My eyes were fixed on my clawed hands below. My idea of a good day usually involved doing something more than just self grooming. Yet, here I was, with my forearms shuffling back and forth and moving the pair of my hands under the heated water. The ambient temperature in the air of the climate controlled building not helping with the steam emanating from the sink.
The pink and purple speckled blood of now dead Cyonians draining off and down to below my claws in a calm waterfall. The smell of the dead creatures still lingered in my snout, tantalizing but rather dull. I sighed, shutting off the water with a turn of the faucet.
Butcher duty was a mixed bag these days. You got to be near to meat, you got to smell it. But... This kind of butcher duty well- you were butchering someone else’s successful hunt, almost always the subject was very dead before it even arrived, at least it was supposed to be. I’d been promised being on those hunts, going out to seek and kill. I’d have been one of the ones who’d get to taste of their own catches. But here I was, just... Preparing the meat for the feasting hunt parties who’d brought back what they could. At least with the animal pens you got to do the killing before you minced them, even if it couldn’t count as a hunt.
The enjoyment had been sucked out of anything I did since then, there was no thrill to be had from butchering. This job... it was a punishment. A way to show me what I was missing out on out in the wilds and the cityscape still uncleared. Where once I’d felt the desire to strike down prey and eat a fresh kill well hunted my thoughts only drifted to five days before though now... Urrgh.
I shook my head. No time for such considerations. My body moved from its leaned position over the sink, waving off the moisture left behind on my clean feathers as I stepped past the freezer that now held some of my work. A nearby towel doing the rest of the drying as I passed it. Since the accident I’d been assigned to nothing but busy work such as this. I could feel a dull headache forming too, rrrrh... I reached for my mug and took a swig from the stimulant infused water. At the least if I was going to be groggy with a headache from my lack of good rest then I’d /only/ have a headache and starve off the ‘grog’ part with this.
My form moved down the halls of the work house. This had once been some sort of feed packaging plant a mere week ago. Until we’d moved in, gutted the whole place out, and built our own facilities into it. The majority of the tower-like structures that’d made up downtown had been obliterated by our bombs, and then some. Estimates from our surveyors put the city the Cyonians called “Barr” at about three fourths rubble, either from anti-matter or from subsequent precision bombardment to dislodge their defensive elements.
The methodology had been simple, we had enough forces to safely occupy only so much cityscape before it’d become unmanageable to clear out survivors.
I stepped out of the butchers room, and followed the sign marked ‘Cannery’. Passing by one of the windows to the outside. When I glanced out at the night, the shimmering oranges on the edges of the city reminded me we’d set fire to some of the surrounding woodlands in a controlled ring around the ruins. A temporary measure while our engineers worked on a simple powered chain-link and concrete bottomed fence around the old borders of the city that still remained.
Even now, the rubble and ruins were being scoured for survivors who’d hunkered down, or simply not made it out in the initial attack on the eighth. I’d heard rumours that the natives had made it out into the wilds in the tens of thousands in just this area, if not more. Sensor sweeps from orbit were too inaccurate thanks to the thick biosphere this place was shrouded in. Perhaps if our instruments had ever been iterated upon beyond the schematics from the first hunt we’d have something more accurate. Hmh. Perhaps that particular thought should banish itself from my mind actually, it wouldn’t do to get in trouble for complaining at the dated state of some of our equipment.
I looked away from the fires, and went deeper into the building. My legs carried me to stop by the break room which now served as a place for rest between shifts. I was still due to my next duty for the day in an hour. So I’d opted to stay here instead of taking the walk to my quarters down the road and to the housing unit I’d taken as my own. It was too cramped to be a good place to relax, except for the living room I’d found.
My form hunkered down on the under-sized couch, feathered tail flicking to the side to hang off the lip of the couch-arm next to it. Only one other of my kind appeared to be here, which under the current circumstances was just... one too many I was willing to deal with. He spoke first, something catching his eye when he’d looked at me. “Qinal.” Ah. He’d remembered my name. I tried to put his name to a face back, but failed. “That mark, where did you get it?” He was pointing a claw now right down at my right paw.
