Chapter Text
Simon remembers the day his whole life changed.
He'd just won a fight against another trainee, someone four years older than him, and had beaten them to a pulp. The adults had split them up and put Simon in isolation. Simon had thought his life was over, that they'd get rid of him for good this time. And he was somewhat right, his life was over. But he wasn't about to die.
Death would have been a kinder fate.
Instead, they train him, brand his mind with a trigger that makes him theirs. He learns to kill without question, to plow through pain with no regard; he learns his serial number and the rules so well he can recite them while half unconscious and bleeding out. He learns to bear the whip, how to starve, how to extract information, and how to obey. They teach him everything. And when it's all over, they tattoo him, mark him as property, give him his new name, then send him on a real mission.
The years go by, and Simon loses himself in "The Butcher"; he's Eden's best berserker. He loses time between the training and missions, loses his sanity, his freedom, and his innocence. He gains scars, physical and mental, scars so deep that thinking of them wracks his body with pain.
So it's almost a relief when Filament Station happens, when he's arrested and dragged through a mockery of a trial. He doesn't defend himself, just sits by silently; he learned long ago that arguing was useless. Good soldiers don't argue back.
They lock him in a bare-bones cell and burn the brand from his neck. And sure, the guards' company leaves much to be desired, and the food is just as shit as before, but he's free from Eden. Mostly free at least. The memories still haunt him; he hopes one day they'll fade.
He settles into the monotony with ease for the next two years, watching as his thirty-first and thirty-second birthdays pass by. He does his tasks with no complaints, eats the recycled nutrient bricks, and is grateful when they strip him naked to hose him down. It's kinder treatment than he's used to.
But it's dull, and he yearns to be truly free, so when the Captain pulls him from the cell and offers him a deal he knows is too good to be true? He takes it, and it isn't until they march him down the dreary halls that he starts to regret his choice.
The hangar they pull him into has a rusty submersible hanging over the opening, thick blood roiling far below. It makes Simon shudder. Someone had been welding at the front, but stopped when their little "group" entered.
The person pulls off the tinted mask and whistles. Simon knows that whistle. The three repeating notes that trill and slide up and down. He fights the pull at first, ignoring the intense jolts of phantom electricity. The fight doesn't last long.
It drops to its knees immediately, baring its neck to its superior. When the whistle stops, it recites its serial in the Father's language, just as it was taught. It doesn't hesitate, because it doesn't think, so it recites its status next.
"status; eget. Carnifex parere paratus est."
"Get the fuck up, convict- we don't have time for your games!" She seems angry, but Butcher assumes that it is convict, based on the way she hisses the words towards it.
It quickly stands, keeping its head level and its gaze pinned to the far wall, back ramrod straight. She approaches it, anger clear, it wonders what it did wrong to have her so mad.
She slaps it.
Ah. She must be its new handler. It takes the slap, blinking slowly, trying to figure out what step in presentation it had missed.
"What the hell were you saying, convict?"
She must be the sort of handler who only learns the command words. She must want it to repeat in English, then. So it does.
"M-6281989. Status: functional. Butcher ready to comply."
She groans in frustration, and it worries. It only has one other option for what she wants. It doesn't see a scanner, but perhaps she wants to use its barcode?
The other people in the room bristle when it moves, probably new recruits, considering how wary they are of it. It presents its forearm, the barcode on its wrist ready for scanning. Just above it is the symbol of Eden with the words "Property of Eden" looped around it.
It hears her inhale sharply.
"Convict, what is that?"
Perhaps she's testing its knowledge and obedience.
"It is a barcode, so you can access mission logs, medical records, training, and discipline files faster."
It hears as she inhales and exhales deeply.
"And above the… barcode?"
"The brand is standard across all of Eden's assets so that they may be returned swiftly."
The room is silent around it for a moment before the handler is barking orders.
"Somebody get me a fucking scanner!"
The room bursts into motion, people scrambling to obey the order. The Butcher can see why she's its new handler. It's proud to say it keeps its position during the whole kerfuffle, never once flinching or moving. Finally, someone brings its handler what she asked for.
She grabs its wrist and scans the barcode. The tablet beeps when the files are loaded.
She's silent for a long time as she reads. It assumes she must not like what she finds as her brow furrows. It can hear her heart rate begin to tick up.
"What the fuck…" she breathes the words out, something like fear edging into her tone.
One of the group members looks concerned by her words and steps forward to look at the tablet scanner as well; Butcher vaguely recognizes him as the trainer to wake it for presentation.
"Ava, what is it?"
"Cancel the expedition and get the convict to medical Jack," the man, Jack, who looks frustrated, begins to protest, but she silences him.
"Now, Jack. I'll explain later, just get the convict to medical." The trainer settles at the look she sends him.
Then she turns to it, voice somewhat unsteady.
"Uh, primary directive, follow Jack and listen to his commands."
Something in its chest settles at the order, because it's something it can do right, something familiar. It nods, turning to the man named Jack, staying exactly two steps behind and to the side of him as they walk.
Just as it was trained to.
Later, Simon would see this as another day where his life was changed permanently, this time for the better.