Uhm. Okay, so, here's the explaination to Vula's ankle problem. I've decided not to shorten the chapters, as they are already in sections. If you need to come back to it, just find out what section you're in and try that. It's hard for me to condense chapters. >:
A change of scenery will take place in the next chapter. Pox is a very important character as well, even though he only pops up a few times in this story.
Oh, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask. :3
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Battle For Mudos
By Lacy Hemsmire
Chapter Two
A day passed. The Mudokon was awakened by the alarm blaring in her ears and a handful of sligs urging them onward. Her ankles hurt terribly and she would've given anything to have them taken care of. It took awhile before anyone seemed to notice her silent agony. Many of the other Mudokons frowned at her as she passed, but did nothing to help her. And she knew why.
"Hey, Vula," someone grunted.
"Yeah?" she asked, leaning up against the wall as she fought for her balance.
"What'd they do to you?"
"I think they broke my ...my ankles. It hurts."
"Better not let 'em see you cry, or you know what'll happen."
Vula knew all too well. She had heard a story of one Mud on the lower levels who had broken his shoulder. He had begged his overseeing slig to let him go to the infirmary. This resulted in his other shoulder broken. Then he disappeared. Vula didn't want to complain to anyone.
She stumbled out of the quarters, past the stockyards. Scrabs and paramites had always fascinated her - in some mysterious, instinctive way, as though there were some innate knowledge far beyond her normal perception. She suspected the others felt this way, but many of them were forced to forget. Like the domesticated slog forgot its wild ancestors, and the stockyards were full of animals that had long forgotten their past. She suspected that even sligs had once lived in the wild.
But each step brought her pain enough to snap her into reality. Logic reminded her of many things. Broken bones did happen, and if the break was not severe - or merely a fracture - use of it was still possible. Her ankles looked terrible, more swollen than normal, and bruised a dark purple. They wouldn't waste money on a cast for her - she just had to hope that they would put her to work that didn't involve great use of her legs.
Surprisingly, it seemed her punishment had ended. According to her schedule, she was assigned to scrubbing floors all that week. And wonderfully enough, most of those places were accessible by ball car. She'd have to stand, but it was better than walking. She heaved a sigh of relief. As long as she was careful, then perhaps her ankles would not suffer.
During that week, she focused on her tasks. Perhaps the sligs were not interested in her. Her ankles were broken, she couldn't run, but she could still work. The slig assigned to her post was one she didn't recognize. He seemed too interested in his own weapon to bother with her. She and the Mudokon nearby simply did not speak and tried to make themselves as invisible as possible.
Sometime near the end of the week, it seemed that all was going well again. She was escorted by a slig to what seemed to be the infirmary. Having never been there herself, she was really nervous at the sight of the Vykker working in the office - and the massive tools she'd used. But he merely examined her ankles.
"Hmmm...the lateral malleolus has be.. er.. Only one is fractured, the other one sprained," he said slowly - or she. One could never tell with Vykkers.
He began fishing through a drawer, and produced what seemed to be a collection of leather straps.
"Just wrap this around your ankle like so," he said, not really teaching her how to do it. "It'll hold the ankle in place. As for the other one, just stretch and rotate it before bed and it should heal properly in a week or two."
There was no true checkup. She was in an out within ten minutes. Had she been free, she might've undergone physical therapy. But a trip to a doctor was better than nothing at all. The strap was tight on her ankle, but it helped considerably. After two weeks, she removed it completely.
Once she was able to fully walk on her no-longer-broken ankle, she was sent to her regular duties - which included a rather delayed punishement: cleaning out one of the large meat grinders.
As she worked, Vula was very careful. She was well used to washing and sanitizing the grinders. It was much too big and too heavy to pull apart by herself, so she had to climb up on top of it and wash out the tray with mops. It was terrifying work, for sligs lay scattered within eyesight, most of them snoozing. As long as she was quiet, and didn't bother them, they didn't pull the lever that would activate it while she was inside. If they did, she'd be ground up and sold without hesitation. 'Work-related accidents', they were called.
