They called him by many names. Whispered like tales of the Burned Man slaves shared around a campfire. Blasphemous claims he returned from the grave. Fueled by unholy vengeance. His only purpose, destruction. Foot soldiers mused of the glorious fight they would conquer if they encountered him. Their superiors speculated what strength annihilated thousands of us in one day. What evil lurked in the depths of a man who wrought the end of the world?

I saw him once. Perched upon the ridge like a condor on the branch of a palo verde. Gawking down on Cottonwood Cove. Something clutched in his talons by black threads. Slaves’ duties paused for a rare moment. Enough time to escape the ire of their handler’s whip. I followed their stare. Watching as he set the mass on the ground. Retreating a few steps back for a running start. Then, he kicked it off the cliff. It landed, interrupting the repose in the center of the stronghold. A gruesome wet thud startled heat-weary soldiers. They jumped, cursing and flailing about like pouting children. It wasn’t the first time the condor gifted scraps of his prey.

A head. Mangled and torn skin, still leaking life. Defaced by crude phalluses and broken Latin insults. The head was recognizable beneath black ink. A frumentarii of high rank and status. Not one of Aurelius of Phoenix. Not some other centurion plotting for control. Not my ally. Vulpes Inculta worked with his own kind for a different future of statum.

“Killing one profligate is the work of a child!” Aurelius growled. Advisors and soldiers ducked when the bottle went flying across the room. Slaves tucked in the corner swiftly gathered the shards. Fearful glances darted between pieces and centurion. Keenly listening for the second assault Aurelius preferred a living target for. He adjusted his helmet. A few locks missing from the fanned maroon assortment. Others singed at the tips. Tarnished by devilish and sandy winds. Nicks and scrapes marred a steel breastplate. Frayed red cloth draped about the giant, covering the gaps of armor left by a new war. Luster and length fading just as the man so easily lost his temper. Yet, it bore the gold bull we all still claimed to serve. “My legion should not be so incompetent I must call upon a venator!”

Yes, he was known by many names. His last, the one to be remembered by. The title I bestowed upon all I hunted.

Praeda.





What little information the centurion gathered on my hit led me to Novac. A pitiful stunted trading town at the mercy of the frontier. Barely a guard to speak of protected the town; the marksman hidden in an unsightly monument planted on the inn’s ground. A giant gecko of tainted green, skin chipping away, and mouth agape. Had I not seen it, I would be surprised we never conquered it. Every one of these towns looked the same. In the midst of decay. People moving in decrepit hovels akin to pests found in the shadow of a dead world. Cozying their nests with old-world filth. No effort to rebuild. Perfectly happy to live in squalor. 

Had Novac the fortune of being liberated, it could have been a proper statum town. Roads would be flat. Homes would be complete, rebuilt from the ground up. The citizenry would be working, thriving, guarded by more than one man fighting off sleep in the mouth of a lizard-monument more useful as salvage. And these disgusting halls dedicated to liquor…

I blinked away the sting of the offensive chemical stench. The next assault was that of the patrons’ body odor. Fetid stench of unwashed laborers. Indignant pigs that came to wallow in filth and relinquish control to a liquid god. Holding back my nausea, I approached the bar. “I am looking for this person.” I set the decree on the bar top, careful to avoid lingering wet rings. “He is known to frequent this area.”

The bar-tender, an aged and stout man, waddled over to me. Gray brows cemented over squinting eyes. Stuck in a perpetual scowl by years one can seldom counts to in such a primitive land—granted they could count at all. “Don’t look familiar,” he shrugged. Swollen hands moved on to the next glass awaiting the rag.

“I seen ‘em around here.” I looked at the nasal voice. A farmhand sat at the curve of the bar. Glazed eyes evaluated me then the face on the decree. “How much findin’ out more worth to ya?” I despised their voices. The way they spoke. The drawl on their words. Barely worthy enough to be slaves.

I retrieved a coin from my pocket. “One denarius.”

His face twisted, baring a yellow grin as a hearty laugh bellowed out. Claws in my ears. Spitting toxic saliva, tainting my clothes and skin. I couldn’t help but grimace at the sudden attack. Hand paused mid raise for a drink as he said, “NCR paper money is worth more than that.” He let out a satisfied and beer rotted sigh. “Got anything valuable? Water? Chems?”

