Chapter Text
John was ten years old when they came and took away his father.
The memory seared itself into the back of his eyelids, revisited often in his nightmares. The man who’d raised him, who’d never been anything but strong and good and kind in a world that no longer valued such things, led away to the slaughter. He remembered his mother holding onto his arm with a death grip, nails biting red crescents into his skin as she tried to keep herself from making noise. His baby sister babbled -she was too small to really understand what was going on. He remembered the last, defeated look on his dad's face before he got into the truck, and they never saw him again.
Their little community in Kurian-occupied Scotland was primarily built around livestock and agriculture. They were a sheep farming family, and his dad had forgotten more about the animals than most could ever hope to learn. They were in good standing too, good workers that provided value to the community.
Until his dad got his arm caught up in some machinery. He’d lost the limb and, along with it, any sense of worth in the eyes of the Kurian Order.
John supposed that was when he first started to see through the facade.
The Order promised prosperity to those who followed its rules and regulations, offered up brass rings to the ones that really proved themselves loyal, marking them as “safe”. The truth was that they were all going to end up in the same place: first a cattle truck and then straight into a reaper’s gullet.
It was an insidious system that pitted man against man. The Kur didn’t even have to fight their own battles, not when they could get people to do it for them. Hell, John’s own uncle had been the soldier who came to get his dad. Gave his own sister a what-can-you-do shrug before he took her husband away to die.
His mum cried for two days, silent, dead-eyed tears that scared him, wondering if she might not ever come back. On the third day, Isla Mactavish sat him down at their little kitchen table with steel in her eyes and told him in no uncertain terms that he was the man of the house now.
“You’re old enough now that I cannae afford to treat ye like a child.” She held his hands in her cold ones over the scratched wood. “I’ll not lie; your da kept us alive because he worked ten times harder than any other man, and he demanded respect.”
“I’ll work hard mam, I won’t let anything happen to you and Rosie, I swear.” He’d never been more serious about anything in his life, barely on the cusp of his teen years with the weight of the world on his thin shoulders.
“We have to be smart. Ye know that. They have to need us, or they’ll eat us.” She took a shuddering breath, a shadow in her eyes before she closed them tightly. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”
He rushed to comfort her, though the words sat bitterly on his tongue. “There’s nothing ye could’ve done, mam, if we’d tried anything they would’ve just taken us too.”
“No, I-I’m sorry that we couldnae give you a better life.” She scrubbed a hand through her eyes angrily, as if she were tired of her tears. “A free life, out from under the heel of these bastards. You and Rosie deserve better than this. I’m so sorry.”
He hugged her tightly. He wasn’t sure he knew what a normal life would even look like. He’d been born in the Kurian Zone, grown with the fear of it threaded throughout his sinew and marrow.
All he knew at that moment was that he hated it.
“It won’t be like this forever, mum.” He promised the both of them.
———-
John was thirteen when he saw his first reaper.
He knew what they were, of course, everyone did. This far from the big cities, though, they weren’t as common. One was much more likely to catch a hanging for pissing off a New Order Soldier than they were to be drained, and so, to his regret, he found himself with the assumption that the reapers were no more than ghosts in the night, meant to scare naughty children and lazy workers.
It was dark out, late in the night, when the soldiers roused everyone from their beds and moved them into the community square. He held one of his sister’s little hands, his mum the other, and he did his best to hide from them just how terrified he was starting to feel.
Torchlight illuminated the square, flickering bloody over the soldiers as they shouted and shoved the villagers into place, everyone lined up to get a good view of the macabre show. A group of four soldiers in dark uniforms stood to one side, one in a deep black hood that shadowed the entirety of his face.
In the center was a freshly installed wooden post, tall with an iron ring at the top. A man stood there, hands raised and bound to the ring so that he was nearly on his tiptoes. His face had been beaten so badly that it was less of a face than it was an amorphous lump of hamburger. He was sobbing.
