Fennecs, Firearms and Fairybread: Ardat Resurgence - Chapter 1

Content Warnings: Violence, Blood, Vulgar Language, Homophobic Slurs, Trauma

This is an unofficial, non-canon story set in the wonderful and terrible Korps universe authored by @korpspropaganda.bsky.social. I will forever be a hopeless fan-dog-girl for Karen and all the authors of the Monster Fucker Book Club. If you would like to understand more about this universe, you can read the Brief Korps Primer or read some of the AMAZING canonical stories from this universe over in the MFBC Korps Shared Story Timeline. Additionally, you may find more unofficial/non-canon tales like this one in the KEU Public Index. My own introduction to this universe was through @syntaxtakes.bsky.social’s amazing Redline’s Downfall Book 1: Induction. Though I would be remiss to mention the equivalently inspiring writing of @runafjord.bsky.social and her To Crack a Geode Book 1 and 2: Dissolution and Crystallization. Then I read @mabelgreysmoke.bsky.social’s Greysmoke Rising and my world fell apart as I was shown everything broken and wrong with how I’d survived into my 20’s. Damn relatable writing and characters… And so began this whole journey… Thank you all, especially to those I have not named here, for you will forever be a part of my queer identity. I commit all my future villainy in your honour.

There are names and characters in this story that may bear resemblance to people in real life. These characters are purely fictional and purely fantasy of my own abstract mind, please do not take any of the writing here as fair representation of these people.

Fennecs, Firearms and Fairybread

Book 1: Ardat Resurgence

Chapter 1: Mistake at the Huluppu

Max’s paw connected with the foreman’s muzzle, a skull-rattling crack resonating through the warehouse, the foreman collapsing backwards from the unexpected strike. The five foot eight Fennec trembled with anger, now unbottled. His job? His livelihood? His next bill? Hell, the dinner he would need tonight? None of it mattered. His life was over. Had been over since he was born. All he wanted now was for them all to know his anger. To feel it.

*Maybe it’ll be quick. Maybe they’ll call a cape to pulverise me. *

Idiot. They wouldn’t waste their time on you, even if you were twice the height.

Before Max could move to capitalize on the Foreman’s collapse, there was a yell and a stocky arm wrapped around his neck. One of his coworkers, restraining him. Several others responded to the call, dropping tools and abandoning tasks to break up the fight. Max was helplessly restrained by the bigger, stronger man.

They have the same salary as me, how can they afford this much protein?

The unhelpful thoughts were all Max could do as the arm around his neck squeezed, halting his breath. Panic set in as he felt his lungs begin to scream for precious oxygen.

“What the fuck Max?”, the stocky Malinois behind him growled, “Are you insane?”

Oh if only I was, I’d at least have an excuse.

“What happened?” Someone yelled, coming out from amongst the pallet-stacked shelving that populated most of the warehouse.

“Fenky fucker just decked Jobbo!” the middle-aged greyhound between Max and the still-floored Foreman replied.

“Cunt has a mental problem!”, came another voice, “… Good thing we didn’t lend him tools.”

“Did that feel good, champ? Did your little kiddy tantrum help? No, of course it didn’t.” Sarcasm dripped.

Max was so angry he could barely see, not to mention how far beyond thinking straight he was. How dare these cunts interrupt? How dare they hold him back? Why do they have to be stronger than me? Why does everyone have to be bigger? Stronger? Why am I so WEAK?

Weak. Weak. Weak. Pitiful.

He was angry he couldn’t even finish the job. Max didn’t really remember what even started this. Something the foreman had said… something about him being a bratty kid who didn’t have work ethic? Something about how he was doing this particular task wrong? It was always something like that. They way he would say it - the way they’d all talk - always as if he knew nothing. That they were always right and he was always wrong. Even when they were contradicting themselves, they were the ones that were right. It was worse this time, because they were all listening, he just knew it. The foreman didn’t care when or where he’d ridicule Max. It almost seemed like he enjoyed it more if it was in front of everyone.

There were so many eyes on him now. None of them friendly, all glowing with hatred and anger.

How long ‘til you finally learn something Max?

“Y’alright Jobbo?”, an older cat kneeled by the foreman, helping him up.

