Small wisps of smoke drifted lazily into the air with only the most pathetic of winds to force it along. The sun hung in the sky, slowly creeping along as screams filled the air. Two Crimson garbed men ran beneath the oppressive heat, carrying a similarly dressed man between them. They dragged him past the lines of huge, ling barrelled artillery guns the group of tribals and Legionaries, who having loaded their charges now stood around arguing over trajectory and other such things that bewildered anyone who did not have an intense knowledge of the weapons. Behind them waited just over three hundred men, sitting around in groups, sharpening swords and pila and cleaning their armour and rifles. A tall, wide shouldered, scarred man leaned over a large table, his red cape blowing slightly in the pitiful wind. The two Legionaries drew up before the table, the man between them groaning slightly.

"Runner from Centurion Licinius." The men saluted. "Fiend sniper wounded him." They helped the man to his feet, who gave a feeble salute.

"The Centurion says he is in position." The runner gave his report. "And ready to move at the signal." The tall man nodded.

"Take him to the physician." He ordered the Legionaries.

"Ave, Centurion." They saluted and supported the runner as they set off. The tall man turned back to the table, were a large map rested. Allowing himself a quick smile he donned his wolf mask.

"Porcino!" He roared, his powerful voice making his ears ring inside the helmet.

"Yes, Sir." The newly promoted Vexillarius jumped to his feet.

"Give the signal." Porcino nodded and unslung a horn from his shoulder. One single, clear note rang out over the Legionaries. In an instant the army kicked into action, men climbed to their feet and gave their equipment one final check before forming into their Centuries. The Legionaries and Tribals by the artillery jumped to work, each team tweaking the trajectory of their gun slightly before taking their places beside them. The horn blew again and the guns echoed. They fired with the noise of a thunder storm and struck with the power of an earthquake. Screams rose up mere seconds after the shells struck. Buildings at had survived the Great War now crumbled under the guns' strength. The guns made three more salvoes until the victims of the Legion's wrath could take it no more. Dozens, possibly hundreds of grubby, snarling men and women charged out of the ruins that stood across the empty plain from the crimson camp.

"Legion!" Cato's voice roared across the plain. The army snapped to attention. Porcino placed his lips over the horn once more. Two short notes blew out and the Legion roared their response. As one they charged forwards as the artillery crews gave one final salvo. Fiends flew into the air in several pieces as the shells hit. One man disappeared completely into a cloud of blood as the shell hit him straight in the chest.

The Legionaries streamed past the guns and towards the drug addicted raiders. Lasers and bullets screamed out from the Fiends' line, cutting down any Legionaries who had the ill fortune of being in the raiders' line of sight. The Legion responded in kind, those with rifles squeezed their triggers. The least experienced of the Legion formed a solid line, blocking any of the veterans' shots. All four centuries formed into a single battle group, each column marching in unison. Whenever a man fell his place was instantly filled by the Legionary behind him. As the two forces drew closer pilum arched out above the Legionaries and came crashing down upon the Fiends. The raiders reeled back from the sheer force of the volley, off balance and their momentum lost as the Legion struck. The Fiends died in droves, machetes and spears piercing their flesh. Seeing the battle more of the Fiends poured from the ruins of old Vegas and threw themselves at the Legion.

"Forwards!" Cato roared as he pushed his way towards the fray. "No quarter!" His voice carried above the sounds of battle as well as any veteran centurion's. A bullet glanced off Cato's shoulder plate, knocking him back slightly. A loud chuckle came from the wolf mask. "Well come on then!" He picked his pace up to a jog, pushing Legionaries aside as he drew the greatsword from his back.

The first Fiend came at him at him with a rifle, holding it by the barrel and swinging it overhead. The man's head was rolling on the ground before his weapon even came close to brushing Cato's armour. Swinging the bumper sword to the right was rewarded with a satisfying scream as it cut into a raider's side. A Fiend made to hamstring the Centurion, only to be bowled over by Rex, his screams joining the others as the cyber-dog tore into his flesh. Roxie leapt onto the back of a Fiend who was about to finish of a wounded Legionary, bearing him to the ground. Marching forwards, Cato's sword scything through any who stood in his way. His armour deflected many of the blows that made it past his guard, along with several bullet from the few who still had ammunition in their guns, though a few still made it through. But that did not matter to Cato, his blood was up, pain was just an annoyance. The two hounds followed close at his heels, savaging any who did not have the luck to die by Cato's sword.

