Ranger A Company Camp, outside of Austin… Five hours after the takeover…

Miles poked his head into Bass' tent. He hadn't had a chance to talk to him since their plans at the church all came together. From there, everything had been a whirlwind of activity. They'd ridden hard to the Ranger's camp, arriving in two days what normally would be a three day ride.

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. There was still a lot that remained unsaid between them, and Miles had never been good at that kind of thing—not that Bass was any better of late. He used to be, but so much had happened over the years that there was certain disconnection between what was going on in his head and his ability to articulate it. After the events of the past several days, Miles was determined to make an effort though; Bass' actions deserved acknowledgment, especially now.

"Hey," Miles began. Bass was bent over his cot, rooting through his bag, as if he was in search of something. He stilled for a second, a silent acknowledgement that he was no longer alone. "So, listen. I just wanted to say thanks… for pulling through with Davis."

Bass said nothing, but went back to whatever he was doing. His back was still turned, so Miles couldn't quite tell. Silence reigned over the tent until it became uncomfortable. When it became obvious that his friend was not going to reply, Miles pushed a bit further. "I, uh… I gotta admit, when you were late, I was worried you wouldn't show. You did good though."

Bass slowly turned. His movement allowed Miles a full view of his cot. Bass' backpack was empty, sitting next to his gear. Everything was laid out in organized rows. Miles knew the man well enough to know that he was packing to leave long term. He only carried what he'd specifically need for a trip. If he was packing like this, he was taking everything.

"Go to hell," he said coldly and then turned back to his task. When the sounds of Miles' departure did not immediately reach his ears, he bothered to speak again. "I said, go to hell. Don't let the flap hit your ass on the way out."

"What's eating you?" Miles asked.

Bass shoved a few extra clips into the outside pouch of his backpack so they will be within easy reach and then checked his gun one last time. He'd already cleaned it and checked it twice, but it was an old habit that just wouldn't die. "You even have to ask? The fact that you actually thought I'd screw you over is a big part of it."

His response pissed Miles off a little. Same old Bass, always deflecting everything away from himself, like the blame is dirt and he's coated in Scotchguard. "Can you blame me? I mean, what else would you expect Bass?"

Slamming the clip back into the gun, Bass shoved it in the back of his jeans and went back to repacking his things. Once everything else is neatly stowed, he reached over and grabbed a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He looked at it a second and shoved it in the backpack as well. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he turned to leave, checking Miles in the shoulder as he did so. "Oh, I don't know, Miles. Maybe for forty years of friendship to count for something? Should have known better—you've been telling me since the day I showed up that it doesn't."

Miles stared in disbelief as Bass left. It slowly began to sink in that he was really taking off, possibly for good. He'd sort of figured that the two of them would join the fight together, guns blazing. A win was almost a sure thing now. He hadn't imagined that Bass wouldn't want to be a part of that.

He got moving, chasing after his lifelong friend. He cut Bass off just before he got to the guard post leading outside of camp, not even aware that Charlie's eyes followed them both in concern. Bass just shoved him aside to get past him and kept walking.

"Good luck with the war, boys," he said with a mock salute as he passed the guards currently on duty.

Refusing to give up, Miles followed him right out of camp. He waited until they were out of earshot of the guards before trying again. "It does mean something," Miles finally said as he grabbed Bass by the shoulder, forcing him to face him and whatever the hell was wrong now.

"Bullshit. I've spent the past what, eight, nine months hearing about how much of an untrustworthy piece of shit I am from the lot of you. I abandoned my kid to Neville to help you and all you can say to me was that you thought I'd fuck you over?" He let out bitter laugh. "I get it—I'm public enemy number one and I always will be. I know when I'm not wanted, and I'm tired of waiting around for that to change."

"So you're out of it then?" Miles couldn't believe that Bass was really going to back down from a chance to kill a whole lot of Patriots and make himself look like a hero.

Bass backed up a few steps. "I've got nothing to stay for."

"What about your kid?" Miles asks. He hated throwing that out there, but he couldn't believe that Bass was going to give up on him so easily. He'd only spent a few hours looking for him because they'd had to move. That didn't mean he'd vanished into thin air.

