The small camp was set and made; idle hands were nowhere to be found and the frantic pace of the Legionaries, one half hoping to impress by constructing and the other half wishing to finish what consider "Trivial Duties", made quick work of the surrounding environment. With the tide of war obviously on their side, pursuit was given to the retreating forces, regardless of how small in number they are now. Caesar was persistent in his demand of security for his newly conquered territory, even if it seemed meaningless to hunt down wounded and crippled "Soldiers". The group consisted of fresh conscript, most inexperienced and enable of knowing the difference of the barrel of their weapon from the butt end. Wounded veterans, most who were stationed at the dam, also followed; staggering behind, a great many were easily picked off or carried away from sadistic chuckles and finger-pointing by the legionaries. Even a small pack, consisting of six, followers provided aid and medical treatment to the soldiers; hands tied, the legionaries would not attack the healers. Caesar forbade any such actions against his former peers.
"Settle the tents here," the Centurion's bark boomed, "and have the slaves set up resentence near the legionaries; I want easy convenience for healing." The commander pointed and the second-in-command was sure to listen.
"Yes, Centurion Romulus." The smaller man was also a legionary; decorated in the standard armor of the veterans and protected against the sun's heat by his headgear. It was clear what his rank was. The man was a Frumentarius, the personal eyes and ears of Caesar and his conquering army.
"How do you suggest we handle the situation?" The Centurion asked, eyeing the fortified base of the enemy; lightly manned, one would assume a simple charge at the enemy would win a quick victory. Sharp shooters and unfortunate terrain eroded any belief of an easy conquest. Stationed beneath the hill, the enormity of the situation easily sank into his mind.
"Attacking the front would require climbing the mountain; steep terrain would make such an endeavor difficult and suicide for your men." He answered, warning against his commander's usual tactic.
"Allow my men and I to deal with the enemy; infiltration, stealth, and deception are virtues needed now." His words hinted at a certain pleasure he took in his duties.
"You are correct, Julius." The Centurion turned to his peer; a mere two feet of space separated the two from one another. "This is a task for your kind." His voice dripped to a whisper with the final two words- perhaps this was a sigh of disproval?
"Take a squad of whichever men you believe to be useful and do what must be done. Eliminate the problem." Clear and confident, the commander was certainly ready to remove the problem at hand.
"Fear not, you will certainly attend the Triumph; these fools won't breathe tomorrow's air or see tomorrow's sunrise. They are weak, fragile, and already damaged to a great extent; I wished for a challenge, but stepping on insects will do."
The handle of his machete was gripped and the smaller man nodded in approval of his new orders. "Vale." He soon left, returning to the main force in preparation for his duty. Julius's departure was simple- he simply walked away, already running thoughts of preparations in his mind. Lucifer's sights returned to the enemy; a grudge, enlarging in the bowls of the Centurion made swallowing his pride and handing the task of achieving victory over to Julius difficult. Eventually his made turned to running his camp and not sodding about over 'What could've been'. He also abounded the area, but with some reluctance.
While the dam was now gripped by the Legion, Forlorn Hope continued to be a thorn at Caesar's side; Deadsea was unable to secure the location and therefore was sack for the newly appointed Centurion. One would assume a location, cut off and isolated from the rest of the NCR strongholds, would be of little importance to Caesar's plans; wrong, the capture of this one camp must be obtained if the Legion is to take full control of Nevada. The camp represents the stubborn belief that the invaders could be defeated; even it's name could stir feelings of resistance and reinvigorate the enemy. Forlorn Hope. Hope means fighting, biting, snarling at the enemy even when the odds are clearly staked against you; like a feeble boy standing against his bully, the troops stood in place and ready to fight the Legion. Regardless of the poor circumstance they find themselves prisoners of. While the rest of the conquering hordes marches ever westward, encircling and cutting off the enemy, a small force was left to deal with the stubborn dogged survivors of aggression.
"Once we entered the camp, kill the troops; the commanders must be spared, same for those idiotic medics playing war, aiding the wounded." Julius wrapped the dirt covered and corroded breastplate onto his torso. "Caesar has strict orders that they must be brought to the Triumph- the commanders are reasonable for this resistance and so they must be brought before him. To face his judgment and such." His voice lacked enthusiasm or any emotion at all. Next to come were the tattered boots; they lacked soles and were visibilities falling apart, strands and whole pieces.
