The Slaughterhouse

Chapter 3: The Slaughter house

The landlord of this lovely treasure house," the alien says with a grin, "you can call me Landlord. "R clenches his jaw, instantly realizing why his order has been delayed. The bartender has been stalling, waiting for this moment. "Fuck me," R mutters under his breath, his voice low and furious. The bar falls silent. Conversations stop. The usual loud chatter dies instantly as a voice echoes through the room. The Landlord has arrived. A heavy breath breaks the stillness, followed by the Landlord’s deep, resonant voice. "You’re scaring my customers, One-Eye," the Landlord says, his tone almost playful. R smirks, leaning back in his seat. His voice is laced with mockery as he replies, "Everything seemed fuckin’ fine when I was here. Till your fuckin’ pretty face showed up." The Landlord chuckles, shaking his head. "Am I that scary?" He turns to a nearby scavenger, a frail man with weak mechanical limbs. The man flinches under his gaze. "Tell me," the Landlord says, his voice mocking, "what do I look like?" R tilts his head, unimpressed, watching the exchange. The Landlord grins wider. "A fuckin ogre?" He lets out a booming laugh, the sound deep and unsettling. The vibrations seem to ripple through the room. "That’s the closest thing to an alien humans feared back in ancient 2000s fiction," the Landlord says, gesturing at himself and flexing his massive arms. "So, what am I to you, huh? Fuckin’ Shrek? At least I bagged a fuckin princess. "The bar erupts in laughter. The patrons join in, their nervous chuckles blending with the Landlord’s booming guffaws. He beats his huge belly uneasily, the sound echoing through the room. Yet, despite the laughter, the tension lingers, thick and unbroken. R remains still, his expression unreadable. He adjusts the black metallic object beside him, his fingers curling around its edge. A faint smirk plays on his lips. "If we’re talking old human folklore," R says coolly, his voice cutting through the laughter, "humans didn’t just fear ogres. "He raises a hand, his movements deliberate, as if demonstrating a point. "They hunted them," he continues, his tone calm and measured, "so that fear wouldn’t consume every piece of them until they became extinct. The Landlord’s grin falters as the laughter around him begins to fade bit by bit. R notices this and uses it as an opportunity to take advantage. With a smirk, he tilts his head slightly. "And I can see why you’d say you look like Shrek," R says, his tone sharp. He gestures at the Landlord’s massive form. "But Shrek was green, not red. And if he was as fat as you are, the princess would’ve killed herself before she ever got to know his fuckin personality. I doubt she’d consider someone with your personality either."

The bar goes dead silent. A few scavengers shift uncomfortably, murmurs rising in the background. Some whisper, "Shrek wasn’t red." As the murmurs grow louder, the Landlord’s frustration becomes visible. He clenches his three-fingered fist, and the tone of the bar shifts instantly. Weapons around the room click and charge, all aimed in the direction of the one-eyed man sitting majestically at the front. "Shit," R mutters under his breath, noticing the hall’s hostility. As every scavenger in the bar powers up their weapons, R doesn’t flinch. His second hand drifts toward his holster, brushing against the gun. A faint whir hums from it as it powers up. The Landlord erupts into deep, belly-shaking laughter. His massive gut trembles with amusement, the sound so loud it’s unsettling. "Disarm," the Landlord orders. The sound of weapons charging begins to power down. Weapons are lowered, and the bar falls into uneasy silence once more. The Landlord steps forward, placing his large, three-fingered palm on R’s shoulder. His grip is heavy. His tone is calm, almost playful. "You’re a fuckin special man," the Landlord says. "Let’s talk in my office." He grins, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "Your milk is on the way. Small delay, but you’ll get it soon." R doesn’t move. His fingers remain on the tip of his gun, the loading sound still softly humming. His instincts scream at him to stay on guard. "I’m fine getting it here," R replies coldly. His other hand pulls the metallic object even closer to his chest. The Landlord leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I might like you… but my tenants don’t like you the way I do."

R’s gaze flickers around the room. He scans the faces of those watching him. There is rage in their eyes. Fear. Desperation. But one thing is clear—they aren’t just looking at him. They are also looking at the object he holds close to his chest as his grip on it tightens. They’ve figured something out. His disguise is flawless, he has covered his tracks. How the fuck do they know?

