Number Nine

by Hija de la Tempestad

Vulpes Inculta is tasked with contacting Courier Six who, besides not being what the Legion might need in the upcoming battle for the Dam, is more interested in adding him to her ragtag group than playing politics. Vulpes thinks he has played this same old game countless times... until he finds that he might be enjoying what she offers. That's when shit starts hitting the fan.

43. Dust it off

"Number Nine"

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Ch. 43: Dust it off.

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Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to cannibalism, pedophilia, sexual slavery (and slavery in general), pregnancy depression, viral experimentation, and deadly 'games' (aka, torture, even if assimilated as a game) such as Russian Roulette. Tread with caution.

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"Hold your memory for a moment with a blind hand,
write some stories for tomorrow,
from the bottle of amnesia.
Find instructions, to salvation, to oblivion, supreme.

Don't be tempted to look back,
it has all happened before."

- The Dø, "Dust it off"

---

Primus Decano Alexus had woken up pissed off that morning.

It was that time of the month. Again.

Since Gabban had injected the Decanus with that RadAway crap by vein, Alexus' unfortunate reminder that the body inhabited didn't agree with the soul inside of it had come back with a vengeance.

It wasn't like enduring five days of utter shit and cramps were something Alexus wasn't familiarized with, but still… the Decanus couldn't help but feel that radiation poisoning couldn't be that bad if it helped in getting rid of something as annoying as humiliating as having to ask for anti-inflammatory herbs to the Medicae with the weak excuse of undergoing extra training.

Training that Alexus still did, nonetheless, so the bruises would disguise the request's true nature.

The only Medica who knew about the deal was Siri, who had this weird preference for Vulpes (yeah, Vulpes, of all people), whom she treated as if he were a cute little kid asking his mama to help with scratched knees.

Thus, by extension, whatever Vulpes asked her to do, she would.

It wasn't like many slave women didn't have a favorite legionary they chose to spend time with. Usually, one with some semblance of authority or even seniority. Alexus had gotten a couple of offers here and there since getting a promotion to Decanus… offers that had been a tad embarrassing but quite understandable in the end. It was a survival tactic that guaranteed them slaves a guardian that would repel the vast majority of The Fort's horndogs who were so fucking lazy they needed extra hands to help them to jerk off.

But very few actually treated those men as if they were their sons.

Eight-year-old Tirones? Sure. Women often found kids cute and all that stuff. Besides, many of those kids were their actual sons in some cases, so it wasn't weird for The Fort's female population to orbit around the children's barracks, sometimes even for the mere sake of shaking off a stalker for an hour or two. No respectable legionary would dare to accost a slave for sexual favors in front of the children, even if it wasn't strictly forbidden. Not if they didn't want to piss off Praefectus Praetor Lucius, who was quite sensitive about anything that had to do with children.

Treating a child like a child was perfectly understandable.

But guys that weren't teenagers, at the very least? First of all, very few camp slave women reached their thirties, much less their forties at all.

Their work was hard, their rations were enough to keep them alive but never sated (unless they were pregnant, that is), and their bodies tended to give up after the fifth or sixth child they bore… if they survived childbirth, that is.

So, the ones who reached maturity were either barren or unusually resilient.

Rations stopped coming their way once they reached their fifties, their strength began to falter, and the men deemed them attractive no more. If nobody purchased them, they eventually died out of a combination of fatigue and starvation.

This meant that legionaries either had their mommas at home, taking care of the offspring they recognized as theirs, or they didn't have mommas at all.

Siri was already in her forties and too well-kept for her age, which signaled her as probably barren.

The fact that she would want a child wasn't aberrant per se… what Alexus found aberrant was that she had chosen an ass-grown dude who wouldn't touch a woman (or a man, for all intents and purposes) even with a ten-feet pole and was so allergic to any form of human contact that wasn't his family, that any sort of approach on the sentimental side would be straight pointless.

Maybe she hoped he would purchase her as a cleaning lady for his house or something. Whatever. It was weird, and nothing would convince Alexus on the contrary.

Still, having her on their side had its uses. Uses the Decanus intended to put into motion as soon as the darkness would arrive so nobody would suspect a thing.

Meanwhile, Alexus was stuck with radio duty. Duty totally asked for, but boring as hell.

Since the last radio transmission from the Frumentarii two days ago, Alexus had been on edge.

An unknown signal that later was revealed to be Vulpes' pre-War toy (yeah, that weird luminous gauntlet with a screen the Courier, apparently, had given him for being pretty or something) had first asked for reinforcements near Kingman Wash Access Rd. (one hell of a sensitive, dangerous area given its proximity to Hoover Dam), then he quickly had corrected himself by merely asking for more Speculatores to watch over the Hoover Dam Bypass, since he'll be attempting an evasion maneuver.

Then, nothing. Not a single more communication despite the reports from the Speculatores saying there had been something off at the Dam later that day.

Neither Cato Hostilius nor Erasmus had made contact yet to clarify the situation, and Alexus' temper was growing shorter the more time passed without any news from Vulpes or the guys.

Or the Courier, who had caused such an uproar during her short stay at Fortification Hill.

Alexus liked the Courier. She was someone the gruffy Decanus could respect, someone worthy of their brother.

Someone who had proven that women could be warriors too, someone clever and flexible enough to understand and honor their customs.

Someone who had embodied what half of these retards, who were so into NCR soldier women they could die, were hoping and drooling for: a woman who wouldn't wait to be conquered but went straight to conquer a man.

That was fucking romantic, and not all that poem crap written in Vulpes' nerdy books. At least in Alexus' opinion.

In fact, the Decanus had one of those very books on the lap, having grown bored to death after perusing its contents for the umpteenth time.

All of the Ancient Farts were at fault for being less agile and exciting than an arthritic brahmin cow.

Virgil was stupid. Ovid was cheesy. Catullus was dirty. Plato was a little whiny bitch. Homer was okay…

"Hey, HEY! You gonna read that, or can I have a fucking book to read in this bloody heat?!"

And Alexus' Ranger slave was annoying. VERY annoying.

Stella had been insufferable as of late. And impertinent. And boisterous.

She had gotten tendinitis on her right hand at her last arena match, and the Medicae had instructed cataplasms and absolute rest until the swelling went down.

With very little to do, the woman's new pastime was to keep bothering the Decanus relentlessly with that insolent tongue of hers.

A little bit of bantering was okay. Bantering 24/7 was a very different matter, especially when a slave that doesn't know her place keeps demanding privileges, such as reading, that Vulpes wouldn't take too kindly, since the books were his property.

If one of those stupid books got damaged, Alexus wouldn't hear the end of it as soon as their stiffy brother would come back.

Because Vulpes would come back. And Gabban. And the Courier.

"Bet you cannot even read it. I saw you struggling a while ago. Do the Legion teach all the legionnaires to read or just their top dogs?"

… And Alexus was going to strangle Stella. Hard.

"I can teach you to read. Is not like I have anything better to do anyway."

Turning violently toward the impudent woman, face red from a combination of anger and heatstroke, no matter the radio post having a roof, Alexus let all the frustration, worries, and hidden fears go out as soon as they started yelling at one another:

"Shut your goddamned mouth!" - the Decanus bellowed, index finger pointing at her accusatorily – "The fucking Republic has its citizens so fucking brainwashed they think the Legion are a bunch of fucking illiterate primitives that cannot tell their head from their ass, huh?! Sorry to disappoint you, Ranger, but the actual illiterates are all the junkies, gamblers, whores, thieves, and beggars that populate fucking New Reno that are, like, what, a third of your fucking population?!"

Angry as well, Stella didn't back off at all.

"FUCK YOU!" – she yelled back, pointing her index to Alexus as well – "If you haven't taken a shit this morning, that's not my fucking problem! Just because I offered to help you out, of all things!"

"Oh, yeah?! I couldn't hear any offer amidst so much crappy condescension!"

"I am chained 24/7 to your brute ass, and that's the best you can come up with?! If I have to follow you around like a dog, you fucking endure a dog's barking like a fucking man!"

That's it. Alexus was done with her. Couldn't take a single minute more having her around.

It was either this or going nuts. Or killing her, which would serve no other purpose than demonstrating that she, in the end, was right about how the Legion treated women.

"¡Me cago en todo lo que se menea!" (1) – Spanish had filled the Decanus' mouth before regaining self-control – "You wanna move around without me?! FINE!" – Alexus said, reprogramming the remote for her shock anklet – "See this?!" – the Decanus asked, showing her the digital numbers on the remote's tiny screen – "Two fucking thousand feet radius! All for you!"

Alexus didn't know what the hell was expected, for all Stella could do was giving the device a blank, incredibly dumb stare.

"Huh?" – she asked once she reacted – "What the- is this a bloody trap or what?!"

"No, you goddamned twit!" – Alexus yelled, exasperated – "I'm giving you a longer leash!" – making a shushing gesture while turning to the radio again, the Decanus added – "Get out of my fucking face before I act on my impulses and skin your stupid ass alive!"

If the radio post had had a door, Alexus was sure Stella would have slammed it as hard as they wanted to strangle the other with each's guts.

And the cramps had gotten fucking worse. Urgh…

---

He had slept maybe a couple of hours while waiting for the radstorm to sweep away past the Colorado.

The shack at the wind farm had barely resisted the strong western winds, creaking at so many places that the noise had already gotten so drilled into his brain that he could still hear it from time to time, threatening to burst into a million of old, dry wooden splinters.

