Introduction and Prologue
Aelita
Solving the riddle of history
- Location
- The left-wing of the impossible
Introduction
Hi, I'm the writer formerly known as "Jello_Biafra" from alternatehistory.com, and this the definitive version of the timeline I began working on almost ten years ago. It's grown a lot since then. It underwent a major rewrite with the help of Illuminatus_Primus, who has since disappeared from the internet but his contribution to the work won't ever be forgotten. There's now three principal writers: myself, @Mental Omega and @Miss Teri , but it's had numerous smaller contributions from many others.
We're now going to be crossposting on SV. Expect new updates on a biweekly basis at the very least. But there is a lot of material already on AH.com so this process will take some time to integrate. In the meantime, if you can't get enough the timeline is still over at AH.com.
In 1901, the Polish immigrant turned anarchist assassin Leon Czolgosz sought to strike terror in the captains of industry by killing President McKinley. The assassin never completed his task. In a world where Theodore Roosevelt never became president, where the Progressive Era remained stillborn, America's native sons and immigrant workers turn increasingly to militant trade unionism and socialism to put food on the table.
Reds! chronicles a world turned upside down, where the heart of world capitalism succumbs to communist revolution. It is a tale of ordinary men and women turned to revolution, of a tragic civil war spurred on by reaction, culminating in the death of the old United States and its rebirth in the Union of American Socialist Republics.
Prologue: A New World
11 October 1933
"Comrade, would you please state your full name and rank for the record."
"Battalion Commander Marius Victor Gracchus."
The old Chicago Federal Building was filled to the rafters today with throngs of citizens eager to witness history in the making. The first in a series of Extraordinary Revolutionary Tribunals had begun early this morning. Marius sat stiffly in the witness box, while three white judges, twelve white jurors and a gallery full of mostly white spectators waited with bated breath for a black man's testimony.
The People's Tribune was a wiry man in his forties, with hair graying around the temples. "Major- sorry, old habits die hard – ComBat, you fought in the Battle of Chicago, correct?"
"Yes. The defense itself, and the subsequent campaign."
The Tribune paced as he spoke, casually strolling along the well like he owned it. "Could you describe your role for the court, in brief?"
"Objection!" cried the lead defense counsel.
Marius had heard of the man before. He remembered the lawyer's face from old issues of the Daily Worker. R. Nash Baldwin had been one of the Party's top labor lawyers. It seemed queer to see him defending counterrevolutionaries.
"On what grounds?" said the middle judge, a young bespectacled red-haired man.
"Relevance. Gracchus's heroics don't have any relevance to the prosecution's case against my client," said Baldwin. Marius was no lawyer, but he knew a delaying action when he saw it.
The Tribune retorted, "Justice, the witness must provide context to give sense to his testimony against Major General Marshall."
The judge scratched his temple pensively. "Overruled. But keep it pithy."
The Tribune repeated his question. Marius did his best to keep it short, but even the critical points he'd discussed beforehand with Comrade Dennis, the Tribune's assistant. "Well, the short of it is I was a member of the ol' Spartacus League and a union organizer when the Putsch went down. I formed up with the Haymarket Brigade. I served in the 92nd Infantry Division during the Great War as a sergeant, so they gave me a platoon."
"You were promoted quickly, correct?"
"Yes sir, when our company HQ was hit by some of General Marshall's artillery, I suppose I just assumed command of what was left of Baker Company. We were in heavy fighting in the Pullman neighborhood."
"Your foes, were they Regular Army?"
"No sir. Regulars in the White Army, you see they didn't have the stomach for what was asked of them. For the most part they or the National Guardsmen in the White Army fought honorably and professionally. Who we fought in Pullman? I wouldn't even call them men. More like rabid dogs. They didn't take prisoners, and they were real keen on enforcing the renegade MacArthur's Enemy Agents Order."
The Tribune produced a document from one of the stacks on his desk. "I refer the court to exhibit seventeen, an intercepted copy of the so-called 'Enemy Agents' order." With a bit of flourish, he handed copies to the judges and the defense counsel. "ComBat, could you describe for the court what its implementation meant in the battle for Pullman?"
A flood of images flickered through Marius' mind. His pulse quickened as he remembered the vivid smell of blood. The square in front of a train station littered with lifeless bodies. A baby crying, somehow missing the slaughter as they clung desperately to their mother, her eyes open and still in her pale face.
