Chapters 4 - Hope In Work and Joy In Leisure
08:35 - 19/02/1005 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
“Warriors of the Starborn Legion have successfully fought off an airship raid by the Storm King’s forces against Moonspeaker’s Hollow.”
The newsreader's voice was warbled and distorted as it came through the break room’s radio. It was a nice addition to their break space, even if the quality could’ve been better.
“Late last night, Moonspeaker’s Hollow population was targeted by the invading airships, going after the civilians below.”
Four workers were gathered around listening to that morning’s news. There was Merzaal and Abdaz, who rarely spent their breaks apart, Their supervisor, Zakob, a middle-aged native born into the life of a labourer, and a coworker in their department named Spichka, a Severyanian who’d been deported to Chiropterra for his political activities in Equestria.
The radio continued. “Great praise has been levied on General Stone Palisade for his effective and stalwart defence of the city.”
A cigarette held in his lips, Zakob gently stroked his small goatee as smoke swirled around his head. On the whole he had a good build, sturdy up and down the legs and lean around the waist. A smile never left his lips, even on the worst nights. He was probably the hardest worker out of all of them, and absolutely the heaviest smoker.
Just off to the side, Spichka sat alone with his head in a book, but with an ear pointed to the radio. He was the sort of lean that made him agile, and because of that he was often the one who had the tasks of crawling into tight spaces for various jobs. While his coat was the dull colour of cardboard, his jet black mane accented with fiery oranges stood out. His hazel eyes were locked on the pages of his book; it was rare for him ever to make eye contact with anyone even during conversation.
Their PPE had gotten another upgrade a few months back, on Zalid’s initiative. Yellow polyethylene coveralls, which they were all still wearing. Break was too short to bother stepping out of them.
“In a stroke of sheer bararity, bombs targeted and damaged an orphanage,” the radio added. “Victims are still being counted, but the death toll is believed to be in the hundreds. Thousands more are injured or are missing. We will keep you updated as recovery efforts continue.”
Abdaz put his hoof to his mouth. “Oh, Za’al. Sounds like hell.”
“And that’s where I’m headed!” Zakob flashed a grin, showing off all his bright white teeth.
Abdaz blinked, nonplussed. “You’re enlisting?”
“That’s right! Auxiliaries!” Zakob laughed. “All I gotta do is dig trenches for a year, and bam, I’m a citizen! Put my notice in already, so two weeks from now I’m out of here!”
“Really?” Spichka glanced up from his book, giving a pitying look, laced with a tinge of genuine concern. “Bro, they’re going to use you as cannon fodder.”
“Nah, nah, they never send natives into combat!” Zakob dismissed Spichka with a wave of his hoof. “They never even give us rifles!”
“Then you’ll be really easy cannon fodder,” Spichka added.
“Ahh, that’s not gonna happen. They’re crazy, not stupid!” A braying laugh burst from Zakob.
“Whatever you say.” And with a roll of his eyes Spichka returned to his book.
All the while Merzaal had been half listening to the radio and half listening to the conversation, the former hard to hear due to the distortion and the general noise of the latter.
The ongoing war with the Storm King had been raging for months. One of the first actions of the Chiropterran forces was to occupy Manerba, the island which Merzaal once called home. Ostensibly it was to protect it from the Storm King’s rampage, but you’d have to be on the propaganda department’s payroll to believe that.
When Merzaal first heard the news, it didn’t sting as much as he thought it should have. His home, the place that he’d once dreamed of escaping to, had fallen under the boot of those that enslaved him, and all he could give was a sigh and a shrug. There was more on his mind these days, the life and the home he had in Ursagrad. At least the island had been spared from significant fighting or war damage, so far anyways.
“Well, best of luck to you, Zakob,” said Merzaal.
Zakob laughed again. “I won’t need it, I’ve seen-”
“Zakob?” Zalid popped their head into the break room, getting everyone’s attention. “Do a favour for me real quick, would you?”
On that, Zakob hopped from his seat and made his way out without a word. Spichka looked up from his book when Zakob left, then returned to reading. Merzaal and Abdaz quietly settled down next to each other.
After a few silent moments, Abdaz spoke. “So, at the end of this week, we get paid, and it’ll be the first week that the wage increase kicks in!”
“Oh yeah,” said Merzaal.
“Extra thirty bits a week.” Abdaz grinned. “Not bad, yeah?”
Spichka scoffed, the sound slicing through the air.
Both Abdaz and Merzaal went quiet, turning to Spichka. “Spich?” said Merzaal.
Spichka looked up, but not at either zebra. “Oh it’s nothing, this book is just really fucking funny,” he said in a monotone voice, waving the book around in the air. “Has absolutely to do with you, honest. Keep talking about how fucking generous the company is.”
Abdaz raised an eyebrow. Both him and Merzaal were catching on to Spichka’s scepticism.
“We’re being rewarded, aren’t we?” Abdaz smiled. “The more product we ship, the more money the factory takes in, the more wage increases! This increase, that’s our hard work talking!”
A mocking, stifled laugh burst from Spichka. “Are you being paid to say that shit or are you actually just fucking stupid?”
Abdaz flinched. “What?”
“There’s literally no correlation between productivity and compensation, like, you know that, right?” Spichka set his book down and sat up.
Abdaz stood still for a moment before speaking. “Then, why are they raising-”
“Because they want to retain you. You’re an exploitable resource to them, and a damn valuable one if you can be satiated with a few extra trinkets and beads here and there.” Spichka wasn’t looking at the pair while he spoke. “They’re not a fucking charity, they’re a business. They only make profit by exploiting you for more than you make for them.”
“Well…” Abdaz rubbed the back of his head. “Zalid’s been a good manager, I’m sure he-”
“He’s the one holding your chain!” Spichka shot to his hooves. “It’s his job to extract as much surplus value out of you as physically possible. And that nice guy act is just to put an equine face on the inequine machine of capitalist exploitation. The baton of enforcing labour discipline was passed from literal actual armed slave drivers to middle managers because the proletarianisation of the workforce is more sustainable than having a loaded gun to every back. Just because they’re not keeping a literal noose over your head doesn’t mean there’s no coercion. If you don’t work here, you’d face poverty and starvation. The appearance of progress is there to hide the fact that you’re still being exploited.” Spichka stopped to heave in a heavy breath, the first time since he started ranting. “Zalid has literally the exact same social function as the ponies who were whipping and prodding you just over five years ago. He’s not your mate and will never be your mate!”
Merzaal blinked, mouth hanging open. “Did Zalid hurt you, or something?”
“He would never do anything like that,” Abdaz retorted, with conviction.
“It’s his job,” Spichka insisted, punctuating each word with a stomp of a hoof. He grunted. “Do you people read anything that isn’t bourgeois propaganda? You guys were literal slaves, do you have zero class consciousness? I can’t believe what I’m hearing, I’m leaving, I’m fucking leaving.” And Spichka stormed out of the break room.
After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Merzaal was the first to speak. “The hell’s gotten into him? Did someone take a crap in his breakfast?”
“He’s never satisfied,” Abdaz sighed. “I think he was reading illegal communist literature, it’s where he gets all those crazy ideas from. Should we report it?”
“What? No.” Merzaal shook his head, grimacing. “He doesn’t deserve to lose his job just for being an asshole.”
Mouth open, Abdaz raised a hoof. He then brought it down and shrugged. “If you say so.”
The rest of their break slipped by quietly, the minutes punctuated only by brief snippets of chatter that faded almost as soon as they began. Soon, however, the factory bell finally clanged and summoned them back to the grind.
They made their way through the corridors to their part of the factory passing Zalid’s office on the way. The office stood as an unavoidable waypoint on the most direct route.
“Do you remember where we left off?” Merzaal asked, his voice casual.
Abdaz replied, “Pallet’s nearly ready, so-”
“Daz!” Zalid called, cutting Abdaz off. His head emerged from the office doorway, his eyes locked onto Abdaz.
Both Abdaz and Merzaal halted mid-step, their heads swivelling toward Zalid.
“Daz, I need to talk to you!” Zalid repeated, waving over to Abdaz.
Merzaal glanced at Abdaz, his expression curious but unreadable. Abdaz returned the look with a shrug. Without a word, he turned and veered toward Zalid’s office, stepping inside and leaving Merzaal behind.
Merzaal hesitated for a moment before continuing down the corridor alone.
All the machines were ready to run once Merzaal returned. Nothing would flow out of the dispenser until Merzaal was good and ready at his station, since Zalid added a lever to the bottom of the dispenser giving Merzaal control over when it dispensed. Off in the corner Spichka had already returned to his job for the night, filling smaller bags with the chemical powder and packing those away into boxes.
But before Zalid or Abdaz could return, Merzaal knew he had something to settle. Rather than return right to his station, he trotted over to Spichka’s workstation.
“Hey,” Merzaal called, catching Spichka’s attention. “What the hell was that about, Spich?”
Spichka stopped what he was doing. “What was what?” he replied, his voice muffled by his dust mask.
“You snapped at Daz, called him stupid.” Merzaal trotted up close to Spichka. “What’s the matter?”
Spichka was certifiably unmoved as he continued unabated. “I’m literally right.”
Merzaal huffed, furrowing his eyebrows in disgust, an anger slowly brewing. “Are you now?”
Spichka took off his mask. “The company publishes all its revenues and expenditures, they boast openly about how much profit they’re making,” he said, breathlessly. “And guess what. Our wage increases? They’re not growing at the same rate as profit. Our wages are barely growing above inflation. It’s just data, it’s the facts. They’re only going up now because there’s a big fuck off bloodbath, oh I’m sorry, ‘war’, going on and they don’t want to lose able bodied workers to the army, like what literally just happened with Zakob.”
Merzaal blinked. “You finished?”
“You know I’m right,” Spichka insisted.
Merzaal fastened a dust mask over his mouth before sucking in a deep breath. “Sure. I guess.” He returned to his station and got to work.
It was the same work as every other day before. He’d worked alone before when Abdaz was needed elsewhere or called in sick, so it wasn’t much trouble to carry on. He kept his eyes and mind focused on the work, moving with extra speed so Abdaz wouldn’t have to deal with too much of a backlog when he got back.
A few times he glanced at the clock, noticing how much time was going by without Abdaz. First five minutes. Then nine. Then sixteen. Then twenty-two minutes working on his own. By that time, Merzaal had finished stacking a pallet with filled bags and wrapped it tight in stretch film. He hoisted it up with a pallet jack, and hitched the pallet jack’s harness onto his back.
This was probably the easiest part of the job. It still took physical exertion, but all he had to do was pull the pallet through the warehouse and into dispatch. As long as his legs stayed the course, his mind could wander. And whenever it did, he thought of how familiar it felt. Quite literally, it was the same action he was doing every day in the mines. Strange, wasn’t it? No matter how much things seemed to change, some things stayed the same.
Merzaal nearly stumbled to a stop. Hadn’t Spichka said something to that effect?
Looking past Spichka’s attitude and whatever other weird thoughts he had going on in his head, he was getting at something that Merzaal intuitively understood. Despite everything, he was still working for the benefit of the ponies who’d enslaved him. So was Abdaz. And Zalid. And until then, Zakob. All of them worked at this very same factory as slaves while all the same ponies who owned the place continued to do so. It was hard to imagine that they simply had a change of heart.
Soon Merzaal arrived at dispatch and he set the pallet down. The shutter doors leading outside reached all the way to the ceiling, easily the height of six or seven zebras. It led out into the yard where lorries and vans came and went, dropping off and picking up cargo. And if he so wished, he could just go outside.
No physical barrier stood between him and the yard. If he so wished he could stand in the warmth of the day (sans actual daylight) for a minute, or just leave. No armed guards would order him back inside. No barbed wire fences stood to separate him from the outside world. No locked exits. Yeah, he’d be reprimanded or fired for leaving on the job. And he didn’t want to risk disappointing Zalid. But he could just do it.
Which… was just as Spichka had mentioned. Those hard methods of keeping him inside were gone. Not out of the kindness of their hearts, but because they’d given him a reason to choose to stay. They’d found a way to keep him coming back here every day of his own volition, to make him keep working for them without the threat of physical reprisal. He cared about keeping his job, he cared about continuing to work for those that had once enslaved him. And you know, it was probably cheaper to pay him a wage than it was to pay for the salaries and equipment of multiple armed guards.
Maybe it was worth having a chat with Spichka, hopefully on a day where he wasn’t in such a sour mood. Too bad it felt like every day was a sour day for him, so far.
When Merzaal returned to the production department, Abdaz was back. Kitted out in his goggles and dust mask, but almost entirely motionless. Just standing at the workstation, his whole body locked up.
Merzaal approached Abdaz. “Hey, Daz.”
The finer details of Abdaz’s eyes were hidden behind the safety goggles, but Merzaal could see he was blinking, a lot. He made a sound muffled by his dust mask. It might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, might have been an indistinct grunt.
Merzaal felt his brow furrow and his chest pang. “What did Zalid say, Daz?” he asked. He’d never seen Abdaz so still. Worst case scenarios rushed through his head like rapids. Reassignment, layoffs, the incoming threat of legal discipline, flogging. Even if that last one had been outlawed, his mind raced.
Abdaz’s hoof reached up to his mask, undoing the straps. The mask slipped, showing a broad smile on his face. “Zalid’s making me supervisor when Zakob leaves. I’ve been promoted!”
Merzaal blinked. The rapids calmed to a brook in an instant. He couldn’t sense a ‘but’ coming, or any strings attached. And even if there was, it didn’t cross his mind. All Merzaal cared about at that moment was that his friend had gotten a promotion, and had gotten ahead. He could do nothing but smile.
“Oh, Daz. That’s fantastic!” Merzaal’s smile grew into a broad grin.
The two zebras embraced each other in a hug.
1 - Melting Down The Iron Bars
04:25 - 19/02/1001 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
Tonight, exactly five years ago, Merzaal’s life as he knew it came to an end. It was an anniversary with nothing to celebrate.
That’s how long it had been since the Nightmare fanatics ambushed his lorry in the dead of night. That’s how long it had been since they dragged him and every zebra they could get their hooves on back to their lairs. That’s how long it had been since he’d last seen home.
They had taken him from everyone and everything he’d ever known. They bolted shackles around his legs and strapped a muzzle over his snout. They made him haul carts of iron ore out of dark, narrow mines for twelve hours every day. They had shot zebras who dared to make a run for it, right in front of him. They had hanged zebras who stepped out of lines from lamposts for all to see.
After that long, he had stopped registering the stench of piss in his tattered straw mattress. After that long, he had grown used to the ever-present aches in his legs. After that long, he had forgotten what it was like to have a good night’s sleep.
But every night, he dreamt of being free.
Endless miles of open road running along a coast. Sun shining down on the boundless ocean. Seagulls calling as they flew in the air above.
And Merzaal, behind the wheel of a lorry, took in the seaside air. Only for a moment. Only when nestled within the warm, subconscious haze.
Then the cold air of reality scratched against Merzaal’s scarred body, tearing him awake.
He pried his eyes open, his form strewn across one mattress among dozens in the pitch-black barracks. He shivered, curling up to retain some warmth. There were no windows, but shoddy woodwork meant there was always a draft.