"What about him? He'll only try to kill me again anyway." When Miles looked at him in blank confusion, Bass elaborated. "Yeah, wanna know why I was late? It's because I was busy trying to keep Connor and Neville from killing your hostage. They wanted me to hand him over so Neville could get his revenge and so Connor and I would have a clean shot in the east. Kid was right too—killing Davis right then and there would have made it a hell of a lot easier to get it all back. What did I do? I told them no, all because you trusted me—how dumb was I to think it meant something?"

"Bass—"

"Save it," he said, all the rage he felt toward Miles and the rest of the world flowing out with every word. "I got to watch my kid give Neville and Scanlon the all clear to kill me and what good did it do me? I get a 'thanks for not fucking us over' from team Matheson."

Miles had been well and truly put in his place. He hadn't known, but maybe he'd gone about this the wrong way from the start. His intention had to reach out to the bitter and angry man his best friend has become and try to patch up some of the damage. All he'd done is make it worse—Bass apparently sacrificed a lot in the name of that friendship and all Miles has done was insult him for it. He felt like an ass, not that admitting it now would do any good.

"So where are you going to go?" he finally asked.

Bass shrugged and then turned away in both hurt and anger. "I'm going to go get my fucking militia back."

Miles furrowed his brows in concern, "Bass, don't—we can win this without the militia. I…" He what? He hesitated. This entire conversation had somehow taken an entirely different route than he'd intended. He'd set out to thank him and to try and mend those broken fences and somehow he'd turned into the bad guy here.

Bass had proven that he was still him after everything that had happened. Miles had thought him too far gone and had made those beliefs known all too well. He'd been wrong however and now the thought of Bass throwing himself back into the thick of all that madness terrified him.

Before he could think of anything else to say, he watched Bass turn away with one last bitter remark. "Just leave me alone, Miles. Go back to your girls and take your win. Get the hell away from me and stay out of my life."

With that, Miles watched his brother walk off alone. He wandered the camp in a daze for a while, before finally coming up with a plan. He and Charlie were simply going to have to track Bass and drag him back, whether he liked it or not. There was no way he was going to let him do it again.

Resolved, he went back to the tent he shared with Rachel. She was going to be pissed, but he couldn't let it drop this time. She'd just have to get over it. "Rachel, I've got…" he stopped when he saw her lying there on the ground.

She was gasping for breath, her hand pressed to her side. Blood seeped through her fingers. He dropped to his knees. Jerking out of his jacket, he balled it up and pressed it over the wound. The dirt under her was stained, indicating that she'd lost so much blood already. "Who?"

"From Davis…" she rasped before losing consciousness.

Miles picked up her limp body. Running from the tent, he screamed for help. He would watch helplessly as Gene and one of the Ranger's medics tried to bring her back. An hour afterwards he sat, covered in Rachel's blood, any plans of going after Bass long forgotten. In one day, he had lost his best friend and the love of his life. His plans now only consisted of one thing—he would fight until every last Patriot was in the ground.

Bass does indeed go back east. He finds the first division too, but what he finds is not what he'd expected. He'd once told Miles that if he showed back up to claim his men, it'd be like the second coming. He can't be further off the mark.

The first division of the Monroe Militia had spent months after the bombs dropped scattered throughout the Ohio River Valley until one very clever Captain Kevin McBride managed to convince them to band back together. The Patriots had been trying to eradicate the former Militia for months and they'd been getting slaughtered.

Less fragmented, they stand a chance to survive now. At first, Bass couldn't believe his good luck in finding them halfway organized and decently equipped. An hour after finding them, he recalls that the only luck he ever seems to have is bad luck. He's immediately taken captive by the men that once swore their allegiance to him.

Half the men believe the Patriots' like about his having dropped the bombs. The other half believe that their former general simply abandoned them to save his own skin. Either way, they are not as happy to see him as he'd anticipated and it is obvious from the get go that no one will be taking orders from him any time soon, if ever.

The past several weeks in captivity have been some of the worst weeks in Bass' life. If he'd thought he'd been prepared when they'd tied him to that whipping post, he'd been way off the mark. In Mexico, he'd endured twenty lashes before Connor had been allowed to stop. This time around, Bass had lost count somewhere around the thirtieth or so. He'd past out shortly thereafter.

Of course, Captain McBride had been courteous enough to let him come back around before ordering the man charged with Bass' suffering to finish the job. Bass has only been given a few days to recover before the degradations begin anew. When it is all said and done, he will barely escape with his life.

