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When Charlotte Matheson was born, as with any child, her parents immediately examined her for a soulmate mark. She had it, as most girl babies did. It was hard to miss: words scrawled across her back that said:
“Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m General Monroe.”
As all parents did, they tried to figure it out. Her soulmate was a general, or was going to be? Not likely, Ben dismissed. There were vanishingly few generals in the modern military. Rachel remarked sarcastically that maybe he would be a gamer who had attained a high rank within his online guild. Together, they decided it was probably just a nickname or a joke. At one point, Rachel mentioned that she thought Miles had a friend named Monroe, but the stormy look on Ben’s face at the mention of his brother had put an end to that line of speculation.
Then the Blackout happened. Ben called his brother, warned him what was coming. Despite their estrangement, the bonds of family were important to them both. But nothing could have prepared them for what the Blackout would mean for Charlie’s soulmate mark.
For years, it meant little. “Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m General Monroe.” It was an ordinary introduction, a polite one. But when Charlie hit puberty, several years into the Blackout, she noticed her parents growing uncomfortable or distressed when it came up. Then her mom died on the road to get supplies, and nothing else seemed to matter for a long time.
Once Charlie became a teenager, she was more aware of the world outside of Sylvana Estates. And everyone knew the name Monroe. It was powerful, feared. Charlie kept her mark concealed. Those who did know of it assured her that her soulmate was kidding. Though having a soulmate who would joke about being the mad General was a little off-putting, it beat the alternative, which was that General Monroe himself was really her soulmate. Of course, there was no way to know what the General's soulmate mark said. And even if they did know, unless it said, “Hi, I’m Charlotte Matheson” (or someone else’s name), it wouldn’t tell them much.
So Charlie waited. And introduced herself to new men she met as Charlotte, just in case. And when she was on her way to break Danny out from where General Monroe held him captive, she began to worry. Odds were, they wouldn’t even encounter Monroe. If they did, actually, it meant something had gone horribly wrong. But part of Charlie couldn’t help but wonder, what if. What if General Monroe really was her soulmate. Would she want to know? She decided she would. She would never accept him, of course. They would be one of those tragic soulmate pairs that lived life without each other and without the hope of finding each other, either. But at least then she would live without false hope.
And then they were captured. Charlie was overjoyed to be reunited with Danny, to see that he was okay. She was shocked to find out that her mother was alive, had been alive this whole time. And she had barely had time to process that when she found out that General Monroe was on his way to meet them.
When he entered the room, Charlie felt like she couldn’t breathe. She was, of course, terrified of what he would say to her. But it was something else. She had expected him to be fearsome. Ugly. Uncouth. The last thing she had expected was the way he glided smoothly through the room. The silken flow of his voice. And god, he was gorgeous. Her body reacted to him as she had to no other man—she was drawn to him. Charlie refused to think about what that meant, as to the question of if he was her soulmate.
And then he turned to her, a small smile on that sinfully beautiful face. Charlie could hear her heart hammering in her ears. What would he say? She felt like she’d been waiting for this moment all her life.
He spoke.
“Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m General Monroe.”
Charlie felt the mark on her back burning hot, though she was sure it was all in her head. She fought to keep outwardly calm, while her breath hitched with panic. Neither her mother nor Danny reacted; they obviously hadn't recognized the significance of Monroe's words. In a flash of revelation, Charlie knew what she had to do. She could not speak to him. She would not speak her first words. He wouldn’t know she was his soulmate, if in fact she was, until she first spoke to him.
So she said nothing. Just stared at him, blue eyes wide and panicked. Her jaw clenched with determination, reminding herself not to slip up. She spoke to her mother. She defied the hideous gray-haired man with the gun to shoot her. But not once did she speak to Monroe. And they made it out alive.
Eventually, they escaped. Charlie felt the tug of loss pulling her back toward Monroe. Part of her wished she had found out for sure whether he was her soulmate, that she’d said something in that moment. But a greater part of her was relieved. She was sure that she would never see General Monroe again. And if she thought about him in the dark hours between dusk and dawn, alone in her bed, no one had to know but her. She was sure he hadn’t thought of her once since then. It was for the best. Even if she thought about him for the rest of her life.
* * *
Bass Monroe was born without a soulmate mark. It was no surprise; most boy children were. As a child, he was blissfully unaware of what soulmates were or why he should care. His parents kept an eye out for his mark, but they weren’t really concerned when his first few birthdays passed without one. Then his fifth… his tenth… his fifteenth…
By that time, Bass was old enough to know what a soulmate mark was, what it signified. He even knew one girl in his class who had already found her soulmate, on a family vacation in Paris – she had never returned to school that year. Bass he knew that the fact that he didn’t have a mark meant his soulmate wasn’t born yet, and he’d be in his thirties by the time she was old enough for them to be together. Or, even worse, his lack of a mark could mean he was one of those people who didn’t have a soulmate. Rejected by the universe as unsuitable or unworthy. There were a few, he’d heard. He didn’t know any, personally, but they were out there. It was unthinkable that he could be among them, but it was looking more and more likely.
