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It was the first time in almost four years that Arcade had woken up in a bed alone. And it had to be the best thing that ever happened to him. The sheets were pre war cotton, the kind that was musty from having sat in a sealed bunker for decades. Similar to the sheets that had been on about half of the mattresses in the Old Mormon Fort, the other half were covered in plastic tarps, in order to keep the mattresses clean in between patients. Nothing like the silk sheets of the bed when he had been allowed to sleep there or the fur of the mat when he wasn’t.
He was also alone. Or at least he thought he was. His friends could be sneaky bastards and he didn’t want to open his eyes just yet to check.
It was a poetic sense of irony that Arcade slept where Caesar's Autodoc had once been. After the machine had assisted with the surgery and Hoover Dam had been taken, the Autodoc had been moved into Siri’s medical tent. Well. Technically it wasn’t her medical tent, but she was the only person in this God forsaken camp who had any medical skills, so in Arcade’s mind, it was her tent.
When the Dam had been taken and Six had died, (Good riddance. That man had caused enough pain.) Caesar had taken a greater interest in Arcade. Canyon Runner had been summoned from his post at Cottonwood Cove to “deal” with him. Dealing with him included replacing the Followers’ symbol on his coat with the X that all slaves wore, fitting him with a leather collar (Arcade was almost proud of himself for that one. Enough of a risk to necessitate a bomb collar.), and branding him.
The brand had worried Arcade, not just for what it had symbolized, but because of infection. People seemed to die all the time in the Legion, from things that he and his coworkers would have been able to prevent with ease. The flu, infections, minor gun shots, and childbirth. Siri was a talented healer, but she had never been able to complete her training and had to work with meager supplies.
And he had been branded in three separate places. On his thigh, on his back, and on his chest. The ones on his thigh and back were the normal ones that slaves received, a simple X, but the one on his chest was from a denarius, branding him with Caesar’s face. It was uniquely humiliating.
In the grand scheme of things, it probably wasn’t but at the time it had felt like it.
“Remember ‘Do no harm’? The missive that kept me from stabbing something important when I had your skull open?”
Caesar laughed, even as the legionnaires around shifted with anger. “You certainly have a way with words, my doctor.”
“Yeah well, no one ever hired - oh wait did I say hired, I meant enslaved - me for my excellent bedside manner.” Arcade quipped from his spot on the floor beside Caesar’s throne. That’s where he spent most of his days now, kneeling on the floor of Caesar’s tent (though they wouldn’t be here much longer if Arcade was right about the conversations he had heard) in political discussions with Caesar or listening to the day to day maintenance of Legion.
“Look,” Arcade’s voice became more serious. “I delivered a lot of babies, treated a lot of gunshot wounds, and set a lot of broken bones back at Freeside.” He said. “If you let me help Siri with her treatments more of your people are going to survive.”
Caesar scoffed. “I don’t know if you remember, Arcade, but this isn’t the Followers.”
“No shit!” Arcade snapped, which quickly earned him a slap across the face, a common punishment for women, children, and slaves in the Legion. He softened his tone at the warning look on Caesar’s face. “If I can help people, your Legion will be stronger, especially if you let me work on pre and postnatal care. The infant mortality rate here is one of the highest in the West. The more babies that survive, the bigger the Legion will grow.” He hoped that his appeal to Caesar's wish for power would motivate him.
Caesar smiled, in that cruel way of him. “But Arcade, you forget, you’re my personal slave and doctor. You attend to my needs, first and foremost.”
“I spend most of my time kneeling here, doing nothing.” Arcade retorted. “You have other sl-slaves-” He still stumbled over that. “-that take care of your meals and such. I’m completely isolated and no one else has anywhere near my medical knowledge. What are you going to do when I die?”
Caesar’s eyes turned cold. “You’re not going to die.”
“Okay! Okay.” Arcade said quickly. “Then what if I get sick or hurt? I’m the only one who can treat those things.”
Arcade could see Caesar soften and knew he had won. “I’ll allow you, my doctor. On one condition.” He said, his voice now smug. “You ask politely. I know the Followers taught you how.”
Arcade shifted uncomfortably. But in the end his morals won out over his pride. “Please. Please let me help Siri, Lord Caesar.”
“Oh dearie! You’re finally awake! Grandma’s been very worried.”
Arcade slowly opened his eyes, smiling at the familiar voice. “Lily.” He said. “What happened?”
The Nightkin frowned. “You don’t remember? Has Leo been talking to you too?” She accused. “Leo, be nice to the handsome young doctor.”
Arcade winced and sat up. “No, no, don’t worry Lily. I remember getting out, but where are we?”
She smiled at him and tried to pat his head, which he quickly flinched away from. She thankfully didn’t comment on it. “We’re with those nice friends of yours! They have this sweet little bunker, reminds me of the Vault.”
