Chapter 2: The Tenuous Formalities of Departure
Frost sat in his room, looking over the draft on his terminal. Some questioned why he brought a typewriter and a computer terminal to fulfill what the same job was essentially. In truth, despite its redundancies, Frost had a personal system to uphold. The typewriter was for news reports, and the terminal was for scripts. His greatest personal fear was the possibility that he'd conflate the two, as little good came from reporters attempting to invoke dramatics. As a reporter/archivist, he was a witness first and foremost, an observer. Besides, the more he stayed out of the way of the soldiers, the more he could mitigate their contempt for him, he assured himself.
The relationship between the NCR press and the NCR military had been increasingly contentious since the passing of President Tandi. By far the best advocate for freedom of the press in living memory, her tenure had been proceeded by leaders who were either unconcerned with its status to those who were actively hostile to it. More than a few in the military during the Kimball administration had implied that it was critical reporting that was the key component to the low morale of the Mojave garrisons, as opposed to rising casualties or lack of supplies.
Still, hostile or not, Tim Frost was a man who took his research seriously. He had pulled some strings with a friend of his who was embedded near the Sierra HQ. Though he figured he'd be spending more time with the grunts and enlisted, he believed it pertinent that he understood the leadership. That way, if a misunderstanding became inevitable, he'd at least be effectively able to efficiently plead his case before they expulsed him into the desert. All his files regarded NCR personnel, as all his requests involving the Judicial Marshals had been denied in the months leading up to this expedition.
The main CO of the NCR contingent was a career soldier named Colonel Petro Gorobets, a veteran of the initial Mojave Campaign who had served with distinction, for better or worse. Despite being involved with the Bitter Springs Massacre, an infamous event that the NCR had yet to recover from, as the raids to the north could attest, Gorobets record had been otherwise unblemished, largely a collection of confirmed kills involving Caesar's Legion and the Fiends gang. Following his promotion that took him off the combat lines, he had proven himself to be a capable administrator, which would indicate the primary reason he had been chosen to oversee this operation with his old unit in tow.
The current CO of the First Recon contingent was Captain Zachary Milligan. Too young to have served in the Mojave War, Milligan had been trained and tutored by the old guard of the unit, primarily under a soldier known as King of Spades. Possessing commendable scores in tracking and stalking, most of his postings found him guarding forts and checkpoints. Going off the records alone, this could very well be his first potential encounter with combat.
Next was the "CO" of the 14th Volunteer Scout Brigade, a tribal war chief who hailed from the badlands of Oregon. He knew that tribals, especially recently assimilated ones, often gave their children the names of great leaders to ground them in history while teaching what to aspire for the future. As he looked at the photo of the wild-looking woman, the sides of her head shaved with only a thick strip on the top as warpaint was applied generously in lines around her face, he wondered how someone could look at the kindly visage of his old late president and apply the same name to the vicious-looking woman. But his was not to question the wisdom of tribals, and other than that felt little to fear from War Chief Tandi.
Next up was the commander of the 32nd Guard, his blond, coifed hair, and pretty boy looks at odds with the uniform and background of the photo. Captain Ethan Wallace was the third son of a wealthy cattle baroness and an NCR representative. Born into a life of privilege, Wallace had apparently tried to enter a newly established medical college run by the Followers of the Apocalypse, though he soon dropped out after an otherwise solid semester. Same story with a fledgling law school, applied, and dropped out after a semester of otherwise solid test scores. After the cycle repeated half a dozen times throughout California, his father evidently seemed to have put his foot down, judging by how he committed to his time in officer training near Navarro. Despite rumors of using his parents' connections to get him cushier gigs, barring a few minor infractions near the start of his tenure, Captain Wallace seemed every bit the model officer.