That terrible anger was welling up within him again. Righteous rage he didn't know if he could control. As stoically as he could manage, Marius calmly stated, "Pullman is a working class ward. These men had been given the task of liquidating political opposition. I believe the order termed it 'communist political agents.' As far as I can see, their definition of 'communist political agent' was just about everyone without an English surname, and some with them."
"And these men were fighting as part of the Army of the Mississippi, under the command of General Marshall?"
"Yes sir."
"These irregulars, the Volunteer Brigade of the Salvation Army; what became of them?"
"After three days of brutal fighting we defeated them. They were supported by a machine gun company of the 1st Infantry Division. On the night of 24 April, my company infiltrated the enemy lines, which had worn thin, and outflanked their machine gun support before they could move into position. The Regulars surrendered quickly, and a good number of them even helped in finishing the fight. Finally, on the 26th, their resistance collapsed and they surrendered."
"Major," the main judge scolded, "the details of the military operation do not concern the court. Tribune, what is the point of your line of questioning?"
"I'm just getting to that, your hon- er, I mean Justice." The Tribune turned to Marius, still unrattled. "Did you interrogate any of the prisoners you took?"
"Yes. The XO of the Regulars said he had tried to arrest the Salvationist's CO for ordering the liquidations, but was overruled by division HQ."
"Objection, hearsay," said Baldwin, rising to his feet.
The main judge turned to the Tribune, eyebrow cocked.
As smooth as ever, the Tribune replied, "Justice, these matters have all been entered into evidence. The witness's statements on the content of official military documents of his unit are not hearsay."
The judge cast his glare at Baldwin. "Counselor, your spirited defense of your client doesn't extend to abuse of procedure."
"The intelligence we obtained is detailed in my reports, which I believe were submitted to evidence," Marius continued.
"So in your expert opinion," the Tribune paused for effect, "it was the military policy of General Marshall's forces to engage in atrocity, especially politicide?"
"Indubitably. Not only was it policy, but General Marshall showed complete disregard for the details of the enforcement of the Enemy Agent order. It did not matter how inexcusable was the conduct of fascist paramilitaries so long as the objective was accomplished. This was all done in complete violation of the laws of war. In my opinion, General Marshall is a disgrace to the uniform."
"Objection," cried Baldwin. "My client's personal character is not on trial, his alleged actions are. The Major has no basis to speculate on the details of my client's character or his fitness to wear the uniform of the former United States Army."
The main judge sat pensively for a short moment. "Sustained. The jury will disregard speculations about the defendant's fitness to wear the uniform. Major General Marshall is on trial for his alleged actions, whether his role in the MacArthur Putsch constitutes treason, and his military conduct, resulting in the death of American citizens, would make him criminally responsible for murder."
The gallery rumbled. The gavel remained unused, the stern disapproval of the three judges proved sufficient.
"Tribune, do you have further questions?" said the judge on the left, a sour looking mustachioed man in his early thirties.
"No, Justice." The Tribune turned to Baldwin. "Your witness."
Baldwin approached Marius, calm and professional. "Marius Victor Gracchus is an unusual name. Were you born with it?"
"Objection, relevance," stated the Tribune.
Marius did not wait for the judges to rule. "No, it was originally a nom de guerre. When I joined the Party in 1920, all the Mississippi cells were underground to avoid state terror. We used handles to protect our families from reprisals. But like Lenin and Trotsky, we sort of grew into the habit. Now it's official."
"Admirable. You stated previously you were in the National Army during the Great War. When did you enlist?"
"I didn't enlist, I was conscripted. My number came up in September 1915, when they decided they were going to take colored folks for military service. I mustered out for France in summer 1916, and I was at or near the frontlines until the Armistice."
"What rank did you attain before discharge?" Baldwin asked passively.
"I was battlefield commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant."
"Indeed." Baldwin grimaced slightly, "Yes or no, were you dishonorably discharged? Remember, you're under oath."
"I was dishonorably discharged for being a communist. You of all people should know that this is not a crime."
The judge panel glared at Baldwin, but the trap had been avoided. Baldwin wrinkled his nose.
