Obviously, this force was not that popular and difficult to recruit to quota. As a result, the criminals and rifraff of the Frontier (where possible) were offered a choice between their prison sentences (and the laser barcode that branded them for life), or service in the Legion. [ It is important to note that not EVERY hardened criminal convict is offered this opportunity - merely the tough ones that show some promise of becoming a productive citizen (with the proper discipline and training) at the end of their sentence. ]

Additionally, the terminally ill are afforded the chance to join the Legion through a progressive Cybernetics program with which the Legion and The Council have been experimenting. Successes are few, but what do the likes of these have to lose...

The Legion become one of the most deadly and well honed combat units on the Frontier. Its members are tough and well trained. They have to be as they are quite often fighting for their lives against incursions, pirates, and other evils that most citizens of the Frontier never know about. Discipline is severe, swift and extreme in almost all circumstances. The beings of the Legion slowly come to find out that there is no one else who cares about them, and that they really have nowhere else that they can turn. They do not fight for The Council, the UPF, or any abstract ideas such as freedom or honor. The beings of the Legion fight for one another and their own survival. They become Legion.

As a Legionaire, you have found that everyone's story is about the same. They've all run together by now. Maybe this one was your own, maybe it was your mates. It all seems so long ago. Let me see, where to begin...

Starlaw Rangers had not been gentle when they pulled you off the Monorail system in Port Loren. They had not listened to your statements of innocence as the heavy binders were locked in place. Neither had the Judge. His review of your case was swift, his verdict decisive: GUILTY.

"By the authority of the council, I sentence you to life inprisonment on CG-03. There, you will be placed in maximum security and required to perform hard labor for a period of no less than 20 standard years. I find that you are qualified (and with a derisive snort) and most suited for service within the Alien Legion. You have one standard minute to choose. Life or the Legion."

For you, there was no option. The Legion. Ayal, protect me; Yes the Legion.

The rest is a blur - a whirlwind nightmare of pain, suffering, learning, and bonding. A new name, a new start. Ah, the cut throat gangsters and pirates, villians and scum... You need them and they need you.

The memories continue...

The Centurion slammed his fist into your stomach with a crushing impact. As you bent over, a dizziness almost as if your limbs and body were being separated, washes over you. Beginning to heave, you stumble off balance from a kick from behind. "Get up you worthless Nitch! Move your filthy ass to the domes!" The Centurion's voice begins to fade as you lose grip on consciousness... " Sheiss! I'm a gonna'..." The cool, pale white dirt of Devereaux is the last thing you feel...

"The FEK-c9 MkIII Assault Weapon is a lightweight, double barrelled, automatic, energy powered, multiple rotating bolt actuated, frictionless, gauss recoiless needle weapon. It is extremely versatile in almost any environment." You watch the Centurion shoulder the weapon and rapidly empty a full K-Mag into an ex-Legionaire. The riddled and lifeless body of the caught deserter looks as if part of it had been erased as it twitched in Devereaux's white light. "The rate of fire is..."

Your first thought is "Hey, turn out that f***in' light!," but your mouth can't form the necessary sounds. Lying on your back, your head immobilized, you try to remember where you are. "What am I doing here... Where am I..." These thoughts continue to hammer the guaze that seems to fill what passes for your head.

Slowly it all comes back to you. Your Legion code coming up for the mandatory trip to the Medlab... The mad looking Yazarian in Legion tan operating kit, laser scalpel in hand beckoning you in... the two Legionaires with the stun sticks...

You don't remembany of the specifics, by you know that the micro explosive in your grape will scramble the contents of what you call your mind if the Legion so desires...

You think, "I should have been dead already. This is just a lease on life."

That mad Yazarian coming around again...

A bad training accident. Yes indeed. Two Centurions wounded and thirteen Legionaire trainees killed and wounded. You were lucky, it could easily have been you.

The smoking craters, made by a heavy battery of artillery, were jagged ugly black and grey remeinders of the death dealt from above not moments before... the bodies -broken, splintered pieces of flesh covering Devereaux's pale green "whisper grass"...

The dull ache in your back would not go away. Your Legion issue boots had popped the march blisteres just before the start of this inspection. Your bodyglove bootie was soaked...

Your kit was layed out on the rack behind you. The Centurion would be down to you in just minutes...

"No! No you idiot! (Wham!) Do you want to die?! (Wham!, Wham!) Fix it!" (Wham!) The 'lightning rod' as your troop tended to refer to Centurion Vass' combat stun stick thumped some poor Legionaire over and over in rapid succession. "What is wrong?! (Wham!) The ground of Devereaux (Wham) is much harder than this! (Wham!)

He was rapidly trying to tie that repel harness to himself... You don't think he finished before the medics carried him off.

You do remember the first time you were over shot. A gyrojet rifle at one fifty seven meters. It was of Imperial manufacture - a very sound weapon. You were completely surprised, having been watching your feet on this, your twenty first patrol. You didn't hear or see a thing, your torso armor was badly damaged though... "What if that hadda been my chest?..."

Graduation! Still stunned, still in a daze... It is finally over! Unbelievable. The garrison commander had placed the fingerless black gloves of the Legionaire on your hands as he had the other 231 Legionaires to graduate with you today. One standard year and seven standard months. The misery at an end.

Slowly Centurion Vass performed the ceremonial about face. His cold gaze swept the formation yet again, as it had thousands of times before. The white Legion beret, ceremonial silver wings and sword flashing blindingly in the white light, as his head turns. Stunning each of you, the Yazarian raises his arm slowly, a perfect 45 degree angle palm out giving the unit, his old unit, its final salute. You are breathless. He (along with other Centurions, you cannot hear in your astonishment) bellows, "We are Legion!" He adds as he smartly cuts the salute in a barely audible voice ..."and so now are you."

Your training over, you are ready for assignment. You dont know what is waiting for you at that assignment, but you are ready to go...

Your unit will form on AGRICOLON platform - a mini station that is utilized for the transfer of bulk cargo before it is taken planetside. The Legion will arrange transport. For now, just pack your diddy bag and head to the Spaceport. Who will be there? What will the unit be like? 231st Light Pseudopod, Arda Phallanx, 9 troop. Sounds good. I guess we will see...