Chapter 12: Salvation

- 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 1.18 – written by Paul Grellong & Oanh Ly.

Trigger warnings: Allusions to Non-con, Aftermath of Torture, POV PTSD, POV suicide attempt (you know the scene), probably too much for this site, but shhh.

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

Eight years after The Blackout

Miles glanced up from his work. Rachel was lying on her belly, her feet in the air, her face in some sort of sciency book. Miles had taken to doing all the paperwork and report-reading he could in his old room. It wasn't to keep an eye on Rachel per say, he knew the guards he had posted would be sufficient to keep her in his suite. And there was nothing left in his rooms that she could use as a weapon – not even a metal spoon to sharpen into a shiv.

No, the real reason he came by was because he was worried about her. She had some of the ticks that some of his buddies from the Corps had – startling easier than a deer during hunting season, flashes of irritability, troughs of apathy, all symptoms of PTSD – and since she was already suicidal before what Bass let whatever actually happen happened, she was like as to be worse off now. Bass swore 'til be was blue in the face that that hadn't happened, but Miles still didn't trust him – hadn't forgiven him. There had to be a reason why she woke up screaming 4 out of 10 nights.

Miles looked over at the bouquet of wild flowers sitting on the other desk. He supposed she could try to break the thick ceramic vase for a sharp-edge, but it was part of a subtle campaign he was waging – trying to show her life's beauties, trying to get her to care once more. He had saved Bass – convinced him to live again; he could save Rachel as well. Of course whiskey, women, and the promise of eternal brotherhood wouldn't work on Rachel. Though, she might appreciate wine and a boy-toy, as a palate-cleanser, he thought wryly. Then he was revolted at himself for even thinking that. No, he had been trying flowers, nice food, frequent baths with special lavender-scented soap, and of course library access. He told himself he was doing it for Ben.

Miles knew it was working a bit. Some of the men guarding her – among his most trusted, posted in teams of two for the dual purpose of keeping them honest and being able to deal with Rachel better – heard her walking laps around the room or doing jumping jacks late at night. She must be trying to build up her strength. Miles knew she was sandbagging, pretending to be weaker than she was, when he was around. She must be plotting for an escape attempt. He'd let her go if he thought it would actually help, but it wouldn't. She was still weak, and even if she did know where Ben and the kids were, there was a lot of trouble between here and there, trouble she couldn't face. No, she'd be a lot safer here, with him. If they ever found Ben – he neglected to think about the fact that he had reassigned his best men away from that task – then she could be reunited with her family.

Miles looked back at Rachel – she was sleeping on her book, her legs canted to one side. Her cheek was pressed so firmly against the book, Miles was sure the ink was rubbing off. That's one way to learn, mentally quipped Miles. He was happy that she was comfortable enough with him to fall asleep with him in the room.

Miles turned back to his much neglected reports. Sometimes his mind wandered when Rachel was in the room, but it was nice being with her. He didn't have to be 'The General,' he could just be Miles.

An hour or so later, Miles heard an odd whimpering sound – like a puppy. He turned around and located the source; it was Rachel. She had tucked her knees up to her chin, and was shivering. Miles debated with himself whether or not to go to her. A man in a militia uniform probably would only worsen the flashback, and he still didn't know how much she hated him for That Night, but her pained whimpering drove him to her side. He stroked her cheek not stuck to the textbook, and stepped back when she woke with a start.

For a few heartbeats Miles watched Rachel's pupils shrink – focusing on him. He was sure he'd soon be royally chewed out by an embarrassed Rachel. Vulnerability made her testy. But instead, she threw herself into his arms. Astonished, he stroked her hair as she shook with tremors.

His heart melted, and he muttered softly, "You're mine, and I won't let anything else happen to you. I promise."

After a few treasured minutes, Rachel stopped shivering and tensed. Miles released her, and stood up from the bed. Rachel's face was red with embarrassment and she refused to meet his eye.

Miles knew the moment was over and walked back to his desk. After several minutes of silence Miles turned and sneaked a peak at Rachel, she was studying the book as if nothing had happened. He dared to ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Rachel exclaimed, "No!" and then softer, "No. Thank you."

The pair turned back to their work, one pretending that it hadn't happened; one dwelling on the feel of her soft too-slight form in his embrace.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Rachel suppressed a yell of exultation. There, no more than 200 yards away, was Monroe. She had him in her sights. Literally. Her world focused on one thing. Just one thing: seeing Bass dead. Paying back that bastard for killing her baby boy. For killing Ben. For the multitude of things that he had done to her, had made her do. Rachel had had the whole journey to forge, re-forge, and hone her hatred, like one of those fancy Japanese swords one of her high school boyfriends used to have.

… In the morning glad I see / My foe outstretched beneath the tree…

Aaron said sarcastically, "Oh, terrific. So how are we gonna get to that door now?"

Rachel suppressed a malicious grin, and pulled out Dr. Warren's notebook. She handed it over to Aaron saying, "Here. The override codes are inside. Take it."

