Guys, lamenting my disappearance (even though it wasn't by choice)—I doubt you know this, but I'm an avid cyclist. I love riding through the hills near my home to relax and think.
Well, here's the point: some son of a bitch—there's no other way to put it—set a trap for cyclists. Two stakes, barbed wire, and dense vegetation hiding it from view. I didn't see it in time before it was too late. I was unconscious for a while before I had to drag myself to the nearest hospital.
I spent several days in intensive care with deep cuts and bruises all over my body and a fucking broken arm. Worst of all, I had a wound infected with an antibiotic-resistant strain. They had to treat me with a rare and scarce antibiotic to fight the infection.
I'm just now getting out of the hospital since the treatment for the bacteria had to be completed. Otherwise, there was a risk of it coming back, which would have been a serious problem—especially if it developed resistance to the antibiotic they gave me.
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Pov Senator Alexander Royce
I was watching the television with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. Food prices had risen by 40% in the past few weeks, water shortages were hitting the largest cities, and unrest in small communities was beginning to multiply.
"The NCR government has yet to issue an official statement regarding the recent disruptions in the distribution of essential supplies..." the news anchor said, her voice carrying the usual forced neutrality.
I turned off the screen with a sigh. Everything was slowly unraveling. If the economic situation did not stabilize, the Republic would face something far worse than a military defeat—internal collapse.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. I did not respond, but my assistant entered immediately, his face pale and an envelope in his hand.
"Sir, an urgent report has arrived from high command," he said, his voice tense.
I extended my hand and took the folder without a word. The moment I read the first few lines, the room seemed to grow colder.
"This... cannot be true," I murmured, flipping through the pages quickly.
"It is," he replied, his voice carrying a gravity I had never heard before. "The Mojave is lost. The Legion not only holds Hoover Dam, but they have completely expelled us—our entire army in the Mojave is gone."
I let the folder slip onto the desk and rubbed my face. The first battle at Hoover had cost us dearly—we lost the water that the president's friends needed to line their pockets by selling food—but at least we had managed to maintain a tenuous presence in the Mojave, despite the relentless Legion incursions. Now, it had all been erased. And with it, the looming threat that chaos and horror from the south would soon reach California.
"Who led the attack? The Monster of the East?" I asked, my voice unsteady.
"No," my assistant said. "It's someone else... someone new. He calls himself Gaius."
I frowned. I had never heard that name before.
"What do we know about him?" I asked.
My assistant shook his head. "Very little. He appeared in New Vegas before the offensive to offer Oliver a chance to surrender. When Oliver refused... well, you already know the rest. But survivors from the Mojave and intercepted radio transmissions indicate that he was the one who orchestrated the entire campaign."
I sank into my chair. Oliver had always been an arrogant fool, always eager to tell the president exactly what he wanted to hear. But this time, his stubbornness had doomed us.
"And the situation at the border?" I asked without lifting my gaze.
"The Republic is on high alert. Gaius's forces are already advancing on our positions, but a large portion of his army remains encamped in the Mojave—likely preparing for another massive offensive." His voice was grim.
"Shady Sands isn't far from the border… Could the war reach here?" I asked, a slight tremor creeping into my voice.
My assistant met my gaze with a tense expression before slowly nodding.
"If Gaius continues his advance, it's only a matter of time. The Legion has never had the means to strike this deep into our territory before, usually their supply lines were too fragile. But now… things have changed. We may soon see more Legion movements within NCR land."
I clenched my jaw. This wasn't the first time the NCR had teetered on the brink of collapse, but it had always managed to cling to survival. The difference now was the enemy—Gaius was unlike the others.
"What options do we have?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"High command plans to reinforce the border and prepare a counteroffensive, but..." He hesitated before continuing. "We don't have the numbers or the resources for a prolonged campaign."
I took a deep breath. Too many wars. Too many losses. The NCR had won many battles through sheer endurance, but that only worked if the enemy wore down too. The Legion, however, showed no signs of weakening. If anything, they seemed to be growing stronger by the day.
"Kimball will never negotiate," I said with certainty.
"Never," my assistant agreed. "But if we continue without a clear strategy… the war will reach us before we can react."
"What about the garrisons in Vault City, New Reno, and our northern forces? Have they been called in, or is high command still keeping a large portion of our troops tied up protecting our allied states?" I asked, trying to keep my frustration from showing.
My assistant quickly scanned some documents before responding.
"The northern forces have not been fully mobilized," he said cautiously. "High command fears that withdrawing too many troops from those regions could lead to uprisings or leave us vulnerable to external threats."
