Taken from posts from .com Come and join the fun!

She must have served someone like this before he thought. She shows respect without being too meek. If only she weren't a women, she would make an excellent legionary. What a shame.

Titus leaned forward, giving her access to his back. He winced as her cloth made contact with, but made sure not to show her he felt any pain. He had an image to maintain, but he doubted any of the other Centurions could have held a straight face if they had a slave scouring a wound from a ranger's knife.

"Nonsense. Recruits get worse than this." he waved her comment away, standing from the water and pulled on a thin, faded red gown.

He steered her into a seat by a desk and sat on the other side of it. Childish anticipation showed all over his face.

"How would you like to get back into your old uniform?" He asked with a sly smile.

Aurora felt chilled by his touch as he guided her to the chair.
she was somewhat confused by his question, but the look on his face made it painfully clear that he had something planned for her, and she didn't like the thought one bit.

She thought for a few moments before she answered him.

"With respect, sir. Either you have a 'thing' for a woman in Uniform, or you are asking me to betray my people." she took a deep breath, preparing herself for any repercussions from what she was to say next.

"And if the latter is the case, you can go get fucked with a rusty razor blade, I will not betray my oath to the New California Republic." she said, defiantly.

She had volunteered, she hadn't been conscripted into the NCR like some of the boys and girls in the Army. Her home and her family stood to be changed forever if the Legion took the NCR in its entirety and she had wanted to do her part to protect them.

A patriotic duty, she had called it, though she knew that within a week, her mother would be crumpled at the door in grief with the note from the Personnel division of the NCR Army with a MIA - Presumed Captured notice for her daughter in hand, Aurora's pregnant sister-in-law would be on the floor with her, holding her distraught mother-in-law while her nieces and nephews watched from the front yard.

She stared coolly at him, arms crossed over her chest in a defiant pose.

As soon as what passed for 'silence' fell about The Fort, a tent near the Weather Station opened its flaps. Unlike most of the red triangular tents about the area, this one had a full covering. Canvas supported by steel rods made up the frame work for such a construct, and revealed a face that had been silent up until this point.

The face was that of a man whose skin tone was a shade or two lighter than what one might expect of a wastelander, eyes of a radioactive green stared blankly behind locks of brown hair which fell beyond the man's shoulders. His facial hair, while almost completely covering his chin and the skin between his lips and nose, wasn't nearly as 'perfect' as his coloration. Rather, it looked as though his appearance was altered with the tip of a spear, and the marks on his neck indicated that he wasn't all that good at it.

The man's hands clapped slowly and purposefully, moving at an unknown rhythm that his feet matched. A robe of red fell from his collar to his ankles, arranged as an ancient Roman Senator would. The robe's appearance from the right shoulder, across the chest, and down just past his waist line appeared to be one cloth reminiscent of the Brotherhood of Steel scribe robe. The left shoulder was a metal pauldron attached to a leather stitching bearing the Legion's trademark 'X' over the center, while the lower half of the robe were simply patched together.

The clapping soon ended with the march as an equally even tone followed the silence. "Sejanus, I've not heard words as these from you since the wardrum was fixed." A smirk creeped over the left side of his face as his eyebrows altered into amusement at the memory. "You bring us a good brand, Decanus. I would almost find alongside you - if only I could - to hear that again." The smile faded as he resumed his usual demeanor, "But as it stands, these things must be done few and far between, lest its meaning fall short." He moved forth to follow the Decanus, "...and about your axe, it seems your messenger might have injured the blacksmith working on your axe during delivery. I replaced it with a new head while I sharpen the old one." He stopped just before reaching her tent, "Ave."

His eyes looked to the crucified NCR, giving note to the lack of his ears before moving back towards his tent. Prior to reaching it, his pace slowed to examine the wardrum he mentioned before. Wood, metal, and brahmin-skin made up the 8' monstrosity, surrounded by much smaller versions of the same design.

Upon his arrival to the Legion, one of Techslave's first accomplishments was the creation and maintenance of these drums, modeled after the percussion that he knew so well. Deciding not to enter the tent at all, he passed the large drum to investigate the Howitzer gun, which had been largely his responsibility for sizing up for any coming defense.

The childish glee smeared across Titus' face was instantly washed off by her defiance. This woman had bigger balls than most recruits. But there was a reason his own men lacked this immense testicular fortitude: they knew what was good for them.

Titus' hand shot forward and he grabbed her hair. He'd see how much her oath was worth to her. The Centurion slammed her head into the desk and stood behind her, speaking to her over her shoulder. "Is your oath worth that much to you?" he sneered.

He threw her to the ground and walked to a cabinet a few feet away. "I would have nailed you to a fucking cross had you not given me a different idea." With that he drew a rusty, old machete and walked over to her again.

"It's not quite a razor blade, but it'll have to do." he said calmly as he grabbed her again and forced her onto the table. "Should you change your mind..."

Her head slammed into the table, stars sparkled before her eyes and before she regained her senses she was upon the floor. She heard him speaking…

"… Had you not given me a different idea." And her fear redoubled with the realisation of what he was planning, she had been a fool, and she had seen the man's penchant for violence, what did she have to gain other than pain and personal debilitating injury perhaps agonising death.

She struggled against him as he roughly grabbed her and pushed her onto the table. She watched as he approached her, one heavy hand keeping her struggling form pressed against the table, he played the rusty blade against the side of her face and down her neck.

Soft sobs accompanied her erratic, fear-filled breathing as the blade moved down her sides, curving with the roundness of her right breast, down the side of her stomach and following her hips and upper thighs.

She cried as she felt the roughness of the rust and coolness of the patches of metal that were unblemished. Her resolve wavered and vanished, self-preservation kicked into the 'fight or flight' response of her adrenaline pumped body

"Please, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she begged, hoping he would stop before he decided to cut her

"I'll do as you ask, sir, please!" she hated herself; it hadn't taken the Centurion much to bring her to betray her own.

Words spilled from her mouth, information on Camp Golf, the supplies they would receive, support crews, entry points, the areas where supplies were delivered, her role in collating requests for new recruits and supplies for Camp Forlorn hope and also for Camp Golf's Trooper divisions.

She wept openly, paralysed with fear, fear of him continuing with his 'plan' for her involving the machete, fear for her family, fear for herself and for her comrades still out there fighting, she had betrayed them by giving information to their enemy.

'Traitor.' A dark though intruded into her mind.