-April, 2284-

The final drop of NCR and Legion blood was spilt on the grounds of Hoover Dam. The Legion had fallen. Their leaders killed, their territories conquered, and those who were lucky enough to survive were captured.

It had been three years since the Legion's second loss at the dam, but the battle still rang loud in Otho's ears. No amount of NCR reeducation could silence it.

But it was harder to remember the realities of war from the inside of an office building.

Otho watched the steel-haired woman across from him rifle through his paperwork. He didn't have a lot of documents on him, but it seemed like she was going through it with a fine toothed comb. He was going to be there for a while.

He sat back and watched the clock bolted on the wall above her head. The light ticking and the gentle rustling of the papers served as the only source of sound in the room. Otho rubbed his arms through his brahmin leather coat. It was cold, too cold for the Mojave. Three years of NCR reeducation and he still wasn't used to artificial cooling.

"Otho."

The woman's voice nearly startled him. He sat up straighter in his chair as if she was a military commander.

"Yes?"

"Your name."

"It's Otho."

She stared at him over the tops of her half moon glasses, her pen tapped impatiently against his file.

"Your real name." The tapping stopped. "Before the Legion."

Otho felt his stomach tighten. He stared down at his hands as they twisted in his lap. For a second, the response of "that is my real name" almost escaped, but there was no point in a statement like that anyway.

"Otto."

"Listen, mister. I don't have time for games."

"That is my birth name." He kept his eyes locked on the clock. "O-T-T-O. Like my Legion name, but without the hard 'h'."

The woman stared at him for a while, then sighed and went back to the files.

"You legionaries really aren't known for your creativity."

Otho felt his eye twitch. "I thought the whole point of this was that I'm no longer a legionary."

"I don't care what the paperwork says or how many NCR classes you take, you'll always be a legionary." She leaned forward on her elbows and steepled her fingers. "Last name."

"My tribe didn't use them."

She rolled her eyes. "Then give me your tribe's name. It will make it easier to contact your family."

Otho almost let the name escape him, but he held it in. It was too embarrassing to say outloud and just the thought of doing so made him feel sick. But the clock was still ticking and he could sense both of their patience waning.

"Just make one up for me."

The woman groaned and glanced over at a list of names on the far corner of her desk.

"Your last name is Hicks." She scribbled the name down on the papers before Otho could say anything.

"Hicks." Otho tested the name outloud. It felt strange, it didn't feel like him at all, but maybe that was the point. The years of NCR reeducation were designed to distance himself from not only his Legion background, but his tribal one as well.

All captured legionaries were given the same choice after the battle: join the Republic or get sent to prison. If Otho chose the latter, he could have kept his name, his background, his identity. In a sense, he was trading one freedom for another. It was too early for Otho to decide if he had any regrets, but it was too late for him to go back.

He was already marked as a traitor.

-December, 2281-

Otho made it through the Second Battle of Hoover Dam relatively unscathed, but the news of the Legion's defeat hit him harder than any bullet ever could. It wasn't the first time he witnessed defeat under the Legion flag. He served at the first battle as well. He watched as the Malpais Legate was covered in pitch and thrown into the Grand Canyon.

But he assumed the second battle would be different.

The Legate Lanius, the infamous Monster of the East, was going to be their ticket to victory. But instead he was conquered. Not with weapons, but with negotiations. The Monster of the East being told to back down, Otho felt sick just thinking about it. Any sense of honor or strength Otho believed the Legion to have was gone. So when the victorious NCR began rounding up all of the survivors, Otho didn't resist.

Legion protocol dictated that a soldier must do anything to avoid capture, so only a small handful of legionaries were taken. Even in closed quarters of the cell, the December air was cold and bitter. Otho had to huddle with the other captures for warmth. He didn't care for being that physically close with others, but with his arms and legs bound as they were it wasn't like he could go anywhere.

"What's going to happen to us?" A younger legionary's voice cut through the silence that had built up.

Most of the other captures were recruits or footsoldiers in their teens or early twenties. Which Otho found strange since he always figured them to be the most expendable. As a veteran, he was the highest ranked one who was captured. There was a certain sense of shame in that.

"They'll execute us, I think." Another legionary whispered back. "I saw they already killed the centurions. We're next!"

