Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bullworth Junction was not an impressive town. The only building that had stood against the bombs and desert decay in any real capacity was the old Piute County courthouse, an ugly red brick behemoth with boarded windows and a half-collapsed tower where the watch kept a lookout over the the rest of the town and the surrounding valley. Not that there was much to see. A handful of shacks and buildings of scavenged wood and metal from the destroyed houses that had once dotted the now barren landscape, and a fortified barrier made of whatever piled-on junk they had been able to find and drag into place; old husks of cars, loose fencing, stacked bricks, barbed cattlewire, and a few faded red signs that had been painted long ago with the word STOP had been attached to the gated main entry, just to drive the point home.

Bullworth Junction may not have been an impressive town, but it was a very impressive trash pile. The Broken Hooves were exceptionally proud of it.

It was their attempt at civilizing themselves, with a home and a sanctuary for the Broken Hooves and their brahmin. Here they would no longer be tribals, painting their faces and wandering at the mercy of the desert, but real townsfolk. Their territory now fairly bustled with men working the small fields, the brahmin herd and their new calves, and not to mention the vulnerable citizens and their children inside the walls. Bullworth Junction was their refuge. They had a place now that was all their own.

True, they had gained that home by driving out and killing the last tribe that they had found settled there, but that was so long ago that only the eldest could remember it now.

It didn't matter much one way or the other to Juniper how they had won Bullworth. It was theirs now, and it was no small amount of work to keep it running smoothly and securely.

She dressed herself in the morning light, dusty yellow beams filtering in through the cracks between the covered windows, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Black curls were haphazardly shoved up into the confines of her hat, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face. A tattered hand-me-down brahmin leather coat that was several sizes too big hung loosely from her bony shoulders, the sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands. The coat's pockets bulged with odds and ends she'd collected over time, each item a potential lifesaver in the wasteland.

A battered hunting rifle rattled in its straps upon her back, the metal cool against her spine even through the layers of clothing. Its familiar weight was both comforting and a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the settlement's walls. She laced up her scuffed boots, the leather creaking softly in protest, and stepped carefully over the sleeping figures of the other girls. Their soft breathing and occasional snores filled the room as she made her way to the door, wincing at each creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. With a final glance back at her slumbering companions, she slipped out into the already-sweltering morning air, ready to face whatever challenges the day might bring.

"Morning, Juniper! Don't think I don't see you sneaking off," a gruff voice called out, startling her.

She meandered over to gaze up at the grinning face of the old man sitting in the guard post, his weathered features creased with amusement. Folding her arms across her chest, she raised an eyebrow at him. "It's not sneaking off if I do it literally every single morning, Hank," she retorted with a hint of playful exasperation. "I was going to see to the east rocks. Heard there were some geckos making the brahmin nervous. You know how skittish they can get if both heads get startled at once." She paused, scanning his face for any sign of concern. "Any news? Anything I should know before I head out?"

"One of the patrols picked off a few raiders over by the old motel road last night. Nasty business, but necessary. Oh, and we have another caravaneer coming in today. Big shot, from what I hear. Grandpa Lyle wants to make sure we're all playing nicey-nice, as usual. So be back by high sun and put on your best face. Maybe you can charm them with your winning smile and that silver tongue of yours," he chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The somber young woman's expression twisted into a downright scowl in reply, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"We're going to run out of brahmin at the rate he wants to sell them," she grumbled. "It's not sustainable, Hank. You know it as well as I do."

"Not our place to say, girl," Hank replied. "We just follow orders. High sun. Make sure you're back for your song and dance routine. And try not to look like you'd rather be anywhere else in the world, alright?"

Juniper grunted in reply, perhaps a bit more scornfully than she meant. She shifted her weight, adjusting the rifle slung across her back. After a moment's hesitation, she gave the guard a little salute, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face. Then she reached for the gate, sliding it open with a metallic screech. Turning sideways, she edged through the narrow opening before setting off, her boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each step as she headed into the desert sunrise.

The eastern plains stretched out before her, a vast expanse of sun-baked earth and scrubby vegetation. The landscape was eerily quiet, broken only by the occasional low, mournful calls of the brahmin in the distance and the persistent whisper of the desert breeze as it skittered across the sand, carrying with it the scent of dust and heat.

With practiced ease, Juniper scaled one of the jutting rocky outcroppings that dotted the terrain. She settled herself atop the weathered stone, its surface still holding a trace of the night's chill despite the sun's determined climb into the cloudless sky. Methodically, she loaded her rifle, the familiar clicks and snaps of the mechanism providing a comforting rhythm in the stillness.

Leaning back against the sun-warmed rock, she allowed herself a moment to survey the land before her. The shadows were growing shorter by the minute as the merciless desert sun crept higher, painting the world in increasingly harsh tones of amber and gold.

Juniper knew from experience that it would be at least an hour, maybe two, before the disgusting lizards she was tasked with culling would emerge from their nighttime refuges. The cold-blooded creatures needed time to warm their scaly hides in the growing heat of the day before venturing out to hunt. She settled in for the wait, her fingers absently tracing the worn stock of her rifle as her eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of movement.

It gave her some time to think and make plans.

She knew the patrol routes and hunting patterns of the Broken Hooves men, and though she would never be allowed to accompany them to the territory outskirts, she could at least maneuver around them. She scouted alone, trailing far behind the men and picking off geckos, coyotes, scorpions, and one time, a starved and maddened bighorner that was attacking everything it saw.

It was hardly comparable to the tales of the warriors, fighting off raiders and other tribals in magnificent hailstorms of bullets and blades, limping back to Bullworth coated in the blood of their enemies and boasting of their exploits and new scars.

Juniper had scars of her own, but not from protecting the village against marauding slavers. Hers were from slipping off rockfaces, wrestling with stubborn brahmin, and there was a particularly nice bite wound on one of her legs (Which she had lied about to the others, telling them that it was from fending off a vicious coyote when it was simply from playing a little too roughly with one of the village dogs).

Still, scouting was good work. It kept the pests at bay, and she'd often return with a nice trophy or two for her troubles. Sometimes a few juicy desert hares, or the pelt off a nightstalker, or the scaly leather hides of geckos...

Geckos...

She tilted back the brim of her hat, sighting down her rifle's scope. From another outcropping of boulders some distance away there was movement. A gecko lumbered up into view, shaking out its frills in the sun and glaring about warily as a slimy pink tongue flicked upward to lick over one of its eyeballs. She settled her crosshairs over its chest, but it moved just as her finger began to put pressure on the trigger, scuttling out of sight back between the rocks.

A few others of its kin were stirring, but they acted oddly. They would pop their heads out, sniffing and licking before vanishing once more. Something was making them wary. Juniper frowned to herself, aim darting from one to another. She was safely downwind and far away; surely they hadn't been able to sense her somehow. Something sure had them stirred up though. Even from her position, she could hear the gurgling chirps of their alarm trills, signaling to one another as they crowded around the den entrance, loath to venture out too far.

One of them, a large male judging by his coloring, finally limped forward ahead of the others, rearing upward on his hind legs and turning his head about before cooing to the others that it was safe. The younger geckos began to move towards him when a shot rang through the air and the top of their sire's head exploded, his body falling limply off the edge of the rock and rolling down the hill.

Juniper sighted down her rifle again, her eye pressed firmly against the scope as she steadied her breath. With practiced precision, she squeezed the trigger, and a second shot cracked through the air. Another gecko collapsed, its body thrashing violently in the sand, kicking up dust as it convulsed. The remaining geckos scattered in panic, their raucous shrieking echoing off the rocks as they vanished back between the boulders, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

Grumbling to herself, Juniper lowered her gun and slung it over her shoulder. She cautiously approached the downed lizards, hopping down from rock to rock. As she drew closer, she knitted her brow at what she saw, a growing sense of unease settling in her stomach. No wonder the creatures had been so nervous and on edge. The older gecko, the one she'd shot first, had already been viciously wounded before her bullet found its mark. Its scaly hide was covered in fresh slashes, too clean-edged and precise to be anything other than the work of a blade. A human blade, at that. The blood around the wounds had barely had time to dry, and much of its mottled hide was stained a dark, rusty red. Juniper's frown deepened as she pieced together the evidence before her. Someone had fought with these beasts, and recently – very recently. The question was: who? And more importantly, where were they now?

She rolled it over with the tip of her rifle, its limbs flopping uselessly and its head lolling back as she spotted a flicker of color between its jaws. Prying them open, she pulled out a sticky saliva-covered scrap of leather caught between its teeth, decorated with a few broken feathers of red and black. She hadn't heard of anyone else getting into any trouble with the geckos. And she had never seen any birds with black and red feathers. Perhaps she needed to ask some of the other hunters when she got back to Bullworth.

She needed to head back anyway, if she was going to make it there before noon. And no doubt Grandpa Lyle was going to have other things on his mind than who could have injured a few geckos.

"Ugh."

Flopping both of the dead beasts over her shoulders, she turned and began the descent back towards the valley. It would be a long walk. And she had much to think on.

"Juniper, there you are!"

"Grandpa Lyle was worried you weren't going to show up in time!"

"Ugh, you smell like sweat and dead geckos. We'll need some time to sort you out."

She had barely managed to slip back in through the gate before she was set upon by a gaggle of fussing women, their voices a chorus of clucking and tutting. Protesting weakly, she watched helplessly as the gecko carcasses were unceremoniously discarded by the guard post. Before she could catch her breath, she found herself shepherded back towards the women's quarters, a flurry of activity surrounding her.

Once inside, she was promptly stripped of her coat and dirty clothes, the fabric peeled away to reveal skin marked by the day's grime. Rough cloths wiped her face free of dust, leaving her skin raw. She winced as her head was yanked one way and then another, two of the other girls fighting to work combs through the wild mess of tangled curls atop her head. Their determination was admirable, if painful. And then, as if to add insult to injury, it was back into that damned blue dress.

She hated that dress with a passion that burned hotter than the midday sun. It was a Pre-War relic, a dusty blue affair printed with faded pinkish-white flowers that might have once been cheerful. The fabric was ratty and fraying at the seams, a testament to its age and the scarcity of finer clothes in their world. It hung on her frame oddly, seeming to accentuate all the worst parts of her developing body. The dress transformed her into a scarecrow, with scrapes on her legs visible beneath the hem and bony arms dangling awkwardly out of puffy blue sleeves that were either too short or too long, never quite right. But for all its faults, it was still unmistakably a dress. And dresses, she knew with a mixture of resignation and resentment, were worn by the women of civilized folk. That was, after all, what the Broken Hooves prided themselves on being – civilized, a bastion of Pre-War values in a world gone mad.

Most of the other women seemed excited to wear them, at least. They took turns admiring themselves in the broken mirror on the wall, twirling in their skirts and striking the poses of civilized women trying to catch the eye of civilized men. Juniper couldn't fault them for it. There were very few things worth getting excited over out here, and they were so happy to be stuffed into dresses and paraded about as the fine civilized women of Bullworth Junction.

She did catch the eye of another young woman, wearing a faded pink and white checkered sundress with mismatched buttons, and the two shared a splendidly petulant roll of the eyes. Well, at least somebody else felt as silly as she did about this whole affair.

They all gathered out in the main square by the courthouse, a sea of colorful dresses and pressed suits swaying in the warm breeze. The townsfolk chatted excitedly, their voices creating a cheerful buzz that filled the air. Soon, they were greeted by the familiar, weathered face of Grandpa Lyle, his eye twinkling with delight as he approached. He clapped his calloused hands together in approval, the sound echoing across the square. "Well, I'll be!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Don't you all look wonderful today! Why, I haven't seen such a fine-looking bunch since my own courting days!"

Grandpa Lyle was not the oldest man in Bullworth Junction. He couldn't have been much older than 60. But to the Broken Hooves, he had gained Grandpa status even before his hair and beard had started to gray. He was everyone's Grandpa. He had probably been everyone's Grandpa even when he was in the springtime of youth. As far as Juniper knew, he might have been born as a Grandpa.

He was a scarred thing, having survived several challenges for his right as the Broken Hooves patriarch. He still bore several tattoos upon his weathered face and his left eye was faded and half blind. It made him look all the more ridiculous now that he was stuffed into an ill-fitted gray tweed suit, a tie wrapped around his neck and an oversized bowler hat perched at a rather jaunty angle on his head.

Juniper had seen a drawing of a 'clown' before while reading an old book, and while she was not entirely sure what a clown was or what it did, she couldn't shake the feeling that that was what Grandpa Lyle reminded her of in his suit. A clown.

"Our caravaneer is scheduled to arrive this afternoon. You all did a wonderful job of making Bullworth Junction clean and beautiful and ready for our visitor," he said, his voice tinged with pride and anticipation.

Juniper glanced about, taking in the transformation of their humble settlement. The rubbish heaps that made up the walls had been tidied up, their jagged edges smoothed and reinforced where possible. The sand path around town had been meticulously scraped, creating a more welcoming thoroughfare for their guest. The bones and dried blood around the fire pits had been diligently cleaned away, leaving behind only the faintest traces of their communal gatherings. Someone had even thought to hang up a few moth-eaten lengths of fabric in the courthouse window to serve as curtains. That was a nice touch, Juniper mused.

"Now the leader of this caravan has promised us very good trade in return for our brahmin and goods; new guns and weapons for our warriors to better protect us, more food and clean water, supplies of medicine greater than our stores of root powder, and much more. That is, of course, assuming that we make good trade partners. So I want you all to look and be at your best when he arrives. Be polite, well-mannered, and..." He waved his hand for a few moments in the air blankly, trying to find the word. "Be cultured. Yes, cultured. Help us prove that the Broken Hooves are well worth the trek this far out to Bullworth Junction."

A scrawny arm lifted itself from the gaggle of dolled-up women in front of him, waving insistently. Grandpa Lyle sighed, his weathered face creasing with exasperation. "No, Juniper. You're staying in town today. Whatever scheme you're cooking up in that head of yours to get out of this, the answer is no."

The crowd erupted in laughter, a few of the women elbowing Juniper playfully.

Juniper's freckled face fell into a frown.. "That's not what- I just wanted to know something. What's his name? It's a simple question."

"Name?" Grandpa Lyle echoed, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Who's this caravan master? Just in case we need to address them properly. It's only polite, right? Who is he?"

Grandpa Lyle frowned at her and reached into his pocket, glancing down and squinting his good eye at the yellowed paper in one hand just to double check one more time that everything was in order, that everything was ready. The handwriting was neat and tight, listing orders of possible goods, time of arrival, and very polite salutations. At the very bottom, signed in a tidy flourish, was the name.

"Mr. Fox."

Chapter Text

Mr. Fox arrived later that afternoon, right on schedule to the very minute, his punctuality as legendary as his reputation. A hail had gone up from the watchtower, echoing across the settlement, and very soon the fabled caravaneer and his formidable guards had been spotted strolling up the dusty road towards their town. An escort, comprised of the town's most respected citizens, was hastily sent to receive them. Very soon, the ramshackle metal gates creaked open, their rusty hinges announcing him even louder, and their esteemed visitor was led inside with all the pomp and circumstance Bullworth Junction could muster.

He was an odd-looking man, at least to Juniper. He was tall and too lithe, too sinewy, as if someone had taken his body at both ends and stretched him taut like a bowstring, his features sharp and feral like a predator's. Even stranger was his complexion; he was so very pale, his skin almost translucent in the blazing sunlight, his hair so very fine and blonde that it was near white.

His eyes were the most striking feature of all - vivid blue, as deep and cold as morning frost on a cactus, with tiny pinpricks of black at their centers that seemed to bore into one's very soul. He was dressed nicely in an Old World brown suit that was aged but well-kept, a relic from a bygone era that somehow seemed timeless on his otherworldly frame. He looked very much at ease, as if he owned the very ground he walked on, removing his well-worn fedora as a gesture of respect and holding it against his chest as he entered the town.

He was entirely different from the dark-eyed and sunburned populace they were used to seeing, and many of the Broken Hooves women were instantly smitten, whispering amongst themselves and tittering in little groups after he had passed by. His presence seemed to cast a spell over the town, leaving a wake of hushed conversations and furtive glances in his path. A small group of children followed at a distance, daring each other to get closer. Some of the bolder ones would creep forward, only to scamper back to the safety of the group when the stranger's piercing gaze swept over them.

At least it gave Juniper an easy excuse as to why she was tailing them. Everyone in the village was curious about this exotic stranger, and she blended seamlessly into the throng of onlookers. As she shadowed his steps, she couldn't help but wonder what business had brought such an unusual visitor to their remote settlement.

