[MA]

the story of a slig stuck between beating or denial, and haunted by his past.

GLORY SLIG

PART ONE: CLEANING THE MIND.

Written by: ‘Mollucks assistant’

PROLOGUE:

This is a story about a slig who is not sure who he quite is. Torn between beating or denial, neither seems to be a good prospect. He is not a ‘super slig’, does not possess some great power, he is just a slig faced with the grim prospect of having to live in this Oddworld. And having been through enough hardship already, his mind is in no fit, stable state. This is the gritty story of the rise of a hero, an Oddworld hero, the true story of how Oddworld heroes are made, no obscenity covered, no horror blurred, no pain numbed. This is how hard it really is, for the body, the mind…and the soul. Abe would have followed a similar journey, but it’s not my place to say if it was as hard as or harder than this tale. So if you’re looking for a romance story, this ain’t one. But if you’re looking for adult reading, in true Oddworld style, this is the one for you. Anyway, enough blabbing.

STRONG LANGUAGE & VIOLENCE THROUGHOUT STORY

CHAPTER 1

HOME

‘Nox’ is what was written in black pen on the peeling white label of his green locker. Along with ‘Slig Barracks - area 394’. Standard slig issue rifle propped up against the plaster wall. Butt end on the cold concrete floor. Expressionless, dirty white walls, every so often treating the eye to red brickwork through crumbled plastering. A green sleeping bag nailed to the wall and trailing onto the floor was to the right of the rifle, boxing the gun in between itself, and the tall, metal locker. The room was long and narrow with a single thin window at the one end, and a closed metal door at the other. It was full of occupants that were all sleeping in the sleeping bags lined across the two longer walls, all sligs without their mechanical legs on, of course, and all sleeping. All of them had the same setup as Nox’s locker, patterned against the two longer walls would be locker, sleeping bag, locker, sleeping bag (the sligs could put their guns where ever they pleased so long as they didn’t lose them). But despite having 28 out of 30 occupants in the room (2 were on night shift) including Nox, it was still cold and morning light was beginning to creep through the window at the end of the room in dusty rays. A loud 2 second buzzer blared from two speakers hiding in the corners of the room, and sleeping bags rustled and convulsed.

Nox crawled out of his sleeping bag and over to his locker. So did other sligs but in their own time. He pulled out his folded mechanical legs, unfolded the legs and got into them. The familiar feel of cold steel against his tail and stomach was always something to wince at, first thing at 06:00 am. He pulled up the small metal ball on the front of his mechanical legs to lock himself into them, the stabiliser. He picked up his rifle and a box of bullets from his readily open locker and opened the breech on the side of the gun, fully loaded.

“Shit”, he muttered.

He had forgotten to unload his rifle again. All guns were meant to be fully unloaded after lights out (if you weren’t on the night shift) for numerous reasons including renegade sligs and escaped mudokons getting hold of them. This was a blatant law one of the junior glukkons had stated word for word, after discussion with General Dripick of course. It was an offence punishable by court marshal and if found guilty, the firing squad. And hey, why not? They had enough sligs to go round. Why, this is Slig Barracks! World famous for the production of sligs.

All standard issue slig rifles were able to have 12 rifle bullets packed into them when fully loaded, and functioned like a semi-automatic. Nox shook the rifle bullet box listening to how many were inside. By the way it sounded, there must have been about 50 bullets left out of the original 200 rifle bullets. So he put the box in a metal pocket hatch on the hip of his mechanical legs, then pulled out another box of rifle bullets from the locker, these being brand new and full, and put them in his pocket as well.

“You never know what’s gonna’ hit ya’ next”, he muttered to himself rather sub-consciously.

“What?” said a slig behind him.

Nox turned to see who he was talking to whilst still putting the new box of rifle bullets into his pocket. Realising who the slig was (a friend), he replied,

“Oh, alright Dran”.

“What?” barked the slig called Dran, cocking his head in annoyance to try and hear better.

“I said, hello” Nox said louder. A couple of sligs were watching in amusement whilst getting changed.

