Author's Note: This will be the last author's note. I have opened up a discussion forum under the Anime RWBY, and only that, as does not allow crossover Forums. To find it, just go to that search bar in , type in NVPD, and select Forum instead of stories. I will be answering any questions made in reviews, talking to anybody that wants to talk to me, and occasionally posting sneak peaks of the next chapters I write. Please still leave reviews, I have a desperate need to improve, but this way works out best, I think. No more immersion-breaking Author's Notes, and I can explain why I do the things I do(like delete the first two dross chapters of this story) in there without falsely boosting up the word count with non-story bullshit. I bid you adieu.
After spending the night in peaceful, busy Novac, they spent the rest of the day traveling to their next destination. A tumbleweed blew through the path in front of them, down a long hill down showing a thriving trader town, dozens and dozens of brahmin being led this way and that, hundreds of people and many, many tents. In the orange and purple glow of the setting sun filtering through the clouds, it was the very image of beauty and peace.
"Welcome to Beautiful Cottonwood Cove, gentlemen. Look at the Legion girls, but don't touch. They belong to the Legion, and the Legion are very sensitive about people touching their stuff. Regardless of which side of Lake Mohave it happens to… uh, happen."
Juan, the man with glasses and a handlebar moustache, spoke up. "What Legion girls? All the slaves are loading cargo from the ferry. Are you talking about the merchants?"
They began to slowly walk down the twisted path, the spooked water brahmin slowing their progress.
"Yes, the merchants, Juan. Every member of the legion is a slave. Remember that, but don't speak it. Their only joy in life is crucifying people that point that out. Oh, and don't light smokes from here on out. They'll take a finger for that." Owen said a bit after they passed an open tent bearing a legion flag, the inside sheltering a couple tables of smoking, drinking, and chess-playing Frumentarii. Ah, the joys of seniority. Good to see Vegas' influence still going strong, too. Maybe when those cosplaying tribals figure out how to jam TV and radio signals in any meaningful capacity they'll stop dreaming of Vegas lights. Until then, to anyone with a working radio, Vegas culture was Post-War Culture, though the NCR tried awfully hard to get a word in, too.
Self-sacrifice and taxes just didn't sell as well as a handful of bottlecaps for a no-strings night with a Bleach-Blonde. Who would've figured. The Courier found a nice clear spot next to where slaves were unloading boxes of cargo, and spoke up.
"Now stay frosty and stay alert for pick-pockets, we're boarding that next ferry. You fellows wait out here. I gotta buy us a passport. Anyone try messing with you, you take it up with the Triarii in the feather hats." Owen started walking around the camp, passing tents labeled 'Vegetables', 'Blades', 'Books', and other creative names, all bearing a bull painted in red on the door. After the dam, the market activity East of the Colorado river started feeling the new Caesar's armored hand around it's throat. Surely, slaves could fulfill most of the civilian jobs, with the Legion taking its rightful place as the masters of such chaff? Apparently, while the lesson on logistics he painstakingly and metaphorically beat into his skull had stuck with Lanius, no one back East was so bold to tell the jolly gold giant about supply and demand. Though it did have it's own very narrow set of perks. For one, you couldn't bribe a slave.
'Well, it's his loss, really. If it wasn't for those kind of decisions I wouldn't be here right now.'
He walked into a trailer that was labeled 'Slave Affairs', marked with a big red 'X' on each outside wall, and looked around. Filing cabinets and papers neatly stacked everywhere, a few rusting bunk beds without any mattresses, and, at the front desk, sitting at a terminal, a female slave, bomb collar, rags, and all. She looked like she was a child.
"Hello, can I help you." The bald-headed girl tonelessly whispered to him from just above the screen.
"I don't recall asking you for anything. Don't speak unless spoken to, Raggedy Ann."
She started tearing up, hiding her head behind the computer. Owen felt his heart bleed for the girl.