He and Siri had really made progress today. They still hadn’t managed to convince Caesar to allow chems for medical use, but they were getting much better at using natural remedies. They were allowed to use the Autodoc now too, which was a great tool for their patients that were more injured. And now that he was running around with patients, his collar had been removed to allow more ease of movement. Instead, Caesar had had the Autodoc implant a tracker into his thigh.
With the Mojave conquered, most of their patients were slaves and young legionnaires, often treating broken bones and injuries from the more senior people in the camp. Pretty soon Siri would be the only healer in camp, so a lot of his time was spent training her. She was also safer when he was with her. The legionnaires knew they couldn’t hurt Arcade without direct permission from Caesar and they weren’t sure whether that extended to Arcade’s colleague and he had no wish to correct them anytime soon.
Arcade’s days were more busy now that Caesar had given him permission to treat patients, more similar to his old life as a Follower. It had been six months since the Legion had taken Hoover Dam, and Vulpes Inculta was still setting up New Vegas for Caesar to arrive. To Arcade’s relief, his friends at the Old Mormon Fort had survived, Caesar allowing them to leave Vegas without harm against them.
The main rule of his new schedule was that he needed to get back to Caesar before five in the afternoon. For some reason, the megalomaniac liked to have someone to argue with. Of course Arcade could argue with him, but he couldn’t go too far. Going too far, criticizing Caesar too much, could result in a slap, a beating, or days without food.
When he got back to the tent that night, Caesar was at the desk in his personal room, writing some sort of letter, most likely to Vulpes.
When Arcade entered, Caesar looked up. “My doctor!” He said. “Take off your coat and sit here.” He gestured at a spot on the ground next to his desk.
Arcade carefully removed and folded his doctor’s coat, placing it on his brahmin fur bedroll at the foot of Caesar’s bed. He quickly kneeled where Caesar had pointed, not wanting to destroy any chance of convincing the man to allow him to use stims on his patients.
“You know Arcade.” Caesar reached out and stroked Arcade’s hair like he was a dog, a common act of late. “I never understood why the Followers would allow men like you among them.” Arcade froze, but Caesar continued his petting. “I, of course, banned men like you - reproduction quotas and all - but really, only the ones like you. Men who enjoy being fucked like women.” Arcade desperately wanted to pull away. How could he know? Caesar laughed and then said, as if reading his mind, “Don’t worry, you were perfectly subtle about it. I had Vulpes ask around Freeside about you.” He paused, looking up from his work for the first time since Arcade entered the tent. “Take off your clothes.”
“What! No!” Arcade snapped, jumping to his feet, away from Caesar.
Caesar followed him up and quickly wrapped a hand around his throat. “You don’t get to say ‘no’” He snarled. “Maybe I’ve given you too much freedom. Maybe I should keep you chained here so you don’t get any ideas about your place.”
“Please.” Arcade begged, gasping as the hand around his throat tightened. “Don’t do this, please. I-I won’t let you!”
“You won’t let me?” Caesar laughed, but his eyes held no warmth. “Maybe, if you won’t do as I tell you, I’ll have you crucified and call on your friend, what was her name? Siri?”
“No. No. You can’t!” Arcade said, pleading.
“Then take your clothes off.” Caesar commanded, his voice now calm. “Do as I tell you, be good, and no one will get hurt unnecessarily.”
Arcade nodded and Caesar released his grip around his throat. Arcade quickly and clinically striped, as one might for a doctor’s examination and shivered in the cooling desert air.
“Now, get on the bed.” Caesar said softly. “On your stomach.”
Arcade lay down on the bed, barely noticing Caesar’s soft, silk sheets, hiding his face in a pillow as the man sorted through his drawers. He had seemingly found what he was looking for and joined Arcade on the bed, pulling his hips up so the doctor was on his elbows and knees.
Arcade heard the top of a container being opened and smelt the strong odor of the xander root paste that he and Siri made for pain relief. The substance was oily, similar to an old world cream in many ways.
Arcade shivered and tried not to make a noise as the man above him brought two oily fingers to his hole. Caesar ran his hand up and down Arcade’s side, like one would a spooked Brahmin. “Relax.” He muttered. “This is so I don’t hurt you.”
A part of Arcade wanted to snap at him, but a bigger part of his brain told him that it would be a bad idea.
He pushed his face deeper into the pillow, while Caesar continued to stroke his side. The man pulled his fingers out, deeming him prepared. “Don’t worry, doctor.” The man soothed. “It’s not going to hurt.”
He was right. It didn’t. But Arcade still cried through the entire thing.
Arcade sat in Daisy’s Vertibird, swinging his legs back and forth, like he was four years old, still in Navarro, the only kid on base.
“You’re still not allowed to fly my Vertibird kid.”
Arcade whipped his head around, startled, but quickly relaxed when he saw who it was. “I’m almost 40, Daisy. Much older than most kids. And I have no interest in being a pilot. I am perfectly happy trusting you with flying.”