“Kids about to regret ever showing his face this morning.” Jobbo, the grizzled foreman, growled violently as he was helped to his paws.

Max was still restrained. The strong arm still wrapped around his thin neck. He began to thrash and push, trying to get the arm off of him, trying to free himself under the approaching figure of the freshly-attacked Foreman. Jobbo, understandably, looked pissed. Max’s rage dissolved into anger, and then fear. Here was the Foreman stalking towards him with his own rage in his eyes, and that stupid fucking arm was still wrapped around his neck.

The irony of this all.

The foreman’s notably heavy paw connected with the side of Max’s face, snapping his neck to the side as the arm around him released, dropping him to the floor. There was a deafening ring in Max’s ears as his entire body reacted to the hook, nerves and senses malfunctioning as his brain bounced around inside his sandy-coloured head, ears splaying to the side as his vision went white. Blinding, searing, deafening white hot pain rocked him. His left eye glued shut as he felt liquid warmth drip down the side of his face.

Deserved.

Tears were pressed from his eyes and waves of pain radiated through his skull, the flesh and fur on the left side of his face burning as if Jobbo had socked him with his very own fragment of the sun. Blood dripped onto the dusty concrete floor of the warehouse, more of it clinging to his fur, matting and crusting. There was an indeterminate time of nothing but pain, Max struggling to push from one breath to the next. In. Pain. Out. More Pain. In. Pain Again. The ring in his ears began to fade, identifying the hoarse voice of the Foreman, talking down to him.

“… lesson you will never fucking forget. Clean this shit up, then finish your fucking job, then go see the boss.”

There was a violent splat as the foreman spat.

“And if ya’ don’t do it, then the cops will do to ya’ what I did, ‘cept they get paid to beat fags.”, the last bit was delivered with a sadistic intonation.

Max was sure he could hear the impish grin on the Forearms snout. The threat was obvious…

“Boys, let’s take a break, I’m hangin’ for a Parmy after all this bullshit”, Jobbo declared, stalking out of the warehouse, with the rest of Max’s coworkers in tow.

And just like that, it was silent except for Max’s groans.

Max was left sprawled on the concrete, alone, nursing his dripping wound as pain washed through him. Some accursed mix of physical and emotional. He felt exposed, he felt defeated, he felt sick to his stomach, he felt just a little bit guilty, but most importantly he felt despair. This was definitely his job. His livelihood. His house. Food. The thought of homelessness, of dying alone and forgotten under one of Sydney’s many decrepit bridges and overpasses, sent icicles through his chest. His stomach cramped and twisted.

Maybe… Just maybe if I could apologise hard enough, they’d let me keep the job.

The thought of staying, of working here, with all these people, all those looks of disgust, hatred. Of having to work with him. It was almost worse.

“FUCK!” He wailed as he punched the floor, wincing as pain radiated through his paw.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK”

They expected him to do everything that was left to do? There were 2 hours left in the shift, and normally that’d be six of them all working together. How the fuck was he supposed to do it all? The memory of Jobbo standing over him, spitting, the threat heavy in the air, returned. He had to do it all. Whatever else would come would be worse.

Max scrabbled to get his paws underneath himself, sticky pooling blood stretching between his matted face and where it had been laying on the floor. Throbbing, unrelenting pain radiated through him as he got his legs underneath himself. His left eye did not respond, swollen shut.

Clean this shit up.

Swearing at the heavens and hell for his misery, he got to work with a handful of damp rags, the rusted kitchenette in the corner of the warehouse gurgling at him as he washed the blood out of the rags. Max was so beaten, so beyond feeling anything, that he wasn’t able to enjoy the patch of blood that had been left behind by the Foreman’s spit. Not even the knowledge that Max’s paw had connected hard enough to draw blood from the grizzled Foreman was enough to alter his spirits.

Probably just made him bite his tongue in surprise. You’re too much of a weak bitch to do anything else.

With the blood and grime mostly cleaned up, Max painfully turned to address the next task. Finish your fucking job. He sighed. He had to audit every piece of Class 3 and up space-tech in this warehouse, except now he had to do it alone. He gazed up to the rafters of the warehouse, towards the top of the towering shelves of pallets and crates. This was a fucking nightmare. Grabbing his discarded tablet and scanner, thrown down at some point before Max decided to deck the Foreman, he begrudgingly got to work.