Or maybe that had been his imagination, lost in an entirely parallel dimension, letting the roar outside fade as he had observed one of the worst cracks on the precarious, derelict structure bleed glowing particles from time to time. Flying high from the ground, dispersing into thin dust.

It had been strangely beautiful in a way. To the point he had forgotten to touch his dwindling cigarette pack until now, lighting the tiny cylinder with a long fat match as they kept marching on through the desert, taking that glorious small huff that carried a taste of burned old tires, coating his tongue with that pervasive shitty tang.

Nicotine helped him think when he was this groggy, gave him that sharp edge to concentrate.

One of the troopers had an ugly gash on his forehead that he had dressed in a hurry after leaving Nelson. The wound had stopped bleeding a while ago, but now there was a black, wet slit peeking between the bandages, like a small gaping mouth voicing a secret for only him to hear.

Boone could recognize infected blood anytime, anywhere, but he wasn't giving the guy a Stimpak. They didn't have many at hand, and a closed wound wouldn't do any good if there was infected, swollen tissue underneath.

Best thing they could do at the moment was endure until they reached Novac.

Then, if they managed to emerge victorious from their impending encounter with the Reds, they could always ask for purified water to clean the wound, Med-X for the pain, and a cattle brand they could heat up in a campfire to disinfect and seal the wound. He wouldn't trust the local medic to have sterilized, foolproof tools at hand for the life of him.

And, even if the guy died out of sepsis, you couldn't give more of a crap about it.

He didn't feel too inclined to choose a frontal attack once the town would be in sight. Ranged attacks had worked at Hoover Dam five years ago. The Reds favored close-quarters combat.

You'd rather feign that everything's okay instead of confronting a problem. That, or pretending that said problem doesn't exist in the first place.

True they had improved their arsenal at the expense of raiding supply NCR caravans, but they still preferred a machete or a chainsaw over a gun.

You were always good at pretending. When your mother died; when you shot a man for the first time with the Khans; when Bitter Springs; when Carla was taken and Manny didn't even bother playing the friend part… You are so good at lying that you don't know where the lie ends and the truth starts. You have been living numbing the pain away for so long that you lack compassion. Even for yourself.

Tackling the situation from the Toxic Dump Site required dealing with a handful of golden geckos first, so he had scratched that out right from the start.

You didn't even show anger or sadness when…

Maybe they could enter sideways through the Old Lady Gibson scrapyard? Seemed like a safer bet. The old lady wouldn't even bat a lash as long as they left her dogs in peace.

"What do you want, Craig?!"

If… if they only…

"I don't want any damn flowers! Just look at me! I feel disgusting… I AM disgusting! I don't deserve any flowers. My hair is greasy, I am fat, I've got purple stretch marks all over me, and my legs are bloated! I look like a monster…"

… Asked her and didn't trample all over her business…

"I cannot get out of the apartment, even by night… you don't know the looks the people here have been giving me the last weeks. There is always some idiot smoking out there or chatting with a neighbor. It is as if they are waiting to get a glimpse, the rotting bastards…"

… Then, maybe she…

"W-what are you looking at? Get the hell out of here! Leave me alone already! I'm no use to anyone, anyway. I got no job, no money, and no energy even to do some decent cooking. All I swallow is pre-packaged trash, which is getting me fatter and more disgusting by the day."

She…

"Are you still here?! I told you to go! Are you deaf?!"

God… he should have never moved Carla from Vegas. He could have asked for a job at the Embassy, so both of them could have afforded a decent room at Vault 21.

"Craig… wait… Please… don't go! Stay with me… don't leave me alone! I didn't mean what I said! I'm sorry!"

But he had known she was too good for him. Too beautiful, too lively in contrast to him, quiet and somber.

"Please, Craig…! Tell me I'll be okay… Tell me you don't hate me… Tell me we are okay…!"

He hadn't been able to stand her job at The Tops, with all those rich guys making passes at her, inviting her to cocktails she hadn't asked for, giving her extra tips, and promising the sun and the moon.

"Craig!"

He had known a girl like her would eventually grow tired of a guy like him.

"CRAIG!"

And she did.

"We have 'em within shooting range." – Astor, he believed the guy was called, told him, passing the binoculars, which Boone took on instinct. His whole left arm burning with that imaginary itching that kept triggering the more his traitorous mind went where he ordered it not to.

It had been like this since McCarran, when the Monorail blew up.

Somehow, while his mind had been drifting away, his body had followed formation mechanically, finding a hiding spot at the opposite end of the bridge as soon as they spotted red on the horizon.

The fuckers didn't even bother with subtlety, carrying one of those damnable banners in gold and red with that fucking bull as they harassed people up the T-Rex.

Adjusting the binoculars, Boone targeted the giant lizard's mouth.

Andy and Dusty McBride were taking potshots between the dino's teeth while Manny had somehow gotten atop its head, belly down and rifle's nozzle prepped, wasting ammo stupidly per usual.

He was a good spotter but a mediocre sniper.

Boone was briefly tempted to let another ten minutes pass, see if the idiot ran out of ammo, until Astor's hand came down on his shoulder.

"Strategy?" – he asked expectantly.

Boone said nothing, assembling his rifle's bipod and sinking it in a cleared spot between rocks.

"Go for the heads." – was all he said before framing target and pulling the trigger.

---

"So." – the mouthy Centurion Six wasn't one bit fond of, opened his mouth as soon as he deemed the coast clear enough. His silly combination of a servos with the red-plumed helmet of his deceased Legion armor gave him a most ridiculous appearance, in the girl's humble opinion. The man, apparently, couldn't stand closed helmets – "How much more until we see a real fight here instead of playing plague-controlling?"

He had asked that very question while shaking off bloodied remnants of a Centaur from his Armor's fist.

To say that these guys learn quickly would be an understatement.

Basic Power Armor training took around a week, while advanced training could extend to months on end.

If still somewhat stiff and robotic in their movements, the average legionary was able to master the basic training in just a matter of hours.

Maybe Eddie Sallow was a megalomaniac asshole with zero scruples and no regard for human life whatsoever… but his soldiers were something else.

Zorro… Vulpes, who was adamant about kicking every single abomination after defeat to make sure they were really dead, crushed the twitching head still swinging a tentacle-like appendage weakly on the ground under his foot.

"Did you know that Centaur blood can fetch a decent sum on the right markets, Centurion?" - he asked out of the blue, which immediately put the burly man on alert mode.

"What?!" – he asked, evidently puzzled and also apparently disgusted, shaking his fist more emphatically – "What does that have to do with what I've said?"

"Absolutely nothing." – her legionary replied, tone monochord – "I'm merely illustrating the point of asking questions nobody cares about: completely useless."

Owchie.

Six bet having to swallow oneself pride around a superior as recalcitrant as him was what made the rest of the soldiery so bitter. People usually adapt better to threats and violence rather than being talked down on a daily basis.

And the Savage Fox liked to preach virtue and common sense whenever he got the chance. And that happened way too often, if one asked Six.

Since they had abandoned the hidden supply cave and taken their steps Northwest, crossing the whole McCullough Mountain range to avoid Nipton at the Southwest, Zo… Vulpes had kept nagging the men about this and that, always finding something to be displeased about their formations or how they held their weapons, not tolerating a single distraction and berating them whenever they decided to make small talk among themselves.

And he did so with a permanent sour face that was making even Six uncomfortable. As if he had swallowed a bucket of lemons.

Probably he himself wasn't aware of this, given his somewhat autistic tendencies regarding how disconnected his body language and flat voice intonation were compared to his actual feelings and spoken words.

She already had witnessed some of this disconnection at Fortification Hill, especially in how both Sallow and the Commander Praetorian had treated him. Almost as if he were an exotic animal, a rarity they didn't have much of a choice but to have around, given his competencies.

A rarity they tolerated because his usefulness weighed way more than how annoying he could turn after running his mouth for more than five minutes straight.

It happens when a tribal is much more verbally agile than a narcissistic megalomaniac who feeds his ego by looking down on tribal people. If there was a trigger her Fox kept enabling even without meaning it in front of Sallow, that was how easily he could turn the dialogue tide in his favor.

Around Sallow, it was safer to downplay your act a notch, just enough to feed his sense of self-importance while keeping him interested.

It was a precarious balance she had mastered with Burke. After all, it had been the grey-eyed devil the one who had trained her to read body language and navigate social situations.

And narcissists were easy to please via adulation so long as you keep yourself far enough from their schemes while, at the same time, getting something out of them one step at a time.

That's called manipulation. Something she was acutely aware the Master Frumentarius excelled at. After all, one of the reasons she liked him so much was because he wasn't gullible or stupid.

Then why the servility? Why the special treatment? Humility only served to swell Sallow's ego, turning his arrogance dial up to the infinite and beyond. She had tested it firsthand.

Perhaps the main difference between Zorro… no, Vulpes and her was how they perceived the dictator: while she saw him as what he was and would never entertain the notion of him being a sort of a divine vessel, since she was agnostic at best… perhaps her handsome legionary, no matter how intelligent and cultured, still believed Sallow to be superior to anyone else in many ways.

After all, Eddie and his Followers' goons had been the ones sequestering, restructuring, and dictating his and his family's lives for who knows how many years.

Knowing this, she couldn't honestly blame him for trying (and failing miserably) to impress his Lord with everything he had to offer.