Otho sighed. "If they wanted us dead, they would have done so already."

The room was sent back into silence for a moment, only to have it broken again.

"Did this happen after the first battle, sir?"

Otho stared down at his bound wrists and refused to answer. The recruits couldn't understand defeat. They were trained to never live long enough to see it.

The door of the cell creaked open and Otho felt the other legionaries tense up against him. A woman in a crisp NCR uniform stepped into the room. Otho kept his eyes down. He wasn't going to look up at a woman like this. He liked to think he still had a little pride in him.

"You might be wondering why you're all still alive right now." Her voice was too powerful to ignore, but Otho kept his gaze down. "Truth is, I would love nothing more than to see you splattered against the wall of the dam."

The woman lit a cigarette and it took all of Otho's willpower not to let out a cough. He was aiming for pure silence. He wasn't even going to acknowledge she existed.

"But the Republic is more forgiving than that." As she spoke, the room began to fill with more and more cigarette smoke. Otho felt like his insides were burning whenever he took a breath. "Instead we'll give you a choice: prison or freedom."

The captured legionaries shifted uncomfortably. Was the NCR really going to offer them their freedom? No, there had to be a catch. Otho closed his eyes and strained to block out anything the profligate woman said.

That became impossible when the woman reached out and grabbed him by the throat, forcing him to look up at her. Her calculating expression, the cold hand at his throat, the cigarette dangling from her blister-colored lips, Otho felt his body tense up. But he didn't know if it was from anger, fear, or something else.

"You will look at me when I'm talking to you." The burning cigarette threatened to drop from her lips and onto his bound hands. "I'm giving you a very nice offer."

Otho's breathing strained against her palm, but he held her gaze long enough for her to let him go. He inhaled sharply, almost falling over as he did so. The smug look on the NCR woman's face only made him feel more enraged, but he didn't try to look away.

"The NCR recognizes that most of you are not legionaries because of your own accord, but because of Caesar's brainwashing."

Otho felt his wrists pushing back against the handcuffs and his rage building, but he didn't object.

"You will go through the same program that converted raiders and tribals go through, but much more vigorous." She stepped around the group, continuing to make cold eye contact with Otho. "You will learn how to behave like proper NCR citizens. That is, of course, if you want it. We're only giving this opportunity to those who are truly willing to turn."

The cell became dead silent. Otho was disgusted with himself for even considering the woman's offer. But even so, the key to the handcuffs twirled around her finger. It was too tempting. There was no honor in the Legion anymore, not after what the Legate did.

His arms moved on their own as he held his bound hands out towards her. He couldn't bring himself to look at the other legionaries. The bindings were removed and Otho stood up, rubbing his wrists. Before he could give a sigh of relief, the woman grabbed his hands and cuffed him again.

"Not yet, bud." She pulled him away by the back of his shirt. "We still can't have you walking around freely."

Otho was lead out of the cell, trailing behind her. He was the only one who volunteered. He didn't know who was more stupid. The other legionaries for not taking the chance, or him for even humoring the idea that he could have a new life.

-July, 2282-

Otho spent most of his later years in the Legion guarding the arena. After a while, he became skilled at picking up on certain patterns in the ring. Often times he could tell who was going to win the match just by how they stood when the fight first started. Everything could be calculated and organized.

NCR reeducation proved to behave in a similar fashion. Everything had a pattern.

Not everyone caught on, though. There was the ex-raider who lunged at one of the NCR instructors. One of the few captured legionaries had a complete breakdown when they were learning about Republic economics. Every offence results in a strike against them. Too many strikes and they're sent back to prison.

Otho's goal was to stay in the ring for as long as possible. Posture balanced, mind focused, senses open for whatever the NCR would throw at him next. Life in the Republic wasn't nearly as complex as they liked to believe, but that didn't stop them from praising him whenever he shook someone's hand when greeting them, operated a computer successfully, or put on a pair of pants without issue. He was treated with all the respect one would give to a toddler. It was so tempting to lash out in an attempt to regain his dignity, but doing so would just be giving his opponent an opening to strike.

Otho sat next to the dust-stained window instead of sleeping. The facility was quiet at night. Quiet, but isolated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been inside for so long.

