A/N: I apologize for my long hiatus from this site. I have mostly moved over to AO3 as of the past few months, though I will take greater pains to keep my works on this site up to date. My name on AO3 is Hypatikar, to whom it may concern.

Morning has broken like the first morning,

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning

Praise for them springing fresh from the world

- "Morning Has Broken", by Yusuf/Cat Stevens

For how long can an individual walk before a line in the road is crossed? And not just any road – the proverbial 'road'. The road every human walks is paved straight, though what keeps their own, original brand of humanity in check, is that the road is intermittently paved with lines, which are unique to them. In the beginning of every single journey down this road, there is a walk of ignorance, interspersed with bliss in accordance to the rule that it be constantly accompanied by and with said ignorance. They watch the sky, and then, inevitably trip on their own feet, only then being reminded that their road is, in fact, decorated with lines, whose unexpected presence reminds them of where they should stand from there, on out.

Eris' line was crossed, and while she is enraged, she is not enraged with Aurelius, contradictory to what nearly all societal standards would have her be. Instead of anger towards him, whom she is sure would be regarded as an unsavory bastard even by his own kin, she is upset with herself, in classic 'Eris' fashion. Her line was crossed when the boy was tortured only hours ago now, and she'd given him a few days before he died, but it didn't take any experience in medicine to know that he was on his death bed presently. In agony, he wept, and his mother shushed him, but she could not swaddle him, could not take him in her arms as was the prerogative of any good mother. All, because of her. After all, hadn't she engaged Erasmus?

Well, she had earlier tonight, but technically he'd engaged her the day before. It didn't matter. It was her fault, like she suspects everything else is, as well. She's quickly falling into a state of misery and remorse, two things she is definitely uncomfortable coping with, and inexperienced to boot. The origin of such discomfort was that the boy was innocent, he was no soldier, and had not signed onto the 'Aurelius experience'. She had, because she's been politicking for months now. This was the world she'd accepted to answer to, all those months ago. Not so, for the boy still trying to clutch his eye sockets in the cage next. Every whimper, every strangled cry, she felt herself wince at, a shiver of something icy and previously unidentifiable which she now knew to be simple, human empathy.

Canyon Runner was on duty now, and Aurelius, she suspected, slept in the administrative building next to them, oblivious to any outside noise that might make itself known. In this, she makes her gambit. Tonight, she's going to do something completely idiotic, and she's going to plan it properly, as Mr. House might. She winces when she considers Mr. House, for reasons unknown to her. If she ends up in a grave tonight (again), or worse (this is the Legion, after all), she'll think about Mr. House, and maybe even imagine what he's doing on the Strip, perhaps predict where his war will take him next through supposition born of starvation. She can't be certain of anything, and definitely cannot be certain of getting out of here tonight. But, she can ensure that her cellmate and the Weathers next to her can have a mostly ensured chance of survival.

So, she remembers what she'd done in Gomorrah months ago, when Clanden had bound her wrists in a much tighter, but much less advanced knot, and was surprised when she didn't need to remember at all. The movements came naturally, almost like breathing, and she wondered in amusement if she had done magic tricks reminiscent of Houdini's in her past life. If she made it out of here, she could proudly call herself the Houdini of the Legion, which had a nice enough ring to it, but she wasn't going to bank on it. Eris doesn't like to look forward to anything, and never has, as far as her knowledge extends. She groans under her breath at the temporary tightening of the rope, but scoffs incredulously when it begins to loosen.

Her wrists are numb when the rope is untied, and she pops her fingers reflexively when she first gets the chance. She keeps them behind the pole, to maintain a front for as long as possible, and turns to Erasmus, with a silly smile glued to her lips, for her own sake, and for his encouragement. He's dozing off, but he's still there. Nothing would keep a grizzled vet like him from sleeping, especially not the debacle from earlier.

"Pssst." She whispers, and he stirs for a moment, and opens his eyes blearily, turning his head from side to side before finally focusing on her.

