Chapter Text
The fort was thick with the scent of iron.
That was not an unusual thought to Arcade. He was a doctor after all, staying in a field hospital, in an area that was only considered ‘safe’ because of the bafflingly low bar set by the surrounding ruins.
“Focus, profligate.”
The sharp voice forced him into motion again without any clear direction. His body still felt two steps away, and no amount of looking at the scene before him could dispel the mental fog.
He took a deep breath.
His hands were stained, the color of banners that hung over the canvas walls like an open wound, the color this army donned, the same they painted the soil with: Red. A bleeding reminder of which side of the Colorado he had the displeasure of being on; that it was not another unconscious drug addict before him, that this was not the Old Mormon Fort. No Followers. No honorable patients. No leaving when the work was done.
His gilded cage was spacious. Four military tents arranged around a crude courtyard, enough room for bodies, stretchers, and egos alike. But space didn’t mean comfort. The cloth walls pressed in on him all the same, sagging and shifting in the heat as if they were alive, conspiring to smother him. The constant stream of Legionaries didn’t help, boots trampling past, eyes lingering too long, reminders with every glance and sneer that he was no longer a doctor here.
He was a resource.
A sharp jab between his shoulder blades pushed the thoughts away completely, forcing his hands into motion again, this time with purpose.
“It would be wise not to jostle me while I’m suturing a wound,” Arcade said once he found his voice, focusing on the methodical movement of the needle.
“You were not ‘suturing’, you were staring,” the legionnaire spat over his shoulder.
“I was just considering whether to finish this with a square knot, or a surgeon's knot,” He replied tonelessly, before choosing the former and setting his tools down with a clink of metal against metal. His eyes lingered on the bloodied scissors, losing himself in the way the light reflected off of them, in the familiarity of the tools even so far from home.
“Profligate!” Another voice called from the entrance, causing Arcade to react in an instant. He silently loathed the way his head snapped up at the title, trained to it like a dog to a whistle. “I have the things Caesar requested. You will look through them.”
Arcade resisted the urge to roll his eyes, only because he didn’t want to worsen his growing headache. “Set them down, I just need to clean my hands.”
The box was unceremoniously dropped on the table in wait, as if it didn’t contain potentially fragile electronics. He did actually roll his eyes this time.
It was simple routine by this point to approach the box and dig through it, a silent exchange as neither he nor the soldier wanted to deal with the presence of the other.
Finally though, after pulling out another long-broken circuit board, Arcade couldn’t keep his tongue.
“This thing couldn’t rub enough electrons together to outmatch a potato-battery even before the 200-year nuclear apocalypse. Do you really think this is the superconducting electromagnet you were sent to find?” Arcade asked incredulously, looking twice through the box of electronics—correction, junk. “What do you expect me to do with this? Half of these look like—“ his voice cut off sharply, noticing the chipped paint on what seemed to be the fourth change counter. “Is this part of an old slot machine?? Did you even find the hospital?”
“I found better, profligate. The town of Nipton had much better technology than whatever medical center you spoke of.”
Arcade felt his throat dry. “I never asked you to invade Nipton for this.”
Two hands found his shirt. “I do not need your permission, nor did I ask for it. Nipton was taken because it was a town of sin and degeneracy. You forget your standing here if you think I ever needed your blessing,” the legionary denigrated.
“They were peaceful,” Arcade whispered.
“They were weak,” he hissed. Droplets of spit sprinkled Arcade’s face from the force in which he spoke. The soldier must’ve seen something in Arcade’s expression, his snarl shaped into a smirk, drinking whatever he saw like a fine wine, or whatever these fiends considered a delicacy. “Don’t look so despondent. I could have never helped Vulpes carry the siege had Caesar’s favorite little lapdog not saved me.”
The spark of vague familiarity was doused in ice water, as Arcade remembered why he knew this face, he’d stared at it for hours after all, delicately removing glass shards and stitching a line from his cheekbone to his jaw, lest infection set in and claim his life.
Arcade pushed down the pit in his stomach. “I think you should take your hands off of me before Caesar—” said with a soft ‘C’, ammeters, “—sees you.” The words were bitter on his tongue, not feeling like his own, belonging more to the shell this place has made of him.
When he was a stronger man, he swallowed the abuse that the other slaves endured, refusing to acknowledge he was Caesar’s plaything, even if it was leverage to stop the maltreatment. But the waves of resignation washed away that resolve, and no matter how much bile settled in his throat, acceptance was a safer existence.