I slammed my fist on the table.
"External threats?! Don't they understand that this is the greatest threat we've ever faced? If Gaius keeps advancing, there won't be an NCR left to protect!"
My assistant swallowed hard but maintained his composure.
"Some generals argue that if we abandon security in the allied cities, we risk internal fragmentation. Vault City, Redding, even New Reno… if they feel the NCR can no longer guarantee their safety, they may decide to break away."
I ran a hand down my face. The same dilemma, over and over again. The Republic had expanded so much that it now relied on controlling regions too far apart—even as its core was under threat.
"What about reserves in The Hub or Dayglow?" I asked.
"Some units have been mobilized, but it's not enough to stop a direct advance."
I took a deep breath. We didn't have enough men. We didn't have enough resources. And still, high command remained trapped in old strategies.
"If we don't consolidate our forces now, by the time the war reaches us, it will be too late," I said quietly.
My assistant nodded grimly.
"Many in high command think the same. But Kimball has yet to make a decision."
A piercing headache was beginning to settle in when my assistant rushed in, remote in hand, and turned on the television.
"We have a hostage situation on Channel 5," he said, his face pale.
"What?" I exclaimed, incredulous.
Immediately, my attention snapped to the screen. The broadcast showed an armed group inside the news studio. Several journalists were kneeling, rifles aimed at their heads.
"AVE, TRUE TO CAESAR!" one of the masked men bellowed.
My stomach dropped. The Legion had crossed a line it had never dared cross before.
One of the men stepped forward, gripping a microphone taken from the studio set. His voice was firm, without hesitation.
"Legate Gaius presents the Legion's terms to the New California Republic. Your army in the Mojave has been destroyed or captured, and the war in the region is over. To prevent further bloodshed and the expansion of this conflict, the Legion demands the following:"
— Absolute recognition of the Legion's sovereignty over the Mojave and Hoover Dam.— The immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all NCR forces west of the Colorado River.— Payment of war reparations in gold, silver, and other valuables for the years of illegal occupation of the Mojave and Hoover Dam.— The release of all captured Legionary prisoners; in return, the Legion will consider releasing NCR soldiers in its custody.— A prohibition on any covert operations, military incursions, or support for hostile factions within Legion territory.— An official renunciation of any future claims over the Mojave or territories east of the NCR.
The man paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle in the minds of all those watching.
"You have seven days to accept these terms. If President Kimball and the Senate refuse, the Legion will not stop. The war will not remain in the Mojave. The Republic has tested our patience for the last time. This is your only chance to prevent even greater destruction."
The transmission abruptly cut off.
My assistant remained still, holding his breath, before speaking in a hushed voice.
"Sir… what do we do?" he asked, his voice thick with tension.
"Negotiate the least humiliating exit and convince Kimball that we've lost this war," I answered without hesitation. "And if necessary, remove him from power. Not everything is lost, but if we don't get rid of that brute, any future for the NCR will die with that madman."
Days passed, and the Senate became a political battlefield. The debates were vicious, the divisions deeper than ever. Some senators clung to the idea of continuing the fight, driven by the same arrogance that had led us to this defeat. Others, like myself, understood the truth—the war was over.
But what truly set everything ablaze was what happened after the broadcast.
The hostage-takers who had delivered the message vanished without a trace. There was no way to track them, the transmission couldn't be cut in time, and worst of all—the entire NCR saw it. Not just the high command or the Senate, but every citizen, every soldier, every family. Everyone knew we had lost.
The streets erupted in protest. People understood what was coming: more taxes, more conscriptions, more young men sent to die for a government that refused to admit reality.
Kimball, as expected, refused to acknowledge defeat.
"We will not bow to savagery," he declared in a speech full of empty promises and useless bravado. But no one believed him anymore.
The crowds in Shady Sands chanted for his resignation.
And we gave it to them.
Though Aaron Kimball still had emergency powers activated, the Senate passed a vote of No Confidence in its final session. The pressure was overwhelming—protests, economic collapse, military disaster in the Mojave, and the looming threat of a war the NCR could not win.
Almost immediately, the Senate elected Senator Sean Murphy as interim president while the chaos settled.
Murphy was a pacifist, a man who followed the ideals of the Followers of the Apocalypse. He believed the NCR had lost its way, that expansion and war had only brought suffering. To him, the priority was to prevent further bloodshed and ensure the Republic's stability—even if that meant accepting defeat.
His first act as interim president was to open negotiations with the Legion.