Far to the left a burly fiend in metal armour hefted his weapon and moved forwards. Flame spewed out from the barrel, burning the flesh of Legionaries and Fiends both. Near to a dozen of the Legion fell away, screaming as their bodies caught fire. In the end however crimson clad warriors poured in from all sides, hacking into any flesh they could find. As the flame died out the mutilated body of Cook-Cook was trampled by dozens of Legionaries who charged to kill his fellows. Cato hacked the arm from a Fiend and kicked the screaming man to the ground.

"None escape!" The Centurion bawled, his voice harsh. Hearing their commander, the closest Legionaries threw themselves forwards with renewed vigour, years of training proving more than a match for drug induced rage. "Every one that is allowed to live is a personal insult to Mars!" Cato let his men overtake, scanning the ranks for the bull banner. He saw the young soldier finishing off a pox marked Fiend, standard in one hand, gladius in the other. "Vexillarius!" The standard bearer looked up and spotted his Centurion. Porcino did not need any further orders, he knew what to do. He sheathed his sword and unslung his horn. He gave a long, flat note followed by two short, sharp ones. He lifted the banner into the air and waved it from side to side. Soon the signal was seen the the other Vexillarius, who followed suit.

"Back!" The cry up up from all the Centurions and Decani. Legionaries drew to a stop, confused by the order. The Legion never retreated, that was something they had been taught since birth. However discipline prevailed over any sense of tradition and they turn and ran, quickly putting an end to whatever fight they were in before following their comrades. Seeing their enemies flee before them, Fiends continued to pour from the ruins, wanting to be a part of the victory. Cato drew to a stop before the guns.

"Form up!" His order was obeyed instantly. The newer Legionaries who still lived crouched in the front line, ready to lunge at their enemies as those behind brought their rifles to bear. They fired with the speed and precision that came with training. The Fiends kept on coming, having committed too much to give up now. A long flat note filled the air, followed by three short ones. This time however the sound did not come from Porcino. Two crimson banners rose up from a trench far to the Legion's right and close to two hundred crimson clad men streamed out. They ran in silence, war cries eerily absent.

Hearing the signal reciprocated Cato's men threw themselves forwards with renewed strength.

"To the left!" Someone cried from the raider host. Those who heard turned their heads and soon near half the band was shouting. Some tried to retreat back to the ruins, and found themselves crashing into those who pushed towards Cato's banner, seeking Legion blood. Others tried to open fire upon the new attackers, many having their shots blocked by fleeing and charging raiders. The new Legionaries struck the Fiends like the fist of an angry god, slashing, hacking and stabbing into the drug filled maniacs. Seeing that his orders had been followed and nothing else was needed Cato once more drew his bumper sword and forced his way into the fray, his two hounds following diligently.

"Veterans forwards!" He ordered and almost as if unleashed from whatever chains bound them the scarred and grim killers hefted whatever weapon they had chosen as their own and pushed their way through the back lines of Primes who had yet to fight. Those of the Primes who were still unbloodied in the battle, not wanting to be left out joined the thrust forwards. The entire raider host reeled back from the arrival of Cato and the veterans, those who had the ill fortune to be between the two forces of Legionaries were cut down without mercy. Cato ducked from a shot from a laser rifle and took the wielder's leg in return, the huge blade he had spent hours sharpening cut through both flesh and bone without pause.