He wouldn’t have to be awake for another half hour or so, by his estimate. He always woke up early, slipping in and out of consciousness over the course of a night. The night was not yet at its coldest, and the wake-up call was still some time away. By this point of the night, he couldn’t get back to sleep, no matter how hard he tried.
At some point last year, the unthinkable occurred. The goddess of these nightmare fanatics actually returned. Daylight was no more. Not that Merzaal noticed. He spent his nights asleep and his days underground. After that, the labour only seemed to get harder. Quotas higher, demands firmer, punishments harsher. Merzaal could see where the trend was going, and it only hastened his need to escape. He’d escape or he’d perish.
The doors were thrown open and a trio of armed guards marched in. One of them aimed their weapon at an empty spot on the ground and discharged a blank. The bang bounded through the quarters, rocking Merzaal’s ears and banishing the torpor from his body.
They shouldn’t have been here so soon. Was his circadian rhythm off? Or, worse, were they going to have to listen to some awful speech before being marched to work?
“Attention, natives!” announced the lead guard. “A representative of the Firstborn Legion has arrived to deliver news from New Ayacachtli. Your attendance is mandatory. Form an orderly line and get moving.”
The latter. Damn. Though Merzaal did notice a quirk of their language. The Nightmare fanatics usually referred to them as labourers, not as natives. Even when they were being forced to hear a sermon, they addressed them as labourers. Whatever, he dismissed the thought. Probably nothing.
Merzaal, as well as the other labourers, rose from their beds and did as commanded. Perhaps a little more sluggish than usual, given the early start. His jaw was still stiff from having an iron muzzle on his snout all of yesterday and right after breakfast it was going back on.
Huddled through shutter doors into a dim, damp warehouse, the press of bodies was suffocating. So many zebras gathered in one place made the air thick and stifling with the mingled scents of damp rags, sweat, and stale air. It made each shallow and strained breath a battle for space. Yet all were silent. No overlapping conversations, not even a hushed whisper shared from one to another.
Pressed against one of the walls, a raised platform stood like an island of light in the dim gloom. The light drew their ears with an almost magnetic pull. As the shutter doors closed with a thud, and all eyes turned to ponies on the stage.
Under the lights stood a lanky unicorn mare with a lavender coat and a midnight-purple mane, pulled back into a tight bun. Her sharp, saffron eyes scanned the assembled zebras behind a pair of glasses that rested on her snout. She wore a pristine, slim-fitting uniform, identical to the one worn by the leader of Merzaal’s captors on the night he was kidnapped. Her chin was held high, posture upright and firm. Two guards shared the stage, weapons ready and directed at the audience.
“Natives,” she began, projecting her voice through the warehouse without need for audio equipment. “Earlier this night, Her Imperial Majesty Nightmare Moon graced the Legionary Council with her presence, in order to express her gratitude to all those who helped restore her rightful Imperium.”
Right. So not only was their goddess real, but was in the country.
“To an extent, that gratitude extends to you natives,” she continued. “Your work as labourers has done much to achieve our ultimate objective. It has helped to prove yourselves in the eyes of Her Imperial Majesty, and the Legionary Council…”
At some point along the way, Merzaal stopped listening. From what little he heard, it sounded like the same old mandatory drivel as always, more liquid crap about serving a higher power. He couldn’t imagine why they did it. It didn’t motivate anyone, it didn’t inspire anyone, it didn’t even dampen dissent amongst anyone.
Merzaal’s eyes drifted away from the stage, his body slacking. He wondered whether it might be possible to sleep standing up, to catch a few moments' rest before it was into the mines again. He’d probably get away with it too, fading into the black and white mass of the other gathered zebras. All the while, the words coming out of the officer’s mouth faded into indistinct noise.
Then a bump.
“Hold on, what?” The zebra on Merzaal’s left unknowingly pushed Merzaal, stepping closer to the stage.
“Did she say what I think she said?” whispered a zebra to Merzaal’s right.
Without warning, a ripple rushed through the crowd like wind through tall grass. He could feel it more than he heard it, as murmuring voices rose all around him. Whatever the officer had said, he’d missed it. He craned his neck up and flicked his ears forwards, trying to rise above the sea of heads.
“May I repeat for your benefit.” The officer raised her voice, barely overcoming the increasing din. “By order of Her Imperial Highness Nightmare Moon, the Native Affairs Commission has been abolished with immediate effect and your status as labourers has been lifted. You are all now non-citizen residents of the Dominion of Chiropterra.”
Merzaal blinked, mouth agape. His breathing picked up. His legs jittered. The words he’d just heard didn’t seem real. But as his eyes darted from left to right, catching glimpses of those around him, the reaction from the other natives all but confirmed it. Some were frozen in shock. Some rumbled in disbelief. Some had broken into smiles. Real smiles. A sight almost unheard of in this place. And tears were flowing wherever he looked.
“I understand that this is a significant change, but I ask you to calm down.”
The officers' words fell flat as disbelief gave way to a tidal wave of excitement, the crowd swelling with rowdy, restless life. Assorted voices reared to life, rising and clashing with feverish intensity. Those who’d stood stiff and silent moments before were buzzing with an almost reckless glee. Shouts erupted, laughter broke out, and the once oppressive press of bodies became wild, uncontrolled, and electric.
Suddenly, one of the guards, a thestral, broke rank and flew forwards. Hovering above he stood out as a dark silhouette against the harsh light, all attention on the metallic glint of his raised gun. “You better do what the Major says,” he growled.
A jolt of fear ripped through the crowd like lightning. Merzaal felt his heartbeat hammering in his chest. All around him bodies jerked back instinctively. Startled gasps and screams filled the air. All awaited the inevitable burst of bullets, nobody yet knowing who’d be the unlucky victims. All knew it could be them.
“Private!” The officer's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding like the crack of a rifle. It startled the guard, freezing under her gaze with only his flapping wings still moving. The rest of the assembly stumbled to a silent stop. “That is unnecessary. Return to your post,” she said, her voice descending to a controlled calm that filled the room all the same.
For a moment, the guard hesitated. Then he lowered his weapon and shifted back into rank, his rigid stance having melted under the officer’s gaze. Amongst the crowd, the frantic pulse of fear was soothed. Zebras exchanged nervous glances, but breaths came out easier. Nobody had been hurt, from what Merzaal could see. Nobody was to be punished either.
“Continuing onwards…” The officer’s horn lit up briefly, pushing her glasses up. “Your status as labourers has been lifted and you are all now non-citizen residents of Chiropterra. From this point on you have two options. You may remain working here, or seek work elsewhere. If you remain, over the coming months, the nature of your work will evolve to that of a waged state employee. Outside of your working hours, you will be free to leave the site as long as you return for work in the morning. Expect further improvements to your living and working conditions as this process progresses.”
It was clear what the fanatics wanted him to do. Their own goddess had ordered him to be freed, against their wishes. They had to make an offer to him to convince him to stay. But, if he was hearing her right, he could just… leave .
There would be no field of barbed wire he’d have to wade through. No armed guards with shoot to kill orders. Nothing of the sort. Just an open gate and all the world beyond.
“However, to those of you who do wish to leave…” She continued, with a barely perceptible sigh. “You are free to pack your things and go, as long as you remain within the borders of New Mareidian. You will be without food or shelter until you find it yourself. Be sure to inform a site official before you do. Nightmare bless.”
Merzaal had nothing to pack. The moment the speech ended, he made his way out the gate.
2 - Perigee Chemical Additives
06:52 - 22/04/1001 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
As gently as he could, Abdaz slipped a heavy bag onto the neat stack atop the pallet. He couldn’t just slam it down, that’d risk it bursting open. Each of them was twenty or twenty five kilograms. Once the bag was on, he adjusted it ever so slightly so it lined up with every other bag. He stepped back, checked that the stack was all lined up straight, and blew out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
He rubbed his snout, repressing a cough. All day, every day, he could taste that acrid chemical tang in his mouth. The air in the factory floor was always thick with dust, clinging to his coat and clogging his throat. So much precursor powder going in and so much product coming out of those huge mixers and into waiting bags, held in wheeled sack holders. And as a packer, Abdaz faced the brunt of it. His only PPE was a pair of safety goggles that kept the dust out of his eyes. Most of the dust, anyways.
Where all the product went in the end, Abdaz didn’t really know. He didn’t give it much thought, he struggled to think over the ever-present din of heavy machinery. After he was taken, they’d just sent him here, to a company called Perigee Chemical Additives. Word around said that the end product got added to the rubber used to make the tires on army trucks.
Yet only had one end in mind, however, and that was keeping this job. They were finally paying him to do this, with real money. Decent money, by the standards of native workers. If he wanted to keep it he’d need to keep pace with the machines, and the bag under the dispenser already looked full.
With a swift motion, Abdaz switched the bag under the dispenser for an empty bag before more product flowed through. The stuff came out on its own timetable, not his, and he had to time it right to not end up with a load spilling onto the floor. He set the filled bag aside. Now the hard part was getting it out of the sack holder and onto the scales, when-
“Abdaz!”
His manager, Iceberg, called him. The voice punched through the air like a cannon. If Abdaz had been carrying a bag when he heard it, he would’ve surely dropped it.
“Yes, sir?” Abdaz turned around and stood to attention.
Iceberg marched with haste into the production area, followed by a zebra Abdaz had never seen before.
Even after emancipation, Iceberg’s management style hadn’t changed a bit. The stocky stallion had a cold blue coat, and even colder eyes. Despite being a pegasus, he had the build of an earth pony. His scalp was bare of a mane, while a stubbly white beard covered his snout. A worn out dust mask hung around his neck, but he never wore it. He wore yellow coveralls, stained with spots of orange and green carrying a chemical stench that burned the nostrils. His presence demanded attention, his voice commanded authority, and his attitude tolerated no insubordination.
“Daz, we've got a new hire.” Iceberg thrusted a hoof towards the zebra. “This is Merzaal.”
The zebra in Iceberg’s shadow, Merzaal, was a lithe stallion with wrinkles under his wide eyes and scars across his body. Reddish-brown stripes zig-zagged across his coat, the colour beneath closer to a light red than they were to white. A pair of safety goggles were strapped to his forehead above his eyes, his stringy jet-black mane pulled back into a ponytail. He was stiff and tense, and aside from his firm chin his features were soft and vulnerable.
“You’re gonna show him the ropes.” Iceberg lightly jabbed Abdaz on the chest. “I expect to see you both hard at it when I come back.” And Iceberg trotted off.
Abdaz checked the bag under the dispenser. It wasn’t too full yet. He could wait a moment. He turned to Merzaal, giving him a welcoming smile. “Merzaal, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Merzaal nodded, though it might have been more of a jitter.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Abdaz. First thing, Merzaal.” Abdaz pointed to Merzaal’s goggles. “Don’t keep the goggles on your forehead when you’re not using them. You build up a sweat in here fast and it all condenses on the lenses.”
Merzaal looked up at his goggles and blinked. He reached up and brought them over his eyes. “Got it.”
“Okay Merzaal, listen closely.” Abdaz stepped back. “Product gets mixed up there, and it comes out here,” he said, pointing first to the mixer and then the dispenser and its awaiting bag. “Fills up the bag here. When it weighs enough, we swap it out for an empty bag. Then we put it on the scale, add or remove product until it’s at the right weight, sew it shut, then put it on the pallet. Got it?”
“Yeah, got it.”
“Tell you what, to start off, I’ll sew the bags shut and get them on the pallet, you swap them and get them at the right weight. Weight you want is twenty-five kilograms for this run.”
“Sure, sounds good.”
And so off they went to work. Abdaz sewing and moving them to the pallets, Merzaal swapping and weighing. Fortunately for Abdaz, the bags didn’t need to be hoof stitched, they had a machine for that. Just hit the trigger and feed the top of the bag through the sewer. Bit of a pain to operate, not something to task a new hire with immediately. Uncomplicated, but by no means easy. And hey, with Merzaal here, Abdaz’s workload was more or less cut in half.
While they worked, Abdaz watched Merzaal carefully. Merzaal could swap the bags and lift them without much trouble, but lagged behind when it came to adding and removing product to get the right weight. That was normal, he was still getting a feel for the precise weights. There wasn’t too big of a backlog just yet, but should the need arise Abdaz could step in.
After about fifteen minutes of smooth working, Abdaz thought to break the ice. “So, what brings you here, Merzaal?”
Merzaal glared like Abdaz had just spat on him. “I was kidnapped.”
“Join the club! We all were!” Abdaz laughed. “I mean what brings you here. To this factory. You’re a new hire.”
“Oh,” Merzaal grunted, looking a little flustered. “Just trying to make my way in the world. And food and shelter aren’t free. This was the first place that took me.”
“Didn’t stay at your last place?” Abdaz asked.
“Nope. I was out the gate the first chance I got,” said Merzaal. “They had me working in a mine. Hauling iron ore. Probably the same iron they used to make the shackles and muzzle they strapped to us. All day every day.”
“Oof,” Abdaz grunted. “How are you finding this so far?”
“Well. Air’s full of dust-” Merzaal switched the filled bag under the dispenser with an empty one. “-and there’s plenty of heavy lifting. Seems like the same old.”
“Eh, it’s not the worst. Just be glad you’re not on the mixer!” Abdaz pointed to the zebra on the platform above working with the mixer. The lid was open, and the zebra up top was practically climbing into the mixer to manually push the mixed product through the dispenser with his bare hooves.
Merzaal looked up at the mixer, grimaced, then returned to his work. Little else was said for a short while as the pair worked, both slipping back into a mechanical cycle that strained their muscles and filled their coats with sweat.
“What did you used to do?” Merzaal asked, turning to Abdaz.
Abdaz didn’t take his eyes off his work. “Oh, I didn’t move after emancipation. I’ve been here for the last six years.”
“No, no. Before they took you. What were you doing?” Merzaal clarified.
For a moment, Abdaz paused. He briefly sunk into thought. “Not much of anything, really. A peasant, I guess.”
“Whereabouts were you from?”
“Somewhere along the upper Menuch,” Abdaz answered. In all honesty, his place of origin was just an earlier part of his life. He didn’t have much sentimentality for it. “How about yourself?” He turned to face Merzaal.
“I’m from Manerba. I was a lorry driver. One night our convoy took a wrong turn, and, well…” Merzaal shrugged. “Here I am.”
“Here we are indeed.” Abdaz resumed working.
Merzaal dropped a filled bag onto the scales. “You ever think about your old life, Abdaz?”
Abdaz shrugged imperceptibly, working without interruption as he spoke. “All I did was work the fields in a small village. As my parents did, as their parents did, and as their parents did. Not a lot to it.”
“Don’t miss working outdoors?” Merzaal added.
“Working out there? The sun was a menace, ” Abdaz chuckled. “I can see where the Lunarists get it all from. And, hey, my room’s got this thing called ‘ay-see’. It keeps it nice and cool.”
Merzaal’s ears flicked up. “Your room?”
