The Unbroken Chain

05:18 - 30/03/1010 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra

Abdaz always arrived for work half an hour or so earlier than most other workers, catching one of the first buses in the morning. It meant he didn’t see much of anyone when he came in, but he valued the time he had to himself and it all but assured he’d arrive on time in case there was any problem with the bus. If he wanted to be super certain, there was another bus that went on his route half an hour before that, but that felt a little too early.

The bus’s engine released its familiar low groan as it came to a stop, allowing Abdaz and a hoofful of other bleary-eyed riders to step off. The engine’s persistent rumble faded into background noise as the bus pulled away. Abdaz expected quiet, as had come every morning before at this time.

He had grown accustomed to the quiet recently, the way it seemed to coat the walls like dust. Fewer and fewer people had been speaking to him over the past few days; even the usual exchanges of “Good morning” or “Hey, Abdaz” had faded. Conversations had dwindled, reducing to those necessary for work. Even Merzaal had been keeping his distance, his nods quick, his glances half-hidden.

With the factory still dormant at this hour and the few workers by his side still stirring awake, Abdaz expected another heaping serving of that sweet sweet silence. But it didn’t come.

A low and uneven rumble unsettled the early air. While Abdaz’s sight of the source was blocked by tall brick walls on the edge of the pavement, he knew it wasn't the drones or creaks of the factory in motion. This was something different. Something alive.

As Abdaz neared the gate, he slowed. The estate was still cloaked in shadows, as the furs on the back of his neck raised. Just beyond the wall, trouble. Possibly danger.

There, passing out of the wall’s obscurity and presented with a clear view of the front gate, he saw it.

The picket line.

Stretched across the entrance like an immovable wall, a dense blockade of figures stood shoulder to shoulder. Zebra and pony alike crowded the entrance. He could see the mingling scents of fur and sweat rolling off them in waves, their breath misting in the chill dawn air.

A few delivery trucks had arrived earlier, headlights casting harsh beams against the bodies, engines idling as their paths were blocked by this determined line. The picket line wasn’t just blocking their paths, it was a dare. Daring anyone, daring him, to try and pass.

The first one he noticed, flailing around a red flag with the energy of a tornado, was Spichka. He was rearing like a mad bronco, constantly standing on his back hooves, swaying and twirling with the flag in his hooves like a spear. Rather than his usual work clothes, he’d dressed himself in solid khaki garb almost like a combat uniform, with a blood-red leg band strapped to one of his forelegs. Through his actions and movements alone, that Severyanian was practically screaming, “Look at me, look at us, we’re kicking up a fuss.”

Abdaz scanned the line, black and white stripes intertwined with soft shades of greys and creams, coalescing into an anonymous yet unified whole. All around, strikers hoisted signs declaring demands with a fierce simplicity. “WAGE INCREASE NOW!” “8 HOURS NOW!” The words leapt out like shouts frozen in midair, each one sharpened by the yard’s dim lights. Abdaz’s gaze darted from sign to sign and face to face, hoping to avoid the one that worried him the most until-

Merzaal. Right there. In the centre. He held a homemade sign, its letters bold and angry: “SAFE CONDITIONS NOW!” In Abdaz’s eyes, the rest of the line faded into a blur around Merzaal. He seemed calm, but resolute. Prepared for violence to explode at any moment.

Then for a second, for a fraction of a second, Abdaz’s eyes met Merzaal’s. Like a magnetic pull had forced them together.

For barely longer than a heartbeat, Merzaal’s gaze looked straight through him. Unwavering, filled with a resolve so sharp it felt like it could cut through steel. That was enough to send him shivering. Abdaz caught his breath.

Abdaz immediately ducked out of sight, like gravity was pulling him aside. He pressed himself against the wall, chest tight with a gnawing mixture of guilt and fear.

What was it about that look that rattled him so deeply? Was he afraid of Merzaal’s silent dare, of the call toward that line of defiant faces? Did he fear that he’d listen to the siren’s song and find himself joining the line?

He couldn’t. Not now. He couldn’t risk losing a full night’s work. So much hung in the balance. But with the way blocked, a wall of bodies and signs and iron will, what was he to do?

Of course there was the back door. A quiet fire exit tucked on the far side of the estate, hidden from the front and still accessible on hoof.

Head down, he slipped past the wall and around the edge of the estate. Further rumbles from the picketers echoed behind him, following him through the morning gloom as he pressed on.

But, like they knew he’d come, two strikers waited near the back exit. Both from another department, their names Zadamil and Zanki.