Much to his astonishment, it seems that not all of his former men have completely turned on him. They will not follow him now, it will mean their deaths. The only other thing the small faction is willing to do for him is to pay an elderly couple to keep Bass safe long enough to recover from his injuries.

Bass' body heals slowly from the ordeal—the rest of the damage that has been inflicted on him is not so easily mended, however. He spends almost a month at the farmhouse before they tell him that he's been there far too long. The longer he's with them, they more likely it is that he will be discovered. They haven't been unkind, but it is clear they have no desire to risk their lives for Sebastian Monroe.

He takes off in the night, covering his tracks and hoping to erase his presence from the area. The three month journey has left him nothing but another network of scars on his back, ribs and sides and endless layers of scars where no one else can see. He's now left with one sad question: Where do I go from here?

He doesn't want to go back to Texas. He has nothing left except his pride and he refuses to go crawling back with his tail between his legs, begging for their acceptance and forgiveness. He manages to sneak on a Patriot train headed west. He climbs into a boxcar while the khaki sons of bitches are clearing a fallen tree from the tracks.

Bass jumps off somewhere in what he thinks (or, at least hopes) is Nebraska and just sort of wanders for a while. He happens to be traipsing through an overgrown field when he comes across a Patriot rider. The man catches sight of him. He's been avoiding the Patriots for the most part—he no longer has stake in this war. He has no one and nothing to fight for, and he could care less what happens in the end. Detection, however; is not an option. He's left with no choice but to take the man down.

Being practical, he searches the body and steals the man's horse and weapons. He finds a large stack of dispatches in the saddle bags. There are lists of bases, munitions depots and the like. This information could come in handy, to be sure. Suddenly, the warrior in Bass comes back to life. In the right hands, this intel he's stumbled upon could certainly make a lot of lives very miserable—and he just happens to be those "right hands."

September 3, 2029… South Dakota…

The war was not going as expected. The Rangers hadn't lost, but the original plans of it being done by summer's end turned out to be a gross exaggeration. They are still in the thick of things and there seems to be no end in sight. The east is one giant mess and the plains are really no better. Washington D.C. has fallen, but really it was a symbol and nothing more.

The Patriots keep coming out of the woodwork and they never seem to run out of supplies or ammo. Miles' company had been chasing leads for weeks, pushing further north with each battle. They were currently bogged down outside of Rapid City at the old Ellsworth Air Force Base.

The Patriots have been using the old base as a reprogramming center and, if their sparse intel is correct, a small munitions dump. If something didn't give, they would lose the battle, and most likely their lives. He hadn't even seen Charlie for a good hour and had no idea if she was among the increasing pile of bodies.

Out of nowhere a small explosion went off. Miles turned in its direction. He saw a shadow scramble away from a now burning building and duck for cover. Moments later, a series of explosions went off. The Patriots stopped fighting for just a few minutes, giving Miles and his men time to recover and advance.

At the end of the day, the base was taken. A search of the rubble showed that there was more to this base than what met the eye. They'd expected to find ammo and a stash of rifles. They hadn't expected to find the remnants of a factory. It seemed that the Patriots had been redeveloping pre-blackout explosives to work without electricity and had been producing them on a larger scale.

Had the timely explosion not occurred, it would only have been a matter of time before those weapons would have been used against them and the record of the day's events would have been something else entirely.

As he walked around camp that night, checking on the wounded and getting reports from squad leaders, Miles thought back to that shadowy figure he'd seen. There'd been something familiar about the way it had moved. It couldn't be…he thought to himself. Could it?

The Texans are severely outnumbered, having no clue what they are really dealing with. Bass, however knows exactly what this place is. He'd been scouting the camp for days before the Rangers suddenly showed up to take the base.

His carefully thought out plan is put into action before he's quite ready, but there's enough chaos going on that it actually makes things easier than he'd anticipated. He's able to use the cover of darkness and the fighting around him to slip into the camp with no one the wiser. No one notices the man slip from one shadow to the next towards the tents that house this make-shift factory.

Bass is just one man, but he's also a very skilled and reckless one. He sets the charges (Nora Clayton wasn't the only one that knew how to plant a bomb) and then goes to set the whole thing off, planning on being well out of the way before go-time.

He barely manages to not blow himself to kingdom come in the process. One of the charges he's set goes off sooner than he's anticipated and he just makes it out of there without being blown to bits.

He'd chosen this target because off all the ones listed in the "Little Black Book of Patriotism" (as he's been calling those dispatches in his mind), this one seems to be the most dangerous when it comes to what its existence could mean.

