A/N: I think I mentioned before, in the beginning of this story, in a previous A/N, that I didn't want to portray the Legion as pantomime villains. It's one of my most egregious pet peeves. They do what they must to maintain some semblance of society in the post-apocalyptic world, no matter how visceral and cruel their order is.

But, they are still very much so proactive compared to the NCR, who has been wronged indirectly by our protagonist also. Only, the NCR isn't as quick to punish as the Legion is. Therefore, our protagonist will have to suffer the consequences of her actions, which have been judged as sinful by the Legion.

This part of the story has been a long time coming for sometime now, I think some would agree. Eris has done some questionable things, to some even more questionable ends, and I think it is high time for some character development through suffering, which I think many will agree is the greatest, most efficient, method for character development both in the fictional world, and the real world . It has been my plan from the start, to punish her in a proper, traditional, canonical way.

Thank you to those of you who review and kudos. I greatly appreciate your feedback, and it helps me improve on the methods I use.

This bitter earth:

Well, what a fruit it bears.

What good is love that no one shares?

And if my life is like the dust that hides the glow of a rose,

What good am I?

Heaven only knows.

- "This Bitter Earth", by Dinah Washington

Isn't it funny how one single action can create a multitude of heretofore inconceivable reactions? To the wisest, it's not the phenomenon that's funny per se, but the ignorance of such a phenomenon by the unwise. Actions do, indeed, have consequences, though it is arguably easy to avoid facing them when the moment is so sweet, or the immediate satisfaction from the mother action is too enticing. All humans have a little impulsivity to their character, no matter how disciplined they are. Some could even argue that the more disciplined, the more severe the losses will be.

She isn't disciplined, and yet she's certain she's lost everything in the past three days, and it isn't the withdrawal talking. That's only about ten percent of the existential crisis. Eris is no stranger to existential crises, for her life has been a veritable, never-ending existential crisis for the better part of a year now. Only, it had been contemplating the existence of other minds outside of her own, other actions that weren't her own, until now.

In the midst of it all, she thinks about Benny. Really, that is the beginning of the fall, isn't it? Though it isn't Benny's fault that she's here right now, it's not that she could've dealt with the situation any differently, either. It's the inevitability of the fall that has her reeling. Resentment has always been difficult for Eris to grasp, and even in present circumstances, she can't find the will to harness it against her captors. After all, they'd only done what they judged to be right, according to what they knew. Even she wasn't that noble, because didn't she challenge what she knew to be right constantly?

Yes, at every turn, in fact. How proud the mind of the universe must be with her – that grand mover, the master of the game as it were. She had, in effect, played the game and forgotten the rules apply to her as well as everyone else. Was she convinced that she was so special that she should be given leave to approach all things in life with a callous, not-quite-selfish selfishness? And that was really the onion, wasn't it? There was no selfishness involved, not in the classical sense, anyway. If it were selfishness, perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to come to terms with. Selfishness could be nursed, it could benefit others even, if the individual was determined enough to cover their intentions by providing a sliver of their accomplishments to the glory of the collective.

That kind of self-interested solicitousness was for people like Mr. House, people who were cut from a rare fabric and intended by all known laws, to be a leader or a master. She didn't even know why she did the things she did – there were no established ends behind the calculated means to which she approached things. At least with dictatorial figures like Caesar, who bordered on maniacally tyrannical, there was a tangible vision, a foreseeable destination at the end of a crooked road, even if it was paved with countless lives. Meanwhile, how many countless lives had she ruined, without even considering where the road was leading to?

Mr. House had a purpose, Caesar had a purpose, Benny had a purpose. Months ago, when she'd first woken up, bereft of personal memory and with nothing to guide her except a compass that directed her toward 'things of supreme ideological novelty', she'd not thought once about vengeance – a thoroughly uninspired goal, but a goal that was structured and familiar nevertheless. She was far-sighted, just not in a particularly good or meaningful way.

