Author's Note: This story is an alternate universe future fic. It follows Season 1 and almost entirely ignores Season 2.
Summary: Humanity has been surrendered to the alien Overlords and is allowed to continue existing though only to serve them. In a reprogramming facility, Jimmy finds reason to hope despite being swallowed in all-consuming despair.
Warning: Dark themes, vividly graphic sex, rape, violence, and torture scenes - some of which will involve minors, homosexual relationships, mostly nonconsensual BDSM, drug and alcohol use, character deaths, severe angst, suicide, language, voyuerism and probably many other things I can't think of at the moment. This is rated "M" for a reason, if you cannot make the mature decision not to read because you are disgusted by any one of the things listed in this warning, then you shouldn't have changed the story search settings in the first place.
Despite these warnings, this story is not a PWP (porn without plot). There is an overall storyline.
For clarification, paragraphs describing a "flashback" are written in present tense (ie. I do, I run, I see). Paragraphs which represent thoughts and events in the 'present' are written in past tense (ie. I did, I ran, I saw). Dialogue from the past or that is remembered is italicized.
Surrender
1.
Tiny eyes, dark and unruly beads, sunken beneath skin, leathered and tanned by the sun's rays and wrinkled beyond its years. This is Warden Brayden. He is judge, jury, and executioner at the Rochester Reprogramming Facility for Boys.
He watched me as I slipped into his room. He sat in a lounging chair, a book sprawled open on its arm, silver-rimmed bifocals balanced on the tip of his long and severely pointed nose. I shuffled across the carpet. It was a soft, shaggy, burgundy colored thing.
He placed a ribbon delicately between the pages of his book, closed it, and stood when I entered. I held a silver tray, balanced on top his nightcap, dark amber colored brandy in a crystal decanter, and a single glass.
I wouldn't look at him. I set the tray on the table near the foot of his bed. I poured the brandy into the glass. My hand trembled. Some spilled onto the tray. I froze at his touch on my back. It tingled. Shivers raced up my spine and slipped down to my legs. My knees buckled, threatened to break and bend.
"This is your first time bringing me my drink," he commented, his voice like the rustling of dried leaves.
I nodded. It was an effort. Every night one of the boys had to bring the warden his drink. That boy was always hand-picked by the warden himself.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Four eighty one. It says it…on my tag," I answered, my voice dull and muted. I lifted the silver token embossed with the numbers chained around my neck as proof.
He laughed. I flinched, stood rigid, pressed my teeth together. I finished pouring the drink and set the decanter on the tray once more.
"No. I mean your name. You had a name before, right?"
Names. We don't have names anymore. We aren't allowed to have them anymore. A name means you're human and the only humans left in the world are in service to them. I wasn't human anymore and I had no desire to be.
"Do you not remember your name?" he asked.
He smiled when he said it. It was a patronizing smile, a caricature of sympathy and understanding. He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.
I wanted to pull away. I couldn't pull away. It meant punishment. I would have pulled away once, long ago, back when I didn't think punishment could be as terrible as submission. I now knew better.
"That's alright. I'll give you a name then," he told me.
He took hold of my chin and turned my face towards him. He looked me over. His eyes prodded into every crack and crevice of my face. I kept my expression apathetic. I waited, my breath bated, burning in my chest.
"Evan," he decided.
He released me, sauntered away from me and sat on his bed.
"Just for tonight," he said with a wink.
The bed was large and sprawling. Ten men could sleep in it. It creaked protest beneath him. His blanket was smooth, black and gold. He patted the spot beside him. I put the decanter and glass back down on the tray and went to sit. There was a mole on his neck, under his left ear. I noticed it, darting nervous glances to the collar of his black robe.
"How old are you, Evan?" he asked.
"Seventeen. It's in my file."
"You were young when the war ended," he noted.
He sounded surprised. He wasn't. My age is why they sent me to the facility. He knew that. I was still young enough to qualify for reprogramming. Another year and I wouldn't have qualified.
