Fallout: Sons of Flagstaff (IC / OPEN)

[Beiarusia]

> Out-Of-Character Thread <
The Pub: a P2tM RP Group



War. War never changes.

The dawn of mankind is stained in blood: spilled in the name of religion, to survive, for simple psychotic rage, and in the year 2077 this voracious, intrinsic thirst for violence would consume millennia of civilization in one glorious burst of nuclear fire.
The end of the world, but humanity remained, stubborn, a weed in the garden of their own madness, and in the aftermath of total destruction begins another chapter in an era of bloodshed.
A new struggle. A new war.

In the ruins of the Four States Commonwealth rises Caesar's Legion and in the west the New California Republic.
Between them sits Hoover Dam and New Vegas as ruled by the eccentric Mr. House from his penthouse atop the Lucky 38.
A growing storm, and before its passing the sands of the Mojave will bleed.

This is not the story of the Bear nor the Bull. The story belongs to you.

The dregs of society.

The wastelander.

The nobody.

Denizens of a bleak landscape, unique in every way but with one shared aspect: enslavement.
You have been captured by the Legion and taken to the Stadium to fight and to die for the entertainment of the people.
A gladiator stripped of your freedom and destined to perish a Son of Flagstaff for those who enter the Stadium are never to leave.
Kill or be killed as war never changes...
and neither does human nature.

---

~ Flagstaff, Arizona ~

The scrap metal cage was small. Cramped, and offering no protection against the afternoon sun, unforgiving in its terrible brightness. Men, women, and children were packed into this cage like animals, slaves freshly captured, spared death only to suffer a far worse fate. Oxen pulled the cart, the rusting wheels clacking with every turn as the tracks led deeper into the Arizona Wasteland. Veterans rode atop the crude, makeshift train, forcing the young and inexperienced to walk alongside, the gravel spilling out from underneath the ancient railroad sounding each of their steps in discordant harmony to the impatient calls of the encumbered beasts. The Legionaries talked amongst themselves, enjoying the freedoms of travel with crude and jovial banter; the slaves were quiet.

Fearful.

An hour ago a child no older than two had been killed for crying, impaled on the tip of a Legion spear and left to feed the buzzards that circled overhead. No more whispers or hollow threats came after that.

The Legion had enjoyed a successful conquest of the lands bordering their territory. Colorado had largely fallen under their banner and inroads had been made into Utah despite some resistance. Nevada was proving a more difficult target to subjugate, but everything east of Hoover Dam belonged to the Legion, and everything to the west would belong to the Legion soon enough. Slaves were plentiful, and slowly the Legion grew, an empire that would someday extend from beyond the craggy mountains of Colorado to the shimmering waters of the Pacific to the northern badlands and south into Mexico, a conquest that would not be stopped. The slaves packed into the too small cage were a testament of such destiny. A scavenger caught hunting in the ruins of Colorado; a wayward soldier enlisted with the New California Republic; a courier having foolishly wandered from the far side of the northern borders; a merchant whose luck had run out. Nowhere was beyond the reach of the Legion.

The veteran riding atop the cart bellowed as he pulled a lever to engage the brakes with a screeching hiss — the oxen pulled for a moment longer before they, too, came to a disgruntled halt. The Legionaries undid the chains binding the cage and hurried the slaves out onto what formerly had been a station before the Great War, ensuring that hands were bound tightly behind every back, and leading with weapons at the ready to provide motivation as needed. The yard was busy with incoming and outgoing caravans (weapons, foodstuffs, cattle) and hardly a glance was spared to the new arrivals. The slaves followed in-line through the old station, pausing only for the veteran to inform the stationmaster of his cargo (twenty-seven slaves minus one child) before moving along to the bustling streets of Flagstaff, Arizona.

The Legion capital was alive: men and women both free and enslaved numbering in the low-thousands all going about their daily routines, crowding markets and streets and homes, a city thriving under the watchful gaze of the red-and-gold banner of Caesar and his fervent Legionaries. The slaves were marched into this ordered madness, the crowds parting to allow them passage. A few civilians watched them as they went, curious, as if the slaves were exotic animals and not people. A child jeered before being shooed away by a Legionary. The slaves were poked and prodded to keep pace with the veteran as he led them deeper into the capital.

Passing the markets the veteran bellowed once more, and the slaves were divided, some continuing on while others, the women and children mostly, were taken to be sold to the highest bidder. A childless mother was slow to follow and was punished with a hard smack across her back. When she fell she was punished again until she hobbled along with eyes that had lost all warmth.

Those taken to the markets were to be the fortunate ones. The others were taken to the Stadium.

On the far side of Flagstaff was the Stadium, a modern coliseum constructed before the Great War, before the bombs, and renovated to serve the needs of the Legion. A venue to entertain the masses. The liveliness of the city thinned as the walls of the Stadium neared, the immediate area surrounding the arena flat and uninteresting, barren save for a few gnarled trees, the paved lots broken by time and weather. A few Legionaries patrolled the main entrance, but the slaves entered elsewhere, on the side, and rather than being taken to the Field they descended to the Pens, their home for however long they survived.

The Pens were forged from the underground facilities of the Stadium. It was here that the gladiators would rest, eat, and sleep, locked away until their moment of glory on the Field above. At night they were confined to communal cells, but during the daylight hours they were free to wander the commons, a spacious and well-lit section of the Pens that functioned as the dining hall and public space for those seeking social interaction when not killing for the entertainment of others. Legionaries stood guard at the only entrance, armed with combat shotguns, but the slaves were largely free to do whatever they pleased until intervention was deemed to be needed. So long as the slaves behaved themselves the guards had no reason to care.

The commons quieted as the new arrivals were marched inside. Hard stares, but not a word was said, and the only voice to be heard were those of the veteran and Centurion Faustaus, a severe man who enjoyed his role as chief-of-security here at the Stadium. The veteran soon left with his Legionaries until only the Stadium Guard remained, their armor tinted a dusty blue instead of Legion red. They were soon joined by Prefect Nero coming down to witness the new stock.