'The things I do to stay in cover. God, man, would it kill to at least pretend to be a decent person once in a while?'
Then Owen reminded himself of the time he spent in Flagstaff after the war.
'Yes. Yes, it would.'
"But! Maybe there is something you can help with, milksop. I'm looking for the Legio who manages the slave cargo transports. Tell me where he is, or your owner will know you failed your duty today. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"
The tan-skinned girl lifted her head up from behind the computer, eyes full of unshed tears, and softly shook her head from side to side.
"Good girl. Now where is he?"
He could see fear in the girl's eyes. Normally, intimidation was only a plus in Owen's life. At least, that's what he told himself. Right now, he just wanted to give her a hug and tell her it'd all be alright. But that'd be a lie. Even if the plan he'd been working on succeeded, she'd still be a slave. He could try taking her to safety, running, maybe they'd even get out of the canyon valley by some stroke of luck. But then he'd never be able to save another soul across that Dammed River again.
'That's the wasteland, Owen. You have to keep on, and you can't save them all. You're just one man.'
"H-h-he's-*hic*His name is a-a-awn-*hic*Honorable Vexillarius Consul Caius Drusus, *hic* H-h-he s-should be in the head building, b-by the docks."
So he was still here. His luck was still running strong, for now. He opened the door and went back outside without a word, trying not to hear the beginning of a sob.
The Courier walked up to a "chain-link" fence made entirely out of spottily rusted barbed wire and metal poles erected around the building, to a small slide-in gate, constructed out of the same. He was flanked by two guards. Legion recruits, or Hastati, as it were.
"Halt, Profligate. You seek a presence with Great Caesar's Vegas consul, you do so elsewhere. This building is Martian soil, upon which a Legion embassy stands. Only those who have given Mars offerings in blood or those of the Legion may pass."
'Fucking greeters and their fucking voice messaging.' Thought Owen.
The Courier unbuttoned his duster jacket, hands on each side of it, displaying his grenade launcher and pointed machete lying in between the bandoliers bearing dozens of bullets and his bulletproof vest.
"To question me is unbecoming of you, Hastatis. Tell me, which tribe did you come from? The Chicken Mouthes? Where I fed the remains of all the men who survived the seven day and seven night assault into the pit of fang and venom, to curl up and perish? Or perhaps the Blood Gulches? Where I drove the tribes into madness, pain, and death with a cunning fire raid every blessed night? Or were you perhaps from a later time, a time after the first assault on the profligates' dam? One who does not have such honor is worthy of little more than being a pool of blood to cleanse my boot-heels upon."
The Courier buttoned his duster back up, sending a message of exactly how much he didn't feel the need for anything he just showed to them to beat them into dirt.
"I am Frumentarii Superior Cruentis Anguis. Make you a path, or I will make a path out of you."
He could read the body language of the armored men. At the beginning, they were ready to fight, but as he went on and on, it grew to skepticism, then doubt, then a sheer and barely hidden terror as they bought the 'lie' hook, line, and sinker. Once they were convinced, the effect was immediate. They dropped to one knee, right hand clenched over their bronze-armored left breast.
"O-Our forgiveness, Frumentarii! Your word is more than worthy warning! Our posts are forfeit for you!"
'And they call Vegas the city of cowards. If I started making a speech like that in Westside I'd have a bag over my head and a bat to my kneecap before I could say 'Howdy Neighbor.''
"Rise, Hastati. We all serve the legion. Serve your post, or serve as an example to those who abandon their posts." He was already walking past them as they rose to their feet, as if struck by lightning, giving a cocky saunter and holding his head oh-so-high & snooty, completing the image of a Legion elite. He sung under his breath as he opened the door,
'Oh-oh, yes, I'm the great pretender...'
He was only in an empty carpeted room right now, colorful purple and red rugs covering every square inch of the floor and making intricate patterns, with desks, full bookcases, and filing cabinets aligning different walls. Of course, the walls were adorned with battle-rugs, where the women of the legion painstakingly embroidered the pain-filled subjugation of the many tribes that composed Caesar's legion. There were only about three tribes on display throughout the wall, but the atrocities inflicted took up every square inch.