After hitting a few insignificant targets along the way to South Dakota as trial runs, he's decided to hit the Patriots where it might actually hurt. That he also will save the Rangers sorry asses in the process is a happy accident as far as he's concerned.

He practically scampers to a rise above the camp and watches the mayhem ensue from above. He's sure that if anyone were to see him now, they'd take him for a complete lunatic. He doesn't give a damn. He watches and drinks and laughs, having a good old time. He's practically cackling with glee when the Rangers run them over and take the base.

When the battle is over, a feeling of complete satisfaction washes over Bass. He knows that if it wasn't for his actions, that they'd have been killed. He doesn't want the credit—indeed; he's downright giddy that none were the wiser. He got in, got out and got to blow shit up. Thathad been fun. He pulls out the Little Black Book of Patriotism and flips from one page to the next until he finds another good target.

There's another base in Casper, Wyoming that sounds promising and so many smaller targets along the way. In the morning, he'll get going once more. In the meantime, he's going to finish his whiskey and see if he can sneak some supplies from the allies that don't even know he exists. He's a pretty damn good cat burglar if he puts his mind to it- and stealing from the Rangers will be amusing at any rate.

October 29, 2029

The Patriots had a saboteur. Or, at least that's what the rumors were. There was talk throughout Texas that a rebel faction had either infiltrated the Patriots or some of them had turned on their leaders. Either way, it seemed that they were being attacked from the inside out over and over again.

First, there was the explosion during the battle of Rapid City. Although the official story had been that the explosives had been unstable and had self-ignited, rumor had it that someone had set them off intentionally.

And then not a week later, Acting General Miles Matheson had received an anonymous message drawing him to an unknown depot on the South Dakota, Wyoming border. Three trains stood abandoned, practically giftwrapped for them. Those trains were sorely needed. The rails were the one advantage that the Patriots had over Texas. They'd inherited them all from Georgia when they'd landed and had been putting them too good use.

Miles' official report had been that some unknown party, possibly an allied war clan had killed the men guarding the station. There'd only been a dozen guards left to watch over it all, and it wouldn't have been too hard. Unofficially, he'd been suspicious. Only four of the twelve soldiers had been shot. The rest had been killed with a blade. Several were found under the trains, almost as if someone was hiding their bodies. He'd seen handiwork like this before and had instantly known.

Then there was the battle at Casper. It was a small reprogramming center, but it specialized in a new type of super soldier borne from captured clansmen. Already strong and deadly, they were being reprogrammed to fight with a new type of ferocity not yet seen.

In the midst of the battle, they'd been running out of ammo. That was until someone began attacking from behind enemy lines. With supplies short on both sides in this remote area, they'd been fighting mostly hand to hand and the new cadets were gaining the upper hand. A sniper suddenly began picking them off, one by one from afar.

The search for the unseen assailant had provided the perfect distraction to help Miles get his men closer and suddenly they were on the offense once more. Death from above stopped, but by then the cadets were overrun and it the conclusion had been a mere formality. As it was coming to an end, Miles looked up and he saw him. He'd had his suspicions before, but now they'd been solidified. He knew it was Bass. They locked eyes for just a split second, and he was gone.

After that battle, Miles had looked for him, but had turned up nothing. Charlie had also tried with identical results. He was helping them, and yet for some reason he was trying to remain anonymous. That had been two weeks ago. There'd been little things here or there in the days since. A few wagons left on the road, their driver's dead and supplies waiting to be taken.

Now, they were fighting yet another battle. This time, it was Pueblo Colorado. Things were coming full circle and they were heading back down towards the Texan border. From what Miles knew, the East had already fallen and once the plains were rid of the Patriot infestation, it would all be over.

Miles' men had met up with another company under Malcom Dove. This was the largest battle they'd seen and victory here would be vital to finally ending the war.

Bass has been enjoying himself over the past weeks. It's almost like he's become Robin Hood or Batman, if you will. The trains had been probably one of the most ingenious attacks he's ever planned—and that includes all of those years running the Republic.

Texas needed those trains, Bass needed the supplies they were sure to carry and they'd been ripe for the picking. He'd carefully watched for hours before making his move. When the wind had picked up, a storm looming on the horizon, he'd known it was time. He was up against twelve men that had been charged with watching over a large train yard. Really, it had been foolish of the Patriots to leave it so poorly defended, but then again, who needs large numbers when you've got secrecy on your side?