The Prefect seemed impressed. "Welcome to the Stadium," he said with some amusement in his voice, charming, looking to each of the new slaves like a man browsing a collection of imported wares. Unlike the others the man's armor (thinner and more refined) was shined to near perfection. Blue, the colour of the Stadium, the colour of Nero. With a small wave the guards moved to unfasten the new slaves — those with twitchy fingers were warned not to try anything stupid — before clasping his hands and introducing himself like a boss to new employees. "I am Prefect Nero, governor of Flagstaff when Caesar is away" — he used a soft "c" — "and you are the sons of the city. I do look forward to witnessing your potential. Please, do not disappoint."

Prefect Nero had little else to say and soon left with his personal guard in tow, followed soon thereafter by Centurion Faustaus who gave some parting advice: "Don't try to escape and you may live longer."

The gladiators already present returned to whatever it was they had been doing beforehand, ignoring the new arrivals like one ignores the new kid in school, except for one, a thin girl looking out-of-place amidst a sea of men and wasters. She watched the new arrivals with a quizzical glare, and before they could even begin to comprehend their new lot in life she approached with a smile on her face, manic and a small bit predatory.

"You're new," she said matter-of-factly as if she herself had only just learned this. "The others won't talk to you. New guys die, so making friends is pointless until you survive a game or two. But Lyn will help you." She points to herself and then to several others. "Tiberius is the old timer. Don't fight him, you die. Amelia, too, has been here a long time, not as long as Tiberius, but longer than most. Don't fight her, you die. Fynn is the caretaker. He's too old to fight so is trusted to keep an eye on us. Don't fight him, he die, and that bad 'cause Fynn is nice. These are the Pens. This is where we live when not on the Field. Not much, but it's nice so long as you mind the guards. Guards don't like trouble. Guards don't like Lyn. Lyn bites." She said this rapidly, almost in one breath, the unnerving, toothy grin never once leaving her face. The girl absentmindedly ran her fingers through her dirty black hair. Like the others here she wore the rags (likely the remains of what she wore before capture) minus shoes, and appeared unable to stand still for longer than a few seconds. "Questions?"

[Arengin Union]

William Blake

Hunger, thirst, pain, family. Those were the things Will couldn't stop thinking about as he had been marched through the Legion city, he could only look around in awe, he had never imagine the Legion to have cities that looked so slick and with people walking around commuting, it was like the NCR back home. His amazement was always cut short by the constant pan of whips and chains as he was finally taken to a massive stadium, alongside several other slaves, he could not hold his anger which was apparent on his face when he saw the legionnaire with clean armor approach them and have his little speech.

He didn't dare to say anything though, Will knew anything he said or did as someone affiliated with the NCR would only end in his death. He was smart enough to know that. He was unfasten from his restrains, but quickly he felt the barrel of a gun right at the back of his head, followed by a "Give me an excuse NCR fuck!" Will wouldn't give him any.

"I am Prefect Nero, governor of Flagstaff when Caesar is away" — he used a soft "c" — "and you are the sons of the city. I do look forward to witnessing your potential. Please, do not disappoint."

Prefect Nero had little else to say and soon left with his personal guard in tow, followed soon thereafter by Centurion Faustaus who gave some parting advice: "Don't try to escape and you may live longer."

Fuck you... was the only thing Will had in his mind. The same thing he thought about the bloke who warned against escaping. Will couldn't think of any other thing than that, to leave this place and run back to the Mojave and then back home. However, he saw around the place, maces of endless fences with barbed wire, guards everywhere armed to the teeth and with expression of wishful killing. This would not be easy, alongside the not so friendly looking bunch of fighters inside said cages.

Soon Will and the others were left to part for themselves, and quick as it was a girl, very dirty looking came to them. She had a funny way of talking.

"You're new," she said matter-of-factly as if she herself had only just learned this. "The others won't talk to you. New guys die, so making friends is pointless until you survive a game or two. But Lyn will help you." She points to herself and then to several others. "Tiberius is the old timer. Don't fight him, you die. Amelia, too, has been here a long time, not as long as Tiberius, but longer than most. Don't fight her, you die. Fynn is the caretaker. He's too old to fight so is trusted to keep an eye on us. Don't fight him, he die, and that bad 'cause Fynn is nice. These are the Pens. This is where we live when not on the Field. Not much, but it's nice so long as you mind the guards. Guards don't like trouble. Guards don't like Lyn. Lyn bites." She said this rapidly, almost in one breath, the unnerving, toothy grin never once leaving her face. The girl absentmindedly ran her fingers through her dirty black hair. Like the others here she wore the rags (likely the remains of what she wore before capture) minus shoes, and appeared unable to stand still for longer than a few seconds. "Questions?"

Will didn't say anything at first. His mind was filled with thoughts of home and his wife, nothing was left to him to remind him of them. His photo taken away from him, his NCR tags as well, but he knew he had something on his neck, they had written something that made him stuck out from the rest in some way. The guard that had aimed the gun to his head had not done it without a reason, plus he knew right out he was NCR. Will could only imagine they had labeled him as NCR, and not mistakenly. Soon, Will stood up, checking his garments that he had left, he only had a rag that he used to cover his upper body, his torn fatigues and decaying boots he covered with rags to maintain.

"When's the next fight?" He asked. He made sure to keep a distance from the twitchy girl, keeping a fist and ready in case she tried anything, same applied to everyone else.

[Vacif]

Horatio
Stadium Commons
Flagstaff AZ

Horatio lay on the ground. Then up, and back down as he pushed himself up and down, something called a push up that the other fighters had taught him to do in order to maintain or build strength. He was told to do sets of a number but he knew not what a set was or how to count, so the young man just went until he could no longer go on, or until another fighter counted the sets for him. Then he would rest until his body cooled and his heart began to rest again. He was doing his usual amount from what the others had told him when the usual noise of the commons grew silent. That usually meant something important was going on so he quickly got up from the dusty ground and straightened himself out to see what had been the cause for quiet.

