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Redemption and Revenge	By : LLCoyote Category: M through R > Revolution Views: 2518 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own NBC Revolution, its characters or its surrounding fandom. I make no profit from this what so ever.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
So apparently fanfiction dot net is removing stories in this fandom for explicit content and I DO not have the ability to not put sex into fanfiction, not even sure if I can keep it out of original works but don't you judge me! We all know sex makes everything better. The down side of this is that there are literally only three Revolution fics on here which means almost no one in this fandom is on this site. Oh well though, I'm going to post here anyway.
This is a pretty dark fic, and I will most likely add some more explicit content in this version than I will in the one posted on fanfiction dot net. There will be sex, torture, violence, abuse, death, suicide, love, obsession, lust, you name it this story is chuck full of it. Chuck full or chalk full? I never know. Anyway. This first chapter is sort of an intro, sorry that it's so choppy I promise I don't always make so many different parts to one chapter. Also sorry for the lack of sex and main characters. You will have Monroe by chapter two.

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“Have you seen this boy?” How many times could the same damned question be asked? To how many people? In how many ways? And the answer was always “maybe”; probably because this damn sketch looked just like any other boy in the world. Those that didn’t think he was some random Joe being hunted by the militia asked why the hell we’d go around asking if they knew where President Monroe was. Two months of this nonsense! Captain Max Watson had wasted two months of his life on something utterly useless. They’d never be able to find Monroe’s son, especially not from a sketch, based off of vague memories of townspeople who would say they remembered anything to keep from getting arrested. But how could he tell that to the President? Monroe had been… less than stable since his failed attempt to turn the power back on. Actually… he’d started to lose it long before that. At least up until the last year he’d had the Matheson woman to, well… release his frustrations. But Rachel had fled with Miles and her family when it came to a fire fight between Neville, and the traitors that followed his command to rebel against President Monroe. The survivors of that battle, Watson’s eldest son and a small handful of other men, had come home a few months ago. Monroe had immediately made his goals clear, invade Georgia and find his son. Max wanted nothing more than to be on the battle field with his fellow soldiers, but he was handpicked by Monroe for a special job. He’d never have suspected that is what the President had in mind when he walked through those doors.

It was well past midnight when they came for him. Five men, soldiers, pulled him out of bed roughly. “Oh my—please! Please don’t hurt him! Maxwell what are they doing here?” Veronica had whispered, trying to keep her voice low and not wake their young daughter. Stay asleep Sophie. If there is a God, don’t let my child see this. He told himself, making his gaze stony and passive. They allowed him a moment with Veronica, only a short one, but enough for him to encourage her to be quiet, to be calm. “I’ve always been a good soldier dear. If these men say they need to… talk, well I’m sure it’s fine.” What a horrible lie it was. He could lie to anyone but his wife. She slipped her fingers around his arm tightly, a look of panic in her lovely green eyes. “Sophie is going to start piano lessons tomorrow isn’t she? With Mrs. Carter. She’s so excited to learn to play. Make sure you remember everything that happens in case I can’t get back in time.” He’d pleaded. If Veronica would just think about Sophie, it’d be ok. His wife nodded, still shaking madly, and Max kissed her head gently. “I love you. You and the kids, you’re everything to me.” He whispered softly, straightening himself and heading for the door without looking back.

It was a remarkably light evening in Philadelphia, the sky was clear of clouds and the moon was bright over the earth. Which meant only a single man carried a torch. Max couldn’t tell who he was because of the flare of the fire, and the distance that separated the lone rider from the group. All he could see was a man’s shadow swaying with the motion of his horse as it lazily clopped forward. It unsettled him, not being able to see the man’s face. He took little to no comfort in the fact that he knew most of these men... but it was better than them being shades in the darkness. Max recited their names in his head: Gregory Hanes, Lucas Greene, and Warren Cramer. He stared hard at each one of them. Hell, he’d practically grown up with Warren! They had lived a block away from each other. They played on a football team in fucking high school before the blackout! His burning gaze turned to the next one. A year ago he’d saved Greene’s life from a rebel bombing! He’d doubled back to literally pull Greene’s bloody, unconscious body from the ruble and carried him half a mile on his own back to where his horse was tethered. And the Hanes boy? His hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking as he looked over. Max had trained him for Pete’s sake! He had been the one to instill loyalty and faith in the militia and even in general Monroe himself to that boy. “Anything we do that’s bad, we do it as the lesser of two evils. For order and for the safety of these people we take life into our own hands.” Those were his words of wisdom, departed to a boy who was thinking of running from Monroe’s army (which would have gotten him corporal punishment). His eyes turned away, it made him physically ill to think of this betrayal. He didn’t know who the fourth one was, and couldn’t see the horse rider in front but now that he had thought about that, he was glad. This was painful enough. Walking silently, awkwardly, beside your friends as they lead you to your death? Perhaps Monroe had gone from paranoid to downright malicious.
Either everyone was hiding from them as they walked the desolate streets or Monroe had finally got around to enforcing a city wide curfew. Whichever it was, they were alone in the night. There was a small bite to the air; winter was coming a little early this year. He hadn’t had time to get properly dressed and he hoped the night wouldn’t get any colder than it was. It was another 30 maybe even 45 minutes walk to Monroe’s home. He wouldn’t know, if he reached into his pocket for his watch he’d probably be shot. Obediently Max march forward, even if he happened to be marching to his death. He greatly respected Monroe though, and tried to think more optimistically… which didn’t work. Why else would someone drag a man out of his bed in the middle of the night if not to kill him quietly, under the cover of darkness?

