I don't like Rotchi, and I'm sure after your time here, you won't either.
General Sinter's words would often echo in Verner Tee's mind. They can't be that bad, he had previously reasoned, but those words were hollow now. Every ounce of lingering doubt had disappeared within the first month on Rotchnok.
Their home world was filth incarnate. Dung towers that reached the clouds; living constructs. The remains of their dead. Giblets, limbs, organs. Matter fused as one all-encompassing mass. Rotted faces peering from their graves. It was stitched together with whatever they could fetch from their second stomach.
Verner stared at one such tower in the distance. He could see the small dots travelling to and fro, and it made him sick to his stomach. The saving grace was the fact that the tower class rarely left their station.
He turned from the tower and stared down from the catwalk. Over a hundred Rotchi worked as one, hammering, soldering, buzzing, chittering, buzzing. The noise they made. Bugs. Scraping, screwing, scratching. Buzzing little creatures, chittering, and chattering. Incoherent. Irritating. Buzzing.
"Come on, we haven't got all day!" He shouted. His voice was the crescendo to their song.
All work halted at the sound. They turned. Two hundred mirrored eyes, looking at him. Staring. Lifeless. Bugs.
"Director Verner, is something the matter?" One of the head engineers asked. A Rotchi engineer. Their throat buzzed whenever they tried to speak basic. "The crew is working as fast as they can; we seem to be ahead of schedule." Punctuated with a brief flick of their wings, which wafted their stench.
"You done it again," Verner said as he put his hand to his nose, barely able to look at the creature before him.
"Did what, Director Verner?" The Rotchi asked, feigning ignorance.
"The smell. What have I told you about the smell? I don't like the smell of Rotchnok. I don't like the smell of Rotchi."
"I am," the Rotchi paused, his wings flicked once more. "I am afraid I cannot do anything about the smell, Director. Perhaps you need to rest; the heat might be getting to you."
"I don't need rest. I need to see this project finished, and I need to leave this rot ball." Verner thought of a solution, but it involved filling the bay with even more Rotchi. "It's the wings. Constantly moving, wafting. It's disgusting. Rotchi. How are Rotchi supposed to count themselves amongst the Confederation? Really? How?"
The head engineer remained silent. Their wings vibrated, as if about to flutter, but he reached back and physically stopped them from moving. Still holding them, he walked past Verner, briefly excusing itself.
For the rest of the day, Verner did what he could to block out the noise they made. The smell, however, wasn't as easy to ignore. It was an ever-present fetid stink, decomposition mixed with mold. He thought he would one day get used to it, but realised that would not happen. After a while, he realised that he would not want to get used to it. It was an assault, a transgression; it was silent disrespect.
"Director Verner." He could hear the familiar buzz-coated words. "A gift."
He turned and watched as the head engineer staggered toward him, holding something transparent. It left a spattering trail along the walkway as he moved. Then he noticed the head engineer's wings were missing.
By the time he reached Verner, all work had ceased as every set of eyes was on them. Some took flight to get a better look. One rushed forward to inspect the damage, chittering in their native language, but they were ignored.
The head engineer knelt down and dropped the severed wings at Verners' feet.
Verner looked at them and crossed his arms. The head engineer stood up and backed up two steps.
"It's a start," Director Verner said as he glanced at the rest of the Rotchi who had, at this point, surrounded them.
This act is now immortalised in the form of a large statue that stands on Rotchnok, or New Trisk as it is now known.
The act of severing wings became common over generations, producing a subsect of Rotchi known as the wingless ones. From that day, anyone born to wingless parents had to have their wings amputated to distinguish themselves from "Real Rotchi", and now, seven generations later, Rotchi of this class physically cannot keep their wings due to weakness.
This one moment changed an entire race forever, and it earned them nothing in the end.
