Fallout 1. New Blood

Chapter one: New Blood

Outside, it was another sunny day in the Mojave. Mountains of red rocks and cliffs could be seen from far away and in front of them, valleys of grazing, though mutated, Brahmin and Bighorners without a care in the world except for the normal insects buzzing around them.

Inside, it was another dark and backbreaking day in the pen. Though sunny outside, the gloomy environment of the saddened slaves turned it into perpetual darkness. They could do nothing but sit and think about freedom or watch the guards in their Legion outfits watching them. There was a body of water only a short walk away, yet they were unclean, unable to bathe or change their clothes and sweating from sun and work.

One slave, a young man, looked beyond the Legion with their machetes and the unfortunate souls crucified in front of the camp as warnings. He saw beyond that and saw the shining sun beyond and the hills and valleys waiting to be explored. "The grass was always greener…" was something he heard frequently. But freedom seemed too sweet that he knew that the grass _was_ greener, it had to be. No matter what, he had to get a taste of freedom.

His fingers curled along the gate that held him, that held the others, away from freedom. Almost immediately, a Legion pulled his machete out and pointed it at the slave. "Hands away from the gate!" He warned, his voice muffled and expression unseen from the infamous helmet all Legion wore.

Startled, he moved back a few feet and brushed by the shoulder of another slave. Normally they would be too tired to even notice, but the heat had gotten this slave's anger up. And this slave had been a slave for quite awhile, and was doubtlessly two times stronger than he, but doubtlessly he was two times nimbler. The younger slave saw the fist swinging toward him and sent a punch into his gut. The other slave crumpled, and he could hear the Legion opening the gate to end the quarrel.

Though weakened by the punch, the other grabbed one of his legs and brought him to the ground, his face hitting the sand. The other slaves around watched meekly, glad to see some entertainment though too tired to even show their expressions. The young man send another one of his powerful punches into the other's mouth, feeling a teeth break as he did so.

Legion members separated them, two each holding them. The other just slumped in their grip, too weak from the fight to even struggle. The young man, however, was ready for this. He escaped from their grip with ease, sending a kick into one and a punch to the other. More Legion came into the gate, pulling out their machetes.

The slave picked up both of the machetes from the fallen Legion in both hands just as the Legion came to battle. He parried their attacks with the weapons with ease, having seen them practice in camp once before. Using the flat side of one machete's blade, he slammed it into one Legion's face, stabbing the blades into two others. He left them inside the Legion, not daring to waste time by pulling them out before breaking into a run.

The Legion were so surprised by now that they froze in place for a millisecond before the more experienced ones ran after the runaway slave and others, armed with guns, fired at his legs to stop him. The slave ran with all of his might, already breathing heavily from the battle, away from the camp. He would make his dream come true and go to the hills and valleys to sweet freedom.

Suddenly, the slave stumbled in his run and rolled a few times in the dirt before staying still. A bullet from the gunning Legion finally managed to hit him in the ankle. The slave, too desperate to give up, started to try to get up and instead limp to freedom. All too soon, the Legion caught up with him and aimed their machetes and guns at his head.

"Bad move, slave." One of them hissed at him and raised his blade to decapitate the slave, a death he had deserved.

"Wait." Another voice, another Legion, said, hidden from the slave's view. This was obviously a higher ranked Legion, for the others moved away from the slave, though keeping their weapons out and ready to kill. A Decanus, his rank signaled from the helmet he wore with feathers shooting out. He had just arrived from the Mojave to see this, and the slave's heart fell when he realized that even if he had not been shot, he still would have been captured.

"Let the great Caesar take care of this slave." The Decanus said, Caesar's name said in the correct pronunciation as kae-sar. The other Legion were confused with the orders, but knew not to question a higher rank. "And keep an eye on the others. My report of you…will not be beneficial to your work" He glanced at the unconscious Legion still in the slave pen "or your life. Now go."

Surprisingly, a whimper came from one of the lower Legion, a recruit. "What was that?" The Decanus said, and the entire Legion froze. Though there were many Legion, he had easily identified the culprit with his ears, sharpened from listening to the sounds of the Mojave for enemies. With a swift, easy movement, he took his machete and, like a spear, threw it into the Legion's heart. It was such a quick death that the Legion didn't even cry out as he fell to the ground, staining the dirt a crimson red.

Without even remorse for the murder, the Decanus picked up the machete and wiped it on the dead Legion's clothes. "The Legion does not tolerate fear." He said, looking at the body. If his face could be seen, disgust would be the emotion.

The Decanus took a step forward, past the other Legion, and they quickly dispersed to make a path for him and the Legion party he had traveled with in the Mojave. The members of such party escorted the slave to the raft that would carry them all to the Fort, the place of Caesar.

It took almost six hours to get to the Fort by the raft that carried the group. When they arrived, it was almost nighttime. It was a good tactic, tiring the enemy from the large distance and separating them by the huge body of water. Even if they managed to get to the Fort, they would be weakened and forced to fight almost a whole army of Legion that would surely get them killed. It was stupid to even try.

The Legion on the raft had brought food, but did not even feed the slave. Once, when he thought they were not watching him, he snagged a piece of food that earned him an elbow in the ribs. He at first thought they were starving him as his punishment, but meeting with this so-called great Caesar shook him more than that.

Everyone, except for the slaves, spoke highly of him, and this slave knew that Caesar was looked up to, either as a leader, a god, or perhaps both. Was that why he was so far away from the others; to be protected from any danger that could follow him? The slave did not understand, for if he was thought so highly by others, why didn't they all cherish in him?

When they ported, the slave's thoughts were still an unfinished puzzle, but hoped he would find the answers in the Fort ahead. He was forced forward with the machetes into the Fort, but he gladly went forward, ready to see the Fort.