Daisy pulled herself up to sit next to him, moving with more grace than expected of a woman her age. “No, you're not much of a kid anymore.” She chuckled. “But you can’t seem to shake that fear of flying. I remember when you were little - oh not much older than 5 - you wouldn’t even get on the Vertibird without at least two people holding your hands. You’d get yourself so worked up, you’d give yourself those fevers.”
Arcade hid his face in his hands. “I wouldn’t give myself those fevers!” He protested weakly. “Your flying did!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You accusing me of bad flying, boy?”
Arcade looked up at her and grinned. “Nope, just dangerously reckless and under the assumption that you won’t die falling from great heights.”
Daisy gently cuffed him around the back of the head, but her face quickly got more solemn. “So how have you been doing, Arcade.”
Arcade barked out a laugh. “So that's why you’re here. Not to reminisce about old times, but to interrogate me.” He said. “I’ve been great! Spend the last four years as the personal slave of a megalomaniac dictator.”
“Arcade…”
“Not only that, but the very Legion that owned me - that’s right folks, owned me - is probably scouring the entire Mojave for me. But other than that I’m just peachy. How ‘bout you?” Arcade scoffed and moved to get up, but Daisy rested her hand on his leg.
“The Legion isn’t looking for you.” Daisy reassured him. “Even if they had the organization or means, they would never be able to find us. People have been hunting for this bunker for decades, no one has even gotten close.”
Arcade laughed coolly. “You’ve obviously never met Vulpes Inculta.”
The move to the Strip took place about eight months after the Battle, as many had taken to calling it. The Fort continued to be one of the main bases for the Legion between Arizona and Vegas, but Caesar and his inner circle all moved to New Vegas.
“The New Rome!” Caesar had called it. Arcade personally thought the city was a little too gaudy to be Rome, but well, Nero had existed after all.
By the time Caesar had arrived in Vegas, it was completely unrecognizable from what it had been before. Sure there were still the neon signs and the poverty of Freeside, but everything was different. The other Followers had already been chased out of the Old Mormon Fort and the Kings had been killed.
When they had marched through Freeside, the citizens had lined up solemnly to watch them arrive. Arcade kept his head down and ignored Ralph calling to him. When Caesar heard the man calling Arcade, he placed a possessive hand on his neck.
Most of the other slaves that were traveling with them were at the back of the Caravan, carrying the luggage and supplies the Legion needed, but Arcade traveled with Caesar. He was expected to stand slightly behind him and to the left, following the man like a dog. Personal slaves in the Legion held an odd position. As they were the personal property of a Legate (or in Arcade’s case, Caesar) common Legionaries and citizens of the Legion couldn’t touch them. Basically, anyone of a lower rank than their owner couldn’t touch them. They received better food, clothing, and medical care, as well as being higher in status than other slaves. But they were still slaves. Their position could be lost at the click of their master’s fingers and they were subject to his any whim.
Caesar had set himself up in the Lucky 38, House’s old casino, and for the past eight months, slaves had been redoing the entire building, searching for any secrets the man might have left.
When Arcade had entered the building, he felt his breath leave his lungs. He had never seen anything like it. And it wasn’t the building that shocked him, he had been in the Lucky 38 before, it was the lack of grime. Everywhere, even with the wealthy, there was a layer of wear and tear, grime built into the carpets, peeling wallpaper, rusty facets in the Wastes.
But when he walked into Caesar's new palace, he thought he might understand what the old world might have been like. The carpets looked like new, the walls had no visible wear, all the rust was gone. Caesar’s bedroom (their bedroom, his brain reminded him, there was still furs on the floor for Arcade) had brand new sheets, working electricity, and heating . The Lucky 38 had been like a time vault for the old world and now all the treasures it held decorated Caesar’s palace.
“Vulpes!” Caesar cried as they entered the Casino for the first time.
The man in question was sitting stiffly in one of the refurbished lounges, reading from a pre-war book House must have stored. “My lord.” He greeted, before sneering at Arcade. “Slave.”
“You know.” Arcade said, glaring back at the spy. “I’m sure most people teach their children that not using someone’s name is rude, but it makes sense that the asshole kidnapped by a cult doesn’t know that.”
Caesar slapped him, his response to most of Arcade’s rude statements. Vulpes glared at the doctor like he wished that he could have handed the man over Lucius instead of what he viewed as Caesar’s lenient punishments. Because in his mind, raping, isolating, and occasionally starving someone was lenient.
“Go Arcade.” Caesar said dismissively, lightly shoving him towards the elevator. “Go up to the penthouse bathroom and clean yourself up. You smell disgusting.”
Arcade turned and entered the elevator. He had never been to the penthouse. House had never let anyone but the Courier up there. The penthouse had wooden floors that had been shined and huge floor to ceiling windows. He was pretty sure he could see the entire Mojave from there. There was a center bedroom, with a huge bed covered in red silk sheets with real wooden bedside tables. There was a Yao Guai fur on the floor at the foot of the bed, almost identical to where Arcade had slept in the Fort.