“Yeah, they gave me my own room, it’s in the big tower block on site,” said Abdaz, gesturing over his shoulder. “It’s just one room, but it’s got an actual bed, space to put stuff, a sofa, even my own radio. Not just that, but they’re building all these new homes, where you get kitchens, bathrooms, and a separate bedroom all to yourself. I’m saving up for one of those.”
“Hm, well. I’m sleeping in a tent city they set up for former labourers. If you can call that living…” He groaned, leaning against a table. “Hell, taking the first job I was given was a condition for me being allowed to stay there. Nobody’s said anything about giving me a room.”
“Merzaal, the bag.” Abdaz pointed to the dispenser.
“The bag?” Merzaal spun around. The bag under the dispenser was nearly overflowing. He gasped, dashing to swap it, only to find that all the sack holders were empty of a sack. “Ah, crap.”
Abdaz put the sewing machine to one side. “Hold on, I’ll help.”
Abdaz, moving swiftly but not rushing, loaded an empty bag into an awaiting sack holder with practised automaticity. It was a precise, rather fiddly action, and not something to task a new hire with under pressure. Merzaal was already in position under the dispenser. In a synchronised motion, Merzaal took the filled sack aside as Abdaz slipped the empty one into place, just before another load of product flowed out the dispenser. Merzaal rolled the filled bag by the scale, both blowing out a breath as they did.
“Thanks, Abdaz.” Merzaal wiped his forehead, blowing out a breath. “That’s definitely more than twenty-five.”
“You said you didn’t have a room?” Abdaz asked.
“No, I’m sleeping in a tent.” Merzaal scooped some product out of the heavy bag and shook it into the bag on the scale. “I share it with five others, it’s freezing, and there’s a non-zero chance someone previously pissed in my sleeping bag.”
“Well, why don’t you sleep on my sofa? Hell, I might talk to Iceberg about getting a bunk bed in there.”
Merzaal nearly dropped the scoop. “Wha- Really?” He turned to look at Abdaz, eyes wide with amazement and gratitude.
“Of course! But be warned, I snore.” Abdaz gave a laugh and a grin.
Merzaal laughed, a broad grin on his face. “That’s- That’s so nice of you. Thank you, Abdaz.” The words came out like he’d forgotten how to say them.
“Yeah, we can talk about the details at the end of the day. Just-” Abdaz trotted back to the sewing machine. “-focus on work for now.” He pointed to the bag on the filling machine.
“Oh, right.”
5:48 - 16/09/1003 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
Merzaal, amidst half a dozen other workers, stepped off the bus and onto the pavement. While he’d grown familiar with it, his hoof touching down onto the asphalt sent a jolt of discomfort through him. It was less the physical sensation, and more that signalled the end of his “free time” and the start of the labouring night.
The factory loomed over them all, a monolithic silhouette against the ever night sky. Even though it was still some distance away, it dominated the skyline.The words ’Perigee Chemical Additives’ glowered down on them, commanding the eyes to pay attention to it, as light was few and far between. No street lights and only a few office windows offered anything else. The building stood there in silence, the slumbering machines within yet to be activated.
Having Sunday (or Moonnight as it was officially called) off was nice, but the night was always tainted by the looming Monday (or Firstnight). It was hard to relax with the imminent work week at the forefront of your mind.
Regardless, he and the other workers set off down the street and through the open gates. The spacious yard was largely deserted. All the shutter doors closed, no parked lorries waiting to be loaded. A few parked cars belonging to the higher-ups who could afford them sat in a fenced off area of the yard, ever so slightly elevated. Merzaal took a quick look as he passed, noticing the spot reserved for Iceberg was empty.
Merzaal’s group weren’t the first to arrive. A few early arrivals, zebra and pony workers alike, were already loitering under a bright lamppost by the work entrance, waiting for the workday to begin. Just about everyone had a cigarette held in their hoof or lips.
That was, save for Abdaz.
Standing a head taller than most, Abdaz had a well-toned musculature, emphasised by the brown stripes that flowed across his body. His metallic bronze mane was trimmed into a buzzcut, his azure eyes popping against their brown surroundings. Little patches of colour marked his coat around and between the stripes, including a spot on the tip of his nose.
“Morning lads.” Merzaal waved to the gathered mass of workers. “Morning Daz,” he said just to Abdaz.
Over the years, both Merzaal and Abdaz had moved out of the company provided housing and moved into their own apartments. As much as they shared a bond, they spent ten hours a day alongside the others at work every day and very much wanted to live their own separate lives.
“Morning,” said Abdaz, greeting Merzaal with a smile. “How was your Moonnight?”
“Eh.” Merzaal shrugged and shook his head. “Spent most of it in bed. Did the week’s shopping. Met a mate over lunch. Not much else.”
“Didn’t attend any temple services?”
Letting a chuckle out, Merzaal shook his head. “No.”
“You should consider it.” Abdaz stood up straighter. “They know when you do. The government keeps track of who attends, and they take it into account when considering who they’re giving citizenship to.”
“There’s better ways to spend the one night off I get than being watched by government agents.” Merzaal plonked his flank on the end of a bench. “Doesn’t seem worth it to me. And we’re all being watched regardless, so it's even more a waste of time.”
“If it means I become a citizen sooner, of course it’s worth it,” said Abdaz. “Think it over. After all, it’s only an hour or two out of your night, right?”
Merzaal looked away, gazing up into the boundless darkness above. “I’d rather do things my way.”
A bell rattled through the yard, stealing everyone’s attention. That wasn’t the official start of the work day, it was a warning to be at their work stations in five minutes, so it might as well have been. Still, it flicked a switch in everyone’s heads, occupying the same space in their minds as the crack of a whip or the flash of an electric prod. Those sitting rose from their seats, those smoking took a last draw and stubbed their cigarettes out, and those chatting wrapped up their conversations.
“What do they talk about at temple sermons, anyway? Last time I checked, having your god descend to earth was usually the end of the story.” Merzaal asked as they walked through the main entrance. Merzaal already had an idea, but he wanted Abdaz’s perspective regardless.
“Last night, at least, it was something about Nightmare Moon being the embodiment of divine justice.” Abdaz cleared his throat, then shifted to fill his voice with dramatic flair. “The sword and shield of the downtrodden labouring classes, that her supremacy meant delivering true prosperity to those who built the world.”
Already Merzaal was rolling his eyes. No way he could tolerate listening to that for an hour. “Well I’m still waiting for my prosperity then. Unless by prosperity, she means a faceful of sulphur. That I have enough of, thank you.”
Merzaal and Abdaz walked into the factory and clocked in. Tossing their personal effects into their lockers, they moved to their assigned departments. The factory sat shrouded in darkness, its usual hum stilled as the two made their way in. Overhead, the lights were still off, casting the room in a shadowy silence, broken only by the distant flicker of workers on switches and control panels.
One by one, harsh fluorescent lights buzzed to life, their brightness stabbing through the gloom with a cold, clinical glare. The once empty space began to stir as workers moved to their stations, machines groaning awake and shaking off their silence. The sharp mechanical whirr filled the air, growing louder, swallowing up the quiet with a steady, grinding hum. The air was still clear for the moment. But Merzaal knew it wouldn’t last. Soon the factory’s lungs would fill with a cloud of chemical ash, coating everything in its inevitable, choking grime. The day was only just beginning, but already the noise, the dust, and the grind of routine was pressing into his skull.
When they got closer to their department, Merzall noticed that the lights there were already on, with the sound of the machines already stirring to life. Strange, as when they arrived on Monday mornings, they were always the ones who had to turn everything on. Merzaal and Abdaz stopped, shared a look, then continued with a newly gained curiosity.
They entered their department and found everything ready to start. Precursor materials were standing by the mixer, empty bags sat by the dispenser, a stack of empty pallets sat in wait. Even fresh rolls of thread for the sewing machine were set nearby. They looked up at the mixer, seeing a zebra practically climbing into the mixer with a towel in his hooves wiping down the interior.
Usually the first to see them at the start of a work day, outside pleasantries in the locker room, was Iceberg, who’d issue his orders for the day and then stand back to observe. But there was no sign of him anywhere so far.
The zebra popped his head out of the mixer, noticing they had arrived. “Merzaal, Abdaz!” The zebra grinned, getting away from the machine and trotting down the mezzanine to greet them. “Good morning!”
The zebra’s name was Zalid, if Merzaal remembered correctly. He’d worked in a different part of the factory for the past eighteen years, having been born a labourer and sent wherever his masters had wanted him for all his life.
Zalid had a build that seemed pudgy at a glance, but a closer inspection revealed sturdy muscles, built for sustained work. His coat could more accurately be described as black with white stripes than the other way round. If he had a mane it couldn’t be seen, as a grey beanie covered the top of his round head. He wore the same sort of safety goggles as everyone else, but they did nothing to dim the brightness in his emerald eyes. He moved with a slight spring in his step and a jolly smile that never left his lips.
“Morning, Zalid!” Abdaz called out, waving a cheer that lightened the air around him.
“Morning,” Merzaal echoed, though his tone was more terse. His eyes scanned the room before landing on Zalid. “Where’s Iceberg?”
“Iceberg…” Zalid slouched over on the platform above, his boots making a dull thud as he jumped down, landing before Merzaal and Abdaz with a soft grunt. “...works in the office now. I’m your new manager.”
Merzaal blinked. “Oh, huh, what?”
Zalid tilted his head, clearly amused by Merzaal's confusion. “Didn’t he tell you? He was given the promotion nearly a week ago. He didn't mention it once in all that time?” His voice carried a note of incredulity.
“No, he didn’t,” Merzaal replied flatly.
Zalid shrugged, nonchalant. “Hm, figures.” He gave a nearly imperceptible eye roll.
“You got everything ready for us,” Abdaz chimed in. “Thank you, sir.”
Zalid chuckled, the sound deep and easy. “No, no need for sirs, just call me Zalid. And don’t mention it. My job is to help you do yours.”
“Um, okay, si-Zalid!” Abdaz replied with a smile, his face lighting up at the exchange.
“Right, first things first. Over here.” Zalid skipped off to the corner of the room, where assorted tools and equipment were kept on a shelf. Zalid picked up a box cutter and opened up a box wrapped up on the table, pulling out a fresh new dust mask. Its straps dangled loosely as he held it out to Merzaal and Abdaz, with heavy modern filters attached to either side. “From now on, I’m going to have to ask you to wear dust masks while you're here. Just a health and safety measure.”
Merzaal reached out and Zalid gave him the mask. Zalid took another mask out the box for Abdaz, too.
“Those are yours to keep,” Zalid added. “I suggest you keep them in your lockers. Might also want to write your names on them.”
As Merzaal lifted the mask to his face and pulled the straps over his head, he found the feeling distressingly familiar. At least now it was his own hoof performing the action. The material around the edge pressed gently against his skin, forming a seal around his snout, so at least a remarkable improvement from before. He caught the plastic smell of the new mask itself, isolated from the surrounding air for a moment.
Then he sucked in a breath, and it felt wholly dissimilar.
No dust filling his mouth and throat. No chemical tang flooding his nose. No taste of bitter powder. It was clear air. Stale with the smell of the artificiality of the mask, but still clearer than the air outside. A breath of clean air in the factory walls was almost disorienting, like his eyes and ears were on a different planet to his mouth and nose.
“Can you breathe okay?” Zalid asked.
“Yeah,” Merzaal said, voice muffled by the mask.
Huh, he could talk, too. He moved his jaw up and down, and left to right, finding he could move it a fair bit. Moving it too much made gaps in the seal, giving him little tastes of unfiltered air. Probably best to avoid that.
“Sorry?” Zalid asked again.
“Yes, I can breathe alright,” Merzaal said, raising his voice without shouting.
Zalid smiled and gave a nod. “Brilliant. How about you, Abdaz?”
Abdaz adjusted the straps on his mask, fitting it securely onto his head. “It’s great, sir- erm, Zalid. Thanks.”
“Great!” Zalid smiled. He then brought a mask over his own mouth, muffling his voice. “The filters should last the next few months, but if you need anything, just give me a shout! Now, just do this for me real quick…”
Unlike Iceberg, Zalid didn’t immediately leave the factory floor to Za’al knows where. If the machine ever clogged up, Zalid was there immediately to unclog it. If a backlog was built up, Zalid came to ease it. If the precursor material ran out, Zalid went out into the warehouse to bring more. And if a pallet was fully packed and ready to go, Zalid took it to dispatch. At no point did Zalid leave them for any longer than half an hour. He probably spent more time working on the factory floor today than Iceberg did in the past two years Merzaal had been at the factory altogether.
At day’s end, Merzaal could feel his back aching and his eyelids growing heavy, as was the case every day.
Zalid was up on the mixer, pushing the last dregs of chemical powder through the dispenser while Merzaal and Abdaz packed what they could. Every machine had to be empty before they started the next morning, and it was rapidly approaching four o’clock.
With the last bag sewn shut, Merzaal went to lean against a table. The day would end any moment now. He was ready to go home and probably go straight to bed.
“Merz, Daz!”
“Yeah?” Abdaz called back.
“Do a quick favour for me, could you bring tomorrow’s precursor into here? It’s the ZBEC stuff, you know where that is?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Great.” Zalid nodded. “I need two pallets of it, so it’d be quicker if you both went. I’m closing up here.”
“On it,” said Abdaz, instantly hopping to work.
“Sure thing,” Merzaal said, following after Abdaz.
The two set off down the familiar path to the warehouse. All around machines were winding down as the factory at large prepared to close for the night. It was a short walk, the sort that didn’t need conversation. Merzaal's mind drifted, his movements automatic.
Once at the warehouse, they scanned row upon row until they spotted the marked pallets resting on the ground floor, featuring the ZBEC logo stencilled in heavy letters. Abdaz slipped one of the pallet jacks into position, the clatter and squeak of the metal frame cutting through the stillness as they worked in tandem to secure the loads.
Pallets secured, they made their way back to their department with the added load. With the pallets’ heft and their own weariness, it stretched out like the final mile of a marathon.
Finally back inside their department, Zalid was still hard at work methodically cleaning out the industrial mixer. He had set a large bin beneath the dispenser, ready to catch the last remnants of the day’s mix.
He heard their arrival. “Just put them over there for me,” he called, pointing a gloved hoof to one end of the department, his attention still on the mixer.
When Abdaz and Merzaal dropped the pallets off, Merzaal blew out a breath and a yawn heavy enough to nearly blow his mask loose. He’d actually stopped noticing he was wearing it.
“Huh, would you look at that, it’s ten-past,” Abdaz noted.
That knocked Merzaal awake. “Crap, really?” He looked up at the clock. Sure enough, ten-past-four. “Ugh, we’re gonna miss the first bus.”
Abdaz shrugged. “Oh well. There’s another one in, what? Fifteen minutes?”
Speedily undoing the mask on his head to let it dangle from his neck, Merzaal wondered why he’d stayed so long. He’d never been in the department as late as ten-past. Eleven-past now. Usually he was right out the door at the first chance, clocking out at exactly four o’clock, aiming to get the very first bus home. What kept him?
Zalid seemed to be done with the machine, he came up to Merzaal and Abdaz. “Good work, lads. You two have been stellar today.”
