'Long About Midnight

Author's note: Oops... I had a rather embarrassing copy/paste error and I want to thank reviewer Sweet Surrender for bringing it to my attention. Hopefully all should be well now, but I'll have a blush for a while over that one. Note to self: Do not upload fan fiction at one in the morning. Haha.

 

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Vulpes and Lucius were both on edge the moment Caesar began shouting and rambling, but they had assumed it would pass like the others, so they merely had to keep him from exposing his... unique characteristics to the recruits. It took some persuading, but they got the man into his bed after a bit of effort on both their parts, half pushing him, half pleading like children. Unfortunately once he was in bed he did not rise the following day... or the day after that...



It was not in the nature of the Savage Fox to feel fear, a trait Caesar had seen as weakness and trained out of his men. However, he knew what would happen, should his Master- his God- not rise again and it would be devastating. The Legate Lanius would ascend to power and all the work he had done would be brought back on him as dishonoring the Legion. It was even possible the massive psychotic would claim he had somehow brought about their leader's ill-health because of or through dishonorable tactics.



The thought of being crucified by a beast for doing as he was ordered did not appeal, so Vulpes began to secretly despair when the third sunrise came and Caesar continued to sleep. It was a fitful, painful sleep wherein the man cried out occasionally, muscles taut and random bouts of twitching took him. It was horrifying to see him in to such an unseemly state; a hero brought low by some unknown malady.



Then word came from the gates that someone had appeared on the raft from Cottonwood Cove with Cursor Lucullus. The Courier had arrived, a man of such virtue that even the Legion whispered of him as some kind of Saint. He was not quite an enemy, merely an enigma that had not answered the master's summons. Vulpes met him twice, more than any other member of the Legion and he still did not know what to make of the man, one who wasted ammunition killing the men he had taken such care in crucifying.



According to the Legionaries he had come alone and unarmed, bearing the Mark of Caesar and strange, Profligate tools none of them had seen previously. His armor was packed away as he wore the costume of the Followers of the Apocalypse, a shining white coat for a hero appearing in the final act. Neither Lucius nor the Frumentarius believed he was coming to help, merely to gloat while they were vulnerable or to spy on their camp for whatever faction he belonged within.



Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, so they allowed him up the hill and each inspected his equipment for any trickery while he stood impassively. He looked... taller than he had when Vulpes met him previously, as though he took pride in his task and their thorough search for any foul play. Despite the dire situation, he found his gaze drifting from the tools to the strange, almost... holy figure that lingered outside the tent's flap.



"What is this?" Lucius demanded, holding up a vial of yellow liquid.



"Iodine," he answered calmly, "to prevent infection. There's no point in saving him if he dies as a result of surgery."



Surgery? He intended to *cut* into Caesar without any question or doubt that there was some other way? Perhaps he merely needed more healing powder? The bitter drink? Rest and cave fungus? No, he needed some strange and nigh ethereal being to descend from on-high to cut into him with a variety of sharp blades and Profligate chemicals on hand. Vulpes felt... uncomfortable as he noticed the metal implements all seemed to gleam in the early daylight, looking other-worldly and strange.



"One of us will be on hand during the entire procedure, so don't try anything... dishonorable," Lucius remarked.



The sainted Courier nodded, unfazed by the way his good name was called into question. Like most truly virtuous people he had nothing to fear from Caesar's men and he knew it as they returned his tools. The Praetorian led him up the hill while Vulpes followed, blue eyes tracing down from the broad shoulders to the Wasteland's standard-issue combat boots. The traveller wore it all well, confident in himself, his form, and his purpose in the Mojave.



Once within the tent, the holy one found a small table and carried it to his master's bedside, methodically laying the tools he needed on its surface once it was in place. "The man at the gate confiscated some of my supplies, so I have no way of making sure he stays out for the procedure," he observed, almost passively. "I know it would violate his policies, but one or two of those narrow syringes filled with clear liquid could save his life. Otherwise I'll need someone to hold him steady while I work."



Lucius looked at him, unsure who they trusted with such a dubious and secretive honor, both unsure how to handle such a scenario. They were ashamed of their ignorance when it came to medicine and science, though Vulpes knew more of the substance the Courier wanted. He intended to give mighty Caesar the chemical known as Med-X, the sort of thing Freeside junkies stabbed one and other with broken bottles to get their hands on.



An angelic smile crossed his face when he added, "If you trust me enough to let me perform surgery, surely I can be given leniency to moderate chems."



It was logic; the same kind of sadistic logic he had used to convince so many to do things they would not normally. The Savage Fox twisted inwardly as his own machinations were tossed so effectively back in his face. They had no choice really, so they dispatched one of the tent slaves with orders to retrieve two of the thin syringes from the contraband chest at the front gate.



When the drugs arrived Vulpes wanted to stick around and watch out of some sick form of curiosity as the doctor approached his living God. He wanted to know if what was inside Caesar's skull was any different than the contents of a fallen Legionary or Profligate. When he had learned there was no physical difference between ally and enemy entrails he has felt such solemn disappointment. Sadly he was not given the option as Lucius exerted sway as the Chief of the Praetorian.



Instead he was sent to mind his business so he could take the next shift.