Chapter 7: Prelude

- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading and reviewing. Each notice makes me happy!

Thank you also to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

Some dialogue taken from 1.13 – written by Monica Owusu-Breen & Matt Pitts.

Trigger warnings: POV PTSD/Stockholm syndrome, aftermath of Torture

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

Seven years after The Blackout

Miles studied the drawing – no diagram – Rachel had made. There were many straight lines connecting to other lines, zigzags, some triangles, and slashed lines. It really looked like a demented subway diagram except it was all done in graphite and everything was all squared-off. There were several-digit numbers written over some of the zigzags and the beginnings of a parts list.

Rachel had begun drawing the moment Miles untied her right hand, and handed her the pencil. Miles had retied the left hand down and stepped back to watch her draw with fierce determination and ferocious speed. It was like watching a great cat stalk and kill an antelope – no wasted movements, just single-minded focus, beautiful and yet a bit intimidating too.

When the other private returned, he had had to make her stop to swish-and-spit some whiskey to keep the wound clean. She had whimpered in pain when she did, but had done it without complain, she clearly understood the reason behind the order.

She almost didn't appear to notice the pain – which Miles knew to be agonizing – while focused on drawing. He was certain she was going to draw half and then demand morphine, but she didn't request the drug until she had said she had finished the diagram for the "Field-effect Power Transducer."

The corporal had injected Rachel with the morphine as Miles looked over the diagram for the first time. He couldn't make heads or tails of it, but he had some folks back in Philly who were brainy-types and should be able to tell if it could do what she said it could do – bring back the power in a localized area.

After he had given the diagram the once over, she asked for it back, and started writing down parts that she would need until the morphine hit her like an elephant-tranquilizer. Currently, she was slumped in the chair, head resting on her left shoulder, her free right arm dangling.

Miles set the diagram down on the wash table and knelt before Rachel. He looked up into her peaceful face and thought, you couldn't really tell what had happened, except for the smear of blood-whiskey on her chin, and a few dried blood drops. He walked back over to the wash-table and moistened the handkerchief. He carefully, almost reverently, erased any trace evidence of the torture. Good. That's better, he thought looking at her unblemished face. He ran one calloused finger pad along her soft cheek. It was strange that someone so determined would be so soft. Miles thought he remembered some saying about some British queen having an iron fist in a velvet glove, and that was Rachel.

She'd lead you along, docile until you crossed a line and then wham brick wall. Miles should have known she wouldn't give up the location of Ben and the kids, but he had to try, time was of the essence. The Republic had united most of the eastern seaboard – the Trenton campaign had been the last big battle. The New York area was a wasteland and the Massachusetts Militia rolled over and showed their bellies as soon as they heard the Butcher of Baltimore had set his eyes on them. But the Georgia Federation was a different story. They needed something more, like power, to bring the damn Peach Eaters to heel, to protect the Republic.

Rachel's determination – and the time crunch – was the reason he skipped so many of the classic torture steps. He needed Rachel to crack hard and fast, but didn't want to lead to any permanent scarring. He skipped sleep deprivation, stress positions, and water-boarding for the first reason, and wouldn't let Strausser or an I&I officer at her for the second. Strausser especially. He was known to indulge in a bit of rape, and there was no way in hell he'd let him near his brother's wife, near Rachel.

Miles had been worried that moving onto tooth extraction was either too much or not enough. But Rachel didn't appear to be broken, merely cracked enough to give up some information she held in lower regard. That was fine by him. Bass wouldn't care how he got the power on, just that he had.

Miles ghosted his fingers along Rachel's free right arm, she had rolled the light shirt she was wearing up to her elbow, and her forearm was soft, lightly speckled, with a shimmer of graphite on the underside. She had been so focused on drawing her thing-a-ma-jig that she hadn't noticed the slight smearing. Miles attempted to rub off the graphite with his thumb but stopped at Rachel's moan, she shifted her head to her other shoulder and continued sleeping off the morphine.

