Peculiar Institution

Just 30 minutes earlier and I was on a roll. Now look at all this.

Screams and musket fire echoed around the place, the armies in their uniforms bth yelling for justice and freedom and all that which he stood for. But nonetheless... he couldn't stay. Both sides wanted him, and at any cost, as he'd found out, when the first soldiers began to shoot for him, to wound but not kill, to make him stumble until they could catch him.How had it come to this?

He could feel it in his very bones, his very being, the ache of being pulled in two; he had heard of things like this happening to nations and countries, but he had never once imagined that such could happen here, not HERE, the land of opportunity, of truth and justice!

Dear Mr. Jones,
I have heard of your hesitation at endorsing our economical system. I agree you are most justified. But before you declare our system as abhorrent, I implore you to come visit down South and view the institution for yourself.
What are you wearing right now? Is it made of cotton, or wool, perhaps? Where did you get it? Nod doubt if you are such a patriot as I believe you are, it is natively made by your nation's own inhabitants, yes? The soft cotton you know is a product of our thriving southern economy, would not be possible on such a scale, without our institution here. Those subject to the institution are our crucial keys to upholding our state of being; we do not mistreat those who play such an important role.
Sweet, innocent words, like honey dripped in his ear. Oh, how he longed for a time when things made SENSE!

He let out a shout as the tiles behind his head exploded, peppered with the spray of tiny bullets. "Hey! HEY!" he screamed. "Watch it!" And immediately regretted it as an array of shots caused the ground at his feet to burst upward, showering him with dirt and grass. "YOU CAN'T SHOOT AT ME!" he bellowed, which seemed to give his attackers pause enough to allow him to sprint around the wall- once part of a house- to the other side.

"Mr. Jones!"

The man groaned, slapping himself on the forehead and preparing to run when the approaching soldier caught his arm. "Mr. Jones!"
He turned to glare at the soldier, their Confederate uniform tattered and stained. "What?" he shouted, trying to jerk his arm from the man's grasp.

"Please, come with me! The general wants to speak to you!"

"Like hell he does!" the man called Jones roared, shoving the soldier away. "You're all just a bunch of damn idiots!"

The soldier blinked. "Uh... Mr. Jones?" he asked, sounding almost shocked.

Jones glared at him, breathing heavily. "What's your name?" he muttered finally.

"Lieutenant James Caffrey, sir," the man replied, standing up. "Please, you aren't safe here!"

"I'm not safe anywhere, don't you understand?" Jones snarled, seizing the man by the shoulders. "Go back to the general and tell him to- to-" Jones faltered off as he tried to think of something. To what, leave him alone? Kind of hard to do when you're a nation! "Just go!"

"But Mr. Jones! Wait-"

Jones, grimacing, turned and sprinted away from the man in a hurry. Damn it. What now!? Why didn't I stop this!?
Of course. Honeyed words dripped in his ear, the sweet bliss of ignorance, and the naïve lack of knowledge that came with being a new country. He wanted to kick himself repeatedly, slam his head into a wall, something, to try and make sense of this mess! Jones yelped as his foot caught on something, and he tumbled to the ground, bringing his mind back to the present like a slap in the face. He struggled to rise again, glancing back at what had stalled his foot, and he froze as he met nothing but glassy eyes and pale, lifeless skin.

He's dead, Jones' mind informed him. He died.

Did he die because of me?

Shocked, or rather, dazed, Jones looked forward at the half-cloudy sky, hands clenching on fistfuls of reddened grass as his mind tried to comprehend his situation.

My people are dying.

The single thought floated past his mind's eye, the one clear concept in a sea of flurrying thought. Before his conscious mind had caught up with him, he was up and running, stumbling across the rough battlefield, legs and arms working, his breath coming in short gasps. He saw the bemused looks of both armies on either side of the field as he ran like a madman across the field.

"Hey!" someone shouted. "Hey, get out of there! What's wrong with you, you wanna get killed?"