Same as the rest of these guys, the mouthy Centurion included, who were so proud of wearing Legion colors that, whoever posed an obstacle between them and Caesar's acknowledging, automatically turned into a target of their contempt.

The Commander Praetorian was a prime example of this philosophy, drawing a hierarchical line between him and Vulpes so tight that all the favor his seniority position granted him from the soldiery would never waver in front of someone he evidently viewed as too young and too sly to wield any sort of power.

The Master Spy's complicated, almost pontifical oratory didn't help much on the matter, to be perfectly honest.

Seeing him now surrounded by men sharing his profession that weren't Frumentarii - thus, used to his peculiarities and definitely loyal to him -, Six was starting to detect the overall annoyance, fear, and antipathy many of the recruits seemingly felt toward him.

Small frowning gestures, dissatisfied miens, unhappy grunts, nerve tics, and, above all, systematic avoidance. The farther they were from him, the more relaxed they were.

The Centurion and his men saw him as a necessary evil, and they didn't pursue enmity with him due to a half-assed sense of duty and gratitude, not because they trusted him.

Not because they accepted him as their Commander.

Ultimately, no matter how stripped from their identities Sallow's rule had turned them, legionaries weren't that different from how the Bear Army's internal politics worked with its soldiers: if you were close to the President/tyrant, your word was law. If you didn't abide by the higher echelons' whims or were perceived as problematic or too 'free-spirited', you were either labeled as a radical or, if you were still useful, you were given the shittiest posts while half of the army saw you as an annoying idiot.

In that regard, the Brotherhood of Steel's command structures, governed by the Chain That Binds and the partial segregation between Paladins and Scribes so none of them interfered in each other's business, made a much more utilitarian society… albeit too rigid and isolationist to endure the pass of time.

Still, they were the ones she had felt more at ease around.

But these Legion guys? As Erasmus had referred to them, they were a bunch of muscular, gorgeous brutes that ate four times the rations she ate.

The Centurion, in particular, didn't munch up food but gobbled it up like a humongous, stinky turkey.

And speaking of gobbling up things…

"Chases-Bugs thinks we could take some Centaur meat for lunch's pot." – Bug Boy, one of the most voracious of the bunch, spoke out while poking one of the meaty corpses with his machete. Their inching closer to Jack Rabbit Springs had made confrontations with irradiated abominations much more frequent – "Some parts look tender and good."

Anybody would have disregarded such an aberrant suggestion as mere mindless gluttony coming from a hungry teenager… but the Commander Frumentarius had other ideas when he got out of his Power Armor violently and turned around to give a cold glare to the unfortunate legionary.

"You there." – he said, voice deadly calm, sharp as a knife – "Approach, legionary."

Bug Boy gave the Centurion, then the Commander, a wide-eyed stare that the first simply ignored and the second met with a severity that made the already subdued teen do as he was ordered with a crestfallen mien.

Vulpes grabbed him by the scruff as if he were a dog and forced him to kneel next to one of the less gutted-out corpses.

"Do tell me, legionary." – he said, pointing with his free hand toward the monstrosity's numerous limbs – "What are those?"

Being a byproduct of careless experimentation with the Forced Evolutionary Virus, Centaurs retained quite a few traits from the original experimentation materials: several animal species…

"H-hands, sir?"

… And humans.

"Correct. Those are hands, indeed." – Zorro… (No! Vulpes, Vulpes, Vulpes! When was her faulty brain going to address him correctly, damnit?!) pressed – "Which type of hands, legionary?"

"H-human?"

"Excellent." – the Commander praised without an ounce of actual praise in his vocal intonation – "Now, please, take a good look at this and tell me what you see." – he added, grabbing one of the monster's heads and turning its malformed face towards a now extremely pale Bug Boy – "What is this, legionary?"

While evolved Centaurs typically had one head, regular ones usually sported two. And the most frightening thing about them was that those heads were in a constant struggle to see which one held control over the shared body.

The monstrosity the evidently affronted Master Spy was holding in his hand had a canine head and a vaguely human one, given the multiple old bite scars it had all over its tortured features. And he wasn't holding the canine's.

"S-sir?" – Bug Boy stuttered, clearly at two minds regarding his previous statement as he took a good look at the bloodshot, dead eyes of the mutant.

"Would you eat a supermutant?" – Vulpes asked again, his otherwise pretty blue eyes getting darker by the second – "A ghoul?" – he hissed, earning confused, horrified glances from the ghoulified legionaries – "Are you a cannibal, legionary?"

And Six didn't know why, but a sudden chill ran down her spine when she saw the Centurion's darkened visage, his murky, hungry eyes fixed upon the bloated, deformed amalgam of bicephalous flesh with protruding vertebrae, tumors everywhere, tentacle-like appendages, and six human arms for legs.

Seeing that Bug Boy wouldn't answer him, having successfully fallen into the visceral chain reaction no doubt the Fox had wanted to elicit among them, Vulpes released the teen from his grasp and got up again.

"I don't care what your respective tribal backgrounds may be, and I even care less about what you do in private." – the Praefectus Frumentario declared to all of the present men, voice dispassionate but strangely incensed, just as he had been at Nipton – "But do NOT spread cannibalistic tendencies among the rest. No matter how inhuman these…" – he grimaced, spitting the word in distaste – "… Sextupeds might look. If they sport human characteristics, by Caesar's Law, they aren't edible." – he sentenced – "If you choose to disregard my warning and end up getting radiation poisoning, tremors, or any sort of intestinal parasites from eating what you shouldn't, I will not be wasting medical resources on you. If you decide to throw a single slice of flesh in place of meat in our common pot, I will crucify your sorry hides upside down. Understood?"

"B-besides…" – she dared to intervene, wishing nothing but to dispel the tension among the guys, who looked even more stressed upon hearing her – "Mutants are riddled with viruses." – okay, yes and no. Once dead, the megavirus, intertwined with the host's DNA, died too, so mort mutant flesh should be as 'harmless' as regular human one – "If you eat one, you'll likely get infected…" – gosh, she knew she probably was making things worse until Erasmus came to her rescue.

"Yeah, like the flu, you know?" – he said too casually, grasping the attention of some of them – "Only that, instead of sneezing and getting a fever, you turn into a mutie too."

Funnily enough, that entirely baseless argument seemed to suffice even to the Centurion, who seemed wholly disgusted by the notion, effectively toning down the general mood.

Opinions, however, seemed kind of divided regarding cannibalism if the ashamed, avoidant gazes of a handful of the men as they picked up their weapons and got into formation again were any measure to go by.

Which, hella capella, was incredibly creepy.

While cannibalism hadn't been a topic you had even to explain in the pre-War, two hundred years later, the issue was something so common and prevalent among many American Wasteland societies, same as slavery, that those who aspired to some semblance of civilization shunned the practices as soon as legislations and morals got rooted with the new generations coming.

But the Legion, apparently, simply chose to turn a blind eye to such things as long as it didn't interfere with their agenda.

While what her handsome (and chilling) legionary had stated could be perceived by a less observant listener as a moral, chivalrous discourse, Six could read all too well between sentences.

The more she imbued herself with Legion customs, the more she saw how savage they were and how lacking they felt in social awareness compared to the NCR.

While they were perhaps the best soldier material she had seen in a long time, even better than the very Talon Company, their moral values were incredibly flawed when they were taken out of the narrowminded, Spartan mold their Lord had forced upon them.

And the problem was that they didn't see anything wrong with it. They couldn't even process why they would be in the wrong when the ones they got recriminations from were weaker, ergo inferior, societies than theirs. If anything, in comparison, YOU were the one proved wrong when their reality crashed with yours.

During training, they had been paying attention until they had gotten to test the Armors by themselves. Then, they had gone King Kong for a while around the cave until she had gotten inside one of the servos and punched and toppled a few of them so they would pay attention again.

They hadn't liked that one bit. Some had even tried to get back at her until she had subdued their tantrums down back to practical training. Many had learned a trick or two after having gotten their ass kicked.

That had given her candy points with the Centurion, who seemingly enjoyed power demonstrations even at the expense of him being the one biting the dust.

The more you beat Legion guys down, as long as it's respectful, the more you integrate with them. Sort of. Because you still had tits and had to act cute at the end of the day.

They had demonstrated that much when they had immediately assumed she would be the one cooking from now on.

"You don't wanna eat anything I would cook, trust me." – she had told the demanding Glowing One, who had been a Slavemaster before turning into a night lamp and thought he could boss her around – "Unless you can turn radioactive gastritis into a lethal attack against enemies."

Luckily for her, they hadn't known ghouls could as much as eat raw radroach meat without batting a lash.

After that, they had been really quick in offering themselves to cook in her place.

As the beautiful slave woman in the medical tent had told her days ago, these guys couldn't respect what they didn't fear.

Throw some punches and threats into the mix, and they will acknowledge your existence. But that wasn't enough.

In fact, she believed she had to catch them low-guarded and give them a good fright so they would stop seeing her as their Commander's Profligate chick.

At least said Commander didn't treat her like a doll, letting her pick her battles among the men, giving warning glares from time to time when they crossed the line but, other than that, remaining silent as he observed her carve her way.

Nevertheless, it was at moments like these that she missed her friends very dearly when she noticed she couldn't even go without Rex to do her business behind a rock.

There were eyes everywhere.

And that slimy blonde-redhead with the squeaky voice that had joined them, contrary to how the other Frumentarii behaved around her, didn't hold a grain of sympathy for her.

