Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The papers call him inhumane. Words in bolded lettering are inked into the front pages; Kaz Brekker: Human Trafficking Mastermind In Barrel Betrayal. 

It’s attention grabbing, as successfully sensational as it was intended to be. His name is well-known in Ketterdam, inspiring both love and hatred, and the paper sells out on every corner within the hour. Shops plaster the article on their walls and leave copies on their tables, encouraging purchases of coffee while customers read. Wives bring the article to their friends and families, excited by the sensational gossip. 

Evidence uncovered links Kaz Brekker, gang boss known in the criminal underworld, with recent missing persons, including a harrowing plea for help. 

Along with the reputation-destroying accusations, is a list. 

Theo Drayton: deceased. 

Silas Brandt: deceased.

Rojakke Holt: missing. 

Gregor Markham: deceased. 

Brynn Klein: deceased. 

Roeder Vale: missing. 

Finn Murrow: deceased. 

Wyatt Rourke: deceased. 

Ada Calder: deceased.

Keeg Crane: missing. 

And the letter, written in a shaky hand by none other than the Dreg he tossed out on grounds of betrayal: Rojakke Holt.

I write to the people of Kerch in desperation. Kaz Brekker has taken me from my home, my family, my friends. He has kept me prisoner, threatened to sell me overseas, and used me in ways I can't bear to explain. I was placed on a ship, tied and blindfolded. Please, please save me. I am in pain, I am afraid. He has already taken my tongue, he has taken most of my fingers. I write this in desperation, before he takes them all. I am living a nightmare.

I just want to kiss my daughter again. 

The people of Kerch are enraged, engaging in protests as emotions run high. The barrel urges for his capture and punishment, feeling the betrayal most personally. The stadwatch are itching to get their hands on him, having personal vendettas that can finally become realized. And the Merchant Council, as the voice of the public, demands the stadwatch capture him; prosecute him under the harshest of laws, appease the anger of the people with a public sentencing. 

Kaz Brekker, like the day he lost Jordie, is alone. 

*

There's no way out of this. He looks for someone– anyone that's not the group that has gathered. Jesper with his guns that never miss, Nikolai with a sword with strikes of precision. Even Inej, with her knives that cut clean through the air, as straight as an arrow. But his eyes land on nothing but blurs of blue and grey, rifles pointed at his head, and faces of sneers and smugness he wants nothing more than to smack off. They think they have him. He refuses to accept that maybe they do. 

“On your knees.” 

He goes down as someone presses all of their weight onto his shoulders; his bad leg crumbling, the other unable to hold the weight alone. 

“That’s it. Where you belong.” 

There's snickers around him, cocky laughs because they really think that when he gets out of this that he won't– 

One of them rips the gag from his mouth, shoves him forward. 

“You'll regret this,” he spits, working his sore jaw as he's forced to lean over some sort of bench, the bare skin of his stomach scraping against its wood. 

The truth is, he is legally fucked. No one is taking kindly to the news that he has been selling the people of Kerch to foreign buyers, whether or not they had been active criminals in the barrel. 

“They're the Merchant Council's responsibility, it's not my list,” Kaz rasps. The words have begun to feel foreign on his tongue. He has repeated them every time he's been allowed a voice, had shouted them to the public during his arrest. “You have the wrong man.” 

“Where's Rojakke?” One of them spits. “Or better yet, where's Roeder? Keeg? Your own fuckin’ men, eh? You're sick in the head, Brekker.” 

His head is pushed down to hang over the other side of the bench, and a rope is wrapped around the back of his neck, keeping him bowed. 

“I'm being framed.” 

It's pathetic, really. Kaz Brekker doesn't beg, and yet he's almost there. He tests the cuffs keeping his hands locked behind his back, feeling the strength of them for the tenth– twentieth time. Pushes at the new rope behind his neck, but it's tied tautly to each leg of the desk. 

“Spread yer fuckin’ knees, eh? Make this easy.” 

He doesn't. Someone does it for him, kicking at the inside of his legs, forcing them to part. “You fuckin’ listen, alright?” 

“Word is you been fuckin’ Roeder. The things he can't bear to explain,” another chimes in.

They're not typical stadwatch, chosen because they're as dirty as the barrel they're hired to despise. 

“I'm not fucking anybody,” Kaz growls. He fights his bonds, tries to close his legs until someone stops him with a boot, roughly tying him knee to bench leg, stretching him wide. His legs are far enough apart that the pull burns. 

