A/N: WARNING! This chapter depicts torture. I tried not to be overly graphic, but it might be disturbing to some people. If you count yourself among that group, you may wish to only read the first standard type section and only the italicized sections after that. This is a quasi-transitional chapter. There is a lot of character development throughout (including in the sections where Monroe is put through the ringer), but most of the actual plot movement is in the italicized portions, so you can kind of get the gist with just the first section and those without the ick factor. But if you aren't bothered by violence, I hope you do read the whole thing. More notes at the end.

Of all the people to catch him, the fact that it was Ed Truman was so ironic that Monroe found it disgusting. He had been left alone for two full days before anyone had come. Of course the second the door had opened, Monroe had done his best to escape. In retrospect, blindsiding the soldier with the piss bucket and trying to wrest his rifle from him was probably not the wisest thing he'd done, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

All that had earned him was an order to have him constantly restrained and the loss of the bucket. At first he'd expected a second execution. The fact that he was still alive was a source of embarrassment for the Patriots. Such a big deal had been made of his first one that they'd looked like fools when word got out that they'd botched it. He hadn't realized how wrong he could be.

"Let's talk again about the Mathesons, shall we?" Truman asked again as he reentered the room. They'd already been going at this all day.

Monroe glared at him. "I've already told you, Ed. I don't know where they are. Last I heard they were in the plains somewhere kicking some khaki ass."

Truman walked around him slowly. Monroe rolled his eyes at this tactic. There was no way he would ever be intimidated by the man. He was pasty and soft – a pencil pusher, nothing more. "Do you really expect me to believe that after helping them for months that you just walked away? Just like that?"

Monroe stared him down. "Just like that. As I said, I got tired of playing Slap-the-Patriot."

Truman bent low, gripping the armrest of the chair and putting his face inches away from Monroe's. "And you just happened to be passing through?"

"Like I said." He cocked his head to the side, never breaking eye contact. Truman backed off and casually leaned up against the wall. The Patriot seemed to be calculating his next move, so Monroe took the opportunity to antagonize him a little.

"So tell me something, Ed. How much trouble did you get into when slipped through your fingers in Willoughby?" Truman bristled under the casual use of his first name. Monroe knew he was trying to hide the fact that it bothered him, which just made him use it as much as possible. "Must have been a lot if you're stuck out here in the field instead of some cushy little town. I mean, our escape did lead to Texas turning on you guys and all."

"Think you're cute, don't you, Monroe?" Truman was obviously trying to keep his cool.

Monroe only laughed. "I'm fucking adorable." He smiled genuinely. Truman's inability to hide his annoyance was actually kind of funny. The man was in over his head and they both knew it. He'd never done this before. I, on the other hand am a pro, he thought to himself.

Truman finally regained control of himself. "I think you're protecting Miles and Rachel Matheson. What I don't understand is why. Haven't they both tried to kill you?" This was met with a blank stare. "Not that it matters. You will talk. We have ways to ensure that," he left the threat hang between them.

Monroe laughed again; a full bellied genuine laugh. "Torture? Really, Ed? Do you have any idea who you're fucking with? I've tortured plenty of people." He couldn't keep the smile off of his face. "You know what I think? You have no idea what you're doing here. How long have you had me? Four, five days, right? If I was in your shoes, I'd already have everything I needed to know and my prisoner would be rotting in his grave by now. You're a fucking amateur."

Truman visibly flinched, indicating that once again, Monroe had struck a nerve. He left the room. A few seconds later he was replaced by three guards. "Bring it," Monroe told them as they advanced toward him, batons in hand.

Hours later, Monroe sat panting in the chair. As far as beatings went, well it could have been worse. Fearing he'd lose consciousness, Truman finally pulled them back and left him to think about his predicament. "Ready to have another chat?" Truman asked when he returned.

Monroe grinned and looked up at him with one eye – the other having swollen shut. He spat the blood that had pooled in his mouth in Truman's general direction, just barely missing him. "Sorry, Ed. I'm a bit tied up at the moment. Have your people call my people. Maybe we can set something up for later in the week."

"Have it your way," Truman bit out as he nodded to his lackeys to start in on him again. This time his restraints were eventually removed and he was beaten to the floor. He wouldn't give Truman the satisfaction of hearing him cry out, so he laid there and took the beating. He coped with the pain of it by retreating into his head and trying to block it out. He thought about Charlie and the twins. He wondered what they were doing at that moment. The picture of them he'd conjured in his mind was the last thing he thought of when he finally lost consciousness.

