Because of my injury, the second half of our journey to Fort Hope was much slower than the first. I could get around on my tentacles well enough, but they were made for swinging and striking, not running. Even so, it was faster than Angel could have walked.

By the time the sun had started to set, I began to spot trails. The wildlife was thinning out, too, and the smells of human settlement began to gust toward us on the wind. Another mile, and untouched forest gave away to tree stumps. Our trail merged into a well-worn dirt road. I was about to step out on it when Angel pulled on my tentacles like reins.

"It's important that you pretend to be my Legion," she signed, once I looked back. "If we go in there and some ambitious asshole realizes you’re not mine, you'll be captured and collared."

I snorted and pawed the ground. "They can try."

"I'm serious, Noodles. Assume Captain Targent and several other gladiators there are at max level. There could be Sponsoreds we don't know about, too." Angel's white hands flashed emphatically in the gloom. "As it stands, we can expect an interrogation. The Captain is going to want to know how my Level 9 ass ended up with a Legion as powerful as you. If we act like a team and don't start anything, we'll get what we came here for. I don't know about you, but I'm not joining the Centurions because I've got something to prove."

"Won't they know I'm not your slave-pet if one of them highlights my collar?" I scented the wind. Lots of men, lots of animals... fire, smoke, and metal slag.

"No. The trainers of collared legions aren't identifiable unless they're dead." Angel shook her head. "It's in how we act when we’re together. Legions are under the control of their trainers."

My eyes narrowed. "So you want me to obey you?"

"No. I want you to use your brain instead of your ego and pretend we're a unit," she signed, exasperation darkening her eyes. "And let me do the talking. I know how to get by in a camp like this."

"You gonna be alright handling the normies?"

"I can lip read, and Centurion helmets leave the mouth visible. Usually." She shrugged. "Maybe help me translate if I miss something. I'm stealth here."

Stealth, as in, she tried not to let people know she was deaf. I growled under my breath, but turned back toward the direction of the settlement. "Agreed. I'll play act as if I'm your Legion. But if I so much as see a collar in your hands, me and Lulu are bailing out. And if you try ordering me around, I ain't submitting to a goddamned thing."

"Suits me." Angel followed my gaze, her white brows furrowed. "C'mon. No point in stalling."

Lulu shivered anxiously against my skin as we moseyed down the road toward the gate. True to their name, the Centurions had a strong Roman theme going on. Fort Hope was laid out in an orderly rectangle, surrounded by neat palisade walls behind deep trenches. Tongued ramparts were flanked by ditches to make the gates harder to breach. All the Tribunes - rank and file soldiers – wore the same uniform as the patrol we'd slaughtered back in the forest. Pleated leather kilts. Bronze breastplates. Feather crested helmets. Crossbows.

There were three guards in front of the gate. None of them had legions, but one of them had a feathery little Microraptor on his shoulder. The critter got very agitated when it spotted me limping down the road, alerting the humans before they were able to spot me in the dark.

"Halt!" The guards called out together, taking formation in front of the gate. They were well-trained and disciplined, no waver in their arms as they leveled their crossbows at us. "This is an Iron Centurions castra! State your business, or leave!"

I could smell the sharp tang of fear as I came to a halt about twenty feet away. They talked a big talk, but their faces were pale and sweaty.

Angel held her hands up, palms out, and used her spoken voice to address them. "I’m Cadet Angel Maria Nunez, a new recruit from Outpost Iris. The whole of Iris was slaughtered by the Hell Pigs, and me and my sergeant were captured. She saved my life so I could ride here and report."

"Who was your commanding officer, cadet?" One of the guards snapped. He was the one who reeked of fear the strongest.

"Vigiles Samantha Seven-Lives, sir. There were no officers stationed at Outpost Iris, just the NCOs leading the cadet training."

"And you're telling me a cadet managed to fight, capture and collar THAT thing?" The man pointed at me.

"No, sir. When the Hell Pigs raided Iris, I and some other women, including Vigiles Seven-Lives, were taken as war booty to the Hell Pigs spawn camp at Vanara's Shrine. I captured him there. The rest is for the Captain’s ears only."

It was a long-shot. The three guards stared at us for a while. Lulu made a soft cooing sound, and oozed up a bit to peer back at them.

