Chapter one: New Blood
Outside, it was another sunny day in the Mojave. Mountains of red rocks and cliffs could be seen from far away and in front of them, valleys of grazing, though mutated, Brahmin and Bighorners without a care in the world except for the normal insects buzzing around them.
Inside, it was another dark and backbreaking day in the pen. Though sunny outside, the gloomy environment of the saddened slaves turned it into perpetual darkness. They could do nothing but sit and think about freedom or watch the guards in their Legion outfits watching them. There was a body of water only a short walk away, yet they were unclean, unable to bathe or change their clothes and sweating from sun and work.
One slave, a young man, looked beyond the Legion with their machetes and the unfortunate souls crucified in front of the camp as warnings. He saw beyond that and saw the shining sun beyond and the hills and valleys waiting to be explored. "The grass was always greener…" was something he heard frequently. But freedom seemed too sweet that he knew that the grass was greener, it had to be. No matter what, he had to get a taste of freedom.
His fingers curled along the gate that held him, that held the others, away from freedom. Almost immediately, a Legion pulled his machete out and pointed it at the slave. "Hands away from the gate!" He warned, his voice muffled and expression unseen from the infamous helmet all Legion wore.
Startled, he moved back a few feet and brushed by the shoulder of another slave. Normally they would be too tired to even notice, but the heat had gotten this slave's anger up. And this slave had been a slave for quite awhile, and was doubtlessly two times stronger than he, but doubtlessly he was two times nimbler. The younger slave saw the fist swinging toward him and sent a punch into his gut. The other slave crumpled, and he could hear the Legion opening the gate to end the quarrel.
Though weakened by the punch, the other grabbed one of his legs and brought him to the ground, his face hitting the sand. The other slaves around watched meekly, glad to see some entertainment though too tired to even show their expressions. The young man send another one of his powerful punches into the other's mouth, feeling a teeth break as he did so.
Legion members separated them, two each holding them. The other just slumped in their grip, too weak from the fight to even struggle. The young man, however, was ready for this. He escaped from their grip with ease, sending a kick into one and a punch to the other. More Legion came into the gate, pulling out their machetes.
The slave picked up both of the machetes from the fallen Legion in both hands just as the Legion came to battle. He parried their attacks with the weapons with ease, having seen them practice in camp once before. Using the flat side of one machete's blade, he slammed it into one Legion's face, stabbing the blades into two others. He left them inside the Legion, not daring to waste time by pulling them out before breaking into a run.
The Legion were so surprised by now that they froze in place for a millisecond before the more experienced ones ran after the runaway slave and others, armed with guns, fired at his legs to stop him. The slave ran with all of his might, already breathing heavily from the battle, away from the camp. He would make his dream come true and go to the hills and valleys to sweet freedom.
Suddenly, the slave stumbled in his run and rolled a few times in the dirt before staying still. A bullet from the gunning Legion finally managed to hit him in the ankle. The slave, too desperate to give up, started to try to get up and instead limp to freedom. All too soon, the Legion caught up with him and aimed their machetes and guns at his head.
"Bad move, slave." One of them hissed at him and raised his blade to decapitate the slave, a death he had deserved.
"Wait." Another voice, another Legion, said, hidden from the slave's view. This was obviously a higher ranked Legion, for the others moved away from the slave, though keeping their weapons out and ready to kill. A Decanus, his rank signaled from the helmet he wore with feathers shooting out. He had just arrived from the Mojave to see this, and the slave's heart fell when he realized that even if he had not been shot, he still would have been captured.
"Let the great Caesar take care of this slave." The Decanus said, Caesar's name said in the correct pronunciation as kae-sar. The other Legion were confused with the orders, but knew not to question a higher rank. "And keep an eye on the others. My report of you…will not be beneficial to your work" He glanced at the unconscious Legion still in the slave pen "or your life. Now go."
