Chapter 3: The Heartbeat of Rebellion

Marcus and I reviewed the Northern Defense army.

The morning was crisp, the kind of cold that cut straight through your uniform. The parade ground stretched before us—a sea of men and women in camo, rifles gleaming in the pale sun, boots lined up in ruler-straight rows. Flags fluttered overhead, and the distant rumble of tanks was a heartbeat under our feet. Even after all these years, that sight still stirred something deep inside me—pride, awe, and a sliver of fear at the power I commanded.

Honestly, this army is something else: solid body armor, top-grade rifles, tight formations, high morale.

But what pleased me most was the loyalty I saw in their eyes.

With an army like this, how could I not bring peace to the nation?

Trying to hide my excitement, I put on a look of grief and outrage.

I schooled my features, drawing on every memory of loss and anger, channeling it into a face that would ignite their hearts. It was theater, but necessary. A commander’s pain is a soldier’s fire.

Marcus then, as if by accident, let it slip that Carter had kidnapped Lillian and summoned me to the capital.

He played his part to perfection, voice cracking just enough to carry through the ranks. Word spread like wildfire, faster than a prairie blaze in July.

In no time, the soldiers started buzzing.

The officers pretended not to notice, letting the soldiers talk among themselves.

The low hum of voices swelled. Helmets tipped together, hands clenched into fists, eyes narrowed with anger and resolve. It was a uniquely American chorus—gritty, loyal, and stubborn as hell.

“Back when I was starving, it was Miss Harper who gave me half her sandwich and saved my life.”

“If not for the bowl of mac and cheese Miss Harper made, my whole family would’ve gone hungry.”

“Our whole town survived thanks to the bait Miss Harper gave us for fishing… sniff…”

“Commander, lead us to D.C. and save Miss Harper!”

One by one, the stories spilled out—each tale a thread in the tapestry of loyalty. Some soldiers wiped their eyes, others clenched their jaws. Lillian’s kindness had planted seeds that now bloomed in the hearts of an army.

“Hell, Miss Harper’s the reason my little girl made it through that winter. She knitted her a scarf herself.”

The scattered voices soon merged into one.

“We beg you, sir, lead us to D.C. and save Miss Harper!”

A chant rose up, swelling like a college football crowd on game day. The sense of unity was overwhelming; their voices echoed across the field, reverberating in my bones. For a moment, I almost believed anything was possible.

Somebody in the ranks had tied a bandana around their helmet, and a battered boom box played 'Born in the U.S.A.' just loud enough to be rebellious.

I smiled in satisfaction. The army’s morale was mine to command.

I let the mask slip, just a little, allowing a proud grin to break through. These men and women would follow me through hell and back, if I asked it.

Taking a deep breath, I shouted, “March south! Rescue Miss Harper!”

All the soldiers echoed, “March south! Rescue Miss Harper!”

The words rang out, fierce and determined. Boots stomped, rifles raised, the ground trembled with their resolve. For a heartbeat, I felt like Washington crossing the Delaware—a rebel with a cause.

Across the parade ground, an old sergeant muttered, "History repeats, don't it? Never trust the suits in D.C., son."