Legacy of the Lost

Obey

A-500137 is my name, not my birth name but now the only name that is mine. My friends call me Korrian, (they say it means Courage in Old Manorian, but I feel like they're just pulling my leg and it actually means something like idiot, or cry baby,) and of course by friends I mean the other slaves in my group that serve under our Father. Not that we're actually related or that he actually cares for any of us, just because it gives him some kind of sick satisfaction to think we actually look up and respect him.

I always thought it was amusing that they went through the effort to give me a number, when all they would have to do to differentiate me from the rest of the slaves is say "hey you! The white one!" And everyone would know you meant me.

The heat was stifling, hanging on us like a sopping wet comforter. Sweat rolling down our bare backs and dripping onto the hot black dirt, blood soaking the handle of the wooden hoe from the blisters and cuts that never heal. Working the fields at noon was one of the worst jobs on the plant, dehydration and perspiration become your two closest companions.

Unlike all the other slaves I was not born into this, I wasn't a Manorian nor was I related to one. Manorians have been looked down upon and enslaved ever since my people, the Ephlish, showed up here about two hundred years ago. Their dark skin and hair was looked down upon as savage and ugly and were forced into servitude by my people. We were generally very fair skinned and burned easy in the sun, slightly pointed ears and were typically not as built as the Manorians. There's no chance a Ephlish would be able to withstand a fist fight with a Manorian, but that didn't matter because they had the technology, weapons, and the minds of killers. No, I wasn't born into this... I was forced into this.

Around fifteen years ago Father found me on the side of the road. He knew if he left me there I would be slowly cooked by the sun and surely die. Thankfully he showed mercy on me and brought me to his home, and after I had recovered he put me to work. He always says...

"I saved you! You're life belongs to me, if it weren't for me you'd be dead, and this is how you repay me?"

I heard an all to familiar crack and felt the hot searing pain of the whip slicing into my back from my upper left shoulder down to my right hip. In shock the hoe slipped from my hands and I sank down to my knees in the hot dirt. I hadn't noticed The Keeper sneak up behind me, and now it was too late.

"Now what do you think you're doing? Get up!" His gruff voice made my entire body shake with fear, and to my horror I hesitated.

Once again the crack and the whip lashed across my back once more. It doesn't matter how many times it hits you, the pain never ceases, all you learn to do is cope with it. I made no sound and I stood once more, hoe in hand.

"Work faster!" He bellowed and the whip lashed across my back repeatedly, his cruel laughter reverberating in my ear dreams,

Some of the other slaves nearby had stopped working and watched with sympathy in their eyes, but too afraid to say anything. I didn't blame them, if they tried to help it'd only make things worse for everyone. After a few more strikes I could stand anymore and I fell face first into the dirt. I heard his heavy footsteps as he walked over in his big boots and planted on square on my back. Agonizing pain shot through my body and it took all my strength to not scream... screaming attracted the dogs.

"If I see you slacking again I'll end you," he threatened and with one last stomp on my shoulder blade he stormed off, I assumed to go and torture the other groups with his company now as well.

Just another day on the plant.

"You really should watch yourself boy?" One of the older Manorian's said softly and helped me back onto my feet. His old weathered face looked fatigued and his eyes showed the many years of torture he had endured.

"Thank you," I said gratefully and leaned heavily on the hoe to steady my trembling legs. "How did the world come to this? Segregated and enslaved..."

The old man smiled, "We live in a land of turmoil and misunderstandings."

I looked at him confused, "then why are you smiling."

After a moment he rested his big, callused hand on my shoulder and whispered, "because at least we live."