The Colors' Blindness

The hum of the drills was a constant thrum against my bones, a lullaby of our enslavement. Each vibration a reminder of the Colors’ insatiable hunger for the very earth beneath our feet, the vibranium that fueled their dreams of a sky they’d never share with us. We, the Lykos’ Lambda Clan, toiled in the perpetual twilight of Mars’ underbelly, our lives measured not in years, but in the weight of ore we wrenched from the planet’s core.

The festival loomed, a hollow promise of respite. The Reaping, they called it, a cruel mockery of our existence. The clan with the highest yield would be rewarded, a meager handful of nutrient paste and perhaps a warmer blanket. A pittance for a year of sweat and blood. But this year, something had ignited within me, a fire stoked by Melissa’s unwavering belief in a different future. I’d pushed, harder than ever before, my frysuit’s thin plating a flimsy shield against the inferno of the drills. A searing pain had bloomed across my chest, a burn that would leave a permanent scar, a testament to my folly. Yet, I’d believed. I’d truly believed, for a fleeting moment, that this sacrifice, this agony, would be enough to bring the Laurel home.

But the Colors’ blindness was as vast as the Martian sky they so desperately sought to reclaim. Their pronouncements, delivered by the uncaring voice of Timothy Cu Podginus, were a familiar slap in the face. The rewards, as always, went to the favored clans, the ones who had met their quotas with less struggle, less sacrifice. Our clan, the one that had bled and burned for even a chance, was once again overlooked. A cold wave of despair washed over me, a familiar companion in this desolate world.