The candlelit rooms of the grand Independence Hall were warm and deceptively inviting. They coaxed him further into their labyrinth of shadow rooms where blood was so often spilt with well painted walls and glistening hardwood floors, glowing in the light of burning candles. It was just the four of them by the time they entered the building. Their guide through town (the one on horseback) had continued to ride off into the dark abyss of the streets without changing pace or even bothering with a backward glance and as his torch flickered out in the night, it was like he’d never really been there at all. Maxwell shook his head and tried to steady himself, his mind was starting to play some rather ugly tricks on him. Focus on moving forward. Focus on the sound of boots against wood and murmuring voices in rooms beyond. Focus on anything, just focus, so that you don’t fall prey to superstition and paranoia. He pleaded with himself, trying to stay both sharp and calm at the same time. It hardly worked; he didn’t notice the double doors to Monroe’s office getting closer until he was close enough to kiss them. He nearly walked straight into the one on the right. It was the Hanes boy who stopped and steadied him, daring to show obvious concern on his face in front of the others.

The doors swung open to reveal the dimly lit office, and the silhouette of Monroe against the far wall. He was leaning with both arms extended against the mantle of the fire place, his head so low it looked as though it weren’t there at all. The room reeked of booze. There was a broken bottle of… something (he couldn’t tell in this dreadful darkness) splattered on the floor. The liquor was making an odd stain on the floor, much darker than they type it usually does and there was an awful lot of it. “You will take care won’t you?” Monroe said in a soft, raspy voice, “No one had time to clean up before you arrived. Those house shoes are thin; I wouldn’t want anything to soak through.” Max chanced a glance downward. Defiantly not just booze. A large pool of blood was soaking into the cracks and crannies of the wood. “Of course sir.” He’d replied, side stepping the puddle awkwardly. The doors made an almost inaudible click behind him as the guards filed out and left him alone with Monroe.

General Monroe slowly raised his head, like a zombie from the grave, and turned to face Max. Even in the darkness it was easy to tell how spent Monroe was, not to mention how drunk he was. “I apologize about the time but the matter of your business here is very private. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much.” Watson was amazed, even when the General was clearly drunk as a sailor off the boat; his words were so polite and charming. The man so rarely shouted, or told you outright what was happening which made him all the more terrifying. Careful to avoid offending him (which was no easy task) Max met his intense gaze, “A private meeting with you could never be seen as anything but an honor sir.” Monroe practically sorted under his breath, a snort that twisted into an insane, wheezing, sarcastic laughter. It was like hearing someone laugh bitterly, only as a whisper. Whatever got him laughing disappeared as quickly as it’d come, and he lapsed into silence for a long time. His blue eyes stared intensely into those of his soldier’s. “You’re being promoted Max. As of this moment, you’re a captain in the Monroe militia, I’m going to give you 25 men, and you’re going to do a very important job for me… quietly.” The general said slowly, pouring himself another glass of liquor. After sloppily filling his own cup Monroe raised his brows and tilted the bottle toward Max. He understood the offer and it probably wasn’t the best idea to reject Monroe’s generosity, but he declined the drink. “So you’re one of those people?” The general mumbled to himself much louder than he intended to. He continued conversing (actually it looked more like arguing) with himself for the better part of the next few minutes.

“Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’d prefer to have a clear head whilst you explain my assignment.” Max stood stiff as a board, not even looking towards the general, for fear in his drunken stupor Monroe may have taken offence. “You have kids right Mr. Watson?” Monroe said lowly. The younger man slumped into a chair behind his desk with a loud, uncomfortable thump. Max doubted that he felt it at all; there was far too much alcohol in him to feel much of anything. At the mention of his children, he couldn’t stop himself from shivering and clenching his teeth in fury. Was that a threat? His heart was beating so hard against his chest it hurt. Maxwell cleared his suddenly dry, sore throat, “A little girl and two teen boys sir.” The room lapsed into a long silence. There was only the crack of the fire as it greedily chomped at the burning wood in the hearth. Monroe seemed stuck between angry and miserable, downing the rest of his drink in a single gulp. After a long sigh the general sat up straight in his seat and a determined, slightly deranged look, passed through his eyes, “Well I have a son… and you’re going to be the one to find him for me.”

Maxwell cursed the memory. He cursed his immediate compliance and that stupid notion that this would be a quick, simple job. Two months had passed since that night. He was given supplies, including clothes, and was only allowed a moment to assure his wife he hadn’t been murdered in cold blood. She’d fought back the tears and pretended to smile as he’d been marched away. Veronica had always been remarkably strong and capable but everything had been taking a toll on her lately… he worried about what happened to her now that he was gone. Monroe would protect her wouldn’t he? Max wouldn’t know, he wasn’t allowed to have even a single letter communication with anyone inside Philly, even the general himself. “This is highly sensitive information. Information I don’t want to be used against me.” Monroe had said. Maxwell swallowed his bitter chuckle; as if anyone could use Monroe’s child against him. As if the man would actually try to save his kid’s life if it meant giving up even the slightest bit of power. Two months, and what was once a healthy fear and a great amount of respect for his leader had soured into disgust and anger. Monroe was losing his mind and if something didn’t give soon, the republic was going to go down the drain.

