POV third person
The smoking ruins of Vault City smoldered beneath the sunset. Corpses and rubble littered the streets. Under a dust-choked, blood-red sky, Lanius—the Legate of Caesar's Legion—stood tall, blood-streaked power armor gleaming dully, his iron war mask hiding any sign of expression. At his sides, two Praetorian supermutants held their miniguns with tense anticipation, never taking their eyes off the lone intruder.
Before them, The Chosen One stood firm, raising one hand in a gesture of peace as he addressed the Legate.
"Legate ! This has gone far enough. Vault City has fallen; your forces have taken it. There's no need for further bloodshed," he called out, his voice steady but strained.
"Careful, Legate! That bastard's the one who killed Frank Horrigan!" growled one of the supermutants, rage flaring in his voice.
Lanius raised a hand, silencing his guards.
"Enough… I know. Few in the Wastes could have brought Horrigan down. Perhaps you've earned the right to speak before you join him in death. Speak," Lanius said, his gaze locked behind the steel of his mask.
"I've not come to challenge you or shed more blood, Legate. I've come to reason. Vault City is yours. Your victory is undeniable. But if you keep advancing, all you'll find is more death—on both sides. There's no need to sacrifice more of your men, or to massacre more innocents. You still have time to pull back… and spare them."
The Chosen One's tone was diplomatic, but the urgency was clear.
Lanius scoffed.
"Pull back? You speak like a typical westerner—soft and sentimental. Caesar taught us that mercy is weakness, that glory is forged through relentless conquest, not clemency. Yes, Vault City has fallen… but the West has yet to kneel. And you think I'll retreat now, on the cusp of total victory? No, insect. The slaughter has only just begun."
"You're wrong, Lanius," The Chosen One shot back, voice firm. "Every step westward weakens your grip on the east. The farther you stretch, the more vulnerable your rear becomes. Lands you thought pacified will rise again once you've marched past them. How many more Legionaries are you willing to lose trying to suppress revolts and hold cities that will never accept your chains? Even now, your Legion bleeds just to hold Vault City. Keep going, and all you'll find are ashes—yours and theirs."
Lanius's voice was cold and confident.
"Revolts? The tribes of the East said the same… until I razed their camps and mounted their chiefs on pikes. I leave no roots behind to grow into revenge. Those who survive conquest learn obedience—or die. Twenty-nine tribes fell before me. The dominion of Lord Caesar does not crumble for a handful of cowards in hiding. Fear holds the weak in check. They see my mask, they remember what happens to rebels… and they kneel. That fear is the chain that binds Vault City—and all who follow. If some of my men die, they die with honor, feeding the legend of the Legion. The people of this decaying Wasteland cannot comprehend the purity of our cause."
The Chosen One's expression hardened.
"You call defenseless civilians weak? Vault City wasn't a fortress. It was a city—families trying to live behind their walls in peace. And you massacred them without mercy. You speak of honor and order, but all I see is tyranny and cruelty. You reduced this place to ashes just to leave your mark. Is this the 'glory' of the Legion? Crucifying children? Enslaving survivors? If you call that virtue, then you're worse than any monster I've faced. And believe me… I've faced monsters."
Lanius gave a slow, rumbling chuckle beneath the mask.
"A high compliment, coming from a killer of monsters. But it seems your time is up, old man. The days of your legend are over. You're nothing now but a skull waiting to be crushed. I would have preferred to strike you down when you were still the warrior who felled Frank Horrigan… but now you're just a stone in the path toward rebuilding the Wastes in the image of the Legion." He raised his sword.
The Chosen One's voice sharpened.
"I don't want more violence… but I will stop you if I must. Horrigan also thought himself invincible. You know how that ended. This is your last chance, Lanius—withdraw your forces, or I'll be forced to—"
"The time for talk is over. Time to die, profligate," one of the supermutants growled, then roared.
The first shot came from a turbo plasma rifle—hitting squarely in the chest of one of the Praetorians. A perfect shot. Years ago, it would have melted bone. Now, it only scorched the front plating of the mutant's armor.
The hulking colossus—almost a living echo of Frank Horrigan—didn't even flinch.
He turned, raising his minigun, and unleashed a storm of fire. Bullets shredded the ground, annihilating the ruins of Vault City's last barricade. The Chosen One dove to the side, lobbing a fragmentation grenade more from reflex than hope. The blast staggered the mutant—but he kept coming.
The Chosen One breathed hard. He wasn't the man he once was—but his mind was still sharp. He switched to his old .223 pistol—the same one he'd buried in Horrigan's skull on the oil rig years ago. Taking cover behind a scorched console, he aimed with calm precision—and fired.
