haze
They took pride in their craft. I don't think Omertas saw other people as people at all. Everyone else was just... prey. They reminded me of a certain criminal element Vegas used to attract.
i am one of those people very compelled with unsaid things. from the earliest days of spelunking into fandom, i've always been a bit of a rat getting into things, scrounging around for scraps of information pertaining to my favoured characters, until developed enough sense to just... fill the gaps myself. robert house is a man of generous empty spaces, and for my iteration, i've decided to ball certain clippings of dialogue and paper mache them into wood fill.
the omertas. one of his most debilitating oversights. why should a man so versed in history and so boastful of an enlightened sense of awareness deliberately cause bother for himself and threaten the longevity of all that he now lives for for something so flimsy as nostalgia? he cites routine, but that would imply either a previous altogether impressionable experience or a gross indifference for the sake of surface novelty. if you're seeing this, you'll probably guess i went for the former.
the context of this image, without a piccrew, is something pertaining to house's past. In short, how we got there in the first place, is that my courier is a despicable human being and, in the spirit of ensuring the prosperity of less despicable human beings, decided to take a spade to the meagerly fortified flesh of his cyclopean employer's brain and dig. what he was looking for, and indeed what he found, was the greater sum of what these pictures made; ephemera of a bygone era, locked away to safeguard from crude axes of time and faulty, overwrought software. traces of these had always been there, in the very hind of house's consciousness, behind a door his machine sense rationalized that, if existed closed upon his awakening after the bombs and the comma, must not be worth opening or to open would further cripple him in his already fragile state and there is so much work to be done. so he let it be and let traces of that phantom code influence his decisions and actions in a jagged, disconnected, deplorable fascimile of informed sense.
this is from the days when he was young. when the suits he wore bunched at his elbows and sagged at his knees. when, on certain weekends, he dressed in a less than modest fashion to exacerbate the merriment and nullify the rage of a certain enigmatic and rueful kith of his, an organized crime operator of french descent daylighting as a women's baseball captain on his college campus, whose relatives often called on him to assist in tech and machine related matters on and off business hours, one such occasion resulting in the unfortunate and making of informal acquaintance of an up and coming reno star and senator's daughter looking to enlist the services of the morally dubious and clandestine family. in this life of house, i put that the subconscious propagation that an organized crime element be present in new vegas came from here, although that and other falacies borne of the abominable and butchered nostalgia would soon be amended.
