Fallout: From the Ashes (IC)

[Oblivion2]

Act I: The Bloodied Bull

OOC: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=558491

Fortification Hill, Arizona-Mojave Border
June 1st 2283

War, war never changes. In 2281, Bull and Bear stood astride the Hoover Dam for the second time and brought battle to the Pre-War landmark. Neither side walked away with their prize; Caesar's Legion was soundly pushed back across the Arizona side of the Dam and the New California Republic was betrayed by a Coalition of New Vegas Citizens, a Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, Tribals who called the New Vegas area home, and an army of modified Securitron Robots. After exhausting themselves battling the Legion, the NCR's armed forces had no choice but to retreat to their toehold at Mojave Outpost and back to California proper.

Now both great nations find themselves grievously wounded, perhaps even close to death. The NCR finds itself the target of Great War Era nuclear technology and has it's capital of Shady Sands baptized in atomic fire. With it's legislative and executive branches of government all but destroyed, the various cities, townships and Villages that make up the New California Republic suddenly find themselves listless and leaderless. The Bull too lies gored, though its wounds are much harder to see clearly. Caesar, or Edward Sallow depending on whom you ask, finds his once Machiavellian mind gripped by the insidious tendrils of an invasive brain tumor. By 2283, Caesar lies at Death's door, comatose and unresponsive. The only thing keeping him alive, and the unity of the Legion by extension, are a Pre-War Auto-doc and what little medical expertise his conquered tribal medicine men can provide.

In a silken tent of red fabric, death descends for the only man who can keep Caesar's Legion in one piece, whilst his son and anointed heir waits for the moment he must become the very thing he has spent his entire life preparing to be. Even so, young Caesaron knows it will not be easy. His political opponents are many, and powerful, and they could just as easily become his military rivals. Or so his father's advisor Vulpes assures him. He holds the West and the border zones with California, but his reach feels tenous further East, where the Cult of Vulcan and the Legate Lanius feel stronger.

"How long do we have?" The young heir asks one of the medicine men- a tall, lithe figure older than his father, with his hair twisted into long flowing braids of black and white.

"Hours, perhaps merely moments, Grandson of Mars." The Medicine man replies respectfully, bowing at the speaking of Caesaron's title. He excused himself, ostensibly to return for more towels for the shuddering Imperator who lay upon his day bed, sweating profusely through his clothes as the fever racked his body and the cancer ravaged his brain.

"I do not understand why we cannot find some Profligate doctor to operate on the tumor." Caesaron said for perhaps the dozenth time since his father fell comatose months ago.

"Perhaps that was possible once, my Lord Caesaron." Vulpes Inculta said regretfully. The head of the Frumentarii was a slippery bastard, often doing Caesar's will in the most shadowy of ways. Despite the distrust Caesaron might have had for how he conducted his work, the spymaster had been utterly loyal to his father, and was thusly loyal to him now. "When the Cancer was less advanced, before the second battle against the Bear, it could have been operated on. But we have had profligates skilled in the medical arts here, and they all independently agreed that it was too late."

"We had them put to death, yes?" Caesaron asked with a slight tilt of his head. "We wouldn't want word to spread about our precarious position."

"I saw to it myself." Vulpes answered, wearing a soft smirk that reminded Caesaron of the Fox pelt that the Frumentarii often wore as a hood. He'd earned his name, without question.

Caesaron nodded and took a moment to briefly regard himself in the mirror. He wore his blonde hair shorn short, much like his father, though that was the only way he honoured the Son of Mars. His eyes, nose and cheekbones all spoke of the mother he never knew- Men of the Legion were separated from their mothers as soon as possible, and that too was true of the Sons of the great Caesar. There was only one woman who was treated as more than mere breeding stock, and that was Caesaron's sister, Juno. Though she was a member of the lesser sex, the blood of their holy father flowed through her veins just as much as it did his three sons. Though she held no place in politics like Caesaron, Octavius and Diocletian did, she still held a great deal of informal influence. She sat with their father, holding his hand and occasionally mopping sweat from his brows.

"He is so small." She said, shaking her head and sending her honey blonde tresses swaying. Of all of Caesar's children, she looked most like him which brought many an ironic joke from the siblings as they aged. They had all been closer once, back before the shadow of illness settled itself upon their father. Now Octavius and Diocletian needed to be kept at arms length until Caesaron could claim power. There could be no question as to which of the three young men would be the new Caesar, but no one believed that a woman could rule and so Juno remained here at Fortification Hill. "I remember being a little girl, and Father seeming like this great Titan of a man. Now the Son of Mars seems so small... So frail."

Caesaron crossed the tent and sat beside his sister who wept silently, the tears streaming down her sculpted cheeks. Caesaron gently wiped them aside and leaned against his sister's shoulder. "Even demi-gods must die eventually, Sister. Our honoured father knew this would happen, or he would not have had us."

"But his vision of a tamed wasteland... Of security and civilization for all..." She hiccupped.

"We shall just have to finish it for him." The heir of Caesar answered softly. He was about to open his mouth to add more platitudes to calm his sister when the Great Caesar's eyes opened suddenly, revealing orbs bloodshot and wild with fever.

"Physician!" Caesaron called as his father gripped his forearm with the same strength one would expect of a mad-man or a dying animal. Looking into those eyes, his father could have been either.

Still, the young heir felt like weeping with joy. His father was awake! The Legion would live! Tent flaps opened as a small horde of tribal physicians moved to attend their lord, under penalty of death. All hopes however would turn to ashes as Caesar gasped and panted, his skin pale and waxy. The auto-doc attached to him screeched an alarm that pierced ears and hearts alike. Then, Caesar, the Son of Mars, gave one last rattling gasp before going limp upon his bed.

The screeching alarm of the machine became and horrible drone and the symbols that showed his status all showed zero or flatlines. Caesaron and Juno were both rushed aside, sent to the other section of Caesar's War Tent. The throne room, most called it, Caesar had entertained Legate and honoured guest alike here under the watchful gaze of the Praetorian Guard. My Praetorians. Caesaron thought numbly. His sister's quiet tears turned to full sobs as both siblings sensed their worst fears upon them, and within moments, Vulpes Inculta came from the section of the tent where Caesar had lain.

He sunk to his knees and took Caesaron's hand, slipping his father's signet ring upon his hand before kissing the Bull emblazoned upon it. "Ave Imperator." The chief of the Frumentarii intoned. All others present sunk to their knees- even noble, beautiful Juno, and repeated what the Spymaster had said. "Ave Imperator!"

Caesar was dead. Caesaron remained.

"What are your orders?" Vulpes asked quietly, loyal tears of sorrow running down his own cheeks. "Command us, oh mighty Caesar."

"Prepare funeral games for my Father." Caesaron said, his voice wavering but beginning to steady as he hardened his heart for what was to come. "Sacrifice his Medicine Men to Mars for their failure, and spread the word. Let all know who rules the Legion now."

Every voice in the crimson tent of Caesar answered in unison. "Your will be done, Imperator."

---

Mayor Timothy Ray
Tombstone, Arizona, Legion Territory
June 1st 2283, Afternoon

Mayor Tim couldn't remember being this busy in his entire seven year tenure as Mayor of Tombstone. Trade in Legion Territory had usually set a brisk pace and Tombstone was well situated to handle traders moving to and from Mexico as well as deeper from Legion territory to the East. It was a bustling town that would have made its 18th century founders proud. Where a number of towns and almost all of the cities in Arizona were housed in the shells of Pre-War buildings, Tombstone had not been. The town was rebuilt with new brick, adobe and lumber over the bones of Old Tombstone. So much work had been done that it likely resembled the town as it had been during the days of the Earp brothers, Doc Holliday, and their famous fight against the outlaws at the OK Corral.

It wasn't the traders or their company delegates that kept Mayor Timothy Ray busy and worked to his fifty five year old bones. No, it was the damned Legion emissaries constantly cropping up to speak with him. Normally someone came by once, maybe twice a year. They looked for tribute, performed inspections, and perhaps took orphaned sons with them to join the Legion as recruits and fight for the Glory of Caesar. But in the last few months? There had been more than there had been in the other seven years combined. Tim sighed and adjusted the brim of his hat against the harsh Arizonian sun, waiting on wooden porch of his comfortable home which doubled as his office during his mayoral tenure. He had an actual office, just across the dusty street from the Sheriff, but he preferred the casual atmosphere that his home conveyed. Yes, he was a man of consequence and power here in Tombstone, but ultimately it's population of two hundred and seven had elected him to be Mayor and he liked to remind them that he was one of them as often as possible.

For most people, he'd have waited inside where it was cool, perhaps nursing a Sunset Sarsaparilla or a room-temperature cup of Tea, but today he was meeting with a Legionnaire who made the ruddy skinned mayor feel as though he was going pale. Diocletian, ostensibly one of the children of the Mighty Caesar, had asked to meet him. Asked. That was a curious anomaly in and of itself. Lanius' representatives showed up, took what they pleased and told the Mayor how he ought to act more than once in May. A forge-master of Vulcan had done much the same, though he'd promised protection in exchange for raw resources. When the Mayor had asked what he'd need protection from, the Priest had been vague in a way that set Tim's hairs standing up along his arms and spine. He might only be the Mayor of a small town close to the former Mexican Border, but even he could tell that something was happening to the Legion.

As he waited and watched his constituents coming and going, he considered his options carefully. More than two hundred residents, and perhaps fifty who stayed in the two at any given time as a stop off between other destinations... All of them depending on him to make the right choice when it came to the nightmare that was taking shape in front of him.

"Let us see what the Imperator's pup has to say..."

---

Ranger Tony 'Banshee' Ramirez
Legion Slave Encampment/Market, 5 miles outside Tombstone
June 1st 2283, Afternoon

Pain was an old friend. Raised Arizona tough by a family of Rangers, Tony greeted it with a wary sort of familiarity each and every time it reared its head. This time was different. It felt as though his body was aflame and he had shards of glass in his throat, cutting and scratching at him from within and driving him mad. He'd been feverish for days, maybe weeks. He couldn't remember how long it had been through the snatches of awareness he'd managed to claw for and the fragmented dream-memories he'd been subjected to.

He saw snippets of his childhood- twisted to the point of near unfamiliarity. Songs sung around the fire with his uncles Jorge and Hector were replaced with grim faced raiders singing tribal marching songs. His first long range kill with a rifle at age fourteen had replaced the Legion Decanus with his mother in her white wedding dress- an image he'd only ever seen faded photographs of. His first kiss, a feast of grilled gecko, barrel cactus and a box of BlamCo. Mac n Cheese older than his Grandfather's Grandfather. The symbolic gifting of his duster, armour and helmet upon becoming a full Desert Ranger, fights with raiders, mutated beasts and legionnaires... It all blended together in his fever dreams. The brief moments he was awake, he remembered seeing the canvas ceiling of a tent, he remembered feeling hands on him, holding him down as various remedies were injected or fed to him. The only constant was the fever, and the searing pain in his throat every time he tried to scream and roar.

Where was he? How did he get here? As the days passed and the pain dulled somewhat, his fevered mind showed him what he remembered last. He was looking through the scope of his rifle from a small plateau towards the Legion Slave Camp, not far from Tombstone. Scouting. Hunting. He'd heard rumors that one of Lanius' top dogs was going topbe coming to the camp in late May or early June. A perfect target. Whilst Tony hated the Legion with a passion, it was the Legate Lanius he hated in particular. One of his earliest campaigns had been against those Rangers still left in Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado who hadn't fled West into Nevada and California to join the NCR after signing the Ranger Unification Treaty. His family and friends had all been wiped out in a savage campaign led by the Legate, before he had become the Monster of the East that he was known as today. Anything that hurt him was more than alright by Tony. He intended for everyone in that Camp to hear the Banshee cry of his rifle as the esteemed one amongst them fell dead before he even heard the shot that ended his life.