"Drusus! Dru-sus! Honorable Drusus! Where do you hide? The Vegas degenerates bear new fruits, ripe for the bleeding of the bear." Owen shouted for all the people in the building to hear.
Owen heard a muffled shouting and many feet and objects shuffling, before an eyepatched man came out of the door, followed and flanked by a small legion of toga-clad men, many of them carrying scrolls, maps, and other assorted documents.
"Who in Tartarus is making such a ruckus? I swear I'll take the skull of whoever's interrupting me and use it as a ink bot-"
The Consul's single eye looked at the masked figure, blinked, and then looked at him again. Owen saw him mouth the words "Oh, Mars." before turning back to the toga-clad statesmen. "Well gentlemen, it's been a very, erm, fruitful discussion, but if you don't mind I must attend to my frumentarii first. We shall ajourn this meeting until two hours from now."
The men erupted into shameless and fruitless protest as only Legion statesmen could.
"-critically low amount of projected skilled horticult-"
"-tories too large, we must increase production of men and foundri-"
"-go chokus on a bag of biggus dickus you over-paid pig-swi-"
Caius Drusus had had enough.
"NEEDLESS I REMIND YOU, Caesar's will takes place before ALL OTHER wills, under oath of slavery and death. Please, be the good men I know you are. Don't make me enforce that oath." Silence reigned.
"This meeting is ajourned. See you in two hours."
They all exited the building, slowly, grumbling, and single file, looking like a row of balding swans.
Once they finally left, Drusus spoke up. "So. The House's long shadow casts his shade upon my land again. You had better carry a good reason for interrupting my governing, Courier. Or you'll find that Caesar's Oath applies to every soul, including those of profligates." Impassive green lenses started back at the man. Maybe it was time to remind him who wore the (literal, to his constant agony) pants around here.
He walked closer to the Consul, who, to his credit, did not flinch or change expression. He did spot a bead of sweat going down the left of his brow that was starting to be joined by a few more. Still, considering he knew exactly who he was talking to, he held his composure admirably. A true spartan.
He let the silence live for a moment, the idle sounds of a fan filling the air. Then, he spoke.
"I'm making my trek back. The day is coming soon, Drusus. The day we've been preparing for. The end of the needless fear and bloodshed. I need a merchants passport and the usual rites. Today."
Drusus seemed to be looking far away into nothing, staring right past him. "...You're serious, aren't you?" Nothing but the mask and the fan answered. A quiet "I… I need a drink." passed through the room like a soft desert breeze, easy to hear and fast to fade. He went over to his office station and sat down, reaching into the desk cabinet, where any self-respecting officer keeps his liquor. He pulled out a bottle of wine and shotglasses. He popped the cork off. He poured then downed one glass. Then two. And then a third.
"Give me..." A stronger, louder tone. Emboldened by liquid fool's courage.
"Give me a date. I can't just pack up and go. I have men I lead. I need to know specifics, for their safety. One week, two weeks..."
Owen cut him off. "A date, I can't give. All I know is soon. But I can give you a place. The Great Salt Lake. The 80s will move there soon, migrating in force. Caesar will be raising the stakes for glory and blood, his first successful defense of any size, seeking to prove stratagems and plans effective. Then, when the battle reaches it's fevered betting stage, hounds, from hungering Denver, will escape an 'unknown' vault and make the battlefield a maelstrom of blood. The spearhead will be devastated, while the 80's crush the Legion ranks like a snake's throat. In such an… Unfortunate series of events, losing even such a mighty man like Caesar and his successors is just one regretful footnote among many. Leaving Caesar's title an open hand to be read and claimed by our winning man."