“Don't be so fuckin’ shy, eh? Just a hole. Nothing we haven't seen.” One of them slaps the bare skin of his ass and he jolts. “Seen it more than I fuckin’ wanna, the number a'times you been arrested.” 

But this isn't an average strip search. 

“When the truth is released that I've been falsely accused–” 

“Shut him up.” 

He sees the gag come in from behind, twists his face to look the other way but the rope keeps him from pulling back. It finds its place easily, putting pressure against his teeth until he gives in, opening his jaw to allow it inside. It's still wet, sopping from his own spit, only now it's cold. He chokes back a gag, feels it tighten into a knot at the back of his head. 

He fights with himself, struggling to come to terms with the futility of his situation. He's been arrested before, has managed his way out of cuffs, has spoken his way out of sentences to Hellgate. But there, bound and bared and humiliated, he doesn't have his crows, doesn't have his gang, doesn't have his lockpicks or the clothes to hide them. He doesn't have his wits. 

“–Parsin Casein.” He comes out of his head at that, suddenly realizing one of them is talking. “Imagine fermented ginger, but it lasts longer. Burns even more. Straight from the Council itself.” 

He squirms, stills. Doesn't want them to see him fight. Doesn't want to give them the satisfaction. 

“Heard of the whores being punished with ginger? Right up their taint, eh? Trains some fuckin’ obedience.” 

The words begin to muddy after that. He thinks of Inej, feels the rage coiling in his stomach and hopes they're lying. He knows he's breathing too heavily, knows his body is too tense; that he's giving his trepidation, his disgust, his anger away. That they know. 

But not Inej. 

Whatever she thinks of him now. 

Something slick and oily, the Parsin he manages to gather, presses at his hole. He tightens instinctively, pathetically. It goes in anyway, earning only laughs and taunts from the men surrounding him, reaching further inside of him until it's far past his rim. The man pulls his finger out.

“S'posed to give it to ya as a tea. Boil it in water so ya can see the oil seepin’ outta it. Tastes real good, they say.” 

At first, it feels like nothing more than a mild discomfort. Something buried deep, pushing against his walls, but not so big as to be painful. The anticipation is what chokes him, suffocates him, and then, ever so slowly, there comes the mildest sting. 

Someone pets his back, but he's too overwhelmed, too drawn by the ever-increasing burn, to react to the touch. 

“Takes a while to kick in, doesn't it? Just like ginger does. Relax, sweetheart, it'll come.” 

Kaz snarls. He feels its slow climb, the constant, continuous, intensifying burn spreading through his groin. The climb scares him the most; not knowing when it's going to end, when it'll reach its peak. It's already barely tolerable, sweat breaking out over his skin, everything fading to a single, innocuous looking root. 

He whimpers, feels his thighs begin to quiver as they weaken, curls his hips inward but that only makes it worse. 

“That’s it. There it is.” 

It's like a fire is slowly erupting inside of him, in his most personal parts, and it continues its slow ascent. He doesn't even realize when the rope leaves his neck, or when his ankles are untied. He realizes nothing but the burn of it until they throw him onto his back and force some pants around his legs. When they remove the gag before dragging him onto the stage, he's too ashamed to tell anyone what they've done.  

Chapter Text

Before the arrest. 

The barrel is always loud, even when it is silent. The noise, when it’s at its quietest, contains forbidden secrets, things that only pretend to be secrets, whispers that bounce against the crumbling brick walls of the dilapidated homes. And in those whispers it is said, that like a herd being culled, the barrel's forgotten and ignored are going missing; forced into slavery, sold across the sea, murdered to appease bouts of sadistic urges. Rojakke, fired by Kaz for skimming money, is one of them. 

The barrel has its suspects.

What it doesn't have… is proof.

*

“Watch the door,” Kaz says tersely. 

Roeder complies immediately, disappearing through the humble crowd to plant himself on the steps, welcoming guests into the club. It's not a busy day. The weather is dreadful, even for the characteristic clouds and mist of Ketterdam, and most are apparently content to stay away from the smoke-filled clubs of the barrel. 

It's already hard enough to breathe. 

Kaz moves to a corner, lights a stick of jurda and brings it to his lips. 

“That's a death stick,” Rotty interrupts, appearing, as he often does, with an opinion that hasn't been asked of him. “Didn't you hear?” 

Kaz rolls his eyes. 

“I'm serious now. Causes disease, they say. It's all over the papers.” 

“Then hire a Healer.” 

“Not so responsive to the work of them Grisha witches.” 

Kaz sighs and runs a free hand through his hair, twirling it between his fingers as he blows the smoke from his lips, watching it mix with the already present, faint cloud. 