"Don't worry, we'll find him," Miles says as they follow the trail Charlie has picked up. They've been searching for five days, trying to figure out where he'd been when he'd sent the horse and Brodie home. They've brought the dog with them, and so far he's been able to retrace their path back. Unfortunately, since he'd instinctively rounded up the horse, that path is a bit winding.

Charlie has never been away from Danny and Angie for more than a few hours. Their search has forced her to abruptly wean them, against Gene's recommendation. But they need their father more than a few more months of nursing, so after leaving them with Priscilla and her mom she has left with the others to track him down. Avery and two of the men that had been there the night Monroe had helped recover Sarah have joined them.

She pauses in a small clearing. They are a 2-day ride from home (If they'd brought horses – which they have not out of fear of missing something). "This is it!" she calls out. Brodie is sniffing around the campsite, whining. A saddle sits discarded on one side of the clearing. On the other sits Monroe's discarded gear: his bedroll, a backpack. There are several bloodstains on the ground – too much for it to be from one person. The bodies that the blood has spilled from have been removed, however.

Miles looked around the abandoned camp and tried to picture what had occurred. "I'm guessing this is where he was when he was attacked. Since we know he was alive long enough to cut that patch off and send it back with the dog, he had to have left here on foot." He pointed to the various patches of dirt stained with blood. "The Patriots must have come back and taken the bodies. Bass wouldn't have wasted the time to hide them if he had to go on the run."

Charlie looked around. With so many people coming and going, it was difficult for her to figure out which tracks were his. Her eyes welled up. "I can't tell one set of tracks from the other. There's too many."

Miles looks around. "Okay, so we're north of Providence," he begins.

Charlie interrupts him. "Yeah, but we knew he was headed south. The sale was a three day ride north, that doesn't tell us anything."

Miles holds up a hand to get her to shut up while he thinks. "And he sent the animals home from here. That flag patch was a message. He wouldn't send Brodie home with a message if he was right behind him."

Avery was with him now. "That wouldna made sense, would it? He must have headed a different direction – lead them bastards away."

Charlie looked at the tracks again. "He wouldn't have gone back north. He'd have headed back towards them. And there aren't any tracks that lead west, so he had to have gone east." She whistled to Brodie and headed off in that direction with the others following behind her.

Monroe stood in the middle of the Patriots' compound, chained to a flagpole. Above him, old glory flapped in the warm breeze. He was bruised and sore. He'd been left here for the past two days and nights. The rest of his clothing had been missing since he'd regained consciousness. Despite it being October, the sun had taken its toll on him after two full days of constant exposure with no shade to speak of.

The days have been unseasonably warm on top of it, the last reminder of this year's brutal summer. Being fall, the temperature had dropped quite a bit at night. He'd never considered sixty degrees cold until he'd experienced it naked, two nights in a row. In the time he'd been chained here he'd been beaten, hit with rocks, even pissed on.

Anything that could be done to degrade him further, the soldiers assigned to Truman have done. He'd dealt with as best he could, never losing the stoic expression he forced himself to wear. When he'd been knocked to the ground he simply picked himself up and stared straight ahead. At night, he did his best to doze standing up. He'd refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him sleep in the dirt like an animal.

Finally Truman had him brought inside. He was thrown back into his cell. They hadn't even bothered restraining him again. He was severely dehydrated and burnt to a crisp; hardly in a position to make a break for it now. They left him alone for several hours. While alone, he squatted up against the wall with his head against the wall, trying to keep his abused skin from touching anything.

When Truman returned to ask him for information, he remained defiant. "Go fuck yourself," he said quietly. Once again, Truman's goons advanced. This time they carried metal rebar that they must have ripped from the crumbling foundation above. As the metal bars struck his sunburned and peeling skin, it lent a whole new dimension to the pain. Truman must have realized that in his condition, this beating could kill him because it didn't last for very long.

He was dragged up to a standing position as food and water were brought in. Monroe accepted the water, drinking greedily. When he was offered the bowl of tepid stew, he threw it back at them. The beating and the sun had left him feeling nauseous. He refused to allow them to watch as he puked the meal back up on himself, so he refused it outright.

It was several days before they bothered him again other than delivering food and water. At one point they force fed him, fearing that he would starve himself to death before he talked. He'd actually been surprised that he was able to keep the food down at all. He spent the time alone lost in his head, focusing on thoughts of Charlie and the kids. He long since had given up any hope of ever seeing them again. His goals now included keeping his mouth shut and dying with some sense of dignity.