What a disgusting creature. Too stupid to know denarii are silver. Woefully and willfully uneducated. Ignorant. Perhaps it is blissful. But I held my tongue.

“No.”

I left the saloon. Nose still burned with a foul chemical musk. Not even the cool of night could whisk it away. No, these places always had a perpetual stink. Sewer and sweat. Dust and dirt. I retreated to the alley-side of the saloon. Nestled between a closed shop and plank wall, I waited for my prey.

When he emerged, inebriated and shambling, whistling a tune to hide my steps behind him. I followed the farmhand back to the town’s inn. An unexpected, but welcome turn of events. It would make my work faster. Peering around a corner, I watched him climb a set of stairs. Following painfully slow and stuttered movements to his door. He pushed inside, then closed the door behind him. I emerged from my cover. Advancing up the stairs, refreshing every stage in my plan along the way. Quiet steps barely tapped on cold concrete. Voices muffled behind closed curtains as I passed. Yellow rooms turned black. Paced thuds and creaks waned.

I stopped at the door and knocked.

He ripped open the door, leaning against the trim for support. He squinted, “Whassit?”

I shoved him inside. He tripped over his own feet, stumbling to the floor. “I have discovered a more valuable form of currency for our trade.” I shut and locked the door behind me. Then I unraveled the wire, testing its strength in my hands as I stared at the frightened animal. “Your life.” He attempted to flee, crawl away, its pleas for help caught in its throat. And still, it could not even do that correctly. I pounced. Weak flails hit like flies. Far too easy, this almost made me laugh. I wound the wire to the curve of his neck and pulled. “You may keep living, only if you tell me what you know.”





New Vegas. A beaming eyesore one couldn’t escape for miles in the desolate flats. Day or night. The way it forced one to gaze upon it, squinting in awe of its power. Sun spears burst in the day, threatening to overtake the sun. Glowing at night, overpowering the stars. No wonder Caesar aimed to conquer it. Make it our capitol. Our monument to our victory, our power. Nova Roma!

Tainted by its current ruler. Trash littered the streets. The drunk, the intoxicated, they shambled along the street, not even a second glance from those still coherent. Night-women walked the day, reveling in the attention of lesser men. Overwhelming poverty. The unclean allowed to roam free. The lights, blinding. Disgusting displays everywhere I looked. Burning money away at green-felt tables, praying to gods of spades and diamonds or the black evil eyes of die. Feeding voracious machines with every bit of value they possessed. Synthetic noises they had the audacity to call music blasting on every corner, out of hovel of sin and depravity.

And they all came willingly.

“I don’t understand how you survive this wasteland.”

“You learn to tolerate it.”

“Why are we meeting here?” I couldn’t help but sneer. Bodies crowded together. Dimly lit. The noise! Cheers and recitals for fortune barked at the tables splaying the center floor. Beyond the lounge we had the had to ourselves, the fourteenth bar I’ve counted so far. I found it so baffling. How could such intoxicated people ever manage to survive? Let alone how one conquered us. It was insulting…

“We blend in,” Cutsos explained. An old contact and colleague. I worried he’d lose himself to all this hedonism. It can be quite alluring at times.

I took a whiff of the glass my contact gave me. Water, thankfully. “Under whose charge are you now?”

He chuckled, “let’s assume it’s the same legate. I rather hear of home.”

“Flagstaff and Phoenix endure. We are strongest there. There are centurions who still follow Caesar, vicariously through Legate Augustus.”

“What of the northern holds?”

“Weak and dying. A diseased limb to be cut off.”

Custos hummed, a nod of approval followed. “We have an ally in Augustus.”

“Corvus oculum corvi non eruit.”

Custos glanced flashed on me, accepting the informal contract spoken between our own. “Who you seek frequents this place. Try tomorrow, if not then, the next day, if not then… Et cetera.”

“What do you know of him?”

“I watch all. This one is…” His voice trailed away as he leaned into the sofa. “Stricta suturis. Difficult to get to.”

None were out of my reach. I was but one finger upon Caesar’s hand. Grasping those who thought themselves free, escaped. The self-titled ruler of Nova Roma would be no different from those dictating life in statum. No matter how tight the inner circle. No matter how careful. There is always a bare patch upon the skin. Some tasks take years like a masterful crafter of stone cultivates his skill. And some problems are solved in a day with common poison in their wine.