Surprisingly, a whimper came from one of the lower Legion, a recruit. "What was that?" The Decanus said, and the entire Legion froze. Though there were many Legion, he had easily identified the culprit with his ears, sharpened from listening to the sounds of the Mojave for enemies. With a swift, easy movement, he took his machete and, like a spear, threw it into the Legion's heart. It was such a quick death that the Legion didn't even cry out as he fell to the ground, staining the dirt a crimson red.
Without even remorse for the murder, the Decanus picked up the machete and wiped it on the dead Legion's clothes. "The Legion does not tolerate fear." He said, looking at the body. If his face could be seen, disgust would be the emotion.
The Decanus took a step forward, past the other Legion, and they quickly dispersed to make a path for him and the Legion party he had traveled with in the Mojave. The members of such party escorted the slave to the raft that would carry them all to the Fort, the place of Caesar.
It took almost six hours to get to the Fort by the raft that carried the group. When they arrived, it was almost nighttime. It was a good tactic, tiring the enemy from the large distance and separating them by the huge body of water. Even if they managed to get to the Fort, they would be weakened and forced to fight almost a whole army of Legion that would surely get them killed. It was stupid to even try.
The Legion on the raft had brought food, but did not even feed the slave. Once, when he thought they were not watching him, he snagged a piece of food that earned him an elbow in the ribs. He at first thought they were starving him as his punishment, but meeting with this so-called great Caesar shook him more than that.
Everyone, except for the slaves, spoke highly of him, and this slave knew that Caesar was looked up to, either as a leader, a god, or perhaps both. Was that why he was so far away from the others; to be protected from any danger that could follow him? The slave did not understand, for if he was thought so highly by others, why didn't they all cherish in him?
When they ported, the slave's thoughts were still an unfinished puzzle, but hoped he would find the answers in the Fort ahead. He was forced forward with the machetes into the Fort, but he gladly went forward, ready to see the Fort.
They led him to the drawbridge, and they were let in easily. It was surprising for him, for even someone with a disguise ready to assassinate Caesar could be allowed access. But then he saw the other Legion around. There was a blacksmith, sharpening a machete and sometimes lifting from the sharpener it to examine its blade, a chainsaw by his side. Tents were all around, some large and others small, that held bedrolls to have the Legion sleep in. In fact, some were sleeping now.
Others, unsurprisingly, were up and about, taking care of slaves, training, or simply watching people for any suspicious activity. The last were the more experienced ones, and then the slave knew that they would know of an intruder. That was, at least, if they paid attention carefully. They watched the slave and the other Legion pass by, studying every feature of them. It could have been a trick to lead an assassin to Caesar. You couldn't trust anyone.
There was also a Legionary instructor with a group of children in small Legion costumes that almost made the slave laugh as he passed. The children were being trained, even at the young age that they were, how to become Legionaries when they were older. Though children, they looked confident enough to run straight into battle and kill. This, of course, would get them killed, the main reason they were being taught. The slave heard the instructor threaten one child, who was obviously not meeting expectations, being threatened to be thrown off a cliff.
A group of slaves, carrying shocking amounts of weight on their back like animals, were being watched by more Legion. In a hurried whisper that not even the Decanus had heard, the slave heard the title "The Burned Man" being thrown about. It was a name the slave himself had never heard before, but how secret it was being discussed intrigued him. He just hoped he would live long enough to know about it.
As the group headed of planks of wood placed in a hill so they would almost serve as stairs, two children ran past them. Their speed impressed the slave, for they had obviously been training. It was faster than a normal adult could run. The Fort was an amazing place, and the slave hoped that he could be here, free if Caesar didn't kill him first.
The thought of dying came constantly to the slave. He was getting closer to the tent of Caesar, but was happy that he could actually see him, a fate most would never accomplish, before he died. Two flagpoles of the Legion's symbol, a yellow bull on a yellow bordered red background, were on either side of the tent. A blazing fire that lit up the tent was burning next to the left flag. The tent itself was glorious, with red material hanging decoratively along the front.