New fighters, and the Prefect himself had come down to introduce them as he always did. Once the Prefect gave his speech, him like most others returned to what they were doing. New people did not stay long, he didn't need to be told that to know it. He'd seen the fights, heard them. Better for him in a way because someone always had to die, and they usually died so he didn't have to. If they lived, maybe he'd have new companions. Maybe even friends, though the others told him that making friends would only end badly. Which was weird since, weren't they his friends? Shaking his head, he dispelled the thoughts. Thinking made his head hurt. Pushing off of his fists, he rolled onto his back and continued his regimen under the watchful eye of his fellow fighter.

[Fascist Russian Empire]

Apollo

Voices surrounded the ghoul; the voices of legionnaires, the voices of his fellow captives, the voice of a lady who presumably had been in the same predicament he now found himself in for quite a long time. Most importantly, and least noticeably, was the Voice which had guided him for many decades; the Voice which spoke prophesies and warnings of the future to him. It always surrounded him, imperceivable to anyone else around him, most often being heard as an incomprehensible, barely-audible whisper. The Voice, the source of the ghoul's power, was something which always followed him, producing louder and more comprehensible messages (giving him powerful and unique insight which few others possessed) under the right circumstances; most notably, when he came in contact with sources of radiation. The power of the Voice had been a tremendous boon for him for many decades, leading him to great fame and, for a time, great fortune, provided, ironically enough, by the man responsible for his current situation. Caesar, who had previously utilized his services for himself, had betrayed the ghoul out of arrogance after Apollo committed the crime of telling Caesar a vision of the future which spoke ill of the Legion.

As a result of Caesar taking offense to honesty, Apollo found himself reduced to the status of a slave, one of many forced to fight for the entertainment of the Legion. It was, of course, a most unfortunate position to be placed in. Apollo knew how to fight; he was quite proficient in unarmed combat, courtesy of a member of his cult who taught him about it. A man from some place known as the Shi Empire, who was ostracized and moved east after having been turned into a ghoul; hand-to-hand combat was popular there, and the man, experienced with it, passed along a great deal of Shi combat techniques after finding and joining the cult. Still, even though he was capable of defending himself, being stuck involuntarily fighting to the death for the amusement of an army of bloodthirsty barbarians was the last place anyone wanted to be. Few in the Legion actually harbored serious ill-will against the ghoul (Caesar's Frumentarii were especially fond of him, his supernatural clairvoyance having proven a useful tool for the covert agents), even in spite of the general animosity towards non-humans, and he was treated with some degree of tolerance compared to most other slaves (by the Legionnaires, anyway; his fellow slaves were likely a different story), put in his position purely by the will of Caesar; even so, enslavement was a miserable fate and Apollo silently yearned for an opportunity to be free again, and find a new home for himself and those like him.

He had no means of escaping; not at that point in time, at least. The Voice would eventually come through for him, though, and tell him what must be done in order to find freedom once again, he was sure; his powers had always helped him in times of crisis. It was difficult to trigger a clear vision of the future without access to radiation, though one would likely come to him randomly at some point; thus, he figured he would simply wait until that point and form a plan from what the Voice tells him, defending himself in any fights he found himself forced into before then. He figured it was unlikely that many of his fellow slaves would have much interest in helping him, as a result of both anti-ghoul sentiment and his former ties to the Legion, and, thus, it would be a waste of time to try talking to them; besides, there wasn't much point in trying to befriend people he'd likely be forced to kill at some point, it would be counterproductive. If there were any ghoul-friendly slaves willing to collaborate with him, perhaps they would approach him first, he figured.

Breaking himself momentarily from his thoughts on how to liberate himself from his current position, Apollo walked away from the other newly-arrived slaves and the lady speaking to them, and sat alone in the corner of the room, not caring much about getting tips on living as a slave fighter. Everything he was required to do would, no doubt, be dictated to him by one of the legionnaires when the time came, and since the ghoul tended to keep to himself and avoid starting trouble, he didn't expect to need advice on staying out of trouble. Apollo had always been exceptionally favored by fate, a very rare trait for a slave, having found exceptional success against all odds and being blessed with abilities few others had. He had no doubt that the Voice would present him with a path to freedom sooner or later; thus, he would wait. If someone decided to attack him, he would defend himself; if someone decided to talk to him, he would talk back to them. When the Legion decided to make him fight, he would fight; until then, he was in no hurry to do anything.

[Jarnheim]

Kill. Rip. Eat. The simple thoughts of a simple-minded man. An irregular, aggressive, and primal man, suited to his surroundings as a merciless brute with hyper-violent tendencies and frequent consuming of other humans. If he had miscoloured skin and other minor deformations, he would be indistinguishable from any super mutant. Some think he was indeed a mutation of some sort, even though this was not the case. But even as a human, there was little doubt he was an abomination before the very eyes of whatever force had shaped the biology of humankind. If one believed humans and animals to be so different, this very thing that preyed upon his own kind would show some kind of a bridge between the two.

Mason, as he was named, while dimwitted, had his own philosophies. Primarily, that humans were only so different than animals in ambition and belief. That the lion surely thought himself as an animal as much as most humans do. That we are creatures prone and born for violence, and that only a true fool would think himself as more than a wild beast. That there is always some small amount of untamed creature in every man and woman. Mason believed that in this day and age, there was a hierarchy of dominance. The strong would prevail, and the weak would perish. Of course, he could not truly blame the weaker creatures for being so smart as to band together to show dominance over the stronger creatures. This was a way of survival. But they would only last so long.

Mason had assumed wrongly that only several men were around, wearing their silly armor, patrolling the Arizona desert. Yet he was wrong. Very wrong. The fight seemed quicker than it actually went. Mason charged on man, and bashed his head in repeatedly with a weapon he had found recently on the corpse of a man, presumably killed by the legionaries. Mason had practically smashed the smaller man's head into mincemeat before being wrestled off the corpse by three other men. Using his raw strength, he had thrown two of them to the ground, before lifting the third into the air, digging his thumbs into his eyes before the head of the legionary imploded. Another charged at him, which did knock Mason off balance, before the behemoth raider punched the third legionary into the dirt, before digging his big, meaty finger's into the legionary's mouth, and then ripping his head off slowly. Suddenly, he was stunned in the back before being surrounded by a dozen more legionaries. Tired and somewhat exhausted, he still charged into several men before being knocked out and beaten.