They led him to the drawbridge, and they were let in easily. It was surprising for him, for even someone with a disguise ready to assassinate Caesar could be allowed access. But then he saw the other Legion around. There was a blacksmith, sharpening a machete and sometimes lifting from the sharpener it to examine its blade, a chainsaw by his side. Tents were all around, some large and others small, that held bedrolls to have the Legion sleep in. In fact, some were sleeping now.

Others, unsurprisingly, were up and about, taking care of slaves, training, or simply watching people for any suspicious activity. The last were the more experienced ones, and then the slave knew that they would know of an intruder. That was, at least, if they paid attention carefully. They watched the slave and the other Legion pass by, studying every feature of them. It could have been a trick to lead an assassin to Caesar. You couldn't trust anyone.

There was also a Legionary instructor with a group of children in small Legion costumes that almost made the slave laugh as he passed. The children were being trained, even at the young age that they were, how to become Legionaries when they were older. Though children, they looked confident enough to run straight into battle and kill. This, of course, would get them killed, the main reason they were being taught. The slave heard the instructor threaten one child, who was obviously not meeting expectations, being threatened to be thrown off a cliff.

A group of slaves, carrying shocking amounts of weight on their back like animals, were being watched by more Legion. In a hurried whisper that not even the Decanus had heard, the slave heard the title "The Burned Man" being thrown about. It was a name the slave himself had never heard before, but how secret it was being discussed intrigued him. He just hoped he would live long enough to know about it.

As the group headed of planks of wood placed in a hill so they would almost serve as stairs, two children ran past them. Their speed impressed the slave, for they had obviously been training. It was faster than a normal adult could run. The Fort was an amazing place, and the slave hoped that he could be here, free if Caesar didn't kill him first.

The thought of dying came constantly to the slave. He was getting closer to the tent of Caesar, but was happy that he could actually see him, a fate most would never accomplish, before he died. Two flagpoles of the Legion's symbol, a yellow bull on a yellow bordered red background, were on either side of the tent. A blazing fire that lit up the tent was burning next to the left flag. The tent itself was glorious, with red material hanging decoratively along the front.

A praetorian guard, armed with a ballistic fist, stood guarding the opening to the tent and watched the group as they approached. A Legion mongrel stood beside the guard. With its thick, shaggy hair and red eyes, the mongrel looked almost terrifying itself. Though they were dogs, they instead resembled a wolf or coyote.

The guard, unlike the others, studied the party top to bottom. This actually took several minutes, but the Legion, used to the procedure, were patient. Once satisfied, the guard allowed them entry. The mongrel growled suddenly at the slave as he went in, startling him. He almost heard one of the Legion laugh at his fear.

When he entered the tent, he almost gasped at all the Legion that was around him. More Legion mongrels and praetorian guards practically swarmed the first "room" of the tent. They could only be seen from the fire around them, making the guards' and mongrels' eyes seem fiery red. At that moment, they could have all killed them. They were outnumbered and outgunned. But they were allowed into the second "room" of the tent, the place of Caesar.

It was, like the outside, glorious, but multiplied by a hundred. Two tents faced the east and west of the tent, but the slave barely glanced at those. It was what was north where the real luxury was.

A fantastic rug, undoubtedly extremely hard to find or even make, rested under a throne of spears and red cloth or ribbon strung around it. And on it, rested the great Caesar himself. Flanking him were more praetorian guards, likely his most trusted men. Fires blazed on either side of a tent Caesar sat in front of. The tent looked exactly like the outside, but a circle on top had the Legion denarius head of Caesar. The slave leaned over to see inside the tent where he could see a bed and, strangely, an Auto-Doc. He wondered if even Caesar could get injured.

Caesar leaned forward as they approached with irritancy in his eyes for giving his precious time for merely a slave. The guards edged towards Caesar protectively, their ballistic fists raised in case they even made a sudden movement. Caesar was dressed in unique red and black armor, a brown belt around his waist with decorative symbols adorning it. What drew the slave's attention, however, was the golden or bronze pendent on his heart that had a wreath like the one the actual Caesar around a circle with an X through it. The other was the unique version of the ballistic fist he had.

The slave even thought of bowing to him before the Decanus walked forward and kneeled. "Caesar, son of Mars, we are sorry to interrupt. We found this slave trying to run away. He had killed two Legionnaires before we could stop him. We are sorry." He then stood up and backed away.

Caesar thought for a second. And it was yet only a second, showing the great mind he possessed. He got up from the throne. "Give me your blade." He told one of the Legion among the Decanus's party. They reached for it, but then hesitated, knowing how long he had it, since recruitment. But Caesar had seen the hesitation and sent the advanced ballistic fist into the Legion's head. There was a sheer crack of the skull and he was knocked back a few feet. Merely glancing at the body, he turned towards another Legion.

"Give me your blade." He repeated, and this Legion quickly handed his over. Caesar, blade in hand, walked over to the slave. The latter didn't even dare to look into Caesar's eyes, and merely stared at the ground. Instead of feeling the cold steel of the blade slicing through his body, Caesar spoke to him, surprising him. "Hold out your hand."

Though confused, he didn't dare to hesitate. The machete's handle was placed in his hand. "We will see how great of a fighter you are. You shall fight in the arena." He glanced at the Decanus's party. "Tonight." They quickly hurried outside the tent to alert the others, taking the slave with them.

"You should be honored you get a second chance in life, slave." One of the Legion muttered to him as they went. "But no one, not even you, can last the three rounds in the arena."

The arena was right below Caesar's tent and due to the amount of Legion still up and about, it didn't take long to assemble the first round. The structure of the arena, however, disappointed the slave. It was merely a small area of land shaped like a pit with flimsy pieces of scrap metal serving as walls to keep the fighters inside. It looked hastily built and was shameful work. But the arena's structure didn't matter to the Legion. The arena, like the old Colosseum, was for amusement and fights to the death.

