Vae Victus 1
Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: you do what you must to survive a cruel world, but sometimes that just isn't enough. (Dictator August Walker)
The photo inspired me a while ago and I took this opportunity to write up the intro.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
The smell of grain, even stale, has your stomach growling. You put the wooden crate on the table and 5D14 pulls it across the wood. He turns and trades the half-loaves one at a time for ration cards. Beside him, 8A90, examines one of the green tickets closely. The overseer, Celer, approaches to take a closer look.
You grab another crate. You quickly count the inventory. Not a piece short or it will be on you. You place it on the table and it’s once more dragged across. Celer signals with a fist then a V between his index and middle finger. There’s a stir as the crowd shifts around Optio Ursus, the commander of the quadrant.
The green ration card is passed back and forth. Two soldiers, Immunes with their blue epaulettes their jackets stand behind the man on the other side of the table. His eyes flick back and forth nervously. The number sewn into his canvas jacket is faded. Your own isn’t in much better shape. Like you, they don’t have a name. Just a number.
“Counterfeit,” Ursus proclaims sternly. “Arrest this fraud. This thief.”
You back up and watch the nervous still break into chaos. The Immunes seize the man and he hollers. “It’s not. It’s real, it’s real!”
“Insect!” Ursus pulls the club from his belt and swings across the table, striking the maan in his temple. “I did not permit you to speak.” The Optio wags his club. “Upstart peasants. Do you know the consequence for thievery?”
You do. You’ve seen it. The woman you trade out your cot with every other night bears that mark. She is not permitted on placements outside the colony. She must stay and make due trading scrap.
The Immuness wrestle the man as he struggles dizzily against them. A crate of loaves is dumped uncaringly onto the ground, flipped to pin his arm to as he begs and sobs.
“It is real. It was allotted by Optio Aquila.” He snivels. “Please, please.”
“Be quiet or your tongue shall be lopped off too!” Ursus snarls and slings his club from his belt, feeling around until he grips the dagger there. “You’ll want to be still lest I cut the whole arm.”
The Optio snickers as those around gape or pretend not to see. Most stare at their feet. The Immunes keep the man trapped.
Ursus lifts his arm. There is a murmur before he can descend. He pauses and looks toward the snakish roil in the crowd. More blue epaulettes appear and Immuness divide the crowd. A pathway clears for a man in a long black jacket, his collar high and stiff, his boots leather and shining. A chain dangles across the open front of his coat, two large sapphires pinned to his lapels.
Those with numbers on their chests, get to their knees. You too. You’ve never been in the presence of a Legate but you know one on sight. The sapphires, the clothing, the posture. It’s plain even before Ursus greets him by name.
“Legate Augustus.” His voice nearly quavers. “When did you arrive? I was not informed you’d be attending the market.”
“And why should I tend to the masses?” The Legate’s deep voice sends a chill through you despite the dusty warmth of the pending noon. “As any man of the people might.”
“Certainly, Legate, I do not question your purpose. Only I am surprised at your presence.” Ursus panders.
“And what is this scene you make? I see wasted bread and terrified people.” The Legate rebukes. “This is not the order I read of in your report.”
“Legate, this man is a thief. It is him who has brought chaos–”
“So you would raise a furor? Startle those come for their rations?” The Legate interjects. “Criminals are to be detained and tried. Not beaten and mauled as animals.”
You stare at the ground. The tension in the air is suffocating. His words are not so noble as he pretends. Every person there has witnessed or perpetrated the contrary. A hand severed is far from the worst of atrocities in the colonies.
“Take this man to be heard by a praetor and determine if he will wear the thieves mark.” The legate commands. “Ursus, you will balance this loss from your own ledger.”
Your eyes peek up through your lashes as the Legate gets to a knee and gathers up the overturned stock. He piles it in and lifts it easily, shoving it at Ursus. “People, to your feet, to work.”
