An Alien Concept

3 days later

Both men locked eyes with one another as they were marched to the posts at the center of camp in restraints. Montano's torso was still wrapped, and Aleron's arm had long since healed. The matter was still unsettled, so the hatred in both's eyes was erupting like never before. However, both were fully ready to bleed, to be lashed, and to have their backs opened in the name of Caesar. The feelings of animosity in both men were essentially serving as a "Last Hurrah" in honor of a poison inside them that they loved feeding but were ultimately looking forward to ridding themselves of. That feeling was indulged by the two as they marched between the formation of the 6ths Legionaries. The two locked eyes with each other the entire time, paying no mind to their assembled comrades, the slaves at their stations, or even the tribal girl named Clara who stuck around the camp like the loyal pet of one man.

Shoved into the posts by members of Montano's contubernium of veterans, Montano himself wasn't spared from their harsh treatment, as his arms were stretched and bound around the post. In fact, Montano admired them for treating him like the filthy failure to Caesar he felt he was at the time. He knew that he was only 50 lashes away from being back in the favor of Caesar and looked forward to the pain. As Aleron was restrained to the post, the only thing going through his mind was also his readiness for the righteous pain about to be endured. No longer would he entertain the notions of savages who duel their own brothers, or even fall victim to the offer. He was 50 lashes from being redeemed after a simple moment of weakness, and that weakness was begging to pour out.

Once both were in place, they kept their eyes on the other, knowing it was likely to be about 10 lashes in where the gazes would break, and any amount of hate for the other would disappear by the intake of a pain both longed for. The shadows of the punishers soon shaded both men, and moments later, the tails of justice were raised when a foreign sound instinctively lowered them, even going so far as breaking the lock over the men's eyes. That noise was that of a horn announcement just outside the camp.

The wind slowed and the silent formation behind the two did not move, but the sound of heavy footsteps from many men sounded louder and louder. The sound continued for several more seconds and both men hadn't been whipped once. Just as Montano's veteran was about to begin the work on Aleron, the voice of Centurion Theracos sounded from behind demanding a halt to the punishment. Both men eager to be punished, they broke their gaze again to try and see what the holdup was. Neither could see from how tightly they were restrained to their posts, but the thudding of those footsteps came to a stop and voices were heard behind the two only to be quickly buried by the wind picking up again.

The confusion enveloped both men, so much so that they forgot the hate for one another. Instead, their eyes pleaded with one another for some kind of explanation, figuring that the other might have a better angle to see what was happening behind them. Suddenly, the two whip holding veterans stepped away, taking their shadows with them. More confusion until Aleron and Montano could do nothing but look at one another and continue to internally question what was going on. The silence was unbearable and the two had eventually come to feel that the entire world disappeared while they were still restrained to those wide wooden posts, only able to see each other.

Just then, the world came back in the form of a new long shadow standing between the two, and not the shadow of a lasher. The shadow had a large fan of feathers across the top of its head, making the men assume it was their centurion if it wasn't for the slimmer frame. The men continued to watch the shadow between them until it stepped closer.

The posts being no more than 5 feet apart, Montano and Aleron didn't know what to think as the focus on that shadow was replaced by the appearance of its owner taking a knee between them. Neither Aleron nor Montano had seen this person before, and it was then that both had realized who he was. The 6th Century had been waiting near Gold Canyon for weeks on their new Elite commander to arrive before marching south. A subtle detail they'd always known in the back of their minds, but was always lost in the day to day and the new feud that consumed their worlds. It wasn't until the Elite was kneeling between them that the two men remembered who exactly the 6th was waiting on. Montano and Aleron had heard of "The Interfector of Phoenix", "The Murderer of Phoenix", "The Killer" but didn't know what to say as he knelt between them in a silent world.

The Murderer shifted his focus casually between the two restrained men without any expression on his face. Both Aleron and Montano felt embarrassed, almost fearful of the man between them, and for good reason too. The two honestly thought the man didn't appear like much; he didn't have a terrifying presence, or the scars and burns marking triumphs in countless battles. Still, neither of the condemned could shake the embarrassment or fear they felt in the direct presence of such a man, especially in their situation.

