-August, 2252-

Otto ran out of the cave as fast as his five-year-old legs could carry him. His mother, Ima, was seated in front of her loom as she always was, Otto couldn't imagine her any other way. Her braided black hair was heavy like a rope that almost touched the desert floor when she sat. She barely noticed Otto as he got closer, her hands working expertly at the loom. Otto clumsily wiped his soggy eyes and waddled over to her.

"I see you, Otto." She scooted over and the boy immediately rushed to her side, clinging to her sleeve.

"Godiva's being mean." Otto rubbed at his eye with the back of his hand as he tried to stammer his thoughts out. "She said-she said my painting was bad."

His mother's hands stopped and she sighed.

"This is something we need to talk to her about. This isn't proper big sister behavior."

"No! No!" Otto clung tighter to her sleeve. "She'll make fun of me!"

His mother looked down at him. From where he was, she looked like the most powerful woman, no person, in the universe. Her almond-shaped brown eyes were so dark they were nearly black. Like many of the adults in his tribe, her face was adorned with deep red tattoos that outlined her features and made her gaze that much more intense. She was the spiritual leader of the tribe and Otto never once questioned why.

"What do you think the best course of action is then?"

Otto took a long time to think.

"I can hit her if she does it again!"

The grin on his face faded when when his mother shook her head. She stood up from her loom and took one of his little hands in hers. Otto could feel the callouses on her fingertips from overworking at the loom.

"That's not how we do things here, Otto." She gently lead him to the front entrance of the caves.

Otto crawled on top of one of the rust-red rocks overlooking the cliffs and gazed out over the Arizona wildlife. The normally barren desert was alive with sweet-smelling wildflowers and explosions of green foliage from the recent rainstorms. The beads and tapestries hanging over the cave entrance swayed in the late summer breeze. Below him he could see a coyote searching for its meal.

She placed a hand on his thin shoulder. "Animals rely on violence because they need it to survive. But we are not animals. As humans, our power comes from our creativity. This same ability to create makes us closer to the gods than to animals."

Her hand traced over one of the paintings decorating the entrance of the cliff. The painting was of a bighorner being torn apart by coyotes. The red paint for the blood always appeared wet and fresh no matter how long it dried. The image used to scare Otto, but he was almost six-years-old so he would have to learn to not be afraid anymore.

"We observe brutality and make it beautiful. That's what makes us human." Her voice softened, but her gaze remained as intense as ever. "There's power in observation, Otto. Don't give in to the brutality."

Otto sniffed and nodded. He gave his mother a hug and ran back into the cave.

Alma, his other mother, stood over a cooking pot, mixing brightly colored corn in with the bubbling soup. The smell wafted through the cave making the air so thick Otto thought he could float on it. His baby brother, Aldric, was bundled up in a blanket beside her. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled, the blue tattoos around her eyes crinkling.

"Looks like my little assistant is right on time. Would you like to taste some of the soup?"

Alma's soup was always the best, but Otto shook his head.

"No thank you."

"All right. I'll see you at dinner!"

Otto scampered deeper into the caves, the paintings on the walls became harder to make out as the torches became more spread apart. He turned the corner and entered the room he shared with his siblings. Godiva and Odette were probably outside gathering water with their father so the room was silent.

He ran over to Godiva's stuff and grabbed her necklace. It was a simple but well-crafted piece that his sister was way too proud of. She always made a point to show it off to him whenever she got the chance. Otto admired how the beads gleamed in the torchlight. Little wasteland creatures were carved onto their wooden surfaces. It was so intricate, so masterfully done. Otto's hand clenched around the necklace before he stuffed it under his own pillow.

He never used brutality to get back at her, but he had other methods.

-June, 2284-

Otho couldn't sleep. Surprise.

He woke up with a heavy gasp, like he was previously submerged in water. His family. Why was he thinking about his family? He continued to lie on the floor, his chest heaving rapidly while the rest of his body refused to move. He was paralyzed. His wrists still felt like they were bound together. There was a light presence of tears near the corners of his eyes. Same as every night.

Otho gathered all of his strength and rolled over onto his side. Not using a mattress or pillow was not kind to his back and neck, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. He tried to go back to sleep, but the sickness returned. He felt like he was burning up on the inside. The walls of the tiny apartment were closing in on him. Every sound in the rooms around him felt like a super sledge being pounded against his ears. The tension inside of him grew to the point where he forgot how to breathe. He needed to get out of there.

The streets of Westside looked dead when he stepped outside. It was strange being outside at that time.

Just a quick walk. Otho told himself. I'll be able to go to sleep after.

