Chapter 1:
The Silver Shroud in: Under The Cloak of Caesar!
Marcussen stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air, it was a charity event but that never stopped the reckless judgment of the profligate aristocrats who make their appearances for less than selfless reasons. The Saint Michaels-Austen tower provided an incredible view, so majestic it was, that the rot of the city below is indistinguishable from the bright shining lights that littered the city. The smell however, was harder to mask, even up here the desperation of the masses seeps in… a reckoning is coming, and no tower is high enough to soar above it.
The former silver screen actor does his best brooding with a cigarette in his mouth and a good view, another wave of regret spills over his mind as he recalls the faces of the other partygoers, seemingly asking the same burning question, "Who invited this has-been?" It's a rather familiar sting and one he perpetuates through a bit of his own dark thoughts. In his mind, he knows if it weren't for his shared history with the towers' host, David Austen, he wouldn't even be here. When did it all go so wrong? With a gold-shaded reverence, he thought back to his magnum opus, "The Litany of The Christ" of which he starred alongside Austen, he had never worked in religious cinema before and never would again, still the critical success of the film launched both of their careers into the stratosphere. Then he remembered, while Austen would go on to make "To Never War Again" and "A Room To Kill For", Marcussen would regrettably star in "Path To The East", and he would never be allowed to recover the spotlight.
His solitary moping is denied when he hears a familiar voice from behind,
"Never a tower without a view, never an actor without a role…"
Marcussen turned to look behind him facing the man as he concluded,
"Never a Silver Shroud without Felix Marcussen!"
The gentleman let out an attempt at a hardy laugh, it fell short due to the man's age and years of reckless degeneracy catching up to him, devolving into some kind of long wheeze which ended simultaneously with a light pat on Marcussen's shoulder. Of all the industry titans at this event, Marcussen loved and envied this man the most, he'd had the benefit of familiarity as they had been off and on co-stars for the last 27 years on the same radio show. Though he'd aged significantly worse than Marcussen, the gentleman still carried himself with the dignity and respect worthy of someone who's survived the worst the industry can throw at someone; He'd stood tall now, clad in a sharp tuxedo, with a tacky vest to boot which held a certain charm. This event Austen was hosting served a symbolic purpose towards lessening the tension of nuclear war. The gentleman expressed in a confidential fashion to anyone who asked, that the vest seemingly had special radiation-absorbing qualities, his own metaphorical effort towards peace.
Marcussen flicked what remained of his cigarette to the city below and turned toward his partner in crime, trying his best to bury the placeless remorse he'd been feeling all night, he makes a valiant attempt to match the gentleman's comradery.
"Well don't forget about 'Jarvey Blake', the Shroud's trusted confidant and butler."
The gentleman let out a weary chuckle, unsure if Marcussen even remembered his name and was just humoring him or if he'd drowned himself in enough alcohol that he only remembered the character the gentleman had played; he had watched Felix go from the most spectacular talent to ever grace the cinema to being blacklisted by every studio to the point that his face was a death sentence to any director or producer who dared suggest his casting.
"Hahaha… hmm… uh, how are you enjoying the event so far?" The gentleman asked,
"Feels like I'm not even here, not a single person in there has even addressed me, you'd think they'd remember how hard they tried to forget me." Marcussen bitterly replied.
"And how do you expect them to know who you are if you don't talk to them? Aren't you a voice actor?" The gentleman said in jest, although there was truth in his words.
Marcussen paused, he'd always looked back on his work as a voice actor as not real work, something to pay the bills, just until he gets back on his feet… he never gave much thought to it as an industry worth respect. His co-star on the other hand seemingly loved every second of the experience, and it drove Marcussen mad, he wanted to shout at the man and berate him for his childish ideas of their "work" being anything more than easy listening for kids. He wanted to, but he didn't as he found he respected the man far too much.
The gentleman waves for a hostess who upon receiving the signal seemingly glides over to the pair, bearing a tray with champagne a cut above anything you could find in Massachuchetes. The two men each take a glass and prepare to make a toast in a much more clandestine way than would be traditionally expected, almost as if sharing a secret together on the balcony.
"Promise me you'll at least try to socialize with them?" the gentleman asked,
"I'll need about three more of these first…" Marcussen bartered,
"Well, it's a start!" the gentleman said, settling.