From the corner of her eye, she sees that Canyon Runner is speaking with another legionary, and the legionaries in the distance are also otherwise preoccupied. Most of them are tired, and this is why now was as excellent a time as ever. Plus, Canyon Runner was on duty, and he was the star feature of the show.

"Don't say anything, if you know what's good for you. My hands are loose." She wiggled her wrist around for him to see, and see it, he did. He was a ranger, so she wasn't surprised. "We're going to have to make a scene, yeah? Get our old friend Canyon Runner to come inside and discipline us, and then you're going to run straight for the valley and back to your people."

He didn't nod, didn't say anything, didn't give any indication that he was listening, other than the attentiveness of his eyes. Like everyone else would, or should be, he was fearful for his life after it was so rudely threatened earlier in the night.

"If I don't make it out, which is, unfortunately likely, I need you to do something for me." She continued, looking him in the eye more seriously this time, as seriously as she was able. "Get word to Vegas, to a man named Swank. Tell him that I'm in Legion captivity, and to tell Mr. House immediately, got it?"

There was an understanding between them when he nodded imperceptibly, the kind of understanding she's never had with anyone , because she's never been a prisoner before. Somehow, she could count on this short- lived , though strong bond, that she'd forged with her cellmate. Why this request was the only one she could think of, had reasons innumerable behind it. Nearly all of them were excuses, but one thing is certain – if anyone would actually care to know where she was, it was Mr. House. Really, that was too sad for her to contemplate, so she chose instead, with minimal success, to think about her next action.

Canyon Runner was the only legionary humble enough to come near the cages, or to interact with the prisoners. He was the only one, besides Aurelius, who had a key. And, he had a gun – a varmint rifle, but a gun nonetheless, probably for taking out escapees from afar, as well as a blade that could cut the ropes for those less skilled at escaping their own themselves.

"Don't hold it against me, will you?" She asked, winking at him like she might've winked at a Freeside hooker.

She began to hurl a colorful array of slurs in his direction, loud enough that the Weathers looked over to her in horrified confusion, so as to ask why she would be ballsy enough to force Aurelius to make good on his threat.

"The NCR is a parasite, suckling from the blood of prewar America like some kind of mutated leech! If I were not chained up, I might make you suckle me. I'm sure you've gotten good at it, I'm sure Tandi taught you a thing or two!" Eris laughed maniacally, loud enough that Canyon Runner was approaching from the peripheral. "Am I right, or am I wrong?"

He'd caught on much earlier than she thought he might, and was now playing along.

"Oh, that's big for you to say! You're the premier whore of Vegas, if anyone knows anything about suckling, it's you! What does Vegas' ghost man make you do everytime you enter that casino of his, hm?" He even had the nerve to look angry, too, and for effect, he kicked her in her shin, which actually did hurt somewhat. It would leave a bruise.

It was a weak trade of insults, but for former tribals whose first language was not English, it would do. Meanwhile, Canyon Runner stalked toward them, a wave of anger rushing over his youthful features. Unfortunately, Canyon Runner was one of the better ones, but one sacrifice for the life of a few was… surprisingly worth it, after her months spent with someone who thought much the same.

If anything, the young slave master looked betrayed. Eris is sure someone like him is chosen as slave master because the conditioning of slaves is undoubtedly a delicate matter. If a prisoner is conditioned into servitude by one of the more 'merciful' men of the Legion, it might serve to convince said prisoner that to serve the Legion may not be such a bad fate. She's surprised to feel pity for Canyon Runner right now, because his time on earth is limited, if this works right.

She kicked her cellmate back, hard enough that it sent him reeling and caused a look of outrage that she wasn't sure was contrived or real. She'd never had too much control over what her body did – only what her mind did, and that didn't count for much. Canyon Runner was betrayed, maybe because he thought she would be an easier prisoner to condition, or maybe because underneath all the grime, she really wasn't bad to look at, with her mostly flawless skin and her longer hair that was impractical out on the frontier, but not in Vegas. Beyond her almost-debutante good looks, she knows there's barely anything desirable, but he doesn't know that.

