Servius grunted absently as the girl from earlier shoved past him, and he turned her attention to her, beginning an empty "Hey, be careful", only to stop short when he caught glance of her stare, then of the features of her face.

That made more sense. He thought of what other acclamation he could make of her, this Woman of Colorado, Killer of Centurions, Bride and Bane of Albinus.

How many times had he seen her? Seven or eight times? She'd been there when Lucius threatened to lash him to a cross. He didn't remember whether she'd seen him get flogged for daring to defy the man to his face during one of the meetings; Denver had been hard fought to secure, there were relatively few tribals in the region but the place was overrun by wild mongrels, ghouls and raiders. Eventually his Century had been sent to establish a a fortress in the side of a mountain overlooking one of the State Highways, north east of Denver and they had left Lucius and his camp behind (though they had stopped there again on their way to the Mojave, coming down the very road they had helped to refurbish for traders, a colony was established there of Settlers from New Mexico as the population there had expanded.

Colorado had been a very interesting place and he had many stories to tell of it that were not merely war stories. it had been quite the formative place in his life and there were memories there he'd like to keep and those he'd like to forget, and some he simply couldn't explain at all.

Now Lucius, Lucius had been a careerist at his core. He cosied up to anyone influential who so much as looked at his camp in a servile and disgusting manner that had made Servius half sick to watch, a man who fancied himself Lanius or a Legatus at the least but had the skills, bravery and commanded the respect to fill neither. Utterly paranoid, surrounding himself with yesmen.

Indeed, the first day Servius had delivered a message for Sedonus to Lucius and sat in on the warroom, the man had tried to butter him up...

**

A cold wind blew through the camp the winters night, snow drifting down on the High mountains where they had camped. Servius, Decanus of Old Sedona, wrapped in his paenula. He brushed through the opening of the commanders tent and peering around the brazier lit room. A long wooden table ran down its length, chairs on either side and at the head sat a powerful looking Centurion. His eyes examined the Decanus eagerly as he entered the tent, looking past him greedily... And then to him with a light note of disappointment in his gaze.

"Who are you, and where is your Centurion?" The mountain of meat that was Lucius demanded. Servius swept his paenula from around his front and approached the table. Lucius - and almost all his decani- were mountains of men

"Centurion Sedonus meditates, Centurion. The road is hard on his old form, and he conserves strength for the coming battle. I am Decanus Servius Curius Proculus Vespillo of Century XXV Sedona Major, Son of Gaius Curius Proculus Mexicus, Centurion V Sandoval Victrix. Centurion Sedonus has sent me to speak in his stead."

"Hm. But of course, Senex should rest. I have heard the tales of his deeds in battle. Very well, Legionarius, join us." Lucius gestured with a wave of his hand to an empty seat at the table, and Servius removed his headdress and placed it onto the table, sitting down carefully and lowering the mask from his face. Lucius barked sharply as he did, and for a moment Servius thought that he might have somehow offended the centurion - but it was directed at a slave girl instead. "Lupa stulta, Get our newcomer a drink!"

The young girl scurried across the tent quickly, avoiding looking to his eye. As she approached with a pitcher, Servius gave her a light smile as he quickly glanced her up and down. She had clearly taken quite the violent beating not too long ago, presumably at the hands of Lucius himself. Bad news, perhaps? She looked barely able to keep standing, exhausted from the day and the injuries. "Gratias tibi ago, amicus."

" Yes, sir." The girl managed meekly and timidly, as though afraid speaking too loud might result in some horrible fate. Servius narrowed his eyes slightly as she tried to move off, only to stumble lightly and drop the pitcher onto the floor. She hastily ducked down to pick it up and in doing so narrowly avoided being hit by Lucius helmet, which he'd tossed at her across the room while yelling. Servius didn't remember exactly what, but it was a string of profanity that had left him quite shocked. No sooner had she stood back up and looked back to the table in fear and whimpered out a "Sorry sir!" which for now sated Lucius fury. Servius pulled out the seat beside him and gestured to it

"Servus, quaeso conside." Servius said, which earned him a very horrified look from many of the Decani around the table. Lucius stared at Servius for a moment however, for now at least, seemed willing to tolerate this unusual turn of events with little more than a shake of his head. Apparently, the girl didn't understand latin, was too afraid of the repercussions or too suspicious of his intentions to take Servius up on his offer, for she scurried quickly away back into the corner of the tent and kept her head down once more.

"Bah, like her, Decanus? Don't be too friendly- that one of my little whores." Lucius said with a light chuckle, and Servius glanced to him for a moment before looking back to the slave as he drew his now filled cup back. He forced a smile onto his face and gave the Centurion a polite nod, trying to be as amicable as possible.

"Minime vero, Centurion. Just pleasantries."

"She's a good one. She had some spirit. Came in kicking and screaming, broke Gaius' Nose! So I broke her. Quickly too. Almost a shame, I wanted the fight." Lucius said after several moments of silence, taking a swig from his glass and then sitting back somewhat in the large wooden chair he called his own, looking to the girl. "Perhaps I'm being too selfish with her! How does Sedonus like them? Like her, young and pretty? Quiet type?"

Servius paused for a moment and shook his head "Sedonus... is a ascetic man. He doesn't spend time on the pleasures of the flesh." It wasn't entirely a lie- not that it was entirely the truth either for Sedonus had always been a very complicated figure, but the Legionaries weren't here for such matters and neither was Sedonus. He'd likely have been offended by the offer, to tell the truth; Sedonus could get his own pretty little slave girls if that's what he wanted.

"Ah... You have his ear, yes? He would have to trust you to send you here - you must be quite the officer in your own right. Tell me, Decanus, do you yet have a concubine? Officers should be breeding new legionaries, no?" Lucius asked somewhat suddenly, and Servius couldn't help but be taken aback by the forwardness of the question. "I have gathered many slaves to me in this region. You could have your pick of the pit. All hues of skin and hair now... and some virgins too. Can't promise they'll stay that way for long."

"Oh- Minime, Centurion, minime autem gratias."

"Not a concubine, then? Hm. If you were holding out for her-" With a subtle gesture in the direction of the slave girl who was cowering in the corner; he guessed that he was either going to point out again that she was off limits or else make another absurd proposition, either way Servius was not interested.

"Minime, Centurion, I assure you I am quite fine." Servius put an end to the sentence - whatever in the name of the gods it would have become - before it could get half way through, and Lucius puckered his lips, clearly not used to his various bribes falling flat so quickly. Servius himself sought to put an end to this avenue of conversation and back to topic at hand; That of war.

"As you wish, but let none say I am not a generous man." It carried an underlying hint of annoyance and Servius grimaced lightly, worried about offending a Centurion. Had Sedonus not said to keep the man on their side, if possible?

"Ita vero." One of the Decani said, another giving a nod of approval. Servius glanced to them for a moment and then back to the Centurion.

"Centurion Luci, I am grateful for the offer but I cannot accept. Sedonus would not approve. But might we proceed? The night is growing old- and cold, and me and the men of Old Sedona have marched long and far. We would all wish sleep on ourselves before the chill sets in." Servius said, quick to acquiesce yet do all he could to move the subject away. He did not wish to be caught in between this rock and a hard place.

"Ita, ita... This is the plan for tomorrow," Lucius gestured to the map lain out on the table in front of him, several figures arranged across it. Servius leant forward and examined it, taking a long drink of the water int he glass he held, swallowing and narrowing his eyes for a moment as Lucius continued. "Two of my Contubernium will take the north west road here and take this bridge, see it? It's half ruined but its a key path into Dog town and is the one the raiders have been using to cross. Sedonus will send half a contubernium to scout this location here-"

"No need for half Contubernium for such a task. We have Speculatores, Centurion Sedonus can have one dispatched."

"But how would we know one man is telling us the truth, Decanus?" Lucius asked as he stared straight at him. Servius had to take a moment to process the comment and then glanced towards Lucius in confusion. The look on the Centurion's face made it all too clear that he was unfortunately serious. It left Servius somewhat dumbstruck; Sedona had said the man had a reputation for paranoia and suspected even his own underlings, but this was beyond the pale!

"Legionaries do not lie about such things." Servius retorted. Lucius grunted and then let out a dark laugh, and was soon joined by some of his officers. Servius, however, remained silent. That was no laughing matter.

"Speak for yourself!" Lucius laughed for a moments before calming and shaking his head. He drained his glass and then slammed it down on the table, motioning impatiently for the Slave girl to come and refill it "No, I want a full four men. They'll scout out the area, I have reports of a tribe in that region and I want them found."

"The more legionaries, the more attention they risk drawing, it is safer for one man-" Servius was cut off by Lucius, who would hear no more of it. It was somewhat shocking how fast his demeanour had changed, whereas earlier he had been offering out slaves for sexual favours and whoring out his own concubine to Sedonus, now he looked about ready to tear Servius head off if he pressed the issue.

"Enough of that. Four men will do."

"Mea culpa, Centurion, autem minime. We will send a speculatores. If you want another three men with him, you can send them." Servius replied with a firm shake of his head. Lucius stared back at him, clearly bewildered and infuriated that he'd just been denied a request by a lowly decanus.

"Four. Men."

"The Answer of the Centuria Sedona Major will not change the more you ask, Centurion." The Centurion stared at him for a few minutes and Servius could see the anger at such a slight spread over his face; the Decani seated around the table were quiet, looking towards Servius with suspicion and anger; The very atmosphere of the room had changed in minutes and Servius felt now as though he was in mortal peril. But apparently, Lucius didn't feel it was worth risking favour with Sedonus over because he dropped it with a huff, snarling at the slave and shoving her away once she had finished pouring the glass. He took a long drink from it and set it back down.

"Fine. Then a contubernium will assist my own men at the bridge, Gaius you will take..."

**

It hadn't gotten much better from there and each subsequent interaction between the two seemed more and more heated than the last- he instead learnt to hate Servius, and Servius learned to hate him. Servius and the Optio Centuriae, Severus, had found many of his officers wanting and little more than mindless yesmen, and said as much to his face. No doubt Lucius had increasingly felt his own authority and prestige infringed by these two upstarts.

Yet Lucius barely threw an inch of fear into him and not for lack of trying. Servius had thought it annoyed him and had contributed to the growing hate the Centurion had of his liaison. Lucius had punished Servius where ever he had been able to, even if it was indirectly by being unreasonably harsh even by his standards on Servius own soldiers. Eventually, he had Three Hundred lashes dealt out for his insubordination... but when they had met Old Sedonus, Lucius had become more amicable to Servius after that encounter; It had been clear when Servius had arrived that Lucius sought the endorsement of Sedonus.

But Sedonus Major was infamously hard to impress, for he had lived a long time and seen many promising officers and legionaries come and go. Indeed, he was so old that he looked like a wraith of sorts, so stretched and leathery was his old skin (indeed, some thought he was part ghoul and slowly changing, rotting away.) Certainly, the man was in his sixties but had the physique of a man half that age, capable of bounding across the battlefield and slicing men up as though he were still in his prime. It gave rise to all kinds of rumours about his real age; there were stories among the slaves that he was one of the Fleshwalkers, powerful ancient Shamans of forgotten tribes with names older than each tribe of the Legion and older than the flames that had rained down from the sky. They said the town of Sedona, that had stood long before the great fires of the apocalypse, was in fact named after him, not he after the town.

To the best of Servius knowledge at least, he was just a man, who had adopted the name of his Centuria. A creepy and somewhat terrifying man, but a man none the less... Yet there was a difference between thinking this rationally, and thinking it while in the presence of Sedonus. His very demeanour seemed poised to set one against the idea, and he seemed very nearly to have a sixth sense and could predict the actions of his enemies with alarming accuracy.

And while Lucius had written off any superstitious explanations almost immediately, Servius never had. Lucius speaking directly to Sedonus spared Servius the remaining lashes. Servius knew not what it was that the two had said, whether it was some personal threat or some threat to his career. He knew only what Sedonus had told him; 'Lucius will be more amenable to your suggestions about our arrangements. You will remain my personal liaison to our good Amicus--and you shall continue to question his decisions where appropriate. Do not fail me, and do not bring shame to my name; You will show Lucius the respect demanded of his position, and you will not interfere with how his men seek to use their spoils. Are we clear, Decanus?'
'As clear as daylight, Centurion!'

Oh, how Servius wished Sedonus hadn't spared him, and almost sank into his seat the moment Sedonus mentioned his actions. Sedonus did nothing to punish Servius for the slight, but the fear of what he was going to? He had been on edge for weeks. Yet the next day Sedonus took three tent groups and went north west, and didn't return until ten days had passed. He had taken Severus tent group with him, and so for that time Servius was effectively left in command of XXV Sedona Major.

