Vexx
A neon sign, fizzling more than it glowed, cast a sickly green light on the warped metal frame of the insignia that universal translators would simply refer to as “Vexx's Choice Meat"
The stench alone would’ve led to so many sanitary inspections and sanctions by galactic standards it wouldn’t even be funny to talk about them.
Here though, on the artificial planet of Taboo, it was just Tuesday.
The exterior of the shop had seen some improvement, but the doors still groaned as they opened.
Inside, flickering luminescent bulbs revealed a couple of rows of gleaming display cases, courtesy of some unfortunate trader who'd crossed Dexton’s pirates.
The peeling paint and exposed wires snaked across the greasy, ribbed floor that poorly tried to drain the blood from the shop.
The black stained hooks still hung from the ceiling, now hoisting real slabs of meat dangling from them.
Customers now had started to pour in, a mix of skittering arthropods, bulbous amphibian types, Krynnaks, Versels, Krynnaks, the regular Quixlar watchdog, and even a hulking armored Nolthoran warrior browsed the disturbing displays.
Giant pods of vaguely recognizable muscle hung from the black stained hooks, their bioluminescence making them appear to have an unsettling inner life.
The slabs of meat, a rainbow of iridescent meat colors you wouldn't believe, were arranged with grotesque artistry.
The most unsettling aspect wasn't the meat on display. It was the staff.
Vexx himself, a natural-born predator like all Kryannaks, seemed almost jovial by comparison. The slaves that served his customers were a study in silent horror.
Their eyes stared with unnerving intensity, devoid of pupils, reflecting the flickering lights with an artificial gleam.
When they began, their movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as they sliced and cleaved the meat into the required portion with razor-sharp blades and uncanny precision.
Now? They were as natural and lifelike as one couldn’t tell it was a machine performing the cuts, if not for the absolute precision of the cuts themselves.
But one thing remained a constant, a stark and uncanny aspect of those reanimated corpses that Vexx had to be very aware of.
There was not a single grunt of effort, no customer interaction, just a chilling silence punctuated only by the rhythmic squelch of meat as it hit the table or the blade.
And if one looked at them just right, one would catch a glimpse of the red artificial gleam under those glassy eyes.
Vexx, for his part, did his best to distract from the ancient machine’s army in disguise and entertain his guests.
He'd launch into booming sales pitches about the vigor of the double-headed grubs or the pulsating vitality of the bioluminescent tripe.
His booming voice, though, couldn't quite drown out the unnerving silence of the butchers, and you could practically see the customers trying not to stare.
Most of them if not all were slaves on errands, some didn’t even need to consume meat, and probably all were there knowing the black stains' origins.
Most of the protein black slabs needed to that point came from those who didn’t make it, passing out for the hard or perilous task one needed to perform to maintain City 29.
Slavers didn’t pass out the opportunity to use that fact to intimidate their property into submission, menacing to grind them apart and feed them to their fellows simply.
Vexx slapped one of his claws on the back of a customer frozen into a staring contest with one of the silent drones.
This time it was a normal Nolthoran staring at another, maybe he or she could recognize the drone? Maybe it was an attractive female or male? Vexx wasn’t good at telling the sex of the big insectoids apart.
Not that it mattered, whether male or female, whether it was somebody they knew or not, it was now a lifeless and dangerous machine.
-Top quality, that one!- he boomed, his voice dripping with false cheer.
-Fresh this morning, I just wriggled it out of its… huh!-
He recognized the meat of the Brahumthrak, an impossible prey to catch before the advent of the machine and the machines that surrounded him.
-Yeah, it's the upper left leg, if I recall. - He winked, his mandibles clicking from pent-up tension. -but any leg of a Brahumthrak is a good source of meat, very lean too!-
The Nolthoran forced what the translator signaled to be a smile, paid more than Vexx cared to admit was enough, and practically ran out of the shop, the pulsating slab of meat feeling heavy and alien in its hand.
-Welcome Zĩýĩr'räk-
He said to the Quixlar guard in the shop, a brawny, bipedal warrior shrouded in thick deep blue fur, with an unusual almost metallic sheen.
This fur covered most of the body except for the hands, face, and upper chest; the head was squared, and a powerful jawline and the impressive ridges of the horns framed the face.
The horns themselves were ram-like and thick like in all Quixalar’s males with a ridge for each of the Quixalar’s years. This one counted 98, it was quite a young one, but Vexx couldn’t tell that himself.
Pointy ears jut out from the sides, and a darker shade of blue mane surrounded the face. The purple eyes were captivating, one could tell they glowed with an inner light, like embers, but with a somewhat playful spark.
Zĩýĩr'räk’s hands were three-fingered, if one could call fingers those claw-like nails that gripped the long black laser rifle of human make.
He moved his goat-like lower legs, skidding its hooves on the floor, its tail covered by a thick coat of fur. The upper and midsection of his legs were well-muscled, hinting at immense strength.