Bass' twentieth birthday came and went. No mark. His twenty-fifth. No mark. Bass tried to convince himself he didn’t care. So he probably had no soulmate. Fuck it. He had Miles. Whose soulmate mark was in a foreign language, so good fucking luck with that one, brother. He and Miles stuck together, and that was all Bass needed.
Finally, partway through his twenty-sixth year, it appeared. Sloppy, feminine writing on his upper thigh.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re just torn up with guilt.”
At first, Bass was thrilled just to finally have one. So his soulmate was a freaking baby. Well, her words sounded like they didn’t meet until she was at least a teenager, given the sarcastic tone. Bass thought the wait would kill him, but he’d waited until he was twenty-five to even find out he had a soulmate. He would wait as long as he needed to for her.
But then he started thinking about the words, what they could really mean. Combined with the fact that she was so much younger than him. Did his future self do something… bad? To her? God, surely not to her, he thought. But he wouldn’t have known it was her until she said the words. “I’m sure you’re just torn up with guilt,” she accused him. As if he’d apologized, or tried to. What did it mean?
He showed Miles his mark, who assured him he’d probably just made some stupid-ass comment, as he nearly always did around beautiful women. And, Miles reminded him, what fifty year old man wouldn’t want a twenty-five year old soulmate? “Dick,” he’d added.
Seven years later, the Blackout happened. He and Miles were scrambling to survive, and a few years later he met Shelly. Her first words to him were, “What are you staring at?” Because, indeed, he had been staring at her. She was a gorgeous beacon of light in their otherwise dreary lives. Their relationship burned quick and hot, and when she got pregnant, Bass and Shelly swore to each other that their soulmates could never be more important than they were to each other.
Shelly had died. And thus, Bass later reflected, the road to him becoming General Monroe was paved. He and Miles had done what they needed to for survival, but somehow it ended up with him in the statehouse in Philly, him and Miles together, as always.
Then Miles left him. Bass never understood why, though he had his suspicions. And his soulmate mark began to haunt him again. "I'm sure you're just torn up with guilt." Miles used to reassure him about it. “What could you have done that would be so bad?” But now Miles was gone. Because apparently Bass was capable of doing something that bad. And despite his best efforts to lead the nation by himself, to keep it together, Bass felt himself slipping from sanity. He didn’t know who to turn to. After Miles left, he didn’t trust anyone. Couldn’t.
Sometimes Bass longed for his soulmate. She would help him, he thought. She would see the old Bass that was still inside there somewhere. Stand up to him when he needed it, love him when he needed it. He missed her in a way he never had before. On the day that he knew was her 18th birthday, the 18th anniversary of the day his mark appeared, he raised a bottle in a toast to her. “You made it this far without me fucking up your life,” he muttered, taking a deep pull of whiskey. “Probably better off…”
The Monroe Militia grew in power, and then it began to fall. The Rebels constantly screwed things up for him, killing his men, damaging his property. He began to push Rachel harder. Without Miles around to protect her, he was determined to get at the knowledge he knew she had, that he needed. He sent Neville out to find the remaining Mathesons and told him not to bother returning to Philadelphia without them. He got Danny, and Rachel was capitulating. Then a gift arrived on his doorstep, delivered by Miles of all people. The other Matheson kid. Called Charlie, though he knew her full name was Charlotte.
His plan was to threaten the girl and the boy to move Rachel. To let her know he was done letting her play him. But then he saw the girl—woman—and he was shocked. Charlie was no sniveling brat like her brother. She was a force of nature. Fucking hot, really, as she shouted down Strausser, daring him to shoot her. Bass felt a surge of lust and was unable to speak for several seconds, simply staring in fascination at Charlotte Matheson. He wanted her, no question, but for some reason it felt like more than that. He was just drawn to her, wanted to be close to her. Thinking that way was dangerous for both of them, so he got away from her as quickly as he could.
The Mathesons escaped, and he cursed himself for his softness. He should have gone ahead and had Strausser shoot one of them. Not the girl. Maybe Rachel. When he found himself stuck in the Tower with Rachel, he thought: definitely should have shot Rachel. Then the bombs dropped, his men turned on him, and if he thought his life had been hell before, that was nothing compared to what happened after the Tower. Bass skulked from town to town, only staying until someone recognized him and he had to skip out to stay one step ahead of law enforcement – or a lynch mob. New Vegas was where he stayed the longest, as the place was teeming with criminals and madmen. Bass blended right in.
