A/N
Hey guys, back with chapter 2 this week.
This chapter is Geoff centric.
Geoff Ramsey is known as George Ransom
Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit
Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer

Outskirts of Boston- Camp of the Minutemen, Early May 1771

George Ransom never liked the color red. Not when he was young and learned it bled from his veins, and not now when the enemy wears the shade. Kill British soldiers; make them pay for what they've done. His father's words had rung in his ears since they had been said twenty years ago.

George ceased polishing his gun, which earned him a couple looks from the other soldiers. He blankly stared ahead into the surrounding woods. All laughing around him had reached an abrupt stop, the men stopped pretending to shoot at ghosts of red coats, and a couple guys tried to follow his gaze into the darkness. "Ransom," a voice called out his name, and George snapped from his trance brought on by the memory, he glanced to his left. Tim Bedel had broken the seemingly everlasting silence, "You all good there?" George nodded his head slowly. His thoughts always seemed to be lost when they spent an overwhelming time at camp. During battles, George was in the moment, and his mind could focus on ten things at once. But once he was stationary only one thought remained in his head and no amount of joking, gun cleaning, or practice shooting could get it out.

They had set up camp some two weeks ago, and have yet to move from the spot. None of them knew what was going on the only thing the general uttered was "we'll be here for a while, make yourselves comfortable", the troops haven't heard from him since. No talk of oncoming battles, or enemy troops moving out. Hell, he barely left his tent other than to piss. They all assumed something big was about to happen, that he was ceaselessly planning. And they weren't wrong.

The laughing continued after George had been brought out of his state. Some of the guys threw spoonfuls of week old stew at each other, others made shapes with their hands in the swaying flames. George was uninterested, the weeks spent cooped up here had made him antsy, and he could feel his attention slipping. He leaned his musket up against the log the boys had brought over so they could sit. Pushing on his knees he rose, he stared at the fire's flames for a couple moments. Then hurdled the log, and walked towards the faraway field.

"Ransom," he turned at the sound of his name. "Not too far," Tim Bedel said with a smile. George gave him a slight nod, and a curt wave with his hand to show he understood. Shoving his hands into the short pockets of his trousers, he sulked his way into the darkness.

The rains had been coming fast and heavy for the past month, but have finally been letting up. Nevertheless, George's boots made an unpleasant squelching sound as he strode through the mud. The rain had not only turned the field into a muddy landscape, but washed up some poorly buried bodies of soldiers. His foot connected with that of an overturned red coat. "Son of a," he looked down to see the corpse, narrowed his eyes then kicked again for good measure "even when they're dead they still manage to piss me off." After scraping off some mud from his boot onto the dead man's jacket George pressed on.

He walked until he could barely see the glow of the camp in the distance. Easing himself down a on a nearby boulder with a sigh, he turned his head upwards and glanced at the stars. Pulling out a flask from his inside pocket, he took a swig. The alcohol burned all the way to his stomach, and felt so good. The problem with camp was a constant fire at night left little for the stars to overpower. He often found himself escaping just to grab a glance at the natural lights. George smiled for the slightest second of time. Stretching out his legs he laid back, folding his arms behind his head, and watched the small lights twinkle until his eyelids felt heavy.

His eyes snapped open at the shouts in the distance. A gun fired off, and George sprung himself upright, and glanced over at where his beacon would be. The fire was out. Trouble. His feet sank into the mud as he leapt from the boulder. Tearing his legs from the ground he sprinted back towards camp, his heavy breath escaping into the cool night air in tangible puffs.

George reached the camp as quickly as his feet would allow. Their white tents had been torn down, bullet holes littered the fabric and ground. A couple feet away the fire had smoldered down to barely embers, leaving the dark to creep further into the deserted camp. At that moment, George only wished he had brought his musket with him on his walk. Warily, he reached down and slipped out the extra knife he kept stowed in his boot. Questions filled his head as he ventured further into the camp. What happened, and who did this being the most prominent two.

His steps were even and cautious, turning himself efficiently every once and awhile to watch his own back. George approached the fallen logs where his fellow men had been sitting and joking around only a short time ago. There were obvious signs of a struggle, large tracks in the dirt where heels had been dug in, George glanced to where he had been sitting, his musket was gone. He sighed and squatted down to examine the ground more closely. Picking up some dirt he rubbed it in between his fingers, and then something flashed in the dying light of the fire. A black liquid stuck in his peripheral vision. Dipping his fingers into the substance, and holding it up to the light he could see the distinctive red color. Blood, fresh too. George rubbed it onto his trousers, gripped his knife tighter, and followed the tiny trail of glinting liquid.

