Grandeur Defector

XVII

"Oi Eleven, could you grab that?"

Truffles nodded, grabbing what Mouse was pointing to. It was a bundle of red and yellow wires, cut loose off of a spare electronic. He handed the wires to Mouse, walking past the trench diggers as they worked on elongating the new trench.
Mouse grabbed them greedily, setting the bundle next to his work area. He continued to tinker with the grey box in his hands, which now contained buttons and a speaker on the side of it. He shoved a red wire into the frame, pulling out his metal pliers and tightening the exposed wiring to a metal device. He clicked a button, and when nothing happened, he sighed impatiently and rewired it.

Otto came shambling up, face focused, holding a large wooden crate of building supplies. He set it down next to Truffles, his lungs heaving with effort. He wiped away the sweat along his forehead and watched the diggers continue at a steady pace. Otto eyed Truffles, a twinkle in his eye.

"Can those claws of yours dig...?"

Truffles recalled the time where one of his bullies forced him to re-dig an entire trench because they'd trashed it so bad. Truffles was blamed because he was easy to blame; smaller than others, weaker strength-wise, hated by all for his lineage.
They hated me, never giving me a chance, and yet the enemy has shown me kindness. I still cannot fathom that.
"I used to dig."

The two diggers, one a mole and the other a stoat, stopped digging when he said that. The mole made a pushing hand gesture, his stained yellow teeth visible as he grimaced.
"I ain't workin' with no stripeless, those there things are good for killin' and nothin' else."
I'm not even offended. I can understand why you hate me.

The stoat nudged his fellow digger sharply.
"Boris, this'll take a millennium if he don't help!"

"I ain't workin' with it."

Otto tapped his foot, impatient.
"Boris, has he killed anyone yet?"

Boris spat.
"Naw, but he will. Jus' you wait."

Otto tried again, this time with more gentle patience.
"I know what happened with brother hurts, but give him a chance."

Boris spat again, his shoulders tensing. His pupils were white, eyes nearly useless and scarred heavily. His arms were littered in claw marks of fury, the mark of a feline's doing. His uniform was dirty and stained, and the eye bags told Truffles everything he needed to know.
A tiger soldier killed his brother, and by the scars on him, he likely was attacked brutally in the same battle. He had family die, all because The Tiger Nation wants to expand.
That's horrible.

Truffles stared down at his boots, feeling guilty.
Oh god. So this is what it's like being on the outside.

"I'm sorry for what they did to your kin," he mumbled, anger at his own country rising in his chest.
That isn't even nearly as bad as the worst of it. The Tiger Nation regularly kills children, women, men who can't even defend themself, and yet... no. No, it had to be done.
There has to be a reason.
The General says so.

Boris stared into nothing for a moment, then moved over. He drew an "x" on a wall of layered dirt with his own claws. Wordlessly, he began digging next to the spot, and the stoat smiled, joining his side.
Truffles slowly approached, taking off his fingerless gloves and placing them into his uniform pant pockets. He placed a hand over the wall of dirt where the "x" was, thinking.

...
Treasure.
Truffles grabbed a woman's watch from the dresser drawer, shuffling through her belongings. There was panties—which he chucked to the side in disgust— pills, a picture of a man, cigarettes, and a lighter. He grabbed the picture of the man while his comrade grabbed the underwear pervertedly, giggling immaturely.
"To my love, I will always miss you." She had a lover... he looked old enough to serve in the army. Maybe he was called and died for the cause. And now, she's forced to join him.