Warnings: On-screen death of minor characters, off-screen torture. Violence.

There's something about the kid, Jack decides one day.

It's something he doesn't let himself think about too hard, because if he does, he might- well. There is a certain duty that each citizen has to their country, to the People. A duty to report the Rebels, the people with an evil agenda dedicated to bringing down the People, enemies of the state. He and Mac are a team, dedicated to hunting the Rebels. To bringing them in for justice. For the protection of the People. They are one of many.

They are also one of the least successful teams, which brings Jack back to his first thought.

There's something about his partner that just- it doesn't quite seem right. Only Jack's noticed it so far, and he's not even sure how he did so. The kid keeps it hidden deep inside.

But. It's the way he never drinks around others. The way he acts around other teams, like he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, just another soldier following orders, even though Jack's seen the kid in action- knows exactly how smart he is, how quickly and efficiently he can think on his feet. It's the way he's quiet around other soldiers, around the higher-ups, around everyone but Jack.

Sure, it could be written off as shyness, timidity even.

Except.

Except Jack's seen the kid shy, and he's nothing like this. He's a blushing, stuttering, awkward mess, not this simple quietness.

So he watches. And at first he's building a case, because, after all, he is one of the People. Of the Empire. He's got a duty, you see.

But then the kid saves Jack's life in the line of duty.

Jack stand in front of the fireplace in their barracks for a long time after that. Then, quietly, he burns papers, photos, recordings, notes long into the night.

Now. Now he doesn't think much about what he sees in the kid's eyes, the way they flicker through a room, taking in everything.

He doesn't think about the times when Mac slips away in the night when Jack fakes sleeping, when he returns with his shoulders just a little bit less tense, his eyes just a little bit clearer.

He doesn't think about the fact that the Rebels have been suspected of having a spy in the government. Maybe more than one. The way they've known information there should've been no way they could've known.

The way Mac's eyes seem to gleam whenever there's a Rebel victory.

He keeps his head down and his eyes away from Mac when the higher-ups come.

But.

It isn't enough. They see Mac, with his Albain heritage and blue eyes and blond hair and non-conformity, and they think, this. This is the one we will use as an example of traitors.

They don't have any proof, not really, and Jack knows this. They approach him quietly, secretly, and tell him that they know Jack's an outstanding member of the People, a loyal soldier to the Empire.

The thing is, though, they need someone to blame. Someone to show through that they are not to be crossed, that the Rebels are enemies, that they are not to be helped, sympathized with, or otherwise associated with.

And, well, Mac doesn't quite match the image of the People. He wasn't born in the Land. He isn't brown-haired, brown-eyed, tanned. He isn't really up to scratch. Honestly, Jack's to be commended for putting up with the thing for so long.

Jack nods his head, smiles blandly, while his mind is seething with rage and anger. Because. Well. That's his partner they're talking about.

So. Jack knows that they don't have a real reason to take Mac, and that's really what hurts. Because they're taking him for something that he actually is, even though they don't know it.

Jack wants to laugh and cry at the same time. The irony is sickening.

When they leave, he goes outside and punches a tree until his knuckles are scraped and raw and bloody. He goes back inside, the words on the tip of his tongue to warn Mac.

The kid's staring through the window at something in the distance. He turns towards Jack and something flashes through his eyes. Something dark and dangerous and tinged with desperation. He whispers something to Jack before they arrive, a place and a time.

Jack watches, stony faced and resolute, as Mac's carted off, his hands cuffed behind his back, his mouth gagged cruelly with a metal contraption that's painful just to look at, and his gaze hazy with pain from the taser they used on him even though he didn't resist.

Jack thinks that night, long and hard, about where his loyalties lie.

He's thought for a long time now that the People might be wrong about some things.

This is the first time he's said, even in a whisper to himself in the dead of night, that the Rebels might be right.

He goes to the meeting the next night.

He waits until someone's arrived in the clearing before he emerges, his hands up and his gaze sharp and steady. The woman swings a gun at him, her dark, fierce eyes boring a hole in his skull.

Before she can say anything, Jack blurts out the word Mac gave him. "Phoenix."