Rotty reaches out and steals it from him, “and, you know, makes for a slow death, they say,” then finishes it with one deep inhale, stamping out the lit end with a scarred forefinger and flicking the butt into the trash. 

Kaz raises an eyebrow, “That was mine.” 

“Just saving your life, boss.” He's giddy already, pupils dilated. It wasn't his first smoke. 

“You've had enough, Rotty.” 

“Saving everyone's lives,” he laughs, sauntering toward one of the tables, “Could get high on the air in here alone!” 

It's only partially a lie. The windows have been tightly shut for the better part of two weeks, the smog and frigid air of the city best kept outside, but it makes for a lack of circulation and a build up of smoke.

Kaz clears his throat, limps over to the door with his cane, “I'm stepping out,” he tells Roeder, “Send for me if anything happens.”  

Roeder nods. 

The outdoor air, not much better than it was inside, at least seems to clear his head. He walks toward Fifth Harbour, using the heavy smog as an aid of concealment. At the very least, he won't be recognized from afar, bundled in his long coat and hat. It's purely precaution, but even known as someone nearly untouchable, it's necessary. 

He reaches the docks and stares out over the sea. The air is clearer there, not trapped by the many buildings, or added to by the city's factories. Instead, it is spread and dispersed and diluted by the wind of the sea. He thinks of Inej, free, with not a drop of the barrel's filth in her lungs. He inhales. 

It's mere seconds later, before he even has the chance to breathe out, that his attempt at health is interrupted. There's a sound to his right; a strained wheezing, something like a whine. He spins, cane readied in one hand, gun pointed in the other. 

“Wait– don't shoot, please.” 

The figure is hard to make out, huddled as it is in an outfit of monotone black, its backdrop being the darkness of the sea, and its voice – cracked and raspy and strained. Kaz cringes at the resemblance to his own, flits his eyes for a quick second over to the jurda in his pocket. 

“Name yourself.” 

The figure shudders, then steps forward. Kaz removes the safety from the gun. 

“Please–” it screeches, as if even speaking causes it pain. It takes another step, into the light from the city south of them, becoming partially illuminated by its glow. 

“Rojakke?” 

He's nearly unrecognizable, and Kaz isn't sure what still makes him so easy to identify. Perhaps it's the eyes, small and beady as Kaz remembers them, or the structure of his jaw, tight and angled, sharply meeting the bottom of his ear… at least on one side.

“Is that– is that my name?” Rojakke murmurs. His nose is missing– or flattened, Kaz can't tell, and his teeth have been yellowed. Lumps grow beneath the skin of his face, dozens of cysts, of swelling, of something. They seem to move, rumbling against the light of the city, black lines swirling around them. 

“Rojakke, if you come near me, I will shoot you.” 

“Don't shoot me,” Rojakke pleads, taking another step forward, “Help me.” 

It's a wonder that Kaz doesn't shoot, finger ready on the trigger. He swallows instead, takes a step back to create space between them. 

“Explain. What's wrong with you?” 

“The Council–” Rojakke rasps, his words cut off by a series of concerningly wet coughs. Kaz steps further away, tenses as Rojakke tries to come closer. 

“Stay there,” he snaps, “Tell me from there, damn you. You're sick.” 

Kaz's heart is pounding. He remembers the plague, the pox sores that appeared over their bodies, the cough and the aches and the dizziness. The vomit they expelled all over the streets, unable to keep even water down. The pain. His brother–

Rojakke groans, stumbles slightly and falls to his knees, “The Merchant Council. The– the disappearances.” 

“Are they connected?” Kaz asks, impatient. His interest has been piqued, curiosity outweighing his hesitance even as he maintains his space. “What has the Council done?” 

Because this, this is leverage. 

“Tests,” Rojakke manages, “Poison to– they want… they want more grisha.” 

The pieces suddenly fall into place, the rumors finally given sense; the Merchant Council, abducting people to experiment on, to create more Grisha. It's so believable, so predictable of a group that cares of nothing but profit, that Kaz is ashamed for having not made the connection himself. The act is cruel, but intelligent, a move toward immeasurable advantage. To militarize human experiments, giving Kerch an incomparable asset in future wars. To remove dependency from Grisha and to balance the scales of power. To profit from human labor, with workers far more efficient and productive than currently possible. And perhaps, at the end of it all, the greed to life – to live as a Grisha, long and in good health. 

Kaz knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it's a bad idea to scheme against the Merchant Council. He knows the risks, knows they could have his head – but not if he gets the proof.