It has now been almost two weeks since Brodie and Monroe's horse had found their way back home. The search has come to an agonizing end. They tracked Monroe only a mile or so to the place where he must have been taken captive. At least there was only a little blood at the scene. He must have been injured, but still alive. Charlie picked up the trail again, but then it had rained. The downpour had been brief, but it had been enough to destroy any traces of where the Patriots had taken him. They followed what they had hoped was the right path, only to get stuck with a dead end.

Charlie had insisted on doubling back, but they'd found nothing. In the end, they'd returned home with no hope of ever finding him. Charlie now spends her days trying to cope. The grief she feels is overwhelming, rivaling the sense of loss she'd felt when she'd watched Danny bleed out almost three years ago.

Miles is not handling this any better. After he'd gotten over his anger at Monroe for his involvement with Charlie, he'd started the long process of forgiving him for the past. Things were still a little different between them, but it had felt good to have that friendship back. Now, he was well and truly gone. It has been two weeks with no sign. He knows deep down that Monroe was dead.

Rachel has been apologizing almost non-stop since their return. At first Charlie and Miles had both responded with complete resentment. But life has to move on. Rachel will live with the guilt of what she's done for the rest of her life. She's finally gotten her revenge on Monroe for Danny and Ben, but she feels no better for it.

She has gone to Miles and confessed what she had happened that night in Philly and how she'd threatened to use that information to blackmail Monroe into taking off. His initial reaction to the fact that she'd slept with Monroe had been to break things off with her. With Monroe's capture and likely death have prevented him blaming his friend for the betrayal. After all, Miles had left Philly because Monroe had gone insane. He can't blame a crazy person with an overactive libido for taking something that was offered freely.

After a few days, Miles gets over his outrage. It was years ago, and it's not like he was one to talk. He'd left her there (returning later to learn of her supposed death), and after all she'd still been married to Ben at the time. Miles forces Rachel to swear never to tell Charlie about it. The knowledge will only hurt her – far more now than would have when Monroe was still alive. As the days slowly pass, Rachel throws herself into helping not only with their resistance but with the farm as well.

Daniel seems to be the only one that has not given up hope. He's told Charlie already that if their fears prove true and Monroe is truly gone, he will leave the farm to her children. That it should pass to Monroe's kin has not changed for him, but he's not so convinced that the man is gone. "Look at what that boy has survived these past years. You mean to tell me that he's gone through all that only to be taken out on the way back from sellin' a few horses? I won't believe it until I see a body."

Out of everyone on the farm, Aaron has taken the news harder than everyone else. He feels even guiltier than Rachel. After all, he was supposed to go on that trip. If he'd been along, there' s no reason to assume that he wouldn't have been killed or taken right along with Monroe. But he didn't go, so he's still alive and well while Monroe is either held captive or dead.

He's never experienced survivor's guilt before. Oddly, he can see now how it had driven Monroe crazy over the years – indeed it is maddening. And the not knowing what has happened to the man only seems to make it worse. He finds himself wandering the farm, trying desperately to contact the nano. They can see everything. Maybe they can at least tell him Monroe's fate.

Monroe was awoken with a bucket of water. He'd been given several days to recover from their latest assault. He had a feeling Truman was either terrified of losing him or was finally doing what he should have in the first place and sent for an experienced interrogator. He was pulled back into the other room and chained to the wall. Truman approached him, holding out a piece of paper. "Do you know what I'm holding here?"

"A recipe for apple pie?" Despite his pain, Monroe still mocked him, just to show how little he cared about what Truman had to say.

"It's a full pardon, signed by President Davis himself." Truman took a step forward and shoved the paper in Monroe's face for him to read. Sure enough, it did appear to be exactly what Truman said. "All you have to do is tell me where to find Miles Matheson, who he's been allied with and what they're planning. The pardon will be yours."

Monroe attempted to laugh, but it came out as a dry croak. "Do you honestly think I'm dumb enough to believe I'm getting out of here alive?" he scoffed as he leaned his head against the wall. "Come on, Ed. You can do better than that. I've used the same promise more times that I can count. You're an idiot if you think I'm going to fall for that." It occurred to Monroe that if the signature was genuine, that meant the rest of the Patriots were aware he was here. This meant that Truman had finally upped the ante.

Truman left him again. Monroe's suspicions were confirmed when a mild mannered man replaced him in the room. "My name is Dr. Baxter. I've been told that you have some information that will be helpful to our cause. Let's talk about that, shall we?"