Abdaz seemed flustered for a moment. “Oho, thanks boss”
“See you two tomorrow.” Zalid gave a smirk, and made his way to the exit.
Hm. That was it, wasn’t it. A “quick favour” for Zalid. A quick favour for his manager. Or another way of seeing it, a quick favour for the company.
Now why’d he done that?
06:02 - 10/12/1006 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
Abdaz walked into work with a smile on his face that night.
Strong lights buzzed over the yard while a windy chill swept through, but that did nothing to dampen the sparkle in Abdaz’s eyes. As was common, he was one of the first workers to arrive. The few others who waited around the entrance were clouded in a fog of steam from hot beverages and smoke from cigarettes. Some nights Abdaz might’ve needed a cuppa or a smoke to take the edge off, but not tonight. Even as he went to sit down on a low wall, he couldn’t stop kicking his legs like a foal on a swing set.
When the bell rang, signalling the start of the shift, Abdaz hopped to his hooves, giddiness bubbling inside him like a pot ready to boil over. His steps were light, almost jaunty, as he pranced into the factory with a barely contained excitement. He even inserted his card into the clocking-in machine with a bit of bouncy flair.
Merzaal trailed behind, watching with a raised brow. They navigated the dim, industrial interiors toward their department with the factory coming alive around them, not a peep between them. Merzaal finally broke the silence between them. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s up, Daz?” His voice held a hint of amusement as he trotted closer.
Abdaz looked back, his grin broadening. “Not until everyone’s here!”
Merzaal stared back, shrugged, then carried on quietly.
They soon passed through the entrance to their department, greeted by the familiar clunk of machines coming to life as Zalid was getting everything ready. Already a stream of music flowed from the department’s new radio and speaker set, paid for out of Zalid's own pocket.
“Morning!” Zalid called, climbing down from the mixer to meet them at eye-level. “You seem right chuffed, Daz. What’s caught you?”
“Well…” Abdaz’s voice lifted as he looked around. “I’ve got an announcement, when everyone’s here.”
Contagious anticipation crackled in the air. Merzaal and the others trickled in, one by one, sensing something out of the ordinary. Spicka entered last, sulking by the entrance. No one moved toward their stations. They all stood still, eyes on Abdaz, waiting for the words he had been holding back, the air in the room thick with expectancy.
Abdaz pulled in a breath. Five and a half years of honest work, two hours out of every weekend attending a temple to the Chiropterran’s goddess, almost a decade of keeping his head down and not stirring up a fuss, all leading up to this achievement. And he was ready to share it.
“I got a letter last night,” Abdaz began, his voice dripping with giddiness that drew every eye in the department closer. “It said my application for citizenship…” He paused for effect, his chest swelling with pride before delivering the final punch. “...has succeeded! I’m officially a citizen!”
For no longer than a heartbeat, the words hung in the air. Then, an eruption of cheers and shouts. Joy blazed through the gathering of workers like fire through a pool of petrol.
Zalid was the first to react, throwing his hoof up in celebration. “Oh, mate! Congrats!” he called. Abdaz threw his own hoof up to meet his, the sound of their hi-hoof snapping like a firecracker.
Merzaal wasn’t far behind, coming in from the other side with his hoof raised high. “Come here, mate!” he called. Their hooves met with another solid smack, the force of it punctuating the excitement that crackled through the department.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Merz?” Abdaz slung a hoof over Merzaal’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I can sponsor your citizenship application now!”
Merzaal’s face split into a broad grin. “Aw, hell yeah!”
“And,” Abdaz continued, stepping forward like he had the world at his hooves, “I’m throwing a party at the Whirling-In-Rags this Moonnight, and you’re all invited! Booked the function room and everything! Got a marefriend just dying to meet you!” His words sent another ripple of cheers bouncing through the room, voices raising in excitement.
He glanced around, his eyes landing on Spichka at the edge of the group. “And I mean all of you!” Abdaz declared, his gaze locking on Spichka. “Even you, Spichka!”
“Ehh.” Spichka cringed, stepping back. “I would prefer not to.”
Laughter spun around the group like a whirlwind, the good-natured ribbing filling the air as Spichka quietly slipped toward his workstation, distancing himself as he had ever since Abdaz’s promotion.
“Do you want paid time off for that?” Zalid asked. “I can get you an extra day, this is a special occasion!”
“Hoho! Maybe the night after!” Abdaz strapped a pair of safety goggles to his face. “If all goes well, I know I’ll need it!”
The rounds of congratulations circled again and again, hoof bumps, slaps on the back, and wide smiles exchanged going on and on before eventually the department settled, the excitement still buzzing beneath the surface as they finally turned to their workstations.
That Moonnight, Abdaz held his promised party, a good time had by all. Merzaal showed up, Zalid showed up, a few other coworkers showed up, and they got to meet Abdaz’s templegoing friends. They even met his marefriend, all of them bringing along their own partners, too. Well the ones that had them anyways. All through the night, the venue was full of music, laughter, drinking, disco dancing and karaoke.
The Firstnight after was a night off. Though it felt more like a collapse after the nonstop energy expended in the party. Abdaz slept in for another hour or two that morning. He had a few errands to run during the night, such as taking care of some extra citizenship paperwork.
The night after that, work. He woke up earlier than he would’ve liked. He hopped on the bus. He arrived at the factory for ten hours of strenuous manual labour. All under the same conditions. All with the same people. All to receive the same hourly rate.
It was much the same the next night. And the night after, and the night after. And the week after, and on and on for the following weeks and months.
All as it was before.
13:46 - 02/07/1007 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
It was Sunday, or Moonnight, and Merzaal and Abdaz were sharing a table at ‘The Cow House’, a small pub on a big street. For most, it would be a little too early to start drinking, but they had to go in early for work the next day. Merzaal had already gotten to the bottom of a glass of ale by the time Abdaz arrived, as Abdaz had been preoccupied with another arrangement around midday.
“You still go to temple services?” Merzaal chucked, his laugh laden with hints of disbelief and curiosity. “Why?”
“Habit, I guess.” Abdaz shrugged and sipped his drink.
“Habit?” Another chuckle escaped Merzaal’s smiling lips, confused more than anything else. “You’ve made a habit of taking a couple hours out of your Moonnight, one of two nights off you get, and using them to listen to those fanatic’s propaganda?”
“The Moonspeakers at the one I go to are alright!” said Abdaz, defensively. “Most of the time, anyway. The sermons tonight were…” Abdaz took a long sip from his drink, brow set and eyes in the corner of the room. “Political, in a way? Not political in the sense that they were telling me who to vote for, but political in that it sounded a lot like what the local politicians have all been saying at speeches and in debates.”
“For what?” Merzaal scrunched his snout. “Oh, right,” he said, remembering that there were some elections scheduled in a few nights.
“I take it you haven’t been paying much attention,” Abdaz observed.
“Not much reason to, I’m not a citizen yet,” said Merzaal. “I’ve just heard what’s on the radio and, heh, whatever Spich keeps ranting about.”
“Oh yeah?” Abdaz took a swig of his drink. “What’d he say?”
“That you’re an idiot if you care about or support anyone running because they’re all…” Merzaal’s hoof hovered in front of his mouth, trying to remember the words Spichka used. “...Bourgeois chauvinists, opportunist settler colonial, imperialist social-fascists.” He laughed. “All I asked him was who was running! I can’t even vote!”
Abdaz shared the laugh. “It’s like he wants to make everyone around him as miserable as he is!”
“So.” Merzaal slipped around in his chair. “You know things. You can vote. What’s going on in the ‘wonderful’ world of politics? I’m surprised they’re even holding elections in the first place.”
“Ah!” Abdaz sat up. His composure and tone went from casual to professional, like a switch had flipped in his head. “Well, after victory over the Storm King, the Dominion was reformed into the Commonwealth and Viceroy Saturn Hawkrich ordered- Erm, you know who he is?”
Merzaal nodded. “Eh enough. Some big shot general who came here after something during the Crystal War.”
“Good.” Abdaz smiled. “He pushed through a bunch of democratic reforms on the Commonwealth, including stuff like an elected legislature, allowing loyal opposition organisations to exist, democratic accountability for the Premier and government, an independent judiciary, that kind of thing. Pretty much ensuring the civilian government was in charge, not a military one.”
“And the fanatics just… Accepted this?” Merzaal leaned forwards to put his front knees on the table.
“The Viceroy is Nightmare Moon’s personal representative in Chiropterra,” Abdaz explained. “Going against his word means going against Nightmare Moon. He’s pretty much the next best thing to the word of the goddess.”
“Huh.” Merzaal leaned back into his chair. “I see.”
“Anyway, a bunch of new parties and political groups all sprung up when the ban on opposition was lifted,” said Abdaz, gesturing broadly with his hooves. “Most of the old guard, the hardliners associated with the Legions, all got together and formed the United Commonwealth Party. While reform minded Chiropterrans mostly gathered into the National Democratic Party, led by Governor Carrot Stick.”
“Bet that doesn’t get confusing at all,” Merzaal sipped his drink. “Any others? Like, a native interests party?”
Abdaz shrugged, grimacing. “A few. There’s a former labourer running in my district for provincial assembly, but I’m worried she’s just gonna split the vote.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s multiple elections being held on the same night. One is for provincial assemblies, local government and what have you, and one is for the constitutional convention, as well as any other special cases, like local offices such as city Mayor in Ursagrad,” Abdaz explained. “Now imagine, for any of the races, if it’s between a conservative and a reformer and there are fifty-five reformers for every forty-five hardliners amongst the voters. You’d expect the reformer to win, right?”
“Right.”
“But, if the reformers have two candidates, and fifteen of the reformers vote for the second candidate, then the conservative gets the most votes and wins,” Abdaz explained. “The conservative stays in power, all because the reformers split their votes.” He picked up his glass and brought it to his mouth.
The argument landed like a feather against Merzaal. “That’s not the fault of the reformers at all. That’s how the system was set up.”
Abdaz paused before sipping from his drink. “Those are the rules of the game, unfortunately. They’re not completely fair, but they’re what we’ve got.”
“Would you vote for a native interests party if you thought it had a chance?” Merzaal asked.
Abdaz took a long sip. “Probably,” he answered with a smack of his lips.
Merzaal paused. “Who told you she didn’t have a chance?”
Abdaz chuckled under his breath. “Maths. Former labourers and natives are only ten, fifteen percent of the district max. We’re nowhere near a majority,” Abdaz said, plainly. “So you know, you have to take what you can get.”
“Okay, but, if the margin to win is within that ten to fifteen percent, then, you can leverage that, right?” Merzaal suggested. “Like, tell them you won’t support them unless they do something for us?”
“And risk the old guard keeping power?” Abdaz scoffed as he brought his drink up to his mouth. “Hell no. That’s what they’re banking on, a divided opposition. I’m just hoping everyone else in our district sees it that way.”
“There’s a lot of natives and former labourers in your neighbourhood, though,” Merzaal noted.
“It’s not just my neighbourhood, it’s a lot of the city grouped into one district. They needed to divide the whole province into sixty evenly sized districts, and my district happens to include Pillarsky, Rulaport, Corona Hills-”
“Corona Hills?” Merzaal nearly spit out a mouthful of ale. “That’s halfway across the city. Why are you sharing a district with them? It’s where all the rich old slavers live!”
“I don’t know,” Abdaz admitted, “it’s just how they divided it up.”
“Is the whole province split up like that? Our neighbourhoods clumped in with all the conservative areas?” Merzaal chuckled in disbelief, but knew he shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. “Sounds like they’re trying to make our vote worthless in every race!”
“I wouldn’t say every race,” Abdaz shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know why it’s divided that way.”
“You said we’re only fifteen percent of the city’s population. If we’re fifteen percent in each district, then there will never be a zebra like us in the assembly!” Merzaal laughed a hollow, gasping laugh. “We’re always gonna be outnumbered!”
“Look, it’s still a significant proportion, enough to swing a race,” said Abdaz.
“So what? If you’re not going to leverage it, what does it matter?” Merzaal threw his front hooves up. When Abdaz didn’t answer immediately, Merzaal brought them back down.
Abdaz sighed, leaning on the table and pressing a hoof into his chin. “I want to at least give them a chance, they want to change the country for the better,” he said, his voice soft and focused. “There are a lot of actual good people running, guys on our side. Take the National Democrat running in my district for the provincial assembly. Around a decade ago he was sent to prison for assisting escaped labourers. He was only let out when the NAC was abolished.”
Merzaal’s expression softened, his ears sticking up. “Is that so?”
“Yeah!” Abdaz nodded, a smile growing on his lips. “And the National Democrat candidate for the Constitutional Convention in my district? He’d been a moonspeaker for thirty years, and he never once used slave labour in his temples and constantly used his platform to advocate for our emancipation. If he’s elected he’ll push for all former labourers to get citizenship as a constitutional guarantee.”
“Huh, okay.” Merzaal nodded along as Abdaz spoke. It sounded better than he expected. “What about the other one going on, the Mayoral election?”
“For that one, it’s really more a case of keeping the conservative out. I wonder if…” Abdaz poked his head up and scanned around the room like a periscope. He spotted an abandoned newspaper on a nearby table and grabbed it. “Ah, here.”
Abdaz dropped the newspaper onto the table and flipped through the first few pages, quickly coming onto a story about the Mayoral election with photos of the two leading candidates.
“So you have these two candidates.” He pointed to the picture on the left, a portrait of a middle-aged stallion with an ostentatious pinstripe overcoat and a well-groomed beard and mane. His chin was held high, like he was looking down at the viewer. “This here is the United Commonwealth candidate, Aspen Blaze. He’s the incumbent, and member of Clan Reed. So you know, real blue blooded asshole. Probably wishes he could put us back in chains.”
“Figured.” Merzaal nodded. Even for someone who didn’t follow politics, he knew Clan Reed was bad news for a former labourer.
Abdaz’s hoof moved to the picture on the right. “And then you have their main challenger, the National Democrats’ candidate, Onyx Shield.”
And on the utterance of that name, the world went deathly silent in Merzaal’s ears. Like the cord powering his hearing had been yanked out of its socket.
Abdaz’s mouth continued to move, but all Merzaal heard was a steady muffle drowned out by a deafening echo. Onyx Shield. Onyx Shield. Onyx Shield.
The picture in the newspaper was an earth pony stallion with sharp, clean features, wearing a Chiropterran military officers’ uniform. The photo was in black and white, but Merzaal knew his true colours. The coat a peachy shade of orange, the short-crop mane a rose red. His silver eyes were level with the camera, casting a confident smirk. A smirk that said, “Remember me? I’m still here.”
Merzaal did.
Eleven and a half years back. Wedged into a suffocating throng of bodies within the walls of a cold hangar. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to flank, there was barely space for him to breathe. What breathes he took were thick and stale, heavy with the tang of sweat and dread. Every face he saw was etched with fear, their expressions mirroring his own silent terror. Catwalks stretched above them, casting long shadows onto the huddled mass. Armed guards prowled along the catwalks, cold, practised gazes watching for any hints of unrest and loaded rifles ready to put them out.