"Now, what do you suppose we should drink to?" The gentleman inquired,
"To the Saint Michaels-Austen tower, who needs some shitty Gala at the Sierra Madre anyway?" Marcussen proposed with a jealous tone,
"How about… to 2077, may there never be another year like it."
The pair clinked glasses and drank to a fine future, they prepared to go back inside when a light to the distance garnered both of their attentions. Marcussen takes a few steps forward trying his best to get a better look at the distant light.
"Is that… the sun?" He asks, checking his watch to see the time, 5:42am, strange time to host a charity event. Looking back at his companion he finds nothing but horror as the gentleman's eyes have melted out of his skull, flesh peeling off in the handfuls and the hair coming loose in clumps. Looking down at his own hands he sees the rot as well, he turns back towards the light looking for deliverance when the shockwave hits.
He awakens, processing the experience in a moment, another wonder-dream. It seems in these times no matter how close you get to them, how hard you ask or pry, a certain fact will never be disclosed to you from any of Marcussen's kind; Ghouls, as the more brutal aspects of their world would call them, do not suffer from nightmares. They are spared that mercy. Instead they experience "wonder-dreaming" as he had called it, and for the last 200 years every time Marcussen slept, he recalled his life with a picture perfect memory. For a brief time when he sleeps he is a man once more and all of his experiences, memories and happiness can be felt without reprisal, he could live as a man of dignity again. He had skin.
Marcussen had seen other Ghouls turn feral simply from the intensive trauma of waking up and realizing they need to exist again, it had been a long time however, since he'd woken up screaming, crying and feeling the fear of the horrific becoming normal. He had become wickedly jaded to the savage nature of the new world brought about by the war, he learned to stop fighting a while ago, and in doing so…
"Marcussen, it's time."
The Legion met no resistance from him.
The call did not come as a surprise, in fact he had expected to be awoken by now and in line with this expectation he had slept in his veteran decanus armor, even should he be dragged out of his tent he would not be received by the Great Caesar out of uniform. He took a moment to check his bindings, ensuring that not even an inch of his Ghoul likeness shows at any point to the other legionnaires. He realized doing this will draw a bit of suspicion, as it is uncommon for any legionnaire to wear anything that might constrict leg movement, but this suspicion far outweighed the cost of new Legionnaires discovering a Ghoul was among them and could turn feral at any moment.
With all of his auxiliaries up to form, Marcussen followed his escort towards Caesar's main camp, he had fought alongside his escort but did not know the man well enough to speak to him; he knew that the man was a vexillarius and that he'd survived not one but two full campaigns against various tribes in Utah, and he'd also known that the vexillarius was gay. Marcussen had no taste for idle gossip, not as a Hollywood socialite, not as a Road Reaver Tribesman and certainly not as a Legionnaire, that didn't stop him though from speculating that higher ranks knew of the vexillarius' private affairs and posted him as a camp runner in order to punish him without the morale damaging effects of crucifying a Standard Bearer.
"You think the NCR will put up much of a fight?" the vexillarius asked, attempting to make small talk,
"Yes." Marcussen replied bluntly,
"They can't put up more of a fight than the Hangdogs though, right?"
"Wrong."
"The Hangdogs were a rough bunch, tougher than the NCR, if you were there you'd kno-"
"I was there, I've seen them both and you're wrong."
The vexillarius stopped in his tracks as Marcussen walked ahead toward the Praetorians guarding the tent, stopping before them, he waited patiently for an audience listening tentatively to the conversation inside the tent, attempting to glean the reason he was summoned. He can only make out bits and pieces, battle tactics and talk only relevant to the campaign ahead, but then a dash of controversy darkens the mood
"Do not do this Caesar, I am not a guard dog."
"You will not deny this honor, Lanius."
"I would tear apart the enemies of the Legion, I would crush the NCR under my heel!"
"And where would you return to? The former Eastern Territories of the Legion? This is not a suggestion, it is a command, we will go to Nevada and you will ensure that we may return."