Work was slow and painful, especially when he’d have to clean up his own dripping blood off of whatever crate or box he was working on at the time. His handful of damp rags shoved in his belt slowly becoming a crimson red as time dragged on. His only advantage to doing it all alone was the distinct lack of safety oversight, as Max scaled shelves and pallets without regard to his safety. No more time consuming pallet jacking or shelf unloading to reach the box he needed.

Just climb and scan. Record. Mark as seen. Record location. Move on.

Six hours later, and not a single soul had returned to the warehouse that had become Max’s impromptu prison. Six hours later, and Max had got to the very last item on the audit list - notably of which he couldn’t find. A class five “ST-14A-MAC Regulator”. Class five! He’d seen people imprisoned for losing track of class four tech, and that wasn’t a MAC Regulator! Fear renewed, fresh pain throbbing from his swollen eye. Three hots and a cot didn’t sound so bad, all things considered. Even if Sydney’s correctional system was notoriously shit.

“Fuck it, I’m fired anyway.”

Max pawed the “UNSEEN / UNACCOUNTED FOR” button, clicking through the multitude of big red exclamations and notification windows that popped up. Throwing the tablet down on the charging dock, Max stalked out of the warehouse towards the office building for section 3-Charlie of the docks, shoulders sagging. By this point, his face had stopped bleeding, a mess of dark red matted fur covering the left side of his face, his eye swollen shut, dust and grime stuck to his fur. If he didn’t look so miserable, he might just have looked a little badass.

∍⧽⧼∊

Max sat uncomfortably in the seating area before his boss’s boss’s office. The executive assistant had been kind enough to give Max a damp towel to nurse his swollen face with. The bunny looked at him with disdain, clearly knowing exactly what he’d done and why he was there. Despite that, the towel had been provided.

“Can’t have you insulting the boss with that disgusting look.”, she had basically thrown the towel at him.

The lukewarm dampth of the towel seeped into his matted fur, the stinging sensation indicating where the skin had been split. The bite of his wounds did nothing to ground him as he spiralled in the chair. Where would he live? What job could he get now?

I don’t have any other skills, and all the dock contractors talk! I’ll never get another job here. I can’t afford to leave Sydney! Where else would I go? I can’t afford to go back to trade school, not that they’d ever give me another slot.

His thoughts went in circles, his heart beating a mile a minute and his stomach twisting in knots. The cramps of his anxiety were almost enough to double him over. That fucking cunt of a foreman Jobbo - he only had the job because he was the current longest serving dock worker. Not because he was good at the job. The old man didn’t know the first thing about actually managing a work site. Yet somehow, he still had the support of everyone else on Max’s shift.

Why the fuck do they back him up? He’s a cunt with no real skill. Unless you count a pack a day for 40 years as a skill - but that’s just luck. No, thats the raw torment of this unfair realm - Death playing a practical joke as this walking visage of vitriol continues to torture me with working lungs.

“Fox, get your fucking ass in my office.” The commanding voice of the executive interrupted his spiralling self-woe, beckoning.

Pulling himself to his feet he trailed after the executive, feeling puny.

“Close the door behind you.”

The executive lounged behind his desk, putting both of his clean-booted paws on the hardwood desk, premium Herman-Miller chair leaning back luxuriously.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He started before Max could even get himself in the small 4 legged steel chair on his own side of the executives desk.

Do all these cunts think the same?

“Ya ‘know what. Don’t answer, let me try.” Somehow the executive managed to look down at him, despite both of them sitting.

“You think you’re better than the rest of us. You think that with your 2 years under your belt, you should be respected? That you’re equal with Jobbo’s 30?”

“N- No!” Max defended. “… s-sir.”

“Then what? What makes you think you can get away with playing the feral animal on my dock? We don’t employ ferals.” The executive probed, steel in his voice.

“I-I didn’t mean too… I m-mean he’s abusive! He was y-yelling at me!” The stammering was starting.

Get a fucking hold of yourself, Max.

“Oh so it’s Jobbo’s fault? You did nothing, he did it all? He is responsible for you losing control of your emotions like a preteen?” There was venom in the executives words, but also a lack of incredulity. Just obscure enough for Max to miss it.