Under heavy supervision, he was eventually escorted out to the Flagstaff Colosseum, and put with the rest of the slaves into the crowded area where other slaves had congregated.

A man spoke.

"I am Prefect Nero, governor of Flagstaff when Caesar is away, and you are the sons of the city. I do look forward to witnessing your potential. Please, do not disappoint."

Another man spoke, albeit briefly and bluntly.

"Don't try to escape and you may live longer."

Mason was fairly confused about what was happening, with all the hustling and bustling that had recently occurred, all of a sudden grinding to a halt as a quietness overtook the room. Yet this silence only lasted so long before a girl stood before the new arrivals, first staring at them before speaking. She was a tiny little thing, gaunt and sickly. But her talk was beyond what Mason would have thought.

"You're new," she said matter-of-factly as if she herself had only just learned this. "The others won't talk to you. New guys die, so making friends is pointless until you survive a game or two. But Lyn will help you." She points to herself and then to several others. "Tiberius is the old timer. Don't fight him, you die. Amelia, too, has been here a long time, not as long as Tiberius, but longer than most. Don't fight her, you die. Fynn is the caretaker. He's too old to fight so is trusted to keep an eye on us. Don't fight him, he die, and that bad 'cause Fynn is nice. These are the Pens. This is where we live when not on the Field. Not much, but it's nice so long as you mind the guards. Guards don't like trouble. Guards don't like Lyn. Lyn bites."

Mason stepped forward, sniffing the air. He looked down. He didn't talk, but he glared, his permanent scowl wrinkling. He looked as if he were struggling, but eventually a single word was uttered from his mouth, in a deep, gravelly voice, stressing the word especially towards the end: "H U N G R Y."

[Tayner]

Han Wayne
Flagstaff, AZ

As the cage rolled along the tracks, Han was hard at work trying to loosen his bindings. The iron bars behind him were slightly bent and broken, exposing a sharpish edge. He watched as the tired legionaries dredged on, and decided now was the time. He started grinding his bindings against the edge, minutes would pass, the distant station would grow close, and nothing more than a few frayed fibers would result. He silently cursed himself before he looked over to Olivia and shook his head.

She frowned and shrugged back. Not your fault, the gesture likely meant, but Han saw it as an acknowledgment of failure.

Not even an hour ago they murdered a baby, a small child who was crying for his mom to hold him. His corpse sat at the end of a spear tip, cooking in the sun like it was a mole rat carcass. Disgusting. It was one thing to kill non-combatants, another to take slaves, but baby killing was... disgusting.

Han swore to kill every Whopper Junior fuckface after that.

---

Olivia Kelly
Flagstaff, AZ

Han couldn't break himself lose, couldn't untie her or the other captives, couldn't fight his way out. He couldn't pull off any heroics, not now at least. She didn't blame him, Olivia had simply opted to wait for an opportunity to present itself. A guard who would sneeze wrong, a bump in the tracks, a star to align.

It wouldn't happen.

They were herded into the station like cattle, counted, and sent on their way. Olivia watched as they split the group, her stomach going empty when they came up to where the groups were split. She glanced at Han, only to find his face forward, cold as a stone. Whatever his tactic was, it worked, and luckily they weren't separated, they could still look out for each other. They weren't separated, yet.

She didn't realize it, but her heart was pounding.

---

Han Wayne
Flagstaff, AZ

The new arrivals were ushered in the side door like cattle, Han barley catching a glimpse of the front door. Armed guards, using shotguns and SMGs, crowd control weapons. A guard shoved him as he seemed to lag back, and he returned his eyes to the front. His eyes dashed to the sides, gathering information. They had them surrounded, that was for sure. Running now would probably end up with a bullet to the back. He glanced down alleyways as the crossed them, always dead ends, or legion troops on the other side, no way out. He started to lag again.

The guard shoved him harder with the butt of his shotgun, before pumping it and loading one into the chamber. "I won't shove you again, whelp." He threatened, poking the muzzle into the small of Han's back.

Han didn't let on, but he would've shat himself had he not been allowed to use the restroom earlier.

---

Olivia Kelly
Flagstaff, AZ

Han's face went white, a small change from the man's already fair skin, but one Olivia had noticed. She glanced at him and he glanced back as they continued walking, Han with renewed vigor. They entered the building, into some old locker rooms, modified to be cages. There were already people here, scarred people, people who looked weary, people who looked hardened. Sadly, never a discriptor that Olivia obtained during Brotherhood life, although Han could fit into it if one were to start defining things.

The gash running down his arm definitely looked hard, and painful if one were to describe it, and it reopened, recently.

Nero talked and talked before deciding he had enough to say. "Don't try to escape and you may live longer." Another person said. After their bindings were cut.

"Wait, what about-" Olivia started to plead, trying to get medical attention for Han, only to be cut short by a smack to the face by a recruit legionary. Han sprung up, clenching his fists as he came toe to toe with the legionary.

"Know your place, woman!" He hissed.

---

Han Wayne
Flagstaff, AZ

It was a blur, a smacking sound resounding in his right ear, right where Olivia's face was. Before he knew it he was toe to toe with the owner of the hand that had smacked her, blood running down his arm. And the sound of a machete being drawn was heard, no, multiple machetes. Olivia tugged his arm, pulling him back, away from what would likely be his death. And suddenly, nothing happened, he wasn't chopped to bits, his limbs weren't hacked off, he didn't end up strapped to a cross. The recruit simply laughed as he sheathed his weapon.

"At least she has some intelligence." He said, before leaving, the rest of the legionaries in tow. They leered as they passed by, but Han motioned her to get behind him, and she did.

They all heard the stories, the rumors, what happened to women who were captured.

---

Olivia Kelly
Flagstaff, AZ

Her left cheek stung, and when Han went to inspect it, she stopped him. "You're the one with the bleeding gash on his arm." She said, before he showed her the wound. "Jesus, that must hurt." She observed.

