Et Tumor, Brute?

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I continued coordinating the attacks of my troops, ensuring everything remained under control as tensions escalated. Nearly an hour had passed when, finally, the doors of the Brotherhood of Steel's bunker began to open slowly. The metallic sound of grinding gears echoed across the desert, and all my men went into high alert, taking positions with their weapons trained on the entrance.

What emerged was a procession of hundreds of Brotherhood members. Some were clad in West-Tek power armor—classic T-45s and T-51bs—while many others were unarmed, dressed in simple robes and uniforms. These were likely scribes, initiates, or non-combat personnel. Their faces were a mixture of resignation and defiance, though those wearing power armor remained impassive, their emotions hidden behind opaque visors.

"Are these all the members of the Brotherhood?" I asked, scrutinizing the group.

A man who must have been Elder McNamara stepped forward. "Those who are willing to surrender, yes," he responded firmly, though his tone carried a note of weariness.

"Well... fine. And how many are still below?" I asked, locking eyes with him.

McNamara hesitated for a moment before answering. "Hardin and the staunchest members of the Circle of Steel refused to surrender. They'd rather die fighting than betray the Brotherhood's pure ideals, untainted by... inferiors."

"How many?" I pressed, my tone hardening.

"Eighty... a hundred... something close to that," he finally admitted. "We didn't have time to count them all. They've taken control of the armories and activated the automated defenses. No one can return to the bunker now."

I nodded slowly, assessing the situation. The resistance left inside was substantial, but the question remained whether it was worth risking my men for what might be left there.

"Nothing valuable to extract from inside. Did you at least save your databases?" I asked, turning my gaze back to McNamara.

A scribe stepped forward, holding a stack of holodisks containing vital information. I watched the gesture for a moment before making my decision.

"Good. Bring a truck. Fill this hole with concrete and block the air vents. I'm not going to lose dozens of men for a bunker with little technological value." My words were firm, and my centurions immediately began executing my orders.

As the preparations began, I turned back to McNamara. "Today, you survive because you were smart enough to surrender. Remember this: you now serve the Legion. And what remains down there... will be your tomb, a reminder of the folly of defying Caesar."

"These are the terms," I declared loudly, addressing the Brotherhood members who had surrendered. "You are now slaves of the Legion." My tone was unwavering, and my voice rose with authority as I noticed one of them attempting to protest.

"Let me finish!" I barked, silencing the interruption. Order was restored as everyone's attention shifted back to me.

"And because of this, you will be sold to the highest bidder," I continued, turning to my decanus, who was meticulously counting the prisoners. "I offer four thousand aurei for all the slaves," I declared, leaving no room for doubt.

The decanus looked up from his count, clearly startled by the sum. "Ah... well... a more than generous offer, Legate," he replied, nodding slightly in approval.

"You now belong to me," I added, turning back to the prisoners, ensuring they understood the gravity of my words. "You will work for me. But hear this: you will go to my home and labor alongside the rest of your brothers. If you demonstrate loyalty and valor, you may earn your freedom."

My gaze swept over the former Brotherhood members, pausing on each one to ensure they understood the seriousness of my statement. There was no compassion in my voice or stance, only the cold reality of their new existence.

"This is your only chance. Accept your new fate or face death. Choose wisely," I concluded, turning away as my men began organizing their transport.

As I coordinated the operations, I overheard Elder McNamara speaking quietly to some of his own.

"Just as Elder Andrea predicted... things," he murmured, his tone resigned but meaningful.

I paused briefly, observing them with indifference before addressing my men. "Return to your posts. Everything must be ready for Legate Lanius' arrival." With those words, I turned my focus back to coordinating our operations.

The surrendered Brotherhood members were quickly transported to my settlement, where they began their work under strict supervision. Each wore a slave collar to ensure obedience. Their technical expertise would be utilized to enhance the production and repair of power armor for the Legion. Even those who initially resisted soon learned that submission was their only option.

When I finally visited the missile facility secured by the frumentarii, I took time to inspect it thoroughly. According to the records, the rockets were designed for human transportation, not weaponry. However, it wasn't hard to imagine how they could be repurposed for far more destructive purposes. The potential to adapt them for carrying explosives was an opportunity I couldn't ignore.

I noted several technical challenges, though. The launch equipment was in an advanced state of disrepair, requiring complete overhauls and recalibration to become operational. Additionally, the rocket engines were an obsolete design, relying on radioactive fuel—a desperate, pre-war decision by its creators.

"With enough effort," I mused aloud as I examined the systems, "we could retrofit these rockets to deliver constant bombardments on the NCR's key cities. It would force their hand and bring them to the negotiation table."

I paused, considering the most extreme possibility. "And in the worst-case scenario... if I acquire a functional nuclear warhead, we could turn these rockets into ultimate weapons. We'd destroy their major cities and end this war once and for all."