"But not so young…much older than you look. Do you remember the surrender?" he asked.
"Not really."
It had been a cold November day. They had told us to lay down our weapons. Some continued to fight but they were soon killed; executed by the same humans that negotiated our surrender. Our camp had been occupied by a group of those humans shortly after the white flag waved. By them, our resistance unit, the 2nd Massachusetts, was systematically disassembled.
"I see. It's for the best that you don't," he assured me.
He placed a hand over my own. It rested on my leg. He gave it a squeeze. Then his hand slipped down, brushed along my inner thigh and up towards my groin. I shuddered, ducked my head to hide the grimace. He stroked me once, pulled his hand back, stood and de-robed. Beneath the robe, he wore crimson red spandex underwear. He tossed the robe onto his chair. He turned towards me. The bulge in his crotch was difficult to miss.
"Go ahead and undress, Evan," he instructed.
Black and silver hairs trailed up out from under the band of his underwear, crossed his belly button and became thicker across his breast. His chest, belly, buttocks and upper thighs were all a sickly white. I stood and began removing my shirt.
"Just your drawers is fine," he recommended.
Out of his top bureau drawer he pulled out a condom. He walked back to his bed, pulled back the blankets; his sheets were black and silken. He crawled onto the bed, removed his underwear, unwrapped and slipped the condom over his dick. His pubic area was clean shaven.
I left my shirt on, peeled off my sneakers, dropped my drawstring sweatpants and boxers. They pooled on the ground at my feet and I stepped out of them. I didn't bother covering myself out of want for modesty. The room was cold. I shivered. I looked small and shriveled because of it. It made me strangely glad.
He gestured to the bed. I laid next to him on my side, my back to him. I cradled my face in the crook of my elbow. He placed the blankets over us. He sank beside me, wrapped an arm round my waist, nibbled my ear in his dried lips.
"You're trembling," he noticed.
He clucked his tongue, tsk-tsked, the perfect mockery of concern.
"It's alright. You'll be alright," he whispered. He stroked my shoulder, rubbed his rough and calloused palm along back, chest, low abdomen. He used his other hand to slip a finger inside me. I flinched. He moved it in and out and around, and dug a second finger in. He massaged the rim, relaxing the opening. His erection poked against my upper leg and buttocks.
Heat spread through me. I buried my face in my arm. I closed my eyes. I thought of a room hundreds of miles away where light streams through a broken window, refracts off a fragment of glass, and dazzles on the ceiling, glistening gems, stars across a faux sky.
"Are you crying, Evan?" he asked.
Jimmy…
I shook my head. Tears streamed warm and mutinous down my cheeks. He breathed heavy against my ear, took my hand in his own as his other continued to work me further open.
"But why are you crying? You're enjoying this," he told me.
He dragged my hand down beneath the blankets. He forced me to touch my own forming erection. He unfurled my fingers, curled them around my hard on, and made me stroke it. I heard myself whimper. I felt myself moan.
"See, Evan. You like it," he said.
Are you sure about this…Jimmy?
He entered me then and I thought of the sun splitting the sky, a palate of pastel colors dripping off the horizon. I thought of a boy I'd only finally managed to let myself forget years before. His eyes are haunted, but he smiles easy. He holds me in his arms, kisses me breathless.
We lay together on the dusty floor of an abandoned house in some Virginia suburbs. We've run out of clothes to strip from one another, our fingers can only clutch and ripple across each other's bare flesh. I roll to my belly, he lines kisses up along my shoulder blades.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks me.
I smile at him. I tell him, "Yes. Do it."
"It's going to hurt," he reminds me.
"You act like you're the one that'll be in pain," I laugh and he smiles, all at once wry and serene
"Maybe I will be…"
The warden thrust into me, his movement jerky and violent. It ripped through me like fire burning up my backside. He grunted, hot against my skin. He grasped my hip and shoulder, pulled me towards him as he pushed into me.
