This time, there were no female prisoners. Rare.
Lately, gender equality has been loudly advocated, and even conscription has followed suit with random selection and aptitude tests. But perhaps the feminists are finally starting to see reality.
Rumors whispered around the fort suggested that female prisoners were being used as breeding grounds to replenish the alien forces.
In reality, it's far worse.
The truth is, they're used as experimental subjects to create stronger soldiers. So, they're treated more like lab rats than breeding stock. Naturally, they're not valued much.
That's why I'm fighting this battle alone—as a human.
Still, without an opponent, there's no starting point. Today, my specialty is on hold.
Instead, I'm forced into a different job. And that is—
With a loud *thud*, meat is sliced into rounds on the chopping block.
The legitimate work of a butcher. It's a butcher's job.
No metaphor here. I'm literally doing a butcher's work.
It's a surreal sight, but right now, I'm in the back of a butcher shop in the alien city, carving up meat. Turns out, this is a job too.
My attire? Combat style, surprisingly. I'm wearing a butcher's bag over my head and a "butcher's apron."
The butcher's apron sounds weak, but it's actually a bulletproof, stab-resistant smock.
This apron is so advanced that if worn properly, it can even withstand anti-tank rockets. For butchers, wearing this apron over bare skin is considered formal dress. I wore it during my last outdoor assignment too.
Why they make us wear this ridiculous, "rich-kid-in-rags" outfit is unclear, but there must be a deeper reason.
My guess? If butchers were fully armed, they'd cause significant damage if they went rogue. So, they deliberately leave us vulnerable. Probably… no, definitely. That's how the aliens assess a butcher's combat potential.
With this apron and a paper bag over my head, I guess I just look like a creepy giant carving meat in the back of the shop… probably.
"One kilo of beef round. Two kilos of offal. Two kilos of pork shoulder."
Listening to the instructions from the control device, I carve the meat piece by piece.
When handling offal, I use separate tools and workspaces. I'm a professional. I don't cut corners, even in a butcher's job.
By the way, this meat—beef, pork, chicken, and yes, human meat too. Mostly male prisoners end up like this. Female meat is too fatty and unpopular. If minced and mixed with male meat, it sells decently, but it's not a bestseller.
From my workspace, I can see the storefront. During breaks, I observe various aliens buying meat.
They come in all shapes and sizes. Some look like they're from a fantasy world, while others are completely incomprehensible. Are those the spaghetti monsters I've heard about?
Watching them, I realize that despite being aliens, their lifestyles aren't that different from humans. They even have currency.
Both their men and women are more striking and better-built than humans.
Someone like me, ugly and hulking, stands out horribly among them. No wonder the aliens instinctively fear butchers.
By the way, these aliens didn't come from space—
Initially, they were called aliens because people thought so, but they actually travel through a "gate" between worlds. Humans figured this out long ago, but once a misunderstanding spreads, it's hard to correct. So, they're still called aliens by habit. Officially, they're "foreigners."
Of course, they're individually named in a fantasy-like manner based on their appearance.
As for this butcher shop's owner, to me, he's… a minotaur.
A cow selling cow meat…
But this minotaur boss is surprisingly a good guy.
He doesn't push me too hard, makes sure I eat on time, often chats with a smile, and gives me breaks. When it's time, he takes me back to the facility. I've never been subjected to violence.
Occasionally, he secretly lets me eat meat from the staff meals.
It's a risky move, as it could trigger a butcher's aggression, but since it's cooked, I don't get too worked up. His thoughtfulness makes me really happy. I'm so used to eating dry rations that I almost tear up.
This job is incredibly fair. Compared to this, my work as a human scout was pitch-black exploitation.
Sometimes, the boss talks energetically, probably laughing, and offers me some weird grass-like stuff. What is this grass? Is it supposed to grow on me? Anyway, that's the friendly vibe.
"○※△〆§■ー, ☆☆＆＋! ★〒★〒★〒★〒!"
No clue what he's saying, but whatever.
Always cheerful, my boss. I like him. Especially that "Bumo!" sound he makes.
The butcher, sworn to revenge, was effortlessly tamed by the minotaur boss. The end.
As the sun set, I left the shop with the boss waving goodbye.
The alien city on the way back was a familiar sight to me.
This city was originally a human fortress called Fort 89," right next to Fort 88, where I was officially stationed.
Surrounded by high circular walls, it's a fortified city with a human settlement inside. The aliens occupied it and seem to be using it with some modifications.
What exactly did these aliens come to Earth for?
As far as I can see, the city is peaceful, not like an invader's stronghold.
They must have their reasons, just like I thought when I fought as a human.
But then again, invading Earth without question makes them undeniably brutal.
…Or maybe humans are no different. Flip through history, and you'll find countless invasions and massacres. Humans have no right to complain.
But now, none of it matters.
Eventually, I'll crush this city and everything in it.
Will the alien men beg for their lives?
How will the women cry?
With these dark thoughts simmering inside, I waved back at the minotaur boss and stepped through the facility's entrance as usual.