It was in one of his semi-conscious moments, when he heard the reviled Latin tongue being spoken in the room that he remembered exactly how he'd gotten here. A snapped branch somewhere behind him alerted Tony to someone on his Six. He wheeled around instantly, his scope changing his view from the neatly arranged slave tents and Legionnary barracks of the camp, to the armour of a Legionnaire, perilously close, glinting in the moonlight. He had squeezed the trigger, and the zoomed in on body of his foe fell backwards onto the ground. He lowered his weapon, seeing now with through the night optics of his helmet the six other Legionnaires that had come with the first. Veterans, and close. Far, far too close without the benefit of the fully automatic nature of his carbine.

As he leveled his rifle to the right and shot one handed, he drew his revolver with his left hand, smoothly turning it about to engage another Legionnaire. He wasn't going to be accurate, fighting like this. But it was far too late for any consideration like that. Two fell on their way to the Ranger, not because of any incredible shooting, but simply because Tony was pulling the triggers of both weapons as fast as he could manage. As his revolver clicked empty, he briefly considered how they'd found him. Perhaps the Legion had tracked him here from the North. That was possible. What seemed more likely, however, was someone in Tombstone had given him up after he'd asked one question too many.

The first veteran was upon him, Machete glinting in the dark. Tony discarded his revolver and used his rifle as a primitive club. He caught his attacker in the helmet, bending the barrel of his weapon slightly with the force of swing and impacting into a well muscled, steel clad, charging body. This was a losing battle. Tony was better with a knife than the average civilian, but he'd never be able to compare to a Veteran Legionnaire in full fighting trim up close like this. Still, he fought for as long as he could. Downing a third foe before catching the edge of the machete upon his throat. Tony remembered managing to clamp his hand against his throat, squeezing as the blood oozed between his fingers before he fell to his knees and blacked out.

His last thought was that he was going to die. That his fight had been nothing more than meaningless vengeance in the end. But these legionnaires apparently had other ideas. They must have saved Tony and brought him back to the slave camp for one reason or another.

Laying on the cot in the tent, the fever finally having broken, all this began to occur to the Ranger called Banshee. I'm alive. I'm alive and I'm in a legion slave camp. Maybe the same one I was surveying.

With a soft grunt that brought that glass in throat feeling back, Tony pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the cot, feeling dried straw under his bare feet.

"Woah, woah there Ranger!" A voice called as a man rushed over to his side, holding his arm to keep him from getting out of bed. Tony turned and saw a man about his age, a slave collar around his neck and clad in the same plain tunic and pants of rough spun cotton that Tony himself was wearing. "You shouldn't push it. You've been fighting a fever for the better part of three weeks."

Where? Tony tried to say the words, opening his mouth and forcing the air across his vocal chords to make the sound. Instead there was only pain and a rough, barking cough.

The man, clearly a doctor or a healer of some sort, frowned softly and shook his head. "I was afraid that might happen. Your vocal chords were damaged, and I lack the ability to repair them. Honestly, it took everything I could do just to keep you alive. The fever nearly killed you as it was."

My vocal chords. Tony shook his head, appreciating the irony of the situation in a way only a soldier or a Ranger could. The Banshee had been rendered mute. He set his hand on his throat, finally feeling the bandages there. He looked at his saviour with wary eyes, tugging at the bandage with his left hand whilst he mimed a mirror with his right. The healer, a pockmarked skinned and ragged looking man blanched at the prospect, but he must have seen something in Tony's intense green eyes that told him to do what the man was asking.

He nodded and returned with a mirror before helping Tony remove the bandage. He saw his Hispanic features and sun-kissed skin staring back at him. His hair had grown out, and three weeks abed had grown a short beard of black upon his face. His throat bore the angry red scar from the Machete's kiss, as well as other scars from the surgery that had saved his life. Tony grimaced and returned the mirror to the doctor. He pointed to himself and made a shrugging motion, trying to ask why. It took a few false starts before the doctor understood. "Why keep you alive? Seems like they want to make an example of you, Ranger. That's what they said you were, anyway. Sounds like you're top be sold or die for someone else's amusement. Sorry... I couldn't just... Let you die, you understand? They'd have killed me too."

Tony nodded, gesturing towards the tent flaps with his left hand.

"You want to go outside?"

Tony nodded once more, and then gestured for his fellow prisoner to help him up.

Together they managed to shamble out of the tent and into the Slave Camp. Men and women toiled here as the overseers assessed their skills and physical capabilities to determine how they might be of use to their new masters or the Legion as a whole. "I'm Charlie, by the way. I was a Nurse in Yuma when they caught me using Stimpaks on my patients. What do I call you?"

Tony tried to answer, but could only cough roughly.

"Ranger it is, I guess." Charlie said with a sigh, to which Tony could only answer with a nod. "Lets get you back inside. You're still weak, and the last thing you want is the legionnaires dragging you off for whatever they have in mind right now."

Tony could only silently agree with that, for once grateful to be wounded rather than perfectly whole. He needed to get out of here before the sword of Damocles hovering metaphorically above him took his head.

[Antimersia]

Legion slave encampment
June 1st 2283

The chains are heavier than they look. Iron shackles around the ankles. Making every step shorter than you want it to be. More and more difficult with every day in the Arizona sun. Drew has been stuck in this slave camp for days now. Waiting to be killed, or sold. Being an able bodied man made him believe the latter was more likely. Every prospective buyer from bandits to farmers within the Legion’s territory gave Drew a once over. More than once he thought he would be sold. But it’s hard to look at a man with as much fire in his eyes as Drew has and not see pure rebellion in them. The average group is not the legion. They can’t hold Drew back like the Legion has managed to so far. They know it wouldn’t last long.

Even the legionnaires that watch over the slaves know that it is just a matter of time before Drew attempts escape. The former Free Fighter is never not staring them down. Glaring, eyes burning with rage and righteous fury. A desire to slaughter each and every one of the armor clad bastards. In the slim chance that one of them might be the people who took his life away from him. The legionnaires have no clue why he glares. But they see it. And they know the kind of hell he could raise even if they don’t know why.

All they know is that a rabidly angry man was brought in after attacking a small scouting party just a few miles outside of Arizona. Three grenades nearly killed the entire party. And Drew managed to finish the scouts off with his revolver. But, Drew didn’t know about the camp near Tombstone. And the sound of those explosives traveled far enough that reinforcements weren’t far behind. And they were far too many for him to handle on his own. He spoke no word to the legionnaires who captured him. And while he knows his true name, to the Legion and to the camp, he is simply the man with no name.

The sound of coughing is enough to gain Drew’s attention. He turns towards the sound, softening his expression as he sees the man that was brought in well before him. The comatose man has finally woken up. Finally something interesting has happened. Drew stands to his feet and gives the closest legionnaire one last glare before turning away towards the tent. The legionnaire does his best not to react. Knowing that he is armed and Drew isn’t helps quite a bit with his composure.

Drew looks around the camp at the others present. Noting the colorful group collected by the Legion. But pays them no more mind as he walks through towards the tent. With one hand in his pocket and the other raised, he pushes the cloth barrier aside and heads in. Sitting on one of the few unused cots nearby to where Charlie and the formerly comatose man have taken up.

“So our sleeping beauty has finally awoken, eh Charlie?” Drew asks with a toying tone. His voice graveled and carrying a noticeable Latino accent. Picked up from his years in Mexico. “Get a story out of him yet?” He also asks, completely unaware of the Ranger’s vocal chord issues.

[Luminesa]

Summer Breeze
June 1st, 2283
Tombstone Schoolhouse, Tombstone, Arizona Territory

The school didn’t have an official name, but Bridgette still liked the wooden sign over the front of the tall, narrow, brick building. It was rustic, a reminder of a long-forgotten time when these old schoolhouses were beloved cornerstones of society. She never liked the pictures of the huge, glass-and-stone buildings, as much as they had represented progress and modernity. Modernity had gotten Man to this point, but an old schoolhouse painted firehouse-red had never hurt anyone. Not in itself anyway.

The teachers were still the most important figures for any old schoolhouse, regardless of the time and age. And the students were still students, though the people she taught depended on the day. Sometimes, she taught children’s classes. Other times, she taught adults. Today, she taught the latter as she walked into the building and cracked open a window.

“Good morning class!”

She stood before a group of about twelve adults, mostly women. Some had their husbands with them. Might as well make the experience semi-romantic. Few things in the world were romantic anymore, Bridgette thought.

“Today, we’re going to make an easy meal, and we’re going to start with a staple that is very versatile, comforting, and delicious. Have any of you ever had fry bread?”

One woman raised her hand with her husband.

“Excellent! It’s extremely simple, and it was a part of the cuisine of the tribal peoples here for hundreds of years. Fluffy on the inside, crispy on the outside, and you can pair it with almost anything.”

Bridgette had a clear, sweet voice. She was small, but respected. She attempted to dress the way a teacher would have in the old days-a pink polka-dot blouse with a crisp, white collar, and a long jean skirt. She would have worn something more classical with pleats, but denim reacted better to the elements, even if it was heavier. Most importantly, she projected a quiet, peaceful sort of authority. Adults with much more experience of the darkness and dreariness of the world outside knew that they were safe here, somehow.

“We have just five simple ingredients here. Flour, oil, salt, a leavening agent, and milk.”

One woman, dressed in a plain cotton dress and apron, raised her hand.

“Yes!”

“Brahmin are still quite expensive, ma’am. Can you use something to substitute for milk?”

“Water, or you can just use the oil. I did say this recipe was versatile!”

The woman nodded. She was tanned by the sun, and looked as though she carried many worries in her eyes. Prices of foods, availability of supplies, the temporary nature of her home, nothing was certain outside of this schoolhouse.

Their brave teacher continued, bobbing her neat brown bun up and down. “So here we have your utensils. Your mixing bowl, your pan for your frying oil, your spatula, and a cloth and plates for stacking your finished products.”

The supplies were cheap enough, given the need for easy cleaning and supply for anywhere between twelve and twenty people at a time. Steel was the easiest to clean, and while it required more scrubbing, she could afford it.

Another man raised his hand.

“Yessir!”

“Shouldn’t we wash our hands first? Before we touch anything?”

One woman gave the man an annoyed look. “As if that water is going to get us clean!”

“Well, I do happen to have a bucket over here, and some lightly-purified water.”

Agreeably, they lined up for the water. Each one washed their hands and faces, savoring the cooling feeling.

“Hey, don’t double-dip!” One farmer-woman snapped to the man in front of her.

“Just a splash on my face ma’am,” he answered patiently.

“There’s plenty enough! We’ll wash our hands and then get started.”

Every person got their cleansing. And once they were done, and the towel had been used, she folded it to the side and took her position in front of twelve cleaner citizens of Tombstone.

“Alright! Now. Time to mix our ingredients!” Bridgette exclaimed with just a little more cheer herself. “I hope you’re ready to fry some delicious dough!”

Bridgette would teach this class for the adults. For the children, she would also read them a book about fry bread. Children learned, and so their parents learned. Parents learned, and so their children learned. The cycle was one of growth, in a place where growth was often uncertain. And families could find togetherness. And Bridgette could find comfort in the old world, if only just for a little while.