"Fair enough Major. But down to brass tacks; you are of course familiar with the norms of military discipline and protocol, having served in a leadership capacity."
"Absolutely."
"For the record, what uniform are you wearing presently?"
Marius shifted uncomfortably. Lawyers and their mysterious ways, he concluded. "It's the service uniform of the Workers' and Farmers' Revolutionary Army."
The uniform he wore was simple and utilitarian, an olive jacket with mandarin collar, worn with harness style brown leather rifle belt, simple olive trousers and well-shined leather boots. The gold wheat ear of a Battalion Commander adorned the shoulder straps. Simple campaign ribbons adorned the breast.
"And the defendant, General Marshall; what uniform is he wearing?"
Marius cocked his head.
"Humor me, major."
Marius shrugged. "It's the dress uniform of the United States Army."
It wasn't all that different from the revolutionary uniforms; a simple olive wool jacket, worn over a collared shirt and tie. The rank insignia followed the older imperial style, and hadn't changed much since the Great War. Compared to the ostentatious uniforms of the British, French or Germans, it was rough and provincial, and that much hadn't changed.
"And as a former member of the United States Army, please tell the court what oath you swore to wear that uniform."
It took a moment to recall the words; it seemed like a lifetime ago Marius had stopped believing in them. He repeated them clinically, "I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever."
"Major, I believe there's more to the oath," Baldwin grinned.
Marius thought a moment. "I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Articles of War."
"And who was the President of the United States in April 1933?"
"Upton Sinclair," said Marius, rolling his eyes.
Baldwin produced another copy of the evidence exhibit for the Enemy Agents order. He handed it to Marius nonchalantly. Now face to face, Marius could see the sheen of sweat on the counselor's brow. His closely cropped brown hair was slightly disheveled. "Major, could you read for the court the first line of the order you and your valiant soldiers intercepted."
With a moment's hesitation, Marius read aloud "Pursuant to the orders of President of the United States Raymond Moley-"
"Tell me major," Baldwin interrupted, "what is a soldier supposed to do when there's two men both claiming to be president? Whose orders is he to follow? Whosoever are the enemies of the United States?"
"With all due respect, Counselor, I believe the outcome of the revolutionary war settled that matter," hissed Marius.
"Well indeed. The old republic has passed, long live the Union of American Socialist Republics. But you haven't answered my question, major. The matter was not settled when my client's alleged crimes occurred. There were two men claiming to rightfully hold the office of President of the United States. Each had a Congress legitimating them. And in between these two governments, hosts of armed men clashed over the fate of the United States. So I ask again, who is the commander-in-chief? How is a soldier to tell who is a patriot and who is a traitor?"
---
Marius sat on the steps of the courthouse. The imposing neoclassical building loomed over him almost in judgment. He couldn't give a satisfactory answer to Baldwin's question. He knew in his heart that he was right. The inner compass that directed the soul towards justice had pointed him true. The struggle was won, and the tyrants deposed.
But so many others; good men who he might have served beside once upon a time, had failed that that test.
The scars of the MacArthur Putsch still lingered on the city. Bombed out buildings littered Chicago and every other major city. Marius still smelled the ash on the wind. It stirred up memories of huddling behind a rubble barricade, watching as the flashes of artillery pierced the darkness, peering over the heap of bricks to see soldiers silhouetted against a burning department store.
The mirage faded as quickly as it came. Marius' heart raced. He'd broken out in a cold sweat. He decided to go for a stroll, and see what he could find for lunch.
The Red Guards standing watch saluted as he passed. It was born of respect, not military obligation. He crisply returned their salute. The red flag flew proudly atop the great rotunda of the Federal Building. Seeing it calmed Marius' rattled nerves. A new world had been birthed in the ashes of the old. The years of struggle, under the boots of the bourgeoisie, toiling in the factories and fields, bleeding on the fields of war, had finally been vindicated. The workers were calling the shots now. Having freed themselves, they would free the whole of humanity.
Marius got himself a hot dog from a street vendor. The ruddy faced Irishman shook his hand and thanked him for his service. Just a year ago, he could not have imagined being able to get a cup of coffee in a white café, let alone being treated like a comrade.
As he ate his hot dog, Marius wondered if it even mattered if Marshall got what was coming to him. It might be crueler to let the traitor live to see the old world of domination and exclusion he'd bled to defend die by inches.