Heeding Custos’s advice, I revisited the Baron’s Bull. Many characters recurred at predictable hours of the day. Then there were the transients. This is the category I put Praeda within. Not a lingering fixture like the older man he visited. A peculiar relationship I couldn’t parse, but that wouldn’t be necessary. Not unless I could exploit it. I attempted extracting information from him once before. Once was enough. If the man were architecture, he’d be a brick wall. A worldly man, the kind who could read character at a glance. My greatest weakness. No matter how hard I tried, something in my being leaked through. And this man knew it.

I’d kill him had I not feared it would sound warnings for my prey.

Then I saw him. A storm rolling in at a breeze on a horrifically sunny day. Shorter than I imagined. Younger than I thought. A glare in his eyes. One marked by a vicious scar, frightening the black sun caught in shallow waters. I retrieved my decree and a pen, added alterations to the face on the paper.

He took the stool next to the older man. Two varieties of arms; one automatic, one revolver. A Kevlar vest protected him. A highway sign shielded his back. I noted the pockets, bulging with bullet-shaped masses. The grip of a hunting knife peeking out and a second below that.

Wearing a mischievous face, the man turned to his younger companion. “The hell is that?”

“What?”

“That on your face,” the older man said. The boy patted his cheeks. “You tryin’ to grow a mustache or just forget to wash?” The older man licked his thumb. He reached for the boy only to be met with swatting hands.

“Wayne!”

“Comin’ in here like you just rolled outta bed…”

“Well, I did.”

The older man huffed. He turned around in his stool, “Get up.”

“What?”

“Come on.” He huffed again, as if completely exasperated by the task bestowed upon himself, “Gonna teach you to shave.”

A boy. Barely a man. I doubted my sources at a first glance. But it was him. The two met every day. Staying in the crowds of Freeside made my observations less noticeable, but any chance to advance thwarted by too many eyes and bodies. Then there were the days they took hunting trips into the outskirts of destruction. Collecting heads for currency, sometimes whole, live bodies to be handed over to a gang of flamboyant clones. I would have struck then, but the more I watched, the more an urge to take him alive festered. His trail often led beyond a tower I could not penetrate. No need however, I could adapt.  I needed to know all his locations. The places he frequented. All the way through winding streets, every corner guarded with odd machines. Each turned to look at me when I passed. Blank screens blinding my eyes against stark darkness. I pressed onward, yet every time, I lost him. By then, I memorized his face.




Yet, there was more to this child that I thought.

I followed him. A rare lone trek into the swaths of ruin. Being slower than the two-wheel machine he rode, I arrived late to a show. Its setting, the lawn of a decrepit house on a lonesome block. Two men sprawled on the lawn. Both heads shared identical gaping holes. A third man the boy wrestled with. He flailed wildly. Refusing to submit. Roaring, clawing, and scratching for freedom. Then he found his opening—a deathclaw’s bite.

His captor howled. Captive shirked free. Spitting the thumb back at its owner, the boy plucked out the heavy revolver—I noted his pistol tossed to the dirt. The man clutching his gurgling thumb fled, screeching foul curses and demands for help. Then the boy dove for the pistol. Two more rushed to the house, evidently friends of the late—

He fired.

Caught in but the peripherals of my eyes, an unbelievable turn of events. I wondered if he had planned it. Could he have? Trapped the mailbox to explode in the time it took for me to catch up to him? It was a small bomb, but a vicious explosion of shrapnel. He didn’t make it out clean, however. Painted in viscous red and a slurry of flesh. Rigid, staring wide-eyed at the mess. A matter of pure happenstance, it shocked even me. Sheer luck. Three attackers slaughtered at the right moment.

He unleashed a horrific wail. Then it turned to gags. Keeling over, he relinquished his earlier meal. I returned to my senses before him. It was my chance. My opportunity to strike. My only regret my prey already weakened.  Take it alive or dead? I anticipated a fight, but this one—

I stopped.

Two machines rounded the corner of the intersection. I advanced to my next cover. Late to the party but still bearing gifts in turret hands. Another wail, this one more agitated than frightened pulled my eyes to the boy. He shrugged off his coating amidst a tantrum. He cursed at them. Barking at the machines to hold guard, then he pushed inside the house.