Although Owen was happy with it, Drusus, on the other hand, even though he had so much more to gain, was seemingly much less enthused. His eyes looked at the shotglass, the iris' taking on the same texture as what he beheld.
"...Ah… Mars… I wish Caesar, the real one, never died. What a man. There'll never be another leader like him, before, or after. Mars never spoke as clearly as he did through him." He slammed back another shot, making a loud noise as it returned to the desk. "But the living world is for the living. Caesar wouldn't want us lusting and lamenting after dead ghosts, even his own. This, in a way, is our way of keeping his lessons alive, though the man is dead." He eyed the green lenses. The windows showed only a fallen hypocrite wearing legion colors. Dissolving important legion functions, consorting with the enemy, drinking while speaking of Caesar's teachings, and hopelessly lost in sin, treason, and regret. Plotting treachery with a profligate. What did the Legion even mean to him anymore? Was it truly that he could do no better for his men, or was that the excuse he told himself? Was it the legion that was growing weak, or himself?
'This must be why he wears the mask.' Drusus ponders. 'It shows as much as it hides.'
"...Hey. Courier. Do you mind if I ask you a question?" He stared hard at where his face should be.
He breathed deeply in, working up the courage to do something he'd never do while not under the influence.
"Why do you wear that mask?"
A stupid question on the surface. To keep his face concealed. To protect himself. He's a wanted man. But The Courier knew what was really being asked.
The fan spun around, and around, and around.
Whump-whump-whump-whump
No big reason, surely. It wasn't complicated.
Whump-whump-whump-whump
He did know, right? Surely he remembered.
Whump-whump-whump-whump
Back… back home. The pistol. Before the grave. The bodies he buried, they- they weren't- No, Couldn't-… Had to be mercy, had to be-
whump-whump-whump-whump
He took the easy way out, as he always did. He almost remembered, again. He chose not to.
"Would you believe me if I told you I forgot?"
The Consul belted out a long, hearthy laugh.
"I like you, Courier. But I don't believe you for a second. How could everyone remember, but the man who did it himself forgets? I don't believe you."
Owen smiled, underneath his helmet.
"Yeah, same here."
You have to remember to forget.
Owen ignored that. There was nothing to remember, and that was that. The feeling of something eating at his gut returned, refusing to be ignored, but Owen was practiced at forgetting it. He forgot it almost every night. He wouldn't function if he didn't.
"Anyways, just make sure the right slave gives me my passport. I'll be there to assist the true Caesar in a month's time, around the same time the eighties should arrive. It'll be over as quick as it can be. That's a New Vegas Promise."
"Excellent. I wouldn't expect anything less of the Monster of The Mojave. Er, if it's not too much to ask, try not to let them suffer too much, yes? Misled though they may be, they are my brothers. They deserve a worthy passing into Elysium, like any other legionaire. There'll be some good caps in it for you if it's fast and clean. It'd soothe my traitor heart."
Owen nodded. "I'll try my best."
Drusus smiled a grim smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's more than I could have hoped to ask. Kill well."
Drusus turned on the radio as Owen walked out.
I seem to be
What I'm not, you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Just pretending that you're still around
Eventually a wooden plank, wide as two men lying down, was lowered from the boat, winches lowering the bridge by two slaves turning handled wheels. The thing looked more norse than roman, but then, the legion has never been known for paying close attention to history. I was tailing our jacketed 'Protector', with the other two engineers and decaying pink mutant cow in tow. This whole job screamed to me that something was wrong, that I should've left a while ago, mercenaries be damned. But, honestly, the thing that scared me more than the grizzled Legios all around me, the dead-eyed slaves, and even the thought of travelling Lanius' desert for three weeks, was the man in the brown coat. Something about him was...different. Not different in a "You're Special!" kind of way all the professional ass-kissers in Las Vegas make you feel when you have money. Different in a fundamental way. Something was… missing. I felt like this man was waiting for an excuse to tear me apart, limb from limb, even if he'd been nothing but cordial with me so far.
