Fallout:Industrial Baron in Caesar's Legion

guys sorry for the delay...I had an accident, when I was walking my dog, an irresponsible guy let his huge dog run away and tried to attack my dog...well I have wounds all over my forearm and three broken fingers on my hand.

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The rumble was so deafening that even from a safe distance, I felt the shockwave hit me square in the chest. The air became thick with dust and the acrid scent of burned metal; I could smell the blood, almost taste it in the atmosphere. As the smoke began to clear, the screams grew louder, cutting through the silence like a knife. These were screams of true pain, the kind that pierces to the bone.

I looked toward the crater left by the impact. Bodies were scattered everywhere, limbs torn apart, and pieces of flesh and NCR uniforms littered the ground. Some tried to move, writhing in desperate attempts to escape the hell that had just consumed their comrades. One of them was alive, barely. His leg ended in a jagged stump, bleeding profusely onto the earth that had turned into a sticky, red mass. He was screaming for his mother, in a tone that seemed otherworldly—a mix of horror and resignation. In any other situation, his plea might have stirred compassion in me, but here, on this unrelenting front, empathy had become a luxury I could no longer afford.

Some tried to crawl, their fingers clawing at the ground as they left bloody trails behind them. One, a young NCR soldier no older than twenty, struggled to get up, leaning on his right arm and groaning in pain. Half his face was covered in dust and blood, his left eye swollen shut from an open wound above his brow. His helmet had been torn off by the blast, and his brown hair was sticky and matted with dirt and blood.

One of my men beside me let out a dry, humorless laugh. "The profligates still think they can fight," he muttered, drawing a pistol and calmly aiming at the young man. "Mercy is an act of justice here, don't you think, Legate?" He fired, the sound of the shot echoing dully as the young man collapsed, his body relaxing in death.

My gaze fixed on two others who were still alive, clutching each other in a final attempt at comfort. They were murmuring faintly, probably words of farewell, as life escaped them in weak gasps. I let them be. Death would claim them soon enough anyway. I had learned that here, in the hell of the trenches, nothing lasted long. And anything that lingered a second longer than necessary—like a lingering, agonizing life—was a waste of resources.

The smoke continued to rise into the sky, black and dense, while the air was pierced by the hum of more projectiles in the distance. It was the constant reminder that the battle raged on and that these fallen men, torn apart or dying, were just one of the many pieces the conflict claimed without mercy.

"What do we do with those?" Drusus asked, his voice muffled by the filter of his power armor, turning into a metallic whisper. He was looking at a group of NCR soldiers who appeared no older than sixteen, huddled in a corner of what was left of a building destroyed by the blast. Among them, a young girl was crying, covering her face with her hands and hugging her knees, as if that fetal position could bring back the security she had lost.

The sight was gut-wrenching, but our masks didn't allow compassion. The isolation imposed by the power armor turned us into shadows of metal, faceless and inhuman. Without a face to read, without eyes to connect with, each of us became a mechanical figure, a war entity, and our thoughts remained hidden behind the technology.

"Prisoners," I replied in a dry tone, feeling the vibration of my own voice through the mask. "Treat them well; we can use them as bargaining chips in the future. The NCR will pay for their people." I knew Drusus would have preferred another kind of "utility" for them, but he understood the order. He nodded slowly, and in his visor, I could see the reflection of the prisoners, small and vulnerable.

"How is it possible these profligates defeated... Centurion Malpais?" one of my men asked, crushing the skull of an NCR ranger who barely moved. Blood splattered onto the rubble around them.

"Malpais made a poor strategic decision," I replied, my voice calm through the filter of the power armor. "And his men were poorly equipped. No power armor, Centurion Aelianus. However, we must continue pushing east. If we cut off this supply line, the NCR will only be able to resupply from the north, leaving them more vulnerable than ever."

The thunderous sound of artillery continued to rumble all around us. Our mobile artillery wreaked havoc on the NCR lines, destroying every stronghold the Republic's army had established. The constant explosions kept their troops on the brink of panic and disorganization. Each impact chipped away at their resolve, and our strategy advanced with precision.

Suddenly, the radio in my armor buzzed with a new report. "Legate Gaius, this is Centurion Decimus of the Rapax cohort. We have taken Helios One. I repeat, Helios One is ours. The profligates are dead; the rest are fleeing."

"Excellent news, Centurion Decimus," I responded without hesitation. "Continue your advance until you determine your forces can no longer secure the NCR's defenses."

"Roger that," he replied firmly, and the transmission ended.

I was preparing to focus on our next objective, Mojave Outpost, when another message broke through the communications channel. It was Lupus, one of our frumentarii, his voice dark and satisfied.

"This is Frumentarius Lupus. Legate Gaius, I report we have found and eliminated the Novac sniper. That profligate put up a tough fight; he killed two of ours before we brought him down. But he suffered greatly when we carved him up," he reported with a brief, bitter laugh.

"Good. One less problem," I replied with slight satisfaction. "Losing two decanus and now two frumentarii for a single NCR man is acceptable. Stay alert for future orders, Lupus; if I point someone out for death again—"

"Understood, Legate," he replied reverently before cutting the communication.

