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Whipblade's picture
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Darkside of the Moon

Casa  Marzu could be seen every evening sparkling in the eastren sky, from the slave quarters entrance. It was the last thing and first thing the slaves of Plutarkian moon VF-7 saw before they vanished for an exhausted sleep.... those that did dare to sleep.

VF-7 and the Casa are the pride and joys of the Casu family currently headed by the Matriarch Sardini.

The moon; Tugged into a convient place had came to be known as VF-7. The important ingrediant to Plutarkian Glass Steel, a dark mineral called Volfram that when made pure is an extreamly hard metal alloy; requiring to have specal extraction techniques. The Volfram was a very lucky find when the invasion of the dwarf planet had started headed by the great General Fromage Marzu, considering it starts seven miles below the planets -now a Plutarkian Moon- surface.

Of course no fish in his or her right mind would ever get their fins dirty to MINE anything, let alone some mineral caked in clay and deep in the dark depths of some rock.
No, that is what captured slaves from other conqured planets are for. 
And currently the Marzu controlled Moon enslaved Martians among other species bought by the cargo ship loads. Nothing dug like former cave-mice and cave-rats.

The slaves in turn however created their own society within their dire conditions. Covering for those too sick or too injured to trugged down and mine for 12 hours every 17 hour rotation.
Keeping track of 'days off' and most importantly covering for those who were forced to entertaine  in the Cage.

Death, a daily stalker for all of VF-7 came in many forms. Starvation, Injury, Cave-Ins, Infection, lung clogging dust, rotton food, insects, new diseases brought in from each new slave forced to endure VF-7 and sometimes the cage took more lives in a fiscal year then the mines ever could.

On the dark side of the moon; hidden from the view of Casa Marzu; steps that serve as seats were carved from an astroid crator. The bottom smoothed and evened out creating an enclosed natural 'ring'.  The Blood Sport held few rules.  Sometimes they fought for food. Sometimes for just the first drop of blood. What ever the guards fancies that night, all holding the lingering promise of the only escape from VF-7. Death.

The entertainment ring known as The Cage wasn't started by the slaves, but by the guards bored of the mundane duties and repetitive landscape. Hand picking promising souls fresh off the shuttles/ The guards forced them to train then they pitted the slaves against eachother for whatever reasons they thought of.

A shuttle full of new slaves carefully landed much to the delight of the guards eager eyes for fresh blood in The Cage.

**********************

Edited by: Whipblade on 01 Sep 2013
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“The ship of new slaves has arrived Madam Marzu.” A
Plutarkian Captain of the guard wearing traditional purple muumuu with gold
armour bowed before his mistress’s gold throne.

 

The female Plutarkian, turquoise scales with aquamarine
highlights and an opaque silver fin that hung down like long hair. Her orange
eyes regarded her minion dully with little interest, her mind on the incoming
slaves and potential profit they could bring.  
“Inspect them for any to work in the Castle and see that they are all
put to work quickly once upon landing on Moon VF-7.” Her nasal voice huffed in
effort as she waved her robed hidden hand at the guard to leave with his
instructions.

 

The guard stood, head remained bowed until he was out of the
throne room, the gold gilded door shutting behind him.  He continued down the many halls of Casa
Marzu with Sardinia’s orders. 

 

“Captain Swiss!” A voice shouted as he exited the
Transporter on VF-7.  He turned his head
to the voice seeing a younger Plutarkian waving excitedly towards the exterior
of the Guards compound, a prison within a prison. Glancing at the young guards
waving direction, he spotted the incoming slave transport. Nodding, he headed
down the corridor to the unloading pad.

 

******

 

“Captain Swiss.” The pilot of the slave carrier saluted,
wearing red rather than purple to show his occupation and rank.

 

“Captain Fontaine.” Swiss nodded returning the salute.

 

“We only managed to bring 25 back alive this trip.” Fontaine
stated heading to the back of the transport to see that his cargo was unloaded
properly.  All around them high barbwire fences,
armed guards wearing various shades of blue uniforms. 

