A/N: Written for Revolution Redux. Prompt #123: Charlie grows up in the militia. This turned into a multi chapter fic of stuff. So weekly updates though. That'll be exciting. Reviews are always welcome (and encouraged.)
The wood was hard on my back as I was staring up at the stained ceiling above me. They wouldn't put us in the barracks anymore. Apparently we scared the soldiers in the camps, so they started to put us up in different abandoned houses. It wasn't like we cared; all of us were beyond that. We all slept in the same room, and normally it was soothing; tonight I was just restless. I sat up from the creaking floor, giving up on sleep for now; instead attempting to pull the memories of my family through the thick haze where I usually kept them. I couldn't give up information that I didn't know.
I don't even remember what my mom looked like. I can't help myself from thinking of Danny every day; his face having blurred a long time ago. If I try really, really hard, I can almost remember what he and dad looked like. Well, what they looked like the last time I saw them. When the ass-hats in charge started to give us more leeway on solo missions I found Danny and my father. I never went up to them, or spoke to them, but I left them presents on their birthdays. Let them know I was watching over them. Remembering things like that helped me. Because hell, I was starting to forget that my name had been Matheson before.
After my mom left, my dad told us if we were ever taken we were not to use our real last name. Every day we had had to go over a back story so we could remember it. It was so ingrained in my head I believed it most of the time. So naturally, when I was taken, I gave my name as Charlotte Meyers. Daughter to Ben and Maggie Meyers and sister to Danny Meyers. We had left our town three months ago, ending up in another just as forgettable community in Ohio. The militia had taken me one year after my mom left to keep us safe. No, that wasn't right. A man named Tom Neville had been in charge of recruiting us. No one else knows who we are.
I am one of ten members of Project Black Mamba. Something that not even President Monroe and General Matheson knew about. We had been trained starting the day we were taken. Granted, we weren't the only ones. All in all one hundred fifty two eleven-year-old children were taken from all over the Monroe Republic and put into training. Seventy-three of them were now dead. Forty-four of them were wishing that they were; trapped in various dungeons and torture chambers because they had tried to revolt or finished the program too late to be set free. The other twenty-five had turned into the pride and joy of the army. They were the "finest group of soldiers ever produced" at one of the enlisting center. The additional six years of training were what had given them an edge as opposed to natural talent. All of those men (because yes, they were all men) had a tendency towards violence that made them good soldiers, but not good spies. The ten of us were the ones with enough of everything necessary. Ten years of training turned us into expert killers, trackers, bowmen, swordsmen, assassins, executioners, and schmoozers. We were, for all intents and purposes, the perfect spies.
And tomorrow marked the first time we were going to meet the President of the Republic, Sebastian Monroe himself. We were being given, as a gift – the word made me shudder with disgust – by Mr. Neville, our perennial protector, to our gracious dictator. He said it was simply time that our existence was known, but we all knew it was because he wanted a promotion. And unbeknownst to the nine people that knew be the best in the world, I was going to see my uncle Miles for the first time since the blackout had begun. My teammates could tell that I was off, but they also knew I didn't want to talk about it.
I had always been able to separate the astounding things I had heard about my uncle doing from the warm feeling I got when I thought about him before the blackout. With our impending meeting, I wasn't sure if I could continue in my denial. It didn't really matter at this point because I've definitely done worse than him by now. I've also had worse done to me, but that isn't relevant now.
Restless, I stood and crossed to the door. We all would leave at some point tonight, hitting different bars and taverns to garner information just by being there. I was early, but that shouldn't be a problem. Before walking out the door, I slipped on my hooded militia jacket. It was my favorite, and it was unmarked in a dark fabric, making it easy to blend in. There was a Monroe symbol hidden in the cuff of one of the sleeves. We used it to signal whether we were in trouble. If it was showing, we needed help.
Even without thinking, I followed my training to a tee, staying in the shadows, half listening to all the people around me, watching the soldiers along the street for any signs of discontent. Pausing to scan the crowd, I ducked into an inconspicuous looking bar. A haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air, choking me. It wasn't common nowadays, making the fact that it was filling what had looked to be a hole surprising. I hid my surprise, simply moving to the bar and ordered a whiskey. I longed for the burn in my throat. Unfortunately, with the training alcohol didn't really affect them anymore. All of us had built tolerances to what were seen as "truth serums" and some of the poisons made our tolerances to alcohol ridiculously high. I still loved the taste though. Especially this. The hole I'm in continues to surprise, high quality whiskey is hard to come by.
I sat there for about and hour, nursing a few drinks. The only lasting affects would be to my wallet. Thank god I was funded by the government. Any questions I had about why there were so many high end goods were answered when every person in the bar suddenly stood at attention. Being in a back corner, no one had noticed me even before they walked in so they didn't notice when I didn't stand. Everyone was captivated by the three men who were now moving towards my side of the room. I shifted slightly, a hand reaching up to adjust my hood further over my face. They had deep cowls, and lent to an air of mystique that we unintentionally gained through our years of training. The reflex of hiding my face had been beaten into me when it became clear that I was, as I had been told, gorgeous.
Before they got here, I had been intending to leave; my head had cleared in the smoky interior of the bar and I felt a few hours of additional rest would do me good tonight. That plan flew out the window when all three big wigs sat down at a table less than fifteen feet from me. There was no way I was going to get out of this place without being noticed.
Settling in for a long night, I trained my gaze blankly in the distance and my hearing zeroed in on what was going in at the other table. Miles pulled memories from the deepest recesses of my mind, ones that I hadn't even realized still existed. Memories from before the blackout. Our family hadn't really been close, but I know that I had seen him at few Christmases. He was the man with dark hair and chocolate brown eyes. There was another man with lightly tanned skin, straight dark blonde hair and light eyes. Apparently his name was Captain Baker. It turned into Jeremy when they got progressively drunker. That meant the final man at that table was the great Sebastian Monroe. He would be ludicrously attractive. Between his jawline, curly hair, and light sapphire eyes he was almost hard to look at. And a glance at all of their postures told me that they were all fighters and even under their clothes anyone could tell they were fit. As the hours passed the occupants began to filter out of the door. Throughout the night I felt a shifting gaze on me, it happened a few times before I realized that it was this Captain Baker.
It was hours before they got done commiserating. I had been starting to loose focus, but my gaze still lingered on nothing in the smoky room. Miles was the first to leave, with the President soon after. Both were weaving slightly, having imbibed a fair amount of alcohol. Those two took just about every soldier that was left with them. Guess a president did need an escort. Removing a small bag of diamonds from my pocket, I drained my final glass of whiskey and moved to leave. Captain Baker looked up at me as I moved past his table in my quest for the door.
"How – how're you still st-st-standing?" He half slurred, half stuttered at me. With a practiced smile, I leaned forward and braced my hands on his table. His eyes were firmly glued to my chest which was showing through the gaping zipper of my jacket. Smiling I drawled down at him, "Practice." Swaying my hips side to side I moved towards the door, knowing his stare was glued to my ass. I hadn't been trained in seduction techniques for nothing.