Out of security, he reached into his coat pocket to make sure the necklace was still there. He only allowed himself to breathe when his fingers touched the smooth wood beads.

Otho sat down on the stairwell outside of his apartment. He missed being outside at night, just sitting and thinking. Many of his nights in the Legion were like that. Being outside the arena with a cup of coffee and nothing but an endless sea of stars above him. He looked up at the dust-colored sky. The stars were another thing he missed.

All of his thoughts were forced out of him when he had a bright light shining in his face. Otho covered his eyes with his arm.

"What are you doing out this late?" The NCR soldier barked. "Go back to your house now!"

"I just needed to go outside."

"Now!"

Keeping his eyes shielded, Otho trudged back to his room. He let his coat fall carelessly off of his shoulders and he curled up in his spot on the floor.

Dead Sea was right. He was just a mindless servant.

-August, 2252-

When Otto woke up, he couldn't breathe.

Something was being pressed against his face. His tiny body squirmed and struggled for air, but the force remained. He peeled his eyes open and he would have gasped if he could get air into his lungs. His mother, Alma, was hunched over him, pressing a pillow against his face. The blue tattoos near her eyes were glistening with tears.

"I'm sorry." She mouthed over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Otto's scream vibrated against the pillow. The edges of his vision began to blacken, but he saw his baby brother lying beside him. Cold, motionless. Otto began to cry as well as his movements became sluggish.

A loud bang bounced off the walls of the cave and Alma fell to the ground. Otto was free, but he still couldn't breathe. He wasn't used to the scent of blood, but he recognized it instantly. His mother was lying dead on the floor of the cave, her light brown hair slowly becoming a shade of dark crimson.

A group of men in strange-looking red armor stood in the entrance to his room. The oxygen returned to his brain and Otto could move again, but there was no point. He couldn't leave and going deeper into the caves would just make it worse. He was frozen, petrified as one of the men stepped closer to him. Otto crept his hand under his blanket and wrapped his fingers around his sister's necklace before hiding it in the folds of his tunic.

The man pressed the cold end of his rifle against Otto's cheek and he began shaking like a freshly-shaven animal. His face was wet with tears, his lungs straining to get air into them.

"This one's left." The man spoke to the others. "Male child. He'll be useful."

Survival instincts kicked in, Otto couldn't help it. He tried to run away, but the armored man seized him by the forearm before he could get very far.

Otto kicked and cried out as he was dragged through a wasteland of his destroyed tribe. Pots were smashed, tapestries shredded, paintings burned. Screams continued to roar out over the sound of crackling fires. His remaining mother was nowhere to be seen. Her usual spot in front of the loom was empty. Otto was forced into a stunned silence for a split second when he saw his sisters being dragged away in the other direction.

"Godiva! Odette!" He screamed as loud as he could, desperately trying to get them to hear him. Even when the last two remains of his family were but a speck in the distance, he continued to scream their names to the point where his voice was hoarse.

"This one's annoying." One of the men grabbed him by the hair. "Someone shut him up."

Otto felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, then his vision went black.

Even 30 years later, Otho would wake up with the feeling of the pillow being pressed to his face and the screams of his sisters ringing in his ears.

-June, 2284-

Dr. Patrick warned Otho not to spend all of his money on prostitutes. Dr. Patrick also probably didn't suffer from insomnia and had a lot of excess spending money.

She had him pressed against the wall, her hands roaming under his shirt while he fiddled with the back of her leather bodice. Her breathing was heavy and raw against his throat. The light fuzz of her shaven dark hair tickled his jaw as she sucked at his collar. His jacket and shirt fell to the floor. She pulled away, running her fingers over his tattoos.

"These are...interesting." She ran her hand over his bicep. "What are they from?"

Otho sighed, sinking back against the wall. He would never be able to escape. Might as well tell her.

"They were from the Legion." He sagged his shoulders. "I used to be a legionary."

He expected her to leave, but she didn't. Her hand moved from his arm to his chest. There was a strange sort of glint in her eye, one Otho couldn't interpret at all.

"That's kind of sexy."

Otho blinked. "Excuse me?"

She ground up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"You Legion men always look so strong." Her lips brushed against his. "I always wanted to get this close to one."

"Whoa, that's kind of…"

"I'm tired of men feeling like they have to hold back."

"You know I'm no longer a legionary, right?"

"I want you to take me the way you took your women."

"Okay, that's it." Otho pushed her away and grabbed his shirt from the floor.

She sat down on the bed and held her hands out.

"Isn't this what you wanted? What's the problem here?"