"So what happened? Why didn't you run?"
You know why. I was just a kid. Sure, I'd sold some info here and there to the NCR. It was my home, I was broke, someone kept spending my money on gambling and whores, it was an easy decision. Just listen and repeat. The NVPD, they seemed like a myth to me at the time. Ridiculous rumors to scare any would-be skirt-flippers that didn't have the caps. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Wasn't the first time, won't be the last.
"What happened on that boat?"
The boat? The boat ride was fine. Boring, even. It was what happened when we got off the boat, that was the scary part. Never get off the boat. Not unless you're ready to go all the way. To see how deep Vegas' trails of bodies and lies go. And I just wasn't.
Lake Havasu city. A great place to visit, but you wouldn't want to stay. One of the few places in the wasteland where people actually decided to use blood and sweat, brick and mortar, to make houses, instead of simply clearing out the skeletons from some decaying pre-war building and calling it a the center of town, there was a decently sized dirt theater, metal seats and raised stone brick platforms giving a view of the greatest show in town. There was a man in an old torn duster and a cast metal mask that looked like a simplified ranger helmet. It didn't even have lenses, or the gas mask, just holes.
"I am the messenger, and I am the message! Honor is dead! The Legion will not live to see civilization and peace return to the west! War! War is the answer! This legion is a legion of the dead, with the Dam serving as it's tombstone! No-body can dare challenge me! Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
Owen blanches inside his mask. He didn't sound anything like that.
"Not while I draw breath, you degenerate profligate filth."
Some haughty-taughty heroic-sounding voice that sounded nothing like Lanius came from outside the theater area as a man dressed in a Hastati's bronze-colored armor and a horned masked helmet came barreling through a line in the seats. The pretend-ranger recoiled like some sort of comic book mutant that drank blood, holding his coat-flaps so they covered half his face and his body.
He gasped. "Legatus Lanius! New and Forever Caesar! Hero of the East! Bringer of all things civil and good! You dare show your heroic face on the bridge of my dam! Begone, noble one, lest I cover you in pitch and cast you alight into the dam!"
'Whoa-hoah. Wait, what? Really? Is this really happening?' Owen looked around and saw quite a few Hastati in the audience, who were cheering and laughing. 'Christ, Vulpes. I thought subtlety was your thing.'
"I think not, damned messenger. Though you have fought well, your reign of tyranny ends today. I will show you blood, guts, and Mars' unending anger. For the slaying of Caesar, mightiest, wisest, and kindest of us all, I will take your skull, and cast it beside my chair so you may look upon my works, ye they be mighty, and despair. Caesar said to never kill a Courier. For you, this day, I make an exception."
The Pretend-courier cast off his cloak, revealing a silver suit of armor, the shoulder pads somewhat resembling that of brotherhood power armor. A sword was drawn from his side.
"The war ends for you this day, Caesar. You shall die in agony like all rulers are fated to. But enough talk, have at you!"
The two began to dramatically fight, for minutes and minutes. Owen lead his charges out of the stadium, having heard enough of the completely inaccurate and poorly acted rendition of one of the bloodiest days of his life to satisfy his curiousity.
"Come, come with me. We have earth to walk and ground to cover."
Mitch, Juan, and Henry's eyes were all torn reluctantly from the scene being played out in front of them. They started following their only source of safety to the distant pillared building he made his way towards. He saw a look of curiousity in their eyes. Curiousity was bad. It always lead to a path he had to end.
"You're not missing anything. That's not how it went down, anyway."
"Did you know at the time who he was?"
Of course not. I had suspicions, sure. But, you think, a guy like that, what are the odds of you ever running into him? Surely he had more important things to do then escort some electronic repair guys. A guy like that, he'd have people to do that kind of stuff. He's too busy for small things like that, right?
"Stay focused on the question. Did you know who he was? What lead you to suspect his identity?"