"What is going on here, profligates? Did Aurelius not knock some sense into you two earlier?" Canyon Runner asked, unlocking the cage, most likely to tie one of them to a bar far, far away from the other.

"Apparently not enough, master. This NCR swine keeps pestering me, trying to kick at me and shit." For emphasis, she puckers her lips in what is supposed to look like anger, and evidently it passes.

As soon as the lock clicks, and Canyon Runner is inside of the cage, she searches around as far as she can see, and from what she can see, none of the legionaries are giving them a lick of attention. They never pay much attention to this side of the Cove, the location of which is lacking in strategic standards, and she's not even a strategist. So even if they could, they'd still be doing their endless amount of duties instead of watching them. No, the only person who watches them like it's their duty is Canyon Runner, because he is the only one with the duty. Were the Legion really so low on men? Caesar was brilliant, but these clowns who kept and maintained Cottonwood Cove were not.

He moved for her, of course – she was his favorite, and he showed preferential treatment in the form of larger scoops of food. If the Weathers make it out, she hopes they learn how to behave next time around, because they knew Canyon Runner favored her too. Still, it wasn't competition, and she couldn't lie to herself and say that her behavior was outstanding. In reality, she just wasn't proud enough for imprisonment to shake her skills with people and diplomacy.

When he moved to 'untie' her, she stuck out her ankle and caught him, and in a whir of speed which she wasn't sure she was capable of, she brought the rope around that was still entwined with her hands, and wrapped it around his neck. All of which happened in probably less than two seconds. He fought her of course, she wouldn't expect anything else from a legionary whose entire life has revolved around struggle. He was strong too, but what he had in strength, she doubled him in desperation, and desperation is a potent additive to any cocktail.

She tightened the rope rather than fight him off, knowing that as soon as she even twitched, he'd overpower her. Eris wasn't strong, but what had Mr. House said? Ah, that she came up with creative solutions to incredibly simple problems. She tried not to think of Mr. House as she strangled the poor man, but it was impossible. The image of his monitor kept appearing in the forefront of her mind with each strangled breath of the man before her.

He was doubled over, with her behind him, practically invisible to the rest of the camp. She flinched as he struggled to issue a scream of help, but all that came out of his throat was a ragged, hungry attempt at air that was denied by the thick rope at his neck.

"I'm sorry…" She whispered to him, hoping that it was received, maybe it was the first words he'd hear in whatever afterlife he was going to.

The struggling became more and more frantic, and this she knew was a sign that it was almost, almost over, thank God. Until there was very little struggling, and she tugged harder, anything to make it go by quicker, she might be severely lacking in morals but she's sure she doesn't want to see anyone suffer.

Finally, and blissfully, he stopped moving at all, and fell limp in her arms. Again, Eris wasn't strong, and she struggled to keep his limp, heavy body from falling into the dirt. She took his machete, and tossed it behind Erasmus, who took it eagerly, and began trying to cut the rope with the sharp end of the blade. She then took the rifle from him, and the ammo held in a little knapsack at his hip, which might've been bighorner hide.

Erasmus was freed, and she looked to him for confirmation again, just to check that his hands were loose. They were, but they were badly beat up with tiny cuts from the machete – a small price to pay, she could easily reckon.

"Take his body from me, keep it supported and get behind it, so the legionaries don't come running." She told him, taking the rusty keychain from Canyon Runner's hands. His hands were sweaty, and she tried not to linger too long on them, seeing as they held the sweat of a dead man.

On the keychain, there were three keys. Three keys, three chances for the Weathers' collars, who'd just gotten them the day before, she supposed because they were ready to be sent across the river. Erasmus took the burden of the legionary's corpse, but he was tall, and had to crouch down to conceal himself. This plan was bat out of order, hare-brained really, because there were almost two miles of valley up ahead, between here and the remnants of Camp Echo. The valley had seldom a crevice too, because she'd looked closely on her way inside.