He was flanked by two other men, both of whom towered over the villagers in height and stature. They were clad in the well-worn leather armor so characteristic of seasoned mercenary guards, their imposing presence a testament to Mr. Fox's apparently discerning choice. These hired protectors stood ramrod straight, their posture unwavering as they snapped to attention at their employer's slightest utterance. Their gloved hands never strayed far from the gleaming machetes sheathed at their belts, fingers twitching with barely concealed readiness.

The mercenaries' demeanor seemed oddly tense for what was ostensibly a simple visit to inspect some brahmin. Their eyes darted warily from shadow to shadow, muscles coiled beneath their armor as if anticipating trouble at any moment. Perhaps their unease could be attributed to the unfamiliarity of their surroundings, a natural wariness in a strange new place. Or maybe it was the palpable weight of so many eyes upon them, the silent scrutiny of the armed tribals all around them.

Mr. Fox had no such qualms. He walked in easy step alongside Grandpa Lyle, smiling steadily and laughing politely at his host's remarks and jokes. They had gone to survey the various brahmin herds surrounding Bullworth, and evidently the visit was going very well, if the greedy little smile on Grandpa Lyle's face was any indication.

Juniper tugged at the collar of her dress irritably, meandering closer as casually as possible as she trailed after them. There was nothing particularly noteworthy to listen to; haggling over herd prices, how many caps per shipment of leather, and something about Grandpa Lyle's favorite brahmin jerky recipe. Mr. Fox continued to smile and chuckle upon every cue, and all in all, there was nothing interesting about it at all.

She finally glanced up when one of the guards suddenly cursed and fell behind the procession, pulling out his machete and using it to scrape at a wad of dog shit on his boot. The dull glint of the blade's worn metal caught her eye, and she was reminded of the deep slashing wounds on the geckos she had brought in from the east hills.

She coughed a little awkwardly as she sidled up to a safe distance away from him, looking up at the sky and then down to where he cleaned the blade with the edge of his coat. The guard's face was twisted in disgust as he wiped the foul-smelling muck from his weapon. Juniper hesitated for a moment, her heart racing as she struggled to find the right words.

"That's a nice cutter you got there," she said in her very best conversational tone, her voice a touch higher than usual. "Well-cared for, that blade. I can tell."

The man grunted.

"Er...I hope the trip out here was safe enough. Did you end up having to use it much?" She smiled.

He turned to eye her unkindly.

"We keep our territory pretty clear, but I'm sure you're well-experienced about the dangers off the main roads. You know? Raiders, molerats, nightstalkers... geckos..."

No answer.

"It's just that I saw you arrive from the south, and this morning I was over towards the east and I found a few geckos that looked like they'd already been in a tangle. A few of them almost looked like they'd been cut up. With a blade. Like that one?"

He looked up suddenly, still silent but his shoulders tensing and eyes narrowing.

She startled. "Wait, what are you—"

He took a step towards her, and Juniper found herself backing away, a hand reaching instinctively towards where her rifle normally hung on her back.

"Desino, Vibius!"

A hissing command rang out from behind them, and the guard snapped to attention, chin lifted and arms by his side as Mr. Fox slithered out from between two shanties nearby. He was smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes as his gaze darted from his towering mercenary to the young woman in the blue dress. His voice, when he spoke, was oddly smooth and almost whisper-like. "You'll have to excuse him. He's not very good at dealing with... people."

He made a sharp motion with one hand, fingers flicking dismissively through the air, and the man apparently named Vibius nodded curtly. Without a word, the imposing guard strode off, his heavy footsteps fading into the background noise of the settlement. Juniper and Mr. Fox were left to stare at one another in such awkward silence that she almost wished the vicious guard would be ordered to come back. At least then she'd have a clear threat to focus on, rather than this unsettling stranger.

The pale-featured man looked her over with an air of disinterested appraisal, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept across her form. After what felt like an eternity, he cleared his throat gently, the sound barely audible in the tense atmosphere between them. "I do not believe we have been introduced," he said, his whisper-like voice carrying a hint of amusement. "I am Mr. Nicholas Fox." He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that might have been polite if not for the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Juniper. My name is Juniper," she answered.

He stared at her as if waiting for her to continue, and she tried to think up some polite topic of conversation that would please Grandpa Lyle. Perhaps something about the weather, or the brahmin, or...

"You don't look like a Nicholas," she blurted out, wincing as the words left her mouth.

"Hm. Do I not?"

"Ah, that is to say… um…"

"It is still a sight better than being named after a shrub, Juniper." he answered smoothly, smiling as evenly as ever. Juniper barely had time to even process the insult, and was ready to give the man a righteously indignant reply before he continued. "Mm. Perhaps I can be of assistance where my companion was not. I overheard your concerns about geckos, was it?"

She cursed inwardly, regretting even bringing up the subject of the damned lizards. She fought the urge to fidget under his half-lidded gaze. "I just saw he had a knife, sir. Big flat-bladed thing. Nasty looking, if you don't mind me saying." She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I brought back some geckos from the eastern hills with slices on them, clean cuts that weren't natural. Got me thinking, and I thought maybe you had run into them on your travels."

The pale man's smile widened a fraction, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. It was almost unnerving, the way his expression never quite reached his eyes. "I see," he drawled, his voice silky smooth. "Yes, I'm afraid we did run into some geckos on the road. Nasty little creatures, wouldn't you agree? My men drove them back, of course. Quite efficiently, I might add." His gaze sharpened, boring into her. "Was there... something amiss? You seem rather concerned about a few lizards,  Juniper."

Her mind raced back to that odd strip of hide with the black and red feathers in the gecko's jaws. Neither Mr. Fox nor his men were wearing red or black feathers.

"No, sir," she said.

"But yes, the geckos. How fortuitous that you went and took care of that little problem for us, Juniper. I trust that you were more suitably attired at the time?"

"Attired?"

"Or is that your preferred hunting gear? Very unique."

He was mocking her. She pulled at the collar of her garment and was suddenly very much aware of her appearance. She was standing without a gun and without shoes, stuffed into a dress that pinched too high above her waist and hung shapelessly around her chest, with swollen blue sleeves and a billowing skirt that nearly swallowed her up. And all to impress the man before her, who looked the complete opposite of impressed.

She had been right about how foolish it all seemed. They were all clowns. Broken Hooves tribals playing at being civilized folk, dressing up in costumes and putting on a play for anyone who had enough coin to interest Grandpa Lyle. It was like when she had been a child and had put on her mother's clothes and played at being an adult for a few hours, before she became bored with it and ran off back to the fields. It was all a childish game. And they were surely not any better for it.

She found herself suddenly venomous about it all, her frustration bubbling to the surface like hot tar. She openly frowned at the man, struggling to maintain her composure as she tried to keep her voice airy and controlled. "Of course, sir," she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "I was glad that I could be of service to both you and my people. It was... quite an experience." She paused, a hint of challenge creeping into her tone. "I do hope your guard, that Mr. Vibius, doesn't mind that I finished what he could not?"

Mr. Fox barely smiled, only enough to show his clear amusement. He adjusted his tie with a practiced flourish and tipped his hat ever so slightly, as if acknowledging some private joke. "Oh, I will make very sure to ask him, Miss Juniper," he drawled, his voice rich with implications. "He might have some interesting thoughts on the matter. I'm quite looking forward to that particular conversation."

"Mr. Fox!"

Grandpa Lyle was upon them both in two strides, suddenly wrapping a heavy arm around Juniper's narrow shoulders and shaking her gently in a way that could be interpreted as a very fond and somewhat dangerous warning. "Oh I see you've met our dear Juniper," he said. "One of the town girls, fancies herself a scout, don't you Juniper? Ha! Ha! She's full of stories, this one! I hope you two are getting along?" His grip tightened around her.

"Miss Juniper was kindly sharing her conversation and company with me," the pale man replied, "And I do hate to cut it short, most assuredly. But I think we have further business to discuss regarding your fine village and your herds, do we not? I believe the powers that I represent are going to be very pleased. If you would escort me back to the main hall, I'd like further words with you, Mr. Lyle."

Grandpa Lyle smiled so widely that Juniper was sure the corners of his mouth were meeting on the back of his head, and he all but shoved her away, going to wrap his arm around Mr. Fox's back in a far too friendly manner, leading him off towards the courthouse.

Juniper was left standing in the dust, feeling more ill at ease than she had ever been in her life.

Some hours later, as the sun began its retreat down the western horizon, Mr. Fox and his guards were striding towards the exit, despite Grandpa Lyle and several others pleading with them to stay the night. It had been so long since they had entertained guests, and most of the Broken Hooves were hoping to turn the visit into an excuse to celebrate.

"Please, it's no trouble at all. We have rooms prepared for you in the upper floor of the hall if you want them."

"Will you not stay even for a meal?"

"Yes, stay at least until morning? It's dangerous out there at night, even for your guards."

Mr. Fox politely declined them again and again as elegantly as possible, though he was clearly weary of it and his steps did not falter as he and his men neared the gate. His blue eyes flickered and caught sight of the black-curled girl in the ugly blue dress leaning on the side of the guard post. She did not look particularly happy to see him, and that seemed to make him all the more genial. "Ah, but I'm sure it is safe. I hear Miss Juniper here is hard at work to protect us all from the threat of a gecko invasion."

The men laughed and the girl bristled, moving upright to slink off, but he slid suddenly in front of her. "I would stay," he said, "Truly I would. But we need to be off on the road while it's cool enough to travel. I will send the terms you outlined to my employer, Mr. Lyle. I'm sure an equitable agreement can be reached."

He reached out, striking fast as a rattlesnake and taking up the girl's hand. Juniper looked undeniably startled, and only the presence of Grandpa Lyle and the other men of her tribe kept her from yanking it back out of his grip or sending it across the fox's face for his assumptions. Instead her posture went stiff and she watched in a tensely docile way as he lifted it nearly to his lips, his fingers wrapped around hers, his other hand pressing his hat to his chest.

"Forgive my little joke, Miss Juniper. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. And I am sure that we will be meeting again... very soon." With that, he dropped her hand and turned on his heel, vanishing through the exit as the metal gate slammed shut behind him.

Grandpa Lyle rubbed at his bearded face in a long-suffering way. He had only just had time to change out of his suit and into the more comfortable battered brahmin leather he favored, but hadn't even had time to enjoy it before he was set upon by the nattering harpy in the blue dress. He cast aside the strip of leather and red and black feather adornments that she had thrust into his hands, placing a foot over it with some finality even as she scrambled to pull it out from under his boot.

"Juniper, this is no time to be bothering me with your nonsense. I've already got too much to deal with."

"Grandpa Lyle, I am not joking. Something is just… wrong! Wrong, about all this. About Mr. Fox, too."

"I said that's enough, Juniper! For fuck's sake, girl. I know you are trying to be helpful, but listen to yourself. This is one of the best trade agreements we've had in moons. I won't have you distracting everyone. And I swear to Mother-in-the-Earth, if you insult Mr. Fox or do something to ruin this…" He trailed off, the threat obvious.

Juniper tangled her hair in both hands, twisting the strands until her scalp ached. She knew she sounded mad, perhaps even delusional, but she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. There were a million things that could have happened that could have landed those feathers in that beast's mouth, she reasoned. A hundred innocent explanations. More than anything, it was Vibius's unexpected aggression and Mr. Fox's downright odd demeanor that had set her off about it.

Grandpa Lyle placed a scarred hand on her scrawny shoulder. "I'm not trying to patronize you, Juniper," he said, his voice softer but still tinged with frustration, "but you're wound too tight about it all. We need this trade to go through. It could mean the difference between a harsh winter and a bearable one. Now I want you to go back to your quarters and try to get some sleep. And I want you in the west field tomorrow to help with the brahmin, no lurking about in the field, no scouting, and especially no trying to find Mr. Fox or his band. No arguments. And I've heard e-fucking-nough about the geckos. You hear me, girl?"

"If you would at least just send out a patrol—"

"I will consider it in the morning. Good night, Juniper."

"But—"

"Good NIGHT. Juniper."

Grandpa Lyle turned and laboriously ascended the worn courthouse stairs. It was clear the matter was closed, at least for tonight. Juniper lowered her head in defeat, a shuddering sigh escaping her lips as she tugged at the constricting collar of her dress. With dragging feet, she made her way back towards the girls' bungalow and her awaiting bed, carefully slinking past the clusters of laughing, chattering women lounging outside in the cool evening air.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but sullen and thoughtful silence in her small room, broken only by the occasional creak of her bed frame as she tossed and turned. Then, in the darkness, came the unmistakable sounds of ripping blue fabric, followed by the rustle of cloth hitting the floor.

If Grandpa Lyle was done with this charade, then so was she.

Several miles away, after being sure that the Broken Hooves had not sent anyone to tail them, the path of Mr. Fox and his men turned abruptly from south to east. Traveling over dunes and into the rocky hills, it took them nearly half the night to finally reach their camp, nestled in a deep gorge away from the territory patrols of the nearby tribals.

Most of the Legion's soldiers were asleep, packed in tightly beneath tattered red cloth tents, or sprawled out to rest on their bedrolls. Those of rank, however, were gathered around the fire, lifting to their feet and saluting as the three figures skulked in from the surrounding darkness.

"Vale!"

The pale-featured man nodded in passing, but lost no time in ridding himself of his disguise, meandering over to his tent and carefully pulling off the business suit, shoes, tie and hat, folding them neatly in case of further use before putting them away. In private, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. The profligate suits with their layers of undergarments and constricting trousers were as uncomfortable on him as they had been on the tribals. He simply knew how to bear the discomfort better. He emerged moments later, dressed back in his armor of leather and scarlet, taking his place in the circle around the fire.

Mr. Fox became Vulpes Inculta once more.

A Legion Primus offered them each a plate of food." How did things go with the Broken Hooves?"

Vibius had also shed himself of his mercenary disguise and sported the red and black feathered helm of his rank, though it was missing several of its decorative plumes, and was ravenously tucking into a meal of beans and stewed molerat. He was looking as temperamental as ever, stabbing the bits of meat with too much enthusiasm. "The Broken Hooves? Fucking embarrasments, even for dissolutes. They'd all dressed up in Old World suits and dresses like Inculta there, and the old fart in the gray suit, their leader... Puh. I think he would have led a song and dance number for us if he thought it would sell the brahmin quicker."

His fellow Decanus nodded thoughtfully. "I almost hoped one of them would start something, at least to regain some fucking dignity."

Vibius snorted and spat into the fire. "Speaking of starting something...there was that bitch with the black hair, looked like she'll need the sass fucked out of her at some point. Said she'd been poking around near here. I was going to deal with her before Inculta stepped in and started flirting."

"What do you mean, she was poking around here? The hell is that, Vulpes?"

"I questioned the girl." Vulpes delicately speared a stringy section of meat, calmly chewing and swallowing before answering. "She knows nothing. I pressed her on the issue, and the extent of her knowledge was that we had had sliced up that group of geckos near here. Presumably with the one that tried to bite your head off, Vibius."

The Decanus grumbled and reached up to the spot where the beast's teeth had scraped his helmet, making off with several of his prized red and black feathers. "Fuckin' things."

"Regardless. Their patriarch, embarrassingly eager as he was to make the sale, is not the sort to give up his tribe easily. And their town does have defenses, more so than the last tribe. Still. Their village is full of healthy women and children, and that number of brahmin will feed the Legion for months. I believe they are worth taking."

"I can send word back to the Legate that we'll have them by the end of this week. He should be waiting for our report by now. There's a contubernium that should be traveling nearby, and should join up with us after—"

Vulpes held up one hand. "That will not be necessary. If that girl is lingering around their eastern border, there's a chance she could rouse enough suspicion for one of their patrols to stumble upon us here. The Legate does not need to hear of us sustaining losses or losing viable slave stock because of a few geckos. Their leader, their 'Grandpa' was kind enough to tell me very interesting bits of information about their patrol routes, and there are numerous weak areas in their defenses. Our current numbers will suffice."

There was a round of murmuring from the group around the fire.

"It's our fucking hides if we fail. They decimated the last group that failed. We had to watch."

"We only have two contubernia here. Their fighters outnumber us twice over."

"Caesar wants new stock, and the Broken Hooves warriors are pushovers compared to the northern tribes. We can take them out."

"Can we?"

Vibius set his plate aside, flexing his broad shoulders and cracking his neck. "For the first time on this miserable fucking trip, I like the way this is going. Forget the disguises. The recruits are damn well itching for this raid. When do we want them ready?"