He donned a composite ceramide armor above his chest, and a strange amulet made from bones and wires dangled from his neck, the purple light of an LED shining in the middle.
The metallic whistle of his natural language couldn’t be hidden by the poor scrap of a translator Vexx had on himself.
-Quit it Vexx, I ain’t here to shop and you know it.- Translated the machine in Vexx’s language.
Vexx knew it very well, of course. In the very beginning, the clients were mostly Dexton’s goons and henchmen, then in the following week, the news spread like wildfire.
Now all manner of customers showed at his door, and he was barely able to keep it together as it was.
Vexx didn’t know how light was the trigger of the machines that posed as his slaves, so he had to adopt that charade to keep everybody alive, beginning with himself.
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He had asked and begged, prayed even to the machines that alternated in his shop for Xyra’s return to his side.
All he received back for his prayers was silence. No, It wasn’t quite like that, even he had to notice it.
As the machine deemed fit his crew would be changing, usually when it was time to bring in a new batch of meat.
Those that served to his side up to that point would all leave and those that brought up the meat would remain.
They would gradually become more and more like a living member of their species, a resemblance that bordered the uncanny for him and whoever else knew that those were originally dead like Claye’s men right here.
Four trips of meat in and Claye had started having surveillance on his shop 24/7, they even had somebody on rotation to cover the night when he closed.
This naturally irked Dexton’s men, but Claye’s answer was always the same: we mean to see how the food is distributed and there’s no funny business done with the meat.
The most important and lucky part of it all was that the machine didn't seem to mind either Claye's or Dexton's men presence in or outside the shop and simply ignored them outright,
Real meat got sold out way before it was completely spoiled, and the servants of the old machine consumed any meat that would start spoiling.
Vexx had desired to see his shop full of clients and having that over a few weeks was exciting and exhausting at the same time.
He had hoped to be able to gain enough wealth to buy himself a small craft and a pass to leave the planet, and well, he was able to get something to the side but Dexton’s was getting almost all of the profits.
Not that Vexx wanted to confront the Ce Ce Ca or Cerberus for that matter, and he dreaded that if he spoke the ancient machine would be acting somehow plunging everything to chaos.
Now it was good, it was quiet.
But he had yet to receive his oddest client to date: the sound of discharging plasma could be heard from outside the shop; all his slaves twitched to attention in unison, empty gazes fixed on the entrance.
A mechanized suit mimicking a human body stepped cautiously into the dimly lit meat shop, a human face with painted eyes scanning the surroundings, a rictus grin depicted on the helmet.
Arther Lero
Apart from Claye's territory, there was nowhere in this hellish pit called City 29 where slavery was not present.
This much Arther acknowledged, and he didn't expect this shop to be any different, he came to it out of necessity and had to snuff sentient life already just to enter.
The goons of Dexton were after him, and they guarded their territory with apparent devotion.
This was Dexton’s shop, even under an underling’s name, and if the fallen human was a warning bell, he had to expect the absolute worst inside.
Once the feed from the suit showed him the slaves, their features lifeless and soulless, silent in mechanical motion after motion, wrath blazed in his soul.
Utterly crushed fellow sentients, degraded to little more than flesh puppets with the urge to repeat motions hardwired into them.
His tentacles clenched involuntarily, and the artificial muscles in his suit arms responded by clenching adamantine fists.
He battled to contain the blazing fire of rage growing within him not to follow protocol and raze the place to the ground.
There might still be salvation, there might still be healing and hope for those, he was pretty late in the cycle, and what he saw might be the result of exhaustion and not the loss of the most precious feature: the spark of free will.
These sentient creatures were enslaved and considered nothing more than objects to be utilized as appliances, and their very existence is devalued by their toil.
He might have had a need, but he had a code to follow first and foremost, this perdition was a terrible caricature of life.
And life was all Arther stood for; a vile perversion of the sacred ideas of liberty and justice that he recognized and vowed to uphold such as the one he witnessed he couldn't tolerate.
NAY! He wouldn’t tolerate it even if he could!
-Who- He made the suit step forward -Is- another step, slow and deliberate – Vexx?-
With each step he took, the weight of his suit seemed to grow heavier, as if bearing witness to such blatant injustice had somehow amplified the burden of his duty.
He had to right this egregious wrong, to break the chains of oppression and set these enslaved souls free.
Drawing himself up to the full height of the suit, Arther squared the suit’s shoulders and fixed his fake gaze upon the shop's owner, the trembling mouth gaping to his sight.
His voice rang out clear and unwavering through the device, despite the tremor of fury that thrummed through his veins.
-Thou vile one who holds in a cage the lives of thy fellow sentient beings, who dost dare to profane the sanctity of freedom with thy vile deeds!
I shall reveal the truth to thee: Thou art a blasphemer against the cosmic order!