But of course, it couldn’t last. Bounty hunters picked him up, and when he came to in a swimming pool, he was hardly upset or surprised. Bass did what he always did. He started figuring out how to survive. In taking stock of his surroundings, he saw her. Charlotte Matheson. Tied up across the way from him, for God knew what reason. How had Miles let this happen?
She had been beautiful in Philadelphia, but now she was absolutely glorious, even unconscious. Her body was more tanned and toned, the road dirt ground deep into her skin, more scrapes and scars visible, her hair sun-kissed and longer. Bass couldn’t help but imagine fisting one hand in it, pulling her against him, opening her pink lips to his invading kiss…
At last, Charlie woke up. The Ken doll that had them captive came over and tried to flirt with her while treating her wounds. She shot him down decisively, and at last they were alone again. Bass still couldn’t believe she was there. He asked her what had happened to Miles. No response. She stared him down as if she were determined not to speak. He felt his temper rising, which it did easily.
Trying another tack, he asked her about what happened in the Tower, realizing she was one of the few people on earth who might know that he didn’t actually drop the bombs. Charlie continued to stare at him as if he were scum on the bottom of her boot. For some reason, it made him feel the need to justify himself to her, to explain how awful he felt about what had happened. To show her he was human, not the monster that she and everyone else believed he was.
He almost missed it. Bass was watching Charlie’s face harden as he lamented the loss of Philadelphia, of the souls who had been citizens of his Republic. It was hard for him to talk about, and he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed it.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re just torn up with guilt.”
“You don’t know me, Charlotte,” he snapped back. Then he registered what she’d just said. She had said the words he’d never heard from any other woman. Her first words to him, he realized. She’d never spoken to him in Philadelphia, or in the Tower. And she was the right age, probably just into her 20s now. Fuck, Bass realized. Charlie Matheson was his soulmate.
Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure until he saw her mark. What had his first words to her been? He tried frantically to remember. He thought he’d introduced himself. He’d been so formal in those days, as General Monroe.
All this he considered while continuing to snipe back and forth with Charlie. If she was his soulmate, she’d known for a while. She’d known in Philly. She’d known in the Tower, when he blew away that solider who’d been about to kill her. And she’d purposely not spoken to him, he realized. Smart woman. God only knew what he’d have done if he'd known she was his soulmate. Bass hated to think he would have hurt her, but he’d done a lot of things he would never have thought himself capable of.
So why had she spoken to him now? Charlie must have wanted him to know they’re soulmates. Probably so he didn’t kill her in the process of saving his own skin, he thought. Bass was sick with the realization that he’d sent his helicopters in to destroy a Rebel stronghold where he'd known she was. Maybe she wanted him to know now, so he could find out this way, in relative privacy, rather than in a moment where their captors might have noticed and used the fact that they were soulmates against them both.
Bass escaped, as Charlie had warned the bounty hunters he would. As soon as the bounty hunter was unconscious on the ground, Bass showed Charlie the wanted posters he’d discovered, continuing to pretend he hadn’t figured out that they were soulmates. And she blew him off. “If you want to stop me, shoot me,” she’d defied him, and sauntered down the road, those beautiful hips taunting him with every sway. Bass lowered his gun and prepared to let her go, then couldn’t help himself.
“Wait,” he called. Charlie didn’t slow down for an instant, so he ran after her. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her around to face him. Her face was a study in stubborn hardness, and he demanded, “Are we soulmates? What’s your mark say?”
Charlie pressed her lips into a thin line, and for a moment he was worried she would refuse to answer, and he would have to find out by less friendly means. Finally, in a low voice, Charlie admitted it. “Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to finally meet you…” She paused. “I’m General Monroe.”
The effect on Bass was immediate, and devastating. He felt his throat close up, and tears unexpectedly burning in his eyes. Hearing the words, he suddenly remembered with absolute clarity the first time he had spoken to Charlotte Matheson. There in that room in Philadelphia, Strausser at his side, all his focus on Rachel and getting the amplifier built to fly jets. His soulmate had stood right before him, and he’d been too power-hungry to even notice.
Bass had been waiting for this moment for most of his life. Face-to-face with his soulmate. And she was staring at him with a wariness and disgust that barely masked the terror lurking underneath. Charlie still feared him, and no wonder. In her mind, he was still the General Monroe who had killed her father and brother. Whose name haunted her childhood nightmares.
Weakly he replied, “Mine says, ‘Yeah, I’m sure you’re just torn up with guilt,’” he confirmed. “I’d show you, but it’s…” he rubbed his thigh in indication of its location.
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see it,” Charlie spat, suddenly furious. “You think this changes anything? This changes nothing. I want nothing to do with you, soulmate or not. You’re a monster. And the only reason I haven’t killed you by now is that you got very, very lucky.”