He'd started off on the far side of the yard. The guards had been split lit up in groups of two and it was nothing to slit a throat and gut a man before anyone could see or hear anything. The weather had given him what he'd needed to work in secret and it hadn't taken long before he'd taken out the first four pairs.

By the time he'd been down to the last four men, they'd realized something was wrong and so he'd taken them with guns blazing. It had ended as quickly as it had begun, his only injury having been a graze along his bicep.

He'd found more than enough medical supplies in one of the boxcars to tend to this minor annoyance. He'd also found a M110 sniper system. He'd been traveling light, but he hadn't been able to resist that one.

He'd waited several days, scouting ahead. He'd known that the Rangers hadn't been far form that train yard. The day after Rapid City, he'd found out just who had been in charge of that company he'd helped. He'd been surprised by that, really. When it had become clear that the Rangers will not stumble upon his gift, he'd send a message to Miles via a local boy with its location. He'd watching from afar when they'd arrived.

The supply wagons had been nothing, a few well timed shots and he'd had them. That had really been for his own survival more than anything. Although he'd been playing the part of a ghost, he still had to eat and Patriots were easier to shoot than game. He'd taken what he could and had left the rest. He knew where Miles was headed and so it was nothing to stay a day or two ahead of them.

Bass had ended up putting that sniper rifle to good use in Casper. He'd gotten there days before the battle and had plenty of time to scout it out. There'd have been no way in hell that he'd have gotten that close to a warclan, but he'd been practically on top of them by the time that Miles had attacked. The brainwashed clansmen had lost that natural awareness that had given them an additional edge. As usual, he'd lain in wait. There was no point in intervening and risking discovery if the Rangers were already winning.

When it had started to look iffy, he'd opened fire. One by one the cadets had fallen. They'd ignored the Rangers after that, searching for Bass instead. He'd ended almost having been caught, but had fought his way out—sadly having to abandon that beautiful rifle.

Making a hasty retreat, he'd doubled back across the Rangers' line, using them to cover his own flight. In the thick of it he'd looked up and had locked eyes with Miles. It was just for a second, and then the sound of gunfire had distracted his old friend long enough for Bass to get out of there.

Afterwards, he'd had to go into hiding to avoid them. Charlie had actually gotten really close and for a second he thought he'd get caught. She'd given up, however and he'd managed to remain alone. That's what he'd wanted, after all.

Of course, Miles wasn't the only one he's helped since finding those dispatches and maps. Stowing away in boxcars, wagons and caravans, he's been able to cover a lot of ground. The Patriots have been talking because they can't imagine it being a single rebellious cell. It's too widespread, in their minds.

Things that Bass hasn't even been responsible for—surely some were just instances of bad luck have been blamed on the sabotage. It's kind of funny, really. He's become a thing of legend, even though they don't realize that it's just been one slightly unstable deposed dictator all along.

He hasn't quite figured out why he started this in the first place. He figures it's probably a combination of things. He was depressed and bored, for one. This has given him something to do, a sense of purpose. He's helping the cause, but he doesn't have to hear about how unwanted or unneeded he is. No one is waiting in the wings, jumping at the chance to remind him that it doesn't change anything—he's still hated.

Another battle looms ahead. The largest Patriot base still standing is in Pueblo, Colorado. Bass knows that's where they'll go next. There's no way Miles can take it alone—the rest of the Rangers in the area will have to meet up with him at some point.

Bass makes sure he's there first. He does what he can before the scene is even set. The Patriots use those barrels to shove their cadets in during the reprogramming process. What if a few of those had something that went boom inside? It's disgusting how easy it is for him to get in and out and rig a few things. A company of Texas Rangers is an easy thing to spot. One man slipping in and out of the shadows is not.

By the time that the fighting has begun, he's ready to make a few moves to give the Rangers an edge when he can. This time, however he can't remain unseen. Eventually, this battle will draw him into the thick of it…

Charlie was bogged down behind an overturned wagon. She was alone and almost out of ammo. She had no idea where Miles was and she knew it was only a matter of time before she was done. She'd taken a knife down the side of her face as she'd fought off another cadet. She'd just barely turned, that having inadvertently saved her eye.