[Intermountain States]

Heather Doh
June 1st, 2283
Tombstone, Arizona Territory

Heather made sure she doesn't stand out from the rest of the people at the town of Tombstone. With her vault jumpsuit and equipment stashed away in a safe in her cart, she wears a simple outfit of gray poncho over a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. If someone sees her, she wouldn't look like a vault dweller but a traveling merchant, pushing a refurbished shopping cart filled with wares. She's been taking different routes to and from the vault during her expedition to Tombstone for the past few weeks. Occasionally staying in the town for a night or two before returning back to the vault.

Setting her cart up where the other vendors are at, Heather waved at anyone passing by with various items. Water filters, books, toys, lunchboxes, ropes, etc. She accepts bottle caps, Legion coins, and trades for items of equal values. Business was so far good.

"Thank you, come again," she greeted to the last customer who purchased some pre-war books. A little boy came up to her. He looked scrawny and rather dirty, as if he was out in the streets without a stable source of food.

"Howdy little fella," Heather said with a smile. "You with mommy or daddy?" The boy shook his head and held out six Legion denarius and pointed at a teddy bear. Heather's heart sank. It's a good chance that the boy is an orphan and she knows that the Legion would come to Tombstone for tributes, occasionally an orphan or two will get 'recruited' to its war machine.

"You want the teddy bear?" She asked and the boy nodded.

"That will be one denarius," she said and the boy gave her the coin. Heather took out the teddy bear and a bag of lunch she packed for her own mission from her cart and gave both to the boy. Heather can simply use some of the profits she made from selling the wares and buy food from a vendor. The packed lunch of a chicken salad sandwich, Nuka Cola, potato chips, and a prepackaged snack cake would do more to fill a hungry boy than her.

"Enjoy, little buddy," she said with a wink. The silent boy bowed his heads in thanks and scampered off into the crowd. She hoped that the boy doesn't find his way to the arms of a Legionnaire. She waved back at the boy with a smile before returning back to her cart. She still has a job to do.

[Segmentia]

“You’ll be out there on your own, of course. Discounting any locals you may pick up, of course. I’d love to send a few more fellas with ya, darlin’, but you know we’re stretched thin at the moment. And for all the danger they pose, the Legion hasn't bothered us much, yet, so I can’t get any of the other Elders to sign on to anything larger than a few scouts, and Heather’s got the other Elders sold on the idea that y’all would be better off being spread out and about. Can’t say she’s entirely wrong, but I still don’t like it.” Elder Jebidiah ‘Ox’ Thompson said, scratching at his forehead under the rim of the sweatband of his white stetson hat, the frown on his lips making the toothpick in his mouth dip down.

He was a large man, looking aged beyond his mid-life years thanks to the Texan sun and a life of hard work. His square, clean shaven jaw was on prominent display as he stuck out his lower jaw for a moment and used his tongue to flick the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.

“Ah’course going out on a scouting mission with your armor would be counterproductive, but that’d be like a bull Brahmin without his horns, so I’m letting you take your armor and whatever weapons ya feel like hauling around, since I trust ya to stash ‘em and actually do the scouting part of the mission. But if ya see an…opportunity to gun down a few dozen legionnaires and burn down a few camps, well, I wouldn’t be too sad about that.” His usual grin returned as he pulled out one of the strong, fat cigars he was so well known for. He spit the toothpick from his mouth, the small glass cup on his desk making a ‘ting’ as the thin stick of wood landed within, which earned a triumphant smile from Jebidiah, before he stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and struck a match, lighting the cigar and letting out a puff of smoke.

Sahkyo knew his trick, the puff of strong smoke was a test, a small way for Jeb to assert a small level of dominance. If you wrinkled your nose or scooted back, he would lean forward, put his elbows on the table, and tilt his head back just a little, so that he could look down his nose at you just a little. She had been through this little routine enough times, so she knew he was going to offer her a cigar right about…now.

She took the offered cigar from his fingers, letting him light it with the small flame still on the match before he shook it out. She took a puff and exhaled. Jeb grinned and leaned back in his chair, kicking his boots up on the desk, the spurs on them jingling slightly.

“Ya always were a firecracker, Sahkyo. It’s why I recruited ya, it's why I’m trusting you with this mission, and I know it's why you’ll come back from this. Covered in the glory of victory and the guts of the legion, no doubt. Go and get yourself squared away, ya leave when the sun goes down. The eggheads’ll have some pre-war maps for ya to use to find a hideaway for your gear. Do me proud, darlin, like ya always do.” He nodded, pushing a box of cigars across the desk and nodding to her, a casual dismissal to cover up the turmoil she could tell he was feeling. Sending any of his people out unsupported never sat well with Jeb, and especially Sahkyo. The two had a bond, almost like father and daughter, and while he would always do what he could for her, but he knew he couldn’t coddle her, hell, she’d be pissed off if he tried it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Sahkyo took the box of cigars as she stood up, giving him a savage grin that told him all he needed to know.

If they hadn’t been Legion, Jeb might have felt a little sorry for the poor bastards that were going to get caught in her sights, but well, legion was legion.


Tombstone
June 1st 2283, Morning
Sahkyo Garcia

It had taken weeks for Sahkyo to infiltrate this far into Legion territory, traveling mostly at night, and during the day only when possible. The bones of nearly two dozen Legionaries had been picked clean by the animals and beasts of the Wasteland in that time, if not by the wastes themselves. She had spent three days in a small cave to avoid being seen by a nomadic community, not wanting to have to kill them all if they had seen her. Finally though, she had found a place to stash her power armor and other gear, adopting the guise of a ‘normal’ Wastelander. She was a drifter, came in with a trade caravan from the East, and had wanted to see what all the fus was about with Caesar's Legion, and now she was doing jobs, saving up currency to travel back home.

It was a decent enough cover story, and those that might have wanted to question it quickly changed their minds when her hand slipped close to the hilt of the machete attached to her belt, of the handle of her shotgun. Or even just an overlong or aggressive look. Sahkyo was an intimidating woman, and not just from her sheer height either. Lithe and powerful, her tribal tattoos on her face making her eyes look all the fiercer, and the scars helped too.

Walking into Tombstone, she got all the usual looks she was used to. Some mothers even shooed their children away from her, which she was more than happy with. She wasn’t good with kids. Her first stop had been the general store, then the saloon. Tombstone was supposed to be a quick stop on the way to Two-Sun, but then she had heard some gossip about a Desert Ranger being brought into the slave camp a few miles outside town. She didn’t know much about the Desert Rangers, only what the Texas Brotherhood knew, which wasn’t much thanks to the distances between the two groups, but it was enough to make her stay longer. If she could get access to this Ranger, they may well have information her mission needed, or at least should know their way around the area and could act as a guide for her. She deemed it important for her mission, so she started planning and scouting.

From what she heard, the Ranger had been wounded. Perhaps she could buy him at a discount? She discarded the idea even before the thought had finished forming, she wasn’t going to participate in the Legion economy any more than she had too, and her time in the Texas Brotherhood had made her adverse to the mere idea of slavery. So that had left her with just one real option forward. A breakout. She had started to scout the region at dusk, night, and dawn, using her training to remain hidden and plan her approach.

She made the camp out to be 500-square meters, maybe 600, and from the buildings and knowing how the Legion packed in their slaves, she guessed maybe a capacity of 800-1000 people. Mostly square, with barbed wire fences, guard towers, and four gates. She had made out maybe 30-40 guards in rotating shifts, though they were sloppy. They even let some idiot glare at them. Even in her tribe and the Brotherhood that would have been enough for a beat down, she would have expected the Legion to crucify someone meant to be a slave for doing such.

Sahkyo debated on going to retrieve her armor and weapons, but that would defeat the purpose of being a scout, and she didn’t think she needed them, frankly. Besides, it would take a decent amount of time that she didn’t have to spare, because finally she saw who she was looking for, at least she was pretty sure, a man being helped out into the daylight after what seemed a long while, from the way they shielded their eyes from the sun and hobbled.

Putting her binoculars away and crawling out from under the bush she had been using to shade the lenses, she made her way back to town, starting her preparations. She would make her move that night, having wasted enough time.

[Finsternia]

Ephraim Mills
June 1st, 2283
Tombstone, Arizona Territory

The sound of clicking and clacking metallic parts ring like music in a rented room. Its windows are partially open, where the occupant could peek through the gap and into the busy streets of the humble town of Tombstone below. Folks go about their own businesses, as often as they do. People rise and open their doors to shop for their meals, to gossip in the streets, to work and to earn what meager coin they could to bring food to their tables. Children run down the streets with laughter on their lips, mothers chasing them with exasperated sighs. Hawkers push carts and set up stalls, selling bits and bobs here and there.

Another click and a metallic piece slides into place. Ephraim hums as his nimble fingers assemble the gun in his hands in a swift and concise manner. The Vault operative has already arrived in Tombstone a couple weeks earlier, slipping amidst the crowd. Masquerading as a scavenger and a repairman, the young man entered the town in sufficiently scruffy clothing as well as an assortment of scraps piled into an inconspicuous creaky wagon. No one would ever notice nor wonder that beneath all the scrapped metal and dismembered pipes and steel are his own disassembled weaponry and paraphernalia.

Another resounding and satisfying click echoes in his room as Ephraim finishes the assembly of the sniper rifle in his hands, the barrel fitting nicely on his palm as he lifts the weapon into position. The scope is in the perfect line, where his eye could peer into its glass and out of the slight gap of his window. He smiles as he sets it aside. On his bed are his now assembled weapons and tools, neatly segregated into cases as well as packed into a bagpack for easy storage.

The latch clicks, a beautiful and clear snap of metal on metal, and the young man grunts with a huff as he feels the heft of the case where he has stored his heavy hitters. He then grabs the backpack and puts it on, as he opens the window to look towards the sky, towards the sun. "...It's about time for work..." He murmurs to himself as he closes the window once more, his footsteps receeding out of the room.

[Oblivion2]

Talking Shop - Collab between Oblivion2 and Antimersa
June 1st, 2283
Legion Slave Camp, Near Tombstone, Arizona Territory

Charlie had just finished helping the wounded Ranger back into the tent and into his cot and slipped back outside for some fresh air when he ran into Drew, the supposed mercenary.

The nurse had been here for almost a month- no one had been quite interested enough in him to place any bids just yet, but he knew eventually he'd get scooped up by some Arizonan slaveholder, or maybe even an ambitious legion commander who needed decent medical staff beyond the usual witch doctors and medicine men. Drew was newer than he was, though not by much, and you never could tell if someone was a Legion insert.

Still, the line of questioning was reasonable enough. He ran a hand through his shorn hair- his once wavy blonde locks had been cut when he'd arrived. “He's up and about, yeah. The fever was the worst of it, I was worried we'd lose him to blood poisoning. But he pulled through. I don't know if he’ll ever talk again though- blade that cut his throat did a number on his vocal chords. Maybe someone can open him back up and fix him, but I doubt whoever that is lives in Arizona. Did you want to have a go at talking to him?”

He paused and glanced around, “And uh… you really shouldn't be glaring at the guards like that. They've got ways to break a man, and honestly I'd really like not to get scooped up in any trouble just cause we talk sometimes.”

