Chapter 6: Captive Audience

Major Coleridge took a drag on his cigarette as he stared out on the horizon. It was the thirtieth week in his tour of the Unclaimed Wastes, on his seventh tour for that matter. Right now, he was standing by and awaiting orders to proceed with his mission. Coleridge scoffed at the thought. What was the point of being an independent commando if his team constantly needed orders from their benefactors back in California? Did they want control of the Unclaimed Wastes or not? He sighed, seeing the futility of second-guessing at this juncture. His job wasn't to secure the Unclaimed Wastes, no matter how much sense it made. His was to track down and capture the last original generation Enclave fugitive they had on file. Hopefully, the lead they were working over in the garage would pan out.

Hathcock strolled out, wiping his face as he looked to his commander. "Eighty hours around the clock, and not even a peep. Whatever conditioning he's been put through wasn't a joke," he admitted.

Coleridge smirked a little. They had caught the patrol off-guard, and it had been the ugliest firefight he'd seen in decades. His grandfather told him horror stories of outgunned NCR troopers engaging with Enclave patrols, and the horrendous casualties that resulted from the skirmishes. At any rate, it was fortune's way of making it up to them that their adversaries had little more to them than flesh and blood, now, and the days of fighting against power-armor looked to be a distant memory.

"Want me to go in and demonstrate my hospitality?" Coleridge asked.

"Ross and Gelrod are looking after his vitals right now. He's hanging on by a thread," Hathcock confessed.

Coleridge nodded as he marched to the garage. Inside they had placed several emergency lights around the bound figure tied and bolted to the floor. A mound of pulverized meat in roughly the same shape as a human being glanced up to the mustached soldier as he approached. He recognized him, mostly as the reason he was short an eardrum and could not feel anything at the ends of his wrists. The meat coughed up some wet debris as he wheezed while Coleridge pulled up a chair.

"…So, let me jog my memory. You go by the name Valruk, correct?" Maj. Coleridge asked, neutrally.

The meat coughed up a storm before finally finding his voice. "…And you call yourselves civilized? What a joke," he giggled.

Gelrod approached with a crowbar in hand. Coleridge waved him off, instead reaching by his belt and pulling up a canteen. "A drink and a nap probably sound good right about now?" he suggested.

"I was dead the moment you took me alive. I have no illusion for survival. I've been dead for years," Valruk gasped out.

Considering his unusual tolerance to pain, Coleridge took him at his word. Truth be told, he was grateful that Legatum Saeva had formed after the Mojave Campaign, and not before. The Enclave was the most advanced regime documented in the new world while stifled by its numbers, while the Legion the most numerous, disciplined and bloodthirsty while hampered by its technophobia. So, what would happen if a survivor of the last-gen Enclave somehow armed a cohort of disenfranchised legionaries with plasma weaponry? A farewell for any sense of stability the Unclaimed Wastes would see in a generation, if not more.

"Since you are dead, what's one more good deed before you pass on?" Coleridge offered. "Where is Dalton?"

"Up your ass," the meat tried to laugh.

"That's really too bad. I'd hate to have to exterminate the rest of your brothers in arms," Coleridge lied.

The meat named Valruk let out a laugh. "You are going to have bigger issues on your plate than a bunch of bannerless soldiers. The only people who despise us more than you are to the east. You and Lanius really have so much in common. Mutant-fucking degenerates, the whole lot of you!"

Coleridge stood up, holding out his canteen, and poured its contents out on top of Valruk's head. As it stung his wounds, the odor finally wafted into his nostrils. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"The humane thing," Coleridge replied as he pulled out his pistol and fired, igniting the body.

Coleridge collapsed on the sofa in the "rec room." In a past life, it had been a laundromat, now it was the current basecamp to the NCR Independent Commando Battalion, a hand-selected group of NCR Rangers, covert-ops, intelligence agents, and special forces to act within the Unclaimed Wastes as California's eyes, ears, and fangs as necessary.