Off the bedroom was a bathroom. The plumbing was shiny clean and there was a shower , a real shower. He hadn’t used a shower since he had been a kid in Navarro. Water and working plumbing was scarce in the Mojave, with sponge baths being much more common. The last time he had really bathed was years ago when the man (an NCR commander) he had been sleeping with had invited him to the Strip and they had gone to the Ultra Lux bathing room.
He quickly striped and stepped into the shower, marveling at the hot water. The dust that had built up on his skin since the last time he had bathed back at the Fort (it had been after a night with Caesar and he had been given permission to clean himself in Lake Mead - with supervision of course) almost a week ago, was easily scrubbed off. The dirt on his skin ran off him, running down the drain in little streams, his hair was crusty with dirt and he was relieved to see soap in the shower. He carefully washed the cuts on the back of his thighs from a beating from Caesar with a belt three days ago after Arcade had tried to refuse him. Thankfully the cuts were superficial enough that he didn’t have much concern over infection, but he still cleaned them thoroughly.
He was so engrossed in his shower that he hadn’t heard Caesar coming up to the penthouse. When he exited the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, Caesar was lounging in bed, reading a report, most likely from Vulpus.
“Ah! My doctor!” He exclaimed, looking up from what he was reading. “Come, come!” He patted the spot next to him on the bed. “There’s no need to get dressed again.”
Arcade reluctantly joined the man on the bed, curling himself slightly to preserve a bit of modesty. He rested his chin on his knees, with his arms hugged around himself.
“Vulpus had a lot to say about Freeside.” Caesar said, back to reading the report. “It’s places like this where the Legion is needed. There would be no order here without us. Vegas is overrun with chems, whores, and degenerates.”
“And how is any better with you here?” Arcade said, knowing that he could get away with challenging Caesar now that they were alone. “At least when New Vegas was free, people were able to choose what to do. We were treating people, they were living longer. If the people could have had a little more time, we would have been able to fix the problems that we were having.”
Caesar signed, putting the report on the bedside table. “What people need is order, discipline, without it, anarchy rules.” He paused, looking at Arcade. “I want you to speak to Vulpes about Freeside. You’re from there after all.”
Arcade rolled his eyes. “That man hates me, he’s not going to work with me, even if I wanted to.”
Caesar’s eyes flashed. “You’ll both do what I tell you to.” He growled. “You’re going to work with him, you useless fucking whore.” He then laughed and petted the nape of Arcade’s neck. “Don’t worry, doctor, he’ll be civil.”
Caesar’s moods seemed to shift like the wind. At first, Arcade had worried (hoped) that something had gone wrong with his brain surgery, but the more time he spent around the man, the more Arcade believed he had always been like this.
Arcade turned away from Caesar. “I’m not from Freeside.” He grumbled, trying to steer Caesar away from the current direction of the conversation.
It worked and the dictator stopped stroking his neck. “Where are you from then?” He asked.
“New California, near San Francisco.” Arcade said, glad the man had stopped touching him. “I joined the Followers when I was 17. I only moved to Freeside when I was 25.” And he had only moved because Daisy had told him that the NCR was hunting Enclave Remnants. A part of him thought that they would most likely leave him alone as he had only been a child when Navarro had fallen and barely remembered anything about the group, and the NCR would go looking for bigger fish. A very small part of him, the angriest part of him, thought that maybe the Remnants deserved it. When he had joined the Followers, he had read more about what the Enclave had done and couldn’t speak to Daisy or the rest for a month.
Caesar had apparently gotten bored just talking to Arcade and pushed him down on his back on the bed. Arcade resisted his urge to struggle.
“And your parents? What did they do?” Caesar asked, beginning to unbuckle his belt and pull down his shorts.
“They were- they were,” Arcade gasped as Caesar bit his ear lobe hard enough to sting. “They were soldiers. My father died when I was very young.”
“NCR.” Caesar guessed, as he slicked himself up. Arcade didn’t correct him. “Makes sense that you joined the Followers.” He groaned as he entered Arcade, as the man under him tucked his face into his elbow. “My father died when I was young as well. Did your mother work for the Followers after your father’s death?”
Realizing that he was expected to answer, even as he was being fucked (raped, he was being raped), Arcade uncovered his face. “No-no, she was-” He tried to stifle a moan as Caesar hit the bundle of nerves inside him. “She stayed-stayed a soldier. I only joined after she died.”
Caesar grunted and bit the side of his throat. “My mother joined the Followers after my father died. She cleaned for them, I have to be thankful for her, if she hadn’t gone to the Followers, then I wouldn't be where I am today.”
You wouldn’t be enslaving and raping people you mean, Arcade thought, choosing to stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore what Caesar was doing to him. Arcade was only half-hard and he planned to keep it that way. Caesar had never paid attention to Arcade’s pleasure, so it became easier to dissociate and leave his body during that time.