I glanced. Ah. That. “One of the locals bit me.” I responded with a musing tone, holding up the mark in question and inspecting it again. Their teeth were mostly flat, but four tiny puncture marks indented into my flesh where it had bled. Evidently their teeth weren’t flat enough. Still, unsuited to biting through our hide in any meaningful way, my hand would be fine in a couple days at most.
“A ringtail bit you? And you let it?” He responded, using the pejorative some had taken to using instead of their own given name. “I did not know they did bite.”
My tail moved of its own accord, giving an agitated flick flick back and forth on the couch-arm next to me. “I did not let it. Tsara botched her hunt of it, and it was still alive when it arrived in the butchery. It had played dead until I got close.” I explained. Minding the little scratch marks where it’d seared into my skin below my feathering, thankfully... My conversation partner didn’t seem to notice those.
An unconvinced snort met my ears. “But it broke your skin all the same. Did you kill it?” Just who was this again? To speak to me like that? I looked up with a challenging glare, and realizing a touch too late that puffing out my chest feathers wasn’t going to do anything when I was wearing my robe.
“Of course I killed it, it was still wounded mortally! Why not bother Tsara about it? She’s the one who didn’t properly kill it when she caught it.”
I was tired of the questioning, the pins and needles of sleep deprived aggravation were heaped on top of my other worries. It was threatening to make this interaction turn sour. Sour in a way that I could not afford, more attention from my superiors was the last thing I wanted. “They have incisiform teeth between their molars and incisors. Probably for tough leaves or nut cracking. It bit me. That is the end of it.” I fell onto the dental jargon I’d read a couple days prior while researching the Cyonians, we planned to hunt them after all. Anything beyond the edibility and life span wasn’t too important to the average person here in the fleet but, I’d found that... With the last week in mind it would be a testament to my acumen as a hunter to understand why these creatures were less hopeless in a fight than other creatures. After all, their tenacity had ruined my chances to enjoy this world.
Finding what our inventive minds had uncovered about the ringtails from having captured some in the past had been stimulating, I’d... found myself snout deep into documents on their habits and customs. Their physical characteristics had given me no hints into their tenacity, beyond the curious nature of those teeth. I heard the grating voice of judgment return. “Good then.” He rumbled. “But Qinal, your presence dishonours me. I will take my leave.”
My breath jumped, and a maw of teeth baring a snarl met him as he left. Every instinct in me wanted to tear the low-blood down for size, but I restrained myself until he was gone.
Dishonour was it? A grumbling huff, and leaning back into the too cozy furnishing behind me. My mind was drifting back, and I couldn’t help it this time. Where had I gone wrong?
_____________________________________
Verner had died on the spot. The bullet had tumbled and lodged itself deep in her lousy skull. Leaving me to pick up the pieces of her failure as a leader. Injured and bleeding I’d returned to the rest of her command, and informed the others that she’d been killed in the pursuit with the local. From there only trivialities followed. Retrieving the body to confirm her death, returning to our ship empty handed and leaving for Captain Vike’s ship.
That... That had been when things had gone wrong, as I predicted. Vike had seen Verner as his successor and offspring. She was to be a great continuation of his legacy, it was natural, any strong blooded family line should strive to continue after all. He’d needed a tangible thing to put the blame on, something he could strike against. When no thing had materialized it had been me Captain Vike blamed. Once it was apparent striking out against some nameless ringtail in a city ruin among so many of them wasn’t possible, at least.
“She was foolish, and impeded my hunt for her own glory. Three times I had the ringtail, and three times Verner’s misplaced arrogance stopped me.” I’d said in my defence. “I did not kill my hunt commander, she died of a Cyonian bullet.”