President Murphy, accompanied by three senators—including myself—crossed into neutral territory to negotiate with the Legion. There were no speeches or unnecessary words along the way.
We entered the camp escorted by heavy NCR troops and Rangers, but it was only a formality. The Legion had the numbers, the advantage, and more firepower than we had ever imagined.
As we advanced, the sense of danger became real. The first thing we saw upon reaching the perimeter was nearly three hundred men, all clad in power armor.
Not the empty power armor NCR had scavenged from old battlefields. Not relics stolen from the Brotherhood of Steel, nor scraps of the Enclave.
These were new. They worked. The Legion had found an arsenal... or worse—they had learned to manufacture them.
And if that was true, we were utterly screwed.
The Legionaries watched us in silence, like predators studying their prey. But what truly chilled me was what adorned their armor.
Dog tags.
NCR soldier identifications, polished and gleaming, covering parts of their power armor like trophies. Flaunting our dead.
One of the Legionaries, clad in more elaborate armor than the others, stepped forward.
"True to Caesar, profligate. Legate Gaius awaits you."
His voice was deep, firm—laced with contempt.
We were led straight to the large command tent where we would meet the man who had humiliated General Oliver and driven the NCR out of the Mojave.
Inside, we were greeted by Legate Gaius.
He was young. Far too young to have planned and executed the massacre that had annihilated our forces. But his blue eyes held no arrogance, no emotion.
A fool might think they could exploit his inexperience in diplomacy to gain an upper hand in negotiations. But one only had to look at his cape—lined with the dog tags of our fallen soldiers. There had to be hundreds sewn into the fabric alone.
We were standing before a monster. Another one.
He studied us with a calm patience—the patience of a predator who had already won the hunt. No rush, no need to intimidate us. And yet, looking into his eyes was… unsettling. It felt as if something terrible could happen at any second.
With a simple gesture of his hand, several men in expensive suits approached. They were not soldiers. If I wasn't mistaken, they were once Mr. House's attendants—the elite of the White Glove Society. And now, they served a new master.
They moved with practiced grace, carrying trays of fine wine and top-shelf liquor, as effortlessly as they once had while serving New Vegas's high rollers.
Gaius observed our reactions and spoke in a measured, steady tone.
"Drink without fear… I have no intention of poisoning you and turning you into martyrs."
He paused, then added in a near-neutral tone:
"And for those concerned about the fact that I will not be drinking… as you understand, the Legion does not look kindly upon those who destroy themselves with intoxicants."
His tone was calm, almost indifferent, but there was something about it that made my skin crawl.
Murphy took a glass without hesitation and sipped. I followed his lead.
We hadn't come here to discuss trivial details. We hadn't come here to waste time on power games.
We had come to negotiate.
Gaius watched us for a moment longer before leaning against the table.
"I understand you have received my terms, so let's make this quick. Sign your surrender under those conditions."
He said it without arrogance, without raising his voice. But every word carried weight. This was not an invitation to negotiate. It was an order.
Murphy calmly set his glass down on the table, his gaze never leaving the Legate. "We are here to discuss those terms, not to sign blindly."
Murphy kept his composure, taking a moment before responding. Every word had to be measured precisely. He couldn't afford to anger this man and risk prolonging the war over wounded pride.
"We are not here to appeal to your compassion, Legate. We know the Legion does not act out of sentimentality or free concessions. But, like us, you have priorities."
He paused before continuing in a firm tone.
"Your victory in the Mojave is absolute. There is no debate on that. But even conquerors must know when to consolidate rather than destroy. The war against the NCR could continue, but it would gain you nothing. The Mojave is already yours. Pushing forward would only ensure further attrition, more resistance, and would drain resources better spent on more important conflicts."
Gaius did not respond immediately. He remained silent, observing Murphy like a predator assessing its prey.
"Yet another proof that Caesar's truth is absolute," he finally said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Your system, without order, crumbles under the slightest pressure."
He slowly turned the glass of wine in his hand, lost in thought.
"But it is certainly an inconvenience. The Legion only sought to reclaim what was ours before your intervention. We have other fronts—far more prosperous ones—than to waste years tearing apart what remains of the NCR."
The atmosphere in the tent shifted subtly. There was room for negotiation.
Murphy nodded slowly.
"Then let's end this on terms that benefit us both."
Gaius set his glass down on the table.
"What do you offer?" he asked, his tone as sharp and composed as before.
Murphy did not hesitate. We couldn't expect concessions from the Legion's goodwill—they were monsters. So he got straight to the point.