“Sir! Captain Watson sir, open the door!” Hanes shouted from the other side of the cheap door to his room. Two days ago they’d bunked down here two days ago. An elderly woman had offered them (Hanes, Greene and himself) a place to stay in her large old home. His troupes were at least a day’s ride away. Why Monroe had sent him on an assignment with 22 men that weren’t permitted to know any details about their job was far beyond Maxwell. The general said it was for safety that the men were to come and that no one but he and his friends knew the details of the mission… it turned out to just be a giant pain in the ass. He, Hanes and Greene had ridden ahead a few days ago to work in some peace and quiet. Cramer stayed behind to try and maintain some semblance of control in the camp. Personally Maxwell hoped he’d fail, and the troupes would revolt against him and run away. Then maybe the four of them could get something done without having to constantly leave a man behind to baby sit.

“It’s past eleven o’clock boy. If we ain’t under attack by rebels and you ain’t dyin’, I’m gonna kill you.” Max growled under his breath, jerking the door open so quickly Hanes almost punched him while trying to knock. Awkwardly the boy cleared his throat, gave a nervous laugh and dropped his fist to his side, “I—I know it’s late sir, but Greene just got back. He says he’s got some great news. Wouldn’t tell me anything about it though, he just drug his hostage down into the cellar and told me to get you as fast as I could. And I—sir wait! Don’t leave me here!” Maxwell shot down the stairs with amazing speed, like a race horse shooting violently from the gate. “Then don’t dawdle boy!” He shouted over his shoulder, barely heard over the thundering noise of his boots on the hardwood. The living room was well lit from candles and in the corner; Mrs. Beverly was hunched back against her chair, wide eyed and frightened. Maxwell seized the boy’s arm as he made a B-line for the cellar door. “Settle her down would you?” He whispered as he jabbed a thumb back toward the poor old woman. He really shouldn’t think of her as that old, what did she have on him? Ten, maybe fifteen years? Max shook it off and drew a breath to calm his excited nerves. This was the first lead they’d had since they left Jasper with the rough sketch of the boy. It was hard to bury the urge to squeal like a little girl and get his hopes up. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his family, and he wanted to quit traveling. God have mercy on this man’s soul if he didn’t have anything useful to tell him. Maxwell knew that Greene didn’t have much patience left and while he wouldn’t murder a man for knowing nothing… Greene just might. He descended the stairs into the dimly light cellar. It was like an ice box by the time he set foot on the ground. Max shrugged it off and strolled in behind Zack, who was currently tightening the bonds of a rugged drunkard of a man. The man reeked of alcohol, his clothes were stained with his own filth, and his eyes were blood shot. A bad feeling set in the pit of his stomach that this was going to get nasty.

“Who the hell is this?” Max said carelessly. He grabbed his flask from the inside pocket of his coat and took a large swig to warm himself. Zackary, who was furious and bloody, glared up at his friend, “He knows something!” Noticing the odd stare Max was giving him he added, “The bastard tried to jump me with a knife in the alley.” Watson raised his eye brows slightly, holding in a chuckle by clearing his throat, “And why do you think he knows something?” “I was riding through his little shit hole of a town, asking a few questions when I came across this one and his friend. When I showed them the sketch, he started to say something and his friend shut him up! I waited around for the guy to leave, and thought if I got the bastard drunk he’d tell me something. Instead he tried to stab me in the spleen!” His friend practically shouted, punching ‘the bastard’ (as he’d been dubbed thus far) in the face so hard that the man coughed blood against his gag. “You’ve had a long day Zack. I got this.” Max whispered; his hand rested on his friend’s shoulder. Greene eyed him skeptically and then shrugged, mumbling something about catching some rest on the couch.

Max turned to look at the stout man, tied tight as a knot against his chair. There was fear in his blood shot eyes. “Alright then, it looks to me like you’ve got two choices. You tell me what you know,” Max paused and flicked open his pocket knife, “Or I start ripping off your finger nails… for starters.” Roughly he tore the gag away from the man’s face. The ride to the house, and his rushing adrenaline were sobering him up enough to talk. The man looked scared, horrified even. “Please! I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know anything about anything!” He said shaking his head. Max rolled his eyes. Why did they always say that? Why did they always lie? Annoyed, he brought his fist down on the man’s face three times. With the final blow, he heard the nose crack. Blood dribbled out, running down his lips and into his mouth. The bastard didn’t even bother to spit it out.

Maxwell panted roughly before straightening his coat; the cold was starting feel like little knives pressing against his lungs as he drew his breath. He glared at the man, leaning back against the wall and in a bored tone he resumed focusing on the task at hand, “Now… I’m gonna give you one more chance to tell the truth, so listen closely. You see that drawing on the wall? You’re gonna tell me who that is and where I can find them!” Frantically the man shook his head harder, clamping his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut. “Fine by me.” Max grunted. He seized the man by his hand and pressed the knife tip below his finger nail. The blade sunk it and blood oozed around it, dripping down onto the floor, staining the grey cement a dark red. He was always amazed at how easily a sharp point slid into the skin. It shouldn’t be this physically easy to torture another human being, especially when emotionally; he may as well be trying to stab a bolder. This isn’t what he signed up for, this isn’t what he wanted to do. Breathe in. Count back from five. Max tried to calm his nerves. He should have waited until morning when he wasn’t so tired to do this. Five. The knife tip sunk into the skin past the cuticle. Screams echoed off the stone walls. Four. He gripped the blade in his numb fingers, watching the droplets of blood that had landed on them. Three. Max matched eyes with the man, offering him one more chance to end this. Two. He swallowed his morality. If he couldn’t find Monroe’s boy, he’d never see his own children again. One. The blade twisted and wretched the remaining nail out of its bed in one fluid motion. The man screamed, jerking and fighting in his restraints. Max went straight for the next one, making sure to insert the knife slowly, so that the agony couldn’t be avoided. His steely blue eyes didn’t reveal his disgust. His face was covered in a hard frown.