Zadamil blocked the gate directly, casting a shadow across the back alley. A tall stallion with a mostly grey coat, interspersed with bold stripes as dark as the night sky. A little under forty, yet with a hardness and numerous scars hinting at years of struggle. Legs like tree trunks and a glare like a razor blade.

Perched on a stack of bricks by the entrance like a hawk on a cliff sat Zanki. A small, scrawny little fellow swallowed by a discoloured white tank top, a red beanie tugged down and failed to contain a mess of long, greying hair. At a distance, he looked like a child. A closer look revealed the wrinkles and watery eyes of a stallion who’s youth and innocence were long gone. His coat was a softer grey with faded stripes, smudged by the march of time.

Abdaz’s mind flickered, recalling the stories told in hushed tones about their lives. Both of them were originally from the lands around Tobuck. When war with the Storm King swept through their lands like a wildfire, they’d been forcibly evacuated to Ursagrad. From then on, they were never to return home. Tobuck and the surrounding headlands had since been opened up to Equestrian and Chiropterran settlers with little thought given to its native population.

Their eyes fixed on Abdaz, unyielding and solemn. This encounter was not an accident.

Abdaz approached with careful steps. He cleared his throat, expecting to summon courage that never came. “Hi,” he managed, though the meek syllable came out barely louder than a whisper.

Zadamil turned his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re Abdaz, aren’t you?” he acknowledged Abdaz gruffly. “Zalid’s little zebra?”

Abdaz swallowed, nodding. “I guess? I need to get in.” He pointed to the door.

“Not a chance,” asserted Zadamil, spoken like a statement of fact. “Nothing happens here until they pay us for what we’re owed.”

“But- but I’ll miss a whole night’s pay,” Abdaz stammered, his voice wavering. “You will too.”

“And if they raise our wages back in line with inflation-” Zanki scampered down from the stack of bricks with surprising agility. “-then we’ll win back more than a few nights' pay.”

“I don’t like being screwed out of my money. They should give us what we deserve for making all their profits.” Zadamil shifted his stance, drawing himself up with a firm resolve that added an extra few inches to his height. “Simple as.”

Abdaz felt his words catch in his throat, his mind struggling to find an argument that could hold its own against their steely conviction. “What am I supposed to do, just go home?”

“Yeah!” Zanki said, chipper and slightly mocking. “Get home, pop the radio on, kick your hooves up on the couch, enjoy a well-earned rest day!” He sniggered.

“Or you could hop on the picket line,” said Zadamil, his voice lowering as he suggested it. “Be a real blow to enemy morale to see a supervisor on the line.”

Abdaz could feel himself losing his temper. “And what am I supposed to tell my pregnant wife?” he shot back, his voice tight with barely concealed fury. “That we’re going to miss out on night after night of pay for Nightmare knows how long?”

Zadamil’s gaze didn’t waver. “Save your rage for the big boys upstairs , buddy. They’re the ones who’ve been underpaying us.”

“You’re stopping me from going to work,” Abdaz retorted, his frustration sharpening each word.

“We’re disrupting the company’s bottom line,” added Zanki. “It’s called that because if they don’t get it, it’s their bottoms that’ll be ready for a skewering for once. It’s called bargaining!”

“Listen.” Zadamil took a step forward. “Go home, enjoy your wife, and sit back. Let us make these cheapskates sweat. Don’t be the one who wipes their ass.”

“We don’t wanna fight you, pal,” taunted Zanki.

“We’re all in this together,” Zadamil added.

Abdaz felt his resolve crumble under the weight of them both, his shoulders sagging as a sigh escaped him. “Shame on you,” he muttered, mustering what courage he could as he spat out the words.

As much as Abdaz hoped they might sting, they sounded weak even in his own ears. The retort fluttered through the air, soft as a feather, falling uselessly against their hardened expressions. Unnoticed, unbothered. Like a pillow lazily hurled at a brick wall. With a final, resigned look, Abdaz turned away, his steps heavy as he trudged back around to the front gate.

When he arrived, he found a growing second crowd gathered in front of it, workers unrelated to the strike huddled together with faces drawn and backs slumped, looking for a break in the equine wall that blocked their path. They sat, stood, shifted restlessly, watching the minutes tick by. Every thirty minutes that passed felt like another blow, their chances to earn what little they could today slipping further away. Their hopes dwindled with each turn of the clock.

A few bolder souls made attempts to push through the line, faces tense with a blend of determination and desperation. But they barely made it to the line as Spichka stood between them, his eyes glinting with defiance. With a quick jab or a sweep from his flagpole, he’d send them stumbling back, his movements sharp and practised. After, they’d get mocked and chased away with chants of “Scab! Scab! Scab!” as Spichka’s harsh voice led the chorus.

