[Splat]

Sorry, I'm being really slow with updates recently. Dionysia's section didn't go very well, so I'm trying hard to make Stivik's better. It's hard!
But I'm trying, I'm trying. Remember, a long wait means quality!
Basically, when I started writing last year I knew what would happen in these sections, but not how it would happen, but back then I had ages to work it out.
This, unfortunately, hasn't really happened, so I'm left making bits up as I go along.
Mod Survivor Island has ended now, as has Uni, but I'm getting a big heap of real life suddenly, plus I'm spending more and more of my writing time on *shudder* original fiction
However, work recently resumed on this chapter and after much thought last night I came up with a good ending that forwarded the plot well. So some of this is babble but some of it is quality, plot-worthy stuff! I don't want to fall into the trap of filling every chapter with filler babble like I did all those years ago with 'Splat', so I'm taking time to work this out.

And here it is at last!
It has tigers! (well actually it doesn't but never mind...)

Chapter 25

Stivik carried a small, flat black box around with him at all times, dangling from a clip on his belt beside the penknife he had used on the beast the day Tilic had been caught, and a pair of electronically fused grenades (a step up from the smoke grenades he used to carry). Unless one looked closely the box could be mistaken for part of his pants. Anyone who asked Stivik about it would be told ‘It’s some air sensor thing. Some vykkers offered to pay me a few moolah a month to carry it around with me.’

The box was made to be unobtrusive. If one looked very closely they would see that the front was actually a fine wire mesh. Almost unnoticeably, one of the shorter sides was in fact a button that Stivik could easily press without being seen to do so.

On this occasion he was scratching his side and his finger nudged the button. “So you think the boss isn’t trustworthy?”

“Trustworthy, huh!” Grunted the slig, a high-ranking big-bro named Four, “You know anything about this guy? He worms his way into the trust of a bunch of other gluks, steals their ideas and makes ‘em pay to keep doing what they’ve always been doing.” He spat on the floor, “Trustworthy as my ass!”

Choosing not to continue discussing Four’s ass, Stivik feigned concern and asked, “What he like paying us then?”

“Oh, pay’s fine; never cheats us, but you wait till you see him sneaking about. Makes me as uncomfortable as hell. He’s trouble; if it wasn’t for the good pay I wouldn’t still be working here.”

“I heard he’s just worried about people trying to kill him.”

“Like anyone would! For one thing security’s so tight no one could sneak in, and he only picks sligs he trusts, and there are rumours that some of the sligs working here now are assassins who got jobs here to kill him until they realised he paid more than they were earning before!” He guffawed enormously at his own wit. Four was not that popular amongst the other sligs. He had an IQ lower than his pants-size, the temper of a bull scrab, and about the same grasp of language. “Plus apparently if he died the rites to what he makes here would go to the Cartel, and they would probably charge even more than he does.” That seemed likely to Stivik, and it explained why people would spread rumours to discredit him, rather than taking the more satisfying route of good, honest murder. “But he still sneaks about like he’s hiding something. I dunno; I don’t trust him even if he does pay well.”

Stivik nodded as Four lit a lungbuster and leant back against the wall. Realising he wasn’t going to get any more information out of this slig, Stivik carefully pressed the button on the box again, “Well I better get going; I’m supposed to patrol all this zulag in the next half an hour. See you around.” He told the big-bro and left.

In the three days he’d been here he had heard nothing to suggest any truth behind the claims against Bescher, beyond the unproven suspicions of a few of the less intelligent employees. However, it was not impossible that Bescher had managed to keep his activities secret from the brunt of his workforce, and only a select few employees would know anything about it. None of the sligs Stivik had really met so far seemed likely to be helping aid terrorism, willingly or not, but sometimes you couldn’t tell.

Walking across a catwalk overlooking a production line, Stivik eyed the mudokons below, working at the machines, bent over so their backs were to him. That way they wouldn’t know if they were being watched, and most muds wouldn’t dare turn around to check.

All in all this place seemed mostly normal; muds worked, stuff got shipped out and sold, enough moolah came back to pay for supplies and the worker’s salaries. Bescher collected a lot for himself and spent most of his earnings on tightening security.

That was the odd thing about this place. It was like looking at a picture where everything is just the wrong size, so it seems ok at face value, but subconsciously it makes you uncomfortable. There was just that touch too much security here; a few too many sligs compared to the number of muds, lots of guns but not much ammo, electric walls where sliding doors would be more suitable. It was small things, but it made a person feel uneasy; you were constantly on edge, sharing in Bescher’s paranoia; you felt like you were being watched everywhere, which was particularly irritating for Stivik since he was supposed to be spying and was meant to report to the Organisation at least every two days.

Instantly upon that thought he did an instinctual sweep of the area, looking out for security cameras, or perhaps for chinks in the room’s security; he wasn’t sure which.

What he did see made him raise his gun and yell, “Hey, what are you doing up here, Mud?” There was a mudokon on the catwalk! And, oddly, its skin was very dark, which might explain why he hadn’t noticed it before.