Well, he made a lot of pit-stops to just barge into random places. Farms, old factories, legion tents. Especially legion tents. I don't know for certain what they discussed in there. It was just… scary. I honestly thought we had been roped into slavery for the legion, with how much he was talking with them. The contact was vague, but I knew for certain there was more involved than what the contract was letting on. You don't go around roping engineers to play dress-up if everything's completely cut-and-dry.
"Do you know what he was talking about in the legion tents?"
I just told you, didn't I? I don't know. I got no clue. I got a guess, seeing as Arizona set itself on fire a few months later, but I didn't hear a word. Was too busy recovering from the burns and shrapnel as it was.
"I see. Disappointing, but let's move on. Did you see anything unusual on your journey there?"
Unusual? Well… There was a robot that understood english.
"I fail to see how that is unusual, Mr. Burston. Could you elaborate?"
It shot me after I called it stupid. That ranger guy, he talked to it, too. They seemed like they… understood each other. Like they were having a conversation.
"Are you feeling well, Mr. Burston? Do you need a break from the questions, or some water? Recollecting memories like this can be stressful, I understand."
No, I'm feeling perfectly fine. Just a little burning. It was an eye-bot. I couldn't understand a damn thing, just some beeps and morse code that translated into gibberish. But the ranger seemed to be able to understand it.
"I understand you're a certified signal and information technician. You couldn't understand it?"
I'm getting real tired of answering questions twice. It translated to gibberish. Just stock eyebot beeps. Kept saying "Empty Quiver, Broken Arrow, Dulled Sword." Things like that, over and over again. Doesn't mean anything.
"Hmm. Interesting. Write those down."
I saw the blonde secretary write the words down.
"Did you ever see his face during this time?"
Regrettably, no. Only on the wanted posters.
The journey they had taken was a simple, if hard, one for the men to take. The distance from Vegas to Big Mountain was Three Hundred and Seventy-Five miles. The average walking speed for the healthy adult male is between three to four miles an hour. If you walk 12 hours a day, assuming a straight, unobstructed path, you can reach it in ten to eleven days. Owen had actually walked this distance before, even with the transportalponder in his pack. It just wouldn't do to have it bust out on him and then not know where to go to get his stuff. Hundreds of miniature mountains and steep valleys called Arizona home. The territory was a giant fortress, hidey-hole, and maze all rolled into one. There was a reason the NCR never put their boot up Caesar's hornet nest. Would've made the brotherhood war look like daisy picking. The Legion and their land was strong. But the land's strength didn't work for only one master.
And so, here Owen was again. In Camp Verde. Fifty miles South from Flagstaff, the most bloodthirsty and war-hungry city in the new world, bar none. He watched Decanums of Hastati carrying large military backpacks bursting with rocks on their backs, full armor on their legs, chests, and arms, shields raised on one hand, and gladius' in the other, jogging, being lead by Vexillarus', singing cadences for all legion subjects to hear.
Let 'em blow let 'em blow
Let 'em blow let 'em blow
Let the four winds blow
Let the four winds blow
He saw one of many identical bounty posters on a town board, where calls for murder, executions, and public torture of dissidents coexisted on the same sheet of paper as scheduled theater classes and community cook-outs. One piece of paper in particular stood out to him, labeled:
WANTED:
DEAD OR ALIVE
'THE COURIER'
FOR UNSPEAKABLE CRIMES AGAINST CAESAR'S LEGION AND HUMANITY
REWARD 10,000 AUREUS
ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO CAPTURE OR KILL WILL BE REWARDED GREATLY
REPORT TO YOUR NEAREST CENTURION ANYTHING FOUND
INACTION IS TREASON
THE PENALTY FOR TREASON IS DEATH
Let 'em blow from east to west
Let 'em blow from east to west
Caesar's Legion is the best
Caesar's Legion is the best
On the poster, there was a man with two round and cragged scars on his forehead, scraggly wav hair, a five o'clock shadow, and a pleasant, somehow cold looking smile with a cigarette in his mouth, eyes looking like they just found his next meal. Got to give the legion some credit where credit was due. It was his own face, or supposed to be, and even though it was drawn well the picture somehow pissed him off.
