The Greatest Hunter [Prologue/?]
Title: The Greatest Hunter (Prologue/?)
Author: readthemedia
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: R/15, to be safe for future updates
Warnings: war, violence, swearing
Summary: The greatest hunter will survive alone, with no-one left to love.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse or any of its members; and all of this writing is completely fictional.
Author's note: I haven't posted in Museslash for years and years (have been lurking though!) I feel competely out of the loop- go easy on me :P. Anyway, after listening through Drones way too many times, a narrative began to form in my head- a narrative which has been biting at me to get down onto the page, and which eventuated itself into this. I have no idea how big or how long this will be, but I guess I'll find out as I write! Not a lot happens in this prologue, just a bit of setup for the story to come.
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He waits.
From the opposite site of the street, he watches a small terracotta coloured cottage darkened by the shadows of a quarter-crescent moon. Squeezed between two larger houses, it would have been considered ‘homely’ back when he was young.
Back thirty years ago, when the state of the world was very, very different.
He rests on the rusted remains of what was once a lamppost, his eyes darting between the footpath and the cottage’s windows. It would be surprising to see someone outside their home this late in the evening, particularly after the announcement of a Region-wide curfew just days before. ‘No-one is to remain outside the walls of their residence between sunset and sunrise,’ the official statement ran, ‘so to ensure your safety in the event of a external rebel attack.’
E-Region has not been attacked. Not yet, at least. The rebels had hinted an offensive for months; taunting the Nation with mind games and propaganda, trying to outsmart the Government with trade offers and promises.
Trade with what?, thinks the figure, They have nothing to trade with.
Everything the world created, belonged to the Nation. That was what was decreed those forty years ago, as the Earth lay dying under the heavy hands of the seven continents; depleting resources, declining sea levels, heating atmospheres. A true tragedy of the commons!, lamented each continent’s leaders as they signed the dotted line of the International Establishment and Redistribution Act. No longer trusted with their own sustainability, the scarce remaining resources of each were to be pooled into emergency supply for one great Nation, with one great Government run by seven presidents. The two continents that had been Eurasia were divided up into seven Regions, A through G; and half of the global population was selected to be relocated to their designated Region.
Most of the world moved, and fell into the emergency care of the Nation’s Government- a central nervous system run by seven leaders, each representing the interests of their Regions. Under their vigilant eye, the Nation was fair yet strict; the Regions began to collectively nurse what had been Eurasia back to life. Thirty-five years ago, the pool of emergency resources remained relatively untouched; and everyone was happy.
However, there remained the others. Left on their own dying continents, with no governments in control, the unchosen began to grow angry. Why had their grain, their running water, their oil been taken away from them? Why had they been so unlucky as to be left behind in an environmental wasteland, whilst one corner of the world was reborn? Thirty-three years ago, the Rebel Control was founded; a counter-agreement between those remaining survivors, the unlucky ones, to wrestle back control of what was taken from them.
Thirty years ago, the Rebels made it to the Nation’s outskirts.
Thirty years ago, the Rebels attacked B-Region; town by town, murder by murder, in a fury of gunfire.
Thirty years ago, the Great Land War began.
The soldier breathed out, his deep sigh creating smoke in the frosty night air. That is what every child of the Nation is taught in school. He remembers being a child too; he was seven when his town in inner A-Region had been raided. A Nation soldier had taken him from his mother’s side as she lay dying; years later, he had been trained to become a solider, destined to do just the same.
That is all he can remember of his distant past.
That’s all they want him to remember.
The soldier checks the street once more for movement, before crossing the road and sidling up to the front fence of the cottage. Pulling his coat close to him, he jumps easily over the rusted front gate of the cottage, and strides up to its front window. Unsurprisingly, the curtains are not closed; in light of the previous day’s Governmental broadcast, reminding all citizens to keep their windows open so to ‘remain ever vigilant and alert to unannounced rebel attacks.’
A good, law abiding family, he thinks. Doing exactly what’s best for the Nation.
He carefully peers into the house. There is a weathered dining room table with handmade wooden chairs surrounding it, there is a bench-top covered with dirty dishes and pots. Water is scarce, hence cleaning is a rarity- the time of spotless dishes and 1950s-style housework was certainly not now. There is no electricity; waxy stubs of candles are dotted around the room, most likely burnt-out earlier in the night.
