Tales of Yibixus: The Factory

The Factory

Standing at a small, unassuming desk in the corner of the room, Greda’s eyes scan the documents like she’s possessed. Her curiosity for discovery is fascinated by what she reads.

“These…. humans….,” she mutters, flipping a page. “What brilliant creatures.”

Unaware of her surroundings, Doctor Elm approaches from behind. His walking stick barely makes a nose over the other researchers working diligently around the room.

“Greda!?” Elms stands directly behind her, making her jump in fright. Still not overly used to her human form, Greda stumbles but catches herself on her desk.

“D-Doctor…?”

She looks Elm in the eye and only catches the disdain on his face before she looks away. He’s made himself the leader of their small refugee community, built after survivors of the collapse banded together.

“And what are you looking at now?” Elm asks, peering over her shoulder at the human-made research papers. “Are you looking at papers on those pyramids again? I keep telling you they aren’t Grimalkin-built.”

Greda stands up straight and flicks long human hairs from her eyes. She’s still not used to it yet and keeps forgetting to bring a hair tie. She doesn’t know how to answer him without baring his wrath for a second time this week.

"The Origin of Species?" Elm sneers, his voice laced with disgust. “Why waste your time on this nonsense when we have a species of our own to rebuild?”

Frustration flares in his eyes as he snatches up the papers, crumpling them in his hands. With a sharp exhale, he hurls the balled-up pages to the floor and turns away in a huff. “I’m surrounded by idiots!” he snaps.

“Elm…!” Greda grumbles, getting to her feet to fetch the papers.

“Doctor!” Elm turns and corrects. “You best remember that, you feeble woman.”

The room falls silent as heads turn, eyes flickering toward Greda. A low murmur spreads among the researchers, their whispers laced with tension. The atmosphere grows heavy—thick with unspoken guilt.

They all know the truth. They aren’t the ones out there, forced to become something they’re not by forces beyond their control. Yet, Greda’s side projects remain a distraction, a growing source of frustration for those focused on the bigger picture.

“Feeble woman?” Greda asks, frustrated to be spoken to like that by a male. “Do you forget yourself, Elm?”

Elm turns and glares.

“Don’t give me that look,” Greda snaps. “For all your posturing about finding and restoring the remnant to save our world, I fail to see how the fall of Yibixus wasn’t something to do with you in the first place!”

“Don’t you dare, young lady!”

“Don’t what!?” Greda snaps, her voice edged with frustration. “I read your papers on Selee energy—about how it was supposed to be the future of our world. I saw your proud boasts about how your alien technology was leading our people forward.”

She throws her arms wide, turning in place to take in the room, her gaze sweeping over the alien faces her people have been forced to wear. “And yet, here we are—stranded on some backward planet, scrambling to understand what went wrong and how the hell we’re going to fix it!”

Gazes are fixed on each other, and the room is silent. Much has been said about Elm’s involvement in the collapse, but no one can prove anything. With the royal family in tatters and so many lost, dead, or missing, it seems pointless to play the blame game.

“Your point?” Elm asks plainly.

“My point!?” Greda shouts, becoming increasingly frustrated with his blase attitude. “So many lives have been lost, and for what!? FOR WHAT, ELM!? A FUTURE YOU PROMISED THAT LEAD US TO RUIN, THAT’S WHAT!”

“You don’t understand,” Elm scoffs, turning to start walking away. “I had to do something. Who was going to lead our people, huh? The dim-witted Royal family? Maybe the Royal Guard? Elm throws up a dismissive hand. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m our people's only hope, and you best remember that.”

Greda steps a single step forward as Elm walks away from her. “Well, give us access to your files! Help us understand what you were doing in that research center! Tell us how the Selee capture technology works!”

Elm stops and lowers his head. “No.”

Greda shakes her head in disbelief. “How the hell are we supposed to stop that…..,” she looks down at the floor to think. “that, that… soul cascade happening on Yibixus without that information!? If any of us set foot on it, we’ll die!”

Greda steps a single step forward as Elm walks away from her. “Well, give us access to your files! Help us understand what you were doing in that research center! Tell us how the Selee capture technology works!”

Elm stops and lowers his head. “No.”

Greda grits her teeth. “Well, what about all your research on Formadors!?”