Just hours earlier he’d been driving a lorry along the coast, like any other night. An obstruction on the road ahead made him slow his vehicle to a stop. Before he could even get a look at what it was, the door burst open. A sack went over his head. He was dragged out by unseen assailants. He was hogtied. He was thrown onto a boat. And when the sack came off, he was staring down the cold barrel of a Chiropterran gun, ensuring he didn’t move a muscle even as the ropes were loosened and shackles put in place.
A door swung open onto the catwalk above them. Two ponies exited onto it. Their boots stamped against the metal grating, stealing the attention of the gathered captives. The first was a thestral with a coat and mane black as coal, covered in battle scars and donning a weathered combat uniform. Following after, an earth pony in a neatly pressed officer’s uniform.
“And here’s our bounty, Captain Onyx Shield.” The thestral took flight, gesturing proudly to the warehouse full of captives.
Captain Onyx Shield’s eyes scanned the gathered captives coldly, like he would a field of crops ready for harvest. “Impressive, Lieutenant. Total number?”
“Three thirty, Captain,” the thestral answered with a grin.
“Three hundred and thirty?” Captain Onyx Shield’s eyebrows shot up, a smile raising his lips. “Good work, well above the miners quota. What’s the distribution by sex?”
“About sixty-forty, favouring males, though if it favoured them seventy-thirty, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d say, uhh, a little around one-ninety males, and the rest females.” The thestral gently landed on the catwalk. “What do we do with the excess, Captain?”
“Hrm.” Captain Onyx Shield stroked his chin, a long drawn-out pause before his next words. “Send any capable males off to the mine, make up the difference with any tougher looking females. Keep the rest in custody for a while. I’ll reach out across the area, someone will find a use for them.”
The thestral sniggered, licking their lips as they eyed up the collection of the captive zebras. “Oh, we will, Captain! It’s been a long night, and my boys are itching for some relief!”
“Yeah, just nothing too rowdy, Lieutenant.” Onyx Shield gave the thestral a pat on the shoulder. “We’re bringing them here to do work, remember. I don’t need our haul damaged before we deliver it.” He stepped back and made for the exit, a broad, relieved smile never leaving his face.
“Alright, you heard the Captain!” The thestral announced. “Get the tough looking males and females onto the trains! The rest of the ladies are spending the night with us!”
The shutter doors groaned open with a metallic howl, filling the warehouse with noise and sickly industrial air. Above, the guards on the catwalks raised their rifles in a synchronised, methodical motion.
“And as for all you labourers?” The thestral’s eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he bared his fangs. “Last one outside gets shot!”
Fear exploded through the crowd, the mass of bodies surging towards the exit in a chaotic yet corralled stampede. Legs pushing and pulling. Zebras clashing against others. Panic overtaking reason. Merzaal had barely a moment to react before he was swept up in the crush of bodies. A low rumble filled the hangar, the thestral lieutenant releasing a sickening cackle. The world spun, dark and blurred, as he was jostled from all sides. Dread was suffocating and blinding, like a thick cloud of smoke in a burning house as the roof collapsed in.
“Merzaal?”
The sound of Abdaz’s voice tore Merzaal back to the present moment. He was still in the pub. His drink was where it was. Abdaz was still across from him, and that same picture was in the newspaper. He had only been staring at it for a few seconds, but it felt like he was in that hangar for hours. Felt like he had always been there.
“Merzaal, I’m here.” Abdaz put his hooves on Merzaal’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Merzaal sat up, his jaw shut tight like a bear trap. He turned slowly to face Abdaz, trying to keep his breathing under control. There was a slight furrow in Abdaz’s brow, eyes soft in quiet concern.
“That’s him.” Merzaal tapped on Captain Onyx Shield’s picture. “That’s the one who sent me to the mines. On the night I was kidnapped.”
The look on Abdaz’s face evaporated like drops of water on a hot stove, lips parting in a startled gasp, his eyes wide. “Oh Za’al.”
Merzaal turned to look at the picture. That smirk seemed to know him, mock him. He huffed steam out of his nostrils, lips quivering. “And you’re telling me that’s the reformer candidate.”
16:44 - 26/03/1010 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
A sharp hiss of hydraulics and the bus jerked to a stop. The doors slid open, allowing Abdaz and the other passengers out onto the pavement outside.
It was still quite a walk back to his apartment. Tonight was paynight too. Hopefully when he got home, he’d see his payslip in the post. Not that it was the celebratory night it once was.
It was a secret to nobody that the company wasn’t in the best shape, falling short of sales targets over the last few months. For Abdaz and his colleagues, this meant he hadn’t seen a wage increase in well over a year, even as the cost of essential goods and services continued to go up. In fact over the last few months, there were even deductions from their payslips to cover “urgent essential business costs”. It meant paying bills, planning a week, and everything else became all that much more of a pain. But a small deduction from his pay was better than being laid off.
And Abdaz needed this job. His wife was pregnant with twins, their births due in a couple months. Their modest savings were slowly growing, but they’d need a steady income to keep the soon-to-be family of four afloat. His foals wouldn’t grow up in the same poverty Abdaz did, or in the same destitution many former labourers still lived in. Yet to make sure of that, more than anything, he needed stability.
But before he could make even a few steps beyond the bus shelter he heard a voice behind him. “Wait, Daz!” It was Merzaal.
Abdaz stopped and turned around. Merzaal had hopped off the bus right before the doors shut. “Merz? This isn’t your stop.” They took the same bus home, but Merzaal didn’t get off until a few stops further down the way.
“I know, but I need to talk with you, and I need you to promise not to mention this to anyone about it.” He spoke quieter than his usual voice, a slight urgency in his voice. His eyes went to watch the bus as it pulled away from the stop.
Abdaz felt the slightest furrow in his brow. He shrugged, keeping eye contact with Merzaal. “Alright, Merz. Shoot.”
“I need you to promise me not to tell.” Merzaal glared with a conviction burning behind his eyes Abdaz had rarely seen from him. He took a look over his shoulder and a glance past Abdaz. They were both alone under the bus shelter, their faces lit by the purple lamp on the roof. “No offence, but I know you well enough that I need absolute certainty that you won’t tell anyone else.”
Hesitating for a moment, Abdaz could tell he shouldn’t treat this flippantly. Whatever it was must’ve been deeply personal, and his friend trusted him with it. “I promise,” he said clearly, and with full sincerity. “I promise I won’t fib on you or tell a soul. My lips are sealed and my word is good. Now tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Okay.” Merzaal drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. He looked Abdaz dead in the eye. “We’re planning a strike.”
Abdaz blinked, the words coming as a shock. Like the sudden clap of thunder and lightning raced across the sky. “Strike?” He had to ask again, just to be sure he’d heard Merzaal right. “I think that’s illegal, Merz.”
Merzaal groaned, his eyes clenching shut. He brought his head down, pressing a hoof into his forehead.
“Sorry, who’s we?” Abdaz asked, his voice smaller as uncertainty crept in. “And when?”
Merzaal. “We’re doing it soon. Me and…” He hesitated. “Me and a lot of the other workers at Perigee.”
“Who, Spich?” Abdaz blurted the name out like an accusation.
“Not just-” Merzaal cut himself off with a grunt, his jaw tightening as he glanced past Abdaz. His eyes returned, resolute. “Look, a lot of other workers, I’m not going to name them if you’re not fully on board. And, we need as many workers with us as possible for it to be effective.”
“But…” Abdaz was blinking. A lot. The gravity of the situation weighed him down like a large waterfowl hanging around on his harness. “But strikes are illegal and against contract.” His voice was barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loud might make the danger more real.
“I know.” Merzaal’s voice was low yet firm.
“You do?” Abdaz was still struggling to believe it. It all sounded so rash, so reckless. Like Merzaal had just dragged him into some back-alley casino and told him to put everything on black with no warning and no second thoughts. His lips shuddered. “Why?”
Merzaal’s response came swift and steady as if he had rehearsed it a hundred times in his mind. “Because the company’s not paying us our fair share. Because they’ve been taking from that share. Because they’ve had us working in dangerous conditions for years. And because, most of all, they still treat us like we’re labourers. We need a way to stand up for ourselves on our own four legs.”
Abdaz was pawing at the ground. “We’re paid pretty well for what we do.”
“Inflation in Chiropterra is at four percent year after year, but our wages have only gone up by three percent in the last two years.” Merzaal had definitely rehearsed that. “We’re being screwed .”
“Have you tried talking to Zalid?” Abdaz asked, searching for anything that might stop this runaway train.
“Of course I did.” Merzaal didn’t miss a beat. “It’s the first thing we all did and nothing’s changed. If Zalid was going to do something, he’d have done it by now.”
“Maybe if I talk to him, he’d-”
“Do not talk to Zalid about this.” Merzaal’s interruption was sharp, almost a command.
“Why?” Abdaz protested. “He’d understand.”
Merzaal’s eyes darkened, his tone firm. “Daz, he’s the one holding your chain.”
The words struck Abdaz like a blow to the chest that sent him a step back. “Oh Za’al,” he muttered, disbelief creeping in. “You sound exactly like Spich.”
Merzaal blinked, his brow creasing. “What?”
“This whole thing is one of his schemes, isn’t it?” said Abdaz, words tight and slathered with suspicion.
“What? No,” Merzaal’s head was shaking, jittering.
“The last thing any of us needs is chaos and division,” Abdaz pressed, his words steady but layered with quiet desperation. “This- This could tear everything apart!”
“Daz, please.” Frustration cracked through Merzaal’s voice. “Do you want to be at the mercy of the company, those corporate drivers, your whole life? The same company and ponies that used you as a slave?”
“I need this job, Merz,” Abdaz shot back. “I’m going to have foals to look after in a few months!”
“Exactly!” Merzaal’s eyes lit with intensity, his hoof cutting the air. “Don’t you want the best for them?”
“The best for them is to give them a future.” Abdaz said, his tone hardening, fear lacing his words. “I can’t give them one if I’m fired. We could lose our jobs, our homes, everything! Everything we’ve built!”
“And you don’t think that could happen regardless?” Merzaal’s expression darkened. “They’re slave drivers, Daz. They kidnapped us, enslaved us, made us work for meagre wages. Now they’re cheating us out of even that.”
Abdaz shifted uneasily, his brow furrowing. “Things have been getting better, you must have noticed that. We aren’t slaves, we’re citizens, a respected community.”
“That’s only because so far they’ve been willing to throw us enough goodies to keep us working and in our place.” A scoff, barely repressed, came out of Merzaal. Cold and bitter. “As soon as they can take away any improvements, they will . And they are .”
But at this point, both of them already knew that there was little more to say. Abdaz had already made up his mind, and so had Merzaal. Nothing either of them said could really change the other’s mind, at least it felt that way. Abdaz couldn’t really force Merzaal to stop, at least not without breaking his trust, but whatever he was doing, Abdaz knew he couldn’t get involved.
While Abdaz was mulling over what to say, Merzaal spoke again. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” His tone was more pleading then.
Abdaz groaned, dragging his hoof across his face. “Look, Merz.” He felt his eyes drop and his lips tighten. “You’ve been a good friend to me, I won’t report this. But please, if you do something rash, you’ll make things worse for everyone.”
“This is about making things better for everyone. You have to know that.” Merzaal stepped closer. Pleading had become begging.
“I just want you to stop and think about what you’re doing. Think about how it affects us all. Not all of us can take risks like that,” said Abdaz. “Whatever you've got planned, I can't be a part of it.”
Merzaal opened his mouth to say something, but paused. He stepped back, head bowed slightly with his eyes still on Abdaz. “Okay,” he said with a sigh.
“Okay,” Abdaz repeated, as if to confirm Merzaal’s retreat. There was little else to say, so Abdaz turned away and walked on. Yet after only a few steps, he knew it was too sour a note to leave on. He turned back, one last time. “See you tomorrow, Merz. Stay safe.”
“See you tomorrow.” Merzaal settled into the bus shelter, the bench releasing a sharp metallic creak as he sat down.
Abdaz quietly walked the rest of the way home, below dim flickering street lamps and into the neighbourhoods of grey concrete towers.
Poor Merzaal. He went out of his way to speak to Abdaz, and now he’d have to wait half an hour if not more, given how far behind they seemed to be lately, for the next bus. Now that he had the time to himself, maybe he’d see sense before he acted foolishly. Abdaz was Merzaal’s supervisor, it was technically his duty to alert upper management if workers were planning on breaching their contracts so brazenly. But he also knew he couldn’t betray his friend’s trust.
Before too long, he was at the door to his apartment complex. First thing he did was retrieve his post from the first-floor postbox, stashing the letters into his jacket to check later. No elevator, so it was one long hike up nine floors of too-tall and too-narrow stairs. Upon reaching his floor he carried an additional ache in his legs. Soon he made it to his door, unlocking it and pushing his way to the heat radiating from within.
“I’m home, dear!” Abdaz called to Azanit, his wife, as he threw his jacket on a hook.
The couple’s apartment was nothing remarkable. A combined living room and kitchen, a bedroom, a small bathroom, and a single small window that overlooked a concrete wall to the alleyway below. Hard grey walls, hard grey floors, hard grey furniture, in a hard grey building.
But it was the presence of a loving couple that made it into a home. At that moment, the sounds and smells and cooking were coming from the kitchen, and- Ooh, was that moussaka?
“Hi, love!” Azanit called back, welcoming Abdaz with a soft smile and a look from her sharp sapphire eyes. “Dinner is just about ready.”
Azanit stood beneath the warm light, her stripes a striking contrast of black and white that stretched and expanded over her round belly. Her long, silky smooth black mane had been pulled back into a tight bun. While her legs remained strong and slender, holding her weight with ease, her movements in the kitchen had considerably slowed from her usual pace.
Sweat ran down her forehead as steam filled the kitchen. She was still in her work clothes from her part time job, a ‘Moonburger’ uniform and a once white apron stained with spots of green and yellow. The extra income helped pay the bills and raise their savings, and they needed to save what they could for when the twins arrived.
Abdaz always appreciated the lengths Azanit went to, but it pained him to see her working herself so hard. He trotted into the kitchen. “You really don’t need to put so much stress in,” he said, embracing her.
“It’s nothing, love.” Azanit reciprocated the hug. “And I’d hate to keep you waiting for dinner.”
“I know, I know, but you’re doing so much and you should be resting. I’d rather know you’re not overworking yourself than eat as soon as I get home,” said Abdaz. “Hell, I can cook for myself, you know.”
“Yeah and that explains why you were nothing but skin and bones when I met you,” Azanit chuckled, poking Abdaz’s barrel. The couple stood apart, still with one hoof on the other’s shoulder. Azanit tilted her head and gave a smile. “Now come on, you must be starving.”
Within minutes the dinner was served, and the couple sat and ate around the small table they had in the kitchen. Mmm, Azanit made a delicious aubergine moussaka, and Abdaz made sure she knew it. She’d made enough for tonight and tomorrow, and Abdaz had to stop himself from eating more than he should’ve.
Over dinner, they chatted over whatever came to mind. At some point, Azanit asked, “How’s Merzaal, by the way?”