Now her, when last he heard she had killed Lucius and escaped. Quite the accomplishment, though blitz attacks are not necessarily the best indicator of ability. Her outburst earlier now made sense to him, clearly she carried the baggage of her past with her - either inherently, or else perhaps something had brought on a hallucination and it brought it back to her. Either way, he had the tact not to speak of it to her; he imagined her time as Lucius' concubine was not exactly something she wished brought to the forefront of her life, and likely the very reason why she had shoved him aside.

He measured up his next phrase for a moment. He did not wish to allow such a slight to slide but at the same time it was hardly fitting of him to cause friction within the group, or to poke an unstable woman and cause her to explode. After all, truthfully perhaps he did hold some responsibility for what had occured to her and it would be hardly right of him to respond to righteous indignation in such a way at a time like this. Hm.

In the end, he settled on something in between; Not conciliatory but amicable enough, while conveying to her that he clearly knew of her origins. He wouldn't press her on anything, he was a walking and talking reminder of the horrors of her past. He understood that clearly, and had no desire to allow it to cause more problems for the unit than was absolutely necessary.

"More than enough room for all of us, Woman of the Marchlands." He grunted as his eyes followed her, filled with curiosity. He watched her as she checked something from in her pocket, while looking over the Brotherhood holotag.

Indeed, now was probably a bad time to let any of them know he carried with him trinkets of their departed. Brotherhood holotags, dogtags... if there was a faction still wandering the wastelands openly, he wagered he had something of theirs in his possession.

He turned his attention towards one of the Brotherhood members who spoke latin to him, catching half of it and smiling.. So they did know some after all! Or at least some of them did, which he certainly wasn't opposed to.

"Salve, Phineas. Ego sum Servius Curius Proculus Vespillo, Centuria XXVI 'Fulminata Infamia', Legio V 'Malo Mori'; Caesar Pia Fidelus." Servius introduced himself back to the strange Cowboy Knight, to whom there was certainly more than he had first thought "It is an honour to meet you, Knight Phineas, I speak your tongue well if that would be more convenient for you. I am fluent in both Latin and English. Your accent and dialect, it is most peculiar. From where do you hail? Your words would speak as though you were a man of the far west, but the accent and the intonation of your voice clearly say otherwise."

Cowboy nights with music from before the great war, things in this city just got stranger and stranger. It was good to hear latin again, for he hadn't heard much spoken properly in a very very long time; the mans pronunciation was wrong, it was as some had taken to calling it 'profligate latin'- but to Servius' ears, so far from home, it was music and carried with it the calling of his home land. That home he still longed for, regardless of the time spent out here on the road heading east. All the motivation in the world couldn't stop him from wanting to hear latin again, to hear a marching song or a whispered story of the burned man. To walk in the pines near Flagstaff as he had as a child. He missed it dearly, he had to admit to himself. He had missed Flagstaff since the day he had been dragged away from it by those two burly legionaries whose grasps felt as unbreakable as steel.

The cowboys music was old, but not quite so old he wagered as the music he had heard on that holotape so long ago. He still carried it in his pack, perhaps he would offer it to their ears soon. But either way, for now he smiled and listen to the song and awaited the strange Cowbow-Knight Phineas' response. He could hardly make sense of some of the lyrics in the song, so detached was it from his experience of the world. Driving? He had seen functioning vehicles very few times in his life, and never had he personally had control of one. The idea was alien to him, he wouldn't even know how to begin using the Motor Wagons! It was as though looking at something from another universe, or from outer space that had fallen to earth and landed in a ditch only to be found by a human. It was completely and utterly alien to his experience.

And then he realised that likewise, the cowboy would not be able to relate to lyrics in any song (well, almost any song. Thanks to the NCR militaries apparent obsession with that damned Big Iron, Johnny Guitar and Jingle Jangle Mars Damn Jingle, Servius knew well enough how to sing those tunes and there seemed a degree of similarity between some of them and this new song about a MOtor Wagon) Servius could know and sing, so distant was their experience from each other in all likelihood. This song was from the old world, a world he would never know for it had destroyed itself in fire and ash. This cowboy? Soon he would know where he was from, but he was one of the brotherhood, men of steel and lasers and technology.

Emil did not have to be in the front of the group to understand that the Khalia and the paladin before her did not meet eye to eye. He knew little what they talked about over the channel and simply kept an eye and ear out to the tell tale signs of an attack. May it be from the beasts and monstrosities that dwelt within this corpse of a city or from the new arrivals. Though rather than escalate further, they opted to head towards their base of operations in the necropolis. Not a moment too soon, the rain had gotten worse and he was unsure if the improvised cover that he held above him could protect him from the rains any longer.

The trip was surprisingly uneventful. No feral ghouls, mutants, nor any manner of abomination dared to ambush the party. The young man couldn't help but keep his guard up and observed the minute details in his surroundings and actively listened for the sounds of footfalls in rain. His eyes kept moving from one ruin to another as the colossal structures of buildings had provided one too many places where death could hide and leap out on a moments notice. Though, mercifully, they arrived to their destination. To the outsider's perspective, the bank that the brotherhood called their base was severely underwhelming. Though in Emil's eyes, the prospect of respite that the bank offered gleamed like gold.

The group had to pass through decontamination procedures to avoid the radiation from killing them while they slept. The manner they were decontaminated was quick but thorough. Though what impressed him the most was the fact that the bank had electricity as well as a number of functioning and comfortable amenities. Upon the group reaching, on what he could assume to be, their sleeping area Emil began removing components and pieces of the radiation suit off his person. He was rather glad that he was finally out of the stuffy suit, but that was his fault. It was a rather unwise decision for him to wear it over his armor but now after hours of walking around uncomfortably, he realized that keeping the armor pieces outside was a far more efficient and comfortable means of donning his armor. Setting his pack, radiation suit , Geiger counter, and the desk box aside a bunk bed; he sat down on the floor beside his things, pulled out his tool roll and began maintaining and cleaning his weapon. It didn't need any maintenance nor cleaning, but the act itself was something that put his mind at ease.

It was then a young man, no older than he was introduced himself to the group. Even so amicable to the point that he had offered them a meal. A slight smile adorns his face as Finn seemed to be rather on the friendlier side of the spectrum. Not wanting to be rude to the knight, he carefully sets his weapon and tools down beside his things and introduces himself to Finn. "Pleasure to meet you, Finn. I'm Emil Sauer." He offers the knight a curt but polite bow.

He then heard their ghoul sniper make a joke or two regarding the situation. "Exciting is an understatement." Emil finishes with a slight chuckle. Finally noticing that something out of place in the room, a man wearing a...dress? His brow furrowed and he saw Monika purposefully bump into the man in the dress and gave him the most venomous death glare he had ever witnessed. Not even the marks he took time killing had given him a death glare so harshly. He turns back to face Finn and excuses himself and heads over to talk to Monika who situated herself to lean against a wall near her things. "One helluva day, huh? " He tries to joke like Marvin did, seeing as she was upset. "How you holding up?" He asks her with genuine concern.

[ The Surface ]

Two years. Two years they'd been away from home. Paladin Maine had dealt with the announcement of their mission the same way he always did: silent stoicism, though lacking Armann's introspective reflection. It was the silence of nothing that needed saying. They were six, then, counting the Grey Wolf, all sharing the distinction of supporting what Lyons stood for. Now only two were left, and even though they coordinated with Finn, the lone scout, there was the general uncertainty of not knowing how long any of them would last.

It was a slow death in the Necropolis. The elements of the post-nuclear hell tore at them, chipping away at their numbers piece-by-piece, but Maine was too stubborn to give in. Alexandria, Tomas, Ruben, Girard; names that repeated themselves over and over in Maine's mind. They were brothers, sisters...comrades. Though he seemed unflappable in his fortitude, it was growing clear that Maine was dealing with the tragedy in his own way. Alexandria's had hit him the hardest. It wasn't a quick, clean death. She was captured, prisoner of a long-lost war, and Maine was prepared to storm the gates of oblivion to rescue her. But cooler heads prevailed, and she was declared MIA, the only soldier they couldn't bury.

Tomas was the latest casualty of the Necropolis: snatched in the air by Gargoyles and dropped to the ground like a heavy stone. Power Armor was designed to absorb most impacts without issue, but from that height and that angle, the poor Scribe was turned to paste inside his own armor. Maine had responded in ritual, collecting the boy's holotags to keep with the others as a small memorial, a reminder.

Maine's unexpressed grief had turned to rage against both the Necropolis and the Brotherhood, itself. For fourteen years, he had served with distinction and loyalty, only to be rewarded with a suicide mission. Though he would not question, he would respond, and he was ready to let the whole Necropolis suffer.

He had made this aspect known, not through word but through action. Maine's response to hostility, whether overt or implied, was impulsive and brutal, even by his standards of violent retribution. He faced opposition with an almost sadistic glee, though he never issued a taunt or a challenge, silently reveling in his own carnage.

Despite the dire circumstances and low odds of survival, Finn remained affable, cheerful even. His verbose tales of home life and childhood occupied the deafening silence that blanketed the Necropolis. For some reason, the Knight had taken a shine to Maine, and seemed to always find an excuse for conversation. Maine's general lack-of-response indulged him, and Finn was rarely left without a topic or other to talk about. Maine did little to silence him; talking seemed to be the younger man's way of coping, and Maine expressed any annoyance with a swift and curt motion, often slapping Finn on the back of the head with enough force to displace his helmet.

Armann turned brooding and contemplative, with each loss within the squadron driving him further and further into himself. He spoke little, aside from issuing commands and tactical observations, which Maine didn't mind. The Grey Wolf's reputation preceded him, and his mindset alone earned Maine's respect. Thus, all it usually took was a single word from the elder Paladin to manage Maine's growing recklessness.

Their patrol that day had proceeded as most others had. The sound of Gargoyles in the distance, away from their usual hunting grounds, had prompted Armann to keep the trio close to the bank; Tomas' death still fresh in their mind. After waiting a few minutes more and detecting no more sound of Gargoyle activity, the ragtag squad of soldiers left the safety of their bunker into the rising torrent of acid rain that regularly plagued the Necropolis.

It was eerily quiet as usual, the sound of their heavy footsteps accompanied by the sizzling hiss of rain being the only detectable sounds in the area. Then there was a crack, a lone gunshot only a few yards ahead that resounded against the unearthly blue force field that emanated from the Necropolis Wall. The trio stopped. With the simple command to "Stay sharp." Armann took point and rounded the corner to reveal a decently-sized group all dressed in hazmat suits, led by two towering figures in Power Armor - Brotherhood.

Within moments, Armann located the shared communication channel and made his presence known aloud. But then, something familiar. Maine noticed it too; blade and spear. Khaliya. She had joined the Brotherhood years before Maine had, though under similar circumstances. Their interactions had been few and far between, though they were most likely aware of the other's reputation. The Swordwind and the Mutant-Slayer.

It was clear, however, that Armann was less-than-pleased to see her. Indeed, their last conversation earned something of infamy, a clash of ideals. Armann was the old, and Khaliya the new. Lyons, Maxson, tradition and progress. It split the Brotherhood straight down the middle, and left Armann and his squad in the warpath.

Maine chose not to react to Khaliya's blunt reply. He was Armann's soldier, he owed no loyalty to the Swordwind aside from sharing a faction. Should it come down to choice, Maine's loyalties remained with the same man who had commanded him for the lat two years. He would, however, respond to the sight of a laser rifle trained on his head. There were no words uttered but a low growl from Maine's throat, filtered through the metallic speakers of his helmet. A shift in stance, a tightening of the shoulders, clenching of fists. Whoever dared point a rifle at his company, Maine issued a wordless challenge to try, to give him cause.

However, the group reached a mutual interest, and Armann decided to let these newcomers join them at the bank. The walk back was slow, Maine and Finn both took flanking positions on either side, while Armann led the pack. There was a new sense of uncertainty in the air: what purpose these men and women came for, what purpose in Swordwind leading them? It wasn't a rescue mission, that much was clear. Maxson had forgotten about them, likely intentionally. It was underhanded, dishonorable, unbecoming of an Elder, a commander. Maine had no interest in the politics of it, but rather the character.

Inside the bunker, each of them walked through the decon unit and gradually stripped their hazmat suits, revealing men and women from several walks of life. These were mercenaries, adventurers, a disorganized team led by Brotherhood. Maine found the whole situation confusing, it made little sense. But, what did anymore?

While Armann, Khaliya, and Finn stepped out of their armor, Maine did not. Since the day he first stepped foot inside, he almost felt more comfortable in his suit than in his own skin. It gave him strength, power, endurance. When muscle, when bone fails, there is always steel. Maine remained silent, opting not to speak to any of the mercenaries. He'd let Finn take up that responsibility - knowing the Knight would be besides himself with joy to finally have new people to speak to.