About half way through the third nail the man howled and begged him to stop. “I’ll tell you anything I can! Please! Just don’t kill me! I just want to go back home.” He pleaded, tears running down his face. The man was still partially intoxicated but Max pulled the knife away. He tore the picture from the wall and shoved it right into the man’s face, “Do you know him or not?!” “YES!!! I… at least I’m pretty sure that’s him.” The man moaned, his head lolling to the side. For a second Maxwell thought his heart might give out. He actually might know who Monroe’s son was! Desperately Max took him by the collar of his tattered coat, “What’s his name?! Where is he?! Is he close?!” The man strangled and jerked himself away, nearly toppling over his chair to the frozen cement. “Whoa whoa, one at a time! I… I don’t know his name… and I don’t exactly know where he is.” He said with a wince. Max went back to his discarded knife and scooped it up from the floor in fury. “Do you actually know anything?” He almost shouted, taking hold of the man’s bloody, twitching hand. “I think so! It’s a vague drawing! NO! NO please! He sometimes runs with Little Lilly down at the harbor! Not often though, maybe once a year we see ‘em.” The man said without pausing for air. His shoulders relaxed visibly as Max lowered the knife once more. “Who’s—“ “Little Lilly? The young lady that appears at the docks down by Penobscot once, maybe twice a year. She lingers for a couple of weeks, everyone knows her. I’ve seen that man with her once or twice.” He said shakily, muttering something else that sounded like a prayer beneath his breath. “Why didn’t you just tell me that before I ripped your nails off!?” Watson snarled, shaking the paper in his face.

“Cause he’s a witch! I didn’t want to live with a curse over my head!” The man shouted back, terror in his eyes, “But it’s hopeless now! I’ll be damned for telling you about him I’m sure!” It took every bit of strength Max had not to stab the man. Did he just say? “I’m sorry but, do you think I’m stupid enough to believe this bullshi—” “SHHH! Don’t insult them! The spirits will tell them what you say!”The man shouted loudly, so that Max’s voice couldn’t be heard. Great. They finally get a lead, and the guy is bat shit crazy. “And the girl. This… Little Lilly let me guess… she’s a witch too? No! A fairy princess!” Max replied with wiggling fingers and a roll of his eyes. “Doom! You bring death and despair upon us both with your insults! Everyone knows Lilly is a ghost.” He cried desperately.

This wasn’t going to go anywhere productive, Max was sure he’d gotten everything that he could out of this man. Before the poor creature could process what was happening, Watson pulled his gun and shot him clean between the eyes. Blood and brain matter sprayed, and the now dead man’s head fell back lifelessly, eyes wide and mouth partly agape. Normally Max wasn’t one for just murdering someone for no reason, but something told him this man was better off on the other side. He tiredly trudged up the stairs and pulled open the door. Everyone, including Mrs. Beverly was watching him with curious eyes. “He’s nuts… or at least he was nuts. Hanes go clean that up.” Max groaned, flopping gracelessly into a plush red armchair. It was faded and worn, but comforting to his sore and tired body. Mrs. Beverly took a tea kettle from the fire and poured him a steaming cup that was too warm and inviting to resist. The sweet liquid gave a welcomed burn to his cold throat. “You didn’t get anything out of the bastard?” Greene bitched from the couch. “Yeah a deranged ghost story about some girl called Little Lilly who appears at the Penobscot bay once a year. Apparently she is a ghost, and Monroe’s son is the conjurer.” Max moaned, he felt embarrassed just telling the story. Greene burst out laughing so hard he had to grab his side. Max buried his face in the crook of his arm, “I hope you piss yourself.”

“I know about Little Lilly.” Mrs. Beverly said quietly as she stared at the flames of her dying fireplace. Greene shut up immediately and glared at her. “Not you too.” Max laughed, throwing his hands in the air. The old woman pursed her lips, “My late husband was a sailor before he passed away. A few years before he died rumors started to go around the docks. A young lady with red hair would appear and disappear just as quickly. Talk started going around that since no one talked to her, and no one could catch up to her that she had to be a ghost. They believed she must be spirit of a young woman whose husband never returned from sea after the blackout and every year she returns to search for him…” She paused and smiled to herself, as though she’d just heard a great joke, “You know how sailors are and the blackout didn’t help them ease their superstitions.” “So… you really believe there is a ghost girl running around the docks?” Greene said slowly, trying not to laugh at her. Mrs. Beverly shook her head firmly, “Of course not. Not only is there no such thing, Frank, my husband, assured me that she was very real. Said he’d sold her enough rum—that’s what he did you see he sailed to the Caribbean to bring back rum and coffee and such—anyway he said that he snuck out of his cabin late one night and she offered him gold. He said she ran off with enough rum and coffee to fill a wagon and a half in exchange. He could have been exaggerating. No one drinks that much. My husband had a weakness for inflammatory words and all that. I didn’t think much of it at the time; in fact I didn’t believe him until a year ago when I saw her on my way down river. I thought it was just a story Frank used to give me the willies.” She stopped again and tapped her finger to her chin in thought, “I was taking his ashes down to the bay to release them when I was jumped by a bunch of men. Then there were dogs, at least 9 of them… maybe more. Dogs and dogs and dogs, bounding from the bushes with great big teeth, snarling like hell hounds. They jumped the men and pulled them to the ground. Just as I was sure I was going to have to witness them being eaten alive, she rode in on a chestnut horse and shot the ruffians one by one. We only talked for a moment, but she looked just like the girl in his story. Short, long curly red hair, grey eyes. Strange looking girl if you ask me. I think she’d been looking for me. She kept looking at the bag where I had his ashes kept.” She finished; then poured herself another cup of tea.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us this yesterday?!” Greene shouted. He swung his legs down from the arm of the couch angrily and stood up. Mrs. Beverly looked confused, “Because you didn’t ask me anything about her. My husband’s been dead for a couple of years now, that may explain why, but I’ve never heard anything about this boy.” Her face scrunched up defensively as she glared at Greene over her glasses. The two stared one another down for what felt like an eternity before Max cleared his throat to break the tension. “Please Mrs. Beverly… tell me you know where you can find this girl.”