Defeated and discouraged, most simply turned back and took the next bus home, their heads hanging low as they abandoned the idea of earning their pay today. The morning crept forward, an hour stretching into two, then three, and still the standoff remained locked in place. Despite equal numbers on either side of the gate, the balance was skewed. On one side stood the frustrated and passive, opposed by a wall of anger and purpose.

An hour or so before high moon, the low rumble of a car’s engine approached. The vehicle stopped just down the street, and out stepped Iceberg. He exited with a smaller thestral stallion in tow, trotting over to survey the picket line.

It’s said that some ponies never stop growing, and that was definitely the case with Iceberg, who was hardly a little pony to begin with. The hard muscle he’d once flaunted had surrendered to layers of fat, especially around his neck, which bulged out loosely and sloped over the collar of his khaki polo shirt, the fabric too tight and straining against his frame. The edges had blurred but he still cut an imposing figure, his eyes retaining their sharpness and carrying a look ready to slice down anyone in his way.

Beside him was the smaller thestral, a stark contrast with his snow-white coat and cropped silver mane. Dressed neatly in a crisp white shirt, black tie, and slim black pants that hugged his frame, he looked slightly out of place. It was like he’d been pulled from the comfort of a desk and squeezed into an ill-fitting uniform. He walked closely at Iceberg’s side, head bowed just slightly, his posture deferential and face blank. He was average in height, but next to Iceberg, the top of his head barely reached the giant’s chin.

Iceberg scanned the picket line with a glare as dark as thunderclouds. “Fuck’s sake, where are the cops,” he growled, each word bristling with impatience. “We’re losing the whole morning.”

“Hey, Iceberg,” Abdaz greeted him, stepping forward cautiously.

Iceberg’s scowl snapped over to Abdaz, cracking like lightning. “Iceberg?”

Abdaz froze, his stomach flipping. “Sorry. Sir.” A gulp. “Long time no see, sir.”

After all those years of working for this company, from entry level work directly under Iceberg to being a supervisor for nearly half a decade and still Iceberg didn’t regard him with an ounce of additional worth, the mere hint of respect. It almost gave Abdaz pause. Almost.

“Okay. We’re gonna have to get them inside.” Iceberg looked over the line again before jerking towards his companion. “Nilas, we’re gonna fly them in.”

Nilas blinked, caught off guard. “O-of course, sir,” he stammered with quick nods.

“We’ll start with you,” Iceberg barked at Abdaz, who barely had time to register the command before Iceberg was in the air, his wings beating with surprising force. “Hold still. If you break a leg, it's out of your pay.”

Iceberg’s grip was quick, yanking Abdaz’s forelegs with a rough efficiency. Abdaz felt himself lifted from the ground, his stomach plummeting as he rose in sudden, unnatural weightlessness. Nilas, with an apologetic but firm grip, wrapped his forelegs around Abdaz’s barrel, his wings fluttering as he worked to keep them steady.

“Come on, you can lift better than that,” Iceberg grunted at Nilas.

“Sorry, sir.” Nilas’s grip tightened, his face tense as he struggled to hold Abdaz’s weight. “Don’t look down, buddy,” he muttered to Abdaz.

They soared over the picket line with Abdaz suspended between them, his legs dangling as he clung instinctively to Iceberg’s iron grip. A gnawing ache spreading up Abdaz’s front, each tug from Iceberg feeling like it could pop a joint right out of its socket. Below, the chants and jeers of the strikers rose like a war cry. “Scab! Scab! Scab!”, a swelling chorus of anger and defiance that rattled through the air. Abdaz forced himself not to look down, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere between the sky and the quickly approaching factory roof.

Before Abdaz knew it, the worst was over, and they were over the flat expanse of the roof. Iceberg released him abruptly, dropping him with a graceless thud. Nilas, still struggling under the weight, tried to ease Abdaz down, but Nilas stumbled, legs and wings flailing as they both crashed onto the surface.

Iceberg straightened himself, brushing dirt off his too-tight polo and fixing Abdaz with a razor sharp stare. “You’re a supervisor now, aren’t you?” Iceberg asked, words coming out like they tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Yes,” Abdaz replied.

But Iceberg’s scowl deepened, his silence cold and menacing, pressing down until Abdaz fumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Abdaz acceded, the single word weighing heavy in his throat.

“Then do your job,” Iceberg snapped, jabbing a hoof toward the edge of the roof. “Guide the workers inside once they’re up.”