To the quite often unstable and hallucinating Fiends he was some sort of demon or hell beast that tore through their friends and comrades, the wolf mask snarling and barking at them like the hounds beside him. Cato cursed as one Fiend, a tall and dirt covered woman, leaned away from his swing and buried her knife in his leg. Roaring he struck out at her again, only to find his blade meet air. He attacked again and again, each time she dodged, ducked and skipped away from them. More than once he accidentally cut down a Fiend who came to assist in the fight against the demon, or lacked the speed or self preservation to get out of his way. Tiring and getting angry at the situation he found himself in Cato took one final swing before drawing his Colt 45. and putting two rounds in her chest. Putting the gun back in its holster, he watched with a smile as Roxie tore at the throat of the still alive Fiend.

A group of the raiders rallied around a short, ugly and burly Fiend wielding a golf club, Driver Nephi, Cato assumed. The group, perhaps just under two dozen in number charged towards the crimson banner in Porcino's hand. A Prime Legionary charged up, a fire axe in hand. Nephi stepped to meet him, sidestepping the blow and swinging the club in one smooth movement. The club crashed into the Legionary's throat. The man dropped to the ground, choking, were he was finished off by one of Nephi's followers.

"You! With me!" Cato shouted at a group of veterans and then without waiting to see if they had heard he made a beeline through the Legionaries to intercept the Fiend lieutenant. There was almost no gunfire now, whatever ammunition people had at hand having been used up. The Centurion shouldered a raving Fiend aside as he closed up on Driver Nephi.

The first of the Fiends cut their way to Porcino, who was now using the standard as a weapon, swatting it at his attacker. Lunging forwards, Cato stabbed into the side of a raider and elbowed another in the face. The veterans cut into Nephi's followers, their gladius rising and falling, finding their mark each time. Nephi made his way towards Cato screaming something incoherently and spitting on both himself and the ground. Cato met the golf club with his own blade when the two reached each other. Both men came to a halt as they hit, each one pouring his strength into it as they pushed against each other. Cato drew back his head and smacked his mask off Driver's forehead. The Fiend stumbled back, laughing madly.

Cato swung at his opponent, who managed throw himself back, though not in time to avoid the blow completely. The tip of the bumper sword cut through Nephi's leather armour and into his hip, the wound however was not deep enough to stop the drug filled madman. Nephi continued to laugh as he ignored the wound and attacked again. The two men exchanged blows for a few moments until Cato fell for a feint that resulted in him taking a blow to the shoulder that sent a jab of pain down his whole arm. The Centurion desperately blocked another attack and another, not having a chance to turn the momentum. The third blow knocked the bumper sword from his hands. Driver continued to laugh manically, enraging Cato to extents he had rarely felt before. Snarling, Cato threw himself towards the Fiend, grabbing the knees and driving his shoulder into the raider lieutenant's stomach.

He followed through with the tackle, knocking Nephi to the ground, the club stuck between their bodies. Cato straddled his opponent, planting his knees on the Fiend's wrists. The Centurion's hand rose and then came thundering down upon his enemy's face. Blood spurted from Nephi's nose and the laughter continued. Cato punched again, and again, and again.

"Stop laughing!" He roared and continued punching. "Stop laughing!" His fists came crashing down. "Stop fucking laughing!" Nephi's body went limp and the laughing ceased, but the punching did not. He continued to strike at the dead man's face until it was a bloody mess. Breathing heavily, Cato climbed up and retrieved his sword. Porcino and a group of recruits stared at his bloody fists as the Centurion sheathed his weapon and looked around. The Fiends were in full retreat, their dead now numbering in the hundreds and littered the field.

"Vexillarius!" He shouted for Porcino, who snapped his attention away from the blood drenched hands and came to stand by the side of his Centurion.

"Sir?" Cato removed his helmet and wiped his sweat soaked brow.

"Call a halt, we'll finish off the vermin in the morning."


Ringo leaned back into his green, velvet cushioned chair. He pulled his hat from his head and scratched his brow lazily. After an intense bout of yawning he fidgeted in his seat before finally doing what dozens had done before him, succumbing to boredom. On the first day he had played caravan with Henry Jamison, on the second it had been a game of blackjack with the Gundersons, on the third and fourth it was solitaire. After that he had never wanted to even look at a deck of cards again and had been forced into attempting to count the number of patterns on the peeling wallpaper , though he gave up after he broke three hundred. And now what was he reduced to? Word assossciation games.