A praetorian guard, armed with a ballistic fist, stood guarding the opening to the tent and watched the group as they approached. A Legion mongrel stood beside the guard. With its thick, shaggy hair and red eyes, the mongrel looked almost terrifying itself. Though they were dogs, they instead resembled a wolf or coyote.
The guard, unlike the others, studied the party top to bottom. This actually took several minutes, but the Legion, used to the procedure, were patient. Once satisfied, the guard allowed them entry. The mongrel growled suddenly at the slave as he went in, startling him. He almost heard one of the Legion laugh at his fear.
When he entered the tent, he almost gasped at all the Legion that was around him. More Legion mongrels and praetorian guards practically swarmed the first "room" of the tent. They could only be seen from the fire around them, making the guards' and mongrels' eyes seem fiery red. At that moment, they could have all killed them. They were outnumbered and outgunned. But they were allowed into the second "room" of the tent, the place of Caesar.
It was, like the outside, glorious, but multiplied by a hundred. Two tents faced the east and west of the tent, but the slave barely glanced at those. It was what was north where the real luxury was.
A fantastic rug, undoubtedly extremely hard to find or even make, rested under a throne of spears and red cloth or ribbon strung around it. And on it, rested the great Caesar himself. Flanking him were more praetorian guards, likely his most trusted men. Fires blazed on either side of a tent Caesar sat in front of. The tent looked exactly like the outside, but a circle on top had the Legion denarius head of Caesar. The slave leaned over to see inside the tent where he could see a bed and, strangely, an Auto-Doc. He wondered if even Caesar could get injured.
Caesar leaned forward as they approached with irritancy in his eyes for giving his precious time for merely a slave. The guards edged towards Caesar protectively, their ballistic fists raised in case they even made a sudden movement. Caesar was dressed in unique red and black armor, a brown belt around his waist with decorative symbols adorning it. What drew the slave's attention, however, was the golden or bronze pendent on his heart that had a wreath like the one the actual Caesar around a circle with an X through it. The other was the unique version of the ballistic fist he had.
The slave even thought of bowing to him before the Decanus walked forward and kneeled. "Caesar, son of Mars, we are sorry to interrupt. We found this slave trying to run away. He had killed two Legionnaires before we could stop him. We are sorry." He then stood up and backed away.
Caesar thought for a second. And it was yet only a second, showing the great mind he possessed. He got up from the throne. "Give me your blade." He told one of the Legion among the Decanus's party. They reached for it, but then hesitated, knowing how long he had it, since recruitment. But Caesar had seen the hesitation and sent the advanced ballistic fist into the Legion's head. There was a sheer crack of the skull and he was knocked back a few feet. Merely glancing at the body, he turned towards another Legion.
"Give me your blade." He repeated, and this Legion quickly handed his over. Caesar, blade in hand, walked over to the slave. The latter didn't even dare to look into Caesar's eyes, and merely stared at the ground. Instead of feeling the cold steel of the blade slicing through his body, Caesar spoke to him, surprising him. "Hold out your hand."
Though confused, he didn't dare to hesitate. The machete's handle was placed in his hand. "We will see how great of a fighter you are. You shall fight in the arena." He glanced at the Decanus's party. "Tonight." They quickly hurried outside the tent to alert the others, taking the slave with them.
"You should be honored you get a second chance in life, slave." One of the Legion muttered to him as they went. "But no one, not even you, can last the three rounds in the arena."
The arena was right below Caesar's tent and due to the amount of Legion still up and about, it didn't take long to assemble the first round. The structure of the arena, however, disappointed the slave. It was merely a small area of land shaped like a pit with flimsy pieces of scrap metal serving as walls to keep the fighters inside. It looked hastily built and was shameful work. But the arena's structure didn't matter to the Legion. The arena, like the old Colosseum, was for amusement and fights to the death.
