The first time she flees is just hours after she brings the traitor's family to safety. She gathers supplies and makes her way back to the city border, ready to spend at least a month in the woods to escape the search parties Miles will probably send after her. Miles takes about an hour to find her.
"I taught you everything you know, kid," he says from his position right above her, a grim smile on his face as he wakes his sleeping niece, "Hiding from me is going to take a lot more work."
He doesn't really expect her to draw a knife and point at him. "Stay away from me, Miles," she warns, and the hint of a smile on her uncle's face fades as he sees the panic in her eyes. She is still in shock from the actions she forced herself to take that afternoon. Miles doesn't know how to help her, not when he so abysmally failed with Bass.
He holds up his hands where she can see them, trying to look like he is not a threat, but aware that Charlie knows that he can be so quick the gesture does not matter. Even though he is sincere, she doesn't trust him, and that hurts more than he can put into words.
"Where is Monroe?" she asks, secure in the knowledge that one general never strays far from the other, especially since her uncle is injured. She'll have to run, but leave all her supplies behind in the process. It will limit her severely, especially when her head-start is non-existent. If Monroe is at least a few hundred yards out, she'll be able to make her escape. Miles is wounded and won't be able to keep up with her in the forest. She is fully in flight-mode, and the strain it has already taken on her body is overwhelmed by the strain on her young mind.
"Bass," Miles puts emphasis on the first name, "was just behind me. He means you no harm, Charlie. Neither do I." He reaches out slowly, but knows right away that it is a mistake. Charlie lashes out with the blade, which he dodges only barely. His stitches stretch and tear with the move, and he falls to his knees in pain. Charlie uses the opportunity to escape her bedroll and run south, not noticing her feet are bare and suffering on the forest ground.
Out of nowhere, she crashes into solid mass. Charlie fights to get away from it, but arms restrain her with a gentle grip. Sebastian Monroe has her trapped, mind, soul, and now body. "Let me go!" she screams, wild like an animal. She tries to land a blow but cannot find the angle. "Charlotte," Monroe whispers, his voice soft and unheard over the wind and the suffering sounds coming from her own throat. Monroe doesn't raise his voice, doesn't tighten his grip, but remains steady and calm as he repeats her name.
"Tell me what you need, Charlotte," he says, lowering her to the ground so her feet can't reach back and kick his legs out from beneath him. "What do you want?"
The question goes unanswered as Charlie gives in to the call of oblivion.
They do not speak of it when she wakes back in her own bed. Monroe will not look her in the eyes, Miles will not stop hovering, and Jeremy asks to be send to his old post at the border for a while so he won't have to see or speak to her at all (the request is denied). They are all dealing with the guilt their own way, and it does nothing to help Charlie at all.
So she leaves again months later, just past her birthday. She leaves the supplies this time but takes her favorite horse. The guards attempt to hold her back at the gate, but she gallops through and onto the fields. She pushes her faithful steed further than she should, but knows she is alone for the night.
The couple at the tavern let her stay in the room above for a cheap price. She sleeps fitfully surrounded by strangers, her locked door feels like a mocking of safety. But her environment is clear of guilt for the night, and that gives another kind of peace. One burden less.
Jeremy finds her mid-morning. He is drinking when she descents the stairs, and by his look it is not the first. He might very well have been there all night, consuming pint after pint. She sits down across from him.
His eyes are glazed over. It would be child's play to escape his presence. But she wants to listen to what he has to say.
"I thought I knew you, that there was nobody who knew you better than I. But that is a lie, isn't it? When you needed me the most I didn't listen, I didn't understand. You did as I asked, and I condemned you for it. I'm sorry, mini-Miles."
He looks pathetic from his seat on the booth. She does not want to hold on to her anger. Doing so will only condemn her to Monroe's faith, and that is the one thing she is really running from. Their influence has tainted her honor and her morals. She has shot a man in the back in the name of the Republic.
They return to Philly with not another word spoken between them. More months fly by with little change either way. She keeps leaving, they keep finding her within twenty-four hours no matter how much they have on their to-do lists.