"Hmpf, Woman of the Marchlands. That's a new one. But at least he knows who I am." Monika thought to her herself as she sat against the wall giving a half smile. But behind that half smile, there was something much worse, a sense of fear. One she hadn't felt in a long time, seeing Legion armour coming out of the hazmat suit had been a horrifying thing to watch, like a Deathclaw clawing its way out of a dark alleyway towards her, only she'd have preferred the Deathclaw. Ever since she had heard his voice her mind had been running rampant with memories long suppressed, but the one that kept coming to the forefront of her mind was the one she remembered him for most.

**

A cool summer breeze rolled its way through the camp. Monika stood in the middle of the command tent staring at the floor with a now all too familiar thousand yard stare. Her focus only coming back when she noticed Lucius Had left the room. "I suggest you do it properly next time, now get back to work." He said in a disgruntled tone from behind the tent flap. A weak and feeble "Ita." was about all Monika could muster. As she wiped the blood from her nose she heard one of the Legionaries address Lucius as he entered the tent.
"Ave, Centurion"
"Salve, miles. Speak."
"I wish to report a disruption within the Castrum, Centurion. One of Sedonus' Decani has been using their authority to deprive those fit Legionarii of their access to the slave women."
"Decanus Servius?"
"Sic, Centurion, it is he. The interferences of this Decanus, that run contrary to your own instruction, have become a significant disruption to the Legionaries of the Century and I thought it best that this be brought to your immediate attention, that the matter be resolved according to your will."
"Gratias Tibi, you were right to bring this to me, he's been a thorn in my side. I shall see to the matter immediately."

And with that, she heard the tent flap open and the heavy Centurion boots stride off down the hill from the tent. As she stood there she couldn't help but crack a small smile at the fact that a Legionary had stopped a slave from being attacked. She had always thought that the one called Servius was different than the rest. When she first met him he seemed friendlier than the others, he even smiled and said thank you to her, which was certainly something new. Though she stayed away as a friendly smile could have hidden something much more sinister. He was the first to decline Lucius' offer of her company for the night and now he'd stopped a slave from being attacked. Her smile was quickly wiped from her face however as when she left the room Vipsanius was still standing there in the entrance way to the tent. She was never sure whether to be "thankful" or not for Lucius being around as he made it abundantly clear many times that he was all that stopped any Legionary in the camp from... trying her out, especially the younger recruits like Vipsanius. She put her head down as she left the tent, doing her best to avoid his gaze but she could feel him watching her the whole way, his eyes never wavering.

The walk from the tent wasn't a long one, but it was long enough for her to watch Lucius tear into Servius. At a glance, it looked like Lucius stood nearly a full foot taller and weighed nearly twice as much as Servius did. She couldn't hear everything that was said, especially when Servius spoke. But when Lucius vented his frustration at him, she and everyone else in the camp heard every word and she most certainly wouldn't want Marius to learn any of them. The argument didn't last long as when Lucius pointed off towards the camp entrance and Servius' face changed to one of shock she guessed Lucius had threatened to put him on a cross. Wouldn't have been the first time Lucius used a cross to threaten those who got on his bad side.

She didn't want to think about what actually happened to him since he never was put on a cross, but she'd seen and experienced some of the other forms of punishment the Legion would dish out, but it still didn't earn him any sympathy points. Whatever happened, Servius certainly kept his head down whenever he was at the camp from then on.

**

Her attention was suddenly garnered when she finally noticed that Emil was standing next to her. "Huh... yeah sorry, a helluva day is one way to describe it." His next question threw her somewhat, she had hoped but never expected anyone from a group of strangers to be tactful with any questions about herself, she had imagined them being a lot blunter than the way Emil was. She certainly didn't like talking about anything beyond four or five years ago, it just hurt too much. But after what she did just and back in the tunnel, more questions were bound to come, and if they thought she was hiding something who knows what might happen. So getting herself in the mood for the sort of things she was going to have to say was probably better than putting on a fake smile and keeping it all in.

She let out a sigh "Honestly Emil, I've been better. I don't want to talk about it much so I'll give you it in brief. Some demons, or rather a demon from years ago has reared its ugly head, and to say I ain't impressed would be an understatement."

Bailey cautiously lowered her weapon as the Paladin and the newcomers spoke, seemingly they were old acquaintances but she remained on edge as the group moved towards a Bunker. She kept her eyes on the sky as the rest entered the Decontamination and quickly followed as the defenses started to activate. She passed through and started to remove the hazmat suit and placed her equipment down against a wall and took a seat on the floor alongside it.

She rested her head against the wall and let out a tired sigh as she thought back on one of her earlier missions...

[2nd December, 2276 - Near Fort Ritchie, Maryland]
[ Scientist Bailey Damian Corporal Wallace Sergeant Prescott ]

She stood and looked out of the Vertibird door as it flew alongside an old Pre-War motorway, the night sky was dark but occasionally lit up by a bolt of lightening bursting down to earth from the clouds as the rainstorm approached Fort Ritchie. Small clusters of fire and electrical light were visible on the horizon and occasionally a few clusters hugged the old motorway each cluster showing the location of a small remnant of humanity.

She looked to her left side at the Scientist sitting on one of the canvas seats working away on her handheld computer, a Bulky thing it lit up the copper colored visor of the Scientists hazmat suit. Bailey had always thought the Scientists portable computers were too cumbersome and unwieldy, it was similiar to the "Pip-boy" series used by Vault-Tec but it was more of a block or slab instead of being wrapped around the wrist.

To Bailey's right was a longtime family friend Damian Brewer, He was a couple years older than her and was one of her older brothers best friends. Standing in the other door of the vertibird was Sergeant Prescott the commander for this mission and Corporal Wallace, a quiet and mild mannered communications specialist.

The troopers looked out of the vertibird with the glowing orange eyes of their X-02 power armor and the shape of their helmets making them look like monsters to anyone able to catch a glimpse of them, the vertibird begins to descend and starts to circle a clearing in a burnt out, dead forest.

The clearing is populated by a mass of grey and green buildings of a utilitarian design, rusting hulks of green vehicles with faded white stars on them scatter the compound, above them flies the tattered remains of the U.S. Flag flying from a battered flag pole that looks as if it is ready to fall over at any minute.

Around the compound the original pre-war fence has been reinforced by wastelanders and would pose a serious challenge to any raider group trying to breach it, the front gate has been smashed open and a super mutant behemoth stomps around. Remains of a battle litter the above ground areas with the bodies of super mutants and wastelander militia left where they fell.

The scientist looks up from their screen...

"Hopefully we've got here in time, the beacon is still active but it's faint. If they're here they must have retreated into the tunnels. If we're going to get our agent out then we need to find them Sergeant!"

Damian and Corporal Wallace man the Vertibird's door mounted guns and start cutting down super mutants in the compound as Bailey and Sergeant Prescott start firing their weapons at the Behemoth. Super mutants shriek and writhe as they're cut down by gunfire and the behemoth begins swatting at the vertibird with it's makeshift club but only succeeds in smashing a couple trucks and killing a few of it's brother supermutants.

After a short while the Behemoth's leg buckles and snaps just below it's knee due to focused small arms fire and it falls to the ground, thrashing around helplessly. The vertibird hovers above the centre of the compound and Bailey, Damian, Prescott and Wallace jump down using their power armor's hydraulic system to land safely.

The four troopers finish off the remaining mutants around the outside of the compound before calling for the vertibird to land near them just infront of the blast door to the underground bunker system. The vertibird swoops in and lands just infront of them kicking up a cloud of wasteland dust as it settles on the ground and shuts down it's engines.

"De Lara, Brewer! You two clear the underground, Me, Wallace will stay with the bird till you give the all clear."

Bailey and Damian glance at each other and nod as they turn to run to the blast doors

"Yes Sergeant!"

The ground shakes under them as they run in their power armor up to the blast doors and pull them open, they're heavily damaged and behind them is a makeshift barrier of crates and furniture where the wastelanders made a desperate last stand. The bodies of the wasteland militia are draped over the barricade and propped up against walls.

The trail of super mutant and human bodies leads off down a corridor with flickering lights, Bailey swallows as she turns on her searchlights causing her armor's orange eyes to glow bright and light up the way ahead. Damian comes up behind her and laughs slightly as he puts on his own lights.

"Scared yet? I remember last time-"

"No. It was ONE time..."

"Awww but we didn't mean anything by it..."

Bailey cautiously moves down the corridor past the pre-war checkpoint and towards the stairwell.

"You left me in the service tunnels with no lights for an hour."

"You were fine!"

"I was ten!"

Bailey takes a step back and uses the weight of her armor to knock the stairwell door off it's hinges.

"And look! You're all grown up now and smashing down your own doors!"

The two of them walk down the stairs stepping over all types of bodies and debris from the battle.

"Shut up... You couldn't even make a cup of coffee until i showed you."

They follow the debris through a maze of tunnels until they come to a office with a window overlooking the former military warehouse. It has been converted into a underground settlement by the wastelanders and now their bodies litter the ground between their market stalls and shacks of this densely populated, slum like settlement.

The two of them jump through the window and come crashing down in the communal "square" of the settlement and mop up a couple super mutants looting the settlement. They can now hear the gentle pulsing of the distress beacon. Bailey looks around and spots a pulsing red light behind a counter of a market stall.

"Here!"

She walks over and looks under the counter and is surprised to see a small child probably about six years old wearing torn and battered pajamas, She has long dirty, brown hair and is clinging to the distress beacon and looks terrified as Bailey peaks under the desk in her power armor with it's glowing eyes and it's "Devil Horns".

"Hey there little one... You wanna come out from there?"

The little girl hides behind the beacon, Damian comes over as Bailey realizes her armor is probably scaring them. She takes off her helmet in the hope of presenting a friendlier face to the terrified child.

"Please tell me there's not a kid under that desk..."

"There is a kid under this desk."

The small child relaxes a little upon seeing Bailey's face, She holds out a small bundle of holotapes with Enclave markings on them.

"Thanks little one... You wanna come with us? We can help look after you till we find your parents ok?"

"Just so you know, I am not up for being this kids surrogate parents with you."

The little girl nods gently and clings to her beacon as Bailey picks her up and holds her in her left arm, The trio work their way back up to the surface and are greeted by jokes as they emerge from the blast doors.

"You were supposed to clear the Bunker Bailey, not start a family in there..."

"You certainly got busy Brewer..."

Bailey carries the little girl who is now clinging to her to the vertibird and sits her on one of the canvas seats inside and puts a seatbelt around her waist, The little girl continues hugging the Beacon. The team mounts up again and the Vertibird starts up and slowly lifts off into the stormy sky as the Scientist takes control of the Holotapes they came for.

[Present Day, Brotherhood Bunker in the Necropolis.]

Bailey snaps out of her memory and resumes observing the motley crew of mercs and brotherhood.

A soft rumble shook the foundations as outside the storm worsened, sheeting rain heard just barely over the din of the generator below and the idle chatter of people settling in. For their group, it was a small reprieve after a rather traumatic entrance into what they had already known to be one of the worst zones on the Eastern Coast. Yet for those three who had made a home of it, this was simply their home, and what happened today was simply another day. She could read it in the lines of his face when Armann glanced back across the empty bunks and the two he had remaining. They were never meant to survive this posting and that they had done so even as shattered as they were was a testament to his leadership, or perhaps the sheer tenacity of each of them.

How it must have weighed upon him to watch as one by one his squad was lost to the city, and only to see more enter willingly in greed or desperation. Khaliya gave him a nod that communicated she was ready for the debrief, gesturing for Jeremiah to remain outside and keep the peace, though it appeared largely unnecessary. Quietly they walked in file towards the vault past several weapon racks and stores of food collected from the nearly untouched ruins beyond. Inside was the squad's impromptu war-room, a large table with a screen in the center to display maps and information to an entire group at once if need be. Armann didn't bother with closing the door, being far enough away from the others that it wasn't needed in order to keep the debrief discreet.

"Alright Khaliya, here's how this is going to work."

Gone was the stoic reservations of before, where there was at least a bond of brotherhood keeping the two amicable enough towards each other. Here in the privacy of the war room, Armann was plain with her, and she was with him. Neither had any love for the other, and the last discussion they had before the Necropolis set the tone quite firmly. Before her across the table was detailed routes that his squad had patrolled through the city, red marks around the Consulate, black closer towards an entire section of the city marked simply as "The Mangle" and other varied indicators noting the varied threats within.

"Considering you're not here on Brotherhood business, and we both know none of those people out there are either, I'm running command on this outfit."

Of course, he was technically the more senior officer and by far more experienced. He had been fighting for the Brotherhood since before she was born and had seen more battles than any human had a right to. That said, she had rank and an attitude already, as her frown indicated. Few things irritated her more than pulling rank, which was why she was loathe to do it herself, but this felt like one of those situations… At least she could have easily done so right there. Yes, she could have shouted him down right then and there, called him out on insubordination and hell, possibly even called his own squad into the room to throw him in a makeshift cell. Brow furrowed in consternation from this unnecessary conflict, she decided to do something he wasn't quite expecting.