He had demonstrated abundantly so when everybody had been packing, and she had wanted to relieve herself outside the cave.

As soon as liquid relief had ensued (yeah, she had gone to pee, so what?), Rex had begun to growl menacingly at a hidden point behind the tall, hollow rock.

That had been when she had seen the slim shadow of the man projecting onto the sand on the opposite side as hers, leaning against the rock with his arms crossed as if conceding her a mockery of privacy.

Her relief had stopped abruptly, letting her tethering between half-satisfied, half-frustrated unfulfillment.

"Can I help you?" – she had asked, unmoving, unflinching, knowing the dog wouldn't growl if the guy weren't up to no good.

"So polite! So nice!" - the little man had exclaimed, his irritating voice barely a whisper, which told her he had been aware this kind of behavior was off-limits – "Truly, 'Caesar's wife must be above reproach'. And she delivers, indeed."

She hadn't liked the phrase or its implications. But Six was an expert at playing stupid.

"I'm afraid you misunderstood." - she had replied casually – "I am not Caesar's wife, nor I intend to become her. Even if we won Hoover Dam over."

The man had laughed a tiny, ugly kettle laugh.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not." – he had conceded, aware that neither of them was that oblivious to the other's intentions, circling the conversation like vultures – "After all, power isn't all the Legion has to offer to all the ladies out there, hmmm?" – again, his implications had been obscure while, at the same time, disgustingly explicit – "But the smart, smart Tabellaria surely understands the dignity her position must uphold while on the road, yes?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you certainly are jesting with this poor servant!" - he had exclaimed, as if he had just cracked a joke she just wasn't privy to – "A position like yours isn't attainable by merely acting all sweet and submissive around powerful men, or else a collar would be adorning that pale neck already." – as he kept talking, his voice had darkened, fluctuating between mellifluous and something she had dared not pinpointing, lest her instinct made her flee as much as round the stone and punch the creep in the face – "Oh, no. Getting our Lord's recognition requires being loud and bold above else… and such advertising does happen to go through the Frumentarii Order first." – he snickered again – "If you do not impress the Commander, you do not impress Caesar."

She had been forced to navigate their talk carefully, for this one, while apparently lauding her achievements, wasn't precisely there to tell her what she already knew.

And he liked talking in circles. Going straight to the point wasn't an option if she wanted answers from him.

She had to play his game.

"You seem to hold your Commander in high esteem." – she had replied astutely in kind, earning an approving high-pitched nasal sound – "Are you worried I might tarnish his reputation with improper behavior?"

"As expected, the Tabellaria is a fast learner." – he had conceded – "The Legion does reward fast learning, indeed… Alas, a recipient's intelligence is only comparable to the degree of instability their position gets over time." – humming slightly, he added – "The same as some rewards, while prettily wrapped in soft, shiny fabric, might hide a crack beneath."

"In your opinion, should I consider myself the rewarded one or the reward itself here?"

"Both and neither." – dropping his voice so dramatically that a shiver had coursed through her spine, he had declared – "No matter which game the Tabellaria plays, for the crack, sadly, would do no favors to either recipient. And this one, you see, is a rigged game right from the very start."

She had almost choked on her own saliva at that moment, effectively creeped out that Benny's words had found their way out of the lips of yet another hostile.

What this guy had wanted had been quite the mystery for her.

For, while she had understood Gabban's mistrust, she couldn't quite grasp what this histrionic, sharp-witted little man that showed no apparent shared kinship with the Fox held against her.

"It wouldn't do any harm, then, to know the rules of the game." – she had attempted negotiation, hopeful he would shed some light on his veiled antagonism – "Any words of wisdom?"

"Oh, this poor servant wouldn't dare to tell a messenger of the gods how to act." – he had replied nonchalantly instead, which had annoyed her a little. He had made it look as if their conversation didn't carry the weight she gave it in her head. As if making her feel like a cornered squirrel was all a game for him – "After a short while, true ladies of the Legion are pretty swift on grasping what is expected of them and which conducts they ought to observe." – he had added, his shadow ungluing its back from the rock – "Nevertheless, our Commander has faith in you. This servant is sure disappointment is way out of the question regarding the Tabellaria's performance."

And so, as fast as he had arrived, he had left her alone again, knickers still around her trembling ankles, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable after a conversation that could have been conducted smoothly if only he hadn't caught her that defenseless and had stated his business straightforwardly instead of playing cryptic.

And now, she had to unravel the myriad of possible meanings his words had carried.

In short, he had basically told her to behave herself and not to bring shame upon Fox-Man's name.

Which probably did include NOT threatening the men with food poisoning if they felt like exercising their legionaries' rights over her by telling her to cook even if she was the one training them.

Which would be like giving in. Which she couldn't afford right now.

Urgh. Why couldn't she teleport to the Lucky 38, take a hot shower, eat a box of microwave fries, and go to bed for a day or two? Kind of?

"Breathing masks on, everyone." – Vul… pes instructed to the legionaries not wearing Power Armor, even the ghouls, as soon as he took a peek through his binoculars – "Radioactive waste ahead."

He wouldn't even have had to order so, for several feet ahead, a dense, insalubrious fog of green filth greeted them as soon as their trip took them downside the mountain range.

Many even put on goggles and covered their exposed neck flesh with rags the moment they saw the glowing spots permeating the atmosphere.

The air grew fetid as they penetrated the thick fog while Six's Geiger Counter began beeping at alarming rates.

Then, more Centaurs.

"We are going to clean up the area at this rate." – Gabban opined after chopping the two heads of one of the abominations clean with a machete. The tentacle-like appendages under its belly still contorting disgustingly after its death.

"As long as we don't run into a supermutant…" – Erasmus replied.

And how Six wished he wouldn't have opened his mouth at all.

Jack Rabbit Springs, as its name indicated, besides being an area that posed some difficulty to navigate given the constant ups and downs of the hills that often disembogued into pools of polluted water, had quite a few nooks and crannies one couldn't quite make clearly amidst the thick putrid fog.

When she noticed the red dot in her Pip-Boy's navigation interface, it had been too late.

The earth had trembled as if breathing heavily, once, twice. Then, a violent cloud of dust had risen from the very ground, making some of the men take a step back, looking nervously at each other.

By the looks on their faces, she could tell that such a phenomenon didn't ring a bell.

But for her, who had lived through the Brotherhood of Steel's rise of power on the East Coast, all the signals were there.

So, she picked up Rex – which had started growling from minute one - from the trembling ground as she had turned tail.

"What the hell is she doing?!" – the Centurion yelled as she approached their Commander at full speed, nervous cyberdog still in her arms.

"You said you've never seen a behemoth, right?" – she asked Zorro, who took several steps back in synchrony with her escaping – "Well, if you don't mind dying squished like a bug, this is your chance."

Fortunately, he didn't hesitate when he grabbed Gabban and her by their respective arms while yelling.

"RETREAT!" – he ordered, already running away – "EVERYBODY, RETREAT!"

"What do you mean by r…?!" – she heard the annoying Centurion yelling in return, his voice morphing violently from enraged to utterly terrorized – "What the… FUCK?!"

And then, the tremor was replaced by a bloodcurdling scream that was immediately followed by a deafening impact on the ground that almost made Vulpes, Gabban, and Six lose their footing.

"Run, RUN!" – Erasmus cried, running even faster than them three, followed closely by the ghouls and Bug Boy, who was already praying to Mars between clenched teeth as a towering, menacing shadow blocked the sun, engulfing them all.

And they knew without a shadow of a doubt that their survival, right now, depended on how well they had assimilated Power Armor training for the last two days.

---

Stella stomped her way out, descending the radio tower's wooden staircase with more force than was truly necessary.

The nerve of the guy! Accusing her of being brainwashed when the only brainwashed idiot here was him!

What in the actual fuck?! She had only wanted to help him read!

Assholes. With their asshole culture (or lack thereof, actually) of not accepting help from a woman just because she was a woman?!

This absurd machismo crap they were so proud of will be the very first thing that'll burst in their faces if they ever managed to get ahold of Vegas. The stupid pieces of shit were used to tribal women, who, in turn, were used to living in squalor and getting knocked up at fucking fifteen.

The moment they got ahold of more significant numbers other than petty raids on backwater towns of western women, they will be very sorry they were so sexist, for they will be presiding more executions of breeding stock than they would like, since she knew for a fact that an ass-big majority of NCR women weren't going to accept the slave treatment and they would likely end up crucified over being treated as sub-humans.

A mentality so widely accepted and encouraged by a Government doesn't change that easily from one day to the next. Even for something as basic as survival. Not when you have known something way, WAY better.

And, as for those who would feign submission, Cesar will be finding a substantial reduction in their troop's numbers when an educated doctor or two turned into healers and midwives would concoct some herbal 'remedies' that would alleviate their society from the existence of assholes the likes of the one Stella had left inside that radio post.

And then, more public executions will ensue, thus losing in the process the very ones they had sought to dominate. For an empty land is no conquer at all, but plain massacre. The message lost to those they had wanted to indoctrinate in the first place.

Never said better: what a pile of brahmin shit.

Distressed but aware that, despite her recently-acquired reputation at the arena as a vicious fighter, she still was a lonely woman amidst an encampment filled to the brim with chauvinistic pigs without many distractions to keep themselves busy when on their off-time, Stella redirected her angry trudging to the slave grounds.