Hi, I'm the writer formerly known as "Jello_Biafra" from alternatehistory.com, and this the definitive version of the timeline I began working on almost ten years ago. It's grown a lot since then. It underwent a major rewrite with the help of Illuminatus_Primus, who has since disappeared from the internet but his contribution to the work won't ever be forgotten. There's now three principal writers: myself, @Mental Omega and @Miss Teri , but it's had numerous smaller contributions from many others.
We're now going to be crossposting on SV. Expect new updates on a biweekly basis at the very least. But there is a lot of material already on AH.com so this process will take some time to integrate. In the meantime, if you can't get enough the timeline is still over at AH.com.
In 1901, the Polish immigrant turned anarchist assassin Leon Czolgosz sought to strike terror in the captains of industry by killing President McKinley. The assassin never completed his task. In a world where Theodore Roosevelt never became president, where the Progressive Era remained stillborn, America's native sons and immigrant workers turn increasingly to militant trade unionism and socialism to put food on the table.
Reds! chronicles a world turned upside down, where the heart of world capitalism succumbs to communist revolution. It is a tale of ordinary men and women turned to revolution, of a tragic civil war spurred on by reaction, culminating in the death of the old United States and its rebirth in the Union of American Socialist Republics.
Prologue: A New World
11 October 1933
"Comrade, would you please state your full name and rank for the record."
"Battalion Commander Marius Victor Gracchus."
The old Chicago Federal Building was filled to the rafters today with throngs of citizens eager to witness history in the making. The first in a series of Extraordinary Revolutionary Tribunals had begun early this morning. Marius sat stiffly in the witness box, while three white judges, twelve white jurors and a gallery full of mostly white spectators waited with bated breath for a black man's testimony.
The People's Tribune was a wiry man in his forties, with hair graying around the temples. "Major- sorry, old habits die hard – ComBat, you fought in the Battle of Chicago, correct?"
"Yes. The defense itself, and the subsequent campaign."
The Tribune paced as he spoke, casually strolling along the well like he owned it. "Could you describe your role for the court, in brief?"
"Objection!" cried the lead defense counsel.
Marius had heard of the man before. He remembered the lawyer's face from old issues of the Daily Worker. R. Nash Baldwin had been one of the Party's top labor lawyers. It seemed queer to see him defending counterrevolutionaries.
"On what grounds?" said the middle judge, a young bespectacled red-haired man.
"Relevance. Gracchus's heroics don't have any relevance to the prosecution's case against my client," said Baldwin. Marius was no lawyer, but he knew a delaying action when he saw it.
The Tribune retorted, "Justice, the witness must provide context to give sense to his testimony against Major General Marshall."
The judge scratched his temple pensively. "Overruled. But keep it pithy."
The Tribune repeated his question. Marius did his best to keep it short, but even the critical points he'd discussed beforehand with Comrade Dennis, the Tribune's assistant. "Well, the short of it is I was a member of the ol' Spartacus League and a union organizer when the Putsch went down. I formed up with the Haymarket Brigade. I served in the 92nd Infantry Division during the Great War as a sergeant, so they gave me a platoon."
"You were promoted quickly, correct?"
"Yes sir, when our company HQ was hit by some of General Marshall's artillery, I suppose I just assumed command of what was left of Baker Company. We were in heavy fighting in the Pullman neighborhood."
"Your foes, were they Regular Army?"
"No sir. Regulars in the White Army, you see they didn't have the stomach for what was asked of them. For the most part they or the National Guardsmen in the White Army fought honorably and professionally. Who we fought in Pullman? I wouldn't even call them men. More like rabid dogs. They didn't take prisoners, and they were real keen on enforcing the renegade MacArthur's Enemy Agents Order."
The Tribune produced a document from one of the stacks on his desk. "I refer the court to exhibit seventeen, an intercepted copy of the so-called 'Enemy Agents' order." With a bit of flourish, he handed copies to the judges and the defense counsel. "ComBat, could you describe for the court what its implementation meant in the battle for Pullman?"
A flood of images flickered through Marius' mind. His pulse quickened as he remembered the vivid smell of blood. The square in front of a train station littered with lifeless bodies. A baby crying, somehow missing the slaughter as they clung desperately to their mother, her eyes open and still in her pale face.