One by one, more workers were hoisted up onto the rooftop, each face a mixture of weariness and hesitation as they landed, looking to Abdaz for direction.

Abdaz swallowed his unease, stepping into his role, gesturing them toward the stairwell that led down into the factory. He kept his gaze focused, trying to ignore the muffled roar of the crowd below no matter how loud it grew.

After what felt like an endless stream of landings and brief, tense exchanges, Iceberg and Nilas finally brought the last of the workers up and then headed inside themselves. Abdaz had been keeping a mental tally, noting that barely two-fifths of the usual workforce had managed to bypass the blockade. They hadn’t just lost those striking, they’d lost everyone who turned tail and went home at the sight of the picket line. Only a skeleton crew remained, if that.

Abdaz descended, winding his way down the creaky metal stairs and narrow catwalks. The factory below stretched out, slowly blinking to life.

He quickened his pace, leaving his personal items in his locker and changing into his coveralls. He rushed to his department, which was already producing a consistent heavy hum.

There, Zalid darted between stations running like wild. His movements were swift and precise, keeping each machine flowing like a conductor commanding an orchestra. The familiar crackle of the radio was conspicuously absent, leaving only the relentless whir of the machines echoing through the factory floor.

“Zalid?” Abdaz called. “Zalid!” he repeated, raising his voice above the din. “How’d you get inside?”

“Arrived before the mob did,” Zalid called back without looking up. Each word was rushed out. “Gather everyone now.”

Without pausing, Abdaz set off, rounding up the scattered workers one by one, guiding them toward the middle of the factory floor. Slowly they assembled into a small, uncertain group, with still Zalid flying from machine to machine. Soon, most of the machines had wound down to a state of idle hum, allowing Zalid to make his way to the centre of the gathering.

Zalid took the mask off. “Just so you all know,” he began, his voice firm and even, each word sharp and cold. “Everyone out there who blocked the way in is getting fired. They’ve broken their arrangement, their contracts, their word with Perigee, and they’re breaking the law.” He turned to Abdaz, pausing as the silence sank in. “That includes Merzaal,” he said to Abdaz.

Within a few sentences, the hammer had been brought down and Abdaz’s worst fears had been confirmed. He’d survived though, he’d done the right thing. He did what was right for his family and his employer, but now the consequences settled like a cold fog. Merzaal was out there, standing firm in the line that Abdaz had crossed, and Abdaz felt a chasm open between them. They could still be friends, but would Merzaal even want to be friends now? Could he have done something, said something to prevent this?

Zalid continued, his voice flat and detached. “The police should arrive soon and remove them in a few hours. I need all of you to work as hard as you can or we’ll all fall behind.” He brought the mask over his mouth again, blowing a sigh through the filters. “Sorry about all this, lads. I’ll make sure everyone’s paid for their full shift.”

Abdaz forced down the swell of regret and doubt roiling within him. He squared his shoulders, finding a sliver of resolve, and managed a steady nod. “Alright, I understand,” he said quietly to Zalid, his voice flat but determined. Turning to the others, he gave a slight nod, gesturing to the machines. “Let’s crack on.”

Around him, the diminished workforce moved back to their stations, each step weighted down by the effort of half the hooves doing double the work. Abdaz threw himself into the grind without hesitation. The usual precautions, donning protective gear and taking regular breaks, were all cast aside. Even as his muscles ached with a deep, relentless burn and a dull blur crept into the edges of his vision, he pressed on. He had to. He couldn’t let Zalid down, not now.

Hours passed. A haze of repetitive motions and the metallic whirrs and the clang of machinery running past without comment. Even when there came a point where an order was finished and the machines went silent, they had to press on to clean out the mixers. Abdaz grabbed a bucket and filled it with bleach, preparing for the next arduous phase of the task.

Then, a distorted garble floated in from somewhere outside. Abdaz froze. He clutched the bucket’s handle tight around his hoof. A sudden curiosity took hold.

Abdaz glanced around and caught sight of a few other workers pausing too, their ears flicking toward the sound. But one by one, they quickly shook it off and returned to their tasks, heads down.

Yet Abdaz, setting the bucket down quietly, slipped into the shadows of the machinery. He’d be quick, he knew. Just a peek, no longer than a bathroom break. They wouldn’t even notice him missing.

The noises grew louder as he wound his way up a narrow, creaking staircase that led up to a disused hallway, where a dusty window overlooked the factory yard below. The sounds were unmistakably coming from the yard, where the largest group of picketers were. Abdaz pressed his hooves against the glass and peered out, his breath fogging up the pane as he leaned in.