At the mention of his name, Abdaz barely repressed a sigh. “He’s fine.” He didn’t want to bring up the strike, he promised. Even though Azanit didn’t have the power to do anything, he still made a promise.
Azanit furrowed her brow. “Is something wrong with him?” She could tell he was hiding something, and Abdaz knew it.
“He’s…” Abdaz tried to think of a way to keep it honest, yet vague. “He’s just a bit prone to recklessness, I think. He gets in over his head sometimes.”
“Anything we need to be worried about?” Azanit asked, more to continue the conversation than out of imminent concern.
“It shouldn’t be. Whatever he’s doing, it shouldn’t affect us.” Abdaz sighed. “I’m doing what I can.”
Azanit smiled at him. “Sometimes, that’s enough.”
Once dinner was finished and Azanit was clearing away the dishes, Abdaz got up and checked the post. He dumped the letters onto the table, sifting through what he’d received. It was that time of the month where the postbox filled with bills. Bills, pointless marketing, bills, a coupon book (save that for later) and more bills.
But amidst it all, his payslip.
He tore open the envelope, and all was there. His hours last week, and his rate of pay. Followed by all the deductions.
Tax, repayments, and of course, “urgent essential business costs”.
He opened up some of the bills, adding up the billed amount and estimating the overall monthly cost. He looked at his payslip again, multiplying his take home pay over the course of a full month. It dawned on him as the sums added up in his head, that if it went on like this, he’d be lucky to break even this month.
He pressed a hoof into his forehead releasing a quiet groan.
What to do, what to do?
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.
16:46 - 30/09/1010 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
At the end of another night at work, Abdaz stepped off the bus into the dark embrace of the night. It had been long enough since the incident that its echoes had almost stopped bounding in his ears.
The nights after the incident were intolerably busy, a natural consequence of a quarter of the factory’s workforce vanishing overnight. Whole departments had lost everyone outside of their supervisors or managers, with workers from other departments having to come in and plug the gaps. Each shift was a frantic dance to hold the line, each machine a hungry mouth to feed without anywhere near the amount of the hooves to feed them. Even the din of the machinery grew angrier, the building itself resenting the loss.
New workers had eventually come in to replace all the fired strikers. Zebras, and young Chiropterran ponies with bright eyes and fidgeting hooves, most barely out of their teens. Many of them had already been let go, either due to tardiness, attitude, or simply not being up to Perigee standards. One kid, a young pegasus named Blue Crystal, was really taking the piss. Literally. He took multiple ten-to-fifteen minute toilet breaks per shift. Training and integrating that lot slowed the process down even further.
Regardless, the factory regained its rhythm, creaking back to life as though those lost workers had never been. In fact, 1010 was shaping up to be one of Perigee’s most profitable years yet. Abdaz and the other workers were graciously rewarded with a two percent wage increase over the next year.
As for those like Merzaal, Spichka, Zadamil, Zanki and all the others who’d been fired, Abdaz hadn’t heard a thing about them since.
The only one he really knew, the only one he really missed, was Merzaal. None of the new workers could replace him, either as a friend or as an effective worker. But since the incident, Merzaal’s very name had become a taboo at Perigee, merely uttering it drawing the ire of managers and directors. The same had come of all the other strikers, especially Spichka. Like Abdaz’s own memory was the only evidence they were ever there.
With frequency, Abdaz felt the urge to reach out to Merzaal, his hooves itching to write out a letter or make a call. But, like a cold wind slicing through his coat, the memory of that night stayed his hoof. Merzaal had chosen the path of violence against Abdaz’s advice, leaving only a silence that stretched as long and dark as Abdaz’s walk home.
While approaching his apartment building, an assortment of posters plastered to the exterior wall caught his eye, bright colours contrasted against the grey concrete.
One poster displayed a drawing of a zebra with a broken pair of shackles around their legs bucking a football far away, leaving a vibrant steak of green, red, and white. Bold text on the top read, “BACK YOUR OWN TEAM”, followed by text on the bottom reading, “VOTE PROGRESSIVE PLATFORM”. The small, and largely powerless, native interests party.
Yet all around it, one after the other, rows of identical posters for another campaign crowding out the wall space. A photo of a crowd of smiling ponies and zebras, framed in a solid field of cool blue. Bold white letters popped from the field, reading, “FAIR WAGES, BETTER HOUSING, STRONGER RIGHTS - NATIONAL DEMOCRATS - THE CITIZENS’ CHOICE”, their agenda clear.
One look told him everything he needed to know about which had the wider reach and as such, the better chance of winning. While imperfect, the National Democrats were the obvious choice for a labourer-turned-citizen like him. That and they were the only ones who could keep the United Commonwealth’s lot out of office.
Musing on the point for a moment, and Abdaz remembered. In a few nights he'd be voting. Him, one of the millions trusted to have a consequential voice in the future of Chiropterran governance. A decade ago such a thing would’ve been unthinkable! By trusting that things would get better, he’d been proven right.
But even though he’d made up his mind, he still found his eyes drawn to the Progressive Platform’s poster, standing out by virtue of it being the only one. The sheer quantity of National Democrat posters made them fade into the background as white noise. Having more colours than just blue also helped. And if it stood out to him, it’d stand out all the more to other passersbys and all his neighbours. The imagery was evocative, strong enough to convince someone to change their vote. And every vote for a no-hope third-party was a vote not going to defeat the United Commonwealth.
Already he felt his hoof reaching up, mind fretting over the damage this poster could do. How many it could push towards irrational action. How loudly it advocated undermining Abdaz’s own efforts at becoming a respected citizen. How the incident could repeat on a provincial, no, national scale. What if he just tore it down?
No. He pulled his hoof away and carried on. It’s just a stupid poster, him tearing it down would only bring more attention to it. He could trust his neighbours to make the sensible choice. Sure someone’s brash young teen, allowed to vote for the first time might toss their vote away, lost in idealism and fantasy, but soon the sensibility gained by age and experience would come through. After all, the majority of his coworkers made sensible choices during the incident a few months ago.
Still, the whole idea of an election would’ve been truly unimaginable ten years earlier. The Legionary Council, formally transferring all its lawmaking authority to an elected congress, a congress where a former labourer like him could vote. Just one of the ways he was becoming a freer stallion, through honest work and steady progress rather than reckless fighting.
Well, whatever Spichka and Merzaal were up to now, they couldn’t take those wins away from him. His rights as a citizen were enshrined in law.
With a soft turn of his key at his apartment door, Abdaz slipped into the dim stillness of his home. Warm air washed over him, dense with the scent of milk. He didn’t announce his presence, weary not to shatter this fragile quiet.
He barely saw her at first, his eyes drawn to the pale glow of a lamp illuminating the corner of the living room. But there was Azanit, seated in a faded armchair, her form half-curled around a bundle swaddled in blankets. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting him with a look that held both a deep weariness and a serene calm he could never comprehend.
Abdaz stood in the doorway, his heart filling with a vast bittersweet ache. Closing the door behind him felt like shutting out the world of mechanical clamour and company mandates. Here was the silent perfection he thought unimaginable years before, his hoofsteps making as little sound as possible as he approached.
The twins were named Zatalie and Aniza. They looked just like their mother. Abdaz crouched beside Azanit, marvelling at his two little miracles as their breaths rose and fell in tune with Azanit’s. This was his anchor against the tides of all he’d endured. They made him strong and weak at the same time, his struggles rendered silent beneath the soft breaths of his family.
The previous few months had certainly been a challenge. The sleepless nights awoken by one or both of their children crying. The disgust of changing a nappy. The shock and horror upon learning how much nappies cost in the first place. And the utter despair at having to change them so often.
They’d have to move out of this apartment at some point, get the kids their own room so they didn’t have to sleep in a makeshift crib in Abdaz and Azanit’s bedroom. They deserved to grow up in a real home, not this concrete cube. As soon as Azanit could start earning an income again.
But one look at the two fillies, and he knew. The extra hours at work, the time spent building a home, the holes burned in their savings. It was all worth it.
He already knew the twins were the proudest achievement of his life, and they still had a whole life of potential ahead of them. He’d watch them grow, learn, and eventually prosper.
Everything he’d done so far had led him here, and would lead to the hopeful future of these two foals.
Nothing could take that away from him.
06:00 - 02/10/1010 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
“Chiropterra has been invaded by a combined force from Aris and Colthage mere hours ago. As of tonight, we are at war.”
When Abdaz switched the workplace radio on, those words froze the blood in his veins solid. He barely made out the rest of the announcement before he shook himself back into the present, forcing himself to listen.
“Martial law has been declared. Premier Auburn Leaf has invoked emergency authority and has postponed the upcoming Commonwealth Congress elections for the foreseeable future. Already, the call has been made out to our loyal troops to begin mobilisation. All citizens and residents of the Commonwealth are expected to follow the orders of military personnel until the enemy has been defeated.”
How had he not noticed something was wrong? How was this the first he’d heard of this? Weren’t there signs? Maybe a moderately increased presence of military vehicles on the street? He wasn’t paying attention at the time, he didn’t know what to look for. All seemed normal, until…
“The Arisian monarch, Queen Novo, recently approved measures to impose military law and suspend parliament. She appointed Crack Lightning, current head of the Arisian military, as Prime Minister and granted him dictatorial powers with which he has used to formally declare a state of war against us. The Colthaginian Sufrit, Zalathel Zarca, issued a simultaneous declaration of war and stated his intent to reclaim and reunify…”
The announcement went into detail regarding what was known. Chiropterran ships sunk in ports by air attacks. Colthaginian artillery shelling the northern border. Seapony marines landing on Chiropterra’s shores. Coastal cities bombed without mercy. The entire country seemed to burst into flames all at once.
Azanit. The foals. Did Azanit know? They had a radio at home, what was she going to do? When was she going to hear about this? What could she do? What if an Arisian bomber squadron was headed to Ursagrad right now? How would they-
“Turn that off.”
Zalid’s voice cut through the thick air, steady but heavy. Abdaz flinched, the static chaos in his mind severed like a taut wire snapping.
“Turn the radio off for me, Abdaz,” Zalid called again, sharper this time, but with a weariness to it. “I need to talk to you all.”
The words raised the hairs across Abdaz’s coat. His hoof trembled as he reached out and silenced the radio. The room seemed to hold its breath. Only the low, monotonous hum of idle machinery lingered.
The workers shuffled closer, drawn toward Zalid like leaves spiralling in an unseen current. Nervous eyes darted about, sweat running from every forehead. Abdaz joined them, his legs feeling leaden.
Zalid exhaled a long, heavy sigh. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “You’ve heard the news.”
“We’re at war.” Spring Break, one of the newest hires, muttered aloud. His quivering words hung in the air for a moment. Then his tone cracked, and the dam broke. “Oh, Nightmare, I’m going to be called up. I’m going to die in a trench. I’ll be shelled to pieces. Or get sick, or starve, or-”
Zalid tried to interrupt. “Calm down, Spring.” To no avail.
“-or get captured!” Spring’s voice cracked, eyes wide with panic. “Tortured! Buried alive, and-”
“Spring.”
Abdaz’s voice cut clean through the rising tide of hysteria. He stepped forward and placed a hoof firmly on Spring’s shoulder. The young stallion froze, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.
“Calm down. Let’s hear what Zalid has to say,” Abdaz said, his voice steady. Yet he felt his own heart pounding like a piston in his chest.
Spring stilled. The frantic edge faded from his eyes. Fear still framed him, but the fear was held in check. Oddly, the act of grounding the younger pony steadied Abdaz as well. It was as though he’d been gripping the rail of a storm-tossed ship and he had finally found footing on deck. Yet, they were still on an unavoidable collision course with the looming rocky shore. All eyes turned to Zalid.
Zalid cleared his throat, his voice steady but edged sharply. “As far as I know, nobody here is going to be conscripted to fight. The additives we produce are essential for the tires of army trucks, planes, and much more. That makes you all essential workers. It means your jobs are safe.”
The words didn’t land with the comfort Zalid might have intended. Abdaz already knew he wasn’t going to be called up to fight, he was too old for that. Safety from the draft didn’t matter. The looming shore was still there, vast and inescapable. The room felt like it was bracing for impact, just as he was.
“However,” Zalid continued, his voice darkening, “we’ve been ordered to shift our demands, Army and other forces are our first and only priority now. To meet the military’s demands, we’ll need extended shifts. Twelve-hour nights, no extra compensation. Possibly weekends, too.”
There it was. Impact. Abdaz didn’t flinch outwardly but his chest tightened as though his heart were being squeezed by razor sharp talons. Less time with his family. Less money for his family. Less security for his family when they needed it most. Less everything .
Zalid took a breath, his voice softening to a tone he must have hoped would soothe. “Just work your normal shift for tonight. We’ll see how things go in the week. Keep calm and carry on.”
But no one moved. The room was taut with unease, the workers frozen in their places, unsure of how to proceed.
Finally, Zalid broke the silence with a sigh. “I know you’re all scared and uncertain. But we have to carry on. That’s all we can do.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the group began to disperse, hoofsteps heavy as they shuffled toward their stations.
But Abdaz stood rooted in place, his hooves glued to the cold concrete. His breath hitched in his throat as the enormity of it all bore down on him like a collapsing building. He’d kept calm in front of the others, he’d swallowed the trembling that threatened to spill over. But he couldn’t let it go.
“Zalid, Zalid,” he called, his voice barely above a mutter but loud enough to catch Zalid’s attention.
“Yeah?” Zalid said, tone flat and weary as he turned his head.
“My family,” Abdaz began, his voice cracking. “My newborns at home. I need to know if they’re alright.”
Zalid didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. “I’ve got a family too, Daz, but I’ve also got a job to do.”
Abdaz clenched his teeth, his words trembling on the edge of release. “If something happens, I-”
“If something happened,” Zalid interrupted, his voice harsh and firm now, “we’d be the first to hear about it. You hear planes? You hear bombs? They’re as safe as they can be for time. You want to help your family? Then stay and work. Without capable hooves like yours, the country can’t defend itself.”
Abdaz wanted to argue, wanted to shout that his daughters meant more than any war or tire or truck. But the words died in his throat.
After a long moment, Abdaz nodded, his head heavy, turning back toward his workstation. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if every step weighed him down further. His hooves met the factory floor in uneven rhythms, his body trying to work while his mind churned with thoughts of home.
Barely five minutes had torn his world apart. Now he struggled with the wreckage.
04:40 - 12/02/1011 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra
The alarm clock rang, splitting Abdaz’s head open like an axe against firewood. Abdaz flinched, ears ringing as he fumbled for the snooze. His hoof smacked the edge of the bedside table before hitting the clock, on the second try, silencing the racket.
For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. He burrowed deeper under the covers, wrapping them tight around himself as if they could shield him from the day ahead. But they were hollow, empty. The bed felt massive without Azanit’s warmth or the faint, murmured breaths of the fillies.
Wife and children, gone. Evacuated far away, to some rural countryside farm. Letters were the only things tethering him to them, and they came only sparingly. Delays, crossed wires, and many that simply got lost along the way, nevermind how low of a priority civilian mail was. Every message that did get through was a fragment of the other person, enough to sustain hope but never enough to soothe the ache.