Nox turned back to his locker and slammed it shut. He held his rifle in two hands in a relaxed state, waiting for the other 27 sligs in the bunker to finish getting ready (due to regulations in Slig Barracks, before anyone could leave their bunker, they had to wait until everyone was ready, to avoid un-armed sligs with no mechanical legs being attacked by mudokons or renegade sligs when everyone left the room, which Nox knew would never happen anyway). Some of the sligs were already ready of coarse, and were doing the same as Nox, just thinking or maybe wiping their guns. Nox started thinking weird thoughts again, stupid thoughts…dark thoughts, and found himself thinking about Dran, the half deaf slig he had just had a one way conversation with. And about how Dran never used to be half deaf and nearly senile.

He was 18 years old, and the average life expectancy of a slig was 20 years, if older they would most definitely be senile, or physically incapacitated. He started thinking of Dran with a huge ear-horn, that big it dragged on the ground, that big it could also be used as a bed. Silly thoughts again, thought Nox in his thoughts. Thought things in his thoughts. Thinking of Dran and his amazing listening-bed. Thinking of Dran 5 years ago when he was more fresh-faced and Nox was 5 years of age (sligs are born adult and mature, the only way age would matter with sligs is in experience), and how they served together in the ‘Dripick - Maylon’ war, how Dran was an experienced strong slig back then, and how he saved Nox’s arse quite a few times. Nothing heroic of course for Odd’s sake! He was still a slig, and they have one priority over all other priorities, them selves. No loyalty i’m afraid, maybe a quick flash of thought to save someone in a not-very-tight situation so they have the advantage of numbers, but never just to let them live. Thus is the slig way. Dran was a slig then, is now, and will be for a while longer…but not too long.

Most sligs were ready now, and were making for the door. The remaining sligs (about 5) were only loading up their rifles, and they were all in mechanical legs. Dran felt a blast of cold air and turned to his right to see that the door was open and the sligs were squeezing out, grouped around the door frame. He joined them and once outside after a bit of pushing he could see the sky, which had a green tinge to it around and close to Slig Barracks territory, but not directly above…that, my boy, was unspoilt.

Getting quite light now, he thought, and checked his watch. 06:13 am, unlucky number. Very unlucky indeed. Maybe you’ll get shot…maybe you’ll fall off the high, metal walkways…maybe even get outnumbered and cornered by mudoko- shut the hell up! He thought to himself. Whilst he was thinking stupid thoughts he was getting in the way of everyone else coming out of the bunker, #0049 bunker to be precise. One of many bunkers, all in a long line stretching the entire width of the Slig Barracks territory…about 17 miles. The bunkers were sturdy and had the same white plaster-work on the out side walls as it did on the inside walls. The outside had yellow stains stretching from cracks in the plaster though, due to it being open to the elements. And the bunker number was sprayed in black paint, using a number stencil, by the door, the number being about two foot in size, so it was noticeable from a distance. Everything, as usual, was about 50 feet from Oddworld’s surface, including the bunkers and some other buildings, all supported by many thick metal pylons, and below them (under the metal walkways) was the thousands of ragged and messy tents, all sprawling over each other, they were mostly for the mudokons to sleep in, but some unlucky sligs had to use them from time to time, mainly whilst doing the night shift.

The only safety you had on the busy walkways that webbed all over Slig Barracks, was a few metal railings, short enough to lean over, like outside of the slig bunkers come to think of it, because sligs were always crowded outside the bunkers when leaving them in the morning at around 06:00, and entering them at 10:00 pm. Seeing as they were the core working hours for sligs in Slig Barracks (unless it was your turn to do the night shift, which was usually about 2 sligs per bunker, per night. And they would have to guard the area given to them that night, until they heard the buzzer at 06:00 am, at which point they could retire to their bunkers for sleep while other sligs woke up and left for the day shift. They would have until 12:00 pm (afternoon), at which point the buzzer would ring a second time, waking up the sligs for work and a late breakfast, and also telling the day shift sligs it was dinner half hour). That’s why he couldn’t stand there thinking unnecessary thoughts, there was no room! And other sligs were getting a bit pissed off with Nox.

