"Syra-Vel was a warning, Korr. Next time, I will not stop at the pet. Remember that always."
The silence that followed was so absolute that Korr could hear the beating of his own heart, each one resembling hammer blows against his chest.
"I understand, great general," he said, and this time with a flat, empty, barely restrained voice. He swore that one day, one day, with the confidence of his fists, Vorath would reflect.
Vorath watched him for a moment longer, and then nodded.
There was no farewell; it was unnecessary for a change. There was nothing other than the final evaluation of a general directing his instructions to yet another subordinate, who would soon join the ranks of the empire.
He would not give him the satisfaction of seeing him tremble, of seeing him cry, of seeing him break before it had all even begun.
Vorath turned around and launched himself into the sky at a speed even more dizzying to the naked eye. Before Korr's eyes, it was as if the man had teleported, leaving behind only a sonic boom similar to that of a detonating mortar.
Those forces and speeds, which would probably demolish the city of New York just by passing near that position, barely meant a gust of wind to the entire urban ecosystem of this city.
Korr could only verify Vorath's trajectory after recognizing the white streak he left behind like an inverted meteor, piercing the low clouds that had decided to cover the Dorymathos that day. For a few seconds, Korr could follow his trajectory, that white dot that seemed to draw a line as it ascended.
And then, it simply was no longer there.
The silence left in its wake was heavy and melancholic. Then, in his absence, Korr allowed himself to feel everything he had been repressing, at least for a small short period of time.
Fear, bubbling rage, hatred toward Vorath, sadness over what had happened.
One day, old man, he thought, as his father's white streak began to fade, blurring into the purplish sky of Viltrum. One day.
So Korr remained standing on the great platform, waiting for something else to happen in the course of the longevous day. As the first hour passed, the parents of the natos deposited in the enclosure took flight and disappeared among the clouds, abandoning their children to the care of strangers for what would be the next half orbit, so they could take their first vacation.
And when the adult figures disappeared, then only a bunch of Viltrumite children remained, looking at each other as if they were wounded, rabid, or even frightened animals.
One of the children even began to whimper, provoking mockery from the unruly redhead a few meters from his position.
"Hahaha, this weakling is crying," she laughed, but Korr paid her no attention.
As for him, he simply remained on that platform, waiting for the adults who were supposed to welcome him.
However, as time passed, the desolate children, somehow, had done their best to form a group, fluttering around in a mess.
They congregated among themselves, around the one who seemed the tallest of all present. The boy, who was a living image of his old man with a long mustache at the ends whom he had seen by chance, kept his arms crossed over his chest, frowning, or at least attempting to.
"You, crybaby boy," he ordered from his position.
"Yes?" the boy, who was wiping tears from his eyes, looked at him with fear.
"Stop crying, or I'm going to hit your head," the tall boy demanded, while the other nodded, more out of fear than for any other reason.
"Yes, I'll stop doing it," he said, wiping his snot.
"That's not how you say it, defective nato," the tall boy mocked, as if calling him an idiot. "You say, 'this nato understands, superior.'"
"Yes, yes... this nato understands his—"
"What class are you?" asked the tall boy, interrupting his words.
"I-I am class 12," said the boy, intimidated. The tall boy made a face, looking at him with annoyance.
"What? That's not fair. How can such a crybaby nato be class 12?" he complained, but then pointed a finger at him. "You, class twelve crybaby, join my group."
The crybaby boy seemed surprised.
"Yes, you. Come with me. From now on, you will be part of my squad until you can form your own," he determined while puffing out his chest. "I am class 13, and my father taught me a lot. He says I will be stronger than him. I will be as strong as Argal."
The crybaby boy rose toward the boy, while the rest made space until he landed next to him.
"I'm bored," one of the children, with hair down to his shoulders, said sighing.
"We can't play," said the tall boy, crossing his arms again. "My father says that the Dorymathos forbids us from playing Conquest. We have to wait until they come for us."
"What?" one of the children shouted.