After Caesar had finished, he laid next to Arcade, stroking the back of his neck. “I really need to ask Lucius about another brand for you.” He mused, trailing his hand down to touch the brand on Arcade’s back. “Somewhere people can see it. I don’t want to ruin your face unless I absolutely have to, so maybe here.” Caesar stroked the back of Arcade's neck, right above where his collar would cover. “And this time it’ll be my crest I think.”
“What were you thinking boy!?”
Arcade turned his head away, shifting himself in his chair. “I don’t know what you want from me, Orion.” He snapped. “Are you just going to keep me locked up down here?”
“If we have to, yes!” Orion shouted. “It would be suicide to leave now.”
Arcade glared. “So I’m a prisoner then?”
Orion sighed. “No, Arcade-“
Arcade sneered at him, standing up and pushing past Orion. “You know, you’d have gotten along great with Caesar.”
“Arcade-“
“One of my duties was to debate him, half the talking points I used were the ones I used against you.” Arcade said, his voice cruel. “When he wasn’t fucking me, I was allowed to argue with him. ‘People need order.’” He mocked. “Tell me Orion, how long did you live in Vegas, completely happy, ignoring the slaves? I mean, it couldn’t be that hard, you worked for the Enclave. Fascism isn’t very different even when it wears another hat. I know you had slaves back in the Enclave. Were they treated like I was? Do you even regret what you did to them? Did you fuck-“
Arcade was cut off by a slap across the face. Even though Orion had been the one to hit him, he looked like Arcade had struck him. “You’d better watch your mouth boy. You might not be a kid anymore, but you still have to respect your elders.” The man paused. “And no, I’m not a rapist. I can’t believe you would think that I would ever do anything like that.”
Arcade scowled at him. “You need to leave.” He said, pointing to the door of the small bedroom he had been put in. “Get out right now.”
Arcade had been in New Vegas (now called New Rome) for a year before Caesar would let him work at the small clinic in Freeside. The Legion didn’t let educated freemen in their ranks, for fear of someone with power questioning Caesar’s teaching, and the Legion had chased out any other Followers, so Arcade offered the solution of slaves being doctors, just like in ancient Rome. The clinic was in the Old Mormon Fort, just like before, but it wasn’t as cheap as it had been. Civilians had to pay a lot of caps or Legion money for treatment for themselves or their slaves. Many people in New Vegas had jumped at the chance at legal slavery, instead of just trapping their employees in contracts.
Arcade hadn’t been allowed to work at the clinic at first, only being allowed to train other slaves under the careful supervision of Canyon Runner. Arcade was barely allowed to leave the Lucky 38 most of the time, having to teach his classes in a section of the old kitchens of the Casino.
Most of the people he was teaching were like Siri. Tribals who had begun medical training, with a senior healer or with the Followers, but had been captured by the Legion before they could finish their training. When the Legion had taken over, the members of the Great Khans, any raiders, Powder Gangers, and the small, independent nomads were quickly and brutally captured and enslaved, they were then joined by anyone who resisted the Legion’s rule. Many of the junkies and orphans in Freeside were enslaved as well.
That night, the clinic was swamped. They were crowded with burn victims after one of the tenement buildings in Westside caught fire. Arcade privately thought that the fire had probably been intentional on the part of the Legion, in order to punish a small group of dissidents, but it didn’t really matter. Thankfully, he was able to prevent severe infection since Caesar had started to allow stims and MedX in the clinic. The supply was carefully guarded by a Legionary at all times and suspected thieves were punished with crucifixion, but it was better than before. Even with the chems they had access to, they still relied heavily on natural medicines, like healing powders.
It was around ten at night by the time Arcade and his team had finished seeing all their patients, and the Old Mormon Fort was still crowded with recovering burn victims and worried families. The group of doctors (slaves) were now cleaning up their work stations and disinfecting their tools, since infection was the biggest worry with burns of these kinds.
Arcade was scrubbing the surgical table clean of blood when two contubernia, about 20 soldiers, entered the clinic. With them was Caesar himself. When the man walked into the fort, every one of the slaves dropped to their knees, except for Arcade, who continued his scrubbing.
“Arcade!” Caesar called into the silence of the clinic, which was only broken with the occasional moan of pain from a burn victim. “Come here, scortum mea.” He crooned.
Arcade threw down his sponge and stalked out of the tent he was in. “Yes?” He snapped. “I’m here. What do you want?”
He heard a gasp from one of his patients and Caesar’s eyes grew cold, even as his voice stayed gentle. “I would watch your tone with me, my doctor.” He said, staring down Arcade. “You already ignored my orders once today and it would be really fucking stupid to do it again.”
Arcade scoffed. “What order? The ones to come back to your ‘palace’-” Air quotes were added around the term. “By five? There was just a fire, third degree burns on over 35 people, it’s my duty as a doctor to help them.” He then sarcastically added, “My Lord.”
He knew as soon as he finished speaking that he had gone too far. Caesar’s eyes flashed. “Bend him over that table.” He snapped, pointing to the central table in the Fort, where they greeted patients.
