Author's note: Thanks for clicking on this story! I hope you enjoy my (somewhat trash) version of Hamilton.

Sadly, I do not own any of the characters, or the musical itself. *cries* I wish I could own Alexander, though.

Also, the cover image for this fic is not owned by me. It was drawn by Allison Coon - she has a YouTube channel that makes Hamilton animatics. Check it out!

This story is protected by U.S. copyright law.

Chapter 1: Alexander Hamilton

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished in squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

That is the question I ask myself every single day.

The ten-dollar founding father without a father got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter, by being a self-starter. By fourteen, they placed him in charge of a trading charter. And every day while slaves were being slaughtered and carted away across the waves, he struggled and kept his guard up. Inside, he was longing for something to be a part of; he was ready to beg, steal, borrow, or barter.

Then a hurricane came, and devastation reigned. He saw his future drip, dripping down the drain. But he put a pencil to his temple, and connected it to his brain. He wrote his first refrain, a testament to his pain.

I remember him vividly. I remember him standing on the bow of a ship, headed for a new land. His reddish-brown hair flying behind him in the wind, a book tucked under his arm, his violet eyes shining with curiosity and barely-concealed fear.

I remember as his ship came to rest in the docks of the New York City harbor, and one of the soldier boys scrambled to help him. As they anchored the ship together to the dock, I heard a snippet of their conversation which caught my attention:

"You must be exhausted, sir. All the way from the Caribbean? What's your name?"

"Alexander Hamilton. My name is Alexander Hamilton."

Hamilton. That name would come to haunt me for the rest of my life.

"And there's a million things I haven't done. But just you wait…just you wait…"

The rest of his sentence became muffled by the sounds of the grunts and shouts of the working men in the harbor, and I turned away, thinking nothing of it. In my eyes, this man was just another insignificant immigrant from the bottom. He was unimportant; it wasn't as if I would ever see him again.

I was a fool. Little did I know that, in a few years' time, I would hate him more than anything else in the world. In a few years' time, I would stand in front of him in a fatal showdown, pointing the barrel of a pistol at his chest.

In a few years' time, I would be the one to shoot the bullet that snuffed out his life.