The reasoning behind not pursuing Benny as an act of revenge, was startlingly simple. She just hadn't cared. But Benny would have, surely. Does that make Benny a greater person than her? She'd never factored in self-preservation as a particularly virtuous trait, but Benny had had understandable reasons for all that he did. And she thinks, that this may be her problem – not that she can't feel a need for vengeance, but that she can understand things without casting her lot in with them. Hell, she didn't even believe with certainty the vision of Mr. House, and yet she did his bidding. Why was that? Was she really so lost, that she'd do whatever he told her to do?

No, that couldn't be it. If that were so, she would've done what Caesar had told her to do, and Caesar had told her to kill Mr. House. But she hadn't wanted to do that, had she? She wondered, on a scale from one to ten (one being mild, five being moderate, ten being a Great Khan's hair), how grievously she's ruined her life, without ever having established some kind of structure of the things that were important to her. Obviously, Mr. House was important to her.

And?

Had she done the normal thing, and told him? If not told him, done something a bit nicer for the only person in her corner? As it was, no one was coming to save her, because she had no friends, besides him. She only had tools that were there for her own amusement, and to their own detriment or negligible benefit, because there was no benefit gained from talking to her. Her minimal pride had been replaced with a blooming humility, and in that, she could say with complete and total confidence for once, that she couldn't blame anyone for not coming to her defense.

Veronica was dead, and even though Eris hadn't really admired her, she'd been a decent enough human being to probably die defending her from the Legion's raiding party. Any one of those Brotherhood fools would've jumped at the chance to defend her, even though she was a stranger with ill intentions they were completely unaware of. What did that say about her, then? The least she could've done was look Veronica in the eyes when she killed her. Even Benny, God rest his soul, had made it a point to look her in the face when he shot her. Whether it had been an act of superiority, or some kind of tribal honor, he'd faced her.

She was fast coming to the conclusion that she was a piece of human waste, and it had nothing to do with the Legion's conditioning of intended slaves. They'd just tied her up to a pole and let her stew for a few days. It was the equivalent to winding up one of those nifty, prewar toys with a handle, and letting it move around. Or, it was like putting an earthworm in the dry, desert sun and watching it wriggle around. That sounds like something she'd probably done in her previous life, though like most things, she could not find the memory attached to it.

Speaking of her embellished and fancy pole, her wrists had gone numb hours ago since her last feeding. The only petty consolation to be had, was that she ate what every single other legionary ate, too. It was some kind of maize mash, like grits but worse – it must've been cooked by a man, she decided.

There was no visit to a latrine, even though she watched legionaries go to and fro from what she suspected was a latrine, by the hour. Like the prisoners in the cage next to hers, she smells like Vegas' southern ruins look, like if the El Rey Motel was a person. So badly, she wishes she could bathe, maybe get the filth off of her, but it's the least of her concerns. Besides, if she bathed right now, she'd feel like a person again, and she has the hunch that she's not supposed to feel like a person right now.

Canyon Runner is off in the mess hall, and she knows that afterwards, she'll be fed along with the Weathers in the cage next. Eris watches him everyday, he even watches her sometimes, too. After three days, she's learned his schedule, has learned what he likes to do when he's not under any direct orders from Aurelius. Aurelius, she sees only rarely. In the rare times she's asleep, which are usually in the early hours of the morning towards noon, she's certain that's when Aurelius comes out and does… whatever it is he does.

But her caretaker is predictable. He almost never breaks routine, and watching him reminds her of how much she watched McNamara only a week ago. Unlike his brothers, he's not made of the sturdiest stuff. Eris could be easily convinced that he's actually rather gentle, but that would be antithetical to the job he's been given – to condition prisoners as future slaves. Surprisingly enough, his duty is regarded as lowly, probably because handling prisoners can end in his death. And an unconditioned slave can always be blamed on Canyon Runner.

When midday approaches, or what she thinks is midday (they'd taken her Pip-Boy as soon as she arrived), the slave master leaves the mess hall along with his brothers, his brown mohawk gleaming underneath the scorching sun and revealing streaks of red that remind her of the interior of Gomorrah, only he is decidedly less raunchy. In his hand, is held a bucket of the maize mash, and she can't help that her stomach rumbles at the sight of it. She has never been a picky eater, and always ate whatever the securitrons or anyone else served her, wherever she went. She's many things, but a discerning eater is not one of them.

