POV of Todd
In the city, ya could tell the old-school Legionnaire culture didn't run the whole show. Sure, veterans were everywhere, couldn't toss a rock without hittin' one, but it wasn't like them other garrison towns I've seen. What really stood out was the kids. A whole mess of 'em.
Legionnaires breed like jackrabbits. Seein' as they use their slaves as broodmares, it was rare to find a vet without at least a dozen young'uns. Some had even more. Schools were packed to the rafters with these little soldiers-in-trainin', all decked out in that Legion-style football gear, red standards painted right on their chests. Uniforms spotless, drills tight. They were groomed from the get-go, not just to serve, but to live in a world where every rung on the ladder was set before they could even read.
Then there were the freedmen. In a bigger city like this, they were more noticeable. Took up all sorts of jobs: factories, maintenance, even some admin work. Technically free, but many stuck to their old roles, now with a paycheck. Funny thing was, despite the change, they held tight to a part of the Legion's pantheon: Libertas.
These freed folks lived differently. Had more typical families, or at least more structured ones. If luck was on their side, they reunited with kin the Legion hadn't torn apart. Others started fresh, usually with fellow freedmen. Their neighborhoods were modest but peaceful. None of that military stiffness from the vets or the silent tension from the slaves.
Despite all the changes, you could still catch glimpses of what the city used to be before the Legion took over. Old architecture, local customs, certain markets, the way folks talked. The dominant culture had changed, sure, but it hadn't wiped out the old ways completely. You could see it in daily life, in how people moved, decorated their doors, or celebrated births.
One thing that caught my eye was how developed the city's entertainment scene was for a Legion logistics hub. And the oddest part? It all ran without a drop of booze. Rules were strict, but that didn't mean folks were bored.
Cinemas were buzzing, with new showings every week. Plenty of propaganda films, sure, but also retellings of old tales or epic reenactments of Caesar's campaigns. Combat arenas were a big draw. Some even doubled as racetracks, hosting events like modified vehicle races followed by gladiator bouts or youth tournaments. Public shooting ranges let folks practice with standard-issue weapons, serving both as training and fun.
Outdoor activities weren't lacking either. Marked trails for hikes, small boats for river rides, even a kind of tech fair in the industrial zone showcasing old weapon and vehicle models for kids to climb on.
What really stood out was the local TV station. Running 24/7, with a hefty production crew and nonstop programming. But the content? Mostly junk. Pure Caesar propaganda, nothing informative. Just mindless entertainment to keep folks from thinking too much.
Like any big city, fast food was booming. Surprisingly many small joints using local ingredients: meat, grains, veggies, sausages. Burgers, stews, protein-packed breads. Cheap, plentiful, and from what I saw, selling like hotcakes. Every corner had at least one, all packed.
Stayed at the local governor's place, a modest but well-built setup, staffed adequately with all the comforts you'd expect. From there, watching the city's workings, two things struck me more than any military base or weapons factory.
First was clear as day. Gaius had crafted a chainless slavery. A flawless system where no one felt enslaved because everyone was busy living what they thought was a good life. Freedmen, residents, workers, all woven into a setup where freedom was just a word. No whips, no beatings. But total dependence on services he controlled.
Seems Gaius perfected a web of benefits: power, water, entertainment, security, all tied to working in his factories or facilities. Wages were decent, no complaints there, but designed to vanish by day's end. TV subscriptions weren't mandatory, but no one wanted to miss out on chats with coworkers. Arena tickets cost money, but the shows were so frequent and popular, skipping them wasn't an option. Convenience stores, promos, raffles, coupons for furniture upgrades, all part of a consumption machine making folks feel lucky to afford it all with the same money the system paid them.
The setup worked. Factories ran nonstop. Workers showed up on time. No strikes, no protests, no need for force. Everything was built to make them believe they chose this life. That it was all their own doing.
And the strangest part? It did the trick. Not a coin left in their pockets by week's end, but they didn't mind. Because as long as they kept working, they'd keep getting everything they needed. And to them, that was the good life.
The second thing I noticed durin' my stay was a bit more delicate. Up north of the city, on the official maps, it's marked as a fortified rural area. But the governor kept callin' it Gaius's tribe.