Next was one of the more "controversial" officers, one so infamous that Frost had known his name long before receiving the dossier. Captain Donald Rathmore, founder and commander of the 66th Assault, aka "The Doomed and Damned." The first and thus far only all-mutation (ghoul/super mutant) unit in the main NCR military, Rathmore had founded the battalion to give employment to his scorched brethren while providing the NCR an option to safely assail her enemies through hazardous environments. Captain Rathmore had something of a "colorful" reputation. For every story where he led the rescue of a caravan from a nest of deathclaws, there was another where his men skewered the babies of hostile tribals to force them to concede territory when expansion was the main issue on the docket. Figuring out what was true and what would not be promised to be an ordeal in and of itself, as Rathmore would often go out of his way to obfuscate his personal history, to which he was aided considerably by the NCR itself, seeing him as too valuable an asset to be bogged down in whatever controversies his tactics instigated.
Even with all this in mind, it was the final CO that the NCR had parted with that raised the most eyebrows. First Lieutenant Kimberly Baxter of the 5th Heavy Armor. The photograph portrayed a young and rather striking woman. Her records were rife with platitudes and recommendations, a solid worker, a diligent student, and a promising leader. No disciplinary citations, no demerits, and on nearly all accounts a "paragon of virtue and a prodigy of military service." And yet, upon her volunteering to command the detachment of the 5th, the hallways of the NCR military HQ were full of murmurs and suspicion. As uncontroversial as Lt. Baxter appeared on the surface, one had to look a little beyond the records to see where the potential disaster lay. Kimberly Baxter was the daughter of one Carrie Baxter, married to Peter Baxter, a records clerk serving in the NCR Senate. This was not where the issue came from.
Before Carrie was married, her maiden name was Carrie Moore, the younger sister of the infamous General Cassandra Moore, a warhawk whose relationship with the Governor of New Vegas was so adversarial, she had allied with the murderous Madame Xiao Zhang to destroy him. When her relationship came to light after the NCR narrowly avoided several nuclear strikes, she was stripped of her rank and sentenced to ten years in prison. She had been released early on bail, thanks to a few anti-Vegas supporters in California who had held her up as a martyr in a professional sense. Though the brewing war with the Khans and potentially their Confederate masters was at the forefront of the NCR's mind, behind the scenes, Moore and her partners had been lobbying to dissolve the NCR/Mojave coalition, arguing that California was the primary reason Governor Perez's hadn't collapsed, and demanding Vegas's assimilation into the NCR proper as the "only just course of action." It was far from a popular sentiment, but if the expedition to Imperial Texas failed, more and more people would start to listen. But right now, the question on everyone's mind, if not necessarily their tongues, was just whose side was First Lieutenant Kim Baxter on?
Jimmy Bishop sat across his father. Much like the name of the Bishop Family's headquarters, the older man's hair had turned stark silver a few years ago, an inevitability to most of those who kept their hair in their sixties. His father looked over the reports, mostly as a formality, as his son had earned his total trust over the last ten years. The Bishop family, having emigrated to Vegas from Reno, had a unique position within the city limits. They oversaw the revenue and security of all attractions and services provided within the city limits. A controversial call, but with the high turnover within the Omerta's leadership and with multiple brushes with disaster the White Glove Society had managed to avoid, it hadn't been a particularly difficult argument to make.
"So, yeah, Jake Freeman is more than qualified to fill in my position. And with the Mordinos driven out for the time being, you shouldn't need any assistance on my end," Jimmy explained.
"Perhaps that's not what I'm concerned about," Mr. Bishop grumbled.
"Then please enlighten me, pops," Jimmy asked.
Mr. Bishop glared over the reports. "There's brash and there's reckless, kid. I'd have hoped you'd figured that out by now."
"She needs someone she can trust; she doesn't know anyone from California, and she doesn't exactly have the best reputation with the JMs," Jimmy explained.
"And whose fault is that?" Mr. Bishop asked.
"Not mine," Jimmy folded his arms. Mr. Bishop stared at him. "…I didn't contribute… majorly," Jimmy began to concede.