Her cage is unlocked, and in comes Canyon Runner, the subject of nearly all of her immediate thoughts. He doesn't know how vigorous a job she's been doing to psychoanalyze him.

"On your feet, profligate." She takes one deep breath, and stands, wincing as she does so.

He's daring. Fearless, even, she'll give him that. If she was to be feared, maybe she'd call him witless, because he approaches her so closely to untie the bonds behind her back. When she prompted him the other day about why he would risk it, he'd replied that it wasn't his duty to spoon feed profligates.

"How was your lunch, master?" She asked, uncaring but desperate for some kind of conversation, even if it wasn't riveting.

"It served its purpose. Why do you ask these questions?" He asked, flustered and impatient. Unbeknownst to him, she really just wants a conversation, decent or vapid.

Furthermore, she has enough will left to learn about the one guarding her day and night. His shift is almost over, actually – he usually sleeps around midday and wakes at sunset. She can't find a good enough reason to try and escape, though. All the means are there, but none of the justification is. Anyone else in her position may have called her the stupidest person who ever graced the Mojave, a title she now wears with self-assurance.

"I'll be a slave soon, won't I? I need to learn about who I'll be serving, and this makes my life and yours much easier, doesn't it?" She asks, lies, more like. At least that skill hadn't left yet.

"It does. That's wise, from a profligate." He ground out, unwilling to show that he was impressed, save for the subtle nuances in his posture.

She could practically feel the glares from the Weathers. They whispered about her, called her a sellout, if she'd heard correctly. Canyon Runner is a bit dry with how he dishes out the 'profligate' word, which seems to be his brothers' favorite word, too. Only, he doesn't say it as naturally, or with as much chutzpah, as Vulpes or his boys had. How recently was his tribe enveloped into the Legion? With a name like that, still not Latinized yet, she considers that he may be new to the Legion, and therefore still hesitant to use the 'p' word.

With disguised pleasure, she watches him scoop an extra helping of the mash into the bowl. It's disgusting, she notes – soggy, substandard, but nutritious – three words she could use for nearly everything else the Legion can claim to be theirs. In it there are no seasonings, no additives, nothing to give it taste, and she could almost believe that it's moistened sediment that she's spooning down her throat. Maybe there was sediment, and if so, at least she wouldn't have a zinc deficiency.

For Canyon Runner's part, he watches dutifully as she spoons the mash into her mouth, slowly, so that she can be around another human for as long as possible until nighttime comes, and with it, her second meal of the day. The Weathers didn't make for good company, especially seeing as they're the only other people in the camp that can divine how she's schmoozing with their prison guard.

It's around the early evening, when the sun isn't quite setting yet, that she falls asleep, a break in her sleep schedule that had been established since being brought to Cottonwood Cove.

"Hey." She hears, again and again, along with a "Psst."

It takes a moment before she realizes that it wasn't part of the dream at all, but she's being beckoned by someone else. From her position in the mud, made that way by how she's literally sitting in a puddle of her own urine, she can't really see anything, so she turns, and is met by the face of someone unfamiliar, but decidedly not Legion. Their face is that of a man, not super young, though not old, either.

He's tied to a pole opposite of hers, and she can't believe her luck in scoring a cellmate. How small had her life become?

Although her back hurts like nothing else, so rigid against the twisted metal of the pole her rope is tied to. Physically, it's impossible for her to do anything but slide upwards or downwards, because of how the knot was tied. She blinks a couple times in stunned disbelief that she's finally got someone to talk to, and surveys the area, seeing a few Legion boys patrolling by the coast and up into the valley. Had this newcomer just gotten here, and how had she not been woken by it? Maybe Canyon Runner's ropes really were that good.

"Come here often?" She asks, a ghost of a smile playing at her chapped lips.