“N-no! Sir… I’m sorry.. I didn’t mean to say… P-please I’m sorry.. I swear it won’t happen again!” Max felt his last vestiges of pride escape him as he begged and pleaded with the executive.

“Shutup, Max. Grow up. Speak like an adult. You are an adult right?”

There was a flash of red. The ringing in Max’s ears returned. A wave of heat rocked through his body.

What, going to deck the exec’ too? That’d be just perfect. Go for the highscore!

Heroically, he managed to stamp down the bubbling emotions. Just enough.

“Y-yes sir. S-Sorry, sir” Max grimaced, dropping the damp towel to his lap.

The executive whistled at the sight.

“Whew! Jobbo really did get a good one back on ya!” The executive laughed, glee in Max’s pain evident.

Tears threatened, liquid pressure behind Max’s eyes as he stared at the ground between his paws. He stayed silent.

Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.

The executive calmed his chuckles, sitting up with a sigh, removing his clean boots from the desk.

“So Max, I ask again. Are. You. A. Feral?” The steel in his voice returned.

“N-no sir.” Max whimpered. “I.. lost my cool. It w-won’t happen again.”

Stop with the fucking stutter! He’s already clocked you as an overgrown-kid, you useless fuck.

The executive eyed him skeptically. A short pause.

“Good.”

He sighed again, leaning back in the overpriced desk chair, his muzzle to the ceiling.

“I’ll be honest, Max, getting a baselined dock worker with valid certs? Not as easy as you might think.”

Max looked to the executive, nodding, self-loathing interrupted by the conversational whiplash. Notably, Max did have certain certs and a baseline clearance, but most workers here didn’t - they didn’t need it. Max was fairly certain Jobbo didn’t have any certs.

“That is to say, I’d rather not kick your sandy-ass to the curb.”

A glimmer of hope! But why did this feel almost worse than being fired?

“T-thank you, sir”, Max cautioned.

“Don’t thank me yet, kid.”

Kid.

Scrounging through the stacks of paper on his desk, the executive pulled out a document. A ‘contract amendment’, as the title indicated.

“We need someone on the graveyard shift in 4-delta. The fact you finished the rest of that audit in 6 hours? Alone? Proves that while you may have a problem with authority, you don’t have an issue with getting the job done.” The executive slid the contract amendment across the desk to him.

Graveyard? 4-Delta? Ah fuck me sideways.

4-Delta was the dock section no one wanted to work at - it was mostly petrochem equipment coming and going, and Max had not seen a single soul finish a shift there not covered in oil, grease, lubricant or something else entirely unidentifiable. Even worse: 4-Delta was leased to the Feds, so police and Sovereign Enforcement were constantly looking over their shoulders. Max had heard of a particularly mouthy contractor getting his jaw broken by a cape he’d insulted on shift. Yeah… the Feds had an unhealthy addiction to petrochem, and sometimes the shipments came and went with cape escorts. Mostly low level capes, none of those Acrux Group guys, but still a hell of a lot more powered than the dock workers. Though in saying that, there was many a rumour around that 4D dealt in a lot of classified tech, that the dirty petrochem shit was just a cover. This was only helped by 4D being one of the only dock sections in the StellarTek dockyard that actually required a clearance.

“I-I didn’t know there was a graveyard shift for 4D…”, Max commented, mostly succeeding in keeping the fear and torment out of his voice.

“There wasn’t. Until you volunteered.” The executive clasped his hands on the desk.

“Oh… of c-course. Yes sir”, Max was nodding again, eyes to the floor.

Dog cunt.

Wait, that means no one else is on this shift!

“W-who do I report to, sir?”

The executive smirked.

“You’re quick Max, I’ll give you that. Yes, can’t get in trouble for decking a foreman if there is no foreman. You’ll report to me, and whatever fed is the work-coordinator for that shift.”

Weeelllll fuck. Now I have a fed for a boss! That’s… probably worse than Jobbo.

“Sign the fucking contract, then report to the 4-delta dock office at 2100 on Monday. And go wash that fucking face”.

A pen was thrown in front of Max.

Considering the alternatives, despite the newly acquired shit working hours, and likely awful bosses, he didn’t take long to decide.