Lucky for Vula, the sligs that usually guarded this area were very lazy, as this was a remote place within the building and rarely did anyone come back here. The sligs didn't want to bother with picking on one Mudokon. While she was a troublemaker, it wasn't often that she concocted such a scheme. Otherwise, she was a decent worker. Fat lot of good the work did her, as she was still picked on and pushed around by the sligs and occasionally hit by something. But now that Vula had something to work for, she hardly put up a fight. Besides, work was better than pain and boredom.
As long as she did her work, Vula knew that unless there was an accident, the Glukkons wouldn't have her head. She finished scrubbing out the tray and set about hosing out the inside of the gigantic meat grinder. She was in between levels - some ten feet above her was the platform the sligs were resting on. Generally, when she finished, she could either climb up the ladder to the platform and quietly pass the snoozing sligs, or she would climb down and leave that way - today Vula would have to climb down and head to the lower levels.
The hose was loud and the water was hot - steam was pouring up through the top of the grinding chamber and she had to step back to avoid the spray. The water had to be hot and of very high pressure - otherwise it could not be cleaned properly. The grinder was very powerful and could handle massive amounts of meat - bone and all - with little problems. This one had been shut down temporarily because something had gotten stuck. It was no mystery - most likely some clumsy Mudokon slave had fallen in. Vula frowned as the stuck piece - the half crushed Mudokon skull - rolled out into the bottom tray and behind it, the rest of the leftover scraps. She was far too used to this and there was no time to ponder its source.
Vula emptied the bottom collective tray - skull and all - into the scrap bin. This was dirty work, as it required several to do. Being alone (as punishment), she had to empty it out via buckets. It took over an hour and when she'd finished she had to scrub it out. When she finished at last, wiped her forehead off and walked around to the back of the grinder. There was an intercom there, with a microphone and several buttons. She pressed a combination of numbers - which would direct her call to a higher floor above the grinder, and grabbed the microphone.
"#73 here - grinder's all cleaned out now and I'm turning it on," she panted. There was no point in using her name. Sligs and Glukkons were the only creatures deserving of names. Among the Mudokons, names were common, but rarely did they inform anyone else what this name was. It would never be acknowledged. Under some extreme conditions, names were used - such as when the Mud known as 'Abe' escaped. Most of the Mudokons called him Abe - even the sligs stopped calling him by his number. Abe was just easier to say.
A slig voice answered on the other end, but it was unfamiliar. "Right," it said almost expressionlessly, and hung up. Vula switched on the machine and it warmed up in time for the conveyor belt above to restart. Soon large slabs of meat and bone began to drop into the loud, rumbling grinder, before it was emptied into the bottom tray and carried out along a separate conveyor belt, where it continued the cycle to be packaged. There was no slowing in production - there were at least eight to ten of these grinders stationed, throughout the complex, one of which was always shut down for maintinence.
Vula could not rest yet, even though she now smelled like rotten meat. She left and headed for her next assignment - floor waxing. After Abe had vanished, it was added onto Vula's ever-increasing list of chores. Usually she went where she was called for the day, but this was one of those default chores. She didn't like it - she wasn't very good at it and usually ended up slipping after she was finished. This chore took her far up close to the boardroom. Unlike Abe, whom she had heard really loved his job - Vula loathed waxing the floor. It was much too close to the Glukkons.
Vula feared going towards the boardroom. It meant going to the place where Abe was last seen - where he had vanished, likely mashed up into dinner and served up by now. As she polished the floor, she studied her own reflection in the floor. She resembled her brothers save for the small difference only noticeable if one really looked. In fact - no one could really tell she was female. There were very few females that she knew. Stories were passed about, in whispers, and even occasional curious glances were cast at her.
Vula had the vaguest of feminine features. Her hips were slightly wider than most of the other Mudokons, and her "breasts", if that was what one would call them, were hardly more than slight lumps on her chest. They didn't resemble breasts and, while she occasionally covered them with an old loincloth, they weren't easy to see.. They were hardly noticeable by the sligs, whose eyesight was rather poor. But the proof lay in what was beneath her loin cloth. She never removed it around the others, just to avoid suspicion. She had enough as it was. She had the necessary equipment, but she doubted any of it actually worked.
When it came time for them to shower, she often risked not having enough time and always kept her back to everyone. They may have been siblings, but any of them would've ratted her out for his own freedom. The other Mudokons were virtually gender-neutral, and Vula didn't bother to look and see if that was true or not. They had nothing to hide, but Vula just preferred to keep to herself anyway.