It's small, it's something that he had never heard of before, but it seems to carry weight with this woman. She lowers her gun, her eyes still sharp as freshly-broken glass.

Jack explains, then, what's happened. She listens, then nods once. Gives a whistle that's a signal of some sort.

Three people emerge from the bushes. A young man, a few years older than Mac, a woman the man's age, and another woman, much shorter than the others.

They introduce themselves. The first woman is Thornton. The second, Davis. The last, Webber. The man is Bozer. The names are obviously last names, if not codenames, but.

In this time of secrecy, of darkness and violence covered up by an empire dedicated to itself, Jack can't blame them.

Still, he gives them his full name. He decides that if Mac trusts them, so does he.

Besides, what has he got to lose? A life of service to the Empire, and then a retirement where he is hailed as a hero for killing those who did not Conform?

Retirement has never been Jack's style, anyway. He's always been one to push and push and push.

Against what, some might ask.

Against everything, he answers.

They plan. They plan for days, every moment tense with the knowledge that they need to form a plan as fast as possible, but also make sure it's sound. Jack watches them as they work, and knows they're doing the same to him. He lets them, and watches the way they interact with each other. How Bozer and Davis flit around each other, flirting and teasing and gazing at each other with something more than a childish crush in their eyes. How Webber and Thornton seem to have a mutual respect for each other, but still clash at times.

How the two older adults seem to have a heaviness in their eyes whenever they talk about the War, about Mac, and how the younger seem to associate happier memories with him.

Jack wonders what the older women know that the others don't.

They don't tell him, and he doesn't ask. Some things are best said from those that lived them, and Mac isn't here right now.

Jack continues drawing the blueprints of the base where Mac's being kept, his marks precise, his measurements exact. He's always been weirdly good with numbers; he's used this ability before. Now he's just using it for something he believes in, believes is right.

It's a good feeling, he decides.

Events begin to move rapidly exactly a week after Mac's been captured. Jack's been splitting his time between being at the barracks during the day, the Rebels' base at night, and getting a few precious hours of sleep whenever he can.

Now it's time. Time to put the plan in motion, to see if the Rebels will pull through, to try a few desperate actions to get Mac back. Time to see if he's really going to go against the Empire.

He's walking outside to the execution area, preparing himself for the task- honor, they said- that was given to him earlier in the week.

He was to execute the Traitor. It is an honor, that much is acknowledged by most, but it's something Jack's never wanted, not even in his early days where he followed orders like a good little soldier and didn't question the Empire. Now, though, it's something that he can't stop thinking about, worrying about, hating.

He doesn't want to know what Mac's going to look like when he's dragged out- dragged, of course, because they'll have hurt him so much that he can't stand, hurt him with a cruelty and relentlessness reserved only for those deemed traitors to the Empire- only to see that Jack's the one that's supposed to pull the trigger.

He takes his place, watches as the crowd gathers, waits. Prepares himself. Breathes, in, out, repeats. There's a sound off to the side and behind him, and he turns slightly to see what's going on.

He thought he was prepared for this, but he isn't. Nothing would've prepared him to feel like his heart has stopped beating as he watches, but he manages to keep a composed face.

Mac's dragged out between two guards, his eyes full of anger and desperation and relief, almost, at seeing anything other than the horrors that Jack knows he's been seeing for the past week.

He spots Jack standing next to the block, holding a gun, in an unmistakeable pose, and he- well. He doesn't quite smile, no. It's more of a bloody grin. It's filled with a relief, almost. A knowledge of what's about to happen, what's going to play out over the next few minutes, a deathly serious tribute to his life.

Jack's always though that Mac would be the one to laugh in the face of death.

When the kid's dropped at Jack's feet, he takes in Mac's face, all bruises and cuts and pain.

Jack sees that grin in his nightmares for months afterward.

His whole body is full of expression- his shoulders are tense, his eyes fierce and sharp and full of violence. His grin is fierce and feral, teeth bared, edges sharp enough to cut, dark and dangerous and deadly as, well. Deadly as a Phoenix rising from the ashes with its cry calling for vengeance.

He's not going to go out without a fight.

Jack keeps his expression stern and clear, no hint of the turmoil he's feeling peeking through.