Drew chuckles before answering. “They haven’t even tried yet. I think they’re scared of me.” He says with a mocking tone. “They probably should be.” He boasts. Drew leans forward, lookingin to get another look at the Ranger. He sees nothing special about him. But the same could be said about himself. His face paint had long been forcibly washed off by the Legion. So much so that Charlie here might be the only one left who say him wearing it. So Drew knows that looking unassuming doesn’t mean he’s unassuming.

“Think they were aiming for the cords? Like they didn’t want him to talk or something?” Drew asked with his interest piqued. “Could mean whatever he has to say is just that much more interesting.”

“I doubt it.” Charlie answered, sparing a glance towards the Ranger on his cot. He was wearing slave rags like the rest of them; cobbled together rough spun cotton clothing that set them apart from the Legionnaires and any potential buyers who might be in the camp. The Ranger however, had yet to be fitted with chains or a collar, likely due to his injuries and the doubts that he would even survive.

“Legion doesn't keep people alive who might know something they shouldn't.” The nurse continued, “Besides, the injury he sustained looked like it was meant with lethal intent. Just lucky he was taken so close to the camp- I heard they only had to drag him in a mile or so. Maybe less.”

Tony, who had been dozing at this point, opened his eyes and turned the brilliant green orbs up on the two speaking men. He let out a grunt, attempting to say ‘Hey’ but only managing to make something akin to an animal noise. Charlie turned and saw the Ranger's appraising look. Slow and deliberate, the man raised a single finger to his lips in a gesture that could not be misunderstood. Quiet.

“Sorry.” Charlie said, blanching somewhat under the Stony gaze of the recovering ranger.

“No worries.” He said with a chuckle. “Some patients just don’t listen to their nurses.”

“Ya know, it all makes me wonder why they brought him in at all, If the goal was to kill him.” Drew replied, curious. “Should get him a stick or a rock to draw in the dirt. At least so he can tell us something.” He suggested. Drew’s curiosity grew the more they spoke. The Legion liked their slaves. But slitting a man’s throat wasn’t how they would normally capture someone. Something didn’t quite add up for him. The Ranger should be dead. There has to be a reason why he isn’t. And that reason could just be a thread that will lead him out of this camp.

“Seems a bit personal too. Could have just shot him. Why go through the trouble to slit his throat?” Drew asked, pulling at any thread he could in hopes of finding some sort of answers. And, while he wouldn’t admit it, also asking simply because this is one of the most interesting things to happen in camp since he arrived.

Charlie, as educated men and women do sometimes, had missed something obvious that a more practical minded person would have noted right away. “A stick! Of course.” The Yuma nurse moved about the medical tent, rummaging around in the scavenged prewar cabinets and drawers that the legion had moved in here to store various odds and ends. As he looked, he kept speaking to Drew. “You don't know much about Rangers do you? Legion hates ‘em. Couple decades back, NCR signed a treaty with the Desert Rangers, folded them into their own program in California and Nevada. Some though, some stayed and kept fighting the Legion like they would have any other slavers.”

He spared a glance over his shoulder at Tony. “Don't rightly know if this one is a remnant or an NCR Ranger out on a hike. Anyway, legion will try and kill em because they're supposedly a royal pain in the ass. But if they get one alive? They like to make an example of them. Crucify them, torture them, make them fight in the arenas, sell them to an avid collector, whatever they want, really. Few rangers get captured alive. Aha!”

Charlie produced from the cabinet a stick of sufficient size that it might have been set aside for a splint. He carried it over to the Ranger who loosed a pained sigh from his lips and sat up from the cot. Using his foot, he brushed aside the straw flooring to get to the dirt underneath.

“So… What's your name Ranger?” The nurse asked tentatively.

The tanned soldier began to scratch letters into the dirt. Tony Ramirez.

He paused a moment before drawing below it; Ranger Banshee.

“Never had much contact with Rangers or the NCR. So I can’t rightly say I know much about them beyond reputation.” Drew explained as he watched the words get scribbled into the dirt.

“Two names huh? I can relate.” Drew said with a chuckle. “Guess you northern boys ain’t too different from us after all. Maybe a little less flashy. But, still.” He trailed off, taking a seat on an uncovered trunk a few feet away from Tony and Charlie. “So which do you prefer? I figure you wouldn’t ‘ave told us a second name if you didn’t have a preference.” He noted, while starting to think of other questions worth asking.

The Ranger gave a shrug and kicked the words he'd drawn in the dirt away before writing once more: Callsign.

Drew didn’t know much about the NCR but he recognized the term. He looked Tony in the eye and nodded silently in understanding. He turned over to Charlie and said.

“You have anything medical you need to ask him first? Cuz I’m damned curious to pick his brain a bit when you’re done.”

Charlie took a moment to think about that, looking over at the Ranger with a professional eye. “No.” He said finally. “No, I don't think so. His fever broke, so I'm convinced he's on the farther side of things. He’ll need rest and more treatment, of course but I don't know how much time the Legion is going to give him.”

Not much. Tony scratched out into the dirt, which drew a soft nod from Charlie. “Yeah, probably not.” The nurse turned to Drew, “He’s all yours. But don't push it. If he says he's done or he's tired, should leave it at that.”

“Will do.” Drew replied, patting Charlie on the shoulder as a way to tell him he did a good job. “Alright I’ll make it simple for us both and just have you do yes or no alright? Just draw a y and an n in the dirt and point to the answer. That way we don’t waste time or your energy.” He waited for Tony to draw the letters before continuing. “So, do ya know why they’re keeping ya alive?”

Tony rolled his eyes and pointed to his face, shaking his head back and forth. A clear no, and a sign that he found a shake of his head or a nod of his head simpler than drawing in the dirt.

“Fair nuff. So it could be damned well anything if you dunno why.” Drew paused briefly, thinking hard on what his next question should be. “If I ask you about your Ranger work, will you answer? I wanna know if i should even bother asking about what brought you out here. No use if you’re just gonna lie.”

Tony paused, looking Drew in the eyes for a long moment. Then his gaze turned down to the man’s hands and he pursed his lips at what he saw. Rather than nod or shake his head, he scratched a question of his own into the dirt: Mercenary? Raider?

Drew smiled. “Could call me a mercenary. It’s probably the best word for what I am these days. And I’m sure as hell no raider. For as much as my word is worth at least. I wouldn’t be so quick to assume anyone would be honest about what they were before this place. But, I’m not one to lie. I’ll hold stuff back, but i won’t lie.” He chuckled.

Ask. Won't promise answers. Tony scratched the sentences out one after the other before rubbing the dirt away and proverbially clearing his slate.

“Alright then. What the hell is a Ranger doing this far east these days?” He asked bluntly.

Tony would answer by pointing at the ground, making the gesture seem as emphatic as possible. He would then add to the sentiment by writing out, Born here. Never left. Treaty was garbage.

That would get Charlie’s attention, “He means the Ranger unification treaty. This ain't no NCR man. He's a bonafide Desert Ranger.”

“Desert Ranger? Been almost twelve years since i heard about any of ya’ll even existing.” Drew said with a light chuckle. “Well then i guess I’ll rephrase. What brought you so close to camp that you got caught and cut?”

HVT from East. Lanius' man. Tony scrawled out for Drew. He would then raise his stick up like an imaginary rifle, closing one eye as one would for a scope and mime the recoil of the rifle. Clearly, Ranger Banshee was in the business of killing men.

“Well, always good to know when i’ve met someone in the business of killing the Legion.” Drew said with a wide smile. “That’s good, we’ll need that. Last question though. Did you come here with a back up plan? A way to escape?”

Tony would show his arms, one after the other. He was sleeveless like all the other slaves. Nowhere to conceal anything on his person. He'd shrug once more before picking up his stick and continuing to write. Had multiple exits planned. Did not anticipate capture. Will think.

He seemed about to write more when something stopped him. His gaze turned to the tent flap and he quickly began wiping his words away and replacing the straw he'd pushed aside to get to it. He tossed the stick to Charlie who seemed confused until Banshee held up five fingers on his left hand, closed it into a fist, and then held up two fingers and a thumb. “Legionnaires.” Charlie muttered and moved to put the stick away.

Banshee slipped his legs back over the cot and made a shushing motion at Drew before closing his eyes and feigning sleep.

Not long after the sound of armoured boots would be apparent to all, and a short moment after that the tent flap would open up to reveal an entire squad of Caesar’s finest. “Profligate Charlie.” The lead one said, causing the nurse to turn around and bow slightly. “Sir?”

“Has the Ranger awoken?”

Charlie hesitated, “For a brief moment but then he-”

The legionnaire raised his hand, cutting him off. “You are to send word the moment he is conscious for more than a few heartbeats.”

The man then turned his blue eyes upon Drew. “Profligate Blumenthal, you are summoned to the arena. For a test of your prowess.”

Drew chuckled cockily. “Yeah yeah. Figured that’s where you lot would send me eventually.” He walks towards the entrance of the tent giving all of the Legionnaires the same coarse look he gives them all. “Hope one of you has the stones to get in with me. Rather than just have someone else fight for you.” He says quietly with indignation. Letting them lead, or more accurately drag him off to his fate.

Without any bluster or threats, one of the Legionnaires simply took a club from his belt and struck drew soundly on the back of the head. Unconscious or not, the man would be seeing stars and as he swooned on his feet, he was expertly clamped in irons and tossed over the shoulder of the largest legionnaire and promptly walked away with, out into the desert sun.

[Luminesa]

Co-Write Between Lumi and Oblivion2

Just Another Day in Paradise
June 1st, 2283
Bridgette’s Home, Tombstone, Arizona Territory

Like any teacher, Bridgette carried plenty of bags home. She had the bag of food items that she had made for the day-extra fry bread, some grilled corn, and some spicy baked chicken that she had made with her students. She had a bag for her apron and gloves, which were hers and not the school’s. And finally, she had a bag of her cooking books and guides, which she also did not leave in the classroom.

That afternoon, after a long and successful day, she appeared in the doorway of a small, wooden house tucked away toward the interior of Tombstone. She was glad she had been able to afford a solid building. Living in a tent with sand brushing into her skin, hair, and teeth was something she had endured before, and while she could do it again, she liked the stability of this small home. It was not a manor, but it reminded her that her work was worthwhile, not just for others but for herself.

Clicking open the door with her key, she felt a wave of relief, as she was finally away from the needy world outside her home. She stepped indoors, and she closed the door. Then she brought her bags to the kitchen, and began to organize the extra food from today’s lesson.

It was a few moments after Bridgette got home that there was a familiar, rhythmic knock at her door. Outside awaited Doctor Stenz, town veterinarian. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his middle fifties, his once sandy blonde hair now having gone silver-white. He wore a bushy mustache and was often only seen in Ranchers clothes, or well cleaned green scrubs.

The Doctor sat in a well liked position; most everyone kept some kind of animal in tombstone to help augment their diets. Usually hardy chickens or Rad-Sows, but there were more than a few Brahmin and Bighorners in town as well. Occasionally he'd even take a human patient and pull a tooth or stitch up a bullet wound if no one else was available. He was also the only member of the Followers of the Apocalypse in town, and he often looked out for Bridgette.

“Miss Doss? Are you in?” He'd say after he finished knocking.

The clinking of kitchen utensils in the sink proceeded Bridgette calling over her shoulder to the good doctor. “I’m home! Feel free to come inside!”

The door creaked open and Doctor Stenz took a moment to wipe his boots off on the battered doormat, bearing the name of the Sunset Sarsaparilla bottling company on its face. “Howdy Miss Doss.” He said, his accent more New Mexican than Arizonan. “Came by to tell you some of the news.”

