POV of Malpais
From the heights of the camp, I watched in silence the distant lights of my former city, my former tribe… my former family.
Many within the Legion saw this campaign as a bitter trial, a burden imposed by Caesar, far from the glory and laurels Lanius was reaping in the East. There, my brother-in-arms was razing entire tribes, capturing more slaves than the Legion had taken in years of conquest.
But for me, this mission was the opposite: a reward. A recognition of years of service—even after my partial failure at Hoover Dam. Caesar had understood something no one else wanted to see: this was personal. A unique opportunity to close wounds that had never healed.
From the Legion's humble beginnings, Caesar always knew who I was, what I thought, what drove me. We shared an ideal that went beyond conquest. A dream we both gave our lives, blood, and bones to.
New Canaan wasn't just another strategic target on the map. For years, I watched as my people slowly drifted from the path. The church, once the heart that bound us with ideals of effort, humility, and sacrifice, had rotted from within. Opulence, needless luxury, and false piety had become the norm. Ambition disguised itself as virtue. Greed hid behind hollow sermons.
Caesar understood perfectly: for me, destroying that cancer was a crusade. Not just a military duty, but a spiritual one. By entrusting me with this campaign, he didn't just give me men, resources, and authority—he granted me the only redemption possible: to purge the decay, restore purity, and erase the lie corroding my people.
I looked down at the camp. My troops were ready. Most were hardened legionaries, veterans of multiple campaigns—Primes who feared no death. But among them stood the men sent by Gaius: veterans of the Legio Mexicanorum. Soldiers forged in southern campaigns, disciplined to the extreme, efficient to the point of absurdity. Their snipers had proven lethal against the Eighties, that fast and elusive tribe that raided caravans throughout the region. Speed means nothing when the bullet hits you before you crest the ridge. Their power armor was sacred relics. They could withstand punishment that would tear apart any other legionary.
Farther out, near the fires, the White Legs whispered among themselves as they sharpened spears and cleaned rifles. Their transformation was complete. What was once a savage, purposeless tribe was now a fanatical, useful arm of the Legion. There was no doubt left in their eyes. No fear. Only a quiet conviction: tomorrow they would kill or die, and neither mattered to them.
I smiled faintly. We were ready.
Skirmishes against the Canaanites had already begun. As I expected, their spiritual rot had weakened their will. They couldn't even resist the initial attacks from the White Legs. Before I disciplined them, those tribals carried crude spears and rusted rifles. Now, organized and coordinated, they devastated the flanks of entire villages with lethal precision. New Canaan's defenses were crumbling on their own. They barely needed a push. The habit of comfort had turned them into easy prey.
My motorized convoys were fast and deadly. They hit peripheral settlements, cut supply lines, and vanished before anyone could shout. The Primes infiltrated the canyons, flanked local militias, fired from high ground, and disappeared into the brush.
But it was from the skies that their spirit broke most.
The Legio Mexicanorum Vertibirds descended like omens of wrath. The shadow of their wings caused panic before they even landed. They dropped entire squads of legionaries onto temple courtyards, executed corrupt clergy, burned books, and vanished with the same speed they came.
The artillery never rested. Day and night, it struck without mercy, smashing the makeshift defenses their priests had sold them as sacred. There was no divine intervention—only shrapnel, broken stone, and fire.
And then came the charge. The heart of the Legion.
Waves of soldiers advanced in tight formation. Each step struck at the enemy's soul. They marched without shouting, without fear, without doubt. The morale of the Canaanites collapsed at the sight. They didn't know whether to run or beg. Some tried. Most fell to their knees. Others fired in desperation. None lasted more than a few minutes.
There was no joy in me. I didn't delight in their suffering. But I felt certainty. This had to be done. And it had to be clean. After all, only fire can cleanse what words can no longer save.
Each day brought a new purge. Each conquered town a reminder of what was lost. And each temple destroyed, an act of justice. The Canaanites had no way to defend themselves against the machine we had built. We outnumbered them. Outtrained them. Outarmed them. Outbelieved them. And with every step we took, more frumentarii slipped into their remnants, expanding our network, exposing routes, dismantling any attempt at reorganization.
The blood of my people soaked their own soil. Their cities burned like torches. The rituals were simple: temples torn down stone by stone, priests crucified before their congregations, local elites executed without ceremony. The Legion didn't advance—it spread like a purifying disease: slow, relentless, final.
