If I didn't control my breathing, someone would be able to figure out that something was wrong. They would notice that someone was wrong. Or rather, that they were missing—possibly dead—and that I was an imposter that took their clothes. Of course, if they weren't already suspicious due to the fact that a uniformed woman was walking in their presence, I didn't know what would tip them off. My gender was my largest fault here, and there was nothing I could do to hide it. What I could do, however, was pretend as if I had a purpose for being there, cross my fingers, and hope to Atom that soldiers would be too afraid to be called out for disrupting an official if I actually did have a purpose rather than confront me.

I supposed that it wasn't all bad, however. I had the coolest armor in the whole fort, at least. While the Vexillarius was not the highest ranked—according to my hasty studies of their culture for a few hours—they had an excuse to sit around and eat their fill of the readily accessible supplies just begging to be taken. My stomach growled as I thought of how well I would eat after I high-tailed it out of the Fort.

"Ave," called a passing soldier—a recruit, by the looks of his mask. He gave me a funny look, and for a second I thought back to the rebellious tendencies that youngsters often held and braced myself for any unfortunate happenings that were about to be flung my way.

"Ave," I repeated, doing my best to keep my voice calm, then for a good measure added "True to Caesar."

Lucky for me, he seemed satisfied with this answer, and continued on his way. From under my fox hood and dark goggles, I sighed with relief. Looked like he didn't want to face any possibility of crucifixion for being wrong and pointing out an actual Vexillarius that he just didn't know about.

As I ventured further into the Fort, passing recruits milling about with their shotguns and Power Fists, it dawned on me that it was a bad idea to infiltrate the Legion Fort after only a few hours of spying. At the time, I had thought I had learned enough to ease my painfully grumbling stomach, but now I was cursing both myself and said grumbling stomach for being so foolishly impatient.

Slave girls were running about, standing at tables, or carrying heavy things up and down the stairs. As I passed them, they looked at me strangely but didn't say a word. If they did, I was sure somebody would have beaten them. It was a cruel world being a woman in the Legion, unless you were me—at the moment, of course—who was dressed up as a man and wasn't even a real soldier anyway. After the infamous Courier had turned the tides of the war to the red bull, all of my connections ran as dry as the El Dorado and the Legion became my only option. It was rumored that the Fort was the best place to get supplies. I was dangerously low. After adding two and two together, I hadn't had much of a choice otherwise.

Up ahead loomed a promising sight—the picturesque display of feasting soldiers. My stomach growled a little louder, and I smiled faintly as I began towards the tent.

I was caught from behind by the blacksmith that I had unknowingly been standing by. "Do I know you, soldier?"

My mind reeled violently, and I had to fight to keep the feeling from knocking me off of my feet. "Um!" I sputtered as he loomed over me, waiting for an answer. "New Vexillarius, assigned by Caesar himself! Do we… have a problem?"

From under his mask—it looked like a recruit mask, but the grindstone that he was standing by told me that he was no recruit—he eyed me curiously. "I didn't know that Caesar was off hiring women now," he smirked. "Or are you just a former fat boy that couldn't be rid of his overgrown chest?"

If I was doomed to be hung on a cross for my attempts to get in, I might as well go down in style. "I didn't know Caesar was off hiring douchebag blacksmiths now. Or are you just a lost Mirelurk that tried to hide its ugly face behind the Legion lines?"

Even though my insult wasn't the greatest, he didn't seem to have come up with any more comebacks and shrunk back to his grindstone, eyeing me darkly while his hands returned to their work. I eyed him back warily, guessing that as soon as I left he would probably go running to Caesar to let him know there was a woman in their midst that wasn't supposed to be there.

I began to shuffle away, picking up speed the further I got from him. If I was going to get my supplies, I was going to need to get them fast.

As I neared the food-tent, out of the corner of my eye I saw an odd flash of white, and a scuffle. Turning my head, I saw a soldier punch another man in the face. The other man was the said white I had glimpsed, as he was wearing what seemed to be and old Follower's lab coat, which was very odd, especially for the Legion. His hair was also a light blonde, giving him a figurative halo to complete the "angel trapped by the demons of the Legion forces" look that he gave off.

"Back to the tent with you," the soldier laughed. "Verbero!"

"I understand perfectly well what you're saying, vappa ac nebulo!" hissed back the man with the coat. "I'm going, I'm going!"

"Quiet, fool!" the soldier kicked the man in the knee, sending him toppling to the ground. "Back to the tent!"

A familiar feeling swept over me; it was one that I knew well from my distasteful childhood. The feeling that I remembered swelling over me as I stood up to tell my father: I'm not like you.