With as much agility as her mercruial character could muster, she stole out of the cage, keeping to the shadows, which were friendlier at nighttime, and crept over to the Weathers' cage. They stared at her in barely concealed awe, and she wondered just what would happen to them when they got out of here. As she worked on the lock, trying to find the right key, she predicted that the boy would most definitely not make it, and if the mother's instincts were good, neither would she. Eris imagined her leading her son through the valley, desperately holding onto the boy who would be blind to all. If Eris were a pragmatist, she'd see it as a good distraction for the legionaries to fixate on, so the others, hopefully including herself, could escape, but time had proven she wasn't much of a pragmatist, so instead, she felt something inside of her stomach fall in pity. That was becoming increasingly more frequent.

She'd divined that it was the middle key that unlocked the cages, and once she was inside, she looked behind her, and pleased that none had caught the drift that there was a literal slave revolt taking place, knelt next to the mother to unlock her collar. The first key was bunk – it must've gone to something else in the cove, but the third worked. The mother stared at her in silent appraisal, mouthing a thanks out of her parched throat, but the sound was barely there.

Eris saved the son for last, since he didn't seem to know what was going on. Delirium had probably settled in hours ago, and he mumbled incoherently to her, or himself, as she tugged at the collar. She tried magnificently hard, not to stare into those bottomless pits where his eyes had been, but curiosity bade her to do so, and she couldn't look away as she unlocked the collar, wondering why she was even doing it to begin with. He wouldn't last five minutes outside of this cage.

"Erasmus!" She whispered loud enough to get his attention, and slid the rifle between the cages, hoping he'd snatch it.

Ugh. She'd taken the rifle for herself and had not given it to the ranger. Thankfully, he caught on quick, and next, she handed him the ammo. In exchange, he gave her back the machete, but she's certain it won't come to much use in the coming minutes. She doesn't have the stuff for close combat.

"All of you need to get up. There's about two miles of canyon up ahead, you're going to have to move as unpredictably as you can. Once you get out of the valley, just follow Erasmus. He knows where he's going, and he can take care of you." She addressed the family lowly, and the mother looked to her and began to whisper.

"Aren't you coming with us?" She'd asked, and Eris looked to her feet before looking up again.

"I'll try. But if they catch me, or if Erasmus dies, which is always possible, I need one of you to get word to Vegas that the courier is here. Got it?"

She began to move out of the cage, feeling the dirt crumble between her toes, and cringed. Miles and miles of walking barefoot was in all of their future. Suddenly, she regrets that one time she was bored reading Proust. A thump sounded, and she looked behind to see that it was just Canyon Runner's body that had fallen to the ground.

With the legionaries in her sight, and Erasmus sneaking his way over to her, she whispers.

"Take out as many as you can. As soon as we're around those torches, they'll see us."

"I'm on it."

A moment later, she looked back to the family, who watched her with a kind of reverence that made her sick to her stomach. It was now or never, much like when she'd hesitated to use the keycards in the bunker. If not now, then when? If she didn't give the word, then the legionaries would inevitably come and investigate for the sake of their missing brother – no one potentially escapes, in that scenario. And if she does give the word, some of them potentially escape, some of them die. It takes a kind of tactical consideration she's never had to perform before, ever. At least, not the kind of tactics where she has to weigh other people's lives as well as her own.

One good deed. That's all she wanted, and she'd sort out all the intricacies later on, when she's either in manacles or when she's out of the canyon valley.

"Run!"

And they did. Erasmus kept to the shadows like he would've been trained to do, but the family – they were volatile, an unfamiliar variable. Naturally, she stuck close to the soldier, because even during times such as these, reason ruled her as much as caprice often did. In the distance, the head of a legionary was exploded as an accompaniment to the pop sound right next to her ear. Another , and another, before he had to reload. Three were down, but there were a hundred or more holding the camp, and they'd just rung their dinner bell.

The Weathers were fast, but Eris watched ahead in sick fascination as the mother cradled her son to her, trying to keep him from running amok into the canyon wall. Legionaries were fast becoming aware of what was happening, and loading their weapons as they struggled to figure out where the shots had come from. But it didn't take them long – the Weathers weren't inconspicuous. Legionaries were already making their way toward the canyon, where the only real escape could be found in the Cove, and the administrative building's door could be heard cracking on the wall, as its surly inhabitant made his way outside among the commotion.