The Murderer between them was an average frame man, wearing the standard garb of a centurion with heavy metal shin and knee plates, and torn crimson cape stretching down his back from his shoulders to his knees. The big identifier on his uniform was the thick brown old world ballistic vest, patched with steel, and with what appeared to be red bird crudely painted in the center. Atop the man's head and above a rather scarless but dusty face was a dirty black old world helmet with a lifted shattered visor and a symbol of a golden "S" with a wreath around it marking the front. Along the the top of that helmet was a wide fan of crimson and black feathers with three golden ones on the ends and the center. Where the new commander lacked in a terrifying appearance, he made up for in reputation, name, and those solemn symbols of a civilization that never even existed in Caesar's eyes. After all, both were there for the fall of Phoenix only four months prior.

With time stopped as the man shifted his gaze, Montano and Aleron remembered the fall of Phoenix. They saw the dark nights in the desert while siege engines launched flaming boulders at an already flaming city. They saw the city burning beneath the night sky, hearing the screams of distant people, and hearing the gunshots from Phoenix defenders killing their Legion brothers on raids against the outer city. Both remembered the giant walls of the city where thousands of soldiers stood or shuffled to and fro, equipped with dishonorable weapons, and ready to oppose Caesar. They saw the tall towers with old-world mechanical turrets that spat fire and bullets, embracing the inferno behind them, and ready to repel whatever attack the Legion could throw.

All those memories reminded them of a feeling that Aleron, Montano, and probably every other legionary had when facing the metropolis of Phoenix: That feeling was the first time any legionary felt scared of the enemy in front. All those battles, skirmishes, and conquests over tribes across northern Arizona didn't prepare Aleron, Montano, or any soldier in crimson to face the impenetrable wall of Phoenix or the thousands of its soldiers and allies set to die opposing Caesar's will. The enemy they faced made Aleron and Montano question the authority of Caesar for the first time since swearing their allegiance to him. They remembered their brothers falling to the guns or being reduced to cinders by those old world turrets and studied their own weapons, asking another first time question: "What even is 'Honor'?" As many as the Legion were that surrounded Phoenix, Montano, Aleron, and everyone else knew that they were all going to die whenever they moved on that wall of guns and lasers, and die for Caesar like dogs without glory or prestige. In the Legion, there was nothing honorable about being a martyr, or being slaughtered before getting close enough to even swing a blade. Nobody who wore crimson wanted that kind of death, and feared being slaughtered like a dishonorable wretch more than dying itself. The only true distinction about who gets the honor in a giant bloody mess is "Who exactly gets slaughtered."

With the line ready to die against the walls of Phoenix, the fear of being killed in a humiliating way disappeared one morning on the 5th week of the siege. As the sun began to glimmer over the eastern mountains, the walls of Phoenix erupted in fiery explosions, tumbling and collapsing into an enormous cloud of dust that gave way to the piercing screams and gunshots of a city ripping itself apart. The organized and well armed opposition to Lord Caesar diminished into a display of pure chaos. As the dust cloud grew and grew, Montano, Aleron, and the entire 6th century, were ordered forward into the cloud by their centurion. The 6th, 11th, 13th, 7th, and 10th calmly marched forward as well while the rest of the line held fast. Not one legionary or officer knew what happened, what was happening, or what to expect.

Through the dust and ruins of the wall, and below the smoke of the burning city, the legionaries breached the perimeter to see everyone who'd been organized against them not more than 40 minutes previously, all killing one another in the streets. The civilians panicked, scattering every direction and pleading for someone to trust when their defenders were all killing each other. With nobody to trust, the people of Phoenix fell at the feet of the soldiers in crimson, begging to be spared and saved from a city that turned on itself in an instant.