"I…" Otho sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I'm just feeling really uncomfortable. With all of this."

"I'm sorry, I thought…"

"Forget it." He picked his coat up and slipped it back on.

"Wait!" She stood up from the bed. "This is your house."

"I won't be gone long." Otho opened the door. "But the money's on the shelf. Don't worry, I'm paying you for full time."

Otho felt like he was able to breathe normally again when he shut the door behind him. It wasn't midnight yet, so he had time before the NCR tracked him down.

His walk lead him to a bar near the end of the street. It was a quiet and dusty establishment with the only sound coming from the glasses clinking against smooth wood counters and soft blues music wafting throughout the room. Otho stood near the edge of the room, afraid to step any further. He didn't drink. It was something strictly forbidden by the Legion. Even after becoming an NCR citizen, he didn't see the appeal. But he loved the culture of lonely bars like these.

"Otho?"

He almost did a double-take. Stella sat at the bar, a glass of dark beer in front of her. He gave a little wave of acknowledgment and she waved him over. He felt a pit form in his stomach, but he nodded and made his way over to her. Why did she continue to do this? Was she playing a trick on him.

"Didn't expect to see you out this late." She smiled, her finger tracing over the side of her glass.

Otho's mouth went dry, but he nodded and took a seat in the creaking stool beside her.

"I have about thirty minutes before I have to go home."

"Home?" Stella frowned. "You got a curfew?"

He nodded. "NCR put it in place. They have to keep track of me."

"I see." She trailed off, drumming her fingers against the bartop. "You ordering anything?"

"I still don't drink."

Stella shrugged, wincing a bit, and took a sip of her beer.

Otho stared at his reflection in the glossy wood of the counter. He lost a lot of weight ever since he became a citizen of the NCR. Good food was harder to find in the city and he didn't feel pressure to keep building his muscles. His face looked pale and hollow and his eyes had dark bags under them. He wondered how pathetic he must look to everyone else. Stella still looked so vibrant and full of life. At least the Legion didn't get a chance to beat that out of her.

"Stella?"

"Hmm?"

Otho gripped the edge of the counter. "I never asked you how you're doing. After the battle and all."

Her beer clinked against the counter. She tossed her head back and stared at the ceiling with a weary sigh.

"Well I'm out of the arena fighting business, if that's what you're asking."

Otho felt his chest grow cold. "Oh. Are you still a ranger?"

She shook her head and the pang of guilt Otho had grew stronger.

"I'm not physically fit to fight anymore. The arena messed me up, no offence."

Even though he didn't have anything to drink, Otho felt like he was going to throw up. He never wanted her to fight, it was never his choice. He wanted to tell her that, but he never got the chance.

"But hey, I'm alive." She pushed her hair behind her ear. "I just can't do heavy combat anymore, but I feel like I had enough of that to fill one lifetime. I help teach reading to the kids in Westside and I love it. Things happen for a reason, cliche as it sounds."

When Stella smiled, Otho did the same almost out of instinct.

"I'm happy you're alive."

"Yeah." She turned back to her drink. "Me too."

"So you don't think it's weird that we can just talk like this?"

Stella rubbed her forehead. "I like talking to you, Otho. I always did. Even when you were being a sexist asshole, I just found it kind of funny. But I'm happy you're no longer with the Legion. It makes it easier for me to see you as a real person."

Otho's entire face felt warm, but he tensed up before he could see anything. Through the corner of his eye, he saw a faint glimpse of a man with a steel arm. He went cold.

"Otho?"

"I have to go." He nearly knocked the stool down trying to get away. Grabbing the front of his coat, he bolted out of the bar as fast as he could. He kept seeing glimpses of him through the corners of his eyes, but he would always be gone when he turned around. By the time he got to his apartment, he was all alone. Was he going crazy? That had to be it.

The door to his apartment opened with a groan and he flicked the light on. Empty. The only remaining sign of life came from the little note left on the bed.

"Sorry, I had another client. Maybe next time, okay? xoxo"

Otho dropped his coat and returned to his usual spot on the floor. He still felt hollow, lifeless, like he was still trying to rebuild the last 30 years that were erased from his life. It almost made him sick realizing that none of his military achievements meant anything. People would look at him in fear and anger instead of admiration.

But Stella called him a real person. Was he really that desperate that he would take that as a compliment?

Legionary Otho wouldn't. But the Otho that was steadily trying to put his identity back together? That Otho slept better thinking about it.

…

Just when Otho was falling into the routine of seeing Dr. Patrick twice a week, the universe threw something else at him.