That terrible anger was welling up within him again. Righteous rage he didn't know if he could control. As stoically as he could manage, Marius calmly stated, "Pullman is a working class ward. These men had been given the task of liquidating political opposition. I believe the order termed it 'communist political agents.' As far as I can see, their definition of 'communist political agent' was just about everyone without an English surname, and some with them."
"And these men were fighting as part of the Army of the Mississippi, under the command of General Marshall?"
"Yes sir."
"These irregulars, the Volunteer Brigade of the Salvation Army; what became of them?"
"After three days of brutal fighting we defeated them. They were supported by a machine gun company of the 1st Infantry Division. On the night of 24 April, my company infiltrated the enemy lines, which had worn thin, and outflanked their machine gun support before they could move into position. The Regulars surrendered quickly, and a good number of them even helped in finishing the fight. Finally, on the 26th, their resistance collapsed and they surrendered."
"Major," the main judge scolded, "the details of the military operation do not concern the court. Tribune, what is the point of your line of questioning?"
"I'm just getting to that, your hon- er, I mean Justice." The Tribune turned to Marius, still unrattled. "Did you interrogate any of the prisoners you took?"
"Yes. The XO of the Regulars said he had tried to arrest the Salvationist's CO for ordering the liquidations, but was overruled by division HQ."
"Objection, hearsay," said Baldwin, rising to his feet.
The main judge turned to the Tribune, eyebrow cocked.
As smooth as ever, the Tribune replied, "Justice, these matters have all been entered into evidence. The witness's statements on the content of official military documents of his unit are not hearsay."
The judge cast his glare at Baldwin. "Counselor, your spirited defense of your client doesn't extend to abuse of procedure."
"The intelligence we obtained is detailed in my reports, which I believe were submitted to evidence," Marius continued.
"So in your expert opinion," the Tribune paused for effect, "it was the military policy of General Marshall's forces to engage in atrocity, especially politicide?"
"Indubitably. Not only was it policy, but General Marshall showed complete disregard for the details of the enforcement of the Enemy Agent order. It did not matter how inexcusable was the conduct of fascist paramilitaries so long as the objective was accomplished. This was all done in complete violation of the laws of war. In my opinion, General Marshall is a disgrace to the uniform."
"Objection," cried Baldwin. "My client's personal character is not on trial, his alleged actions are. The Major has no basis to speculate on the details of my client's character or his fitness to wear the uniform of the former United States Army."
The main judge sat pensively for a short moment. "Sustained. The jury will disregard speculations about the defendant's fitness to wear the uniform. Major General Marshall is on trial for his alleged actions, whether his role in the MacArthur Putsch constitutes treason, and his military conduct, resulting in the death of American citizens, would make him criminally responsible for murder."
The gallery rumbled. The gavel remained unused, the stern disapproval of the three judges proved sufficient.
"Tribune, do you have further questions?" said the judge on the left, a sour looking mustachioed man in his early thirties.
"No, Justice." The Tribune turned to Baldwin. "Your witness."
Baldwin approached Marius, calm and professional. "Marius Victor Gracchus is an unusual name. Were you born with it?"
"Objection, relevance," stated the Tribune.
Marius did not wait for the judges to rule. "No, it was originally a nom de guerre. When I joined the Party in 1920, all the Mississippi cells were underground to avoid state terror. We used handles to protect our families from reprisals. But like Lenin and Trotsky, we sort of grew into the habit. Now it's official."
"Admirable. You stated previously you were in the National Army during the Great War. When did you enlist?"
"I didn't enlist, I was conscripted. My number came up in September 1915, when they decided they were going to take colored folks for military service. I mustered out for France in summer 1916, and I was at or near the frontlines until the Armistice."
"What rank did you attain before discharge?" Baldwin asked passively.
"I was battlefield commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant."
"Indeed." Baldwin grimaced slightly, "Yes or no, were you dishonorably discharged? Remember, you're under oath."
"I was dishonorably discharged for being a communist. You of all people should know that this is not a crime."
The judge panel glared at Baldwin, but the trap had been avoided. Baldwin wrinkled his nose.
"Fair enough Major. But down to brass tacks; you are of course familiar with the norms of military discipline and protocol, having served in a leadership capacity."