He could hear the wheezing gasps of breath before he could even see Tim Bedel. The fire light hit him just perfectly enough that his wounds were put on display. A large gash ran across his forehead, causing blood to flood down on his face until it was nothing but red with spots of white skin. A bayonet was shoved into his upper arm, and his hand was tucked into his coat covering whatever wound lay on the right side of his chest. George scrambled to lean down next to his friend. "Tim," he whispered, no response. "Tim," he said more frantically, suddenly Tim's eyes snapped open and his features became etched with pain as he reached out and grabbed George by the front of his jacket. Tim pulled him closer.

"C-c-c," Tim turned his head and coughed blood onto the already soiled ground "Colonel attacked us, red coats out of nowhere, hit me over the head." His head thumped against the ground as he tried to catch his breath.

"Just calm down Timmy," George said straightening his voice "you're going to be all right." He opened Tim's jacket, and lifted the hand that was covering his chest. Blood slowly spread further into his white undershirt, and George could plainly see the bullet sized hole. "Fuck," he whispered to himself. Tearing off a piece of his own jacket, and balling it up he created a compress. He placed it onto Tim's bleeding chest, and positioned Tim's own bloodied hand over it. George could feel Tim's half lidded eyes watching him

"Ransom," George turned to him, even the blood could not hide the fact that his face was completely drained of color. "Get 'em for me okay?" George swallowed, and nodded his head slowly. "I'm gonna be okay," Tim whispered, his face contorted a bit, the pain seizing him "I'm gonna be okay, I'm gonna…" His words were lost to the hands of death.

"No, no, fuck, come on buddy," George pulled Tim's body closer, and applied small pats to his left cheek. "Come on stay with me, you're going to be okay right?" George, pressed onto his chest with both his hands a couple times "you said so yourself you're going to be okay, come on, you fucker don't give up on me." But Tim was already gone, and George already knew slowly stopped pressing on his friend's lifeless body. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something. George placed his fingers over Tim's open eyelids, and closed them, so he only appeared to be asleep. Grabbing Tim's pistol, George stalked away, hoping he'd have the chance to bury his friend's body, after he massacred those responsible. He set out for the colonel's tent.

He could hear hushed voices whispering to each other frantically from inside the only white tent unaffected by the struggle. Words like "hostages, prisoners, captured" pounded against his eavesdropping ears. Peering between the flaps of the tent George could see at least six red coats huddled in a circle, and his 'Colonel' pacing in front of them. "We have to move them out tonight," one red coat whispered to his brethren.

"We're still missing one," Colonel pounded a fist onto his desk causing one of the soldiers to jump "of course it's the most skilled one, the most valuable one." George felt his eyes widened at his realization. Colonel was taking his troops and selling them to British forces as prisoners and hostages. And apparently his own head was worth quite a lot. No wonder Colonel always returned, but all his troops had 'died in battle', there were no casualties, only number figures. George clicked back the hammer on his pistol as quietly as he could. If his fellow soldiers were to be sold then they'd have to be close by, and be ready for shipment off to some red coat camp. Keeping both of his weapons handy, he tip toed around to the back of the tent.

Light from the tent provided a spotlight onto the area where his fellow men were. A large wooden post had been erected from the ground, all the men sat with their backs to the it, rags in their mouth, and eyes covered. Each one of them bore bruises or cuts in some way. George smirked; none of them would go down without a fight. Checking over his shoulder, he watched as the shadows moved around inside the tent, and once he was clear, crawled his way over to his fellow men.

Seven of them were tied to the post, George approached the one around the back, as to keep away from the light as best as possible. He quickly shot out his hand and further covered the man's mouth. "It's me, it's George," he said slowly, as the man's muffled protests and curses moved against his palm. "Don't worry; I'm going to get you out." Placing his knife between the ropes that bound his hands together, George made quick work of sawing away. The ropes buckled, and the soldier ripped the blindfold and mouth gag from his face.

"Georgie aren't you a sight," Samuel Switzer announced as quietly as he could in his southern drawl. Sam rubbed at his rope burned wrists. "God damn colonel jumped us 'long wit the bunch of red coats." George smiled a bit, then moved on to the next soldier.

