"I guess I should have hugged him more."
-Bass Monroe
Prologue in Three Parts
Connor Bennett is crazy.
He wasn't always crazy. Everyone knows this, but he is definitely crazy now. He's not the kind of crazy that people might chuckle over at family dinners. This isn't Uncle Melvin dropping his teeth in the soup before singing Old Susanna. No, Connor is the kind of crazy that makes people tremble in fear, and that is exactly what they do. In the two years that have passed since Texas declared war on the Patriots; Connor has built a life for himself – an honest to God Republic of his own. The way wasn't easy. How he got where he is has required acts of trickery and cruelty few would have ever thought him capable of, but so it goes.
The northeast is still a fall-out zone and far too 'hot' (even after all this time) to live in safely. It is for this reason that Connor had based his operations out of the Midwest. He'd toyed with St. Louis and Des Moines, but both were heavily defended by war clans. In the end, he'd settled on Indianapolis. The winters are colder than what he'd enjoyed in Mexico or even Texas for that matter, but generally it's not a bad location for a young dictatorship. The former capital building serves not only as Connor's home, but his government's headquarters. The lower levels are where the prison is located, as well as the barracks for his militia.
The Bennett Republic is still fairly small (for now) though it grows by the day. It is very different from the Monroe Republic, but Connor had certainly used the legends of his father's long dead empire as inspiration for the one he is building for himself. He longs for the day when his father will join him and they will rule together just as they'd planned to do long ago. Connor knows in his heart that this will happen. It is just a matter of time.
This particular spring day is cool and the sweet smell of lilacs wafts on the breeze. Connor sips chamomile tea from a dainty china cup as he looks out over the courtyard four floors below. It's almost noon on Tuesday, which means the entertainment will be starting soon. He smiles as the bell in the clock tower begins to clang its midday song. As if on cue, some of his militia soldiers march into the space below with four blindfolded traitors in tow. The men are lined against a long brick wall. Connor watches, mesmerized as rifles are aimed…
Without warning there is a loud knock on his office door. Connor whirls, an angry scowl replacing the smile from moments before as steaming tea burns his fingers. "What do you want?" he growls at his visitor. The gunshots ring out loudly through the open window. Connor closes his eyes, frustrated to have missed his favorite part. He opens them narrowly, and considers gutting the nervous assistant who stands before him. After a moment of consideration, Connor decides that killing him wouldn't be worth the trouble it would take to train a replacement. He shrugs. They need to get to work anyway. They need to strategize. Time is of the essence.
Besides, there's always next Tuesday.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Rachel Matheson is sick.
She's not sick with the flu or pneumonia or probably anything remotely treatable at all. She doesn't know what is wrong exactly – but she senses it's serious. At first it was just the headaches. Blinding pain and white light accompanied by high pitched squeals that only she could hear. She'd chalked them up to stress for several weeks, assuming they would pass in time. But recently in addition to the headaches, she's started to lose time. One minute she's eating dinner or reading a book. The next she's standing on the edge of town, staring into the night sky. Miles is busy and hasn't really noticed her odd behavior, but Rachel knows she won't be able to keep it from him for much longer.
Rachel is an intelligent woman. Hell, who is she kidding? She's a genius. Although she doesn't know that much about neurological science, she is fairly confident that whatever is wrong with her is in her brain. Maybe it might have been treatable before the power went out. The irony isn't lost on her. It is Rachel's brain, after all, that was largely to blame for the blackout.
She needs to see a doctor. In her heart she knows she really needs to see a neurologist, but of course there aren't any left in Texas as far as she knows. Even if she could find one, there isn't much they could do without the gadgets and machines of years gone by. No matter. At the very least she needs to visit a regular doctor. Even though she doesn't want to, she knows she's going to have to talk to her Dad about this, and probably the sooner the better.
Rachel feels in her gut that she's running out of time.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Bass Monroe is in love.
This new love is different from what he felt for Emma. That love had been young and forbidden. Emma had never really been his – always belonging to Miles, at least officially. Maybe things would have been different if they'd been honest with him back then - maybe, but then again maybe not. Bass had given up playing the 'what if' game a long time ago.