John recognized him anyway: Jamie McLeod. He was in charge of ration administration in the settlement. A bastard who always seemed to be a bit light when doling out sugar and flour, but not a bastard who deserved this.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A voice boomed out, and John saw his Uncle Graham step into the center next to the bound man. He was dressed in a smart new uniform with more shiny bits than the last time John had seen him. He’d gotten himself some kind of promotion, and John could see, with damning clarity, the ring on his middle finger gleaming in the firelight.
“It has come to our attention that perhaps things have gotten a little too lax around here.” He laughed. ”I’ll admit! I should’ve been the first to see that we needed a course correction. It’s easy to get comfortable in a land of plenty, isn’t it?”
John had gotten very, very good at schooling his face into something neutral, but on the inside, he was seething with anger. His skin felt oily, slimy, just from listening to Graham orate.
“Fortunately, an opportunity to reeducate has presented himself.” Graham gestured to Jamie. “Mr. McLeod here was caught stealing from the very food reserves you all rely on for your families. Keeping it for himself.“ His grey eyes, so uncannily like Isla’s, landed on Rosie as he continued to speak. “Taking it from the mouths of your babes.”
The crowd murmured, some in shock and others in outrage. Some of the soldiers had to shout to get them silent again, and Graham raised his hands as if to placate the mob.
“I know! I know! It’s absolutely disgusting behavior is what it is. But we are going to deliver justice here tonight, my friends!” A sheen of sweat had worked itself up on his skin, as if he were getting excited by his own blustering. “And in the administration of justice, learn a valuable lesson. We serve a greater purpose, and we must never forget that.” He waved a beckoning hand at the hooded figure. “I must insist that you do not look away.”
With every step the hooded man took towards McLeod, John felt a rising flood of panic. Something was wrong about the man. It moved fluidly, but differently than it ought to, like its legs were too long and its body too light.
It drew the hood back down over its head and John realized that he was looking at a reaper.
At first glance, if one were particularly drunk or perhaps half-blind, a reaper could be mistaken for a human. Pale skin latticed with spidery dark veins stretched tautly over sharp features. Two eyes and a thin-lipped mouth.
That was where the similarities ended. It had no hair and angled slits cut its face where a nose should have been. When it spoke, something animal in John wanted to scream and run and find a place very far away to hide until dawn.
“there is no mercy for sinners in our paradise.” Its voice was horrific, hissing and whispery and wrong. Gleaming yellow eyes darted around the crowd like it was searching for the weakest and sickest among the herd. “witness what will become of those who think themselves able to cheat us.”
It stood before McLeod, who had pissed himself in whimpering fear. He shook so badly that it rattled the iron ring, but his body was stretched so tightly that he couldn’t truly move.
The reaper opened its maw wide, then wider, like a snake unhinging its jaw. From its mouth extended a long, spear-pointed tongue that hovered over Jamie’s chest as if searching for something.
Between one moment and the next, the tongue had effortlessly punched a hole into the man’s chest, straight into his heart. John pushed Rosie behind him as much as he could to spare her eyes, but he couldn’t tear his own away from the sight.
It must have purposefully avoided his lungs, because he screamed every second that he died. Hot blood splattered on the ground in audible drips and Jamie shrieked, a haunting sound so filled with terror that John remembered it for the rest of his days.
The reaper wrapped its arms around McLeod as it drained his lifeblood out of the gaping wound, the final embrace. It was how they fed, why they were so feared.
This was what had become of his father.
McLeod died with a whimper as the monster glutted itself on his life.
When it finished feeding, it left the body hanging limp and took a step back towards the crowd. Its pale face was streaked with glistening gore, and it had an almost manic expression on its face. Its wide eyes were glowing yellow, visible even in the darkness.
“let none think they are above the other. you are all equally blessed. you will all be equally judged.”
When the thing left with its group of black-clad soldiers, it was like a loaded gun had been taken from their heads. Graham spewed some more nonsense, and they were herded back to their beds to the fresh nightmares that awaited them.
“I don’t know how that piece of shite shares our blood.” Isla spat as soon as they were behind closed doors. “I should’ve killed him when he was a babe.”
It was a hideous thing to say, but it made it no less true. The brass ring on Graham’s finger meant he had done something to gain the Kurian Order’s favor, and that often meant something heinous. If he had not already been, it further marked him as someone who could not be trusted. As someone who was the enemy.