"Well… congratulations. I'm pretty sure you scored one of the best legions in the game." The scaredy-cat guard eased down. He called back to the guy with the pet bird-dino. "Martin, pitch Nibbles to the Captain, and see what he says."

"Sir." Nibbles' owner folded his crossbow back into his inventory, did something in his HUD to prepare the little microraptor for carrying a message, then threw it off his arm and into the air. It shrieked in protest, but zipped off into the camp.

"Back up and wait," the first guard said to us. "If the captain replies, we'll let you in."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Angel saluted briskly, and nudged me with her heels. Ever the dutiful Legion, I turned and limped back a ways to give the boys their space and wait. And oh boy, did we wait. Twenty, thirty minutes passed, giving me ample time to really wallow in the pain of my blasted shoulder. I was expecting waiting room muzak to start playing at any moment when the microraptor finally returned. It was accompanied by a woman in a considerably more impressive blue, black and bronze uniform than the guards. She had a fine plumed helmet, a knee-length cloak, and a polished breastplate. Emphasis on 'breast'. There was a problem, though. This woman's helmet shadowed her mouth, making her lips much harder for Angel to read.

"Well, well, what do you know?" The newcomer planted her hands on her hips as she came to a stop, regarding Angel with suspicion. "You, girl: you stated you were a cadet in training at Outpost Iris?"

Angel didn't reply, trying to puzzle out what she'd said. I telepathically translated for her, but not quite fast enough.

"Girl? Are you listening?" The officer's voice hardened.

"Yes ma'am. Apologies: We just ran eighty klicks to get here." Angel saluted. "Vigiles Seven-lives told me to run and report to Captain Targent."

The woman considered her for a few minutes. She was the first genuinely intelligent-looking person I'd seen in the game, besides Angel. "Cadet Angel, I'm Prima Lara Falks. I think the Captain will be interested to hear your story. Dismount from your brute and lead your team inside."

"Are we really letting that thing into the camp?" The lead guard asked his officer in astonishment. "Reapers are-"

"S-tier Brutes, who follow orders like any other Legion when collared," Prima Falks snapped. "Speak like that to me again, Tribune, and you’ll earn your own collar – as a Servo."

The man swallowed and saluted. "Yes, ma'am."

"Come on, kid." The Prima waved Angel to follow her, and led us inside. We passed another pair of guards, camped in murder holes above the gates, and emerged into a city of neatly laid out leather and canvas tents. It was a whole other world to the filthy Hell Pigs camp. Everything was clean and orderly, including the double line of soldiers marching down one of the boulevards separating the barracks. Everyone seemed to have a job and purpose: troops, auxiliaries... and servants. Unlike the slaves I'd glimpsed at the City of the Apes, the servants here wore clean blue tunics and no collars, but they were just as deferent as the slaves had been. My eyes narrowed when I saw a pair of them rush to clear out of the way of another officer, keeping their eyes firmly angled down.

"Whoever runs this show has a serious hard-on for Ancient Rome," I remarked to Angel and Lulu.

"Yeah. I don't really get it." Angel discreetly signed as we padded past soldiers drilling with shields and short swords. "It's half army, half LARP. Imperator Argent, the founder of the guild, found a gimmick that was popular with viewers and ran with it, you know? They've adapted as much real Roman stuff to the game as possible."

"Are those slaves?" I pointed with a tentacle to one of the unarmed servants scurrying around. "Because I don't do slavery."

"I don't know," Angel replied nervously. "Sam said that the Servos get a wage."

My mood was darkening by the minute as I studied the specifics of the camp. "I really feel like we're barking up the wrong tree here, Angel."

Prima Falks led us to the Praetorium, the commander's tent. It was much larger and fancier than any other tent in the camp, with a wooden foundation and stylish eagle-headed braziers out front. The guards to either side of the entry wore the nicest armor I'd seen in the Jungle so far. Their steel helmets had goofy looking crests that ran from side to side of their heads instead of front to back, but as dumb as they looked, these two had the easy confidence of genuinely tough men. They also packing rifles, and were accompanied by a pair of Legions. To the left of the tent lay something called an [Anarikoi], a strange anthropomorphic catfish creature. The Anarikoi was paired with a [Brula], a fairy-like creature with a plume of fire instead of hair. It twittered at us as Falks held up a hand for us to halt.

