1 - One
Dylan is in the kitchen. He's barefoot and smiling, tapping one foot on the floor in beat to the music coming from the stereo. He made a deal with his father, Nash, long ago - that he'd do the cooking as long as his dad did the cleaning - and he tries to knock most of it out on one day so that he doesn't have to slave over a stove every night. Not that he minds it; there's something relaxing about chopping and stirring and creating something amazing with his hands, but some weeks he gets a little more caught up in his work than others. When that happens, cooking just seems like such a waste of time.
He's just lifting a spoon so that he can taste the stew he's had simmering when the music changes over to some bluesy jazz that his father bought a long time ago, well before the plague hit. Dylan likes to give him crap about it, but secretly he loves it, and when the singer belts out the first verse he's got the spoon held up like a microphone, singing, "My daddy, he gets hi-i-igh, but he takes care of bizz-ness!"
The sound of the backdoor opening startles him. He drops the spoon, the wood hitting the floor with a dull clunk, and he reaches down casually to retrieve it and toss it in the sink. "Hey dad!" he calls out. "You want the stew or the casserole tonight?"
There's a pause, but Dylan doesn't think much of it. When his father comes back with, "Casserole!" he just nods to himself and pulls out plates.
"Five minutes!" he says, and takes the spoonful of stew that he'd been angling for before. A quick sprinkle of thyme and he takes it off the burner to sit and cool while they eat.
The music cuts off abruptly, and he creases his forehead. "Dad?"
"I'm - I'm fine, son," comes the muffled reply from the living room, and Dylan peeks around the corner to see his father sitting slumped forward on the couch, his head in his hands.
"What's wrong?" Dylan asks, and when his father looks up, his eyes are defeated and sad.
"Come sit down," Nash says, and Dylan sits down obligingly in the oversized blue recliner that sits across from the sofa.
"Dad?"
"It's a Decree, son," Nash says, and Dylan's blood runs cold.
"The one that..." He takes in a breath. "Well, we knew it was coming," he says bravely, and tries to hide his reaction.
Six years ago, the humans tried to kill them.
Not just them - all the weres. The humans had only found out about the shifter community around the end of the second world war, and it went about as well as could be expected. There was a lot of prejudice against shifters, and it ended up with a couple of scientists who ought to have been in the loony bin releasing a plague that was supposed to rid the world of weres once and for all.
That was the intention, anyway. In reality, they released a pathogen that decimated their own human population. Not that it didn't hurt weres - those with recent human ancestry were particularly affected, and his mother would still be alive if it wasn't for the ‘good’ doctors Keyes and Ulrich, may their souls not find peace - but they were okay.
They recovered, and they were okay.
Until they realized that the birth rates were falling off a cliff.
"How bad is it?" Dylan asks.
"Mating run," his father says quietly, and Dylan takes in a sharp breath. “At Samhain.”
"Those motherfuckers," he whispers quietly.
Shifter communities across the world are taking up the task of finding solutions for their declining fertility. Unfortunately, instead of relying on science, many of them are reinstating the old ways - turning rituals that have long since been ceremonial into reality.
For Dylan, this means that instead of finding a mate on his own terms, he's going to have to put up with some archaic bullshit from a time when omegas were considered less-than - not that they're really held all that equal even today - and quite literally run until some alpha chases him down and force mates him. If he makes it to the other side of the grounds the Run is held on, he buys
Dylan is in the kitchen. He's barefoot and smiling, tapping one foot on the floor in beat to the music coming from the stereo. He made a deal with his father, Nash, long ago - that he'd do the cooking as long as his dad did the cleaning - and he tries to knock most of it out on one day so that he doesn't have to slave over a stove every night. Not that he minds it; there's something relaxing about chopping and stirring and creating something amazing with his hands, but some weeks he gets a little more caught up in his work than others. When that happens, cooking just seems like such a waste of time.
He's just lifting a spoon so that he can taste the stew he's had simmering when the music changes over to some bluesy jazz that his father bought a long time ago, well before the plague hit. Dylan likes to give him crap about it, but secretly he loves it, and when the singer belts out the first verse he's got the spoon held up like a microphone, singing, "My daddy, he gets hi-i-igh, but he takes care of bizz-ness!"
The sound of the backdoor opening startles him. He drops the spoon, the wood hitting the floor with a dull clunk, and he reaches down casually to retrieve it and toss it in the sink. "Hey dad!" he calls out. "You want the stew or the casserole tonight?"
There's a pause, but Dylan doesn't think much of it. When his father comes back with, "Casserole!" he just nods to himself and pulls out plates.
"Five minutes!" he says, and takes the spoonful of stew that he'd been angling for before. A quick sprinkle of thyme and he takes it off the burner to sit and cool while they eat.
The music cuts off abruptly, and he creases his forehead. "Dad?"
"I'm - I'm fine, son," comes the muffled reply from the living room, and Dylan peeks around the corner to see his father sitting slumped forward on the couch, his head in his hands.
"What's wrong?" Dylan asks, and when his father looks up, his eyes are defeated and sad.
"Come sit down," Nash says, and Dylan sits down obligingly in the oversized blue recliner that sits across from the sofa.
"Dad?"
"It's a Decree, son," Nash says, and Dylan's blood runs cold.
"The one that..." He takes in a breath. "Well, we knew it was coming," he says bravely, and tries to hide his reaction.
Six years ago, the humans tried to kill them.
Not just them - all the weres. The humans had only found out about the shifter community around the end of the second world war, and it went about as well as could be expected. There was a lot of prejudice against shifters, and it ended up with a couple of scientists who ought to have been in the loony bin releasing a plague that was supposed to rid the world of weres once and for all.
That was the intention, anyway. In reality, they released a pathogen that decimated their own human population. Not that it didn't hurt weres - those with recent human ancestry were particularly affected, and his mother would still be alive if it wasn't for the ‘good’ doctors Keyes and Ulrich, may their souls not find peace - but they were okay.
They recovered, and they were okay.
Until they realized that the birth rates were falling off a cliff.
"How bad is it?" Dylan asks.
"Mating run," his father says quietly, and Dylan takes in a sharp breath. “At Samhain.”
"Those motherfuckers," he whispers quietly.
Shifter communities across the world are taking up the task of finding solutions for their declining fertility. Unfortunately, instead of relying on science, many of them are reinstating the old ways - turning rituals that have long since been ceremonial into reality.
For Dylan, this means that instead of finding a mate on his own terms, he's going to have to put up with some archaic bullshit from a time when omegas were considered less-than - not that they're really held all that equal even today - and quite literally run until some alpha chases him down and force mates him. If he makes it to the other side of the grounds the Run is held on, he buys
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