At last, the floor was finished, and a terrified peek in the boardroom once the sligs weren't looking showed her that it was empty. While she was on her way to the closet to put the waxer away, one of the sligs slid across the floor and crashed into a heap on the wall. Vula scrambled to escape before it noticed.
--
"Ugh..." Drog reloaded his Blunderbuss and fired a volley of rounds at the cardboard Mudokon cutout. With this weapon, he was told it didn't exactly matter where he hit unless he had specific instructions. While he was not trained in use of the weapon, he figured out through trial and error everything he needed to know. It was basically a semi-automatic weapon, able to fire single shots as well as quick bursts and full automatic. It could be reloaded quickly and fired just as quickly, although it was rarely required. He'd been at this all day and he wondered vaguely where ammunition for these things were purchased or made.
He learned many things throughout the many days he was with his own again. First - it was every slig for himself. Second - the slig with the biggest weapon had the most power. Third - coffee and cigarettes were addictive. When he wasn't working, he followed the others to the lounge, where he fixed himself some coffee and hoarded his moolah for the only thing that mattered - a big gun. He had his eyes on something called a Magnum, which was much bigger-looking than his standard-issue Blunderbuss.
Sligs that carried these were respected. He'd spotted other, larger sligs, several times his size and built like tanks. These he avoided altogether, if he could. However, sometimes it couldn't be helped. When he encountered these steroid-pumped sligs he was either picked on or ignored altogether - either of which could end in pain for him if he was underfoot. In the employee lounge, he was left alone - attempts to join in with gambling games resulted in his loss or his removal from the game. Drog eventually gave up and pondered about the incident with the Mudokon.
He'd heard all the stories before - Mudokons came from the "Mother", whose name he did not know, but she voluntarily gave up her children to the Glukkons to be hatched as slaves. He didn't know the reasons behind it, but his instincts told him that, based on the Mudokons' rather peaceful behavior, it was likely unintentional. Drog also knew that the Mother was psychologically messed up somehow - and he could understand why. Giving up one's children and knowing their terrible fate was taxing. Except of course, to his own mother, who probably was only in it for the moolah.
It wasn't empathy that really set him apart. Most of the sligs he knew generally didn't attack the slaves unless they were angry or bored – or pressured into it by another Slig. Drog was more curious about the slaves than anything. Where did they come from? What were they like outside of slavery? What were they like in person? They were called "employees", but their slavery was the worst kept secret on Oddworld. He didn't really want to hit any of them unless he had to - maybe someday, he would understand that twinge of sick delight when he struck one. But not now.
Drog, bored with his target practice, peered around to see if any other sligs had stopped yet. Some had, and were either cleaning their weapons or leaving. One was snoozing in a corner out of view of the security cameras. Drog, eyeing the others, backed away and reloaded his weapon before starting to head outside again.
"HEY!"
The rumbling voice made him halt, a shiver starting from his tail all the way up the to the back of his neck. He jerked his head towards the source. The slig facing him was huge, and he gulped, an iron grip on his Blunderbuss. The girth of the larger slig's neck alone was at least as big as the thickest part of his own body – if not bigger. It took every ounce of will not to flee.
"You got a good arm there, Slacker."
Drog blinked. "Er... thanks... slacker?
"Slacker," the huge slig replied. "In other words, any o'you sligs with the Blunderbuss. How long ya been here?"
"A week n' three days." Drog didn't dare make eye contact.
The huge slig fell silent, and then chuckled. "Try this sucker out." And the weapon he handed to Drog was heavy - very heavy. It reminded him of a chaingun.
His arms trembled as he cradled it, and a glance told him that every other slig in the room was watching him, expressionless. He gulped, forcing himself to concentrate on the cardboard target. It resembled a machine gun with a massive barrel and was difficult for even a normal slig to hold it. The other sligs snickered as the much smaller slig struggled to hold up the weapon, and fired. The resulting volley of rounds were much larger than those from the Blunderbus and exploded upon contact with the target. But poor Drog was knocked backward into the wall from the recoil. He yelped, nearly crushed by the weapon, and lay there, stunned.