John had lived with his hatred buried under the surface for a long time now. Old enough to see what was really going on, young enough to still have the desire to fight back. Powerless to do anything at all.
It was that night that it really crystallized in his mind, the tipping point of nucleation that turned his veins to ice. The Kurians, the reapers, the soldiers, the whole fucking mess of them; they were his enemies.
________
John was sixteen the autumn that their lives changed forever.
He’d grown into a strong young man with hard eyes and a bit of a temper, but he liked to think he was still good in his soul. He did what he could.
There was never enough food to go around, and what he could, he gave to his ma and sister, but the long days of hard labor had given him a fair amount of lean, steely muscle.
His crew had just split ways from the trucks that ferried them to and from the fields where their sheep roamed. They’d had a long, grueling day of moving the animals into the winter pasture, all done on foot. John had heard from one of the older men that they used to use dogs for the job, and he wondered how on earth they had done it. He’d never seen a dog before.
They had a couple of grogs in the settlement, but they were either stupid or mean and stupid. No better than beasts of burden that could understand simple language, the ape-like aliens were freakishly strong and stank like shit and mud. They had their uses, but they took a certain caliber of person who could stand to be around them, often of a similar disposition.
John was in charge of returning the equipment to the shed in the barn after each day of work, after which he was to turn the key back into Graham’s office. It was the system with everything in the settlement; the trucks were locked up at night, the gas rationed per day, no object or person unaccounted for. They had to make sure no one got any funny ideas. Like many things, he hated it, felt like a noose was around his neck and every day it cinched just a bit tighter, but he bore it. It was, in its way, familiar.
It was different today, though. Something had the people scurrying like anxious little roaches, the soldiers trotting back and forth with a frantic edge.
He didn’t think too much of it until he got to his tool shed. A little wooden building that housed all the implements the shepherds might need, near the edge of the settlement. A bit out of the way but not far from his home, which was nice after the kind of days he worked.
The door wasn’t locked. He always locked it after grabbing what he needed in the morning, but there it stood, slightly ajar.
He hefted his shears, the sharpest object he had on him, and slowly swung the door open. It was dim inside, rays of weak sunlight illuminating motes of dust whirling in the air. He wasn’t a tracker by any means, but he could spot a print in mud, and the dirt floor of the shed had certainly been recently disturbed. Someone was in there with him.
There was shouting outside the shed, but his rushing heartbeat muted the sound to almost nothing. The smart thing to do would’ve been to call for help, but John would rather eat glass than ask the soldiers for assistance.
He liked to think he was moving quietly, but as he stepped further into the back of the shed, he froze as a sharpened point dug into the soft meat over his kidneys. He’d not heard a thing, been caught completely unawares.
”Not a fuckin sound, mate.” A gruff, accented voice snarled. “I swear on all that is holy, I will gut you. Drop that thing, right fuckin’ now.”
”Easy.” John didn’t want to lose his only weapon, but the man had him dead to rights and the shears hit the ground with a soft thump. “I’m no’ gonna do anything silly. Let’s just calm down.”
The stranger’s breathing was rasping, panicky. John took a chance and turned slowly, his hands raised.
“You look like shite.” He blurted before he could stop himself. It was true, though. The stranger was a burly young man, perhaps five or six years older than himself. He held a thick-bladed knife in a trembling hand, his other arm held closely to his side as if it was hurt. One of his eyes was mottled in vicious shades of black and purple, and one side of his mouth was swollen and cut up, like it had been kissed with a fist recently. He was dressed in odd, leathery-looking brown clothing, and he was filthy. Mud and scum covered every inch of him, like he’d been low-crawling through a bog for the past week. Smelled like it too.
The man didn’t answer him beyond a grunt. Exhaustion seeped from every pore, and his blue eyes were simultaneously weary and afraid. He looked like he was trying to think, like a cornered animal deciding between escaping or attacking.
”They’re looking for you, aren’t they?” John asked quietly, tipping his head back to the doorway where they could hear the soldiers.
