The echo of shotguns dragged through the corridors like a metal beast. Quick blasts followed by the heavy steps of my men, who weren't just here to kill—but to erase any trace of command. There were screams. and bodies hitting the floor and weapons clattering down with the dull thud of defeat.
The presidential bunker was older than I expected. Probably from the Brotherhood war with the NCR… maybe even the Enclave… or the Master's campaign. Hard to know for sure. But it wasn't built to withstand a direct assault this large. The blast doors gave way one by one. Automated turrets didn't last more than a few seconds before sparking and burning out. The resistance was broken—though not entirely destroyed yet. Disoriented. Disconnected. And I had paid dearly for that opening: four Vertibirds were shot down before we even hit the ground. Southern air defenses were still active, and Malpais had advanced faster than expected. There was no time for reinforcements. No time to clear the way. Every second mattered.
I couldn't risk another prolonged siege. We'd already fought one recently. And while the Legion won, the cost had been unnecessarily high. Shady Sands held what remained of the NCR's strategic arsenal, its final reserves, its military pride. Turning the city into a drawn-out trench war would've been a mistake. One my enemies expected me to make.
So I struck first.
I didn't come to fight for ground. I came to destroy the command's beating heart. This is where the upper echelon should be: ministers, logistics heads, liaison officers—the machinery that kept the Republic's military alive. Only the generals were still out on the frontlines, trying to stop our advance with orders that soon would have no one left to carry them out. If this operation ended as it should, I wouldn't just sever their ability to coordinate.
The war would be officially over.
And if I managed to capture the NCR President alive, there would be no debate. No negotiation table. Just a signature. A broken voice admitting defeat in front of their own soldiers. It would mark the collapse of unified command—and with it, the end of any organized resistance. What came after wouldn't be war.
It would be cleanup.
I knew some would never submit. Men who'd rather die in the hills with a rusted rifle than wear a slave's collar. But that was a problem for later. Without supplies, without couriers, without hope, those flames wouldn't last long. Especially with Frumentarii still embedded deep in the civilian infrastructure, ready to dismantle any cell that tried to rise from the shadow of defeat. There wouldn't be much left to hunt.
An explosion snapped me back to the present.
The concrete shook underfoot as an improvised charge—likely a grenade—blew through a side door. My legionaries responded instantly, pressing forward. The narrow corridors made wide maneuvers impossible—but that favored those who knew how to advance in tight formation.
Rounds bounced off power armor, leaving little more than scratched paint. The bunker's defenders were poorly armed: automatic rifles, sidearms, a few civilian hunting weapons. Nothing designed to stop an armored force trained for siege warfare. The defense was exactly what I expected: desperate, fragmented, ineffective. We pushed deeper through the complex with speed and coordination.
Behind us, reserve units held back reinforcements. Thousands of Republic soldiers caught in the chaos of a deep strike and the collapse of their external lines. They were trying to cut off our push to the bunker's core, but every minute they lost was another section taken by us.
The hallways were slaughterhouses. Blood smeared the walls. Pools thick underfoot. Bodies twisted, limbs sheared off by the sheer impact force of our weapons. Some were still alive—crawling, gasping, eyes vacant as we moved past them without even finishing the job. We didn't have time.
The final blast door had been sealed just before we reached it. A minor flaw in the push—nothing we couldn't handle.
My legionaries placed the charges . One secured the explosive, another watched the corridor, a third marked the breach points.
The blast roared like underground thunder. Reinforced metal didn't bend—it tore free from its hinges and flew inward. Jagged fragments spun through the air, carving flesh, drawing screams. Several enemy soldiers dropped instantly, soaked in their own blood before they even saw who we were.
The smoke hadn't cleared when my men breached, shotguns raised. They fired without pause. Steel slugs tore through torsos, helmets, and makeshift defenses. NCR soldiers were disoriented, many on their knees, clutching bleeding ears, trying to make sense of what had just happened. A few reached for rifles. None lived long enough to use them.
We moved fast, without breaking rhythm. Only stopping to rotate: one squad at the front while the others reloaded, empty shells clinking across the blood-slick floors. The bunker trembled with every step of our power armor.
There wasn't much left between us and the Republic's core.
The final halls offered no resistance. Just uniformed men—some armed but unwilling, others with hands up, sweat and tears streaming down their faces, begging for their lives.
We left a detachment to guard them. Pushed through another door—already open—more officers waiting. Just as defeated. Just as useless. We kept going. Their eyes followed us down the corridors: some filled with powerless rage, others with fear, despair…
And awe.
Awe.
There's only one reason for that.
A Frumentarius is among them.
Inside the core now, we entered a wide room. High ceilings. Command screens dark. Digital maps without power. High-ranking officers, men and women alike, many so decorated their chests looked like glass displays. None lifted a weapon. They just stared at us like they'd already accepted the inevitable.
At the center of the room, he stood.