"Hand grenade." Heck Gunderson muttered, not looking up from the pre-war book he had been reading since they had given up on blackjack, How to be the perfect Housewife. Ringo what not exactly sure what a man well into his fifties, who had probably never done a chore in his life, could learn from such a book but the old Brahim Baron seemed engrossed in it.

"Crater." Ted Gunderson spoke up from his resting place, lying across a bench with his jacket as a pillow.

"War." Ringo spoke through a yawn. No one gave the next word, Heck seemed to have dozed off and Ted was muttering to himself about something. They had been forced to sit in this room for the whole of the past six days. They were brought in at dawn and made to sit and wait. Breakfast and dinner was brought to them by slaves and then at what the less than trustworthy clock on the wall reckoned to be ten at night they would be sent back to their lodgings with the rest of Caesar's 'guests'.

Countless messengers and that odd looking pale man with the coyote's head hat would pass through their sitting room and into the rooms beyond, but none of their group were allowed in, not yet. And none visited Caesar uninvited if they wanted to remain off a cross. Anyone who had any form of powerful connections back in NCR territory was in the room, save the Van Graffs, they had been taking elsewhere by the coyote hat man, who had a rare smile on his face as he did. Alice McLafferty sat in the corner as she always did, reading through a notebook and folder she had retrieved from her luggage when they arrived. The Gundersons and several smaller Brahim barons, such as Walter Phebus were also present, though the two groups sat on opposite sides of the room.

"I want to see him!" Someone shouted. Ringo felt a smile creep up on his face, Nero was back. The slick, oiled and arrogant boss of the Omertas strode through the door to the sitting room, his right hand man, Big Sal, and another Omerta Ringo did not recognise. He stormed right up to the two Praetorians who stood at the doors into the inner rooms.

"None enter until Caesar calls for them." One stony faced guard said, his tone making it sound like he was trying to talk to a child.

"I'm his fucking ally, not a prisoner like the rest of these fucks." Nero spat, gesturing at Ringo and the others.

"As crudely as my dear friend puts it, he has a point." A soft voice said from the entrance. Mortimer, Ringo knew. The Omerta's and the White Gloves had been a common sight in his time in the sitting room, constantly attempting to see the lord of the Legion.

"None enter." The Praetorian repeated, his hands balling into fists.

"Have patience, Caesar will call for you when he is done." Said a calmer, more cool voice. It was the coyote-hat man, though his signature headgear was sadly absent. Behind him stood a young man in a lab coat, who's face seemed unable to decide whether he was happy or afraid. Coyote-hat budged his way past the Omertas and through the door, the young man following.

"Who the fuck was that and why does he get to go through?" Nero demanded, thrusting a dirt covered finger towards the young man through the still open door. A Praetorian grabbed the door and slammed it shut.

"The head of the science department." The guard grunted. Everyone in the room frowned and looked up.

"Legion has a science department?" Heck said sceptically as he looked up from his book.

"Does now." The Praetorian said unhelpfully. Everyone went back to their usual pass times. Heck read his book, Alice leafed through her folder, Phebus glared at the Gundersons, Mortimer brushed the dust off his suit and the Omertas paced angrily for a while before leaving. After a while the Scientist left, escorted by a group of Legionaries. Soon after that a small, grey moustached man arrived, a Caravaneer if his clothes were anything to go by. The man looked over everyone in the room with his small greedy eyes before entering the inner rooms once the Praetorians checked with their superior.

Caesar's personal guards were nothing if not scarily protective of their charge. No one save the dog hat man was allowed to enter without their commander being consulted and despite only changing watch on the doors once each day they remained alert and ready to act at any time. If anyone in the sitting room moved too fast or came within eight feet of the door they would snap into action. Ryan Mills, co-owner of Miles & Mills Caravan Company, had learnt that the hard way when tried to peak into the inner rooms as the dog hat man had entered on the second day. His legs had been swept out from under him and his jaw broken by a right hook before he knew what was happening. A Praetorian stepped through the door.

