A dilapidated gas station was submerged in a pool of red, with occasional specks of white, tinted varying shades of orange by small fires. A family of enormous rodents also occupied this space, but were suspended above the fires on spits, rotated every few minutes by white-clad slaves. The many red soldiers exchanged insults, stories, cigarettes, whetstones, and eventually, roasted mole rat.
Two slaves in particular brought an entire mole rat, roasted and spiced in more splendor than the others, through the door of the gas station. Inside, they were met with the sight of officers in armor a good deal nicer than that of the foot soldiers outside. One wore a helmet clearly designating him a Legate, and another's armor marked him a Centurion, whose Century the Legate was accompanying.
The two meat-bearing slaves brought their burden straight to the Legate, doing their best to ignore the visible agitation of the Centurion. They were, after all, Legate Ennius' slaves, and it was his wrath they had to concern themselves with; not the Centurion's. While one of the two announced the meal and its spices to the quite-particular Legate, the other noted a figure in the back of the room.
The man was tall and thin, though somewhat shorter as a result of being sat and bent over a radio. His skin was of that same ambiguous light brown as many of the converted tribals in Caesar's Legion, and his forcibly shaved black hair had a similar effect, which only furthered the resentment his mole-rat-serving counterpart felt for him. Here was a man, she reasoned, who could just as easily have been a Legionnaire, but was instead taking the easier slave position of 'radio repairman.'
The man was presumably a medic, also, but Cornsilk hadn't seen any such work from him in the week he'd served Ennius. And here he was, making an already on-edge Centurion angrier by his presence, and not having fixed the radio after breaking it several days ago. If the man hadn't been a gift from another Legate in Neo Roma, he would've been crucified for breaking Ennius' much-vaunted luxury.
"That will be all," Cornsilk heard her Legate announce, pulling her eyes from their silent attack on her despised counterpart. She and the slave with her exited the gas station as commanded, leaving the mole rat in the care of lesser officers with sharp knives.
"Mole rat over a spit," Ennius observed. "It's like being a scout all over again."
Centurion Pompeius only just barely refrained from observing that this brand of absurd expectation was likely the exact reason Ennius was being sent away from Neo Roma's lights and luxuries. The man was still a competent commander, Pompeius had no doubt, but the city had begun to corrupt and fatten him. Having a medic slave work to repair a radio as a wrist-slap punishment was a prime example, but the Centurion did not allow his gaze to linger on that fellow over-long, given an earlier, more private conversation.
"I don't remember having a little thing like that blonde around on any scouting mission," Pompeius answered, unable to resist one small jab. This one was at least more friendly than others that he'd forced down.
"Oh, you liked that one?" Ennius grinned, only somewhat aware of the Centurion's inner conflict. "I heard you preferred to break in new soldiers."
Pompeius felt a vein on his forehead bulge, as well as the arteries in his neck. He could've sworn he saw the presumed medic look in his direction, but further inspection showed the man to be still tinkering with the radio.
"I haven't figured out who started that rumor," Pompeius pointed out through his teeth.
"Indeed," Ennius chuckled, taking a plate with a prime cut of mole rat and the appropriate silverware. "That would likely require a new and inventive manner of execution."
As Pompeius felt his famous temper begin to cool marginally, a scream filtered through the broken down building they inhabited. The officers stood, as shouting followed the outburst. Momentarily, a young Legionnaire entered the gas station, and announced that "Rock-Skull's gone crazy, sir!"
Pompeius spared one suspicious glance at the medic slave then, before bursting out the door. It was about Rock-Skull's addiction to a potent new Psycho/Buffout mix he'd spoken with the medic earlier, and the Centurion saw no reason to view the situation as coincidental. Rock-Skull was a personal favorite of Pompeius, though he made an effort not to treat the younger man as such. Rock was a Centurion in the making, if only he could get beyond his chem inclinations.