President Murphy.
He was no longer the man I had met years ago when he was still a senator. Sunken eyes, white hair, shriveled skin. He was trembling. Patches of hair were missing, and his hands barely responded. Nothing remained of the eloquent speaker, the campaign face that once adorned half the Republic. In front of him, a framed portrait of President Tandi.
And then he began to sing.
"I love… you… California… you're the greatest state of all… I love you in the winter, summer, spring and in the fall…"
His voice was hollow. A lifeless whisper. Like a child repeating a song he no longer understood. His gaze was locked on the portrait, as if the image could protect him from the present. In his hand, a small pill. He was raising it to his mouth.
"Stop him!" I shouted.
The legionaries lunged, but Murphy had already brought the pill to his lips. He bit down just as one of my men grabbed his arm. Other officers followed, trembling, desperate, still clinging to some illusion of control.
They waited for death.
Nothing happened.
Murphy slowly opened his eyes. Confusion first. Then panic.
"Why didn't the cyanide work?" screamed a decorated woman, breaking the silence with blind rage.
Movement in our ranks drew attention. An NCR soldier stepped forward, crossing our line unchallenged. His demeanor was different. No fear. No guilt. Just calm determination.
"Because I switched them… or rather, my men did," he said, stopping in the center of the room. "Sugar. That's all."
The woman recognized him. She stepped forward like a caged animal. Her face twisted with fury.
"Curtis…! You traitorous dog. All this time… it was you!"
She tried to charge, but the legionaries intercepted her. They shoved her down and pinned her to the floor.
"Traitor! Bastard! How many did you doom? Slaver scum!" she shouted.
Curtis didn't blink.
"You can't betray something you never served," he replied firmly. "Always true to Caesar. Always Legion."
I looked at him for a moment in silence.
"Curtis… Ave, Picus," I said calmly.
"Ave… Centurion?" Picus replied with uncertainty, turning his head toward me as the legionaries forcefully shoved back anyone still trying to resist. One soldier hit the floor hard from a shotgun stock to the chest. No one else tried. The rest were quickly disarmed and forced to their knees under the Legion's unyielding gaze.
"Legate Gaius. Frumentarii," I answered, without breaking stride.
Picus's eyes widened. His face—hardened by years of infiltration—barely contained his emotion.
"Caesar's heir… It's an honor to finally meet you, Legate Gaius. How may this servant of your right hand serve?" he asked, pounding his fist to his chest.
"For now… nothing, Picus. You'll carry out our commands to what remains of the NCR. Your reward will come—but only when it is time to celebrate," I said, never breaking pace.
I stopped in front of President Murphy.
An officer stepped in my way. I grabbed him by the chest and hurled him aside. His body hit the floor and slid into a toppled console. I sat down in front of Murphy. The chair groaned under the weight of my power armor, partially collapsing—but I didn't move. I stayed there, face to face with him, looking directly into his eyes.
Murphy didn't move. Still staring at the portrait of Tandi. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His hands kept trembling. A man defeated long before his sentence was spoken.
"You've lost, Murphy. The Legion has won. Spare your people further suffering. Order the surrender. There's no need for more blood today," I said firmly, without raising my voice.
All eyes fell on the slumped man before me. He closed his eyes slowly and sighed, his trembling fingers brushing the edge of the portrait frame.
"She always cared about the people…" Murphy murmured as he opened his eyes with resignation. "What do I have to do?"
"Picus, find a working civilian radio line. He's going to send a surrender broadcast to the entire NCR," I ordered, without looking away from Murphy.
"At once, Legate," Picus replied, bowing slightly before exiting the room. As he crossed the threshold, the captured officers erupted.
"Traitor!" one spat.
"Worthless dog!" another yelled, being restrained by a legionary.
I didn't react. My attention was already on the backup transmitter, still connected to an open line with what was left of the resistance outside the bunker.
I picked up the microphone.
"To whoever is commanding this transmission… you are ordered to lay down your arms immediately. President Murphy is in custody, along with the majority of high command. We have reached an agreement for the unconditional surrender of the Republic," I said, voice steady and without pause.
Silence.
Just the faint hum of the broadcast system.
Then a voice—rough, distrustful:
"How do I know this isn't a trick? That you're not trapped in there, slaver…"
I turned to Murphy.
"Murphy… talk to your dog," I said.
The president swallowed, leaned toward the mic, and in a quiet, broken but recognizable voice, he spoke:
"You are ordered to lay down your arms, Colonel… There's no hope left. The rest of the Legion will arrive from the north in a matter of hours. Let's avoid more bloodshed… Surrender your weapons."
I gave him a slight nod.
"Tell them to return to their barracks," I added.
Murphy repeated without hesitation:
"And return to your barracks."
A long silence followed.
Then, finally:
"At your command… Mr. President."
I exhaled deeply and looked up at the bunker ceiling.
"We've won," I said, triumphant.