“No.”

“Tell us about the hybrid!” Greda shouts and clenches her fists

“No.”

Greda shakes her head in disbelief. “How the hell are we supposed to stop that…..,” she looks down at the floor to think. “that, that… soul cascade happening on Yibixus without any of that information!? If any of us set foot on it, we’ll die!”

"You have a task," Elm growls through gritted teeth. "Find the missing shards I created, and I can rebuild the capture technology. Without all of them, we’re stuck here."

He turns, his gaze sweeping across the room—not just at Greda but at every researcher present. His glare is sharp, unyielding.

"If you’re not here to help me, then leave. Go be a coward. Live among these human creatures."

Silence grips the room. No one moves. Not even Greda. As much as she hates to admit it, Elm is their only hope of stopping the Remnant’s unending soul cascade.

Elm exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s what I thought." He spins on his heel and strides away. "Back to work!"

Turning back to her desk, Greda gathers all the human research papers she’s acquired and files them away neatly. She doesn’t want to throw them away. She finds the humans very interesting.

As the sun sets, Greda descends to the lower level of the factory, where the displaced and forgotten Grimalks have made a meager home. Cardboard boxes and whatever else they can scrounge together serve as shelter. Some, like Greda, have been fortunate enough to be granted a human form. In contrast, others remain trapped in their smaller, four-legged bodies—relegated to the form humans know as cats.

Greda sits on a chair scrounged from this old factory building. She sits in silence, watching everyone around her. Thoughts of her husband fill her mind. After a long day, he’d usually bring her a nice glass of Nipsaft, and they’d talk about their days.

However, Hans wasn’t as lucky to escape the storm. His life was taken from him in front of Greda’s very eyes. Letting out a long sigh, Greda looks at her human hands. Would Hans even still recognize her?

“Strange… isn’t it?” a voice says, making Greda look up.

Looking down at Greda is another researcher, freshly transformed into a human. Her messy hair falls across her face, and she has to push it aside just to see. With a frustrated sigh, she grabs another chair and pulls it up beside Greda’s.

“I’m still not used to it,” she admits, her voice tinged with discomfort. “Do you feel naked? Without my fur, I feel exposed.”

Greda chuckles. “Yeah, I do.”

“Dasha,” the other researcher woman holds out her hand in greeting. “I don’t think we’ve actually talked yet.”

“Greda,” Greda replies.

“I also find humans fascinating,” Dasha admits. “Me and my husband,” Dasha then points across the large factory floor at a male grimalkin, also transformed. “We’re kinda tempted to settle here.”

Greda looks at the man, and he’s looking after a young child. Their little boy can’t be more than three years old.

“You must be someone really important,” Greda assumes, knowing that her entire family has been touched by a Formador. “You’re entire family is in human form.”

Dasha gazes at her family and waves. “No, not important.”

“How then….?” Greda asks but quickly, deeply curious as to how. But when she thinks about it for a moment longer, the truth is actually very simple.

Dasha turns to look at her, their eyes locking. She says nothing, simply offering a wide smile. Greda knows the truth—Dasha is a secret Formador.

Despite the suffering around them, Greda can’t bring herself to expose a young mother. It wouldn’t be right to betray her just to appease the pompous, self-important Grimalks who want to feel comfortable in this world.

“Your child,” Greda looks back. “What is their name.”

“Lia,” Dasha answers, smiling back at her husband and daughter.

“Nice name,” Greda smiles, her thoughts drifting back to all the young kittens she’s taught in the past. But as the smile fades, her face falls. The world she once knew lies in tatters. Dasha’s child will be the first Grimalkin generation to grow up without ever knowing Yibixus.

“Don’t look so worried, Greda,” Dasha says, nudging Greda with her elbow. “This world isn’t so bad.”

“Sure,” Greda nods, her voice laced with agreement. “It might be okay for us, but what about the others? The ones forced to live like animals for the rest of their lives?”

Dasha’s expression darkens. “What are you going to do?” she asks. “Elm won’t give us the information we need.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’d wager he’s got something to do with all this.”

Dasha looks at her human hands and sighs. “Why was the only interstellar portal remaining open for escape this one? The portal here was ancient and very much broken.”