He took an appreciative sniff, “Fry-bread today in class?”

“Yes, and some of the other leftovers! I’ll make you a plate, I’m sure you’re hungry.” She started to put together a plate, just as she had for her class. The fry-bread, the sliced pieces of the chicken, and the corn on the side. She had some salsa in a jar as well. She then pulled two bottles of Nuka Cherry, one for herself and one for the good doctor. She served it out to him on the small island in her small kitchen, which was the perfect size for up to four people. Luckily, Bridgette didn’t have a lot of visitors.

“Here you go! Now you and I can be full while you tell me the news.”

Doctor Stenz had a sip of nuka first before putting some chicken on a piece of fry bread and having a bite. “Mmm, s’good Miss Doss. Real good.”

He took a few more minutes to pick away at some of the food whilst he sat at the island before having one more drink, and launching into his news, his food only about half finished for now.

“Been talkin’ to the Mayor’s assistant some, Miss Perkins. She says Mayor’s seen an uptick in Legion bigwigs in the last while. Rumor is, we should be expecting a bigger presence before terribly long. Given where Tombstone sits, it's pretty important to the Legion, and the way things sound, not all these bigwigs agree who the Legion is gonna belong to when ol’ Caesar kicks the bucket.”

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Mayor’s Residence. “Apparently he's meeting one of the old man’s boys, one of his very own flesh and blood sons today. Meanwhile, out in the Slave Camp, they got one of Lanius’ top officers roosting too. Avoidin’ each other like the plague. Had a representative from that there Cult of Vulcan a couple weeks ago, and rotating couriers too from all sorts of places in Legion territory. Might be wise for you to get out of town sooner than later, little lady. Things blow wrong, you could find yourself in chains while ol’ Tombstone burns. You know well as I do how bad they treat women. Can't say I want that sorta thing for you.”

Bridgette’s heart sank. This was not the first town in which she had taken shelter from the Legion. Her entire life was a game of taking shelter from the Legion. And if they were moving closer and closer to Tombstone, two possibilities were on the horizon-they were going to move the town, or they were going to do worse to it.

But the characters were different this time. Not just any members of the Legion. “Lanius, the Cult of Vulcan…is there some sort of…” She lowered her voice, in case someone might be listening nearby. Even though she had the windows closed. “Is there some sort of internal conflict in the Legion?”

“Right now? No.” The veterinarian said with a shake of his head. “You might even say that the Legion has been good for Tombstone. But the rumor mill is saying ol’ Caesar ain't long for this world. When he goes, who runs the Legion? He's got his sons, sure, but do they have the same sort of reputation as Legate Lanius, Monster of the East? And then the Cult of Vulcan handles about sixty percent of manufacturing in Legion Territory. They ain't gonna go quietly. This is going to at least be a three way bloodbath, and Tombstone is just one of many prizes to be won. You can bet your bottom dollar that they'll fight for it, and if they fight? We all lose.”

Bridgette gave a grave nod, and then looked around at her small dwelling. She had come to like this place. She had come to like Tombstone and its people. But now, now she might have to leave again. “How long do I have to get packed? And…where should I go?” she asked, continuing to use her conspiratorial whisper.

“Beats me.” The Doctor said with a laugh, returning to his meal. “They might wait for our old friend Caesar to die, then again they might decide not to wait it out at all. Problem with going anywhere is you're not really spoiled for choice. You head east into New Mexico, that's still legion territory. Though, it's probably going to end up taking the Legates side, so you might be okay. Maybe you could even make it to Texas. South into Mexico? That could be trouble. I hear a lot of wild rumors down that way, some of it good, some of it not. You go west and head for Nevada you might be okay too, but if things kick off before you get to the Mojave you'll be right in the middle of it. North you'd have much the same problem, only you'll find Utah ain't a real nice place to be. You got any caps saved up? Maybe you can hire yourself a guard or get on with one of the caravans.”

How many caps did she have? She asked herself mentally, as she decided to take a look down at her table, and then at Doctor Stenz. She would have to check. “A guard…probably would be a good choice,” she thought aloud. Her eyes then flicked up to the low wooden ceiling, just about seven feet tall. The air seemed to form the map above her. “And New Mexico is pretty close, that might be my best bet.” Her eyes then turned back to the good vet. “But what about you?”

“Me? Well, I'm not a lady. That or I've had it all wrong these last fifty seven years.” Doctor Stenz said with an amused laugh. “I'll do my best to keep my head down, surrender to whoever wins, and either die or go on tending people and animals. Nothing wrong with any of that.”

A sigh of amused resignation escaped the younger woman’s lips. Win or lose, Doctor Stenz would face his fate with dignity. That was all he could do, and that was all Bridgette could do.

“Well then, I’ll see about leaving first thing tomorrow.” Her heart sank at her own words-now she would have to follow through with them. “I’d hate to leave my work on such a short notice, but I’m sure there’s work to do in New Mexico. Maybe someone could help me get a home and a place to get started again.”

“Just make sure whoever you get on board with, guard or caravan, you trust your gut Miss Doss.” He suggested sagely. “And if you can't trust your gut, do your homework. The wasteland needs all the educators it can get its hands on.”

Guards were always a gamble. If she chose someone who was not trustworthy, her life could be forfeit. And not everyone in the desert was who they seemed to be-she of all people knew that lesson well. She nodded to Doctor Stenz, her bright eyes grim and prepared. “Do you know anyone you could recommend?”

“Not really.” He admits as he worked his way through the rest of the plate. “I ain't left Tombstone in twelve years, save for a trip up to Yuma for some doctorin’ tools. Best you ask around, see what you can drum up. I know there's a couple wandering traders in town, real solo types. They probably know who they'd trust their lives to out here. Trading on your own… it's dangerous work, even out here in Legion territory.”

With only a day to go, she did not have a ton of time to ask around. But Bridgette had no other choice. “I’ll see what I can do,” she answered, knowing that her future now had no guarantees. She then put a hand on top of his, an earnest gesture toward someone who had her best interest in mind. “And thank you for looking out for me for all the time I’ve been here. One day I’ll pay you back.”

“This is what we do, Miss Doss.” He squeezed her hand with his own, his hands were warm and rough from the harsh environment despite all he did to care for them. “We help people. But we can't help people if we're not takin’ care of ourselves. Just… take your time and do it right. These things shouldn't be rushed too much despite the urgency. It's how you get taken advantage of. So, ask around. See who you can find. And make damn sure you're visibly armed when you set out.”

Visibly armed. She winced, but looked back toward her bedroom. She knew what she had, and what she might have to use. Turning back to the Doctor, she nodded. “Alright. As visibly as I can, sir.”

The dust blew outside the windows of the small house, rattling tumbleweeds and misplacing small scraps along the measly dirt roads. What was her home was going to be just a house in a day or so. She would have to account for all of her things-again-and move back into the desert-again. After all, something told Bridgette that a nuclear winter would not cool what was coming soon for Tombstone.

[Antimersia]

The Arena

The arena is nothing like the grand coliseum of ancient Rome. Logs, stripped of their branches and fastened together with scrap metal lines the outer ring of the large encirclement. A singular gate allows for exit or entry from only the one point. A point that is watched by guards at all times. Climbing the walls is pointless. They are tall enough to make scaling difficult. And the Legionnaires that patrol the tops only serve to make it even tougher. Wooden and scrap metal seating, elevated to look over the walls and watch the spectacle below. The inside of the walls as well as the dirt grounds of the arena itself is scarred by the many fights of the past. Drew looks at some of the chips in the wall as he is pushed inside. Seeing some of them stained with blood. And knowing that he won’t leave this arena without spilling some.

He is the first brought in but he isn’t alone for lone. Three others are brought in in quick succession of one another. All of them being of roughly similar build as Drew himself. All of them wielding nothing but a rock given to them as they were thrown in. The stands begin to fill with onlookers. None of whom Drew recognizes. It unnerves him. He’s been in camp long enough that this many unfamiliar people makes him question many things. Those questions are secondary, though. The more important questions pertain to how he intends to make it out of this arena alive.

Escape would likely be the closest thing to a humanitarian option. But the chances of his own death are effectively 100%. Killing the others is the best choice for his own survival. But he would not prefer to end the lives of innocent people. Even if these others might have done something worth being put into cages, he doesn’t know that. So they’re innocent to him. But as he holds the rock in his hand, and observes how fearful the other three are, the third option comes to his mind.

Drew sizes up his competition. Two of them are scrawny. And look like they’ve been here a while. He’s seen them around the yard once or twice. Never spoke a word to them. Typical hide in the corner and hope you aren’t seen types. The third is a big bigger. And has scars along his forearms. He’s fought before. That’s his first target. If he wants there to be any chance of them all leaving this arena alive, he has to be the first one taken out.

The rabble of the crowd is hushed by the sudden blaring of a horn. The signal for the fight to begin. The crowd’s rabble turns to cheers. And a look of pure fear sets in for the two scrawnier men. The one to Drew’s left immediately turns and tries to get some distance. A poor choice. The larger man chases his down with ease. Tackling him to the dirt. He tries to get away but it’s useless. The larger fighter pummels him. First with his firsts but eventually using the rock. Hitting him until there is no like left for him to fight for.

The second of the two scrawny men is braver. Albeit also more stupid. He puts his hands up, rock at the ready. Ready to fight Drew. Drew gives him a very solemn look in return. One of regret rather than anger or desire for a fight. When the man tries to attack Drew by swinging the rock at his head, the attack is blocked easily. Drew twists his arm and makes him drop the weapon. Then pulls him in by his arm and engages him into a rear naked chokehold. Keeping light pressure on his carotid artery. Just enough to make him lose consciousness. Releasing him just as he does. Letting him completely pass out, while looking dead. Two down, one to go.

The larger man begins to play up his victory to the crowd. Lifting the corpse over his head and roaring victoriously before tossing it to the side. And it’s working the crowd is loving this gruesome display. Drew is no stranger to the concept. He wore his mask during his times with the Free Fighters for a reason. Sometimes you just need to play into something bigger than yourself. But he isn’t going to revel in victory when it is not yet assured.

The crowd begins tossing weapons into the ring. Everything from daggers to shields and spears. The larger man immediately runs to obtain one. Picking up a spear and raising up. Calling for more cheers. It gives Drew a chance to pick up a shield. Holding it on his right forearm, he peers over the edge of it. The round wooden shield with iron banding was likely ill suited for combat in the wasteland. It wouldn’t stop a bullet. It likely wouldn’t even stop the swing of an ax from a super mutant. But here in the arena, it makes for good sport.

Drews opponent charges. Spear in hand as runs with viciousness in his eyes. A look of malice. He’s enjoying this. He wants to kill. The Legion found a star of this arena. A pity the put him against Drew. The man thrusts his spear forth. Drew lifts his shield and moves slightly out of the path. The spear blasts right through the wood. Narrowly missing Drew’s arm in the process. A slight nick starts to bleed down Drew’s forearm and the larger man looks somewhat victorious. Until he attempts to pull the spear out from the shield. It’s lodges, just as Drew intended.

Drew swings his arm to spin the shield. Yanking the spear from the large man’s grip. And before he can even react. Using the momentum he spins around and aims the inside of his shield where the spear is jutting out, directly at the large mans ankle. The blade piercing it like butter and making him fall as his achilles tendon and calf muscles are sliced apart.