A slig who he couldn’t see from behind the crowd exclaimed, “Who’s pissin’ standin’ around, I wanna get to the café before that…” his words were lost in the rising noise the sligs were making to try and get out.

Nox heard this remark above the other sligs dull droning chatter, but didn’t bother with it. It was 06:15 am and the café (one of many in Slig Barracks, the only source of food) closed at half past, he wanted some breakfast. He started to walk down the walkway to a junction (a small metal room placed over walkways when their is a staircase, or a secondary walkway joining onto the original walkway. They never had any lights, but they were not meant for staying in anyway), it wasn’t far off as the walkway he was on had split off from the chaotic walkway he was standing on just a moment ago, that linked all the slig bunkers together. But this meant that it was no longer a busy walkway and therefore had no metal railings. All the metal walkways were quite wide anyway, about 5 foot wide. But if you fell…pushed, drunk or otherwise, that was it. No chance whatsoever. Just the height of the drop would kill you, or if not that, there was a good chance you would, not get impaled, but hit the thick timber poles for the many tents below and certainly break something important like your neck, spine or maybe your head. But Slig Barracks have got better things to be investing their moolah in, rather than metal railings! Have you seen the price of them in bulk order?!?

He reached the junction soon enough, and took the right turning walkway, as opposed to going left or straight on. When he walked back out of the junction, it was a straight walk to the café, and not far off either. Nox noticed it was getting lighter now, not afternoon bright light, but rising sun light, and Nox could smell grilled scrab meat too.
He walked in through the metal door, which closed itself behind him, and up to the greasy, metal counter. A mudokon was standing behind the counter (no cash machine as all food in Slig Barracks was paid for), looking bored with a pen in his left hand. Two mudokons worked a few feet behind him, there backs to everyone, cooking over an old, banged up red gas cooker. It was obviously filthy and covered in black grime.

“Yeah, I’ll have two of those fried fleeches and a good cut of scrab meat - rare, with a cup ‘o tea, two sugars and milk”. Nox said sharply to the mudokon.

He didn’t think it right to mistreat mudokons, and would go as far as to say that they shouldn’t be enslaved, which is true. Some sligs love it, others say that they volunteer to work in industry, which was obviously a pile of shit, but rarely you would find a slig that believes that they don’t deserve any of this. They usually kept quiet about it.

The mudokon scribbled it down nervously onto a small pad, which he ripped the leaf off and without a word gave it to the two mudokons behind him, then resuming his bored look. Nox had already sat down at one of the fixed-to-the-floor small round tables. Greasy, he thought. Everything in this bloody café is greasy. He put his rifle on the table, and relaxed. Checking his watch, 06:21 am, he noticed a slig was in the corner to the right of the door, he had finished his breakfast judging by the empty plate on the black and white chequered table, and was reading the only newspaper you could get at Slig Barracks, The Daily Deception. The front page portrayed a black & white picture of a slig wearing a top hat and waistcoat, holding a cane. ‘VALET GETS SERIOUS! Business troubles for Valet!’ was the title, but Nox remembered yesterdays front page of The Daily Deception, it read ‘MUDOKON TERRORIST ON THE RUN! Molluck looses control of his own employee’s!’. ‘Employee’s’ is a nice way to put it, Nox had pondered, but no point thinking of news-gone-by! Today’s a new day! A fresh start! Turn over a new leaf in this big, shit hole of a Barracks! And read about your favourite slig, Valet!

“Ugghhh!” Nox groaned bitterly.

Does every slig have this stupid sadistic voice in their head?! Just to the left of him, closest to the door was the TV. A small, black, portable TV that was currently tuned into a program called ‘name that trauma!’ with the slig called Valet as the host. The TV was hung on brackets near the ceiling.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Nox grumbled, admitting he hated this show and its host and got up to turn the TV over.

“No ya’ not” the slig reading the paper said abruptly.

Nox stopped and looked at him,

“Your reading the paper! You ain’t watchin’ this as well!” and Nox continued to walk towards the TV.