He pressed his hands against the window and tried to angle his head against the thick glass in an attempt to look at the stars. Even through the dust all he could see was concrete. He wrapped his thin blanket around his body and curled up on the floor beside his untouched cot.

"Just keep going along with it." He muttered to himself. "You'll get out eventually."

After three years of rigorous reeducation without incident, Otho was given his long-awaited freedom. He couldn't even bring himself to feel smug about it. He transitioned from the Legion lifestyle the same way he transitioned from his tribal lifestyle. In fact, the NCR was easier for him to adapt to. He wasn't strong or honorable, he just was easy to influence. Perhaps there was a certain kind of wisdom to the outbursts of the raider and the legionary. At least they were holding onto their identities instead of handing them over.

-April, 2284-

Otho was convinced that the NCR was trying to make up for 38 years without medical attention in one hour.

People in white coats poked him, hit him with rubber mallets, stuck him with needles. One doctor went to wrap this strange device around his bicep, but stopped when he saw the thick black bands branded around his arms.

"What is it?"

The doctor shook his head and fastened the device around his arm. "It's nothing. I'm just not used to seeing tattoos like those."

As the examination went on, he continued to stare at Otho's Legion brandings. He was technically free, but he felt like a pack brahmin the way they looked at and handled him.

The doctors came to the result that he was in very good shape for his age. They seemed hesitant to tell them this, almost as if they didn't want to admit that the Legion had better health than the Republic. The only issue they came to was Otho's eyesight. He was a soldier for almost 30 years and apparently he needed glasses. Humiliating.

But that was nowhere near as humiliating as the mental evaluations. One hour of talking with another group of doctors and they had him diagnosed with insomnia, depression, and something called "post traumatic stress disorder". Why were profligates so obsessed with finding out what was wrong with them? Back in the Legion he was a functional soldier, but to the Republic he was sick.

Before he could move into his new profligate house and start his new profligate life, Otho was instructed to meet with another doctor. A psychologist, to be exact. Once again, Otho found himself sitting around in an office room.

The psychologist's office was at least more decorated than the one the woman was filing his papers in. Two soft-looking chairs were pulled up in front of a desk that was covered with various potted plants and children's toys. A patch-covered couch was pushed against the wall and over that was an old world poster advertising some Vegas show. The furniture looked comfortable, but Otho chose to stand.

The door opened and a man entered the room. He didn't look like any doctor Otho had encountered before. Instead of the long white coats, he was dressed casually in his faded blue shirt and his light brown sweater over it. He gave Otho a firm handshake and sat down behind his desk.

"Please, have a seat." He gestured to one of the chairs across from him.

Otho stopped fighting it and sat down.

"My name is Dr. Patrick." He straightened a stack of papers on his desk. "And you are?"

"Otho." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Otto. I mean Otto. Otto Hicks."

He expected the doctor to laugh, but he just smiled.

"Well, Mr. Hicks, it seems that you will be required to meet me twice a week."

Otho frowned. "Why?"

Dr. Patrick's smile faltered. "To check up on your progress. We understand that this transition must be difficult for you."

"How long do I have to do this?"

Instead of answering him, the doctor turned to his files.

"So, what's on your mind right now?"

Otho sank back into his chair.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Otho nodded and the psychologist scribbled something down on a notepad. He could only hope that it was a message to the NCR saying that he was perfectly fine and didn't need a psychologist.

"Well…" Dr. Patrick rolled his pen back and forth against his desk. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

"Like what?"

"Whatever comes to mind."

Otho glanced around the windowless room. The wallpaper peeling off towards the ceiling, the stuffed animals lining the bookshelf, the faint smell of dust that seemed to occupy every NCR building.

Finally he sighed, and stared back at the doctor.

"I'm perfectly fine."

"I see." Dr. Patrick pulled his notebook closer. "And what makes you say that?"

"Because I know." Otho crossed his arms. "I don't need anyone analyzing me."

Dr. Patrick fell silent and continued to stare at Otho. Was he challenging him? Waiting for him to break? Because that wasn't going to happen.

"Well that makes my job easier." He chuckled and wrote something else down. "But the Republic says you still have to meet with me twice a week."

"How long are these meetings?"

"An hour and a half."

Otho groaned and flopped back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"You look distressed. Want to talk about it?"

He was pretty certain that the NCR was just waiting for him to snap.