Her cellmate is tall, which she can see from the cramped way he's sitting. Dark, nearly black, lanky hair hides one of his dark eyes from vision, and on his shoulder, she can see that there's a bullet wound that was only recently tended to. He was NCR, she decided, one of the rangers north of here, if she had to guess. She didn't need to be a genius to see that in the plain fatigues he wore, faded with age but stained near his armpits, where he'd been shot.

"Today, please." She spoke, when he just stared at her without saying anything more.

"Sorry. I just… lost three of my men to them." He answered, and she suddenly knew exactly what he felt.

The Legion seemed to have that effect on people – driving them into trance-like states with the sheer force of being told you are a slave with no will. It was impressive, and the results were consistent.

"No need to apologize to me. I'm sitting in a puddle of my own piss." She explained, hoping that statement would speak for everything she just didn't want to say right now.

Dinner time was coming again, if Canyon Runner walking from the mess hall was any indication. Eris sat up straighter, trying to pop some of the knots in her back that had set up residency there, but they were unreachable. It was agonizing, to be sure, but not as agonizing as the torture her moral compass had been inflicting on her for upwards of three days now.

"So, how'd you get here?" She asked the soldier tied to the pole adjacent to hers. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." She added, in a sing-song voice, unfitting for the hollowness she felt deep within. Eris had never took herself for a sulker, but she was almost in sulking territory now.

He cleared his throat, in the kind of poorly concealed gesture of anticipation, that or he was a smoker. Occasionally, every one of her thoughts would fall back on the act of smoking, but she's certain she's past the worst of the junkie blues. Still, she's got a lingering low mood that she's not sure where 'genocide' ends, 'enslavement' begins, and if 'nicotine withdrawal' is just an additional bonus that features in between them. Yesterday, she'd wanted to sling Canyon Runner into the wire fence headfirst, and she could attribute that entirely to the withdrawal.

"We were ambushed up at Echo", he began, clearing his throat once again. She watched with interest as the ends of his dark mustache twitched when he sniffled his nose, and if his hands weren't tied behind his back, he might've scratched it. "It's not unusual for them to do it every blue moon, and when they do it, we usually just line them up and take potshots. They're not equipped to deal with rangers, the Legion. Or so we thought."

In that moment, she guessed he would've been rubbing his palm over his face, which was as oily as hers probably was right now. She hasn't had the opportunity to feel it up much.

"They instrumented a decidedly uncharacteristic tactic, and threw dynamite into the walls of the camp. In every defensive aspect, we have all the advantages against them – height, hostile environment, you name it. All, except space. Echo's a small camp, and I guess they figured out that if explosives could be thrown inside, we'd have to leave our walls, and they were right. We got scattered and separated."

She knows she's starved for human interaction when she clings onto his every word, already hungry for any news of the outside world, which the legionaries concealed through their use of Latin, instead of English. Had it been two or three weeks since she'd met Veronica? Inwardly, she counted all the days, tried to memorize everything that had happened, tried to make reason out of something that was intrinsically unreasonable. It hadn't been more than four days since Vulpes found her, if it had been so, she probably wouldn't still be feeling the lingering fatigue and homicidal rage of drug withdrawal. In fact, she felt simultaneously exhausted and hyper, either could be from going stir-crazy too – she wasn't getting much action from this spot, not that she'd be doing anything different if she were in Vegas, right now.

Vegas . Here she'd thought some time spent away would be good, that she hadn't formed some kind of tangible attachment to the place, but, she had. There were many such cases of her being wrong, though until now, being wrong has never bothered her.

"Our comm officer was taken out immediately by the explosion. Would've been quite a sight for any new recruits, but we were all grizzled veterans up there in Echo. The brass didn't trust starry-eyed recruits to both hold the line and resist launching an attack here." The man licked his dry lips, chapped like hers were. Water was right next to them at all times, but was still so far away. "Forgot to introduce myself, little lady. Erasmus, I was the commanding officer at Echo."

"I'd offer you my hand, but I doubt you'd want to touch it anyhow. Tetanus, anthrax, you name it, and I've probably got it by now." She joked, her voice hoarse from being parched. "What makes you think you're not still the commanding officer up there? You're alive, and nothing is certain – who knows what could happen here at… Casa del Cottonwood. What happens here, doesn't necessarily stay here."

