The Mojave Outpost shrank behind us, its twin statues standing like weary sentinels in the distance. The road stretched out ahead—cracked blacktop cutting through endless sand, sagebrush, and sun-bleached bones. The heat shimmered against the horizon, making the column of smoke seem like a ghostly finger pointing us toward whatever waited in Nipton.
Maria kept pace at my side, though I could see her hand drift now and again to the satchel strap across her chest, a nervous tic she probably didn't realize she had. ED-E floated close, his optics scanning the wastes, the soft hum of his engines a strange comfort against the silence of the desert.
We walked for a long time with only the crunch of gravel under our boots. My eyes swept the ridges and dunes, searching for movement. Raiders. Legion scouts. The things Ghost hinted at that didn't even have names. The Mojave had a way of throwing horrors at you when you least expected them.
After a while, Maria broke the silence. "You really think… it's Legion?"
I didn't answer right away. The truth was, the Legion was almost too predictable—brutal, yes, but methodical. What Ghost saw, what that smoke meant… it had the feel of something worse.
Finally, I said, "I think whatever's in Nipton didn't leave survivors. That's what you need to be ready for."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. She just nodded, silent but resolute.
The road dipped and curved through a stretch of crumbling asphalt, flanked by empty roadside shacks. Every shadow looked like it might move. Every gust of wind through broken windows whispered like a warning.
And still, the smoke kept climbing higher, darker, like it was waiting for us.
The miles stretched on, and the desert remained empty. No raiders, no stray wildlife, not even the glint of scavenger eyes in the distance. The silence was heavier than the heat, pressing down with every step, every crunch of gravel beneath our boots.
The smoke ahead had grown thicker, the column blacker against the sun, yet the land around it remained disturbingly still. Broken fences leaned at odd angles, abandoned shacks sagged with rot, and the occasional sign swung lazily in the wind, its paint faded and peeling.
Maria's hand drifted again to her satchel, tightening on the strap as if it could anchor her to something solid. ED-E's optic pulsed softly, scanning, searching, recording. Even he seemed to sense the absence of life.
I kept my eyes moving, from horizon to horizon, taking in the empty stretches, reading the shadows. Nothing moved. Not a lizard darting across the sand, not a vulture wheeling high. The silence screamed louder than any battle ever could.
I slowed my pace just slightly and glanced at Maria. "This is what I warned you about. Out here, the absence of danger doesn't mean safety."
Her lips pressed together, nodding. "I know. But we have to see it… for Rafael."
I gave a firm, short nod, guiding her forward. The road bent slightly, leading us to the crest of a low hill. Beyond it, the black smoke rose relentlessly, a pillar against the pale blue of the Mojave sky. The town of Nipton waited below—silent, empty, and wrong.
A cold unease settled over us, heavier than the desert heat.
We began our cautious walk toward Nipton, each step crunching over ash and scattered debris. The smoke from burning homes thickened as we neared the town square, the stench of fire and charred wood hanging heavy in the air.
Suddenly, a figure darted out from behind a ruined wall, arms flailing and voice cracking over the distant roar of flames. "I won! I won the lottery!"
I froze, hand instinctively hovering near my sidearm, and gestured for Maria to stay close. "What lottery?" I asked, cautious, scanning the surrounding streets for danger.
The man—dirty, unkempt, clothes in tatters, a wild gleam in his eye—threw his arms up again. "The lottery! The one to see who wouldn't be crucified! And me—me, I won! I'm free! I survived!"
I blinked, trying to process what he'd just said. "You… you mean… the people on those crosses?"
He nodded frantically, his smile twisted, almost maniacal. "Yes! The Legion decided who would die, who would hang! But me? I won! Nothing can touch me now! Nothing!"
Maria's hand tightened on my sleeve. I could feel the tremor in her grip, a mix of horror and disbelief. ED-E's optic flickered rapidly, scanning the man and the streets for additional threats.
I kept my distance, lowering my voice so only Maria could hear. "Stay alert. He's clearly delusional—and that makes him unpredictable. Even if he doesn't mean to harm us, this is Nipton. Nothing here is safe."
The man spun around, laughing, shouting again about his "luck," as if the smoke, flames, and crucified bodies were nothing more than a backdrop to his victory.
We edged closer to the heart of Nipton, the streets now a chaotic tapestry of fire, rubble, and abandoned belongings. The smoke from burning homes thickened, curling around the charred skeletons of buildings. The smell of ash and death hung heavy, clawing at the back of my throat.