When Rosa Perez was born, Jimmy Bishop would often look after the girl eight years his junior. Adopting the role of older brother, Jimmy often took it upon himself to teach the young girl the ropes about growing up in the wasteland, even from a position of privilege. The Governor hadn't been a big fan of Jimmy's influence, but between the time he dedicated to the Judicial Marshals and dealing with disputes between their westmost neighbor, his unintentional neglect left the poor girl in need of a positive male role model.
Jimmy, as heir to the Bishop Crime Family, was every bit the business-savvy confidant as he was the hard-charging enforcer. He had cut his teeth on the last few remaining vagrants who still believed in jumping potentially easy targets, as well as raiders who jeopardized some of his families "off-the-book" enterprises in California. As Rosa grew up, she began playing roles in these operations as well, graduating from lookout to "easy mark" to subtle enforcer. In truth, she always had a talent for violence (one need only look at her family to see the reality of it) but Jimmy allowed her to mold herself into a flexible weapon whenever the need arose or it simply suited her fancy.
"You aren't the worst influence in her life," Mr. Bishop admitted. "For that, we would need to look at particular absences."
Jimmy smiled a bit. The Governor was reliable, often very fun to be around, a dedicated friend, an excellent fighter, and a sub-par parent. He had spent quite a lot of time looking for someone to mother the girl, time he could have used to bond with and raise her. The man simply had not been ready to be a parent, and everyone else had to pick up the slack. With that in mind, who could blame Jimmy after all?
"So, you are adamant that you travel with her to a territory ruled by a potentially hostile warlord, surrounded by law enforcement and soldiers with often suspect loyalties, in a journey that could take months if not years with no guarantee of survival?" Mr. Bishop asked.
"Well, pop, when you put it like that, you make the decision sound so easy," Jimmy laughed.
"Do I, now?" Mr. Bishop asked.
"Rosa is being sent because she doesn't have a choice. If she refuses or runs, the result could get a lot of people killed, and despite my best efforts, she doesn't have that much selfishness. I, on the other hand, with the freedom provided to me by virtue of having the best dad in the whole wide world…"
"How does my ass taste?" Bishop groused.
"I can hang with the best California and Nevada can offer, and we both know if anything the Legion had could top that, we'd all be wearing skirts about now. She needs me, pop."
"And if you didn't, you'd be worried sick about her," Mr. Bishop finished.
Jimmy looked away. Rosa had, for the most part, been under his protection. When she fell, Jimmy cleaned her up. When she doubted herself, Jimmy cheered her up. When her heart was broken, Jimmy drove the bastard from Vegas. Right now, she needed her "big brother" more than ever. Like he said, it wasn't a difficult choice.
"Well, as much as I want to fight you on it, at the end of the day you are a capable adult," Mr. Bishop said as he leaned back in his chair. "And none of us got where we were by making sensible decisions."
"I knew you'd understand," Jimmy beamed.
"Before you go, though," Mr. Bishop said. "I'm… going to be entertaining some grandkids. Judy is swinging by, and I think she'd like to talk to Uncle Jimmy before he heads out."
"Oh, wonderful. I get to say goodbye to the six little scamps before I leave," Jimmy laughed.
"About to be seven, now," Bishop corrected.
Jimmy's eyes widened. "Another one?! She just had one a year ago!"
Mr. Bishop shrugged. "I had my doubts when she started seeing that Mormon boy, but damn if they haven't been busy."
"I'll say," Jimmy said, overwhelmed. "When are they going to stop?"
"Judy says she's shooting for twelve. Y'know, biblical reasons and all."
"I think I read that part. Isn't he going to need a second wife for that?" Jimmy asked.
"Now that part is going to need a miracle. Finding another woman whose throat Judy won't want to slit," Mr. Bishop laughed.
As Frost finally lay on his bed, eyes heavy from staring at a screen for hours, he gently threw off his shoes and told himself he'd take a quick power nap. He glanced at the clock hanging by the wall. One in the morning. Later then he'd thought, but not the worst overextension of his personal biological deadline. Frost could sleep almost anywhere, being able to squeeze in power naps on assignments. A few hours rest sprinkled through the day and he was at optimal levels.
