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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Spooker0 on 2024-12-02 17:19:38+00:00.
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11 Underground I
Content Warning
Chapter includes depiction of self-harm that could be disturbing to some people.
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Grantor City Outskirts, Grantor-3
POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)
Guinspiu admired the camouflage netting the trio of Terran operators had thrown over their landing shuttle as they began to unload their equipment with a fancy-looking cart. The netting itself was made of some kind of digital fabric that transmitted image from one side of it to another, hiding what’s underneath in a semi-invisible cloak. Up close, she could see there was something there… like a haze. But from far away, there was no way anyone would be able to visually spot it, especially not with the patch of trees behind it breaking its silhouette.
She noticed something that looked familiar on the cart and called Mark’s attention. “Hey, isn’t that one of our object fabricators?”
He took off his armor’s helmet and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. “Is it? Probably. We appropriated a lot of technology from you and the Malgeir a while ago.”
“What did we bring that for?” she asked as he began to drink from a straw in his suit.
Mark gulped twice to swallow the water. “For your people.”
“My people?”
“Yeah, your people,” he repeated. “What? You think we’re just going to leave your people down here to rot and ignore them while we beat the Znosians ourselves? Just the three of us?”
“You’re going to— to— to fabricate and print things for us?” she asked, still puzzled.
“Yeah, that’s… why we brought one of those. What else would you need one of those for?”
“But what are you making? My people here need food. They need safety.”
“We have plans for that too, High Councilor, but no, your people don’t need safety,” Mark said, shaking his head lightly. “Your people need to fight back.”
“With what? Our claws? Oh…” she came to a sudden realization. “You’ve brought those to make us guns.”
“Guns?” Mark chuckled dryly. “Please, High Councilor. You’ve been watching too many of our movies.”
“Huh?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, guns don’t win insurgencies on their own, High Councilor. Not most of the time. How many guns do you think we can make with a portable printer every month? How do we get them to people? And what munitions do they fire? Are we going to be starting a local firearms and munitions manufacturing industry here with a single printer?”
“I guess not… So what are you making?”
Mark put his armor helmet back on, securing it fully. “Replacements for our gear, mostly. A few radios, probably, until we can find something better.”
“What about my people? You said they have to fight back. What weapons will my people use?”
“Weapons? I know somewhere you can find weapons. Right here on Grantor. No complicated or additional manufacturing necessary.”
“Where?” Guinspiu asked excitedly.
“We’re on an occupied planet with millions of Znosian troops, High Councilor. I imagine it wouldn’t be too hard to find the weapons we need. The real question is how many fighters we can find to use them.” Mark smiled inside his helmet, continuing, “This almost reminds me of the good old days of the TRO.”
“The good old days of the TRO?” she asked.
“Yeah, pre-Republic. Before the Clark Committee abuse scandals hearings, before the reforms. Before my time.”
“Huh. Yeah. You guys never talk about that. What did your organization do before you found all of us aliens in space?”
“Nothing nice. You’ll see, High Councilor. You’ll see.”
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Grantor City Work Camp 6, Grantor-3
POV: Torsad, Granti (Prisoner)
Torsad massaged her sore paws as she stirred the Grass Eater hatchling nutrient vat in front of her with a long stick, the hot acid fumes in it reaching up to sting her eyes without protection. The strip of cloth she wrapped around her paws barely protected her from the foul-smelling orange liquid.
She blinked and then coughed… away from the vat, knowing what the consequences would be if she hadn’t. At merely thirty years old, she had taken on the wrinkles and appearance of a much older Granti female.
As Torsad turned to the side, she saw her old neighbor next to her, Sossui, having a similar issue. He was having a much harder time with the Znosian occupation. With the official cutting of all meat supply, she knew Sossui hadn’t been able to secure protein in secret. Besides his gaunt appearance, he was slowly going blind from the lack of nutrition. That was happening to a lot of people.
As she turned back to continue to stir her own vat, she heard a series of hard coughs, and then clattering followed by quiet swearing next to her.
She looked over. Sossui was standing on his tippy paws peering into his bubbling vat with despair in his half-blind eyes. He whispered at her, “My— my stirring stick… it fell… oh… Oh no.”
