Note: This fic starts off in the time between season 2 and 3, after John Smith has returned from Berlin.
Chapter 1: Familiar
There was that brief, split second moment when John Smith and his men burst into the bar, before anyone had realized what was happening or had a chance to react, that there was a snapshot of normalcy. In the dim light a couple chatted intimately in the corner; a young man hit on an attractive woman at the bar; a downtrodden looking middle-aged guy drank alone; and three seemingly innocent people sat at a table having a quiet conversation.
Except they weren't innocent.
They were subversives - operatives working for the East Coast Resistance and they had with them one of the films destined for the Man in the High Castle.
The older man, in his late 50s was rugged with hair that was more grey than peppered. He sat, taking a drink of whiskey while he listened to his companions. The younger man looked to be in his mid-twenties. Inexperience was written all over his face - some poor new recruit to their dying and futile cause, most likely. He ignored the beer that sat in front of him, his attention rapt on the small brunette sitting next to him. Briefly John wondered if the man was here for the cause, or for her. Based on the woman's body language, however, the interest wasn't mutual.
Then there was chaos.
Simultaneously everyone in the bar seemed to notice John and his men. People scattered like rats scurrying to cover - desperate to escape - but his men had already secured the exits. No one was going anywhere.
With a gesture John signaled his men to secure their targets, and they did so. Everyone worked together in practiced unison like a well oiled machine and in no time at all the three resistance members were rounded up - the men on their knees and the woman still struggling in Erich's grasp. There was something about her that seemed so very familiar and that unsettled John.
The remaining patrons were quietly ushered from the bar as John paced in front of his prisoners, each step measured and deliberate.
"If this is how I die, then so be it," the woman growled. "but I'm not going to get down on my knees and beg. Not to a fucking Nazi." Of course, before she could utter another word, Erich had his boot on the back of her knees and forced her down with the others.
John stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. "One of you," he declared, "is going to tell me the location of the film."
"What film?" asked the grey-haired man. "I don't know what you're talking about." His name was David Jackson and he was a known subversive. They'd been monitoring his movements for weeks ever since they'd picked up his name on a wiretap.
John nodded to one of his men, who struck the man in the face with the grip of his pistol. When he lifted his head again there was blood trickling from a split in his lip. "Don't play games with me, Mr. Jackson," John warned. "We know who you are. We know you work for the resistance. And we know that one of you has a film in your possession." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "Now, just tell me where it is."
It didn't matter which one of them talked, the truth of the situation was that one of them would. John knew that David was probably the least likely to - he was older, he had more experience, and he came from a time before the war with all the misplaced loyalty to the old America that that entailed. The younger man probably didn't even remember life before the war - he would have been too young - and the woman, if John had to guess at her age, might remember it but she would have grown up throughout the Great Depression and he doubted very much that that was a time she would wish to return to. No, neither would have the same ties to an old way of life as the older man would. Neither ought to have the same conviction.
As expected, David did not give up the location of the film. Instead he spat, sending a gob of spit onto John's boots. "Go to hell!" he growled. "I'll die before I tell you anything."
That wasn't true. If he wanted to, John could make him talk. Everyone had a breaking point. But he didn't need to - there were still two other operatives to interrogate. Two operatives who would cave much easier under the pressure he would apply. "I see," John said, and slowly he drew his pistol and held it firmly to the man's forehead. "Very well then."
The sharp crack of the gunshot was followed up by a horrified wail and a flutter of movement erupted as the woman wrenched herself free and ran towards the door. It was a frantic move borne of terror, because there was nowhere for her to go. The doors were guarded and she froze, unsure what to do next, when she found herself trapped between the barrel of a gun and the man she'd just fled.
John shot a stern look at his Sturmbannführer. "Have you got her?"
Erich nodded.
John raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
Red creeped up into Erich's cheeks and he tightened his grip. "Yes, Oberstgruppenführer."
John returned his attention to the woman. That nagging feeling that he recognized her from somewhere would not go away. "What's your name?" he asked, hoping perhaps a name might give him some clue or jog some memory. With rhythmic precision her chest rose and fell as she seethed angrily in Erich's grasp. No answer forthcoming.
