A/N: The only thing I can really say about this is it will be maybe 10 chapters max, most of them will be fairly short (for me at any rate) and that it assumes that there will be no battles with the Nano—essentially it ignores the entire Nano plot completely other than the fact that the power is out. The beginning takes place about a year or so after the Patriots are defeated (or 2 ½ years after the tower).

Monroe sat at his desk, whiskey in hand. He watched the amber liquid as it swirled in the glass, contemplating the events of the day. The treaty that Frank Blanchard had sent from Austin still sat in front of him, unopened and unread. He was sure he'd end up signing it, but for the time being he left it alone.

He'd had several reports that had made their way to him earlier in the day, all of them total shit. The harvest from the Southern Annex was poor at best due to the war and disorganization that had existed over the past two and a half years – ever since the bombs had dropped.

With the loss of the coal mines in Pennsylvania because of the fallout zone, they were only left with the ones in the Virginias, which meant that the trains he'd inherited were not running anywhere near capacity. On top of that, the entire Great Lakes region was in rebellion—mostly due to conflict between the locals and the militia.

He downed the contents of his glass and rubbed at his temples in a pathetic attempt to sooth the pressure there. Things would have been a hell of a lot easier if Miles had agreed to come back east with him after the war against the Patriots.

After staring at his empty glass for a while he rose to refill it. He was just setting the decanter down when a knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts. "Hold on," he said as he buttoned his shirt to the collar and rolled his sleeves back down. After all, eleven at night or not, it wouldn't do to be seen completely disheveled by an inferior officer.

"Come!" he ordered after running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to push it back off his forehead. As he waited for the door to open, he made a mental note to send for a barber in the near future. It also wouldn't do to have his constantly unruly curls sticking out everywhere. He had an image to uphold, after all.

Some lieutenant whose name he couldn't quite recall appeared in the doorway. He'd only been assigned to the compound within the past week. The man saluted him and waited at attention. Bass returned the salute and gestured for him to enter. "Sir, a rider from Michigan just arrived. He sent these dispatches."

"Thank you Lieutenant…"

"Harris, sir." The young man reminded him.

"Yes, of course," Monroe responded, distracted. "Dismissed," he said after going through the whole saluting business once more. He was really starting to hate protocol.

When the soldier was gone and the door closed against intrusion once more he picked up the letter on top. Sinking back into his chair he unbuttoned the thick wool uniform shirt. It was so odd; the uniform that he'd so prized long ago was now little more than a scratchy nuisance that he loathed almost as much as saluting and all the "Yes sir, No sir" business.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his actual name. He was starting to miss his name. People who called you by your name were your friends. Since no one used his name, he supposed that meant that now he had no friends, not that he really had any before setting up the capital for the new Republic in Nashville. Not since Miles had written him off again, anyway.

He set the pages down for a second as he shrugged out of the shirt. As an afterthought, he wadded it up and tossed it across the room, watching as it landed a few feet from the wastebasket. Gotta work on my free throw, he thought wryly before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Picking up the dispatch again, he scanned its contents. "Rebellion in Detroit escalating… Rations low… Civilians refusing to pay taxes… Requesting permission to engage?"

He read portions of the letter aloud as if they would somehow embed better within his already tired mind. When he finished he set the page down and crossed his arms over his desk, resting his head on top of them. The news from the northern portion of his fledgling new nation had done little to help his headache.

Monroe knew damn good and well why the civilians in Detroit were refusing to give the militia the required twenty percent of their crop yield. With a shit growing season in the north and the chaos in the past two years there simply wasn't enough food to go around.

What to do? If he allowed them to not pay this year, it would make him seem weak and on top of that, it would make it harder to feed the militia soldiers that protected that area of the Republic. However, if he waived the taxes, then they wouldn't starve and maybe (just maybe) the rebellion would simmer down. He'd dealt with that region more harshly the first time around, which was why they hadn't taken the new Republic sitting down in the first place. The lack of food was the fuel that fire had needed to spread.

Do you know who worries about seeming weak? Weak people… Sure, those were noble words, and they were fairly accurate as well- even if the young man that had spoken them didn't really believe in them.

With a frustrated sigh, Monroe sat up, grabbed a sheet of paper and the quill pen on his desk and began to write.

Col. Andrew Gray, 14th div.

Col. Gray,

Your report of the situation in Detroit has been received. Permission to engage is denied. Civilians will be issued the following message: Those choosing to stand down and lay down their arms will receive a temporary reprieve on taxes, to be repaid at ten percent per year over the next ten years.

Any militia soldiers caught trying to collect taxes from any household or township that has chosen to cease in rebelling against the Republic will be court marshalled without further warning—and they will be dealt with harshly. The same policy will be enforced throughout all regions affected by the poor harvest.

Also, rumors have reached Nashville of issues regarding abuses with the local female population in several regions. Spread the word that these had better be only rumors. Any inappropriate behavior amongst the militia regarding unwilling females (or males for that matter) will result in penalties including but not limited to—loss of pay, court marshal and/or hard labor.

I hope that I have made myself very clear on the matter. In other words: Keep your men in check. If they've got time to harass the ladies, I can find other ways for them to be useful to the Republic and earn their pay and their families' crop shares. Now that this has been formally addressed, be advised that I will hold commanding officers responsible for the behavior of their men as well.

Regards, etc.

President-General S. Monroe

Monroe set the pen down and waited for the ink to dry. "Let him think about that," he said under his breath as he folded and sealed his response. He barely knew the man personally, but for some reason he decided that he didn't like him.