I bit into my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. My fingers clawed at the sheets. I thought of the boy gently slipping inside me, his hips rocking in time to my own. His fingertips delicately trace the contours of my back. He brushes kisses to my skin. His breath is sharp and labored. He whispers to me sweet and soothing things as I cry out involuntarily from the pain. I have to beg him not to stop.
The warden climaxed. He quaked, and jerked and flailed, dragged me tighter to himself. When it was over, he loosened his hold. He gasped for breath. He collapsed against me, his sweat slicked body pinning me down. He pulled hastily out of me. He crawled out of the bed, removed the condom, and tossed it.
The boy and I climax together; his ejaculate flows into me, warm and sensuous. He cradles me against his chest, our fingers twine. He buries his face in my neck, suckles my skin. He slips out of me, slow and gentle. He gives me room to turn over. I settle on my back and he relaxes atop me and connects our mouths.
The warden picked his robe off the chair and tugged it on. He didn't close it, his dick hanging flaccid in plain view, its tip slightly glossed with remaining cum. He went to the tray. He took a sip from the glass I filled earlier. On the table was a tiny metal box. He opened it, took out a cigarette and fancy silver lighter. He placed the cigarette on his lip, lit its tip. He took a long drag.
"Are you hurting?" the boy asks.
"That's a stupid question," I whisper.
He looks at me with worry. I trace my fingers along the contour of his face and brush over his lips. He kisses their tips, kisses me fierce, and tells me to sleep.
"Get up and dress, Evan," the warden commanded.
He went and sat in his chair. He drank his brandy, rested the glass on the chair arm, and sucked on his cigarette. The smoke billowed out of his mouth, withered and white.
I pushed myself up to sitting; my body weak and drained of energy. I carefully lifted myself up and, stilted, picked my clothes off the ground. Every move sent a shock of pain up my spine and threatened to crumble my legs beneath me. I felt sore and raw. I pulled up my boxers and pants as one.
"Stand at the table until I've finished my drink. Then you can take the tray back to the kitchen," he instructed me.
I hobbled to the table and leaned against it for support. I stared at its mahogany top, waiting as he drank his brandy. I couldn't look at him. Aside from the tray and the metal box of cigarettes, there was also a stack of papers and an old rotary telephone on the table. I curled my finger in the telephone cord. I skimmed what little I could see written on the papers.
He clattered his empty glass on the silver tray. I startled. My eyes darted up to his, immediately dropped back to the table. He cupped my cheek in his hand.
"Thank you for the drink," he said.
I nodded. The movement was stiff and strained. He let me go. He walked away from me.
"I suspect you'll be bringing me my drink again some night soon," he remarked.
I moved to pick up the tray. His hand clapped on my shoulder and I froze.
"Have a good night, Evan," he said.
"Thank you, sir," I replied.
I lifted the tray, paused, my breath caught in my throat.
There was a book underneath the stack of papers. It had tabs sticking out of it. The tabs were marked with different names. Names I didn't recognize, of people I did not, could not know. Some of the names I couldn't see partially or entirely.
I turned from the table. I limped across the room. I slipped out the door.
One of the other boys waited for me down the hall at the top of the stairwell. He didn't meet my eyes. He took the tray from me. He would carry it down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen. He jogged hurriedly out of sight.
I struggled down the one flight. I leaned heavily against the banister for support. On the dormitory floor, I limped into my assigned room. Inside it was dark with little tiny nightlights along the floor like a fairy path. There were two rows of bunk beds. There were ten in all, five lined up on each side of the room. Most of the beds were occupied, boys asleep in them or pretending to be.
I found my bed. I fell into it. I curled my thin blanket over myself. I squeezed my eyes shut. Behind my lids I pictured the tab in that book that had caught my eye.
-amin Mason.
I thought of that boy I'd only finally managed to let myself forget. It had been three years now since he'd died.
Another casualty of surrender.