POV of Judah Krieger
Training Gaius' officers was... surprisingly easy at first.
Not physically — most of them were already as tough as the rusted steel of the old world — but strategically. It was just a matter of refining tactics, sharpening movements, correcting how they read the flow of battle and managed open-field deployments. The foundation was already there: brutal, organized, functional, and methodical.
Gaius had an eye for talent. That much was obvious.
All of his officers, without exception, shared the same traits: efficiency, obedience, and the ability to apply violence with surgical precision. They weren't just savages with banners. They were leaders in the making — some already seasoned. Gaius didn't choose them for blind loyalty — though that helped — but for their potential to be lethal and effective.
But Gaius was just one man. One man taking on the monumental task of reforming the Legion into something greater. Something lasting. A true power capable, one day, of reclaiming the lost legacy of the American Empire.
That's why we were all doing our part. Because even if he never said it out loud, we knew the truth. We saw it in his decisions, in his rejection of useless superstition, and in his rational use of technology.
We were helping our future President.
And yet, every direction he turned, another front opened up. A new fire. A new crisis demanding his attention. And now, his focus was on something vital: centralizing the empire of this so-called Caesar. An ancient structure, held together by charisma and tribal alliances, that had to be rewritten from the ground up if it was going to last.
While he tried to oversee the construction of his new capital, he was also managing this tribal nation's economy, coordinating war production, re-educating entire populations, and balancing power among factions constantly testing him.
If one thing was certain, it was this: the pressure on that young man was immense. He bore a weight heavier than any power armor.
And still, he kept walking.
When we received our new mission, Gaius made it clear he wanted to change how the Legion trained its soldiers. Up to that point, children and youths had been raised under tribal practices — brutal rites that functioned more as endurance trials than actual education. That had to end. He needed complete soldiers, not just durable bodies.
He sent us to Flagstaff, to the Field of Mars, to start from scratch with the next generation. Thousands were expected. Sons of allied families, integrated tribes — boys between six and thirteen. Some couldn't read, others couldn't even hold a spear. We were to turn them into something useful.
I had no reason to object. Gaius wasn't Caesar. He thought long-term. And if he believed we could help, then we would.
None of the others resisted either, except Henry — still buried in his lab, running experiments with Legion resources. He was fighting his own war. We respected that. We always had.
So the four of us went. Four veterans marching into the old heart of the Legion.
Orion was thrilled. As long as the kids learned how to destroy, he was content. Rituals didn't interest him — nor theory. Only that the next generation of Legionnaires knew how to burn an NCR flag.
Daisy was given Caesar's mark, granting her unrestricted movement throughout Legion territory. She was promised a Vertibird powered by cold fusion — that was enough. Flying and teaching others to do the same was all she needed to stay focused.
Johnson… Johnson came because I did. He didn't say much. But he understood what this meant. Training these children was his way of making sure Navarro never happened again. Maybe even avenging it — in his own way.
We were escorted by the Praetorian Guard — Caesar's personal elite. Though now, they served Gaius directly. And if anyone thought that made them softer, they were gravely mistaken.
They were bastards hard as stone — the kind who only spoke to give orders or break jaws. Purple-dyed mohawks, ritual scars across their arms, unblinking eyes. They were tall, strong, and walked like nothing could touch them. No pomp. . Just presence. The feeling that if one of them wanted to, they could tear your heart out with one hand.
I've seen many soldiers in my life. I've trained full squads. I've seen men bigger than brahmin die from a single mistake. And even so, those Praetorians… they were the toughest men I've ever seen. only Frank Horrigan and his squad surpasses them.
And that's saying something.
They didn't speak to us. They just marched
As if the mission Gaius gave them — getting us to Flagstaff safely — was sacred.
The journey was short. We only had to cross Hoover Dam, board a train, and we were there in less than a day.
Flagstaff was the old heart of the Legion — and it showed the moment we stepped off the train. Massive concrete and stone buildings marked the landscape. Many of them old, reinforced with new structures — as if the past had been wrapped in a present trying not to collapse on itself. Caesar's old palace still stood, though now it seemed more symbolic than practical.
But what dominated everything was the Field of Mars.
It wasn't as Gaius had once described it. It had been expanded. Modernized.
The original training grounds now stretched far beyond their old limits. New barracks, storage depots, watchtowers, firing ranges, obstacle courses, and massive open spaces for formations had all been built to house the thousands of recruits arriving weekly from every corner of Legion territory.
We saw it immediately.
Tens of thousands of bodies training in unison. The rhythm was constant, almost mechanical. Each day brought new recruits: boys born in integrated tribes, selected slaves with endurance, and others sent as tribute from recently annexed regions. And every day, full columns of Legionnaires departed for active fronts, already hardened by weeks of relentless instruction.
There were thousands — doing push-ups, pull-ups, running through the avenues of the complex. They trained with machetes, bows, spears. Others lined up before moving targets, practicing with automatic rifles. The efficiency of the system was undeniable, but so were its limitations.
They were still being trained to fight wars that no longer existed.
The doctrine clung to outdated traditions — methods that, against a modern, well-equipped enemy, would collapse.
That's when we understood — without anyone needing to say it — why Gaius had sent us.
Our reception at the complex was… strange.
The head trainer of the Field of Mars greeted us with marked respect, almost reverence. He spoke with ceremony in his voice, clearly honored by our presence, as if we had stepped out of some legend still whispered around Legion campfires. As we walked through the grounds, trainees and even officers watched us in silence — steady stares filled with admiration.
At first, we didn't understand why.
Later, once we were settled in, it became clear: they mistook us for the "Silverheads" — the name the Legion gave to veterans who had served under Caesar for twenty years. Men who had seen him rise, fought in his first campaigns, survived the very birth of the Legion.