At once, you rise with the others on assignment. You fall back into action as those in line move up and hand over their green tickets. Your stomach growls again. You’ll get a full loaf for the assignment but not until the day is done.
As you turn again and place a crate out, you’re surprised by the gleam of light that singes your vision. You stare down the camera lens, shocked. The man behind it holds down the shutter and you hide in your work, back to the photographer.
You notice him move to the other side of the stall and aim his lens again. You peek over briefly. The legate shakes hands with Celer. It must be some sort of act. They are staging those in line, giving them commands.
An Immunes grabs the crate in your hands. You cling to it then let go. They put it back on the stack and seize your arm. They turn you then shove you back.
“Not her.”
They march away and grab another woman, P0L14. They examine her and drag her over. They pull you out of the way and put her by the stack of crates. Another camera emerges from the crowd.
Ceres smacks your shoulder. “To work.” You look at him then the Immunes and P0L14. “Go work on the truck, dumb woman.”
You evade his hand a second time and hurry off towards the cargo lot. You help unload the heads of cabbage and hand them off for inspection. The work is slow as heads crane to observe the market scene.
“... Augustus…” a whisper repeats across lips.
“...telling more lies…” one dares to suggest.
You keep your head down. You put cabbages into crates; rotting and slightly less rotting. One hits the corner and rolls over the edge of the table. Darn it.
You bend down to retrieve it but before you can, it moves. A set of fangs sink into the leafy ball. You hold out your hands but hesitate to wrestle the cabbage away from the large dog. Their fur is longer and fluffy, pointed ears, a black head and white around its stomach, legs, and chest. Their eyes are dark and menacing.
A head of cabbage could cost you yours. You go to grab it and the dog dodges away. No! You crawl under the table and stagger to your feet on the other side to follow them. You rush by several other workers and behind one of the canvas covered trucks.
“Hey, hey, doggy,” you call after the dog. You squint to get a good look. “Hey, girl. Please, can I have that back?”
You reach out, palm up, and walk forward cautiously as the dog stops and stares at you.
“You don’t want that. It’s bitter and grimy.” You plead with her, knowing she can’t understand. “Please…”
The dog drops the cabbage and rushes back toward you. You freeze in panic and watch wide-eyed as she charges. You close your eyes and brace for your demise.
The coolness in your hand makes you squeak. You look nervously through the slits of your eyelid. The dog nuzzles your hand then rubs her face into your palm.
“Oh, you… want pets?” You feel along her soft fur. She can’t be feral. She’s too well fed and groomed. You scratch behind her ear and she leans into your hand.
You offer your other and she lets you pet her with both. That knot around your heart slowly loosens. You can’t remember the last time you met anyone or anything friendly. The corners of your lips curve up, just a little.
“That’s it, girl. You’re a good girl. I wish I could give you something. Even that rotten cabbage.” You coo at her.
“Lupa.” A deep voice booms over you.
You turn as your expression falls back to neutral. It’s him. Legate Augustus. You get only a glimpse before you drop your eyes and get down to your knees. As you lower yourself, the dog licks your cheek and tries to sit in your lap, much too big to do so. She knocks you over onto your but and you land on your back in the dirt.
“Lupa,” the Legate calls again as he stomps up to you. Your heart is pounding. “Off.” The dog relents. “Sit.”
The dog obeys. You push yourself up and the Legate offers his hand. You stare at his thick fingers. Only for a second then you once more make yourself familiar with the dirt.
“Noble Legate,” you get up to your knees on your own and cower, hands on your thighs as you grip tight.
He rescinds his hand slowly, his shadow sighing beside you. You feel his gaze but don’t dare look up to check if he really is watching. You only look as far as his boots.
“She doesn’t usually make friends.” He says. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” He backs up and snaps his fingers. “Lupa, to me.”
She stands and sniffs you then goes to him. He turns and marches away. You don’t move, not until you’re sure he’s gone. You just hope no one else noticed your folly.