 

“25? We’ll see those vermin’s extinction in our life time.”
Swiss mused as the slaves; shackled at the neck, wrist, waist and ankles
chained to each other shuffled at the prods of the handlers down the ramp
towards the last place they would ever know. A large looming door set in block
stone opened slowly.

 

“Indeed.” Fontaine agreed. “Orders?”

 

“Put them to work quickly.” He stated watching the row or
Martian rodents shuffle along. “And have that those three females taken out and
put to work in the Castel. Her highness goes through personal slaves far too
quickly.” He stated seeing a rat and two mice that would work well within Casa
Marzu.

 

“Yes sir.” Captain Fontaine clicked his feet and headed to
yell for the three female Martians to be transported to the castle.

 

Captain Swiss narrowed his orange eyes at the rest of the
slaves.  They would need a new planet to
conquer soon; mining took a hard toll on slaves. He turned and headed back
inside the guards compound to ensure his orders were being followed or else the
mistress would take her displeasure out on him.

 

******

 

The remaining slaves lined up, backs against a wall, a flat
screen before them. The lights dimmed, and the guards stood ready to shoot if
any made one wrong move.

 

The screen blinked and started with a poor quality movie.

“Your new home.” The invisible announcer stated, as a
picture of the moon blinked on the screen. “VF-7, a tugged moon previously a
small dwarf planet holds vast richness within the core.”

The image shifted to the moon with a section cut out of it,
showing layers and an arrow pointing to below the surface.

 

“The dark mineral Volfram, part of Tungsten that when made
pure is an extremely hard metal alloy; a component of Plutarkian Glass Steel. Volfram
is located 7 miles below the moons hard rocky surface.”

 

The image shifted again, to happy miners holding the shiny
dark rock up to the camera. “Your job is to extract Volfram in large quantities
and make your employers happy.”  The
screen went dark.

 

“MOVE IT!” a guard snapped using an electric bull prod to
get the slaves out the door and towards their new….. home.

 

***********

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This was another of those situations where Windsong wished it were a Duta instead of a Bateri, as picking up the primarily vocal language (ooc: are we playing sensible they would have developed their own languages and possibly eventually worked out some common auxiliary or canon everyone conveniently knows English?) of these Martians and Plutarkians had been a long and painful process. Its sharp hearing picked out something about "only twenty five surviving".  One of its ears twitched in the direction the voice had come from.  It wasn't sure what "only" was, but twenty five was a quantity and "surviving" seemed to be about not dying.  It glanced over the downtrodden, ragged lines the Martians were moving in, with itself and Nightshade among them.  The quantity applied to them.  The other Martians had died on the trip for various reasons.  Some Nightshade had killed when they got too threatening, others had simply succumbed to sickness or the conditions.  The ones Nightshade had killed, it had given to Windsong, mostly because Windsong was still growing, and partially because Windsong could power them both in a pinch.

And this was one hell of a pinch.

Nightshade's energy roiled, either sensing some kind of danger or just hungry, and then its eyes shifted colour very slightly.  Up ahead they could see Plutarkians talking and gesticulating.  A lot of them were armed with some long rod-like things that fairly thrummed with concentrated unpleasantness.  Windsong squeaked nervously and grabbed Nightshade's right upper limb in a deathgrip.  Nightshade's eyes returned abruptly to their normal hue, lashed its currently too-short tail, glancing over the nearest Plutarkians with a hint of contempt before looking down at Windsong, inadvertantly avoiding eye contact and thus probable confrontation with said Plutarkians.  It enveloped Windsong with reassurance as they descended the ramp amongst the last of the stragglers.

This place felt so depressingly desolate.  The only forms of life easily detectable were the mobile ones immediately around them, with hints of a few more farther afield.  How did anyone stay in a place like this? Windsong mewled quietly, and found itself tucked against Nightshade's side with the older one's right upper limb across its shoulders.  Everything would be all right.  Nightshade had been the only one to believe the unbelievable story of Slider's treatment of the Bateri Naungan, had mostly shielded it from the white hot agony of separating from their packmates (and had spent so long sleeping in the early part of the voyage on Lilandra that Windsong had on several occasions been quite sure it had gone into stasis), had ensured they survived the crash into the red planet, and had ensured that someone they had eventually grown to trust was taking care of and nourishing Lilandra's Vital.  Nightshade would get them out of this.  Somehow.