Prima Falks clapped her hands in front of the closed tent flaps. "Sir: the cadet and her Legions are here to deliver the report."

"Let them through." An educated, but whiskey-hoarse voice rattled through the leather and canvas. "The girl AND the Reaper."

The guards stiffened, glancing at me. When no one else was looking, I grinned back at one of them, pulling my lips up over double rows of fangs. His eyes widened, but by the time he blinked, my muzzle was back to normal and I was prancing in after Angel.

Captain Targent was the picture of a Roman Legionnaire: A tall, muscular, fit man in his early 40s with steel-grey hair and a hard, narrow jaw. His good looks were offset by mean, cold blue eyes that settled onto Angel's face like chips of dirty glass. To his credit, he didn't look her up and down. Any and all eye-fucking was reserved for me.

"My goodness, that's a powerful Brute for such a little lady," he drawled, drinking in the sight of his first S-tier Legion. "Like a teenager getting a Ferrari for their first car."

"I’m twenty-five, and my first car was a Dodge Ram 3500 SRW," Angel replied tersely. "With a stick shift."

Targent chuckled, and gave Angel a toothy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. If not for the uniform and the primitive surrounds, I'd have picked this guy as a lawyer, or maybe a real estate broker. He had the kind of punchable face you expected to see on a roadside billboard advertising insurance. "Prima Falks, you're dismissed. Make sure we're not disturbed for the next half hour."

"Yes, Sir." The officer saluted him in the Roman style, then turned on her heel and marched off. She closed the tent and tied it from the outside.

Captain Targent snapped his fingers to a kneeling servant at the back of the tent. This pale, red-haired man was collared - a heavy bronze ring around his neck, bolted at the back. He bowed and went to fetch a carafe and several iron cups, which he laid out on the table. My eyes narrowed as I watched him.

"If you're twenty-five, you're old enough to drink." Targent said cheerfully, waiting as his actual-honest-to-god slave poured wine for himself and Angel. He handed her one of the cups. In her eyes and mine, it was an extravagance: metal that could have been turned into bullets, arrow heads or better armor had been used to make crockery. "What's your name, cadet?"

"Angel," she replied, accepting the drink with a smile. She brought it to her mouth: I was about to yell or smack it away when I noticed that she barely touched her top lip to the surface, pretended to drink, and then cradled it in her hands. "I was stationed at-"

"Outpost Iris, yes, yes. I heard already." Targent waved a hand, drinking deeply from his own cup. "Vigiles Seven-Lives failed in her duty and got your whole troop slaughtered by barbarians. Except for you."

"Sam and Kaya... Vigiles Seven-Lives did her best, but we were outnumbered ten to one," Angel retorted hotly. Her voice got a little too loud: she wasn't able to modulate it as well when she was angry.

"As I said: she failed. She had an A-ranked Brute and every resource available to her to handle a pack of savages," Targent replied, his voice dangerous and oily smooth. "Especially if one of her cadets had an S-ranked Legion like the one currently menacing me from across my table."

Menacing? Me? I was sitting on my haunches, my tentacles lying flat along my back to curl around my feet like a second tail. Lulu was nearly invisible, her mass flattened against my hide. "Angel, I really want to fuck with this guy. Can I fuck with him?"

"No." Angel signed back with one hand.

"So, how does an unarmed, inexperienced cadet collar such an incredible beast?" Target swept a hand toward me. "An acquaintance of mine once told me that even low-level Reapers are difficult to take down in the Third and Fourth Realms, let alone the first. He would never make the attempt solo."

Angel’s lips curled a little. "Then your ‘acquaintance’ is a pussy.”

God help me, but I was starting to fall for Angel a bit.

Targent chuckled uncomfortably. "Perhaps. Still. Tell me the story."

Angel straightened on her feet. "The Hell Pigs raided Outpost Iris with dino cavalry and several Legions. Someone on our side opened the gates for them.”

Targent’s eyes narrowed. “Someone flipped to the Pigs?”

