A/N - Hey there. I've never written for Falling Skies before, but I hope you like this. The start is kind of like a journal entry, but this will be one of the few times you'll see one. I hope you enjoy! Constructive criticism welcome! This is just a Prologue by the way. If you like there's more to come.

Disclaimers: I do not own Falling Skies, nor any of the characters in it except for ones I've made myself.

Warning: A bit gruesome at parts, but the show is kind of gruesome too, so it shouldn't be too bad.

The Darkest Skies

Escape From Hell

My name is Hal Mason. I am sixteen years old, I think, and my birthday is April 17th. I do not know what day it is today, but I was taken August 5th and since then I have managed to escape captivity. Captivity of what, you may ask? Captivity of a brutal, unforgiving race of otherworldly creatures; or aliens, as they're also known as.

Once upon a time, I was a jock. I had a stay-home mother, who people often tell me I look alike, and a kind, if not a bit odd, father. My mother was sugar-sweet; she understood me like no other and I loved her. My father and I were never close. He liked books and I liked the thrill of the game. He nagged me about my grades, which were never great, and at night after I had gone to bed I could hear him telling my mother that I needed to spend more time studying instead of playing 'stupid sports'. My mother always defended me, and I never forgot.

I had two brothers; both younger. Matt was the littlest at eight years old. I can remember celebrating his last birthday on the road. He's always been the baby of the family. Everyone tries to shield him much to his chagrin, myself included. I would have died for him. Ben was older than Matt at fifteen. Only a year or so separates us, and because of that we've never really gotten along. We fight like cats and dogs. When I was younger, sometimes, I use to think I hated him. He got dads approval, and love, and adoration. But I loved him, like I loved the rest of my family, it was just harder to see at times. But then the Skitters took him, and I had never felt so helpless. When he came back, he wasn't the same brother who had left. He was harder, and cold. He was angry.

My mother is dead now, and I have no one left to confide in. My father, and my two brothers could very well have been slain. I haven't seen them since I was taken. In fact, I've seen very few. The thought of them dead kills me a little bit every day, but the chance that they're alive keeps me going through the pain.

Connar is dead. I woke up two weeks ago, and he was next to me. He didn't look peaceful, like Jimmy. His guts were torn out, and blood flooded over his chin. His leg was twisted backwards, and one arm was barely attached by strings of muscle. His face was bloody, bruised, and unrecognizable, and one eye was torn from its socket. He looked anything but at peace.

For five days I stayed by his cold, broken body. I couldn't bare to leave, and abandon his corpse. He wouldn't have left me. He wouldn't have let me die to begin with. I cried until tears would no longer come, and then I sobbed without being able to cry. He's all I had, he loved me. He's gone now.

I still can't figure out how I was spared. I wasn't harnessed, and barely attacked. My head bled for a while, and my entire back was an illustration of purple, blue and black but I'm alive.

I haven't seen a soul in two months. That would have been fine since survivors don't exactly announce their whereabouts in blinking neon signs, but what's worse is I haven't seen an alien in two months, either. I've been walking, and walking for miles on end, and nothing. Not a bird in the sky or a Skitter crawling about. No Mech's sirens blaring, or shots ringing out.

Am I all thats left? Are the Skitters, and Fishheads and Mech's still alive? Still on earth?

Then I met Nala. It's not a great name for a dog but I couldn't come up with a better one. She's beautiful, and she looks like a gorgeous German Shepherd, only her fur isn't fluffy and stiff like a German Shepherd's, but soft, long and with a slight curl. It doesn't stick up from her, but flattens down like a Golden Retriever's. She's brown with black speckled into her back and tail. Her eyes are a deep, hazel brown and she's the prettiest dog I have ever seen. I love her.

She hasn't left yet, and at night she curls against me. She's the only reason I survived the winter. When I had a motorcycle back a while ago, before I ran out of gas and couldn't scavenge any more, I had to lie her across my lap and she snuggled into me. We share any food we find, and she has my back like nobody has in a long time.

I would almost think I imagined the entire invasion, and that the aliens had never really come, if it wasn't for the fact that every time I take my shirt off, I see what they left behind. Each scar is a reminder to my captivity, and the torture I endured. They are real. They are out there. I won't stop until they're all dead.

Finding the 2nd Massachusetts is my only goal now. Staying alive is a necessity. I no longer want to find people, or aliens. It'll only put my goal at risk. All I need is Nala, and together we'll get back home. I'm positive the 2nd Massachusetts is still going; still resisting.

I will find them, for better or worse.

My name is Hal Mason. I am a survivor.

FSFSFSFSFSFS

Really, Pope doesn't know how it came to this. He's a lone wolf, some might say. He works outside the law and he gets the job done; the job being kicking these mother-fucking alien's asses. But back on topic, he doesn't care about others. Not really. He does what he does for numero uno, and when he takes out revenge, it has to be him pulling the trigger, or else the success won't be nearly as sweet. That being said, he's not afraid to get his hands dirty every now and again.

But this goes beyond getting his hands dirty. He doesn't even know why he did it. He can tell himself it's to kill as many Cooties as possible, but he went out of his way for this one.

And now he has a kid under his protection, and he doesn't like that.

When he recognized that shock of black hair, those angular features and that voice, screaming, he just reacted. Months of working with the kid had him use to taking shots to keep Cooties off his back, but he had left the group just over two weeks ago, and the kid hasn't been seen in nearly five months.

The kid went down. Turns out, he was sick as a dog. His face was flush with fever and the hoarse cough that ripped from his throat made Pope's own lungs burn at the sound. So Pope grabbed him, hiking his way too light to be healthy body over his shoulder, and took off to the camp he made for himself.

He noticed the mutt following him, but paid it no mind; it was with the kid. He saw the dog snarling at one of the Cooties, standing protectively before the slumped kid. The dog, however, would get no food off him if that's what it was thinking. Like he said, numero uno.

He doesn't know why he took care of the kid, either. The guy has presumably been with the Cooties and their master's for the past few months, and there's no telling what damage has been inflicted on his mind, never mind his body. For all Pope knows, he's been brainwashed and is leading the Cooties right to him.

And for some reason, still, he doesn't leave.

"Let them come." He tells the dog between large chomps of canned pears. The mutt tilts its head, sniffs at the air and edges in closer to the kids side. "I'll kill 'em all!"