For her, this game of hide-and-seek is an escape. When she hurts so much that breathing feels impossible, after she has to walk past the site where she killed her first, or goes by the butcher. Like Bass won't meet her eyes, she cannot meet his.
For the generals and their captain it is a reminder that they go too far and need to take a step back.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Miles?" Charlie questions her uncle, a dangerous edge to her voice.
The general freezes in the middle of assembling the revolver, one last check to make sure it won't jam at the one moment it shouldn't. "I thought we were getting better," he whispers, shoulders hunched as he leans on the table, the chair creaking with movement. He doesn't bother with lying, Charlie knows him too well for that. They are so much alike.
But they aren't getting better. It's been four years since Charlie first ran, and there is no time for improvement. If anything, the Republic has been getting worse. Texas and Georgia are pooling resources to keep their whole south border busy, while rebels keep creeping through the gaps from the Planes in the west. With the whole Militia on the defensive, priorities are more quantity than quality of life. Safety in numbers. A hundred underfed villagers are a better defense than ten trained soldiers...unless one of the is a general of course.
The taxes are going up, the protests growing, patrols thinning, crime rates are rising and meanwhile they are loosing more land than they can regain on campaigns. Crops failed last year, and they barely made it through the winter, which was harsh up north.
"So who're those bullets meant for? You shooting and running? Or shooting and shooting?"
"Hadn't gotten that far yet," Miles grins self-deprecatingly, snapping the last piece in place. He looks horrible, underfed and like he hasn't slept in days. Charlie has watched her uncle fall into the bottom of the bottle. She has surreptitiously taken over the tasks he's let slide now that he spends most of the day drunk on the worst things he can ingest.
His eyes are glazed over, and today does not seem to be an exception to the growing alcoholism. Sure they've always drank much, splurging on whiskey and bourbon; the good stuff. Now though, Miles can barely stand, trying to numb the depression, but feeding it instead.
"Revolver," Charlie muses, "six bullets." She'd seen him load all of them. If he was just going to shoot himself in the head, he wouldn't have bothered with more than one. "Monroe getting one? Or me?"
Miles can't get his hands away from the gun quickly enough. He gets up from his chair and doesn't know if he wants to reach for Charlie or get as far away as possible for his niece. "I'd never hurt you, kid," he reassures her.
"But Monroe is fair game?" she snorts, circles the room so she can snatch the revolver off the table and holsters it in her belt. Charlie turns to face Miles with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. "Let's be honest here uncle Miles," she registers that he flinches at the title, just like she intended. "If you can put a bullet in your best friend's head, you can put one in mine too. Especially when you're too out of it to tell the difference."
"Charlie," he sighs, not wanting to listen.
"Miles," she repeats in a mocking tone of voice. She grabs his chin with long fingers, while he hasn't even realized she moved across the room. "Who have you been talking to? This can't be your idea. There are maybe two options I can think of, and you should really know better than to listen to either of them."
"Charlie," now he hesitates. He knows his mind is clouded by booze and his reaction time slower than a new recruit's. Miles is pretty sure he should be doing something to stop Charlie from her informal interrogation, but she's been trained by him, and is taking every single advantage she can.
"If you'd found mom, we would know, so it has to be Nora." Miles meets her eyes for just a second before looking back down, an admittance of guilt to the young woman who knows him so very well. "Really, Miles? You let yourself be convinced by a pretty face that you should kill Monroe to save the Republic? How drunk were you?"
Charlie looses her temper when he practically starts fading in and out of consciousness in her grip. She removes her fingers from his chin and slaps him on the cheek. Hard. "She made the bomb that almost killed the both of you a few years ago! Until you are useful to her, she doesn't judge you any higher than collateral damage. Until you are on her side, you are expendable, a weapon to be used. She can't love you when you are everything she is against."
She throws her hands up in the air and makes a frustrated noise that sounds like a growl. "Wow," she exclaims when she barely gets a reaction, the blank and absent stare more infuriating than the quiet resignation he'd shown earlier. "Maybe talking to Bass will sober you up," she mutters, and storms out only to let Monroe walk in.
"At least have the decency to tell me why? How could you, Miles?"