"Caesar will see you now." He announced to an audible sigh from damn near everyone in the room. Ringo fell in behind Alice and Henry as they marched through. "Not you." The guard growled at Mortimer as the White Glove climbed from his seat. The door was slammed shut as the last of them walked through. A man who Ringo assumed could only be Caesar sat upon a high backed chair, Praetorians at each shoulder. Dog hat man stood to Caesar's right and the grey moustached Caravaneer stood with two other similarly dressed men to the left. The two sides stood in silence for a few moments, Ringo feeling uncomfortable under Caesar's steely gaze.

"Who leads the Crimson Caravan?" He asked, his voice radiating power. Henry opened his mouth and took a half step forwards. Caesar's gaze turned on him. Jamison froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. Caesar laughed at him, a harsh brutal laugh that made Henry attempt to find something to look at away from Caesar. "Who leads?" He demanded again. Alice stepped forwards this time.

"I do." She said loudly, meeting Caesar's gaze. The lord of the Legion studied her before nodding to Dog hat man.

"Tell them Vulpes." He ordered. The dog hat man stepped forwards.

"Caesar in his wisdom and mercy has preserved your lives." Vulpes' smooth voice gave Ringo goosebumps. "You are being offered a one time chance for profit. You are being offered the chance to enter into business with our own merchants." Vulpes paused and his pale eyes scanned over the group. "If you want no part in this you may leave with the Followers today."

"I'll not deal with you." A trader whose name Ringo had never learnt said. A few others nodded.

"Then leave now." Vulpes told them. "You may gather your luggage, the Followers leave within the our." Two Praetorians escorted the traders from the room. Ringo wanted so desperately to leave but Alice had said nothing and so he had to stay. Once the others had left Vulpes started again.

"Allow me to introduce, Mr. Barton, Mr Williams and Mr Martin. They represent a large amount of trade in Legion territory." The three men moved forwards and shook hands with McLafferty and the other leaders. "If you retire back to your room you may work out the details." And with that they were dismissed. Ringo frowned as he walked out.

"That was it?" He muttered to Henry. "We waited a fucking week for that?" That brought a smile to Jamison's terror stricken face.


Motor-Runner flinched as the building shook, pieces of plaster and concrete came crashing to the ground. He looked around at the dirty fear filled faces around him. At best twenty of his raiders still lived, and a good third of those were going through withdrawals. Just two weeks ago, before the Battle for Hoover Dam, they had numbered in their hundreds with four hundred being the highest anyone had bothered to count after their assault on Mccarran. Their numbers had been near constantly growing since he started the gang, with junkies coming in from all over the Mojave and beyond to get their fix, soon smaller raider clans and deserters from the NCR had come to join him. Prisoners also added to their ranks, with those that were taken alive being pumped so full of chems that they either died or couldn't live without them, and Motor-Runner was the only source.

But all that was gone now. Close to three hundred and fifty had either died on the first day or fled, though they had soon showed up on Legion crosses outside their camp. He had lost Violet on the second day after the Legion's big guns buried the vault under the debris of buildings and the Legion had entered their ruins. In the end her dogs had proved to be no help against those two cyber dogs that followed the Legion commander. The building shook again and a Fiend cried out as a piece of the building landed on his leg, crushing it with a sickening crack. Those who were not shaking from the lack of chems sat in sullen silence, many having accepted their fate. Few even bothered to look up when the Legionaries rushed in.

Some cried out when instead of killing them the crimson soldier began to tie them up, beating the fight out of anyone who put up resistance. Motor-Runner tried to punch the Legionary that came at him, his body aching with the wounds of the past three days. The man grabbed his wrist easily and kicked a booted foot into the raider's mouth. His sight flashed white and he felt someone search his body, taking his machete and pistol from him. Rough hands grabbed his legs and dragged him across the floor. His captor dropped his legs, Motor-Runner's body ached and he rolled over to look up. A grim faced and scarred Centurion stood above him, a bruised and battered woman standing at his side.