Erasmus gave her an odd look then, that kind of look only a commanding officer could give, if she had to put a name to it. It was calculating, plainly calculating whereas her stares probably just looked like rhymeless probing, as though she put no thought into it at all. Maybe she didn't – maybe she was thoughtless and had convinced herself otherwise.

"Aren't you a little young to be a commanding officer?" She asked, wanting to learn as much as possible, sounding much the part of a person desperate for company. Canyon Runner didn't deliver as much as she thought he might. Much like the bosun down at the docks, Lucullus, he was flat, and suited cardboard more than whatever else he was comprised of.

"Aren't you a little too pretty to be in a cage rather than in these bastards' tents?" He shot back, and she threw her head back and laughed at the obvious fishing he was doing. Fine, she could bite.

"If you wanna fish, I can always redirect you to a hole out near Camp Golf." She retorted, looking down at the dirt as she mindlessly scraped her bare, big toe through it, creating meaningless lines. "I'm only kidding, I have no prior association with the NCR, until you came. Never been to Camp Golf before, though I have heard it was a resort in its day, the height of luxury – a gift to Mr. House or something."

Babbling senselessly wasn't her usual go-to, but she's finding it hard to stay focused, even if her mind still feels sharp in most aspects. Mentioning Mr. House was far from therapeutic, and she really didn't know what to think about the man, from her position here, in the literal dust. He was far, far away, and an utterly intrusive voice, which was probably one of reason, told her that she'd failed him. How she felt about that, was anyone's guess, because she was good at divining the feelings of others (more so reactions), but not her own.

"I'm rambling again, I do that from time to time, you know." How to go about introducing herself? The aim was always to be as dramatic as possible, for the amusement of others, because she's certain she lives for the entertainment of others. "Do you remember that story of the courier who got shot in the head near Goodsprings, and came back to life?"

"'Course. Everyone knows that story by now. Mr. New Vegas talked about it for weeks." He answered, apparently not understanding where the story was going, until a crease formed between his sweaty brows, a clump of dark, curly hair clinging to the perspiration there. "Wait, are you saying you're the courier?"

"Well, well. Nothing gets past an ranger, after all. Color me surprised! I thought I was being infinitely clever." In reality, it didn't take someone clever to guess that. She'd framed it in such a cliché way, that she'd be disappointed if a Fiend didn't guess correctly. "Yeah, that's me. The bullet hole is somewhere behind my hairline, if you've got the eyes."

Though she couldn't maneuver her hands to push her hair out of the way, she did whip it around enough to make it easier for him. Her normally shiny, golden hair was lank with nearly four consecutive days of neglect, but that was the last of her worries, even if the feeling made her skin crawl. It was normally thick and straight, but it had acquired some knots that she could feel if she moved her head just right against the pole she was tied to.

"Damn. So you really are the courier.." He spoke, like she was some kind of legend in the Mojave, which couldn't be farther from the truth in her eyes. But it did suit her, she wasn't so lost in preserving her own virtue that she couldn't admit she liked to be the center of attention when there was a spot open. "Why'd the Legion want you? Women like you don't usually get held prisoner here for long. I'd know, I've watched from range what the usual procedure is, much to my displeasure."

"It must be torturous indeed, for you, to see it happen and have no power whatsoever to intervene." That was the NCR's thing, wasn't it? Because truthfully, they'd never been interesting enough for her to study at great length. But she'd have to be living underneath a rock to not know the depth of their hero complex, a term some would call imperialism. Hadn't prewar America been much the same? "They wanted me because I was foolish enough to ignore their repeated warnings of what might happen if I kept ignoring the command of Caesar. You do know I work for Mr. House, right?" She scoffed, now her turn to fish.

"Our commanders don't inform us much about what goes on in the Strip. We're isolated out here. Up until now, I didn't even know that your boss was an enemy of Caesar." He looked confused, maybe even crestfallen, and she thought that she could sympathize. To say she's not overjoyed about no longer being privy to the goings-on in the Strip, would be an understatement.

