Unfortunately, it's late and I didn't have much will power to reread and edit this entire chapter. I just wanted to hurry up and post another chapter for ya'll. So I hope you can find it in yourselves to ignore my mistakes. I'll fix 'em up later :)
Several Years Before the Blackout
"Do they know we're coming back?" Bass asked as he followed Miles out of the taxi cab that had transported them all the way from the airport to the Matheson's front door.
"Nope," Miles' popped the 'p' dismissively, motioning with his hand for Bass to get the duffels in the trunk while he paid the cab driver.
"Hey," Sebastian lowered his voice, a boyish grin across his face, and leaned in secretively. "you think Gen'll be glad to see me?"
"Glad enough to punch you in the balls, Bass," He replied. It never bothered Miles how his best friend always tried getting on Gen's good side. All his friends tried doing that. But Miles knew his sister was tough as rusty nails, twice as toxic, and didn't have a good side - rain or shine.
"That was one time, Miles. Besides, it was a love tap." The curly haired man declared, the smile that was still on his mouth quickly making his green eyes sparkle as they walked up the white porch. "She loves me."
"No," Miles stopped at the screened storm door and looked back at his friend, a low chuckle lacing his words. "No, she really doesn't."
The long squeak of the door sent a shiver down Miles' spine and his chest ached in anticipation. The wafting aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies nostalgically led him into the kitchen. He ran his fingertips along the familiar counter tops that he used to peer over as a child to watch his mother chop vegetables or mix cake batter. Now he towered over the old-fashioned counters, looking down at the spotlessly clean tiling.
It was really by chance that he found the acceptance letter crumbled up in a tight ball beside the trash can which needed to be emptied and taken out to the front. Miles was just about to ignore it altogether and go straight for the tray of cooling cookies but he leaned down and caught the paper ball, his six-foot tall body wavered but he caught himself against the island at the last minute.
"Easy there," Bass jolted forward, ready to to grab his best friend. "I didn't sleep with one eye open just for you to break your neck in your own house."
Miles didn't reply, he smoothed the crumpled paper out on his chest before bringing it close to his eyes to make out the words . His concentration was too busy focused on the lines of letters that set an earth shattering explosion to go off in his core to register actual words that Bass spoke,
"What's that?" He peered over Miles' shoulder.
"She enlisted," Miles flicked the letter on the table lazily, jumping slightly when Bass slammed his palm down against the paper before it fluttered to the ground. "She heads out in a couple of days."
***Revolution***
Gen woke up warm.
She carefully maneuvered her sore body from the itchy, well manicured grass above her parents' grave. It took her a moment to adjust her eyes to her surroundings before realizing the canvas jacket that was draped across her shoulders. The heavy material smelt pleasantly familiar and she unconsciously pulled it closer against her.
"Good morning, Marilyn," A soft voice whispered in her ear.
Gen twisted her body to throw her arms around Bass's neck. "Monroe!" She nearly cried, fiercely holding a fistful of the thin t-shirt he wore. Bass sat up bringing Gen along with him so she was straddled on his midriff, still clutching his shirt and the back of his neck.
"I always knew you loved me," He laughed into her hair, cherishing the feeling of her body pressed against his.
They molded together perfectly, he thought, and it would be stupid of him to say that he wasn't just a little bit in love with her when she readily held on to him. He could feel a blush creep up and color his ears when she buried her face in the curve of his neck, gently pressing her lips against his skin. The kiss Gen planted wasn't even a kiss when Bass thought about it long enough as he kept her close, surprised that she still stayed in the seemingly uncomfortable position with her knees awkwardly resting on the ground next to his waist.
Gen was never a hugger. She wasn't one for dewy-eyed chick flicks either. Growing up, Gen would hit the hardest and fling herself into the first childish bet posed by the other, less willing, boys. She didn't like the cheek pinches that her grandmother would do without fail when visiting. But above all, Gen was never a hugger. She rolled her eyes at the one-armed hug and turned her nose up to any form of physical contact but now Bass never felt so lucky.
He let his fingers absently rake through and get entangled in her hair. He felt his scarred knuckles - from hours spent boxing without hand wraps - brush against the warm skin on her neck then he entwined his fingers together at the small of her back, feeling more of her heat radiating to his cold arms.
When Gen finally leaned back to look at his patient face, it finally dawned on her that maybe - after all these years - her entire life was built up with bricks of varied titles along the spectrum of emotions inside of her. With just one look, the walls she spent years stacking and mortaring was in a pile of dusty rubble at the bottom of her heart.