He lay there longer than he should have, knowing that every minute stretched the limits of his morning. Still, he couldn’t summon the strength to leave. The apartment was as cold and lifeless as his weary body.
Minutes passed before Abdaz forced himself up, wincing as his body protested. His joints felt like rusted hinges, stiff and reluctant, as he shuffled to his hooves into the kitchen. The dishes had long overflowed the sink, a precarious mountain now colonised by mould and rot. The floor, neglected for weeks, had grown sticky underhoof. Somewhere, water leaked in slow, irritating drips. The faint reek of urine lingered, rising up from who knew where, and Abdaz had stopped calling the landlord. Nobody answered when he called. Nobody was ever going to answer.
Four nights out of the last week, he’d spent the night huddled in an air raid bunker packed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the stank of sweat and fear thick enough to taste. Each time, the sirens cut through the city like the wail of a mourning spirit and Abdaz braced himself for the possibility that the apartment wouldn’t still be standing when he returned.
You know what the strangest part was? He honestly had less free time per day now than he did ten years ago. As a labourer, he’d be awoken an hour before work began, work for twelve hours a day, and that was that. Now his commute, usually forty minutes each way, was added on. Now his meagre unpaid lunch break, where he was kept within the confines of the factory, was added on. Now whatever mandatory meetings outside working hours were added on. It was waking up, going to work, working, returning home, straight to bed, and repeat. Every night. Four months straight. No end in sight.
Before stepping in the shower, Abdaz stared at his reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror as the flickering bulb above cast a pale, sickly light over his face. Just weeks earlier the image before him would’ve been unfamiliar, almost unrecognisable. There were more wrinkles beneath his eyes than there were stripes on his coat.
With a sigh he turned away, stepping into the shower. The water, lukewarm at best, drummed against his back. It washed away the grime from his coat but couldn’t touch the weariness lodged in his bones.
Afterwards, he ate a sparse breakfast in silence. Stale oat bread and lukewarm tea, just enough to keep him moving. He threw on his work jacket and stepped out.
Light ash drifted through the outside air like snow, the city streets bearing fresh war wounds. Numerous buildings were slumped inwards, only a skeleton facade standing. Fewer civilians wandered the streets, even at this hour. Yet the police were everywhere, their new militarised uniforms stark against the muted grey of the cityscape. Abdaz wondered what good they were doing here, pacing his neighbourhood, when soldiers were allegedly needed on the frontlines.
Work offered no reprieve. The factory felt even more oppressive than the streets, the air inside thick with the acrid smell of machinery running on overdrive, tools being worn down beyond use yet no replacements in sight. Zalid now had his own overseers. State-imposed managers wearing sharp uniforms and carrying blunt batons patrolled like vultures, their eyes scanning for inefficiency. Armed ponies guarded the gates, ensuring no workers entered or left without authorization. There was an Iceberg around every corner, even over Iceberg’s shoulder.
The demands were climbing ever higher, impossibly so. Each night brought new quotas, new metrics, new penalties for falling short. Demands that Spring Break, that jittery kid, didn’t meet. They decided he’d be more useful in the infantry.
Even when the air-raid sirens screamed, there would be no rest. At Perigee, orders outweighed sirens and the machines ground on, louder and more ceaseless than any warning. He’d learned to ignore the trembling in his chest when the sound came, to keep his hooves steady and his mind on the task. Stopping was not an option.
The bus shelter stood empty, its shelter offering scant relief from the morning smog. Abdaz sat on the creaking bench, water seeping into the coat on his flank. The buses were fewer now, many requisitioned for the war effort with their routes merged and schedules stretched thin, yet each more and more packed as fuel and rubber rationing forced more and more to use the buses, another system stretched to its breaking point and then pushed even more
A bus hissed to a stop in front of him. Not his. The doors creaked open, spilling passengers onto the cracked pavement. Most hurried past, faces drawn and hollow, ghosts on their way to whatever routines still tethered them to the city. Abdaz barely glanced at them, pulling deeply from his cigarette and letting the sharp bite of smoke fill his lungs.
“Daz?”
The voice sliced through the stillness, sharp and startling. Abdaz coughed. His ears flicked up. His eyes snapped to the source. A figure stepped out of the thinning crowd.
Merzaal.
He looked both familiar and alien, morphed by time and violence. Scars webbed across his cheek like a fractured pane of glass, along with faded bruises here and there. Yet, he was dressed sharply in a fashionable jacket and had his head buried beneath a wide-brimmed rancher hat.
“Merz. You’re alive.” He looked away and took a pull from his cigarette, hoping the relief it offered would take his mind off of things.
“Za’al above, how’ve you been, Daz?” Merzaal asked, his tone too bright, too eager.
Abdaz exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Busy.”
Merzaal stepped closer, his voice carrying an awkward lilt. “On your way to work?”
A grunt. “Need to be in by six,” Abdaz replied flatly, tapping ash onto the concrete.
“Still at Perigee?”
“Eeyep.” Another pull from the cigarette, the orange glow flaring in the dim light.
“How’ve things been since…” Merzaal trailed off, his hoof brushing the scars on his face. “Well….” He let the silence hang for a moment.
Abdaz held the smoke in his lungs, letting it sting, letting it burn. He exhaled, slowly. “Busy,” he repeated.
Merzaal hesitated, his weight shifting from one hoof to the other. “You, uhm… You doing alright, Daz?”
“Why are you here, Merz?” Abdaz snapped. His voice came low and sharp, cutting through the air.
Merzaal flinched back. “I’m taking a day off work. Got some stuff to do around town.”
“You-” Abdaz blinked. Flinched. Stumbled. His cigarette faltered in his hoof. “You’re off work? Now? It’s Frinight.”
“Yeah, I needed to use up some vacation nights,” Merzaal’s tone shifted, carrying a trace of smugness now. “Meeting up with friends later.”
“And you’re…” Abdaz blinked, like he’d do to clear a mirage from his sight. “Just allowed to do that?”
Merzaal smirked, a glint of defiance in his bruised face. “Well a little more complicated than just asking nicely, Daz.”
Abdaz exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders softening by a fraction, though his body still held itself taut. “How?”
Merzaal cleared his throat and sat down beside him on the narrow shelter bench, his back straight but his air casual. “After the strike, I was tossed into a cramped jail cell. Didn’t get charged with any crimes., Most of us didn’t,” Merzaal said. “In fact, the only one of us who stayed more than a night there was Spichka.”
Abdaz raised a brow. “I mean what do you expect? Course they’d go hard on the ringleader.” His voice held a certainty that didn’t need affirmation.
Merzaal snorted out a laugh, shattering the spectre of tension. “What? Spich leading? No!” he exclaimed, words still drenched in laughter. “Spich had barely anything to do with organising the strike. Spent more time sewing that damn flag together than he did doing any organising. But with the lot of us herded into jail, he steps forward and says it’s all him. ‘The whole affair is my doing,’ or something like that,” Merzaal said, dropping his voice to imitate Spichka’s accent. “‘Inciting revolutionary activity,’ in his words.”
Abdaz frowned, his cigarette hovering near his lips. “Why’d he do that?”
“Took the blame for us,” Merzaal said. “Went down hard so the rest of us could walk free.”
“And why’d that work?” Abdaz asked, as though the answer wasn’t already crystallising in his mind.
Merzaal sighed, his laugh giving way to something heavier. “Racism. Ignorance. Cops wanting less paperwork. Take your pick. The cops were all too ready to believe that an ‘overly educated and idealistic Equestrian’ whipped us ‘servile natives’ into a rabble, rather than consider that we were capable enough to organise ourselves. They didn’t want to imagine we could manage this on our own.” His voice dipped, carrying a note of something between bitterness and admiration. “The last I saw of him, they were marching him off in shackles. He even smirked at us and gave a little salute.” Merzaal paused, his words lingering. “Wherever he is now… I just hope he’s alright.”
Abdaz drew on his cigarette, the ember glowing brighter as he tried to piece together a version of Spichka that fit into this story. But the picture didn’t quite form. The Spichka he’d known was an antisocial troublemaker, an annoying brat that never knew when to shut up, who could never take a joke. Yet the longer he turned it over, the more it settled into place. Some part of him could believe it, that the fool was desperate to be a martyr. How well we know people sometimes, Abdaz mused to himself as he let out a long trail of smoke.
“Still,” Merzaal continued, his tone lightening, “after that, I was out in the cold for a while before I landed a new job. Driving lorries.”
Abdaz flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding the stub beneath his hoof before exhaling the last of the smoke. “Weren’t you a lorry driver already? Before…” He let the word hang there.
Merzaal nodded. “That’s right. And I’ll be honest with you, the work was crap. The pay was crap. Hours were absolutely crap. But we got by, you know? Then the war started.” He let out a sharp breath. “And everything went to hell. Longer hours, harsher conditions, higher expectations. Nothing but driving, driving, and more driving on harsher and harsher schedules.”
Abdaz blinked, his gaze drifting forward, unfocused. An eerie familiarity crept into him where he didn’t want it.
Merzaal noticed, a knowing smirk tugging at his scarred lips. “Same thing’s happening at Perigee, isn’t it?”
Abdaz turned back to Merzaal, only nodding in response.
“Figures.” Merzaal leaned back slightly, his expression shifting to something more wry. “So what happened was, we drivers could only take so much. Then, the evil bastards running the company decided to stop paying us for two weeks straight, claiming ‘we’ve all got to make sacrifices’ or some crap like that.” He snorted, his tone acidic. “Funny though, I didn't see those assholes sacrificing their fancy Aquileian cars or their cushy eight-hour desk jobs.”
Abdaz’s ears twitched. “So what happened?” he asked, tone faintly challenging. “I’m assuming you didn’t sit down for a chat with your manager.”
Merzaal’s grin widened. “We took our lorries and parked them in interlocked rows at the gates to each of the company’s main depots. Blocked the whole lot. Nothing in, nothing out. They didn’t have a choice but to listen.”
“And they caved?”
“Damn right they did,” Merzaal chuckled. “We got our wages, and an increase in line with inflation. And, as you can see, we got paid time off too.”
Abdaz raised a brow. “And they didn’t fire you?”
Merzaal chuckled, shaking his head. “Couldn’t. Not enough ponies or zebras who can drive heavy goods vehicles, especially with the war choking the labour pool. Besides, we weren’t flying solo. We organised with other workers across the city. Even the military authorities pressured the company to get a deal done, they wanted us back at work and didn’t care what the bosses thought. Pressure on all sides and they didn’t have a way out.”
“And you still went through with it, even after what happened at Perigee?” Abdaz’s voice carried a weight now, a low simmer of incredulity.
“Are you kidding?” Merzaal laughed again, this time with a sharpness that cut through the chill air. “After that? I wanted to hit these bastards back twice as hard. Perigee taught me the lesson. If you’re going to fight, you need to fight prepared.”
“Huh.” Abdaz drew in a breath. “That’s it? Just be prepared?”
Merzaal shook his head. “It wasn’t just that. Took time, took effort. We had good chaps working behind the scenes to make it happen.” He paused, then pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. With a few quick scribbles, he tore out a page and held it out to Abdaz. “Here.”
Abdaz took the paper, his eyes scanning it. A phone number, scribbled hastily. “What’s this?”
“Phone number for some labour organisers I know in production,” Merzaal said. “They’ve got a proven track record of winning real victories for workers. If you’re curious, they’ll talk to you. Just make sure you call from a phone box. Nothing they can trace back to you.”
Abdaz stared at the note, his hoof playing around with the piece of paper. Silence drifted between them. “I thought you’d be mad at me,” he said finally, his voice quieter now.
“Why?” Merzaal shook.
“I crossed the picket line,” Abdaz said, his tone hollow. He looked up at Merzaal, his jaw tightening. “I helped the company when you were trying to fight them. I’m a ‘scab’, aren’t I? Nevermind the beating you got.”
Merzaal’s expression softened, the sharpness in his eyes giving way to something warmer. “You’re a worker, I’m a worker,” he said simply. “We’ve got more in common than we’ve got separating us.”
In the distance, the familiar rumble of an approaching bus, Abdaz’s bus. With its grinding brakes approaching, the moment was broken.
Abdaz held up the note. “You think it’s really a good idea for me to get involved with these guys?”
“Definitely. But then again what else would I say?” Merzaal said, nodding with conviction. His smile was earnest now, free of smugness or bravado. “Think it over. After all, it’s only an hour or two out of your night, right?”
The bus pulled to a halt, the doors hissing open like a sharp release of breath. Abdaz tucked the paper into his jacket, placing it in a pocket where he couldn’t lose it. He gave Merzaal one last look.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
With that, he stepped onto the bus as the doors closed behind him. The engine roared back to life, carrying him into the grind of another working night. As it had the night before. As it would the night after. Again and again. At the mercy of his masters.
The road he was going down was no road, really. It was a roundabout. It brought him back to the same backbreaking slavery it promised to release him from. From then he could keep his head down and carry on. He could stay on this roundabout. Keep on working miserably for masters who didn't care for him and hoping they’d throw him a bone. He'd been their doormat. He'd be that doormat every night of his life until he dropped dead, or until he stood up.
14:25 - 19/02/1011 - Manerba, Chiropterra
Tonight, exactly fifteen years ago, Merzaal’s life as he knew it came to an end. It was an anniversary with nothing to celebrate.
Fifteen years was a long slice of any life. A long time to change, physically and mentally. In that time he had moments of triumph and he had moments of despair. But in all that time, through bright and dark, he always believed he’d be free once again.
Last week he ran into Abdaz again by chance. One look at how weary and scarred Abdaz’s face had become told him everything he needed to know. Nobody had been spared from wartime austerity, but those like Merzaal were getting by better by standing up for themselves. Hopefully, Abdaz would understand this and talk to those labour organisers and give him what he needed to take back some of his own life.
After his run in, once he was actually into the work week itself, he’d been assigned to make a delivery run on a new route. It was a longer drive than he might’ve liked, but still well within the limits of their collective agreement.
The route would take him down the western coast of the island of Manerba.
His place of birth. His home. Where his whole life had been set, before he was taken.
He showed up to work early that morning.
Working alongside the other depot workers, Merzaal got his lorry loaded up as quickly as possible and he was off. Through Ursagrad, the roads varied from smooth and well-lit to dim and littered with rubble from bombing raids. In all regards, they were just that bit more busy with traffic to keep him waiting for longer than he’d have liked at red lights. Whenever he was on an open stretch of road, he drove a little faster than he knew he should’ve.
Once out of Ursagrad, the road hugged the edge of the coast, winding between sheer rock faces and the vast sea. The roads remained smooth, every mile of the journey illuminated by highway lamps. All he had to keep him company was the crackle of the stereo, playing the tunes he’d burned onto a tape rather than parroting the lines of a state controlled radio station. Or worse, a pop station.
After many miles alone on the road, he eventually arrived at the so-called Eternal Eclipse bridge, the narrowest point between the Zebrican mainland and the small island of Manerba. It stretched long over the narrow strait, a rigid chain linking the island to the Chiropterran heartland. Without doubt, an impressive feat of engineering. The bridge was named after the last chief of the Native Affairs Commission. But as Merzaal approached, his thoughts were with the native workers that died building it, who didn’t even have a commemorative plaque in their name.