Torsad looked around. Hopefully none of the Grass Eater supervisors saw—
“What’s going on over here?” a rough voice yelled. “Why aren’t you working, lazy predator?”
No such luck.
“I apologize, Three Whiskers,” Sossui said, bowing almost as low as the supervisor’s stature. “My— my stirring stick— it fell in.”
“You what?!” the three whiskers screeched. She jabbed his leg with a buzzing baton, activating it as she did. “Whose fault is it?”
Bzzzzzzt.
“Owwww! Three Whiskers Pukhat, please,” Sossui whimpered in pain. “I take full responsibility for— for the mistake— for my mistake and— and my weakness.”
“You better! Now you are responsible for fixing it,” Pukhat said, glaring at him. “Go get it!”
“How?”
“How?!” Pukhat exclaimed. “Reach in with your paws and grab it!”
“But— but it’s hatchling nutrient liquid,” he whined.
Torsad watched the exchange, knowing what happened to the last prisoner who reached into one of these vats when they were being processed. A heartbeat, and the corrosive orange liquid would burn off all your fur. A couple more seconds, and your paw was good as gone.
Pukhat was not having it. She jabbed Sossui again with her shock stick.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.
Sossui cried, falling down in convulsions.
“You idiot! This isn’t the Navy. We don’t just have extra equipment lying around! And I’m not taking responsibility for your error! So either you go in and grab it, or I’ll have you replaced with someone who will.”
Torsad quickly looked back at her vat, stirring as hard as she could, as all of the rest of the row did. There were no volunteers in this camp. Volunteers did not live long.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll get it,” Sossui moaned as he crawled on the ground. “I’ll get it, Three Whiskers.”
“Good,” Pukhat said. She pulled up a stool next to his vat helpfully. “Here, stand on this.”
Sossui climbed onto the stool. He looked over at the rest of the row, most of which had stopped stirring again to look at the unfolding drama now that they knew they weren’t in danger of being volunteered to lose their paws. He gave them all a weak smile with his cloudy eyes. “I’ll get it,” he said, more confidently.
“Use both paws,” Pukhat advised. “In case you lose your grip with one.”
Sossui nodded at her. “I take full responsibility for this, Three Whiskers.”
“Yes. You already did,” Pukhat said, a puzzled expression forming on her face. “Now you just have to— What are you— no!”
Sossui looked into the vat, took a deep breath, and then hopped in headfirst. The vat sizzled for a couple seconds. There was a brief moment of liquid thrashing in it, and then the vat went silent.
“Oh! Great! Just great! Another stupid jumper!” Pukhat screamed at the vat. “That’s the fourth one of you idiots this month!”
She stepped up onto the stool, peering into the vat herself. She stepped back and glanced at the instruments embedded into its side. “Hm… at least the vat’s still good. Still within margin… But we’re down a stirring stick today.”
Pukhat looked up and around, her eyes sweeping the unfortunate workers before her gaze settled straight at Torsad. “You, get over here. Hey, you, prisoner number thirteen. Come grab the stirring stick.”
“Me?” Torsad squeaked as she heard her number called.
“Yes, you! Who else? Come here. I saw the stick almost at the surface when I looked in,” Pukhat said. “If you grab it quick with both paws, you should be able to hold onto it. And you might even keep one of your paws if you’re lucky!”
Torsad paled. “But— but I didn’t drop my stick in the vat!”
“Am I hearing an argument from you, prisoner?” the three whiskers asked dangerously, approaching her with her baton.
“But— but I didn’t do it. Why am I—”
“Wrong answer.”
Bzzzzzzt.
Torsad felt her vision go white from the pain as she collapsed onto the ground, screaming, “Ahhhhh!”
As she recovered, Pukhat muttered, “And now you’ll do it. You Slow Predators never learn. Always have to teach multiple times.”
“No, please,” Torsad begged, shaking her head. “Three Whiskers—”
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.
The pain was much more acute this time. Torsad felt like her leg was going to fall off as she crawled on the floor, struggling to get up.
“Pick up the stick, predator.”
“Okay, okay, Three Whiskers, I’ll do it,” Torsad wheezed as she massaged her legs.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Two sho...
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