought. "That Bitter Springs occurred at all is proof of a burgeoning tyranny in itself-"
"The Khans used women and children as a shield so that they could win over-" Eris began, but Arcade spoke over her.
"You do know that's an unproven conspiracy theory perpetuated by the Jackals, right?" Yes, she did, the Jackals were that insignificant cannibal tribe that fancied itself an enemy of the Khans. But she didn't care who was perpetuating it when it made sense.
In good humor, she waved her hand at Arcade, and began, "So if Stephan said it, it wouldn't be a conspiracy theory?"
Both men laughed at the implication, and Arcade defended himself, saying, "Yes, it would. I mention the Jackals because they're the most interested in ruining the Khans' reputation."
"Oh believe me, they don't need the Jackals to do that." Eris snorted, moved by Arcade's muffled laughter and the guilty pleasure that the others must've been experiencing.
Eris had found that many people were just waiting for someone else to say something that was also on their mind. She was practically doing them a service, saying things they were otherwise afraid to. What would be her reward? A ribbon for public service?
"I'm afraid I'd have to agree.. begrudgingly."
"So, I imagine there's no way I'm going to persuade you to come back with me?" She found herself asking as she left the Wrangler with Arcade, lagging behind the other Followers in a dimly lit, shadowy walkway.
"Not tonight, I have samples of ephedra that I need to investigate. And, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly disappointed in you, and frankly, surprised, although I shouldn't be." There was a shiver in his words as he spoke, and he tugged his long coat closer around him. "Did you, by any chance, have anything to do with the Hidden Valley Massacre?"
Shit, they had a word for it now? A shiver ran down Eris' back, completely unrelated to the weather, and she hesitated for a moment before she spoke. Unnoticeable to anyone except herself. Very few people knew it had been her meddling that had led to the end of Brotherhood presence in the area. Indeed, she can count on one hand how many people knew – Mr. House, Vulpes Inculta, Caesar, and whichever legionaries were shadowing Inculta that day.
"No." But it didn't take a genius to catch on that wherever she went, people's fortunes fell. She even meets his eye, and manages to look innocent, in the only way that she can.
Indeed, she cared about the approval of others, but that was only part of it. The more pertinent reason for her denial, was that she simply didn't want to talk about it. It was, maybe, the sin that she is most ashamed of, and to this day, she questions if they'd done anything to deserve it.
"I'd hoped not, but.. I just want to make sure that this isn't a habit of yours. If so, there would be no chance of friendship between us, and for now, I would like for you to keep your distance." Eris' eyes narrowed at the tall man, and found herself bothered by his ignorance of Vegas' politics. Ignorance, or naivete – she wasn't sure which it was. She should be bothered instead by her willingness to engage in complete denial of a total massacre. "To me, that's fair. I do.. value your company," awkwardly, he looked at anything but her then, "but Jesus Christ, you're like a ticking time bomb of chaos."
Eris sneers at that, her full upper lip curling at the truth. But she does not have to like the truth, she is allowed to be bothered by it, just like everyone else is.
"And fuck, you won over Stephan and Amelia with that tangential placation you do. I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in watching you ensnare the entirety of the Mojave to serve whatever secretive motives you have."
"Are you seriously mad at me because I made friends with your friends? What a childish thing to be angry over, you should really choose better things to waste your time on. Yes, I let the Omertas and White Gloves be melted, odds are you would've done the same in my position. Get some fucking imagination."
Was House right when he saw everything with an 'us versus them' mentality? Or, was she so deep in the rabbit hole that she couldn't understand people's immediate impressions anymore? To her, it seems entirely reasonable to execute the White Gloves, as well as Cachino and his thugs, but perhaps that is because she knew them better than Arcade. She can't reasonably expect others' opinions to carry the same weight and validity when they had no idea what was going on, after all.
"I'm sure your senses will come back to you eventually." Eris was livid and disheartened, for reasons mostly unknown to her. She has never been a good judge of her own feelings. Obviously, deflecting and blaming it on him is the only reasonable course.
He shot her an incredulous look, and turned his back to her, and she stood there, pouting like an overgrown child. So House barely spoke with her, and now her only other friend is pissed at her?
Undoubtedly, she is learning how incredibly reliant she is on him. It is sobering, and pleasurable when he's there, but when he's not, it's agony. Maybe if she had more women in her life than hookers, she'd have a better idea of this feeling.