Already, his mind was at work going over the itinerary of the next day. Tomorrow would be the ceremony at Camp McCarren, where the expedition would assemble and prepare for its journey to the east. That point would be the best possible opportunity to learn of the Judicial Marshals before crossing the dam. So far, the ones he had been most familiar with had been… less than hospitable. It appeared that "resentment of tourists" was going to be a bit of a recurring theme going forward.
A knock on his door interrupted his consciousness before it could drift away. Frost could have sworn he had placed a DND sign on the handle. Rousing himself from his bed, he made the painful trek across the room to open the door and give the knocker a piece of his mind. Swinging the door open, he came face to face with his primary sponsor.
She was wearing a fluffy bathrobe that seemed to completely envelop her body below the neck. Above it was a spectacled Asian woman, her hair wet from a recent shower. Three streaks of torn skin on her left cheek marked her otherwise unblemished skin.
"Are you busy?" she asked.
"No, not at all, Ms. Senator," Frost hastily added as he stepped aside.
"Please, Mr. Frost, my name is Ziyi," she replied as she entered.
Senator Ziyi Feng had been one of his first and most essential sponsors. His spot in the expedition would not have happened if Ziyi hadn't been vouching for him. One of Ziyi's interests outside of her service in the NCR Senate had been the revitalization of culture and had been a reliable patron to the arts. She had even been the subject of an unconventional portrait twenty years ago by a young up-and-coming artist named Angie Provala. Naked from the waist up, with her back turned to the painter, brandishing the multitude of scars covering her while revealing her damaged cheek over her shoulder. Dubbed "The scars we hide," it was one of the most famous pieces of post-war artwork in California, and she had been dating the painter ever since.
The point being, Ziyi Feng was a woman who took culture seriously and took Frost's mission seriously. The reason for his successful embedding was because she vouched for him far beyond his ability to ascend the food chain. Ergo, he felt somewhat indebted to her. So much so that he did not feel particularly incentivized to press her on her former association with Madame Zhang or her current associations with the Van Graff clan. Perhaps that attitude wouldn't have been smiled upon an era ago, but in the post-war wasteland, the ability to mitigate bloodshed was the most paramount skill a politician could possess.
"How do you like your room?" Ziyi asked.
"I'm not going to get attached, I won't be staying for too long," Frost said, truthfully.
"Nose to the grindstone. I love it," Ziyi smiled.
"I wish I could have hired staff along, though. Would make the process a little easier," Frost admitted.
"I'm afraid the rest wouldn't budge. They wanted a small and mobile force that will move quickly. And I told them you could do the most with the least," Ziyi shrugged as she blushed.
"So, what do the rest of them think about our little project?" Frost asked.
Ziyi took a moment to scratch her chin. "Well, Councilor Gannon wasn't much of a fan. Thought it was too big of a risk, so I had to talk him down to allowing a one-man crew to tag along. Again, sorry." As the civilian leader of the Vegas City Council, Arcade Gannon carried considerable clout and weight with his handling of the day-to-day issues of the city and surrounding settlements.
"As for Commissioner Boone, she basically approved on the condition that you would be watched over and escorted by her two most trusted agents," Ziyi continued.
"Oh, that's great. I can't wait to meet them," Frost grinned.
"I believe you already have. Their names are Tobey and Carla. Junior recruits."
"Oh," Frost's smile faded. "That's… wonderful."
"And as for Governor Perez, well…" Ziyi paused. "While he is not the biggest fan of the press, he understands the necessity of it. Little wonder as the first successful collaboration between California and the Mojave ought to be well documented," Ziyi offered.
"Very well," Frost sighed in relief, "I'm glad everyone is on the same page with us and our vice president."
Ziyi grinned. "Hsu was pretty vital towards getting your foot in the door, wasn't he?"