The blood was running down and making it hard to focus. She popped up and got a few more shots off before having to duck down again to avoid getting her head blown off. Her gun now empty, she was working a way out of there in her head when she heard the sound of a rifle being cocked behind her. She slowly turned to see two cadets standing there.

"Hands up," one of them instructed coldly.

She let the now useless weapon fall to the ground and slowly began to comply. Her gaze swept up one of the soldiers, and she almost did a double take when she saw the blade come out the belly of one of them. Two seconds later, a gun went off and the other fell to the ground.

The first fell to his knees to reveal a very tired and filthy looking Bass. They locked eyes while he used a boot to kick the fallen cadet off of his blade. Charlie stood there frozen as the sounds of the battle surrounded them.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. Stashing his gun in his waistband, Bass grabbed her arm. "Time to go," he told her as he pulled her along behind him.

Charlie eventually came back to her senses enough to be of some use. She helped him fight and they edged their way across the base. All of the sudden, he shoved her behind a shack. Pulling out his gun, he aimed not for a Patriot, but for a barrel some distance away. "When I say run, fucking run," he ordered.

She barely had time to nod her understanding. He fired several times and then shouted for her to run, shoving her along. As the explosions went off, he wrapped himself around her, instinctively trying to shield her from the blast.

Bass hadn't planned on getting this close, but he'd seen Charlie get trapped. His initial intentions had been to remain out of the thick of things. He'd had to ditch a lot of his gear when he came out of hiding to get to her, so he doesn't have the equipment to set off that barrel from further away.

The explosion sends several Patriots flying and has provided yet another well-timed distraction. That's all most of his efforts have been. No matter how good he is or thinks he is, Bass is just one man. Distracting the hell out of his enemy and taking them by surprise is the one thing that has not only kept him alive, but is what has enabled him to help these allies that would turn down his aid, if only they knew who'd been helping him. For reasons that Bass cannot fathom, Miles and Charlie have not revealed his secret—yet.

As they slip from one building to the next, he sets off a few more rigged barrels. "Since when were you such a pyromaniac?" Charlie asks him as she shoves him off of her.

They were a bit too close to that last one and he'd used his body as a shield to protect her from some of the shrapnel. It has resulted in a few pieces getting his back and he grunts in pain as he reaches behind to pull one out.

"Gets the job done, doesn't it?" he bites out as he winces. He can't reach the last piece that's embedded in his skin through his jacket.

With a roll of her eyes, Charlie yanks it out. They pause just long enough for Bass to get a better look at the slash on her face. The bleeding has slowed a little and it'll have to wait. It's not bad enough to keep her out of the thick of it. They keep moving and fight their way towards Miles.

They find him and soon they are all fighting together. For the time being, the urge to not die is more important than the unexpected reunion. There will be time to talk about it later. Within a few hours, it is all over.

Texas wins the day and because of the victory here, they will go on to win the war. This is the last reprogramming center to fall and the Patriots no longer have the numbers and supplies to set up another. It is just a matter of time before any straggling soldiers are rounded up and the war will end.

He sticks around just long enough to get his back tended to and make sure that the angry slash on Charlie's face is looked at. Miles stands by, his eyes wide in shock as he sees the mess that is Bass' back. Before he can be questioned about it, Bass gets out of there.

This has been the first time that Bass has spoken to any of them; the first time that he's had to get close enough to interact. When the heat of battle is over, he doesn't know what to say, so he makes sure he doesn't have to say anything. He knows that Miles and Charlie were not the only ones that noted his presence, and he'd rather not have to answer for his actions.

As the war began to wind down, word got back to Blanchard that the "ghost" that had haunted the Patriots in the plains had been Bass. His presence was noted in several more minor skirmishes towards the end. Most of these, he was actually at. Some of them, someone had just thought he might have been there.

Despite his insistence on absolute anonymity, he'd somehow become a war hero. He hadn't wanted it, he hadn't asked for it. And afterwards, he hadn't stuck around long enough to find out about. It...

February12 2030, somewhere in Missouri…

The war has been over for two months. Bass sits in front of his campfire, somewhere in Southwest Missouri. He waits for the beans he's stolen for his dinner to cook as he huddles under a blanket. If he had half a brain, he'd find shelter for the rest of winter, but he's just stubborn enough not to.

He hears a sound in the woods around him. Always suspicious, he leaves his dinner to go check it out. After a good twenty minutes, he's decided that it must have been a deer or something. Too lonely and cold to bother with it further, he goes back to camp.