[ooc - so where am I going? :D]

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(Whoohoo! realism! XD and this has so not turned out right... but I can't keep you waiting for my meds to let my brain think clearly enough.. I hope it's understandable... n' they are going into the building*nods* Tis the barricks.)

A low slung building, about two meters high stuck in the moons surface stood in the direct path of the chain gang. The Plutarkian guards snapped at the prisoners to move towards it.  

A shadow stepped up and out of the door-less opening. The deep ash gray Martian stood waiting for the line of new prisoners. His light green eyes narrowed, brushing back his scruffy crimson braid hanging down in front of his  smaller mouse ears cut sharply on an angle. His longer muzzle was clearly that of a Martian rat, his tail and ears, that of a mouse. He was a clear mix of both.

"-Bring them in." He waved to the Plutarkian guards talking in their native Plutark language.  Ducking back down and into the building.

"MOVE!" Waving their guns to the prisoners, the Plutarkians ordered the rodents.

The door less entry in the side of a small building, dug down into the dirt and rock of the moon, lead down several feet via a well trampled ramp.  At the bottom, the dirt floor opened up to a  wide long room, filled with bare florescent lights  placed along the three rows of metal bunk beds with dirt and fur used for bedding.

The hybrid martian mouse/rat mix stood against the wall waiting for everyone to come in and the line to quit squirming. Around his neck, a metal collar crudely made identified him apart from the rest of the prisoners.

"You are in hell." He finally spoke, a deep rough voice not suited for a his appearance. Stepping forward he started to undo the bindings on the new prisoners. "You'll likely die here. You'll likely try to escape, many have tried, and thus died trying." he spoke loud enough in native Martian.
"Choose any bunk that is free of dirt and fur, there's still a few left.  If you have a friend, feel free to share a bunk. You'll work in shifts, the next shift leader will be here in five minutes to take you into the mines. I'll be interpiting the Plutarkians uncouth excuse of a language to you." He smirked. "oh and don't fret if you are pulled out of the mines by a fish.... you'll want to be pulled out. There's a special place for the bigger and stronger ones, and it's a lot more fun the digging in rock." he smirked at them.
"Questions?"

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[ooc - no wuckers, take your time, I may answer immediately or I may take my sweet time too depending on the day ;) also apparently in my original idea which didn't implement very well in the orignal version of my dodgy fanfic because I tried to Americanise it too much, I was using a lot of probably dodgily translated Malay for the shifters so I've done it more right in this post and edited the other post :P]

The Pahlawan showed no fear.  Nightshade definitely showed no fear.  The only reason Windsong felt a tremour of uncertainty emanating from the Bayangan was because they were packmates (it still wasn't quite used to only sensing Nightshade, and now more than ever both of them keenly felt the gap from the separation from the other three).  Nightshade eyed off the Martian with the collar (a lot of these static species seemed to display a thing their Martian friends called "sexual dimorphism", this one had a lot of characteristics that defined it as "male") with a measure of wariness.  It appeared relaxed and loose, right hand resting lightly on Windsong's left shoulder.

The conversation was strenuous to follow.  As far as Windsong could make out, the Martian with the collar said there was no escape and they were stuck here forever, and something about the bigger ones getting pulled out.  This made it incredibly nervous as Nightshade, being Pahlawan, was noticably bigger than it.  It translated as close as it could understand to Nightshade in a series of quiet clicks, purrs and a rush of emotions, and suddenly surged with fear as the ash grey Martian hybrid reached them.  So far it had not received any indication that anyone was going to try to separate them again.  Windsong's form was androgynous enough that the dimorphic statics tended to project whatever they wanted onto it, though this had resulted in a few uncomfortable moments in a couple of camps that separated the sexes where it had been "checked" and it had shifted in the appropriate bits to ensure it remained with Nightshade.  The fear was strong, however.

