POV third person
The NCR's northern flank was collapsing with terrifying speed. Barely a week had passed since the non-aggression pact was broken, and already entire cities—New Reno, Vault City, Sac City, and Redding—had fallen one after another. The Legion's offensive, launched from Utah, offered no respite. It wasn't a drawn-out series of battles—it was an unrelenting storm of steel and fire that crushed everything in its path.
Thousands of Legionaries, hardened by the campaigns in Utah and fanatical under the rhetoric of Caesar and his Legates, marched into California with a level of coordination and ferocity the Republic had not anticipated.
The NCR's northern defenses, scattered and underprepared, couldn't hold. Most of the High Command's strategic focus had been on the south, where they believed the brunt of the attack would come. There, they had entrenched elite units, Brotherhood Paladins, Knights, and thousands of soldiers from the Shi State—all preparing for an invasion that never came.
They had dug trenches, built bunkers, and stationed anti-aircraft batteries on every ridge.All in vain.
That was where Gaius deployed his legion.
Gaius knew the most efficient way to defeat an enemy was to make it waste its strength where it served no purpose. He played the role of the anvil—a force not designed to conquer territory quickly, but to pin the enemy's best fighters in place, trap them in a static front, and bleed their strength.
The Legion of Gaius, equipped with the highest concentration of power armor, tanks, self-propelled artillery, and a considerable fleet of Vertibirds, was the only force with the tactical and technical sophistication to wage such a campaign.
His men did not possess the crude brutality of Lanius's forces, nor the blind fanaticism of Malpais's followers. They were soldiers trained to think, to adapt, to annihilate.
Gaius maintained a steady rhythm of pressure—alternating precision strikes with massive bombardments—wearing down the southern lines. Each day the front held without breaking was a strategic victory: every Shi soldier or Brotherhood Paladin pinned down in the south was one less defending the NCR's crumbling capitals in the north.
The Legion had a spy so deeply embedded within the NCR's command structure that Gaius knew precisely when to slow the tempo of his assaults—just enough to create the illusion of a stalemate. During these lulls, Republic intelligence would recommend moving units north, believing the southern front had stabilized.
That was when Gaius struck again.
His artillery orders fell with the precision of divine wrath, as if Mars himself whispered into the ears of his gunners. Thousands of guns roared without rest, supplied by logistics lines so efficient it was as if the foundries of New Rome were only a few kilometers behind the front—and in truth, they were. The factories never stopped, churning out everything needed to keep the offensive rolling forward.
The thunder of Legion artillery was constant across the southern front. A ceaseless, rhythmic drumming that shook the earth like the heartbeat of war itself. Scattered and poorly coordinated counter-barrages came from the NCR, but they were weak—misdirected, fired under duress by a disoriented command.
In contrast, every Legion shell landed with brutal precision, leveling bunkers and fortifications built with years of peace-time preparation.
The reinforced concrete shelters that once symbolized the Republic's shield became deathtraps. Shells pierced their armor effortlessly, then exploded into a storm of shrapnel and fire. Sensors and automated turrets were overwhelmed by the saturation barrage. Smoke rose in dense columns, stretching for kilometers—shrouding the infantry's next moves.
Brotherhood officers—veterans of impossible sieges—began transmitting urgent requests for repositioning. Combat knight squads were shuffled constantly as Paladins tried to reinforce compromised chokepoints. The Shi State, famous for its disciplined tactics, split its forces into mobile platoons, trying to avoid being pinned beneath the heavy shelling.
But every move had a counter.
The veterans of Gaius's legion began to show, inch by inch, who truly mastered the battlefield. In open terrain, they adapted swiftly. Among the ruins of villages destroyed by artillery, they operated with absolute control. Their movements were sharp, lethal, and perfectly synchronized.
Even the most seasoned Paladins paled in comparison to Gaius's chosen unit: the Knights of Mars. This elite force was composed of genetically enhanced Legionaries, refined to the limits of human potential, and equipped with the Legion's finest weapons.
Their power armor was reinforced with advanced alloys. Their targeting systems were of pre-war origin. Their weapons were forged from decades of research centralized in New Rome.
Where they marched, the enemy broke.
And still the earth trembled beneath the endless artillery barrage.
The Legion advanced slowly—but unstoppably. Like a machine of conquest, built not only of brute force but of perfect logistics, information warfare, and relentless pressure.
And while the earth kept trembling under the relentless artillery fire, the Legion advanced—slowly but surely—like an unstoppable machine of conquest.But brute force was no longer the Legion's only weapon.
The ash kept falling.It was concrete dust, charred wood, burned bone.A constant drizzle since the Legion's artillery began its sinister concert.Thirteen hours without pause.Thirteen hours of metallic roars, muffled explosions, trembling ground, and walls groaning as if they were about to collapse at any moment.
Then—Silence.
A silence that hurt.
"Looks like they finally stopped..." muttered an NCR soldier, leaning against what was left of a window. His eyes were bloodshot, his face covered in dust, his lips cracked.