Right now, some of the boys were either playing pool or cards, while some of the intel officers were fooling around with a corkboard. He watched as the picture of Valruk was crossed out. He'd been their biggest get all year, but intel couldn't pry anything out of him. He imagined that the Enclave would have had access to technologies that could mitigate resistance to interrogation, along with other assets that could solidify the NCR as the undisputed superpower of the new world, but none of that could happen until they got ahold of the man on top of the corkboard.

It was a sketchy surveillance photo of a figure firing a bright weapon into the distance. Next to it was a sketch of a man in his early sixties, scraggly beard and wild eyes making up for his otherwise unremarkable appearance. Out of all registered survivors of the Enclave in the early days of the NCR, only two remained alive since. Which made it all the more important to capture Dalton because the other one was currently politically untouchable, having just been re-elected as Vegas High Councilman. Coleridge was in no position and had no desire to go to war with California's only ally to extract someone who was only born after the Enclave fled from the west coast. For the moment.

"Sir!" Specialist Beckett announced as she continued to monitor radio chatter. "We just received a message from Shady. They lost contact with a Followers camp south of here and are requesting an investigation."

Coleridge thought for a moment. "South… south… wouldn't that take us to Fort Abandon?" Beckett nodded. "…Tell them we don't have the manpower to secure it," Coleridge said. "And we aren't risking soldiers to help some peacenik anarchists. Waste of ammo," he muttered under his breath.

"Sir," Beckett responded. "The request came from CIB. They placed an asset within the area, and that's what they lost contact with."

Coleridge scowled. The fucking California Intelligence Bureau. Their operations pretty much depended on keeping a bunch of committees back home happy, and the best way to keep them happy was to make sure the CIB was satisfied with their results and progress to put in a good enough word. Still, like all successful enterprises, why do yourself when you could outsource?

"Beckett, you got a read on the recent position of the AEG?" Coleridge asked.

Beckett pulled out a chart, glancing between it and a calendar. "I'm not sure exactly how far out they'd be."

"Gorobets is a fucking boy scout, and those marshals like to think of themselves as do-gooders," Coleridge sniffed. "Put a line through to them and let them know the situation. That'll fix it up soon enough. We got enough on our plates," he yawned as he pulled his cap over his eyes.

The procession marched up the interstate, cries of triumph echoing through the air. As the throngs of citizens gathered in celebration of the returning army, cheering as the legionaries had returned from their march against the rebelling city of San Antonio. Carbines and rifles rested uniformly on shoulders as the men marched towards the city center. Placed in the vanguard were the canis equites, the cavalry of this new Legion, and the crux of their most recent victory. Near the center of the formation, carried on the back of a flatbed trailer as it was hauled by slaves, the agitators of the rebellion were bound, awaiting their summary judgment and execution. Along with the prisoners, however, stood the man most responsible for the military success.

A seven-foot warrior clad in bloodstained armor watched impassively as his citizens and subjects came out to commemorate yet another subjugation of territory they could barely hold. The Antonionites had figured their insolence would be overlooked as Imperial Dallas turned its attention to the north and east. And as usual, the Legion's mightiest hammer had been dispatched to correct their thinking. Many people had been killed, some in battle and most by execution, as per his orders. But as much as his people wanted a victory, the Legate was in little mood to celebrate.

The ceremonies proceeded as they often did. Soldiers were rewarded for individual valor, cohorts and maniples commemorated for distinguished service, prayers and accolades offered by priestesses and quaestors, with promises of more to come from the Consulate in further weeks. When it came time for the leaders to be sentenced, it was up to the Legate to choose their execution. As ever, crucifixion was the most popular incarnation of capital punishment, followed by gladiatorial combat against the Gila. Instead, the Legate chose decapitation, to which he administered personally and without ceremony. In two minutes, all twenty prisoners were dead, and the Legate chose to retire.

In a past life, the monolithic arena had been a place of sport and celebration, so in a way, it continued its tradition and purpose. Now, instead of merely athletic honors, it celebrated martial pride. This was where the finest legionaries trained, where honor could be won back, where justice could be carried out, all to the roar of the crowd. It was also where they… he lived, the Legate thought to himself.