There were no new clothes for the slave to wear, no sources of armor to protect himself against his opponent's weapons. It was merely the normal slave attire he could wear, and that made him feel exposed to anything they would throw at him. He glanced at the machete Caesar had given him. For a second, he wondered if Caesar had faith in him that he would actually survive the battle, but quickly discarded the thought. Like the legionary had told him, he probably wouldn't even survive the first round.

But as he was forced into the arena, confidence rushed into him. There was such energy in the air from the spectators that the machete felt good in his hand. He was ready to fight.

Without even an announcement, the slave's first opponents came at him from the other side of the pit. They were both slaves as well, but the odds of him winning were two to one. It was literally two to one. This was a test against multiple enemies, seeing if he had actually defeated and killed the Legion back at the camp before. But the slave held his ground and allowed his enemies to come to him.

One of them took a swing at him with their machete at his neck, the other at his legs. He easily ducked the first and heard the sound of steel against steel as he blocked the second blow, knocking his opponent back a few feet. Before the first could swing again, the slave took his machete and stabbed it into his opponent's brain. Without even a remorseful glance at the body, he scooped up their machete, for to grab his would have taken too much time, much like before.

A swing, this time at his heart, came from the other opponent, followed by many more slashes. The slave tried dodging all of them, but the blade nicked his arm, nothing worse. Once the opponent tried a more powerful swing, he blocked it with his blade. The energy surge between the blades sent his opponent's blade flying, leaving him disarmed. Before the opponent could even react, the blade went through his chest upward until it met his heart. The body fell to the ground.

The cheering that followed sent pride into the slave, and he took the fallen machete and sliced off both of his opponents' heads. He left the blade on the ground and raised the heads into the air with a confident smile on his face. The cheering got louder. As he embraced in the cheering, a sort of growling, snarling, and barking came from outside the arena. The crowd fell silent at the sound of this, and the slave turned to face his next opponents, snatching up a bloody machete from the ground.

Five Legion mongrels, their eyes more red and evil than ever, stepped out into the arena growling and snarling. They all surprisingly sat down once the crowd and the slave got them in their sight, waiting for the command to attack. They ignored the bodies of the other slaves, not even sniffing at them. They wanted to kill their prey before they ate it.

The slave knew these were some of the most powerful mongrels just by looking at them. Other than their eyes, they had canines so sharp and long that they had to keep their mouth slightly open all the time. They were also larger in size, with a furrier coat of fur that could serve as some protection against weapons. Worst of all, there was a pack of them ready to fight him.

Before he could even realize what was happening, a legionary shouted a word in Latin, sending the mongrels from their calm state to ferocious. All at once, they rushed forward, red eyes now filled with hunger. In the meantime, the slave had picked up another machete and put it in his other hand, feeling that he would need it. And would he ever. For a second, he could only imagine what his next opponent would be, if he survived. His opponents got tougher every round.

So instead of running into battle like an animal, he thought for the only second he had like the human he was. They may be stronger than him, but he was smarter. It would be useless to run from the mongrels, as they were much faster and it was cowardly to do it anyhow. It would be best to dodge their attacks and attack, but he could also confuse them. This was a test of speed and intelligence. But he was not a supercomputer. He needed time to think.

The mongrels each leapt at his throat, trying to all bring him down quickly so they could eat his flesh. But he slashed at their muzzles with their blades, sending them back before they leapt again. They had thought as well, two going for his legs to bring him crashing to the ground and the other three doing the same technique as before. The mongrels were so fast that he couldn't evade all the attacks. One bite was straight into his thigh, but he handled this one with a quick horizontal slash in the throat. One down, four to go. This wasn't easy.

Instinctively he felt at the wound, feeling the four holes the canines had imprinted on it. His blood dripped down his leg, and for a second he wondered if any of the mongrels had any diseases they could have spread from the bite. But he could not focus on it. Better he went down with a fight.

One mongrel, smaller than the others, leapt into the air with such height and went for him in the air. But he struck his machete into its torso, sending it rolling in the dirt and whining with pain. Now the mongrels were angrier that two of its pack had been killed by its prey, their growling lowering in tone. By this time, however, the slave had formed a plan.

He realized that the first mongrel he had killed was larger than the others and perhaps more intelligent, possibly the pack leader. The second had been smaller and the weakest, the lowest member of the pack. So now there were three, all of them somewhere in the middle. These were moderately trained, unlike the other two which receive more or less than these.

So, even as he held it in the air, he knew that they couldn't resist a piece of meat. The pack leader should have learned, but the others had not. He tossed it at them and they attacked the meat, a gracious donation from one of the slaves from the first round. Booing rose from the crowd as he dispatched of the mongrels with his machetes.

He saw Caesar speaking to one of his praetorian guards. Though he couldn't read their lips, he knew that they had changed schedule. Instead of the normal third round opponent, they were picking out a stronger one. He had cheated, so he would have to pay. But the slave could not even imagine who or what his next opponent could be.

Suddenly from the darkness of the other side of the pit, he saw a giant black claw rise into the air, rope wrapped around it so it wouldn't hurt anyone. For a second he thought it was a mirelurk/swamplurk they had brought for him to fight. Both were extremely difficult to battle with machetes, as he had seen some rise from the river when he was still trapped in the slave pen. But there was something worse, something larger and more ferocious than that.

As the creature was moved closer by its handlers, he felt himself backing away. He immediately stopped his cowardly movements and grabbed the machetes once more to fight. But now the machetes that had killed his opponents felt like butter knives in his hands. He wondered if they could even cut through the flesh of his new opponent.