Bass gulped. It was no worse than he deserved. Of course his soulmate would hate him. Who wouldn’t? He hated himself most of the time. So he just said, “Alright, Charlotte.” She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and he shook his head regretfully. “I’m not going to force myself on you. You want me to pretend we’re nothing to each other, I can do that. I’ll do it for you.” He loaded his words with meaning, hoping she understood. Even if she wanted to deny it, the fact that Charlie was his soulmate meant something to him.
Charlie didn’t acknowledge his promise, just saying, “If anyone ever wonders, my first words to you were ‘Fuck off,’” she said. Then turned and walked away again, taking a piece of Bass’ soul with her.
* * *
Bass made good on his promise, almost. He never told anyone that he and Charlie were soulmates. But he devoted himself to protecting her, following her to Pottsboro and hacking apart the men who would have harmed her. Keeping an eye on her once they returned to Willoughby. On the day of his execution, hers were the last eyes he looked into before stepping up to face his sentence.
Bass left her only temporarily, to find his son in Mexico, then returned to Texas. He was thrilled when Charlie came with him and Connor to New Vegas, and then he felt like his heart had been ripped out when he caught them sleeping together. You don’t get to care, he told himself. Soulmate or not, she’s not yours.
They fought together, and Bass came to know Charlie as a woman and a person, and he only wanted her more because of it. She was his perfect match, in every way. But her hatred of him continued, and she made it obvious. Finally, Bass decided he’d had enough. He could only take so much, and when they were fighting in an abandoned school one day, he left her alone, with the Patriots in pursuit. If she hates me so much, let her see how it feels to have me gone, he thought spitefully, retreating into the stairwell.
He made it about two steps before he turned back in a panic, terrified that the door behind him would be locked. It wasn’t, and he burst through and sliced through the men who were threatening Charlie. When they were safe, Charlie stared at him and said in wonder, “You came back.” The vulnerability in her face showed him that, despite her bravado, her insults, and her glares, she didn’t hate him. She might even care for him. It gave Bass enough hope to keep going.
Once, Miles demanded of him, “Why are you still here?” Miles assumed it was because he wanted to get the Republic back, and Bass couldn’t tell him the truth. He was in Willoughby because of Charlie. He always would be, close to her but never touching. It was all he could give her.
They continued fighting the Patriots, and Miles took every opportunity to let Bass know what a piece of shit he was, how he could never be trusted, that Bass could never be forgiven for what he’d done to Rachel. Bass didn’t need it, but he put up with it for Charlie’s sake. Then, finally, Miles decided to trust him again, for some reason. Let him handle President Davis, the crucial part of their plan to get Texas to destroy the Patriots. Bass strongly felt that they should just kill Davis for all of his crimes, but Miles had different ideas. And Bass went along with them, hoping to earn back Miles’ trust, but more importantly because Charlie was watching. Because he wanted to prove to her that he was a man worthy of being her soulmate.
So he brought Davis back, and Bass had to admit that Miles’ plan worked perfectly. They had a long road ahead, but the battle was won. That night, Bass saw Charlie looking at him with something soft in her eyes, and not for the first time. But it never amounted to anything, and it always hurt to hope. Bass left abruptly, needing to get outside, get some fresh air.
His body clenched when he heard Charlie's light footsteps behind him; he would know her tread anywhere. He turned to see her, beautiful, bathed in moonlight, and he'd thought his heart had been ripped out for the last time, but it just kept happening again and again with this woman. Bass waited for Charlie to speak.
“You came back,” she said simply, and he waited for more. “In Pottsboro… after your execution… in the school… today. You always come back.” Charlie’s voice wavered over the words.
Bass nodded and stepped closer to her. “I will always come back. For you. You’re my soulmate, but it's more than that… dammit, I’m in love with you. I know it’s not what you want, but I am.”
They were just a few inches apart now, and Bass felt the warmth from her body as she raised her eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes were shiny with tears. “I was wrong about you, about us.”
Bass’ heart was racing, but he didn’t dare assume anything. “What are you saying?” he asked guardedly.
“I want you,” Charlie said. “As my soulmate. Everything. If you still want me, too.”
Rather than answer her, Bass wrapped Charlie into his arms and pulled her into a deep kiss, a kiss that promised her his devotion, his passion, and his very soul.
Eventually, they showed each other their marks. The cursive scrawl on his leg was indeed hers, and the tight lines of text on her back were his. It was disconcerting, at times, to see the title he no longer used on her skin: “I’m General Monroe.”
But at other times, like when she was bent over in front of him as he made love to her, thrusting deep, he thrilled at seeing her marked with his name. His brand on her wrist, his name on her back. Charlie was his partner, his love, and eventually, his wife. And for all their lives and beyond: His soulmate.