Two of his honor guard strolled down the stairway as they laughed and joked to themselves. "The Legate is a lucky man," one snickered. "Highest honors, best gear, and the choicest morsels."

"What I wouldn't give to be an extra foot taller," his partner concurred. "Strong and popular, no wonder Scorpio is so shameless with his brown-nosing. Can you blame him?" he giggled. They both bumped into the Legate, seeing as they had been so engrossed in their conversation they had not noticed that their master had returned so early. They both gazed upon the bull-helm of the Legate, horns jutting towards them as the snarling visage of a mighty auroch glared the two down, towering over both men even as he was beneath them on the stairway.

"Ave," both legionaries stated, fists to their chests. The Legate pushed through them, ignoring the salute.

"Sir!" one of them called out, and the Legate came to a halt. "We have a message from you via the proconsul," he explained as he held out a rolled-up message. The Legate snatched it from his palm, rolling it out to see what the northern conqueror saw fit to inform him of.

My most trusted and beloved blood-brother.

I hope this message reaches you upon the eve of a return from a successful campaign against the traitors. Your military prowess is worthy of emulation, and your commitment to the virtues and honor of the Empire are second to few outside the most elite of the Legions. My own campaign in the north has seen the united tribes broken before our might. The surviving warriors may make promising soldiers yet, though I may have to utilize techniques you have previously deemed antiquated. Know then thus that I have been given Caesar's blessing, as well as that of the Oracle.

Still, I would be remiss if I neglected your approval and kinship in the coming years. As such, among the tributes I have obtained, the Oracle and I have selected a most priceless gift to grace your chamber and warm your hearth. A desert jewel, if you will. The men have been ordered to gently handle its transport and are under explicit orders to not sample for their own pleasure. I hope to speak with you sometime in the near future, we have much to discuss about the coming years.

Cordially yours, Proconsul Scorpio Oklahomus

The Legate crumpled up the paper and tossed it to the ground. He continued to his chamber. "Um, my Legate, the proconsul's message…" one of his guards began to stammer.

"Burn it," the Legate snarled.

The Legate's chamber overlooked the stadium, providing the best seat in the house for those who did not participate in the games. It was often filled with important government officials and notable citizens during the games, and all other times it was the Legate's personal quarters. As much as he wanted to seek another dwelling to lick his wounds and rest his body, he could not bring himself to leave this place. It was the only home she ever knew.

He opened the doorway to the luxury box. Ignoring the gasp, he immediately walked over to the reinforced mannequin along the wall. He began by setting up his giant cleaver blade along the wall, following that by taking off his helmet, placing it on the broken head as he began unhooking his cloak. Then he began stripping off his greaves and chest plate, placing them all on the mannequin as he did. He finished with his belt, placing it on the dummy's waist as he then turned his attention to Scorpio and his mother's "gift" as she trembled in the corner.

A pair of terrified eyes peeked out from under a quilt. The Legate strolled over to her. Even if the legionaries had honored their orders, and they had lately seen the Legate unhappy enough to certainly do so, the rest of his harem had likely not made any attempts to give her a warm welcome. The Legate didn't enjoy brutalizing the physically defenseless, so he often didn't intervene with their aspirational politics.

"Stand," The Legate said.

The woman felt horror as her body betrayed her mind, rising to her feet as she gasped in apprehension. The Legate approached her and grabbed the edge of her quilt. Before she could do anything, the Legate ripped her cover from her body.

He could tell from her complexion that she had been tribal. A tanned and lean body, though quite healthy. Her hair was dark and well kept, her curly locks cascading down the small of her back. Her posture denotated that she was someone who carried herself with pride, likely a daughter of a chieftain. Any valuables on her person had likely been expropriated by her captors, as slaves were only allowed their bodies and whatever rags their masters saw fit to gift them. Scorpio offered her none, the Legate noted as she shivered under his gaze.

"Name," The Legate said.

"Kyra," she whispered as she finally tried to protect what little modesty she had left.