Vulpes stood, pulling the mongrel's pelt headdress over his head. "As I said, I am more than confident that our numbers will suffice. Decanii, meet me in my tent and we will go over the best routes to the center of their Junction. Primus, go and wake the rest and make sure that all preparations are properly seen to."

"Ita vero."

"Very good. Let us begin. I want all of your men ready by morning."

Chapter Text

The precision strikes of Vulpes Inculta and the Legion forces dismantled their paltry defenses within hours, leaving the settlement vulnerable and unaware of the impending doom. The Broken Hooves' morning patrol was wiped out without a shot being fired, before they could even reach for their weapons or signal their distress. The changing of the lookout in the courthouse's tower happened much as it always had, a routine so ingrained that no one noticed the glassy-eyed stare or blood-covered throat of the man atop the watch tower, nor the silent red-dressed figure vanishing down the stairs.

Precious moments slipped by with no one to watch for trouble or to alert the warriors to the figures appearing out in the desert. Cookfires were starting to burn, the aroma of morning meals wafting through the air. There was nothing but the soft sound of conversation and the lulled noises of the villagers beginning their day.

The sun was not even halfway over the horizon when Juniper was roused from her slumber by a gunshot and a cry of alarm, jolting upright atop her mattress. Her heart raced as she blinked away the last remnants of an uneasy sleep, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Not even fully awake, she blindly fumbled for her clothes, her fingers clumsy with urgency. She pulled on her trousers and coat, grabbing her rifle from its place by the bed before she snatched up her boots and hopped out the door, nearly falling in her haste.

The morning watchman up in the smaller tower was creating a cacophony, banging loudly upon an iron pot. The crude alarm bell clattered and clanged, every face in the village turned toward it. His voice, hoarse with panic, carried across the awakening town as he screamed directions at the stunned townsfolk below. "East! East!" he bellowed, his words punctuated by the rhythmic clanging. "Men coming from the east! And south! There are more!" The urgency in his voice grew with each passing second. "East and south! Men from—"

Another shot rang out from outside the wall, its sharp crack echoing across the village. The watchman's body jerked violently, then slumped forward upon his post. A gruesome fountain of crimson erupted from the bullet hole that had appeared between his wide, unseeing eyes. His lifeless form teetered for a moment before disappearing from view, toppling out of sight with a sickening thud.

More gunfire rattled the morning stillness. Juniper's eyes widened in shock and fear as she hastily jammed her worn leather hat onto her head, hands trembling. Without a second thought, she broke into a run, her boots pounding the dirt as she hurried towards the center of town.

It was utter chaos, a scene of panic and confusion that assaulted Juniper's senses. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing as she narrowly avoided trampling a wailing toddler crouched in the sand, tiny hands clamped desperately over her ears. The village dogs, their instincts aflame with the scent of fresh blood, bayed and snarled with a ferocity she'd never seen before. Their frenzied howls seemed to come from every direction at once, adding to the confusion and terror.

Women and children shrieked in fear, mothers frantically searched for their little ones, scooping them up with trembling arms and fleeing towards the safety of the town's center. Meanwhile, the Broken Hooves men and warriors bristled with an array of weapons, from ancient spears to modern firearms. They gripped their arms tightly, eyes darting wildly as they struggled to discern the source of the attack, unsure which way to turn or where to focus their defense.

Through the mayhem, Juniper caught sight of Grandpa Lyle, his weathered face a mask of fury and alarm. The old man's voice boomed above the din as he bellowed orders, trying desperately to impose some semblance of order on the rapidly deteriorating situation. But it was clear that time was not on their side. There was no opportunity for a coordinated response, no chance to mount an organized defense. With each passing second, the situation spiraled further out of control.

Juniper herself even hesitated, pausing to check her ammo and reload as her mind raced. East and south. The south's main gate was fortified. If she headed to help the east wall—

"North! Shots from the north! Juniper, with me!" An older man wheezed as he edged past her, running along the barrier and struggling to reload his pistol at the same time.

She cursed aloud, eyes widening as she changed course and bolted towards the north wall, leaping up onto the overturned car that served as their crude rampart. There was barely even a moment for assessment as she stood, readying her rifle. Men in red armor were already scaling the haphazard barriers with alarming precision, and from three directions at once. Her blood turned cold as she saw the flash of red and black feathers on one of their helmets...

Red and black feathers, just like the ones she had found by the eastern border.

Smoke was starting to stream by them. Something in Junction was on fire. People were screaming. It was all going wrong.

There was no time to think. Without even thinking, she lifted her gun and targeted the advancing form of one of the red-dressed raiders, settling over his torso before squeezing the trigger. The familiar kick of the rifle thudded back into her shoulder and the enemy warrior fell, clawing at his chest through his armor as he landed sprawled into the sand.

She trained her sights upon one of the raiders who had just begun to clamber over a shorter gap in the barrier. The intruder was turning to edge sideways between an overturned bus and a rusted metal sheet, intent on slipping through. Juniper inhaled deeply, steadying her nerves and her aim. She squeezed the trigger just as he tore his way into the inner town, the crack of her rifle echoing off the nearby structures.

The raider stumbled, so close to her position that she heard his pained grunt. But to her horror, he seemed to shrug off the injury, his momentum carrying him forward. Instead of falling, he turned his attention to the older man who had accompanied Juniper there. The raider's machete glinted in the firelight as it rose and fell again and again, chopping indiscriminately. The old man's desperate attempts to fend off the attack were futile. He fell with a gurgling wail, his blood staining the dusty ground beneath him.

Juniper's heart raced, the acrid smell of gunpowder mixing with the metallic scent of fresh blood. She knew she had to act fast, or she'd be next. She fell back, hands desperately reloading her rifle—

"It's that girl! Somebody grab that little whore!" A familiar voice.

She could pause for only a moment as the snarling command rang through the air, but she recognized the man it was coming from. Though dressed differently, bearing somewhat tattered crimson and black feathers on his helmet, the unmistakable figure of Vibius was starting towards her.

Juniper raised her rifle again, but the man whirled with unexpected agility, bearing down on her with alarming speed. She stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her ears, before spinning on her heel and bolting. As she fled, another red-armored assailant vaulted over a nearby barrier, landing mere inches from her path. She swerved sharply, the whistle of his machete slicing through the air where she'd been a split second before.

Instinct and training kicked in as she sprinted towards the town center, her legs pumping furiously. She knew it was where the warriors were supposed to regroup and mount their defense. If she could just reach it in time, there might still be a chance...

But as she rounded the final corner, her hopes shattered. The town center was awash in a sea of crimson. Red-uniformed soldiers swarmed the area like angry ants, their weapons glinting in the harsh sunlight. The lifeless bodies of red-furred dogs lay strewn about, their coats now matted with gore. And there, scattered among the chaos like broken dolls, were the fallen Broken Hooves, their blood seeping into the parched earth beneath them. The sight hit Juniper like a physical blow, momentarily stealing her breath and leaving her frozen in horror at the edge of the carnage.

She stopped short, nearly tripping herself to keep from tumbling into view as she fell back with her back pressed against the wall of a nearby building. Her heart was pounding, pulse thundering between her ears as she heard the shouts of the men she had fled from, coming ever closer.

Her knee knocked up against something. A plank of wood came loose from the wall and she dropped to all fours, lifting up the loose boards and wiggling into the tiny space to let them drop shut behind her, thudding back into place just as footsteps ran by outside. She found herself in the dark, huddled in the foundation beneath what she guessed was one of the supply sheds, in a hole she dearly hoped wasn't already occupied by scorpions. She was shaking violently, clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasps for breath, trying to calm herself before throwing her rifle back over one shoulder, worming her way forward on her elbows to turn her eye near one of the cracks between the boards.

From her new-found hiding place, she saw a narrow view of Junction's courthouse square. The old brick building was locked and boarded, surrounded by the men wearing red as they prowled back and forth amongst the fallen corpses of her tribe. Though the crackling of fire was growing slowly louder, the gunshots and the screaming had ceased. There seemed to be a standoff. What few remained of the Broken Hooves men were now penned in with the women and children seeking safety in the old pre-war ruin, circled by the murderous soldiers.

They whirled abruptly as another figure in crimson materialized from the chaos; a towering, ashen-faced man adorned with the fearsome hood of a coyote mongrel. His arms were folded neatly behind his back, lending an air of eerie composure as he strode purposefully toward the heart of the ravaged town. With each measured step, he navigated the carnage beneath his feet, callously disregarding the strewn bodies and debris that littered his path.. His gliding pace came to a stop amongst his fellows as he turned and faced the courthouse.

"I address the patriarch of the Broken Hooves, Mr. Lyle. I am Vulpes Inculta, loyal servant of Caesar's Legion. Step out for negotiations and the remainder of your tribe will be spared. Refuse, and we will burn you in your warren, and all your children with you. This will be the last time I ask."

His soft voice somehow rose above the breeze and the crackle of flames around him. The familiar tone, sibilant and eerily cold as ever, caused Juniper's eyes to widen slowly in the blackness of her hiding place.

Mr. Fox had returned, and brought her people's ruin with him.

For several long, agonizing minutes, there was nothing but the distant crackling and popping of the spreading fire and the occasional grumble of the Legion soldiers. The acrid smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. At one point, one of the fallen Broken Hooves on the ground uttered a strangled groan and shifted slightly amongst the bodies, his fingers twitching in the dirt. The sound caused one of the frustrated Legionaries to storm over, his face contorted with anger and impatience. Without hesitation, he brought his heavy, iron-studded boot down several times on top of the man's skull with sickening wet crunching sounds that echoed in the eerie silence. The groaning stopped abruptly, replaced by a final, gurgling exhale.

Another tense minute crawled by, each second feeling like an eternity. The man in the coyote head – Vulpes Inculta – lifted his hand to signal the beginning of the assault, his fingers curling into a fist. Just as he was about to give the order, he was interrupted when the weathered door of Junction's courthouse creaked open. Grandpa Lyle emerged, his weathered face set in grim determination. He was flanked by two of the last remaining tribe warriors, their eyes darting nervously between the Legion forces and their elderly leader.

Mr. Fox – 'Vulpes', she reminded herself – stepped forward to face them. Grandpa Lyle stood firm, but even from a distance Juniper could see that the grizzled old man was shaken, surrounded by ruin caused by the very man he had welcomed with open arms not a day earlier. He lifted an arm to signal his men to stay back and went to meet Vulpes in the middle of the bloodstained yard. The two men spoke, but Juniper could not make out their words from so far away. Grandpa Lyle's body language was desperate, quick and rapid under a veneer of trying to keep calm.

Vulpes... Well, she could not read him at all.

An agreement seemed to be reached, Grandpa Lyle burying his scarred face in both weathered hands for a moment, dragging downward in distress. Vulpes remained smiling in an eerily soothing way, seeming at ease in his dog's-head cowl and surrounded by fear and destruction. The pale-featured man even gestured lightly with his palm towards the foreboding courthouse, signaling for Grandpa Lyle to simply get on with it, as though it were merely his turn now in some casual card game and the town was not slowly burning around them.

Beneath the supply shed, smothered in smoke and shadow, Juniper took aim. Slowly pushing the barrel of the rifle through the crack in the wood, she sighted as well as she could, the foggy lens narrowing in on the dog-masked man. She was unsteady, taking several deep breaths but failing to calm her nerves enough to stop shaking. She bit her lip until it bled, but she could not focus.

She was used to picking off coyotes and molerats, not sniping enemy soldiers. Vulpes turned when one of the soldiers addressed him, and the crosshairs settled right between his eerie blue eyes for just a moment, but still she did not take the shot.

She wanted to say it was because of logic; a simple deduction that killing the man in charge might devolve things into further chaos, end things with the outright slaughter of what remained of her people. She might miss. It was entirely possible she would miss, trying to shoot in this state, and she would be found and killed. Or worse. Killing their commanding officer would be only the briefest of victories, if that.

That and... she was afraid.

She was hideously afraid, more than she had ever been in her life. And though her rage and bile practically boiled in the pit of her stomach, it was choked with a more primal fear that clogged her throat and froze her blood despite the heat of the nearby fires. She was afraid of them, of the things they might do to her if they found her. Even more so, she was afraid of him. So she pulled her gun back from the hole, wiped at her face and found her hand wet with tears, and she remained hidden.

The Broken Hooves emerged warily from the courthouse in ones and twos, herded into the center of the town and shoved downward to kneel upon the blood-spattered sand. The men – there were not many men left – they were separated from the others and put under heavy guard. They were silent and defeated, watching with frustrated, dulled anger as the women and children were led out next. One of the oldest men among them, a village elder, began sobbing when he saw his wife pulled away by one of the legionaries. Vibius turned upon him in aggressive disgust, and with two heavy blows of the Decanus's blade, the man crumpled into silence on the ground next to his fellows.

The children were violently wrenched from their mothers' arms, their small bodies flailing as they were torn away. Those who wailed or screamed too loudly were struck mercilessly, their cries abruptly silenced by cruel blows. The legionaries carried them off to a distant corner of the village. Even the tiniest toddlers, some barely steady on their feet, were forced to march away on trembling legs. Their grimy faces were streaked with tears and dirt, eyes wide with terror as they clung desperately to a handful of older children. These young teenagers, no more than children themselves, tried frantically to quiet the little ones. Only a single unweaned baby remained, still nursing at her mother's breast. The woman clutched her baby girl with such fierce desperation that the child was nearly suffocated against her heaving chest.

The women sat huddled across the square from the men as Vulpes and another officer stalked around them, speaking in Latin. They were put into groups, with an unsettling emphasis placed on the woman with the baby and those women already pregnant. Their hands were swiftly bound together in front of them with rope before being shuffled into a two-abreast line formation and forced down a nearby path towards the open gates.

Juniper's gut clenched in sudden dread as she saw Vibius and Vulpes turn to survey the surviving men, the only ones left in the destroyed village. Vibius was smiling, his teeth glinting in the fading light like a predator's fangs. No good could possibly come of that. She watched with growing horror as the two Legion officers exchanged knowing glances, their eyes cold and calculating. The remaining males, battered and exhausted, stood in a ragged line, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. Vibius took a step forward, his smile widening into a cruel grin that sent chills down Juniper's spine.

Vulpes remained as straight-laced as ever, turning to look down at two of the younger men, the only ones remaining in their fighting prime. One of them was clutching a heavily bloodied wound on his shoulder but stared defiantly back. The other chose silence as his shield. Vulpes spoke to them, again too softly for Juniper to hear, but the intent was clear. Join the soldiers who had just murdered their family and friends, or die with them. The young man with the wounded shoulder spat at Vulpes hatefully, his answer clear.

His spittle did not even have time to land on the dog-cowled man's boots before Vibius was upon him. Juniper turned her face away and resisted the urge to cover her ears as the sound of the man's screams drowned out the cracking of his own bones. It was only after a few moments of silence before she peeked out again. The young man lay in a twisted heap of red pulp on the ground, next to his silent friend who stared at it with an expression Juniper had never seen before, eyes blank and face bloodless and white.

Vulpes spoke to him again. In a halting, mechanical motion, the silent young man rose on shaking legs and followed one of the other Legionaries out of view. Part of Juniper wanted to hate him for turning traitor. The other part wondered if she would have done the exact same thing.

The other men, who were either old or not fit for combat, were lined up without a word, resigned to their obvious fates. Vulpes barely gave a glance their way before motioning with two fingers. The machetes of the Legionaries moved one by one, and each of her tribal brothers fell in turn, their throats open and bubbling red. That left only two Broken Hooves in the village – Juniper, still hidden beneath the shed, and Grandpa Lyle, who had watched his tribe decimated and abducted before his very eyes.

Grandpa Lyle wore the same expression as the young man who had turned himself over to the enemy – a sort of ghastly, barely-there unaware blankness of the face, a dull numbness after the initial shock. He hardly seemed to be the man that Juniper had known and followed for so many years. In place of the scarred, one-eyed tribal patriarch that had led them to relative prosperity and had survived years of hardship and challenge, he was now simply a feeble old man, face wrinkled and weathered, shuddering and powerless against the young men surrounding him.

A small contingent of Legionaries marched back to the now eerily deserted square, their heavy footsteps echoing in the silence. They carried two massive wooden beams, clearly torn from the nearby structures with brute force. The beams were hefted into place and driven into the ground with a sickening thud. Juniper watched in horror as the soldiers busied themselves around the crude structure, the ominous creaking of rope and the sharp, methodical ringing of hammer on nail filling the air.