“Yes, sir. All the men in the outpost were perma-killed, and we - the younger women of the outpost - were captured and taken to the City of the Apes spawn camp. Most of the women were taken by Hell Pigs men and used for sport; the most visually unique or charismatic of us were taken to Vanara's temple to be used as Daeva summoning sacrifices. The Reaper belonged to one of the Pigs chiefs, waiting for us inside the temple.” Angel paused to take a steadying breath. “While the Vigiles was being perma'd on the altar, her Legion broke free of its cage and killed the Reaper's owner, but not before Sam was killed. The two deaths summoned the boss, and in the chaos, I managed to loot the corpse of my guard, get the keys, and escape my handcuffs. Vanara threw this Legion across the room and slammed him into a pillar. While he was stunned, I saw my chance. I ran over and clapped my collar on him, gained control, and used him to defeat the Daeva."

"So, you used the mandala?" There was a hint of avarice in Targent's hard eyes.

"Yes sir," Angel lied.

"Where is Kaya?"

"As far as I know, killed by Vanara inside the temple. I saw him on the ground, but didn’t stay back long enough to check."

"And how did you escape?"

"Respawned Hell Pigs blocked the entry to the temple after the battle was done. The Reaper can climb vertical surfaces: he was able to evacuate us through a gap in the ceiling," she replied.

"Hmm. I think I know the gap you're talking about." Targent nodded slowly: that little detail seemed to have convinced him. "It's a miracle you managed to escape. Who owned the Reaper before you?"

"I sense a trap," I broadcast to Angel and Lulu both. “I think he knows the guys in the Hell Pigs command, and what Legions they have.”

Lulu cooed softly in agreement.

"I didn't catch his name, sir," Angel said smoothly. "He was one of the warband leaders. A sponsored, I think."

Targent hmm'd under his breath as he took a seat at the table. His slave topped up his cup of wine. The captain didn't thank the man - he just waved him away with a little shooing motion. He didn't offer Angel a refill, either.

"So, Angel... do you have any idea how unusual it is for a Centurions cadet to be in possession of any Legion, let alone a Greater AND Lesser Legion pair?" Targent settled in, lacing his hands on the map rolled out in front of him. "Fort Hope has one hundred and seventy guild members, only fifteen of which have Legions. Of that fifteen, only four have a both a Brute and a Cute. I'm one of them. The other three are officers, and none of them caught their legions until they earned their place in the guild. They needed the gear and weapons that comes with the position."

"Yes, sir," Angel replied warily. "And I also know that any Iron Centurions member who tames a pair of Legions automatically gains full membership to the guild and attains an NCO rank if they don't already have it."

"Seven-Lives must have told you that." His eyes narrowed.

"Yes sir. She did."

"And you, ambitious and hungry, took her words to heart?"

"Yes."

"Hah! I like it." Targent chuckled without humor. "Yes, she is correct. However, your particular situation is… complicated."

Angel's back tensed. She was keeping a straight face, but I could smell the fear in her sweat. "How so, sir?"

“Qualifying Legion hunts are supervised to ensure the gladiator knows how to fight, lay traps, or otherwise competently capture the Legion and prove their worthiness,” Targent replied. “But all I have from you is an unverified story of desperation and desertion.”

Angel’s pale skin flushed dark red. “Desertion?! Sir, I was ordered to-“

“That’s enough.” Targent snapped back at her. “Not another word.”

A low, rumbling growl crawled from my throat. The sound made the Captain and his slave switch their attention to me. The slave swallowed and shrunk back. Targent didn't, but his gaze flicked to the long blade-like obsidian spike at the end of my twitching tail.

“I’m going to choose to believe you, cadet,” Targent said. “But the fact remains that if you are to join the guild, you must prove your merit as a combatant and trainer. There was no one to observe your hunt, but I think a substitute can be arranged.”

“Okay,’ Angel replied. “What kind of substitute?”

“I propose an arena battle.” Targent spread his hands. “What level is your Reaper?”

“Ten.” I told her.

“Five,” she said aloud.

“Ah, a low level. That’s unfortunate.” Targent scratched his nose. "You see, my Legions are both Level 23. However, I think I would be willing to battle with a small handicap to allow you to prove yourself to me and the camp. What do you think?"

"I think this guy was absolutely a sleazy mob lawyer in his previous life," I telepathically signed to Angel.

"I'd be willing to battle you, sir," Angel replied aloud. "And if I win, I'd like to ask you for some information."