Swanick's frantic laughter echoed behind us for a moment longer. Then, without warning, he bolted—dodging between debris and overturned carts, sprinting toward the hills beyond the town. His wild cheers faded quickly as he disappeared into the barren distance, leaving only the crackle of flames and the heavy silence of destruction.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my body to stay calm despite the pit in my stomach. "He's gone," I said to Maria, voice low. "But that… display? That was him lucky to survive a nightmare most wouldn't walk away from."
Maria shivered but nodded, keeping her focus on the burning streets ahead. ED-E floated slightly higher, scanning every corner, every shadow, every movement.
I led the way deeper into Nipton's square, stepping lightly around scorched debris. The Legion soldiers were visible now, moving with brutal efficiency near City Hall. And the crucified bodies loomed ominously on crude wooden crosses, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Every instinct screamed danger, but there was no turning back. Rafael's trail, and the truth of what had happened here, awaited in the center of the town.
I turned to Maria and ED-E before stepping any closer to the square. The Legion patrols were too organized, too calm—this wasn't the tail end of a raid. They were still working.
"Stay back," I said quietly. "Both of you. Find cover behind that busted storefront and don't move unless I tell you."
Maria wanted to protest—I saw it in her eyes—but something in my tone stopped her. She gave a tight nod and ducked behind the crumbling façade of a general store. ED-E drifted with her, his sensors humming in restless disapproval.
I walked alone into the open.
The air here was thick with smoke and heat. Flames still devoured homes nearby, crackling in time with the distant groans of the dying. The crucifixions loomed over the square like grim monuments. Legionaries in blood-red and burnished brass stood guard, some wiping blades, others dragging bodies.
That was when I saw him.
A man in a wolf pelt cowl stood near the front of City Hall, arms folded behind his back. Unlike the others, he wasn't working—he was observing. Commanding. His armor was cleaner than the rest. His posture was measured, composed, like all of this was just another day's labor.
His eyes found me before I'd taken another step.
His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Well," he said, voice smooth and unsettlingly calm. "Isn't this a surprise."
He sounded neither threatened nor impressed—just… intrigued.
I didn't reach for my weapon. Not yet. But my hand hovered close enough to make the intention clear if things shifted.
I stopped a few paces from him, smoke drifting between us like a veil.
"I could say the same," I answered evenly.
I held his gaze, the smoke drifting between us in lazy black coils. He looked me over like he was appraising an unexpected specimen rather than a threat.
He took a slow step closer, boots crunching on scorched gravel.
"I am a Servant of the Great Caesar," he said, voice disturbingly steady, "Son of Mars, the God of War."
The way he spoke those titles… it wasn't boastful. It was reverent. As if reciting something sacred.
Behind him, two legionaries paused their work to glance our way—watchful, ready. The smell of burning homes and dead flesh made the air heavy. Maria and ED-E were well behind me now, out of sight—but I knew they were watching.
I didn't speak yet. I let the silence stretch, studying his posture, the cut of his armor, the glint in his eye. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
Whoever he was, he wasn't some common butcher in a borrowed plume. He was a man who gave orders, not took them.
Finally, I answered, voice low but clear.
"And who are you, exactly—besides a servant of gods and tyrants?"
His lips twitched, like he found the question amusing.
The faint curl in his lip vanished the moment the word tyrants left mine.
For the first time, I saw a flicker—not anger, but insult, thinly masked beneath discipline. His posture didn't change, but the air around him seemed to tighten.
"You speak of what you do not understand," he said, tone sharpening just enough to reveal the edge beneath the silk. "Caesar is no tyrant. He is order. He is purpose. He is the flame by which this broken world is cauterized and made whole."
He took one more step forward, close enough now that I could make out the faint scars along his jawline and the cold intelligence in his eyes.
"I am his instrument," he continued, his gaze never leaving mine. "His eyes in the West. His will made manifest."
He let the weight of his words linger. Then, with the pride of a man who believed himself untouchable, he offered his name.
"I am called Vulpes Inculta."
The legionaries nearby returned to their work, as if the name alone explained the scene around us.
Behind me, the flames crackled. The crucified groaned. The smoke coiled upward in black threads toward the sky.
I didn't bow. I didn't step back. And that, I could tell, was what irritated him most.
"And you?" he asked, calm but edged. "What is your name, profligate?"
"Prometheus."