This new love is different from what he felt for Shelly. That love had also been young, and it had been sweet and special and he will always treasure the happy memories he has of their time together. Their future had looked so bright and he remembers how hopeful they'd been. Losing Shelly and their baby had broken him. It had turned him into someone – something – that he was almost unable to escape from.
Everything had fallen apart at the tower. Bass was already reeling from the knowledge that he had a son out there somewhere when in one fateful night he lost both his city and his Republic. These devastating blows had served as a catalyst for change in him. He wasn't even sure he could change at first. It had taken months of being a nobody in New Vegas to remember he used to be somebody. Once, long ago he had been more than the President of the Monroe Republic or the General of its Militia. He had been Bass back then, and Bass had been an okay guy. The thing was, Bass had succeeded in life only when standing next to his best friend. So he'd gone in search of Miles. It had been rough going for a while, but the two were now once again on (mostly) solid ground with each other.
The Patriot War has been over for more than a year, but Bass has stuck around Willoughby long after he was truly needed there.
In the beginning he told himself he was staying for Miles, but he wasn't able to convince himself of that for long. Once she had it in her head that he was the guy for her, Bass didn't stand a chance. Not that he wanted to deny the feelings that had grown between them. Some things can't be denied.
Bass had thought he would never love again. His heart was too broken. His soul was too tired. Hell, he was just too damned old. He'd been wrong. She is different from Emma and different from Shelly. She is different from every woman he's ever met, and yet he feels that every woman before her was preparing him for this love. Every lesson he's learned, every loss he's suffered has brought him to her. Somehow she loves him in spite of the fact that he doesn't deserve it. She loves him, flaws and all, and in return he has given her his heart.
They lie entwined on the bed in his house. He's propped up on one elbow, gently rubbing circles into her back, running his palm along her torso and down her thigh. He could just stay like this forever, watching her, touching her. But they need to talk. They love each other to distraction, but they've been fighting a lot lately. It's always the same argument and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight.
"I don't want you to do it." He says, for what must be the hundredth time.
"We aren't going to talk about it anymore. I have to do it. You know that." She moves away from his touch, standing to walk naked to the dresser where she has a change of clothes stashed in a drawer. He watches as she dresses quickly, admiring every inch of exposed flesh before it disappears from view.
"I love you." His voice is soft and pleading.
"I know you do." She smiles at him and it is the most devastating smile. Every time he sees it, he is sure his heart will explode. "I love you too. I still have to do it." She kisses him then. It is a lingering kiss that makes him want nothing more than to drag her back to his bed, but he doesn't.
"See you in a week?" he asks instead. He had known he wasn't going to win this argument, but he had to try.
"Of course." She blows him one last kiss before leaving. As he falls back into his pillow, Bass sighs unhappily. Falling in love with a strong, stubborn woman is wonderful and amazing, but sometimes it is also a pain in the ass. He knows he'll worry until he can hold her in his arms again. He'll worry because she is his life. She is his love. She carries his heart with her wherever she goes.
Bass glances at the old fashioned wind-up Big Ben clock next to his bed. A week apart shouldn't be a big deal, but he knows that it will drag and he will be miserable until she comes home to him again. Being in love is wonderful and amazing, but sometimes it also sucks.
Chapter 1
Frank Blanchard had jumped from retirement right into the mix when Texas declared war. Shortly after the war had gone full throttle, he'd jumped again – this time into the role of the President of Texas. Frank had been the only valid option really: partly due to the fact that the Patriots had killed just about every high ranking member of the Texas government by then, and partly because nobody else wanted the top spot.
Just as Blanchard had been the only real choice for President; so was Miles Matheson the most obvious choice for Willoughby's sheriff. He'd gotten the job as soon as the ink on the Patriot surrender was signed. What had surprised everyone – even Miles – was his natural flair for the job. Back when he and Bass had run the Monroe Republic together, Miles had led the militia, but had left the politics to Bass. Bass was smoother, more charming, and he loved the attention. Surprisingly, Miles is finding he too can be smooth and charming when he wants to be, and he doesn't hate the attention like he'd thought he might. Bottom line: He bitches about it from time to time, but Miles is a very good sheriff.