Drew drops the shield and steps away. The larger man can barely move, writhing in pain from his injury. One he likely will never recover from. But he will likely live. Should that not become infected. The fight is over for now. And the crowds boos only serve to demonstrate that he was not their chosen champion. He raises his hands in compliance as the doors to the arena open.

“Enjoy the show?” Drew calls out loudly. Mocking the crowd as he is grabbed and roughly dragged away. For a moment, he believed that he had saved two lives. At least long enough to fight another day. But then two gunshots ring out. And he knows in that very moment, that it was for naught.

[Luminesa]

Leaving the Tomb
June 2nd, 2283
Bridgette’s Residence, Early Morning, Tombstone

Bridgette couldn’t take the house with her.

That much was obvious. She had known that much during her conversation with Dr. Stenz. She stared at the walls of her bedroom during the last time she would ever awaken here. It was not a huge bedroom, but the comfort was satisfying enough. She had acquired some simple, carved furniture, some knit pillows and blankets, and some other items like an old oak dresser that was big enough to hold her modest amount of clothing. None of these items could travel with her, except for the clothes and the small collectibles she had. And so they would just…

Stay.

She had to prioritize survival. She always had to. And so despite her hatred of violence, the first thing she packed away was her pistol. It was snug and light in her holster, which she would wear around her waist and under her light duster. Bridgette always hoped that she would never have to use it, and that was why her first priority, beside maybe finding someone to take her house for some bottle caps, was finding a reliable guard who could fend away any danger.

The clothes she could take were not plentiful, but she would have enough until she arrived in the next town. She had to take her cooking supplies, her cookbooks, and a couple of small history books. They were her connection to the past, and her connection to her profession. They reminded her, even while she could not express any outward faith, what devotions had brought her to teach in the first place. And every time she had to pick herself up and move, she had to remind herself of just that-that somewhere, someone would want for her to teach.

She sipped a bottle of Nuka Cola, and then packed some as liquid refreshment for the journey. She also packed away a couple of pieces of fry bread, wrapped in dish towels and shoved into their own pockets in her bag. She counted her bottle caps, and hoped she could make a quick sale this morning before she left. After all, someone would definitely be willing to take a home like hers in a hurry, right?

As she took a look around her house to search for her tent, Bridgette felt her emotions squeezing in her chest. Leaving when she had just gotten comfortable. When she had just started to form connections again. When she had decided what she might do in Tombstone to give her students a better future. But all of those ideals would die with her if she did not leave in time, and she knew the people needed ideals. They needed peace. They needed the food of knowledge that she worked so hard to give.

“It’s just a house now, not a home,” she mentally told herself, “just a house. Just one more house you will own in your lifetime.”

The worst of this experience was watching her own shadow on the wall, as she found her tent in a hallway closet, and then walked back from the hallway to the living room. The shadow followed her, silent and obedient, giving no validation and no consolation. It only acted as she did. After all, a shadow could do no more, and it was thus no true company. She sniffled. Maybe Doctor Stenz could have come by the house in the morning to comfort her. Then again, as she batted away the tears, she knew that nobody could really give her any calm in the chaos growing through Tombstone’s desert floors.

A denim dress, her holster, a light-green duster, and brown hiking boots were today’s outfit. She dressed herself in that order, and then threw her hair into a quick braid. She gazed at herself in the mirror, and remembered her mother scolding her:

“You don’t want to be a pretty girl in the desert.”

Bridgette knew the many meanings behind those words, and what the Legion might do if they caught her alone and childless. Bridgette also knew what else her mother feared might happen to her skin, bright-eyed, brunette daughter, and the girl dared not complete that thought. A guard was absolutely necessary. Just as long as they did not ask for the entire truth of why she was leaving.

With her items packed, and with the morning still being quite young, the young woman took one last look around her living room. The clock on the wall said seven-thirty, but the hand of Caesar’s Legion could turn against its people at any moment, at any time. She had to waste no time this morning with sentimentalities. Looking out of the doorway, with just the things she could carry, some hidden mementos on her person, and a gun, she walked out onto the lonesome desert road and hoped for the best.

[Segmentia]

‘No plan survives first contact with the enemy.’

Sahkyo chewed on a piece of jerky as she turned her plan over in her mind. She had spent a few days going over various plans on how to tackle her objective. The easiest would have been to leave, retrieve her power armor and heavy weapons, come back and lay waste to the entire camp. She knew she could do it with her armor, these legionaries didn’t seem like veterans, and they didn’t seem like they really had any real heavy weapons to deal with a power armored threat, especially not one as skilled as she was. But that would have blown her cover for the rest of the operation, and the legion would be on high alert and flood the region. It might even galvanize the fracturing that Brotherhood intel suggested would happen once Caesar was dead, giving the Legion another outside threat to rally against. She had silenced that idea quickly.

She could have tried to cut or sneak her way in at night, but she didn’t know where the ranger was being held, and while she was skilled, she couldn’t take on an entire garrison herself. Plus with the confusion the likely slave uprising that such commotion would likely bring on, the ranger would likely slip away into the night, if the stories of his people's skills were anything to go by. Too many unknown variables for her to like.

Then there was the idea of asking around locally, see if people had a grudge against the legion. A small team would make it much easier, and maybe the entire town would rise up in righteous vengeance, like in those ancient movie pictures that Jebidiah liked so much. But the idea of poking around and asking the locals, who had been under legion rule for years, if they wanted to help her fight the legion sounded like a terrible idea, even if she were good with people. But as Jeb had said on several occasions, she was ‘as sociable as a slapped Deathclaw.’ and would likely find herself reported to the local garrison and crucified.

Eventually she settled on a fairly simple plan. Go to the slave camp and present herself as a buyer. They would likely take her weapons, but she knew she could smuggle in a knife at least, and that plus a distraction was all she needed. And she had planned a distraction. It had cost quite a bit, and had taken a few days, but Sahkyo had been able to find the parts and materials to make a few timed explosives. Several sticks of dynamite, a few times fire-starters to get the fuses going, and she was set. The seller had looked at her funny as she bought all the random electrical junk, clearly not understanding what half of the scrap was and probably thinking she was a fool, but the funny look had turned into a happy, missing tooth filled grin as she handed him the payment. She had also purchased a switchblade as well.

She had left her room before the sun rose over the horizon, navigating easily enough in the dark, and started setting her timed explosives around. She had thought about setting a few in the town itself, but had decided to do her best to avoid civilian casualties. She mostly needed the noise and spectacle anyway. She set one in a warehouse, and one near the mayor's house, there being no guards needed to sneak past at all. The rest she set about randomly, in the vague locations near the town, but that she was sure wouldn't affect the town too badly. With those set, she returned to her room, closed out her bill, and started heading for the slave camp. She made her approach obvious, making it seem like she was simply coming to buy a slave. She reached the entrance and looked down at the gate guards with a scowl, playing the part of a merc pissed they had to spend caps for a slave. She set her hands on her hips, frowning.

“Rumor is you’ve got a Ranger locked up here. I’m lookin’ to buy ‘em.” She said.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Mayor Timothy Ray
Tombstone, Arizona Territory
June 1st, 2283, Afternoon

Mayor Ray didn't often wait past the appointed hour for his appointments to show up. He was a busy man, dealing with the intricacies of a small but burgeoning trading settlement in the heart of Legion Territory. But for one of Caesar's Heirs? You needed to be circumspect.

He retreated inside his home from the midday sun after the young man proved to be ten minutes late, determined to drink something cold out of his refrigerator. Unlike most private homes in Tombstone, the Mayor's had power. He paid for the privilege like anyone else would have to, and mostly only kept it on for his guest's sake. Still, there was a growing part of him that appreciated it's comforts as he grew older over time.

Before when could chase that thought any further, his assistant Bertha came to find him.

"Mayor Ray? Your guest from the Legion has arrived." She said, brushing a strand of her greying hair out of her eyes, looking a bit flustered.

"Of course." Tim said, adjusting his red and gold spotted tie, "Show him in." Bertha nodded and shuffled off to go gather up Diocletian and bring him into the Mayor's sitting room. He stood up from his position at the couch, taking a moment to dust himself off and make sure he was presentable. The room, at the very least, was. He had a few bits of western art up on the walls, the two couches had been refurbished and restuffed and looked worn rather than falling apart, the recently varnished coffee table even had a pitcher of cold water and a pair of matching cups for drinking from. It would do.

Diocletian walked inside the room, being shown in by Bertha. The house was in a far better condition than your average wasteland home but Diocletian wasn't particularly impressed. He had seen the Vegas Strip once: now, that was impressive. "Mayor," he said not bothering to offer the man a handshake. "I'm pleased to see everything in order in this town and following the will of Caesar. However, as you may know, there is going to be a succession soon as my dear father has been ill. I seek your support in behalf of my elder brother Caesaron. Will you pledge your allegiance before the rightful heir of the throne?"

Mayor Tim knew better than to shake hands with someone so far up the totem pole, instead he gave the legion salute, his fist over his breast before taking a seat after the man.

He took a moment to pour himself a cup of cold water and take a drink. "I have heard that the mighty Caesar is unwell." He admitted after he'd taken the opportunity to consider his words carefully. "And while it would be my sincerest wish to support your brother, the Lord Caesaron in his endeavour, you must know that others have already come to my town and demanded the exact same thing. Threatened to burn Tombstone to ashes if we do not submit. Forgive me, Lord Diocletian, but all this politicking puts me and mine in an incredibly difficult position."

"My brother can guarantee the safety of your town," Diocletian said. Truth be told, he was insure, but a lie never hurt anyone. "No harm will come to Tombstone. If you do not declare your alliegence, however, the town will be burned to the ground. I'm telling you this because I'm sentimental and wouldn't want innocent people to die."

The Mayor seemed to blanch at the young heir's words. He could feel the proverbial sword of Damocles descending upon his vulnerable neck. He has few cards left to play, little to hope for.

"How many men did you bring in your escort, my Lord?" The Mayor asks, his tone shaky, but the slow embers of bravery and duty burning behind his grey eyes. "A half dozen? If that? Did you know that last week, a member of Lanius' inner circle came here and gave me this very same offer? Though with much more threats of fire, blood and crucifixion. Even now he stays out in the slave camp a few miles west of town, he's certainly turned the Legionnaires there to his masters side, if they were not already. Forgive me, Lord... But if I give you what you want, my people and I die just the same."

"I will go to the camp and persuade them to stand down," Diocletian said. "You have my word on it. If I do accomplish this, however, and the threat is removed, I expect you to honor your word and pledge your allegiance to my brother?"

"If you can do this, my Lord, I will gladly give you what you wish." The Mayor said, breathing a sigh of relief. "But I must warn you... Lanius' emissary has been there a better part of a week. You may not find the reception there to be as kind as you are wishing."

"Do not understimate me," Diocletian grinned smugly. "This wouldn't be my first difficult mission. Besides, I'm a son of Caesar. Even if things do get sour, I very much doubt they would dare to lay hands on a Prince of the Legion."

"I am certain of very little, these days my Lord." The Mayor said, doing his best to warn the young princeling without casting doubt on his aspirations specifically.

"Is there, erm..." Mayor Tim stammered slightly before swallowing his nervousness. "Anything else myself or the town of Tombstone might provide you and the legion?"

"I would like a place to stay for the night. And some food and drink would be appropriate. As would be company," Diocletian winked. "I am a Prince of the Legion, so I expect proper treatment."

"I would like a place to stay for the night. And some food and drink would be appropriate. As would be company," Diocletian winked. "I am a Prince of the Legion, so I expect proper treatment."