"Is that him?" The Centurion asked, turning to face the woman slightly.

"That's the bastard." She sniffed. It took Motor-Runner to realise who the girl was; one of his more recent captures, taken from a group of Freesiders who had tried to flee the Mojave before the battle. He had kept her for himself for a few days before turning her over to the men, though he was surprised they had not tired of her and killed in the time since. The Centurion turned to Motor-Runner's captor.

"Take him to Viator." He ordered. The masked soldier grunted and grabbed Motor-Runner. They left the ruins, the Fiend's legs dragging across the rubble. Motor-Runner was forced to his feet and every so nicely ordered by a man with a spear to walk. Dozens of Legionaries moved through the ruins, dragging bodies and collecting loot. Out on the plain he saw where the bodies were going, a huge pile of tyres far from the Legion camp.

Beside the makeshift funeral pyre lines of crosses dominated the skyline, all those unfortunate enough to be taken alive over the past three days hanging by the ropes. Motor-Runner was made to walk through the crimson tents, past the faceless, identical soldiers. A group of men and women in black leather jackets sat apart from the Legion, cleaning the artillery. He walked past all this and to an open space before a large tent, a thick table set out in the centre, surrounded by Centurions. The Wolf faced Legion commander stood at the head.

"Caius will stay here with his century to hunt down any survivors." The Wolf told the Centurions. "Licinius." The Wolf addressed a burly, vicious looking man to his right. "Take your century south in the morning, scout the Powder Gangers and get an assessment on their strength."

"Does this order come from the Legate?" Licinius asked. Motor-Runner was held back at the edge of the open space by his captor, not wanting to interrupt his superiors.

"Lanius left me in charge when Caesar recalled him." The Wolf growled, his voice edged with steel. "I am here by Caesar's will, my orders are his orders. Do you disobey the son of Mars?" Licinius backed down. Despite the situation Motor-Runner enjoyed the exchange, it was like watching on of Violet's dogs challenge the alpha. "Dismissed." The Wolf snarled. The others nodded and marched away. Motor-Runner's captor prodded him forwards.

"Sir." The soldier called, making the Wolf look up. "We caught him." Motor-Runner felt the Wolf's eyes take in all his details and could almost spot contempt through the eye holes.

"Are you sure?" He asked, moving closer and towering over the Fiend.

"I'm sure." The woman stepped up from behind. The Wolf nodded and turned back to Motor-Runner.

"See, once they've been with me, they'll never forget it." The raider grinned, he knew he was going to die, what did he have to fear now? The Wolf's hand moved so fast that he barely noticed it before the armoured glove backhanded him, the force knocking him off his weak legs.

"We have a cross already set up for you at Roma. Hope you enjoy it." Motor-Runner felt as if the Wolf should be smiling smugly at him. The Fiend had no idea what Roma was be he could tell he didn't want to go there. "Decanus, how many won't make the trip?"

"Six, maybe seven." Motor-Runner's captor answered, his voice a deep rumble.

"Crucify them now." The Wolf ordered. "Throw the others in the wagon." Powerful arms reached down and grabbed Motor-Runner's shoulders. The Wolf handed the woman a small bag that jingled as he dropped it into her hands.

"There's a token in there." He told her. "It will give you safe passage to the Mojave Outpost." The woman nodded her thanks and walked away. The Decanus grabbed Motor-Runner's arms and began to drag him through the camp. As he marched Motor-Runner softly stroked the knife hidden in his briefs. If he was going to die, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it quietly.


The night was still. The wind was barely above a whisper, even nature stayed quiet under the watchful eyes of the Legion. The slaves who had not yet gone to sleep sat silently in their tents, many remembering through tear filled eyes the children who had been taken east. Out in the darkness, away from the fires men crawled through the bushes. The King, his hair now deprived of wax and filled with dirt, lay on his stomach watching the sentries. Behind him several dozen men who had been Kings stared at him expectantly.

"Let's do this."


Sorry for the rather long update time, I ended up losing the file when I had to switch computers and had to re-write it