Vike had not taken to my solid defence well. I knew he had nothing to use, no way to impugn me. So I’d opted for the arrogant and stoic posture my own parentage wore whenever they’d had to deal with their rivals and the inherent treachery that came with it. I had expected a trial, perhaps one of combat in one of the many tests of strength, or dexterity, or even wit that the Oracle had sanctioned for just such disagreements. A battle of blades? Or perhaps having brought the judgment up the ladder, to try and put me to death as vengeance for his lost protege and blood?
Instead, Vike had just chortled with a worrying look in his eye. “So be it, Qinal. You will continue to serve under me.” Had been his words, but actions had not stood to testimony for them. Within the day I’d had my position as a tactical adjunct and hunter rescinded in favour of working as a guard in the ruins of Barr City. It was a ‘great honour that would not be refused’ to be given such a prime position, to spend my days ‘safe’ and ‘comfortable’ inside the perimeter of our ground base. I’d be stuck with menial tasks for the duration of the hunt, so it seemed.
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Such a position was below me. This was not some glamorous reward for a hunt well conducted, it was not an appointment to a command position. It was an appointment to keep me from the real reward of being here, to hunt, and explore the vibrant wilderness within.
I’d been sidelined. My bloodline meant I could not be simply tossed aside, but this appointment was banal enough to be a snub to me personally. My prospects for climbing to a position of power and prestige were significantly limited.
I’d raged, storming onto the bridge. “You can not! I am not a whelpling spawned of a no-name menial! The blood of planet killers runs through me!” I’d came right up to the captain’s chair, even as Vike himself had stood to match my posture. His height dwarfing my own by a head. My mind had been in no state to think rationally.
“Do you seek to challenge my leadership, Qinal?” Had come the question. Without thinking I’d... I’d shown my teeth to him, issuing my official challenge. He had been under no obligation to answer it of course. A young blood like me? A dozen statuses between us? Nobody would have taken a second look if he’d laughed me off and had me removed. Instead, he’d grinned and returned the gesture. I had no time to issue some formal crossing of blades, we would fight for supremacy in an older way.
The flash of a fight had started with my rage fuzzed mind trying to charge him outright, arms extending to lodge firm claw to neck and snout to put him in his place. My body moving faster than I’d felt myself move before, I’d never been so disrespected- it was like I’d downed a cup of undiluted adrenaline before marching in.
Of course, the bravado and rage did nothing for me. Vike was an experienced fighter, and his own stronger arms batted away my own, his head throwing forward with a savage crack as his skull impacted my own muzzle.
After that I remember waking up on the floor of the bridge only seconds later with a dull throb. He’d shut me down in just one headbutt. The hit to my reputation had been immense, a young blood too eager to prove and unable to back up their strength. I suspected he’d been anticipating my response when I’d read the transfer. He’d found a way to degrade me even further. Bastard.
_____________________________________
I broke from my half-sleep to the sound of the alarm for shift change buzzing in my ears. Arms unfolding from their crossed position as I stood, stewing in my hatred for my superior who’d put me here.
A quick pop by the weapons room was all I’d need before putting my time in. With no more than a couple strides down the hall I found the old office that’d been converted with a chest high barrier to cut half of it off. The weapons master wasn’t present, so I took to reaching over and grabbing one of the rifled weapons myself and strapping it over my back.
Another short walk, and I was standing in front of my last shift work for the day. The pen room. This place was always my least favourite duties even on the ship when the rare capture was brought aboard, and now it was magnified by my poor sleep and bruised reputation. I slid my ID card over the reader, a freshly installed apparatus to keep any escapes under control. The door slid open, and the ambient noise flew into my ears as I stepped inside. Keeping my eyes forward and away from either row to my left and right. I could hear their chirping, echoed voices. Meek vocal cords putting together speech pitched many times too high to be respectable. Some of them sounded destitute, some angry, some entirely devoid of feeling. I didn’t mind any of it. My translator might impart meaning, but I didn’t need to take the meaning to any of their words. They were just those lucky ones who’d not been hunted to death.