Miles shook himself and stood up. He grabbed another hank of rope and tied down her right arm. He didn't trust her alone with a free hand. No fucking way.

Miles paused at the tent entrance, looking back at Rachel. He ruthlessly suppressed any guilt at her condition. He had done what he needed to do for the good of the Republic, and she had done what she felt she needed to do for the good of her family. It wasn't her fault she was so narrow-minded that she couldn't see past the rumors. Couldn't see the fact that they'd be better off with a strong republic to protect them from Georgia, from Texas.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Rachel stormed away from the Rebel base, into the night. She had to clear her head. She simply could not comprehend the woman her little happy girl had become. Her baby was so strong, and so determined. It made her so proud, yet damn, it aggravated her. She was proud she had a daughter who could take care of herself. One who was brave and resourceful, and thought of others in a crisis; one who didn't need her at all. She knew she'd sleep better knowing all that, but at the same time it was incredibly annoying to have to face off against that sort of iron will. And bittersweet that she wasn't needed anymore, not that Charlie ever really needed her, unlike tiny Danny.

The real holdup was, she had nothing to do with the sort of woman her daughter had become. Sure she had provided her slightly more than half of her genes, a wholesome pre-natal environment, as well as a secure and warm environment during her childhood; but this resolute woman had been shaped by something much more powerful, and much more recent.

The little girl Ben and she raised would have protested killing Neville based on principles, not practicality. Would have reacted emotionally, not pragmatically. Rachel knew precisely the architect of this new pragmatic stranger – Miles. Miles had a compelling charisma, almost a van der Waal force, able to pull people into his sphere of influence and change them.

Rachel had to sort herself out, had to learn to accept. She knew she didn't have Miles strong personality, but maybe, just maybe, she could use her weaker electrostatic force to… Charlie was all she had left, her only reason to keep living, Rachel had to do what little she could to protect even a little bit of the happy – moral – little girl Charlie once was.

Rachel recalled with dread The Slap. Maybe Charlie would be better off without her broken mother. She couldn't help Danny, couldn't help herself, why should she fool herself into thinking she could help Charlie?

"Rachel?" a voice interrupted her contemplation, his voice. Rachel didn't want to stop, wanted to fume off into the night, but his van der Waal force, so much stronger than a simple magnetic force, drew her in.

"You – you okay?" Miles asked.

Rachel looked at him, and said despondently, "In what world does it turn out that you're better for Charlie than I am?"

The light from the trashcan-fire flickered on Miles' face, strengthening his already strong cheekbones. Rachel couldn't stand to look at him anymore and turned and walked away.

"What do you mean?" Asked Miles, concern coating his voice. She could hear him follow her.

Rachel couldn't bear it any longer; her only reason in the world to keep living might be better off without her. The tears she'd been holding in all week flowed of their own volition.

"Hey! What – what happened?" asked Miles.

She was deeply mortified at showing such weakness in front of Miles, but at the same time she knew that despite their vast history, despite their differences, despite her current feelings, he wouldn't let the wave of loss she felt for her son – for her daughter – drown her. Or the undertow of shame following it, either.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey," he reassured her. Drawn to him, she stepped back into his embrace. She restrained her instinctive urge to brush off any male standing behind her, this was Miles, and relaxed into the safe harbor of his familiar strong arms. The strangely comforting feel of his chin resting on her shoulder reassured her, helped her purge her anger at having been denied the pleasure of eliminating Tom Neville, of doing what little she could to keep her family safe and take revenge for what he'd done to her family.

Rachel turned into Miles' warm arms. She held on to him, onto the clarity he provided, knowing with certainty, that just as with van der Waals forces, once he left, his effects would go with him. She felt him stroke her hair, and let that familiar reassuring motion draw out all the rage, grief, and uselessness stagnating in her lymphatic system.

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)