Greda meets her gaze, her voice just as hushed. “I agree. I can’t get that thought from my mind. I’ve got some research papers upstairs you might like to read on ancient structures on this planet.”

Both deep in thought a silence falls over them both. After a moment, Dasha waves at her little girl before turning back to look at Greda.

“So.” Dasha taps her knees and leans back in her chair. “What are you going to do about all this?

Greda rubs her face in thought. She can’t help but feel like the weight of her people is being placed upon her shoulders. “Who says I can do anything,” she answers. “I’m just a teacher who somehow escaped.”

“Ha,” Dasha laughs, tapping her knee a second time. “Well, if not you, then who?”

Greda takes a deep breath, her gaze drifting up to the ceiling as she sinks into thought. “I don’t know…,” she admits. “I want answers, sure. But without Elm’s files, it’s like looking for a Javi Cake in an avalanche.”

“Even if we can’t go back, it would be nice to give our people a new start, wouldn’t it?”

Greda furrows her brow. “Dasha,” she says suspiciously. “What do you mean? There aren’t enough Formadors to change everyone. Even if we did, we can’t ask them to give up their lives for others. I think you’d know that more than anyone.”

Dasha leans in once more to whisper. “ Back on Yibixus, I was given the task of unlocking the potential of those shards Elm is so desperate for. They have to power to change every single one of us into a native. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather we use those shards for good rather than whatever Elm has planned."

Greda says nothing. She just leans in to listen.

“Interested?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have an idea where all three are.”

“R-really?”

“Yes.”

“The first,” she whispers, “is with the captain of the royal guard. Rumor has it she’s on this planet, but no one has seen her since the collapse.”

Greda furrows her brow. “The captain?” she muses. “She’d never come here. The narrative right now is that she’s to blame for all of this. Supposedly, she let the hybrid access the Remnant and planned to smuggle it to another world. It’s hard to disagree with considering how their provocation battle ended.”

Her gaze drops to her legs as she exhales. “If the stories are true, Ursula has already been corrupted by the hybrid. I’ve looked that woman in the eyes, y’know. She’s cold and calculating. If she’s got one—that’s bad news.”

“Hmm, yeah.” Dasha’s expression remains neutral. “I’m not sure I believe the stories, honestly. She’s a Grimalkin like the rest of us. I’d be surprised if you believe them, Greda.”

Greda shakes her head, uncertainty clouding her expression. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

“Well,” Dasha looks around to ensure no one is listening. “The second is found in the handle of Elm’s walking stick.”

Greda’s eyes burst wide open. “S-seriously?”

“Shhhh.”

“And the third?”

“One of the Royal family has it,” Dasha states in hush tones.

“Figures. Do you know which one?”

Dasha shakes her head.

Greda pauses, turning the thought over in her mind. She has noticed the Queen acting strangely. At first, she assumed it was just the weight of everything that had happened—the struggle of adjusting to life among her people, stripped of status and power.

But what if it’s something more?

What if she’s hiding something?

Greda’s mind whirs into overdrive, thoughts racing. But then, doubt creeps in. She turns to Dasha, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to tell Sophia? She can actually fight.”

“Sophia?”

“Yeah. She’s Royal Guard,” Greda states.

“Come on, Greda. Surely, you agree with everyone else. She’s clearly a coward and didn’t fight for our people's survival—just like Captain Ursula. Why would I tell her such things.”

“Because she’s one of the good ones!” Greda hisses, frustration sharpening her tone. “I’m shocked you’d listen to such hearsay, Dasha. I’ve spoken to her—she’s haunted by what happened. She told me her entire unit was ‘sucked dry’ right before her eyes.”

She leans in, her expression tense. “How is anyone supposed to fight a storm that kills everything it touches in an instant? Instead of blaming her, I’d rather focus on how many people she managed to save.”

A knowing smile creeps onto Dasha’s face. “Good, good,” she replies smoothly. “I was just checking. I agree with you. That’s why I already told her everything I’m telling you. She’s ready to help our people settle here.”

Heat rises to Greda’s cheeks—she’s been baited into admitting her true thoughts. But instead of anger, amusement flickers in her eyes. She chuckles. “Ah, very clever.” Her smile widens. “Well, I’m in.”

Dasha nods, glancing at her daughter playing nearby. “Good. This is our people’s second chance.”