Laughter exploded throughout the room and the big bro slig snatched his weapon back.
"You got a lot of potential kid. But yer just too small!" He chuckled to himself. "Take a hike!"
While not exactly an insult, it was certainly a remark involving his age and size. But Drog didn't dare protest. He just left. It was easier if he obeyed the larger slig. He pulled himself to his feet, biting back his whimpering, and headed back towards the lounge. His thoughts finally wandered back to the Mudokon from before. He wondered vaguely how her busted ankles had fared.
So Drog decided to go look for her after his shift ended. He'd seen her around, but it was for a fleeting moment, so he decided to check one of the security offices. There was only one slig in there, snoozing. Typical. He was tired himself, and, having little sleep, the sligs caught their winks when they could. He ignored the other and studied the keyboard. There were several buttons, each wired to a camera somewhere in this particular sector.
Drog wasn't sure where he could find her, but she was around here somewhere - he knew that much. She usually wore something over her chest. He pushed the first button, near the cafeteria. Lots of Mudokons were there, some eating, some cleaning. Sligs were eating too, but his eyes, although weak, did not spot her. So he pressed another button. After several button pushes, he at last spotted someone that might've been her up near the board room. She'd just left, so he suspected she'd probably head back to her bed soon.
He slipped out of the room before the other slig took notice and decided to meet her halfway. But he did one last thing first. Drog stopped by the slog kennels. It smelled rank regardless of how clean it was kept. It was also loud - there was barking, snarling, and general volatile exchanges between them. Drool was splattered on the floor. The slogs were fed very little - their main source of food was live prey called Fuzzles. They were tossed into slog pits, and the dozens of slogs would fight over them, only the strongest getting the food he so desperately craved. The Fuzzles, looking merely like blobs of fur with eyeballs, never stood a chance. It was once believed slogs were tamed by an ancient tribe of Mudokons. But being beaten and forced to kill for food could change anyone. After harsh training, slogs knew not to attack anything without being ordered, and they were eager to do so.
But Drog was only after one particular slog. It was still on the verge of being a sloggie - a puppy - and was half the size of the adults. Out of all of them, it was the only slog that wagged its tail when Drog approached. He'd been sneaking into the kennel for a few days now, usually with a snack or some coffee for the little slog. Once, he was caught, but when he insisted he was helping the young slog get used to patrolling, the report threats were dropped. Besides, the slog was very energetic(likely due to having too much coffee) and shook a lot, so they let him deal with it. He did not feel sorry for the slog, who was probably only obedient because it got coffee, but it was better than nothing.
He grabbed a retractable lead - one used only on the youngsters for heel commands - and reached in, wrapping it around the slog's neck. The slog hopped out of the small cage, the older slogs snarling jealously as he led it outside.
He had grown quite attached to the slog, whom he had nicknamed Sooz, and it seemed likewise. Sligs and slogs both have the potential to love and care for things, but usually it is beaten out of them. That doesn't mean it couldn't be brought back - but in Sooz and Drog's cases, they were all each other had. The relationship between a slig and slog was probably the only outlet for any affection - something nobody really minded so long as you weren't caught saying sweet nothings to it and scratching its belly. The truth was, sligs generally still felt those tiny urges to nurture things - but it was something even sligs tried to clamp down. They say you can judge a slig by how he treats his slog - and being nice to a slog usually was frowned upon.
Halfway to the quarters, he stopped. Why in hell was he wasting his time on some slave when he could be getting a nap in? Unfortunately, today was not that day. Once to the doors, another slig spotted him and dragged him off to another post. Oh, how he hated his job sometimes.
Yet another week passed. Vula found that one of her original taskmasters had disappeared and she was reassigned. In fact, her entire unit had been broken up and spread out among several different sligs. This was none of her business so long as her duties did not change, and they didn't.
"Didja hear!?" one of the Muds whispered to her. "They're sayin' that ol' Lurdo disappeared!"
Oh that's right, Vula remembered. Lurdo was the head of the slig unit that watched her. She did not like him any more than she liked the other sligs, but he was generally one to ignore the slaves and nap the whole time. But she hadn't seen him in some time. Apparently, some others in her unit had, and for some reason he had turned strangely sour. He made a lot of the other sligs seem almost friendly.