”Aye. Afraid I may have pissed them off a mite.” The man scowled over his shoulder before returning to meet his gaze. “I’ll not go down without taking someone with me, kid.”
It really didn’t take John long to make up his mind. He’d been itching for a long time now, seething in his skin.
“Are you an enemy of Kur?”
The stranger's bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise, more at his tone than his words.
“I’m the greatest enemy they’ve got, mate. I’m a free man.”
John nodded.
“You need to hide. Come on, I’ll show you a spot.”
He moved before the man could speak, pushing past him further into the depths of the shed.
”Wh-“ The man spluttered, shocked for a split second. “You’re helping me?”
”If helping you hurts Kur, then yes. I’d help the devil himself if it meant spitting in their eye.” John located the board he wanted in the very back of the shed, prying it up with practiced fingers. “There’s a space worn away under the foundation here, where the gutter dumps water when it rains. I was saving it for something, but…aye, it should fit you.”
The man grabbed his arm in a grip so hard it hurt.
”How do I know you won’t sell me out as soon as I let you go?”
John pushed him towards the hole. “Ye dannae have a choice, do ye?”
The stranger paused, then cursed violently before scooting himself into the tiny space under the boards. He didn’t even attempt to use the arm, and John could tell it was badly hurt.
“They’ll probably search in here, but as long as ye keep quiet they willnae find ye,” John said as he started to fit the boards back into place. “Later tonight, I’ll come back for you.”
”God help us.” The man grunted as he disappeared from view. John kicked dirt back over the boards and then walked over it a few times to tamp it down, praying that the stranger wouldn’t jostle it.
He’d just finished putting away the last of his tools when a soldier barged into the shed.
”MacTavish!” He barked, a kid not much older than John was but with the ego of a much taller man. “Outside now, we’re conductin’ a search of all the buildings!”
”A search? What’s got ye all in a tiff now?” John raised his hands and meekly exited the building as ordered.
”There’s a rebel murderer on the loose, one of those filthy efties.” The soldier said self-importantly, then leaned closer to John like he was divulging top secret information. “The CO said it was one of those Hunters.”
”Och, now you’re pulling my leg. Those don’t even exist.” John had to fight to put on the teasing, good-natured front even as his heart rate hit a lethal tempo.
“On me mam that's what I heard. Anyway, just stay out here until we give the all clear.” The kid rushed off to harass some other people, and John was left to have an internal crisis in the middle of the street.
”Efties” was local slang for the European Free Territories and anyone who claimed it as home. It was mostly the upper Norwegian countries, the lands too cold to have been a priority for the Kurian invasion. Now it was a bastion of resistance against the Kurian overlords of the once vibrant cities of Europe. They had their own military force, which occasionally engaged in conflict with the forces of the Kurian lords.
All that being said, it wasn’t necessarily that phenomenal in itself that there was a rebel on the run. The propaganda, thinly veiled as newsletters from London, frequently detailed the execution of various insurgent forces. It was the other part that had piqued his interest.
The man John had helped hide was a Hunter.
He could scarcely believe it, almost didn’t dare to. There were stories about the Hunters, whispered in the same breath as the stories about the reapers. Men and women who had been changed, mutated by the enemies of Kur to fight their battles. He’d heard horrific things about them, but it all had the ring of desperate fiction, like the New Order had a vested interest in its flock fearing the agents of the enemy.
If he were caught, it wouldn’t be just him who suffered. If he wasn’t…he had a few questions he’d like to ask.
_____
He saw dogs for the first time that day. They were big, mean-looking things with smooth black hides and snapping white teeth. He decided there and then that he didn’t like them at all. The black-uniformed soldiers hopped out of their glossy new trucks and started casing the area, ranging out in ever-wider circles with their leashed monsters.
They asked questions of the citizens, probing for any hint of their prey.
“Someone open this fucking door!” He heard over the dull roar of chattering people and winced. He’d been waiting for someone to poke into the shed, but kind of hoping they never would.
He hesitated and saw Graham appear, hustling like a man who never missed a meal in his life.