Both of them had earlier surreptitiously shifted the afflicted limbs out of their shackles after entering the room and standing against the wall as the cursed things had been both noisy and uncomfortable.  The last time they had done that, they'd been hit with concentrated unpleasantness from the rod things.  The concentrated unpleasantness was slightly different from their energy and had literally threatened to rend them in its white hot fury.  Nightshade had interceded seconds before Windsong would have been in too much pain to hold its Martian form, and fortunately the bearer of the rod had stopped before Nightshade dropped its.  This Martian didn't have one of those rods, but then again these weird static creatures were full of surprises.  Perhaps they should have put them back on before the hybrid got to them.  That's what they used to do.  Windsong cursed itself for not paying attention, but then again Nightshade would have known how far away the hybrid was and how long it would take to get to them and would have told Windsong to put the shackle back on at the last minute like it always had...

At the surge of fear Nightshade again pulled Windsong against its side so they stood flank to flank, with the Naungan tucked securely under its right upper limb.  Nightshade's mass meant it would make a properly proportioned but abnormally tall female Martian or a slender, borderline effeminate male Martian of average height, and it had gone the latter, so it stood almost eye to eye with the collared hybrid.  There was no possible way he ws going to miss Nightshade's lidless, deep purple gemstone-like eyes from this proximity, though he didn't seem the type to raise a fuss about it.  Perhaps it would distract him from the blue-purple fur which apparently was an unusual fur colour for a Martian.  At least Windsong looked like a Martian, with creamy fur, dark red mane and dark red eyes in the correct Martian shape, that didn't stick out.

With its free left upper limb, Nightshade politely held out the shackles that had been on itself and Windsong to the hybrid, seeing as it seemed to be collecting them, though why anyone would want the things was beyond its ability or desire to comprehend.

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Vandal paused at the two. The one smaller one looked curious compared to the usual fur colors. Taking the cuffs he eyed them both. "Best stick together or you'll be targeted for being fancy." He warned with a hiss. Finally getting the rest he moved back from the line.

"Find a bunk, feel free to rest you got about an hour before the rest come in for shift change. Yor'll be going to work right away." he looked at them all and nodded. "Oh... and don't forget... anyone who dies or is too weak or too sick... is brought to the far cabin in the compound by the door... and made into the next mess. Goodluck." He nodded heading out with the collected chains to give to the prison ship. Recycling was handy in some areas.  His green eyes narrowed as he passed the fish towards his semi-privet bunker.

 

 

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Windsong deflated with relief when the hybrid simply took the chains, spoke to them and left.  Then it struggled to comprehend what the hybrid had said to them.  It had been somewhat intimidated by the harshness at which he had spoken but sensed there had perhaps been a well-intentioned warning somewhere in what it said to them.  Nightshade was looking where the hybrid had gone, ears perked.  Windsong looked at it curiously, one ear perked, the other slightly flattened.

You think what?

Nightshade looked down at Windsong.  It feels hostile toward Plutarkians.

He.

One of Nightshade's ears flattened briefly before both of them settled into the neutral pose for a Martian.

Those type ones are he.  Other type ones are she.

Nightshade's tail flicked.  It didn't care.

Plan?

Nightshade negated, and turned to study the bunk behind them.  There were a few that had a marked presence about them, they were used frequently.  The presence of fresh dirt and rubbed off old fur confirmed this.  There was one close to them that lacked such presence.  Nightshade poked it tentatively, getting a feel for it.  It had not been used for a while.  It was an upper bunk and would suffice.

He said we need stay together.

If Nightshade had cared (which really would have required it to be a Duta) and if it had the appropriately shaped eyes for a Martian (as opposed to the perfectly acceptable eyes for a Bayangan), the emotion that rippled through it would have translated into a Martian eyebrow arching slightly as the eyes regarded Windsong with a "...really?" kind of expression as it lifted the Naungan into the top bunk with less effort than should have been required for two Martians of their respective sizes (one thing the Martians they'd hung out with had picked up quickly, the Bayangan mass to weight ratio was...different).  It didn't feel a need to state the obvious, they were going to stay together regardless.