There were no new clothes for the slave to wear, no sources of armor to protect himself against his opponent's weapons. It was merely the normal slave attire he could wear, and that made him feel exposed to anything they would throw at him. He glanced at the machete Caesar had given him. For a second, he wondered if Caesar had faith in him that he would actually survive the battle, but quickly discarded the thought. Like the legionary had told him, he probably wouldn't even survive the first round.
But as he was forced into the arena, confidence rushed into him. There was such energy in the air from the spectators that the machete felt good in his hand. He was ready to fight.
Without even an announcement, the slave's first opponents came at him from the other side of the pit. They were both slaves as well, but the odds of him winning were two to one. It was literally two to one. This was a test against multiple enemies, seeing if he had actually defeated and killed the Legion back at the camp before. But the slave held his ground and allowed his enemies to come to him.
One of them took a swing at him with their machete at his neck, the other at his legs. He easily ducked the first and heard the sound of steel against steel as he blocked the second blow, knocking his opponent back a few feet. Before the first could swing again, the slave took his machete and stabbed it into his opponent's brain. Without even a remorseful glance at the body, he scooped up their machete, for to grab his would have taken too much time, much like before.
A swing, this time at his heart, came from the other opponent, followed by many more slashes. The slave tried dodging all of them, but the blade nicked his arm, nothing worse. Once the opponent tried a more powerful swing, he blocked it with his blade. The energy surge between the blades sent his opponent's blade flying, leaving him disarmed. Before the opponent could even react, the blade went through his chest upward until it met his heart. The body fell to the ground.
The cheering that followed sent pride into the slave, and he took the fallen machete and sliced off both of his opponents' heads. He left the blade on the ground and raised the heads into the air with a confident smile on his face. The cheering got louder. As he embraced in the cheering, a sort of growling, snarling, and barking came from outside the arena. The crowd fell silent at the sound of this, and the slave turned to face his next opponents, snatching up a bloody machete from the ground.
Five Legion mongrels, their eyes more red and evil than ever, stepped out into the arena growling and snarling. They all surprisingly sat down once the crowd and the slave got them in their sight, waiting for the command to attack. They ignored the bodies of the other slaves, not even sniffing at them. They wanted to kill their prey before they ate it.
The slave knew these were some of the most powerful mongrels just by looking at them. Other than their eyes, they had canines so sharp and long that they had to keep their mouth slightly open all the time. They were also larger in size, with a furrier coat of fur that could serve as some protection against weapons. Worst of all, there was a pack of them ready to fight him.
Before he could even realize what was happening, a legionary shouted a word in Latin, sending the mongrels from their calm state to ferocious. All at once, they rushed forward, red eyes now filled with hunger. In the meantime, the slave had picked up another machete and put it in his other hand, feeling that he would need it. And would he ever. For a second, he could only imagine what his next opponent would be, if he survived. His opponents got tougher every round.
So instead of running into battle like an animal, he thought for the only second he had like the human he was. They may be stronger than him, but he was smarter. It would be useless to run from the mongrels, as they were much faster and it was cowardly to do it anyhow. It would be best to dodge their attacks and attack, but he could also confuse them. This was a test of speed and intelligence. But he was not a supercomputer. He needed time to think.
The mongrels each leapt at his throat, trying to all bring him down quickly so they could eat his flesh. But he slashed at their muzzles with their blades, sending them back before they leapt again. They had thought as well, two going for his legs to bring him crashing to the ground and the other three doing the same technique as before. The mongrels were so fast that he couldn't evade all the attacks. One bite was straight into his thigh, but he handled this one with a quick horizontal slash in the throat. One down, four to go. This wasn't easy.
Instinctively he felt at the wound, feeling the four holes the canines had imprinted on it. His blood dripped down his leg, and for a second he wondered if any of the mongrels had any diseases they could have spread from the bite. But he could not focus on it. Better he went down with a fight.