On exiting the gas station, Pompeius saw a yao-guai of a man with a fresh corpse's dashed skull beneath one foot, and a large sledge in his hands. Rock's eyes were blood red around the irises, made doubly eerie by the firelight and red armor reflecting off them. Chems, Pompeius decided, before taking his own enormous sword from the officer who'd presented it to him.
Five minutes later, after a failed attempt at reason which left Rock-Skull dead at his feet, Pompeius heard a soldier calling for him.
"The Legate, sir!"
The Centurion snapped back into place, blocking out the friend he'd just hacked down. Remembering his doubts of the medic, he charged, knocking open the gas station's door, and was greeted with a sight slightly less grim than that of Rock-Skull. Legate Ennius sat on the chair he'd evidently never risen from, but was now snoring, with his head back, and his plate of mole rat fallen at his side.
Rather than the medic, who should have been there, Pompeius saw only the radio the man had been working on, which itself emitted a whine of such high pitch he could scarcely hear it. The gas station's back door was conspicuously open, but the Centurion ignored this, instead moving to the radio, and slapping it into a wall with the flat of his sword. Behind the radio, as it turned out, had been a slave collar, which began to beep conspicuously when the radio stopped whining. Pompeius, active as he now was, dropped his blade and tossed the collar out the open back door of the gas station.
-•-•-•-
Half a mile away, sprinting and wheezing, one ex-slave of Caesar's Legion ran through the Mojave, without any sort of light to help him traverse the path. While the Legion had killed or scared away many of the threats in the desert, the greatest danger to the medic himself remained the Bull itself, and making himself a bright target for them was ill-advised.
Suddenly, a small explosion could be heard in the distance behind him, and the young man's run slowed to a walk, as he turned to look back at the fires of the Legion camp. They would not have appreciated his gift, he decided, and sped up again, though only to a jog, this time.
He'd been told that there were all manner of secret caves in this region of the Wastes, through which escaped slaves were spirited with some regularity. This night in particular had been his best opportunity, between the gas station, the chem addict, the location, and the Legate of fading competence. There was still the difficulty that Legion scouts were entirely certain to be capable of catching him though, so the ex-slave continued moving, aware that death was only half a mile or so behind him, even if it hadn't yet mobilized.
At least the ants had been killed, he noted.
Two slaves in particular brought an entire mole rat, roasted and spiced in more splendor than the others, through the door of the gas station. Inside, they were met with the sight of officers in armor a good deal nicer than that of the foot soldiers outside. One wore a helmet clearly designating him a Legate, and another's armor marked him a Centurion, whose Century the Legate was accompanying.
The two meat-bearing slaves brought their burden straight to the Legate, doing their best to ignore the visible agitation of the Centurion. They were, after all, Legate Ennius' slaves, and it was his wrath they had to concern themselves with; not the Centurion's. While one of the two announced the meal and its spices to the quite-particular Legate, the other noted a figure in the back of the room.
The man was tall and thin, though somewhat shorter as a result of being sat and bent over a radio. His skin was of that same ambiguous light brown as many of the converted tribals in Caesar's Legion, and his forcibly shaved black hair had a similar effect, which only furthered the resentment his mole-rat-serving counterpart felt for him. Here was a man, she reasoned, who could just as easily have been a Legionnaire, but was instead taking the easier slave position of 'radio repairman.'
The man was presumably a medic, also, but Cornsilk hadn't seen any such work from him in the week he'd served Ennius. And here he was, making an already on-edge Centurion angrier by his presence, and not having fixed the radio after breaking it several days ago. If the man hadn't been a gift from another Legate in Neo Roma, he would've been crucified for breaking Ennius' much-vaunted luxury.
"That will be all," Cornsilk heard her Legate announce, pulling her eyes from their silent attack on her despised counterpart. She and the slave with her exited the gas station as commanded, leaving the mole rat in the care of lesser officers with sharp knives.
"Mole rat over a spit," Ennius observed. "It's like being a scout all over again."
