The Children of Rebellion

[STM]

"The fulcrum of hate launches vile attacks into society,
The glukkons retaliate with hangings and deaths,
The sligs look on, laughing maniacally,
While the workers take their last breaths"

I

The mudokon treaded lightly, shifting between shadows, reluctant to over take the two sligs talking ahead of him, their pace was devilishly slow and their cigarette smoke extended a grim contrail of putrid air that writhed around his nose. He kept his head down and masqueraded his steps with the indefinet safety of the off the boiler belches and machinery convulsions. He was working late and shouldn't have been out, his sleep pod was not too far away but he had left his papers somewhere and if a slig guard found him without them, well, accidents happen.
And unfortunateley, this was the grim reality of life in the tormentuous, sadistic playpen of Alaghad Fishery 034. Situated on one of the banks of the clotted arteries of the River Modoko, The hulking industrial feature was sucking the fish from the water and into monolithic refineries. It is true to say that prophet can be found anywhere. Actually, the vast fishing rig is actually a boat that was long ago anchored to a port and then expanded upon until it took up almost the entire width of the river and followed the flow for hundreds of metres.
Eventually, the slig guards hastened and left the mudokon alone, well, you could never be alone. There where always supression orbs watching you, cameras assessing you, even the guards reported back odd behaviour to their commanders. To add a pun in, the glukkon masters ran a tight ship. The mudokon passed a familiar bill board which simply read: 'Our profits jutify our means, work harder!' This quasi-motivational poster had sprung up almost everywhere in preperation for Blue Friday, the shopping day of the Glukkonian calender. Khanzumerz from all over Mudos would almalgamate and diverge towards the super cities to grab cut price deals and luxury foods from the corners of the globe and beyond. Not that this meant anything to the labourers, besides the fact that they would be pushed extra hard over the next few weeks, more would die, their would be worker shortages, rations would, for Odd knows why increase and sometimes the slig guards would have to take on the menial jobs which all ended in hot racial antagonism from both sides.

[dripik]

That's a good start for a story, quite interesting - the image of a ship growing into a factory is awesome. I'd recommend checking the text for spelling mistakes and such, I've noticed some but I'm not going to point them out this openly.

[STM]

Yes, thankyou. I was tired and I knew I was supposed to check it but I forgot. Next chapter will hopefully be...better. Ty for commenting.

[STM]

"With a drop of blood,
You will take them out,
For me.
With a drop of blood,
A soldier in the sky,
With a drop of blood,
I try to set you free."


II

The mudokon closed his eyelids and disconnected his mind from the dank, the cold, the inhumane. He tried to remember a time when he was free. Had he ever been free? He remembered the before days. The days before the purges, he was a khanzumer, and in many respects he still was. He was quite sure there was once a city. A big city and he lived in his quarters, a tight ghetto of crying children and shady characters with foreign tattoos and flick knives. It wasn't even the glukkon executives who had put the mudokons in there. Scheming treaties and misfortune was the mudokons downfall, signing away their land and forcing themselves into work. The vykers, now they where the ones to be watched. Dangerous with brain is better than dangerous by brawn. They had a perfect system, mudokons vanished, mudokons had accidents, it was a terror state, propaganda telecircuits blared anguish and false hopes. But the mudokons where being groomed into a terrible working machines. All delights where removed.

Even sex. To say that mudokons had no genitalia for sex would be a lie, they cannot procreate, like bees and ants they are discouraged, they can control the flow of their sperm and eventually are self sterilised but this is not the problem. The vykers do not mind a boost in population, no, they have enough reserves in food for it, but they want to eat away at the mudokons. Some say that the vykers are perfecting a way of removing the orgasm. Their will be no more point in sex, no climax, no respite from the terryfying reality of work, no more enjoyment, and for some mudokons, that is all that is left.

[STM]

The mudokon woke up tired as always. The morning siren signalled that all workers were to be ready in fifteen minutes. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and took a much needed piss, the narrow grimy tube that carried the thick urine stank up his housing ball for the next few minutes and the mudokon clutched his nose in disgust.

The telecom link began to fizz and hiss, sure enough the symbol of opression, a stitched lips, happy mudokon face appeared on the screen and the tune of the Mudos national anthem of the Cartel began to play rhythmically. The mudokon ignored it and struck his vendo machine vengefully, a can of brew methodically fell from the hatch, missed his outstretched paw and rolled across the floor.
"Fuck sake!" He breathed.
"Workers section 1-01a pay attention, you included subject 41329, chin up, look your telecom in the eye, that's it," a calm mechanical voice blared out and the anthem died away.
"Workers accidents: 1929 this week, moolah turned over, $96,000,000 this week, rations on ecstasy, down 34 percent from last week-" The screen began reeling off facts while the tv showed accompanying fact sheets and graphs, the mudokon feigned attention but was more interested in the slig team dragging away a worker outside his ball, it was kicking and swearing, Brynn, a lippy middle aged mudokon with powerful arms, gun shots sounded and the mudokon averted his eyes towards the screen again.
"And now the lottery, this weeks winner is....00412, well done, you have won two weeks vacation and $36.25 moolah! Unlucky to everyone else, better luck time."
The mudokon groaned and flicked the switch on the screen, it was debatable whether the lottery was even real.

[MA]

i rarely enter FC any more, let alone read Oddworld-based fiction, but i thought i'd give this a look. i like it very much. keep it going. i like its gritty originality and realism.

[STM]

Thanks, nice to see someone's taking an interest

[Hulaabeo]

Awesome story!

[STM]

Thankyou very much, maybe I will continue the story then?

[Hulaabeo]

HELL YES.

[STM]

'Insert witty yet depressing music track excerpt' - Management


III

Work, work for the company, droll, monotonous work! Actually he had been designated to work in the offices rather than actual hand work or production, something due to his increased brain activity before birth...the details were never made clear because who could explain it all to him? Most of the team was made up of chroniclers but there were a few delicate handed mudokons working as under studies or paper collectors, in fact the mudokon was one of the few assigned a job as important as his...he was assigned to manipulate and destroy all work related hazards and release monthly reports on cash, his team run by a lowly pud glukkon would be the only ones to ever know the true death toll, work related casualties, employee of the month awards and cash flow on Oddworld.

It was depressing work but...it earned a salary, better than his labour bretheren.

[Hulaabeo]

I sense plot!