Grandpa Lyle was seized roughly by his shoulders, calloused hands digging into his flesh as he was forcibly dragged toward the ghastly contraption. Ropes were viciously wound around his wrists and ankles, biting into his skin. Without warning, cruel spikes were driven through his hands, piercing flesh and muscle before embedding in the unyielding wood. His agonized cries echoed across the burning square.

With a groan of effort, the cross was hauled upright, Grandpa Lyle's battered body silhouetted against the merciless sky. The sun, now climbing higher, beat down relentlessly, its scorching rays seeming to mock his suffering. There he hung, suspended in torment, his once-proud frame now broken and bound. From this vantage point he was forced to bear witness to the grim aftermath of destruction – the lifeless bodies of his people strewn about the smoldering ruins of Bullworth Junction.

As a final blow, Vulpes pulled free a small leather pouch, tossing it up and down in his palm a few thoughtful times before dumping out a small sum of coin into the sand around Grandpa Lyle's cross.

"Here is the payment we agreed upon for our trade. And try not to worry overly much... Your tribe goes on to a purpose greater than any you would have given them. Thank you again for your hospitality."

And with that, the pale, gently smiling man turned and was gone.

Chapter Text

It was well over an hour before Juniper felt it was safe to flee her hiding spot, a decision made more necessary as the fires spread to the storage hut and the heat and smoke forced her from her little warren. The acrid smell of burning wood and thatch filled her nostrils, making her eyes water and her throat burn. She coughed softly, trying to muffle the sound with her sleeve. At least there was nobody to hear her. There had been no sounds from any lingering Legion presence.

In fact, there had been no sound at all. The hubbub of what had begun as another ordinary day in Bullworth had been replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence, broken only by the ominous crackle of burning wood or the skittering sands propelled by a hot desert breeze. The wind carried ash and embers, swirling them around the charred and jagged ruins of what had once been her home.

After pulling herself out from beneath the shack, she made her way carefully over the fallen bodies that lay sprawled and scattered across the square, picking her way through pools of red and scattered entrails and willing herself not to look too closely at their faces. There was only one person she wanted to see to now.

"Juniper..."

Grandpa Lyle's voice creaked in weak surprise as she approached, shifting some in his position upon the cross. Now that she was closer, Juniper could see just what they had really done to him. The gouges from the nails were still bleeding heavily and his legs were hanging in such a twisted manner that it hurt to look at, each broken several times over.

Juniper wet her cracked lips, starting to reach up for the ropes binding his ankles. They were to high for her to really maneuver them, her fingertips barely brushing the rough fibers. She set one shoulder to the wood of the cross and heaved her weight against it, trying to push it down, but it did not budge.

"Grandpa Lyle, you just... You just wait a second. Okay, I've got a knife. I'm going to get you down," she said, though the hopelessness of that prospect was evident, voice cracking despite her attempt at assurance. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the small blade, its meager size a stark contrast to the enormity of the task before her.

Grandpa Lyle shook his battered head, turning his one good eye down on the girl sternly. Blood trickled from a gash above his brow as he spoke, each word a labored effort. "Juniper, no. You know I'm not getting down from here. Those red-plumed fucks, they made sure of that. But you… You're still alive. You need to leave here, now."

She knew there was no arguing the point. Even if she somehow cut him down, she could not carry him. Grandpa Lyle was going to die there, with the rest of his people.

She closed her eyes a moment before nodding in understanding. "I know. I'm sorry."

"There's no time for you to linger, my girl. I want you to get going. Find the other tribes, find someone to take you in. Tell them what happened. Gods but I'm glad to see you made it. You're a good girl."

"Grandpa Lyle. I can't leave you here. Not like this."

"Damn it, girl, I told you-"

"I know. But I can't just… Grandpa Lyle. Close your eyes."

"Juniper, no. They'll hear the shot."

"I know," she replied softly, leaning down to pick up a broken Legion spear. "Close your eyes, okay? I'm going to be quick. I'll try to be quick, I'm so sorry. But I don't know what else to do."

His brows lifted in surprise, then settled once more in understanding. Sweat was already beginning to drip down the wrinkles in his tattooed face as the sun beat down upon him, broken only by the choking smoke that drifted past him as the breeze changed course. With a slow nod, he shut his eyes and lifted his chin.

Below him, Juniper brought the spear up and tested its heft. She had never been good with spears. If only she could just pull up her rifle, take aim at where she knew it would be quick... the side of the head, up through the jaw, between the eyes... No. He was right. The shot would echo around the hills for miles. And she had had her sights between the eyes of one man already this day and had not taken the shot. If she couldn't pull the trigger for a man she hated, she had no right to do so to someone she loved.

"I'm sorry," she said, placing the blade of the spear to the front of his throat.

"So am I."

The noises that Grandpa Lyle made next were no longer words. And only after several agonizingly long moments did the noises stop. Afterward, Juniper sat down in the sand below his cross, amongst the scattered Legion coins, and put her head in her hands for several long moments.

She was now very much alone.

There were few supplies to be found, the town's storehouses either looted or burned or both. She hastily gathered what paltry bits and pieces remained, slinging them into a tattered leather rucksack. There was nothing left in Bullworth Junction any longer and Juniper was quick to turn her back on the place, taking off in the direction of the southwest desert to find what was left of her people.

The trails were easy enough to follow. The Legionaries were not the sort to bother covering their tracks. They had split into three groups. The largest trail was definitely made up of the tribe's brahmin herds, the sand stomped flat and shrubs trampled as the unluckier soldiers assigned to cow duty drove the beasts from their fields. The second trail included a line of smaller footprints, occasionally dotted with distressing spots of blood where someone must have cried too loudly. The last was a line of tracks that marched two-abreast, treading slowly and roped together, and criss-crossed by larger boot-prints that circled around them. The women were clearly under heavy guard.

There was no reason to rescue the brahmin, and though her first inclination was to follow the path of the taken children, she knew that even if she miraculously managed to somehow kill their guards, she was not sure she could lead such a young group anywhere safely. That left the women. If she could find them, rescue even a handful of them. Hell, if she could rescue anyone at all...

How did one even plan for something like this? How was she supposed to take on the same soldiers who had annihilated her entire tribe's greatest fighters with ease? Even now they were marching towards the edges of Broken Hooves territory and she would soon lose her only small advantages of speed and familiar ground. By herself, she stood no chance. And there was nobody out in the lonely dunes this far south.

Well, nobody except...

She paused mid-step. There was someone else out in the desert, someone brutally strong. Strong enough to have a chance against the Legion's men. It would be a dangerous undertaking to even try and get their help, but there was nothing for it. Breaking off from the path of her captured sisters, Juniper vanished into the desert to find Weeping Mother.

She knew the story well.

There had once been a beautiful woman in a great and powerful tribe. She married the tribe's leader, and was soon pregnant by him. But she was vain as well as beautiful, and proudly showed off her large belly to the other women in the tribe.

"Soon I will give birth to the strongest and most beautiful children that have ever been," she proclaimed.

"Be not so vain!" the other women chided her. "It is Mother-In-The-Earth who bears such children, not you. Hush or she will hear you."

But the woman only laughed, for she did not know that Mother-In-The-Earth had heard her.

There was a great celebration on the day the woman gave birth to a son. But when the tribe leader was called in to see his child, he found that it was an obscene and twisted thing. And while he went on to have more children with his wife, each child came that came from her was more foul than the last. He spurned her from his bed and soon exiled her from his tribe.

The beautiful woman was sent crying into the desert with her sickly brood. There she found a cave and hid herself and her children away, shying away from the light and becoming just as warped and ugly as her spawn. She mated with wild beasts and gave birth to more children, but each night she mourned her folly and her weeping could be heard from within the cave.

Many Broken Hooves warriors had tried to rid the cave of Weeping Mother and her brood, but too many lives were lost and the tribe's elders decided that it was best to leave her to her unfortunate fate. She still weeps to this very day.

The first time Juniper had heard it told, she had scoffed and maintained that it was a terrible story. Why had the woman been cursed for simply wanting strong and healthy babies? Why would the tribe leader be so cruel as to exile her for simply having ugly children? Why would she become ugly just from staying in a cave and why would she start rutting with wild animals? And why would she still be crying every night?

Juniper had never liked the story. She had liked it even less when she learned that Weeping Mother was real.

The Legion had marched their captures through the heat of the day and well into the night, stopping to make camp only when it had become too dark to see and the women had begun to stumble. They spiked several tents into the cracked earth in a loose circle, a campfire roaring in the middle as the recruits gathered around it, their spirits high despite their cold rations meal of dried brahmin jerky and stale bread.

The raid on the Broken Hooves tribe had gone better than they had hoped, and many of the younger soldiers were openly eyeing the huddled group of terrified women that sat in a makeshift corral off to the side of camp, guarded by two more veteran soldiers. Officially, the vigilant guards were there to discourage anyone who had plans of escape. But few captures ever made the attempt. The guards' real purpose was to discourage their own troops from having at the women before they could be delivered.

The recruits eyed them like hungry coyotes, occasionally pointing or laughing as they fantasized being able to pick and choose. Two of them in particular stood as near to the captures as they dared, the taller of the pair nodding to one of the younger girls.

"The blonde one with the big eyes, she's mine."

"Like hell she is. More like yours is the one next to her, the crone with the wrinkly tits."

"Fuck you, when I make officer I'll buy her and two more just like her. All blondes."

"What's with you and blondes? No wonder all the pale girls go running from you back at home. You probably get hard every time you see Inculta's hair too."

"Shut UP, he'll hear you."

The blonde they had been eyeing was busy trying to curl behind the older woman next to her, who was doing her best to shield the girl with her withered body. It did little to deter their attentions, the two soldiers moving on to place bets on which of the women would live through the harrowing trip ahead of them, which of them would be the first to die, and who would fetch the highest buy prices.

"The brown-haired one with the big chest, she'll be highest auction for sure."

"She's too old, looks like she might have had a kid already. Besides, we have a few who are already with child, that will drive up the price."

"Who would buy a dissolute woman already pregnant? You might as well stick it in one of the slaves back home, at least then we'd know the breeding stock."

"I just hope nobody buys the blonde one. I've been saving my coin for when I make officer, and I want my first wife to be-"

The immense shadow of Vibius fell over them, blocking the firelight and causing both recruits to snap to attention with a duet cry of "Sir!"

Luckily for them, Vibius's mood had been much improved by the raid as well, and though he eyed the lesser soldiers warningly, he soon found his gaze moving over the Broken Hooves captures. It was hard to see their faces fully in the dim light from the camp's blaze, and one brow rose slowly as he did not seem to find the one he was looking for. Dismissing the absent girl as merely another casualty back at the battle of Bullworth Junction, he placed a large gloved hand on the taller recruit's shoulder and shoved him towards the darkness surrounding the camp.

"How about you two stop gossiping like old women and eye-fucking the new slave stock, and actually start doing shit to make officer and buy a wife. You're both on first perimeter guard for tonight," Vibius rumbled, pointing out into the night before trudging back towards the fire.

The two recruits saluted before jogging to safety, well out of Vibius's view before slowing to a more ambling pace as they began the nightly drudgery of patrol, still chatting with one another in low tones, ignorant of something that had joined them out in the desert night.

They did not hear the soft, barely-audible scrape of boots on sand and the sound of something being dragged, nor did they see the lone figure that crept in towards the very edge of the camp, keeping well clear of any fire's light as it cut a careful path around their patrol route. Nobody saw the bundle it dropped with a heavy thud onto the ground, nor how it went bounding away with renewed urgency not long after, scrambling away behind a stand of dead cacti to begin frantically rubbing itself all over with fistfuls of heavily scented broc flowers.

The patrolling recruits took several long minutes to circle all the way back around, their footsteps crunching softly on the desert sand. Fatigue and the monotony of their task had dulled their senses, causing them to overlook the telltale signs of an intruder. The extra set of footprints in the sand went unnoticed, fading into the countless tracks left by their own boots. Their attentions instead became fixated on something far more alarming: a long, glistening smear of red that led up to a misshapen lump spread-eagled on the ground.

As they cautiously approached, their hands instinctively tightening on their weapons, the true nature of the scene became apparent. The form before them was too small to be one of the women from their camp, too strange and gangly to be human at all. Its limbs were bent at unnatural angles, and its skin, where visible, had a gray scaly sort of pallor. Whatever it was, it was undeniably dead. The dark liquid pooled around it, still wet and reflecting the starlight above, made that much clear. The recruits exchanged uneasy glances.

"What's that?" The taller Legionary lifted the flickering light of the torch cautiously as he approached.

"I'll call for the others," his companion said, starting to step back.

"No, wait a minute, let's check it out first. What is it?" The first soldier seemed more puzzled than alarmed, stepping forward and using one large black boot to prod at the strange pile of meat, pushing until it was rolled over. The creature lay sprawled before him, scaly mottled hide soaked in blood, toothy jaws hanging open as its yellow eyes stared lifelessly ahead, talons curled limply on its small hands.

"Is that... a baby deathclaw?"

Before they could fully react, something else moved in the darkness. The first Legionary swung about, torch lifting... as the flickering red light illuminated the enormous beast that now towered over them, tail whipping and eyes narrowed, teeth shining brightly with saliva as frothing drool oozed down its chin. Its nostrils flared, huffing twice, taking in the scent of familiar blood that it had followed for miles...only for the trail to end here, the reek of death emanating from the much smaller corpse in the sand nearby. The great monster's slitted eyes darted from the corpse of its offspring, to the two soldiers nearby.

The first Legionary took a step back. "Oh, shi-"

With a wailing, roaring scream that sounded more human than bestial, the deathclaw matriarch set upon the unlucky man, several hundred pounds of raw muscle and rage and maternal anguish erupting in a whirlwind of teeth and claws, tearing him into pieces. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, painting the sand and nearby rocks as the monster's razor-sharp talons shredded through armor and flesh alike. The second man turned to run, his legs pumping frantically as he bellowed for help, voice cracking with terror. Even as he fled, long curved talons lashed out from behind him, cutting deep into his back and hooking into bone and sinew to drag him back to a similar gruesome fate.

He screamed in agony as he was yanked off his feet, his futile struggles only serving to further enrage the beast. Enormous jaws clamped down over his head, silencing his cries as the deathclaw shook him violently, like a dog with a rat. The creature's namesake claws continued their savage work, ripping him limb from limb with terrifying efficiency. In mere moments, what had been two living, breathing men was reduced to a scattered, gory mess of torn flesh and splintered bone.

Weeping Mother snorted and cast his limp corpse aside with a scornful toss of her enormous horned head, the scattered remains of the unfortunate Legionaries spread before her as she dropped to all fours, crooning to her dead child in a low, guttural moan that was quickly drowned out by the shouts of men and the screams of terrified women. A spear hummed through the air, sinking deep into her much-scarred hide, but Weeping Mother barely flinched, uttering another shrieking cry before rearing up to her back claws and launching towards the new group of Legionaries already headed toward her.

Reeking of broc flowers and spattered with the blood of the infant deathclaw, Juniper crept in from the rear as the Legion men began shouting, heading en masse towards the raging Weeping Mother. Only one man hesitated, one of the veterans guarding the captive Broken Hooves, but he went down with a meaty thud as the weight of Juniper's rifle swung like a baseball bat into the side of his skull.

Skidding low into the dirt beside two of her tribe sisters, Juniper wrenched her knife from her belt, the blade glinting in the reflected firelight. With frantic, sawing motions, she attacked the thick ropes binding them, her fingers slick with sweat and blood. The coarse fibers began to fray under her desperate assault, each strand giving way to her panic.

"J-Juniper!" One of the women cried out upon spotting her, and was frantically hushed by the dark-haired girl twisting and pulling at the heavy bindings.

"Shh! Just go! Just GO! Run!" Juniper hissed, still working steadily at the ropes. They were heavier than she had expected and the going was slower than she liked, but she grit her teeth and forced her wrist onward, snapping another of the tethers.

From the chaotic melee between the Legionaries and the Weeping Mother, there came a gurgling wet yelp that rose above the crescendo of clashing steel and frenzied shouts. Another soldier down, his life extinguished in a spray of crimson. Juniper had no time to savor their bloody comeuppance, her heart racing with urgency. She continued her frantic work of setting the others free, her fingers trembling as she sawed through the remaining bonds, but found to her mounting consternation that even after being cut loose, the women would not go.