Years of laboring - all gone- and just with one of his looks.
Fifteen Years After the Blackout
Gen sat on a rotatable stool in front of her cracked mirror. She never noticed when the glass had been fractured. Over the years, the dark wood frame had collected dust between the intricate designs along the sides and over the graceful curve of the top. The filthy nail-sized concave made the entire woodwork look old and worn.
She held a corner clump of a wet shirt and dabbed the thin material against the coagulated blood. The throbbing skin was blotched with sickly purple swells. It need not be said that the violently carved 'M' was indention as an eternal brand of possession. Gen sighed out loud and stared at her reflection - she looked like a Pablo Picasso painting. Her face was distorted and pulled in several directions in the reflected mirror.
Scars, she thought, were the proof that you had done something worthwhile in your life. She'd always believed that. She had the mended tissue over her thighs from all the times she would cut her legs with a rusty switchblade that she had found buried in the up-heaved dirt in the courtyard of Independence Hall.
All she wanted to do was leave. Not to go straight back to Jasper, Indiana like Bass clearly disapproved of. It didn't matter what he thought anyway. There was nothing left in her hometown but an empty house and echos of bad choices. No, she wanted to go to Chicago - maybe take a quick stop in Oak Park to visit Ernest Hemingway's birthplace. Gen knew she couldn't last in Phillie any longer than she could pretend to be happy. Bass had locked her in a beautiful dungeon where she would be treated to her every whim and fancy. He still didn't understand that since the very beginning he never had to coax her into following behind him in the steady march toward totalitarianism.
Gen was interrupted from her speechless brooding by a sharp knock on the door before the locked clicked open. She struggled to pull on a teal tank top before a uniformed messenger, who looked deceivingly similar to the other soldiers walking around, let himself inside. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her in the tank.
"Ever heard of knocking, soldier?" Gen spat out, adjusting the hem of the shirt on her hips and pushing her loose curls over her left shoulder to hide the deep gashes.
"I - I'm sorry, Miss Matheson," His voice cracked halfway through the apology, refusing to meet her piercing gaze. The young man clutched his hat, palms sweaty, and cleared his throat with more confidence. "Miss Matheson. General Monroe would like an audience with you, ma'am."
Gen tilted her head to the side, eyes squinting with a hint of recognition. He looked like Ben when she had last seen her little brother before she left for Basic Training. Her facial expressions softened at the memory of her little shook her head, snapping out of her empty reminiscing.
"Tell Monroe I'll come in my own time," She leaned down to snatch the shirt that she had dropped on the ground in her hurry to get a shirt on. Gen stuck a clean corner into the small glass of whiskey that was sitting beside her bedside, bracing herself for the sting that came shortly after she held it to her cuts.
"Ma'am," The messenger took a cautious step forward, his voice pleading for her to give him her full attention.
"You still here, soldier?" Gen said between grit teeth, precociously looking over her shoulder at him.
"General Monroe said you should come immediately, ma'am. He said - "
"Well, go tell your General Monroe to stick a jack up his ass if he wants a good lift." She groaned in irritation, chucking the shirt across the room in a sudden wave of rage. After a moment Gen covered her aching eyes with her fingers, running her hands down her face before turning to the soldier again, much calmer. "He wants me now?"
The soldier nodded loosely.
"And I'm guessing he sent you to take me to him personally, right?"
Another stupid looking nod.
Gen let out another heavy groan that hurt the sides of her throat. Without any sort of prompt, she was out the door and briskly walking through the corridors toward Bass's office. The messenger struggled to maintain a professional speed to keep up with her and stopped abruptly in the center of the office, snapping to attention.
"Would you look at that?" Gen sneered under her breath, coming to a stop beside Baker and crossing her arms while shifting most of her weight to one leg leaving the other bent. "I trained your monkey's well."
Bass shifted his amused eyes from Gen back to the soldier who held his salute firmly until the General had dismissed him.
Baker stood at ease with his hands clasped together at the small of his back toward the left side of the centered desk that Bass leaned against. Gen didn't bother looking at him for too long, her eyes immediately bored into Sebastian's. He was dressed in his dark blue uniform, a glass of whiskey poised in his hand which was lowered to chest level.
"You're dismissed, Captain Baker," General Monroe casually said, not missing a beat to stare right back at Gen with ease.