A bitter silence ensues, and after a short time a Praetorian ushers Marcussen inside, entering inside the tent a wash of fear mixed with reverence comes over the hidden Ghoul. The scene inside of the tent was comparable to the extravagant paintings of ancient societies he had never paid any attention to as a lackadaisical pre-war American. Before him was The Great Caesar upon a throne carried all the way from Arizona, The Terror of the East Legate Lanius, the reclusive Malphais Legate and enough Praetorians to subjugate the Twisted Hairs when they were still an uncivilized tribe. Any veteran decanus needn't be told to kneel before Caesar, and Marcussen was no exception, bending the knee and bowing his head before Caesar.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a dark figure, he dared not turn his head to look but just as well he didn't need to, connecting the dots is quite simple when you spend less time talking than listening. Yes, this could only be one person, the very same who shattered the Road Reavers and had nine-tenths of the tribe who surrendered or didn't run savagely violated and crucified, much like Marcussen the figure was no longer a man, he had disposed of his humanity when he became Vulpes Inculta.
There are only two types of people who exist inside of the Legion, those who believe in Caesar with a patriotic fervor, and those who have lost the will to resist. All men who claim differently will fall into one of these categories within a year but it is quite rare that someone like Marcussen who falls firmly into the second category would survive as long as he did, and it is part of the reason he kneels before Caesar now at the recommendation of Vulpes.
"I am told you have something that can be of use to the Legion." Caesar spoke,
"I… am not sure what you are asking-" Marcussen said prematurely,
"I haven't asked anything yet." Caesar clarified, "but I won't ask it to your helmet."
Marcussen experienced a cold bolt shot through his body, he knew what would be asked of him next and dreaded the result of his revelation. Like the rattle of a machine gun his mind erupted with ideas of futile escape, he figured with his absolute best effort he might be able to scratch one of the Praetorians before the rest had him drawn and quartered. In a bout of fear and intensive mental planning he looks up to see if he might be able to escape by running through the tent, but his eyes meet the cold, unfeeling mask of Legate Lanius. He had extensive experience in seeing his dreams collapse, but this was another feeling for Marcussen altogether, the feeling of absolute subjugation.
Render unto Caesar, what is Caesars, and right now, Marcussen's life belonged to Caesar.
"Remove your helmet." Caesar commanded,
With shaking hands, Marcussen complied, revealing a head devoid of hair and any semblance of what passes for skin to human eyes.
"Why does it sound human?" Legate Lanius asked with disgust and absent pity.
Caesar glances over at Lanius, giving a look that neither confirms nor denies any allegiance but very clearly an intent on requiring that Lanius remain silent.
"How long have you been alive, Ghoul?" Caesar inquires,
"I… have forgotten, Great Caesar." Marcussen replies, desperate to remain as inoffensive as possible,
"Vulpes tells me you have a will to survive like none other, how did you manage to sneak your way up the ranks to a veteran decanus without discovery." Caesar asks,
"I have done nothing but serve loyally Caesar, I…" Marcussen explains,
Caesar glances at Marcussen, instantly conveying that he is making a mistake by making excuses, and that he should choose his next words carefully.
"It's… my voice, Great Caesar, I have learned how to not sound like a Ghoul and it was not an issue once I covered my skin." Marcussen answered.
The implication that the entirety of the Legion could be fooled by a voice actor in a sub-par disguise infuriated Legate Lanius to such a point he reached for the Blade of the East, but his wrath was quickly supplanted by envy when he saw the Malphais Legate lean over to whisper in Caesar's ear. Upon hearing what he had to say, the dignified visage of Caesar looked toward Vulpes, beckoning the coyote over with a glance to which Vulpes obeyed, bending the knee next to Marcussen.
"You don't feel the damaging effects of radiation, and you would say the product of the old world's degeneracy has no effect on you?" Caesar asked the Ghoul,
"No, it… does not." Marcussen replied truthfully, omitting the benefits he feels from it's effects,
"Then it is clear to me that you are no longer fit to be a decanus of the Legion." Caesar says in a cold tone.
When approached by a raging bull a man's first instinct is to run like hell, to flee as far and as fast as they can to any semblance of safety, it is only natural for the sane person to recognize danger and seek to escape it; but there is no escaping the bull, no running from this thing before him now. Marcussen's life was now in the mercy of beasts, he hoped that in death by a tyrant's hand, that any God that awaited him might be more merciful than Caesar.
Two Praetorians stand on either side of Marcussen as Caesar rises slowly from a makeshift throne, approaching the wretched Ghoul with a seething purpose.
"A Legionnaire dies today." Caesar spoke,
"Rise now, as Ahenobalbus, my Frumentarius." Caesar commanded.