They left for Penobscot bay right before first light; traveling by horseback through the knee high deep snow. No one spoke. The only noise on the white path they rode down was that of their own horses chewing on their bits or rattling their saddle bags. Every now and again one of them would blow a great gust of silver cloud into the frigid air, like little equine dragons with smoke in their bellies. Dawn’s light, when it finally came, was relentlessly bright against the ivory blanket that covered the earth. Max missed the days when you could run and jump in your car to blast the heat and escape the cold. He missed sunglasses that could so easily shade your eyes in glaring light. He missed life before the blackout... on days like these more than any others. Why couldn’t they be looking for Monroe’s boy in Georgia territory? How the hell did he even get here anyway? From Indiana to Maine. No one even lived in Maine any more. Max snorted to himself, leaning back in his saddle. After the blackout people fled for warmer, more predictable climates, and those that didn’t run south right away did their damnedest to escape when New York rose up against them. An insane cult, claiming to be lead by God, had taken over NY State and had started slaughtering people in the surrounding areas. Who they couldn’t convert they killed. Vermont, and parts of new Hampshire fell before they moved into Maine. The Monroe republic didn’t need to conquer Connecticut or any other state east of New York (aside from New Hampshire), for the most part, they’d come begging for help.

Help was a funny word nowadays. Used to be people just helped other people because it was the right thing to do, at least it seemed that way to Max. Now help always comes with a price. Monroe’s (actually at the time it was Matheson’s) price was to be paid in lives and land. There was a major (and mandatory) drafting of able bodied men and women to fight for the republic. With the extra men and with Miles Matheson, New York fell in only a matter of weeks. In a few short months the Monroe republic claimed all of New England and parts of Canada. All of this… disaster had left Maine one giant ghost town. Two years ago Monroe did a census of the people here, most of them at least and barely managed to scrape up 9,000 people in the two remaining cities: Portland, and Belfast. Over 5,000 of those people were sailors, or some sort of boatmen who had taken up the extremely difficult task of building a working fleet of ships and opening up a trade route with Cuba, the Dominican Republic (which was called something else now, Max couldn’t remember what), and Central America. The country side of Maine was barren of human life.

Animal life however was abundant. Bears and wolves were common sites. Mountain lions and lynxes were harder to spot, but just as dangerous and maybe even more. Particularly, Max feared the wolverines. He’d never seen one before the blackout, even on hunting trips, but their numbers had been steadily growing. They’d already seen one this morning. There wasn’t anything that made wolverines more dangerous than bears or especially mountain lions but there was something about them. In some strange way they were the beasts of the blackout, like the hounds of hell, rising up from the ashes of civilization and reclaiming a wilderness that had once belonged to them for thousands of years. Dogs that was another thing to look out for here. Dogs and other pets, even some of the exotic pets had managed to survive. Though tigers and African lions were usually more of a problem in Texas (where they were as common as field mince) many states in the Monroe republic had once allowed zoos and private owners to keep them. The zoo animals had mostly been killed for food, private pet owners were far too sentimental to make tiger stakes and had released them into the wild... some even fed themselves to their monstrous felines before releasing them, to ensure their survival. Max had only ever come across one before, a large female lion in Ohio, and he’d nearly shit himself. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more horrifying than a lion’s roar. It doesn’t matter what gun is in your fucking hand; that awful and powerful noise speaks to your primal, instinctive self and sends terror up your spine.

The ride from Mrs. Beverly’s house near what used to be Clinton, to the city of Belfast took them the whole day. Apparently any time people talked about Penobscot bay anymore, they were referring to the fishing and trading city of Belfast. This was where they would search for a mythical ghost girl in hopes that she would lead them to a supposed witch, who happened to be Monroe’s son. Max suppressed a groan for the billionth time today, “When the hell did our jobs get so fuckin’ ridiculous?” It wasn’t meant for the others to hear, but he heard them snicker all the same. “I think we should go over some protocol.” Greene said, trotting his horse up to the front where Max and Hanes currently rode, “If there is you know… something strange, in the neighborhood… who are you going to call Max?” “Shut the hell up.” Watson snarled in response, “Hanes ain’t even old enough to remember shit like that.” It was hopeless though, Zack burst out laughing so hard at his own joke he doubled over on his horse. Hanes took a foot from his stirrup and kicked him in the thigh, “We’re here on militia business. Who’s going to take your seriously if you’re crumpled up like a drunk in your saddle?” Max nodded in agreement, but didn’t pay them any real attention.