They got split, of course. What else? Between them and the Weathers, there were already ten legionaries or so, and it was either her or him. It was an easy solution for Eris to come to, for she's never valued her life much anyhow. How many times had she plunged into a dangerous situation and survived on sheer luck alone, and not desperation to live?

"Get out of here, you dolt!" She practically screamed at her partner, an unfamiliar sensation given she's never, ever had cause to yell before, or the will, to boot.

He looked backwards at her, regretfully, and her heart stopped at the feeling of… martyrdom? That came so easily to others, but it seemed to come around once in a blue moon for her. This soldier was willing to risk his life for her, all because of a kind gesture that was really only meant to reassure herself that she can do something good. Gunshots fired into the valley, towards the other prisoners making their escape, and she watched in horror as the son was shot down, and the mother shooed her children further up the valley, keeping her arms around her disabled son.

Dreadful.

But her partner ran, which was enough for her, and she ran shortly after him, hoping to distract some of the legionaries. Her repertoire was far from traditional against Legion imprisonment, but Mr. House along with many others had called her resourceful, and she can't help but agree. Maybe it's the only thing she'll ever give herself.

With an agility that might've shocked a nightstalker, she launched herself onto one of the backs of the legionaries, gaining the attention of a group of five, who were all taking potshots at the escapees. The short fires of gunshots could be seen from the pitch darkness of the canyon's steep walls, which she knew to be her former cellmate. It was pure, unadulterated chaos, and on her side of the Cove, she could hear loud commands being barked in both Latin and English.

A spurge of blood sprang from the artery of the legionary she'd jumped on, and as her job was done, she slid off of him, probably cementing an image of a feral woman, though she was far from it. Eris considered herself fairly civilized after the events in the past few days. Her feet were further cut by the rocks and sediment of the Cove as she tried to make her daring escape, but by now, the boys had a semblance of a line formed facing the valley, and it would be a matter of slipping through in time for the ranger to snipe at them and create chaos among the ranks, as had been an established weakness of the Legion at Boulder City.

The darkness was where she hid and tried to use to slip through cracks, but she had many pursuers, one of which was the Centurion. They'd seen her, and they were tribals – not to be underestimated in their own world, outside of civilization. When finally she thought she might've found a sweet spot in the rock face to hug, a strong pair of arms wrapped around to hug her, and it wasn't the kind of hug she may have asked for from… whoever might have given her one. It was rib-shattering, enough to knock the air out of her lungs, and she could feel herself quickly losing consciousness. But with a sense of sly glee, she noticed that further and further up the valley, lone gunshots from a varmint rifle were being shot, almost as if he was signaling that he'd gotten away. Good for him.

Those children, they'd be scarred for life, much like the rest of the Mojave, come to think of it. Without a mother to care for them, and after having witnessed their brother's eyes be gauged out right before their eyes, she wondered how they'd fare, as she slowly, but surely, surrendered to the fatigue and the force of Aurelius' brutish, stinking arms around her.

Funnily enough, with no small irony from the impartial forces (so they did have a sense of humor!), the last thing she thought of were snow globes, specifically the ones Mr. House shyly displayed on a shelf at the Lucky 38. She sunk into the globe herself, as the snow started to cloud her vision, until it was no longer discernible.

Firstly, there was no snow, as she last remembered. There was only a blurry image of a ceiling ahead of her, as she blinked her eyes open slowly, sluggishly. Was the ceiling right in front of her face, and the wall was on its side? No, no – that made absolutely no sense. It was dilapidated, she noticed, much like the office buildings that she'd seen. They had no corporate standards to uphold anymore, a fact she almost found herself laughing at before she remembered something essential.