“I work up here Slug,” It drawled, casually and deliberately ignoring his threat. He realised then that it was female; damn, probably the experiment he’d been warned against. “You might want to check with your boss before waving that thing around,” She said, lazily gesturing at his gun.

Stivik turned him expression into a sneer, “Oh, you’re the experiment the vykkers dumped here!”

She looked down at him with content, and he noted that she was a few inches taller than the average mudokon, “No.” She said brusquely, “I’m the experiment my vykkers have charged your boss to look after, and he wouldn’t be happy to here any slig had been bothering me.”

She turned and swaggered back the way she had come. Stivik watched her go, thinking black thoughts.

A slap on the back brought him back to reality and he half swung round before realising it was just Chakke. “Hey Stivik, just met the High Queen of Mudos?” He sniggered.

“What, that mud?” Chakke’s expression taunted his temper, “S’nothing a bullet to the head wouldn’t fix for her if I got the chance.”

“Huh, don’t bet on that. If there was a chance to finish her off without the boss knowing you’d have every other slig in this place to compete with, plus a few sligs from other places she’s been I’d bet!”

“Oh? You seem to know a lot about her.”

“What I hear from the others, the vykkers move her around a lot. I bet Bescher will be happier when she’s gone!”

Chakke didn’t seem to worry about the tighter security in this place, or maybe he’d gotten used to it. He was loud, not someone you’d trust with a secret. But on the other hand he could be taken as he looked; he didn’t hide anything about himself, probably because he was so bad at keeping anything quiet, which put Stivik at ease around him.

“Oh? I heard she’d cheeked him or something.”

“Huh. She’s supposed to be here to keep out terrorists or something, but all she does is slink around on her own, annoying the sligs and upsetting the muds. I don’t think she’s done anything useful since the day she came.”

“That’s what happens with muds isn’t it; put ‘em above the law and they become useless.”

Chakke shrugged, “Maybe. I mean they get on ok outside, but in here they’re just trouble-makers, you’re right. You working the rest of today?”

Stivik glanced up at a clock on the wall, “I finish in ten minutes and have the rest of the day off. I’ll probably catch up on some sleep and then go to the bar.”

Chakke nodded, “Might catch you tonight then. I should get going or one of the big-bros will be after me for not doing their work for them.” He grinned and then hurried away.

Stivik finished his patrol, not meeting the mud again, and then headed to the bunks. They were empty at the moment so he sat himself within view of the door, unclipped the box from his pants and flipped open a panel on the back, revealing four flat buttons and three tiny red bulbs, both currently unlit. He pressed the button on the side and, holding the thing close to his mouth, spoke quietly, “Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two. I still haven’t heard any long-term employees repeating the rumours about Bescher that are circulating in the cities. Most of the employees here don’t think he’s dangerous; a few have other thoughts but most, such as the big-bro I spoke to last today, aren’t reliable sources.” In non-spy terms, that meant they were stupider than a slog on laughing gas.

“The factory runs smoothly and what I’ve seen of the accounts seem sound, though Bescher spends a lot on security; money could be leaking from there.” He’d already told them how close security was here. “Some vykkers are keeping a prototype experiment here-” It occurred to him for the first time that he didn’t know the black mud’s name; he could hardly call her the High Queen of Mudos in the official report. He decided to blag it and find out her name as soon as possible in case she turned out to be significant, “A black-skinned female mudokon, information on which should be available on the factory’s records, and if not we should investigate why. She is apparently intended for anti-terrorist security, though this prototype doesn’t seem to do much more than cause Bescher trouble. It seems suspicious that they should attempt using mudokons to fight mudokons.” The Organisation knew about his dislike of vykkers and he didn’t want them to think he was prejudiced in his work, so he didn’t mention them specifically.

“I haven’t yet gotten close to Bescher, though from what I’ve heard, talking with him seems to be out of the question. His office is well-protected with mostly automated security. I shall continue to interview employees and attempt to get closer to him, and also keep an eye on the experiment. Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two concludes.”

He pressed the button on the side again, and then one of the concealed buttons on the back. A bulb lit up to confirm that the day’s recording was being sent, and he closed the back panel and reattached the box to his pants before settling down for an hour’s sleep.

* * *

As scouts, Stivik’s pack had taken shifts when it came to drinking; whenever they pulled out the beers two of them would always stay sober in case a situation arose where a perfectly clear head was needed to keep them all alive.

Like so much else from that old life, what had begun as survival tactics had become an inescapable habit. Stivik found he could never drink much when he was around other people drinking. When he was alone, fine, or when he was around other people who weren’t drinking, but in a bar like this where everyone else was waving sobriety a heartfelt farewell he could empty a glass and then lost the flow. In a scrab-infested forest it was useful, but in a social situation, particularly one where he really wanted to drink himself silly, it was a pain.

Glass number 2 had been sitting invisibly in a corner front of him for nearly an hour, almost untouched, while the room got gradually smokier and more crowded. He was good at avoiding notice, or at least repelling company, and he seemed to do it more and more with every passing month. Now though, he drained the glass as best he could, stood up and lumbered over to the bar where a couple of sligs who he was vaguely familiar with were talking and joking.