Vulpes is the first to rise, discreetly nudging Marcussen to do the same as not to insult their shared leader. With great effort the former veteran decanus staggers to his feet, disbelief strewn across his misshapen face, a mere moment of jubilation came over Caesar but was immediately replaced by the dutiful visage the warleader usually wears. Behind Caesar, Legate Lanius briefly disapproves before excusing himself and the Malphais Legate heads in the opposite direction to review battle plans for the upcoming siege against the Hoover Dam. Various Praetorians also seem to break away, following their respective Legates until there were only two Praetorians, Caesar, the coyote and the Ghoul.
"What do you know of Oregon?" Caesar asked the still shaken Marcussen,
"I've… never been." Marcussen replied,
"Neither have any of my scouts, for at least two years, all because of the Verdant Farms Fault." Caesar confesses,
"Verdant Farms? That's… an Idaho company, not Oregon." Marcussen said, expressing more extensive knowledge than previously thought.
A moment of foreboding silence fills the tent as Vulpes shares a look with Caesar.
"Ahenobalbus, you are the only Ghoul so far to have what it takes to be a man of the Legion, we have tried going through Nevada, but only the most skilled Frumentarii have gotten through the NCR lines to Nevada, less still can be contacted in their positions." Vulpes states,
"But… what is in Oregon to warrant such a task?" Marcussen asked,
Caesar paused for a moment, reconsidering whether the information he should disclose would be truly secret among these men.
"Victory." he said eventually, "I had sent some of my best men led by Legate Valerius through Idaho before the Fault to establish a defense, when the time comes that the NCR should fall to my Legions, the survivors will try to regroup to the North and try to hold out for as long as possible wasting our resources and requiring constant attention. This cannot come to pass. A quick resolution to the defeat of my enemies lies entirely with the contingencies we have in Oregon."
Marcussen paused for a moment, he wanted to refute Caesar, to decry him and call him out for thinking that he could crush and conquer and he saw fit and damn all others to his way of thinking. But he did not, for he knew the rules of this world, and despite the ideals of change this despot seems to purport, Caesar was built by the wasteland and by the wasteland he rules.The newly forged Frumentarius unclenches his fists, and looks to Caesar for whatever wicked thing the man will demand of him.
"Ahenobalbus, another scout has reported that the Northern Legions may have strayed too far from the moral doctrines that make the Legion what it is, and then he died from the severe radiation spilling from the Verdant Farms Fault." Caesar informed,
"You are charged with traversing the Verdant Farms Fault to Oregon and investigating the corruption of the Northern Legions, if they have been found to be disloyal to the doctrines of the Legion, then your task will be to make an example of any who would think they could escape my justice." Caesar commanded.
Marcussen started to speak but was subsequently grabbed by the Praetorians on either side and brought out of the tent, once released he finds himself in the middle of the encampment without a helmet to hide his grizzly appearance, he turns back towards the Praetorians who have already abandoned him for their patron, instead he sees only Vulpes emerging from the tent with a satisfied grin. Something in that moment snapped inside of Marcussen as he came to realize the betrayal made against him, he lashed out at Vulpes in that moment, viscously grabbing the snake's vestments with wicked fury in his eyes. Marcussen see's in his eyes a brief glimmer of fear, but he does not have the luxury of reveling in the feeling of supremacy as what feels like a full company of legionnaires pounce on him and drag him off of the spymaster.
"Damn you gutless swine!" Marcussen barks at the betrayer, "We had a deal!"
"There are no deals between men and mice." Vulpes replied, "I know you won't run either, you've seen the price of cowardice among your people."
Vulpes waves for the legionnaires to take him to the outskirts of the camp and send him on his suicide mission, Marcussen fights valiantly but cannot shake free of the men holding him.
"Hear me Vulpes! I condemn you! May God grant me vengeance upon my return!" Marcussen cursed bitterly,
With a confused tone, Vulpes replied, "Return?"
Marcussen's former colleagues drag him through the camp to the outskirts to the north and toss him to the blasted sands which lie on the border of Utah and Nevada, he laid still for several minutes his fingers sifting through the sand, feeling nothing as he mustered the strength to stand. When he finally did get to his feet, he wished he'd stayed down, bolts of pain course through his body and he's unsure if the pain's source was physical or mental, so intense it was, that his body started walking in a vain hope to outrun the affliction. He didn't know at the time what kept him going, but he kept chasing a shimmer in his eye, a bolt on the horizon that attracted him deeply, a flicker of… something; and he followed it, all the way to the North.
END CHAPTER 1