Mojave. Alright, there wasn't really time for laughter, she decided. With the single word 'Mojave', she explored a sea of interconnected occurrences that led her to finally being made aware of just where she was. The air of the building was musty, stagnant save for the fan that was slowly spinning overhead, perhaps a few beats to the right? Her ribs hurt, and, for a few short moments, she breathed in and out, her chest and midsection screaming in pain and probably littered with bruises, but thankfully, nothing felt broken. Waking up with a punctured lung would be too much of a rare privilege to ask for.

But with realization that she wasn't seriously wounded, came a flood of images that told the story of why she might be here, lying on the ground like she had nothing better to do. And once she remembered, she conceded to the earlier observation that she really didn't have anything better to do.

Right , her inner monologue spoke, Legion prisoner. The prisoners had been released by another one of her hare-brained and infinitely dastardly schemes, and human lives had been saved because of her unfinished business with an attempt at decency.

And a fat good that had done. The mother had probably died, along with her son, though.. she remembered now that the ranger had gotten away, along with the two daughters that undoubtedly would've been popping out legionaries within the year otherwise, having been forced to stomach an existence that most humans were not suited for. How much time had passed?

She hadn't gone under since having been shot, since the Incident, and had forgotten just how discombobulating it truly was to lose consciousness then gain it again, operating under the ignorance of the passing of time. Truly, it felt like she'd just closed her eyes and opened them almost immediately afterward, but she knew that was not true, because she wasn't still outside, with the chaos of a gunfight sounding in every direction.

There were blinds in what she assumed was the administrative building, and she rolled upward, moving her arms to support her weight, but she ended up jerking at a chain instead, which she saw a moment later was fastened tightly to a heavy, metal desk. It was also then that she noticed, with a small hint of terror, the collar around her neck. How she'd not noticed it before, was beyond her. She imagined that concerns like this would be a top priority for her reptilian brain to fixate on first. Apparently not. But she'd blame it on overexertion and having passed out – and pretend that she was an expert on the latter, since it'd happened before at a tier wherein most victims become closer to vegetables.

With a decidedly veracious and mulish determination, she jerked her wrists, and placed either foot on the front of the desk, where she pulled with all of her strength, which, when both neglect and unconsciousness were accounted for, wasn't much. But she did it a couple more times, until she was made aware of a pair of footsteps coming nearer. On the hard, wooden floor of a building, and not the soft-ish earth, the footsteps were deafening, and a kind of dull metal clanged after each thump . It wasn't one of the Legion 'boys', it was an officer, and if her absence of luck is anything to go on for the past week or so now, then it's probably Aurelius. The legionaries wore sandals, which made a soft padding noise compared to what she was hearing now. They were coming from behind her, and she noticed that it was still dark outside, still. Either this was the longest night to ever have been, or she'd not been out for long.

"Is that you, Aurelius? I was hoping you wouldn't leave me here along for too long. Misdemeanors start happening whenever good conversation is stolen from me." She laughed, a raspy sound in her dry throat.

"Impressive, how you continue to chirp. Most prisoners are broken, by now." He said briskly, as if he were talking about the weather and not the delicacies of slave conditioning.

"Oh, I think we can both agree there's more than enough time for that in my future." A degree of nonchalance, of submission, clouded her thoughts then, but the reflex to respond in a manner consistent with her character demanded to be accommodated. "So, I was out for.. how long?"

He rounded on her, a figure made intimidating not by his plain appearance or even his thick, broad chest, but by his cruelty. Even outside of Cottonwood Cove, she knew his cruelty was legendary, as legendary as the Legate's legitimate talent for violence, though she'd not met him before, and even Eris, who feared very little off the top of her head , didn't ever want to come to his acquaintance – there'd be nothing to learn or gain.

Legionaries had this unique brand of rage, which she'd not found in any other people, anywhere. It was an impassioned rage, a primitive need for validation that was only slightly met by their patriarchal society. Evidently, not enough, for their system of governance only fueled the fires enough for them to rage on, never to be extinguished until their insignificant death. And their death was tragically insignificant, because they were cogs that could be replaced by another, in stark contrast to her side – that word, which sent an oddly warm familiarity through her center – whose mastermind's champions were invested in for so long as to be made irreplaceable. Or so she hoped. Or maybe, she didn't. How could he ever be successful if he waited for her forever? There was an irrational wish that he'd wait for her, but she didn't have time to dwell on it long, for Aurelius was marching ever nearer.