I fought the feeling. This was not the time to be experiencing rebelliousness, when I was doing my best to get in, get my food, and dash out before I lost my
life, but the feeling amplified as the memories increased. The man in white straightened, squared off his shoulders, clenched his fists, and I saw myself at a younger age—though the man was quite obviously just as old if not older than I. Even so, in his eyes I thought I saw the twinkle of helplessness at fighting a fight alone.

"Quis est haec simia?" I called, recalling the only Latin I had ever bothered to learn as a young girl. I wasn't even sure what it meant, but the words sprang from my mouth from habit of mimicry before I realized what I had said. As the soldier looked my way with a grin, I gathered my composure as best I could, trying to look as if I had meant to say whatever it was that I had said.

It seemed to have convinced the soldier. "The verberablissime!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the fuming man in white. "He refuses to go back to his tent."

"I don't refuse," the 'verberablissime' argued. "It's a little difficult when you're kicking me around."

"By order of Caesar, I have the right to do whatever I like as long as he staggers back to our lord Caesar bright and early the next day," the soldier spat.

I had interrupted already; it was only expected of me to continue with the bout I had started. "I'll get him back to his tent. You… go back to yours. Get some rest."

"What do you plan to do, inspire him?" the soldier chuckled, tugging on the flag held high on my back.

"Did it ever cross your mind, soldier, that I didn't obtain higher order to take him back to his tent?" I raised my voice like a general, barking at him. "Unless you want to end up on the crosses, you had better listen when a messenger of Caesar orders you to go back to your tent!"

At the mentioning of crucifixes, the soldier lost all humor and growled back at me. "All right, si—ma'am… Do what you will; I'll be back in the morning, though, and if anything is amiss, you'll end up on the crosses, and I'll make sure of it."

As the man turned to walk away, shooting me a sinister look as he went, I gave the slave a light tap on the shoulder to get him to move. He tipped his head up with dignity, straightened his thickly-rimmed glasses, and began to walk confidently back to a red tent that was set apart from the others. Not knowing what else to do now that I had butted into the situation, I followed him closely.

At the tent, the man spent no hesitation before opening the flap and disappearing inside. I stood beside the door awkwardly until the fabric stood still. "Shit," I muttered under my breath. "I'm so dead for this."

My stomach growled again, and I thought back to the food-tent, wondering if I could grab a few steaks and still manage to high-tail it out. I opened the door-flap a crack to peer inside. The Follower slave was hunched in defeat on the small mattress thrown on the ground in the corner.

"I don't suppose you want anything from the food-tent, do you?"

He startled to attention and eyed me curiously in silence.

I bit my lip. "If you want anything, you had better say so before I leave. I won't be coming back."

"Get in here; I need to be clear with something," he said bluntly.

I cautiously stepped inside, forcing the flap closed behind me. "Yeah?"

"You're no soldier."

I thought that I would be confronted by someone eventually, but my cover being blown by a slave stung like cazador venom. "What exactly gave me away?"

"Your kind offerings to Caesar's physician-slave was a big one," the man said. "Along with your female attributes, and your big head in thinking that the Vexillarius can boss everyone around. Also, I'm not exactly sure you knew what you said when you greeted my guard."

I looked back at him grimly. "I'm guessing that you did, then?"

"You said 'who is this monkey?' I'm quite honestly surprised an imposter such as you hasn't been killed yet."

"I've only been here for a few hours," I protested.

"You should start counting them," the slave advised. "If you run into Vulpez or Caesar, you'll find yourself hung on a cross before anyone can whisper 'Et tu, Brute?'"

My heart drug down into the pit of my stomach. "Well, what do you suggest I do?"

"Lie low, don't talk to anyone, and definitely don't talk to any officials. If Caesar finds you, he'll remember perfectly well that he didn't hire any female soldiers, and you don't have the excuse of his headaches to atone for the forgetfulness either, after I was forced to cure them."

"Cure his headaches?" I wondered aloud, trying to put two and two together. "You must be… that doctor the Courier sold to Caesar. That would explain the Follower coat, at least."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, laying hid head back onto his knees in dejection. "Et tu, Courier?"

Seeing the man in such a state sent an icy cold sympathy down my heart. "I'll get you something to eat before high-tailing it out of here," I told him. "Just wait here for a bit; I'll be back."

His blonde head just sat motionless on his knees in silence.

I shuffled closer to the tent-flap. "And by the way… I'm Lydia."

"Arcade," said he. "Charmed."