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"Move it, maggot," one of the guards bit at him, pushing him forwards with the butt of his rifle as a group of five new laborers was marched through a narrow access tunnel into the facility. The snapping cold slowly made way for a more neutral, less biting absence of cold — calling it warmth would've been an overstatement. The facility itself was a large, concrete open circle with large amounts of concrete water basins at the center of it, where a rotating mechanism moved a metal sheet around inside of the basin to stimulate slow water movement. Algoculture had become the new 'booming business' overnight, but not for the reasons that the ancient human civilizations might've expected. Not only was algoculture the only way to feed people now, it was also the only source of fuel that could be farmed in the quantities needed, as cheaply as possible, and sustain the large ovens that heated the underground facilities that sheltered the last remnants of humanity against the freezing cold outside.
Those who believed that this would've united humanity into a single entity were also sorely mistaken. The remaining survivors quickly divided into factions, and the original ideologies had long since been forgotten. Morgan was born into this, and being from the Northern Terminal Facility meant that he hated these people.
He wasn't really sure why this was the case originally. But after being taken prisoner, he was starting to get a good feeling for why it was the case now.
Stylized like an old-school circular prison, there was a singular tower at the center where a set of two guards provided an overwatch on the entire facility, making sure the prisoners were doing their jobs. Around the circular walls of the workshop were some tunnels that would lead to the other areas — seven barracks, which housed about 8 people each, a canteen and a small workshop. The prisoners were responsible for their own tools and maintenance, food and cooking, and any other sort of tasks that was offloaded onto them by the guards, and those guards minimized their contact with the prisoners as much as possible. It was an open secret that most prisoners would gladly get shot by the tower guards for a chance to jab a knife in the neck of the guards, after all. Hate is a funny thing like that.
The guard at the front of the pack of five prisoners opened a metal door with a hatch in it, and stepped aside. "In you go," he said, gesturing with his rifle towards the door. The first prisoners stepped through and when it was Morgan's turn, the prison guard stepped in front of him and gestured to the side. "Not you," the man said, "you're going upstairs."
Once Morgan was picked out the last prisoner moved through the door and they shut it right behind them, relegating the prisoners to their own devices. As long as the algae quotas were met, they could do whatever they wanted in there. Murder, rape, steal.. not that the guards gave a shit either which way.
"What's upstairs?" Morgan tried, prodding for even the slightest hint of what he was going to be getting into. The only reply was the butt of the rifle into his back again, urging him to move forward. They took him back through the tunnel, a left, a right, and then a narrow, poorly lit staircase that led up to.. some other facility, Morgan could only presume.
"You hear what the doctor's been saying to people?" the frontman of the guards asked, not turning around to face his compatriot but instead keeping his eyes forward.
"No?"
"Apparently we need to kill less of these guys. Something about production efficiency. Who'd have guessed that these guys work harder if there's more of them."
"I prefer we beat the shit out of the slow ones. It's all those northerners deserve anyway. That they manage to get by without freezing to death is a miracle."
"Mhm.." the frontman answered, "we're here. Just keep your mouth shut to the doctor. She's the brain after all, I'm sure she knows what she's doing. And we really need these algae quotas to be met. My mother's last letter said they were getting colder temperatures. Need more algae to feed the flame."
As they passed through the hallway it became less and less narrow and better lit. In front of the three men was an intersection in the tunnel system, with the route they were coming from clearly being an access and maintenance tunnel. The "main" tunnel was larger and looked better, with more clear lighting and more 'free' people walking around. Opposite the maintenance tunnel was two large glass sliding doors that moved aside, allowing the three men to pass inside to enter the sleuce. In front of them were now two glass sliding doors with darkened window tints on them, hiding the interior of the next room. Only the vague outline of the items inside was visible — some sort of laboratorium,
Once they were inside, the glass doors behind closed shut and after a short wait, the ones in front of them opened up. The laboratory behind the darkened glass was relatively well equipped — as far as this was possible in the situation the world had ended up in at any rate — with large, square fishtanks full of algae, a centrifuge, a set of microscopes, and other assorted machinery and equipment that Morgan didn't know the purpose or names of. What the fuck is this shit, he wondered, as he glanced around the lab. Several other laborers were at work, mostly carrying samples around, with a singular laborer helping with some sort of in depth scientific research. At the microscope was a woman in a lab coat, presumably the overseer of the lab.
The guard stepped forward towards, announcing himself with a cough. "Ahem, doctor Manalo?" The man shifted awkwardly, the bravado with which he had disagreed with the doctors statements now completely gone. It was clear from his behavior that this woman was important, or at least influential in the facility. "We've got this laborer. Orders said he was to be transferred to your care. Do you still want him?" Reaching out backwards, he reached for the shackles that bound Morgan's arms and grabbed them, pulling Morgan forward with a strong and rapid jerk on the chains. "Stand up straight, prisoner," the guard hissed at him.
Morgans eyes flashed dangerously, glaring at the guard, but he knew there wasn't much he could do now. The time where he was in charge with the rest of the militia in the Northern Facility was gone, and he was a simple prisoner now. Slowly he straightened his back and looked at this doctor Manalo. Pretty. Lab coat made her look intelligent. But besides that? A blank slate, maybe, but given her affiliation with these people, Morgan had his doubts that there was any humanity left in her.
"Not sure he's fit for the labor downstairs, he looks a bit scrawny, not sure he could handle working for more than an hour.." the guard then added, smirking at Manalo.
Despite his attempt at staying calm given the situation was in, it seemed that this was too much for Morgan. He turned to the guard and thrust his cuffed hands towards the mans chest, giving him an awkward shove. "Say that with these shackles off, cunt."
The guard only raised his rifle into the air, with the butt of the stock aimed at Morgans face, and then glanced at Manalo for 'permission.' "Do we show this fucking Hardliner what our hospitality looks like?" he asked. Whatever southern hospitality sounded like, it evidently included a firm beating.
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