"How nice of Ed. He's brought me a new friend to play with. And here I was, starting to get bored with my other playmates," Monroe rasped. The two playmates in question unchained Monroe and drug him upstairs. He was brought into a large field tent and strapped to a metal table that awaited him. He struggled against his restraints as an old towel was placed over his face. As his interrogators began to pour water over the cloth from an old watering can, he began to gasp and gulp for air. No one noticed the lone Patriot soldier that watched from the opening in the tent.

Several days had passed. He was allowed only a few hours of reprieve at night before the waterboarding began anew. Every so often the cloth would be removed and he'd be given the chance to catch his breath as he was questioned further. Each time, he refused to tell them anything. Instead, he made sure his replies were as rude and snarky as possible.

Truman had stayed away during this phase of his interrogation. On the fourth day, he finally reappeared. Monroe was starting to fade in and out, so he was injected with a stimulant of some sort to wake him back up for Truman's presence.

Truman started to hold up a piece of paper in front of him. "I already told you. I'm not buying the pardon routine."

Truman laughed at him. "Oh, you've lost that chance. But I'd shut up if I were you, because I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

Monroe simply closed his eyes in an attempt to look bored. "There is nothing you could possibly have to say to me that I'd care to hear." He turned his head to face Baxter. "Come on fuckhead, bring on the water. I'm thirsty."

Truman raised his hand to stop Baxter from moving. "We've had some interesting intel of late – from Louisiana of all places."

This got Monroe's attention. He turned to look at Truman again. He tried to keep his expression bland, but with the drug they'd given him, it was getting difficult to control himself. "What could that possibly be?"

"You see, we ran into someone that positively identified Gene Porter. And it turns out that his granddaughter was at some point pregnant." He waited for Monroe to give him some indication that he was correct. So far, he didn't get what he was looking for, but he proceeded anyway. "This friend was convinced to tell us that the good doctor had mentioned they'd be leaving the area because the father of her child had arrived to collect her."

"Why should I care about that?" Monroe asked. He tried to turn his head away to conceal any emotions he might be betraying.

Truman reached toward him and forced Monroe to look at him. "We know that Charlie Matheson was involved with your son at one point. There's some that seem to think her baby is your grandchild."

Monroe was unable to pull away from Truman, despite his best efforts. "If you say so," he said through clenched teeth.

"Personally? I don't believe it. What's interesting is we found another person that was 'convinced' to be forthcoming. And he swore that he saw someone matching your description passing through the next town over, headed directly towards Monroe, Louisiana. Kind of an obvious town name, don't you think?"

"A coincidence, I'm sure," Monroe spat at the man. He knew where this was going, and he was having trouble keeping his rage at bay.

"What I think is that baby is yours. Was it a boy or a girl?" He moved on when Monroe refused to answer. "I'm willing to make a deal with you." Truman shoved the paper in Monroe's line of sight. "Do you see the name on this? Charlotte Matheson. There's been a bounty out on her for a while now too, you know? Tell us where to find Miles and Rachel and the pardon will replace the bounty. Refuse and we'll triple the amount of the bounty and put one out on the baby too."

Monroe fought against his restraints. "You really are sick you know that? You'd better kill me now you bastard, because if you don't I swear I will find a way to take you down."

Truman reached into his jacket and handed an envelope to Baxter. Monroe watched as the man opened the letter and scanned its contents. "Don't worry, when we find the baby, we'll make sure it's raised in a God fearing Patriot household. He'll get to grow up being assured of how much of a bastard Sebastian Monroe was." He walked away then, confident for the first time since this ordeal had started.

Baxter whispered something to one of his assistants. The man disappeared for a few moments before he returned with a leather satchel. Baxter rifled through its contents and pulled out a syringe. Despite his struggling, Monroe could only watch as the needle was jabbed into his arm. The contents burned as it entered his bloodstream. They'd finally been ordered to drug him. This was the part he'd not been looking forward to.

In the Monroe Republic, they'd used drugs as a torture method with excellent results. This method had even gotten Nora Clayton to roll on Miles once. Beatings, waterboarding, starvation, those he could handle with ease. But drugs were different. They could be used indefinitely until he either talked or died.

Another week has passed. Charlie is in the dairy, trying to keep her mind off of the grief. The twins will be one year old in a few short weeks, and he'll have missed it. Their babbles have turned into a few short words in the past few days as well. Something Monroe will never get to hear. She finishes with the daily milking with tears coursing down her face.