"Should've seen the other guy." He grumbled, hate obviously showing through his voice. She did, remembering when they were originally captured, she recalled that Han failed to parry an attack properly, and as the enemy's blade cut through his skin and muscle. Han swiftly caught the legionarie's neck with his next swing, watching as they fell to the ground, gargling for air as they drowned in their own blood.

"Hey." He said, snapping her out of the memory.

"Yeah." She said, repeating the word again as a whisper when she observed the wound again. "You're going to need stitches, and probably anti-biotics. Although it doesn't look like an infection has set in yet." She said. It wasn't good.

The girl who had greeted the group had gone mostly unnoticed by the two as Olivia inspected the wound, but they heard the basics as she spoke. "Questions?" The little girl inquired after giving a quick run-down on the joint.

"You don't happen to have a good healthcare plan, do you?" Han asked.

---

Han Wayne
Flagstaff, AZ

Olivia glared at him for the remark. Her face said something like; You couldn't've just asked for a bandage?, Or, Joking, now? Nevertheless, he got the point. "At least some water would be nice." He said, hoping the girl could at least help them with that.

[Anowa]

Amelia Flagg
Desert Rangers (Now NCR Rangers)
Flagstaff, Arizona
The Pens // ??/??/2277

The monotony of the day had been broken, new meat had arrived at the Colosseum, and more radical changes were made to the woman's plans. The presence of not one but two glowing ghouls made the woman somewhat nervous for a moment, before registering they weren't nearly as emaciated or misshapen as ferals. Two pillars of what could only be described as meat were present as well, one with greying hair and a sense of rage about him. The man seemed to be exuding anger and grief from him, obviously his arrival here wasn't a simple case on his part. There were a bunch of normal looking folk, one with an NCR... wait. NCR, that might help.

"H U N G R Y."

Though the other pillar of meat made the tension in the room raise a bit, and by the pink stain upon his hands and forearms, as well as the area around his mouth not obscured by hair, he got very personal with his meals. Amelia stood from the darker corner of the room, approaching the collection of new blood.

"Calm down there, Grognak. Legion folk tend to really dislike it when you eat your competition." her eyes changed to the NCR type, rolling her tattooed shoulder in such a way to subtly show the man the Desert Ranger insignia permanently strapped to her skin. While the NCR's policies didn't exactly align with her own, the Desert Rangers and NCR weren't exactly enemies, and from the NCR POWs that occasionally came through the meatgrinder, she knew that technically, she was NCR enlisted now as well. One of her many brother's in arms now in the room with her.

[Beiarusia]

---

~ the Pens ~

Lyn needn't wait long for questions. "When's the next fight?" a man asked, fists clenched, looking distrustful of the girl as if she were a feral and likely to attack at the slightest of provocations. Finger raised to her lips, she thought for a short moment, foot tapping away the seconds as gears turned inside her head with slow efficiency, answering, "tomorrow," but this was only an educated guess based on many poorly understood assumptions. The Legion typically held an event per week, never less but sometimes more depending on celebrations, surplus slaves/creatures, and the general mood of the public. The last event as four days ago. "What fight? Why are we fighting?" another man asked, younger than the first. Ben Hyett had been a novice merchant with some promise before crossing paths with the Legion. Lyn gave him a short answer: "We fight because they tell us to."

The girl bounced on the soles of her feet. She was antsy, caged for too long in the Pens, and unlike the others (or most of the others) she was eager to return to the Field if only to find the exhilaration of unrestrained movement free of the claustrophobic walls that oppressed the here-and-now. Death was likely, but to Lyn this was merely a secondary consideration.

An older gentlemen sporting a nasty wound to the arm inquired about a healthcare plan much to the exasperation of his younger companion; she requested water and nothing more. Lyn motioned to the far side of the commons with a needlessly grandiose gesticulation so as to lead their eye to a makeshift canteen where breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served courtesy of the Legion (the food was subpar and often small portioned but gladiators were unlikely to die of starvation). Water, too, was provided throughout much of the day (a daily ration) and was mostly clean. As if on cue a gigantic beast of a man stepped forward, sniffed the air, and, glaring down at Lyn, uttered a single word in a manner that seemed to be the upper limits of what he could accomplish.

"Hungry," said the giant.

"Calm down there, Grognak. Legion-folk tend to really dislike it when you eat the competition," came an interjection from the far corner of the commons. Amelia Flagg, a long-timer and quite popular amongst the fans, almost to the same degree as Tiberius (close but not quite).

Lyn giggled with her crooked smile not once wavering. "Don't eat friends. Dinner comes after sundown."

"You shouldn't be eating anybody," mumbled Jett McLeay, a small-time nobody from Dog City. Brett Hyett nodded along in agreement. They both understood the social conventions that likened cannibalism to the countess other crimes generally frowned upon.

"Raiders aren't picky," Lyn informs with a grin that becomes almost predatory.

Much is left unsaid but they can read in-between the lines. Despite her frail appearance she is as much a raider as Mason is a giant, and when food was scarce her gang wasn't at all opposed to partaking in the strange meat. For some it was a matter of survival; to others a delicious taboo. Lyn belonged to the second category, something which Jett McLeay and Brett Hyett intrinsically understood for they maintained a safe distance from the girl, who sniggered until overtaken by a coughing fit. She coughed up some blood but ignored the malady as if it were nothing more than a scratch.

Besides, she already knew.

Q&A over, Lyn gave those interested a brief tour of the Pens (commons, cells, toilets, a few hallways leading to dead ends, and little else) and continued to talk about nothing in particular as if conversing with close friends who'd only now come back from a trip abroad. They are watched by the others, the long-timers, but one in particular was of peculiar note. An old man, older than Tiberius even, too grey and rickety to be a gladiator. Fynn was a caretaker, a slave entrusted to oversee the Pens. Countless men and some women have come and gone throughout his many years inside the Stadium, most killed or broken by the depravity of it all, but these newcomers were something special, he could feel it, and so he watched and he waited and maybe, just maybe, they would prove to be something useful.

He'd know after a day in the Field.