Maybe too good.
President Blanchard had recognized Miles's success by adding to his responsibilities. Now, in addition to running Willoughby, Sheriff Matheson oversees five additional Texas towns in the vicinity. They cover a decent chunk of the area (now called the Matheson District) and he has to travel a lot. Unfortunately this has meant his time with Rachel and Charlie and even Bass has been limited to a few days out of each month. That's the part of the job he hates.
Miles is in Willoughby this week to catch up on paperwork, have a few meetings and make the rounds in town. He counts himself lucky to have several qualified deputies who do all the heavy lifting. Today he sits behind a big oak desk, sifting through reports with a frown. He's preparing for a series of meetings with Georgia that have him on edge. A lot rides on renewing the current treaty, and it has fallen to Miles to ensure that the renewal happens. Georgia was a mere shadow of its former self. The only thing that had saved the western portion was the Gulf Winds that pulled the worst of the nuclear fallout East. What was left of Georgia is small, but the people there are still a force to be reckoned with. This treaty has to be renewed. Miles sighs heavily.
The door bangs open and Miles knows the identity of his visitor without even looking up.
"Bass." He says. Monroe always did enjoy making an entrance. Miles glances at his friend and feels the now familiar sting of pity, though he hides it behind a friendly smile. Bass's limp isn't pronounced unless it's raining or getting ready to rain, but it's there. It will always be there.
It had been a warm day and there hadn't been much Patriot activity in the area for weeks. The two Generals were leading a group of twenty-five soldiers through a thick grove of pecan trees when the ambush had occurred. Miles came out unscathed, as had most of their men. By the end of the brief battle, all the Patriot soldiers were dead and so were four of the Texans. Bass was badly injured, his left thigh reduced to nothing more than pulp and broken bones. Miles was sure his best friend would bleed out right there, and he would have but one of the remaining Texas soldiers was a former Emergency Room Doctor. Almost too old to fight; he had patched Bass up as best he could right there under the shade of the Pecan trees. They had busted tail to get Bass back to town and Gene had set in immediately with the ER Doc at his side. Gene swore Bass Monroe had a guardian angel watching over him that day. "He should be dead." The old doctor had said. "No way is he ever walking again. For that matter - no way is he keeping that leg." Gene had been wrong on all three counts luckily, but Bass's leg will never be the same.
"Stop looking at me like I'm a dying kid on a telethon, Miles. It's been a year. I'm as okay as I'm ever gonna be and I'm not sad about it. Why the hell should you be?" Bass's grin is cocky, but he looks tired as he rubs his left thigh absently. He's in some degree of pain at all times. That had been one thing the doctor had predicted correctly.
"Sorry Bass. You know I just feel bad about how that all went down. I should have seen that guy coming."
Monroe shrugs, "Whatever. That's not why I'm here."
"And why are you here?" Miles leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Bass doesn't usually visit.
"Have some time to kill this week. Been working a lot, but in my free time I've been pretty bored these last few days. Wondered if you'd be up for a drink while you're in town? I could use a distraction."
Miles smiles and nods, "I think I can squeeze you in. How about tomorrow night?"
Bass stands, "Sounds good Brother. See you then."
Xxxx
Connor Bennett is worried. Resources are scarce.
His Republic needs to expand their tillable acres. Farmland in the East is tainted and anything grown there is still toxic. Illinois and Indiana have both been good for planting, but with a steadily growing population; they need more lands where crops will thrive. A lot more, and they need them fast.