Four legionaries grabbed Arcade by the arms and pushed him over the table, his face pressing into the hot metal. “If you had come with me now, maybe your punishment would have been private.” Arcade struggled to get up, but Caesar’s next words froze him. “Don’t fucking move, you piece of shit. If you try to get up again, I’ll have my men rape, skin, and crucify every man, woman, and child here.”
Caesar walked over to where Arcade was pinned and stroked the back of his neck, where his seal had been branded. “You.” He pointed at one of the soldiers. “Cut off his shirt.” Thankfully, Arcade hadn’t been wearing his coat when he was cleaning, so it would remain intact. One of the soldiers drew his combat knife and ripped through Arcade’s shirt, scratching his spine with the tip of the knife. When his shirt fell in shreds around him, Caesar called for Decanus Kaeso, the overseer of the slaves in the Old Mormon Fort. The man carried a Brahmin hide whip, one he barely got to use as Arcade made sure the man had no excuse to hurt any of his doctors or patients.
“Give me your whip, Decanus .” Caesar said. Arcade tried to angle his head to see what was going on, but one of the legionnaires pushed his head back down against the table. He only had a second’s warning as he heard the whip sail through the air before his back burst into pain.
Caesar had never used a whip on him before. Sure, he had been beaten with his belt a few times when he tried to avoid being raped or the time he had stolen a bottle of water, but he had never been whipped. It felt like nothing he had ever experienced before. The whip broke through the skin on his back, and by ten lashes, he already felt blood running down his back. He sobbed into the table, trying desperately not to move, remembering Caesar’s threat.
He realized that he was begging between sobs, the only noise other than the whistle of the whip through the air and cracking sound as it hit his back, except for the whimpers of unconscious patients. The others in a camp were silent, which was odd for a public flogging. He had witnessed them often back at the Fort and was usually the one tending to the result of the torture, and they usually included jeers and insults from those watching, but now it was silent. It was most likely Caesar’s rage that silenced the crowd. Arcade could tell that the man was furious even though he couldn’t see him. It was like his rage was a physical force, making every strike hurt more.
After what felt like hours, but was likely only a few minutes, Caesar dropped the whip and spit on Arcade’s bloodied back. He pulled Arcade up by his hair, ignoring his cries of pain and protest, and pulled his head back until Arcade’s ear was against his mouth. “Next time you question me in public.” He hissed. “I’ll have a cohort of my men fuck you in front of your patients, but you’ll probably like that you whore fag.” Caesar let him fall to the ground, where he crashed to the sand and curled himself into a ball, still crying with pain.
Caesar straightened and glanced around until he pointed at one of Arcade’s younger students. Her name was Georgia and she was barely 17. Her father had been a low ranking NCR soldier who had died in the battle and Georgia had been enslaved by the Legion and shipped to New Vegas. Before she had been captured, she had been in training to be a medic, so she was one of the slaves that Arcade was training to be a doctor. “You. Over here.” Caesar ordered.
She shakily walked over to Caesar and bowed, as she had been taught by Canyon Runner, but the man barely even glanced at her. “I want him back in the Casino in two hours. I want as little fucking scarring as possible. I don’t care how many stims you use.”
“My-my Lord, stims don’t stop scarring, we need to use the Auto-”
Caesar interrupted. “Then use the fucking Autodoc.” With that he turned on his heels and left the Old Mormon Fort with his soldiers.
The moment the doors closed behind Caesar, the other medics rushed to Arcade’s side, carrying him to the tent with the Autodoc. They had already had to use the Autodoc a lot that day, with all the burn victims, but it wasn’t in use at the moment. They set Arcade on his stomach on the cot and Georgia rushed to the supply tent to get a superstim and MedX. The group knew that even if Arcade wasn’t healed by the time Caesar wanted him, he would still need to go. One of the former Great Khans, a man by the name of Jasper, who had been a healer at the Red Rock Encampment, quickly began to clean the wounds with some of the alcohol they were given to sterilize things, trying to ignore Arcade’s cries of pain.
“Don’t worry man. Don’t worry. Georgia gonna get you a stim, maybe some MedX.” Jasper reassured, gently cleaning the cuts as a young child slave, Diana, began to set up the Autodoc.
Georgia came rushing back into the tent, shooing out some of the medics that were hovering at the entrance. “I’ve got a superstim and a dose of MedX. Should be enough to knock him out for an hour.”
“Good.” Jasper said, beginning to set the Autobot to the scar prevention setting. “Give him the MedX first and then we’ll get everything else sorted.”
Georgia nodded and grabbed Arcade’s arm, wrapping one of their elastic bands around his arm so she could find a vein. As soon as she found one, she injected the MedX and Arcade’s cries subsided as he passed out.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“So, I didn’t know your family was Enclave?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Arcade turned away from Veronica as the woman sat down next to him. She was wearing that fancy dress that Six had bought her all those years ago, her dark hair uncovered. “So… you want to try making some cookies?”
“God yes.”
It turns out that even with the two of them put together, they could not figure out how to cook anything and the small bunker kitchen ended up covered in flour.