This being my first hunt, I hadn’t initially understood why we had to keep those we didn’t eat. Why not release them into the wilderness to be caught again and eaten? But then... That wasn’t sporting was it? They’d have little chance of linking up with their people before getting pounced by a hunting party, their eligibility as prey was extinguished. That left a couple options for just what to do with them. Selling them to the Pamantian Loyalist Clans was an easy, readily available option, loathful as their bleeding hearts were. Though... I had seen some preylings on Az’ta while growing up there. Serving in tasks that were fitting for them, it was rare for a household to keep captured prey as servants, but not entirely unknown. Tch...
I finally stepped to the metal stairway and began to climb to the over-head walkway and guarding station, the one I’d been replacing... T’sel I think his name was? He stepped past me without a word. I chose not to interpret his silence as derision toward me, I’d have my nerves frayed being in here for hours listening to captures whine and whinge about this and that.
I paused. Wait.. Some of the voices in here were angry? Were our forms not terrifying them into submission by now? This was a fate worse than anything for creatures such as- I turned my head to look toward the barking commotion. “You killed them!” Came the call as I let my eyes fall on one of the ringtails, it was looking at me as it spoke. A clawed paw reaching out of the mesh metal door as if to try and scratch at me. Did it recognize me? Did they bear relation to one of the ones I’d butchered earlier?
I let my eyes subtly flick to look at T’sel as he left. Waiting until the door had slid shut, and I was alone with these creatures before I indulged my curiosity. I stepped closer to the pen, glaring down at the creature as it suddenly seemed a lot less brave now that my mighty form regarded them with crossed arms. A predatory stare like this would induce panic in any of the weakling species. “Who did I kill, ringtail?”
It had stepped back a couple paces, the others in the pen had drawn quiet, except perhaps the snivelling ones I’d learned to key out of my mind from previous shifts aboard the fleet. “Y-you killed them! My brother and his- you!” Ah, the couple I’d butchered before my nap. Yes... They had probably seen me carrying the already dead pair earlier. Well, one of them had been alive to scratch and bite, but I hadn’t known that!
Regardless, whatever revenge or anger it had felt, its mind had been changed by my attention actually being on it now. The thing couldn’t even manage to curse me. Perhaps there was a way I could derive joy from this posting?
With malice on my mind I decided to indulge myself, see if I could wind them up. “Yes. Me. I killed my food, chopped them, cut them, stuffed their good meat into the freezer. What of it?” I asked non-nonchalantly, passively picking at one of my claws as if to write in stone with a chisel how unremarkable the whole process had been. It was a lie of course, I hadn’t hunted those two, they weren’t my hunt.
Instead of an accusation, or anger, or something fun though its eyes teared up, and it looked like it might be sick. “Monster.” It managed, choking a sob and retreating further into the back wall and covering its face with both paws. Just another crying ringtail. And...
I felt nothing. Once perhaps I might have found it amusing, or it’d have swelled my pride as a Bala’ur to see a prey creature cowed back where they belonged. Instead I felt hollowed out. I had done nothing wrong. So why then did something that should have sparked any feeling in me instead just feel like an emotionless abyss? Amusement? Joy? Maybe even regret at having brought it emotional pain? Anything?... But nothing came, I was just empty.
“Did I get hit in the head that hard?” I muttered, turning away and opting to take my floor walk patrol for the half hour now. I could always log it when I got up the stairs after anyhow. I walked the breath of the cannery turned pen-house. The rectangular room had been split into four sections by two lines down the horizontal and vertical middles of the room. With the overhang walkways supported by one guard post with sight lines over the only door out of the room, as well as all four halls with doors to access the pens.
My head was turned, looking into one row as I passed them. The facility was for now almost exclusively ringtails, with a very small pawful of other Coalition species that had been captured in the sweeps of the city. Unlike our orbiting capture ships, the existing infrastructure we hadn’t bombed left enough room to comfortably fit quite a few of them all in one spot. Dozens of these buildings could be readied in little time. Less having to deal with accidental fatalities that way too. If The Oracle did opt to sell them to the Pamantian Clans maybe we’d even get those updated bioscanners with the profit. At least then we’d be able to find the ones hiding in the forests and jungles inland.