The name settled between us like a thrown blade. Vulpes' eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in recognition of the reference, not the man. Something in the way he studied me shifted.
I caught it.
"You say that like you understand it," I said, voice low. "How would you know the name of a Titan who stole fire from the gods?"
That earned me a longer look. Not offended—curious, and faintly annoyed that I'd noticed his reaction at all.
"The Legion knows many things scavengers like you dismiss as dead knowledge," he replied. "Old worlds leave useful bones."
His gaze flicked once to the burning town, the crosses, the men writhing on them.
"And new worlds are built on the corpses of those who failed to understand that."
I didn't rise to the bait. My eyes stayed locked on his.
"What happened here?" I asked. "These people weren't a threat. Settlers, caravans, petty thugs. Hardly worth a culling."
That drew the faintest hint of a smirk, thin and humorless.
"To you, perhaps. To Caesar, they were an opportunity."
"A man ran out of here before I entered," I said, eyes still on his. "He was screaming about some lottery. What was that about? Did you play with the lives of these people?"
Vulpes didn't bristle—if anything, he seemed faintly amused that I bothered to ask.
"If you mean the one who fled gibbering like a coward," he said, "then yes. A lottery was held."
He spoke of it the way a clerk might explain ration counts.
"Some were chosen for the cross. Others for the knife. A few for slavery. And one… for freedom." His gaze flicked momentarily in the direction Swanick had run. "Fortune favored him. For now."
I didn't move, but the disgust must've shown in my eyes.
"You butchered a town and called it chance."
He tilted his head slightly. "No. We butchered a town and called it justice."
He stepped once to the side, revealing more of the square—the burning homes, the bound corpses, the posted crosses.
"Nipton made itself a lesson. We merely wrote it in a language all men can understand."
His eyes came back to me.
"You disapprove. That is expected. The guilty often do."
I held his stare. "Guilty of what?"
That earned the smallest breath of satisfaction from him.
"Consorting with our enemies. Trading with degenerates. Harboring Powder Gangers. And above all—believing they could act without consequence."
He spoke each charge like a litany he'd recited a hundred times.
"This town was not slaughtered," he said calmly. "It was corrected."
Vulpes seemed to study my face, searching for the shape of my judgment. Then, almost conversationally, he added:
"Long ago, there were cities—Sodom and Gomorrah. Rotten places. They were wiped from the earth as punishment for their perversions. Nipton is no different."
That did it.
A muscle in my jaw twitched—not from shock, but recognition. I've read of those cities before, back when there was still time to think, to sit in the dark and let old texts speak.
"You don't know what you're quoting," I said quietly.
His eyes narrowed, not expecting challenge on that front.
"Sodom and Gomorrah weren't destroyed for trade or alliances," I continued. "Not for harboring outlaws or dealing with 'degenerates.' The sin was deeper. And the punishment came from God—not from men in wolf skins playing judge."
For the first time, the air between us actually shifted. Not a crack in his composure—but a fracture in his assumption.
He tilted his head, studying me with new calculation.
"You presume to lecture on divine justice?" he asked, the calm in his tone strained at the edges. "You think yourself its arbiter?"
"No," I said. "Which is why I don't pretend slaughter is sanctity."
Something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, not rage. The kind of irritation a predator feels when prey refuses to cower.
The groans of the crucified drifted across the square again. Smoke clawed at the sky.
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"There will come a time," he said, voice controlled but colder than before, "when this world remembers strength over sentiment. When the words of dead tribes and dead gods are dust beneath Caesar's law."
I didn't break his gaze.
"Funny," I said. "I'd say the same about yours."
That silence afterward was sharp. Not the silence of peace—but of men deciding whether steel or words came next.
Vulpes regarded me the way a handler might study a dog that didn't know when to bare its throat.
"You mistake mercy for morality," he said. "Civilization is not sustained by softness. It is built on obedience, fear, consequence. Caesar understands this. His enemies will not."
I stepped once to the side, just enough to glance at the crucified lining the street.
"You call this civilization?"
"I call it instruction," he answered without hesitation. "Every soul who sees Nipton will remember what happens when decadence aligns itself against order."
I turned back to him. "Order without justice is just fear with better grammar."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Justice?" he echoed. "Your Republic uses the word often enough. Yet I have seen NCR troopers burn towns when it suits a ledger, execute prisoners when supplies run thin, abandon outposts when command grows bored of losing men." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something almost intimate. "Tell me, Prometheus—does the bear slaughter with cleaner hands, or only quieter ones?"