"Absolutely."
"For the record, what uniform are you wearing presently?"
Marius shifted uncomfortably. Lawyers and their mysterious ways, he concluded. "It's the service uniform of the Workers' and Farmers' Revolutionary Army."
The uniform he wore was simple and utilitarian, an olive jacket with mandarin collar, worn with harness style brown leather rifle belt, simple olive trousers and well-shined leather boots. The gold wheat ear of a Battalion Commander adorned the shoulder straps. Simple campaign ribbons adorned the breast.
"And the defendant, General Marshall; what uniform is he wearing?"
Marius cocked his head.
"Humor me, major."
Marius shrugged. "It's the dress uniform of the United States Army."
It wasn't all that different from the revolutionary uniforms; a simple olive wool jacket, worn over a collared shirt and tie. The rank insignia followed the older imperial style, and hadn't changed much since the Great War. Compared to the ostentatious uniforms of the British, French or Germans, it was rough and provincial, and that much hadn't changed.
"And as a former member of the United States Army, please tell the court what oath you swore to wear that uniform."
It took a moment to recall the words; it seemed like a lifetime ago Marius had stopped believing in them. He repeated them clinically, "I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever."
"Major, I believe there's more to the oath," Baldwin grinned.
Marius thought a moment. "I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Articles of War."
"And who was the President of the United States in April 1933?"
"Upton Sinclair," said Marius, rolling his eyes.
Baldwin produced another copy of the evidence exhibit for the Enemy Agents order. He handed it to Marius nonchalantly. Now face to face, Marius could see the sheen of sweat on the counselor's brow. His closely cropped brown hair was slightly disheveled. "Major, could you read for the court the first line of the order you and your valiant soldiers intercepted."
With a moment's hesitation, Marius read aloud "Pursuant to the orders of President of the United States Raymond Moley-"
"Tell me major," Baldwin interrupted, "what is a soldier supposed to do when there's two men both claiming to be president? Whose orders is he to follow? Whosoever are the enemies of the United States?"
"With all due respect, Counselor, I believe the outcome of the revolutionary war settled that matter," hissed Marius.
"Well indeed. The old republic has passed, long live the Union of American Socialist Republics. But you haven't answered my question, major. The matter was not settled when my client's alleged crimes occurred. There were two men claiming to rightfully hold the office of President of the United States. Each had a Congress legitimating them. And in between these two governments, hosts of armed men clashed over the fate of the United States. So I ask again, who is the commander-in-chief? How is a soldier to tell who is a patriot and who is a traitor?"
---
Marius sat on the steps of the courthouse. The imposing neoclassical building loomed over him almost in judgment. He couldn't give a satisfactory answer to Baldwin's question. He knew in his heart that he was right. The inner compass that directed the soul towards justice had pointed him true. The struggle was won, and the tyrants deposed.
But so many others; good men who he might have served beside once upon a time, had failed that that test.
The scars of the MacArthur Putsch still lingered on the city. Bombed out buildings littered Chicago and every other major city. Marius still smelled the ash on the wind. It stirred up memories of huddling behind a rubble barricade, watching as the flashes of artillery pierced the darkness, peering over the heap of bricks to see soldiers silhouetted against a burning department store.
The mirage faded as quickly as it came. Marius' heart raced. He'd broken out in a cold sweat. He decided to go for a stroll, and see what he could find for lunch.
The Red Guards standing watch saluted as he passed. It was born of respect, not military obligation. He crisply returned their salute. The red flag flew proudly atop the great rotunda of the Federal Building. Seeing it calmed Marius' rattled nerves. A new world had been birthed in the ashes of the old. The years of struggle, under the boots of the bourgeoisie, toiling in the factories and fields, bleeding on the fields of war, had finally been vindicated. The workers were calling the shots now. Having freed themselves, they would free the whole of humanity.
Marius got himself a hot dog from a street vendor. The ruddy faced Irishman shook his hand and thanked him for his service. Just a year ago, he could not have imagined being able to get a cup of coffee in a white café, let alone being treated like a comrade.
As he ate his hot dog, Marius wondered if it even mattered if Marshall got what was coming to him. It might be crueler to let the traitor live to see the old world of domination and exclusion he'd bled to defend die by inches.
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