As she heads towards the house, Daniel meets her halfway. "There's someone here to see you. Says he knows you," he says cryptically.

Charlie looks at him in utter confusion. "Who?"

Daniel cracks a smile, the first one he's had in weeks. "He says he's found him."

Daniel doesn't have to say who "him" is. Charlie races towards the house. Inside, she heads towards the living room. Daniel would have brought any visitor in here. She stands in awe at the person waiting to greet her. She hears Daniel following her from behind. "Get Miles. Get Mom. Get everybody. We've got a rescue to plan." Charlie's tears of grief are replaced with tears of hope.

Monroe had lost track of the days. After that first injection, he'd been shoved unceremoniously back into the empty room. Left to huddle on the cold concrete, his body was wracked in muscle spasms that he could not control. Every few hours, Baxter or Truman would come back into the room and question him again. When he refused to even speak, he was shot up with something else.

Under the effects of the drugs, he saw people he knew could not be there. Charlie, Miles, his parents, Ben. One by one they found their way into his cell, all asking him to just give Truman what he wanted. He responded with the only defense he had: he let himself go, slipping deep into his own head as the drugs took over. He constantly reminded himself that nothing he heard or saw was real, and then he filled his mind with thoughts of home, of his family.

When the drugs took him too far over, he'd be given another stimulant. In those times, he could not force himself to slip away. All he could do was lay there and hallucinate, repeating his mantra. "Not real, not real." A part of him knew that Baxter and Truman were getting desperate. They doses became larger, more frequent. Whatever they'd given him to cause his muscles to spasm was excruciating. When that was combined with the hallucinogens, he'd almost broken.

It was almost more than he could bear. After he'd come down from that horrible trip, Baxter had asked him one last time what he knew. "Where is Miles Matheson, and what is he planning? Who has he been working with?"

It crossed his mind that he'd never been asked this before. Something must have happened. The questions started getting more urgent. This was the one thing that strengthened his resolve when he'd almost lost it. They threatened him with another dose like the last, but he was able to rasp one last time, "Do it."

He was huddled in the corner. The pain and fear from the effect of the poisons coursing through his veins had taken back over.

This was how they found him. Monroe is lost in his own head surrounded by a fog of terror, quivering as his muscles betray him. He tries to focus his thoughts on Charlie and their kids, but no matter how hard he tries, they keep slipping away. From far away he hears shouts and the sound of gunfire.

Is something happening? Is it only in his head? Suddenly there is silence. He feels cool and gentle hands glide over his body, pulling him from the corner. His eyes cannot focus on the face in front of him. The drugs are affecting the muscles in his eyes, and they jump around too much for him to see anything clearly. Someone is talking to him, but he cannot understand the words. He knows the voice though.

"You're not here. Not real," he whispers as his head lolls to the side. He is lifted and carried up the stairs and away from the compound. He thinks he hears a random gunshot or two, but can't be sure. He is placed in a wagon. Someone throws a blanket over his naked and battered body.

The drug that has caused him to lose control of his body is wearing off. The muscle spasms are slowing and he can move again just a little. The motion of the wagon moving makes him nauseous. He starts to gag, and someone holds a bucket out. He hasn't eaten in well over a week, so the only thing that comes out is bile. He dry heaves for a while before it subsides.

Under the blanket, he sits in the corner of the wagon, knees pulled up tight against his chest. He's pushing himself as far away from everyone as he can. "This isn't real. Not real…"

"What's wrong with him?" That voice. It only reaffirms to him that this can't be happening. His rescue is a figment of his imagination and the drugs. He's dreamt this more than once. It's got to be a dream again. That voice cannot possibly be ringing in his ears.

"He's drugged," a voice replies. It's resemblance to Miles' voice is almost cruel.

Charlie's face is now inches from his. He tries to pull away from the vision before him, but she takes his face in her gentle hands. "Hey. Look at me. It's me, I'm here."

"No, no, no… You can't be here. Charlie can't be here." He mumbles, still lost to the drugs and in his own head. "Charlie can't be here. They'll find her and hurt her. They'll use her to get to Miles and Rachel."

Charlie starts to cry. "Not anymore. You're safe. They're gone," she croons. He slowly passes out once more…

A/N: So I hope I didn't freak anyone out with this. This is probably the most angst I've ever written in one chapter before. At first I'd included a lot of other horrible things that the Patriots had done to him, but it started to feel a little excessive. I'm hoping that I've managed to convey the absolute misery he was without turning anyone off. Please let me know your thoughts. This chapter has made me a little anxious.