Another black claw appeared, and then many eyes of the same color stared at him, irritated and hungry. But it also had powerful jaws serving as its mouth. Just from seeing all of this he knew what it was. It was a radscorpion. But not any radscorpion, but one of gigantic size that could cut him in half with one snap of its claws or choose to poison him and let him die slowly as it raced to his heart.

Once it was finally inside of the arena, it almost filled an entire corner of the arena with its bulk. Now the slave felt nothing more than a non-mutated ant compared to the creature. But he knew one thing: ants could bite. With enough bites, its prey would die. But they had had enemies outnumbered and he was merely one against what felt like one hundred.

He felt, in the greatest sense, hopeless that he would survive this round. He already had a machete slash on his arm and a dog bite that might become infected. Even the crowd around him once filled with boos had fallen silent, waiting for the radscorpion to tear him apart. It was like with the real Colosseum when a gladiator would fight a lion if the arena was times smaller, the gladiator without proper armor or weapons, and the lion times bigger and more dangerous. Eagerness was in the air.

Then the worst thing happened. The radscorpion was released. All at once, the ropes on the claws, stinger, and legs were cut and fell to the ground. The crowd fell silent, for no one could not be afraid of this creature. Now having freedom, it gave a moment to stretch out its muscles that had been tied up for so long. It took another moment to locate its prey. The slave standing across it from the pit was an immediate choice. The many other Legion were not in the radscorpion's reach.

With a flurry of its insect-like legs, it ran towards its prey. Its stinger finally came into view, the most dangerous weapon on the beast. It had more powerful poison than the smaller versions the larger it was, the opposite of former information, and this one was very large. It also had an extremely strong exoskeleton on its body. As the name states, it is a skeleton on the exterior of the body and he doubted his weapons could even penetrate that armor.

But he had formulated yet another plan for what he hoped would be the last round. He dropped one of his two machetes to the ground and ran forward towards the radscorpion. As soon as he was within range, it lashed out with its claws and tail, each trying to get a piece of him. He dodged the massive weapons and went behind the creature. Here, it could not reach him. It tried to turn towards him, but he moved away and it moved almost comically in a circle to try to get to him.

Now that he was here, he took the machete and slashed across the part of the radscorpion where its body met the tail that held the stinger. The exoskeleton didn't give way at first, but it soon was cut off. The radscorpion made a strange screeching noise of pain, and quickened its speed, trying to get to him. It was much larger and the slave would get tired before it did, so he had to made quick work of the arachnid.

He snatched up the other machete and leapt onto the radscorpion's back. It collapsed under his weight, its legs moving in a frenzy in an attempt to stand up. But he had his entire weight on the creature, and it couldn't move a muscle. Its claws snapped at him, forcing him to try to avoid and slash at them with one of the machetes. The other he stabbed down into the scorpion's head repeatedly, but it simply would not die.

Then a claw managed to reach out at him and grab his torso, lifting him up in the air. He cried out as it started to crush him slowly, feeling his ribs break in his body. The cheering was louder than ever, crying out for his death. But he was not finished yet. He grabbed one of his machetes and threw it at the radscorpion's head. It was lodged inside, but did nothing. With his last remaining strength, he tossed the other as he was growing faint.

Suddenly, the claw holding him faltered and fell to the ground limp. It still held him, however, but he could not escape from the claw. He was too weak, and knew he would die without medical attention. He was merely a slave, and guessed they would leave him here to die like all the others. His vision grew dark just as he heard the words in his ear, "Welcome to the Legion."

He awoke in a tent. Being alive startled him, but the pain arrived right after he thought this. He knew about the bite and cuts on his body, but the pain was primarily in his sides where he had been almost been crushed to death by the radscorpion. Though it would be wrong to move, he forced himself to sit upright and open his eyes.

What he saw also surprised him. He was not wearing his slave attire, but an actual Legion armor. The armor was crimson colored, unlike the average Legion recruit armor that he had expected to be wearing. Although he had just been accepted into the Legion, they had promoted him to a prime legionary. His covered helmet, with the unique visor that extended over his eyes, lay in a corner of the tent as if looking at him. He picked it up and put it on.

The pain, tired of being ignored, sent a sharp pain into his side that forced him to keel over, feeling the bandages under his armor start to rip. But he saw two weapons lying beside him when he did this; a machete gladius and ten throwing spears. He examined the weapons with amazement, testing the gladius out with slashes in the air.

As he was doing a stabbing motion with the gladius, he almost sent the weapon into a recruit legionary entering the tent. They didn't seem surprised that they had almost gotten impaled, instead saying, "Ave, Amicus." And handed him a bag of healing powder before leaving. He accepted it immediately and took it, knowing how to from seeing a legionary once use it.

The pain faded away almost instantly, and he grabbed his weapons and left the tent, eager to see what was outside now that he was an equal. He was barely noticeable than the others, his armor almost like a disguise that allowed him to blend with the others. But some recognized him somehow from the arena, these either proud or disapproving of Caesar's decision by their body language. One even muttered what he would guess to be something rude in Latin.

But before he could even explore the camp some more, a Decanus approached him. "Welcome to the Legion, Malleolus." The quiet that followed meant for the new prime legionary, now known as Malleolus, to speak, but he was oblivious to this fact. Though well capable of doing so, he had never been allowed to speak before when being treated as a slave.

The Decanus ignored this and continued speaking. "While you have well demonstrated your skill in battle, you still will be treated like the rest. You shall train in your free time, the other time being spent following my orders. If you demonstrate potential on the battlefield or in leadership, you may be promoted. But fail to follow orders, and you will most likely be charged with death for your incompetence. Do you understand?"

Malleolus was silent for a second, mulling over the Decanus's words. Seeing that the Decanus was waiting for his response, he quickly nodded.