“Maybe we should leave the baking to Lily.” Veronica said, from her place at the sink, where she tried to wash the mountain of dirty dishes they had somehow made, while Arcade scrubbed the floor.
“Maybe.” Arcade agreed, finding flour behind his ears.
“Yeah well.” Veronica said, turning around. “We might both be pretty smart, but baking is for grand- Woah! What is that?” She asked, horrified and staring at the back of his neck.
He glared at her. “Didn’t your parents teach you it’s rude to stare?”
She immediately moved her eyes to the floor and scratched the back of her neck. “I’m sorry, Arcade. I keep putting my foot in my mouth. I’m worried, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well everyone seems to be.” Arcade said, signing. “It’s a brand, by the way.” He answered. “I’ve got a few more.” He didn’t know why he was being so open with her, even in normal circumstances he would rather die than share anything more than necessary.
“Why do you have so many?” She asked, looking back up at him. “I thought they only gave you one.”
Arcade laughed dryly. “I think Caesar enjoyed doing it. He always watched when Lucius gave them to me.”
“That’s… really creepy.” Veronica said, sounded disgusted.
“Well, you don’t have to tell me.” Arcade said and sighed as he stood up from the ground. “I’m going to go find Lily and see if she can help us fix our mess.”
Arcade had been a slave for three years.
Three years of rapes, beatings, starvations, friends dying.
And he was tired.
And he had stolen a scalpel.
Caesar had gotten more and more trusting of Arcade, expecting him to follow him without question. Sure, they still had their political debates and Arcade still challenged him in private, but it wasn’t anything real. He didn’t fight when Caesar forced him to warm his bed or kneel next to him in meetings. He’d stopped crying when a pregnant slave came to him, covered in welts from a beating, stopped trying to reason with any of the Legionaries, trying to turn them against their god-king.
So when Kaeso hadn’t counted the supplies in the clinic properly, he took one of the scalpels. It was going to be thrown out soon anyway, since it had started to rust, but it would still work for what he needed it for.
And one night, after he had been sent back to his furs after Caesar had forced him to ride him, something that had become more common in the last few months, him having to participate in the rapes, he took his scalpel from the spot against the bed leg, where he had hidden it. It wasn’t sharp enough to go through his skin without a lot of pain, but at this point, he didn’t really care all that much.
He curled his fingers around the weapon, annoyed he was going to die naked, still covered in Caesar’s filth, but a shower would most definitely wake the man up and get Arcade punished. He wasn’t supposed to shower after sex (rape, it was rape) because Caesar enjoyed seeing the evidence of himself on Arcade the next morning.
He held the scalpel in his right hand and bared his left wrist. He gasped in pain as he drew the scalpel across his wrist for the first time, not going deep enough to hit anything important, a thin line of blood welling up from the cut. He growled to himself and dug the scalpel in deeper, trying to keep from screaming in pain.
It worked this time. In less than a second, a pool of blood formed around his wrist, deep red and strongly smelling of iron. He whimpered in pain, louder this time, and dropped the scalpel as he reached up to cover his mouth. When the scalpel hit the floor, it clattered loudly on the wood, waking up Caesar.
He jumped out of bed, rushing to the doctor’s side. “You fool! You useless fucking idiot!” He yelled, wrapping his discarded shirt around Arcade’s wrists.
“Get off! Get off!” Arcade said, weakly, trying to push Caesar away. He tried to pull the man’s hand away from his wrist, the shirt already stemming the blood. He was dizzy and weak with blood loss, barely able to lift his head, much less push Caesar away. “You fucking asshole! Don’t take this away from me!”
It was in that moment, as Caesar lifted him up, running for the intercom at the elevator, calling for a medic, that Arcade realized that Caesar loved him. Or at least thought he did. In that way that men who have never been told no in their life love people. He loved the idea of Arcade, he loved owning him, and he wasn’t going to let Arcade take that from him.
Arcade passed out just as two medic rushed into the penthouse.
Arcade spent the next two days in Caesar’s bed. He didn’t speak, he didn’t move unless he was prompted. Caesar was gentle with him, kissing him softly and fucking him gently, manipulating his body with careful hands, as he flipped him on his stomach or put his legs on his shoulders.
By the third day Caesar was getting impatient, slapping or beating Arcade when he refused to respond and was more rough when he fucked him.
By the fifth day he had stopped feeding Arcade.
After a week had passed, he dragged Arcade to the ground floor, the casino, which was more crowded than usual. Young and brash legionnaires filled the room, pushing against each other.
Caesar carried Arcade to one of the tables and bent the naked man over it. He stroked his face and said, “If you tell me to stop them, I will” before calling the first man forward. The man couldn’t have been older than 24, tall with blond hair and eager to please his Caesar. He pushed into the doctor without hesitation and looked up for Caesar’s approval. “Move.” Caesar commanded.