The man leaned in slowly, whispering into Arcade's ear. “Do not think Caesar execrates the sounds of your screaming. He enjoys it as the rest of us do. He will tire of you eventually, and then I will chain you to my bedpost and listen to your cries as a lullaby.”
Arcade met the man’s tone. “I would prefer it.”
It was no secret to any of them that his current position in the fort was a far worse torture than anything they could inflict with whips or crosses. The constant betrayal of himself, the knowledge that he was as responsible as they were for their monstrosities. He didn’t need to point or shoot the gun, he was the one who made it, who cared for it when it was broken and unusable, who suffered just as much when its trigger was pulled.
“You and your smart mouth—“ The legionary let go of his shirt in favor of slipping on his brass knuckles.
Right on cue, Caesar spoke up.
“Claudius, have you brought the parts needed to fix the autodoc?” He asked calmly.
The soldier turned and dropped to one knee in a bow. “My lord, I have brought many electronics for you.”
Caesar turned his gaze to Arcade.
“I can’t use any of it. It seems as if he raided a cheap casino instead of the hospital I pointed out on the map,” Arcade leveled truthfully, having no desire to defend nor intentionally criminalize the soldier.
“Have him hung from a cross. Lash him for every piece of unusable scrap he brought me.” Caesar dismissed.
“No—please sir, let me serve you, please my lord!!” The soldier bent down further, pressing his nose to the dirt, voice growing frantic as he was dragged away.
Arcade watched with a sort of detachment, long past listening to the twist of his stomach when an order like this was inevitably passed. He never, for a second, believed these actions were worthy of such cruel punishment. That didn’t change the fact that these were horrible people; slavers, rapists, murderers. Arcade would bite his tongue and treat their injuries when asked, but he wouldn’t protest the order for their deaths.
No, there was something far more pressing to devote his mind to, and after another failed scout was the perfect time to breach it.
“Caesar… if you’ll allow me to speak so boldly,” Arcade began innocuously, rubbing his ribs at the reminder of what happened the last time he got too bold. “This whole process could be far more direct if you would allow me to go fetch the part I need myself. You’d spend half the amount of resources sending me with a guard party as you would sending out all of these scouts, and I could be back in half the time.”
“Now, why would I do something so reckless?” Caesar responded, tone critical as if this was another of their ‘intellectual sparring matches’.
Arcade normally detested the tone, not enjoying his quote-unquote “free” time debating how it was Caesar’s holy right to slaughter or enslave another tribe or town. But right now it meant some part of him was listening.
He stepped in front of the throne, crossing his arms. “Well, time is of the essence here, isn’t it? Until the auto doc is fixed, I can’t perform the MRI to see if the tumor has been fully removed without intention of returning. Anything could be going on health-wise, and you shouldn’t be so reckless with your life just because you hate the thought of me being anywhere but by your side.”
“It’s an unnecessary risk. If something were to happen to you, I’d be out of a doctor and still without an auto-doc.”
“There is nothing more I can do for you right now, Caesar,” Arcade emphasized. “My checkups are helpful to ensure you’re not getting drastically worse, but I’m a doctor, not a psychic, and cancer is a silent killer. It’s a miracle you’d even caught it in the first place.”
Caesar shifted on his throne, face growing critical as if he was actually considering it.
“You’re in too critical a time right now to be so reckless with your life. Without you, your legion falls apart, along with everything you’d worked for all these years. The NCR wins and you’re nothing more than a name in their history books, and your legion will know it could’ve all been avoided if you’d just let me do my job, and help you.” Arcade wasn’t sure if he truly believed the words he was spewing, but he hoped he didn’t. He didn’t want to be the feather that tipped the scale, not on the Legions side.
“What do you get out of this? When I first brought you here, you refused to even speak to any of my men without the threat of pain. Now you’re here, throwing yourself at my feet, dying to serve me.” Caesar gestured with a hand, as if Arcade were physically on his knees.
“I’m not throwing myself at anything here.” The words snapped out before he could cage them, or soothe them into something softer. “But as hard as it is for you to believe, I cannot let the people under my care wither away as I watch idly. I took an oath when I became a doctor, to protect and preserve life, and I will not break it, not for someone like you, not for anyone here.”
You have taken every other piece of me. You cannot have this one too.
“And how do I know you won’t attempt to flee the second you’re across the river?”
Arcade almost wanted to laugh, a bitter, broken sound. He resisted the urge. “Because I’ll be recaptured in an instant? Because I prefer to have my knees unbroken? Prefer not to know what being crucified feels like?” His words grew more incredulous the longer he spoke. “You really think that I believe there’s a universe where I make it away from you alive? There’s a reason you stopped letting me around scalpels.” Arcade leveled with him critically.