From this point on, Kyra was the Legate's property. She would be his servant, plaything, companion, and if the gods favored her, mother of his child. That was her fate and future. He was well within his rights to throw her on his bed and utterly ravish her body however and whenever he pleased. Perhaps in time she would accept her status, but as a slave, her consent wasn't important, let alone necessary. She seemed to realize this as she slowly lowered her hands, tears welling up in her eyes as she moved to the large bed in the other corner of the room. She let out a scream when she felt a hand grip her arm.

"I… I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I didn't mean to scream, I promise I will be good, just please don't…"

"Quiet," The Legate said.

Kyra felt her lips seal and her tongue grip the bottom of her mouth. Whenever this Legate gave her an order, she felt compelled to obey. When she was taken to this room, she had wanted to stab him, scream at him for the death of her betrothed, bait him into killing her and reunite her with her family in their ancestral hunting grounds, anything. She had been intimidated by his size and appearance, though, and learning of his reputation had dampened her resolve as she was brought closer to the chamber. Now, the formerly defiant Kyra was afraid, and did not know whether it was pride or shame that sealed her tongue.

"Do you see that other mattress over there?" the Legate asked.

On the other side of the luxury box, on the opposite corner of the chamber, was another, smaller mattress. It was neatly made, the kind of neat that came only from not having been occupied for a significant amount of time. On the walls surrounding it were pictures of rather crudely drawn animals.

"You are mine," the Legate began. "As your master, you are forbidden to be touched by anyone other than me, under penalty of death. This is the law of the Empire. Other than that, I am free to treat you as I see fit. However…" the Legate paused as his slave turned to look at him. "If you do not wish me to… partake of your body, then you may spend your nights on that mattress."

"W-Whose is that?" Kyra asked.

A flash of anger crossed the Legate's formerly sad eyes. "No one you need to concern yourself with!" he snapped. Kyra flinched, and the Legate grew softer again. "Everyone outside this chamber will respect my wishes, and I will respect yours if you choose to sleep on that mattress. Do you understand?" he asked.

He gently let go of her arm. Kyra quickly bolted for her quilt and then immediately dove for the smaller mattress. Wrapping it tightly around her body, he could still see the pair of eyes staring at him, waiting for the other sandal to drop.

"Well, you've certainly made your decision," the Legate smirked.

"…What is the catch?" Kyra eventually managed to ask.

"…I suppose it means if I bring another woman up here, you will have no choice but to watch," the Legate said as he went over to his own bed. "I can tell you won't be able to lift my sword, so don't even think about it."

"I-I wasn't!" Kyra lied.

"Breakfast is at sunrise, I hope you like meat and barley," the Legate added as he laid down on his own bed. As the hours passed and the sun sank, the Legate heard some light snoring on the other end of the room. He turned over to see Kyra curled up under her quilt. The sight pained him so much he shifted over to look out the windows. For the briefest of moments, Barabbas was able to pretend that somehow she had returned…

Costwood kept a lookout as Larain got to work on the fire. Rifle trained to the darkness, Costwood shot a look over his shoulder to see how the fire was coming along. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Larain asked as the embers began to spark.

"I am sick of freezing my nuts off in the night. I think we lost whatever was following us by now," Costwood tried to placate, gradually lowering his rifle as he moved closer to take in the heat. "We should be another day or so out from a safehouse. After that, we can reconnect with Kenzie no problem," Costwood tried to grin.

Larain took out a bag of pinyon nuts, helping himself as Costwood pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "Is that the best idea right now?" Larain asked.

"Don't you start!" Costwood snapped. "I just need to take a little bit of the edge off," he said as he took a swig.

Larain said nothing as he bit into some of the nuts. "…You think Dryx is OK?"

"He's dead by now, Rain," Costwood said, flatly and without sympathy. "I just hoped he did us some good and satisfied whatever this "SAWNEY" thing wanted and that it'll leave us the hell alone."

"He was your friend," Larain said, baffled by his partner's callousness.

"Was," Costwood emphasized. "We'll mourn when we hook up with the others. Right now, best we can do is try to relax and maybe get a little shut-eye. You want to go first or me?"

"Age before beauty," Larain leered.