"Alright, that's fair."

Just the shrug of her shoulders indicated she wasn't entirely happy about it, but that she was willing to play ball at least a little. Armann's irritated expression softened significantly first by the initial confusion of her relenting, and then by a simple acceptance and shifting into something more professional.

"First things first, I need to know about what kind of people you've brought into my bunker as well as exactly what your mission is. That said, it would be reasonable to expect that you and your people also need a better understanding of the threats within this city.

"We're here as mercenaries of sorts for the Pariah, on route to multiple objectives within the city and to retrieve intelligence on their behalf."

Armann's expression darkened, obviously this was not the first time he had heard the name, nor the first encounter with such a group. She wondered for a moment, thinking to question him further, but hid the smirk as she let the thought drop and would allow things to play out. A glance across her side of the table showed a port for a data cable, typically to link up a pip-boy or a handheld computer. Their scribe must have helped set this up, it showed a fair bit of ingenuity to it that was masked by skilled repairs that weren't quite technical enough to match the original. It would do though, and with a glance over at Armann, she pulled up the sleeve of her uniform jacket covering up her cybernetic arm.

The workings of it had been tinkered with over the years, originally simply a replacement that she had to live with, she felt that a little more utility would do wonders for the recovery process. A cannibalized pip-boy, three feet of cabling and some other items that the scribes went into a fit over once they discovered missing all went together with the original to give her a bit more tactical and strategic flexibility. The cable slid out from a nest of wiring at the core of the forearm, the panel atop it giving a soft glow as she removed the protective cover and woke it up.

"I've got files on most of the group, a bit of recon before joining up with this outfit. Figured it would be useful and just took a bit of investigative work through Brotherhood contacts across the East Coast. First though, tit for tat. We need to know the threats in the immediate area, and are currently en route to the former Soviet Consulate. What can you tell me about it?"

"That it's not going to happen. There's a shitload of ghouls under some asshole named Ivanov controlling the surrounding block and a route to the waterfront."

"Fuck."

Emil winced slightly as the woman told him that a demon from her past had reared its head to the present. The young man understood how hard it is to avoid things from the past. God knows he'd do anything to make the nightmares go away. Though, no matter how hard he prays that one day he would finally stop reliving his personal hell over and over again, God has yet to answer him. Nodding solemnly, Emil replies to Monika. "You have to admit, the past always has impeccable timing. When we finally think its all over; when we believe we can forget it and move on...the past always comes back to remind you that its not and pulls you back in." He attempts to chuckle, but it comes out cold and bitter. Shaking his head side to side gently. "My mentor, bless his kind soul, upon saving me and nursing me back to health after my escape, offered me a way out of this...life. He states while gesturing vaguely to the open air.

"Gave me two options. One, he told me to let go of my past and move on. Live my life in peace. Or two, he takes me under his wing and become his protege. Well, it's kinda obvious what option I chose, Heh." Emil pauses for a moment. "I always wondered what could have been if I had chosen differently. Emil whispers to himself before letting out a sigh. He didn't mean to ramble, but without context, his next statement would have likely fallen short. I don't regret my decision that day, but it changed me for the worse...I'm just trying to say that you shouldn't let the past drag you down and poison you as it did me. If not for your sake, for your family's."

[ The Bunker ]
John could tell right off the bat: he wasn't going to like Finn very much. Exuberance and Southern 'charm' that wouldn't have been out-of-place in some of the holotapes he grew up listening to. As a boy, he loved the old tales of wandering gunslingers scouring the plains, dispensing aid and delivering justice wherever they were needed; especially upon hearing rumor that such cowboys still existed out West in the Mojave Wasteland. But now, it was a forgotten dream - a memory that, instead of reminding John of past joys, simply aggravated the bitterness he felt now.

John had zoned Finn out after only a few words, once more adopting a rigid and unapproachable stance, hands stuffing themselves in coat pockets. Though he found himself briefly contemplating the sudden reveal that Finn could, at least passably speak the strange mercenary's tongue. He had never pinned the Brotherhood as a faction prioritizing linguistics, but he could base his perspective only on his view as a layman. The roving tech-hunters were as enigmatic as they were unsociable, closing themselves off to the rest of the Wasteland. John didn't care much either way: he had no intentions of starting a feud with the Brotherhood, so long as they kept their rifles out of his business, they could collect every fried circuit board on the East Coast.

The tinny sound of music playing through old speakers filled the otherwise tense emptiness of the bunker, though John would argue on whether that was a good thing or not. He couldn't place the date of the song, itself, though that implied he could accurately date anything he heard on the radio. Country never appealed to him, though. He preferred the silky smoothness of jazz, its ailing mood. No better music to drink to. Country was the bleating of a softhearted lover, serenading an old flame with rye whiskey and...a dog, usually. But jazz was dark, mysterious, took him back to the old strip clubs and smoking rooms he had dreamed of in youth. It was a different dream, though: one he clung to rather than resented. Maybe because it was all he had left. Why else would he still wear the damn coat-and-hat?

"To hell with dinner. I'll take a glass." John broke the silence again, clearly dispensing with the pleasantries. If all that awaited him was more music and more hospitality, he'd need at least a buzz going.

Finn didn't drop the smile as he moved towards a small kitchen, giving a tip of the hat to Emil as he greeted him, the pots look clean and more importantly he was using clean water for cooking. "I'm from Vault fifty-five down at the end of the Appalachian mountains, a little place called Carolina creamery. We are a big group of ranchers and traders, even got a method of turning that radioactive milk into pure clean cold milk." He added sighing. "Course, when I was a boy we had a time herding cattle on foot... Course after we started trading with Raceway we started getting parts for these old toys called Giddy-up Buttercups, well we had a bright idea to upsize'em. We traded with the guys out on the Broken Banks for horses as well, so we had a good mix of robots and real horses for herding cattle." He explained as he pushed back and started to cut a cooked piece of Brahmin meat very carefully.

"So after a while, we had a handful of these robots and horses. Used them to heard cattle a hell of a lot easier, had a time getting the servos to work with the speeds we needed." He yawned and then moved on to a Tato, slicing it carefully. "Course I never worked with the Brahmin, mom said I had way with words and a knack for shooting... So I would go out to trade with Pa." He explained stretching as moved to grab a carrot making a vegetable stew for the group's dinner. "Stew's to get us started, I've got mashed Tato's and gravy with Deathclaw steak. Few other tasty treats, fair warning though might not taste something this good for a while afterward!" He hummed softly cutting up more and more food. "Hope that's answers your question Servius."

Of course, Finn's mind began to wander. Thinking back to years passed, in a far more humid land where farmers hung tobacco and cattle rustling was as common as brahmin shit. He remembered when he rode a beautiful chestnut mare, she was named after Paul Revere's horse Brown Beauty was her name, she thundered across the hills like lightning and the crack of Finn's pistols the thunder to follow her as they rushed away from danger when the caravan was attacked. The horse had never been his, the mare had belonged to the caravaners but Finn had loved that mare but he left when he stopped traveling as a caravaner, the stable hands told her she never took to anyone else as she did to him.

She had been the first mount he ever rode, but to this day she was always the one he thought of when he remembered home. He remembered the day he'd gotten his own horse... After he'd found Jessamine with a bullet in her heart and alongside her brother and father. Pulling a cigar from his pocket he lit with the burner from the stove and reached for a tall bottle of Tennessee whiskey laying out a line of shot glasses."Y'all drink up, the trip in here gives ya a mighty thirst for something powerful." He added as poured the shots, going back to making far more food than he usually did.

His mind drifted back to that spring when Jess and her kin were going to make their first cattle drive to sell'em all and get out of the farming business. His face never betrayed the sadness in his heart, on the outside he was as happy as he could be but Maine and Armann were about the only one who knew the truth. Finn hurt and but much like at poker his facade of happiness was how he hid true feelings, only a few could ever see how he felt about the world on the inside.

Some nights he told things he to Maine, who would never answer but simply nod or grunt in reply even rarer still was the moment Maine would give Phineas a pat on the back. All they had here was each other, like brothers they trusted and depended on each other. Cooking was simple work for his hands and his mind drifted back to Carolina, just after he'd turned nineteen. He'd helped out some farmers, the Blossom's, getting them started selling beef in exchange for board and bed, he'd gone to see about a home in the Creamery for the family. It was the week after he'd proposed to Jess, three days after she'd been killed.

It was that day he got his own horse... And Phineas Holiday Cassidy knew he'd never have the future he wanted.

**

Phineas Holiday Cassidy stood in a bar, a glinting pistol on each hip the old bartender hummed he cleaned glasses. "Boy... I know they done you wrong but throwing your life away it's ten of them against you." Finn didn't answer, the clock ticked. Ten minutes to noon he was dressed in black, an ivory handled forty-four on one hip with a ebony handled partner on the other end of the belt.

"It's gotta be done. They will face justice or I'll die trying to see it through, she would have wanted it that way." He added as the bartender reached for the top shelf and pulled down a bottle of whiskey, the old man smiled.

"Well... I ain't got any breakfast left but a few shots of the good whiskey before ya go, son... And good luck to ya, them rustlers deserve. Especially Ezrah... Can't believe he shot his own brother." He left the bottle on the bar and Finn drank down three shots before he heard the sound of boots and spurs, Ambrose brothers he could tell by the stench of brahmin shit. They were the worst of Ezrah Blossom's gang, they had probably come in because they were too stupid to read a clock.

"I got eight minutes fellers, go wait outside and let a man drink his breakfast," Finn spoke his arms on the bar he as he poured another shot and shoved the bottle down to the bartender, who decided to go in the back and check stock.

"Awww what, you yeller Finn?" Grinned the oldest brother. "I mean we killed your boss, your friend, that girl you was all lovey-dovey with... Maybe we ought to wound you and let a big old wild boar eat ya alive!" He and his brother broke into laughter, that died when Finn rose his seat and turned every one of them frozen reaching for a gun.

"You boys are awful jumpy considering you come in here to harass me... Four of you and one of me, Y'all nearly shot me just for standing." He smiled tilting his hat up slowly. "I supposed that all you Ambrose boys yeller." Finn added winking at them before he rolled over the bar ducking behind the counter just before the damn fools reached for the pistols they carried.

"Fuck you Phinea-" The youngest began, as to the horror of the brothers Finn came up from the bar with bartenders shotgun, the coach gun rang out five blasts... And four young men clattered to the ground clutching guns they had barely started to draw. Finn slid once more over the bar drawing his revolvers, they had come for blood and he aimed to spill all of it. Two more were waiting outside rifles in hand, arguing whether they should go inside or check around back.

A bullet ripped from each iron as the two cattle rustlers collapsed clutching at the lever rifles. "Six dead... Odds getting better by the minute." Finn called out, he saw three more standing by horses at the end of the street. Jed and Jeb were brothers up from South Carolina, deserters, he'd heard they didn't have a spine between them. Blythe however, she was scary as she was cutthroat her mother had been a raider to hear her father tell it and she had shot the sheriff here in Boone when he tried to run her in for counterfeiting caps... It's how Finn had found them all.

The female rustler just smiled, brushing her platinum blonde hair back unlike her friends she was clean and dressed like any field working cowgirl. The pistol on her hip was an old model, taking hand-tooled rounds she'd no doubt done herself he'd seen the rounds in the backs of Blossom family. "Mr. Cassidy you come all this way just to see little ole me? I'm touched, truly though... I'd start to think you were sweet on following me all the way up from that nice little dairy you call home."

She smiled like a cat with a mouse between two paws as she stepped forward, Jeb and Jed moved toward the horses, deciding it best to get away before they were gunned down too... Without missing a beat she pulled her pistol and gunned both down, Blythe was the one who had shot her, no doubt in mind about that.

"You got quite the draw..." Finn answered as he moved to stand in the street, watching as she slammed her pistol back in the holster. "You need a count Blythe? I know you ain't letting me take you alive." She smiled what she thought was sweet but to Finn it was a mocking grin of those he lost. The clock ticked, a minute until noon now as the sun hung high above the two clouds moving away, she watched as Finn turned his duster letting her see a Marshall's star on his chest. "I made sure I was doing it the legal way... I prefer to send you to a court, but you ain't gonna give me that chance huh?" He added as her hand twitched closer to that lead belcher on her hip.

"You always was the only man I couldn't charm Finn... If I was riding with you instead of these boys I wouldn't have to do this, too bad you were always cute." She reached for her iron as the clock struck twelve but Finn proved faster the first bullet struck her shoulder and she spun around so the second hit her lungs. Finn was fanning the hammer of the ebony pistol as the third bullet went right between her eyes from the back of her skull, Finn fired the last two rounds in the ebony pistol into a crawling Jeb and Jed who lay bleeding out, it was the only mercy he'd give them.