“Where did they take you?”

He can hear the urgency in his own voice, but it doesn't seem like Rojakke is in any position to latch onto such a weakness. Rojakke shudders again, wobbling back and forth as if he's falling asleep, mouth hung limp and open. 

“Listen to me,” Kaz says with emphasis. “Where did you escape from?” 

But his words seem to fall on deaf ears. 

“A plant–” Rojakke mumbles, as if in a dream, “Leaks– leaks syrup… nectar, so sweet. So, so sweet.” 

“Listen, you–” 

“Earth. Seeps– flows. Worms in soil.” 

Kaz drops carefully to his own knees, tries to find his eyes, anything to get some sense into him without making contact. 

“This. I'm this–” Rojakke suddenly shrieks, “Pain. They– death. Mercy kills. Meant to die. Scum of the barrel.” 

Kaz removes his hat, slams it against the dock, “Fuck. Just tell me where they kept you. Where did you come from?” 

Rojakke's eyes suddenly focus, empty and soulless, and it feels as if Kaz is looking into a shell, a husk of a man he once knew. He wants to look away, doesn't. Readies the gun in his hand, finger on the trigger. 

“The sewers,” Rojakke suddenly says, his voice eerily robotic, monotone. “Beneath Black Veil.” The quiet envelopes the harbour again, but Kaz remains kneeling, still as stone, only Rojakke's wheezing breaths interrupting the silence. 

“How did you get out?” He tries finally, tentative. He needs a safe way to enter, anything to gain access to the proof he needs. “Rojakke… how do you get in?” 

And then without warning, everything crumbles. “Get in,” Rojakke shrieks, jumping to his feet, “Get home. I need to go back. I need– home.” 

Kaz scrambles to get on his feet, his bad leg nearly giving out at the urgency of it, and points the gun to Rojakke's head. His cane lays forgotten, untouched on the ground. 

“Rojakke–” 

“How do I get in? The sewers– I left! I left my home.” 

“Rojakke, enough of this.” 

And then Rojakke is running, leaping into the dark of the harbour, lost again in its shadows. 

Kaz doesn't shoot. 

Chapter Text

Sewers. 

Dark and covered in scum and grime, unfit for even the dregs of the barrel; so aptly describes the Ketterdam sewers. For most, that underground, labyrinthine structure is known to be a collection of tight, winding tunnels, spontaneously ending or divided by hard, metal gates. Ceilings so low and spaces so cramped that it's hard to breathe, with worse and more poisonous air than the smog and smoke engulfing the roads above. 

But sometimes, for those who know where to look, the sewers serve as home. 

*

“Roeder, find yourself a replacement.” 

Roeder glances up, breaking his gaze from a young woman. Her hair is a gentle blonde, with painted nails and a suggestive pout, dressed as if she was a woman of the Geldstraat. She puffs up her shoulders, “See? You're acting like it's illegal. Let me in.” 

Roeder huffs, indignant, “She's barely fourteen–” 

“This isn't about her,” Kaz snaps. He turns to the girl, a deep scowl darkening his face, “The jurda smoke in here will kill you before the barrel does. Home. Or find another club that will take you.” 

The girl stares at him for a moment, eyes unwavering and stubborn, before her shoulders slump and she releases a heavy groan, turning north. 

“Incredible! She's heading further into the barrel!” 

Incredible, but none of his business. 

“Leave it, Roeder. I have a job.” 

That gets Roeder's attention. He looks at Kaz, the earlier request finally registering in his mildly intoxicated brain, and he roves his eyes around the club. They land on Rotty in a far corner, arms blocking the exit of a rather uncomfortable looking woman. 

“Ay! Rotty!” Kaz sighs at Roeder, shutting his eyes in exasperation, wincing at how loud he is. “Come guard the door!” 

“Roeder,” he mutters.  

Roeder pauses, throwing him a wink, “Thought you wouldn't want old Rotty coming along, am I right?” 

He's right, but he didn't expect a display to be made of it. Rotty takes Roeder's place at the door and Kaz leaves to much more quietly grab Keeg. 

If there's an entrance to the sewers near Black Veil, they choose to forgo it. They squeeze through a grate closer to the morgue instead; a light, an outdated map, and a compass spread between them. 

“Rojakke,” says Keeg contemplatively, “Well, that's something.” 

Roeder hums, “Why return to the barrel? It's suicide.” 