"Eat shit," Costwood muttered with the faintest whiff of gratuity. As he laid his head down on his pack, Larain scanned the horizon. They were resting in the middle of a small crater, likely left by a non-nuclear blast. Most shelters had either been reclaimed by the wilderness or broken down by the Legion or scavengers for whatever reason. Nothing to worry about. The Liberty Clans could make due with whatever they had, which was more often than not very little.

Larain sat as he looked to the star-filled sky. If nothing else, this was when he felt the most peace as a wastelander. For all the excitement that came from gunfights and brawls and sleeping around, nothing satisfied him more than a quiet night in the middle of what remained of nature.

He glanced at the perimeter, thinking he managed to catch two small flickering orange orbs in the distance. He took a swig of water, now was not the time to be seeing things. He tried thinking back to the lessons his uncle had told him. Most people are trash, boy. Be careful of those who think they ain't. And never trust no mutie, for that matter. For all our flaws, at least mankind is good at sticking around. Muties tend to forget that part. They'd best be advised to be reminded.

Uncle Dalton was a rather hateful son of a bitch. Watching as the sides you were on lost wars could probably do that to a person. Lucky for him, Kenzie happened to have crossed paths with the old bastard, and in exchange for some supplies, Larain had been surrendered to Kenzie for him to rear and raise, Dalton considering his new mission "no place for no kid." Still, Larain grew up happy and educated in all things that mattered.

"Hey, Costwood," he said as he prodded the fire with a stick. Costwood grunted an affirmation of some kind. "You remember that stupid kid story Daphne used to sing to me at bedtime?"

"…Talking lizard something or other," Costwood slurred, sleepily.

"…You think that might be what we're dealing with?" Larain grinned.

"Dumb story," Costwood replied, groggily.

"C'mon, what's just one song around the campfire? Daph said if he likes the singing, he'll leave us presents every Bomb's Eve, right?" Larain goaded his partner.

"*grumble* Fuggin' Santa Claws *grumble*" was all Larain could make out.

"Play the guitar, play it again, my Johnny," Larain began. Costwood groaned as he put his hands over his head.

"Maybe you're cold, but you're so warm inside," Larain continued.

"Hate this song," Costwood muttered.

"I-I-I-I was always a fool, for my Johnny," Larain kept up. "For the one they call, Johnny Gui-"

Something landed with a thud along the ground approaching the campfire. Something roughly the size of a bowling ball, but much more tender. As it rolled to a stop, Larain caught a glimpse of it by the light of the fire. He recognized it.

"Costwood," Larain stammered, horrified.

"What now?" the older man growled as he turned over. He saw Larain pointing at something. Costwood followed until he saw Dryxon's dead eyes staring back at him, his rotting expression frozen in shock.

"FUCK!" Costwood shrieked as he bolted up and grabbed his gun. Larain drew both his pistols and backed himself against Costwood. Both men kept pace with the other as they circled around, covering the other's blind spots.

"YOU TWISTED BASTARD!" Costwood roared. "WHY NOT SHOW YOURSELF AND WE'LL SETTLE THIS LIKE MEN!"

Larain kept looking to the horizon, trying to judge which direction Dryx's head had been launched from. They had no idea who or how many they were up against, but any self-respecting Liberty Clanner would go down fighting. With Costwood, he could guarantee that they'd take someone with them, at the very least. That was when he noticed the two flickering orange orbs once more. This time, however, they had gotten much bigger.

A massive shape sprang towards them. "COSTWOOD, IT'S IN FRONT OF ME!" Larian cried as he opened up with both pistols. Costwood swung around and joined him, blasting fire into the shape as it fluttered towards them. As it filled with holes, it began to gently drift towards the ground, falling flat onto the dirt and dust as Larain and Costwood cautiously approached it. Reaching out his foot, Larain stamped on their quarry, feeling no resistance. Gingerly, he reached down to pick it up. "…It's just… a sheet of burlap…" Larain muttered as Costwood knelt down to join him. Little sooner than he did that the light of the fire behind them was suddenly blocked by a massive shadow. By the time both men turned around to see what had happened, a massive tail swung into their bodies, the force knocking both of them on their backs.

