Hey, it's a new chapter! Miles is not happy. Not at all.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Chapter four: Miles

Miles doesn't understand how they were discovered, much less captured. He was careful, and he knows how the Militia was trained. He trained them. Miles knows how to escape them, because he knows how they think. Except…someone's trained them differently. The closer to the capitol of the republic they get, the more careful Miles and the rest of the party has to be. Out on the edges, the Militia are drawn from local communities. They take taxes, but they're local. They don't have contact with the capitol. Not enough to be of consequence, anyways.

Hiding out in a burned-out home should have been enough, Miles knows. The houses are rarely searched—not ones as ramshackle as this. It's a few sticks of timber held together with spit and a prayer. Charlie kept the fire low. Nora made sure the few guns they had were fully loaded. Even Aaron chipped in with some traps that left Miles wondering just what the former programmer had done with his spare time before the blackout. (The most creative one utilized the last of Nora's latest failed attempt to make cordite, a few matches, and too many disturbingly utilized garden implements. Miles is suitably freaked out and impressed in equal measures.)

But none of that saved them from getting swarmed, overpowered, and captured. Miles made it the furthest in the ensuing scramble. Charlie was right behind him, and then she wasn't. Nora wasn't as lucky, and was captured inside the house. Aaron, Miles guesses from the shouting, is taken down defending her.

He's promptly thrown in a tiny, box-like cell. The chains around his wrists are connected to a hook on the ceiling, and he has just enough chain between his wrists and the hook that he can stand on the tips of his toes. There's no light, and no one delivers food to mark the passage of time. Miles' feet begin to cramp around what he judges to be the third day. By the end of a relative week in the box, Miles is sure he won't be able to walk. He's not sure what's causing him more pain—the biting cold from having his clothes stripped from him and the regular bucket of freezing water that gets dumped over his head just as he's about to drift off to sleep, the lack of food and water, or the debilitating pain in his feet and wrists.

When he's finally dragged out of his cell, Miles understands exactly why he was kept in those conditions. He's blinking spots and tears from his eyes from the sudden brightness of the dim lighting in the hall he's being dragged down after so long in total darkness. He's weak and trembling from hunger, dehydration, sleep deprivation and cold, and the guards are so much stronger than him right now that he can't fight back. His feet refuse to respond to commands, so he can't run either.

Miles is oddly relieved when, instead of taking him directly to Bass, his guards deposit him in a bathroom. The servants—he's not actually sure what else to call them, even though they're wearing uniforms bearing the Monroe Republic's crest, but carry themselves like civilians—heave him into a large tub and scrub him until his skin is raw and pink with the same cold, somewhat ruthless efficiency.

He's allowed to dress in clothes slightly too big for him after his week (or more, maybe) in the tiny cell before the guards return to escort him somewhere else. Miles grits his teeth to keep from hissing in pain every time he has to set his feet on the floor; he still can't put them flat on the ground, because the cramping has made them curl.

Miles is silently, pathetically grateful when the guards tie him to a chair in an unfamiliar office. The man spends the next few minutes trying to flex his toes, with a minimum of success. He observes the room as well, trying to figure out who uses it. A dog person, definitely—Miles can infer that from the basket under the window. Big dogs, probably, if the size is anything to go by. Really big dogs…

The look of surprise on his face when, instead of Monroe, Major Neville enters the room isn't entirely feigned. Miles' look of surprise turns to one of mingled disgust and horror when his nephew enters the room, following Neville.

Danny, his nephew whom he hasn't seen since the kid was two, is almost naked and crawling on his hands and knees like a dog. There's a wide band of black leather around his neck. Neville has a leash in his hand, but he's not dragging Danny along behind him. Miles squirms and struggles in his bonds, wishing the guard hadn't gagged him before leaving. The ropes cut into his wrists, and his wrists begin bleeding.

If he weren't tied to the chair, Miles knows he'd kill Neville. When he'd been in the cell, Miles had spent his time planning how he'd rescue his nephew. Unfortunately, in all of those plans, he hadn't been so weak he could barely hold his own head up; he definitely hadn't counted on his nephew being treated like an animal. (Miles really hadn't wanted to believe the stories he'd heard; metaphors had been regaining popularity, and he'd been praying the stories were just using them.)

Now, though, killing Neville is a goal.

Miles' fingers dig into the wood of the chair as he watches his nephew curl up in the basket, whining happily and nosing for more affection from Neville when the man gives him something. His. Nephew. Is. Not. A. Dog!

Danny looks at him in curiosity, before huffing and putting his head down. He continues to stare at Miles, chin resting on his hands, looking so very much like a dog.

Miles only half-listens as Neville tells him about the interrogation he'll be going through. Normally, prisoners don't get that kind of courtesy, but Miles is a special case. Sergeant Strausser will be handling his interrogation. Miles and Neville both give Danny concerned looks when the boy whines and buries is face in his arms.

And then, so quietly it's almost inaudible, Danny speaks.

"Don't…let….them touch…him…so…badly, Neville," Danny whispers. He speaks like the words are painful. Miles can't read the expression on Neville's face, but he can guess that this is the most Danny's spoken in a while. It is not a comforting thought.

After that, the conversation turns to lighter topics. Neville sounds almost gloating as he tells Miles just how good his nephew is. How eager Danny is to play fetch, and be a good dog, and do whatever Neville tells him to. Miles wishes his nephew would tremble fearfully, or whine, or cry, or something, just to show that something was wrong with the picture presented to him. His wish is left unfulfilled.

Miles' blood boils as Neville finishes talking to him. The wood on the chair arms has gouges from where Miles' nails dug into the wood, and the former general is sure he's got splinters under his fingernails.

He is so grateful for the gag in his mouth as the guards drag him away.

Miles doesn't think he'll be able to refrain from obscenity as Neville begins playing a much-restricted game of fetch with Danny.

Most of all, though, Miles promises that he's going to fix Danny, whatever it takes.

Because he can't shake the feeling that this is his fault.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Can't wait to read FOHL starting next month? Drop a line and let me know!

Also, NaNo is done (for me). Final word count: 100,201. Cups of coffee averaged a day: 11. Sanity: Non-existent.