It was three level down in the old world bunker and the Legionnaire had none of his Contubernia to help him. Two weeks before, Frumentarii scouts had alerted his Decanus of the existence of the old military outpost, claiming that it could be a good source of pre-war weapons. The Legionnaire thought little of it at the time. Certainly, any task ahead of him could not be worse than the battle at Hoover Dam. If he could make it through the NCR gunfire and the sight of his brothers getting blasted to pieces in Boulder City, some abandoned bunker in the Arizona desert would assuredly be nothing in comparison. Yet here he was, back against the wall in some empty room, quieting every breath so as not to draw attention to yet another roving security bot. Living, at this point, seemed almost purposeless. Even in the odd chance that the Fates grant him some miraculous exit out of this hellhole, there was still his failure to be dealt with. The Legionnaire remembered quite vividly the day at the Grand Canyon. Graham’s tortured screams, fading in volume but not potency as he descended down into the canyon’s maw. Though it certainly would not be as extravagant, he shuddered to think what his own punishment would be. And then there was the fact that…no, he could not dwell upon that now…now certainly was not the time to…

The thud of a metal foot disrupted the Legionnaire’s reflections and turned his mind back to more pressing concerns. Down the hall outside his room, a large bipedal sentry bot lumbered forth, moving on a path that seemed unescapable, its cycloptic camera eye bathing the corridor in a faint red light that seemed to grow brighter by the second. The Legionnaire frantically felt around his person, searching for anything at all that might stay his demise. A machete gladius… a 10mm pistol… a pre-war knife… things he knew from watching his comrades would do nothing to overcome the hulking machine. But then, a new item drew his attention. Newly illuminated by the light of his executioner’s eye, a previously unforeseen ammunition box appeared to his right. Inside, two objects that at first seemed foreign to the Legionnaire’s eyes. One was an oblong, metal canister, its top crowned by a round, complex looking adornment. Its bottom, some sort of knob. The other item was some sort of bracelet covered in electroni… The Legionnaire suddenly remembered seeing such items before. His thoughts flashed back to contraband taken back from the more veteran legionnaires’ raids on Brotherhood of Steel fortifications. The canister was a grenade. The bracelet, some sort of pre-war technology that he knew was forbidden, at least to a man of the Legion. Quickly, he turned the knob on the canister and lobbed it down the hall. Landing beneath the robot’s feet, it exploded into a burst of blue light. Serpentine bolts of electricity wreathed the machine, writhing chaotically. With a mechanical pop, components erupted forth from its innards and smoke billowed forth from its newly sundered carapace. The squeals and groans of grinding metal were its swan song as it collapsed to the floor. Perhaps the Fates were on the Legionnaire’s side. He placed the bracelet on his wrist and flicked a switch. With an electric hiss, he was suddenly invisible. The Legionnaire smiled. Saying a prayer in his mind that thanked the Fates and every god he could think of, he began an ascent to the surface.

Panting as he closed the bunker’s door, the Legionnaire finally felt safe. Whatever this bracelet was, it had saved him from the machines below. He flipped the switch again, becoming visible in a crackling whir. He gazed upon it thoughtfully. Though unlikely, perhaps his failure was repairable. If he could use the bracelet to make some return trips inside, maybe he could sneak some supplies to the surface. Of course, even given that possibility (which he acknowledged was likely suicide), there was still the problem of transporting the loot back. The guard assigned to look after their bighorner cart, concerned after waiting for so long, had gone inside the bunker and perished. The Legionnaire recalled his remains, partially charred by a robot’s laser. After a few moments stumbling in the desert, the Legionnaire found the cart and the bighorner, or at least what was left of him. Poor stupid beast must have been easy pickings for the coyotes all alone and tied to the cart. The Legionnaire sighed. Whatever he was going to do, it would have to wait until morning. Leaning against the cart, he turned his eyes skyward. Back at camp, stars were always a calming sight. Caesar’s diviners always foresaw good omens in certain patterns. In a way, they were the eyes of the divine, gazing upon him and his fellow soldiers with fortuity as they marched to victory. But now, with the rest of his Contubernia dead and the thought of victory inane, they appeared quite differently. They were cold and far too distant to care about his inconsequential fortunes. As he thought about it, there was no-one alive left that really cared about him. His brother, the only man who truly ever did, lay dead in the bunker. Of course, all the dead in that old world tomb were his brothers in a way. But only one was by blood and not merely by flag. Back as a child, before their tribe was subsumed by the Legion, he was both his friend and idol. He became even more so after the rest of their family died during Caesar’s conquest. Of course, he would never let those affections show outwardly, lest he face the wrath of Vulpes for being biased by such old tribal bonds. Despite the danger it would have been to him, he now wished he had. Refocusing his eyes to the horizon, the Legionnaire identified something new. Out in the desert, a campfire burned. Vaguely silhouetted by its meager light, a man and…a brahmin. For the second time that night, the Legionnaire found a reason to smile. Perhaps his brother’s death would not be in vain after all. With the hiss of his bracelet activating and the rasp of his machete unsheathing, he set out into the night.

To be continued...