"Good. Now I advise you to start your training while that powder is still in your system." Without even a parting word, the Decanus left.

So with those words, the life of a former slave had been changed. He was now a prime legionary, and he would never be the same again.


	2. Sacrificial Blood

Chapter two: Sacrificial Blood

"Third time being late, Malleolus." A legionary commented as he walked by. Late was the polite term they had used. Ever since he joined, he had been waking up close to the afternoon. It was both embarrassing and bad on his reputation towards them. But he could not help it; when he was a slave the slavers woke him. He was used to waking up to a gunshot by his ear, not the sun coming into his eyes. As a minus, they usually didn't use guns but melee weapons such as machetes.

Even the recruits had the ability to wake up to train. So if he had people who disrespected him before, they now had plenty of followers. Legionaries felt he wasn't qualified to be a prime legionary, regardless of his battling skills. And he still didn't quite know how to use his new weapons properly. The gladius, though similar to a machete, had a broader blade and more weight. As with the throwing spears, he was clueless.

When he first used it, examining it and weighing it in his hands, he wasn't sure what it was used for. His first guess was that it was used to stab enemies when standing above them once they were knocked down, but was still confused of its use. Then a proud recruit and four others approached him and the former, apparently their leader, took it from his hands and tossed it into a training dummy. It flew and implanted itself into the dummy's heart location with ease. "It's called a _throwing_ spear, dumbass." He said before walking away.

Malleolus had considered taking his gladius and lobbing the head off this lowly recruit, but decided that it was childish to start a quarrel with his allies. There would also no doubt be consequences, most likely death. So he could do nothing but walk away. But after that, he was actually glad that he had been shown how to use it. Instead of the short range gladius, the throwing spear could hit an enemy from a long distance. And since the majority of his enemies used guns, the spear could be extremely useful. And it would never run out of ammunition.

So, having never seen legionaries train with it before, he trained everyday trying to become as experienced as the recruit. But as he came to learn, this legionary used only throwing spears as weapons ever since he joined and, therefore, skilled in only one weapon. So it would take awhile to become as accomplished as him, time he was willing to use.

The first day he tried to land the throwing spears into the training dummy ended in total failure. It was not as he imagined how easy it would be. He had imagined the spear flying easily out of his hand in a straight path and eventually implanting itself into the dummy's head. But it was the complete opposite, as some, including the five recruits who laughed cruelly at his lack of skill, would soon discover.

Most of the spears fell weakly to the ground, while others flew past the training dummy with ease. One of them even flew over the fence, which he had to immediately go retrieve, hoping no one would see. The majority of the spears he threw curved instead of flying straight, landing harmlessly on the ground and making his throws look weak. It was humiliating. The experienced gladiator who had single handedly took down a giant radscorpion with a machete, couldn't even throw a spear right. Even some who had respected him snickered to themselves.

But only one had lost faith in him, perhaps one of the most important was the arena arranger. On the third day, when he was almost ready to snap his spear in two, the man came running up to him, not even bothered by the fact he was experienced in throwing the spears. What mattered, Malleolus would soon learn, was his skill in the arena with a machete.

"Malleolus!" He called, thankfully taking Malleolus away from the training. "That is your name, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued to talk. "My name is Otho; I've arranged battles in the arena since the Legate first battled. Congratulations on your victories in the arena, but would you mind if you challenged the arena again?" Malleolus glanced at his slowly healing arm and ribs. "Yes, yes, I know about your injuries, but this battle will be easy for someone as experienced as yourself. And in the arena, the Legion loves you. With your injuries, it will be even more dangerous. So what do you say?"

Malleolus was silent for a second, mulling it over. If it was another radscorpion, he would almost certainly die or become mortally wounded again. It had only been three days of healing; it would be called suicide if he did it. "I'll do it." He had nothing to lose and it would be good training. Otho nodded and handed him a machete and some armor he couldn't recognize.

"Slaves are restricted to their typical clothing, but legionary gladiators are allowed to use gladiatorial armor. We don't want our legionaries, especially our best gladiators, to be buried. They do this to train and entertain the Legion with the spilling of blood, not to die. They must live to fight for the Legion. We'll expect you at the arena in an hour. I suggest sharpening your weapon with the blacksmith before going." Without another word, he walked away. Malleolus forgot to ask what his opponent even was, man or animal.

But he had no choice but to go prepare. He put on his gladiator armor, looking like a normal suit of leather armor surprisingly. Of course, not ever seeing leather armor before thought that the armor was unique for its purpose. And after examining the machete, he noticed that it had the smallest amount of blood on it. He guessed that this was the same machete he had used in the arena before and tested it out with a few swings.

Then he remembered, seeing how dull it was, to give it to the blacksmith to sharpen. The other weapons he had seen legionaries carrying, especially the higher ranks, had sharpened blades. And the highest rank he had seen, Centurions, carried a blade sharp enough to make the very air bleed, at least the few that carried them. So when he found the blacksmith, he was doing that: sharpening a Centurion's gladius.

It was only later that he learned it was a Centurion, but with their stitched together armor made of pieces of old fallen enemies' armor and the red plumage on their helmet made them look of high authority. He didn't even dare look at them and stayed his distance until the Centurion left. For a second, he wondered if he could ever become a Centurion, if legionaries such as himself would look upon him like this. But it would no doubt take years of fighting and hundreds of kills to be trusted upon such a position as this. As his mind wandered, he handed his weapon to the blacksmith.

Malleolus thought it an honor to have the duties of being a blacksmith as well. To be trusted with making the very Legion's weapons and handling them was a big responsibility. If there was one flaw in them, the punishment would quite possibly go right to the blacksmith. And they had to make the weapons that everyone would use. He watched the blacksmith work, almost hoping he could be able to do the job. It would imaginably be easier to get than a Centurion's job.