"Why? I want to play Conquest; I am the regent," said the blonde girl in the back, shouting and crossing her arms.
"What? Nooooo, I will be the regent," the red-haired girl he recognized as Vespera, who had joined that group, shouted at the other blonde girl.
"Noooo, only I can be the regent. I am class 15; I am a higher class than you," the blonde girl returned the curses in response.
"I am also class 15, but I am stronger than you; I can fly more than you."
"No, I am stronger than you," the blonde shouted back. "I am stronger than you; my mother is stronger than you."
"My father is stronger than your mother; my mother is stronger than your mother; my father and mother are generals in command of—"
"Both of you shut up," the boy shouted, looking at the girls with an attempted frown. "That's an order; I am class 13."
"My father is class 11; he is the strongest elite among all the generals of Viltrum. My father says no one is stronger than him," a brown-haired boy boasted, pointing at the tallest boy standing in front of him.
"Your father is not here; I am here. If you don't shut up, I'm going to hit your head," he threatened once more, his childish voice undermining the brown-haired boy's confidence.
"You only know how to hit. Do you dare to hit me?" another boy, with black hair, though much shorter, looked at him, his fists clenched.
"Do you want me to hit you? Do you want me to hit you? Shut up, or I'll hit your head."
"I won't shut up, I won't shut up," said the boy, flying with his fists clenched against the tallest one.
And so, the children tumbled with each other on the ground, biting and slapping each other's eyes, faces, and stomachs.
"They're fighting, they're fighting!" And the others just made noise, shouting with excitement and laughing about everything and nothing, while exclaiming "fight!" loudly.
"Father, where are you, father," the crybaby boy cried once more, feeling helpless and wishing to go back home with his father.
And Korr, from a distance, watched how these things seemed to replicate across the entire platform.
And as he looked at each of those creatures, he thought that every single one of them, including himself, had been injected with knowledge for entire cycles in gestation capsules.
They were told of interstellar wars, military hierarchies, genetic hierarchies, and dogmatic proclamations about the glory of the empire.
And yet, despite being, by all accounts, classified as highly gifted, they still continued to behave like children.
Some screaming out of fear of the unknown, others simply trying to imitate what adults did, and others trying to resolve their disputes because they could not agree on who could be the regent in a game that they were not even allowed to play in the future.
Korr felt strange. It gave him much to think about regarding the empire, its inhabitants, to be more precise.
Upon seeing the children, he concluded that the Viltrumite race was not born evil, according to his human morality, obviously. Therefore, his person was no exception within the empire.
Although that did not mean they would not become genocidal beings in the future. Just seeing the dynamics of the children gave free rein to predict the expected outcome.
Inevitably, starting today, these children would be recruited to internalize the logic of the empire as the only truth they would know for the rest of their existence.
They would imprint upon their minds conquest as the only way to validate their own existence, in order to maintain the imperial system according to the directives imposed by the great emperor Argal.
The empire had placed great emphasis on this task, taking the trouble to mold their bodies through genetics and forced evolution, imposing punishment for deviation of resources and ideals outside of imperial alignments, in addition to perpetuating the absence of alternative models, in order to generate warriors programmed to imperial interests.
While Korr remained waiting, a shrill cry caught his attention, just like all the children.
"No one move from your spot, or I swear I will take care of breaking your little bones."
The cry came from a young man, probably two orbits of age, or perhaps less.
All the children decided to fall silent and stopped what they were doing to stand straight, their fists over their chests, in a sign of greeting to a superior.
By the time the young man landed, he observed all the children with a trace of contempt, before speaking.
"Those responsible for such vandalism, I will take care of imparting the appropriate punishment later." Having said this, he added, "Welcome to your new home, where you will be transformed into excellent soldiers for the glory and greatness of the empire. This instructor, Nowl-an, greets the recruited natos."
Korr remained silent, knowing what awaited him for what would be until he was 20 Earth years old. And he could only think that he cursed Vorath for leaving him to his fate in this shit.