John let out an exasperated sigh, then he reached for her purse and began to rifle through it. Even a resistance operative wouldn't risk getting stopped by the police in the Reich without proper documentation. "Kayleigh Lane," he read aloud once he'd found her papers. The name didn't ring any bells. Perhaps she just looked like someone else he knew: a faded memory from a faded time. "Well, well Miss Lane," he tapped the papers and returned to his present task. "Perhaps you would like to be more cooperative than your colleague there," he gestured. "As you can see, his disobedience didn't work out very well for him. Where is the film?"
Kayleigh shook her head defiantly, her eyes fixated on the lifeless body that lay on the floor. "I don't know."
John tutted and shook his head with disappointment. "You're lying. Tell me where the film is, or let's just say there are worse things than death, Miss Lane," he warned, letting the thought linger. "I can assure you of that."
"Shall we take these two back to headquarters to be interrogated, Oberstgruppenführer?"
John shook his head and then scanned the room. "There's no time for that, Erich. There," he nodded towards one of the rafters. "Secure her from the beam. We will interrogate her here and we will get the location of the film." Kayleigh's head shot up at the threat, and the corner of John's mouth quirked up. It was one thing to be prepared to die. Death was a mercy for someone in her position. Torture however, was another matter entirely, and somehow he doubted she was quite as prepared for the that.
"Wait!"
"Alex, don't you dare!" There was a yelp as Erich twisted Kayleigh's arm behind her back to get her to shut up.
John turned his attention to the young man. He'd been right, it turned out, about the feelings he had for the woman. This was something he could use to his advantage. "So, tell me Alex, where is the film? She doesn't have to get hurt, Alex. Neither of you do. Just tell me where it is."
"The truck."
The confession was met by a guttural cry of pain and betrayal from his companion. John never understood why these subversives would be willing to resist, to fight, when eventually he would get what he wanted anyways. What was the point? At least Alex seemed to understand that.
"Show me," John obliged, and John kept one hand on him, and one on his pistol as they stepped outside. Every sensory nerve was on alert for any sign of a threat, but there was none. The film was there, just as he'd been told it was. It was all so easy.
"So… so, I can go now, right? And Kayleigh too?" Alex asked, his voice quivering slightly.
The line of John's mouth tightened. "I'm afraid not," he told him, his voice cool and without remorse. "You're an enemy of the Reich. As is she." The shot echoed through the dark alley. Back inside there was only the woman left.
"I'll take it from here, Erich," John assured his Sturmbannführer as he took Kayleigh by the arm. The film was in his possession. The mission was a success. There was only one last loose end to tie up. One more execution and he could return home to his wife and children. "On your knees."
Kayleigh did not budge.
Tired, and with dwindling patience, John sighed and drew his pistol. "Fine, I can shoo-"
Then it hit him, like a ton of bricks being dropped straight on his chest. When he'd seen her before, her expression hadn't been one of venomous hatred, but he was sure it was her. He was certain of it. More certain that he had ever been of anything in his life. She was the woman from the films.
Somehow John pulled himself together as his mind reeled wildly out of control. The first thing he became aware of was the look of mixed confusion and concern on Erich's face. The next thing was that he was still holding his pistol up, rather limply, and he wondered how long he'd been standing there like that, dumbfounded and frozen in plain view of his men.
John cleared his throat and holstered his pistol. "Cut her loose, Erich," he commanded in the best no-nonsense voice he could muster, though it came out somewhat hoarse. He saw his Sturmbannführer open his mouth to protest, but the stern look he shot him warned him not to question a direct order and no words came out. For that he was thankful. He could not be questioned - not by him, not here, not now.
As soon as Kayleigh was out of earshot, John turned to Erich and told him, loud enough for the rest of the men to hear, "Follow her. I want to know everything. Where she goes. Who she talks to. What she has for breakfast. Understood?"
"Yes, Oberstrgruppenführer."
The men would believe he had let her go in order to use her to root out other resistance cells. Then John added in a softer tone that the others would not overhear. "You will report directly to me. You will speak of what you find to no one else. Do you understand?"
Erich's gave a small nod. "Of course, Oberstrgruppenführer."
John made a small, satisfied noise and turned away. He was eager to find some solitude in which to pour over the days events and try to make sense of what was going on. How was it that this Kayleigh Lane - a resistance operative no less - could be the same woman he had seen in the films? And yet she was. She was.