He copied these new instructions down on another piece of paper and rose to pass on both this and the missive to Gray. He stopped by the door and looked at the crumpled up shirt he'd thrown there and then down at the t shirt he was still wearing. Fuck it. He left his uniform shirt where it had landed and opened the door, barking for Harris.

Several minutes later the young lieutenant appeared. "This response is to be delivered to the rider from the 14th division immediately. Make sure he's fed and has a room for the night. I expect him to leave at first light.

He indicated the other paper. "See that this is copied and sent to the commanding officers of every division in the field and is distributed to General Adams as well. I want every soldier in the entire fucking militia to be aware of this by the end of the month. No exceptions."

"Will there be anything else sir?" the lieutenant asked as he took the offered pages.

"That is all," Monroe ordered. The young man saluted him, which he returned after a moment. "Oh, one more thing… I'm officially off duty for the night. No disturbances unless the world is ending," he added.

Monroe went back into his office and locked the door behind him. He went through the double doors on the far side of the room, which led to his personal quarters—a small sitting room, a washroom of sorts and his bedroom. Entering the bedroom he kicked off his boots and flopped down on the bed.

Reaching over he grabbed empty glass off of the nightstand. Hesitating, he sat up just enough to pour himself another glass of whiskey from the bottle he'd so shamelessly stashed under the nightstand. Maybe just one more would numb him to sleep. "Got I hate my job," he mumbled before downing it and then pouring yet another.

An hour later, he stared at the ceiling. He watched as it spun above him, just as he had every night since he'd set up his capital in Nashville eight months prior. He knew he was going to feel like hell in the morning- just has he had every morning since he'd gotten back what was left of his empire and then some.

Gone were the days of running from the Patriots and sleeping out on the road or in some shitty new safe house. He'd never realized at the time that he'd miss it. Sure, his presence had been barely tolerated at best by Miles and his family—and he'd constantly worried that he'd end up with Rachel's knife in his back, but for a short time he'd just been a soldier again, fighting the good fight (sort of).

Now his life had devolved into decision making and politics and so on. He'd hoped that things would be different this time around, but it was all the same. People were unhappy and hungry. The militia was once again public enemy number one. There were still constant clashes on the border between the militia and the plains.

The facts were that people wanted the militia to protect them from the war clans and the militia wanted the respect and supplies, but all Monroe wanted was to feel like someone—anyone actually gave a damn about him or what he was trying to accomplish.

Of course within a month or so of reclaiming everything viable east of the Mississippi River, Connor had come sniffing around. He'd begged to make amends, swearing that it had been Tom Neville that had confused him and blurred his judgment with lies. You got what you wanted, didn't you? Isn't that why you did this in the first place? Or did you have other motives… ones that had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with THEM?

It had taken him all of two days to realize that Connor was a very gifted actor and maybe wasn't all he'd seemed. A month down the road, he'd come to the realization that his son was the worst thing that could ever happen to the Republic. He'd come at him almost immediately with plans to take on the Plains and Canada. It had taken Bass weeks of arguing to get it through his progeny's thick skull that they were not going to implement those plans and that he, not Connor was in charge—or so he'd thought.

He'd finally had to send out a dispatch to the entire militia ordering all soldiers do immediately disregard and report any and all orders coming from Connor. Three months ago, Connor had officially been sent home to Jasper with orders to keep his butt there and his mouth shut. Essentially he was living under house arrest. His household would be maintained by the Republic indefinitely, but that was the most he was willing to offer his son.

The little idiot having tried to take on St. Louis in the name of the Republic had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Monroe had barely been able to stop it before the first attack had been made. The border war it could have caused would have been catastrophic for the Republic. So now Connor sat rotting in Jasper and was no longer considered heir apparent for the presidency.

Of course, that left Monroe with an even bigger problem. He had to figure out who would take over in the event of his untimely demise or eventual retirement. That was something that the original incarnation of the Republic had lacked towards the end and it had caused a lot of turmoil in the already unstable nation.

The next in line had always been Miles, but after he'd left there was no one. Now that Connor was essentially a prisoner there was no one once again, but Monroe knew that if something were to happen to him before a new one was chosen that his son could very well likely end up with the job.

In his drunken state, he had an idea. It was most definitely a horrible idea, but it was one all the same. He got out of bed and stumbled into his office, almost tripping twice. He threw himself into his chair and hastily began to write a letter. A part of him realized that he should probably wait until he was at least halfway sober to think about it and write the letter. And then, he should wait until he was completely sober before reading it, but then again if he did that he'd never send the damn thing.

Finished, he scanned its contents—not to reconsider but merely to make sure that it was at least halfway legible. Satisfied that it at least resembled English and seemed to be spelled correctly, he sealed it and sat staring at it for a few moments. Might as well send it now before you have a chance to come to your senses… He burst out into the hallway. "Get me that Harris kid," he barked at a guard stationed down the hallway, at the top of the stairs.

To his credit, the lieutenant did his best to hide his shock at their commanding general's appearance when he arrived a short while later. Quite drunk and half-dressed the general looked as out of place as a man could be. "See to it that this letter gets sent at once. I want it on a train west before dawn," he ordered

"But sir, the coal reserves are almost completely depleted. Most of the trains have been shut down indefinitely," Harris began nervously.

"I don't care if they have to burn pinecones to get the damn thing moving. I want it delivered before the end of the week!" With that he slammed the door in the young man's face and stumbled back into his bedroom to find his bed once more. As the liquor and exhaustion worked in tandem to force him to sleep, he found himself feeling hopeful for the first time in months.