He finds Charlie sitting in the spot he'd just vacated, taking a bite of his beans. She cocks her brow up at him as she picks up his abandoned flask and takes a good pull off of it. "You should know better than to leave your supplies unattended," she says with a smirk.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, confused by her presence. How has she found him? Why has she even bothered?

Before Bass can ask, he hears another sound behind him. Miles saunters out of the woods as if this is something he did every day. Obviously, he was the one making all that racket in the distance. "It's freezing out here, dummy. Couldn't you find a better spot to set up camp? You know, one a little less—outdoors?"

Bass just stands there dumbfounded as Miles joins his niece in stealing Bass' supper. "Beans? Don't you ever get sick of them?" He asks. He and Charlie share a look and she sets the pot back down and disappears.

A quarter of an hour later, she's back with a wagon. She unloads some supplies and gets started with preparing a real meal for them.

"Sit down, stupid—before you freeze to death," Miles says as he goes to help Charlie in setting up a proper camp. From the looks of him, the man they've finally tracked down is starting to wear thin. The war has been over for almost two months and he's been on his own since then. Winter in the plains is hardly a smart place to be a drifter.

In a state of shock still, Bass resumes his earlier perch. He accepts the woolen blanket that Miles hands him. His thin (and holey) leather jacket has not been adequate protection from the cold and he's grateful for the added layer of protection. He's never been one to bitch about the elements but he's been feeling the low temperatures seep straight through to his bones for days.

"We thought you were dead, you know," Miles finally tells him. "We heard rumors that the Militia had turned on you when you showed up—that they'd finally killed you in the end."

"Who do you think started the rumors? No one hunts down a dead man," Bass said thoughtfully. Charlie handed him a plate and he started to eat. He'd been living off of scraps for the past week, and it was nice to get in a good meal, even if he didn't know why it had been offered.

"What are you doing way out here?" Charlie asks, curious.

"Vacationing in paradise," Bass quips, gesturing to the frozen forest around them. It hasn't snowed yet, but the frost has been pretty much a permanent fixture over the past weeks. This winter will be a bitch of one, to be sure. "Not like I had anywhere else to go. What are youdoing way out here?"

"Looking for you, asshole," Miles says.

Bass sighs. "I figured that. Why? Blanchard send you to take me in?"

"Not exactly," Miles replies cryptically.

Bass finishes his meal and sets the plate down. Picking up his flask, he takes a drink. The burn of the plain's moonshine makes him feel warmer. He has not taste for the stuff, but booze is booze and it's what he could get. "I'm surprised Rachel let you out—figured she'd keep you both under lock and key after you got back from playing cowboys and Indians."

Charlie and Miles both flinch at his words. "Rachel's dead, Bass," Miles tells him quietly.

Bass is taken off guard by that piece of news. His history with the woman was complicated at best, but he hadn't wanted her dead—not really. "When?"

"Right after you left—same day, actually," Miles replies, an underlying bitterness there.

At first, Bass wonders if he's being accused of something, but he figures it out. Miles knows he hadn't had anything to do with it. He's mad because he'd left in the first place; because he hadn't been there when Miles had needed him. "I'm sorry," he eventually says with all the sincerity he can muster.

They sit in silence for a while. Bass is tired and needs sleep. He's been alone for so long that he can't remember the last time he's had the luxury of falling fully into that condition. He's been on the run since the end of the war and is wearing out. "So are you going to tell me why you're here?" he asks again.

Miles nods. He locks eyes with his old friend as he holds his hands out to the fire to warm them. He tells Bass about the job that he and Charlie were offered by Blanchard—how that offer has been extended to him as well. Blanchard needs people that can get things done discretely, behind the scenes. The three of them exposed the Patriots for what they were and managed to help save a continent. He couldn't ask for a better group for the job.

He waits for Bass to absorb this before making one final comment. "We're here to bring you back. It's time to come home, Bass."

They don't expect him to decide right away. Charlie offers to take first watch and so he and Miles bed down for the night. Thoughts of what he's been offered swirl around Bass' mind. Home… it's such a foreign concept to him now, so long as it's been since he's had one. It dawns on him what Miles has meant by that. Maybe there is a chance for him to finally find a place where he can stop fighting and just be. If he gives it a chance, maybe he can finally belong. "Okay, I'll do it," he says into the darkness.

"Good," is Miles' tired reply.