No matter how she desperately urged them to run, yanked their shoulders to try and pull them upright, or pushed them towards the beckoning cover of night, they merely cowered, huddling together in terrified confusion. Their eyes were wide and unseeing, bodies quaking with fear as they clung to one another like lost children. Juniper's frustration grew with each passing moment, realizing that these women were as hopeless and dumb as the brahmin that she should have tried to rescue in their stead. At least the beasts might have had the sense to flee when given the chance.

Juniper stole a glance towards the ongoing battle and saw that the mother deathclaw was beginning to falter, her massive scaled body peppered with bullets and javelins. Blood oozed from countless wounds as she roared in pain and fury. The immense figure of Vibius hacked and slashed with his machete, the blade glinting in the firelight as it tore through tough hide. The more elite Legion veterans backed him up, their coordinated movements speaking of years of brutal training as they flanked the beast and drove her backwards step by agonizing step.

Suddenly, from the back of the fray, there was a loud whirring noise that cut through the cacophony of battle. A flash of red and brown leather streaked across Juniper's vision, accompanied by a blur of pale, nearly-white hair that seemed to glow in the darkness. .

Vulpes Inculta, his lithe form a stark contrast to the massive deathclaw, grasped onto the beast's curved horn with one hand. His fingers, calloused from years of combat, locked tight as he swung his body into position. With practiced agility, he locked both legs against her muscular shoulders, using the leverage to steady himself. In one fluid motion, he jammed the humming blade of his favored ripper down into the base of the beast's skull. The weapon's teeth tore through flesh and bone with a sickening efficiency.

The deathclaw's jaws stretched open in another screeching howl, a sound that reverberated through the night air. She flailed both sets of dangerous talons wildly, her movements growing more desperate and uncoordinated with each passing second. Vibius and his men, seizing the opportunity, redoubled their assault. Their blades tore through cracked scales and bruised hide as they struck again and again, each blow weakening the mighty creature further.

With a heavy thud and a spray of red-stained sand, Weeping Mother finally fell.

The men surrounded the creature, kicking and stabbing over and over again. From atop the creature's back, Vulpes pulled his ripper free in a spray of red, teeth gritting in clear anger. Even in the chaos, the fox's clever gaze scanned over the camp, spotting the silhouette of the intruder that was standing by the group of captures. Leaping from the body of Weeping Mother, Vulpes went launching towards the trespasser.

Juniper saw him coming, saw the pale featured man and his horrid burning blue eyes as he cleared the fire and headed for her. She snarled for the others to run, one last time, but the women drew back, clutching onto one another, and Juniper finally was forced to abandon them. With the shouts of the Legionaries ringing in her ears and the ragged breath of Inculta on her heels, Juniper ran.

Bounding over boulders and loose dune hillsides, Juniper fled with all her might, her heart pounding in her ears. The sound of boots crunching on gravel grew closer with each passing moment, precious seconds ticking away as her chances of escape narrowed. She was fast, her legs pumping furiously, but he was faster, his breath now audible behind her. In desperation, she turned, pulling her knife up to fight, but Vulpes was already upon her, his iron grip wrenching her arm painfully and sending the blade spinning away into the darkness with a metallic clatter.

Juniper kicked out wildly, hearing him grunt as she thrashed away, but her small victory was short-lived. She felt her breath leave her all at once as an elbow connected violently with her spine, the impact reverberating through her body and bringing her crashing to the ground. She landed hard, face scraping on the loose gravel, the rough stones tearing at her skin. A small, surprised cry escaped her lips as the pain registered, the taste of blood and dust filling her mouth as she lay there, momentarily stunned by the force of the impact.

Vulpes paused suddenly upon hearing the voice of a female, gripping her arm and twisting to pin it painfully into her back, but reaching forward with his other hand, grasping a head full of tangled black curls. Juniper's face was pulled up to look back at him, one narrowed eye glaring up at him with pure venomous hatred.

"Oh!" Vulpes said, sounding only mildly surprised. "It's you."

Chapter Text

Vulpes stared down at her intensely, his piercing blue eyes half-lidded in deep concentration. He remained oddly silent and motionless, keeping her firmly pinned beneath him with her arm twisted at an unnatural angle and his knee digging into her lower back. As the seconds ticked by agonizingly slow, she realized with growing dread that he was coming to a fateful decision in that cold and calculating reptilian brain of his. The air grew thick with tension as she sensed him weighing the options, deciding whether or not he should bother letting her live or simply end her existence right then and there.

She fought to keep her breath steady, her heart pounding in her ears as she lifted her bloodied chin from the rocky, unforgiving ground. It was a useless little gesture of pride, a final attempt to show bravery in the face of his merciless judgment. Her life hung by some unknown thread that Inculta was debating severing right then and there. His piercing gaze darted, locking onto her hateful glare with an unsettling evenness that sent a chill down her spine. Very slowly, with deliberate precision, he began pushing on her pinned arm, applying more and more pressure. Ligaments stretched and strained to their limits, threatening to snap at any moment. The pain intensified with each passing second until finally, despite her best efforts, Juniper could not suppress a muffled groan of agony that escaped through gritted teeth.

"If there is anyone else with you, reveal them now, and I will let them live," he murmured calmly, leaning down over her.

He waited. Juniper said nothing, breath huffing in the sand.

"Nobody else?" He pressed on her arm, pain lancing through her. Still, she maintained her silence.

The man looming over Juniper furrowed his brow, his eyes darting up at the approaching sound of heavy boots crunching on sand and gravel. The remaining Legionaries converged on the scene, their flickering torches casting eerie, dancing shadows across the desert landscape. Their rapid-fire Latin filled the air, voices tinged with a mix of confusion, fear, and unmistakable rage.

Juniper lay prone in the dirt, her cheek pressed against the gritty earth. She strained to turn her head, desperate for a glimpse of her captors, but the man's iron grip held her firmly in place. The Legionaries crowded around her prone form, their angry voices rising in volume and intensity. Their fury was palpable, and who could blame them? They had just narrowly escaped what amounted to an assassination attempt – by deathclaw, no less.

The soldiers surrounded her on all sides, and though she could not see them, she imagined them slavering like wild dogs, surrounding prey that already been brought to ground by their pack leader. Her heart began to thud frantically in her ribs, rebounding almost painfully against the hard ground beneath her.

One set of footsteps was heavier than the others, his weight almost shaking the earth. That must have been Vibius. It had to be. A pair of scuffed boots attached to a set of hairy legs stopped in front of her, just in the field of her vision. Blood dripped from above, though whether it was from some wound or from his kill of Weeping Mother, Juniper could not see.

Vibius growled something to Vulpes under his breath, but the man did not answer, even as Vibius slowly placed his heavy boot on the side of Juniper's head, resting on her temple and weighing heavily upon her aching skull. Her breath quickened audibly, uncaring of the desert dust she breathed in on each ragged inhalation. Pressure and pain built steadily as he leaned down more of his weight on her fragile form.

Was Vibius going to kill her there, breaking her cranium open until the shards of her bones were scattered like busted pottery? Would she be beaten and given to the men, to let them punish her and hurt her until she begged Vibius to kill her? Or perhaps Inculta had some other gruesome plan for her?

He was probably the sort to always have a gruesome plan for somebody.

Vibius paused, foot still bearing down on her. The Legionaries around her waited in silence. Juniper clamped her eyes shut, gritted her teeth, and held her breath. From far, far off in the desert, a coyote wailed.

"Caesar's orders stand," Vulpes said finally. "We are to take any female we find, alive. Put her in the line. The slave masters can decide whether or not she's worth the trouble of keeping. Perhaps someone will pay for the novelty."

With a dissatisfied grunt, Vibius removed his boot and Juniper exhaled sharply. A moment later she was pulled forcibly up from the ground, facing Vulpes for the first time since their uncomfortable meeting in Bullworth Junction. Even as she felt ropes squeezing around her scrawny wrists, she drew herself up to her full height, staring directly into Inculta's gaze. For a moment, she considered spitting at him. But the last member of the Broken Hooves who had spit at the fox had not fared well afterward. She swallowed down her bile and flicked her eyes to the side, looking past Vulpes defiantly. The frumentarius lifted a brow slightly, then half turned his head to follow her gaze.

In the light of the bonfire back down in the camp, Legion bodies lay scattered, their limbs twisted or torn away, surrounding the immense form of the deathclaw broodmother that the tribal girl had brought there. In the span of several minutes, they had lost more soldiers than at the entire battle for Bullworth Junction. As far as rescue missions went, her little plot had been an abject failure. As a vehicle of vengeance, it had been brutally effective. As he turned back to her, the corners of her lips were ever so subtly turned upward in a smile that was a louder "Fuck you," than any words she could have spoken.

Her smile faded when he smiled back at her.

There had been no rest that night for anyone. Vulpes had returned to his tent to write up what he described as 'a very interesting report'. Vibius and several others lay on the other side of camp, tending their wounds. The few Legionaries that remained gathered the dead and butchered the corpse of the Weeping Mother… while the Broken Hooves women whispered amongst themselves, occasionally stealing glances to where Juniper sat tied to a post a small distance away, kneeling in the sand with her arms bound behind her and mouth gagged.

With the last free Broken Hooves tribal now under heel, there would be nobody left to come save them. For the first several hours, Juniper had stretched and strained against the ropes, testing for any sign of weakness. There were none. She had rotated her jaw and bitten down to saw her molars through the disgusting cloth. It held fast. She had tried contorting, bending her elbows and trying to awkwardly hook her arms around and under her feet to at least get her hands in front of her. The ropes were tied too firmly to the post behind her, and one of the guards finally yelled at her to stop thrashing and punched her in the back of the head. She had been forced to yield to the knowledge that there was going to be no escape.

It was not even dawn before the women were lined up once more, Juniper forced to the very front. Camp was broken and packed away once more, and with a loud bellow of "Eo!" from Vibius, the southward march began.

Still shivering with cold from the wasteland night, Juniper was glad to see the fingers of yellow light creeping over the eastern horizon. The promise of warmth was a small comfort after hours of darkness and chill. She was less glad of the sun's presence several hours later, as the fiery orb rose higher into the sky and brought with it the scorching heat of day. The walk was hot and exhausting, sweat dripping from man and woman alike, soaking through clothes and leaving salt-crusted trails on dusty skin. The air shimmered with heat, making the distant landscape waver and dance.

Breaks were infrequent and water was parceled carefully, the women allowed only a small ration that barely wet their parched throats. Juniper was pointedly ignored and left to suffer from the heat, her lips cracking and her head pounding with each step. She longed for shade, for a cool breeze, for anything to alleviate the relentless assault of the sun, but there was no respite to be found in the barren wasteland stretching endlessly before them.

She was not the only one in trouble. Occasionally, from the middle of the line, there came a groan of pain, usually silenced by a shout from one of the soldiers. But it continued, and in greater frequency, as the day wore on to late afternoon. Feeling the rope around her wrists suddenly pulling her to a stop, Juniper turned around to see that one of the women had fallen, now being surrounded by her worried tribe sisters. The groaning had been coming from one of the pregnant girls, who was now a ghastly shade of pale white and writhing in the sand where she had collapsed.

Despite several forceful orders from Vibius to get up and get marching again, the woman's pained moans only intensified, echoing across the scorching desert sands. For once, the usually stoic Legionaries seemed unsure of how to proceed, their eyes darting between the writhing woman and their superiors. Even Inculta, typically quick with commands, appeared hesitant as he watched the scene unfold with an uneasy impatience.

The woman's groans transformed into piercing shrieks, then blood-curdling screams as her overheated and battered body instinctively fought to expel the child within. The harsh desert sun beat down mercilessly as she proceeded to give birth right there on the unforgiving ground, her sweat-soaked body convulsing with each contraction. There was a flurry of excited and worried chatter amongst the others of her tribe, their voices rising to a fevered crescendo as the child was forcibly thrust from its mother's womb into their shackled hands.

Juniper turned away from the sight. It was much how she imagined Weeping Mother in the old stories, giving birth to something so small, stunted, and an unhealthy red-purple color, his cheeks and eyes swollen into almost orb shapes, tiny fists clenched. One of the other women took the sad little bundle and turned him this way and that, slapping his cheeks and pressing his chest, but he was silent. The only crying came from his sobbing mother as she beheld the first victim of their long march.

Vulpes and several of the other men spoke to one another in hushed tones before one of them stepped forward with a knife, cutting into the ropes binding the woman and separating her from the rest of the line. The others were ordered to stand up and resume moving. After several false starts, the line started forward once again, muffled sobbing heard from the wives and mothers of the Broken Hooves as they left their tribe sister behind.

At the very head of the group, Juniper turned to look back and saw the woman force herself upright, shrieking for them to wait before staggering after them, dragging the sad red and purple bundle still attached to its cord. After a few more steps she collapsed again and did not rise as the others moved further and further away, unable to do anything save listen to her screams and pleas for them to stop before they too faded away.

The procession continued their grueling march for several days, stopping only to eat, drink, sleep, or cut loose another woman who had fallen. The most elderly of the Broken Hooves women had gone first, two grandmothers simply sitting down mid-step and quietly giving up, untethered and left to the desert. One more woman died the next day, then three the next, the grueling pace combined with the sweltering temperatures and scarce water overwhelming them one by one.

Juniper herself was starting to weaken, granted only half the rations of the others and forced to keep pace in front of all the others. Her muscles ached and her head was pounding with fever as her body turned in on itself for water. She had stopped urinating the first day and was barely able to sweat as the third day drew to a close, each hour in the sunlight bringing her dangerously close to heatstroke. How she had continued on for so long after that, even she was not sure. Her memory became blurred, all her effort going to putting one foot in front of the next.

The world around her had become a hazy, shimmering mirage of sand and sky. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her tongue swollen and dry in her mouth. Every step sent shockwaves of pain through her body, but she dared not falter. The crack of a whip or the harsh shout of a guard would snap her back to alertness whenever her pace slowed. At night, when they were finally allowed to rest, Juniper would collapse into a fitful sleep, her dreams filled with cool, clear streams and lush oases that always remained just out of reach.

"I'm not surprised."

The familiar voice seemed to drip in one ear and out the other as Juniper struggled just to lift her head, steadily trudging forward. Inculta was there again, though he looked odd. His pale hair was gleaming so brightly in the sun it was almost blinding, his mouth wasn't moving to match his voice, and his eyes were two enormous blue pits in his face, filled with water… Water, how long had it been since she had been granted water?

"Vibius has been positively salivating, waiting for you to drop so he could finally have at you," he continued on in his strangely conversational tone, "It's all he's been on about for the past few days and it's getting more intricate and graphic as time goes on. Vibius has never been much for planning, but I'm impressed with just how far he's going with this."

She had started to list dangerously to one side, and his words took an inordinate amount of time to reach the parts of her brain that hadn't shut down already. She did finally glance backward slowly, tilting her chin over one bony shoulder to look to where Vibius was trailing behind a short distance away, stalking her like an undertaker as fondled the handle of his machete. He glanced up as looked at him, eyes narrowing and expression twisting in some imagined sadism. She turned away quickly, and her step became slightly faster.

"But as I said, I'm not surprised you've held out. I have somewhat of a running bet with him that you'd make it to the camp or not. You've stayed on your feet thus far, and you only have half a day more before we reach the camp. If you can manage that, I win two denarii."

Juniper continued sludging her way through the sand, opening her mouth to answer him. The only thing she could utter was a strange little dry sound from her parched throat. Vulpes pulled his canteen from his belt, feeling her watching him as he took a long and exaggeratedly satisfying drink. He wiped his lips on his wrist and quickened his step, pulling back ahead of her.

"Remember. Two denarii."

It was almost a relief when she crested the last hill, spotting the wisps of smoke from the slave camp as it finally came into view. Juniper no longer cared whether they were headed to a slaving encampment or to heaven itself, so long as their destination was finally reached. Her legs trembled with each step, and she could feel blisters forming on her feet, rubbed raw by the endless march through the unforgiving desert.

The processing camp was a foul and desolate place, and the reek of human filth was carried on the wind long before they reached it. It was little more than a few old-world trailers and sheds, their metal surfaces rusted and warped by the relentless sun, surrounded by haphazardly erected fences and tangles of barbed wire. There was little shade and no real shelter, just endless expanses of cracked earth and sun-bleached debris. The air was thick with flies, their incessant buzzing a constant reminder of the squalor that awaited. Even brahmin would not have been housed in such deplorable conditions.