Connor stands next to a huge table in an opulent parlor, leaning on his fists. His eyes scan the familiar boundaries on the map before him. So far Connor has only been able to re-claim a portion of his father's former holdings. The East is fried, but Connor and his men have taken Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin for the Bennett Republic. So far, his only current holding that wasn't once part of the Monroe Republic is eastern Missouri, and that has been a very recent acquisition. The area is still plagued by war clans. Connor will have to send a lot of troops to clear them out. He sighs. That is a problem for a different day. Today the worry is farmland.
The lands around the Mississippi River have been the best for food production so far, and Connor wants more of it. He jabs a finger at the map. "We have scouts here." He points at Iowa. "and here at the Triangle." He points at the junction where the Bennett Republic (the section that was once southeastern Missouri) meets current Texas and Georgia borders. "This spot may be heavily guarded, but I have a good feeling about it." He taps the edge of Texas a few times, lost in thought.
He looks up from his reverie, "Has anyone heard from either group? I expected word by now." His eyes are clear but hard. He is not a man to be trifled with. His assistant nods and leaves the room in search of anyone who can get the information President Bennett wants.
Xxxx
"So you're sure?" Rachel asks her Dad, her voice shaky.
Gene looks exhausted and heartbroken, "Well no, honey I'm not sure. I'm not a specialist in this field. I've never diagnosed or treated a brain tumor before. I certainly don't have the training or equipment to remove one – even if I knew where to look." Gene rubs at the stubble on his chin. He is distraught after listening to Rachel detail her symptoms. He's not a neurologist, but he'd bet money that something in Rachel's head is a ticking time bomb.
"I love you Daddy. Try not to worry." Rachel's mouth quivers. She hates feeling weak, but right now weakness and fear are the only emotions she knows. She wishes Miles was here with her. He's been so busy lately, but she yearns for him in this time of uncertainty.
"I love you to Rachel. I'm sorry I can't help you more. If the pain becomes too much I can give you something for that." Gene gives his daughter a hug.
"Thanks Dad. I'll keep in in mind."
She leaves her Dad's office, determined to find Miles and tell him about this. He deserves to know.
xxxx
Charlie Matheson has been scouting on a freelance basis for the Texas Rangers since shortly after the Patriot War had begun. Even though the Patriot threat has been eliminated, Texas still worries about war clans and potential invasions from other nations. It is for this reason that she is still doing her thing for Texas. The current task is simple, but potentially dangerous. Their team's assignment is to check the borders at what they call the Triangle. Texas and Georgia are somewhat friendly. At the moment their treaty is being renegotiated but most still consider Georgia a Texas ally. Nobody, on the other hand trusts the Bennett Republic as far as they can throw them. It is in this one spot that all three nations meet. They are maybe ten clicks from the Triangle's center when all hell breaks loose.
The first thing that happens is Jameson goes down; a big red flower of blood blooming on his chest, his eyes unblinking before the sound of gunshots even really registers with his teammates. Charlie jumps into action immediately, using every trick Miles and Monroe had ever taught her. She watches two more of the Texas group go down: Pedro and McCallister. She curses. McCallister was their best shot. She aims and fires off two shots of her own, hitting two soldiers (she can't tell from here what uniform, if any, they're wearing). Another one of the Texans is shot: this time it's Ceclia with the curly red hair and the penchant for breaking into song. Charlie grits her teeth and charges. She gets off another shot and another attacker falls. She has killed four more before they get her. It is then, and only then that she sees for sure who the enemy is. The man who cuffs her and throws her roughly into the back of a wagon with four others is wearing the Bennett Militia uniform. She groans inwardly. When they ask for names, Charlie says without hesitating, "Nora Clayton". No way is she telling these sons of bitches who she really is. She's heard the stories of the brutality that Connor Bennett routinely doles out these days. She has a feeling that a girl he used to have a thing for, but who turned him down flat the last several times he asked… won't get any special treatment.
She looks at the defeated faces of the other captured Texans: Bobby, Chad, Gonzo and Nellie. "You guys all right?" Charlie asks.
Nellie shrugs, her expression blank, "We're gonna die Charlie."