"Come, let's end this." Macerating as one of the troopers, Julius was ready to begin; the man was covered, head to toe, in the armor of the enemy. Rather than wear any flashy or radiant design, a battle-scared and out of date uniform was worn. Julius, and another member of the Frumentarii, exited the tent and arrived to lead the gathered force for the operation; ten Veterans, fresh from the dam, were also waiting in NCR uniforms for the mission. Like their leader, they too wore dirty, besmirched uniforms for the occasion. They certain were a sight- the foul design and look of the wears, tattered pieces, lost pieces entirely, accompanied by the rakish smell of dried blood, all helped made the unit stick out and apart from their comrades within the camp.
"You know what do to." Approaching, Julius began to speak. "Do not mistake these men for their former selves or for the ones lost at the dam; they are weak, broken, and soft-hearted." The veterans, crossed armed, nodded and muttered in agreement.
"I will do the talking, stay back and wait for my orders; Lucifer will also be participating when he is needed." His speech was in synch with action; a small pouch was opened and a small packet was showed. A small pinch caused the capsule to rupture, expelling blood onto the wielder; frenzied hands rubbed the blood in each palm together on the man's face. Dropping, he took a handful of dirt and also smeared that on his face "Do the same; they will mistake us for wounded soldiers looking for asylum." Julius's face turned a bright crimson and dirt brown. The Veterans knew exactly what to do; they followed and repeated Julius's example till an over powering majority of them stanched. The blood was almost palatable.
"Simon, what do you see?" The trooper asked, hoping that his suspicions were simply created out of fear and a lack of adequate sleep. "C'mon! Stop pussyfooting around it and tell me." Again, he asked. "See anything? Legion? Khan? Shit, even a Mole rat?" The guard kept his rifle clutched and aimed, even without a target near or far.
"Relax, kid. It's been three days since we lost the dam; get over it already." Finally an answer was given from the older guard. "Nothing but the nighttime sky and stars; take a break, go get some sleep." The two guards, one a bearded-face veteran and the other a baby face youngster, started at the darkness and empty plains of the Mojave night after night. "These binoculars don't lie. Nothing at all tonight." The senior sat down on his chair, landing with a thud, and yawned; his laidback demeanor was certainly odd for a time as serious as this.
"How can you be so relaxed at a time like this?" a frowning brow showed the level of concern the younger man had. "We're stuck in this pit, surrounded by those dogs, and you just laugh and sit." A quick grab soon gave him ownership of the binoculars.
"Calm down; you know they won't dare attack us. All the Legion can do is send little groups to harass us. Sit down, Chuck. Stop worrying over nothing." Simon's lips were quick to embrace a cigarette as a means of keeping calm and relaxed; the complete opposite of his younger side kick.
"How's your mom? She any better?" He asked in between puffs.
"No, man. She just keeps getting worse; dad said she won't last another year. Seven months, god willing." Chuck's reply came baring a slight gram of grief. "I'm not sure if I'll see her in time at the rate things are going here in Nevada."
The stench from the smoking partner curved any interest in continuing the conversation. "Enough small talk- we need to stay sharp." He set his eyes on the horizon and stared ahead.
One hour passed without incident; not even a breeze rolled through the camp. Complete and utter silence blanketed the camp to such an extent that many soon feel into a deep slumber. "Kid, I'm calling it a night; again, you're just being paranoid about nothing." The older many aroused from his seat and discarded his cigarette. "Don't go crazy out here alone."
His playful tone echoed as he left his post for the barracks. His stench lingered behind, unfortunately. "Guy needs a frickin' bath. Or at least wash his face." The younger man continued to watch, waiting for any sort of motion to be made; a Death claw could tiptoe and he would spot it. "Crap," Simon rubbed his eyes in both frustration and shame, "another dead night-"
Blinking, he could now see targets; where nothing dwelled, figures moved closer at a slow rate and crippled pace. "What the hell?" Again he used the binoculars; the figures were men, NCR soldiers in tatters and blood stained. "Re-enforcements?" The word expelled joyfully from Chuck's thin lips. His bumbling and shaking hands dropped the binoculars, but compensated by now wielding his rifle. Long before one could be engaged, their stench was first met.
One trooper, hands high, staggered from the rest of the group and was the first to engage the guard. Shifting dirt beneath his boots, however feeble, rang loud as a gunshot- Chuck's nerves kept him uptight and conscious to the man.
"Help!" The cry was pitiful and expressed the sorry state the man was in. Limping, he continued further. "Please, help us!"
"Who are you?" Chuck discarded the binoculars for his rifle.
"We're soldiers, just like you." Slowly, the man reached into his armor and removed a layer of three pieces of paper. "Captain Bradley of the New California Republic Army; we were stationed at the dam before the battle." He extended his hands and offered the papers to the guard. "We were at the dam fighting the Legion before we were surrounded and captured- they forced us to be slaves before we could escape."