Nipton had fallen just hours ago. Most of the population had been evacuated, but the buildings remained as empty structures, an obvious lure. Preliminary reports from Picus indicated the possibility of a trap similar to Boulder Town. Rumors suggested a large shipment of explosives had been sent south, and Nipton could be the chosen site for a deadly ambush.

We weren't taking any chances. Rather than venturing into its narrow streets and ruins, we decided to level the city with heavy artillery. The cannons thundered relentlessly, and within minutes, the buildings that had once withstood time crumbled into rubble and dust. Artillery continued to flow in from the factories in Texas, thanks to our allies at the Texas Arms Association. Their support was invaluable, a constant source of firepower that allowed us to face the NCR's desperate tactics with absolute superiority.

Each shot we fired kept our men and vehicles safe, destroying any attempt at resistance before we even approached. From a distance, I watched as Nipton crumbled, reduced to a field of ruins. The few NCR survivors still hiding among the debris didn't stand a chance against the relentless barrage. The city it once was now existed only in memory, a scarred place on the map marked by the aftermath of explosions.

Artillery thundered like a merciless storm over Mojave Outpost. From my vantage point, I watched black columns of smoke twist against the sky, darkening the view. The first shells exploded over the walls, sending fragments of concrete and metal flying in all directions. The explosions shook the ground beneath my feet, and waves of heat rippled out with each impact, transforming the landscape into a vision of fire and destruction.

We had deployed a force of nearly four thousand legionaries for this battle, with half of them clad in power armor, reflecting a metallic gleam under the glare of the explosions, while my most experienced veterans secured the flanks, ready to respond to any NCR counterattack. The precision of our artillery and mortars, meticulously positioned, obliterated each point of resistance the Mojave Outpost attempted to hold.

Mortars rained down without cease; each explosion marked the end of a shelter, a barricade, or a structure the NCR had fortified for defense. The columns of smoke intertwined, creating a thick gray curtain that enveloped the border outpost. Flames flared with each impact, transforming the once-impenetrable buildings into ruins. I could see silhouettes of NCR soldiers moving erratically in the smoke, trying to find cover or flee the carnage.

When the Unification Monument finally fell, collapsing in a cloud of dust and debris, I gave the order to advance. Dozens of armored vehicles roared to life, followed by tanks that thundered over the terrain. The legionaries marched in formation behind them, an unstoppable wave of steel and will, ready to crush the last remnants of NCR resistance.

The sound of tank treads and the rumble of armored wheels filled the air, merging with the echo of explosions in the distance. Our shells continued to rain down on the remains of Mojave Outpost, pulverizing what was left of their defenses. NCR soldiers, many unarmed and in desperate retreat, looked insignificant against the advance of the Legion.

The explosion had lit up the horizon in a flash that turned night into day. Flames leaped from Mojave Outpost to heights that defied logic, and each shockwave shook the ground beneath our feet. Fragments of metal and concrete flew in all directions, like a fiery rain covering the landscape in a mist of smoke and ash. The sight of the enemy base reduced to chaos and death silenced even the hardest among my men. It was a slaughter none had expected, yet it was our opportunity to crush what remained of the NCR's resistance.

My men advanced, their steps echoing in the ruins that, moments before, had been impenetrable fortifications. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh—a mixture that would churn anyone's stomach, yet the fury of battle pushed them forward. As we neared the underground warehouse, the ground beneath us still trembled from the chain of explosions, while the last echoes of shells dissipated into the distance.

Inside, the defenses still held, though disorganized and weakened. Those not caught by the blasts tried to regroup, but my men gave them no chance. Bullets and screams filled the enclosed space, and the fortifications crumbled as legionaries fired point-blank, their voices on the radio saturated with hatred and adrenaline.

"Advance! Leave no one standing!" I roared, my voice thundering over the noise.

The shouts of my centurions and legionaries echoed through the radio channels. Most of my men were covered in blood, their armor scorched from the flames and searing heat still spreading through the area. The enemies tried to defend themselves, but panic consumed them. I watched as one NCR soldier, trapped beneath rubble, struggled to raise his rifle with trembling hands, only to be impaled by the bayonet of one of my decani. The enemy had no chance.

Our attention turned to the underground warehouses, the NCR's last refuge. We knew this was their final line of defense, and my legionaries, with merciless precision, advanced toward the entrance. The echo of footsteps and the clink of weapons filled the heavy air as the centurions prepared their flamethrowers with one purpose.

"Empty the tanks. Leave nothing but ashes," a centurion ordered.

The first streams of fire slithered like fiery serpents, slipping between shadows and filling the corridor with unbearable heat. The flames engulfed every inch of the warehouse interior, and the roar of the fire mingled with the desperate screams of NCR soldiers trapped in the infernal pit they had chosen as their refuge.

Some tried to escape, dashing out from corners only to fall under the bullets of my legionaries, who aimed without mercy, denying them any path of escape. The others, caught between the flames and smoke, could only scream as their bodies burned. Those who hid behind crates and makeshift barricades fared no better: the fire consumed everything in its path, turning each hiding place into a blazing pyre.

Inside the warehouses, the scene became hellish: the ground was littered with charred bodies and smoldering rubble. The walls, once lined with supplies and ammunition, now melted under the heat. There was no shelter, no safe corner; the flames found every one of them.

On the radio, some of my men reported between gasps and tense voices: "Target neutralized, Legate Gaius. No one left alive."

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Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.