"To call Caesar an enemy of House is somewhat misleading. If anything, House is an enemy of Caesar's. In Caesar's own words, or, in my own summary of his words – I'm very credible, by the way – they are ideologically incompatible, and therefore his opposition to Mr. House is natural. Something, something Hegelian dialectics, conflict being inevitable, success breeds jealousy, et cetera. I've had a lot of time to think about it, as you can see, and all the thinking I've done hasn't prepared me for the inevitable conflict I had with Caesar's boys. Fat good it did me." She shook her head sluggishly, though it looked contemplative, if anything. It wasn't. "That explosion you heard from the Hidden Valley the other day was my doing. I blew up the Brotherhood of Steel's bunker, with everyone inside.

"They were like fucking sardines, all packed neatly into a little case. I'd conned Elder McNamara into letting me come and go as I please. If I were even a slightly virtuous person, I'd remark that it was on Mr. House's orders that I did it, but he always makes it a point to give creative liberty, and it was done by my own volition. How awesome is that? I killed probably three-hundred people in that bunker, all dead in less than a second. I must be more prolific than even Caesar, or his dog Lanius, at this point. Not one of them can say that they've committed genocide so spectacularly before, so I'll always have that."

Her eyes roll in self-deprecation, a feeling that is blissfully familiar, for all the wrong reasons. At least she has time to consider things, to sort out everything in her mind for the time being, not that this ever helped in the past – evidently. Nevertheless, she resolved to do it, as it's the only thing that comes naturally whilst her hands are tied behind her back.

She can untie them, though, but she's not particularly inclined to right now. There is a stray thought there somewhere, though, that wonders ceaselessly as to how she acquired this skill in the first place. While not particularly dexterous – she couldn't maintain balance unless she's got people to cozy up to – she did have this obscure ability to untie knots, as she had first displayed with Clanden, months ago.

For his part, Erasmus doesn't placate her with empty reassurances, because he's a soldier, not a therapist. He knows his purpose, understands it, and knows the limits of his standing with the world, and while he's probably never picked up Rosseau or Kant, he's smarter than her. But that train of thought is derailed, by the fact that they're both in the dirt, bound at the wrists. What gives? He's here for better reasons, anyhow. He fought for something he truly believed in, unlike her, or at least, she suspects that's the case, by the way he spoke so disdainfully of the legionaries.

What was wrong with her, that she couldn't even regard her own captors in disdain? If she were not somehow stunted, maybe she could.

"Uh-oh. Aurelius is coming…" She comments in a deceptively whimsical tone, watching the big brute of a man make his way over to them. More than likely, he'd seen them talking, and the punishment for talking among the prisoners was severe, if Weathers was any indication. "Let me go down for you, if you want to live. Aurelius likes me enough that he hasn't beat me senseless yet." That was a lie, a lie meant to comfort her cellmate, for purposes unknown to her.

Aurelius could rarely ever be seen performing such menial duties as 'guarding', oh no, his horizons were meant for far more than humble guard duty. The way the centurion held himself should've been legendary, and maybe it was back in Phoenix. But Eris spends most of her time around gamblers and wasteland royalty, and she's never been easy to impress. She can count on one finger how many times she's been impressed in her memory, and that was, rather ironically, by Mr. House, someone she stubbornly refused to give any outward indication that she liked. She thought that maybe, it was because he was quietly headstrong, confident, and comprehensive in ways she could never be. Someone like him might be unimpressed by any show of weakness, including and especially respectfulness.

Cottonwood Cove's resident centurion wasn't very tall, but he was broad and built sturdy. He must've had extra helpings of the maize mash. The other legionaries feared him, and it wasn't hard to see why. Cottonwood Cove was the frontier for Legion operations in the Mojave, therefore many rules that were enforced on the other side of the river, weren't enforced too strictly here. She'd inferred that from some of the Nuka-Cola bottles that could be found occasionally floating in the river behind what served as the administrative office, where Aurelius spent most of his time doing god-knows-what. Some things should be left a mystery, and that was her saying that.