"Tell him next time you talk that I appreciate his support as well," Frost nodded.
"Consider it done. Well, I just figured we'd want to touch base, and seeing as this may be the last time we see each other, I just wanted to tell you that I wish you the best of luck, stay safe, try to make friends, and try to give Rosa a wide berth," Ziyi advised.
"That's the Governor's child, right?" Frost asked. "Come to think of it, I don't know about anyone scoring any interviews with her. Maybe if I…"
"I strongly advise you keep your distance, Icarus," Ziyi pressed. "She's… very headstrong and more than a little immature. If you annoy her or she just thinks it's funny, your job will get a lot harder than it has to be."
"She's that bad?" Frost asked.
Ziyi took a moment to figure how to explain her caution delicately. "…She is her father's daughter."
Frost nodded in understanding. "I think I get what you mean."
"Great," Ziyi nodded as she prepared to return to her room. "Oh, and since you're going to Arizona, you might want to be on the lookout for…"
"For what?" Frost asked.
"…You know, he's probably dead by now. Hopefully," Ziyi muttered, mostly to herself. "Nevermind. Have a good rest."
North of the Strip, in a small community surrounded by recently built cottages, a tired young doctor made her way back home. Melody Young fought back a yawn as she passed her neighbor's house. Isaiah and Judy Albright had been hard at work building another extension to their growing abode, the sounds of children laughing growing fainter as the lights began to dim. If she were one to indulge in envy, the sounds of cheer and affection would be something she'd have loved to attain herself. However, she made a choice years ago to put others before herself, a situation she shared with her husband.
As she opened the door to her own house, the faint smell of Mojave jambalaya wafted into her nostrils. It was her favorite meal, and she was already worried. "Joseph?" she called out.
"In here," he replied, bringing the pot to the table, set for three.
Joseph Young seemed a quiet and unassuming man. He was something of a spiritual leader and councilor to the steadily growing New Canaan. While only an Elder, his influence often rivaled that of the Bishop (the Mormon one, not the mob boss), and he had a knack for remaining popular even with those outside the faith, a talent many of his religious brothers often struggled with.
"You're home late," he began. "A hard labor is good labor. I pray your ventures were successful today."
"You cooked," Melody interrupted.
"I did," Joseph nodded. "I was careful, do not worry. I move rather deliberately."
"Can we… just get it over with?" Melody relented.
Joseph "peered" at her from under his hat. "Couldn't we just enjoy our meal beforehand?"
"The only reason you'd go through this much effort is because you want to cushion some bad news," Melody shook her head. "And I would rather deal with honesty than comfort."
Joseph nodded as he set down the bubbling pot. "Of course. Forgive me, I've… been meaning to do a better job taking your feelings into account. I figured the news would upset you."
"What's the news?" Melody asked.
"Well, she hasn't arrived yet," Joseph admitted. "But I believe I will soon be called away to join the "crusade," he chuckled to himself.
Melody stopped herself from laughing. "Can't you just say no?"
"I could," Joseph continued. "But I won't."
Melody's small smile started to fade. "You won't? Why? What do they need a blind man for?"
Joseph brought his hand up to scratch the gauze covering his dead eyes. The White Leg attack years ago had taken his vision from him, even as it opened an understanding of the world he had clung to in the following years.
"I don't believe "they" need or even require my help. But "she" may…" Joseph explained.
A look of comprehension and shock covered Melody's face, one so clear and apparent even Joseph could see it. "How are you still friends with her?"
"If I was to cut out every sinner from my life, I'd be living in a very lonely existence," Joseph explained. "I don't believe she's evil or actively malicious, just trying to find her way in a world that never makes it easy. But, when she comes through that door, she will be looking for help, someone she can trust. I hope I can live up to her needs and expectations."
"Well, if you are insistent on going with her, I'm coming too," Melody relented as she spooned herself some of the meal.