The women were silent as Juniper led them through the outer gates. The Legionaries, on the other hand, seemed positively joyous that the journey was finally over. They chattered excitedly with one another in their strange tongue as they led the women through the outer fences, herding them into a small enclosure surrounded by barbed wire before they abandoned the scene, their long duty finally completed.

Inculta and Vibius lingered somewhat longer, as the Frumentarius motioned to Juniper and held out one hand. The Decanus looked positively enraged, slamming two coins down into his palm before turning and lumbering off. Vulpes merely seemed amused, holding the coins between his fingers before bringing them up to show the ragged looking girl at the head of the line. Juniper looked away. When she looked back again, he was already gone.

A new group of soldiers went about separating them from their bonds, roughly yanking the rope from her wrists. She brought them up to her chest, massaging the burnt and bloodied area where her skin had been rubbed raw. The other women were rapidly being separated into age groups and herded into different pens, and Juniper found herself pulled away and thrust into a smaller area by herself, barely making it through the door before her legs gave out and she crumpled to the ground on all fours.

She managed to crawl to the other end of the fence, finding a bowl of sun-hot water and raising it to her cracked lips, downing the liquid in several quick gulps before she lay down in the sand, head bowed against the sun as she finally allowed herself to pass out. She wondered quietly, as unconsciousness took her, if she would be able to wake up again at all.

Something was prodding her in the ribs repeatedly, a dull sensation that seemed to come from far away. She lay still, hoping it would go away, but it continued on. Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Mortuus?"

"No. Quae est respiratio."

Her eyes creaked open painfully, focusing on the blurred outlines of the two men who were kicking her. She stared dumbly at them for several moments before one of them reared back and kicked her again, pain blossoming in her side as awareness came rushing back to her and she grunted aloud before rolling upright, legs shaking and nearly collapsing as she held herself up against the fence. She became suddenly aware of a weight around her neck, lifting one hand to find something cold and metal clamped tightly around the middle of her throat. Instinctively she went to pry it loose, jolting back as it emitted a high pitched beep.

The man who had been kicking her grasped her arm, forcing it back down. "Slave collar. Don't fucking touch it, I don't feel like cleaning up pieces of your skull if it goes off. Now strip, it's your turn."

"My turn to… What?"

She stared at him, and he lifted his arm as if to strike her. Holding up both hands in plaintive defense, she peeled off her coat and boots, pausing as she began to lift off her shirt, knitting her brow at the two soldiers when they didn't budge.

"Don't make me repeat myself, girl," the man snorted. "Believe me, it's not your scrawny ass I'm after. Take it off, all of it."

Trying to ignore the humiliation that somehow managed to scorch her worse than her sunburn, Juniper pulled away her shirt and underpants, left standing awkwardly with one arm trying to cover her chest. The men at least, true to their word, seemed positively disinterested as they pushed her towards the open gate. She padded out across the sand of the main yard, joining a line-up of other similarly aged girls. They were separated by age groups, standing naked as an irritable-looking bearded man in a red uniform walked slowly in front of them, inspecting them one by one as his assistant wrote down notes on his clipboard.

They spoke in that alien tongue of theirs, but Juniper knew exactly what they were doing. She had seen Grandpa Lyle and the men of her tribe do the same thing while inspecting the herds of brahmin. Notes were written and jokes were made as they decided which of them were fit to be, as they put it; fed, bred, or dead.

The younger girls and more attractive girls were fondled and inspected thoroughly, their features calculated into money's worth. The older women, those who were weak or sick, or simply ugly; they were pulled from the line-up and placed in a pen by the very back of the camp, sitting in doomed and passive silence, save for an occasional stifled sob. For the ones who remained, Juniper kept hearing the same question being asked over and over to each of them.

"Are you a virgin?"

Virginity seemed to be much prized and the slave master seemed pleased whenever he found one, the younger girls who had not yet been with a man being set aside in their own pen with an ominously heavy checkmark of the pen, accompanied by a knowing chuckle.

Juniper eyed the man warily as he approached her, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to cover herself as his gaze roamed over her. His dark eyes glanced over her in an unimpressed manner, switching over to the common tongue. "You, stop fucking fidgeting. Lower your arms, we need to have a look at you. Yes, I overheard some real interesting stories about you already. One of the recruits said you survived the razing of your village and then chased down the men with a fucking deathclaw? That true?"

She frowned and said nothing and hugged her ribs all the tighter, gaze flitting down to her feet until there was a sharp blow against the side of her jaw, the man glaring down at her with his hand raised to strike her again.

"You are going to need to understand your new place, dissolute. When a man gives you an order, you obey it. When he asks you a question, you damn well answer. Let's try this again. Lower your arms. Did you set a deathclaw on our Legionaries?"

Juniper scraped her tongue along her front teeth as she slowly let her arms hang limp to her sides and he began pinching together the flesh on her belly and thighs. She was still too tired and wary to press the matter. "Yes sir," she answered.

The man grasped her chin suddenly, squeezing hard and tilting her head this way and that before prying her jaws open to inspect her teeth. "Tch. You? Wouldn't think a skinny thing like you was capable of anything like that. Not much in the way of hips or chest. Good teeth. Some scars. What's your name?"

"Juniper."

"Juniper what?"

"I don't know. Juniper."

"How old are you?"

"I don't know."

"Fucking tribals," the man spat, shaking his head before gesturing to his assistant. "Put down seventeen to twenty-ish, somewhere in there. Still viable, only slightly malnourished, still plenty of years left. So. You a virgin?"

Juniper hesitated at that. She'd held little interest in the boys in her village, but there was that time with the son of another visiting tribe chief, and they had snuck off into the bushes together one night, but it had been an awkward affair and he had been clumsy and then there had been a rattlesnake and…

"By Mars, woman, am I going to have to write down that you're hard of hearing?!"

"No!" she blurted out, "I mean, not hard of hearing!"

"Then answer! Are you a virgin or not!"

Juniper hesitated. She knew what fate awaited those who proclaimed virginity, and with what she had done to their soldiery with the deathclaw, perhaps it was better that she did not tempt any of their attentions anymore than she already had.

"No. I'm not. Not a virgin," she said.

"Not a virgin, write that down. Fuck's sake, that's all I needed to know. Almost thought I'd have to test you, myself. Never thought there would come a day where I was tired of sticking my fingers into women's cunts, but here we are. All right, girl, here is the long and short of it. Your name? It dies here. Your tribe? Died in whatever backwards hellhole they pulled you out of. Your duties? Whatever we decide they are. Don't mess with the collar or it will blast your bony bird ass sky-high, and if you are given an order, you fucking follow it."

"M-my name?"

"Your name is dead, your past is dead. You belong to the Legion now, and you will have a proper Legion name." He took the clipboard from his assistant, glancing over it. "Your new name is… Hell, I dunno. Hm. Scrawny as a little bird and black hair. Merula. Blackbird. That'll do."

His assistant looked up, muttering aloud, "Merula Quintus. Our last four Merulae are long dead."

She stared at them both. She was taking the name of four dead women? Such a thing was unheard of in her tribe. She was even one of the less superstitious in her village, but it seemed like supreme bad luck. Then again, her luck had never been particularly good, and it seemed to be getting worse all the time.

The slave master moved on, waving her away. "Merula Quintus. Remember your new name, you will be called on later."

A gray-haired woman scurried up from the side, clutching an oversized piece of coarse cloth marked with a crudely painted red X, cinched at the waist with frayed rope. Juniper tugged it on over her head, the burlap-like fabric hot and abrasive against her skin, even more unbearable than that wretched blue dress she had endured back in Bullworth. The slave master trudged on, continuing his inspections down the line, and Juniper was herded away to a nearby lean-to. There, her head was doused with grimy water before she was forced to kneel in the dirt. Another woman, her expression one of utter boredom, approached with a razor and began dragging the blade across Juniper's sunburned scalp.

It was in that moment, kneeling in the sand as her cherished black curls began cascading down around her, that the full weight of her situation crashed upon her. Though still too proud and too dehydrated to weep, she felt her chest constrict and a whimper threaten to escape her lungs, only to be stifled by the tight grip of the slave collar encircling her throat. Everything was being stripped away from her - her hair, her home, her tribe, even her own name.

She lowered her gaze, watching the shorn black locks accumulate around her knees, a potent mixture of fury, revulsion, and the first tendrils of despair gnawing within her as the harsh reality of her new existence began to sink in. Whatever they might do with her in the Legion, any life ahead of her would be a hard one indeed.

Chapter Text

So she became Legion, and the Legion took her name from her. Her name was Merula now, but for a while she dreamed that she was still Juniper.

For the rest of the day she had slept, curling into a corner and covering the shaved flesh of her scalp with both arms. She did not awake when Legionaries patrolled outside the fence nearby, or when a bowl of corn gruel was put into her pen and then taken away again, or when the women in the next pen started crying when one of them abruptly passed away, or when the sun retreated beneath the horizon and left her shivering and exposed in the desert night.

Dawn was heralded by the blast of a horn somewhere across camp, which startled her so badly that she had flailed like a tipped-over tortoise in the sand, rolling to her feet with one fist lashing out, the other reaching for where her rifle used to be, her head spinning. The slavemaster and his assistants paused outside the fence nearby, laughing uproariously at the sight of her before unlocking the door and beckoning her out. She padded forward warily as the bearded man glanced down at his clipboard.

"Name?"

"Juniper."

She blearily acknowledged the movement of his palm before it slammed hard across her cheek, causing her to stumble backward.

"Try again," he said. "Name?"

"Juni-"

The slavemaster's hand came back the other way, his knuckles impacting with her jaw. The blow seemed to knock a memory loose in the fogged recesses of her mind, bringing forth a name she recalled him say the day before. Her new name.

"Merula!" she cried aloud, hunching her shoulders to defend against anything else thrown her way. "Merula! You said it meant… I'm a scrawny little blackbird."

"Right. Good. Go and join the others."

The newly dubbed Merula, christened by the blood on her lip and the throbbing pain in her jaw, scrambled away from the imposing man and hurried across the dirty, gritty sand. She pulled uncomfortably at her X-marked dress, the coarse fabric chafing against her skin, and became increasingly aware of the harsh sunlight beating down on her now bare scalp. The exposed flesh tingled and burned, a grim reminder of her newfound vulnerability. She found a gap in the line of similarly shaven-headed women already standing to attention, their postures rigid with fear and uncertainty. All sets of eyes were fixed on the slave master who was pacing deliberately in front of them, shadowed by his pencil-wielding assistant.

He began on the far side of the line opposite of Merula, his movements slow and purposeful. Pointing to each of the women in turn, he casually directed them towards one of two groups with a flick of his wrist. Merula watched with growing distrust as she tried to discern the pattern behind his choices. She wondered why they were being sorted yet again, her mind shuffling through increasingly gruesome possibilities. It did not take her long to realize what the directions meant.

He pointed at a teary-faced pretty girl with brown eyes unknown to Merula, likely a capture from some other tribe. "You, head left."

His accusing finger turned towards a more elderly woman missing an eye and two of her fingers. "You, to the right."

Another pretty younger woman was next in the line, staring gloomily at the ground. "You, stop moping and head left."

The attractive women and the not-attractive women stood in their new groups, eying each other with a potent mixture of envy, pity, and trepidation. Merula was left to wait for her turn, shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously, watching the men move closer down the line. She and every other woman there wondered anxiously as to their fate. Left or right.

On one hand, she could be sent right, to whatever horrid fate awaited the females who weren't deemed 'good enough'. They had made it this far in this cruel selection process, but could she be certain they wouldn't be outright killed or subjected to some other terrible end? Surely there was nothing pleasant in store for the rejected.

On the other hand, she would likely be safer if she was sent left, with the prettier younger women... but she knew exactly what fate lay in store for them. The thought of being used as a wife or a plaything or worse made her stomach churn. They were safe from more immediate harm, yes, but at a dear cost.

The bearded man loomed before her once more, muttering something his assistant. Merula summoned what courage she could, her heartbeat lifting up into her throat as she met his calculating gaze. The man regarded her with the same detached indifference he'd shown to all the others, looking her up and down.

"Right, you. Merula Quintus..."

She felt her breath catch, her entire world narrowing to this singular moment. Left or right. The terrifying unknown versus the nightmarish known that awaited her. Pretty or ugly. Discarded as worthless or exploited for their bodies. Nourished and forced to bear their captors' children, or left to waste away in squalor and neglect. All left to whatever was written on that paper.

He pronounced her fate.

"Unworthy. You go right."

She didn't move, and he glanced at her a little more sharply. "Maybe you are fucking deaf. I said you go right."

"Right?" She wasn't entirely sure why, but she looked at the assistant for further explanation. Had he read the list wrong? She was still young, he had said she was viable. She had already been making plans to escape whatever wretched husband she was given to. "I go… right?"

"Right." The younger man shrugged at her. "Troublemaker. Too skinny. And we already have more than enough prettier ones for the auction. You go right."

Dumbfounded, she turned and stumbled towards the right as the slave master grasped her shoulder roughly, shoving her forward with callous indifference. She trudged her way to the others, her feet feeling like lead weights, finally lifting her gaze to what were apparently her new companions. The sight that greeted her was far from encouraging. She was one of only three younger girls there, the rest either older women with weathered faces, those visibly infirm and struggling to stand, or individuals bearing the marks of cruel mutilation.

She shouldn't have been as stunned as she was. After all, it was not like she wanted to be forced into the beds of any of those horrible soldiers, with their leering faces and grabbing hands. But somehow she felt insulted, even betrayed by her own body. Skinny? The word echoed in her mind, a stinging rebuke. She had been scouting the unforgiving desert for years, her lean frame honed by survival itself. She was still in the prime of her young life, muscles taut and reflexes sharp.

She, who had faced down a whole war party of the Legion's soldiers alone, with nothing but her wits and a deathclaw up her sleeve. She had stared defiantly into the eyes of Mr. Fox himself. And now, here she stood, cast aside like damaged goods, her worth reduced to a mere physical assessment by men who knew nothing of her.

To them she was just skinny!?

For a brief and petulant moment, she vowed she'd find another deathclaw one day, just for them. Perhaps even a whole den of monsters could be lured here, their razor-sharp claws and gnashing teeth ripping these men into bloody ribbons of meat. Then she would free these women, even the stupid ones who didn't know when to run, and she would burn this place to the ground, watching with grim satisfaction as the flames consumed every last trace of their Legion captors...

Even just imagining an impossible revenge made her feel a bit better, a spark of her old fire rekindling in her chest. She'd been so run ragged and broken down for so long that any minute streak of rebellion, no matter how fleeting or unrealistic, made her feel more like herself again.

"Eyes up!"

The slave master was speaking again, and she glared at him more viciously than was probably wise, but he took no notice as he perused the group of rejected women. "You lot may not be fit for the auctions, but you will still serve in glorious Caesar's name. You'll be heading down to Flagstaff and dispersed from there. Now line up for mealtime, I don't need anyone else dying before you're finally out of my fucking hands. Eo!"

Mealtime consisted of a meager mug of tepid water and another serving of corn gruel so thin and unpalatable it would have been rejected even by livestock. Despite its poor quality, Merula found herself desperately scraping the bowl clean with both fingers and tongue, her famished stomach seizing upon even these meager nutrients after so many long days of near-starvation and hardship. She had barely finished licking the last traces from her fingers when they were bellowed at to line up once again.

This time, there were no ropes binding them together. They had graduated, if one could call it that, from the ranks of mere captives to slaves of this so-called 'Caesar'. The explosive collars encircling their necks would now serve as the primary means of ensuring their obedience, their cold metal a grim reminder of their new status. Adding to this was the presence of yet another foul-tempered man clad in crimson armor, his face set in a permanent scowl as he prowled the line. He wielded a wicked leather whip with practiced ease, his sharp eyes constantly scanning for any woman who dared step out of line or show the slightest hint of defiance. The women shuffled into formation, all too aware of the consequences should they falter.

They left the camp, marching two-abreast once again as they were led through the valleys and onto the cracked pavement of an old highway. The women trudged onward, their feet aching with each step on the unforgiving surface. They followed this route for another day and night, the relentless sun beating down on them by day and the cold desert air chilling them to the bone at night. Their path wove through sandy valleys and up the sides of sloping hills. Soon, they found themselves navigating rocky canyons, the towering walls casting long shadows. In the distance, green-gray tinted mountains loomed, their far-away destination. As they pressed on, the terrain began to slope upward... and upward... and upward…

At least this forced march was not so dangerous or so dire as when they had been taken to the first camp. Now with the weakest culled and the remainder firmly collared, they were allowed to eat and rest whenever there was a stop along the way. They were each given a bowl of water and a hard chunk of stale bread, and they slept in groups and huddles for softness and warmth. But all too soon the horn would blow and they would be gathered up and made to move onward with the rise of the sun.