[True Christopia]

Paul McCarty
Stadium Commons
Flagstaff AZ


The rattling cart-ride to the legion capital had been absolutely terrifying. The Legionnaires were more than willing to kill you for the smallest thing, as shown by the poor infant who had been impaled on a stick for crying too hard. That had made Paul throw up, for sure.

Upon entering the capital, he was even more terrified - not only was he going to be a Legion slave, but a damn gladiator? Not shortly after the Prefect's speech, Paul quickly made his case to one of the nearby guards "H-Hey hey, look - I think there's been a mistake - "

Only, he was met with deep laughter, and a resounding "No, there hasn't."

"Come on, man - look at me, I've got the body of a fucking shrimp - I won't last two seconds!" he got closer, practically begging at that point - but was simply shoved to the ground as the laughing continued. Dusting himself off, he stood back up and looked around the room - a room filled with giant, beefy men and women who would spare no second turning him into minced meat.

"Shit - shit shit shit shit shit" he stammered, biting his lip. Soon enough, some girl came along, rattling off information that he only barely paid attention to. Then, talk turned to cannibalism "Oh, I'm so fucked."

[Beutarch]

Peter Foiler

The variety of slaves in this batch had astounded Foiler. A handful of mutants, two glowing zombies and a few raiders and scavs. He had only been in the arena once before, an impromptu arrangement set up in a slaving camp. The slaves never stood a chance against the Legion's handpicked fighters and hounds.

"I am Prefect Nero, governor of Flagstaff when Caesar is away" — he used a soft "c" — "and you are the sons of the city. I do look forward to witnessing your potential. Please, do not disappoint."

It was a wonder that a giddy centurion hadn't slapped him across the face years earlier for uttering Caesar's name like a degenerate. Legion officials did not simply mess up and forget their life's achievements. This was a sign of his power. Must be some sort of powerful argentarius or former frumentarius.

As his cage stopped and he was dumped into the common area, he quickly got to his feet, moving closer to the raider that was giving a little speech. The facilities weren't anything special, and certainly weren't anything to cry about, considering what happened to the child just an hour or so earlier. Foiler's eyes wandered to Fynn, looking him over. Fynn himself was deep in thought, sizing up the his newest group of captures. Definitely not his first, and probably not his last. Surely the Legion's inside man would know something useful.

"You must be Fynn, eh? Happen to know what we are fighting tomorrow?"

[insert speech check here please]

[Arengin Union]

William Baker

Before the girl, Lyn was her name got a chance to talk to Will's question he began to look around the area, it was sort of a hub area, with several trash bin fires and an overall dark atmosphere around the entire place. As Will took a few steps he noticed there was blood on the floor. This doesn't look good.

"Tomorrow." Lynn answered, with quite a weird mannerism. Will simply nodded as he looked around the pen area. Anything that would serve as a way to escape, it was pretty dark and nothing obvious he could see. For a moment Will began to think of Sarah, her face he could barely remember now, but he could reminisce of her vibrant blonde hair, her soft lips and her steadfast attitude. He had to get out of this place, he had to go back home.

Suddenly, as Will came back to reality from his thoughts he saw a gigantic hulk of a man stand a few meters from him, sniffing the air as if catching the scent of grilled Gecko. Then he uttered a single word, in quite the gruff voice. "Hungry."

Will took a few steps from the man. Great, this guy looks like he aint about to be picky on what he eats, or who he eats. Was all Will could think.

Out of nowhere, and to Will's relief someone of a somewhat friendly disposition appeared. A women of quite a muscular physique, somewhat similar to Will, and with pink hair nonetheless. She spoke directly to the giant bloke, "Calm down there, Grognak. Legion folk tend to really dislike it when you eat your competition." Will simply smirked at the comment.

The girl then turned her eyes to Will, Will keeping a calm composure as she then made sure to highlight her shoulder tattoo to him. Will at first didn't notice, but with a second look he saw it, a Desert Ranger insignia. This was either luck or divine intervention. Of course, Will didn't show much reaction as he knew that them being openly NCR could lead to trouble with some of their fellow pen mates.

Will directed his words to the pinked haired women. "Legion tend to not like lotta stuff. William Baker, friends call me Will." He gave a quick wink to her, as mutual understanding of them being on roughly the same side. Though Will had little experience with Ranger, he knew they were tough as nails and this one, who seemed as a tough veteran of this god forsaken hell whole seemed like a good idea to get on her good side if he wanted to get out of here.

[Tayner]

Olivia Kelly
Flagstaff, AZ

"Thanks." Olivia said, gratefully, with Han echoing the same not long after her. "And my name's Olivia by the way, and this's Han." She said, Han giving a nod as he was introduced. The two departed soon after, heading to the canteen. Olivia had Han sit down at a table in an obscure corner of the room while she retrieved a water bottle from the table. She handed the bottle over to Han, who drank about a third of it in one swig, before handing it back to her. Olivia drank about another third, saving the rest to clean out the wound on Han's arm.

"Tear off a part of your robe as a bandage." He said, tearing away the scraps of the jumpsuit from his forearm.

"Why?" She asked, "Why can't we just use your jumpsuit."

"Because your robes are red, and if I start to bleed through, I won't notice." He stated, a small bit of logic to his reasoning.

"Fine." She said as she started to tear a pice of cloth from the bottom of her robe, and Han started to use the water to scrub dust and dried blood away from the wound, wincing slightly every time his hand went across the wound. Not soon after Olivia took the scrap of red fabric and wrapped it around his arm, hiding the wound from sight. "Maybe tomorrow we can find some fishing line and a needle." She joked.

"Or a hot iron." He said, less humorously. "Lyn said something about a tour, you should look into that, get some bearings in this place. I'll be here." He said, before leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah." She said before getting up and joining the 'tour group' that Lyn was leading. They saw the cells, the laterites (if you could call them that), a little more of the commons, and a few dead end hallways, before ending the group in the canteen. She scanned for possible means of escape, from air ducts that were too small to caged windows that were out of reach. A whole lot of nothing. She sat back down next to Han, who had been spending his time observing others in the canteen and in the commons. "Nothing that can help us escape, at least not yet." She said.