The streets were scarcely populated and the people that saw them didn’t look too happy about it. Many of them ran to hide, others gawked, and some brave ones (mostly older, toughened sailor types) glared at them as they rode down the snowy streets. Max bobbed his head at a middle-aged woman with three kids in tow, “Excuse me miss.” She pulled her children behind her and cowered. Her slender arms covered her dirty face, her knees wobbled, and her mouth shook. “I don’t want your trouble,” She called out, as though they were very far away, “I—I only want to go home.” Maxwell glared over at the other two, who easily took his silent hint—leave. They abruptly turned their horses away and rode further into the darkening streets, murmuring quietly to one another. He turned his attention back to the woman, who seemed less tense but nowhere near relaxed. “No trouble, I promise. All I want is to ask you a question,” He said with a charming smile. His hand reaching for the sketch in his pocket made the woman flinch, “Do you know who this boy is?... And no, damn it, it’s not President Monroe.” She thought about it for a second, pursing her lips and looking the paper over thoroughly, “No sir, I’m afraid I’ve never seen him before.” Max sighed, he couldn’t believe he was about to ask this. “What about a girl… Red hair, short, ummm goes by the name of Little Lilly.” He asked, too embarrassed to look at her as he did so. “Of course I know who Lilly is. I’ve never seen her myself—but, but ask the sailors down at the docks! Please that’s all I know!”

He’d left her at that, scolding her about having her children out so late as he rode away. Hanes and Greene didn’t catch up with him until the next day down by the docks. Aside from the same farfetched ghost stories he’d gotten, there was nothing to tell. They found a tattered, shit hole of an inn and put their horses in the barn. It was as good as a ‘home base’ as they were going to get here. For the most part, they traveled on foot, unless they were going further into the outer parts of the city. Once or twice they took a boat out to an island in the bay where supposedly the girl had been seen several times, but that turned up sour. Greene wouldn’t quit complaining about the smell of fish and how he would probably have that smell in his nostrils for the rest of his life. Hanes didn’t seem to care much; he had more issues with the sailors. On his own they didn’t take him seriously. What was a 20 something year old, lanky, loner solider going to do to theses hardened, ruthless seamen in their late 30’s and 40’s? Max ignored everything, focusing his complete attention on the task at hand, and not his aching joints in the cold. It wasn’t until the fifth day that they had any promising results. Hanes had galloped back to the hotel after dark, pale in the face, and said he’d seen her. She’d disappeared before he could get to her, but it was certainly her. Then he said something crazy about believing she was a ghost, Greene smacked him over the head for being superstitious and that was the end of it.

It was on the ninth day they found her. She was sitting on an empty dock in the outskirts of the city. Behind her was a beautiful chestnut mare, which pinned her ears and began to paw as they approached. But the girl didn’t run, she didn’t disappear, she didn’t dive into the water, she just watched them come. Finally, someone who understands the concept of being cornered. “Are you the spirit of Little Lilly!?” Hanes shouted, only to receive another hard punch to the head from Greene that was paired with a ‘shut up’. The young girl smiled and actually laughed. Her arms crossed over her breasts casually, watching the soldiers with glimmering eyes, “There are no such things as spirits.” Her voice was low, and lacked any shrillness or alarm. It was almost melodic, even though her words were a bit slurred. The fact that she was so calm and normal was more unnerving than anything. Max rode forward, despite the angry squeal her mare sounded as he got closer, “Ma’am we need to know if you know this man.” He held out the picture for her to see, only to hear her laugh again. “Sure I do. SJ may as well be my own flesh and blood. I guess you could say he’s… my brother.” She said languidly. Her arm flew around beside her to snatch a bottle of… something that she’d been working on for a while. Through the mist Max could see the red blush of intoxication heating up her face. Shock far outweighed excitement for him. Was this really it? After months of searching? No fight to the death, no gun fire, no screaming or lies? Was this climactic moment really just this simple? He was almost let down.

“Please, tell us where we can find him. We have orders from President Monroe himself to bring him back to the capital.” Max said as he stuffed the picture sloppily into his pocket. The girl did not look impressed, “Hmmm, yes, I don’t really see that happening, love. If my brother wanted to go to the capital, he’d already have gone.” Greene cleared his throat awkwardly, “You realize if you don’t tell us it will be considered a court martial offense. You’ll be killed.” She perked up her eyebrow at him, “Alright, shoot me. I won’t even draw my gun.” “Citizens of the Monroe republic aren’t allowed to carry arms!” Hanes butt in. “What does it matter, I thought you were going to kill me?” She said, tensing up and refusing to look at him. It was the first time Max had seen her show any sign of discomfort, he kept that in mind for later. “Grab the mare.” He snapped over his shoulder, dismounting in one swift motion. Laugher again. “Bad idea boys. Rory’s not too fond of strangers.” She warned, not fussing as Max roughly pulled her up by the arm. Greene and Hanes both pulled ropes from their saddle bags and looped them around the mare’s neck. It squealed and in a flash of red, turned on its front end to kick Greene’s horse. He maintained amazing control as he pulled his horse, even while rearing, to a safe distance from the obstinate red beast. That should have been a sign, this was too easy and beneath the calm exterior laid trouble, but Max was far too caught up in the joy of finding her and the rage of her denying him answers he didn’t think about it. “In the name of the Monroe Republic, you’re under arrest miss.” He snarled, snapped her hands into cuffs behind her back before hoisting her on top of his own horse. Still, she didn’t put up a fight.