Kaz has, of course, kept the details to himself. “I need you both to understand something,” he rasps, raising the lamp to see ahead of them, “The things Rojakke described,” he pauses, hesitating, “They mean that the success of this job is only the beginning.” 

Roeder waves a hand, his shadow casting across the walls, “We get it, Brekker. Grab evidence. Sell evidence. Ruin the Council. Profit.” 

Kaz scowls, though no one can see it. “It's more than that. I need you to take this seriously.” 

“I am.”

“We are,” Keeg adds. 

They aren't. 

But the sewers are restricted rather than private, and even the Merchant Council wouldn't expect mere restrictions to stop the Dregs. It at least means they have plausible deniability, the excuse of exploring, finding access routes to travel without the risk of crossing the territories of rival gangs. 

Eventually, they begin to descend. The air, while it gets thicker and more stuffy, simultaneously begins to clear, and after rounding a final corner, there's a light shining ahead of them. 

“There,” Keeg whispers. 

There, indeed. 

They enter from underneath, but it's obvious they must be deep. Kaz concludes it in the lack of windows, the musty, underground air. It's luck, most likely, that the room they first enter is empty. Roeder slinks his way toward the doorway, signaling them it's clear as Keeg begins to search. Papers, binders, forgotten vials. It looks more like an unused office than anything of interest, eerily quiet. 

“Next room,” Kaz whispers, speaking more with his hands than his voice. Roeder signals the hall as clear and leads them left to a second space just a few steps away. Another office. 

Kaz can sense Keeg getting restless, itching for something a little more exciting than stacks of paper. He fights the urge to remind him they're dealing with the Merchant Council; a group of influentials that could make them disappear. A group with no one above them, no one to handle them. A group that speaks to no one but themselves. He remembers Rojakke’s face… his body, yellowed teeth and the lumps under his skin, the wheeze in his voice, his moans. Like a kid's fucking science experiment. 

He says nothing. 

Finding evidence against them, releasing it, would start a civil war. It's blackmail. The Dregs would be untouchable. 

Roeder grabs Kaz's attention with the flick of a wrist, jerks his head toward a third door. There's something urgent in Roeder's eyes, and then Kaz hears it – dirt crunching under boots, steps from around the right corner. They duck into the room, flatten themselves against the wall on either side of the doorway, and listen with forcefully calmed breath. 

“...–opped breathing. Like a fish outta water. Forgot he had air. And what's growin’ in them? Shouldn't be moving, I say.” 

Roeder raises an eyebrow at that, looks over at Kaz. Kaz glares. 

“It's happening with all the trials,” another voice says, “I dissected one… one of the lumps.” 

“And?” 

“His fucking veins were alive. I'm telling ya. Like fucking worms.”

“Parasites–” 

A door slams. The voices immediately go silent, washing them in the same eerie quiet they had come in on. 

“Worms,” Roeder whispers. 

Keeg throws his head back in a soundless laugh, “Brilliant. We're looking for aliens.” 

Perhaps it wasn't that far from the truth. 

“The doors are soundproof,” Kaz murmurs, ignoring their comments. “They're hiding something. We're going to find out what that something is.” 

Roeder and Keeg glance at each other, saying something with their eyes that only they seem to understand. Then Roeder nods, slinks slowly to the doorway, peeks around the edge. This time, he uses his voice, “Clear.” 

Kaz scans the room they're currently in. It's yet another office, this one even more barren than the last. “Maybe we should have gone right.” 

“That’s where those men are,” Keeg adds a little nervously. And this is why Kaz avoided describing Rojakke. “Ever heard of implantation? What if the Merchant Council… what if they're extraterrestrial?” 

Roeder huffs, “Ghezen, Keeg. None of that. They're not fucking aliens.” 

“Roeder,” Kaz rasps, voice low enough it sounds like it's grinding on metal, “lead.” 

Roeder hums and waves them forward. They slowly continue left toward the next room, but the hall, unlike before, is faintly lined with smoke. It's jurda, one of the newer strains of it, the same one that’s been soaking into everything in the barrel – the walls of the gambling halls, the seats and couches of the Slat. He itches for one, knows it's not the time. 

The door Roeder leads them to is closed, and a sign hangs ominously, nailed into its frame;

Entry Prohibited. 

This time, Keeg stands to attention. It's locked, but Kaz manages to pick it open within seconds, and they step inside. It's not an office. Instead, it's a stairwell, going down into something so dark none of them can make out anything beyond the fifth step. Maybe there, in the suffocating darkness, is their proof. 

They nod at each other wordlessly. Kaz squeezes the lantern in his hand, lights it, and steps ahead.