"No I didn't," she replied. "What happened to him?"
"They say," another Mudokon piped in, "They've been feeding him this weird stuff, and now he's off to some special camp."
The first Mud rolled his eyes as they stumbled off to work. "Psh, probably got rid of him fer bein' too lazy."
Vula remained silent. When they reached their destination - a particularly loud place due to the fact that there were several meat grinders below them. And to her surprise, there was a vaguely familiar slig holding up a clipboard.
"A'right, check yer number an' get t' yer tasks, move it!" he grunted.
Each of the Mudokons lined up, and when it was their turn, grabbed the pen connected to the clipboard and checked off their numbers. Vula knew only two Mudokons in her group. The rest were strangers. When it was her turn to check off her number, she glanced very quickly up to the slig holding it. Yes, she knew that slig. He was still the same size as she remembered him. There were two other sligs there, neither of which were looking at her.
Drog's eyes widened behind his mask. It was that Mud from before - he knew it. It seemed that they had somehow ended up together anyway. Lurdo's usual unit was numbers 44 through 53. After Lurdo disappeared, numbers 73, 74, and 75 were moved over to his group. And it seemed #73 was in fact the Mud he'd known. He didn't know her name, and he didn't care. But at least now he could keep an eye on her without it being considered strange.
And watch her he did. There were no more changes over the next few days and during that time he observed her as she worked. At first, he'd watch her between naps. Then, it got to where he was hardly napping at all.
Vula knew this slig, but she wasn't sure how well. It was best to keep an eye on him in case he tried anything. As she worked, she would spare glances to him as he napped. The other two sligs conversed with one another between their own naps. But as the days passed the slig in question began sleeping less and less, so it was harder to watch him.
Once, after the first week, their eyes met. Vula braced herself, focusing all her efforts on mopping the floor, and hoped he wouldn't be angry. Drog fought the anger bubbling up inside of him and stormed past her, moving to the end of the area. Vula heaved a sigh of relief.
But Drog had indeed noticed a peculiar thing about the Mud. She was no longer wearing the second loincloth over her chest, and he happened to notice why. She had some peculiar lumps on her chest. They were small, hard to notice - especially for his poor eyesight. But he had noticed them, and they bugged him. Maybe she had a disease and was hiding them. Or maybe it was something else... no, it couldn't be that. He'd only seen the Mudokon queen once through a picture, when he and an academy pal had made fun of her. His jaw parted and his cigarette landed lifelessly onto the ground.
He whirled, suddenly, arm stretched out, finger pointing accusingly at Vula. "Y-you! Yer a...a..!"
Everyone stared at him.
"'Ey, shut up," a slig grunted. "Tryin' t' sleep over here!"
Vula's eyes had widened, and the other Mudokons glanced back and forth to her and Drog. Finally, Drog realized he had no idea what he was talking about.
"You okay?" the third slig asked. "You look kinda pale.."
"I'm fine!" Drog grunted. "Never mind." He huffed, "Just... shut up."
The rest of Vula's shift continued on as normal, save for Drog's odd silence and Vula's trembling. Her heart had yet to stop pounding by the time her shift ended. She'd mopped the floor so thoroughly that it actually looked clean.
Near the end of their shift, a Glukkon and a slig passed by. The Glukkon appeared to be a wanna-be. It surprised everyone that a Glukkon showed his face this far down. He was busily conversing with the slig, paying very little attention to anyone else. Vula tried to listen in, but the Glukkon spoke so strangely with the cigarette in his mouth that he was difficult to understand. Suddenly, the Glukkon whipped his head around, glaring daggers at the Mudokons, and spit. The saliva hit the floor before their feet. The Mudokons backed away respectfully, while the slig accompanying the Glukkon merely laughed.
The rest of the sligs did not. Vula grabbed the mop and swabbed the floor.
"'Is name's Pox," said Drog, who had moved in between Vula and another slig. She had no idea who he was talking to. "Molluck's little assmonkey, apparently." Drog took a drag on his cigarette and shrugged. "Ah well. Shift's over."
Vula was entranced by the Glukkon, in spite of the fact that she and the other Muds - and possibly even the sligs - had just been insulted.
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