When that legionnaire had finished, the next one took his place, and the next one after him, Arcade not reacting beyond blinking up at Caesar and occasionally twitching his fingers from where they were gripped onto Caesar’s tunic.
It was after the 15th man, that Arcade made a sound for the first time in a week. A weak moan escaped his lips and he pushed his face into Caesar’s tunic. After the 21st he began to cry. He started to scream after the 25th.
He begged on the 29th.
“Please! Please!” He shrieked. “Stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Caesar didn’t hesitate as he pulled out his pistol and shot the man who was fucking Arcade in the head. The other legionnaires froze, backing away from Caesar as a puddle of blood formed around their brother in arms. He glanced up at the gathered men. “Get out!” He roared “Call for a slave to clean up your mess.” He gestured at the soldier he had shot and picked up his sobbing slave.
He carried Arcade back up to the penthouse, filling the bath with warm water and washed the doctor with gentle hands and lavender soap. “You’re okay. Never do that to me again. If you ever even think about doing that again, I’ll fucking drown every other slave in New Rome in the lake.” He said, as he washed the tears from Arcade’s face.
He picked Arcade up from the bath and laid him down on his bed, the doctor surrounded by red silk. The man was still crying softly, but calmed as Caesar stroked the brand on the back of his neck.
Caesar breathed heavily down his neck. “Beg for me, scortum mea.”
Arcade shifted and his breath caught, fear pooling in the bottom of his stomach. “Please…”
“Please what?” Caesar crooned, rocking against the younger man.
“Please.” Arcade started again. “Please fuck me. I’ll be good. Please don’t hurt anyone else, they didn’t do anything.”
Ah, so he was still focused on Caesar’s threat to the other slaves. His perfect doctor. So worried about everyone else around him, he forgot to focus on himself.
“Don’t worry. I promise I won’t. I promise, if you promise to behave.”
“He’s still dead?”
“Yes, Arcade. You killed him well and good.”
Arcade sighed, burying his face into Daisy’s jacket. “And I killed him?”
“Yes.” She confirmed. “You killed him.”
He smiled into her shoulder. “Good.”
He had been sent to his furs that night.
For the first few months after his suicide attempt, Caesar only let him sleep in the bed and won’t let him leave the penthouse. As time went by, he started to tire of watching over his doctor so closely, so back to the floor he went.
He was still awake when he felt a hand on his arm. At first he ignored it, thinking it was just a phantom touch, the ghostly hands of Caesar trailing his body even when he was alone. But then a voice spoke.
“Hey! Doc!” A woman’s voice whispered next to him. A woman using a stealth boy. “Get up! We gotta get out of here.”
“Veronica?” Arcade asked, amazed that his friend was here. “You’re real?”
“Of course I’m real.” She hissed. “Now get up!”
He hesitated. “Give me your knife first.”
She sighed and then he heard the sound of a knife being pulled from a leather sheath. “Here. Now can we go?” She said, handing it to him.
“Not yet.” He said. He stood and walked over to the side of the bed and stared down at the face of the man who had tortured him for years.
“Doc! What are you doing? We gotta leave!”
Arcade ignored her and shook the man on the bed awake. He heard her hiss at him, but he only had eyes and ears for Caesar.
He blinked open his eyes, staring up at Arcade, confused. “Scortum mea? What are you doing?”
Arcade grinned at him. “Vivere Caesaris mori Caesar.” The man under him barely had time to react to what he said before Arcade pulled back the knife and stabbed him in the throat. He pulled the knife out, watching Edward Sallow choke on his own blood. He turned away from the man and promptly stabbed himself in the thigh.
“What the fuck!” Veronica rushed forward, reaching for his thigh, but Arcade already had his fingers in the wound, digging around for the chip that had been put in him almost four years ago. When he found it, he pulled it out and placed the bloody chip on Caesar’s forehead, the man still gasping for air he would never get.
He turned to smile at Veronica and managed to say, “Well, let’s go then.” before he passed out in her arms.
We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone.
The words of an old-world writer. Arcade wasn’t sure why the man had thought the world was bad enough to believe that, but it must have been for him to write that. There had only been one of the man’s books in the Followers’ library, his mentor had told him that the government had destroyed most of his books and movies before the End, so there weren’t many copies left. The book had been a screenplay of some forgotten movie, one with no copies left. As far as anyone knew, it was the only remnant of the man left.
Arcade had always hated the quote. You weren’t born alone! That was the whole point of being born. You were born with at least one other person there, a person who comforted your cries and held you in their arms.
And you definitely don’t live alone. Even in the Wasteland, there were people, people who loved and cried and hurt and healed and rocked their crying toddler in their arms.
And dying alone? Arcade didn’t know about that one yet.
The first time he had tried to die, the monster he had been sold to was there. He wanted to be alone, but if the monster hadn’t been there, there would be no happy end to this story. It would have ended with a doctor in a pool of blood, betrayed by his friend, and he would have died alone.
But he didn’t.
And now he’s starting to think he won’t be allowed to try to die alone again.