[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjE0Mi5iYTk4NDAuVEc5emRDQk1aV2RwYjI0LC4wAAAA/el-tercer-hombre.normal.png[/img]

[img]http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/warhammerfb/images/6/64/Warhammer_Skaven_Banner.png/revision/latest?cb=20161118023346[/img]

-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-=:|:=-[/center]

[indent][indent][indent]There was a time when Travis O'Hare looked at the sky and wondered what would happen to him, what did God have in store for him assuming he wasn't just abandoned by God. Failing school, falling into a bad crowd, rejected by every place he tried to work at and with no marketable talents or skills, he was set on a dead end trail to failure. Kicked out of his house twice, arrested for various petty crimes, the only life he could have had was one of crime. Even though he remembered he once promised his mama that he would never go into that dark underbelly of crime, there he was looking at gangs to join.

And then the Washington Massacre happened. Everything just went by so fast after that, like a blur on fast forward. Social media blew up, news was back to back coverage on the "end of America" from both the right and the left. Rumors had it that the army had massacre more people in more cities than Travis care to remember. So much fear and uncertainty; Travis found himself forced back into his family after they lost their home and a massive chunk of their savings. And after his dad was shot dead after trying to loot a 7-11 for food to feed his starving family, Travis found himself maturing at a rate he never though possible, tempered by the hardship and poverty in the crucible of chaos. He became the family's head, scavenging for medicine for his sick mother and defending his younger sisters from the less scrupulous individuals that now prowled the streets. Despite it, Travis was sure that he and his family was going to die on the streets with no hope of any other fate.

All of it changed when [i]he[/i] came though, Justin Adkins, the Homeless King. With his legion of those America had abandoned from even before the fall, Travis found himself swept up in a cause that resonated with him at a very spiritual level. Where there was despair, there was now hope. Where there was uncertainty, there was now purpose. Where there was nothing left in his life, there was now a future. Offering his family a safe haven and a chance to get what was rightfully their, Travis and his family joined without hesitation. Now, Travis shone, the Legion revealing to him his latent oratory skills and honing his new found maturity into leadership as he participated in battles and raids.

Now, where once he was a gangster-to-be, he was now Lieutenant Travis O'Hare. Clad in his shining crude metal body armor and armed with an proud battered police pump-action shotgun, he lead his own platoon of men and women whose situations had been no different then his own. They were murders and thieves, beggars and squatters, criminals and dishonored ex-police officers, in a past life they would no doubt be at each other's throats but now, they were as close as brothers. Many of these people had been with Travis since his first battle which he recalled vividly. The chaos, the excitement and the noise, it was honestly exhilarating. But the most damning thing was the first time he killed a man, a prison guard who was about to get the jump on one of his comrades. Travis sunk his kitchen knife into the man's collarbone and then into his neck, just like how they did it in the movies. But the movies never told him the sick twisting feeling in his gut or the shock of realization. It was only through the constant support of his new found compatriots and a pair of rousing speeches from the Homeless King which gave him the strength to persevere and continue his path to command.

He was competant at leadership, far more than even he thought he was, able to balance out duty and order with relaxation and breaks. He had earned the trust of those under him and it showed.

"Hey, all of y'all get off your asses." Captain O'Hare walked into the lobby-bar of a brothel that had been set up inside an old tavern. Places like this were all over the place with entrepreneurs setting up whatever kind of shops they wished now that federal laws were no more and the Homeless King had looser rules. The only major thing he had banned was the selling of drugs. People were still allowed to grow them, only that selling or trading it was strictly prohibited. O'Hare walked around as his soldiers stood up, some in various states of undress and relaxation, "We've got orders so put on yo shit and mount up."

"Where we going now boss?" Grant Lynn, an ex-police officer, chirped up as he turned off radio currently playing Lost Boy by Ruth B, "Back to the train yard?"

"Nah, we're goin' far out." the captain pulled out a crinkled map from his jacket pocket and laid it out on a table, "Heard command got wind of some fools hiding out in the suburbs in a rundown preschool. Search and Destroy mission really."

"Well, let's get too it then cap." a muscle bound torso covered in tattoos and scars walked out from a side room, peeling off a scantily clad woman as he donned a biker jacket and found a cracked riot shield and barbed baseball bat, "Burnin' daylight here."

Within a few minutes about two dozen men poured out from the abode and line up outside. After a quick role call, they mounted their transports: a trio of armored pickup trucks with two of them boasting large crossbow-like guns bolted behind the cab. The tattered flag of the Lost Legion flying above some twenty odd poorly equipped, highly motivated soldiers covered in stolen jackets or wearing blankets like capes. Heroes they thought of themselves and heroes they were to many. Captain O'Hare pulled out the smart phone he would have never been able to even see in his old life and saw #LostLegion was still one of the most popular social media along with its sister tags and hashtags, at least amongst the ones used by all of the factions of the second civil war.

If it was one thing that the Lost Legion wasn't short on, it was an online presence. The clarion call of the Lost Legion where the same of that Lady Liberty's, "Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to us for we lift the lamp beside the golden door!" No other faction in America could boast the presence they had; what the Forgotten lack in arms, they made up in enthusiasm in many ways. Hundreds of thousands of people had been displaced by the new civil war, unwilling to take a side. And to those who escaped the grasp of the communists or the federalists, the Lost Legion was there for them as a bell of sanctuary and a beacon of hope. They may have been the forgotten people under the old regime, but under the Lost Legion, their names were told echo through the ages; history remembering them when they would have other wise been lost to the wind.
[/indent][/indent][/indent]