It took nearly half an hour to get her mare in a halter. Greene had been the brave and stubborn one to do it (Max had begged him to just let the stupid thing go), and as a result he now had a huge bloody bite mark and a broken left hand. Once the beast was haltered, and affixed with multiple ropes to keep her from reaching any of them in an attack, they were off. Instead of going back to the inn, Max sent out letters to his camp and to Monroe, breaking the silence between them. He hoped and prayed Monroe would want to see her himself, that he’d be the one to torture a woman, because Max didn’t have it in himself to do such a disgusting thing. She refused to speak and the more sober she became the more silent she was. Silent and tense. She didn’t seem afraid per say or angry, just tense. Max couldn’t actually tell what was going on beneath the mass of dark red curls on her head. It took a few days to reach his camp. To his disappointment there was no word from Monroe yet… and he would have to start doing something besides ignoring the girl sooner or later. The scene at the dock kept playing through his mind, as well as a few sparse instances where she’d said something to them on the way here. One thing was certain, Hanes made her uncomfortable, and Max decided to start there.

“You tie her up to a chair or a post or… something, in that tent over there. Search her over again, this time take any personal belongings.” He demanded pointing to one of the larger tents in the middle of the camp. Hanes immediately obeyed and pulled the quiet woman to the tent with a nervous glance behind him.

Greg Hanes grew up in the blackout. He was only a child when it happened, and his limited memories of that time were mostly repressed and buried by the horrors of what happened after the lights went out. Torture, death, war, these weren’t new concepts to him. After all he was only 14 when he’d been enlisted in Monroe’s army… but he’d never had to torture anyone before. Killed? Sure he’d killed many people, so many that he no longer kept count. Not to say killing was a guiltless crime, while the number has been long since forgotten, Gregory remembered every face of every life he’d ever taken but… torture was different wasn’t it? When you killed someone the formula was simple. You take a gun or a knife, hit them in the heart, or any vital organ, sometimes you even go for the head, some scream, but they all go down and in a matter of minutes their eyes loose that glint of light in them as life is lost and they’re thrown into eternal darkness. Sad, terrible, harsh, but in self defense or in the defense of good people it really wasn’t a hard decision to make.

The problem with torture is you’re just too close to the person; they hang on too long. You aren’t going to kill them; that is sort of the point. Your only job is to hurt them, to crush their soul until they give up what is most likely the most precious thing they have anymore; information on someone they love or something they stand for. Needless to say Gregory wasn’t looking forward to this next development in his career. Why wouldn’t she at least put up a fight? Swear at him, try and hit him, try to escape, ANYTHING but just letting him shove her into the tent and taking what was given to her. Her compliance didn’t make it easier, it made it worse. Even anger wasn’t there to comfort him in this ruthless act.

She stood still as he ran his hands over her small, curvy legs and hips, even when he searched her upper body. No weapons, but he did take two lockets from her, a flask of what smelled like strong whiskey and a wad of militia dollars from a hidden compartment in her jacket. There was gunk inside of the lockets, but it they were made of nice gold so he shoved it in his pocket anyway. He reached for a large metal band on her arm. It was at least 5 inches thick, and fit her forearm snugly. “That doesn’t come off.” She said slowly, refusing to look his way. He grabbed it anyway and gave it a tug, “I have orders to confiscate all valuables mi—” “Ow damn it! I told you it doesn’t come off! It is fixed to my arm you dolt!” She hissed as he pulled harder. A little blood trickled out of the bottom of the band near her elbow. The woman looked from the blood to him and scowled, “There are prongs inside of it, and they’re embedded deeply in my flesh I am telling you it will not come off I’ve tried!” Greg looked at her strangely, poking and prodding at the skin of her wrist, trying to see further into the large band, “Why would you…” “I’ve had it for a long time… and I would prefer not to talk about it thank you.” She snipped, turning her head away once again. There was a faint accent to her voice, European of some sort, maybe Irish or Scottish. It showed more prominently when she was annoyed.

He left the band alone; Captain Watson could deal with it later. Right now he needed to think of what he could do to make her talk. Trying to not look nervous he turned his back to her and looked around the room. They’d already prepared for his arrival, setting an array of tools (some of which he didn’t even know how to use) on a table in the corner. He roughly pulled a chair out and used lengths of rope to tie her tightly against the wood. She said nothing, but he was starting to see fear flicker in her eyes. Yes, please be afraid. Please talk before I have to do this! He thought, taking a breath to calm his nerves. Why wasn’t Greene the one torturing her? Or Cramer! Greene didn’t care about gutting someone, and Cramer practically liked it! “Tell me what you know about the boy from the drawing.” He demanded, staring at the torture implements. He was blocking her view, with his back toward her. “Hmm, sorry, I’m going to have to say… no.” She answered smartly. Hanes tried to summon his anger and let go of his guilt. He pulled the table of torture implements in front of her and watched as she looked down at them. She looked scared, but Hanes wasn’t sure if she really was. He wasn’t sure of anything really, reading a person wasn’t his strong suit. Oh he was the worst person in the world for this job!

“Maybe you want to change your answer,” He said as he reached for a random tool and showed it to her, “But if you talk now, I will let you go. We’ll give you your horse back, we’ll even forget about the gun, and you can run back to wherever it is you came from. No one has to get hurt.” Something flashed through her eyes but he didn’t have a clue what it was and it disappeared in a split second. “Yes actually, yes they do.” She said quietly, and then closed her eyes. Hanes swiftly turned and exited the tent… he just couldn’t do this.

