Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

LXXXIII: Twelve Stars That Are Not Real

❝Let the soldier yield to the civilian.❞
—Marcus Tullius Cicero

"Looks like there's about a thousand, sir."

"A thousand?" the voice comes over on the radio

"Don't overestimate, Alexander. I would say about five hundred."

"Five hundred?" the same voice coos.

"Don't underestimate, (Y/N)."

"I need a straight answer, you two."

Alexander and I exchange a glance, and I bow my head to show submission.

"A thousand, sir."

"Alright," Washington huffs. "Now we just need to find out where the rest are."

Things have gotten progressively worse over the past week and a half. I mean, terrible.

A week ago was when things got violent. It was late afternoon and the AC was about halfway through evacuating section two of the city when a swarm of about a hundred AmeriComs flooded the streets — a "mob of muppets" as Charles described it.

They shouted at the AC and evacuating Russians — at the AC for helping the Russians and "sucking the government's dick", and at the Russians for betraying their government; it's kind of funny when I think about it. The irony.

When the AmeriComs starting chucking rocks at the Russians, the AC got out their shields and held their ground.

So the AmeriComs opted to burn down two schools and about five small businesses.

It was insane. Davidson was freaking the fuck out when he radioed up Washington. Lafayette begged Washington to let him give the AC orders to open fire.

Washington didn't give that permission. He said to speed up the evacuation. The AC swept up all the civilians they could and got the hell out to let the fires die out.

It was the same case the following days. More confrontations. More fires. More chaos.

I haven't bothered keeping track of the amount of damage. I don't think I want to know.

But today is expected to be the last day. The last group to evacuate is being collected today. It doesn't help that this group is located the furthest from the harbor — it doesn't help that the numbers of rallying AmeriComs have grown exponentially — it doesn't help that the AC has to be hyperaware of getting attacked (AmeriComs have upgraded from rocks to fireworks, bricks, and molotovs).

But it's the final stretch. The AC isn't backing down now.

December 1, 2060.

Davidson and Lafayette are with Washington. Aphrodite is at the harbor. Hercules among the AmeriComs. What is important is that Washington entrusted Alexander and me to oversee the operation.

And so we do.

We stand upon the roof of the You-Security Headquarters. The tall building grants us a clear view of the streets that are being cleared — a nice view of the AmeriComs and the AC troops that hold them off.

"This is the largest crowd gathered on one street so far," Alexander whispers to me, running a hand through his auburn hair.

"Combine that with the numbers of AmeriComs on the other street trashing shit, and we've got quite the match," I huff, acknowledging the distant shouts from AmeriComs, crashing of windows, and crackling of flames.

We stroll across the building's roof and peer over the edge. I frown at the sight of groups of AmeriComs breaking into buildings and setting them aflame.