"Shut up!" Jones shouted back. "Just stop! Everyone STOP!" A few people turned to goggle at him, but several others kept their focus reserved for their muskets and enemies.

"Damn it!" Jones yelled. "Stop shooting! Stop if, or so help me I'll kill myself!" he screamed, holding out both hands to either side.

Jones blinked in surprise as an awkward silence fell over the battlefield. After a few moments, someone yelled, "Ya don't even got a gun!"
"Unless you want to give me yours?" Jones snapped back, glaring at the soldier, who tightened his grip on his own musket, glancing away uncomfortably. Jones bent his head for a moment, breathing hard, then lowered his hands and looked up.

"Why are you all out here?" he shouted. "Freedom? Family? Money?" He took another deep breath. "Take a look across the field! Can you truly say your enemy is not fighting for those same reasons?" A low murmur went through the crowds. Jones scowled. "Can you?!"

"They're nigga-lovers!" someone shouted, to which the people shouted their approval or indignant disdain.

Jones whirled on the person. "You live in the South, right? Your economy would collapse without those people you call niggers! Day after day they work for you, asking little to nothing but the bare essentials to live!" he snarled. "Now grow up! Fighting and quarreling like youngsters? I would have thought better of people of my own country!"

The people on either side of the field shifted restlessly, a couple lowering their muskets, most leaning against them propped on the ground, ready to jump up.

"Why shouldn't we fight? They're oppressors, exploiters?" A Union soldier, probably aged mid-20s, spoke up, received with murmurs of approval from the rest of the Union troops.

Jones thrust out a hand to point at the Union soldiers. "Fighting and killing each other won't get you anywhere!" he told them. "How can you say they are exploiters when each day you give in to the urge to buy those products made by the hand of the very people you are fighting for?"

"I don't sit there drinking my damn coffee like you while a slaveholder is out there whipping some poor slave kid!" the man shouted back.
Jones let his arms fall to his sides as his face hardened. "You. Yes. Come here," he told the soldier. The man, a tall blonde who topped Jones by several inches, rolled his eyes and broke from the Union troops' side to walk to the middle of the field.

"If I'm shot at, 's your fault," he said callously.

"What's your name?" Jones asked him flatly.

"Edward McCarthy."

"Edward McCarthy, have you ever traveled down south?"

"Yessir."

"And have you visited a plantation? Or a slave auction?"

"Yessir I have," McCarthy replied almost proudly. "I'm not some ignoramus. I know what I'm talking about."

"What kind of family do you come from?"

"We get by."

"You couldn't afford a slave?"

"Well... no."

"Why the hesitation?"

McCarthy scowled. "If I saved up, maybe, but I wouldn't want to anyway! Contribute to those slave sellers?" He spat on the ground at Jones' feet.

Jones glared at him. "You wouldn't want to buy one," he repeated. McCarthy made a "hmph" noise, shaking his head.

"Not at all!" he declared, smacking the barrel of his gun.

"But you'd be willing to kill several others' lives for one."

McCarthy blinked, voice falling to silence. "What do you mean?" he asked blankly.

"Is not the freedom of a slave worth at least- at LEAST- the sparse coins you save up?" Jones asked, jabbing a finger at the man's chest. "Is it really necessary to break out a gun and shoot? Would you pay the higher price for your clothing when another alternative is there? Why jump to the price of a life, not some damn bits of metal or paper!?"

McCarthy's gaze was razor-sharp as he looked back at Jones. "You expect us to buy every slave in the South?" he growled.

"Better than killing your fellow countrymen!" Jones retorted. "Killing is too high a price to pay for this!"
McCarthy let out a derisive laugh. "Mr. Jones, my dear friend, you are a nation. Strong, resilient. Was it not you who first uttered those words, give me liberty or give me death?!" His voice pitched upward in volume as he spoke, ending on a shouted note.

Jones' eyes narrowed. "That is a completely different matter," he said in a low voice.

"Is it? You're right! Only... this is even worse! You weren't a slave!" McCarthy shouted.