At least there, she felt safer, and she had made some recent acquaintances with a woman or two that were fully English-speaking like Siri, the head amidst the caste of healers at the camp.

Socializing with someone other than the blonde idiot had been like a gush of fresh air for Stella's mental health in the last weeks since she got tendinitis. At least the few English-speaking women here were more open to dialogue due to not having the language barrier issue, thus, giving way to frustrating exchanges they couldn't allow themselves to deal with their tight schedules around the encampment.

The slaves, on a daily basis, were worked to the bone here. From cleaning, cooking, mending legionaries' tunics and equipment, and other standard housewife-related tasks so typical among patriarchal societies for the women to accomplish. There were also specific tasks assigned to particular groups, depending on their competencies, abilities, age, and gender, since there were men and children among the slave class as well.

Children – girls, mostly – took care of cattle and to bring food and water to laborers, like the little girl at the brahmin pen, Melody. Those were meant not to be heard and barely seen, so they remained mostly invisible to an untrained eye, even if you spent a whole week here.

Those girls made themselves so scarce around that Stella had only learned of their existence while going to the latrines one night and hearing a little girl crying in the cubicle beside hers. Apparently, the poor thing had been passing through her first bleeding. But when Stella had attempted to talk with her to see if she could help her, the small girl had run frightened, disappearing in the night amidst tents.

First, Stella had wondered what little girls were doing in a military encampment, the same she had thought it abhorrent to have little boys training to be soldiers in a war-compromised zone… but, then again, we were talking about Cesar. She bet a man capable of putting together a society based on such a big fat amount of crap had a crappy mentality himself.

Not that she had seen the aforesaid man ever since the piece of shit never abandoned the gigantic tent to match his gigantic ego in which he resided.

Bet the smug bastard thought himself too good to mix with the commoners, huh?

Anyway, adult slaves, on the other hand, were expected to be as multitasking as possible while maintaining an air of humbled, submissive dignity which, to be perfectly honest, wasn't that hard to put on when you were permanently tired.

Men usually handled building and repairing tasks with a few exceptions worthy of mention that helped the legionary blacksmith in charge of designing, maintaining, and manufacturing weapons and armor in the hopes of changing their current situations, since those who proved themselves strong and diligent enough were given a chance to be reassigned to the training grounds if they were sufficiently young and healthy to re-enter the military program.

Apparently, those that did not pass the due standards at fifteen were degraded to the slave category, but they would always have the door open to change their situation as long as they persevered and weren't over the age of twenty-five.

The same couldn't be said about older men, who usually weren't over the age of thirty-five, given that the Legion didn't make a habit of feeding mouths of non-combatant males way already past their prime, thus becoming more of a liability than an asset. Those were the first the legionaries crucified when they passed out of exhaustion and starvation as soon as their food rations were cut out.

Women, on the other hand, were the ones who transported groceries and all manner of supplies from the main entrance in which caravanners and all sorts of merchants were allowed (besides the local bar and guest tents) into their kitchens and storage tents, since outsiders – even unarmed - weren't trusted inside the inner ring in where Cesar's tent was located.

Besides this, women were also expected to take care of the officer's tents as a sort of auxiliary helpers (aside from a case or two in which said auxiliary was a young, attractive ephebe slave), act as healers and caretakers… and 'stress relievers'.

Which was, of course, a euphemism for sexual slavery.

Even if she wasn't, by any means, grateful to the blonde idiot, she must admit that sometimes, comparing her boring, uneventful life with these poor people, Stella felt lucky.

She was the only slave in the whole encampment whose main (and only) job was to kick legionaries' asses and not be punished for it at all. She was even respected for doing so. A little.

Reaching the slave grounds – a whole space, clean and utilitarian to a fault, composed of rows of discolored tents, since slaves weren't 'glorified' with Legion colors but plain cotton-dried canvas, and utterly devoid of anything that could be seen as personal baubles other than the occasional hand-painted bowl or cup – Stella returned the few nods that were thrown in her direction as a way of acknowledgment until she questioned a middle-aged English-speaking slave woman called Severina (unlikely her real birth name) in charge of the mending section regarding the whereabouts of Siri.

She was pointed to the resting tents for pregnant slaves, and a slight panic streak broke through Stella's subconscious given that she had believed Siri, being her job as head healer vital to the Neanderthals in red, couldn't be touched by the men under the risk of becoming pregnant and, subsequently, unable to work at full capacity.

She let out the breath she hadn't been aware she had been holding when she saw the healer – thin as a twig as ever - kneeling next to another slave woman whose protruding belly signaled her to be in her late stage of pregnancy.

A thing she could say the brutes did right was allowing pregnant women to rest in their own clean, mildly comfortable space without having any straining tasks to do but leaving them in charge of sewing and/or healing plants' grinding if they felt alright. If not, they were allowed to rest without being disturbed other than by the healers and the girls who brought them food and helped them to wash.

Stella had learned that, since infant mortality within the Legion was so high, pregnant women were regarded as something extremely fragile that needed constant monitoring should the slightest complication arise.

Which was yet another way of demeaning women treating them like incubators, given that the important matter here was the baby, not their health. If during childbirth the life of the mother got endangered by the embryo, it was usually forfeited in favor of the new life unless said new life was deemed unworthy (that is, if the baby was either malformed, already dead, or was a girl – something the midwives could tell to a certain extent). If so, then Caesarian section was applied. And without anesthesia.

All of this, Siri had explained to Stella when the woman had brought up the issue with an extremely tired voice as if she had told the same thing countless times. To the expecting mothers, probably.

"Hey." – the Ranger saluted, earning tired glances from both women.

"Stella." – Siri greeted with her usual soft, immensely prudent voice inflection. She was a wiry yet fit Afro-American woman in her early forties… or so she said herself, since she appeared almost a decade younger than she was supposed to be, which was quite a feat within the Legion, even more being a slave. Most of the older slaves that were thirty or forty-something always looked older and jaded – "This is Sylvia, another English-speaking slave." – turning to the aforesaid woman, she added – "Sylvia, this is Stella. She also hails from the NCR, like you."

At that, the pregnant woman's face lightened a bit.

"Hiya!" – she greeted, uncharacteristically cheery despite the circumstances, her accent thick and southern – "Oh, I've been dyin' for sum conversation other then with Siri n' Rosie. Uh, no offense, hun." – she quickly amended, giving the healer an apologetic glance that was met with Siri's characteristic soft assuring nod that everything was okay – "Almost none of the gals here speaks English n', ya know, since I got preggers not even Rosie comes here much other then for bringin' me more of that fuckin' maize paste they pass as grub. Yikes."

Stella smiled almost automatically at hearing a woman other than herself cussing in this godforsaken place. It was oddly comforting.

"Was there something you needed, Stella?" – Siri inquired, going immediately full Doctor Mode as she quickly checked the Ranger from head to toe – "How's your hand?" – she asked, pointing to Stella's bandaged right hand.

"What? No, no. Don't worry yourself." – Stella assured, feeling slightly guilty at noticing that she likely always came to Siri to have the scratches she got from the arena and training with the brutes dressed – "Actually, I was looking forward to, you know, lend you my help or something. You're always so nice to me and my stupid boo-boos." – she added awkwardly, to which Siri simply replied with the barest of smiles.

Siri rarely smiled. A sad common trait among slaves. The more among the womenfolk.

"Oh, it's of no problem." - the woman replied softly – "You always come injured one way or another from the arena. Tending to you is a pleasure, actually." – she added with a hint of mischief that didn't go unnoticed by Stella, whose stay at the slave grounds was significantly improving her mood already.

She had missed being normal amidst normal people.

"Whut?!" – Sylvia exclaimed, albeit in a low voice – "Ya fightin' at tha arena with those brickheads?! No way!"

As if sensing the other women's mood for some chatting, Siri signaled Stella for the water bowl with a fresh cloth she had brought with her.

"Help me get her on that chair and put her feet in the water so the swelling subsides." – she instructed softly, signaling the chair and Sylvia's feet as well – "The heat is not boding well with her this advanced in gestation."

"Ugh… sumdays I think me belly's gonna grow bigger then meself." – Sylvia complained, allowing the two women to help her up, patting her belly once she was seated – "Preggy tummy…"

Whereas Stella was eager for some conversation, Sylvia was equally eager to provide, going as chatty between huffs and puffs from the effort as she could.

"Ya were a Ranger?!" – she had squeaked, fascinated, once Stella had disclosed her former profession prior to her capture – "Like… the real stuff?!"

"Born and raised at Shady Sands." – Stella replied proudly – "My whole family served, and then, when my two older brothers got into the Rangers, I said, 'Why the hell not?'. Next thing I know, I was signing up and training along with the most badass, tough nutcases in the whole army. Passed the training within the minimum six-month standard."

"Wow, gurl." – Sylvia breathed in awe – "Ya must be like sum super-woman around here or sumthin', ya know? Bet most of them muscled tots in skirts ain't seen anythin' like ya before." – she snickered – "Betcha Dog-Head would literally flip once he sees ya. Right, Siri?" – she asked cheekily, earning a severe glance from the healer.

"Dog-Head?" – Stella echoed, eyes going from one woman to the other.

"Yeah, the arsehole darlin' that put me here." – Sylvia replied sarcastically, earning a slight slap on her knee from Siri – "Owch! Ya shouldn't hit a preggy woman, ya know." – she giggled amicably when she saw Stella's dumbfounded expression – "Don't mind her. She's fond of him for sum weird reason."