Six of them had been freed without much fuss. All had known to keep quiet, but the last, David Hall, was new and trembled as George continued to saw at his ropes. David let out a tiny squeak as the ropes fell from his wrists. He removed the boy's blindfold, and David gave him a look as though he wanted to hug him, he removed the gag from his own mouth. George motioned with his hand for David to follow him to where the tent's light did not shine. Their group had formed a small cluster, discussing their situation in a hushed whisper.

"We should leave," Jeremiah Owens said quickly as George and David joined the group

"You shitting me," Sam retorted "I wanna look the guy in the eye who did this tah me," he indicated to the gash running down his left cheek "and give 'em a matching one." A quiet battle broke out between the men, curses were flung left and right. And Samuel Switzer had grabbed Jeremiah by the front of his coat, having a look in his eyes as though he wanted to knock him out.

"Everyone calm down," George said through clenched teeth. "Owens has the right idea, we don't have any weapons, and as much as I'd like to fuck those guys up, I like my life more." Hall hurriedly nodded his head in agreement with George. Suddenly, George's pistol was snatched from his hand, and Samuel now held it to the air.

"Who made you commander huh," he said teasingly, Sam cocked his head to the side "jus' cause you and Tim were 'ere first don't mean shit, and I ain't gonna lie down and take it." He pulled back the hammer.

"Sam no," George half whispered, half screamed as he reached for the gun, but it was already too late, Sam fired off a bullet, and the shadows inside the tent stirred. "You fucking idiot," George yelled "now we're all screwed. Scatter! All of you." But it was too late; the red coats emerged from the tent muskets loaded, and ready to shoot. Sam ran towards them, pistol aimed. He was shot down immediately. His body hit the ground with a hard thump, the other men yelled out shouts, some advancing towards the red coats, others fleeing. George felt something grab his coat arm, he spun to punch his attacker, only to see David Hall indicating with his head the direction of the city. He took off in a sprint with Hall not far behind. More shots were fired and more bodies fell to the ground. George looked behind him and saw them now, four dead on the ground, two others being chased by three red coats, and three red coats starting to advance on him and David.

"Ransom," Colonel called out his name "you owe me some prisoners." George could hear the smugness in his voice, and it took all of his strength not to run back there, knife in hand, and find the Colonel's heart a sufficient place to bury the blade. He heard a shot be fired off from behind them, and then a body hit the ground. David Hall screamed, and grabbed his lower leg. George dug his heels into the soft earth, made a quick turn, grabbed the boy's body, and started dragging him by his arms. "Come on, you're fine, you're all right," George said, but David continued his wails. He could just barely see the city lights, before another shot rang out. He felt David's arms go limp in his hands. "Fuck," he dropped the body, and turned his back on it, using the last of his strength to reach the city border.

George's breathing was labored, and he could feel his body telling him to quit. He fought through the pain, until he reached the only open building, an Inn with a bustling bar. He ducked into the door, and pressed his back against it until he heard the soldier's boots pass. He turned to face the room, and noticed upon his entrance that all conversation and music had stopped. Someone in the back coughed lightly.

"Eh drink fo' a soldier," the words were barely intelligible from a drunk voice in the crowd, but almost the entire room raised a glass to him, then continued their mindless drunken chatter. George let out a long breath, and then place his hands on his knees trying to catch whatever air he could in his lungs. Sweat drips streaked down his face, his entire body felt sticky with grime, and the atmosphere he was currently in left little to no fresh air. A pair of brown leather boots entered his downcast vision.

"Seems like you ran into some trouble eh," a gruff voice questioned. George slowly rolled his body straight. He stared for a bit. In front of him was a man almost completely made up of weapons. Pistol here, knives there, everywhere was some other type of armament. "Well, am I wrong," he asked. George shook his head, almost certain he would have agreed to whatever this man said in his current state. George was good with weapons and battle but right now he was exhausted and he'd rather not provoke a bear. "How about I buy you a drink?" George nodded more feverishly than he would like to admit.

He plopped down at the stained wooden table across from the hooded man. They sat in a pregnant silence for quite some time, until the man let out a low whistle. Through the bustling crowd came a red coat soldier carrying three mugs of ale in his two hands. George felt a growl rumble in the back of this throat, had this all been a trick? Was the man in white only there to bring him back to the Colonel? And yet, he was too weak to make a move from the seat.

