The following day, Procka and Moravian found themselves once again trapped in their slave-like job. The two of them and their ten other non-human companions trekked through the arid desert. ‘Today, not bad,’ Procka thought as she slowly turned her head, scanning the desert for beasts to hunt. So far, nature’s usual violent disposition had calmed; the heat was manageable, and the only present wind could barely be classified as a breeze.
As she trudged on in the thick sand, Procka felt a nudge at her side; it was Moravian. “The day’s almost over, I think this is the perfect opportunity.” The Draugr whispered to her.
Looking down at Moravian, Procka sighed. ‘Always deceiving. The sable ones never have honor, but…’
Huffing a sigh, Procka nodded at him, ‘Plan is only one.’ She thought as she watched the setting sun move lower toward the horizon.
Moravian smiled, his black lips contrasting the pink and orange sunset atmosphere. “Perfect.” He said before scurrying off to the other non-human teammates.
The most common among them were dwarves. Their natural heat resistance, as well as being incredibly durability in the desert environment, made their kind flourish. Well, flourish in the sense that they were the best slaves. ‘At least they are grumpy.’ Prock thought as she saw Moravian approach the pack of dwarves, ‘They agree with us probably.’
As Procka watched on, she saw how Moravian became increasingly animated as he talked to the pack of five dwarves. His arms flailed around, and his voice even began to rise to the point where Procka could hear some bits of what he was saying: “Slaves…Bad…. Fight…Freedom.”
As Procka watched, she saw Moravian turn around and point at her. Remaining still, she simply looked back at him, ‘Showing who’s on our side.’ She sighed, ‘If this doesn’t work, there is no peace for me here.’ She knew.
As Moravian continued, Procka noticed that some of the dwarves, especially the older ones, were nodding along with him. Eventually, Moravian finished his speech. ‘Here it comes.’ Procka braced internally. If this plan was to fail, this is where that would occur.
Moravian held out his hand to the eldest dwarf.
In the light of the setting sun, a feeling of apprehension passed through Procka and the surrounding individuals. After a momentary pause, movement occurred; the old dwarf shifted his dry, wrinkly hand and shook Moravian’s own! After that, Moravian shook the other four dwarves’ hands before returning to Procka with a smile. “There’s five already. We can convince more after the commander gets mad at us.” He said, “Let’s just hope the others are doing their job.”
Procka nodded. She wanted nothing more than to be finally one with this secrecy and hiding. ‘Only when the fight starts will this plan work, ' she thought, as her rocky lips curved slightly.
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“You sure you wanna do this, captain?” A man asked. He wore the typical white uniform of a non-practitioner soldier, apart from a small circular badge on his chest. “Yeah, it's fine,” Zal said, waving his hand to dismiss the man’s question. “Plus,” Zal said, looking over his shoulder at the dozens of soldiers behind him, “The boys deserve this! We've been working without a break for too long. I don’t care if I have to pay!” He shouted back.
A roar of approval erupted from his unit as Zal opened the door to one of the fancier restaurants in the industrial section. ‘The rulebook says I can bring guests with me here to the industrial sector,’ Zal grinned as he looked around at the practitioner-occupied restaurant, ‘It just doesn’t say how many guests.’
The horde of soldiers spilled into the place. Their sand-speckled white uniforms contrasted with the clean black-marble floor and sleek walls.
“Uhm, hello… Sir,” a young woman said with raised eyebrows as Zal stepped up toward the reception desk. “Hey, how are you doing?” Zal asked, smiling.
“I’m…good. How may I help you?” she asked, pushing aside her shock in favor of professionalism.
"I need a table for…” Zal looked over his shoulder at his men, “Twenty adults, please.”
The lady gaped at Zal but ultimately nodded under gritted teeth, “Of course, sir, let me lead the way.”
The congregation of soldiers shimmied their way through the expansive restaurant. In no time, they were seated at an extremely long, cut-sandstone table. Their seats were crammed together to fit everyone, but despite the uncomfortable arrangements, only smiles and laughter were present among the troop.
“All right, everyone.” Zal clapped, silencing the men. "You guys can order, though don’t be too expensive. This place is a scam, " he said with a chuckle.
“Oh yeah, captain," a soldier said with a laugh. "You chose it; you endure the consequences.”
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“True that,” Zal muttered with a small smile as laughs erupted from the soldiers. Soon, multiple restaurant wait staff members came to the soldier's table and took their orders.
The meals were prepared in no time, and an atmosphere of lighthearted fun washed over the group. They had been one of the units constantly tasked with stopping dissent among the outskirters.
“Oh, guys,” Zal shouted over the chatter. I actually have an important reason for this dinner.”
His lieutenant, Dorl, looked at him with a grin. “I thought you liked wasting money, cap. Are you saying that’s not true? "
Wiping some crumbs off his face, Zal grinned at him: “Oh no, don’t get me wrong. I love wasting money, but today, it seems that I’ll have to multitask.” He lifted his glass in a self-deprecating toast: “To wasting money with a purpose!”
His men—some drunk, others tired—lifted their glasses with him; “To wasting money with a purpose!” They shouted, the restaurant being overpowered by their sheer volume.
