POV of Todd
Gaius, Gaius, Gaius… that boy sure knew how to climb the ranks in the Legion. But the best part about knowin' the man who's gonna run things? Bein' his friend. Or, well, his partner—which ain't all that different, really.
The kid's sharp. Real sharp. It was just a matter of time before he crushed all them old bastards that stood in his way. He did it slow, smooth, without makin' a damn scene. Centralized everything. And me? I ain't no fool. Soon as the order came down sayin' I had to hand over control of the Texas Arms Association, I knew I didn't have a choice.
The Legion already had us by the balls.
They didn't need an army. All they had to do was cut our water, shut down the grid for a week or two… boom. That whole little house of cards we built in the name of "regional autonomy" comes tumblin' down like a paper windmill.
But no. The bastard wasn't dumb. He sweetened the deal. Gave me some room. Offered me perks. So I called in the donors, the shareholders, the old fellas still clingin' to the republic, and with a big ol' grin I told 'em: best we sell our shares to Gaius. We dissolved the association as an autonomous entity, and in return, they set up a Legionary governorship. Just like in Mexicanorum.
And y'know what? Nothin' changed.
I'm still in charge. I got a couple Legion boys sittin' in the office givin' advice and askin' for reports, but they don't touch the factory. They don't mess with my contracts. What I lost in political freedom, I gained back tenfold in profit. And at the end of the day, that's what matters. The bottom line.
The government structure? Almost exactly the same. Only difference now is the paperwork's stamped with a big ol' bull.
And in the meantime, the Legion just keeps on growin'.
Two-front expansion. Weapons sell faster than fried bread at a county fair. More troops, more campaigns, more contracts. Every centuria on the move means another supply order. Every new governor needs rifles, tools, armor, hell, even toilet paper. And I sell it all. From 5mm rounds to precision rifles still marked with the old Association seal—even if the name's different now.
There's just one little problem. Tiny. Barely worth mentionin'—if it didn't piss me off so damn much.
The eastern expansion? It's stalled out completely.
And right when it looked like they were finally gonna push into Texas. We had the Texas Brotherhood bleedin' out, and the last remnants of the old mutant army diggin' trenches with their damn fingernails. It was the perfect moment. The gates of gold wide open.
I had plans, dammit. Already talked to engineers, surveyors, contractors. I knew where the mines were. Knew which military bases could be turned into factories. Which towns could produce, store, train. I had the map drawn. Dallas, San Antonio, Houston… all of it. Opportunities everywhere.
All I needed was someone to say: "Go."
But nothin' happened. Nothin'. Everything just froze.
I'm the governor of this region, and I didn't even have a scrap of intel on the centurion who was supposed to lead the push. Quiet type. One of those fellas who don't blink. Didn't talk to no one, didn't send reports, didn't ask for shit. And that's weird. When someone don't ask for nothin'... they're either dead, or hidin' somethin'.
Meanwhile, Lanius's Legion—hell, that machine that eats whole regions—was just sittin' in Oklahoma. Right next door to Texas. Engines off. Not movin'. A sleepin' beast, and I got my hands tied.
And Caesar? He was off burnin' tribes and purgin' Canaanites up in Utah like it was a goddamn religious revival. Didn't answer messages. No orders. And the worst part? Gaius—he didn't say a word. That kid's always in everything. But now? Nothin'. Dead silence.
Now, I ain't the kind of man to sit on my ass watchin' opportunity pass me by. Not with all that gold waitin' just across the damn line.
So I made a decision.
I headed straight to New Rome.
I couldn't just sit back while the biggest profits I've ever seen in my goddamn life sat there unclaimed. If they weren't gonna make a move, I would.
I traveled by vehicle. Not 'cause I like it. Legion trains ain't for folks like me. They're for haulin' tons of steel to the front—materials, ammo, processed wheat, clean water, mutated cattle. All of it movin' to key points on the map.
So I rolled out in my own damn convoy. Armored, climate-controlled, sealed up tight, with a seat that gives me a back massage every thirty minutes. I don't leave my office often, but if I'm gonna travel, I do it right.
And lemme tell you—one thing I ain't afraid to admit: the Legion's infrastructure?
It's a damn miracle.
kilometers and kilometers of clean road. Smooth asphalt. No cracks, no potholes. Solar-powered light posts, regular patrols. No raiders. No ambushed caravans. No craters. That, my friends, was Caesar's greatest achievement. And they kept it up. Hell, they made it better. Every meter of that road would make an NCR engineer cry tears of joy.
The problem came when night fell.
We hadn't planned fuel right, and we missed the main crossing. The bridge linkin' New Mexicanorum to the Arizona side of the domain was farther than I figured, so we had to find a place to camp out for the night. I sure as hell wasn't gonna sleep inside the vehicle with two guards snorin' beside me.
So we went with the only thing we could find…
One of them little towns the Legion's been building up for a while.