”Who’s got the key for this door!” He barked at the crowd. He looked noticeably nervous around those other soldiers, and John let him squirm for a second before he leapt forward through the crowd.
”I’ve got them right here, let me open that for you!” He said eagerly, as if he were rushing to help them in their mission.
”Hurry the fuck up, John, these men don’t have all day.” Graham said with a glance over at the soldiers, searching for their approval. They ignored him.
”You’re the only one with access to this building?” One said in a bland voice, eyeing John like a particularly uninteresting bug.
“Aye, I get the key from Graham here in the morning and turn it in at night again. No one else is allowed in, and if they wanted to, it’d be damn hard. Door and walls are all reinforced.” He played up his natural good-nature, ignoring the sweat trickling down his back.
“Captain Ferguson!” Graham hissed at John under his breath before chuckling at the soldiers. “My nephew, sorry. He forgets about my rank sometimes because we’re family.”
The soldier pursed his lips just the slightest bit at Graham. “Your rank is on your uniform. I should think a captain need not worry about it being forgotten.”
They led the dogs into the shed, and John held his breath. He’d spilled some ointment that they used for the animals on the floor, a slimy substance that stank so badly it burned his nose, and he hoped it was enough to muddle the dogs’ ability to track.
He nearly passed out when they walked back out of the shed.
”All clear.” The bland man said, like he hadn’t expected to find anything anyway. He fixed his disinterested gaze on John and regurgitated a line he’d likely already had to say a hundred times that day. “Kur and the New Order thank you for your cooperation.”
He returned the key first and then went home, trying not to look like he was rushing. He planned as he walked, already working out how he was going to move the rebel.
Their house was old, but for once that was a good thing. It was Pre-Kur, built in the last years of the 1900s. Some of the newer buildings were slapped together with all the love that slave labor could manage, and fell apart again after just a few years. John had spent every day of his life in their family home, and all it took was a little maintenance to keep the two-story building in good shape.
His mother was at the sink washing something, Rosie at the table rolling a carved wooden toy around. Isla turned as he entered, her face lined with a little worry.
”There ye are, John!” She exclaimed. “The soldiers came by and searched the house, do ye know what’s going on?”
He glanced at his wee sister and jerked his head towards the other room. “Need to talk to ye, mam.”
They had to be careful in what they said around Rosie. She had recently started her schooling, and John remembered, from the few short years that he’d attended before he left to work, the way that the teachers encouraged the students to talk about their parents. Especially if it had anything to do with dissent against the New Order. It was through no fault of her own; she was a sweet girl, and she loved them very much, but she was a child and didn’t understand the impact she might have.
Isla immediately caught on that her son was deadly serious and followed him into the other room.
”What’s wrong, lad?” She gripped his arm tightly.
”The man they’re searching for, the rebel?” She nodded at him. “I hid him.”
Her mouth fell open a little in shock. Then sparkling outrage crossed her face.
”Ye dafty! They’ll kill you if they find him. They’ll kill us!”
He gripped her shoulders in both of his hands, trying to hold her still.
”I know mam, and I’m so so sorry. But I couldn’t let them find him. He’s hurt. He needs help.” He swallowed and searched her eyes, pleading silently.
She chewed on her lip for a few seconds, then shook her head and pressed her fingers to her eyes.
”Right then, I’m assuming you want to bring him here? Ye said he’s hurt, how bad?”
He loved his mum so fucking much it hurt, deep down in his heart. The good kind.
“He’s beat up pretty good, but his arm is what worries me. Broken, I think. He cannae use it.”
”I’ll do what I can. We’ll put him in your room for now, but he’s got to stay hidden. Rosie cannae see him.” He hugged her, right there, tightly as he could.
“I’m sorry mam.” He breathed again. “Thank you.”
Isla knew how much her son longed to fight back. She, like him, had been born under the shadow of Kur. A life in captivity had dulled her spark, and the loss of two babies and a husband had torn her spirit to shreds. But seeing the man her son had become, the man he had yet to become, gave her courage.
”I’m proud of you, John.” She pulled his head down to kiss his dirty forehead. “No matter what happens, you must know how proud I am.”