"Thirty minutes of silence... that means nothing," Sergeant Toleman replied, drinking from his canteen with trembling hands. "Talked to Bella in logistics: we've got nothing left to hit them back. Our ammo was wiped out in Friday's barrage. What little remains is reserved for the mortars—if they're even operational."
The younger soldier removed his helmet, wiped it with a sleeve. "So now what? We wait?"
Toleman didn't respond right away. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon.
"Alpha-1, do you read, Charlie-3?" the radio suddenly crackled.
Toleman grabbed the mic. "This is Charlie-3. Go ahead, Alpha-1."
"Lost contact with Charlie-4. Nothing for over twenty minutes. Can you confirm their position?"
The sergeant lifted the binoculars again. "One moment... yeah... shit... they're dead. Repeat: Charlie-4 is down."
"Say again, Charlie-3?"
"The squad's gone. I see them... they're sprawled across the east office building. No idea what hit them."
"Acknowledged. Stay alert. There may be Legion activity in your area."
Toleman lowered the radio. "Stay sharp. Something's wrong."
Corporal Hillman already had his rifle at the ready, watching the shadows between the buildings. He didn't speak, but his whole posture screamed tension.
At dusk, they swept the area. Eight soldiers, two of them women, well-armed but exhausted. They cleared floor by floor. The office building was partially collapsed, hallways reeking of mold, dried blood, and urine. Flashlights carved through the dark. Every shadow was a potential ambush.
Midway up the fourth floor, a scream stopped them cold.
Private Reyes. Her voice sliced the silence like rusted wire. They rushed to her. She was face down, soaked in her own blood, stabbed half a dozen times in the gut. Her eyes stared, wide and frozen.
"Clear this floor, now!" barked Captain Henley, face twisted with rage. He yanked off her dog tag. "Damn it... Reyes..."
They moved on with more caution. Eyes everywhere. Listening to the creaks in the wood, the hum of distant generators, the panic in their own breathing.
Private Lomas was next.
He'd gone ahead, turned a corner.
"Lomas! You there?"
A faint groan.
They ran. The door was slightly ajar. Henley kicked it open. Lomas was slumped against the wall, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes wet. He'd died recently. But not alone.
"Back! No one separates!" Henley ordered.
"Shit, I'd rather face a Legion patrol screaming 'Ave Caesar' than this," muttered one of the soldiers.
Toleman clenched his jaw. Something was hunting them—and they had no idea what.
They decided to evacuate. As they moved down the stairs, Private McNeil fell behind.
"Wait! Don't leave me!"
Toleman turned just in time to see McNeil vanish into the dark. A blurred shape, impossible to focus on, dragged him away with unnatural, jointless movements. McNeil's scream turned into a begging sob as he disappeared into the corridor.
"McNeil!" Toleman yelled, firing wildly. Bullets tore through drywall, pipes—but no blood, no body. Just one last choked plea:
"Help... he..."
The stairs shook under their boots. Metal groaned. Shouts mixed with gasps. Fear squeezed into every limb. Henley, panting, dust and tears on his face, screamed:
"We have to get out of here!"
No one argued.
They reached the first floor doors. A rush of hot, ashen air hit them. The lobby, dimly lit by emergency lights, was trashed. Desks and file cabinets had been thrown aside like toys.
Then something dropped from the ceiling.
Fletcher screamed—short, sudden.
"Fletcher!" Dawes shouted, opening fire upward. Muzzle flashes sparked against walls, lights, floor—but the thing was gone.
Fletcher kicked, grabbed tiles, fingernails screeching. She was dragged into a side office. Only blackness inside.
"DON'T LEAVE ME, PLEASE! NO, NO—!"
And then, silence.
Dawes stood frozen. "That's not human. What the hell is that?"
"Keep moving!" Toleman shoved him forward. "Henley! Get the emergency door open!"
He pulled a keycard. Swipe—red. Again—red.
"Come on, come on, goddamn it!"
Something landed behind them. Wet, heavy. Bones cracked. Something dragged itself across the marble—almost floating.
Beep—green.
The door slammed open. Cold air rushed in. They spilled into the street. One fell. Another slipped. No one looked back.
Toleman turned. He saw eyes in the dark—just two points of pale light, fixed on him. No body. Just that gaze.
The hallway darkened. The door shut.
Silence.
Outside, under a sky of ash and smoke, Henley dropped to his knees. Radio in one hand. Rifle shaking in the other.
"Alpha-1... search unit here. Something was hunting us. We lost several inside..." His voice cracked.
Silence.
"Alpha-1, do you read? Repeat, do you read? Alpha-1... Alpha-1..."
Nothing.
Toleman stepped forward, someone else's blood on his face. His eyes didn't blink. No one spoke. Only four remained.
Then they felt it.
Pressure in the air. Like the world holding its breath.
Out of the haze came figures.
Tall. Black armor. No insignias. Moving like predators. Visors glowing with cold, inhuman light.
Henley rose, lifting his rifle. "Who... who are you...?"
The figures stopped. One stepped forward. The voice came low, emotionless, through a helmet vocoder:
"Ave, true to Caesar."
Gunfire followed.
The last four NCR soldiers fell, and the town passed quietly into the hands of the Frumentarii.