Joseph began to balk. "I… don't think that would be wise…"
"I know how useless things are to argue with you. I can't stop you from leaving," Melody interrupted. "So, I'll just have to make it conditional. If they have enough room for a blind preacher, they'll have more than enough room for a doctor, I'm sure."
"Melody, if you could just take a moment to think about…" Joseph tried to continue.
"If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me. Till death do us part, remember?" Melody explained through forced cheer.
"We're going to go to Texas." Joseph finally announced.
Melody froze. Buried memories began to resurface. Cold nights shivering on the ground. Hiding and waiting for soldiers to leave scraps of food unattended. The hot, stinking breath of the overseer. The beatings when her façade cracked, tears falling to the dirt as the violence intensified.
In the years after that horrible incident, she prayed and prayed for the destruction of that horrible thing. She had been so happy to learn that they had fled further to the east, so far that she would never see that horrible banner again. And so devastated when the rumors became news, that another land and people had been subjugated by their armies. Defying all odds, and her hopes as well, Caesar's Legion had survived.
She felt two warm hands clasp hers. "You don't have to. I would never ask you to," Joseph explained.
"…Can I just… have time to think…" Melody asked as she pulled her hands away.
"Of course," Joseph nodded.
A series of sharp raps slammed against the door. "YO, JOE! YOU COOKING THAT GOOD SHIT IN THERE?"
"Excuse me," Joseph smiled slightly. He picked himself up, grabbing his cane as he marched to the front door. He opened it as Rosa was about to knock again. "Must you be so loud and profane?" he asked, voice level.
"Oh, come on, Judy's heard worse," Rosa grinned.
"Not the point," Joseph explained. "We try to aspire to a higher standard in this community."
"Which is why you live in spitting distance from the finest pussy houses in a hundred or so miles," Rosa heckled as he came inside.
Joseph lightly cracked his cane against her big toe. Rosa winced as Joseph then pulled out a seat for her at the table. "Since I'm feeding you, will you promise to behave yourself?" he asked.
"I will only promise to try," Rosa admitted.
She sat beside the catatonic Dr. Melody. "What's up, doc?" she asked as she began helping herself.
"…They're sending you to the Legion?" Melody muttered.
Rosa shot a look at Joseph. It shouldn't have meant anything to him, but he still shrugged, nonetheless. Turning back to Dr. Young, Rosa bit her lip. "So, you know about that part, then."
"Why do you want my husband with you?" Melody asked.
"…Spiritual guidance," Rosa answered. Melody audibly scoffed. "Not just for me!" Rosa tried to assuage. "I think he'd be good for morale in general. If I have a problem, I know I can come to him. Now multiply that by, like, a thousand or whatever, how can that not be a good thing?"
Melody rose her eyes up to glower at her. "…And his ability to know when shit's about to go down before it does will be super useful," Rosa confessed. Joseph groaned. "Stuff, I meant stuff!" Rosa "corrected."
"…You were too young to remember," Melody muttered. "It was a bit before your time. Do you know what you're getting into?"
"I'm walking into a den of rapists, slavers, and murderers," Rosa stated, her smile fading. "The situation is so bad the Old Man is sending an army with me. He says it is to scare off the Confeddies, I think he really wants to dissuade that Lanius prick from pulling anything stupid."
"And when you arrive there, little girl, what are you going to do?" Melody asked.
Rosa shrugged. "Tell them to quit being assholes and that the Confeddies are full of shit?" Joseph pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I see," Melody nodded her head. "You have no idea what the Legion is like. They'll tear you apart."
Rosa slammed a fork into the table. "I can take anything those guys can throw at me, doc! Just you watch…"
"If you make a mistake, Rosa, and if there's one thing you're good at, it's making mistakes," Melody said, voice level and steady. "Then you are putting your life in jeopardy along with so many others. It would mean putting Joseph in danger, and I won't allow that. So, I'm going with."
"Mel, please, you don't have to…" Joseph started.