The machete was handed back to him. He merely nodded his thanks and walked away, looking at the gleaming weapon in his hands. It almost made him want to enter the arena and fight a hundred giant radscorpions, wanting badly to try it out. He touched its sharpened tip and a tiny drop of blood was produced from his finger. Otho's voice called him away from the weapon.

"Malleolus! The arena is ready! Hurry, will you?" He said, motioning him over.

It was then that Malleolus noticed something different in the air. The usually noisy activities going all around him were almost silent, a strange feeling for him. He had no doubt that they were all at the arena, impatiently waiting for blood to spill from either man or beast. Even the people who had hated him, he supposed, were even there. So he had to put on a good show.

"What am I fighting?" He asked, both hurrying to the arena.

"Not what; who. You are fighting a captured NCR ranger, female. Said her name was Reeves, if it matters."

This caught Malleolus off guard extremely. He had never fought an enemy that wasn't male, not counting if any of the beasts he killed were female. They were also of a different build, considering the ones he saw at the slave pen. But those, like him, were starved. So he had no idea what he was up against. "Why a female? And what does NCR mean?"

"Normally we don't allow women to fight. But the New California Republic, one of our enemies, trains their women like their men. The rangers are the best of the best, much like our Centurions. She, like you, started to fight with the slave pen guards and we considered putting her in the arena. But I can't have a women end up like you. And we don't have any radscorpions left. So you have to kill her. She's unarmed as well, and damned skilled with it, so don't let your guard down."

"And if I die?"

"That would be disappointing, to say the least. The crowd wouldn't like it, and neither would you. But if you die, I have a Centurion ready to battle her. You saw him earlier. The day a woman kills a Centurion is the day I let them become a gladiator. Until then, it'll be over my dead body. Or, theirs, to be exact." They had finally reached the arena. "Good luck. I hope you don't need it."

The second Malleolus walked into the arena, there was an uproar of noise. Some were cheering while others were booing, but he ignored them and readied himself for battle. Suddenly the NCR ranger, Reeves, came into the arena. The whole atmosphere seemed to change. Some were now silent, wondering why a woman could possibly be allowed to fight while others booed, outraged by the same fact. He even heard one cheer to him, "Kick her ass!"

But while this happened, he studied his enemy. Reeves, though similar to him, seemed to be nimbler than him, quick on her feet and no doubt with her fists as well. By the time he slashes her flesh, she could break his ribs again. He was virtually a one-and-a-half recruit legionary while she had trained for battle all her life. But it was too late for regrets.

They both approached each other slowly, stopping when there was at least six feet between them. It was out of reach for attack, but close enough to watch their motives and dodge an incoming attack. Malleolus waited for Reeves to attack, but it seemed as if she was thinking the same thing. Like predators, they circled the arena, each ready to attack at the event of the first strike. But it wouldn't come as easily as that.

Each one knew the disadvantages of a first strike. Once Malleolus sliced through the air with his blade, she could easily send him to the ground by sweeping his feet or send in a few punches that could feel him dazed. And if she sent a punch his way, he could slash her wrists or take a step closer and stab the blade into her heart. Each waited for the first strike, but it didn't come. The quiet anticipation of the crowd soon turned to impatient yells.

Malleolus grew worried, but didn't show it. He had to quickly start and finish the battle before there was an uproar or worse. And that would only make his reputation with the Legion worse. He tried to taunt her but she merely did the same, only making his worry grow. Finally, when the people seemed like they were about to jump down to the arena themselves, he slashed forward aiming for her hands.

She merely jumped back but he knew he made contact, though small. There was a small cut on her finger, nothing more. But she had taken the first strike to her advantage and knocked the weapon out of his hands. He quickly tried to reach for it, but she stepped in his way, almost landing a punch on him. "Let's make this fair." She said and sent a kick his direction.

Instead of blocking, he tried jumping back, but it still made contact. As he tried to regain his balance, he discovered that he had always used fists, which were short range but powerful. Never had he used his legs for combat, and he had never seen it before except when a mantis nymph crossed a legionary's path. But that was a stomp, not a kick.

So he tried to do it, especially since one of his arms wasn't in working condition. He aimed for her gut, but she grabbed his leg and pulled him close so he could send her leg into his stomach. He fell to the ground and quickly got up, ready again. This opponent was too skilled in hand to hand combat. He had to retrieve his machete.

While she tried to land a few more kicks on him, he circled around the stadium until he reached the machete. She luckily didn't notice. As she sent another kick his way, he snatched up the machete and slashed through her ankle. It didn't go through bone, but he could see it was a deep cut. She tried to get out of his reach, but was too slow with only one functional leg. He slowly approached, feeling victory close. She raised her hands in defense.

Her back hit the wall of the arena. Malleolus twirled the machete in his hand and approached, having trapped her. She tried to land a few punches on him but he repelled them with his machete, cuts forming all over her arms. When he was close enough he sent his knee into her gut, sending her to the ground. He stood above her, feeling powerful.

Then he got down to her level and punched her in the face, feeling the fragile cartilage of her nose break under his fist. He also broke most of her teeth, some of them piercing themselves into his fist. He ignored them, using them as spiked knuckles to continuously punch her until she was barely breathing. While she was under the punishment, she tried to reach for the machete that he had laid by his side. He snatched it up and pierced it into her hand. The crowd was crying out for more and cheering.

He picked up the machete again and aimed it at her heart. She used the last of her strength to mutter, "See you in Hell." He silenced her with a downward jab into his target. Her eyes turned dead. The crowd cheered above him as he twisted the blade in its place before wrenching the blade from her heart. Blood soaked into her clothes and eventually the ground. But he wasn't finished yet. He sliced her head off, laying another coating of blood to the machete, and flung it into the crowd. Legionaries fought each other to catch it.