"But you got a lay of the land?" He asked.

"Yeah." She said.

"That'll do." He said, likely forming a plan in the back of his mind as he looked over the other newcomers. Some scavenger folks, NCR types, two glowing ones, and a rather large raider looking fellow who looked like the type who wouldn't go hungry, no matter what. None of them seemed that they would be overfriendly with the Brotherhood of Steel, but hopefully their predicament would allow them to put differences beside for the duration of their captivity. "We might want to start making friends sooner or later." He said, looking back at her.

"Yeah." Olivia said. "But who?" She asked, also scanning over the rest of the group.

"Great question." He simply answered as he continued to scan the group. "Great question." He muttered again, unsure of who to ally with, as they might end up fighting each other tomorrow.

[Beiarusia]

---

~ the Field ~

At dusk the slaves were confined to their cells. A handful of men per lockup with stiff cots stained by age (and God knows what else) to share between them, tossed in at random with those of higher standing laying claim to the most comfortable of bunks whereas those low in the unspoken hierarchy were forced to make due with the leftovers or, worse, the cold floor — the few women were treated no different and had to share this space with the men. Sleep did not come easy. Come sunrise they were awoken by the guards, beating machetes upon the metal bars and shouting obscenities, forced into the Commons to eat a meager breakfast of gruel and stale bread, and shortly before noon were escorted to the Armory. The legionaries were heedful and would respond with lethal force at the slightest provocation.

"This is yours!" the armorer yelled as the newcomers were given a set of worn leather armor and assigned a cubbyhole. "No replacements, so don't loose it and try not to tear it apart. Last more than a month and maybe I'll give you some scrap to patch it."

The slaves changed with nothing to hide their nakedness. To some this was no issue; others were clearly embarrassed. Lyn belonged to the former group, having no modesty whatsoever as she slipped into her armor as if dressing for a night out, the leather frayed and her stomach bare. Her arms and shins were also exposed, and somehow she'd snagged a torn bandana to wear across her face. A few others had modified their armor with extra leather, paint, scrap metal, and one wore a crude helmet with a crest of bristles.

Dressed, the slaves were taken to select themselves a weapon and were presented with a wide assortment of junk and crap. Rusty machetes were a popular choice but clubs, spears, and shields could be found as well, and of course those having proven themselves were granted the better of the equipment.

A scrawny man took hold of a makeshift sword fashioned from a lawnmower blade, sharp, and as he examined the weapon he was approached by Tiberius who grabbed hold of the man's wrist. "That's mine."

It was handed over without incident.

Armed, the gladiators were marched upstairs and forced into formation, and beyond the closed doors separating them from the Field the rowdy cheers of hundreds of men, women, and children could be heard alongside the din of drums. The blue-armored guards stood at attention as they were joined by the stern-faced Faustaus, the Centurion from the day before. He looked them over as if inspecting the troops, arms crossed behind his back, eyes piercing in the dusty sunlight that filtered in where it could. His voice was deep and commanded respect: "When those doors open you will march in formation to the center of the Field, and you will turn to the south to face Caesar, and you will salute. Any disrespect will be dealt with severely. Do I make myself understood?" He didn't expect nor want an answer. Lyn answered anyway with a "Righty-oh" and was met with a hard stare (which caused her to stifle a childish giggle). The Centurion continued: "Today's event will be a cooperative effort. And Nero wished for me to pass along a message to you newcomers. If you die, do try to make it entertaining."

Not long after the doors were opened and the gladiators marched out onto the Field underneath a glaring noontime sun. Around them the Stadium was filled with hundreds of people, cheering and clapping and chanting the names of their favorite warriors. To the south underneath an awning sat Caesar himself, on either side Nero and the Malpais Legate. In the southeastern corner was a sniper's nest standing tall where the mercenary Ender watched with bored interest, his rifle nearby should he need it.

The gladiators reached the center of the Field, turned to face the south, and offered their salute with one arm raised high.

A symphony of drums erupted in life and all quieted as the master of ceremonies spoke aloud to those gathered inside the Stadium. "The Sons of Flagstaff salute Caesar!" he said, followed by another round of cheering from the crowd. The clamor died away a moment later. "Since the dawn of time mankind has been at war with nature itself, a struggle of the fittest, a struggle we endure to this very day. So let us not forget the conflict of man and beast!"

The drums started once more, a primal booming that joined with the cheering people as gates were opened to the north and south. Those on the Field could see darkness inside, and then movement as the creatures raced through the exit and into sunlight. Dozens of hungry mole rats who were starved for days in preparation, and upon seeing the gladiators they rushed ahead in rabid fury.

The event was underway.

[True Christopia]

Paul McCarty
The Field

"Ohhh, no - !" Paul bit his lip - the leather armour he was wearing was slightly too big for him, and the machete heavier than he'd like. Spying around one of the gladiators in-front of him, he saw a pack of rabid, hungry molerats. Very hungry. And they were running - running straight for them.

Taking a half-step back, Paul raised the machete defensively. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die in this stinkin' arena. He let out a low whimper, not prepared for a fight like that - he couldn't fight, no, not at all. What was he going to do?

He took a quick glance at the other fighters, spying a woman - perhaps not much older than him - with a somewhat tanned complexion, as well as a far older, and far stronger looking man beside her. Swallowing hard, he found himself gravitating towards them, and the larger group of fighters as he prepared for the onslaught ahead "Jesus - oh, fuck - I'm gonna die - "

[Arengin Union]

William Baker
The Field

In a time that seemed to have flown to him quicker than he would expect, Will found himself now inside the stadium's field. He wore a set of leather armor that fit him just fine, his shoulder pad arm holding on to a machete while the other had a makeshift shield made out of a car door and some metal on it. As quick as the day had been, the group was left out in the field with a huge pack of molerats coming their way, very hungry and very pissed off as far as Will could see. If he only had a rifle, he could've aced a dozen of them now, but they were coming the groups way very quick. Will's height and overall physicality made him somewhat okay about his chances, but he couldn't say the same about a kid nearby him, his armor barely fitting him and even barely able to carry the machete.