An NCR soldier stood next to his psychologist. His face looked grim and stoic. Immediately Otho was concerned.

He stopped halfway through the doorway. "Is this a bad time?"

"Come in." Dr. Patrick waved him inside.

Otho stepped in carefully, keeping his eyes on the soldier the entire time. Not even a year ago, they would be at the ends of each other's rifles. Now Otho was sitting in an office chair across from him. Oh how the times change.

The soldier reached into the file he was carrying and placed a black and white photo on the desk.

"Do you know this woman, Mr. Hicks? Her name is Godiva."

The photo depicted a woman in her late forties or early fifties. Her thick gray-streaked black hair was pulled back in a messy bun and she was laughing as if someone cracked a joke off camera. The picture didn't mean much to him, but the name hit Otho like a bullet to the brain.

"Godiva." He picked the photo up, his eyes widening. "She's my older sister."

The soldier plucked the photo from his fingers and filed it away.

"She has been trying to contact you. We just needed you to confirm her identity."

Otho nodded stiffly. "Yep, that's her."

"Would you like to be reunited with her?"

Otho almost couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Yes, I would really like that." He stared down at his hands. "She doesn't have to know about my...past with the Legion, right?"

A silence passed through the room before the trooper spoke up again.

"We can arrange that."

When the trooper left, Dr. Patrick leaned forward on his elbows and reached for his notebook. "Now, this is a good chance to hear more about your family."

"It really isn't."

"Otho."

He sighed. "I came from a tribe of pretentious artists. I had two older sisters, a younger brother, two mothers, and a father."

The psychologist raised his eyebrows and stopped writing.

"How does that work?"

Otho tilted his head to the side. "How does what work?"

Dr. Patrick waved his hand around. "You know, having two mothers and a father?"

"I had two mothers and a father. They were all married to each other." Otho frowned, this all seemed obvious. Even a profligate should understand. "Do you not do that here?"

"Not usually." Dr. Patrick scribbled down on his notebook. "So when you think of your family, what things typically come to mind?"

Otho's hands gripped the armrests. He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. All of his memories of his family were plagued by the Legion. The invasion, the screams of his relatives, the fact that he would never see them again.

Eventually he was able to choke out a response.

"Soup."

"Soup?"

Otho nodded.

"Okay…" Dr. Patrick tapped his pen against the notebook. "What can you tell me about this soup?"

"Do you really think you can get a decent evaluation from listening to me talk about soup?"

"If it's what came to your mind, I want to hear it."

Otho took a deep breath. Once again, he was walking barefoot outside the caves, but this time he wasn't suffocating. Alma's corn and rice soup was simmering over the crackling fire. Before the Legion, fire used to be such a comforting thing to him. But there was no Legion. Just his small tribe huddled around the cooking pot, pouring soup into finely-crafted clay bowls. His tribe and the fire seemed so embracing while the night air felt cold and lifeless around him. The hearty smell of the soup mingled in with the smoke was almost as filling as an actual meal. He would watch as his mother would tell stories from behind the fire. She looked so animated in contrast to how she looked in front of the loom. The red tattoos on her face that were meant for decoration became war paint. There was laughter, conversation, Godiva daring him to stick his head in the cooking pot. Everything was so close, so warm, so alive.

The inside of Dr. Patrick's office felt dead in comparison. Otho's body was shaking and to his horror he realized his eyes and cheeks were wet.

"I'm crying." Otho reached up and touched his own cheek. "I'm crying over soup."

"Memories are powerful."

Otho covered his face with his hands. He felt so weak. This was the NCR's plan all along. They just wanted so shame him. At least Legion torture wasn't as humiliating. His shoulders shook and he began to cry harder into his hands after what had to be 30 years of holding it back.

"We can take a break if you want."

Otho wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole for the rest of his life. Legion men were supposed to be strong, so what was an ex-legionary supposed to be like? At what point would he be comfortable enough to call himself a real person?

The memory continued to play in his head, uninterrupted by thoughts of the Legion. It was like they were right there, like he could reach out and grab one of those bowls of soup. The people in his memory weren't killed by the Legion, they were still as alive as ever.

…

That night, the horrible aching pain in Otho's back was worse than ever. He craned his neck to look up at the bed above him. Taking a deep breath, he got up from his spot on the floor and tried to lie back against the soft mattress. His arms reached out for the untouched pillow. He held it close to his chest, curled up in a ball, and began to sob uncontrollably.

The smell of smoke in the back of his head now came from warm campfires instead of the destruction of his tribe, but that didn't make it any less suffocating.