With the most immediate threats to Mojave's stability under control—and with valuable knowledge acquired from our new Enclave allies—our forces began shifting focus to other objectives in the region. Members of the lesser raider tribes, who had long lived at the margins of the greater conflict, were now subjected to the wrath of my centurions. Some fell with holes burned through their chests, others were disintegrated by plasma rifles recovered from Vault 0, and many more ended up wearing slave collars or hanging from crosses, depending on the luck of their group and the creativity of my commanders. When I was not supervising directly, their methods varied greatly—but the outcome always served Caesar's interests.
With the minor tribes crushed, our operations moved toward a broader pacification of the Mojave. The irradiated beasts—long ignored for not interfering with our supply lines—were now hunted down systematically. Swarms of flying insects were wiped out, geckos and radroaches exterminated, lone deathclaws hunted by squads, giant ants and radioactive scorpions crushed without mercy. Even feral ghouls and strange colonies of aquatic humanoid creatures met their end at the hands of our less experienced legionaries. These missions, though relatively simple, served to train fresh troops while cleansing the Mojave of persistent threats.
Meanwhile, we faced far more unusual problems.
At Vault 22, we found a failed experiment that defied logic. The site served as a proving ground for our oxygen filters and newly produced modern power armor. What we discovered inside was deeply disturbing: a kind of infection that slowly transformed its hosts into human-plant hybrids. It was unclear whether the disease could infect other lifeforms, but the research potential of Vault 22 was undeniable. Its studies on high-yield agriculture in confined spaces could have proven useful—though the cost of playing god with a fungus that evolved to infest humans was a warning we could not ignore.
The super mutants presented a much more direct threat. We had fought them before, and their resilience was no surprise to us. My elite cohorts, outfitted with power armor, eliminated them like vermin. This plague—formidable to others—was no serious challenge to Caesar's forces.
But my attention was soon drawn away from organizing the rewards for veterans.
A contubernium led by a decanus vanished after entering a specific zone, leaving no trace or reports. When we sent more patrols, we found signs that they had entered a sewer system leading somewhere unknown. The units sent to recover them found an underground bunker—but the place was riddled with traps. Upon entry, a sedative gas filled the rooms, and those without sealed power armor collapsed immediately. Fortunately, the filters in our new suits functioned properly, sparing many from the same fate.
Inside the bunker, our troops encountered a massive super mutant wearing several slave collars. After it was brought down, we found the missing contubernium. All dead—every one of them with exploded heads. Soon after, a hologram activated. Based on his robes and demeanor, it was clear he belonged to the Brotherhood of Steel. According to our intel from the Mojave chapter, it was Elder Elijah. His reaction upon seeing our men was telling: "More of those who won't obey."
It was clear our legionaries had chosen death over serving anyone but Caesar.
I decided to join the operation personally. The situation demanded a mind—and a presence—capable of imposing order in the midst of chaos.
The legionaries without proper air filtration began to fall ill from the toxic haze that saturated the area—weakening, becoming useless, or in some cases, dead. But the worst threat was not the gas.
In the depths of the bunker, something emerged—a nightmare given form. Deformed humanoids that moved weightlessly, yet struck with terrifying precision and power. Their blows were strong enough to unbalance even my finest troops.
We learned the hard way that killing them required more than brute force. You could sever their arms, split their chests open, even tear off their limbs—and they would still rise. Only by completely crushing their skulls could they be truly stopped. And this was only the beginning.
The place was a deathtrap.
Entire corridors turned into killing fields: bear traps hidden under rubble, shotguns rigged to tripwires, grenades primed to detonate at the slightest misstep, and mines placed with surgical intent. Every corner demanded meticulous inspection, and even with that, we lost men. The enemy had anticipated every possible move.
And yet the worst was not the creatures or the physical traps.
It was the cursed holograms.
I do not fully understand the technology behind them, but they were tormentors. Projected from hidden devices, these things roamed rooms freely, glowing with a bluish hue that seemed almost harmless—until they attacked. A strike from one of these technological phantoms was real, brutal, like being struck with a hammer. And our weapons passed through them like they were mist.
We quickly realized the only way to stop them was to destroy their projectors. These were hidden in impossible places—high ceilings, reinforced corners, or buried under layers of debris. My men, armed with spears and rifles, did what they could to destroy the devices. But each encounter with a hologram turned into a desperate fight for survival.
Some legionaries began to whisper. These weren't just machines, they said. They were curses. Spirits. And the superstition spread.
The gas, the humanoids, the traps, the holograms—it all came together to create an environment engineered to break both body and mind.
Even I, accustomed to facing adversity without fear, felt—if only for a moment—the weight of that place.