Charlie scowls, "No we are not. We're gonna – " She doesn't see the butt of the rifle that they hit her with. She only sees a bright flash of light and then she sleeps.
xxxxxxxxxx
Miles is tidying up his desk a bit before leaving for the day. He's honestly been looking forward to a drink with Bass ever since his friend had mentioned it yesterday. They have a lot to catch up on. He stands and is half to the door when it comes open. A messenger stands there. Based on his uniform, he is part of the Rangers organization.
"What is it?" Miles asks.
The kid is young and clearly nervous. He bites his lip, unsure what to say at first.
"I asked what is it?" Miles asks again. His gaze is boring into the boy now.
"Well sir." The kid clears his throat. "There's been some trouble up by the Triangle. Rangers office said you would want to know."
Miles feels his heart sink into his boots, "Charlie?" he asks.
The kid nods once. "She's missing sir. One of our guys got away. They say she and a handful of others were taken off in a wagon as prisoners, Sir."
"Who took them?" Miles can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He knows in his gut what the answer will be but he finds himself praying he's wrong.
"Well, our guy wasn't absolutely sure."
Miles slams a clenched fist down on his desk, "Tell me! Who do they think took her?"
The boy has gone ashen as Miles stares him down. "The Bennett Republic Sir."
Miles knew it, but hearing the words sends a shiver down his spine. "Fuck."
He has to find Bass.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Miles is running down the main drag of Willoughby. He cuts an impressive figure to begin with but when Miles is on the run, his face tight with fear and determination; everyone jumps out of the way.
Everyone but one person.
He comes to a crashing halt as Rachel steps into his path. "Is she okay?" Rachel asks. How she knows is a mystery to Miles but he won't waste a moment worrying about it.
"I don't know. Sounds like Connor's men have taken her – probably to Indianapolis. I'm gonna go get Bass right now."
He starts to run again and he can hear Rachel hot on his trail. They arrive at the little bar where Miles was supposed to meet Bass for drinks. Miles pushes through the door and it smacks loudly against the wall. Bass is already there and looks up with a grin. "Thought I was the only one that walked into a place like that." He's laughing, but then he sees the look on Miles's face, and he sees Rachel and the fear that is clear on hers. He stands and walks to them, his limp more pronounced than usual. He must have been siting there for a while.
"What's wrong Miles?" he knows, but he asks anyway. He knows before Miles says the words. He knows because he can see it in the way they are looking at him – fear and pity.
"It's Charlie." Miles says, his voice straining from the emotion. "Connor has taken her prisoner."
"Connor." Bass says, his voice full of fear and loathing at the name of his only son. This is the reason they pity him. They know how horrified he is to know his son has turned out this way. Bass runs a shaky hand across his bearded chin. If Connor touches one hair on her head, Bass will kill the boy himself. "Let's go." He says then, no hesitation. He's on board with any and every plan Miles might possibly come up with. Charlie is in trouble.
Miles looks distraught, "I can't go."
"What?" Rachel and Bass speak with one voice, both shocked to hear Miles say he can't go.
"I have to meet with Georgia tomorrow. Our treaty with them is on very shaky ground. Blanchard is worried we'll have another war on our hands. I'll be right behind you. A day back – two at most - but you have to go first Bass. You have to go help her. I need you to do this Brother, and maybe Connor will listen to you."
Bass snorts, "Yeah, that will happen." He shakes off the frustration. He has work to do.
"You probably have the best chance of all of us. That crazy kid thinks you want to join him anyway." Miles says.
Bass straightens his shoulders, and nods. "I really don't know that he'll listen to me, but I'll go get Charlie back. I won't let him hurt her." He frowns, trying to hide the terror he's feeling in this moment. Bass takes a steadying breath before continuing, "I've got to pack a few things and get a fresh horse. I can be on my way in twenty minutes."
Miles nods, feeling hopeful for the first time since hearing the news of Charlie's capture. He opens his mouth to thank his friend, but Bass is already out the door. Miles sinks into a nearby chair, holding his head in his hands. He is filled with so much anger, so much hatred for Connor Bennett in this moment, he can hardly breathe.