Breathing heavily, he raised his arms in the air, sending more cheers his way. He was the happiest he had ever been in all of his life.

Malleolus passed by some legionaries, ready to go train, and instead of an insult he was received with congratulations from yesterday's battle. He nodded his thanks and walked by, though he was surprised that they didn't even notice that he had yet again slept in. Ever since the battle with Reeves, his reputation had seemed to fare better with the Legion. But he couldn't rely on the arena alone. The Centurions didn't continuously battle in the arena to achieve their rank. They went on multiple campaigns and killed hundreds of enemies, not one or two at a time as he did.

He cursed himself for having his broken bones. The healing powders had ridden of the pain, but couldn't physically heal his crippled body. Only time could heal that. Awhile ago, one slave had mentioned a medicine you could inject into yourself called stimpaks. They could heal your injuries and any broken bones, but it seemed too good to be true. That was stuff of fiction.

So he had nothing to do but the continuous training he was reserved to do. But he had to give his injuries time, or they would no doubt break again or cause another to break. If any occurred, he would become useless to the Legion. So he had to at least keep his reputation neutral with his fellow legionaries. But there was one group that truly despised him from the very beginning; the group of recruits with their proud leader and his great marksmanship with throwing spears.

They watched him, seeming to be plotting against him. But he ignored them, having more important things than to give false accusations. Ignoring the stares of the recruits, he unsheathed his gladius and approached a training dummy. He prepared an upward strike when a Decanus suddenly called him.

"Malleolus! I wish to speak with you." Malleolus recognized him as the same Decanus he had met before that had told him his legionary name. He quickly unsheathed his blade and went over to his superior. "Yes sir?" He asked, the Decanus almost seeming pleased that he was finally speaking to him.

"Supported by yesterday's events, it can be observed that you are in a more than capable condition to be out in the Wasteland. My party and I welcome you to join us to make a…visit with a caravan heading towards Camp McCarran. It could be called the Fort of the NCR. If you think you are fit enough, meet us near the arena early tomorrow. And _don't be late_." The Decanus gave him a look before leaving him to his thoughts.

For a second, Malleolus was baffled. Even with his injuries, he was being allowed permission to go out of the Fort and go on a campaign. And he was going to go _out there_, where he had only dreamed to go. He was suddenly filled with joy. Walking back to the training dummy, he unsheathed his blade once more. It was then he noticed the group of recruits was gone. He mentally shrugged, glad of their leave. It was easier to focus without their eyes on him anyhow. He gripped his gladius and hacked at the training dummy, pretending it was an NCR ranger.

Malleolus woke to the sound of a gunshot by his ear. For a second, he thought he was actually a slave again, the Legion life just a long dream. Luckily, he was wrong. He glanced around, making sure everything was real for the second time before looking to the sky to see what time of day it was. Surprisingly, it was not noon as he had expected. The sun was not high in the sky but just rising, meaning it was early in the morning.

At first he was happy he had woken up so early but wondered why he had heard the gunshot. He saw no guns around and legionaries who used guns primarily practiced with them outside the Fort to not disturb anyone who was sleeping. It must have been mental, he thought, an imagined gunshot method to wake himself.

It was then he remembered about the campaign. He quickly gathered his equipment, which only consisted of his weapons and some healing powders, and headed toward the arena. Legionaries who had already awaken looked surprised to see him up at the same time as them as he passed by. He took some of the healing powder as he walked and when he reached the arena, he was feeling better and looked ready to go.

The Decanus even looked surprised, but nevertheless pleased. Only a couple of his party had assembled, consisting of two prime legionaries like him. He nodded at them as a greeting, but they seemed to ignore him. They waited only a bit longer for three recruits to arrive, one he recognized but did not remember why.

He went over to him. "Have I seen you before? You look familiar."

The legionary's face seemed to brighten a bit. "Yes, I'm the one who gave you the healing powders after your first battle with the arena. 'Ave, Amicus', remember?" He held his hand out to shake.

Malleolus was confused by his strange friendliness, but nevertheless shook it. "Malleolus."

"I'm Carbo. Nice to see a familiar face."

The Decanus leading the group suddenly broke up their small talk. "Everyone appears to be here. Ready?" He glanced around for an answer, which was only mumbles or nods. "No one need a bathroom break?" The legionaries laughed at this. "Alright then, move out!" Leading the group, they proceeded out of the Fort.

The groups' trip was uneventful for the first few hours. A few daring NCR troops came at them, but they were quickly beheaded or lying in pieces. Though they had more damaging weapons, the legionaries had the power of sheer numbers, agility, and training. A group of Cazadors, a mutated version of a pre-war wasp Malleolus learned, came at the legionaries as well, managing to even poison a recruit with their deadly stingers. But with antivenom and some bandages, they knew he would be fine.

They stopped walking when the sun was high in the sky. The Decanus took out a map and laid it out on a nearby rock for the legionaries to see. "We're here." He said, pointing at an x in the center of the map. "Scouts have spotted the caravan most commonly stopping in these two locations." The Decanus pointed them out, all distinctive by circles. "We will be divided into two squadrons. Squad one: you four," He singled out two recruits, a prime legionary, and Carbo; "will take the northwestern location. The last two will be part of my team in the southern location. I expect success. Move out!"

Team one had taken the map with them, the Decanus having memorized the other location for his team. "It should take about three hours, if the scouts are correct. That means it may be nightfall by the time we get back to the Fort. We may have to build a camp for the night with the others."

About two hours in, they found another legionary camp. They merely meekly greeted each other before continuing, having no business with one another. Malleolus saw that they had tied captives sitting in front of their campfire and wondered if they were going to become slaves or were merely prisoners of war. He couldn't get a good look at them from the legionaries keeping their eyes, or technically their weapons, on them.

