Atrox, Homo Atrox, whatever ....
<OOC: Actually, it is Homo Atrox. Just like it's Homo Solitus, Homo Opifex, etc. Homo Sapiens would be us. Atrox is just the common name (and correct as they are not truly Homo Atrox, considering they can't breed)>
A Mule of Rubi-Ka: Origin of Identity
This is Rubi-Ka. My tale is one unique to this forsaken planet and I hope that in reading this, you may begin to understand the conflict inherent in this desert world. Here, at the edge of the universe, we face what could be humanity’s first, and maybe last, chance to ensure its own freedom. I use the term humanity loosely, you see, as in many ways I am not a human. I am a breed unique to Rubi-Ka, designed by Omni-Tek’s mining operation here. I was grown in a vat with thousands of others like me. Bred for strength and endurance but not to think. We are the slaves of Omni-Tek. Born to work the mines and not to think, not to seek our own freedoms. I am Atrox, the mule of Rubi-Ka.
The foreman at the mine was a Solitus. I remember that much. His name has long since escaped me, but he lorded over us all. He was from off-planet somewhere and in his office he had pictures of himself and his family on another world. Earth perhaps, I don’t know. He was standing with his arm around a pretty woman and his hand on the head of a little girl. He looked thin and happy. He looked like he cared. I now think that maybe if I lived somewhere that green, my arm around a woman, holding my child to my chest, I could care too.
I spent those days in the dust and dark of the notum mines or in the corner of seedy bars. I would leave the mine with the rest of my crew, the biggest and the king of the pack. We would find a bar and drink until we didn’t feel the ache of our muscles, until we could stand tall, like fools. Then we would fight. Fist to fist, club to club, we would batter each other and any who would challenge us into oblivion. What did we care? If we ever took it too far, there was always Insurance to take care of it. I don’t remember much from that time. A face here, a fight there, but I think on it and can’t piece it all together. At no point can I say, “There, that was me. I did that.”
One thing I do remember though, you could say it is my first memory. She was slender and tiny. She seemed like a child, perhaps she was but she acted like no child. Her hair was black and hung long to her shoulders, she was scarred, though, by some old burn that marred her skin hid her nature. Her features were hidden by a mask of tattoos that worked over the ridges and bumps of her marred face. She had turned her ancient injury into her own beauty. I don’t know how she came to be there, but I fought her. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but she lasted until the end. And I saw her there, in that moment, in her last defiant stand before me and I remember.
The next day we were just getting started when a man came in the bar. He was no taller than the girl and was dressed in black, but wore white bands on his arms. He carried a short staff that he tapped on the ground as he walked. The sun and the dust had long since burned themselves into his face, but there was a stillness about his expression. He called me out.
I laughed and told him, “You, old man? You’ll be no more a challenge than that girlie I beat yesterday.”
He said that girl was his daughter. He said she had no Insurance. I stood to face him.
Those of you who do not live on Rubi-Ka are likely unfamiliar with the sensation of resurrection. I can assure you it is not a pleasant one. I was reeling on the platform by the insurance terminal, aching and unfocused from the sudden revival. I saw him leave the bar but I could not gather my thoughts to act. He was taking his time as he came towards me. For the first time, it occurred to me to be afraid.
I spent an eternity gazing into his eyes. In numb and raw terror I saw the pain that was in them. He raised that stick and beat me to the ground. In a flash of agony I was reborn and he was waiting for me. Again and again he battered me into unfeeling death and again and again I was reborn into his furious arms. I remember his eyes, anguished and sorrowful amidst his wrath. I remember the faces of my comrades looking on. I remember the spectacle I had become. I remember the first time I ever considered my own destiny. I wanted to die.
[OOC: I came to this forum to post my story, but found I'd already been pre-empted with the Mule of Rubi-Ka bit. So I'll just piggyback on all you Atroxes instead. (stop complaining, you're big, you can take the weight.) Anyhow, some great stories here, keep up the cause my brothers and sisters, er, my gender-less comrades.]