The women found a grim sort of routine in this new journey. Their captors, while still cruel, mostly ignored them now that there were no recruits to try to have at them. Perhaps it was the value of their cargo that stayed their hands, or maybe the long trek had worn on them as well. Whatever the reason, the prisoners were grateful for small mercies, and Merula stayed close to the other Broken Hooves women marching alongside her.

Despite the ache of her calves from the ascension and the grumbling of the Legionaries, Merula noted with fascination how the scenery changed as they traveled on. The dreary gray and brown of the desert slowly gave way to withered yellow shrubs and thorns, and then into the relatively lush green of lower alpine, with pines and aspens. She had heard the other Broken Hooves talk of places like this, but it was different to actually be here in person. Everything seemed so green, speckled with struggling patches of wildflowers and tough weeds growing up through the pavement and breaking through crumbled buildings on the side of the roads.

It was almost beautiful… Were it not for their destination…

She swallowed and the cold metal of the slave collar bit a solemn reminder into her throat. She could not let herself be distracted now. Especially not when the slave driver sent his whip cracking dangerously close to her legs, causing her to perform a little hop and dance forward with more urgency.

They passed guard posts and towers along the path, their facades splashed with red paint, bearing red flags with the same yellow one-headed brahmin. Some of their stops had crosses or gallows where bodies once hung, although most of them had desiccated into skeletons or had withered into pieces. She was surprised to see that they also crucified their own soldiers. One man, still alive but only barely, had been strung up with his armor still on him, and watched them with a dulled stare as they passed below.

They reached Flagstaff late the next afternoon, and Merula was disappointed but not surprised at the city's appearance. It was more of a fortress than a town, and built almost like Bullworth Junction had been, a circular layout with the larger buildings in the middle and protected by walls along its edges. But whereas the Broken Hooves had relied on overturned cars and random garbage as barriers, the Legion's capital was far more well-provisioned. Their walls were made of metal and stone, criss-crossed with flimsy scaffolding where exhausted-looking slaves, both man and woman, hauled bricks and mortar under the watchful eye of their guards.

Merula wondered if she would also be assigned to those walls. More likely, with her luck, she would be trapped inside them.

Flagstaff had been hit when the bombs had fallen, but had escaped utter destruction only by being a smaller town and thus a smaller target. A few of the more resolute structures in the center had managed to survive, repaired and patched by slave labor, and then walled off from the rest of Flagstaff. Here there were walls within walls, and some of them were stronger than others. They passed by a large circular one that looked tidier than the rest. Judging by the clean stones, the red banners with the one-headed brahmin, and the surprisingly noticeable lack of smell near the place, Merula judged that that was where the warchief Caesar probably stayed, or maybe Caesar's favorite people.

It was certainly not where Merula or the other newly captured slaves were destined to reside. Instead, they were herded through the filthy, debris-strewn streets and along winding, dust-choked paths towards their grim new quarters. The procession of fresh female captives drew unwanted attention, watched and trailed by bored, leering Legionaries who had nothing better to do. The soldiers had descended upon them like vultures the moment the first woman's trembling foot crossed the threshold of the gates, forming a gauntlet of lecherous faces on either side. They hurled crude comments and piercing whistles at the terrified women, occasionally dropping not-so-subtle hints about what they planned to inflict on the 'new girls' once night fell. To Merula's mounting horror and disgust, one particularly persistent Legionary kept trying to sidle up alongside her, repeatedly calling for her attention.

"Skinny girl! Skinny girl! What color was your hair! Hey! Skinny girl! I'll find you later, make it good for you!"

She dared not answer and deliberately turned her face from him, and he spat at her. She was almost glad when the slave driver seemed to come to her defense, lifting his whip and chasing the man away into the crowd. She noticed the gray-dressed slaves standing behind the soldiery, also watching the newcomers with less lechery and more pity. No doubt they had been in Merula's shoes once… or would have been, had any of them been allowed the privilege of wearing shoes.

The slaves were quartered in the crumbling remains on the east side of the city, in the skeletal husks of buildings or in tightly packed canvas tents. They slept on hard wooden cots, crowded and stacked atop one another, more like storage shelves than resting places. These were merely slots where the slaves were tucked away for the night, only to be retrieved come morning. Some of the damaged structures lacked doors or even complete walls, leaving those inside vulnerable to the harsh elements.

The new women were led to one such building, half-collapsed and exposed to the unforgiving sky on one side, protected only by a loose tarp as a wall. Weather had stripped most of it down to splintered wood and exposed brick, but faint traces of its former purpose still clung to the ruins. One far wall stubbornly held onto blue and white chips of paint, remnants of a once-cheerful mural depicting a sky with smiling clouds. Merula's eyes were drawn to the faded letters of the old alphabet floating among them, a bittersweet reminder of what the place had once been.

This had been a school, once upon a time. In the Old World, children had been sent there to learn things from books and toys. Now, the shelves of books were replaced by the shuddering bodies of captured women crowded together, a foul smell in the stale air. Where a kind-hearted teacher might have once stood, a harsh-looking woman with straw-colored hair and a stained brown dress-wrap surveyed the new arrivals. Her arms were crossed over her chest, partially obscuring the red X upon her breast. When their Legion guides left them behind, the harsh woman stood forward in their stead.

"Ahem! Your attention!" A loud clear of her throat stopped any muttering from the newcomers. Her unkind gaze swept over each of them in turn, expression unchanging. "My name is Urtica. It was chosen for me, just like your names were chosen for you. It means 'nettle' in the language they use here. There's your first bit of Latin for you, ladies. And just like a nettle, I'm here to sting you if you step out of line."

Merula pursed her lips slightly and the new women shifted uneasily around her. She had been expecting at least some small form of compassion from the woman, if only for being female and wearing the same X they all were. Urtica, however, seemed to have no interest in these sentiments, her mannerisms almost as unpleasant as the slave masters who had driven them here.

Urtica seemed to have already expected as such, and held up a hand. "If you're looking for sympathy, you won't find it here. There's a system here, my dears, and you follow the system. Because if you don't, I get blamed. The rest of us, we get blamed. So unless you want to make things harder on yourself and on everyone else, you're going to learn the rules quickly, and follow every single one of them to a tee."

She gestured to the sandy little yard out front. "You've heard the horn. You line up for the role call in the morning, every morning. You get your task for the day, you do that task until we tell you to stop doing that task. You obey your orders, you work hard, you don't speak unless they speak to you, you stay out of the way of the Legionaries as best you can, and barring that…" Her gaze settled on the three younger girls, Merula included, and her frown somehow managed to deepen further. "Barring that…you don't strike them, you don't fight back, and you wait for it to be over."

The girl next to Merula made a throaty noise of distress in reply, but Urtica held up a hand again to cut her off.

"Don't. Don't cry. It doesn't help, and some of them actually like it. Now all of you need to come with me, there's one last thing you're supposed to see before you're done for the night, and then tomorrow you'll see the rest of the place and where you'll be working… but for now... All of you, this way."

Merula had seen the crosses before. Especially the one cross she had left back at Bullworth Junction, with the broken body of Grandpa Lyle mangled and spiked into the wood. But she had never seen so many of them, and this time there would be no way to end the suffering of those upon them. The crosses lined the main path, and many of them were occupied. Men and women lay strung up in the setting sun, only an occasional twitch or a moan belying that they were alive at all. They were mostly slaves, though there was another soldier who had been crucified in full armor, and wore a sign over his chest that Merula could not read.

"This is what happens." Urtica seemed oblivious to their suffering, merely nodding up to them without looking. "This is why you don't step out of line, girls. This is why I'm here to help you and why you have to help me. We follow the system. Because this is the alternative, you land up on the cross."

The women muttered amongst each other, and some of them prayed. Urtica ignored them all. With her grisly task completed, she turned and began to lead them on once more. "Now I'll show you where they hold the slave canteen, as well as the latrine pit. By Mars, hope you never get punished with latrine pit duty. It's almost worse than the cross. Right, step this way…"

Merula had just begun to follow, when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye, far away: flash of white-blonde hair and pale skin clad in red came gliding silently into view, walking down the crucifix path with the same casual air she had seen as her village screamed and burned around him. He strolled along as though on some pleasant tree-lined avenue, with not a care for the moans of the dying.

Merula's skin prickled, every hair that had not been shaved away standing on end, and she felt the pulse quicken in her veins. She stood by the roadside like a lightstruck deer, her breath held and her nerves coiled, but Inculta's gaze did not find her. He went along his way with that easy skulking countenance, loping behind another building and out of sight.

And though she wasn't sure why, she started forward with every intent of following him, as though she could do anything to the fox even if she found his den. It was only when her collar flashed bright red and shrieked in rapid beeping alarm that she realized that she had strayed too far from the others. There was nothing for it. With one last baleful look to where he had disappeared, Merula turned and fled.

Chapter Text

The first few nights in the old schoolhouse, Merula had despised Urtica with an intensity that rivaled what she felt for the Legionaries themselves. Here was another woman, another slave, and yet she acted more like their jailer than their sister in suffering. But understanding came slowly.

Urtica never raised her voice when the Legionaries were nearby. She kept their group quiet, contained, invisible when possible. When one of the newer women had sobbed too loudly on the second night, Urtica had clamped a rough hand over her mouth and hissed a warning that sounded cruel until Merula noticed the patrols passing outside, their laughter carrying on the night air. Any noise or weeping would have drawn the men right to them.

The work schedules Urtica enforced with an iron fist was not just arbitrary, they were survival. Miss your assignment and the Overseers' punishment was swift. Fail to complete a task and the consequences fell not just on you but on everyone. The system was brutal, but Urtica had learned to navigate it, and she demanded they do the same.

And, in her limited and silent way, she even did her best to protect them.

Three younger women had arrived with Merula's group. One had been sent to the back kitchens. The other, called Traba, was a very tall and gangly girl with freckles, light eyes, and what remained of her once-red hair. She worked alongside Merula and Urtica herself in the laundry pools. Those were two locations far away from the rest; away from the barracks, away from the training grounds, and hopefully away from the main flow of soldiers with aggressive tempers and appetites.

The laundry pools occupied the ruins of what might have once been a parking structure, its concrete foundation now holding massive stone basins where water was hauled by other slaves from the wells and heated over fires that burned from dawn until dusk. The heat was oppressive, the place was choked with steam, and the chemical bite of lye soap and Old World detergents burned in Merula's nose and throat. The tide of laundry was never-ending; hundreds upon hundreds of uniforms, blankets, tents, bandages… Anything cloth that the Legion soiled, they brought here.

Merula's hands were constantly raw from being plunged into scalding water again and again. The lye ate at her skin, leaving it scorched and cracked, peeling away near the edges of her fingernails. At night she would cradle her ruined hands against her chest, unable to even flex her fingers without pain lancing up her arms as she coughed up the remains of the day's steam and fumes. Traba fared no better. The tall girl had a perpetually hunched posture from bending over the pools all day, and she had developed the same dry cough and chemical-peeled hands. She never complained, though. Neither of them did. Urtica had told them that complaining meant their Overseer would just assign them to something worse… And in the Legion, there was always something worse.

The morning began with the Servus Vocatura—the slave calling. The horn blast dragged Merula from thin sleep, and she stumbled into the yard with the others, blinking against the early light. They lined up in rows while a bored-looking Legionary with a clipboard read names aloud, checking each woman off his list. She answered to 'Merula Quintus' now without hesitation. The beatings had taught her that much. After roll call came the collar adjustment. A different Legionary, this one with a scarred lip and irritated expression, worked his way down the line with a small metal device that looked like it had been scavenged from some Old World machine. He pressed it against each collar in turn, and the explosive ring would emit a brief chirp.

"Laundry pool radius," he announced flatly to their group. "You stray outside your work zone, and you get one warning before the boom. Simple as that."

When he reached Merula, she held perfectly still as he jabbed the device against her collar. The metal warmed against her throat, then chirped its acknowledgment. He moved on without a word.

Urtica wore no collar. Neither did many of the older slaves moving about the compound. The collars were for the new ones, the unproven ones. The ones who might still have enough spirit left to run. Merula had taken note of that, and planned accordingly. She would be docile. She would be obedient. She would play whatever role they demanded until the day came when they deemed her trustworthy enough to remove the explosive ring from her neck.

And then...

Her eyes had already begun cataloging weak points. There was a gap in the outer fence where the metal didn't quite meet stone. On one side of the laundry pool zone, pile of rubble against one wall that could be climbed. There were certain guard rotations that left certain corners unwatched for precious minutes at dawn.

She'd find a way out. She just had to be patient.

One morning, she tried to bring it up to Urtica as casually as she could. She still couldn't be sure if Urtica would actually help her, or turn her in to the Overseers for even having such thoughts, if it proved those thoughts might cause some harm to the group as a whole.

"The collar," she said conversationally, not looking up from the uniform she was beating against the stones. "How long before they take it off? Did it take them long before they removed yours?"

Urtica barely paused in her work. "Depends. Year, maybe two. If you're lucky and don't cause trouble."

"I'm sure. After they remove the only thing keeping you from escaping?"

"Escaping?" The laugh that burst from woman's throat was sharp and ugly, with no humor in it whatsoever. "Oh, you sweet, stupid girl. You think the collar's the only thing keeping us here?"

"Ah… Well…."

"Let me tell you what happens to women who run. My tribe sisters and I, we watched it happen to two girls who tried. Apparently they had the whole thing planned, and when the time came, they tried to run. Legionaries and their dogs caught them less than five miles outside Flagstaff, dragged them right back. The rest of us got flogged, but those two…"

Merula paused to listen, then quickly resumed washing when she saw the Overseers' eyes start to wander towards her.

"Crucifixion's horrible to be sure. Nobody wants to end up on the cross," Urtica continued, her tone taking on a rehearsed quality, as if she'd told this story before to other foolish newcomers. "But it's worse for us, for the slave women who run. They don't waste a cross. No, they throw them to the barracks. Entire contubernium has at them. Sometimes more. They'll let the Legionaries do whatever they please with them, for however long they want. Most don't survive it. The ones that do..." She shook her head. "They wish they hadn't."

"I…"

"You don't think I've noticed you." Urtica's voice was quieter now, almost gentle. Far too gentle for someone like her. "Noticed you scanning, looking for gaps in fences, counting guards, watching the patrol paths. You think you're the first? You think you'll be the special one to make it out? Give it up. This is your life now. Either make it bearable somehow, or end it on your own terms. But I'll kill you myself before I let you bring down the rest of your group. If you think you're so clever, then find a way to kill yourself without it affecting us."

She turned back to her work, and the conversation was over. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blew to mark the changing of shifts.

The Overseer had barked at them to fetch more detergent from the storage shed, one of the few structures still reasonably intact on the far end of their designated work zone, just a ten-minute walk from the washing stations. But at least it was a rare break from the endless cycle of scrubbing, wringing, and hanging. Urtica led the way and Merula and Traba followed close behind, muttering quiet conversation to one another.

"My fingers don't even bend right anymore," Traba whispered, flexing them and wincing. "Look, they just... stay curled."

"The white powder soaps aren't as bad, at least." Merula held up her thumb where the skin had cracked near the nail bed, a thin line of red standing out against the chemical-bleached flesh. "They smell strange, though. I think it's supposed to be like flowers? Maybe it's some sort of flower that doesn't grow here."

"At least we get a walk. Even if it's just across—"

Urtica stopped so abruptly that Merula nearly collided with her back. Four Legionaries lounged against the remains of a wall just around the corner. One was sharpening a blade. Another cleaned beneath his fingernails with a knife point. They looked bored.

The older woman pivoted immediately, herding the two younger slaves back the way they'd come. But it was too late.

"Hey! You three! Stop."

Urtica's shoulders stiffened. She turned slowly, hands visible and empty at her sides. Merula and Traba froze behind her as the four men pushed off from the wall and wandered closer.

"What's your business here?" The one with the knife grinned.

"Overseer sent us for detergent supplies, sir." Urtica's voice was flat, emotionless. "We are going to that storage shed."

"Detergent?" The Legionary circled around them, eyes sliding over Merula and Traba, lingering on the collars around their throats. "Well, well. New blood. Haven't seen you two before."

"We were sent for supplies," Urtica repeated.