Caesar hummed in vague acknowledgment, failing to hide the look of pride as Arcade lay so metaphorically broken before him. So hopeless, that he talked about his own suicide with such a casual air, that he knew even the right of his own death was only by this monster's decree.
The throne creaked as Caesar leaned forward, looking up at Arcade with deeper intensity. “Say I were to agree. What would this mission of yours entail?”
“I’d simply be brought to the hospital by a team of your finest, I’d find the MRI and any other medical device that could feasibly have parts I need, then come here and fix the auto doc. It’s a rather simple plan, isn’t it? Not much room for error.”
A silence hung between them as Caesar weighed the pros and cons of each side.
When he opened his mouth again, Arcade felt his lungs constrict in deep anticipation, like a hag-snake had wrapped around his chest, tightening in a way that made every second take a year. Arcade hoped the answer would never finally come, because in this limbo there was that chance that he said no. Then this leap of faith will have been for nought.
“Get your things.” He finally said. “I want you back by tomorrow's sunrise.” Caesar dismissed with a wave of his hand.
The strings that held him taught all at once were cut. An unusual feeling blooming deep within him, long forgotten as most things seemed to be now. He didn’t even recognize it until he tasted the bittersweet melody.
Hope.
***
The raft bumped to a stop against the wooden dock, causing it to creak in gentle warning. The ripple of waves left an unsteady surface for standing, but Arcade didn’t dare reach for any of the surrounding soldiers for stability.
The cadre shuffled off, grabbing him tightly by the forearms and dragging him along, forgoing his potential attempt ending with an unexpected swim, considering the large step and the length of his bindings.
Another of Caesar’s ‘conditions’ that was really more of an annoyance than anything. Arcade was not the most dexterous person in the best of circumstances, but now with a chain connecting his ankles, not nearly long enough for his normal wide stride, he was struggling to catch his balance even as his feet met solid ground.
“Now, remember.” The soldier, donned in a dog helmet, spoke. “This is just a retrieval mission, and you’re not our leader. You will do as you are told, and if you show any attempt of escape, I’ll drive a stake through your stomach and drag you back to Caesar, then you will kiss my feet for the mercy I showed.”
“Naturally,” Arcade dolled. As if he’d actually commit to the foolish idea of fleeing. It would be the most ideal choice for him, but there was a saying about idealists and reality. “Now, if we could continue, we’re losing daylight,” he said dryly, gesturing to the afternoon sun.
The journey to the hospital was surprisingly quiet for a group of people who loved the sound of their own voices. The scraping of Arcades’ chains against the sand and rock became the only background noise.
Despite the trudge of it all, Arcade kept his senses tuned to take it all in. Every monotonous bush, every distant coyote call, every sun ray that reflected off the sand. Simple pleasures—not even that, just meager pockets of existence, that he never thought he’d get to experience again.
It was the legion's cruelest form of torture, and it was entirely self-imposed.
He thought this would bloom new hope in his chest, remind him what he’d have once he escaped. But it was undeniable that the odds were steep ones. Every day that the Fort became more ‘his normal’, the more the life he had was simply that, something he’d had. Another thing the Legion stole from him that he will never get back.
If he were a simple slave, escape would be such a distant prospect, requiring such perfect circumstances. But as Caesar's personal physician? Spending day in and day out in his tent? Where being able to stray further than 20 feet from the man was a privilege, one he rarely earned?
It spelled a clear future for him.
“Keep walking, profligate.” There was a sharp shove to his back.
He forced himself not to consider that this journey was his best chance for escape. Just because Caesar believed his neck to be too pretty to be desecrated by a bomb collar, didn’t mean they had no way of stopping him if he stepped out of line. They had the edge on mobility, numbers, and familiarity with the land. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t crush that well of longing that made his heart race rapidly in his chest. That somehow, some way, he’d find freedom.
“Could we please stop for a rest?” Arcade finally asked breathlessly, brow and clothes soaked from sweat.
“The hospital is not far.” The leading Legionary informed him.
He squinted, finding it on the horizon line. “It’s barely a speck in the distance,” He scoffed. “I won’t make it that far. You haven’t even given me a drop of water since we departed.”
“Spoiled degenerate,” The man mumbled. “Your hands are soft with the days of labor you have never worked, as is your stamina.”