One mongrel, smaller than the others, leapt into the air with such height and went for him in the air. But he struck his machete into its torso, sending it rolling in the dirt and whining with pain. Now the mongrels were angrier that two of its pack had been killed by its prey, their growling lowering in tone. By this time, however, the slave had formed a plan.
He realized that the first mongrel he had killed was larger than the others and perhaps more intelligent, possibly the pack leader. The second had been smaller and the weakest, the lowest member of the pack. So now there were three, all of them somewhere in the middle. These were moderately trained, unlike the other two which receive more or less than these.
So, even as he held it in the air, he knew that they couldn't resist a piece of meat. The pack leader should have learned, but the others had not. He tossed it at them and they attacked the meat, a gracious donation from one of the slaves from the first round. Booing rose from the crowd as he dispatched of the mongrels with his machetes.
He saw Caesar speaking to one of his praetorian guards. Though he couldn't read their lips, he knew that they had changed schedule. Instead of the normal third round opponent, they were picking out a stronger one. He had cheated, so he would have to pay. But the slave could not even imagine who or what his next opponent could be.
Suddenly from the darkness of the other side of the pit, he saw a giant black claw rise into the air, rope wrapped around it so it wouldn't hurt anyone. For a second he thought it was a mirelurk/swamplurk they had brought for him to fight. Both were extremely difficult to battle with machetes, as he had seen some rise from the river when he was still trapped in the slave pen. But there was something worse, something larger and more ferocious than that.
As the creature was moved closer by its handlers, he felt himself backing away. He immediately stopped his cowardly movements and grabbed the machetes once more to fight. But now the machetes that had killed his opponents felt like butter knives in his hands. He wondered if they could even cut through the flesh of his new opponent.
Another black claw appeared, and then many eyes of the same color stared at him, irritated and hungry. But it also had powerful jaws serving as its mouth. Just from seeing all of this he knew what it was. It was a radscorpion. But not any radscorpion, but one of gigantic size that could cut him in half with one snap of its claws or choose to poison him and let him die slowly as it raced to his heart.
Once it was finally inside of the arena, it almost filled an entire corner of the arena with its bulk. Now the slave felt nothing more than a non-mutated ant compared to the creature. But he knew one thing: ants could bite. With enough bites, its prey would die. But they had had enemies outnumbered and he was merely one against what felt like one hundred.
He felt, in the greatest sense, hopeless that he would survive this round. He already had a machete slash on his arm and a dog bite that might become infected. Even the crowd around him once filled with boos had fallen silent, waiting for the radscorpion to tear him apart. It was like with the real Colosseum when a gladiator would fight a lion if the arena was times smaller, the gladiator without proper armor or weapons, and the lion times bigger and more dangerous. Eagerness was in the air.
Then the worst thing happened. The radscorpion was released. All at once, the ropes on the claws, stinger, and legs were cut and fell to the ground. The crowd fell silent, for no one could not be afraid of this creature. Now having freedom, it gave a moment to stretch out its muscles that had been tied up for so long. It took another moment to locate its prey. The slave standing across it from the pit was an immediate choice. The many other Legion were not in the radscorpion's reach.
With a flurry of its insect-like legs, it ran towards its prey. Its stinger finally came into view, the most dangerous weapon on the beast. It had more powerful poison than the smaller versions the larger it was, the opposite of former information, and this one was very large. It also had an extremely strong exoskeleton on its body. As the name states, it is a skeleton on the exterior of the body and he doubted his weapons could even penetrate that armor.
But he had formulated yet another plan for what he hoped would be the last round. He dropped one of his two machetes to the ground and ran forward towards the radscorpion. As soon as he was within range, it lashed out with its claws and tail, each trying to get a piece of him. He dodged the massive weapons and went behind the creature. Here, it could not reach him. It tried to turn towards him, but he moved away and it moved almost comically in a circle to try to get to him.