Mac stares up at him, defiant, even though he's on his knees and his hands are tightly secured behind his back with the highest security cuffs the guards had. He's drooping, barely able to hold himself upright, and his face- and what Jack can see of his body- is painted in bruises and cuts, with burns making appearances on his arms.

Jack swallows down his rage. The fire that it lends him won't help him in this moment. He needs to be cold, calculating, ready to assess and put all his training into action at a moment's notice.

So.

He pulls Mac up, fisting his hand in the kid's shirt collar, underneath ragged blond hair that gleams in the sunlight. He hauls him to his feet, suddenly aware that he's supporting almost all of Mac's weight. They'd underestimated how far the guards could go without disfiguring Mac too much for a public execution.

This will make the plan a bit harder.

Mac stares back at him, blue eyes flashing with defiance and- Jack barely catches it as the kid's eyes shutter closed, but it's there- betrayal.

Jack smiles, the grin spreading slowly over his face. Suddenly, he drops Mac, releasing his collar without even a flicker of a change of expression. He watches as Mac collapses to his knees, a puppet whose strings have been cut. Then, he begins to speak the traditional Words.

"Angus MacGyver, you have betrayed the Empire and the People. Not only have you neglected your duties towards the People, you have conspired against them. You have trampled upon the privileges that were so graciously granted to you in spite of your low status, and as such, you must be punished."

The whole time Jack's speaking, he wants to spit in the face of whoever came up with the words. He knows that the whole "low and inferior status" thing bugs Mac, that it always has, especially since his dad was a highly esteemed Member of the People and his mom- well, his mom wasn't, and she hadn't taken his dad's name, which was an event odd enough that the kids at Mac's Education Center made it into a Thing, the type of Thing that regularly ended with one sitting in a trash receptacle with a few new bruises.

And then his dad left, and the kid had gotten it into his head that the reason he did so was because Mac wasn't good enough.

Jack's tried to talk him out of that, heaven knows he's tried.

It just hasn't stuck.

Jack tears himself away from Mac's many self-esteem issues. It's not the time nor the place for that kind of thinking, however warranted it may be.

Mac's still watching him, anger the only thing left in his eyes. His lips pull back, transforming his grin into a snarl. "You going to get on with it, or what?"

Jack has to consciously hold himself back from wincing. It hurts him, it really does, to have Mac staring at him like this. He was supposed to be the safe one, the one that Mac trusted, that he could rely on.

But. Here he is, with a gun in his hand and the kid's staring at him like he's destroyed the world.

Jack swallows, hard, and tries not to think about the fact that that's a look that doesn't belong on the kid's face, not at all. He continues speaking. "The Empire and the People hereby sentence you to death, a shameful, dishonorable fate brought about by your own foolishness. It is to be delivered by my hand-"

Once Jack says those last two words, everything breaks loose.

There's an explosion behind the crowd, and they all turn to watch instinctively. The guards are alert- until they're taken down quickly and efficiently, all five dropping in the span of six seconds. If Jack had to guess, he'd say that it was the work of two sharpshooters by the name of Thornton and Davis.

His part of the plan isn't to guess, though, it's to get Mac and get out of there as fast as possible, so that's what he does. He grabs the stunned, wide-eyed kid by his collar and throws him over his shoulder, telling himself over Mac's grunt of pain that it'll be faster this way and they can get the kid medical attention faster.

That doesn't stop him from hearing every single one of Mac's agonized groans, though, or feeling the way his ribs shift ominously. Still, he runs like his life depends on it.

No. Like the kid's life depends on it.

They make it, somehow.

Mac's just woken up after coming out of surgery when Jack's finally allowed to see him. He blinks at Jack. 'J'ck?" He slurs. "Wh't're you doin' here?"

Jack looks down at him with a mock-serious look plastered to his face. Mac's face peers up him, all earnest and wide-eyed and alive, and Jack can't help but break into a grin. "Well, I heard you were being an idiot, so I decided someone had to be the smart one around here and keep you out of trouble."

Mac stares at him for a moment, then smacks a hand against his leg. "You can't be mean t' me. 'M still hurt."

Jack just laughs, and, after a moment, Mac grins as well.