The slig closed and folded the paper, putting it calmly down on his table. Nox could see out of the corner of his eye that the counter mudokon was watching uneasily, but the cooks hadn’t noticed. He reached the TV and pressed one of the small black buttons, turning the channel over to M.O.M. (Magog on the march, a news programme). Come on tough guy, Nox thought grimly about the slig he had just annoyed. If he comes at ya’, give him a right hook in the face, then left jab in the stomach, and if he doubles over, knee ’im in the fucking face!! Yeah, yeah that’s right! You do ’im, you do ’im over good! Nox shook his head to rid these persistent black thoughts. He turned to go and sit back down, his back now to the slig. He heard the scrape of one of the old wooden chairs against the tiled floor, and Nox spun round to see the slig glancing at Nox’s arm, and making a hurried exit, slamming the door behind him.

Nox sat back down. Right hook in the face, left jab in the stomach…what a coward, eh?! What a wimp, you would o’ wiped the floor with him my son! You’d a took- Nox interrupted his thoughts by looking at whatever that slig had seen on his arm to make him leave. Oh, of course, a painful memory. Or memories. It was a tattoo of the letters ‘D’ & ‘M’ entwined together. It stood for Dripick & Maylon, two glukkons that started a war with each other over misunderstandings, broken allied trade route laws, and illegal procedures in ‘acts of war’ to put it simply.

Dripick was, of coarse, the boss/General Glukkon of Slig Barracks, and still was. Maylon, on the other hand, was a junior Glukkon. He ended up owning his very own Barracks through default when his father (who had adopted the Glukkon when he was young) died in an accidental explosion in one of the ammo dumps that were there. Due to his inexperience, he misunderstood Dripick’s plans of trade with them and assumed that they were hostile actions. Against his advisors wills, he stubbornly believed that General Dripick was trying to steal his fathers Barracks, and was going to send forces to intercept one of Maylon’s main trade routes. With his fathers death still fresh in his mind, logical tactics and thinking went out the window as the young Glukkon declared open war upon General Dripick’s Slig Barracks. No emergency meetings were called between the Magog Cartel and all its members (including Maylon and Dripick) as they literally did not realise what was happening yet, seeing as the actions were so swift, and the Magog Cartel were still overwhelmed in paperwork from Maylon’s father’s sudden death and the secret debts that had been festering within his account (millions of Moolah). Dripick, after hours of heated debate with his fellow advisor Glukkons, confirming that every route to avoid open war with Maylon was non-existent, and that the Magog Cartel would not be able to respond in time and call an emergency meeting if informed, so they saw no other alternative but to resort to conflict with Maylon, who had already dispatched slig forces. And by the time the Magog Cartel found out, it had already begun and there was no way out of the situation…legally. The war lasted for 3 years, Dripick, inevitably, triumphant, and Maylon was more than defeated, more than imprisoned for breach of Magog Cartel government procedures, Maylon was dead. But this war is a story for another time…

All sligs and other forces that were on the side of General Dripick’s Slig Barracks that fought in the war were declared war veterans, and given a tattoo, on the fore-arm, of the two entwining letters ‘M’ & ‘D’. Medals were not awarded to sligs, whenever they received a militaristic promotion or award, they had a symbol that represented it, and had it tattooed onto them (just a tattoo version of medals, pips or stripes).

This is the war he and Dran had fought in, of coarse. And only a few surviving D&M veterans were still alive in Slig Barracks, others had been killed in the war, killed in the line of duty after the war, or just died of old age. But nothing was ever mentioned of the suicide rate of these M & D veterans immediately after the war…

The spoils of war come at a price my friend…horrors…horrors my dear fellow. And you could say you got more than your fair share of horrors…more horrors than spoils, eh? Oh yeah…you got more than you bargained for didn’t ya’! eh?…eh!…EH!!

“FUCK!” Nox slammed his fists down on the table, and being quite a burly war veteran, scared the shit out of the mudokon just about to give him his plate of food.

The mudokon stood still, eyes wide, holding the plate.

“Just gimme’ the Odd damn food” Nox said wearily.

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what does anyone reckon so far? i can always change it for the better with a bit of constructive criticism, or quereies.