To them, we were those men.
They believed we had marched beside Caesar when he was just a tribal leader, that we had crossed rivers with him, crushed enemy tribes, and returned to train the new generation. In their eyes, we were living links to the very foundation of their world.
The Legion reveres its elders. In an army where death comes young, growing old is an achievement — living proof of strength, skill, and will. It doesn't matter if your hair is gray or your bones ache when you rise.
That's how they looked at us.
And for the first time in a long while, I saw pride in Orion and Johnson. They tried to hide it, in their own way, but it was obvious. The atmosphere, the respectful silence, the sound of marching feet over hardened dirt… it gave them something war and time had taken away.
But that's not why we were there.
We got to work immediately. We observed the training closely — studied the structure, identified what worked… and what needed to be erased.
The motivation of the recruits was beyond doubt.
I'd say it bordered on fanaticism. Generations born into the Legion, raised with Caesar's name as if it were the only one that mattered. They knew nothing else. No films, no games, not even a beer at the end of the day.
Their lives followed one path: to serve and die for Caesar.
In a society without television, drugs, alcohol, or entertainment as we once knew it, only one thing filled the void: brutal training. Day after day. Scorching sun. Barked orders. Tense bodies. Sweat was their only pleasure. Pain, their path to growth.
Their spirit was undeniable.
You could see their tribal upbringing in every movement. On the training fields and in formation exercises, the recruits showed an intuitive grasp of terrain use, stealth, and coordination without needing constant orders.
From a hilltop, archers harassed targets with precision, their arrows arcing perfectly toward simulated defenses. Meanwhile, rifle-wielding units advanced slowly, flanking instructors clad in power armor who stood in as heavily armed enemies.
When the rifles ran dry, there was no hesitation. They tossed their empty weapons aside, drew machetes, and charged. At the same time — as if rehearsed a hundred times — hidden forces rose from the flanks and descended on the enemy from every angle.
The tactics were sound in principle: constant pressure, terrain advantage, attrition, and encirclement.
The problem was in the execution.
That kind of maneuver, against a modern enemy with automatic fire and aerial support, would result in catastrophic losses. The disregard for orderly retreat, the wasteful use of ammunition, the insistence on close-quarters combat even when unnecessary… all signs of a mindset still rooted in tribal warfare.
We got to work quickly.
I focused on tactics, decision-making, and field analysis. I handpicked a group of recruits with potential and trained them personally to become future decanii and centurions — a new command chain, one that understood more than "advance and conquer."
Orion was in his element.
He took over infantry instruction, teaching them to become the anvil of any battle line. He taught control, discipline, ammunition conservation, and precision. For Orion, the goal wasn't just to kill — it was to endure, to outlast, and to strike back with force.
Johnson picked out the sharpest eyes, the steadiest hands, the calmest breaths. He took them to a secluded range and began molding them. Day by day, he turned them into snipers — silent, deadly, patient. Soon, we had trainees rivaling — or at least approaching — the skill of NCR rangers, even some Enclave sharpshooters.
Daisy, as always, worked at her own pace.
She chose those with the steadiest nerves under pressure, those who didn't panic, those with solid coordination. She set them aside and taught them everything she knew about Vertibird flight — evasive maneuvers, basic maintenance. To others, they were just recruits. To Daisy, they were future war pilots.
Everything was going well… until the easterners arrived.
A massive group of slaves was brought to Flagstaff — captured in days by Lanius, the other Legate. According to reports, four major tribes had been conquered in just three days. Thousands of captives, thousands of potential soldiers. We had no choice: they were folded into the training system immediately.
Soon after, more recruits came in from Two Suns — the city recently integrated after Gaius' negotiations. They were different. More disciplined. Some already knew how to handle modern weapons; others had technical knowledge. These weren't savages — they were the product of a functional allied civilization.
Then came the rumors.
Many of our trained recruits were being deployed northeast. The reason was clear: Gaius' forces were fighting the Navajo tribe. Negotiations for centralization had failed. The Navajo refused to surrender their power structures or offer their children as tribute.
Reports from the northeastern front described the tribe being surrounded, attacked from all sides with methodical, crushing precision. They were isolated, under constant pressure, day and night.
And still… they resisted far longer than we expected.
The Navajo pathfinders and skinwalkers — scouts and trackers — were already legendary within the Legion. Known for moving unseen, striking with lethal precision, vanishing into the desert's shadow. Now, they fought in their homeland — mountains, canyons, forests they knew like the backs of their hands.
It was asymmetric warfare.
Ambushes. Traps. Night raids. Legionnaire corpses found mutilated. Equipment vanished. Convoys torched without a trace.
But Gaius' war machine did not stop.
Thousands of soldiers in power armor. Nearly twenty Vertibirds flying in formation. Over a hundred restored tanks. Thousands of artillery pieces configured for prolonged bombardment. The Legion wasn't looking for a swift victory. It wanted total annihilation.
And, in time, it achieved it.
One by one, the resistance enclaves fell. Terrain familiarity became a trap once the sky began to rain fire. Mountains were leveled. Hidden trails sealed by fire and steel. The land that once protected them became their grave.
The Legion defeated the Navajo.
Soon after came their children.
Many were young — captured during combat, or born of those who surrendered or were absorbed. Some arrived with empty stares. Others with quiet fury.
Our work continued.
Training never stopped. Flagstaff did not sleep.
The forge kept burning, and every week, hundreds of boys emerged stronger, sharper, ready to kill.
The sons of the conquered.
The sons of the allies.
The sons of the Legion.
And there we were — four veterans shaping the generation that would set the NCR ablaze.