The shot slammed into the visor of one Praetorian. The armor cracked slightly. A metallic pop. A groan. The giant stepped back half a pace.
Not enough.
Another mutant flanked him. The Chosen One turned, firing twice more. The first shot blew out an optical sensor; the second splintered the shoulder plating. Still, the brute did not fall. He roared.
His response: a short burst from the minigun. The Chosen One's reinforced tribal armor absorbed most of it—but the impact threw him hard against a crumbling wall.
He rose again.
Blood in his mouth, coughing dust and teeth, The Chosen One gripped his plasma rifle once more. Two shots. One struck a joint between armor plates. The mutant dropped to his knees, partially paralyzed.
"I'm not finished…" he muttered.
And then Lanius arrived.
Slow, deliberate steps. His double-edged sword rested across his shoulder. His power armor—custom-built to fit his monstrous form—moved with quiet menace. The tribal war mask, integrated into his life-support system, gave no hint of expression. His presence alone silenced the battlefield. Even the Praetorians stepped aside.
The Chosen One didn't hesitate...He fired.
Three plasma blasts. One scorched Lanius's shoulder. Another missed. The third left a charred mark on the armor—but nothing more.
Lanius raised his sword."You carried the glory of the old world. Now, you bear its punishment."
The Chosen One moved in. He had no other choice. He tried to flank. Fired his last .223 round—it struck the neck joint of Lanius's armor, causing a slight jolt.
But nothing else.
The Butcher of Caesar answered with a horizontal slash...The rifle was knocked from The Chosen One's hands. Then the sword came down.
He fell to his knees.Bleeding.Breathing hard.
Lanius stopped. He looked down at the aging warrior—once a symbol of resistance, now an exhausted shadow.An honorable enemy.
And with one final, crushing blow, he ended it.
Silence fell.Only the low hum of fire consuming Vault City remained.
"There will be no stone left upon stone from the world you knew," Lanius said without emotion, staring at the lifeless body of The Chosen One, now lying amid the scorched rubble.
One of the massive Praetorian colossi activated his communicator.
"This is Horrigan XV. We have the body… the killer of Frank Horrigan. Repeat, target neutralized. Requesting instructions."
A moment of static. Then a low voice replied from the other end.
"Is he alive?"
"Negative. No vital signs. Subject carried plasma weaponry, likely Enclave-grade. Our unit sustained minor structural damage."
Another pause. Then the voice responded with calculated coldness:
"Pity. He was more valuable alive. Extract the blood. Preserve the tissue. Handle the genitals with care—we need to confirm whether his genetic profile is viable for the Centurion Program."
"Understood." The mutant cut the channel.
Without a hint of reverence, the colossus lifted The Chosen One's body like a discarded piece of meat and began walking toward the rear lines, where Legion war medics and geneticists awaited—ready to dissect, analyze, and extract whatever they could from the final hero of a dead world.
Vault City burned.
The city was being ruthlessly stripped bare. Its once-clean streets were now corridors of smoke, flame, and ash. Survivors were dragged from shelters—chained by the neck or executed outright if they couldn't stand. The Legion's slavers worked with mechanical efficiency, seizing everything useful: medical equipment, intact servers, research terminals—any technology that could be salvaged or replicated.
Every control room, every lab, every command post was dismantled piece by piece. Technocratic knowledge was packed up and sent south in armed convoys, guarded by elite troops. Anything that could serve the new order was preserved.
Everything else was reduced to rubble.
The population was brutalized. Some citizens were branded as "captives" and forced to assist in dismantling their own city. Those who tried to flee were gunned down. Medical personnel were separated, interrogated, and put to work saving Legion lives. Strong children were pulled aside for indoctrination—as the next generation of Legion cohorts. Vault City had become a harvest field for flesh, knowledge, and dominance.
Lanius remained detached from the administrative work. His task was done. He had destroyed the enemy, shattered their pride, and reduced their bastion to ash. The corpse of the warrior who once stood against the Enclave was secured. His blood would be tested. His body dissected. If he proved genetically useful, he would be used.
If not, he would hang from the walls of New Rome as a trophy.
Lanius was already thinking ahead.
An open map lay on a makeshift table. It marked the rail junctions, mining facilities, and trade routes that made Redding a critical objective. The city lacked Vault City's shields or arrogance—but it was still an economic artery of the NCR, clinging to its autonomy.
"Summon the centurions. We make camp here. At dawn, we march for Redding."Lanius didn't raise his voice.
The centurions obeyed immediately. Praetorians began shifting troops, redistributing ammo, reallocating slaves. There would be no rest.
Vault City would be left behind as an example—A lesson written in fire and screams.
Redding was next.