Like all days, this smoggy and stifling day in Fillydelphia began early. The heavy workload constantly threatening to kill any slaves that managed to survive the brutal onslaught from both the overseers and their fellow permanently indentured ponies. The skies illuminated dimly, only allowing crimson bands of light to pierce through the cloud cover that had only darkened with the results of rampant industrialization poisoning the land further. Already the whirring of auto-axes, gunshots, and the overwhelming misery grated on Murky's mind as the little pony's eyes peeked open. He rose to his hooves, bits of errant hay far too foul to consider eating sticking to his underside from a night of sleep in the same spot. Dreams didn't come to him often, he was too tired to dream most nights, his body worked beyond the point of exhaustion.

An uneasy feeling hung in the air today, Whiplash hesitant to really yell or force Murky to go to his job. It seemed as if the overseer was waiting for something. With the sun beginning to creep up over the horizon, illuminating the cloud layer slightly, it would be easily another hour before any sunlight made it to Fillydelphia over the high wall around the city. Murky couldn't sleep in any later, he simply wasn't used to this. He slipped out through the little door in the enclosure he'd hunkered down in, the little enclosure only he was small enough to slip into, and took a look around the Fun Farm. Murky was greeted with the usual sight, downtrodden slaves with tired eyes all coming to and from their places of work. Though, in this case, only the night shift workers were returning, not being replaced by the morning shifters.

Whiplash stood outside his quarters uneasily, the namesake whip held aloft at his side in a sickly beige glow of magic, he looked ready to retreat back into his residence at any second. Just as it seemed the coast was clear and the slaves were about to leave and go to work, Red Eye's loudspeakers crackled and popped in the way only ancient technology left to rot could. The music and prerecorded announcements halted as Red Eye's voice came to Fillydelphia live from his office.

"Good morning Fillydelphia." Red Eye's voice was smooth, but not pleasantly so. Like a puff of cigarette smoke in your face. Smooth, but grating, like coarse sand against soft skin. "I'm sure many of you new arrivals are unaware or woefully uninformed as to what today will bring." he paused his speech as if he knew Murky, among many others, fearfully hung on his every word. "But for those of you who have been here long enough to know what happens today, I congratulate you for that exceptional endurance." he says cheerfully. "I won't spoil the surprise for any of you, my little slaves, but today begins a special Fillydelphia tradition we lovingly call Milk Week."

Murky was, for lack of a better word, confused. Milk Week? This was what had everypony so nervous? Murky was even noting the was his would-be bullies were huddled together near some form of cover. They paid him no mind as he passed by, intent on finding out about this Milk Week from Whiplash. That is, if he could get an answer without also getting a new gash on his back, or face, that depended on how generous the master was feeling.

"Uhm. Master?" The words rolled a little too easily from the lifetime slave, but he'd caught Whiplash's attention, "What's, uh." Murky tripped over his words, "Th-the milk week master Red Eye was talking about?" Murky manages to force the words from his mouth.

Whiplash turned to face the slave well after he'd finished his question, "Uh." his own usual gruff confidence was gone, he still watched the skies anxiously. Whiplash shook his head, mustering up his typical personality and shouting out to the group of slaves, "All of you's lazy wretches! Get to work! I don't care if you make it there, just get your tails movin'!" Whiplash shouts, the end of his sentence more directed at Murky.

With decreased hesitance, the morning shift slaves get up from their cowering in the dirt and had towards the gate leading out of the Fun Farm. Murky followed suit, getting his little tail moving just as the overseer readied his whip. Off to another day of work at the steel mill. It was a fairly long walk between the Fun Farm and the steel mill, one whose rough gravelly trails and rougher pavement sections were none too kind to Murky's weak little hooves. While the guards usually dissuaded slaves from gathering too tightly, lest they be hiding something, the guard presence seemed exceedingly thin today. Only a single nervous stallion with a baton stood at a gate usually guarded by no less than two battle saddles. This lone guard said nothing to the bunched-up groups of slaves that meandered carefully by, in fact he looked envious.

Murky's train of thought was interrupted by the quiet rustle of feathers through the air, some of Red Eye's Talon guards were passing overhead. This was not an uncommon sight, given how many griffons called Fillydelphia home, what was uncommon was how low they were flying. While they usually kept up a few stories in the catwalks, today they were flying just a few feet overhead. The wind gusted and threw Murky's mane in his eyes as a griffon passed just over the crowd, prompting the group of slaves to scatter, breaking into mad dashes in all directions as they ran for cover.

A larger stallion was set upon by two griffons who grabbed the screaming pony by his legs and wrenched him up into the sky. As soon as they'd come, the griffons were gone and the group came back together fearfully. Murky clung to the side, right next to a grizzly mare who didn't take kindly to how close he was getting. She pushed him away twice before rudely telling him to go be bait somewhere else.

What in the world was going on here? The little pony shivered, worming his way into the group from behind. Griffons usually never even paid the slaves any attention unless there was a riot or a breakout attempt. The steel mill wasn't too far from here, Murky and four ponies broke off from the group to head to the steel mill, the others were destined for somewhere else. Murky broke the silence asking an older slave, "What's happening? Why did they take him?"

The slave replied that he didn't know. As they got within range of the steel mill, the front doors opened slowly and Wicked Slit tried to usher them in. Just ten or so more feet until they made it in. Wicked's eyes went wide as Murky's ears picked up the rustling sound again, he made a break for it. Murky's sudden sprint broke the tension and prompted the other ponies to run as well, breaking his lead and leaving him behind. So close!

There was a heavy WHUMP behind Murky as his legs ran out from under his body which refused to move forward. Once the rest of the slaves were inside, Wicked slammed the door with a panicked look, leaving Murky trapped alone outside.

As he turned around to see what his tail had caught on, he saw the little bundle of dirty yellow fluff was wrapped tightly by a large set of talons, his gaze climbed further upward to see the griffon that had ahold of him. She was one of the top brass among the griffons, one of Red Eye's closest. While an average griffon stood over an average pony, a larger griffon completely dwarfed a runty pony in a way that would be funny if it weren't so terrifying.

Murky's blood ran cold, colder than it usually ran due to his constant illness. Oh goddesses, this was it, this was the end. Murky was going to die before he even had a chance to live a life for himself! Before he could form a sentence, his mind was shouting desperate prayers to every deity he could think of; Celestia, Luna, even pony Allah in case he was listening. Visions of how he might die flooded through Murky's brain, no doubt fueled by past taunting from the other slaves. He began to do what he did best, cry and beg for his life.

In the middle of Murky's blubbering, Stern's talons wrapped around his midsection, lifting him up to examine him closely. The griffon mercenary who just last week blasted a pony to pieces for daring to resist having his foal taken from him, spoke.

"You poor thing."

Author's Note

I have no real comments to say, I'm ashamed I couldn't actually get to the juicy parts but during the process of writing my poor meat was beaten mercilessly; harder than a 1950's housewife who left a casserole in the oven too long.