"Dragon Lady," Baker greeted her in a low mutter before exiting the office and shutting the door behind him.
"You called me," Gen matter-of-factly said, making it sound more like a half-bored question then a statement.
"I did," The brunette haired man took slow strides to lean against the window frame and cast a long stare out the open pane. "Marilyn." He half expected her to follow up with "Monroe" but she didn't.
A heavy silence settled over the room and Bass finished the whiskey at a leisurely pace, almost forgetting that Gen was there until she spoke up impatiently.
"Well, what do you want?"
"Don't," He started, throwing his hard gaze in her direction. "Don't talk to me like that, Genevieve."
Gen scoffed and rolled her eyes, sarcastically continuing without regret, "Well, what would you like me to say, General? Hold on, while I just jump on your communist bandwagon, will ya? Let me just blow the dust off my jump wings. How the hell am I supposed to fight the rebels with dust on my jump wings?!"
Before she knew it, Gen was pinned against a cabinet, the knobbed handles grinding against her spine. Bass held her wrists tightly in his deathly grip and glared down into her face with pure anger.
"I'm not going to be your little bitch anymore, Bass," Gen balled her fists so he could feel the muscles in her wrists flex in defiance.
"You have no right," he growled monotonously. "to talk to me like that."
"That was always your problem, Bass," She tilted her nose up, closing a bit more of the little space between their faces, her nostrils flaring. "You could dish it all out but you could never take it."
He slammed her spine against the knob again, connecting his lips against hers when her mouth opened to cry out in pain. This time, he distinctly noted, she was unresponsive to his kiss. Bass bit her bottom lip until he tasted blood and then flung her to the ground.
"I loved you!" He roared, pulling her to her feet and holding her up with sudden care.
"I know," Gen wiped her bloody lip with the side of her pointer finger. "And if you loved me then you would let me go home. Not to Indiana. Let me go back to South Carolina."
"I have a better idea for you,"
***Revolution***
Gen paced outside of the metal door for a solid five minutes before reluctantly pulling the heavy latch and stepping in the workshop. The first scent that struck her nose was the oil followed closely by the smell of metal tools and rich dirt. She went down the rust covered stairs before looking up at the thin tanned face of her sister-in-law.
"Gen?" The nerves in Rachel's throat stood out like she was trying to keep composed.
"Rachel," was her abrupt - almost rude - reply as she stepped off the stairs and sauntered a few feet away from the blonde woman.
"You're bleeding," Rachel quietly observed with a hint of concern, her eyes glued to the ugly gashes on Gen's skin.
Gen let out a dismissive sigh, casually taking a bout around the room and looked back at Ben's wife. "Always knew you were smart."
"Let me help you," The blonde offered, parting her thin lips knowing full-well that Gen would curtly decline. "I know you never liked me, Gen, but..."Her meeble, tortured voice drew out and disappeared in a void of silence.
Gen leaned her torso against the wooden work table that was between them, her fingernails rapping against the softened surface in agitation, eyes glistening with years of unshed tears.
"You know I honestly thought he could change." She hopelessly admitted. "Call me naive, Rachel. He has all this power and he doesn't know what the fuck to do with all of it."
A concerned knot fell between Rachel's eyes. She didn't throw out reassuring words to comfort her sister-in-law because she knew better than anyone that it would be an insult to Gen's hardened heart. Nor did she attempt to offer any sort of advice because no one listens to the advice of others anyway - she didn't listen to her own advice when she had flings with Miles - her husband's older brother. So Rachel just stood there listening to Gen talk and cry and empty her heart out. Rachel knew full well that Gen didn't want sympathy, all she wanted was for someone to listen.
"Ugh," Gen muttered, wiping the tears from under her eyelashes, inwardly cursing herself for letting her guard down in front of the one woman she hated with a burning passion. "Let's just forget this ever happened."
"Consider it forgotten," Rachel whispered, wrapping an cotton afghan over her shoulders.
"Look," Gen held out a hand, her tone almost apologetic. "Bass sent me. You know what he wants."
"I don't know how to turn the lights back on Gen."
"And I believe you, Rachel. I really do," She insisted, making her way back to the stairs that led up to the door before turning back to look at her sister-in-law again. "You know, I'm planning on blowing this joint. If you want in..."
"I have to stay here," Rachel resolutely declared, surprising even herself at the force she put behind the words.
"I'll stop by before I go. In case, by some divine intervention, you change your mind."