I could not let this opportunity drift away.

I continued. Weaving through one cover after another towards the house at the end of the block. Next to that, a crumbling body. A house of a similar build. Quiet. Gently. Only the lightest steps carried me down the street. Dodging daylight in the shadows. Then a leap of faith into the ruin. Slipping out what used to be a back door, rounding the corner, I faced the patio of the still-standing home. Door boarded. I duck at the sight of windows. I squinted for any light. Far too vague. I kept to a shaded side wall. A quick pause to listen for machines. The mechanical guard stayed at the front. Thrumming and whirring locked ears on their location.

And then, for Praeda…

“Fucking hell!”

I heard him screech. I followed the voice further down the narrow side way. Dodging garbage and junk, I paused at a window. Water tapped on porcelain. Incessant grumbles and foul curses for his situation funneled out the mesh screen. Slightly higher than my head. I scanned the trash scattered in the weeds—cinder blocks. I stole two, stacked them and flattened myself against the wall. I stole a daring glance. “Ugh!” He ripped away. Displeased by the weak stream. I pulled back as well, not daring enough to test my current limits.

Light footsteps crossed the bathroom. Rusted knobs squealed. Water rushed. He grumbled again, “at least this works...”

Metal loosened. Buckles released. Clinking as they set on the countertop. Bare soles flopped against tile. I dared another glance.

Indeed, more to this child, this pretender. Not a man. Not even a boy. I quell an unusual excitement. I wanted to laugh. Our greatest foe, a woman. Pretending to be a man. Knowing this, I needed to take it alive. Legate Augustus would never believe me. Thus, the greatest prize. A concubine like no other even as disgusting—

I retreat out of sight. I note its silence. My shadow lingered far too long. Damp steps nearly hidden under a rushing faucet. I see in my mind's eye; either reaching for a gun or to summon the machines. I cursed myself. I must take it alive.

But today, this moment, would not be it.

—

Sensing the charge in the air, the old man turned to the generous entrance adjacent to the bar. A long shadow cast by a minuscule thing in daylight. “You look like hell!” He slapped the bar top, watching the black cloud roll in. “Boy, what you been into?”

“You would not believe this bullshit!” The pretender groans, dodging afternoon crowds. It sits at the same seat with the old man every time. Mid-center of the bar. Not too close to the entrance; that would not be wise. No, where he could see almost everything with a turn of the stool—albeit for the quieter lounge I often conducted reconnaissance in. “I went after a bounty—”

“Now what did I tell you about goin’ out there by yourself!”

A juvenile groan rumbles as his head hangs back. Even if I only stared at the back of their heads, I could sense the child’s eye roll. “Long story short, I miss and shot a mailbox. Mailbox explodes! Some kind of wire, shard thing busts out and just—Ugh! Anyway, I got plastered in blood and guts. I’ve spent the last two hours just cleaning up.”

“Guess you learned your lesson ‘bout goin’ alone, huh?” Wayne laughs, hearty and husky as he pats Praeda’s back.

“I got some other business tonight,” the pretender continued. Leaning to the older man, hushing his voice. I moved to a closer roulette table. Amidst a sparser crowd, I watched the two beneath the brim of my hat. “At the warehouse on Owens going east. Something’s going on—I think we have unwanted guests.”

Wayne nodded.




 It was time.

I lingered at the Baron’s Bull, memorizing every detail whispered among the two. The pretender was due to investigate a storage house for unwanted guests. Unprotected in the wilds of Freeside. In the dark of night. No securitrons, as blatantly stated. I kept my wits about me however, even as perfect of an opportunity as this was. I will take it alive. Kill the other.

Insect noise, the only sound heard over my breaths. A warm night clung to my skin. Light barely touched the dark of northern city. Only the most desperate lived here. Vagrants, wanderers, ill-reputes, but not so bad they’d join those in south ruins. Naturally, at night the cratered streets and crumbling buildings lay desolate. I heard my prey before I saw it, riding on the black machine. Stopping, it glanced over shoulders before stepping off and pushing open the side door. It wheeled the bike inside—door left ajar.

Your luck has run out.