"Information?" Targent tilted his head to the side.

"Yes sir." Angel gave a curt nod of her head. "Information on another player. You are the most senior member of the Centurions that I know of, so surely you know of most of the famous gladiators across the realms."

"Some of them," he said, cautiously. "Which one do you want information on?"

"Dimitri Solonov." I made an educated guess as to his surname.

"A man named Dimitri Solonov," Angel repeated.

Targent's eyes widened. The expression was brief, barely a flicker, but it was enough. “I’m sorry, who?”

I growled before I could stop myself. The Captain’s eyes flicked to me, darkening with puzzlement.

“Sir, please don’t insult my intelligence,” Angel said crisply.

“You presume to accuse me of lying?” His expression darkened.

“With all due respect, sir, yes. I’m accusing you of lying.”

That was not the response he’d expected, and Targent grimaced in irritation. Then he rubbed his brow, pinching up the skin between thumb and forefinger. "Why on earth... HOW on Earth do you know that name, cadet?"

"He left me a letter in my inventory," Angel said blandly. "I don't know or remember who he is."

The captain looked troubled, now. He glanced from me to Angel. “There’s a reason they remove our memories, girl. You’d be best to drop this now, before it’s too late. You can make a life here the Centurions. Just delete the letter and accept your life for what it is. I did, and look at me. I’m wealthy, happy, in a position of authority…”

"I need to know who he is," she repeated stubbornly.

Targent’s mouth snapped shut. He laced his fingers, and considered her for a while.

"Fine. Beat me and my Legions with no handicap, and I'll tell you what I know of Mr. Solonov,” he said. “But if I win... hmm. Felix: bring me the paperwork for formalizing a duel."

The slave bowed and scuttled forward.

“Paperwork? You have to be joking,” I said to Angel.

“He’s not.” I could visibly see Angel’s heart sink as Targent pulled a stack of handwritten paperwork from his inventory.

I was starting to get a bad vibe. “Come on, Angel. Let’s go. This bullshit is a waste of our time.”

“What? And have the entire Fort start a manhunt for a pair of deserters?” Angel discreetly signed back. “This guy thinks he’s got his hooks in us now. He isn’t just going to let us go.”

Targent had a quill and ink out, oblivious to our silent conversation as he scribbled on the parchment. When he was done, he pushed the inkwell aside and slid it across toward Angel. “Please have a look over this, and make sure you understand the terms of the duel.”

Angel didn’t hear him, too busy staring off into space and fuming, so I discreetly poked her with one tentacle. She startled up, glancing at Targent. The Captain, still holding out the paper, frowned slightly.

“Thank you, sir.” She accepted the paper reluctantly, scanning the text. As she read, a furious blush began to color her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Rage.

“If you win, I forfeit my Legions?” She hissed in disbelief.

“Those are the Guild rules if an unranked Cadet reports in with Legions from a hunt which was not observed by a confirmed Guild member,” Targent replied. Smugly.

Angel batted her pale lashes. “You seem to have missed the clauses that contain what I get when I win, and I’d hate to have to escalate this to the Colonel. I haven’t been part of the Centurions that long, sir, but everyone knows how the Colonel is about his paperwork.”

“The Colonel?” I asked her. “Is there a fried chicken-based guild here? If so, sign me up.”

Targent flashed her a look of disbelief, but took it back and added a notation. “Fine. If you win the duel, you earn promotion from Cadet to Tribune.”

“Vigiles,” Angel said.

Targent arched both of his pencil-thin brows.

“You’re a ranked Captain, the senior authority of this camp. If I beat you, I earn promotion to Vigiles.”

The Captain’s expression shut down. Even the idea that Angel could beat him in the duel was clearly offensive.

“Fine.” He quirked a small, unpleasant smile, and added it to the document. “In twenty-four hours time, if you beat me with your Reaper, you earn promotion to Vigiles and a chat about Dimitri Solonov. Happy, cadet?”

Angel made a show of saluting. “Yes, sir!”

“It's amazing how you always seem to say exactly the right thing, and yet somehow I still feel insulted.” Targent pushed the paperwork back to Angel. “You have one day to prepare. I suggest you keep your inventory light – because once I drag you across that arena in front of God and everyone, you’ll never set foot inside my fortress again.”