"I shall see it all arranged." The Mayor said with sudden gusto. This was something the Mayor could understand, a service he and his town could provide. "I'll have a table, room, and companionship set aside for your exclusive use for the evening over at The Traveler's Rest, Lord. All can be arranged within the hour, or for whenever you return from the camp if you mean to head there tonight."

[Oblivion2]

Playing Pretend
June 2nd, 2283, Morning
Legion Slave Camp, 5 miles outside Tombstone, Arizona Territory.

The Legion slave camp was impressive as these things go. Wood and metal watchtowers dotted the perimeter, each manned by atleast one Legionnaire. The Camp was fenced in by a lightweight scrap Aluminium and wooden palisade that was strong enough to keep the slaves in and deter an attack, but light enough to come down in a hurry if the camp needed to be moved. Inside, the remaining Legionnaires no doubt patrolled on foot, keeping slaves segregated via fencing into different sections of the camp.

Sahkyo likely wasn't wrong regarding the veterancy of those inside; the real experienced soldiers would likely be on the frontlines; but her time scouting has told her there is atleast one powerful legion officer inside the camp, likely with his own retinue, and another in Tombstone, ostensibly from different factions within the slowly fracturing Legion. Odds are there might be a scattered buyer or two like herself inside too.

One of the two Guards at the Camp’s main and southern gate gave the woman a long, impassive stare, his features obscured mostly by a rag covering his mouth and some tinted goggles. But a stare was a stare.

“An expensive proposition, profligate.” The guard said finally, after deciding she was atleast somewhat serious. “Show proof of currency and you may have entrance- the commandant has not yet weighed in on the fate of the Ranger, but he may entertain a serious buyer.” The guard almost spat the word Ranger when he spoke it.

Sahkyo frowned, but slipped off her rucksack and opened it, hand going straight for the leather sack that held most of her denaris. She pulled the sack out and dropped it on the table that the guards had outside their small shack. The sound of light metal thinking together filled the space around them. She nodded to the guard who had spoken.

“You tell me, serious enough?” She asked, a small smirk quirking up the left corner of her lips. “Especially for one that’s damaged anyway, from what the rumor says.” She added. Like any ‘merchandise’, slaves were less valuable when damaged. The money, both caps and denari, had been given to her at the start of her mission, as with all the other scouts being sent out. She had added to it by a few run ins with legionaries, as well as the odd jobs she had done in town, but she had also used some to buy her supplies for the distraction.

If the Legionnaire was impressed by the contents of the sack, he gave no sign. Instead he merely stuck a finger in slowly and clicked his tongue, moving some of the coins to and fro to gauge the contents within. After perhaps a minute of this, he withdrew his hand, palm splayed out so Sahkyo could see he hadn't taken any for himself; honestly or plain old indoctrination tended to motivate most Legionnaires so few could be accused of having sticky fingers.

“This suffices, Profligate. You may enter the camp, one of our number will escort you to the Commandant. You will make arrangements with him regarding the slave you wish to purchase.” The guard turned and pounded his fist on the gate, which looked like it had once belonged on a garage somewhere. “Open, in the name of Caesar!”

Someone on the other side pulled on the chain, which lifted the door enough to allow the woman entrance. Two legionnaires were there on the other side, one supervising a slave or a labourer operating the chain, and the other saluting the guard who had been dealing with Sahkyo.

“Ave.” This new soldier said to his superior.

“Legionnaire Lentulus, you are to escort this woman to the Commandant.” Woman, the word said with such casual disdain that Sahkyo could feel the entire weight of the Legion’s disregard towards her sex bearing down on it.

The new Legionnaire, Lentulus, salutes by banging his chest with a fist before gesturing for Sahkyo to follow him. “This way, Profligate.” His tone much more polite, if more emotionless than the other man's.

He began to lead her towards the centre of the camp, where a square building, three stories tall took precedence amongst the quartered off sections of camp. As they walked, Sahkyo could see slaves chopping wood and sorting scrap, others returning via the north gate to deliver three felled trees under the supervision of a Legion Escort. It was an efficient system, likely in place for some time.

“What sort of flesh are you looking to peruse this day, trader?” Lentulus asked as they approached the Commandant’s residence, which was also likely the headquarters for the camp staff in general. He sounded younger than the one she had dealt with up front, atleast as far as Sahkyo could tell behind his helmet and goggles.

“I heard there was a ranger here, from the west.” Shakyo said as she followed the new man, taking in as much of her surroundings and layout as she could, while trying to look like she wasn’t. It would be odd for a buyer to be interested in the layout of the camp, no doubt. She was shocked that they hadn’t taken her weapons off of her, then again maybe they didn’t feel the need too. They were in a safe enough area, and what idiot would walk into a Legion camp and cause trouble on their own? Perhaps they would take them from her before meeting the Commandant. She looked to the sun in the sky and gauged the time. Probably another ten minutes before the bombs went off.

“Failing that, someone else from the west.” She said, not wanting to look like she was fixating on a singular slave.

“This man is not from the west.” The Legionnaire said amidst the crunch of boots on Arizona dirt and the shouts of taskmasters. “From what I understand, this Profligate is an Arizona Ranger.” The young man stressed the Arizona.

“Perhaps the last of his kind. The Commandant has yet to decide to sell him or make some other example of him, perhaps give him as a gift to one of our guests from the East or as tribute to the Great Lanius. If he does sell, the price will be high. Barring that, I believe we have a few slaves from California taken in raids or sold by the citizens of the Bear. Outsiders know little of loyalty.”

As they neared the structure the Legionnaire cast Sahkyo a look, “Forgive me, but I do not know what name you would like me to announce you to the Commandant with.”

“Sahkyo.” She replied simply, seeing no need to hide her name.

The Legionnaire nodded and opened the door, revealing the commandant sitting behind a large desk in the middle of a mostly open concept floor plan, a room tucked off to the side might have been a small barracks for some of the staff there, and there was a radio in the corner as well being worked by a legionnaire trainee who couldn't have been older than twelve.

“The Independent Trader Sahkyo to see you, Commandant.” The young man said, saluting as he introduced the woman.

“Leave us.” The Commandant said in a gruff tone, his accent betraying him as being more a native of Mexico than Arizona. He was older, perhaps nearing fifty, with his hair going to grey and remaining neatly tied up. His hooked nose and intense eyes gave him the intensity of a falcon, whilst he remained clean shaven like many other legionnaires.

“I am Tiberius, Commandant of this camp.” He said simply, gesturing for the woman to come and sit. “It is not often we see a woman here, looking to purchase flesh. Usually they are the ones being bought; do you represent yourself or are you on the business of another?” His actual question went unasked, What is a free woman doing in my camp?

Sahkyo sat down across from Tiberius, shrugging at his question. “I represent myself.” She stated simply, keeping the talk purely business, not rising to any emotions, either anger nor annoyance.

The man grunted, taking a small sip from a cup of water at his desk. “Then how might my camp accommodate your needs?” He too kept it professional in tone. He wasn't outwardly about to badger a buyer, at least not yet.

“There is rumor in town that you have an Arizona Ranger held here, and I would like to see what he is worth. I have business where his skills could come in useful, further west.” Sahkyo said, not exactly lying, truth be told. “I imagine he’s expensive, but I’ve also heard he’s damaged goods.”

The commandant took another sip of water, using the opportunity to lay his thoughts out. “We have such a man here. Taken recently in a firefight with a patrol. He only recently woke from his long sleep, and the reports tell me he has yet to recover his ability to speak, and he may never. We have yet to test his physical capabilities…”

The man gave Sahkyo a shrewd look, “Perhaps we could learn together?”

Sahkyo nodded. “If I’m going to consider buying them, I would like to make sure they aren’t going to die on me in a week.” She said.

The commandant stood up from his desk, grabbing his plumed helmet from off the surface of it and placing it upon his brow, it gave his raptor-like features a dangerous sort of framing. “Very well, we shall go see the Ranger-Slave.”

With long strides, he gestured for Sahkyo to follow him, stepping back out into the harsh Arizona sunshine, two guards falling into step with their commander. They exchanged quick, terse sentences as they walked along the road that ran through the centre of camp to the southwest quadrant. They fell silent as they approached a large tent, a crudely stitched staff of Hermes emblazoning both sides.

Before entering the Commandant turned to Sahkyo, “Regardless of what we determine about this man’s state, he will still cost you more than a regular slave, nor is there any guarantee I will sell him to you. We may yet have him killed for sport or gifted to a visiting dignitary.” Without further ado, the tent flaps were thrown open and the Commandant, his Escort, and Sahkyo were able to step inside.

Tony, the moment he heard the flaps yanked open came awake from a fitful sleep. The guards, well trained by this point, leapt upon the man and pinned him to his cot by the arms. Tony flailed and snarled, attempting to get them off of him before the commandant drew his machete and held it to the scars along the Ranger’s throat. “Hold still, Profligate. Or I shall open you up once more.”

Tony’s squirming ceased, to be replaced by a hateful cobra glare that washed over every one in the room, Sahkyo included.

Sahkyo nodded to the commandant as he spoke before they entered the tent, and followed him and his guards inside. She crossed her arms over her bosom as she watched them retrain the Ranger. She frowned at the scars across the throat, and the lack of cursing or any words beyond grunting.

“He’s mute?” She asked, inviting herself to kneel down beside the ranger, taking his chin in her hand and inspecting him, playing the part of someone who might have some idea of what they were doing, though she was also gauging not just his physical fitness, but also his mental fitness. There was intelligence and fight in his eyes, that was good. “Surprised he’s not dead, those scars look like they are from deep wounds.” She mused. “Healed up nice enough, I suppose.”

As his chin was grabbed, Tony let out his best version of a feral growl. It came out as more of a rumble however. The Ranger attempted to bite at Sahkyo’s fingers, which got him a meaty cuff upside the head, setting his ears to ringing and making him see stars.

“He nearly did die, but this slave showed more resilience than most I have seen brought in these gates. There is also a profligate in here that has studied the medical arts of the West. He and our own healer kept him alive.” The commandant explained.

“We will take him to the Yard and see what he is capable of.”

Sahkyo gave the ranger a light flick on his nose as she took her hand away, for him trying to bite her. Of course he didn’t understand that she was here to try and break him out, but she wasn’t going to let that slide. “I’m eager to see for myself, I’ve heard these arizona rangers are tough warriors, even when injured.” She said, standing back up and stepping back.

The two guards hauled the Ranger to his feet, fighting Tony attempting to shake them off with his grunting and flailing. The commandant leveled his machete at the man once more, which got Tony to stop, though he still bore a silent snarl on his face as he did.

“Good dog.” One of the guards said, clamping manacles around his wrist before shoving the Ranger out the tent and into the sunlight. To Sahkyo’s eyes, he walked with no pain in his stride. He was either fully recovered or used to dealing with pain.

“My men had trouble finding him and his position.” The commandant explained as they walked towards the practice yard, where slaves were tested and the Legionnaires honed their own skills. “They'd been searching for him for days- someone in Tombstone had given him up, but regardless he was harder to grasp than shadow initially. Once they fell upon him, they explained to me he was perhaps not the most adept hand to hand combatant, but that his marksmanship was exemplary even under difficult conditions. His people have caused my Lord Caesar more than a few problems in the early days of his rule. This ranger is sure to be a valuable prize, or an amusing diversion.”

