Chapter Text
Luck was not Arcade’s strongest attribute. As he’d learned in his nearly forty years of life, if something could go wrong, it likely would. That was just how fate decided to dish it out to him, from having him be born to an Enclave family in the middle of Navarro, to having him wind up in the middle of the desert while sporting the sort of Celtic pale that confused “tanning” with “third degree burns.” He’d thought that maybe life would have started improving once he met a strong, handsome, and exceedingly homosexual mailman with a gunshot scar and a sparkling smile, but the only place that charlatan had whisked him was east.
Across the Colorado River.
Into enemy territory.
It wasn’t even one of those things where everything “happened so fast” either, nor was he thinking with his dick. Arcade was typically good about listening to the right head. No, all he had to be told was that somebody had sent out a distress signal near a Legion camp and he’d willingly followed his handsome courier right into the strong, angry arms of trouble. A part of him was disappointed to see his supposed friend grin as he accepted a surprisingly small bag of caps for the exchange, but the other part figured that he should have expected it. After all, nothing good ever happened to him.
He supposed there were silver linings. In the few days since he’d be stripped of his name and strapped with a bomb collar, nobody had really expected anything of him. No, they just spoke threateningly about the fact that the glorious, oh-so-holy leader of the Legion was ill, that they had been promised he knew how to do brain surgery, and that he’d be expected to perform a miracle. Soon. And, you know, sure , he was under constant surveillance, but at least the guards assigned to make sure he didn’t kill himself were easy on the eyes. They were works of art, every last one; beautiful, savage, xenophobic, terrifying, prejudiced, rapist Adonises cast in bronze.
Arcade stood quietly in the darkest corner of Caesar’s tent, watching as said Adonises danced around a table like savage, hungry ballerinas. Slaves weaved between their hulking forms with redware platters of roasts and sliced fruit, begging forgiveness whenever one of their keepers recklessly bumped against them. Fortunately, spirits were high and the mood was rather forgiving, considering Caesar was celebrating what they assumed would be a victory at the Dam. Not that it was coming anytime soon--Arcade had sat through two of these feasts since he was sold into servitude--but if he’d learned any surprising fact about the Legion, it was that their upper echelons loved a good party.
Maybe there was a bit of Roman in them after all.
Of course, they said it was part of a festival, some great religious rite where they appealed to Mars for guidance and strength in battle, and to Asclepius (whose name they butchered pretty frequently) for Arcade to miraculously heal the tyrant sitting front-and-center at the dining table. Said tyrant looked pretty jovial if you looked past the glazed, confused look in his eyes and the exquisite, corpse-like pallor. The fact he still had an ounce of joy left in him made Arcade’s stomach twist in anger. When he’d look up and smile at him--a wicked, twisted, knowing smile with a hint of threat behind it--Arcade couldn’t help but throw up a little bit in his mouth.
Prickly-pear wine sloshed out of glasses. Expertly trained dogs lapped up spilled beverages and food off of the floor like they’d never been taught to obey. A couple of obvious prostitutes, dressed in the finest clothing the Legion would allow, flitted from man to man with forced giggles and sad eyes, trying to pretend they were in a paradise where it was a privilege to be surrounded by a bunch of dangerously brainwashed men.
Arcade sighed. A couple of the slaves looked at him in disgust, partially because he was exempt from working and partially because they believed this celebration was entirely his fault. He wished he had something to say to them that would have made them hate him a little less, but honestly? They had a point, even if they neglected to realize the colossal responsibility hoisted on his shoulders and the very, very slim chance of his success.
“Don’t mind them.”
A voice sounded next to him, cold and even, and Arcade nearly leapt out of his skin. Only nearly, though, because the bomb collar strapped around his throat made even his flight-or-fight response think twice. Nervously, he jerked towards the origin of the sound and furrowed his brows at the sight of an uncomfortably familiar stranger that he had, unfortunately, become accustomed to seeing floating around Caesar’s presence. Arcade scowled but didn’t respond. Sticking his foot in his mouth was the last thing he needed to do when surrounded by murderers.
Especially when the offender was the worst of them all. Even before Arcade had been swindled, he’d heard tales of Vulpes Inculta, the daring and vicious spy that sacrificed his own men by the droves if it meant slaughtering some enemy soldiers. Even with his name known by the NCR and his likeness slapped on wanted signs and propaganda posters like he was a celebrity, nobody had ever managed to get their hands on him. He was just that good, that intelligent, and that driven to kill.
He wasn’t hard to look at, though, if you managed to overlook the soulless, pale-blue eyes that seemed to suck all the hope out of a room. It was a neat trick. Not many people were so creepy and inhuman that they developed the abilities of a goddamned super villain.
“They are jealous. They’re always jealous whenever Caesar gets a new personal servant.”
For a good, long time, Arcade said nothing. He didn’t think it was appropriate to be speaking to a guy who, from his observations, was so far up the Legion food chain that Caesar would probably go get drinks with him on weekends. It wasn’t until he felt those icy eyes burrowing into the side of his head that he realized that Vulpes was expecting a response, even in the form of a nod.
But Arcade, being Arcade, could never really get by with just a nod.
“Caesar has a lot of servants, then?”
“ Had .”
The word made Arcade’s stomach drop and, like he sensed the discomfort, Vulpes continued to talk. Arcade wondered what sick satisfaction he was getting out of the conversation.
“Some were executed,” the legionnaire sighed, “and some were given to Lanius as gifts. The attractive ones, mostly. And do you know why?”
A terrified lump began to miraculously appear in Arcade’s throat. Sweat beaded at his brow. Vulpes was an intense person, and an expert at intimidation.
“Wh, ah, wh-wh-why?”
Vulpes shrugged and said no more. There was a moment of awkward, tense silence between the two before a couple of revelers came over to grab at Vulpes and urge him to join their rowdy feast. Scrunching his nose and shaking his head, he pulled away and vanished as quickly as he appeared, striding confidently and stiffly away from the crowd and out of the tent entirely. His departure was met with jeers and taunts in Latin that were so badly butchered that Arcade couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.
And Arcade stood, silently, in that dark corner as they celebrated and mocked and whooped and hollered. He endured the glares of the other slaves who grimaced every time they stepped in his shadow. He pulled gingerly at his bomb collar and tried to figure out what exactly the purpose of that conversation had been. Was it intimidation? Concern?
It was then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Caesar, dressed in faux-laurels and patchwork centurion armor, flanked by men much younger and more capable, was still glassy-eyed at the table. His eyes moved, his mouth would twitch in a smile, but the more Arcade looked, the less sinister he appeared.
The knowing was gone. There was confusion in his expression. He laughed, but he didn’t mean it. With every second that ticked by, it became more and more obvious.
Caesar had forgotten where he was.