Centurion Pompeius only just barely refrained from observing that this brand of absurd expectation was likely the exact reason Ennius was being sent away from Neo Roma's lights and luxuries. The man was still a competent commander, Pompeius had no doubt, but the city had begun to corrupt and fatten him. Having a medic slave work to repair a radio as a wrist-slap punishment was a prime example, but the Centurion did not allow his gaze to linger on that fellow over-long, given an earlier, more private conversation.
"I don't remember having a little thing like that blonde around on any scouting mission," Pompeius answered, unable to resist one small jab. This one was at least more friendly than others that he'd forced down.
"Oh, you liked that one?" Ennius grinned, only somewhat aware of the Centurion's inner conflict. "I heard you preferred to break in new soldiers."
Pompeius felt a vein on his forehead bulge, as well as the arteries in his neck. He could've sworn he saw the presumed medic look in his direction, but further inspection showed the man to be still tinkering with the radio.
"I haven't figured out who started that rumor," Pompeius pointed out through his teeth.
"Indeed," Ennius chuckled, taking a plate with a prime cut of mole rat and the appropriate silverware. "That would likely require a new and inventive manner of execution."
As Pompeius felt his famous temper begin to cool marginally, a scream filtered through the broken down building they inhabited. The officers stood, as shouting followed the outburst. Momentarily, a young Legionnaire entered the gas station, and announced that "Rock-Skull's gone crazy, sir!"
Pompeius spared one suspicious glance at the medic slave then, before bursting out the door. It was about Rock-Skull's addiction to a potent new Psycho/Buffout mix he'd spoken with the medic earlier, and the Centurion saw no reason to view the situation as coincidental. Rock-Skull was a personal favorite of Pompeius, though he made an effort not to treat the younger man as such. Rock was a Centurion in the making, if only he could get beyond his chem inclinations.
On exiting the gas station, Pompeius saw a yao-guai of a man with a fresh corpse's dashed skull beneath one foot, and a large sledge in his hands. Rock's eyes were blood red around the irises, made doubly eerie by the firelight and red armor reflecting off them. Chems, Pompeius decided, before taking his own enormous sword from the officer who'd presented it to him.
Five minutes later, after a failed attempt at reason which left Rock-Skull dead at his feet, Pompeius heard a soldier calling for him.
"The Legate, sir!"
The Centurion snapped back into place, blocking out the friend he'd just hacked down. Remembering his doubts of the medic, he charged, knocking open the gas station's door, and was greeted with a sight slightly less grim than that of Rock-Skull. Legate Ennius sat on the chair he'd evidently never risen from, but was now snoring, with his head back, and his plate of mole rat fallen at his side.
Rather than the medic, who should have been there, Pompeius saw only the radio the man had been working on, which itself emitted a whine of such high pitch he could scarcely hear it. The gas station's back door was conspicuously open, but the Centurion ignored this, instead moving to the radio, and slapping it into a wall with the flat of his sword. Behind the radio, as it turned out, had been a slave collar, which began to beep conspicuously when the radio stopped whining. Pompeius, active as he now was, dropped his blade and tossed the collar out the open back door of the gas station.
-•-•-•-
Half a mile away, sprinting and wheezing, one ex-slave of Caesar's Legion ran through the Mojave, without any sort of light to help him traverse the path. While the Legion had killed or scared away many of the threats in the desert, the greatest danger to the medic himself remained the Bull itself, and making himself a bright target for them was ill-advised.
Suddenly, a small explosion could be heard in the distance behind him, and the young man's run slowed to a walk, as he turned to look back at the fires of the Legion camp. They would not have appreciated his gift, he decided, and sped up again, though only to a jog, this time.
He'd been told that there were all manner of secret caves in this region of the Wastes, through which escaped slaves were spirited with some regularity. This night in particular had been his best opportunity, between the gas station, the chem addict, the location, and the Legate of fading competence. There was still the difficulty that Legion scouts were entirely certain to be capable of catching him though, so the ex-slave continued moving, aware that death was only half a mile or so behind him, even if it hadn't yet mobilized.
At least the ants had been killed, he noted.