Aaron asked, "Why?"

Rachel wanted to reply: well, you naïve fool, despite the fact that I already let you know my true intentions were to wipe out that piece of filth, and actually turning on the power was secondary, and anything else was tertiary, let me try to spell it out more clearly. But she didn't. Aaron was a faithful naïve fool and didn't deserve that.

So, instead Rachel said, "Because tonight, I am going to go down there, and I am going to kill Monroe. And when I do, everyone is gonna run for his tent. Everyone. It'll be chaotic."

Aaron finally got the picture that nothing was more important to her than making Bass pay. Nothing. Especially not her own worthless life. He said, "Rachel, no…"

Rachel continued, "You won't have long…"

Aaron interrupted, "Absolutely not."

Rachel forged ahead, "… but you'll have a shot at the door. Get inside. Lock it behind you."

Aaron continued, as if he had more than a singlet oxygen's probability at changing her mind, "I said no. There's gotta be another way."

Rachel said with suppressed fury, "I came to kill Monroe. He is down there right now."

Aaron tried to change her mind with logic, how little he knew about what she had been through to think that that would work. Not when Monroe was in her sights. Not after what he had done to her. Not after what he had done to the people she cared about.

He said, "Even if you pull this off, they will kill you."

Rachel spared his delicate sensibilities; he was pretty dense for a genius. Then again, she had known PhDs from Before who forgot to turn off their Bunsen burners or forgot to zip their flies. She said, "How else are you gonna get inside? There is no other choice."

She continued, "I have to do this. You have to let me do this. For Danny. For Ben. Get inside The Tower. Turn the power back on. It's up to you now." She turned on the waterworks, having reeled in the fool with just enough truth.

…And I sunned it with smiles, / And with soft deceitful wiles…

Rachel waited calmly in the sagebrush. Yes! She had caught one militiaman with her fire-trap. She pounced, strangling him with her belt. He tried to fight her, struggling to breathe. He flopped down to the dirt, and she rolled with him, never slacking in her grip. He tried elbowing her, and rolling over. She never released her hold. This particular mook may have never done anything wrong, but she had suffered at the hands of – and under the unseeing eyes of – many of his fellows. She felt not a shred of remorse when, once she gained enough leverage – her feet against his broad back – she snapped his neck.

Rachel panted with the exertion at 6,000 feet, and eventually examined her prey. He had an automatic rifle, his militia uniform – the item she had killed him for – and a grenade. Hot damn! The grenade gave Rachel an excellent idea. She had been planning on shooting Bass at point-blank range, to get the joy of seeing the fear in his eyes, the pleasure of hearing his last breath. But with this grenade she could do that, was well as sparing herself the possibility of a painful and protracted interrogation. No, a quick death beside Monroe; now, that would be the perfect ending to her tale.

…And I watered it in fears, / Night and morning with my tears…

Rachel strode into Monroe's camp, the perfect combination of arrogance and deference in her bearing. She confidently walked into the command tent, the grenade clutched firmly in her strong right hand.

There he was. She softly said, "Hey."

… Night and morning with my tears;/…/ And with soft deceitful wiles…

She needed to see that bastard's eyes before they both died. She pressed the safety lever down with her thumb and pulled the pin.

Some mook pulled his gun on her and said, "Don't move."

Rachel couldn't take her eyes off of Bass. Wanted to see him suffer, wanted to see his fear.

…And I watered it in fears, /…/And I sunned it with smiles…

The smug shit walked towards her and said, "Hello, Rachel."

Rachel replied, "Bass." Her hands tensing for a release.

Monroe tried to talk her down saying, "Rachel, let's not do anything rash here."

How dare he try to calm her down!? Rachel stared into his blue eyes and released the safety. Rachel looked forward to seeing his last look of panic, for the sweet release of death.

… In the morning glad I see / My foe outstretched beneath the tree…

Rachel watched the mook with the gun tackle Monroe to the ground, while two other mooks tried to wrest the grenade from her hands. Rachel needed to see Bass die, and ignored the mooks on top of her.

Bass looked more angry than fearful, though with time astonishment entered those soul-less blue orbs.

…And my foe beheld it shine, / And he knew that it was mine…

The mook bent back her thumb, stealing her grenade, stealing away her salvation. He threw it and Rachel felt the earth rock with the explosion. Her ears rang. Rachel felt a wave of relief at her near miss. She told herself that that was merely the body's reaction; she was still focused on bringing about Bass' death by any means necessary.

… In the morning glad I see / My foe outstretched beneath the tree…

Monroe stared at her like she was a crazy person and she wanted to cackle, to scream: 'You're damn right you fucker, and you are the one who made me this way!' But instead she rolled over, resigned to the hell to come. Resigned to live through whatever he threw at her, waiting for her next chance to eliminate the bastard.

… I was angry with my foe: / I told it not, my wrath did grow…

- Author's Note: What do you think, too much for this site? Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)