"He's the head of the Frumentarii, and you would be doing yourself a favor by not mentioning him so casually. He has spies everywhere." – Siri admonished, still softly. Very Siri-style.

"Oi! And whut can he do to a preggy woman, huh?" – Sylvia replied, rolling her eyes dramatically – "Borin' me to death with sum fancy discourse 'bout proof-gates?"

"It's Profligates." – the healer corrected sternly.

"No, wait." – Sylvia continued as if she hadn't heard her – "Maybe he can come here n' gimme a couple of those fuckin' lottery tickets. One for me n' the other for tha baby."

Before any of the involved women could reply or ask something, a fourth voice joined in their chat.

"Quit whinin' around, sis." – another slave, less far into pregnancy than Sylvia, intervened, rising from her late nap – "You and Rosie are always complainin' about shit. 'That bloody lottery still gives me nightmares', 'These jerks dunno what fuckin' toilet paper is', 'I miss my old dresses and havin' a smoke', 'Cannot take a piss without these creeps givin' me the eye', 'Why havin' a simple beer has to be banned too?', 'My back's killin' me', 'Need a tampon and them monkeys never heard of those', 'What I would give for a box of Fancy Lads'…" – she snorted disdainfully – "Like your fuckin' life was a cakewalk full of roses before."

"Shuddup, bitch!" – Sylvia snarled, her cheery disposition suddenly turned sour and angry – "Ya'll be tellin' me once ya got me belly!"

"If you forgot, I have a boy." – the other woman replied proudly in a manner that gave Stella the jeebies – "He's now at the trainin' grounds."

"'N that's what'cha wanna for ye kid?!" – Sylvie spat acidly – "To be a bloody legionnaire?!"

"Could be worse. Now he has other boys to play with, three meals a day, and he hasn't to worry for strange men comin' to his mum's apartment in the middle of the nite. He never deserved that shit." – the other woman spat back, giving a lopsided grin to a suddenly frowning Stella – "What, dollface? She didn't tell you what our job was before capture?"

"Shuddup!"

"Go tell her, Sylvy. Tell her about our jobs at the Nipton Town Hall, servicin' all manner of scum under Steyn's watchful eye." – the woman hissed, scrunching her nose as if smelling something awful – "As long as they had caps, the baldin' piece of shit opened his fuckin' door to whoever knocked. NCR soldier boys, Powders, bounty hunters, raiders, junkies, drunks, pedos… did you know that one of those motherfuckers broke my wrist in front of my boy just because he didn't fuckin' like the service I gave him?" – opening her mouth, she showed to the paralyzed women an upper half gum lacking all the molars – "This as well. He said I was fat, that my tits sagged, that my cunt was greasy. He wanted a discount for fuckin' such an ugly whore."

The three women had fallen silent, eyeing the other one fluffing her space full of cushions and mattresses like a gigantic bird nestling for laying. Her face was completely devoid of all emotion telling this must suppose for her, eyes burning fiercely.

"You know what Steyn's answer was?: makin' me apologize to the bastard and makin' me forfeit my bonus, discountin' the medical services of my injuries from my payload. The piece of crap dared tell me I had to lose some pounds, or he'll kick me out. Bastard knew I needed the job. He dared even suggestin' sellin' my boy." – fat, silent tears were now freely rolling down her face – "And then, a week later, Legion shows up and throws that fat piece of shit to the fire along with his dick-limped customers and that Tony weirdo. And I say: good riddance." – she continued – "Then, coyote-head guy says I'm healthy and young enough, so he puts me aside with other girls. Says I'm spared from the lottery. What about my boy? I ask. He says he's a child, so he's comin' with us as well."

This, she was retelling while Stella couldn't believe her ears. She had known Nipton had been a dump… but never thought it would be so bad for the sex workers there. Everyone at the Ranger Station had secretly grinned at hearing the news through the radio, even herself. The Legion, for once, had done them a solid by wiping Whore Town from the map instead of dealing with its presence once the NCR won the war. Trash like Steyn and his cronies didn't deserve the protection of the Republic's Government. Good riddance, they had whispered.

"I was fearin' they would do somethin' awful to my Neville once they made us march down East and coyote-head guy didn't come with us." – the other woman kept talking – "But guess what? The Reds treated my boy kindly, teachin' him how to lit a fire and useful stuff to survive in the desert. They made sure he was fed and warm when the nite came. None of them made a move on him; none of them yelled at him, hit him, or mistreated me in front of him. Some of them even asked him stuff, got to know him, hummin' tunes with him. It was the first time, the fuckin' first time I've seen Neville safe and trustin' 'round men." – looking at Sylvia, she added – "The Reds rescued my boy from that shithole, and that's enough for me. He turns out a Marcus or a Julius when he'll be of age? He'll always be my Neville in here." – she smiled, patting herself between her full dark breasts – "I'm now a slave? I was a whore under Steyn with no chances to get it better even if I managed to get out of town, doomed to suck dick until some drunk asshole would slit my throat on a whim. At least these guys are all young and clean and don't want anythin' more complicated than a blowjob or a quickie. Don't have the imagination NCR boys have for weird shit, and that's fine by me. They hit you for no fuckin' reason? They get disciplined for harmin' property. They yell at you? They don't call you half the names I've been called because they don't know what half those words mean. They get you preggers? You're fuckin' untouchable." – she concluded proudly, laying back, her swollen belly showing more prominence – "Here bein' slim, pretty, and faking bein' nice don't mean a shit. You're expected to work, spread your legs, and give birth. That's all. Without dollin' up or shavin' your cunt for some sleazy piece of crap wantin' you fake attraction and moan how fuckin' big his cock is. Gettin' fed, sheltered from the elements, and protected is the fuckin' payment you get for your service. Fair enough, I say."

The discussion died once some of the healers brought a group of little boys in Legion armor; among them was the son of the woman who had spoken the last, Neville.

After attending Sylvie, Stella abandoned the tent with Siri, whose face had remained unreadable throughout the exchange.

"I never thought I would hear words of praise to the Legion from a woman." – Stella blurted out of the blue, wishing to fill the uncomfortable silence that such questionable, worrisome revelation had left inside her head.

More children were coming the way of the pregnant women's tents.

"When those women come from far crueler lives than the ones we lead here, this encampment can become the thing that most resembles a home for them." – Siri replied calmly – "Those are the lucky ones, for they are so eager to serve that they get sold as wives within the first year of their stay."

Stella hmphed disdainfully.

"Only difference is they get abused by one mandrill instead of fifty." – she opined, the stupid face of the blonde idiot already coming to mind.

But Siri gave her a soft smile.

"Quite true." – she conceded – "Still, for the ones that remain, there are little things worth living for."

"Such as dog-headed spies?" – the Ranger teased.

Siri remained silent, but her smile broadened slightly when one of the little boys ran to embrace her middle section as he called her name enthusiastically.

The boy had a pale, gaunt countenance and cropped, liver-colored hair framing the most pretty, magnetic blue eyes Stella had ever seen.

And then, for some reason, she couldn't help but recall the stupid blonde's face again, wondering for the first time which color his eyes were.

---

The monstrosity had chased them all the way up North. Not even descending the hills to the railroad had discouraged it from pursuing them.

"Ahahahahaha!" – and Erasmus' hysterics, certainly, didn't help at all as he kept singing tunelessly like an idiot while running – "We're going to di-ie! Di-ie, di-ie, diiiii-ie, tra-la-lá!"

"Would you shut the fuck up?!" – Gabban bellowed, scared out of his shirt but fed up already – "Keep running, and you might live, you punk!"

Vulpes couldn't even begin to comprehend how these two still had breath to waste in sputtering out nonsense. He himself was too concentrated on running along the railroad while still grabbing Sullivan to bother with producing any sound other than ragged breathing.

Running in Power Armor was taxing. VERY taxing.

"Prospector's Den!" – Sullivan's voice from inside her Armor helmet came out distorted and ragged too as she kept balance with Rex on her back barking nonstop while trying to read her Pip-Boy – "Two-thousand-seventy-eight feet up Northwest!"

"Press onwards!" – Vulpes yelled amidst the ruckus and the closing earth-quaking steps from the hulking mass behind – "KEEP RUNNING!"

"Chases-Bugs shouldn't have skipped morning drills!" – the Miles that spoke in the third person wailed out of breath even despite not wearing Power Armor – "He shouldn't, SHOULDN'T have skipped so many morning drills!"

"Shuddup, you stultus!" (A) – his redhead comrade groaned childishly in turn – "Or we'll be punished once this futui (B) nightmare ends!"

Memo to me. – Vulpes thought spitefully – Punish these incompetent imbeciles once we escape the monster.

Zigzagging Bark Scorpions while keeping their sanity with that thing breathing down their necks proved quite the challenge for the next ten minutes that took them to get sight of the whitened path off to the West.

"TO THE LEFT!" – Vulpes bellowed, nearly skidding along the dry terrain – "TURN TO THE LEFT!"

Climbing the slightly steep hill took nearly three endless minutes until they got sight of a campfire.