Windsong curled its lower limbs onto the bed and shuffled over to make room for Nightshade.  Reason don't know, understanding hard.  Also dead or weak or sick goes far away and made mess.  What is mess?

Nightshade vaulted up beside Windsong and again if it had cared or been a Duta, its ignorance on the matter would have translated into a casual shrug of the shoulders.

Maybe we play dead or weak or sick.  Idle thought.  Nightshade would want to recon first, just to make sure they didn't end up in more trouble than they were already in.  It flopped onto its side on the outer side of the bunk.  Windsong lay down on the other side between the wall and Nightshade, feeling as safe as it was going to feel given their current conditions.  Automatically, it reached over and drew Nightshade closer.  Nightshade obligingly shuffled closer and allowed Windsong to wrap around it, sliding a comforting arm around the smaller one's shoulders.  Windsong buried its muzzle into Nightshade's neck, and simultaneously the two reached around them, very gently skimming the very edges of the surrounding energy fields to replenish their own.  They could both sense more further away, somewhere deep down.  And the hybrid, not very far away.  As per usual Nightshade very barely skimmed, touching only two of the other prisoners and letting Windsong skim what it could from the rest without any effect on them.  It wasn't much.  At this rate, on this energy forsaken rock, they would need to almost kill everyone in this group and severely weaken a few more.  Or, if it came down to it, reave one or two, but that was so dangerous Windsong's mind recoiled before the thought had time to fully form.

You need more.  Windsong placed a hand on Nightshade's chest above its Vital and immediately felt the latter shielding, after a fashion.  Weak shield.  I can break it.

Nightshade's face should have frowned.  Windsong stroked Nightshade's chest gently, wondering if it should push the issue or not.  Nightshade's shield was frighteningly weak.  Though it tried to keep it deep, Windsong knew the Pahlawan was running on reserves, and had been for a while.  Windsong could incise the shields and slide in and Nightshade probably wouldn't have the strength to resist it.  Windsong didn't have the energy yet to push Nightshade out of reserve but it could come close, maybe.  Nightshade would be pissed.  Windsong wanted to think doing that would be the best thing, that it would be forgiven, but right here, right now, it didn't want to break the trust of its last remaining Packmate.  Windsong extended its arm to embrace Nightshade, twining its tail loosely around Nightshade's nearer leg.

Face needs to move like emotions.  Blend better.

Nightshade turned its face to Windsong, burying its muzzle in the Naungan's mane.  Windsong knew.  Nightshade didn't care.

Easy.  See.  Windsong pulled back and its little Martian features pulled into a smile that would have been beautiful to another observing Martian, but just looked interesting to a creature that lacked the facial features a number of other sentient beings seemed to have.  Nightshade idly wondered if they were unusual for not having those nose and mouth things, as inconvenient as they were.  The mouth was the only possible energy intake it seemed, and the nose moved air, and if one covered both the creature that owned them seemed to get into some strife.  In the interests of playing along, Nightshade moved its face, its mouth twitching into a knowing little smirk before settling back into the unmoving impassiveness it was used to.  Windsong's amusement bubbled up in a soft giggle and it traced its right foot up Nightshade's left leg, eventually curling the limb around Nightshade.

Guardedly at first, and then partly out of exhaustion and partly willingly, Nightshade dropped shields.  Windsong's energy washed over it, bathing it in a delicious golden warmth.  They were both too tired to bond properly, and Nightshade was edgy and minding their surroundings and the other people in the area, and Windsong simply scared, but the light melding was nice and comforting.  Its face betraying nothing as per usual, Nightshade turned its head outward very slightly to properly monitor the surrounds, particularly to watch for someone else arriving like the hybrid had suggested would happen.

[ooc - it's a lot of writing because their language is annoying to translate into something us lowly humans can read ;) but their conversation didn't actually take that long if you say want to throw something at them in the next 5mins, alternately they will quite happily stay like that for the entire hour or however long before the next shift comes back if they're not disturbed, I'm not sure what happened on the flight over aside from Nightshade killing a couple of the other Martians/hybrids/whatever was on there if fights broke out as I think they would have so not sure what the relationship between them and the other survivors is like :)]