Though instead of stopping in front of their cage, he spared one glance at her and her cellmate, and strutted to the cage a few yard away from them, where the Weathers were being kept. What he was playing at, she had no idea.

But when he unlocked their cage, a tingle crept down her spine, and she begun to sift through the possibilities of just what he was playing at. He ripped the Weathers boy out, the one who had been beaten within an inch of his life days before she'd gotten here, and pulled him out of the cage by the metal of his explosive collar. For the life of her, she couldn't stop watching, shocked at the implications of what was about to occur.

No, no, no.

The centurion slammed the cage's door shut immediately, to the disappointment of the rest of the family, who were exhausted, dehydrated, and emaciated, but not so far gone as to hide their alarm at the adolescent boy being paraded in front of the cell she shared with Erasmus, and of course, the door to their cage being opened like a treat to a starved dog.

"Profligates. Both of you." His voice wasn't intimidating, far from earth-shaking or commanding – he was compensating, with what? She suspected it was undiscriminating cruelty. "I, the Centurion here in Cottonwood Cove, don't issue warnings. That is far below my station, and my men do that for me. They lack experience, though, ergo I carry out the punishments for their shortcomings. Remember that you are prisoners, and this is not the dissolute lands."

Eris looked up at him confusedly, through the unwashed, blonde hair falling over her eyes. Erasmus, too, stared at the centurion, who held the emaciated boy by the collar. The boy was conscious enough that he stared between the two of them, and Eris was reminded of the saying of 'the lights are on, but nobody's home'.

With the sheer force of his strong, muscled arms, he pulled the boy into a headlock, and it took a moment for him to cry out in pain. It was only the early evening, and Canyon Runner hadn't woken up yet – not that he'd have any authority whatsoever to protect the prisoners against a superior. Her face turned stony, and she'd no doubt that she'd paled a few shades above her normally tanned complexion.

Thick, beefy fingers dug into the boy's eyes, easily popping them out of their sockets, and Eris froze at the sight, unable to move at the sight of such… barbarity. Watching Layla be killed through the analog film tape had been different, she'd been removed somehow from the situation, but this, this was her fault. If she hadn't opened her fucking mouth, then this wouldn't have happened.

Erasmus watched in poorly concealed horror as the boy's eyes fell from their sockets and onto the ground below, and Eris was sure her stomach had never rolled thusly before. But she couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop observing the poisonous fruit of her own misdemeanors. This prisoner had nothing to do with her, had nothing to do with her cellmate, either. He was, for all intents and purposes, an innocent bystander, and yes, Eris was finally disturbed well enough to be sickened, and remorseful.

A thought occurred to her, while she watched in stunned horror the boy be dropped to the ground, tugging vainly at the ropes to grope the eyes that were no longer there, that this was not Legion justice. No, Legion justice was atrocity on a large scale – violence of the highest, masculine order, the conquest and ruin of entire villages, not whatever this pointless cruelty was.

"In the Legion, your actions have consequences. This may come as a surprise to any profligate, but let it surprise you no longer." He then turned to address her directly, meanwhile the boy was on the ground, face first in the dirt, trying desperately to claw at the phantom organs. "And you, you profligate whore. If I am made aware of you breaking this rule again, it will be your cellmate next. Caesar has no use for political prisoners. Never forget that."

Eris swallowed a lump in her throat, refusing to look at Erasmus next to her, to show any sign that she feared for his life being lost as a proxy to get to her. After that, no words were exchanged between she and her cellmate, and the boy was returned to his cage a quivering mess. It was likely that he'd lose his life in the next couple of days, whether by exposure or infection. He'd spent a couple minutes wallowing around in the dirt and dust, and those wounds.. well, Eris has seen a lot in the better part of a year here in the Mojave, but she's never seen anything quite like that.

Heated, accusatory stares burning in her direction didn't ease the tension, nor the remorse, either. Eris had gotten in this position through meddling, and she'd meddle again, if it meant finally, finally, doing something right.