Back then, my job was to strip the corpses and bundle clothes for reuse. I tugged shoes and tossed them towards the heap.
On one shoe, a word was written, red dots against green: HELP. Our six-eyed Masters could not see colour.
Glancing around, I pried up the insole. The space held a key, an address, and a fervent request: deliver nitric acid to help build the weapon that would set us free.
Nowadays, I have all the sugar water I can drink, and a sunny apartment aboveground. The Masters may be ugly, but their rewards for loyalty are lovely.
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