The next time Flense breathes in, the smell of copper floods his nostrils.
It's incredible how permeating that smell could be. Tangy and biting, it makes his stomach churn. He can feel it scraping on his tongue. His beak shifts and his face contorts into what griffons can manage for a grimace. Copper. The pipes and valves are all made of the stuff. Talons are always scratching and marking them, rending the surface and exuding that repugnant odor, leaving the owners marked as well. Rustclaws, they called them. Factory workers.
Flense's eyes harden. He knows this is not a factory. He knows there is more than copper on his claws. Copper.
A moving beak breaks him from his thoughts, a dull splash of brown feathers on an endless tangle of copper, always copper. The beak tells him that he's wanted on The Line.
He rises without a word, and the copper-smell follows him as he goes.
══════════════════════════════════════
When Flense arrives at The Line, the Colonel is already waiting for him. It's just a title, of course; Kravil has been out of the service for two decades. Nevertheless he carries his former title with pride. He leads his workers with an iron claw, his word is irrefutable.
He runs The Line.
Flense pulls open the metal door (lined with copper, of course) and steps into the observation room, a tiny windowed box that overlooks The Line. Colonel Kravil is looking down at the dormant area, unmoving. It strikes him how much he defies his position. One would expect a grizzled, battle scarred old warrior, but Kravil's slate feathers are unmarred, his talons intact, his beak sharp. His eyes give it away; brown, with flecks of a darkened orange so common in griffons, iron hard and razor sharp. The color of rust.
The color of copper.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Flense asks.
Kravil doesn't move an inch, his beak hardly seeming to move as he replies, "Yes, Flense, I did. Stand with me, will you." It was not a question. His voice seemed so out of place, no rasp or bark, just a soft lilt that drifted through your ears like cloying smoke, clouding your judgment. When he spoke, you listened. There wasn't an alternative.
Flense moves to his side and stays a while, trying to rid his nose of that foul stench, before more smoke fills his mind. "I received your resignation request today, Flense."
Flense gulps softly. The way the Colonel's tongue rolls over the letters in his name turns his stomach over, adding to the constant malaise from the copper.
"Yes sir." Flense says.
"You wish to leave here, Flense?"
"Yes sir."
"Why is that, Flense?"
The younger griffon tries to gulp again, but this one gets stuck halfway down, and Flense has to force it down with a slight cough before he can speak again.
"I-it's the smell, sir. I can't take the s-smell." Flense says, shifting uneasily.
"The smell of what?"
"The smell of...metal, sir. Of c-copper, sir."
"Copper."
"Yes, Colonel."
"Are you sure it is just the copper that's bothering you, Flense?" Kravil smoke-says.
"I d-don't know what you mean, sir- "
"Blood, Flense. Don't be afraid of the word. The smell of blood. Don't dance around it like a newborn chick." The Colonel has finally turned his copper look onto Flense, and it's worse than his smoke-words. "Time was the griffon race reveled in blood. The greatest of hunters would drink a goblet of it every full moon to signify their prowess. To instill their respect." Kravil turns toward the window overlooking The Line and Flense expects the glass to crack from the intensity of the gaze.
"But now look at us. We've hunted our lands clean. We've scoured our fields, stalked our forests. Now instead of spear and claw we must learn diplomacy and kowtow. All fancy words for begging, pleading for help and aid from other Kingdoms. The mighty Griffon empire, groveling on the doorstep of Saddle Arabia. The mighty Griffon empire, mewling like a babe to the dignitaries of Maretonia. The mighty Griffon empire," (And here Kravil stops, his smoke taking an acidic tone), "Scrounging and crawling under cover of night to take Equestrian cows, to smuggle Equestrian prey just to sustain ourselves."
Flense's beak hangs slightly after this, and studying the Colonel's composure, is suddenly and lurchingly reminded of what the vermin he hunted in his youth saw as his claws ensnared their throats.
The Colonel sighs quietly, and his voice returns to it's normal honeyed smog. "But it must be done, I'm afraid. The very same politicians and advisors who ridiculed me for my...effectiveness...during the war, now come to me in shambles, asking for my counsel. For my help."
Kravil inhales through his nose, closing his copper eyes. He is quiet for a while, and remains deathly still. Flense is about to quietly exit the room when Kravil opens his eyes again, and speaks, his voice low and relaxed.
"Do you know, Flense, what the phrase 'deus ex machina' means?"
He did not. "I-I'm afraid not sir."