Everything is primitive.
Luxury is not an option.
Just as the war has made it.
The soldier smiles slightly, and steps away from the window. He paces quickly to the side of the cottage, the dead grass (once a green lawn) softly crunching under his feet. The architectural plans that he had studied told him of a bedroom to the right of the dining room, just in front of the bathroom. His suspicions are confirmed as his searching hands find a windowsill.
The soldier notes that again, the room’s curtains are open. He peeks in.
Curled up amongst the standard issue sheets lies a small, sleeping body. It lies with its back to the window; all that can be seen in the darkness is the rise and fall of its side as it breathes, in and out, in and out.
It looks boyish.
The soldier pauses for a moment, a slight ripple of panic racing through him. He was not aware that this family had a son; or at least, a son that was registered as part of the Nation’s family records.
He was only here for a daughter.
He pulls back his sleeve and quickly presses the side button of his wrist apparat. The screen lights up; he directs its luminescent glow away from the window, shielding the device with his other hand as he types in his ID, followed by the surname of the family and their region code. Perhaps he had the wrong house?
Within seconds, pictures of the family flash onto the screen. A smiling mother and her husband, both natives to E-Region, and their two daughters. One with brunette bangs and a warm grin; and the other, brooding blue eyes and a thick buzzcut.
Ah, he thinks. Jumping to conclusions.
He deactivates the apparat and slides his sleeve back over its face, knowing that he is in the right town. His gaze returns to the sleeping girl; she has turned over in the midst of a restless sleep, her eyes closed and her expression blank. She is thin, a mere slip underneath the bed sheets; although after thirty years at war, everyone is. Her shoulders are broad, her jaw sharp.
From what he can see in the moonlight, she is the perfect candidate.
The soldier steps back from the window. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head and staring up at the quarter-crescent moon that hangs above him. With every mission, he always feels a pang of remorse. He knows that won’t remember anything after it is completed; he only of his work through word of mouth and wary praise from others in his division. They say that as soon as he hears his name, he becomes something vicious; something else.
He doesn’t know how, or why it happens. It’s just a part of the job as a soldier.
Just a part of what his handler has made him into.
With three quick button presses on his apparat, he dials a number and raises his wrist to his ear, waiting for an answer.
Two rings, and then.
‘Headquarters operator, how may I assist you?’
He mumbles out a quick sequence of identification codes into the apparat, and within seconds is connected.
The deep, rasping voice that answers the call needs no introduction.
‘Is that you?’
The soldier closes his eyes and exhales; just the sound of his voice is able to take control over him, let alone his command.
‘Yes.’
He speaks again. ‘Are you ready?’
The soldier can already feel his vision blurring; slowly, slowly, with every word. He anticipates.
‘Yes.’
There is a moment’s silence, before the voice commands.
‘Go, Wolf.’
And he is away.
Upon hearing his name, the soldier instantly begins to change. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle as if they were fur; his mouth begins to turn upwards in a wolf-like snarl, baring teeth between lips scarred from a hundred battles fought. His thoughts become red-tinged and animalistic; his handler’s word turning him from man into killer, just as he had been trained to do. With his name comes his metamorphosis into the lone wolf; the sly, fast mutt that hunts in the dead of night, stealing children and creating chaos out of still, midnight calm. This was the name that his handler had given him; the name that his handler had used to shape him, control him.
He was no longer just a soldier from A-Region.
His transformation is complete.
The wolf turns back towards the house’s darkened window. He stares once more at the small sleeping girl, balled up tightly in blankets; but with every moment he stares, she becomes less and less human. She is nothing but prey- just as the other girls were when he took them, and just as he was when he was snatched from his mother.
The voice from the apparent grows impatient. ‘Wolf, I trust you. Do as you are told.’
The wolf licks his lips, stepping back from the window and drawing his coat’s hood up around his face. This is an easy task; it is what he’s been programmed to do from when he was a boy, after all.
No remorse. No empathy. He is not himself.
He cannot disappoint his handler.
Raising the apparat to his lips, he growls a reply.
’Don’t worry. I’ve got her.’