I summoned a team of skilled technicians and engineers to the missile site, tasking them with restoring the facility. My instructions were precise, and blueprints were immediately sent to my settlement to begin constructing rocket engines tailored to the facility's needs. Transforming the site into a strategic asset against the NCR was an absolute priority. Time was short, and every action had to be executed flawlessly.

Back at the main camp, where Lord Caesar oversaw the Mojave campaign's progress, I went directly to the tent prepared for the operation. The medical intervention was ready to begin. All the equipment gathered during the campaigns—autodocs, heart monitors, anesthesia machines, and advanced surgical tools—was in perfect condition. The procedure had been rehearsed multiple times in virtual simulations with precise data from the autodoc's diagnostic module. Every step was calculated, every decision refined to ensure success.

We connected Lord Caesar to the medical equipment. His heart rate and vital signs were constantly monitored while the anesthesia machine administered sedatives with millimetric precision. Everything was prepared for a flawless procedure.

Lucius and the praetorians surrounded the sterile tent with an impenetrable guard. No unauthorized person could approach; the protection was absolute. Any interruption or leak of information about Caesar's condition would have jeopardized both his leadership and the stability of the Legion. The tension in the camp was palpable, but no one dared to question orders.

Lucius stood out among the praetorians. Beneath his uniform, he carried a letter delivered by Lord Caesar, written in secret and sealed. Its contents, unknown to all but Lucius, likely named a successor in the event the operation turned fatal. His rigid posture and tense expression reflected the weight of that responsibility, heavier than any weapon he had carried in the past.

With the medical team in position and Caesar unconscious, I took the surgical instruments and gave the order: "Begin." The tent was utterly silent, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring Caesar.

Hours passed as we carried out the operation. With meticulous precision, we removed a section of Lord Caesar's skull to access the tumor that protruded dangerously from the affected area. Every movement of the surgical tools was perfectly calculated, assisted by the doctors and surgeons present. The tumor, sizable in proportion, was extracted with extreme care. The machines monitored every fluctuation in his vital signs, while we successfully managed the bleeding.

Once the tumor was entirely removed, we replaced the section of the skull we had extracted, securing it back in its original position. The extraction was complete. For now, our work seemed done, but the most critical phase remained beyond our control: Lord Caesar's recovery. His ability to heal would determine whether our efforts were enough or if the Legion would face a leadership crisis.

With the procedure finished, we exited the sterile tent one by one, removing our medical gear with movements that were both weary and precise. Outside the tent, the praetorians maintained their unrelenting vigilance. Lucius, standing closest to the entrance, watched us intently, his gaze hard and expectant.

For a moment, no one spoke. The tension was palpable, as if even breathing too loudly could upset the delicate balance of what we had just achieved. Finally, I removed my surgical gloves and addressed Lucius.

"The operation was a success. Now, it's up to him."

Lucius gave a slight nod, but his expression didn't change. The praetorian prefect remained firm, a mix of hope and a visible burden on his shoulders. The letter he carried beneath his tunic was still there, a shadow of what could happen if Caesar failed to recover.

The doctors withdrew, leaving the tent in a silence broken only by the soft beeping of the monitor tracking Lord Caesar's vital signs. I immersed myself in maps and logistical reports, ensuring everything was in order for the imminent arrival of Lanius' vast legion. Hours passed as I reviewed every detail, but even in my concentration, I could sense Lucius' growing impatience, his presence a vigilant shadow at my side.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice heavy with frustration and nervousness.

"Caesar breathes, but he hasn't woken yet… How much longer must we wait? How much longer must we go on without our Caesar to guide his men?"

His anger was evident, but so was the fear he tried to hide. Lucius wasn't just worried about Caesar's condition but also the impact his prolonged absence might have on the Legion's morale.

Without looking away from the monitor, I responded calmly, my tone aiming to dispel the tension.

"He's sedated, Lucius. Caesar won't wake soon, and when he does, he'll be disoriented. He will need several days to recover before resuming his leadership. This was a serious operation, not a routine intervention. But fortunately, his vital signs have remained stable, and for now, it seems Lord Caesar will rise again."

Lucius seemed ready to reply, but the sudden commotion in the camp interrupted him. Shouts and the sound of hurried footsteps grew louder, creating a rising chaos outside. Before I could determine what was happening, an imposing figure crossed the threshold of the tent.

Lanius.

The Monster of the East entered with his overwhelming presence, his mask bearing the visage of Mars reflecting the dim light inside the tent. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, seemed to pierce me as he stopped in front of me. Everything about his stance radiated power and threat, as if every movement was a declaration of strength.

The air in the tent grew heavy, and I felt Lucius tense beside me. Lanius' arrival was no coincidence, and it was clear he had come seeking answers

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