I didn't blink. "I'm not the NCR."
"No," he said, studying me with renewed interest. "You are something… other. Which is why you're still alive."
His gaze shifted past me for only a heartbeat—toward where Maria and ED-E hid beyond sight.
"And why the ones you brought with you remain so—for now."
I didn't rise to the threat, but my stare hardened.
"You think fear is loyalty. You think destruction is correction. But you haven't built anything. You've only shown people how loudly you can break what you don't own."
Vulpes' jaw tightened, subtle as a knife sliding back into its sheath.
"Breaking is the first step of remaking. The hammer does not apologize to the ore."
"And what happens," I asked evenly, "when the ore hits back?"
That earned me silence—brief, taut, unflinching.
Finally, Vulpes inclined his head just a fraction.
"I hope you live long enough to test that."
He stepped back, the conversation—as far as he was concerned—concluded. But his eyes never left mine.
"You've seen what you came to see. Carry word of it, if you wish. Spread fear. Spread warning. It all serves Caesar."
I didn't move.
"And if I don't carry it?" I asked.
He gave a mirthless almost-smile.
"Then you'll carry something else. Eventually."
Smoke rose. The crucified whimpered. And for a moment, the Mojave felt very small around the two of us.
I didn't turn to leave. Not yet.
"You talk about Caesar like he's building something new," I said. "But he's copying something old. Rome."
Vulpes froze—not visibly, not to the untrained, but I saw it. A stillness in the shoulders. A slight halt in his breath.
I stepped once toward him.
"And here's what you've forgotten about Rome," I continued. "It didn't just conquer by fire. It ruled by law. By roads. By granting citizenship. Mercy when it bought loyalty. Prosperity when fear wasn't enough."
His eyes sharpened—truly taken aback now—but he said nothing.
"Rome lasted," I said, "because it knew when to build instead of burn. Nipton?" I nodded to the corpses, the smoke. "This isn't Rome. It's Carthage. And you're salting the earth before you've even planted anything."
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then—slowly, almost despite himself—Vulpes let out a quiet breath that nearly counted as a laugh.
"You are… unusual," he said, studying me with new interest. "A profligate who speaks of Rome as though he walked its halls."
His tone carried something rare—not respect, but acknowledgment.
"There may be hope for you yet," he said. "In another life, perhaps, Caesar might have found use for a tongue like yours."
I met his gaze without flinching. "In another life, maybe Rome wouldn't have become what you've twisted it into."
That landed. He didn't let it show—but he didn't dismiss it either.
Finally, he inclined his head—not as a bow, but as a mark in the ledger of his memory.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The wind dragged smoke between the crosses and the men dying on them. Vulpes watched me the way a man observes a rare animal—evaluating whether to kill it now or keep it for later use.
Then something in his stance shifted.
"You understand more than most of your kind," he said slowly. "You speak of Rome not as a ruin, but as memory. Intact. Intentional." His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in consideration. "That alone stays my hand."
A pair of legionaries nearby seemed briefly confused—glancing from me to him, as if waiting for the order to strike. None came.
Vulpes raised two fingers in a small signal. The soldiers resumed their patrol around the square. No blades were drawn. No threats were uttered.
"Do not mistake this for clemency," he said, voice low. "I do not spare you because I cannot end you. I allow you to walk away because men who remember the root of empire are… rare. Even among us."
I held his gaze. "You think I'll carry your message."
"I think," Vulpes replied, "you will speak of what you saw. And speak well." A faint, cold curve touched the corner of his mouth. "Not in praise—never that—but in detail. Knowledge spreads fear better than fire."
I stepped back, not in retreat but in refusal to give him my back.
"And if I don't spread your message?"
His eyes gleamed. "Then you will still remember what you witnessed here. And that is enough. For now."
With that, he turned sharply. His cloak caught the hot wind, and his men fell into motion behind him, leaving Nipton's ruins without haste or concern—as if the town, the crosses, and the smoke were merely their signature left on parchment.
They didn't look back at me. Not once.
I watched until the last of their silhouettes blurred into the heat of the road.
Only then did I turn toward the outskirts, where Maria and ED-E waited unseen.
Not because I feared pursuit.
But because, for the first time, I understood with certainty: Vulpes Inculta hadn't let me live out of mercy—
—he'd done it because he believed I was worth remembering.