The Landlord sighs, his gaze shifting lightly to the object. "I know you made that thing look like ordinary black metal," he says. "But that metal is fuckin alive, isn’t it?" R doesn’t answer. "That’s not just metal," the Landlord continues. "That’s nanotech." A pit forms in R’s stomach. They don’t know who he is… but they want what he has. This is a problem. A big fuckin problem. Everything the essence of everything is in the nanotech cloak. If they get their hands on it… R’s thoughts race. How the fuck has the Landlord seen through the cloaking device? More importantly, if he can, that means others can as well. His grip on the device tightens further as his thoughts spiral. The Landlord watches him carefully. "I can’t see what’s inside," he admits. "So, none of them can either." He pauses, his tone shifting slightly. "But most of them know it’s nanotech. And some of them just want it, even if they don’t know whether it’s precious or not."

The Landlord smiles. “So… will you follow me inside for your order?” R exhales slowly. He has no choice. He has already assessed the situation, already decided his move, but a disturbance still gnaws at him until he speaks. “Shut the fuck up.” The Landlord’s eyes widen. “I beg your pardon?” R chuckles low, shaking his head. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He stands. “But let’s go.” The Landlord nods approvingly. R presses a small section of the metallic shell. With a soft hiss, the nanotech responds. A thin, black extension unfolds from its surface, shifting like liquid metal before solidifying into a handle. It arches up, forming a loop—just wide enough to slip around his neck. He adjusts it, securing the container firmly against his chest, like a courier carrying a valuable package close to his heart. The Landlord smirks. “Well,” he says, “very well.” He turns and leads the way. R follows.

As he walks, he takes in his surroundings. Scavengers lurk in the shadows, their eyes tracking his every move. Some have mechanical arms, others cybernetic legs fitted with weapons. A few have reinforced eyes that glow faintly, scanning him like a machine sizing up prey. But it isn’t just curiosity. Some gazes hold a lunatic edge—these men are no longer human in his eyes. They are monsters, hiding under the shield of an alien power. The door creaks open, its rusted hinges groaning like a dying beast. The Landlord pauses at the threshold, throwing R a slow, unsettling smile—one that lingers too long, as if savoring a secret only he knows. Then, without a word, he steps inside. R follows.

The moment he crosses the doorway, the air changes. It’s heavier. Tainted. The scent of sweat, blood, and something far worse clings to his senses like an unseen hand tightening around his throat. A shiver rolls down his spine. This isn’t an office. It’s something far worse. A vast hall stretches before him, shrouded in dim, flickering light. The walls are lined with rusted cages, their metal bars warped and stained. Inside, bodies huddle together—some human, others alien. Their skin clings to their bones, their eyes sunken, empty of hope. Some flinch at the sound of his steps, recoiling like beaten dogs. Others don’t react at all, lost in whatever nightmare has already swallowed them. The silence is deceptive. Beneath it, muffled cries slither through the air whispers of the broken, stitched together by the occasional, gut-wrenching scream. Then, movement. R’s gaze sharpens, locking onto a cage where a man is curled in the corner, trembling violently. His clothes are torn, his face streaked with dried blood. His lips move, forming silent words that never leave his throat. Across from him, another prisoner clutches a makeshift shiv a jagged scrap of metal, held with shaking hands. R exhales slowly. This isn’t a path to the landlord’s office. It’s a path to the factory of suffering—the bar is just a disguise, this is the main business. A slaughterhouse dressed in shadows and steel his hands curl into fists and then, he notices something else.

The floor beneath him, coated in a layer of grime is uneven. No, not uneven. Sunken. The ground slopes toward the center of the hall, where a rusted drain gapes like an open wound. The scent in the air makes sense now. This isn’t just a place where the unfortunate are kept.It’s where they bleed. In one section, a human is being beaten mercilessly by a massive figure with mechanical arms. A heavy stick, studded with nails, cracks against bone. The prisoner’s joints twist at unnatural angles, his body crumbling under the assault.

In another section; what looks like a kitchen, Chefs in bloodstained uniforms work methodically. They chop. Slice. Wash pieces of flesh. The blood flows freely onto the floor. Another section, another kitchen, where large slabs of raw meat are transported and meticulously prepared, hums with activity. The rich aroma of boiling, frying, and roasting flesh fills the air. The scent of sizzling fat, spiced broths bubbling in massive pots, and grills crackling with freshly seared cuts create an overwhelming yet oddly enticing atmosphere. Then, R notices something; This isn’t just meat, these are human bodies. They are butchering them. Cooking them. R’s jaw tightens, this place… is a slaughterhouse.