Inside vague shadows crawled across dusty concrete floors. Deadly quiet. Pathetic overhead lights buzzed. One flickered before giving out entirely. Not enough to light the entire warehouse, just the short assembly line of wire spindles shoved off into a corner. Then I caught a glimpse of it. A shadow entered the maze of crates. Towering towards the ceiling. Haphazardly stacked, they occupied the half of the warehouse. One way in. One way out. Thus began my favorite part.

The chase.

Careless shuffles led my path. Eyes and ears adjusted to the dark. Several paces ahead, I echoed its footsteps. With a pause, I stopped.

“I know you’re in here.”

I grin. My heart quickens. Excitement rushes my veins as I hold the pocket pistol to my chest. “I see you,” I whisper. Its steps resume. Faster. Running. Futile. “I know your secret. Pretender.” I follow after, chasing the shadow cast by a faint light of grime fogged windows. “You are a woman. Fake. Hiding.”

It turns a corner.

“Your first mistake was coming after me,” it attempts to intimidate me.

“I will take you alive.” Closer. I almost hear its breath. “Legate Augustus will make use of you. Nightly.” Closer. I feel its thrumming heart in my grasp. “What grand justice.” Eagerness tints my voice. The rush of the hunt. The thrill I live for. “Turned into breeding stock” One lunge away. Faint silhouette captured between black walls. I reach for it. Fingertips brush its clothes. “How does a weak creature such as you kill Vulpes Inculta?”

Wire tangles my feet. A cheap trick I should have expected! I feel for my pistol. Fallen close—Sparks ignite around me. Blinding, bursting into neon lights. Searing my eyes. I no longer hold back the growl in my throat.

I hear him. Quick steps, barely hushed. I turn on my back—Get up! Find the pistol! Black and purple flowers painfully blooming between rapid blinks. Warehouse lights turn on. I flinch. Back where the chase began.

“I lured him here. Like I lured you.”

My hand brushes cold metal. I seized the pistol. Then the force hits me. Its weight narrowed to a sharp edge. Slicing. A swift chop to something thick. An ungodly crunch. Electricity crawls up my arm. Shocks branch off in every nerve. I force my eyes open. I am met with my reflection in a tarnished ax blade. I raise my arm. A gushing stump. Trembling. Quaking. The full orchestra of pain restrained by my own shock.

“But you made another mistake.” I look up to the condor circling overhead. One eye shut. Scarred eye piercing me. The ax head gleams above him. “Pissing me off.”

I learned the answers to many questions in that moment. Messorem who annihilated the Legion at Hoover Dam. Sicarius hiding in the hills, in the brush, in the trash of bygone worlds, picking us off one by one in the light of day. Occisor, circling above me, veiled in darkness. Great black wings stretch out. White stripes glowing in the faintest of light. Hooked beak slicing and tearing me apart. Then it descends, savoring the last of my trembling breaths.

He whispers in my ear, “I refuse to be preyed upon.”

Cadavera vero innumer lay before him and I will join.




Warm lights bloomed out every grand entrance. Neon bulbs danced overhead, flashing like the skirts of burlesque girls. Brass bands boom down the Freeside strip. Crowds only thickened at this time of night, but he parsed his way through only slowing once washed in the light of the Baron’s Bull.

“Where ya been, boy?” Wayne slapped his thigh. Sitting in his usual spot as predicted, he waved for the bartender.

Vincent exhaled, “Oh just took care of that business I mentioned—Yes, I had securitrons nearby just in case,” he added before Wayne could scold him.

“You been puntin’ heads down the hill at Cottonwood again?”

“What?” Vincent hissed. He snatched a convenient menu on the bar top. Perusing the thing he’d looked a hundred times prior—all to avoid the old man’s look. “No…”

Wayne shook his head, pursing mustached lips and gearing that tone—the father tone. “What did I tell ya?” Vincent sighed and rolled his eyes. “Now, I done told ya!” He wagged a finger, only pausing his lecture for a sip of beer. “You keep that up and they gon’ git mad. And now they sent more of fruit-mint-airy at ya.”

Vincent looked to him, face twisted as he echoed the man. “Fruit-mint-airy? Frumentari?”

“That’s what I said,” Wayne declared, picking up his own menu.

“What are you upset I didn’t invite you? It’s not that long of a ride. We can snag a scout or two on the way.”

“I’ll pass.” Wayne grumbled, his squint never parted the menu, “I seen how you drive…”