The letter from Monroe came a full three days after they had all arrived in camp and the girl still wasn’t speaking. Furious at his refusal to torture the woman, Greene had tried it himself and insisted that Hanes sleep inside of the tent with her to make sure she didn’t get away. Hanes was getting… strange though. “It’s that creepy voodoo singing.” Cramer said noticing Max’s ‘lost in thought’ face, “He never shuts her up; just lets her sing all night. It’s freaking him out.” Max shoved a bite of bread into his mouth and grunted, “He told me the morning after he first slept in her tent, that he knew her. I asked him how; he says he doesn’t remember… I don’t believe him.” He held up the letter from Monroe and waved it, “Not that it matters now. General Monroe wants her brought back to Philly so that he can have a crack at her I guess.” Cramer rudely snatched the letter from his hand, eyeing the seal, “When does he want her there?” “Last week.” Max answered with a sarcastic laugh. Monroe was a million things, patient wasn’t one of them.

“No! Listen don’t do this! PLEASE someone help!” The girl’s voice blared out of the tent from behind them, startling Max and nearly causing him to spill his coffee. “HELP! HELP DAMN IT!” He’d never heard her scream like that… what the hell was that boy doing to her? Cramer jerked his arm as he went to stand, and waved a reassuring hand to the few stray men around camp that were becoming concerned. “The kid is finally growing a back bone and you’re going to go busting in and crap on everything he’s done?” He growled, physically shoving Max back into the chair. Max pulled his arm free, “No but if he kills—” BANG. A gun cracked inside the tent, followed by an ear splitting scream. Both men leaped from their chairs and headed for the tent flap. Max jerked it to one side and ran in, tripping over something in his haste. “Holy fuck…” He heard Cramer whisper, “Max get the fuck up!” There was a rattling of chains and a sharp cry.

Max shook his head and pushed himself off of the floor. The first thing he saw was the woman, still chained tightly to her chair, sobbing. Her head was shaking frantically and she was on the verge of hyperventilating. “Shut up!” Cramer shouted over her before ripping a piece of his coat and cramming it in her mouth. “Max damn it!” He shouted, pointing to Max’s feet. It took everything in him not to cry out, not to vomit. Hanes lay dead on the ground, with a gun in his hand and a bullet hole in his head. His blood splattered and pooled on the ground below his head. His wide, lifeless eyes were bloodshot and tear stains reddened the skin beneath his eyes. The sound of gagging brought Max back to reality… at least partially. “Fuck Cramer she’s choking! Get that thing out of her mouth!” He ordered harshly even as he was diving to jerk the cloth from her throat anyway. She gasped for air, crying uncontrollably, “I told him not to do it! I begged him! Why didn’t you come?! Why didn’t you help?!” In the days they’d had her, Max had only once heard her scream like this and that was when Cramer was beating her bare foot with a wooden board. He grasped her shoulders and shook her but the girl was hysterical. At some point, a medic had run into the tent, and had begun to check for any signs of life from Hanes, but it was clearly hopeless. Max couldn’t think, especially not with the girl freaking out. She started to thrash in her bonds, screaming about how they were all loony and having to escape before they kill her.

Already sporting some nasty cuts and a broken foot from interrogation, Max knew it wouldn’t take much of that crazed struggling for her to seriously injure herself. He wacked the medic over the head, “Damn it! Sedate her! I don’t give a damn how you do it! Before she has a fucking heart attack!” Terrified at Max’s out of character screaming, the medic practically pounced on the girl. He made gentle, reassuring shushing sounds as he dug through his bag for the right drugs. Max never removed his hands from her shoulders. “Do you want her out?” The medic asked through his teeth that were clenched over a syringe. From his bag he finally produced some needles and a bottle of clear liquid. Max almost growled like an animal, “I don’t fucking care right now! Just shut her up!” The man nodded and firmly took hold of the girl’s arm, feeling for a vein and gently protesting her claims that he was trying to kill her. She screamed as the needle dipped into her flesh and the plunger went down. Max counted back from ten, but she was gone by five. Her head fell limp, shielding her face with her thick auburn hair. “Sorry sir she’s… pretty small.” The medic said, his hands lingering a little too long on the tops of her legs, “You’ll need to cover her up well, so that her body temperature doesn’t drop too much.” “That’s great… get out.” Cramer snarled as he proceeded to drag the man out by his shirt collar.

A wagon was filled with snow, and Hanes’ body was placed in it with care. Most of the camp was confused, they didn’t know who the prisoner was or the details of what had gone on in the tent. Max hand finished half a bottle of whiskey as the men prepared to leave. He just couldn’t believe it. The boy he’d trained, the boy he had practically raised, was dead and he didn’t bravely die in combat or peacefully of old age, he died by his own hand… supposedly. It was too hard to swallow, the idea that he’d actually killed himself and without even talking to anyone first. Greene and Cramer agreed that this mission had drove him insane and now spent their time lamenting about how he’d be alive if they hadn’t pushed him to torture her, to make him watch them torture her as a ‘lesson’. Max climbed into the front of the wagon that the girl was in. He was far too intoxicated to ride a horse. She was wrapped in a pile of furs and the handsy medic was sitting beside her, watching her breathing (aka staring at her breasts). If Max had the energy or the care, he’d point out that her chest of all things should be more heavily covered. But he didn’t have the energy to do much of anything but stare at the road ahead as the men pulled out of their temporary camp.
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Redemption and Revenge