R follows the Landlord deeper through the hallway, the scent of cooked meat thickening in the air. They enter a grand kitchen far larger than the last where cooks plate portions of golden-brown fried flesh with unsettling elegance. R follows the Landlord deeper through the hallway, the scent of cooked meat thickening in the air. They enter a grand kitchen, far larger than the last, where cooks plate portions of golden-brown fried flesh with unsettling elegance.

A female chef approaches, carrying a plate of what looks like sliced, fried fingers. She offers a respectful nod. "Good evening, sir," she says, the Landlord barely acknowledges her, his crimson lips curling into a smirk as he turns to R. "Bring orders to my room. Plates for two. I have a guest." The chef bows slightly. "Understood, sir." She disappears through a set of curtains. As they briefly part, R glimpses another room beyond—elegant, pristine, yet deeply unsettling. A passing chef carries a tray of steaming plates, and as the curtain falls shut again, R’s eyes dart around the lavish, restaurant-like space. It’s extravagant—glistening cutlery, soft instrumental music, and patrons enjoying their meals. But as R takes a closer look at their plates, his blood runs cold. Human flesh. Perfectly cooked, exquisitely plated, disguised as gourmet cuisine. The realization twists his stomach. He clenches his fists, forcing himself to keep walking, his mind a storm of revulsion and restraint. They enter another corridor, this one leading into a vast, industrial chamber. The air thickens with the scent of metal and oil. Inside, mercenaries assemble vehicles—old-world relics from the late 2020s, even the golden age of the 90s. Armored trucks. Modified tanks. A war machine in the making. R’s pulse quickens as he notices that the Landlord is one of the strongest mercenary leaders in the western regions. Each region has its own warlord, ruling the outlands beyond the great walls—the brutal, lawless zones where only the strongest survive. Inside, civilization thrives under alien rule. Outside? It’s chaos. The Landlord is the man in charge of the wall outside the West region. And R has just walked into the lion’s den. If the Landlord knows who he truly is, it will be over. Then, a chilling sight stops him. A heavy steel cage. Inside it—A woman. Naked. Caged like an animal. Mercenaries drag the cage forward. Even the guards escorting R and the Landlord stiffen, their expressions uneasy. R turns to the Landlord. Even he looks unsettled.

The woman inside lets out a low, guttural hiss, her sharp eyes darting wildly. She isn’t just dangerous, she’s something else entirely. Her complexion is dark but unnatural—not human-dark, not alien-pale. Something in between. The most feared creatures in all three regions. Even more terrifying than the Mist Virus itself. Then her gaze meets R’s. Her body tenses, her breathing grows ragged, and suddenly— 

BANG!

She slams her fists against the bars. The cage rattles violently as she lets out a piercing scream not at him, but at something he’s carrying. R instinctively clutches the nanotech object hanging from his neck, his grip tightening around it. Why is she reacting to this? What does she know?She thrashes against the bars, hissing louder. The tension in the air becomes suffocating. Then the Landlord moves. They’ve reached their destination. A heavy door swings open, revealing the Landlord’s office. Inside, a deep red glow bathes the room. At the center, a luxurious three-seater black chair. The Landlord takes his seat with absolute authority, gesturing for R to sit beside him. R scans the room before deliberately choosing the chair across from him. The Landlord smirks but says nothing. With a wave of his hand, the guards silently exit. Once alone, he leans forward, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. The Landlord asks, "Do you like my office?" R replies, "The color suits your skin. But the path to your office is... breathtaking." The Landlord lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, throwing his head back. "A man of wit! I like that."Then, his demeanor shifts. His smirk fades. He straightens, his gaze sharpening. Before he can speak—

A knock from the  door as a female voice calls, "Landlord, your dinner is here. "The Landlord claps his hands together. "Ah, perfect! Let’s eat first." The same chef from earlier enters, carrying a tray. Two plates, piled high with meat. Four large glass bottles filled with thick, creamy liquid. She sets a plate in front of the Landlord, then another in front of R. As she does, she winks, swaying her hips as she walks away. R doesn’t flinch. His one good eye remains locked on the plate before him.nThe sight of the meat disgusts him. The Landlord chuckles, noticing R’s lack of reaction to the chef’s display. He leans forward, picking up his utensils. "Eat," the Landlord says. R’s voice is cold. "If this is what I think it is, I don’t have an appetite." The Landlord smirks and pulls R’s plate toward himself. "Well... more for me." He picks up a piece of meat, bites into it, and groans in satisfaction, his tongue running over his lips. R’s jaw clenches. His anger is reaching its peak.