One of the escort, having split off earlier, returns with a chest in his arms, setting it down as everyone arrives in the practice yard. There were archery and gunnery targets in the shape of men and simple straw bullseyes. Wooden palus’ for sword play, and even a sparring arena.

The chest was opened up to reveal a variety of weapons; machetes, clubs, a set of javelins, bow and arrows, and a revolver that the Ranger’s eyes seemed drawn to.

“With which would you like your first demonstration, Trader Sahkyo?” The Commandant asked, a thin and bloodless smile growing on his face.

“A melee weapon, and his hands. You said your men reported he wasn’t good at those, so lets see just how bad he is.” Sahkyo said, eyeing the collection of practice weapons, her eyes also settling on the revolver. That…could be useful. She looked at the sky, gauging the time. “Do you think it wise to let him use a firearm?” She asked, wondering if she could get the Commandant to reveal how many rounds were here, loaded or being carried by one of the guards, either way it would be useful.

“We would give him a round at a time and keep a weapon of our own trained on him. He would trade his life only for one other.” The commandant said with a dark chuckle, “Poor math, eh Ranger?”

The Ranger gave the commandant a glare and then held out his hands for the manacles to come off. One of the Legionnaires complied before putting a practice blade in his hands before taking one himself.

The two walked towards the practice circle, eyeing each other warily. The legionnaire was the first to attack, striking a series of blows that the Ranger dodged or blocked. His footwork spoke of enough training to defend himself, but it was clear he was outclassed by the Legionnaire who was pressing him from multiple angles. The fight lasted only about thirty seconds before the Ranger was disarmed, the wooden tip of the practice weapon held to his throat.

“As I said.” The commandant explained, “He is not legionnaire capable up close.” Not perfectly a fair comparison given that few were.”

“Let's see the bow next. Always a useful skill to have.” She said, eyeing the bow herself with some longing. It had been some time she she had a real need to use bows and arrows, but she had always been quite skilled with them, but with the missions that the Brotherhood had he on, a bow and arrow was often of little use, other than hunting perhaps.

The practice blades were put away and the Ranger was handed a bow with a small hip quiver containing about a dozen arrows. Before he could even reach for one of them, one of the Legionary escorts leveled a Cowboy Repeater at him, drawing a deep frown from Tony. “Do not think about it, Profligate.” The guard said lowly, gesturing with his long arm for Tony to walk up to the firing position.

He did as instructed, but Sahkyo could see the smouldering resentment in the Rangers eyes. He took a moment to pull on the bow experimentally, testing the draw on it. He smoothly settled into his stance before knocking an arrow. He drew it slowly and smoothly, held for a moment before exhaling, pausing again and releasing. His shot was true, striking a target dummy in what would have been a lung, drawing a surprised grunt from the guard not holding a gun at Tony.

It was a skillful shot, to be sure, though Sahkyo could point out a few flaws, but she didn’t want to let on too much that she knew what she was doing. She had realized that the reason these idiots hadn’t disarmed her was because they didn’t think of her as a threat, possibly because she was a ‘buyer’, but more likely because she was a woman. Here they were holding a rifle to a wounded prisoner with a bow and arrow, but not the woman with a shotgun at her hip right next to their Commandant.

“I would have gone for an outright kill myself.” She commented, and then nodded towards the pistol. “I can already guess how well he will do with that, but let’s see if your men were exaggerating a bit.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at Sahkyo, and yanked the bow away from the Legionnaire’s hand that was trying to take it from him. Before things could escalate, the Ranger pivoted in a heel and fired three more shots, one to the head of the dummy, another to where the heart would be, and a final one just below his first. It was then that he turned to Sahkyo, passing the bow and arrows to his guard and giving her a sarcastic bow as if to say ‘Happy now?’

The gun is then pressed into his palm. The Ranger opens the chamber and gives it a spin. He slams it shut and then holds the weapon up to his ear, cocking the hammer and listening to the sound the weapon made as it struck home. Satisfied that his weapon hadn't been abused, he looked to Sahkyo and gestured from her to the Legionnaires then made a little ‘give-me’ gesture.

Sahkyo gave the ranger a half shrug at his display, as if to say ‘not bad’, before the revolver was handed to him. She watched as he went through a routine, checking for tampering or wear and tear, and then handed out his hand expectantly for a round. It would all start soon, the explosives, four in total, set to go off not all at once, but in fairly rapid succession. She had hoped to get a chance to fill the ranger in on the plan a little, and also that she had worked out a better plan, because right now it boiled down to shooting their way out, and she didn’t fancy those odds, but perhaps the rest of the slaves might start something, cause some more chaos that would allow her and the ranger to make their getaway, regardless if the ranger wanted to go with her or not.

The .357 round was handed from one Legionnaire to the Ranger. As the exchange happened, a fourth man ran down the track and murmured something into the Commandant’s ear. The man in the plumed helm nodded thoughtfully before looking over at Sahkyo with an indulgent smile. “You'll have to excuse me. It would seem a rather important dignitary has arrived and I must see to his needs. Prepare your purse, he may very well want to buy this one himself. I suggest you get a good feeling for what he can do so you know exactly what you wish to spend.”

He turned on a heel then and made his departure as Tony slid a round into the chamber and closed it with a flick of his wrist. He spun the chamber around and sighed audibly. His eyes weren't perfectly on the weapon however, they were on Sahkyo and her seemingly impatient stance. The way she kept glancing, watching the shadows… it's like she was waiting for a particular time. Her next client? A caravan departure? Something else?

Well, she could damn well wait. If this woman wanted to get out of here in a hurry, Tony would make the slaving piece of shit wait. Besides, it gave him more time to consider just how he’d kill the guard with the rifle and make his escape attempt.

He'd turn and walk towards the range, the Rifle trained on him the whole time. He took aim at the furthest target and gently squeezed the trigger, feeling the familiar kick of the weapon in his hand as he struck the target. Things were looking up.

[Intermountain States]

Heather Doh
June 1st, 2283
Arizona Territory

Heather was walking from Tombstone towards the slave encampment. Although the roads are safe, she still checked around her surroundings to make sure she wasn't being followed. She is not going to play it safe as a lone woman walking through Legion territory, especially on her way to a slave encampment. Original plan was to head back to Madera Canyon and present her findings to the Council, but she wants to check out the slave camp for herself as a last note to add to her report.

On her way to the road, Heather checked her notepad for her report. She had heard from other merchants that the Legion's leader is in poor health and is at death's door. Chaos could ensue if Caesar dies, from Caesar's sons staking their claims, cracks within the Legion's hierarchy and inner circle wanting to increase their own power, and opportunistic rebels waiting to strike while the iron is hot.

She had seen an increase in Legion visitors to the town in the past few weeks from what was usually a once or twice a year visit to collect tributes. Something is happening and with the reports she had collected, it is the best time for her to return home and lay low for a bit. Still, her job isn't done yet so she continues to push her cart through the road. It will be a few days journey until she's at home eating jello cakes and pizza in a safe place. Maybe she'll stop by a safehouse in Yuma for rest.

[Luminesa]

Living Life by the Cap
June 2nd, 2283
Around Tombstone

“And that’s how many caps you’re going to want for it?”

“Yup!” The caps clinking in the two little wallets gave Bridgette’s answer a little more pep.

The man who had just received her only earthly home was grinning, somewhere between suspicious and amused, down at her. “Huh. You’re mighty generous for just giving away something that nice.”

1,000 bottle caps. 1,000 little lifelines for the trip on the road again. The girl savored the feeling of every little metal piece, chinking and chafing against the thin little velvet pockets. “It’s a good house! And I won’t be using it too much.”

The man shrugged, and just gave the house a quick perusal over his shoulder. “So where are you headed then, at a time like this?”

“Huh?”

“Early in the morning, it’s a little quiet, isn’t it?”

Bridgette shrugged. “Might as well get the most out of my day, huh? If I left during midday it would be too hot.” As good of an excuse as any, for someone who was just a little too nosy. She was good at hiding any frustration, and at taming any annoyance at others. Some people just wanted to know things, and didn’t just want to kill a woman who was traveling alone. At least for now, anyway.

“You’ve got anyone going with you?”

Still too many questions. “Some friends, maybe.”

“Maybe? You know how long you’ll last in that desert alone?”

“That’s what my mother always said, and then I went to Tombstone!”

The man laughed. Tombstone had, admittedly, provided some protection against the true harshness of the desert. But if what the good vet had mentioned was true, not even the best trappings of civilization could keep one from feeling the desert’s wrath forever. She might as well face it head-on.

“Well, I’ll take good care of it for you, then.” He winked at her, which made her want to leave all the more. Niceness only worked so much, and then she had to leave.

So she walked away, with two little pockets of potential protection. With this, she could buy food. She could potentially buy another place to stay in the future. She might even be able to pay some bodyguards, if she could not find some friends. Either way, she had a chance.

[Intermountain States]

Heather Doh
June 2nd, 2283
Arizona Territory

It was morning when Heather checked the map on her Pip-boy as she took a detour off the road. She's getting close to the slave camp, at least she thinks. As far as she's aware, she should be heading to one of the couple of cliffs south of the slave camp. Considering that the camp is largely out in the open outside of some foliage, the cliffs, she reasoned, would be the best spot to observe the camp. Heather put on her modular combat armor set over her suit for some added protection, then put her tan colored poncho over the armor set. She mounted a suppressor on her N99 pistol. She took some necessary items from the cart and to her backpack and then stashed the cart behind some rocks.

Heather picked up her hunting rifle and looked at the weapon. She paid around a thousand caps for that rifle and some .308 rounds from Bertram and the Iron Arms shop in Tombstone. She figured that the rifle would be helpful in some situation that her AR style marksman carbine might be outgunned in. The .308 rifle cartridge is more powerful than a 5.56mm and the scope on that rifle would go further from the cliff than the scope on her carbine. Still, her AR style carbine would be more than enough in case there are hostiles up the cliff, so Heather put the rifle into her backpack for now along with her USMC riot helmet. Going up a cliff wouldn't be an easy task and she would want full coverage of where she's going rather than to limit her eyesight with the helmet. The helmet is for when she gets up on the cliff.

Heather took a swig from her water bottle and made her way up the cliff, keeping her eyes peeled and carbine ready in case she hears of any noises or sees any movements. Caution is the name of the game and she would also stop by any shades created by the formations or the occasional trees. Going up, she would have to consider any possibilities that could occur once she reaches the top of the cliff. There could be some legionnaires up at the top either waiting for any sap to poke his or her head up the cliff which could be a problem. Any gunfire made by either her or the possible sentries at the cliff would most likely garner some attention from the camp. The suppressor would help in where the gun is being fired from but it could still alert the camp and she just wanted to observe the camp from distance before heading to the safehouse. Hand to hand combat is another option but Heather knows of the Legion's reputation, that they're quite effective in close quarters combat. One Legionnaire she could probably surprise but two or more? She's not Grognak the Barbarian, that's for sure.

In addition to any Legionnaires at the cliffside, there could also be some Legion sentries fixated on the cliffs to their south. it would be smart for them to do that. She's kind of hoping that they wouldn't be smart enough but it's likely that they considered any and all possible security blind spots in this camp. As she went up to the cliff, Heather wondered why she didn't just walk to the slave camp and posed as a humble and lowly merchant looking for possible captures instead. She got a cart with her filled with trinkets to help with her case. Probably would be easier than going up a cliff. But, she is getting close to the top and a view from the top would likely be more valuable in gathering information that going to the camp where there could be some restricted spaces.