But soon after that, something peculiar occurred. They were walking when suddenly a spear flew past their heads, their reflexes protecting them from being impaled. They immediately drew their weapons to face the enemy, but couldn't find them. The Decanus went to study the spear.

"Malleolus, give me one of your throwing spears." He handed it over at once and the Decanus compared the two. "Well this one is much more used than yours, but they're both legionary. I'm afraid we have a traitor on our hands. Let's just hope he's alone." The prime legionary began to put his weapon away, but the Decanus stopped him. "Leave it out. We may be needing it soon."

The Decanus, crouched to somewhat conceal himself, started to inch forward, the prime legionaries silently following. Malleolus's mind, however, was as active as ever. He was worried that this could be someone from the Fort out to kill him. People could be hateful creatures. He just hoped it was a warning from a pack of rampaging Bighorners approaching. They would be much easier to dispose of.

Another spear flew at them, this time burying itself in the Decanus's lung. He fell to the ground, gasping for air as the other prime legionary started to get ready to attack. Malleolus, however, heard the sounds of whispering, "His arm, you idiot! Look what you've done!"

"Wait!" Malleolus said to the prime legionary just as he was starting to rush toward them. Luckily he stopped and turned to face him. "We're no doubt outnumbered and our commander is dying. Go to the Legion camp quickly; get reinforcements."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay with the Decanus. Now go, before we all die!" The prime legionary nodded and snuck away, and Malleolus wished him speed.

Malleolus just glanced at the dying Decanus, who was trying to stand, blood running down his fingers from the wound he was trying to stop. "What are you doing?"

"I told myself that if I was going to die, it would be with fight still in my eyes and enemies lying at my feet. I'm not dying like this." Using a rock to support himself, he wobbly stood up. "Give me your spears. You can't hit shit with them in the first place." Reluctantly, Malleolus followed the orders and was given the Decanus's gladius. "Now let's go."

It was almost perfect timing. The legionaries, which Malleolus recognized as the recruits he suspected along with a few more, jumped out from behind the rocks they were also hiding behind. One immediately went down with a well aimed toss of the spear to the head. Malleolus charged forward with both of the blades in his hands. The training seemed to pay off.

Parrying the blades of the other enemies with one gladius, he used the other to take down the one he was focused on. The recruits were much less trained than the other two but had their numbers as an advantage. When they realized that their charge wasn't working, they started to dash about the area, almost too fast for the Decanus and too far away for Malleolus to strike. They tossed their throwing spears at them, hoping to take them down.

Worse, the Decanus, having run out of air, fell to the ground dead soon after they did this maneuver and Malleolus was alone. He had to take cover beneath some rocks, almost considering to cowardly run away though he had more fighting experience than the recruits. Suddenly there was a machete at his throat.

"Drop your weapons." Malleolus cursed and followed the orders. "Stand up and raise your hands." He turned to see the leader of the recruits holding the blade to his neck. "I've been waiting to kill you for a long time." Malleolus took a quick glance where the other prime legionary had run, but the recruit caught his eye. "I saw your friend run, the coward. And a shame to the Decanus, but its only better that there are no witnesses."

"You're lying. You didn't want anyone to die in your plan. I heard you."

"Does it matter? By the time the others see the bodies, we'll be gone. Maybe we can share some of the Legion's secrets with the NCR, they'd like to know."

"You're a traitor; all of you. Betrayed the people who wanted to make you a better soldier, a better person to the society."

"I beg to differ. We're the people who enslave people, who kill them for entertainment. Who's the real monster? We're benefitting everyone. That way, we can make the Mojave a better place. But we should start with the basics: killing the Legion one at a time starting with you. And the Legion will fade into myth, along with the gladiator who killed innocent people."

Malleolus caught a shadow approaching out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think so." He quickly scooped up his blades and a recruit stepped in front of his leader, intentionally trying to protect him, but instead getting an upward slash intended for the leader. The leader took his machete out, signaling for his followers to wait. Without a wasted second, Malleolus knocked the weapon out of his hands and tried to jab forward.

The recruits and their leader, however, noticed the legionaries now upon them and started to retreat. Though there were more recruits, they were quickly herded together like Bighorners and their weapons seized. The leader, not wanting to be captured, tried to kill a nearby legionary but failed; his machete knocked to the ground and him taken down.

As they were being gathered together, Malleolus was approached by another Decanus. "You're Malleolus, is that correct?" He nodded. "Not bad, for a prime legionary. Not bad at all. It's a shame about Claudius, but at least he was the only casualty. You might've just saved many more lives from these traitors. But don't worry; they'll get the punishments they deserve. I'll make sure of that." The Decanus went to help the others gather the recruits.

Squad one returned as soon as they got word of their news and, just as Claudius had wanted, the caravan had been captured as well. The whole squad attended Claudius's burial except for Malleolus, which surprised some. Instead of seeing them, he went to Cottonwood Cove, where he once lived as a slave, to visit the crucified recruits at the front.

He passed by without a word until their leader cried out to him. "Malleolus!" He took an unconcerned glance his way. "Please; let us down from here! We're dying here!" He started to walk away. "No; wait! Stop this! Please! Kill me! I can't take this anymore! I'll even say it: I deserve it! Just make this pain end! Please!"

"You made your own choices. You and your group killed a Decanus. And for that, you deserve to suffer here. You said it yourself. How fitting it is that you lay here to die and plead to me, the person you tried to kill, to end your suffering. Goodbye." Without another word, he turned his back on them and walked away, back to the raft that would take him to the Fort.

The recruit's leader, however, sent a stream of curses and insults his way, even after the raft drifted away. It was only until he was dead that he was truly silent.


End file.

Fallout