"Three of you for a few bags of soap?" Another soldier laughed, nudging his companion. "That's a light load. Seems wasteful."

The one with the knife stepped closer to Traba, who instinctively hunched down, making herself smaller. Merula's jaw tightened, hands curling into fists despite the pain of her cracked skin. She leveled a glare at the group that she couldn't quite suppress.

"Didn't know there were any younger ones in the new batch of captures," The Legionary said. His mates behind him nodded and chuckled.

"We have our orders, sir." Urtica said. Nothing in her tone changed. No pleading, no fear. Just flat repetition of fact. "We were sent for supplies."

The soldiers exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them. The one in charge, or at least the one doing most of the talking, smiled slowly. "Well, we've got new orders for you. For the young ones, anyway." He gestured at Merula and Traba. "Come on, girls. Time to make yourselves useful in other ways."

Traba pressed against Merula's side, trembling. The Legionaries closed in.

Urtica stood silent for a long moment, her face still completely passive. Then she glanced back at Merula and Traba, and something flickered behind her eyes. Calculation. Cold arithmetic.

"I need at least one of them to help me carry," she said finally.

"Fine. We'll pick that one."

The other Legionaries struck, as several hands grabbed Traba's arms. The tall girl let out a sharp cry as she was yanked forward. Merula lunged at the same time, catching Traba's closest wrist, trying to pull her back.

"Let go of her! Let go of—!"

Urtica moved faster than Merula would have guessed from an older woman. One weathered hand clamped over Merula's mouth while an arm locked around her torso, pinning her arms and holding her back. The older woman's grip was iron, honed by years of hauling wet laundry and hard labor.

Merula thrashed, but Urtica held firm, dragging her backward away from the thrashing Traba. The Legionaries laughed as they hauled the struggling girl away, her bare feet scraping against the broken concrete as she reached desperately back toward Merula.

"Help me! Please! Please, no! Noooo!"

Merula could only watch in horror as the screaming Traba was dragged away behind the buildings and out of sight.

Merula's kicked and bit, eventually finding purchase on the other woman's hand. Urtica grunted but didn't loosen her grip. Instead, she spun Merula around and slammed her against the nearest wall, pinning her there with one forearm across her chest. The older woman's face came within inches of hers, and there was nothing soft in those eyes now.

"There is nothing we can do," Urtica snarled. "You understand? Nothing. You try to help her, they'll take you too. And the Overseer will punish me for letting it happen. All three of us suffer instead of one."

"Traba! She—"

"She's gone for now. She's gone." The hand tightened on Merula's shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "But not us. We're here. We complete our task. We get the supplies. We go back to work. Later, when they're finished with her, we go and fetch her. That's all we can do."

Merula struggled, shoving against Urtica's arm. The older woman's other hand cracked across her face, snapping her head to the side. Blood welled on her split lip and she spat it at the older woman in reply.

"Listen to me! We can help Traba later," Urtica repeated. Her voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "But the Overseer is waiting. And if we don't get back with those supplies, he'll punish us all. And he'll punish Traba too, when she gets back, if this is not done."

Merula's breathing came harsh and fast, her eyes darting over and over to the building where the Legionaries had taken the other girl. But she lowered her fists and shoulders and stopped struggling. Very slowly and warily, Urtica eased off her.

"No, Merula. We go. Now."

Urtica released her and turned toward the storage shed. Merula stood for a moment, staring at the corner where Traba had vanished. The girl's screams had already faded as the Legionaries took her somewhere quiet… But damn her, Urtica was right. There was nothing she could do. Not now. So she wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand and fell back in line. They loaded the bags of detergent in silence. The walk back felt far longer. Merula's jaw ached where Urtica had struck her and where she was grinding her teeth, hot venom churning in her guts with no way to release it.

At the laundry pools, she threw herself into the work with violence. The uniforms bore the brunt of it; slammed against the stones, wrung until her knuckles went white, scrubbed so hard the fabric threatened to tear. The Overseer passed by once, paused to watch her savage efficiency, then moved on without comment.

The horn signaling their labor's end went off, and Merula dropped the uniform she'd been wringing, water still streaming from the fabric. Other slaves around her began gathering their things and lining up, the same as every day. She didn't wait.

"Merula!" Urtica's voice cut across the laundry pools. "Get back here, we leave together—"

But Merula was already moving, pushing past the other women filing toward the exit. She shouldered through the press of bodies, ignoring the muttered complaints and shoves that came back at her. She could still hear Urtica at the back, still calling for her, but she pushed her way free and out onto the streets. The compound stretched before her in the fading light, all broken walls and rubble-strewn paths. She retraced the morning's route, past the storage shed, around the corner where the Legionaries had been lounging, to the building they'd dragged Traba behind stood quiet, its windows dark. A peek inside confirmed it was empty, but there was a disconcerting smeared red stain on the floor…

"Traba?" She kept her voice low, scanning the shadows. "Traba, where are you?"

A patch of scrubby bushes grew against the far wall where a gap in the foundation had let in enough soil for desert plants to take root, where the water runoff from the laundries provided enough moisture for the weeds and brush. Movement caught her eye. Not much, just a slight shift of branches.

"Traba?"

She pushed through the brittle vegetation and found her.

The tall girl sat with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, staring at nothing. Her dress hung in tatters, ripped down one side and barely clinging to her shoulders. Dark bruises bloomed across her collarbone and neck. Her thighs were slick with blood that had dried in rust-colored streaks down to her knees.

"Oh thank Mother-in-the-Earth!" Merula crouched down slowly, hands visible. "Hey. It's me. I'm here to—"

She reached out, and Traba's head snapped around with a shriek that made Merula jerk backward, nearly falling. The blank expression shattered into pure terror, eyes wide and unseeing.

"No! Don't! Don't! Don't! Don't—"

"It's just me!" Merula held both hands up and backed away. "It's me. Look at me. It's just Juniper… I mean it's me, Merula."

Traba's breathing came in sharp gasps, but her eyes started to focus. Recognition flickered across her face, followed immediately by something worse, a shame so deep it made her curl in on herself even further.

"It's going to be okay. I'll help you get back and we can get you cleaned up," Merula said. "We just need to get back to the quarters. Can you walk?"

No response. Traba just stared at the blood on her legs.

"Traba… I'm sorry I don't know your real name. But we can't stay here. It's almost dark, and if we're not back..." She shifted closer, slower this time, telegraphing every movement. "I'm going to help you stand. Then we'll walk together. Nice and slow."

She extended her hand. Traba looked at it like it might bite her. But after a long moment, she reached out with shaking, bloodied fingers and took it. Merula pulled her up carefully, and Traba swayed on her feet, one hand flying to the wall for balance. Her expression remained completely blank now, the shock having settled in hours ago. They started walking, Traba leaning heavily against Merula's shoulder. Every few steps, the tall girl would wince and Merula would slow their pace even more. The compound had grown quieter as the sun sank lower, most slaves already back in their quarters, but they were heading in the right direction now.

There were voices ahead. Male voices. Four familiar silhouettes rounded the corner. The same Legionaries from before, still together, still looking for entertainment. The one with the knife spotted them first, and his grin split wide.

"Hey! Looks like the other one came back, just in time for round two!"

Traba went rigid against Merula's side. A sound built in her throat, gurgling upward.

"No." The word came out as a whimper. "No, no, no—!"

"We were hoping you'd join your friend," another Legionary called out, already moving toward them. "Ha! Look at that face, she's glaring at you like she's going to do something! Oh I like this new one, she's going to be more of a fighter. Well don't worry, we can—"

Traba screamed, a most awful animalistic sound that ripped from somewhere primal as she tore away from Merula and ran, limping and stumbling but driven by pure panic. She careened down a side path, nearly falling several times but somehow still so fast, like a sick brahmin charging blindly ahead.

"Traba, wait!" Merula lunged after her. "No! Not that way!"

The Legionaries broke into a run behind them both, laughing and goading them on.

Merula ran, watching as Traba approached a drainage ditch yawned before them, a narrow water-eroded channel that had cut through the once-paved roads of the compound. Traba didn't slow. She leaped across it with the grace of pure adrenaline, landing hard on the other side and scrambling forward.

Merula hit the edge soon after and jumped. Her foot caught on the lip of the other side and she pitched forward, hands slamming into the opposite edge as her knee cracked against concrete. Pain shot up her leg but she dragged herself upright again, trying to ignore the pain as she started to limp—

Her collar beeped and flashed a warning.

They only got one warning.

Traba was still ahead, running toward the outer fence line, her torn bloodstained dress streaming behind her like the gruesome banner of another Legion victory.

Merula shouted after her. "Traba, stop! Stop! The boundary—!"

The explosion cut off her words. A sharp crack like thunder, and Traba's head simply vanished into a red mist. The headless body took three more staggering steps out of sheer muscle memory before she collapsed, twitching on the ground as blood fountained from the ragged stump of her neck. Hot liquid rained down across Merula's face, bits of skull and brain matter clinging to her hair and oozing down her nose. The world tilted sideways as she reeled backward, gagging at the sight, trying not to vomit. She stumbled and fell and didn't rise again. Gloved hands grabbed her from behind, holding her down against the red-spattered ground.

"Damn! Didn't think she'd get that far!" one of the Legionaries said, shaking his head at Traba's corpse before grinning down at her. "Oh well. This one's the fighter, at least."

They were right, she was the fighter. Merula thrashed, clawing at the arms holding her. She got one hand free and raked her nails across a face, drawing blood. The Legionary she struck swore and backhanded her hard enough to rattle her teeth. She snapped those teeth dangerously close to his fingers.

"She's a biter!"

"Guess that's how you like it, you stupid bitch."

"Haha! Get 'er!"

The one she'd scratched wrestled her to the ground, his weight crushing her chest as she wheezed aloud. His hand found her throat, squeezing, cutting off the remainder of her air. He fumbled beneath his tunic with his other hand, yanking at the leather ties, and shoved her knees apart with his own. The world narrowed to the pressure on her windpipe and the rough ground digging into her back. Her vision blurred at the edges as he settled between her legs, his breath hot and sour on her face. Merula brought both knees up hard and fast, planting her feet against his chest and pushing with everything she had. The Legionary flew backward with a sharp bark of pain, landing on his bared ass in the dirt. His companions howled with laughter.

The Legionary surged forward as Merula scrambled away on hands and knees, but his hand closed around her ankle and yanked. She hit the ground hard and he dragged himself up her body, hand over hand on her leg, parting her legs as he crawled up towards her. His hair brushed her inner thigh. Without thinking, Merula bent herself into a shape she didn't even know she was capable of, as she locked both legs around his throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength left in her. This time it was his turn for his breath to leave him. The Legionary's eyes went wide. His hands clawed at her thighs as he gasped and choked.

"By Mars, she's got him! She's got him in a fucking leg lock!"

"Oh man, Drusius won't let you hear the end of this if he hears!"

The other two were nearly doubled over, hooting and in hysterics as their comrade flailed and choked between the girl's thighs. Eventually his struggles started to slow and his face was turning purple, and for a single brief and foolish moment, Merula thought she might win. But one of his comrades eventually straightened, still laughing, and drove his boot into her ribs. Pain exploded through her chest. Her legs went slack. The Legionary ripped himself free, gasping and coughing. He didn't bother with his earlier intentions, more focused on his rage than his lusts as he fell upon her. His fist caught her in the face snapping her head sideways. Another blow to her stomach. She tried to curl into a ball but his boot drove right into her kidney.

She crawled. He followed, kicking her ribs, her back, her legs, even her head. His companions' laughter faded into background noise beneath the ringing in her ears and the thudding sounds of impact against flesh. Merula's vision swam red and black as she dragged herself forward on her elbows despite the onslaught. Each breath came shallow and wet-sounding. The world spun around her, or maybe that was just her body giving out. She couldn't tell anymore.

Her head struck something solid. Legs. She'd crawled right into someone's legs. Urtica? The Overseer? One of the other night guard? Merula half-lifted her head but her vision blurred, doubled. She dragged herself behind whoever it was before she collapsed, some animal part of her brain seeking any shelter from the boots and fists. The Legionaries didn't pursue. Whoever it was, it had given them pause. For a few moments, there was silence other than Merula's gasping below.

"Inculta…" One of the soldiers said.

"Ave," a terrible, familiar voice answered.

No…

Merula stayed where she'd collapsed, half-behind him, half in the dirt. Blood dripped from her split lip into the sand. One eye had already swollen nearly shut.

It was him.

Vulpes Inculta— The man who'd orchestrated the massacre at Bullworth Junction. Who'd smiled while her people burned. Who'd bet on her survival during the death march like it was sport. She was sprawled at his feet for the second time since she'd faced him. She wanted to spit on them. Wanted to claw at his ankles. Wanted to double back and lead the rest of Weeping Mother's children right to this wretched place. All those fantasies she'd harbored during the march. All those imagined confrontations where she'd face him. Where she'd make him understand exactly what he'd taken from her… She coughed blood up onto the ground instead and just tried to breathe.

The Legionaries seemed unsure what to do, now that they had this particular audience. They glanced at each other, the other three hanging back while the one she had choked and wrestled remained fixated on her.

"We had a runner."

"Just having some fun."

"We were teaching this uppity whore her place."

"Ah. By all means." He stepped aside, leaving Merula vulnerable where she lay. He stood nearby, arms folded leisurely behind him as he waited.

Only the more aggressive one of the Legionaries took a step forward. Then another. But he stopped halfway, glancing back at Vulpes, who stood perfectly still, just watching.

"Uh," The soldier shifted nervously. "She didn't seem to have an owner or anything. Is she yours?"

No answer came and the Legionaries' enthusiasm wanted quickly. They muttered amongst themselves and the angriest one still glared at the girl flopped on the ground, but still they did not approach.

At last one of them asked, "What do you want, Inculta?"

"I saw two women run past, earlier." Vulpes said. "I understand that she was with another slave? Where is she?"

"Oh, that one… She tried to run," the younger recruit said quickly, backing away to rejoin his fellows. "She went right past the boundary. Collar went off."

"Then I suggest you go and tell the slavemaster what has happened and how we lost another woman." Vulpes said gently. "Or if you'd prefer, I will make the report for you." A pause. "I am certain your decanus will enjoy the part about you losing an apparent wrestling match with a mere slave girl. Perhaps the decanus has not been training you properly? We may have to urge an inspection…"

"We didn't— It wasn't like that…"

"As I'm sure you will explain to your superiors."

The four soldiers exchanged glances. Without another word, they turned and left, talking in low tones to one another. Merula heard their footsteps and conversation fade away, still laying where she had collapsed.

Vulpes seemed to study her. "I know you. Even without the hair." A pause. "I see you did not make it to the auction block… What is your name?"

The laugh that escaped her throat came out wet and broken. "You know my name." Her words were slurred and liquidy. "You knew it when you were Mr. Fox. You know who I am."

"I know who you were. That name is no longer yours." His tone remained even. "No, I want to know your true name. The one the Legion gave you, among your other assignments."

She said nothing, putting all her focus into gathering herself. He only squatted down beside her, resting his arms up on his knees. He reached out, and she jerked away reflexively before his fingers closed around her wrist. She tried to yank free but he held fast, turning her hand over in the fading light, examining her sore, chemical-burnt flesh.

"The laundry pools," he said.

She wrenched her arm back with what little energy remained, and this time he let her. She braced both palms against the ground and struggled upward. Her legs shook but somehow she managed to stand. She swayed, vision swimming, but turned and faced him down with as much ferocity as her battered state allowed.

"You…" she began. "Y-you are…"

"Hm. The laundries are not suitable." He didn't elaborate, just straightened and turned away, already striding back toward wherever he'd come from. He had dismissed her just like that. She had a feeling he did that a lot.

Merula stood there, listing to one side, her breath finally returning fully to her as she held her bruised ribs. Her gaze drifted to Traba's headless corpse sprawled in the dirt nearby. Blood had pooled beneath what remained of her, soaking into the dry earth. She looked back at Inculta's retreating form. Could she follow him?

No. The collar wouldn't allow for it. And she was in such poor shape that she could barely stay upright, much less keep up with him. There was nothing for it. Urtica would likely be looking for her back in the slave quarters, and she would need to tell her about Traba… Oh, poor Traba. No doubt the Overseers would be furious, too. Perhaps, with her sorry state, they might go easy on her punishment?

She doubted it.

Her feet moved. One step, then another. Each one sent fresh pain lancing through her bones, but she kept walking, limping back toward her quarters while she still could.