I already knew that valley up north was where part of the Legion's weapons get made—sidearms, rifles, ammo. Though now, by a direct agreement with him, that market's mine. Been that way a while. Gaius focused his production on just one thing: power armor. He took the heavy stuff, left me the rest. Fair deal, profitable too. But I'm startin' to think that deal was just the tip of the iceberg.
Governor slipped up. Said he remembered the day they were "lucky" enough to find Gaius climbin' outta a hole in the mountain. Like it was just some story. But I didn't let that detail slide. Too many pieces fell into place—underground facilities, advanced tech... sounds a whole lot like the old rumors 'bout Vault-Tec shelters. So maybe Gaius is one of those fellas who had it easy, livin' the soft life underground with all the comforts. Though I'll be damned how that kind of man turned out tough enough to wear red and gold.
I tried to check it out myself. Drove up toward them facilities listed as agricultural on the map, up on the hill. But soon as I got near, some guy in power armor—heavy-duty stuff—cut me off quick. Name was McKinley. Told me flat out he had orders to stop anyone from pokin' around. Didn't matter if it was diplomacy or business.
Normally, I'd push. My name's got weight. Most folks step aside. But this weren't just red tape. If Gaius didn't want eyes on that place, it was 'cause there was somethin' down there he didn't want seen. And if I pushed too hard, he might just erase me from the board entirely.
So I backed off, quiet-like. McKinley did toss me a bone, though. Said the place was a deep underground farm, already down to level -15, and they were still diggin'. Said it held a stable population of about thirty thousand folks. All underground.
Thirty thousand people. Livin' under dirt.
I hung around a few days while they got my new vehicle ready. Electric motor, light armor, long range. Didn't have to worry about refuelin', and these days gas is damn near all military-use only. Even for a man like me, gettin' a steady supply's more trouble than it's worth.
We crossed the river over the main bridge and rolled into Legion territory on the Arizona side. Right away, the vibe changed. Town had a more relaxed feel to it. Bit more civilian culture out in the open. Not as many old vets livin' there—most of them stay over on the industrial side. But don't get me wrong, it weren't soft. The Legion had their presence: checkpoints, patrols, watchtowers. Strong garrison kept things tight.
We didn't linger. Headed straight to the old capital—Flagstaff.
First time I laid eyes on it, and lemme tell ya, it looked nothin' like Castra Sol Robrum. This city had scars. Busted-up buildings, patched-together structures, only a few new builds done up in the Legion style. You could tell most of the money had gone elsewhere—more profitable or strategic zones.
Still, Flagstaff had its soul.
East side of the city's where you find the Field of Mars. Big ol' trainin' ground for fresh legionaries. The place was massive. Like a whole town inside another. And what got me grinnin' ear to ear? The sound.
Every damn gunshot echoin' off those walls sounded like money to me.
Every single round fired came from somewhere down my line. Hearin' that? That's like music.
But this place… it weren't like them new cities out east where the Legion moved in with factories and contracts. Flagstaff was the real deal. This place had roots. Two, maybe three generations livin' and breathin' Caesar's rule. They didn't know anythin' else. To 'em, Caesar ain't just some old general. He's the law, the order, the beginning and the end.
Folks here still lived by the first rules. Obey. Serve. Punish. No room for fancy words or clever systems. None of Gaius's new structure. Just the old ways. Short orders. No questions.
A quick look was all I needed to figure out how the economy ticked. Or barely ticked, I should say. Whole setup relied on mines—dig, haul, ship out raw stuff to be refined somewhere else. Simple skeleton of production with no muscle.
Problem is, them mines? They're dryin' up. Reports said it plain. Main sites closin' down. Others runnin' low. And nobody openin' new ones.
City never built a backup plan. No secondary industry. Just the mines. Sure, there's some subsistence farms on the edges, and small workshops providin' basic supplies to local troops. But nothin' you'd call a real economy.
Even bein' the historical capital of the Legion, it's clear Caesar never meant to build much here. He came to take. Squeeze it dry. After that, all the development got pushed to newer territories.
Phoenix, now that's where the gold's at. Full-on industrial jewel. That's where they invested. But here?
Here you just got the ashes.