Hearken unto my words!
Thy days of tyranny are now over, for I am Arther Lero, a holy knight of cosmic freedom!
With the pride of the Myar race on the line, I shall not rest until every last chain is shattered until every last soul is unshackled from the bonds of slavery.
Thou shalt release thy slaves forthwith, or thou shalt incur the wrath of my righteous soul!-
“warning. You are being scanned”
The suit's IV chimed in but Arther didn’t care particularly, let them see and weep for the might of his race was with him.
Vexx, the Krynnak proprietor of the meat shop, stood frozen in disbelief as Arther’s holy words echoed through the dimly lit establishment.
Vexx’s eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, he seemed almost paralyzed by the sheer power of Arther's proclamation.
Vexx's expression morphed from surprise to utter unbridled fear, all his color draining from his scales, his features contorted with a mixture of total panic and disbelief.
This was a reaction of somebody as submitted as its victims, it wasn’t the first time Arther witnessed it.
But it wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at the poor unfortunate souls under his rule.
Did he fear their wrath once they were set free? Looking at how he treated them he should very well be, but Arter didn’t like to witness the end of a sentient life, not even that of a slaver.
Nay! He would face justice, he would repent, and he would live to sing the song of universal freedom in the choir of all the souls of the sea of stars!
Maybe it was him relaxing, maybe it was hunger affecting him, whatever that was it created a gap big enough for something unexpected to happen.
With a snarl of defiance, Vexx stepped forward, his four fists clenching at his sides as he squared off against Arther Lero.
Vexx’s voice was marked by the translator with utter panic, each word was laced with a single subtext plea: leave.
-Knight of the Myar race- Vexx barely yelped, his eyes looking at the silent slaves.
-I am not the master of this domain! Righteous fury or whatever it matters nothing here! Please, pretty please can we keep this civil? Take what you need and leave!-
Vexx looked around panicking, but apart from those serving under him all had already left, and his slaves hadn’t moved a single muscle.
Vexx seemed to be relieved but why? Arther was still there, why was that Krynnak so preoccupied with those poor unfortunate souls?
Arther was about to reply to Vexx but he noticed that there was yet single Quixalar who stared at him with defiance embedded in his purple eyes -Yo.- He said waving.
A flicker of uncertainty danced in Arther’s mind, a gnawing sense of dread and discomfort.
He knew that Quixalar, he knew that he belonged to Claye’s group; his presence here could only mean one thing!
Nay! Claye wouldn’t fall this low. Claye was a general. Claye was a protector of freedom, the most sacred protector! Was he?
This was not a place for doubt. Still, he forced himself to ask out of respect for the human paragon.
-Thou, wherefore art thou present? Doth Claye sanctions this foul deed too?-
He hissed at the Quixalar, but he saw him shake his horned head.
-Yeah… right, religious nonsense. Please activate your suit’s scanner for once, you zealous idiot! There are no sentients here for you to save.-
Arther didn’t understand immediately. The sentient was right there! They lay immobile, unspeaking, still in their place, ready to serve.
Then he noticed they didn’t move. They didn’t flinch. They didn't cower. They didn't stare.
The most unsettling part of his suit was the head.
It was not a simple helmet, it was a monstrous caricature of a human face, sculpted from the same ceramide and adamantine as the rest of his suit and painted with a sickening realism.
Rosy flesh tones, wrinkled and weathered, were plastered across the surface, and beady black eyes, devoid of the holy glow of life, stared out with the unnatural glint of the cameras hidden within.
But the worst was the grin. A wide, toothy maw stretched across the helmet, painted with unsettling precision, each human tooth depicted with 100% accuracy.
A grin that never faded, a chilling reminder of the monster humanity hid beneath their sheepish and cheery demeanor.
Few would dare to look upon him and not quiver, nay!
They would run in fear of the very sight of the deformed human body the ceramide plates shifting ever so slightly, revealing glimpses of glowing power cables and the unmistakable whine of power packs and cold fusion reactors humming behind the grotesque human facade.
Yet here they stood. Silent. Immobile. Uncaring of the promise of freedom or the menace of consumption. This couldn’t be mere exhaustion.
He activated the scanner of his suit and everything went red with danger signals.
“Warning! Energy levels in the surroundings are anomalous! Warning! Artificial constructs in the surroundings! Warning! High levels of nanites were detected. Scales above any known safety margin! Predicted gray goo scenario, please evacuate the planet!”
Chimed in the suit, as Arther was trying to make sense of the situation one of the slaves simply darted forward with a speed and ease one couldn’t fathom.
Vexx, a full-grown Krynnak, was lifted from the ground with unnatural ease and speed and dragged outside, while all the others silently surrounded Arther blocking the way out.
-Well… shit…- Said the Quixalar -Maybe that was why the big heads were concerned to keep the scans on the lowest of settings… now how the fuck we deal with them!?-