I granted Christine her freedom in exchange for a single thing: the exact location of the pre-War research facility where she had been partially lobotomized—the place Elijah had used before taking refuge in Sierra Madre. She hesitated at first, but she knew she had few options. I returned control over her life, and in exchange, I got what I needed. A fair deal… in theory.
But her reaction was not what I expected.
"I'll return to my base of operations. Thank you for your help in dealing with the traitor, Elijah," Christine said, her voice firm, devoid of emotion.
"Yes… about that," I replied, locking eyes with her. "Your bunker is filled with concrete. And everyone who remained inside… they're likely dead. Unless they had flawless oxygen recycling and hydroponic farms capable of functioning without assistance."
Her expression shifted. She frowned, holding my gaze.
"What happened?" she asked, tension and distrust in her voice.
"We offered them a deal," I said, still watching her. "Some accepted. Others didn't."
She remained silent for a few seconds. She said nothing else, but her eyes said enough.
"The others now live in a Legion city—alongside former members of the Brotherhood," I continued calmly. "You may go there if you wish. I'll prepare a letter of passage for you, so you can travel without trouble." I said this flatly, behind my visor.
Christine didn't respond immediately. Her gaze dropped slightly as she processed my words. For a brief moment, the hardness in her face softened—barely. It wasn't gratitude, not exactly. But perhaps a quiet truce. She had lost much, but she still had choices.
We quickly transported everything back to New Rome. It was a long and meticulous operation. The most valuable cargo wasn't the gold or military equipment—it was the matter generators. Machines capable of producing food, medicine, even tools from basic compounds. A miracle by Wasteland standards. A legacy of the pre-War age.
I requested a direct audience with Caesar. I presented one of the machines. We connected it and activated its basic synthesis function. Before his eyes, using only scraps and processable waste, it generated a sealed food ration.
Caesar observed it in silence. His expression showed no admiration—only judgment. Disdain.
"A dangerous tool… it threatens man himself," he said with grave conviction. "A machine that replaces the labor of thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—breaks balance. It weakens will. And worse, it erases the need for effort. That corrupts."
I stepped closer, knowing that every word spoken before him must be weighed with precision.
"One of the greatest flaws of the old world was precisely that overdependence on automation, Lord Caesar," I replied, keeping my voice even. "The records in my database confirm it. Mass reliance on robots to replace all human labor led to unrest—riots—even as they were suppressed. The rich grew richer, while the rest were cast into poverty and despair. The powerful didn't listen. They counted profits."
Caesar did not interrupt, but his eyes remained locked on mine—measuring not only what I said, but why I said it. The silence that followed was heavy, but necessary. That machine, useful as it was in war, challenged the very core of what he believed.
"Knowledge can serve," I continued carefully, "if it's controlled. For now, all the machines are under our power, Lord Caesar. We could gather them in one place and use them for military ends—or for the construction of the new Rome."
I paused briefly to be sure I held his attention, then spoke with quiet force:
"It won't take long to reverse-engineer them. I can modify their settings to process construction materials—perhaps even turn them into mobile units to accompany the Praetorians into the field. They could supply food, medicine, equipment… sustain the line until the slaves or caravans arrive. And ensure no unworthy hands ever gain access." I added, with the faintest smile.
I finished without raising my voice, posture straight.
He didn't respond immediately. But I no longer saw the same contempt in his eyes—only cold calculation.
"I trust my heir's judgment," Caesar said at last, after several long seconds of silence. His voice was low, deliberate, as if every word were etched in stone. "If you believe it can be used without corrupting the purity of our purpose, I will allow it. But remember Mr. House…" He glanced toward the machine with visible disdain. "Do not become its slave."
I bowed my head in respect.
I chose, for now, to keep knowledge of the other pre-War installations to myself. Diverting attention beyond the reconstruction and reorganization of the Legion would serve no purpose. Each passing day is another day the NCR uses to regroup, to grow stronger—to prepare for the inevitable conflict that binds us by blood and destiny.
So I returned immediately to my role as architect of the new city. The pulse of transformation began to beat through every corner of what had once been Vegas. Entire buildings were demolished without hesitation. Explosives thundered hour by hour, like the heartbeat of something greater coming to life. One by one, the old towers fell—swallowed in dust and ruin.
There was no place in my vision for structures built for junkies and gamblers who believed chance could deliver them fortune. That city was dead. In its place, a living Rome would rise. Disciplined. Without neon or roulette wheels, without the jingle of slot machines or empty promises of luck. Only order.
I quickly retrieved a terminal and opened an urban planning program. It was time to begin designing the new Rome. Naturally, Caesar would expect architecture modeled after the Roman system—columns, amphitheaters, forums, wide, functional roads, and a layout grounded in order, hierarchy, and permanence. The ruins of Vegas would require radical change. But for the first time, we had all we needed to make it real.
We controlled the water from Hoover Dam. With its turbines fully restored, our power output would increase significantly. Water and electricity—the veins and arteries of a modern city. Water would not be a problem, not for us. But food… food would.
This city had to become the nerve center of all Legion logistics for the coming campaign against the NCR. That meant it had to be self-sufficient.
We had the technology, the manpower, and even tools that most would consider mythical—like a GECK. I could have used it to transform the landscape into a green paradise, but it would only be a matter of time before the heat and desertification reclaimed what had always been theirs. This was still a desert. We could not build a city that relied on miracles.