Face flushed, Jones stood there for a moment, hands clenched. "That too was different!"

"Again, you're right! You weren't the one enslaving people, or tearing families apart!" McCarthy shouted. "You were just having to pay taxes!"

Before he had quite processed the words, Jones had lunged forward. McCarthy let out a squeal of surprise, and Jones blinked, halting his fist a mere inch from the man's nose. Slightly shocked at himself, he blinked, surveying McCarthy's borderline-terrified face. The two men stood there, Jones almost glaring at the ground, and McCarthy, frozen, one hand raised half-heartedly in defense.

"Go home," Jones growled. "Go home, all of you."

McCarthy, still trying to recover from the close shot, shook his head, fumbling with his gun.

"What? Going to shoot me now?" Jones laughed. "That won't do a thing." He looked off into the distance. "I'm a nation. You wouldn't shoot your own country."

McCarthy glanced over his shoulder at the restless troops. "You're right, once again," he muttered. "I wouldn't be able to shoot you even if I tried. You ARE America."

Jones lowered his eyes to the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I try to be," he said under his breath. Go home- agh!" He uttered a choking noise as something (later to be identified as McCarthy's shoulder-strap) was cinched about his neck.

"If I go home, you're coming with me. I may not be able to shoot you, but whoever has you has the upper hand, Mr. America," McCarthy hissed in his ear.

"Don't-! Let go!" Jones gasped, clawing at the fabric around his throat, fingers scrabbling uselessly. What's the point of having strength if you can't get leverage?! Jones thought furiously. A clamour reached his ears- the two armies. "Let go," he tried to force out, but his thoughts were becoming hazy. What's he trying to do, kill me? He could hear the shouts of the two armies rising, and by the time the first rounds of shots went off, his head was already swimming, blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision. He could feel himself being dragged backward, gasping for breath, strength beginning to dwindle as he tried prying McCarthy's fingers from the strip of material.
Abruptly, the pressure on his throat disappeared; Jones fell to the ground with a rough intake of breath. He slowly raised his head as clarity returned, and he glanced back long enough to see a deep red stain spreading on the ground from McCarthy's left shoulder. The soldier's face was drawn in pain, and he glared at Jones.

"You're a coward," McCarthy forced out, gripping his hurt shoulder with his opposite arm, struggling to sit up.

"Don't get up," Jones told him hoarsely, a hand to his throat. "You won't die from a shoulder wound."

"I know, you damn idiot!" McCarthy roared, and continued to shout as Jones stood up.

"Annoying," Jones muttered, readjusting his glasses and standing. "Whoa." He waved his arms, nearly pitching forward as his vision almost blanked again. He looked around at the panic and chaos as if watching a movie in fast-forward, people shouting and rushing around, yelling, without Jones being able to make head nor tails of their words. He rubbed his temples, eyes closed, clearing his thoughts.

"Watch it!" A red-dressed soldier crashed into him, knocking him to the ground.

"Sorry, I-" Jones began, but could barely finish his sentence before he felt a piercing pain from the back of his head as it collided with the barrel of a soldier's musket.

"Don't just sit there!" someone yelled at him, followed by a scream and several gunshots.

"But I-" Jones blinked rapidly, trying to stand only to stumble and fall, where his forehead connected solidly with the stiff toe of a soldier's boot. He yelped, feeling another blow to the middle of his back, and felt someone sprawl over him.

"Damn it!" The soldier swore, clambering up again, and Jones heard the telltale clacks of a rifle being reloaded, so he couldn't help but let out a whine as he felt someone seize him by the back of his collar.

"Jones!" the person yelled. "Jones!"

"What?" Jones shouted wildly. "What is it!?"

"Come on! Oh, for goodness' sake..." Jones could feel himself being hauled along by the person.

"Wait, wait!" Jones howled, struggling against their hold. "Who are you?!"

"Damn it, boy! Quit fighting me!"

"But-" Jones let out a groan as the butt of a handgun slammed into the side of his head, and he pitched headfirst into blackness.