"Official recognition of the Legion's sovereignty over the Mojave and Hoover Dam. No further territorial claims or incursions from the NCR."
Gaius did not react—he had expected that.
Murphy continued. "Immediate withdrawal of all NCR forces west of the Colorado."
"That has already been done. Or you would be fools to defend a line that does not directly protect your cities," the Legate interrupted with disinterest. "Give me something I have not already taken."
Murphy took a deep breath, resting his hands on the table.
"War reparations. A payment in gold and equivalent valuables, delivered within a reasonable timeframe, in exchange for guarantees that the Legion will not advance beyond the Mojave."
Gaius raised an eyebrow, clearly more interested now.
"How much gold? From what I understand, the NCR's reserves are nearly nonexistent… a gift from the Brotherhood of Steel."
Murphy held his composure, but the mention of the Brotherhood was a bitter reminder of the NCR's past mistakes. Gaius knew what he was doing—every word was meant to make us feel our own weakness.
"One hundred tons of gold," Murphy said firmly.
The Legate let out a short, dry laugh.
"One hundred? With the number of dead you've left in the Mojave, you should be grateful I'm not demanding half your economy," he said with a mocking tone. "Two hundred."
"One hundred twenty."
"Two hundred."
"One hundred thirty."
Gaius rested an elbow on the table, studying Murphy carefully.
"One hundred fifty," he finally said. "Not a coin less. And half must be delivered within a year. The rest within the next three."
Murphy took a moment before responding. He looked at the senators, myself included. The amount was enormous.
"We accept."
Gaius barely smiled, but it was not a gesture of amusement—it was one of certainty. He leaned back in his seat and studied each of us before speaking.
"And where will you get it from?" he asked calmly. "The NCR does not have that gold. Do not lie to me—I know more about your Republic than you believe."
Silence ruled the tent for a moment.
Murphy intertwined his fingers over the table, taking a breath before answering.
"We will find it. There are resources—mining reserves in certain areas that have yet to be exploited. We also have the ability to recover some of the gold that has been used in the economic system. It will be difficult, but it is possible."
Gaius did not move.
"Do not play games with me, Murphy. I know your economy runs on paper money, I know the NCR has printed more than it can back. The gold in your vaults is a fraction of what you once had."
Murphy held his ground.
"We will obtain it. We will not risk the NCR's stability over an unpayable debt, but the amount we have agreed upon is manageable. We can extract enough without collapsing our economy."
The Legate was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table. He was assessing us once again.
"Fine. But I will accept no excuses." His cold eyes locked onto ours. "If you accept these terms, you will uphold every word. I do not want future negotiations. I do not want delays. If you try to evade this debt, if you test my patience…"
He left the threat hanging in the air, unfinished yet absolute.
Murphy nodded slowly. "The NCR will comply."
Gaius did not respond immediately. Finally, after a long, tense moment, he nodded.
"Then let it be written."
We had little room to maneuver in these negotiations, but at least the war would end here.
One of his men slid a parchment across the table. Not just any document, but one written in thick ink and sealed with red wax. A treaty of surrender—on the Legion's terms.
Murphy took the sheet and read it carefully. The NCR's withdrawal, the gold tribute, the prohibition of any future intervention in the Mojave… each point weighed with the gravity of defeat.
Gaius raised a finger.
"Before you sign, there is one more thing."
Murphy looked up.
"I want the NCR to publicly announce its defeat. I do not want an agreement signed in a tent in the middle of the desert. I want your president to declare it before his people."
The air grew heavier. Accepting surrender was already a humiliation. Announcing it to the public would ensure it was burned into history.
Murphy did not answer immediately.
Gaius placed both hands on the table.
"I want every citizen of the NCR to hear from their own government that the Mojave is ours. That their war is over and there is no hope of reclaiming it. I want them to understand that their era of expansion is finished."
Murphy took a deep breath. "If we do that, the stability of the NCR will be compromised."
Gaius tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Then blame Kimball and his beloved General Oliver."
Murphy frowned.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Make them responsible. Tell the people of the NCR that it was their incompetence, their arrogance, their poor decisions that led them to this defeat. Tell them the war was not lost because the NCR was weak, but because it was misled. Hand them over to the crowd. Let them be torn apart publicly and save what remains of your Republic."
Silence gripped the tent.
The other senators exchanged glances. The idea was brutal, but it made sense.
Finally, Murphy took the pen and signed the treaty. The rest of us followed.
Gaius took the parchment, read it carefully, and nodded.
"Then it is done."
The war for the Mojave was over.