So I chose something more viable: vertical hydroponic farms. Instead of skyscrapers devoted to vice and gambling, we would raise towers dedicated to food production. Within them, we would cultivate vegetables, fruit, algae—and house large-scale aquaculture systems: fish farms capable of feeding the entire urban population without outside dependence. A city that wagered not on luck, but on efficiency.
And speaking of the local population, I could not ignore the Silverheads—the veterans of the Legion. Many had served more than twenty years under Caesar, survived countless battles, and bled for our cause. Men hardened by fire, time, and faith—and yet they had been denied their promised rest after the failed Mojave campaign under Malpais. Years had passed, and still, they waited. A promise made to all those before them had yet to be fulfilled.
Now, it would be me who honored it.
Yes, losing thousands of veterans would be a hard blow to the upcoming campaign. But it would be far worse to march with soldiers weary, bitter, and more eager for death than for victory. These men deserved more than silence and oblivion. So they would have their place in the new city—given proper homes in the most privileged sector, a zone designed specifically for them, for their families and slaves. A place to end their cycle as warriors and begin anew as citizens.
The foundation of the city began to take shape. Massive trenches opened across the land to make way for the future subway system, new roadways, and the deep supports that would anchor the vertical farms. Every part of the design was focused on efficiency, self-sufficiency, and permanence. Slave teams laid the primary pipelines, connecting every structure to the water reserves controlled by Hoover Dam. Each day, thousands of slaves arrived from across Legion territory—a river of bodies and brute strength, ready to be shaped.
Slave labor had proven an excellent substitute for automation. As long as the Legion continued to expand, we would never lack hands. What we lacked was time to use them all. And yet, as we all knew, the treatment of slaves within the Legion was not kind. Their training focused on values: Honestas, Industria, Prudentia. The virtues of effort, sacrifice, and obedience. Still, all died in time. The challenge was simply enduring long enough.
It was then I decided something had to change.
I drafted a new law on slavery—focused on gradual, structured, and conditional emancipation. When whispers of my intentions began to circulate, it didn't take long for Vulpes Inculta to find me. Or perhaps I should say, he allowed himself to be seen.
He walked beside me as I wrote the first draft of the decree. His gaze was forward, his tone calm as ever—but more honest than usual.
Who would have thought that the most ruthless bastard in the Legion… actually had a heart, and perhaps even a soft spot?
"How proud are we, to expect the weak to provide the same labor as the mighty and the resilient?" he asked, bluntly.
"We must adjust their work," I answered, "and care for those who can no longer serve our cause as they once did. No one under the gaze of the Legion should be left waiting."
Vulpes nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
"The old have earned their status through unwavering support, backbreaking work, and obedience. It is only right that those who've reached an venerable age be rewarded with release from slavery."
"Our slaves are tired. Hopeless. Beneath our supervision. We cannot allow that, my good Legate… no, we cannot," he said. And for the first time, he smiled. Not mockingly, not cynically. A true smile. "We need a new system. Fifteen years of service earns a slave their freedom. Give them hope. Give them purpose. Restore pride in serving the Legion."
I took his proposal and integrated it into the decree. I added a final clause, clear and absolute:
"Any who defy this law or challenge the will of Lord Caesar shall be declared profligate, no better than a degenerate—and made a slave themselves."
Vulpes read every word in silence. Then looked at me with approval.
"Good," I said, printing the document. "I will request Lord Caesar approve this law. And further, I'll propose the addition of a new deity to the Legion's pantheon: the goddess Libertas. We will build a temple in her name—where every slave who fulfills the terms of service will be freed, publicly."
Vulpes gave a slight nod. "Libertas… a dangerous idea, if left unchecked. But powerful, if made to serve."
And I agreed. As with any tool, it depended entirely on who wielded it.
I didn't wait long to make my way to the Lucky 38—now transformed into Caesar's new palace, the seat of absolute power in the Mojave. In those days, Caesar did not only concern himself with military strategy—issuing commands to Lanius in the east and Malpais in the north—he also took a peculiar interest in watching the city evolve under my hands. Each day: another demolition, another foundation, another design… and he observed it all from above, like a father watching a son grow—unsure whether to bless him, or to break him.
It was during one such afternoon, as the sun's rays filtered through the refitted windows of the old casino, that we began our debate. That was always the way with him. Caesar rarely gave anything without making me earn it first. He enjoyed hearing my proposals—but more than that, he enjoyed testing me.
To him, if I couldn't defend my vision with clarity and strength, I didn't deserve to see it realized.
I presented the terms of the decree—on conditional emancipation, on Libertas, on the new work structure based on merit, discipline, and hope. As I spoke, I watched him closely. Caesar didn't interrupt—but his gaze was sharp, analytical, measuring every word, searching for flaws, contradictions, weakness.
And I could tell my words were striking something. Slowly, he began to see the practical value, the structural logic, even the symbolic strength of what I proposed.
But still, he would not yield easily.
He launched hard objections—questions that challenged the moral foundation, the stability, and the ideology of the Legion itself. And I answered each of them, one by one, without faltering, without hesitation.
We debated at length. As we had so many times before, our ideas clashed like shields and blades in the forum. But this was Caesar's favorite game—the battle of thought. For he believed that power was not ruled by strength alone, but by vision. And if an heir could not withstand the edge of his words, he would never bear the weight of his legacy.
When it ended, Caesar fell silent for a few long moments.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
And I knew I had won.