Aleron and Montano both watched the scene, tallying and escorting the populace of Phoenix into a life of slavery as the dust cloud settled and the gunshots became fewer. Not one legionary within the walls of Phoenix knew how to explain the origin of the event they arrived to, with many in red occasionally saying that Mars himself exploded the walls, and created the chaos. Many were inclined to agree until captives of the oasis saw the water of the canals dry up, flow to a halt, and disappear with the emergence of the Arizona sun. Montano and Aleron began to notice more and more captives from the metropolis showing up at the tables equipped in armor with the red bird or black armor marked by the golden "S." Certain defenders of the metropolis met with legionaries explaining how they were "With" people whose names were unknown but supposedly worth mentioning to the victors. The erasing of Phoenix from history and the puzzling situation the Legion soldiers arrived to gave rise to many questions that nobody but Caesar or Legate Graham could answer. Fortunately, orders from Legate Graham himself came to all the centuries around Phoenix to segregate the surrendered defenders and praise "The Interfector of Phoenix."

Believing that to be the new title of Caesar, it wasn't long before word was spread between the captives, with the slaves all damning that person, and the pleading defenders all begging for his pardon. All who bowed to the Legion that day were very clear that the "Killer of Phoenix" wasn't Caesar. In the weeks that followed the fall of Phoenix, stories were spread between legionaries who apparently served under The Killer, and the "legend" became more real as more was revealed about the nature around the entire event.

By the time the Murderer of Phoenix was kneeling between Montano and Aleron, all they knew of the Murderer of Phoenix was that he used to be a soldier who fought Caesar but ultimately bowed to his superiority. His title came from Graham, but the slaves of Phoenix knew Who he was, and with more word about his actions spreading throughout the Legion, Caesar took less credit for the annihilation of Phoenix while the Murderer took more. The man was imagined to be an 8 foot monster covered in the scars of war, a man who could create explosions and turn friends to traitors with his mind alone. A man who'd wear the title of a killer of whole civilizations with pride… The man kneeling beside Montano and Aleron didn't necessarily fit with the legends and stories. He might have worn the armor, wore the symbols of the conquered, but that emotionless face beneath the identifying plume of Caesar's "particularly favored" appeared withered with lines of stress. The man had a face that didn't mark death for Caesar's enemies, but a face that couldn't be understood by Montano or Aleron, a face that really said, "What's done is done."

The trance of recollection and intimidation from who was between them ended when the wind picked up again and the Murderer of Phoenix said the words,

"What have you two done?"

The question didn't come like that of any other centurion or officer reprimanding the soon-to-be punished. Instead, the question came calmly from the man's steady mouth, more curious than anything. Neither man responded, unsure what to say. After enough silence, the Murderer smiled, looked at the ground, and chuckled, saying;

"There's still so much to learn…" He ended his smile, straightening his mouth, and making eye contact between both men as he continued, "It's okay to speak. I have authority over Theracos here."

Still, neither man knew what to say as their faces were still pressed to the wooden posts. Letting loose a small sigh, the calm-faced Elite locked eyes with Montano before asking, "Is Centurion Theracos correct in that you were injured during a fight?"

Montano looked to Aleron whose face remained steady, expecting a smug grin that never came. Montano's eyes then shifted to the Murderer as he said, "Yes, Centurion."

A small silence ensued until the Interfector asked Montano in that same calm tone, "May I take a look at your wound, Decanus?"

Never having been asked permission for anything by someone who outranked him, Montano wasn't quite sure what to say or do in that instance either. Montano's eyes even shifted to Aleron's, seemingly begging for the correct answer. A fruitless effort since Aleron hadn't even heard the calm question over the wind and wouldn't even know what to respond with anyway. The only thing Montano could do from his position against the pole and confusion at the nature of their Elite commander was give a pained groan.

After the noise, the Murderer gave a slight nod and reached toward Montano's chest. The commander lifted Montano's tunic, adjusted his head for a better angle under the restrained man's wrapped injury, and squinted his eyes upon seeing what he was looking for. Montano's tunic was lowered, and the commander turned his face to Aleron.