Before the picketers stood a row of eight heavily armoured Chiropterran police officers, facing down the strikers. Each encased head-to-hoof in identical power armour, the suit’s purple finish gleaming under the weak artificial light. Eyes obscured behind sharply shaped yellow lenses gave off a predatory glow. All behind them, rows of trucks still parked bumper to bumper waiting for a path to be cleared.

One officer in the centre lifted a megaphone. The commander, Abdaz guessed, hard as it was to tell with the armour, so uniform that it erased all individual distinction. The supposed officer’s voice crackled through the device, distorted and muffled by the distance and glass to the point where Abdaz couldn’t make out what was being said. But he could tell the sound that came out was not organic.

The first to confront the officers was Spichka. He’d broken from the line of strikers, his flagpole gripped tight as he marched forward to meet the commander. With a heave, a hop, and a fierce swing, Spichka brought the flagpole crashing down on the officer’s helmet. Yet on impact, the wood exploded into splinters against the armour, fragments scattering like brittle confetti. Spichka froze, teetering on his hind legs, staring at the useless remains of his stick in his hooves.

Barely a moment later the commander socked Spichka in the face. The armoured hoof went up like it was spring-loaded. It sent Spichka sprawling across the asphalt, landing as little more than a tangled heap.

While he’d never admit it, seeing Spichka go down like that brought a smirk to Abdaz’s face. His smugness gone, his aggression silenced.

That smirk vanished as all hell broke loose.

In a single synchronised push the officers marched forwards and tore into the strikers. The officers grabbed the first strikers they could and threw them to the ground. The picket line disintegrated immediately, many making a run for it. Others tried to stand and fight, only to be quickly overwhelmed. If the strikers were a picket fence, the officers were a Za’al damned bulldozer. Their movements were inequine.

Abdaz had almost forgotten the sight of uniformed Chiropterrans beating disobedient native workers senselessly. More than eleven years had passed since he’d last seen anything like this with his own eyes. But here it was again, plain as daylight, and just as hidden and ignored by willful ignorance from a populous that kept its head down. The hazy decade old memory brought back into reality. Like an old scar splitting open and spilling warm blood.

The armoured officers acted with a terrifying blend of savage brutality and precise automaticity. They moved with no grace or care, treating the workers like punching bags. Beating the defenceless, beating those pressed against a wall, beating those cowering on the ground, they didn’t seem to care. They may as well have been machines with a single directive of cruelty.

That’s when Abdaz spotted Merzaal.

Below an officer, tossed to the ground like a sandbag, hit with blow after blow from the armoured Chiropterran, like prey under attack from a rabid tiger. It continued until Merzaal could barely lift a hoof. They dragged his broken body away and threw it into the back of a truck like a trash bag.

All Abdaz could do was stare slack jawed, frozen in place, his trembling legs raised in a paused gait.

What could he do? Sprint down there, throw himself into the fray? And then what? Scream “I told you so” while his friend was beaten to the ground? Shout, “Get your hooves off them” and find himself at the officer’s mercy?

He may as well have been watching through a TV screen. Unspeakable atrocities unfolding before him with an impenetrable glass barrier between him and it. Yet he knew every face down there, each blow from the officers landing on someone he worked beside, shared words with, shared lives with. It was right in front of him in every sense. And yet he remained powerless all the same.

“Daz!”

The sharp call jolted him. Abdaz turned to see Zalid standing in the doorway, eyes hard, his expression a mixture of impatience and irritation.

“Daz, what are you doing, get back to work!” Zalid’s voice was firm, unyielding. His mask was gone, his full face in plain view.

Abdaz blinked, his gaze flickering desperately between Zalid and the scene outside. “But, but the-”

“We’re well behind, we have a job to do. I need you to focus on that,” Zalid interrupted, without even glancing toward the window. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

With a final glance outside, Abdaz swallowed hard, tearing himself away and following Zalid back down into the factory. The mechanical hum swallowed him back up, that relentless grind blotting out the distant cries from outside. Soon, the work drowned everything, its rhythm numbing him as his hooves fell back into familiar patterns.

Arduous hour after arduous hour passed. When Abdaz’s usual shift drew to a close, Zalid gave him a courteous smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Would you do me a favour and stay a few more hours? We need to finish up.”

Abdaz nodded. He could use the pay, he told himself. So he stayed, working late, until Zalid finally released him and exhaustion pressed down like lead.

He left the factory, stepping into the empty yard, expecting the shadows of what he’d seen to haunt every corner. But there was nothing. No police, no strikers, no banners. Not a trace of the day’s violence remained.

Just as long as he ignored the dry spots of red flecking the cracked walls and asphalt.