"It means, 'God from a machine', Flense. An impossible solution to an impossible problem." The Colonel's voice hardens again. "That's what these...leeches, these parasites asked of me. And so I gave it them."
Here the Colonel smiles, and it is a cold and terrible thing, a thin leer of abject evil and malice that chills Flense to the very core.
"I am their god," says the Colonel.
His claw reaches for the large red lever jutting out of the console.
"And this is my machine."
With a loud clunk, Kravil pulls the switch, and The Line rumbles to life. Lights flicker and spark to life, whirring as they spin in their glass cases. Alarms sound and steam hisses through the copper pipes. Metal shrieks and groans as large bay doors open, and soon the hellish cacophony is joined by another noise.
Cows.
Hundreds and hundreds of Equestrian cows pour through the holding doors braying and calling to each other, their panicked screeches heard even in the observation room.
"Where are you taking us?!"
"Please, oh stars please let us go please please ple-"
"...name is Daisy Jo..."
"I can't see! I'm blind, oh Celestia preserve m-"
The cattle flow in, their brown bodies roiling and jerking in a solid mass like a river. The blinders over their eyes assure they go nowhere other than where the cattle prods of their handlers instruct. Flense watches in awed horror. He had heard of The Line, even heard the screams, but he had never seen it in action. Not like this.
Kravil watches with cold satisfaction, that horrible smile still twisting his beak.
"Wonderful, isn't it? They look quite succulent. This meat will fetch a good price, I'm sure."
Flense gulps again, and his mouth feels like sandpaper. "I'm sure it w-will sir..." He starts to back out of the room slowly.
The smile vanishes, and Kravil's voice cracks like a whip.
"Stay. I want you to see this, Flense."
Wincing, Flense returns to the thin glass window, his eyes glued to the scene below.
One of the cows is jolted forward by a prod. She is shaking violently, drool and mucus hanging from her lips and nose. Her mouth jitters and moves constantly, repeating the same phrase over and over.
"My name is Daisy Jo...I-I-I have a calf, I can't f-f-find my calf I can't find her I c-can't...my n-name is Daisy-"
Another jolt, she gives a strangled yelp, hobbling forward blindly as the griffon handlers restrain her in front of a long conveyor belt with a rail above it. Hearing the movements, the cow turns frantically toward the source of the noise, her chest heaving.
"W-who's that...who's...oh st-st-stars oh...my n-name is Daisy J-Jo....p-p-please have you s-seen my c-calf she n-needs me...she needs her m-momma oh Celestia..."
The handlers silently lower a gleaming metal device and clamp it to the cows head, a large cylinder pressing itself to her forehead. Air hisses into a tank as it pressurizes. The griffon's expressions are unreadable.
The cow is sobbing now, her voice strangled.
"PLEASE! Please oh Celestia NO! I need my CALF! SHE NEEDS ME! MAYBUCK! MAYBUCK WHERE ARE YOU! Oh stars, STOP! STOP STOP ST- "
Thnk.
The cow jerks, her mouth working soundlessly. Slowly, crimson lines snake down her quivering face from where the barrel is pressed. They mix with the blood and slime, pattering to the ground as yellow rivulets drip down her hind legs.
In short order, the griffons reach up to the rail, pulling down a wicked hook and chain and stabbing it near the groin of the cow. As a winch turns, the bolt gun is released, letting more blood spill from the neat red hole in her skull. The chains clank, and her body is lifted and suspended. A sharp crack is heard as the meat hook grinds against the hip bone. The griffons reach down and remove the blinder, showing two deep brown eyes, shot wide open in horror, unmoving and unblinking. More blood pours from her wound, followed by a flash of pale white and a chunk of grey, all falling wetly to the cold metal below.
The engines groan and Daisy Jo moves down The Line.
Back in the observation room, Flense breathes in shakily, unable to take his eyes off the scene. Kravil's face is impassive. He barely even acknowledges Flense as he silently turns and leaves the room, stopping only briefly at the door.
"Your resignation is denied. Get back to work."
The door clicks quietly shut behind him.
***
In the grassy plains deep in the Griffon Empire, a large and entirely unremarkable concrete building sits beneath the twilight sky. One by one, its lights flicker on, and the quiet rumble of machinery can be heard inside. Two more shipments were arriving today and they had been instructed to prepare early. Made for good business, it was said.
And business was good indeed.
Author's Note
A little story I cooked up (with permission, of course) after reading Cables by Nic-Fit. Give it a read, it's a wonderful concept.