He had to pass through a Chiropterrans checkpoint before he crossed the bridge. One last shakedown by the Chiropterrans before he could return to his homeland. Fortunately, he was cleared to pass in less than five minutes.
Driving onwards to Manerba, the road quality took a noticeable dive, the new roads and highways had rattly ruggedness typical of a hasty construction. The roads were dark, unlit, and largely deserted. Every so often, maybe every ten or twenty minutes, a car or truck on the other side of the road would drive past. Merzaal’s only guide in the darkness was the lights from his headlamps and the distant haze of settlements further down the way. No bomb damage though, not much out here worth bombing. Many families who couldn’t afford to evacuate their foals to Equestria had moved them to Manerba instead.
More often than not, the towns he drove through were militarised frontier settlements, all of them built recently. All designed to look like Chiropterran towns and villages, gridded road patterns filled with blocky utilitarian buildings lit with subtle purple street lamps. Like a piece of the Nightmareland had been picked up and planted down on Manerba. The residents, almost all ponies, strutted through the streets and glided through the buildings openly carrying rifles on their backs. Every time he was stopped at a red light, Merzaal was thankful he was obscured behind a windshield.
Separated from the Chiropterran settlements by long stretches of rural road stood what was left of old native villages. The roads were devoid of streetlamps, limiting what he could see from behind the wheel. Most of the buildings were empty, dilapidated, or both. What native settlements that did exist on this coast were small, separated by distance and rarely lasted long. They used to be frequent targets for Chiropterran slave raids, being separated by just a few miles of sea. Those native settlements that remained had since been emptied, the population having been “evacuated” to cities like Ursagrad during the Storm War. Only stragglers and squatters remained.
One such settlement was the place of his birth. A coastal village called Tizi. The cliffs, the winds of the road, and the shape of the distant silhouetted hills touching the night sky were all more increasingly in tune with his memory. He knew he was getting close.
The road sloped gently downward, into the curve of an intimately familiar bay. Nestled inland, right where he remembered it, was Tizi.
Yet a pang twisted deep in his chest at the sight. The village remained, a shrunken remnant of what it had once been, but crouched in the shadow of towering new constructions that hemmed it in on all sides, like a solid wall built by the invaders to seal in what little remained of the old community.
The settlers' buildings glowed an unnatural purple in the night sky, staining the air like a bruise. They rose in a uniform, impenetrable wall, hard angles of stone and concrete pressing down on the old village. Once proud and open to the sky, the indigenous homes had been dwarfed by the sprawling constructions that encircled them. The heart of the old community had been corralled, closed in on from all sides, a prisoner of its own land.
On entering, he passed a metal sign made of modern retroreflective material, reading, “Welcome to Starston”. Half buried and abandoned in the dirt beneath, barely visible and worn by time, lay a wooden sign painted with the name “Tizi”.
When driving through the new constructions, all around him was much like what he’d seen before. Chiropterran settlers parading through streets of Chiropterran architecture draped in Chiropterran banners. The roads were wider now, smoothed over with fresh asphalt. Yet, beneath this new skin of development, he could still navigate the lorry to his destination by digging into the recesses of his memory.
He steered the lorry by instinct more than sight, following the echoes of roads long faded, the paths of his childhood buried beneath the relentless colonial encroachment. When he finally reached the edge of the old village, something inside him clenched tight. There, at last, the world remained still. The crooked, narrow lanes still snaked through the village, as though time had forgotten this little pocket of existence.
At last, he pulled the lorry to a halt on a road he remembered. It too had changed, all cloaked in the shadow of the new constructions that encircled the old village. The familiarity of it stung. He stepped down from the lorry, hooves touching down on the hard asphalt. It felt like stepping into a dream, one where everything was both intimately known and impossibly foreign.
He ventured forward, and he found it. Where the old village met the new settlement, there it stood. His childhood home.
The house loomed before him, its bones unchanged but the drapes and face different so that it was both familiar and unsettlingly new at the same time. Its squat, single-story frame of weathered yellow stone still crouched beneath the same steep red-tiled roof. The arch above the front door yawned, heavy with memories that would never be spoken. His eyes traced the low wall that now wrapped possessively around the yard. New stones, sharp and precise, slicing across the earth that whispered of barriers that had been hurled up while he was gone. He remembered an inviting home, but now he saw a fortress.
Slowly, he moved closer. When he reached the wall, he sat atop it, as though he needed its solidity to anchor himself. From there, he could see the house in its entirety. The exterior as it was, untouched by years, but a strange purple glow seeped from within, casting the windows in a ghostly hue. It spilled out like a wound, bleeding something foreign.
He inhaled deeply and the air tasted different, the salt of the sea tinged with something bitter. The house may have stood as it always had, but it no longer welcomed him. It wasn’t his home anymore. It had been stolen from him, as had everything else in his earlier life. There was nothing for him to return to, nothing to escape to. He’d made peace with the fate that would befall Tizi years ago. He just needed to see it.
“Howdy there! Welcome to Starston!” called a voice, ripping Merzaal from his thoughts.
Merzaal spun around to face the one calling him. A hippopotamus of an earth pony mare with a long stringy mane and a pig-like head faced him with a yellow-toothed grin. The weathered olive shirt she wore was several sizes too small for her, with a pack of cigarettes bulging in her shirt pocket. Around forty years old, pale-blue coat and black mane, she carried the stench of fried grease in her coat and fur, and a shotgun over her back.
“Hello,” Merzaal replied.
“I can tell you’re not from these here parts. This is a community for the faithful.” The mare’s Equestrian accent was as thick and sickly sweet as a mouthful of syrup. She approached Merzaal, closing the distance between them in seconds. She didn’t stop smiling, and she was making no effort to hide her shotgun. “And you seem to be taking a mighty kind interest in my home. And I’d kindly ask you to get off my garden wall. Any reason what makes my house so special to ya?”
So, this is who was living in his old home. Merzaal’s hooves pressed into the wall, his muscles going tense. “Just passing through.” Merzaal nodded to the lorry.
“Ah, I see.” The mare nodded her head. Something audibly gurgled in her gut. “I hope nothing’s keepin’ you, then.”
The mare’s chest heaved as breath rushed in and out of her mouth, accompanied by a high-pitched wheezing sound. Her cold eyes remained locked on Merzaal, but didn’t make contact with his, eyeing him up like a freshly cooked meal. She wasn’t doing much of anything, but nor was he. She didn’t need to say much more, the look she gave and the shotgun she carried said everything.
There was that urge to yell back. That urge to call her a thief, to point out that this wasn’t her home and that she was squatting in his, not the other way round. But Merzaal knew to pick his battles, and antagonising an armed settler would only end with him dead.
Yet past her cold eyes, Merzaal could see an unmistakable tinge of fear brought by his very presence. Just enough of a jitter in her eyelids and a break in her curled lips, revealing the fear and terror beneath the mask.
This wasn’t the hill to die on, not when he had to fight back in Ursagrad. Instead, Merzaal hopped to his hooves and returned to his lorry.
“Safe travels!” called the mare. Merzaal didn’t call back, but caught one glimpse of the mare clutching her chest once he was out of the way.
The engine roared to life as he turned the key, and he was off. He wasn’t in Tizi for much longer. But he was glad he came. He was glad he could see what had been done to his home.
In truth, Merzaal knew he had a lot to be grateful for. When out in the cold and utterly alone, Abdaz gave him shelter. When citizenship remained an uncertainty, Abdaz advocated for him. Abdaz helped make every day working at that factory just that slight bit more tolerable, even if it didn’t work out in the end. There were those other workers who’d stood alongside him when fighting against the ones holding their chains, both in the factory and in the depot. Even if they weren’t always his mate.
But all it took was one glance at Tizi and he knew. He’d never be grateful to the Chiropterrans. He’d never thank the thieves who stole everything that he was. He’d never thank the exploitative rats who treated him like an expendable cog in their rancid machine. He’d never thank those two-faced ghouls who gave him a choice to either toil or starve and called it emancipation. Everything they’d given him had been built off the backs of those like him. And everything he’d taken back had been won by his own hoof and the hooves of his fellow workers.
Tempting as it may have been to take the lorry off road and find some isolated native community on Manerba to settle into, he knew he couldn’t. From the moment he set off, he knew he couldn’t. Not that it wasn’t possible or that he couldn’t get away with it, he probably could. What mattered was all the fellow workers in Ursagrad, the ones he’d built networks of trust with, the ones he was working hoof in hoof with to forge a path for a better life. And there remained those he was yet to meet, those like Abdaz who’d been beaten down and demoralised, those who still listened to the siren song of complacency. Those who needed to be shook awake from their shambling facsimile of a life.
The Chiropterran monster, no, the Lunar monster, the Imperial monster, was bigger than one zebra could ever hope to outrun. He couldn’t just run away from it and hunker down out in some nowhere settlement. He’d either be on the ball or would spend his life running before being inevitably rolled over. Without those in the belly of the beast stabbing away at its internals, the present reality of Manerba and Tizi would be the future of all the world.
Endless miles of open road ran along a coast. Moonlight glistened down on a boundless ocean. Seagulls called as they flew in the air above.
And Merzaal, behind the wheel of a lorry, took in the seaside air.
For a moment, for longer than a moment.
That dream felt closer than ever.
Author's Note
Holy hell thank you for reading all the way to the end.
These notes were supposed to be a quick explanation of the process behind this story but it’s scope creeped into like 1300 words lol.
It's been a long time since I really “felt” a story. You can tell this by just looking at my page, at the longer and longer gaps between me posting stories, at the fact that the story I published before this one is on hiatus (as of Nov 2024). It's not due to a lack of ideas, far from it. I'm brimming with ideas, but when it comes to sitting down and actually writing them out? I don't “feel” it.
There's a saying that goes like “if the story can't retain your interest, it definitely won't retain the audience's interest”. I can’t remember who said it first, but I believe in this wholeheartedly. If I didn't care about what I was writing it'd show in the final product.
That’s why It's Just A Shot Away is on hiatus (as of Nov 2024), by the way. I have the whole outline prepared and early drafts of a few unreleased chapters, but I haven’t gone and written them for the simple fact that if I wrote them while I wasn’t feeling them, the story would suck.
This story was different. I felt it from the moment I started on it. I had a story that I really wanted to tell and was putting the work in to tell it nearly every day I had the chance.
As to why this story did that, I think it's because it isn't about something fantastical I have little to no personal relation to or within a theme or environment I have no experience in. I've drawn upon my own experiences in previous stories, but not to the extent here. It draws heavily on my own experiences. Not one-to-one, I've never been beaten up by cops while on a picket line thank god, but I’ve had all experiences with work, with coworkers, with money, with leisure, and life generally that I all drew upon for this story.
I had several primary motivations for actually getting off my ass and writing this. The one that spurred the idea was as simple as an acquaintance telling me "Do more with Chiropterra in NLM. I want to see more reformist Chiropterra content." and from there I was possessed with a creative spirit that forced my hands to start typing.
Now see, "Reformist Chiropterra" is an interesting writing prompt because there's two ways you can go about it. You can write about a gradual process of Chiropterra going from a bad society to a good society, possibly even skipping that part and going straight to the good society. Or, you can acknowledge that reformist Chiropterra is still Chiropterra, a state wrought with persistent problems so deeply ingrained in its national identity that to solve them would mean that the country is no longer Chiropterra. I could only go for the latter.
Setting it in Chiropterra and having it follow North Zebrican Zebras means coming up with distinctly different names than someone writing Equestrian ponies would be used to. This was almost a problem. Fortunately some fellow Equestria at War contributors let me in on their secret technique for naming North Zebrican Zebra characters: Taking Phoenecian names and arbitrarily adding a “Z” somewhere. I mean, it works!
There was some more silliness involved. “Spichka”, for instance, is the Russian word for match, and he was named that because a lit match and starting fires invokes striking imagery during a story about fighting back against oppressive systems. Conversely, Zakob. He is loosely based on a guy I knew called Jacob.
Around the time I started writing it was also when I was playing Disco Elysium, another inspiration and motivation. I don't want to spoil much about the game for those who haven't played it (and if you've already played it you know this already), but it's an incredibly well written story that's (GENERALLY) about finding hope in seemingly hopeless situations. That can be feeling hopeless against the terrifying might of international capital or feeling hopeless about the player character's alcoholism. The devastating effects of succumbing to that hopelessness, and the beautiful things that can happen when you’re willing to put in the hard work to try.
The game has some of the most brilliantly creative writing I’ve seen anywhere, and it kind of reminded me that prose writing can be fucking awesome. I know I cannot make Disco Elysium or write anything close to its quality, but I wanted to try and carry on its spirit.
This story also served to fill something I found to be lacking in the New Lunar Millennium project on the whole: Perspectives of normal people, and of the Empire’s nightly anonymous victims.
I had to make new characters and tell their complete story here, because my regular cast of OCs are all in or represent the ruling class in some way. Take the characters focused on in Marks of the Moon . Moonatik is a self insert wish fulfilment lad. Carte is an elite secret agent. Pocarona leads the development of military technology. Grim Fate is a powerful necromancer doing dark magic research. And Selenite is the highest ranking pony in the entire Empire beneath only the literal God Empress.
The closest one to a regular working class guy out of the MooM cast is Sol Nightshade. Yes, he’s from a working class background, but there he’s Selenite’s husband. It stops being the perspective of a normal guy at that point.
With this cast you’re only really seeing the society from the top, looking down on all the little people below. So, why not write a story exclusively from the perspectives of two people at the very bottom of the Empire’s social system? And, why not tie it back to the first story I published in the NLM universe? Culture Shock , that story, showed the abolition of slavery in Chiropterra, but it was about the interpersonal conflicts and strategic disagreements between the people in the halls of power. What about the people most directly impacted by their decisions? What becomes of their lives? What does the future hold for them? What will they do with these decisions?
This is the answer to those questions. Here is how real people are impacted by the decisions of those far above them. Here is how they thrive due to those decisions, and how they suffer.
But, crucially, just because those people are subject to these decisions, they don’t have to be passive.
They can stand up and fight on their own terms.
They may not always win. They may bleed. They may lose. They may die.
But they can win.
And when they do, they win more than they ever would’ve by keeping their head down and hoping for the best.
I didn’t mean to publish this story just a few weeks after a certain political event, one that instilled heaps of dread in many of my friends and acquaintances. I know a lot of people who feel hopeless in the face of oppressive power because of that event . The story isn’t about that event . If that event had gone the other way, this story and its message would be completely unchanged. Not to reveal the magician’s secrets but there’s a reason you’re not told who won the elections mentioned in Chapter 6. None of it fucking mattered.
Change, tangible and positive change, doesn’t come to those who wait. The wheels of history were never turned by idle hands or by those who slavishly followed the rituals of their oppressors. They are turned by those who fight on their own independent terms.
And if there’s one message I really want to drive home with this story, it’s that.
Thanks for reading.
