Title: The Science of Discontent
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: General for series 4.
Warnings: Canonical character death; original character death; implied torture; blood drinking.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title taken from Frank Herbert's Dune.

Summary: Paranoia, shortages and the imminent threat of invasion. It's like World War II all over again, but that's not why Cutler's feeling nostalgic.

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Cutler doesn't visit the interrogation cells any more than he has to. The fluorescents buzz and glare off the white tiles, off the stainless steel, and the air is choked with fear and disinfectant. It gives him a headache. There are noises coming from behind some of the doors as he hurries past, noises that he can't even begin to describe. But there's Hal, walking out of one of the cells, and they must have got a quick result – although he doesn't look happy.

"What's so special about this one?" Cutler asks, because Hal doesn't come down here often, either. He has little time for recreation, these days.

"There was …" Hal stops, and frowns, and turns to stare – at something in the cell or maybe something far beyond it. "There was something about her." The past tense, which explains why it was over so quickly.

"Did she talk?"

"Nothing useful." A smile flashes across Hal's face. "And not the sort of language that a young lady ought to use."

Hal's mouth sinks back into the grim line that's going to become its permanent expression, if he doesn't watch out. It's hardly surprising: none of them have had much rest since they launched the latest offensive. Hal is going to be even less happy when he finds out why Cutler's here, but they're all learning to live with disappointment.

They step back to let the attendants bring the body out. Pale hair, pale skin. Cutler lifts one still-warm wrist to read the paper bracelet: Human. Female. Age unknown. Zoe Daniels. One of the wheels on the trolley squeaks – and squeaks and squeaks – as they take her away, down to the incinerators. Things aren't quite so desperate that they've started drinking the blood of the dead – not yet. Which brings him to why he's here.

"What is it today?" Hal asks, as Cutler snaps open his briefcase.

"It's the rationing decree." There's no point in putting it off, even if Hal is scowling.

"It won't be popular," Hal grumbles, but it's a token complaint: he takes the documents anyway. "It's not traditional."

"Only because they didn't have refrigeration back in the old days." That earns him a laugh, a brief glimpse of the old Hal, before the new weariness settles back into place. "Look, the human body holds ten pints of blood. But the stomach can't comfortably hold much more than three. To maximise –"

Hal holds up a hand. "I don't need to hear the propaganda."

"There just isn't enough to go around any more."

"And now the humans have started killing their own kind." It sounds almost like Hal approves.

"Just be grateful it's only collaborators they're going after." They keep finding the bodies in the most inconvenient places: a very public statement. A stake through the heart will kill a human just as effectively as it will kill a vampire. "If they start on the food stocks, then we really will be in trouble." Hal's been doing a little housekeeping of his own, but there are still a lot of hungry mouths to feed.

Cutler holds out his pen. This is the right thing to do; it's the only thing they can do. But part of him doesn't want Hal to acquiesce – wants him to sneer, to argue, to let the papers fall to the floor and laugh as Cutler scrabbles to retrieve them. To laugh because somehow, impossibly, he has an alternative. But when they tore down the old world order it wasn't just the humans' gods that toppled. Hal commits his name to paper with less than the usual flourish.

Cutler flinches as a shriek echoes off the hard surfaces of the corridor. It gurgles into silence, but those awful bloody lights are still droning and they're bleaching Hal to the sickly colour of a corpse.

"Come on," Cutler says, "let's get out of here."

"Have the first shipment of blood sent to Downing Street," Hal tells him as they walk.

"You're not going to drink the bottled stuff?" Cutler blurts, and Hal gives him a pitying look, the one that just can't believe that a recruit of his could be so stupid – and something in Cutler's chest aches for the lost familiarity of it. Getting what you want out of life isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"This isn't the time for conspicuous consumption," Hal tells him. "This is the time to lead by example." Even without television, it's surprising how word gets around. "To be seen to lead by example, anyway."

Two black limousines wait in the car park; two chauffeurs leap out to open their doors. Hal and Cutler start to go their separate ways – but whirl, heads whipping round as one, towards the rumble of what sounds like thunder. It's a long way off, towards the north. There's no need to panic: they've been waiting for this counter-offensive for a while now. They have plans in place.

"Why don't we have a little celebration tonight?" Hal suggests, even though there's nothing to celebrate, and he has to raise his voice to be heard over the explosions. "I'll get you that redhead from the typing pool – I've seen you looking." Cutler smiles. He's been shagging her behind Hal's back for the last few weeks, but he always likes to have Hal's blessing.

So, in the best tradition, they throw a party as London starts to burn. And when Cutler feeds he doesn't count how many pints or litres – or rationing units – that he's drinking, just savours each mouthful as it squirts hotly from the vein. Melanie stops that thing she's doing with her nimble, typist's fingers, and squeezes in close so she doesn't miss her share. Between them, they don't waste a drop.