Weren't nothin' fancy. Maybe five hundred folks, maybe less. But it was clear this place wasn't some half-assed ruin patched up with scrap. Nah. It was new. Real new. Clean. Built with purpose.
Had that distinct Legion style—houses all in neat little rows, white adobe walls braced with reinforced concrete. Low roofs, narrow windows, everything laid out like it was drawn up by an architect with a ruler and a goddamn compass. Too well-made for anything pre-War. Too organized for anybody else.
It was, plain and simple, a farm town.
We passed through irrigation ditches, all straight as a bullet, fed by raised tanks and managed by proper valve systems. Livestock too cows, some pinky animals, chickens. The fields were sectioned off like a chessboard.
And the workers? Slaves.
Hundreds of 'em. All ages. Collars around their necks, rough work clothes. Some harvestin' crops, others runnin' the pumps, a few tendin' livestock. Legion overseers walked among 'em with whips on one hip and tablets on the other.
One of my boys got out first, told 'em we were peaceful, just needed a place to stay. They didn't waste time rollin' out the red carpet.
A small group of men came out to greet us. Veterans, for sure—scarred up, limpin', one with a glass eye that caught the light like a gold coin. And they weren't alone.
Behind 'em? A whole mess of kids, maybe twenty or thirty. All done up in miniature Caesar's Legion gear. Same colors, same style, just built for runnin' around. Looked like a football team.
And them kids… hell, you'd think I was Caesar himself the way they stared. Big eyes, backs straight, chests puffed out. A couple of 'em looked like they were tryin' not to salute too early.
The lead man stepped up. Dark skin, tall, short hair, voice like steel on stone.
"Ave, true to Caesar, Governor Todd. Blessed is the hand of Lord Caesar to grant us the presence of one of his instruments of will. How may this humble servant of the Son of the God of War serve you?"
I paused for a second—ain't outta respect. Just had to stop myself from chucklin'. Guy was more fanatical than a church lady on Easter Sunday. But I liked him. Had that discipline. Knew how to respect rank.
So I tugged on my belt, stepped down from the truck with my boots shinin', and gave him my best Texan grin.
"Ave, true to Caesar. Just need a dry roof for the night, partner. Somethin' clean, and if it ain't askin' too much—no damn mutant scorpions in the corners. We're headin' to New Rome come mornin'. But I appreciate the welcome."
He bowed slightly, fist to chest. The kids all copied him like clockwork.
"There is no greater honor than hosting you under my roof, Governor. Please—this way. My home is yours."
I gave a polite nod. Nothin' dramatic. Don't care much for long greetings or bowin'. Waved for my guards to ease up, then followed the man down a well-packed dirt path.
As we moved in deeper, the place came alive. From the road, all you saw were fields and a few plain buildings—but inside? Bustlin'.
Kids ran around in those little Legion uniforms. Kickin' balls, doin' drills, even arguin' over who'd get to play Lanius next match. Loud as hell, but not wild. Just full of that kind of energy only kids with full stomachs and strict discipline ever have.
I spotted a small facility processin' the crops. Canned food, seemed like. Not huge, but clearly workin'. A tailor's shop churnin' out basic uniforms. And near a big ol' wooden barn, some guys were fixin' tools—hoes, generators, all kinds of gear.
We reached the biggest house in town. No surprise—that man was the head here.
Most of the folks who'd come out peeled off quiet. Soon it was just me and the big man. He led me in like he'd done it a hundred times.
Inside, he brought me straight to the main table. And when I say "table," I don't mean some dinky little dining set. This was long, solid, polished like it came outta some presidential lodge. Sat me right at the head, no questions asked.
Then, like clockwork, slaves showed up.
Moved like shadows—setting plates, pouring drinks, laying out steaming dishes. Smelled like spices, meat, and somethin' rich I couldn't quite place.
Then came three women. Not slaves. Their robes were fine, hair clean and tied with ribbons, walkin' proud but quiet. Followin' them came a dozen well-kept kids. Dressed right. Looked healthy. Clean.
Finally, the host returned. Smilin' like he'd been waitin' his whole life to host a governor from Texas.
I only recognized a few things on the table. Beef—no doubt. Gaius sold me hundreds of heads for my burger joints back home. I knew that taste. Juicy, heavy. There were some sausages—I didn't ask. And some kind of soft, creamy thing.
I picked up the linen napkin and laid it across my lap.
"Appreciate the hospitality… Mister…?" I asked, lettin' the name trail off polite-like.
"Secundus. Lord Caesar gave me that name himself, after I slew four profligates in single combat… nearly twenty years ago." He said it with the same proud grin he'd had since the start. Like tellin' a favorite old story.
I met his gaze while slicin' into the beef.
"Well now, Secundus… looks like life's treatin' you just fine," I said, real smooth, real slow, as I raised a thick piece to my mouth and took the first damn fine bite.