Silence again as Aleron and the commander studied one another. As the Interfector's eyes scanned up and down the bound frame of Aleron, Aleron himself took a special interest in the man's almost sunken eyes. If Aleron had known what "Compassion" was, he'd have described the face of the Murderer in that way. Instead, Aleron too didn't know what to even think about the man, the more features he studied. The lines in the commander's face made him appear to be about 50 years old, but the man's average but muscular frame, and the rest of his body said he was no more than 30. Still, Aleron couldn't explain just about anything regarding the figure who was responsible for the death and enslavement of so many thousands. A man who'd essentially saved Aleron's life by doing... Whatever he did to the wall and people of Phoenix if those vague stories were true. Suddenly, it occurred to Aleron that he wasn't supposed to even look at the face of a superior unless authorized to do so, especially from a place reserved for disobedient slaves. Aleron hastily shifted his eyes from the commander and in an instant, the Murderer of Phoenix asked,

"Veteran Decanus Aleron, correct?"

Aleron's eyes met the man's, who nodded in permission to respond. Aleron spoke in military but dehydrated tone, "Yes, Centurion…"

The tone of Aleron's words came out in a way that made the commander assume Aleron didn't know who he was talking to. Aleron realized this, and in a quick attempt to correct the possible perception of ignorance, The Murderer cut off that attempt by a soft grin and the calm words,

"Good to meet you, Decanus. I am The Interfector of Phoenix… Or so they tell me."

The Murderer smiled, smiled like Centurions of the Legion never did, and this confused Aleron who was the only one who could see the man's face. When the Interfector's eyes met Aleron's again, he asked the restrained man, "I understand you and Decanus Montano fought one another while you were attempting to carry out your Centurion's orders?..."

Aleron nodded from the post, and the Killer squinted. There was another pause before the Killer said, "It would appear as though the matter settled itself… Montano got injured for defying the order and you were only attempting to defend yourself. I'd say his injury alone is just for the dilemma, and if your arm was injured, I see this matter ended."

The Interfector stood, and Aleron's eyes widened even though he was the only one who heard the words. Aleron heard them alright and panic entered the man's mind for almost the first time ever.

"I Have to be punished!" "Montano Has to be whipped as well!" "Both of us failed Caesar in our actions! Please let us bleed!"

Those were Aleron's thoughts that he wouldn't dare utter to one of the Legion's Elite, despite the cool and understanding tone of the man. Montano didn't hear the words, so he didn't understand the panicked expression on his rival's face until The Killer turned around, motioned for the men with whips, and gave the order, "Untie them. Both of them."

Montano heard that, and he too joined his rival in mental panic, with his only thought being "I Have to be punished!"

Aleron and Montano both stared at one another at a complete loss as the veterans unbound the two from the posts without a single lash on their backs. Their arms fell to the sand as they stood, still facing the other. Upon turning to face the 6th, they saw the Interfector of Phoenix standing in front. Behind the man of legend was the whole 6th still in ranks, Centurion Theracos, and an additional 200 legionaries behind the 6th, identifying themselves as the 9th and 5th centuries. Montano and Aleron looked at the mass and turned to the new commander of the Southern Campaign when he said;

"This matter is over. Both of you might have been wrong in some form or another, but that doesn't mean your damned backs should be opened. You two screwed up? Fine. I don't care. Just don't let it happen again. I hope you two learned something. Mercy isn't such a bad thing if you can help it."

The two walked back to their century as the new arrivals readied themselves for a march. As they walked with the Interfector, they thought of his words, knowing how powerful he was, but bewildered in what they were supposed to learn from escaping the whipping post. The commander of them, Theracos, the 6th, 9th, and 5th said the matter was over, but nobody in that mass of crimson knew what Mercy really was. In an event where blood was Supposed to be spilled, "Mercy" wouldn't end something that could by the crack of a whip and tear of flesh.

A/N: You don't need your back to be lashed open if you mess up every now and then. Mercy and forgiveness are wonderful things... This reminder is probably unnecessary since nobody reading this is a brainwashed servant of a mortal dictator (I'm pretty sure XD). Thanks for reading!