"Ezrah Blossom!" Yelled Finn as he walked towards the church, he knew the coward had gone inside to wait things out. "I'ma calling you out!" Yelled Phineas as stopped outside the building, inside sat a man who couldn't have been shaking more if the earth was quaking under his spurs. If that Cassidy boy was here it meant all his men were dead, that he'd be facing a man less than half his age, but he was ready. He grabbed his laser rifle and kicked open the church door, taking shots as Phineas ducked his way into cover near one of the shanty metal buildings.

"You ain't gonna get me, Cassidy! I'll kill you like I did your girl, she died cursing your name you know!" He laughed, firing again and again as from his spot on the church steps. "You're a kid playing dress up, can't even afford a proper gun!" He challenged before Finn popped up from cover, five rounds from ivory pistol buried into the laser rifle's plastic frame. He reached for the nine mil pistol on his belt but Finn had rushed him shattering his nose from first punch he landed.

"You son of a bitch! You had your own brother and his kids killed! For what! A shit piece of land, fifty brahmin, and a fistful of caps." He threw Ezrah inside as he ripped the gun from his holster, leveling it at the monster of man. He was just over fifty, grey beard on his face had started to shift the color of his oily black hairs sideburns. He was a skinny man and small of height as well, Finn lifted him up pistol against his back he marched him from the church as the town gathered... The Undertaker was preparing ten coffins as the gallows outside city hall waited, the people were free and they had one piece of scum left to deal with.

Finn marched him to the gallows, letting the executioner take over as he stepped back and pulled from his pocket the wanted poster for Ezrah Blossom. "For kinslaying, murder in the first degree, cattle rustling, and horse theft. The towns of North Carolina sentence you to death Ezrah Blossom, do you have any last words?" Finn added turning to stand in front of Ezrah as they tightened the noose and prepared to pull the lever.

"Yeah, I got some last words... Phineas Holiday Cassidy, you will never be happy again for the rest of your days. I hope they are long, miserable, lonely, and sad. Because you just get everyone around you killed, I curse you with that burden and I'll enjoy watching you suffer it." Ezrah Blossom died laughing in Finn's face.

That night Finn took Blythe's gun... He couldn't keep his twin forty-fours anymore... They were a gift from Jess for his birthday. Instead, he took the caps they had and gave them to the bartender to fix the old player piano and rode out into the night with the guns and gear they had. Finn took the four horses towards the south, and alone in wastes, he began to sob. Crying over Jess, Danny, and Galen who he had avenged but had yet to mourn. Finn had set out to roam when he was sixteen full of wonder and curiosity, now he set out to roam to escape his past.

**

Finn's hand had subconsciously gone to tapping on Smokewagon's handle, once the pistol that had killed his fiance was now one he used to bring down anyone who dare raise a weapon at his loved ones. He finished stirring the stew and nodded. "Come and get it!" He yelled for all to hear as he laid out bowls, starting to spoon up the hot stew. "We got food to go around Y'all best dig in and while ya do I'll grab us another bottle of whiskey!" He added with a soft laugh to reassure those around him after his few moments zoned out, remember the thirty minutes of his life that had defined the last few years.

[ The Bunker ]

Finn had taken to their newfound guests like a Ghoul to radiation. He spoke to them all, perfect strangers, like old friends or distant relatives come down for a visit. In some circles, such hospitality might be seen as a gift; but Maine found it baffling. As it were, these newcomers were not friends, comrades, or associates. They were strangers, likely in pursuit of their own greed more than anything else. Maine sneered at the idea behind his helmet. For all the Brotherhood had done to protect the settlers on the East Coast, to curb the Mutant and Raider threat; mercs and hired guns saw it as an opportunity to exploit citizens for caps. Some of them weren't much better than the Raiders, themselves, just smart enough to know the unwritten law of the Wasteland. Some groups on the East Coast saw eye-to-eye with the Brotherhood-- the old Brotherhood at least. Reilly's Rangers and the Regulators were two, operating under a set of morals, seeing justice done through whatever means necessary. But Talon Company, Littlehorn & Associates, all the rest in-between; Maine lumped them in with any other threat that deserved nothing less than total annihilation.

Talon, in-particular had suffered a tremendous loss after the Brotherhood set its eyes on bringing the firm hand of justice to the Capital Wasteland. They were little more now than a remnant, remembered more in stories told to frightened young children than anything else. Though they were still around, the Brotherhood had sufficiently neutered them - leaving them limping with tail set between their legs. If they tried to snap again, well, it was time to be put down for good.

As such, it was suffice to say that Maine was on-edge seeing the familiar red talon insignia branding a few of the newcomers. The symbol he wore was a sign of pride, of virtue. Regardless of the Brotherhood's current direction, there was a time when the people looked up to the gears and the sword and saw hope, saw justice. But the mark of Talon represented everything the Brotherhood stood against: lawlessness, oppression, countless atrocities.

In truth, part of Maine hoped, however little, that one of them would act out of turn. If they did, he would answer, and leave the mark of his handiwork stained in crimson.

Khaliya and Armann both disappeared from the main quarters into what the squadron had converted into a war-room. It was a jury-rigged set-up at best, hardly the facilities that the trio had been used to back home, but it fulfilled its purpose well enough. When short, half-hour treks into the Necropolis for basic supplies were as dangerous as they were, venturing out without heed was tantamount to suicide.

Then again, so was a bullet to the head. And Ruben's memory came rushing back. The Mangle had shaken them all up, bore witness to the true horrors that the Necropolis held. Girard was standing there one moment, then gone the next. Seeing Power Armor crumple like tinfoil, it affected all of them, highlighted just the danger they had marched into. But none were so affected as Ruben, who ate his gun not long after that; the second set of holotags collected. Maine remained stalwart, the fortification of resolve that the rest of them could lean to. But the fortification had been weathered, beaten against by everything they had seen, fought, won, and lost. By now, he had departed any impression of ever returning home, or at the very least leaving this Godforsaken hellhole. No, now they survived because it was all the resistance they had left. Every day, every hour they drew breath was to spite the Necropolis.

The two commanding officers had left Jeremiah behind to stand watch over the group, though it seemed a redundant gesture at best. Maine was well-aware that between him and Finn, any upset from within the newcomers could be effectively dealt with. Finn through words, and Maine through action.

And apparently, upset was already there. As the new bloods removed their hazmat suits and got settled, brief tensions began showing themselves, particularly between the red-headed woman and another man garbed in strange armor that Maine didn't recognize under any faction or tribe in the Capital Wasteland. It seemed passive-aggressive, mostly, a rough bump on the shoulder signifying hostility. But it doesn't take long for passive-aggressive to simply turn aggressive. Silently recognizing this, Maine adapted his stance to keep an eye on the two of them, on the lookout for any weapons drawn or punches thrown.

Regardless of where any of them came from, or where their allegiances once lied, Maine had to begrudgingly acknowledge that they were all a new squadron now - something Finn would take to much easier than he. But insubordination, disagreement within the ranks was strictly disallowed, and Maine was prepared to bash together whoever's heads needed bashing.

In the meanwhile, Finn was in the bunker's makeshift kitchen preparing food for them all, setting out whiskey and glasses like an expectant housewife. Maine muttered something under-breath about saving that whiskey, an utterance that came out a garbled growl from his helmet.

Before long, dinner was ready to be served, in an event Finn had waited years for. Regardless of his thoughts on the Southern-born Knight, Maine couldn't deny that his cooking beat the food back in the Citadel, and certainly was better than whatever processed "sustenance" came from the MREs. There had to be some reason they kept him around.

Monika gave a half smile at Emil' words, though his words were strained they seemed... genuine like he understood at least in part where she was coming from. Monika knew that dry chuckle all too well, an attempt to lighten the tone of something that brought out the darkest memories one could have. it was clear that these words didn't come easily to him so she thought about putting a comforting hand on Emil's shoulder but hesitated, giving comfort to others was not something she was used to and with how she would react if someone she barely knew did that, she felt it best that she kept her hand down.

Monika chose her next words carefully. She knew Emil was right her family was everything to her now, they were her reason to get up in the morning, her reason to keep going even through her darker moments and they were the reason she was there in Necropolis. Her life had changed so much in two years; she'd gone from a scared and alone woman who was afraid to put faith in anyone for fear of losing everything again, to someone who was far more confident and friendly with those around her, someone who'd come out of her shell so much that she was almost unrecognisable to those who met her two years prior but no matter what she couldn't shake the past no matter how hard she tried. She gave a deep sigh and nodded her head to Emil's words "You're right Emil I shouldn't let it poison them, but whether they like it or not they're intertwined with it now as much as I am. Unfortunately for my son, my past is his past no matter how much I wish it wasn't. There's simply no escaping the reality of who his father was and that's the unavoidable truth."

"And as for my husband." she says bringing her wedding ring up to her mouth and kissing it before giving a little smile. "Whether he quite imagined just how deep my demons lurk, he was tainted with them the moment he fell for me, the fool." she said with a slight dry chuckle. Throughout her little talk with Emil, she noticed the larger BoS member shift positions to watch her and Servius. Obviously, he caught a glimpse of her bumping shoulders with him and for good reason doesn't want anyone starting a fight in his home. Monika had no intention of starting anything with Servius, she planned to make it out of this hell hole alive if possible. Although she wouldn't admit it deep down she wanted to talk to him, he was the only one in those five years who showed her anything in the way of compassion; the friendly smiles, the thank yous, the not treating her like the dirt beneath his feet. Whether it be her own morbid curiosity as to what's happened to the Legion since she fled or just to talk to someone she knew and doesn't want to kill immediately.

Emil was probably the first stranger who understood to an extent what she'd been through, it was a nice change if she was honest with herself. She probably wouldn't open up about anything, but she guessed he would understand not to pry too deep if she ever said anything else to him. She got up from the floor and turned to Emil. "You want any food or maybe just some booze?" she said with a small smile.

Emil nodded in understanding to the woman's words. No matter what she did, it seemed that she could never forget the past...but the fact that she still had her family, her one reason to keep on living, made Emil believe that there was still a chance. A chance that maybe one day she just wakes up in the morning and realizes that she can finally stop. That fact made the young man feel a pang of envy. He didn't have a family to call his own, nobody to go back to. The only thing that drives him to wake up and do what he does, day in day out, is his conditioned need to punish evil; wherever it may be.

The closest thing he had to a family ever since that godforsaken day was Felix, and that wasn't saying much about the man. Distant, cold, and calculating. Those would be the three words to best describe the man. He may have been kind enough to save Emil from death's door and train him everything he knew for absolutely nothing, but it was all a means to an end. Felix knew that he was not a young man anymore and his body was not as strong, agile, and healthy as it used to be. He knew that one day, he would be killed and that would be the end to his personal crusade. Emil was the answer to his predicament, having the potential and will to become someone that can take the mantle, maybe even become greater than he could ever be.

Emil chose to not have a happy ending to his story, Felix made sure he never will.

"After nearly dying twice in the same day, food and some liquor sounds amazing." He replied to her and returned her smile with a smile of his own. The smell of the stew and the sight of the amber liquid was enticing enough, but with the announcement that Finn made that he had more whiskey in stock, the whole meal had improved a hundred times over. Emil then does an overly exaggerated bow and places a hand on his chest and uses one to direct Monika to the general area of the table, as if he was an under-dressed and overly armed concierge, and speaks with an awfully executed french accent. "After you, Madame Weiss. The table and your meal awaits this way..." Emil, unable to keep the ridiculous act any longer, lets out a snort and a short fit of giggles before standing upright again. "Christ above that was silly...none the less, lead the way."

The war table lay before her, holographic buildings raised from the screen in a simulacra of the city beyond. Numerous angry lights blinked across between, above and inside in some places. Two years of survival was right there mapped out before her. It was more than that to her though, and to the people she had brought with her into this hellscape. Information. The one thing that decided the fate of expeditions like this, and what she had right there in her hands now. Armann had provided her with plenty as they agreed. Soviets holding not just the block the Consulate sat upon, but several other key strategic points between there and a listing destroyer at the waterfront. Attrition had worn them from what he posited was a couple thousand before the war to perhaps a couple hundred, but it was still far more than his meager squad could handle on their own, and more than her own group could handle.

Another serious threat presented itself to them in the form of what he had referred to as "Gargoyles". First she had thought it to simply be a winged deathclaw, but it seemed to be so much more than that. The creature appeared to be native to the Necropolis, and specifically the southern regions as Armann and his squad observed during patrols. Rarely did they approach the wall or range this far north at all, but a few roaming packs of feral ghouls had wandered this way and with the sounds of combat they were drawn to fresher prey. Taking shelter inside the bunker would keep them out of their claws for a while, but it was clear they would be a persistent threat.

Farther south and nestled against The Mangle was the more expected of the city. Supermutants, and in their hundreds. Their first few patrols that close to the former high-rise districts had been cautious and wide-ranging as the colonies of the supermutants seemed to spread all around the western flanks of the city. Of course, it was assumed they hunted beyond that region, and Armann had put down a few markers close to the waterfront where it was thought they encountered resistance.