∍⧽⧼∊

It was late by the time Max left the docks. The sun already extinguished, the terrible promises of the night arriving. The upside to leaving work this late meant the train was fairly empty, which allowed the sandy-furred fennec fox plenty of room to wallow. Despite it all, he still had the energy to be angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world.

Never can do a single fucking thing right. Always fucking it up. Always hurting someone. This is why you don’t get invested, Max. This is why you don’t show emotion. I thought you learned what happens when you do that after Lucy? Fucking idiot.

The whole system seemed piled upon Max, to make him fail, to hold him down, to keep him pinned. Need work to afford to live. Need to work so much that you don’t get the chance to actually live. The system, his whole life, was so fucked up that he was stuck in the perfectly grey middle ground where he didn’t actually live, a living ghost. And if you somehow amassed the energy to actually get up and do something about it? The system was built to put you back in your place in an instant. The exact thing that that slimy executive had exploited - that everyone in his class exploits.

Jobs were always meant to be an exchange. People exchange their labour, their time and energy, in an exchange for currency. It was a mutual service, one that had negotiating power equal to both sides. The business needs a task done. The worker needs a fair exchange of currency. Both sides could negotiate to find the adequate middle ground. That was how it should be! But in reality, the top-heavy system is so stacked in favour of the powerful and wealthy, that everyone knew how it really worked:

The poor, working-class got shafted. There were too many people and too little jobs. The companies could pay as little as they wanted - just enough to keep their workers alive and coming back - and if anyone complained, they could be replaced with the next person that desperately needed the work. It was a gruesome system feeding on human desperation and misery.

They didn’t even let the workers have their vices. The companies realised that with the shitty work culture, that the demand for alcohol and entertainment, the demand for escape and distraction, was so high that they could price it however they wanted. Now the working class couldn’t even afford to spend whatever small amount of their income remained on things that make them happy. It was pure tyrannical control.

Max raged internally. He punched the empty seat in front of him. He thought of the helplessness he felt in that warehouse as the arm wrapped around his neck and all eyes of hatred were on him. He punched again. He thought of the foreman approaching him, returning the punch. The unfairness of it, as the arm restrained him and held him still as the foreman was allowed the freedom to do whatever he wanted. He punched again. Why didn’t anyone try to stop him? Why did he get to do what he wanted? He punched again. He thought of the arm again. The helplessness. The restraint around him. The physical embodiment of the system holding him down. The powerful and the wealthy manifested in the form of the stocky malinois’ arm around his neck. Fear and panic filled his heart. His veins pumping ice and his stomach turning, the cramps threatening to drown out his thoughts in pain. He punched again. Again. Again. Wounds on his paw from his time in the warehouse reopening. He punched again. A print of crimson blood staining the seat.

Look at you go! Showing that train seat who’s boss. Nice!

The cacophony of emotions bubbled over in Max and he screamed, to no one in particular. His cry echoed off of the empty walls of the train car. Tossing his head back to scream his frustrations at the ceiling, the collar of his work shirt dug into his neck, tugging and resisting the movement. It felt like another arm around his neck. Another boot of the system. He couldn’t help but see the Malinois standing there, holding him down, choking him, waiting for the next animal to come and punch his lights out.

His breath caught, and his heart thumped. His fur stood on end and his vision went white as his scream faded to ringing in his ears.

Pure panic flooded his system, he was drowning. Paws scrabbling at his neck, hyperventilating. He was desperate. Claws caught and shredded the collar, tearing the shirt away from his body. Max threw the tattered remains of the clothing to the floor, another scream escaping his maw - this time of desperation and hurt.

What the fuck is wrong with me?!

He cried. Feeling helpless, the feeling of drowning not quite leaving his system. He felt hopeless. Helpless. Useless. The tears flowed unbidden and unrestricted.

∍⧽⧼∊

“He is perfect.”

“He is unstable.”

“Perfect cover if it goes awry.”

“He might sooner turn on himself, or the Nun An-ki-a”

“You felt him. He already thinks as a disciple. He just does not know it yet”

“I fear his instability may leave him misguided.”

“So we direct him, Brother.”

“As we did The Followers?”

“As we did The Followers, Brother.”