The molerats were coming more and more close as Will raised his machete and his shield. He was ready to fight for his life, but he was concerned about the kid when he said outloud.

"Jesus - oh, fuck - I'm gonna die - "

Will couldn't hold but feel sorry for the kid, he seemed rather young for this shit. At least the others had some fighting chance, he on the other hand was just a kid. He reminded him of himself back in his young days as a kid, and more importantly, he remind him of his brother. In a somewhat protective instinct Will got in front of the kid.

"Keep behind me kid. None of us are dying today." At that moment, a molerat pounced at their direction, Will was quick as he then blocked the thing with his shield, and proceeded to kick it back with his boot and slash its head with unyielding force, cracking it open and killing the vermin.

"Stay behind me kid!"

[Vacif]

Horatio
The Field
Flagstaff AZ


Horatio knew few things, so he made sure to do the few things he knew well. Donning his well worn leather armour, he was among the less bashful of the gladiators, having learned that such things like changing in front of others was hardly anything to worry over. He grabbed his usual set up, a faded red stop sign shield, and an old but durable knife spear. The weapon was made out of the shaft and handle, with a trio of knives tied to the part of the shaft where the shovel blade would be. A ragged piece of green cloth was tied to the spear. A piece to remember those that used it before him.

They were marched out of the armoury and into the staging area. There Faustus had them organized and broke down today's event. It wasn't uncommon for gladiators to fight alongside each other, usually the number could be counter on one's hand but he couldn't recall the last time this many gladiators were fighting side-by-side. After their simple instructions they marched out to the Field. Horatio was never one for applause or grandeur but for the sake of the entertainment of the masses he had to put on a show, puff up his chest and stand tall. At the center they saluted Caesar to the south and he gave a speech.

After a drum roll that was much longer than necessary, a pit had been revealed, showing their ravenous opponent. No further words needed to be exchanged. He hefted up his spear and weapon and marched for the front. He deftly twirled his spear as he did so for dramatic flare and held it poised high to strike. "Formation!" he yelled. Horatio didn't actually really know himself what he meant but the gist was clear that they needed to form up. A rather fierce looking rat creature pounced at him, and got a set of broken teeth for its efforts as his shield met its monstrous little snout. The thing crashed the ground, writhing in pain before it was impaled by Horatio's spear. He wouldn't let it get back up. Not it, or any of the others.

[Tayner]

Han Wayne
Flagstaff, AZ

Han and Olivia spent the rest of the day gathering information, studying, and learning. Although they didn't learn much, to put it kindly. Olivia and Han were one of the last few to reach the cages, and Han saved a cot for Olivia, who was reluctant to accept. It wasn't until Han convinced her that he had more experience sleeping on cold floors that she accepted the cot. It was the truth, he had spent plenty of nights in the field, sleeping in dirt or old ruins under the stars.

Morning came, and they were awakened sorely. They were given armor, while Olivia's armor retained some modesty, it was more exposed than the scribe robes that she had been accustomed to. Han's armor offered little actual protection, just some straps to cover his chest, a belt, wrist braces, and one shin guard, which he fitted to his left shin. Lucky the leather armor fitted over his uniform, a luxury Olivia didn't have in her scribe robes. "Should've been a Paladin." She muttered.

"And risk getting your brain pan scrambled?" Han replied, keeping his eyes front, facing the wall to give the other gladiators what privacy he could.

"What good it did me being a scribe." She retorted as she finished changing out, stuffing the red robes into her cubby.

"Your intelligence would be wasted in the field, trust me. I'll show you when we get out of this mess." He said, still optimistic, and Olivia smiled back, sharing the optimism. Soon they were given arms, Olivia going for a rather long spear to keep whatever she had to fight at a safe distance, whereas Han scrounged a crummy wooden shield with a nicer looking machete compared to the other selections.

"Uh-uh," a voice sounded over his shoulder, belonging to the armorer. "You get a shield, you get a lesser weapon. Besides, that's claimed." He said as another gladiator snatched it from his hand, with a sneer on their face. "You get this." The armorer said, handing Han a lawnmower blade that was haphazardly secured to a piece of wood with old duct tape. It looked like it's break after a few strikes, but Han was thinking ahead, if another gladiator fell, than he could secure their blade to replace his.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

Han was ushered to the front of the formation, as a shield bearer, while Olivia was in the rear as a 'pikeman'. His salute was halfhearted, but the lack of enthusiasm probably couldn't be seen from the sidelines of the arena. It wasn't before long when they were announced and the fighting began. Mole rats, oversized rodents approached them, some running, others tunneling. "Jesus - oh, fuck - I'm gonna die - " A scrawny kid muttered as the gladiators broke ranks and circled about, Olivia and Han finding each other as the kid came behind them.

"Steady yourself, man!" Han nearly shouted. "Hold this pause, let them come to us." He ordered, although that was already the unspoken plan the gladiators seemed to agree upon. It wasn't long before a hungry mole rat broke through the ground, jumping up at Han viciously as he blocked it with his shield, stumbling back a step. Olivia had seized upon the opportunity, sticking the rodent with her spear as it fell to the ground. Han struck it with his machete next, the dull blade not even causing a laceration, although it obviously hurt the animal. Olivia stabbed the rat again, it squealing as it started to spasm, a pool of blood forming around it.

"Shit." She said as two more approached from the circling pack. "Little help?" She asked, knowing that her and Han wouldn't be able to take down the two rats alone, especially noting that one was rabid looking. She raised her spear in preparation for their attack, and Han did the same with his shield, swearing under his breath. She looked over to another nearby gladiator, Baker if she remembered overhearing correctly, as he struck down a mole rat. He also seemed to be putting himself between the kid and the mole rats.

"¡Oye!" She shouted, a slight Spanish accent becoming apparent in her voice now as she shouted the word in her second language. While she primarily knew English, her heritage lead her to learn a fair bit of Spanish in her younger years. What she shouted roughly translated to 'hey,' if it was used to get one's attention. She motioned over to the mole rats that were charging them, just as a third burrowed underground, likely heading their way. "Incoming."