Yet the one singular presence in the city which had seemed to surprise him most of all was the scattering noted by simple black E's across the entire city. Enclave. Not even Maxson was as foolish as to believe the Enclave had truly been defeated, understanding that the remnants after Adam's Air Force Base had likely scattered and regrouped at other bases. Though Armann pointed out what looked to be dozens of patrols at key points, there were few points of confirmed conflict.

"We have somewhat of an understanding." He explained, looking entirely unsatisfied with the mere utterance of the phrase. As he told it, they first encountered the Enclave in the city mere weeks into their mission, and as expected shot first. The very brief contact left those in black down a man, and his squad on the run as reinforcements began to route on them. A few days later they had run into another patrol, and though the air was tense, the commander gave them a clear signal.

"Do not interfere, and we will not fire. We will not pursue."

Since then the squad had given them a wide berth, avoiding where they saw the patrols and marking fortified areas. A warehouse here, former checkpoint there, and it was clear that the Enclave was not only active in the city but engaged in a losing battle to contain and remove threats. Neither of them could really agree on how to look at that, Armann seeing it as a sort of fitting end to their organization that they be stuck in the ruins of this city in a never-ending war. She had disagreed with him, but didn't press the matter. If he couldn't see that the best ally they may have in this hellscape was a former enemy, then she would have to work to convince him at a time when she didn't need his cooperation as well.

"Well, let's see what you have on these people."

At his request she brought up the first of the files. Two names came up on the table as the cityscape disappeared and were replaced with what looked to be long-distance recon photos.

"Monika Weiss and Bailey De Lara, both from the Commonwealth and affiliated with a group known as the Gunners." A lie, and a bold one at that. Jeremiah had enough wits about him to get the hint that there was more to Bailey than she let on, but if Armann knew, then it would merely embolden the men into an action that would remove important skills and firepower from their group. "From what my source was able to gather, the former has been a native of the former Boston area for some years, after fleeing from the West."

"NCR that bad out there?" Armann scoffed, unaware of some of the more recent trends in the region.

"Caesar's Legion, actually. Recent intel from out west has made us aware of a significant raider group that has rallied together under the banner of the bull and scorched hundreds of miles. This Monika managed to escape slavery at their hands and once here on the East coast made a new life for herself. She's noted as being a skilled combatant in mid to close quarters, and a decent enough shot at that."

"Anyone can read off assessments, and merc groups like these 'Gunners' are notorious for puffing out their chests and boasting."

Khaliya shrugged, indifferent to his dismissal as she knew that he cared about as much for the varied mercenaries of the wasteland as he did for her. Which was at last assessment, very little. What he had concerned himself to though, was the character of the individual, so she switched track and shifted to the next page of her files on both women.

"Well, unlike the former Talon Company, this group isn't quite as malicious and has on several occasions actually defended settlements from raiders. They've got their bad seeds for sure, but these two from what information I can gather, are not among them. Neither is particularly trusting, but they've got solid morals and can be relied upon."

At this he nodded, seeming content enough with the first of their group. A few more names, more slides of page after page of tediously crafted information to present as ideal a case as possible to what she knew would be a hard sell. Three of their number who had been raiders before now presented as outcasts from an outfit down to the south. Doctor with severe addictions to med-x and psycho? She told the tale of a man tortured in The Pitt and forced to sew up his tormentors. Each one she wove a sweet lie that had just enough truth to it that just that one glancing look was enough to confirm what she told.

"John Delaware." She presented this member of their group on his own, reams of data pooling around the image at the center. Years of information meticulously gathered and put together to present the profile of a detective seemingly hand-picked for the job. "Also from the Commonwealth like De Lara and Weiss, though he's a little more low-profile. His name isn't quite as out there as Valentine, but not for lack of skill or experience."

Armann stared at the profile before him, hands pressed against the edge of the table as his grey eyes narrowed. There was a lot there, detailed reports of investigations closed, encounters in various settlements, first-hand descriptions and more. In fact, there was an almost absurd amount of detail presented, and as he looked it over Khaliya could see already that he had taken in enough to have an idea of the man. "And your opinion on him? Seems as if you two have worked together before."

"We have, several times." She said without hesitation, hand moving across the screen to present a pair of heavily doctored picts showing herself and the investigator in the field. "As you may have heard, a group calling itself The Institute has long plagued the Commonwealth to the north, and Delaware has a bit of a specialty in dealing with cases involving them. As part of a nominal expedition to the Commonwealth in '83 I was tasked with getting a more… On the ground perspective of the region. My first step was looking into the local myths, major settlements and active factions if any. From my subtle questioning, I was led to John Delaware as an expert of sorts dealing with the mysteries of the Institute."

"He's got the skills to find people and things, no matter where they've gone, so it's no surprise that he was selected for this mission by the Pariah. Don't let the brooding fool you though, I can assure you that the man has morals. John is many things, but he's not a killer." She took a moment to skip through the last few of their group, passing over Prism as they both knew of her quite well, and some other rather familiar faces. At last there was merely the Legionnaire whose presence was undeniable and distinct. Here at least she was thankful that the distance between here and the Legion was great enough that Armann had to rely on what information she had.

"This one, he's from that Caesar's Legion? Why should we allow him to remain in the bunker and not order him to march into the rain without a suit?"

That was an excellent question, and had he not been selected as the others had been, then she would had agreed with him. Yet there was a purpose for him being among the group, just like there was for everyone else and she needed to come up with something and quick. "He was, in all fairness." Khaliya began, scrolling through the files and coming up with the most recent entry. "My informant does say that he's not quite like the others, however. While most of his group tend to be little more than better disciplined raiders, Servius appears to actually believe in the goal of the Legion."

"What? To burn the wasteland and establish a raider's paradise?"

"No, actually. The Legion is ruthless yes, and oftentimes burns entire settlements to the ground to make a point, as well as takes and trades in slaves, but there's a method to them. Life for their people can be argued to be better than that within the NCR or out in the wastes, and they are quite efficient at what they do. At the very least, they don't suffer from the same rampant corruption within the many attempts at revived democracy, and can actually maintain a state. For how long, that can't really be said as it is a cult of sorts centered around their leader, and tends to frown upon the active cultivation of knowledge and a reliance of technology."

"This Servius though, he's got a wit about him that marks him as unique among the group. My informant… She mentioned that she has seen in him a remarkable strength of character, an unwillingness to stoop to the same depravities as the rest of his kind, and a true desire to rise above. Such is why, when Caesar died and the Legion faltered, he went east at her insistence and was to make a better life for himself here on the East Coast."

Silence followed as she ended the display, withdrawing the cable connecting her to the table and letting the holoscape of the city crackle back into place. Icons rotated here and there, a green glow illuminating Armann's face as he thought on all that she had spoken of. At last it was time to end the briefing and a solemn nod communicated as much. Both walked quietly back towards the main room, where she could smell food cooking, a scent that seemed bereft of the innate radiation soaking the city beyond and perhaps even actually filling. Just within sight of the others though, near where Servius and Monika had been about to face off, he stopped.

"How is it that your informant was able to get this far east and convey that information to you, if that group is as much as you say?"

For a moment, Khaliya considered the group before her. While they had been briefing each other and getting up to speed, already they all seemed to be mingling and getting along for the most part. All except the obvious outliers, but even they seemed to be tolerating things at least. It was as she was hoping, a bit of shelter and hot food able to cool the tensions that were innate in a mixed group as theirs, and sure to flare before long. At least with this moment, they could soothe such things before they became an issue.

"He saved her from them, and in return she swore to save him."

---

Remaining quiet as a few others had done, one in particular took a keen interest in the more prominent members of the group. Her eyes settled first on the paladin lurking in the corner who looked as if ready to intervene in case of any altercation that may arise. It could easily be assumed that not only could the man do so easily, but it would not be hard to guess whose side he would be swinging for. As she undressed from the hazmat suit and the red talons across her black combat fatigues were brazenly displayed for all, she saw the tilt of his helm towards her and her singular compatriot left. Most certainly it would not be either of them, bad blood still lingered despite 2279 and their ultimatum. How it would have pleased her on any other day to stick one of her knives between the joints of his armor and watch as he bled to death inside, but there was a mission of critical importance.

That mission even now was in danger, not just by the threats beyond the walls of the bunker, but by the ones who had been called to participate. The demolitions expert, one of her own, very nearly got himself and the entire group killed before they even stepped foot on the streets of the city, and the paladin with them had a mission of his own to end a war that had been decided for almost a decade. Speaking of which, there was a woman nearby who caught her attention. Sitting apart from the rest, purposefully so even, was Bailey. "Shit." Her first thought as she caught the looks she was giving the rest of the group, especially the Brotherhood. One of them was giving a rather deadly stare in return, Jeremiah. He was going to be an issue before long, and she much preferred that it was dealt with as diplomatically as possible. That would be a discussion with their team-leaders, but for now she had to do what she swore not to before things got out of hand.

Prism steadily made her way over to where Bailey sat on the floor, dropping her hazmat suit to her side opposite the woman and kneeling down with her rucksack. While her hands moved as if to strip her pistol and clean, her eyes focused forward at the brick and her lips barely moved.

"Ares 4-1-H."

Before Bailey could react to her codename spoken aloud, even under her breath in a whisper, a hand slipped from the slide of the pistol before her in a clear sign not to. All around them the others seemed too engrossed in the smell and sound of cooking, perhaps the first hot meal in a long time for many, and from what she could see at least it seemed to be a damn fine one. There were those who were too good at what they did to risk it though, of particular the detective, the legionnaire and the paladins.

"P-6-T. A proper greeting can wait, you need to sheathe your talons. In five you will be requested to suit up and take watch above. Accept the request, I will brief you in thirty on the roof. Once we have the package, P-4-E will make contact and relay orders from Titan. Until then, we are under protocol Falling Leaves, so do play nice and stop thinking what I know you're thinking."

And without another word or even a glance at her, Prism stood and headed over to where Finn and the others had gathered, her bag still on the floor.

[ The Bunker ]

"Something powerful." John would hold Finn to those words as he stiffly moved towards the makeshift kitchen, aching in his joints with each step. An aching that spoke of brawls gone poorly, a few too-high falls, and an old bullet wound here or there. God, he was getting old. John couldn't help but smirk to himself, the thought of being old by 39. As a boy, he would have found the thought preposterous. The whole world was ahead of him, and there were plenty of stories told of old men with white beards and wrinkled faces. But that was a time before. Out here, survival had to be earned, reclaimed for one's self. It was rare to find an old face outside the Pre-War Ghouls, and even then, those that weren't dead or gone feral were about as rare as any old human.

Picking up one of the shot glasses with almost-eager fingers, John brought the glass to his lips and threw his head back in a motion clearly backed by years of repetitious experience. His face twitched reflexively as his parched throat felt the immediate burn of alcohol; the sensation prompting the detective to let out a heavy exhale through dry lips. Immediately, his body felt a jolt of energy, the pain in his bones fading like a distant memory. Placing the glass down, John cracked his neck, hitting just that right spot that everyone hopes for in such an act.

"Not bad, Cowboy." John bid aloud to Finn, mentally resisting the urge to take another shot. It's a funny thing, alcohol. John knew full-well that the drink was killing him, but he was too far gone to dream of living without it. No one wanted to live in the world straight, not the way it was now. The Raiders had their chems; mercs had their booze; even some of the old Ghouls relied on fonder memories to just get through the day. John wondered how old Marvin was, whether he followed the similar motions. Perhaps the whole thing was life's biggest irony - that the thing killing them was the only thing holding them together. If there was a God, He had to be laughing at that.

John had hoped that the smell of food would bring him some modicum of pleasure, though he'd not smelled food that good in awhile. Even Diamond City's famous noodle stand had to contend with the stink of waste and decay in the Wasteland air, tainting every bite. But no, still his mind was discontent, though the others seemed to find a place for themselves to relax, if only for a moment.

Out of the corner of his vision, he spotted the Talon leader kneel down besides Bailey. Something...yes, something caught his eye. Though he couldn't make out anything that was said, it seemed off. Not a general conversation, no. There was a focus in her stance that defied that. John didn't make a sound, simply stood still, eyes locked on the two until Prism rose from her place, moving towards where Finn stood. John's gaze followed, unfaltering, a sternness in his expression hinting at slight scrutiny, but nothing more than that.

Over the years, he'd survived too much to truly feel terror as it once was. Now it was all the same: adrenaline keeping him alive. The Institute kept him on a tight leash, let him see the outside but fencing it off to him. To wander, but never truly be a part. Somedays, he just wish X3 had put a bullet in him and spared him the trouble. Least he would have died with clear conscience. Some stab at Heaven, maybe. Faith came in short supply in the Wasteland, most were too focused on staying alive in the present to worry about what came after. John examined the concept like he did everything else: necessary skepticism. Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn't. If God existed, He'd turned His head at His own creation. John didn't blame any God for the Great War; Humanity blew itself up, they had to own responsibility for that. But if something greater, something more truly came after, well...what better time than the Apocalypse?