Standing tall and looking good
Standing tall and looking good
Ought to march in Ollywood
Ought to march in Ollywood
He took one of the posters and put it in his coat. The less of these people saw, the better.
"Hey, hey, why are you picking up that poster? You're not really thinking about going after him, are you? Isn't he like, I dunno, your tribe's leader? Supposed to be some kind of ultimate badass or something?" Mitch was talking stupid again.
Hold your head and hold it high
Hold your head and hold it high
Inculta Battalion is marching by
Inculta Battalion is marching by
Owen sighed. "Yeah, I've met the guy a couple times before. He's just a guy, Mitch. Pissed off a lot of people and lived to tell about it, but just a guy. Who knows. For the right price, I might make him disappear. God knows I've thought about doing it before to that bastard for free."
Close your eyes and hang your head
Close your eyes and hang your head
We are marching by the dead
We are marching by the dead
Mitch was quiet, pondering, a bit disgusted at him. "Why would you do that? After all the good he's done for you guys? For Vegas? I mean, I've heard the stories. Everyone has. But people tell stories about everyone. They're just boogeyman stories for grown-ups. 'Behave, or I'll kill you dead' kind of thing. I know the real guy's probably just trying to do right in the world. There wouldn't be so many people that got his back if he didn't."
Look to your right and what do ya see?
Look to your right and what do ya see?
A whole bunch of white legs working for me
A whole bunch of white legs working for me
Owen stared at the jogging soldiers. All he had to do was remove his mask, and he'd get the bounty. He'd have all the dead money he could never spend. "Are you sure, Mitch? Have you ever met him? Because I have. I don't think they are just stories."
Dress it right and cover down
Dress it right and cover down
Forty inches all around
Forty inches all around
Mitch looked downcast.
"Well, ah, no. Not really. But still! Rangers are cool! They give hope to the entire wasteland! They-MMPH! Auuuaaa-gra-ha-ha..." Owen had put a hand over Mitch's mouth and punched him in the gut. Mitch had slinked down to the ground, grabbing his stomach and writhing around on the gravel. Owen crouched down. "Say shit like that in legion lands again and I find a secluded pit of sand to bury you in. Comprende?" Mitch rolled over. "Eeeee...eeee… ssss..." Owen stood up and offered Mitch a hand. "Geez mister, are you alright? Here, let's go get you to a doctor. Gee whiz, hope you don't have a cramp. Those things hurt." He made Mitch lean on him, as he dragged him back to where they kept the brahmin. They'd sleep here, and none would be the wiser. Owen lived through a very meticulous and very complicated code that he followed. Never stay in one place for more than eight hours, and never take the same route coming and going. It's kept him alive for three years, and hopefully it'd last him for another while before somebody caught on. Owen whispered to his charge,
"Listen, spy. You made your contract in Vegas. Everything about your contract stays in Vegas. Beyond Vegas, you don't exist if I don't want you to. Now shut up, follow orders, and listen when I speak."
'Cause back in the SPQR
You don't know how lucky you are, boys
'Cause back in the SPQR
You don't know how lucky you are, boys
"I'll be frank with you. You're talking with dramatics more than you are with testimony. You lead me early on to believe something terrible happened. And, looking at you, something obviously did. But you haven't told me what that something is."
I'm getting to that part. Maybe if you didn't interrupt me for questions every two minutes you'd know what happened by now.
"Alright, then. No more questions. Tell me exactly what happened. What's Vegas', quote, big secret, unquote? You know, if you're not just taking me for a ride right now."
Well, it started when we were about forty miles away from the big antenna. It took us an entire week to make those forty miles. It was a warzone, my first, my murder-cherry, and I was a dumb-ass kid. Worst week of my life.