“Oh, I’m sorry that I’ve spent the last 6 months staring at the same four walls of Caesar's tent, makes it a bit hard to keep up with my cardio.”
The soldier directly in front of him whipped around, grabbing his chin roughly, yanking Arcade down to be eye level. “Caesar may like your bristling tongue, but you tempt me to cut it right out.”
Many aches and pains made themselves known at the rough treatment, painting memories across his mind of the different ways this could play out, especially so far from Caesar’s protection.
“I’m sorry,” Arcade forced out. “We will keep walking, if that’s what you desire.”
The hand holding his jaw tightened, untrimmed nails digging painfully into his skin before the Legionary smirked. “Good dog.”
The man finally released him, looking for all the world to be proud of himself.
If only it could last.
As if summoned by Arcade's darkest desires, a bolt of green plasma collided with the man’s skull, melting skin and bone like paper in water. He collapsed, a half-dissolved mass of energy-goo and brain-matter decorating Arcade’s shoes.
The unexpectedness of it all left him stunned. There was no warning, no ring in his ears to signify gunfire. There was just a man before him, and then there was gore.
Instantly he was shoved, the soldiers having no such hesitation as he did, using themselves as a human shield between Arcade and the far worse fate of returning to the Fort without him. Black powder rang out like heavy rain, a blizzard of gunfire and smoke, and yet it did nothing to stop the chorus of explosions cut into screams of pain.
The frenzy caused his steps to become unsteady, and the ground came to cradle him with all the gentleness of a charging bighorner. He kicked away from the most immediate danger, watching the man just a few feet in front of him get his internal organs turned to a rain that saturated the air and ground by their attacker and her ripper.
Between each blink, ones that felt as if they only lasted a second, the scene changed around him. Another body met the sand, or a limb, or a head. His heartbeat in his ears drowned out their shouts, both furious and terrified, all the while the inciting maniac danced around them like it was a practiced waltz.
Finally, though, he wised up and took sight of the impromptu battlefield as a whole. They were distracted, all of them. Too busy being torn to shreds or trying to land a shot.
He was quick to climb to his feet, surveying where would be the smartest to start running. The legionnaires had mostly dispersed, trying to get at a good distance for their guns and more importantly trying to stay out of melee range. It was difficult to discern which way was clear, in his haze he could scarcely tell the difference between a warm corpse and the men about to become them. The scene shifted too quickly for him to formulate a plan, so he decided to just get up and run any direction that wasn’t back to the fort.
He took off as quickly as the chains would allow, heart racing in thought of what would happen if he failed.
Libertas quae sera tamen
He’d never again know the feeling of painful grips, or chains, never have his own practiced hands be used to keep monsters alive. His will was his own, now and forever. Freedom, even if it’s late. It was his.
“Stultus!” Arcade heard from behind him as his collar was grabbed and he was thrown to the ground, a looming shadow falling over him. “You really think you can flee, profligate? When Caesar learns of this—“ Blood suddenly spilled from his mouth as the blade of the ripper pushed through his stomach, churning his insides and spraying Arcade with blood, before he fell unceremoniously to the ground.
Arcade looked up at his savior, seeing the pinch of her face, exhaustion from the fight weighing on her, outlined with each strained breath. Her shoulders rose as she took in a large gasp of air, steeling herself.
She stepped forward with purpose, ripper razing to life once more. The sound followed as she raised it above her head, intent clear as the fury in her eyes swallowed him whole.
“Wait!” He shouted, with all the desperation to live that’s carried him this far. “Please,” he begged in a softer tone.
To his surprise, she actually paused, dropping the ripper back to its resting position. Her face betrayed a look of concern—or was it curiosity? Whatever it was, it was not bloodlust, which meant Arcade had a chance.
He opened his mouth, not sure what to say next as he hadn’t expected this to actually work. His hands raised in a sign of non-aggression, deciding in a single moment that any words were better than none.
But because fate is nothing but a cruel mother, in the same moment he saw movement behind her. In the next, a sledgehammer collided with her skull with a sickening echo. His savior's eyes rolled back as her knees moved to meet the dirt.
In a last-ditch effort, Arcade surged forward, pulling out the gun proudly displayed at her waist before she could collapse completely. He almost wondered why she’d not been using the ranged weapon in the first place, but one glance at the horrors she’d unleashed with the ripper and it was clear she was well trained with it.
Arcade, however, never felt more comfortable except when a plasma defender was in his hands. He pushed it harshly into the chest of the final legionary, pulling the trigger and sending a slurry of plasma and viscera to decorate the ground behind him.
And then there was silence.