But the thinking made John cynical, ill. Hopefully there was enough drink around to forget. Or to at least pretend to.

Bailey listens as prism speaks and nods slightly as prism stands up again, It was time for things to get serious. She gingerly climbed to her feet and walked over to the group so as not to stand out too much as she ran through what she'd just been told in her head and doing her best to remember all of it.

The enormity of the callsigns used tells her whats at stake and how important this seemingly unimportant recon expedition had become, It had attracted the attention of some high profile people and she would be screwed if she failed. She keeps an eye on the time as she watches the gaggle of people around the kitchen area and leans against a wall. She runs through the potential goals of this operation in her head, Poseidon Energy's Regional HQ seems like an obvious target but thats deep in the City and would be a tough nut to crack even with the Pre-War access that the Enclave has and even if they managed to get there she doubted the brotherhood would just let the Enclave take what they wanted without a fight.

She wonders if the Boss himself will appear and how the brotherhood would react to seeing him still alive, It's been a long time but she doubts they would forget him.

She continues keeping a watchful eye on Prism for any more signs or information but doesn't make it obvious she's watching.

Servius gave a small nod as he watched Finn work, listening to his explanation of his origins carefully.
" That does explain the Linguistical similarities." Servius said, then smirked as Finn mentioned deathclaws steak "We tried cooking deathclaw once... It did not go well, I hope yours fairs better."

Finn seemed to be slightly zoned out however, as though he was lost in his own thought while the food was being prepared. Servius watched him with curiosity until eventually the man let out a little laugh and started doling out the food, pouring them glasses of whiskey and offering it to them

"Ah, I can not drink the whiskey. Such drinks are forbidden by Caesar, to consume them is a sacrilege in the eyes of Mars. Someone else may consume that... Chem." Servius said as he glanced at the glasses Finn had poured. Forbidden for good reason if one was to ask him; He felt slightly ill at ease with the idea of relying on comrades who had consumed a depressive chem. Especially if this was common behaviour for some of them; It would severely weaken the unit, and in a place as dangerous as this that was troublesome indeed.

The liqour itself had a significance to the dissolute that was almost sacrosanct in nature, he had earned. He had heard of their traditions of 'drowning ones sorrows', where those who had endured hardship or misfortune would drink to forget and numb their pain. These men and women drank themselves into a stupor, slowly poisoning and destroying themselves to avoid facing the hard truths of their existence. Human weakness and the avoidance of responsibility, expressed through a culture of drugs and numbing that in the long term served as nothing more than a slow and drawn out self destruction. Suicide by bottle. Truly such a solace could only prevent one from truly facing their problems and dealing with the root cause of their suffering.

It did no better for his confidence when he saw the cigar. What was it with dissolute and profligate sand a diehard commitment to their own slow and painful self destruction? Did they not see it? Or were they trapped by a alck of willpower?

He managed to stop himself from grimacing when John said he'd skip dinner and take the drink. From what he understood of 'alcohol', that only made matters worse. And again too from the perspective of efficiency. You never knew when you were going to be able to eat again or whether you'd be wrapped up in battle and stuck on watch, it was better to take what you could when it came your way. He'd learnt that one the hard way when once he had skipped breakfast in Caliente to focus on drilling some recruits. An hour later, the NCR surrounded the camp and started taking pot shots at them. They had them hunkered down for the better part of the day, the two sides trading fire back and forth to little effect before the Legion finally drove the NCR back in the middle of the night. There'd been few casualties on both sides... But his stomach was definitely one of them.

As Finn offered them the food and told them to dig in, Servius took his bowl and examined the stew in it for a moment, peering at the contents. Then he lowered himself down to sit, holding the food in his lap and setting his canteen of water down next to him.

"Mars, qui genus colis alisque hominem, per quem vivimus vitalem aevom, atque ego tibi ante alios deos gratias ago atque habeo summas. Ne invisas habeas neve idcirco nobis vitio, minus quod bene esse lautum tu arbitrare. Purga haec cibus impuritates, modo simile plumbo mutando ad aurum. Ita est." Servius prayed quietly with a slightly bowed head. When he finished, he began to eat from it carefully; It tasted good, better than most of the meals he had eaten in his life. The threat of something 'not as good' didn't seem quite so intimidating when the food was good.

"You cook well. Did you learn this back in this Carolina? It sounds like you had a good situation back in your homeland... Yet you're here with the Brotherhood in a place literally called the city of the dead. Why did you leave? It would sound as though you had a purpose with these Brahmin ranchers, what drew you away from it?" Servius asked between mouthfuls of soup. It was a curious question to him, one did not abandon their livelihoods for nothing. A sense of duty perhaps? That was in part what had brought him here after all, and perhaps the most easy answer for anyone to give. It allowed as well some level of obfuscation for any personal reasons - though ironically he had to practice the inverse.

Servius pondered the bizzare situation he found himself in,not for the first time. He was over two thousand miles from where he was born, judging from the road signs along the way. It had taken him a little less than 3 weeks of travelling (Had he not lost the bicycle to a grenade in Missouri, he would have made it in less than two. Fortunately, he still made it on time. He would need to find a faster way of getting home than walking, there had been only tribals in Pennsylvannia and he doubted he'd find much useful out of them for that purpose... Though this Virginia, while a little out of the way, apparently had prosperous people. They, surely, could sell him a bicycle or mount. Perhaps even something motorised, though he wasn't sure how he could raise the funds for that. Perhaps he'd find something valuable here in the city he could barter with, or else make some kind of agreement while there. Finn had mentioned robotic horses? He imagined those would be costly, but would be well suited to travelling the long distance in a short time provided it was I'm decent enough condition.). He was far, far from home and from Amicii of the Legion. And this city was about as cheerful as a graveyard and as dangerous as a Deathclaws den. In fact, it practically was one big deathclaw den. HIC SVNT LEONES.

Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed Prism say something to Bailey before she approached. The comment didn't seem to show much effect on her at any rate, so he dismissed it as inconsequential. Emil and Monika were speaking too, and from the body language it seemed it was heavy hearted. He could understand why, Monika was clearly not enthralled by the presence of a Legion Centurion, and one she knew at that. She'd made that much plain with the barging.

And then the Brotherhood had looked their way, between the two of them. Yes, a fear of disruption or incohesion within the ranks. Understandable as a fear, it had been creeping onto his own mind since the very moment he had joined the group, let alone when he realised the competing interests and the history between himself and Monika... There was clearly going to be a great deal of tension and hardship on the road ahead. Servius didn't intend to add anything to it through starting a fight with Monika. Curiosity as to her life since the Legion was resting lightly on his mind, and on another it was good to see *something* that reminded him of the east - even if it was not a particularly good memory. It was a strange thing, home sickness.

Was home sickness the right word? That would imply he had a permenantly home. He never had. Even Flagstaff was little mroe than memories from his earliest years. But the Legion was itself a sort of home, wasn't it? A family? All its territory was his home, not a single town or city or building as seemed to sit on the minds of others. Perhaps it was rather... Isolation, that troubled him. He had felt the Spirit of the Bull flowing through him and following him ever since he had stepped out from the borders he still felt the eyes of Mars and Caesar upon him, judging him and exhorting him to greater deeds. He knew better than to question their existence, all he had seen and experienced in his life led him to the conclusion that the supernatural was very real and very tangible, and that counter for both the good and bad parts of it... But the lack of contact with a fellow flesh and blood legionary, with someone who understood him and their creed, took its toll on his mind all the same, despite the presence of the gods.

But homesickness, isolation... All it was pointless semantics and philosophy either way. It didn't matter what words described what he felt towards his home, only that he felt it, and the sooner his job here was done the sooner he could return to the lands of the Bull. And to complete the mission here was to ensure that things when smoothly, that he and Monika did not end up trying to murder each other, that the group did not drink themselves onto a stupor and become useless, that group cohesion - or rather what little there was - could be maintained.

Yet he struggled with the internal dilemma. These people were his unit, and so they were now his Contubernium. Yet they were not Legionaries. A few of them had the combat skills, but others did not. The discipline wasn't the same, evidentally. So he wasn't sure what to make of them, in what ways they could truly be relied in before they - or their will - broke. Perhaps it was well that Khaliya seemed to have become the groups de facto leader for that purpose.

Servius would do his part to ensure that he fit the role well and avoid causing any conflict between himself and the other. Following orders, at least, he could do easily.

After all, that was what Legionaries were for. Honestas, Industria, Prudentia, Firmitas, Pietas.

Finn nodded to John. "Plenty more and better, that's my brew so it ain't exactly oak cask aged." He spoke to the older man as he laid out a few more bottles of whiskey to be spread around. He had a feeling the group could put away quite a bit of his stockpile, that was good Maine had started to complain his stash would overtake the armory soon if they didn't drink some of it up.

Finn focused on cooking, but an eye rested on the others he knew how to watch them and look busy he noticed an exchange between Baily and Prism but he decided not to say anything. Wasn't his place and knowing mercs it could be a fight about getting paid or dealing with BoS Maxson had been dragging them down from the once lofty heights the Brotherhood aspired too. "Y'all best get over here! I finished potatoes and I'ma start on the steak, how you like it cooked rare, medium, burnt?" He hummed a moment, using it was a way again focus attention towards him.

"Servius, Deathclaw steak is all about the one you kill. Male Deathclaw's are wanderers, smaller, and very little good meat on them mostly around the stomach. Females are a bit better, slightly more fat... Still not very good, the mother Deathclaw's though!" Finn gave a proud laugh as seasoned the pan adding herbs and oil. "They have lots of good cuts, they are more sedimentary taking care of the young and such, eating a lot more as well makes them marle nicely. These steaks are from a group of 'claws that got cleared out by another group of mercs. We watched the fight, scavenged ammo, and then Maine had me mark the bodies for cuts and he got to chopping."

Finn chuckled for a bit. "After Maine cut'em I sliced all the best cuts out and we dumped the bodies and spare meat near the harbor." He rolled his neck as he moved to the fridge and retrieved something it took hours for him to make and which he was very stingy with, butter. "As for cooking steaks... Best recipes use a mixture of rad-away in the oil. You combine that with a bit of spice from the garden and then you douse each steak with butter." He grinned looking at the former Legionary.

"As for how I ended up here..." Finn grew quiet for a moment, the same question had come around a few times and Finn never gave the same answer twice. BoS had found himself useful and his knowledge of machines, clean food prep, and most importantly skill had gotten him the offer to train, they knew Finn had been part of several local disputes and lost people. They also knew he had once been much worse about his drinking, now he merely drank with meals and light between, he kept it where no one in the Brotherhood complained.

Originally Finn was only sober when he couldn't afford the booze and was working on getting more, Finn was in a good mood so today's lie would only be half-truths. "Lost what made me happy... Without it, saw no reason to live where I did, I couldn't be happy. Figured I'd go somewhere and try to make sure other people could be happy." He left out the murderous revenge, the years of blackout drinking, the self-loathing, and other attempts to find peace.

Then, that song started the music played from his pipboy and Finn turned away, eyes focused on the pan. As the music played, anyone with ears could hear Finn was the male singer... Then a female voice joined in. Finn tilted his hat to cover his eyes, as they watered slightly. But the smile never moved, Finn fought the tears his voice never betraying his hidden sadness.

"So how you all want those steaks?" Only a few with great powers of deduction as well as Maine the ever observant and knowing the Knight well would know this was a song he had brought with him from his old home. One he sang with a woman he never spoke of and ignored the existence of if you dared ask her name, Finn just wished it hadn't played... Hearing Jess sing so sweetly in that melancholy love song made him want to be home, just to make sure his grave lay next to hers outside next to the little garden beside the church.

Phineas didn't feel like talking much once the song began to play but he didn't dare turn it off... He loved that voice to much to ever do that.

Emil took a seat in the kitchen and heard the comment regarding the knight's home made liquor. Curious as to how good was the booze was, he takes a shot glass and gives the the amber colored liquor a quick once over. The clearness of the liquid alone was proof that the brotherhood knight was well versed in distilling his own hooch, not to mention the smell didn't irritate his nose. Though its real worth to Emil had yet to be proven and there was one, sure fire, way of finding out. Raising the small glass to the hat wearing man. "Cheers, Finn. Thanks for the drink." And with that, the young man downed the home made booze in one go. The feeling of the alcohol's warmness filled his being and goddamn did it burn. It was beyond his expectations to say the least. Most times he heard some wastelanders making moonshine and go bind or be poisoned by their own product. But this, this was something else. Not only did it have more the kick than Emil needed, it also didn't taste like turpentine filtered through a sock full of rusty nails. His eyes watered slightly and he sputtered out words through small coughing fits. "Its *Cough* really good, Finn, but *Cough. Cough* Goddamn..." The man then lets his coughing to stop before speaking again.