"With all due respect, Joe, you don't know the Legion. Rosa, you've heard stories, but nothing you've heard will be enough to prepare you for what they really are. I… there are no surprises they can offer me," Melody swallowed. "I daresay that no one knows more about the Legion in the Mojave than I do."
"Well," Rosa thought aloud. "I can think of one, but he's in no condition to travel anywhere."
"So, it is decided," Melody finished as she began digging into the jambalaya. Joseph shot a "look" at Rosa, indicating that this was not a development he had wanted to happen. Rosa couldn't meet his "stare" and was focused on the food before her.
"Melody," Joseph said in a hard tone.
"WHAT?!" Melody hissed through half-chewed food.
"…We didn't say grace."
Hoover Dam was more than the source of the Mojave's near-limitless energy or a symbol of the might of the Old World. It was a bridge, connecting countless adventurers to a land of opportunity. As the Legion surrendered its westernmost territory in the aftermath of the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the Mojave Nation, unable to claim and settle the territory itself, instead sold access to the bridge and offered up land grants to the highest bidders. In theory, it would allow the new anarchic situation to stabilize and allow civilization to settle on its own terms. In practice, the Unclaimed Wastes were rife with conflict between raiders, outlaws, gangs, NCR operatives, Legion spies, mercenaries, extremists, and even mysterious creatures. For many, it had become the Hell on Earth Caesar had tried to avoid. For others, it was exactly what they wanted.
Five gunslingers stood at the edge of the Colorado River, their boat having docked near the place known as Cottonwood Cove, having long since been abandoned in the following years. These five were hardened by their time in the Unclaimed Waste, each a vicious killer that specialized in the art of survival of the fittest. To them, anything that threatened to undermine the sanctity of that existence deserved to be eradicated. A black-hatted gunslinger motioned to the rest that someone was approaching. "At ease, Cade," the leader urged as the rest were alerted.
A sixth member poked his head out above the ridge. Illuminated by the moonlight, the leader of the five motioned the others to keep on a lookout while he talked with his scout. He awaited his scout as he made his way down the slope. "Well?" he asked.
"Lots of troops," the young scout reported. "In total, I'd say maybe six hundred or some odd from California in addition to about eighty or so JMs."
"Combat troops?" the leader asked.
"I recognized some units. Mostly First Recon and some of the Heavy Troops, the rest I don't know much about," the young scout shook his head.
"Told you we shouldn't have sent the rookie to do this job," Cade hissed.
"He's the only one of you I trust not to start a massacre!" the leader hissed back. "So, they're coming our way?"
"I… don't know," the young scout shook his head. "From the looks of things, they're getting ready for a long trip. I don't think they look ready to take any turf, or at least hold it for long."
"That, my boy, isn't the point," the lead gunner shook his head. "The very act of encroaching in our territory is tantamount to an act of war. The Unclaimed Waste shall remain unclaimed, and any efforts to "civilize" our homes shall be resisted."
"So, what should I do?" the young scout asked.
"Continue your work, boy. Costwood and Dryxon will remain close by, you can report to them. The rest of us will have to get back to Flagstaff, call up a rally."
The young scout widened his eyes. "A rally? Is that even possible?"
"That," the leader pointed towards the lights of Vegas. "Represents an existential threat to our way of life. We did not suffer under the yoke of the Legion just to find bondage at the hands of California or their lapdogs in the Mojave. We're going to need a lot of men, Larain. A lot of men and a lot of guns."
Excerpt from the Judicial Marshal Basic Training Guide and Manual
Unclaimed Wastes: Yeah, I know Lanius really fucked us over with this "gift" of his. Who'd've thought that the best way the Legion could hurt Vegas was free land? There's hardly any way we can reliably consolidate the area, so for most of us it'll be best to stay around Mojave territory proper. Do not enter without probable cause and reinforcements, that's mandatory. There's still folk here, and most aren't partial to lawmen. So for the suckers buying tickets for land parcels on the east of the Colorado, sorry, you're on your own! -Gaunt.