Now that he was here, he took the machete and slashed across the part of the radscorpion where its body met the tail that held the stinger. The exoskeleton didn't give way at first, but it soon was cut off. The radscorpion made a strange screeching noise of pain, and quickened its speed, trying to get to him. It was much larger and the slave would get tired before it did, so he had to made quick work of the arachnid.
He snatched up the other machete and leapt onto the radscorpion's back. It collapsed under his weight, its legs moving in a frenzy in an attempt to stand up. But he had his entire weight on the creature, and it couldn't move a muscle. Its claws snapped at him, forcing him to try to avoid and slash at them with one of the machetes. The other he stabbed down into the scorpion's head repeatedly, but it simply would not die.
Then a claw managed to reach out at him and grab his torso, lifting him up in the air. He cried out as it started to crush him slowly, feeling his ribs break in his body. The cheering was louder than ever, crying out for his death. But he was not finished yet. He grabbed one of his machetes and threw it at the radscorpion's head. It was lodged inside, but did nothing. With his last remaining strength, he tossed the other as he was growing faint.
Suddenly, the claw holding him faltered and fell to the ground limp. It still held him, however, but he could not escape from the claw. He was too weak, and knew he would die without medical attention. He was merely a slave, and guessed they would leave him here to die like all the others. His vision grew dark just as he heard the words in his ear, "Welcome to the Legion."
He awoke in a tent. Being alive startled him, but the pain arrived right after he thought this. He knew about the bite and cuts on his body, but the pain was primarily in his sides where he had been almost been crushed to death by the radscorpion. Though it would be wrong to move, he forced himself to sit upright and open his eyes.
What he saw also surprised him. He was not wearing his slave attire, but an actual Legion armor. The armor was crimson colored, unlike the average Legion recruit armor that he had expected to be wearing. Although he had just been accepted into the Legion, they had promoted him to a prime legionary. His covered helmet, with the unique visor that extended over his eyes, lay in a corner of the tent as if looking at him. He picked it up and put it on.
The pain, tired of being ignored, sent a sharp pain into his side that forced him to keel over, feeling the bandages under his armor start to rip. But he saw two weapons lying beside him when he did this; a machete gladius and ten throwing spears. He examined the weapons with amazement, testing the gladius out with slashes in the air.
As he was doing a stabbing motion with the gladius, he almost sent the weapon into a recruit legionary entering the tent. They didn't seem surprised that they had almost gotten impaled, instead saying, "Ave, Amicus." And handed him a bag of healing powder before leaving. He accepted it immediately and took it, knowing how to from seeing a legionary once use it.
The pain faded away almost instantly, and he grabbed his weapons and left the tent, eager to see what was outside now that he was an equal. He was barely noticeable than the others, his armor almost like a disguise that allowed him to blend with the others. But some recognized him somehow from the arena, these either proud or disapproving of Caesar's decision by their body language. One even muttered what he would guess to be something rude in Latin.
But before he could even explore the camp some more, a Decanus approached him. "Welcome to the Legion, Malleolus." The quiet that followed meant for the new prime legionary, now known as Malleolus, to speak, but he was oblivious to this fact. Though well capable of doing so, he had never been allowed to speak before when being treated as a slave.
The Decanus ignored this and continued speaking. "While you have well demonstrated your skill in battle, you still will be treated like the rest. You shall train in your free time, the other time being spent following my orders. If you demonstrate potential on the battlefield or in leadership, you may be promoted. But fail to follow orders, and you will most likely be charged with death for your incompetence. Do you understand?"
Malleolus was silent for a second, mulling over the Decanus's words. Seeing that the Decanus was waiting for his response, he quickly nodded.
"Good. Now I advise you to start your training while that powder is still in your system." Without even a parting word, the Decanus left.
So with those words, the life of a former slave had been changed. He was now a prime legionary, and he would never be the same again.