He looks up and sees Rachel watching him. She looks repulsed. "A treaty with Georgia is more important than Charlie?" venom drips from every word. She turns and walks out, not waiting for a reply.
Miles grabs the first thing he can; it's the half full glass of whiskey Bass had just abandoned. With a feral growl, Miles hurls the glass at the wall of the bar where it shatters. The bartender starts to say something, but seeing the rabid look on Miles's face; he reconsiders. He just nods to the Sheriff before turning to get the broom.
Miles storms out. This Georgia shit better not take long. He needs to help Bass find Charlie.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
When Charlie wakes up, her head aches. She looks around and sees the sun setting beyond the tree line. Her hands are cuffed, and the bindings around her wrists have been attached to the side of the wagon. She does a quick inventory. All of her weapons are gone. This isn't a surprise exactly, but she'd hoped they might miss the knife in her boot. No such luck.
She looks at the others. Bobby and Chad are asleep, or at least she hopes so. Both are leaning against the opposite side of the wagon, heads lolling and eyes closed. Nellie is crying quietly in one corner. Gonzo is – well, she's pretty sure Gonzo is dead. "What happened?" Charlie whispers at Nellie, motioning her head in Gonzo's direction.
Nellie composes herself somewhat, "He was mocking one of the soldiers. Said he was fat and lazy and it was a miracle he'd been able to catch us."
"Then what?" she asks, impatiently.
"Then Mr. Fat and Lazy beat him with his rifle stock till he died. You were out cold. The other guys didn't say anything. Neither did I. We're all too scared.
They sit in silence for a while. Nellie finally asks Charlie a question. "Do you know President Bennett? I know your uncle and his Dad are friends."
Charlie closes her eyes as thoughts of Miles and Bass wash over her. They'll find her. She knows it in her heart. She only hopes they'll find her soon. "Yeah, I know him. His Dad and my Uncle are friends, that's true." She pauses a moment before continuing, "But Bass and Connor had a big falling out. They haven't talked in a really long time."
"Have you heard the stories out of Indianapolis? The torture? The firing squads?"
Charlie can only nod, remembering a sweet seemingly innocent boy of long ago. "Yeah, I've heard."
"We're gonna die." Nellie says. She sounds resigned. Charlie doesn't argue. Nellie is probably right.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Bass has saddled up his favorite stable horse Roland. Roland is sleek and black and faster than any other horse Bass has ever ridden. He has his bedroll ready and his bag packed, not that he needed much. Most of his 'packing' efforts had been spent accumulating every weapon and bit of ammo he could get his hands on that he can take along. He's carefully, but quickly figuring out where everything will go. When he's satisfied, he takes a deep breath and mounts the horse. Stabbing pain shoots up his leg, but he ignores it. When he pulls the reigns to the side, nudging the horse from the stable; he sees her.
Rachel Matheson is standing before a sleek white horse. It is packed in a manner similar to Bass's horse.
"What's going on Rachel?" he asks. He's tired and worried and in no mood to deal with her.
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not."
"Yeah, I am. Charlie is my daughter and I want to help."
Bass is going to argue, but what's the point? He knows how stubborn Matheson women can be. He has no time to argue. "Fine," he says, "but I'm not doing anything special for you. Keep up or you'll be left behind. I don't care if you are Miles's girlfriend and Charlie's Mom. You will not slow me down."
"I'll keep up." She promises.
He doesn't respond, but kicks his heels into Roland's flanks and sets off into the night, Rachel Matheson following not far behind.
Miles watches from a storefront across the street. He wants more than anything to join them, but takes some comfort in knowing that both Bass and Rachel are on Charlie's trail. He'll follow as soon as this Georgia bullshit is behind him. For now, he'll just have to wait.
Author's Note: Thanks to the amazing dvpdvpdvp for the inspiration for this story. In the coming chapters you'll be seeing all the familiar faces from the show, including one that we haven't seen in a while… I'm really excited about where this story is headed, and I hope you'll come along on this new journey with us. Review if you have a minute. I love to hear your thoughts.
