Chapter 7: Interlude. O: I

"I’m sorry for your mum, Starter,” the orc said. I gave him a smile, trying to hide how I truly felt about it all. He… wasn’t wrong to act as though she was gone, though a part of me had trouble accepting it. It'd been a week since I'd returned to our shack to find the door open, the table toppled, and my mother disappeared. 

"She might be-" I said before stopping myself and glancing around. The eatery was filled with people of the various races, but my eyes locked on the three humans sitting near the door. They were laughing and drinking, of course, as they always did. The swords at their waist, the chainmail encasing their bodies, and the helmets on the table meant nobody would even try to stop them whatever they did. 

"Have another," the orc said morosely, pulling my attention away from the men. Taking a deep breath, I took the beer. This world… I was an adult by the standards of my old, nearing twenty years old, but it still felt strange. Like a dark reflection of the history I had once learned. Foreman, the orc in front of me, wore a large and ugly metal collar. A status symbol that he, and the rest of the miners, felt a measure of pride for. A symbol of his value to our masters.

It made me sick. Had ever since my mind had settled after being reborn here. I’d been ‘found’ into this sort of relatively benign slavery. My mother, who was what I’d describe as a ‘bunnygirl’ had found me on the streets and taken me in. I refused to use the words our masters used to describe her people even in my mind. With a non-human as my parent figure, I’d been thrown in with the lot and put to work as soon as I could reasonably do so.

Nobody truly seemed to consider it wrong, either. The humans ruled, the rest served. It was the way of the world in their eyes. Orcs were stronger, cat people faster and wittier, bunnies had the natural stamina of half a dozen men. Humans, humans had knowledge of magic. Not even the talent, everyone had that. Just the knowledge.

And somehow, they’d used that to take over the world an untold number of centuries ago. I’d once asked Foreman what he was, in his own words. He’d shrugged. ‘Brute,’ he’d said back then. Unaware of any name other than the one chosen by the humans.

How long is it before a race loses its identity? How long before they stop even considering resisting except in the worst of cases?

Even now, Foreman looked at me before glancing at the guards, not there for our safety but to make sure we stayed as we should, and shaking his head. I’d told them about my mother. Of course I had. In my old world the authorities were, at least in name, there to protect and aid us. They’d glanced at each other. One had laughed. I remembered his face clearly.

He was sitting next to the door now. Another had taken me aside and told me she might be back soon, or might not. A courtesy granted to me by my heritage as a human, I’m sure. The true blessing of knowing that some human trash had taken a fancy to her and decided he had the right to act on that.

The worst thing was, I couldn't even truly blame whoever it was.  

He had grown up in a world where the people around me were considered barely more than animals, yet looked very close to the beings he desired. It was almost logical it would lead to this, and I had heard of it happening more often. I’d feared it, in that abstract way you fear a random stabbing or shooting. You know they happen, and that they can happen to you, but you never expect it until the screams start.

“It’s not right.” It was a whisper on my lips, but Foreman looked startled nonetheless before he leaned in and shushed me.

“No,” he whispered in return, “it isn’t. Life isn’t. Not here. Now put it out of your mind, drink your grog, and go home tonight with a pretty lass. Tomorrow, it goes on.” The grimace on his face said more than his words ever could. Telling me he sympathised, but to let it go. But it was his eyes that spoke the truth. He was angry. Perhaps even something approximating the flame of rage burning inside of me.

A new mug appeared in front of me as though by magic. The serving girl, a bunnygirl far too pretty for a hole like this, gave me a small smile before she grabbed our old cups and moved on.

My hands tightened around the metal, and I drank before looking around. The long eared man at the bar was glancing at the guards, steel in his eyes. The barmaid behind it did the same, but she showed only fear. Three strong dogs in the back didn’t even bother glancing, clear hatred in their expressions as they stared.

Untold centuries of servitude. They didn’t even know what they should be. Or could be. Yet they knew, this was not it.