Every step was a trial. Every foe a test of will.
But the Legion does not retreat.
Not under my command.
Every corner of that place seemed intent on killing us, and yet my men and I advanced. That is the fate of the Legion—to face chaos and emerge as its true conquerors. We pressed on, battling monsters, holograms, and traps. Step by step, we moved forward, leaving behind shattered bodies and destroyed projectors. We never stopped. We gave no ground. Every meter gained was a tribute to the Legion's tenacity. Morale wavered at times, but our resolve never broke.
It was during a rare moment of rest, following a particularly grueling fight, that I encountered something that defied all logic and understanding. In what appeared to be a harmless room, we found a set of vending machines—unlike any primitive model we'd seen in the Mojave. These were… different.
Intrigued, I took one of the tokens I'd found nearby and inserted it into the slot. The machine began to emit a low hum, and moments later, a food bar appeared in the dispenser tray. There were no visible containers, no stored rations. It was as if the machine had created the item from nothing.
With further experimentation, we discovered these machines could produce more than food. Medicine, basic tools, even improvised equipment—so long as one had the proper tokens. They appeared to operate on a molecular level, manipulating carbon chains and base elements to construct what was requested. In that moment, I felt a mix of awe and unease.
On one hand, this technology was a gift. It could solve fundamental problems—hunger, lack of supplies, logistical dependence. Imagine what this would mean for the Legion: fully self-sufficient cohorts, capable of advancing without supply lines, able to create what they needed from the battlefield itself.
But I was also reminded of a cautionary tale. The Texan Arms Association—a former industrial power—had fallen into ruin after replacing all human labor with automation. In pursuit of profit, they eliminated their workforce, turning their society into one of purposelessness and decay. A handful prospered, while the rest were left impoverished and forgotten. Technology, meant to uplift them, had hollowed them out.
If these vending machines spread, they would reshape the world. They would meet basic needs but collapse entire economies, destabilizing nations dependent on human labor. It was a double-edged sword—a tool that could save, or ruin, entire civilizations.
I stood in silence, watching those machines, considering the future they could bring. There was no time then to examine every consequence, but I made one decision clear: this technology would not fall into careless hands. The Legion must understand it, control it, and if necessary, use it to strengthen our dominion. We would not repeat the mistakes of the Texans—but we would not let such power go unguarded.
Continuing our exploration, we found something else—something more human, yet just as disturbing. A woman, clearly in distress. Her body bore surgical scars, specifically along the skull. Upon closer inspection, I noticed she could not speak—likely the result of lobotomy or another invasive procedure. Yet despite the trauma, her eyes remained alert. Determined.
Around her neck was a standard slave collar—the same design used by Elijah throughout this region. Fortunately, there had been no significant modifications. I deactivated it with ease, relying on my experience with such devices, and ensured the process was swift and safe.
Though mute at first, she was able to communicate through writing. Examining the autodoc nearby revealed something chilling: it lacked anesthetics. Whatever had been done to her had been carried out while she was fully conscious. And yet her mind had not broken. She remained lucid—intact.
With what little medical supplies we had, I treated her and stabilized her condition. After a few hours, she began to speak again, her voice faint at first. I knew she held information—about this place, about Elijah—and I began questioning her as soon as she was able.
Her name was Christine Royce. At first, her words were fragmented and difficult to follow. But with patience, she told me her story. She had once been a member of the Brotherhood of Steel—a scribe and field agent—sent to track Elijah after his betrayal and desertion. Her mission had led her here, to this cursed place, where she fell into his trap. Elijah, obsessed with the facility's technology, had taken her captive.
What Christine revealed next cast a shadow on a name I had not heard in years—one I believed buried.
She said she had been saved... by a Frumentarius. Or someone who had once been one.
Ulises.
Ulises was not just any agent. He had been one of Caesar's most trusted—sent on missions requiring precision, intelligence, and absolute loyalty. It was Ulises who trained the White Legs in Legion tactics. He was the one who uncovered the Hoover Dam—an event that changed our entire campaign in the Mojave. And yet now, his name returned not as an ally, but as a ghost—one that whispered betrayal.
I had assumed Ulises was dead—lost somewhere in the wastes like so many others. But Christine's account suggested otherwise. According to her, Ulises had been seen at a pre-War research facility. The same site Elijah had been exploring in his obsession with forbidden technologies. It was there that Elijah began implementing his mad schemes, and Christine, in her pursuit, fell into another trap.
She told me of the facility's security drones—how they captured her and attempted to lobotomize her. It was Ulises who intervened—calm, precise, as deadly as he had always been. He saved her. But that salvation was not the end of her story.
Because eventually, she too fell… into the trap of the Sierra Madre.