“All right, all right,” Zal muttered, signaling for his men to quiet down, “The reason I organized this little dinner was for two reasons; one,” Zal held up his pointer finger, “We fucking deserve it, boys!” He shouted. A cheer erupted once again from the men.
“Two,” He held up another finger, “This one’s a bit more serious, and I’ll explain it as well as I can in this… environment, so quiet down.” He said, looking around at the tenants of the restaurant.
“It all came from a question a friend of mine asked me a bit ago.” Zal spoke, his face darkening, “Do you feel you're treated well? That was the question he asked me.” Zal said, “I thought about it for some time. You know, am I treated badly?”
Zal lifted his hands, palms facing the ceiling, “I realized that I am, I am paid barely anything, my house is shit, I have little freedom, and everything I do is in service to the higher-ups who I've never even met.” He snarled and paused for a moment, looking into the eyes of every one of his men. “Then,” he continued, “Another realization occurred to me. I am a practitioner; I'm technically an elite one as well,” He scoffed, morphing his fingers into mocking air quotes, “And as an elite, I'm treated like shit. So, as normal soldiers,” Zal motioned to his men, “As normal, hardworking men, without my privileges and powers, I wonder; Are you treated with respect, with appreciation, with dignity, as every person should?”
Silence. The men looked at their empty plate, none daring to meet Zal’s intense amber eyes, “Well,” he shouted at them, “Are you?”
With a tentative gaze, Jorl raised his head and looked at Zal. His tanned skin and short-cut hair gleamed in the fancy fluorescent lights,
“As the lieutenant, I feel it is my duty to answer,” Jorl said in a low tone as he looked around at the men; “I feel that all of us can say for a fact that we've been treated.... poorly…at the very least.”
Jorl looked at another man—a tall, burly figure with a nasty burn scar covering half his face. “Don, when was the last time you’ve seen your boys?” Jorl asked.
“Three weeks, four days, and sixteen hours.” Don rumbled, pursing his lips as he looked blankly at the empty plate beneath him.
Jorl nodded, “And who do you think has raised him? How much time have you actually spent with your offspring? Was it you who raised them or your partner?”
“No.” Don sighed. My partner has a job as a laborer, and she's out most days.”
Patting Don’s shoulder, Jorl asked one last question in a low growl, “So, who has raised your kids?”
“The schools,” Don answered immediately, a fire shining in his soft eyes.
Jorl shot to his feet. “Exactly,” he said as he stood up and surveyed his men. “Captian Zal’s only been here for one week. One!” He shouted at the men while throwing a sidelong glance at the nodding Zal, “But in that week, he’s understood a few things about this city. Things that we've known for years but have repressed out of fear and weakness. The practitioners are taking your labor!” he shouted, veins popping on his neck, “They use you to commit their crimes against the outskirters, they deprive you of your right as a parent, they don’t compensate you, and give all the food, water, and money to a select few. We all know it isn’t fair. I at least am.... ashamed.... ashamed that I've only recently realized it.” Jorl finished with an icy cold remark. He sat down in his chair, and with a heavy look, he motioned toward Zal.
“Yes,” Zal started as he stood up, “I've barely lived here for a week, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel connected with you all. You're my men, my friends, my companions in battle.” Zal said, hand on heart, “I hate and deplore the fact of people using you, as well as all the other soldiers, as nothing more than cheap slaves.”
Zal stared with conviction into anyone who looked back; “All I'm saying is that something is in the works; spread the word, spread the possibility of freedom from this tyranny. That is all, you're dismissed.” Zal said as he began to stroll away from the table, exuding confidence. ‘Please work,’ Zal prayed. Swat ran down his face, and his legs secretly trembled just a bit. ‘Please, please work.’
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“MORE!” A voice shouted in the vastness of the night. “PUSH MORE ENERGY, MORE, MORE, MORE.” The voice yelled again. It was a man standing with a large gun on the soft grass. He surveyed the miles of greenness, the plants, the cattle farms, the endless rows of agriculture, and the mass of non-practitioner slaves. However, in all that bust, he only focused on five people. Five critical people.
Toiling in the grass, two green spectrum practitioners pushed out with their hands. Green energy exploded from them and seeped into the soil. Seeds instantly grew, and the non-practitioners hustled over to harvest them. Standing next to the two green spectrum practitioners were three blue spectrum practitioners. They did the same as the green practitioners—pushing out as much energy as possible to feed the crops.
Standing in the line of practitioners was one girl in particular who seemed to struggle more than the rest. The others, of course, had difficulty producing the constant stream of energy; sweat streamed down their face, and their eyes were dull and bloodshot.
While demonstrating the same symptoms of overwork as the others, the girl also showed worrying signs of collapse. Her legs shook—the vigor in her body fully depleted. Her blue eyes were fully closed, and she only remained upright by leaning on another one of the practitioners.
“MORE,” The supervisor shouted once again as he saw Lyra falter in her energy output, “KEEP GOING.”
“Argh,” the girl groaned as she forcefully pushed her empty crystal to produce more and more energy.
Her sweat and tears glistened in the light of the many moons. In her mind only one thought was a constant, it was the only thing keeping her motivated to keep going: ‘Please Thorne, please Zal pleas Moravian, please Procka. HELP ME!’