I paused a moment, glancing into one specific pen that I could have mistaken for empty if not for the four or five forms huddled into the edges away from the door. Their coloration was slightly different, and they looked perhaps a touch bigger. Ah- Silver-tails. A quick glance at the labelling next to the door in great red “Do not touch!” confirmed it so. Lucky them.
I kept walking, the claws on my toes scratching at the flooring as I nearly finished my round. Riiiight up until I came face to face with one of the creatures staring me down with a brown eye from a position climbed up to the top of the mesh door. Of course, they couldn’t escape up there. The pen was sealed, but the arboreal had climbed to my head height and was studying me. Hanging from the door like... some sort of gremlin, its silly head canted oddly in its upside-down position. I could see that it had an untended to cut scabbed over with dry blood on its left shoulder, neck, and up to behind his ear. Probably incurred during a more claws on capture. If it were a Bala’ur it’d be a scar to wear proudly once it healed.
Before I could rattle the door to make it fall and scare it off it spoke. “Y-you were working with the Trikua!” I blinked. What? The words made no sense. Was it deviant? The mental flashbang of nonsense from its mouth didn’t dignify a response, but I found myself speaking anyway.
“I was working with the Trikua?” I asked back, the tone of my voice pitched in so many layers of disbelief I wasn’t sure who’d sounded more ridiculous saying it out-loud. Me or him? The absurdist idea of it all. The Trikua were the most resiliant of their silly alliance were they not? How could I have worked with them? Their hatred for our kind was measured in oceans.
“Y-y-yes. You, you feathernecks-” I raised my lips at the word in a subtle snarl. “-aah- auh- you Bala’ur. You attacked w-w-when we couldn’t call for help. Maybe not- maybe just some of them, traitors. Some of them hate us so much- How did you know?” We knew because the Oracle had said it so, and she was never wrong. Perhaps our scouts had told her, there were dozens of reasons she’d have known. Not least of which simple, it could have been well trained intuition. It mattered little how she’d known anything.
It spoke again before I could reply. “Y-your voice is raspy, dry. You should aa- drink something.” What? I tried to blink away the confusion this stupid thing had cast on me but-
“Well you sound like a squeaky toy! All of you do!” This furred moron’s accusation was delirious and crazed. He was insulting my voice too! It was outrageous!
“A-ah- maybe it’s just the translator. You sound... bad.” I felt my eye twitch.
I could hear one of its fellows speaking in a hushed, agitated whisper. As if they’d been made to suffer the same fanciful talk for days. “Geal, enough of it! You’re g-going to get yourself killed! It’s nonsense.” Only for the speaker to get a brushed tail of dismissal from this ‘Geal’. His brown eye was still on me, agitating me.
I spoke with the intent to cut his little illusions apart. “We knew because we sabotaged your network ourselves.” I slammed my palm into the flat of the mesh door, shuddering it and shaking the whole thing enough to cause the creature to fall to the floor with a shout. It landed on its legs and scampered back. “Listen to your friend.” Came the snip of a growl as I continued past the cage and up the steps to my guard post to log the patrol.
Against my better judgement, I boomed out my voice back towards the cage I’d just left. “And I sound perfectly fine!” The feathering of my chest puffing up. Almost immediately I realized how much of an indignant youngling I’d probably sounded like. “Tttshh- ahhgh!” I marched back all the faster.
By the time I’d gotten to the booth though, it’d passed. What a silly imagination they had. Looking to blame anything but themselves for their defeat. Hah! I plopped down in the booth, shutting the glass windowed door behind me and glancing out past all four glass panels that made it up. It was... thankfully much more quiet in here. Bearably so.
As I went about my work, I tried not to let the one stimulating conversation I’d had all day linger in my head. Pff... Trikua, how silly.