"No manches…" – they heard a woman in the distance gruffly complaining in Spanish – "No necesito esta jodida mierda ahora…" (2) - getting up slowly from the campfire with a rifle in her hands, she and her companions, dressed in makeshift armor and rags, positioned themselves to meet what they thought an NCR squad on the run – "Alright, hijueputas, (3) cough up all the shit you carry or…"

"FUCK YOU!" – Aurelius of Phoenix roared, absolutely unstoppable in his Power Armor, as he tackled the surprised woman and, for some weird reason, took her with him as if she were a potato sack – "Run, you salope stupide!" (+)

Neither Vulpes nor the rest of the men looked behind to see if the camping raiders had reacted in time or not regarding the monstrosity hot on their heels, but nobody protested when the Den's cave entrance came into sight, and nearly eighty percent of them skidded or rolled into it in a most cowardly, pathetic fashion.

Luckily, the cave ran pretty deep into the earth, and the entrance was too narrow for the behemoth to follow them inside, so they tasted relief once they had rolled down the cave's main chamber, most ending up in a pile of bodies and limbs as they regained their breath.

"Mars'… bloody balls… speared on Neptune's trident…" – Aurelius wheezed; the raider woman he had grabbed earlier lying on top of his servos jumped off him as soon as the giant outside roared in anger, hitting the cave's entrance several times in frustration, making dust and small rocks roll down from the surface.

"Pinche monstruo mamón…" – the woman hissed, taking two fingers to her lips and producing a deafening whistle – "¡A mí, chacales, A MÍ!" (4) – she howled, her strong voice echoing in the cavity.

And before neither of the men could react, the cave's space filled with a small group of more armed raiders, all of them barking like coyotes and showing off their sharpened teeth, immediately signaling them as Jackals.

Canyon Runner rose from the ground and let out a raspy howl, activating that radioactivity wave attack only his kind was capable of, throwing many of the raiders' weapons off their hands.

After that, the men finally reacted and pointed their weapons at their assailants.

"No mames…" (5) – the instigator said while wiping blood from her nose, likely a consequence of the radioactive wave, eyeing the machetes carefully – "You're not NCR."

"Which part of 'MARS' bloody balls speared on NEPTUNE'S trident' you didn't get, woman?!" – Aurelius retorted indignantly, using the technique of rolling on the ground to get on your two feet while wearing a servos that had taken nearly five hours straight to master.

Never said Sullivan wasn't a thorough teacher.

"You Legion?" – the woman asked incredulously – "What the hell is doing the Legion so close to Nipton? You know the NCR overtook the place nearly a week ago, right?"

Vulpes glanced at Cicero briefly. Yet another tiny detail he had left out of the picture when he had been so adamant about reaching Black Mountain via the McCullough Mountain range, probably fearful Vulpes would decide to reconquer the city he had destroyed once.

The Republic was moving faster by the day.

"You are Jackals, I assume." – the Master Frumentarius said, taking his helmet off, meeting the predictable flinching many tribals did when seeing albinos.

"Yeah." – the woman replied with a cocky smile, all pointed teeth, even the front ones – "I'm Perra Rabiosa, (6) these are my people, and you have walked into our den."

"What happened with the prospectors?" – Sullivan asked, meeting an amused stare.

"We made tacos, enchiladas, and good pozole with 'em." – the woman, Perra Rabiosa, declared proudly, snickering at the mixed reactions her statement got – "Not that is there anything left. We've been living off bloatflies, fireants, and the occasional Centaur for nearly a month. There weren't many caravans since the NCRCF's prison break already… But now it's impossible to get ahold of even one since the Rangers started combing Interstate 15 on the West, then the Nevada State Route 164 on the South." – spitting on the ground disdainfully, she added – "There have been more and more troops crossing the Outpost's gates this last week. Lots of Power Armors and trucks, all from the Republic. We don't know what the hell is going on, but sure them bastards have limited our hunting grounds a good deal."

That was alarming information. Ten days ago had been the time since he and Sullivan had departed from Vegas. A week since they had reached Cottonwood Cove to leave for Fortification Hill the next day. It couldn't be a mere coincidence.

The Republic had been tracking their movements.

"What about the North?" – Vulpes asked – "The Sloan Canyon National Conservation Area?"

"Haven't gotten that far." – the raider woman shook her head – "Too close to the REPCONN Test Site. Besides…" – she added – "There's a Deathclaw nest near the Primm Pass. Even the Emergency Service Railyard Northeast is infested. Not too fond of turning into cold cuts for those monsters."

Vulpes turned his head toward Sullivan, who had taken her helmet in kind, seeing that the raiders, clearly at disadvantage against them, posed no threat.

'A piece of cake', she mouthed, patting her servos proudly.

That assured him enough to say the following words:

"We need to rest and wait until that beast outside grows bored of waiting." – many of these raiders were surprisingly women, and terribly emaciated from going on too long without a decent meal – "You know the mountainous region, we have supplies for a whole regiment. We might feel inclined to share our supplies if you let us rest here and help us to get past the Deathclaw nest."

Perra Rabiosa licked her providential chops like a famished canine, weighing her options.

"So, el güero carita de limón (7) wants to strike a deal." – Vulpes' left eye got a momentary tic at the impertinence but allowed her to finish her talking – "Deathclaws are unavoidable, even if we round the nest."

"We can deal with a few nest sentinels." – he assured impassibly.

"Sure you can." – she convened, giving them a once-over – "Tell you what: we let you rest, help you out of the mountains, and you let us join the Legion."

Many legionaries scoffed at that.

"You think you have what it takes to join the Legion, woman?" – Aurelius questioned, giving her the once-over in the most disgusting, explicit way he could muster, no doubt to discourage her from pursuing what it could not be.

However, much to Vulpes' dismay and the rest of the men's shock, the raider woman let out a loud chortle as the members of her tribe imitated her like hyenas.

"So, it's true Legion men are a pack of lusty horndogs." – she said, putting a hand on her hip, fluttering her lashes coquettishly. This, done by a sunburned, muscled Hispanic woman decorated with aggressive tattoos and with almost half of the left side of her cranium filled with burn scars while the other side sported a long raven mane that, once upon a time, must have been her pride and joy, looked incredibly bizarre – "You asking if I'm woman enough to mount a man of your size, papacito?" (8)

Unbelievable. How come that, with a single sentence, Aurelius had turned a perfectly serious discussion regarding temporal alliances into plain flirting?

Vulpes' disappointment grew exponentially when the Centurion, instead of discouraging the woman's advances, fueled the situation further by giving one of his usual stupid comebacks.

"You presume much if you think I would allow some raider mount me, Profligate." – he grinned arrogantly – "In any case, I would not accept less than having a woman where she belongs: beneath, screaming for more."

That's it. Negotiation in serious terms thrown by the window just like that. Just because Aurelius of Phoenix had to open his thirsty, moronic trap.

"If that's what it takes to become Legion, that's what it takes." - Perra Rabiosa replied unflinchingly, raising her voice to address her comrades – "Alright, chacales, (9) who's up to fuck the legionnaires?!"

Vulpes wanted to facepalm himself when almost all of the Jackal tribe, men included, cheered enthusiastically.

And the worst part was that the majority of the legionaries, most prominently the Milites, seemed intrigued, even flattered at the prospect.

Now, he couldn't undo what the Centurion's big mouth had unleashed, for both parts had something the other wanted, and their precarious alliance could turn sour if the Master Spy dared to suggest a more professional, aseptic partnership when intentions were already laid bare on the table.

However, his anger couldn't resist giving a last warning when the Centurion stepped out of his servos, and the raider leader, upon seeing the tight undersuit he wore underneath, commented lustfully on his body.

"A word, Centurion." – he said, stepping out of his Power Armor as well, trying really hard to ignore the wave of disgust that washed over him when some of the Jackal women catcalled him, saying humiliating stuff like 'güerito bonito y flaquito' (10) and such.

He grabbed the burly man's bulgy forearm so tightly he grunted in displeasure until both of them were out of earshot.

"Is there something of the matter, Princeps Peregrinorum?" (C) – Aurelius asked cheekily, which only increased Vulpes' strangling instincts.

Now the son of a bitch dared play diplomatic. A little too late for that.

"Congratulations, Centurion, you have acquired Ambassador status with the Jackals." – he replied serenely – "I hope you are aware of how you ought to navigate this situation you have created."

The man gave him a mistrusting look.

"Are you telling me now how I should treat some Profligate whore?" – he asked incredulously – "Don't you think you are stepping in too much, Commander?"

So, that's how he wanted to play, huh?

"It is my prerogative whether to step in or not regarding diplomatic situations I haven't created nor asked for." – Vulpes replied severely, sinking his hard fingers onto the man's muscled flesh – "No matter what you aimed to obtain by playing on the raiders' base needs, this is still a mission, and you must perform your part to earn that woman's favor." – sinking his fingers deeper, earning a pained hiss, he pressed – "Play nice and cater to her needs if necessary. Depending on how she emerges from the exchange, I'll know whether you are a reliable agent or a braindead brute I have no use for. And you know what happens to those I have no use for. Do you, Centurion?" – releasing the man's forearm, he added – "Do not forget that you are still put to the test."

He saw the man rubbing his abused forearm for a moment until the raider leader Perra Rabiosa got to him, grabbing his big hand between her smaller ones to lead him to the shack built inside the cave, no doubt by the hand of its previous occupants.

Her people followed her example by approaching the legionaries, some of the Milites blushing hard as the women giggled.

"Wait… for real?" – he heard the Slavemaster asking, as if he couldn't believe his eyes when a woman with a neon yellow mohawk took his glowing, cadaveric hand between hers.

"Got no problem with ghouls." – the woman replied, smiling a piranha-like smile – "Besides, we got plenty Jimmy Hats to prevent infections and stuff."