“Hey,” He grunted, “I met that black mud for the first time today.”

“Oh yeah? She try and bite your tentacles off?” The sligs laughed.

Stivik sat down beside them. “Muds for security; it’s crazy!”

“You tell the vykkers! All vykkers are mad like that!”

“You’d have to be to make a mud act so much like Skillya,” Stivik said, trying to keep the conversation on his track. The other sligs were a little drunk, but not too far gone, so he didn’t want to be too obvious about it.

The other sligs seemed to have decided not to pursue the topic however, and went back to their old conversation. Stivik sat beside them, bored and annoyed, feeling the first tickling effects of the two glasses of beer in the back of his head. He recalled watching Tilic drink glass after glass until his head flopped onto the bar, and decided to buy another beer. Another hour later and his head was beginning to feel heavy when a slap on the back brought him back to dire reality.

“Hey Stivik.” It was Chakke again.

‘Odd, can’t you see I’m trying to drink myself to oblivion here?’ “Hey, how were the big-bros?”

Chakke chuckled, “Easy shift, nothing much happened. By the way, you know they don’t let you sleep in here, and I’m not carrying you back to the bunks!”

Stivik muttered a curse.

“Cheer up Stivik, you get a morning off tomorrow and you’re going to enjoy it, lying in bed totally wrecked, while the other sligs bang about getting ready for their early shifts.”

Stivik swore again. At length he spoke, “The black mud, what was her name?”

“What, you still thinking about her? She’s like that with everyone.”

“But what was her name?” Stivik had a vague feeling he ought to be more subtle than this, but by Odd he couldn’t be bothered.

Chakke, however, assumed Stivik was just drunk (which in actual fact he really was). “Ugh, it was something stupidly long. Dine- Dionizzi, or something like that.”

Stivik grunted, “Odd, I should probably go to bed.”

“Have one more first; it’ll guarantee you’ll sleep through the night.”

Stivik nodded and signalled to the slig behind the bar. Somehow or other he found himself paying for Chakke’s drink as well as his own, but he didn’t seem to care at the time.

* * *

One remorseful morning and several days later found Stivik patrolling over the production lines late one evening. The last few days he had done little more of his real job that question a few sligs, but he was working hard to hopefully earn a good reputation with the management.

Time drew on and the mudokons’ shift ended and Stivik and the other sligs herded them off to their bunks before returning to their patrol areas; the late shift didn’t end until an hour after the mudokons had turned in. He was walking over a catwalk over the silent production lines when he saw the black mud leaning against the rail, looking down.

He hadn’t spoken to her since their first clash, but he’d seen her a few times and earlier that day he had seen her walking past with an unfamiliar vykker – one of her creators, he’d assumed.

It was strange seeing her standing there in the darkened room with her near-black skin. She looked very… solitary, like she blended into the scene but didn’t quite fit, she wasn’t apart of this world.

And then he found himself leaning against the rail beside her, lighting a cigarette. “What do you do actually do here?” He asked, “I mean other than annoy the sligs.”

She didn’t look at him, “What do you do here, other than sleep, drink and smoke?” She hissed.

He smiled, looking out over the machines below, “I’m serious; why do vykkers think mudokons would be useful for security? I mean they’ve given us a million and one machines, so why mudokons as well?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn to give him a scything look, “'Cus a machine is obvious. A terrorist breaks in here or one of the muds tries something and yeah, I’ll go along, up until I push them into a trap or set off an alarm. I’m not one of them.”

Stivik blew out a trail of smoke, “See when you put it like that it actually sounds like a good idea. You exist to betray your own race!”

“I’m loyal to the Cartel!”

A voice in the back of his head scoffed; yeah, and meeps were vicious predators! “Don’t think I’ve ever heard a mud say that before.”

She swore at him in sliggish, making a noise in the back of her throat so accurate to how a slig would sound that Stivik glanced over his shoulder to see if another slig was there and had said the curse.

“Odd, you’re just like every other slig aren’t you? You’re all so stupid!”

Stivik shrugged, “Find me someone who isn’t. Doesn’t matter what you are, ya don’t need brains to do a factory job.”

“Oh, and what were you when not in a factory?”

He grinned at her, “Wow, you’re smart for a stupid person. What’s your name?”

She glared at him, and suspicion edged into her voice when she answered, “Dee-En-Ess-7-Vee-4.”

He grunted a laugh, “I said name, not licence-plate.”

Another glare, “My name is Dionysia.” She said shortly.

“Odd, you were named by vykkers, weren’t you!”

She swore at him again and he laughed and walked away.

He was just heading through the door off of the catwalk when she yelled, “Hey!”

He glanced over his shoulder, “6-7-3-2-2. Usually call myself Stivik though. It’s sliggish; I was named by vykkers too.” He left her standing there.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Dionysia's not a mudokon and she's not a slig; she doesn't fit anywhere, which might have something to do with her attitude.
Stivik's an industrial used to the Great Outdoors; he doesn't fit in either, which does have something to do with his attitude.

This is Significant.