The figure before them looked like it had crawled out of Hell itself. A dark body towering over both men at ten feet tall. Its lean body rippling with a sinuous brutality as it hunched over its prey. Two orange eyes gleamed as it appraised what to do next. And a long tongue lopped outside of its gaping, fang-filled maw as drool pattered on the sand.

Both Larain and Costwood had kept their weapons. Years of discipline came back as both men turned their guns on the beast and fired what remained of their ammo at it. The monster, faster than something that size should be capable of moving, vanished before either man could come fully to their senses.

"COSTWOOD, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" Larain screamed as he got back to his feet.

"JUST FUCKING RUN!" Costwood cried as he crawled into a standing position, taking off into the darkness.

"COSTWOOD!" Larain screamed.

"SAVE YOURSELF!" was the last words he ever heard from him. The two eyes appeared before the fleeing gunner. Before Costwood had time to react, its hand swung down and skewered him with extended claws. Costwood let out a strangled scream as the monster pried his wriggling body from its fingers and forced Costwood's head into its mouth. Larain couldn't bear to watch, turning and fleeing from the sight as fast as he could run. The sound of a strangled cry as it was cut off forever would be burned into his memory.

He didn't get far enough. Something thick and heavy slammed into his back and forced him to his knees. Larain didn't get a look at it, but deep down knew exactly what the monster had done, and he didn't want to see the same look in Costwood's eyes as he saw in Dryxon. Crawling on all fours, Larain turned back just in time to see the creature mimicking him, its larger frame gaining ground as it clasped something in its mitt. Larain swung his body around, sitting up as he brought his pistol towards the monster. He fired his last bullet, to which the monster responded by blocking it with the corpse in its grasp, the shell sinking into Costwood's decapitated body. The monster then disregarded its prize as it sprang forth onto Larain, digging a single finger through Larain's shoulder, skewering him through the muscle and out the back. Larain let out a cry as the monster brought him to its face, its bloody mouth open and salivating.

"…hehehe… hehehehehe… little humies is always lots o fun," the monster, honest to god, giggled.

The shock and pain froze Larain as he tried to comprehend what was happening.

"Stills, I gots to shut ya ups, seeings as I's can't stand that song," the beast hissed. "The Old Papa don't mean little to me no mo. And he don't like me much none no mo, neither. Clutch Killa, Clutch Killa, that's what they says abouts me," the monster mocked. "Tell me, little humie, you gots brothas n' sistas?" it asked.

"Please," Larain begged. "Don't kill me."

"I asks yuz a questions, I spect an ansa!" The monster snapped.

"No!" Larain screamed without breath.

"You is a lucky one. I used to have lots of kin. Now its just down to me and three othas," the monster grinned. "The strongest and smartest ones, but theys ain't stronger or smarterer than me. Still, bests I be killing them before the Old Papa catch me, I can't be thinking bout doing anything that… uh… what's that one humie word?" he pondered as he began dragging Larain with him. "Wreklass! Dats the one!" the beast smiled as he parked his body over Costwood's corpse.

"Now, as weak and elplass as you humies usually are, you gots great ideas," the beast nodded in respect. "Like leaving meats out to attack bigger meats. Dat's what I's be usin you for. Baits," it explained as he slammed his foot down onto Larain's back. He let out a scream, the pressure almost suffocating him as he gasped for air. The monster, meanwhile, grabbed ahold of the rest of Costwood's corpse, picking it up and sniffing it. "Older humie. I usually like the younger ones, nicer and mo tender but," the monster snapped Costwood's spine against its knee. "Sawney never was no picky eater," the deathclaw explained as it brought forth the burst stomach to its lips and began to shuck the innards.

Excerpt from the Judicial Marshal Basic Training Guide and Manual

Deathclaws: Prefered solutions: .50 MG round from a distance of eight hundred yards or greater. Ribs or lungs for maximum effect. Four-man team when engaging individuals, for packs radio Nellis. Alternative solutions: Heavy explosives, remote preferred. Poison discouraged due to risk of ecological mutation. Regarding potential melee engagement: return this book to your instructor and leave -Deputy Chief Craig Boone