"Oi John," the man in red called as he held the cups above his head to keep them out of reach of the rowdy crowd. He battled his way through, and sat down next to John. "Crazy crowd tonight," he said in an obvious accent, his eyes darted to George who glared at him with all the strength he could muster up. "Who's your friend?" he indicated to George with a jerk of his thumb.

"Gabriel, this is George Ransom," the man said "George, Gabriel Frer, and I'm John Pettit." George snorted at John's last name. Lowering his hood, John stared a George for a short amount of time. He looked as though he were about to collapse. "Hey buddy," George picked up his head from the slackened position it was in. John pushed the mug towards him "drink, you'll feel better."

George falteringly reached out for the cup watching Gabriel as he did so, the boy only gave him a confused look. He snatched it like a viper striking its prey, and then guzzled the whole thing in one gulp. John was right he did feel much better, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his jacket he looked at Gabriel once more "what's he doin' here?"

Gabriel sulked at George's words, he crossed his arms. "Wot's his problem with me," Gabriel said in an accusing tone. Seriously he'd only just met the guy.

John had a realization, and had to keep from smacking his hand to his own forehead. "Yer still wearing yer uniform ya idiot," John gave Gabriel a quick smack on the back of the head. "Of course he don't trust us, he's been running from these guys for the past hour," John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So you're not a red coat then," George kept his eyes on Gabriel.

"Course he ain't," John said "trust me I associate with the bloody bastards the same way you do, or did I guess." George snapped his head in John's direction.

"You been spyin' on me?"

"Well I saw your whole little scuffle back at your camp, and I'll admit I been watching you closely for the past couple years," John took a swig of his drink, then pulled out his pipe, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it "nice job by the way. Much better to run and save your own skin, then stash the revenge for another day." John let out a few puffs on his pipe, and looked over at Gabriel. He was idling himself by picking at the stitched up uniform. John slapped his hand, Gabriel let out a whine "come on you know how much it cost for me to get a tailor to fix that."

"Not to interrupt a lover's spat, but why the fuck are you even talking to me," George was tired, and honestly all he wanted was to crawl into an inn bed at this point, and let the alcohol work its magic. Gabriel and John exchanged a quick glance, then both looked at George. "Well," George tilted his chair onto the back two legs, and folded his arms over his chest "I'm listenin'."

"Well George, if I may call you that," John started, and George gave him a curt nod signaling it was all right "my friend Gabriel and I are part of a brotherhood here in Boston." George's chair fell back onto the four legs. He leaned in, and the two followed suit.

"You guys are the white and red shadows," George said in a whisper "we used to share stories about you two all the time at camp." He observed as Gabriel gave John a smug smile. John in return smacked him on the nose. The boys had often heard stories along the road about two men who committed acts against British soldier throughout Boston, and called themselves a 'brotherhood'; they were never caught, and never seen. George then looked over to Gabriel, who was rubbing his nose "somehow I find this very hard to believe."

"White and red shadow," Gabriel questioned as he released his nose "is that really what they call us?" George nodded, and then Gabriel narrowed his eyes "what do you mean hard to believe?" George shrugged, and smirked a bit to himself.

"Anyway," John said, sending a glare toward Gabriel, who held up his hands defensively "I've been watching you for quite some time, and I think we could use someone like you in the brotherhood." John puffed on his pipe again. "The only one I've had to interact with for a couple of years now has been this guy," he directed with his head towards Gabriel "and you can see how easy that is."

"Damn John you are just ripping on me today aren't you," Gabriel leaned back and crossed his arms, an obvious pout forming on his lips.

"So what do you say there Ransom," George, who had been trying to keep his eyes away from John looked directly at him, John stuck out his hand. "Want to join our brotherhood."

George stared at John's hand for some time. The stories soldiers had told along the road sounded intense. They spoke about how the two shadows dove off of rooftops, and could poison ten red coats without even being noticed. George had been used to his style of fighting, straight and outright. Still.

"I promise you can get whatever revenge you want," John said. George could feel his smile go crooked. He grasped John's hand in his own and gave a hearty shake. "It'll be useful to have someone who actually knows how to use a gun other than me."

"Come on John, you're killing me, you know I've been trying," Gabriel whined. George and John shared a laugh, and clinked their mugs together. John raised his, George and Gabriel followed suit.

"To the brotherhood."