"An hour, perhaps more?"

"Here I was thinking it was the day that night never ended." Senseless, pointless wordplay, but wasn't it always?

"You're a sharp one, aren't you? Sharp, for a profligate. Sharper even, given that you're a woman. My subordinate deserved his death at your hands, for underestimating a prisoner. That will be one less weakness in our Legion, one step closer to Hoover Dam." She doubted he cared much about Hoover Dam. She had a variety of theories about why he even held rank in the Legion, and none of them indicated that he was particularly passionate about endless conquest for the sake of a state that was greater than himself. "I try to train my men to mind the strengths of your kind, but they don't listen."

"And how does that make you feel?" She snarks, reciting some banal question from her arsenal of quack psychotherapy sessions.

It is in the heat of his gaze, the burning of dark eyes that were otherwise flat and lifeless, that spoke volumes about how it made him feel. But it wasn't anger, and she predicted that her time on this floor was about to become ill-favored. He didn't seem the kind to take liberties like that, for he was not so insipid as to be ruled by the same urges as the Legion men whose humanity had more influence over them. She'd probably get smacked in the mouth by the humanists over at Mormon Fort for uttering it aloud in their company, but it took a degree of empathy and humanity to stoop to the level of rape. It was a sure sign that the maladaptive drive to sate the primary urge – the sexual one – was in order, and therefore their humanity, no matter how twisted, was in order.

The Centurion comes closer then, his bulk shrouding all else in the room from her sight. There is no sense of dutiful authority in his person, not like there was in Vulpes, or the kind that had dwelt in Canyon Runner. And because of that, she wondered if his place in the Legion was not because he was irreplaceable, but because otherwise, he'd be a menace. The Legion's discipline, no matter how small an effect it had on this one, was enough to keep him in check against civilians and anyone else who might've crossed his path.

"It doesn't make me mad, if that's what you were expecting. If anything, it makes me anticipate doling out the inevitable punishment." He smiles at her then, but it's placid, unreal, much like hers often were, but hers were never that insincere. She did feel things, even if they weren't necessarily appropriate for a given circumstance.

Okay, so he was tall, that much was clearer now. He was tall, but she'd seen taller, perhaps in Arcade or in Severus, the Decanus. When he was standing over her like this, it was harder to ignore. She opens her mouth to speak, but is silenced when he pulls away, and begins talking.

"In the Legion, we are all rehabilitated tribals, much like the ones you cozy up with in your city of whores. All of us come from a tribe, and nearly all of us were chosen as the finest from that tribe." And? She looked him up and down, in a patronizing gesture that contained a disdain she actually did feel for the man. "My tribe, before being crushed under the heel of the mighty Caesar, would select among our dead enemies a corpse, which we would then feed to captured slaves."

Her blood froze at what she was hearing. Surely, he was not implying what she imagined he was? Desperately, she hoped that her intuition was wrong, or had perched on a senseless branch on the tree of informed guesses. If she could see her face, she's sure it had paled at least three shades, maybe more.

"It reinforced a kind of submission that common atrocities like rape could not. Those spoils of war are just that: spoils, done only for the gain of the soldier." His eyes narrowed on her face, which was still and unmoving, watching his for any sign that he was just telling her a pointless monologue as people in authority often liked to do. "It's too bad that the practice has been banned by the wisdom of Caesar. Though as a Centurion, I have the means to break a profligate like you. What Caesar doesn't know, won't hurt him. How far it will break you will be worth it, in his eyes."

"No, you can't seriously consider making me cannibalize. That's breaking a Legion law." With the snap of a second, she'd turned to appealing to authority. That's how desperate she truly was to escape… this.

She doesn't care that she deserves poor treatment, in fact, she knows she does. If she was imprisoned for the rest of her life, she'd deserve it, and it wouldn't even come close to repenting for the lives she'd ruined or snuffed out from this world, with the callous, uncaring attitude of something lesser than human. Refuse.

