Aevum: The state that lies between God and man's temporary existence - where the soul goes at death. Eternity. If you believe in that sort of thing. If not: time or timeless - you choose. ;)

Disclamer: To NBC goeth the spoils.

A/N: This explores Miles's and Bass's military backstory and how it corresponds to their creation of the Monroe Republic and early experiences governing it. There are therefore two timelines; the storyline in the past occurs three years before the blackout on Miles's and Bass's third tour of duty as marines, the previous two of which had been in Iraq, while this one is in Afghanistan. Something traumatic and formative happens to Miles during this tour. The storyline in the present is post-blackout and timing is noted accordingly. T for language, sex, the usual crassness...


The Present: 6 Months After the Blackout

The two friends supported the injured man, whose dragging feet exuded debilitating fatigue. Blood still trickled from his battered mouth.

Miles's shoulder was getting tired of the dead weight. Bass wasn't looking at his best friend – wasn't talking. Bass's face when Miles had shot the two attackers haunted the taller, dark-haired man. The two marines had watched each other kill time and again under orders, but the context here was all wrong. Still, didn't Bass get it? A world of chaos lay between them and Ben, and they had to make it to Ben. Miles was no superman; he knew he couldn't save the world from spinning off it axis. But he had to do what he could. He'd made a promise to protect his country, and he'd always believed he would die doing it. All he knew was that. And he wasn't dead yet.

"What's your name, man?" Bass finally asked the poor bastard in a somewhat shaky voice.

"Jeremy Baker," the man choked out.

"I'm Bass – Sebastian Monroe – and this is Miles Matheson."

Jeremy tried to nod.

"Need to find a place to bed down for the night – get you some rest," Miles said with his usual economy of words. Back when they were bored on the front lines, Bass would jokingly turn Miles's words into haikus, or what he dubbed, 'wise words from the poet,' to which Miles would roll his eyes. The privates in their unit had actually christened Miles 'the poet' behind his back, though of course they called him 'sarge' to his face. Miles's iron balls in combat were legendary, and he'd been universally respected by the enlisted. Bass never said so, nor did the men, but they all found Miles's terseness comforting. Too much talk in war was cheap.

The limping trio came upon high ground in the woods, and Miles nodded that this seemed as good a place as any to rest up. Bass built a fire, while Miles took a cloth and poured booze on it. "Want some?" He asked Jeremy, and Jeremy took a swig, scowling as the whiskey burned his esophagus. Miles began to clean Jeremy's wounds. "Your ribs might be broken." Miles informed him unhelpfully, "Can't do anything 'bout that."

Jeremy nodded, finding that he liked his blunt but oddly gentle savior. Miles was a large man but had a humble stoop to his shoulders. "You guys seem to know what you're doing out here – more than average folks. What did you do, you know, before?" Jeremy asked them.

Miles's dark eyes made brief contact with Jeremy's. "Marines." He looked away, feeling somehow unsure of himself.

Jeremy's bottom lip puffed out, impressed. "Guess I fell in with the right crowd."

Miles shrugged, rubbing his nose violently.

Bass glanced over his shoulder from his crouch by the awakening fire. "We gonna talk about what happened back there, Miles?"

Miles grunted. "What," he stated rather than asked.

"You know what, man. Wasting people…just because we can."

Miles dabbed at Jeremy's bloody neck, scowling.

"Look, I know no one's asking me, but…I'm grateful for what Miles did. I was almost a dead man," Jeremy interjected.

"No offense, man, you seem like a nice guy, but since when do we get to decide who the nice guys are, Miles?" Bass pressed his friend.

Miles finished with Jeremy and stood up to his full height, hands on hips. "I think I have a decent barometer. Fuckholes who go around killing people in their sleep for food: not nice. Nice: people who don't do that."

Bass started to protest again, but Miles interrupted him. "I'm going to walk to Chicago. If you guys wanna come – fine. Along the way, I'll continue to do my job, which is to protect innocent citizens of the United States."

"Aw Miles, look around. There is no United States anymore," Bass objected. "You know that."

Miles turned briefly away, emotion rising. "I don't believe it. It can't have fallen this fast. Not everywhere."

Jeremy gazed down at the dirt and asked cautiously, "What are you looking for in Chicago?"

Bass eyed Miles, as if he too were interested in the response despite knowing the stated reason.

"My brother. And…answers. Ben'll know what to do," Miles said tersely.

Ah, Bass thought. Therein lay the tragic optimism. Since setting off, they hadn't discussed Ben's phone call, warning them of the blackout. How Ben could possibly have known about it in advance was a mystery almost as great as the infinite blackness itself.

"He may be your big brother, man, but trust me – he doesn't know what to do. Nobody does," Bass said bleakly, earning a sharp look from Miles.