She hadn't to say it twice, for all of the ghouls also joined in. Vulpes' Frumentarii, much to his pride and delight, stepped aside, politely shaking their heads at the offers received.

"I'm married." – Aurelius' Decanus, Severus, Vulpes believed was his name, said with a raised hand in refusal.

A truly respectable man, that one.

Another two Milites remained once their comrades and the Jackals got inside the shack, from where, without further preamble, rutting noises began to emerge not a minute later despite the closed door.

"Chases-Bugs knows he should have trained harder." – the Miles that spoke in the third person offered as a manner of explanation – "He would have liked to be with the pretty women… but Chases-Bugs knows he has to repent."

Well, at least this one had some self-awareness and decency. Vulpes might consider not punishing him after all… unlike his redhead friend, who hadn't hesitated to take the raiders' offer enthusiastically.

Sullivan had also stepped out of her servos to approach the Fox.

"You sure about this… arrangement?" – she asked cautiously, lovingly tuned to his moods, which helped Vulpes to calm down a little.

"As you can see, my hands are tied." – he replied, shooting a last repulsed glance to the noisy shack – "They have been under constant pressure since the Cottonwood Cove attack, so they certainly have some pent-up frustration to release." – he knew he looked ashamed while saying such a thing, not wishing to make her having second thoughts about having joined the Legion… terribly fearful that she might get this idea that he approved such debauchery, cataloging him as the same as those… those… – "If I could whip their sorry hides raw until they learned to behave, believe me, I would gladly do so."

She gave him an odd look he wasn't sure how to interpret, head cocking aside in that avian manner he had grown so fond of witnessing.

"How about we tune them out by doing some easy training?" – music to his ears. Sullivan always knew how to read the room – "You're in?"

"I am." – he nodded, bearing the slightest of smiles – "More Power Armor movements?"

"Nah. I was thinking about disassembling and reassembling guns."

"Who do you take me for, mailwoman?" – he asked, feigning affront – "I already know how to do that much."

"Yeah, but… have you ever played 'Assemble, aim, fire'?"

Half an hour later, not only Vulpes but the rest of the Frumentarii, the Decanus, and the two Milites were sitting at the picnic tables outside the shack, facing one another, playing a game that, had the guns had been actually loaded during reassembling, would have turned into a twisted version of the Russian Roulette.

---

Manuel Alejandro Vargas, or 'Manny' for his friends, had been sweating nonstop for so long that now dehydration was making him see tiny colorful dots in the air, his breath ragged and tired.

They had lasted more hours than he had bothered to count sitting up on that damned dinosaur. Andy was one resilient son of a bitch, but the old McBride had gotten heatstroke.

His wifey had almost lost it, pounding the door to the dino's mouth, asking if he was all right, demanding Briscoe share purified water, food, and ammo with them all.

The whole population of Novac had been at its most pathetic moment when they had crammed themselves inside the store like canned fish, shrieking any time a missing bullet from the Reds managed to penetrate the flimsy pre-War structure of the dino's belly.

They had attacked with the first lights, burning homes and chasing after the women like rabid coyotes, meeting a dead end at the dino's building, which wouldn't burn no matter how many fires they had lighted at its foot.

Luckily, Manny had been on shift… yet again.

He was on shift so often that he practically lived in the store now, not knowing more than six hours of rest straight until someone woke him up. Usually, Andy, who would share part of the job when his leg wouldn't hurt like hell.

Since Boone had left with that girl, Manny had had plenty of time to think while looking at the fucking same view day in and day out.

Time to think about their broken friendship, about his silence, his suspicion… his anger when he had broken down the door of Manny's apartment to demand he coughed out Jessup and his people's whereabouts.

Boone had said he had been one egotistic motherfucker for using a child as a shield to deal with the ghouls at the REPCONN Test Site, that he had no fucking soul for sending a girl as small as her to a death trap.

If he had let him speak even once, Manny would have told him that the girl he deemed so inoffensive had been a high-profile target from a Vegas mob boss, surviving two bullets to the head by sheer dumb luck.

No way a mob boss would give away his precious time chasing after a fugitive if said fugitive hadn't done something so shitty to earn his wrath.

Boone's cute little girl had been a clockwork bomb on two legs, ready to explode anytime soon right in your goddamned face. No ordinary child spoke the way she did and moved the way she moved.

In fact, Manny wasn't one hundred percent sure she had been a child at all.

Anyway, time alone had made him reconsider and come to terms with many things concerning Boone and his bitch of a wife.

For the girl had been a bitch, no matter how besotted Boone had been with her. She enjoyed arguing for almost anything that went out of Manny's mouth, so he had learned a while ago not to express his opinions in front of her.

Man, she didn't have one friend in this whole town. She didn't want any.

She wanted to sit in her room all day and make herself miserable. And she went out of her way to be rude.

Too good for this dump, as she used to call Novac. City girl thrown in the middle of the desert, living in a quiet, modest village without the casinos, the hotel rooms, the cafeterias, and the spas nearby to buy herself a lifestyle she couldn't maintain.

She and Manny had never seen eye-to-eye, so they had avoided one another in the following months of her pregnancy until she disappeared.

Boone had never accepted it, no matter how convinced the rest of the town had been that she had abandoned him.

Things could have turned around in time… but then the little girl sets foot into town, and Boone is immediately swayed by her chirpy voice, big eyes, childlike mannerisms, and her basically hugging him as if he had been a teddy bear.

Manny knew Boone well, too well, and he knew he was a sucker for playing the protector and the hero for cute little things like her. To the point that he could tell that, if the girl had told Boone to set the town on fire, he would have done so without batting a lash.

If his bitch of a wife had waited to give birth before dumping him, he would have been a fool for the baby. As weird as it sounded, Boone and any children tended to mix fairly well. Except for allowing them to touch his gun for obvious reasons, he would allow them to climb him and demand piggybacks.

It had been like that with the Khans' children. The good old days.

Perhaps the little girl reminded him of the family he would've had… if he chose his partners more carefully.

Manny wouldn't deny that he had felt… displaced when that woman had caught Boone's eye.

Almost completely ignored.

The man that says that a friend giving you the cold shoulder doesn't hurt has never known friendship in the first place.

His looping trail of thought had been interrupted as soon as distant shooting had cut the desert air to perforate Legion flesh.

Half delirious due to dehydration, the fight below had passed swiftly as a shooting star in Manny's dazzled brain.

Until a deadly silence had filled his ears, cutting through his skin.

Manny had descended from the dinosaur in a daze, ignoring the questioning glances of his neighbors systematically.

He had been the first to get out of the gift shop. The wooden steps under his feet creaking and squeaking as he had faced the burnt disaster his home had turned into in a matter of hours: blackened walls, bullet holes and marks everywhere, fallen gold and red banners, overthrown pre-War derelict camper cars, corpses swimming in their own blood…

He didn't get even a minute to get a grasp of the situation when a silhouette cut against the dying sun in the twilight, casting a long shadow over the cracked asphalt. Lowered rifle, tense posture.

Manny's breath stalled in his chest. He could recognize those shoulders anywhere.

"Boone!" – he called, walking toward the figure, whose posture tensed a notch before raising its head.

Along with the rifle.

And Manny's world came to a sudden, violent stop when he saw himself reflected on the tinted crystals of the sunglasses covering the man's impassible mien as the rifle nozzle pointed in his direction.

---

SPANISH:

(1) - Literally "I shit on everything that moves!" (Spanish from Spain colloquialism to express frustration or being fed up about someone or a situation. Is like saying "I can't take it anymore", only more rude)
(2) - "No way... I don't need this fucking shit right now..."
(3) - motherfuckers
(4) - "Fucking bloody monster... To me, jackals, TO ME!"
(5) - "No way..."
(6) - Rabid Bitch
(7) - the lemon-face blondie
(8) - daddy (kinky way to call a man you're sexually attracted to. Also applied as an endearing term to a boyfriend/spouse)
(9) - jackals
(10) - skinny pretty blondie

---

LATIN:

(A) - fool
(B) - fucking
(C) - "commander of the foreigners" - In Ancient Rome, Centurion in charge of troops in the castra peregrina (military base at Rome for personnel seconded from the provincial armies) aka, the Commander of the Frumentarii. Here, since Caesar's Legion is based (not 100% faithful to the source material) on the Ancient Rome army, Vulpes has the rank of a Legatus. Inferior to Lanius and Lucius, but higher than the rest.

---

FRENCH:

(+) - stupid bitch

---

A/N: ... Managed to get this done a week before 2 whole months passed since the last update. Nice. Now, I can die in peace xD

But seriously, I'm dead. My job is incredibly time-consuming not only due to its 8-hour workday standard, but because I end up so mentally exhausted that I sleep between 10 and 11 hours in order to reset properly (yeah, I'm a crybaby, so what?). So, finishing one of these behemoth chapters takes most of my free time away. I enjoy writing, but I also need to read in order to get fresh ideas and concepts and take a rest from this story.

Hope this chapter, fleshing even more the Legion society, but digging deeper into its main issue, slavery (the Ancient Romans also had slaves, and the Khans from Fallout 1 kidnapped people to have them as slaves too, but whatever), helps in balancing some of the praise they have received. It will happen the same with the NCR, only that the story has not yet gotten there.

Also, hope the waiting was worth it ^^ Please, let me know what do you think in the reviews section. Cheers!