When I considered the region under control, I wrote a message to Caesar. I didn't ask for mercy—but for differentiation. New Canaan wasn't like the other tribes we had conquered. It was my people, and though rotten, it deserved judgment—not slavery.
I proposed limited amnesty. Those who submitted, swore loyalty, and worked toward redemption should be integrated. I wasn't trying to save them all—but I wouldn't destroy what could still be saved.
I knew Caesar would understand. He knew my story. He knew my loyalty. He knew the price behind every one of my scars.
Though Caesar had chosen to support me in the campaign—because the fall of New Canaan was a promise we made together—this time the decision wasn't his. He chose not to intervene. It was his heir's responsibility.
Gaius now handled the civil administration of the Empire. And with his rise, many things had changed. He was young, brilliant, lethal… but distant. Only results mattered to him. I had served under him for a time after my demotion following Hoover Dam. He was precise as a scalpel, cold as steel.
To him, New Canaan wasn't my people. It was just another zone to subjugate—another staging point for a future campaign against the NCR's northern front. He didn't care whether it burned or bloomed.
Only that it belonged to us.
For the first time since this campaign began, I felt uncertainty.
The radio crackled.
His voice came through dry, sharp, emotionless."So, Legate Malpais… you want me to order the Canaanites be freed from slavery?"
"The faith of New Canaan is what must be purged by fire for its excesses—not the faithful. They are not to blame for the divine punishment I bring," I replied, firm but measured.
There was a short silence, as if he were weighing it with the same seriousness one uses to place a stone on a map.
"Sure… why not? With Lanius's recent luck in Oklahoma finding cities full of slaves, we're starting to struggle to put them all to work. So increasing the free population a little isn't a bad thing."
He said it with the cold detachment of someone managing inventory. Then he went quiet. Too quiet.
"But...?" I asked, tense.
"A large population sharing the same culture… the same religion… the same way of life… united… it's the perfect breeding ground for rebellion. And especially since New Canaan will be the launching point for our push into the NCR's north while we distract them in the south, it would be foolish to leave that to chance—or to Canaanite goodwill. Can't have our supply lines cut mid-conflict."
A brief pause followed, then he spoke again with surgical finality:"So they'll all have to be relocated. Scattered throughout the Legion. I won't allow them to be a majority anywhere. Always a minority. Always watched. Do that, Malpais."
And with that, the radio went silent.
Order given. Decision made.
I had the mercy I asked for. Not as I would have wished but enough.
And Gaius was right. It was a risk to leave a newly conquered people intact, right in the middle of our supply chain, not fully broken. It was naive to think they wouldn't try something if they saw the chance. Mercy, in this context, was only safe when applied under absolute control.
With my new orders, I returned to my duty with renewed focus. I became once again what I was meant to be: divine punishment.
The blood began to flow again.
The intermediary cities fell one by one. The Legion's advance was unstoppable. We quickly pushed the remaining Canaanite defenders back toward the heart of their faith: New Canaan itself. That was where they gathered what was left of their strength.
It didn't matter. We had enough artillery to grind their defenses into dust. Targets were marked. Ranges calculated. Cannons already aimed.
We gave them one day.
One day to make peace with God. To seek redemption not in the ruins of their temples, but in the depths of their souls. One final act of clemency. Because I still remembered what we were, before the corruption.
When the next day's sun rose above the mountains, I looked at the artillery officer. Then at the sky. I took a deep breath.
And gave the order.
The purifying fire fell upon the city.
Explosions shattered golden domes. Stained glass windows burst into showers of broken color. The grand temples symbols of vanity and indulgence collapsed onto their worshipers. Smoke rose high and dark, like incense offered to an angry god.
Watching the city fall gave me deep satisfaction. Not joy—fulfillment. I was finally doing what I was meant to do.
I quickly sent in the spearhead. The first cohorts moved through the ruined walls under cover of smoke and fire. House-to-house combat erupted, through rubble, ash, and burning ruins. Blood flowed through cracks in the stone like silent tribute. No place was sacred. No street safe.
The battle dragged on for hours. I made sure my men gave everything. I ordered every church burned. Every symbol of their greed and false holiness reduced to nothing. All the material things that consumed their lives, that led them from the light of the Lord, had to be erased.
Finally, silence came.
The screams, the gunfire, the clash of metal all faded. A heavy stillness settled over the city as ash drifted down like a mourning shroud from the sky.
The legionaries began taking prisoners—men, women, a few young fighters. All marched without resistance, eyes empty. The looting began soon after. Systematic. Efficient. There was no glory in it.
Only cleansing. Purification.