A/N: Though this is a satire of New Vegas, the character introduced in this chapter is probably the most serious part of the story. At least, he tries to be. Thanks for the feedback I've gotten so far, leave a review and enjoy!
Looking upon the scene at the arena, Hank did not know how he felt about it all. During the six years he had spent in the Legion, he still never ventured on those nights the arena bell rang out and the populace watched the fights in the arena. Especially on nights when the slaves fought. On those terrible, dreary nights Hank made it his goal to not leave his tent, because the roar of the arena dominated nearly every other sound on Fortification Hill. But tonight, something had driven him from his tent, and now he found himself among the spectators.
Hank, known around the Legion as simply "Apollo," had been a slave at birth. His family had lived in Arizona and had all watched horribly one morning as the Legion flew into town. Everyone was enslaved. His mother gave birth to him two months later. For fifteen years, all Hank had known was slavery. But, when he turned sixteen, Joshua Graham came and examined the slave boys his age. He chose the strong ones, and put them through the rigorous training to become legionaries. After initiated as a recruit, Hank - now Apollo - had joined the ranks of the scouts. Quickly, he soon became a veteran scout, and finally the rank of explorer. In 2275, soon after the Legion's victory over the NCR at Fort Aradesh, Apollo had been the first legionary to lay his eyes on the Mojave, Hoover Dam, and the neon lights of Vegas. Being an explorer, Apollo - Hank - generally never fought in the huge battles. He was absent at the First Battle of Hoover Dam, but he still saw Caesar light Joshua Graham on fire and throw him into the Grand Canyon. Hank also knew that Joshua Graham had walked out of the Grand Canyon, and now was somewhere in Utah.
Since he never fought, and actually mostly spent his time away from Legion camps and Legion battles, Hank never saw the atrocities committed at the hands of Caesar, his new Legate Lanius, and the centurions. All he knew was the things he saw during his enslavement. And he remembered.
The arena bell rang out close to midnight. An unnatural feeling had come over him as he lay on his bedroll. He stayed in the long red tent that housed all of the explorers. On a normal night, only a few explorers stayed in Fortification Hill. Tonight, there were three. The other two were sound asleep, conserving energy for assignments the next day. Hank tried to sleep and forget the sound of the arena bell. All of a sudden, curiosity overwhelmed him, and he found watching the grisly scene come to an end, as the arena prepared for its final fight of the evening.
A slave stepped in on one end, wielding a short, flat machete. He wore dirty rags, no shoes, and his entire body looked like it was caked in dirt. Which, for all intents and purposes, he probably was. The man couldn't be no more than twenty.
Across from him, recruit legionaries stepped out with long, broad machetes. Each looked hesitant. Hank guessed they were fresh out of training, and the Legate was forcing them to kill in the arena. He figured that the slave hadn't made the cut to join the ranks of the legionaries.
The participants in the arena waited for no announcement. They never needed one. At once, the legionaries began spreading out, two moving to circle the slave while the middle man stayed straight in front of him.
Hank watched in grim fascination as the slave turned, machete raised. The young man waited for someone to make a move. To his side, one of the recruits lunged, raising his broad bladed machete high above his head. The slave dropped to the dirt and rolled to his left, away from the sweep of the blade. Spectators - slaves and legionaries alike - roared in satisfaction as the slave jumped up and kicked the legionary with his heel. Backing away in a shuffle, the slave bounced from one foot to the other. He held his machete with both hands, like the recruits were taught.
Beside him, Hank heard the shuffle of feet. He had situated himself on a high rise above the arena. Onlookers sat everywhere around the arena and on the hill where Hank stood. Turning his head, he saw a recruit legionary standing next to him, looking at him from behind thick, black goggles and red face wrap.
The legionary raised his hand in a flat palm, "Ave. True to Caesar!" he recited.
Squinting his eyes at the strange new man, Hanks sighed. Never, even during his enslavement, had he understood the Legion. Their pronunciation of Caesar, for instance. Instead of the Anglican "si-zar", the members of the Legion say "kaizar." Hank had missed his own induction into the Legion's ranks, because of an awful ailment the Legion physicians called a "cold."
"True to whom?" asked Hank.
"Who?" the legionary repeated.
"No, whom?"
"Caesar!" announced the flustered recruit.
"True to Caesar? What is true to Caesar?"
The man didn't speak for a few minutes, so Hank resumed watching the fight. Nothing much had changed. The crowd had begun to yell louder and angrier, frustrated that the recruits had failed to kill the slave. However, they had pinned the man close to the wall, and circled like vultures. One sprang forward and stabbed his machete forward. The slave sidestepped him and swung his own blade sideways. It sliced the legionary across the chest. He wailed in frustration and collapsed, and the slave finished him with a blow in the throat.
Finally, the recruit turned once again to Hank. "Everything is true to Caesar, he is our lord!"
"That may be true, but is he everyone's lord?"
"He is the Legion's lord!"
"But not everyone's," Hank told him.
"Yes, everyone," countered the legionary.
Hank eyed him peculiarly. "Then where is everyone?"
Frustrated, the legionary raised his hand in the flat palm. "Ave, true to Caesar!" and stormed off.
The crowd roared as the slave tripped and fell on his face. In an instant, the two legionaries fell on him. They each alternated blows, their machetes falling into with them. They struck the slave in his back. Hank grimaced when he noticed the man never once let out a yelp. Legionaries alike jumped up and down in grand celebration. After awhile, the two fighters stepped back from their kill. Raising their bloody machetes, the crowd went nuts. Hank never took his eyes from the slave, who lay in a pool of his own blood. The crowd began to disperse.
When they had returned to their tents, Hank walked to the man's body in the arena. The arena was cleaned by slaves the morning after. Now, they mourned their fallen comrade. Frowning, Hank observed the slave. Slim rags caked in dirt barely covered the man. Blood from his many cut wounds had run out and pooled around him. Hank removed his boots, revealing nothing more than red rags. He slipped the boots onto the slaves feet; choosing to let the man die with dignity.
Frankly, Hank felt disgusted. With the Legion, with that recruit for reciting Caesar's pledge, and at himself for coming to the arena tonight. But, he couldn't stop any of it. Being the top explorer, he had duties to perform. And Hank knew that if he had any other position, he would have opted for slavery. If that were the case, he probably would be lying face down in his own blood in the arena by now.
Hank's tent lay a few yards away from the edge of the cliffs. Below, the Colorado River rushed by. One hundred yards upriver was Hoover Dam, and the NCR. The water below sounded vicious, but Hank's mind began to wander. He figured that the Legion would crush the NCR at the next battle for Hoover Dam, whenever that was. If that happened, nothing would stand between Caesar and Vegas. And when the Legion reached Vegas, he reckoned they would spend their time raping, pillaging, and killing many of the Vegas tourists and residents. The rest would be sold to slavery.
The biggest question was whether the NCR would allow him to defect. No, the first real question - Hank figured - was whether or not he would survive to see the NCR. No, the first real biggest question - Hank knew - was whether he would survive the fall. There seemed to exist no other alternative. The river would have to suffice.
Making sure his .44 revolver and binoculars were holstered and secure on his person, he removed his shoulder padded armor and helmet. The goggles he wiped on his red linen sleeve, and just realized that was futile because it was about to be wet.
When he figured everything to be perfect, he took a few steps and walked over the cliff edge, plummeting toward the river below.