Emil overhears the statement made by Servius. 'Forbidden by Caesar and Mars?' The young man thought before he looked to Servius and his eyes slightly widened in realization. It finally made sense why he was wearing a dress and why he sometimes spoke in Latin. Hell, why Monika was so aggressive towards him. He was one of those Legion goons he had heard of back in NCR. From what stories he had heard of back west, they were nothing but a bunch of no-good sadistic immoral slaving bastards who worshiped a prideful and cruel psychopath as a god. A sharp eye could notice that Emil's grip on the glass grown tighter and his gaze upon him grew dark and cold. Though, only for a moment, as he quickly looked back to his empty shot glass and acted as if he didn't know any better. He now knew that the man was one of the Legion. He now just needed to confirm if he was still up to his old ways. See if he still was a man who hurt innocent folk with no remorse all these years after Caesar and the Legion had fallen...or perhaps he had reformed and turned a new leaf in life, while keeping the quirks and behaviors? Only time and observation will tell.

"Rare, please." Emil replied to Finn, before taking a mouthful of the soup. It brought him a wide smile on his face. After a month of eating only whatever he could have hunted, scavenged, or what little the caravan had offered while they traversed the country; this was the first time he had a genuinely good meal. "That's a really good way to negate all that nasty radiation in food, but radaway is a something I don't come by too often and usually have to make for myself, so I tend to mix the food with some glowing fungus or ones you find in caves and cook 'em for a while and boom. Non-irradiated food that you can actually taste and enjoy. That or, you mix meat from those mutant mutts the super mutants sometimes bring and, for whatever reason, it actually helps deal with radiation." The man takes in more of the soup.

"But I digress...on the topic of deathclaws, have any of you ever fought with one? And I don't mean shooting it from afar till it dies, I mean like how your friend Maine does it. Face to face and toe to toe with 'em if I'm understanding it correctly." He gestures to the cook and continues his story. "Not sure about any of you but I have...well kind of. Back west, when I was clearing out one of the hideouts of some bandits. Their leader had apparently kept a deathclaw as a pet and when he heard that that their hideout was being attacked, he released it to face me." Emil sniggers into his knuckle. "And the first thing it does is tear the dumb-ass apart. Now the bandits had to deal both me and a deathclaw in the hideout and soon enough it was just me and the big bastard. It made me nearly piss myself when I saw it in the hall covered in blood and riddled with dozens of bullet holes. I bolted away from the thing, and believe me, I was running faster that light itself and even then I could still feel its breath on the back of my head. Now that building where the bandits decided to set up camp was shitty by itself, but with me and a two thousand pound genetically modified killing machine running around, it wasn't a surprise that the floor caved in to the basement. The luckiest and probably shittiest part of it was that I fell on top of the thing and got my arm stuck in between its spines growing on its back with only my knife. It was like I was riding the biggest, meanest, and deadliest brahmin in all of history. Took me a half hour, six broken bones, four torn muscles, and over two dozen stabs before I finally killed the thing. Afterwards I had to walk a mile and a half to reach the hospital in town. Had to stay a week in the ICU just to get patched up and recover from the ordeal." Emil finishes the story before taking another shot of the burning liquor and proceeding to finish the soup.

Servius gave a small nod as Finn imparted culinary knowledge about the selection go deathclaw steaks. There certainly wasn't a lack of death claws in this city, that was for sure.

"I am not sure how I'd want it done, I'll defer to your greater culinary knowledge and take whatever you recommend." Servius replied, trying to pass off his complete lack of knowledge in a somewhat less embarrassing light. The legion had a fairly one size fits all approach to the way everything was cooked and it hadn't exactly prepared him to even name the different ways it could be cooked.

He turned his attention to Emil as the westerner began to relate a story about a deathclaw.

" A fair kill. Raiders and bandits are not the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed, I wouldn't be surprised if he had been off his head with psycho and jet when he decided to release the deathclaws. ." Servius said, after listening to Emil. What kind of idiot kept a deathclaws as a pet, let alone thought he could control it? Raiders really were beyond belief at times.

So, he wanted to knwo if any of them had fought deathclaws up close...

"I fought several deathclaws in my time, but the only one I have fought in such close proximity was near Caliente. It was a bright day, typical for the area. The town certainly lived up to its name, it couldn't have felt any hotter if it were aflame.." Servius began, reaching for his canteen and taking a long swig. Just thinking about Caliente was reminding him of the sweltering heat and the beating harsh sun.

"I had taken half a Contubernium westwards towards the town on a patrol of our border. Our frumentarii had reported the NCR had moved in and seized control of the town by force, and so we had to be cautious, but little would have made us suspect the presence of a deathclaw." Seized control by force indeed, they'd practically kicked down the doors and shot anyone who disagreed with them. It had been a NCR backed coup against the towns elected government. What a surprise, only pro democracy until it didn't suit them anymore. For a time they were able to gloss over it with propaganda, and had recruited and conscripted a vast number of townsfolk into a militia... But after a while the propaganda began to fall apart, it was clear the NCR didn't have control of the situation and that the Legion weren't going to role over. So Caliente descended into a brothers war with their own, and even more with the NCR. Captain Jay, as it turned out, was able to make people hate the NCR more than the legion. The Legion had turned it to their advantage, of course.

"We stopped short to take cover upon a cliff face, frustrated by what we saw below. An NCR forward position - or what they intended to be a forward base. Two troopers and... Five 'conscripts' I suppose would be the word.. Local towns folk the NCR had pulled into acting as militia. Old men, young farm girls and boys. Not soldiers, and it showed. Their equipment was derisory; Surplus helmets, varmint rifles and nine millimetre pistols. None of them had body armour, a few didn't even have fatigues. The NCR may as well have shot them for us.." Servius shook his head lightly as he fought back to it. He remembered an old man and his grand daughters having been amongst the foes in the militia at one point. Or, rather had heard about it first hand. The Legion had easily killed the old man and one of his kin, and captured the other Granddaughter alive. He had been surprised by what the girl thought of the Legion, she had been convinced they didn't even know how to use guns and were backwards savages whose only hope was to drown the enemy in bodies.
He recalled a young man with only a baseball bat... Brave but hopeless, all the same. He should have been born a legionary, he would have gone far.

No, fighting the militia wasn't war, it was slaughter, even more so than with the usual conscripts. At least they were usually able bodies young men who were given rifles and a modicum of training in how to fire then. More meatshields for the rangers to hide behind and hog the glory when it was done he supposed. It had made sense from a strategic perspective, perhaps. The more men on the battlefield had certainly allowed the NCR to get more done while reducing casualties to their actual soldiers (which, as he understood, had become a major problem for the NCR who were losing countless men each year) but ultimately their combat effectiveness was so low that the Legion had tended to steam roll them. Capturing them was one of the worse conundrums of his legion life. They couldn't release them, they had to keep their brutality and show little mercy and pity to these profligates or else the impact of their presence on enemy morale would have been lessened... But knowing that they'd been forced into it and lied to, and left so hopelessly for dead... It had weighed heavily on his conscience to consign them similar fates to the NCR soldiers, and he could tell it weighed on the Centurion Aurelius as well, however little he showed it. He and the Centurion tended to make their deaths quicker where they could, or else send them into slavery or other such decisions. Apollo hadn't cared, of course, he was the same monster to them as he was with everyone. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding what he felt, it was sometimes difficult to tell. The mask was never meant to slip.

"It seemed too easy, I didn't trust it, so I had us watch and wait for a bit. Sure enough, before long I caught sight of a glint in a distant rock. I brought up my binoculars to look upon it, and thought I saw the movement of a ranger but I could not be certain. A trap.."

"We decided we would return to the fortress and inform the Centurion, collect more men and decimate the forward base. I left a scout to explore the surrounding area, make sure there were no traps waiting for us and to see if it was indeed a ranger, as the rest of us headed back towards the Fort.."

"We had to cross a stretch of no man's land to get there. It was usually fairly safe so close to our borders, Los Coyotes and various Raiders kept away for fear of being captured by us. But we kept our guard up and it was just as well we did, for our came a deathclaws from its den, a deathclaw that had killed Mars knows how many men. ." He paused for a moment as he thought back to it. The Deathclaw must have moved in while he and the men had been out, because they had passed that cave in the way there without any disturbance. Unless it had been out hunting elsewhere at the time.

"When the deathclaws saw my Contubernium, you should have heard it roar. It was a roar which made the bushes shake, hound did tremble and man did quake, it rose up high upon the peak, it would have made a ranger weep.."

"But there was no time for fear or doubt as it leapt down upon us, a shadow of death cast in the blazing light of the sun. We brought out weapons to bear, but before I could fire it was upon me and swung fiercely for me, claws that could rend apart metal walls poised to rip out my heart. I leapt back as quick as I could, barely avoiding the slash of its claw. I brought my rifle to firing position, but then immediately case it aside; I recalled how close we were to the NCRs position and I called out to my men not to fire upon it. ." Servius grimaced at the memory. It had been a difficult call and made in the moment, but it was necessary. The legionaries would have been very vulnerable while fighting the deathclaw, and the NCR were only a couple hundred meters away over the hill and rocks. It was far enough that they wouldn't come hunting a deathclaws roar, but close enough that they would for gunfire.

"So now we had little choice but to fight the beast in melee, for the firing our weapons would undoubtedly alert the NCR to our presence. Whether they would find us, or the scout, who could say, but I was not wanting either outcome. We would strike when we were ready.."

"But that left us dealing with a behemoth of flesh and bone with little more than our blades. Sure enough, as we learnt quickly as we danced with the devil, the deathclaws had a plague hide that could the sharpest of our steels abide. No sword would enter through its skin, which vexed my legionaries and made it grin... or at least, that is how it felt when it looked upon us with its vile fangs. It slashed at me and I dodged and parried, and it seemed to focus in on my to my shock and anger... I suppose due to my height it thought I was the most vulnerable. I lead it on merry chase, ducking and rolling under blows, knocking away its class with the hilt of my blade and occasionally managing to penetrate its scales, though never deep enough to kill it. Marcus and Gaius also threw themselves at it, but they too couldn't cut deep enough."

"And so we changed our tactics; It was at this moment that Marcus threw his spear into the deathclaw; bounced hopelessly of the monsters head, but it drew its attention to him. He quickly retreated backward and it bounded towards him... And I bounded after it.." And it hadn't been a moment too soon, Servius had been tiring of the long dance with the Deathclaw. He had strained his arm fighting back against its powerful blows and twisted his ankle rolling out of the way of a bite, he didn't think he would have made it much longer. For all the endurance and will of a legionary, a mortal body had its limits.

"I leapt upon its back like a possessed tribal, seizing our opportunity to bring about the beasts demise. As I climbed its back, it ceased its chasing of my compatriot and reached around to try and grab at me. But all its efforts would be in vain, for as in choler it did burn, I fetched the deathclaw a great turn, as a roaring it did cry, I thrust my sword into its eye.."

"I drive the blade in as deep as I could, through soft eye and the tough sinew behind it, I worked the blade in deep as the beast flung itself around, trying to buck me. Marcus and Gaius seized the moment and threw themselves into the fray, that we might be victorious that day. "Ad Victoriam", they cried, and that chorus the deathclaw died.."

"For I forced the blade in far enough, that the beasts cries fell short and it collapsed, the blade had pierced into its skull, and cut into the brain itself. We kept stabbing it as it fell, piercing eye and hide and throat, making sure it was dead as it flailed into the ground, death rattles ringing out.." He gave something of a proud grin as he thought back to it. They hadn't lost a single of their number, which had impressed the Centurion greatly. Perhaps it was sheer dumb lucklre than anything, but he preferred to think of it as skill and teamwork. After all, it had been about coordination and baiting the deathclaw so that it was exposed - he had a feeling that if Marcus was not there, he'd be a very dead legionary.

"We dragged its carcass away to the fortress, thst we might use its claws for weapons, its hide and its meat. Once there, we told the Centurion what we had seen at the forward base, and when the scout returned he confirmed to us that the NCR had tried to set up trap using two rangers on a nearby cliff face. These sort of baited traps became one of the NCRs favourite tactics - and so it became our favourite tactic to subvert them. The fools waited a long time, which was good for us because it gave us a long time to set up. We fell upon the NCR later that day, a Contubernium sneaking around a long distance on their bellies to ambush the Rangers from the side while another Contubernium hit the forward post... But that battle is a different story, one without deathclaws. Suffice it to say, my blade had tasted much blood by the fall of night, man and beast alike had shed its lifeblood.."

Servius finished his tale and immediately took another mouthful of stew, downing it with water. It had been quite a long story, he realised, not at all concise. But he thought he had told it well enough, emphasis and more floral prose where appropriate.