"If you make me do this, I'll tell one of the other legionaries. They'll tell Caesar, or worse, the Legate, and you'll be scourged for it. You know I'm right." She pleaded, her nose in the proverbial dust.

"You could tell one of them. But you're a liar, and a cheat – too clever to be trusted. And they all know it, too. The day that they'll believe anything you say, will be a day that you're so deep into the routine of servitude, that it won't even matter anymore." She was panicking now, her heart racing in a way that it had never done before. The feeling of adrenaline was a rare luxury for Eris, and in truth she'd not felt it since she'd crept up on the Boomers all those months ago.

Panic spread, because he was right. She was not to be trusted, and anyone smarter than the rock in the Grand Canyon could infer that. After the foolish escape plan, her murder of Canyon Runner and the other legionary practically removed any potentiality that the Legion could ever place trust in her again, and for the Legion to prioritize her was big indeed. They couldn't afford to place too much attention on anything or anyone – their way was too efficient and collectivized for any individual aside from Caesar and his officers to be afforded significance.

She'd screwed up bigger than she ever had before. Did she regret her good deed? Of course she didn't, that was like someone saying they regretted killing a cazador that attacked their tobacco ranch. It was as simple as it had to be done, and they were the ones who could do it. So too was how she perceived what happened a few hours ago. It had to be done, and only she had the audacity, or the stupidity, to do it.

He left her to stew, went to another corner of the office's building, disappearing from her sight. Outwardly, Eris was unaffected – business as usual. Inwardly, she was reeling, both revulsion and horror swimming around in the depths of her belly. When she heard pots and pans clanging from another area of the building, which must've been in a makeshift kitchen of sorts, she paused, and listened for any indication that he might be screwing with her, rather than telling the truth.

Somehow, she doubted it. Anyone who could gouge out another human's eyes simply as a proxy to torment another human, was capable of doing much, much worse. There was a chop, which she flinched at, and she was powerless to do anything about it. The smell of a meat being cooked wafted through the building into the corner she was confined in, and any movement that was previously being acted upon by her body stilled. Stilled, because the smell was certainly not that of a simple animal. Indeed, it smelt reminiscent of the scents one could smell if they happened upon Vegas' south side, where Fiends solidified their territory in the Mojave. And everyone knew, and everyone denied, that travelers went missing on that side of Vegas, never to be seen again – smoke rising a couple of hours after their suspected disappearance on more unfortunate nights. Everyone knew about Cook-Cook, Eris certainly did, but she'd never journeyed too far into the gutters of Vegas. Westside was as degenerate as she could stomach.

The smell was particular. It was unlike any meat in this world, and she was unable to cover her nose, or cover her ears from the visceral sounds of a human cooking another human. Surreal.

It took him some time, though the surrealism and dread of the time spent had rendered her perception of its passing so, so quick. Aurelius appeared then, holding something, something she refused to look at, refused to even detail in her mind.

"I have always hated those who use clever means, and convince themselves that theirs are greater in value than my own. You and Vulpes are one and the same. He'd probably approve of what you did tonight, your wasting of men of the Legion, because he's too clever to think any other way."

He approached her then, her eyes like saucers in her head, watering, and she fears that she will cry, for the first time she can remember. It is repugnant, and the one who did it is irredeemable. This is what Mr. House had meant when he spoke disdainfully of the many tribes who refused to contribute to civilization, and more importantly, humanity.

It was as if her entire journey in the Mojave flashed before her eyes, and she questioned just what exactly, she had done to deserve this . She stared intensely at the offering, not really looking, but seeing nonetheless.

She cannot help but wish, impotently, that she were back in the Strip, being criticized or lectured by Mr. House, her friend , at home, and not here. A tear slips past her eye, and slides down a cheek paled by disgust, both at him and at herself, for what she's about to do.

One look at the window to her side told her that the sun was rising, and if she could, she'd spend a month out in the heat for her penance, anything but this.