My hands clenched the mug, the metal bending under my grip.

A scream echoed through the tavern, and I turned as I heard the clattering of wood and metal.

“Quiet, breeder!” The man’s voice was rough. The girl was already pushed onto their table, the serving plate and cups she’d been holding scattered over the ground. Her cry cut off, the gloved hand of another man covering her lips. “Think she’ll be tighter than the last?” the first man joked.

The one that had been sitting near the door.

The three dogs had collapsed into their seats, jaws clenched. The man at the bar had looked away. The barmaid was nowhere to be seen.

The girl’s dress tore.

The man crashed to the side. 

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It took me a full second to realise what had happened. How close they suddenly were. Why my hand ached, clenched around the ruined metal that had been my mug. Then, I bent forward and punched him with the metal again. My hand cried out, but the man went still.

I looked up just in time to see one of the other men reach for his sword, his eye wide with shock. I stepped towards him quickly, his blade crashing into my improvised armoured hand.

Shouts filled the eatery as I was forced back, and I wasn’t even sure what happened. Until I saw a flash of movement to my right. The girl screamed again as I covered my eyes with my sleeves, the crash of wood predating a barrage of splinters.

By the time I lowered my arm, it was already over.

The man I’d hit was down, blood pouring out of his nose and the ear I could see. Another had taken the brunt of what must have been a chair, and gurgled with a massive wooden splinter embedded in his neck. The third had never even gotten the chance to draw his sword, though I wasn’t sure what had done him in.

I looked around, the three dogs were kicking the last man, not getting a response. The man from the bar hadn’t even moved. Foreman stood above the dying man, his face flipping between panic and a satisfied grin.

They were dead. And so were we once this got out. I swallowed, before leaning down and quickly undoing my guard’s belt. His sword had never left the sheathe, and came with it. The men watched me, even the dogs stopping their assault on the corpse. I drew the weapon, slowly. Carefully.

I’d never held one in my hands before, in this life.

They looked at me, even Foreman. He’d been my shift lead for a year, yet he stared at me as though I was going to give them an out. A way to make this unhappen, to let everyone go back to what they were just a few minutes ago.

“Enough, is enough.” My voice was far steadier than it had any right to be. “Every single day they step on us. Remind us that we are less than them. That we’ll never amount to more than hands to do the worst jobs.” I glanced at the girl. She was sitting up, her hands clenching her dress. Her gaze was fierce. “Or a hole to use for their pleasure until we break.”

I looked away from her as I turned towards the door. The weapon was heavy in my hand.

“I’m leaving. Come with me, or stay. I care not, but I am ending this.”

I pushed open the door, and I walked. There was movement behind me, shouted questions I had no answers to. Where was I going? What was my goal? How would we achieve anything?

I didn’t know. I was just a fool who couldn’t leave well enough alone. So, I walked down the street. People saw me. Cats, orcs, bunnies, dogs, even a couple harpies. One and all, their eyes widened at the sight of me before they’d shoot to the edge of the street, or into any building that happened to have an open door.

It was a good minute before I saw the first guards. A half dozen of them, lined up in the street with blades drawn. 

“Stay back!” one of them cried as I walked closer. I was about to stop, to take a moment to contemplate the path that had led me here, where I would most likely die.

“Kill them all!” someone shouted behind me, and I finally looked back.

Foreman was directly behind me, his face cast in a stone glare as he held a sword of his own. The serving girl was beside him, somehow having claimed the last one.

Behind them, the street was filled, dozens of people now jeering at the few guards that had come to stop them. Their hands filled with improvised weaponry. Yet, they waited. The shout didn’t trigger the massive charge that it could have. Should have. I looked back at the guards, who’d siddled close together.

Foolish, I idly noted. They weren’t romans, well trained in the short, stabbing motions that would help slaughter a horde. They swung with wide strikes, I’d seen it plenty enough while they trained. They didn’t even carry shields.

“We are leaving,” I said loudly. “Move… or die.”

They chose to die.

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