Oh, that feels like Revolution to me. So have some Matheson angst ...
He remembers the day the sky wept for the soul of Miles Matheson.
It had been raining for three days when they marched into Baltimore. The bombers had gone in first, leaving a mix of mud and blood underfoot that sucked them down with every step. The local militia had piled corpses on the barricades, and if a gap happened to appear, well, they just shot someone to fill it.
The kid couldn't have been six or seven, and he'd scurried out to throw rocks at the invaders, before darting back into the ranks of the Baltimore reserve. His scream had echoed across the gap and Miles was still wondering “what the fuck” when the sword slit the kid's throat from behind.
He remembers the way the words had felt in his throat, that order that had changed his life. “Kill them all!” he had bellowed, and they had. Miles had used his last round to take out the filth sheltering behind the kid's corpse, and then pulled out his sword. It felt cleaner, somehow, even if his progress across the gap drenched them all in a red mist that the rain couldn't wash away.
He'd run up the flag himself that day, and his hands had been dirty. They would point to that handprint later, and sneer. The bloody mark of the Butcher of Baltimore.
Hate rolls in slow, but that's how it started. He remembers flinching at his own name. The great General Matheson. The guy with the mission, and the means to get it done. He was Wolverine, and the Winter fucking Soldier, and every assassin that ever lived. Too damn good at killing, and slowly dying inside.
'Course, those dudes didn't have Bass pointing them at half the continent like the blunt fucking weapon he'd become. One more city, one more campaign, one more band of rebels ... all for the greater good, he told himself.
Until there was only one more death he could justify, and he's right there, staring right down the barrel, and Bass is grinning at him, because he knows what's going to happen. He can't do it. Not his best friend. Even for the greater good.
So he ran, and it rained, and for a while there, he thought he might be able to escape the bloody past. Not being Miles Matheson helps, so he hides out in his casino and gets himself grimy with grog and girls and too much forgetting.
Until Charlie comes, and it's the killer she needs. Miles Matheson, the Butcher of Baltimore. No one hates that prick more than he does, but hey, it's the right thing to do. Even if his bold, brave niece doesn't know exactly what that means yet.
She'll learn, though. Blood will flow. All for the greater good. And the sky will weep for the soul of another Matheson.
Fill: Revolution, Miles Matheson, rain always washes away blood
He remembers the day the sky wept for the soul of Miles Matheson.
It had been raining for three days when they marched into Baltimore. The bombers had gone in first, leaving a mix of mud and blood underfoot that sucked them down with every step. The local militia had piled corpses on the barricades, and if a gap happened to appear, well, they just shot someone to fill it.
The kid couldn't have been six or seven, and he'd scurried out to throw rocks at the invaders, before darting back into the ranks of the Baltimore reserve. His scream had echoed across the gap and Miles was still wondering “what the fuck” when the sword slit the kid's throat from behind.
He remembers the way the words had felt in his throat, that order that had changed his life. “Kill them all!” he had bellowed, and they had. Miles had used his last round to take out the filth sheltering behind the kid's corpse, and then pulled out his sword. It felt cleaner, somehow, even if his progress across the gap drenched them all in a red mist that the rain couldn't wash away.
He'd run up the flag himself that day, and his hands had been dirty. They would point to that handprint later, and sneer. The bloody mark of the Butcher of Baltimore.
Hate rolls in slow, but that's how it started. He remembers flinching at his own name. The great General Matheson. The guy with the mission, and the means to get it done. He was Wolverine, and the Winter fucking Soldier, and every assassin that ever lived. Too damn good at killing, and slowly dying inside.
'Course, those dudes didn't have Bass pointing them at half the continent like the blunt fucking weapon he'd become. One more city, one more campaign, one more band of rebels ... all for the greater good, he told himself.
Until there was only one more death he could justify, and he's right there, staring right down the barrel, and Bass is grinning at him, because he knows what's going to happen. He can't do it. Not his best friend. Even for the greater good.
So he ran, and it rained, and for a while there, he thought he might be able to escape the bloody past. Not being Miles Matheson helps, so he hides out in his casino and gets himself grimy with grog and girls and too much forgetting.
Until Charlie comes, and it's the killer she needs. Miles Matheson, the Butcher of Baltimore. No one hates that prick more than he does, but hey, it's the right thing to do. Even if his bold, brave niece doesn't know exactly what that means yet.
She'll learn, though. Blood will flow. All for the greater good. And the sky will weep for the soul of another Matheson.