Age: 5 (Equivalent to Human Toddlers)
Who would have thought that a child's life in Viltrum would be so hard?
Well, I certainly did since a flood of memories would enter my underdeveloped brain and change me in ways I can only begin to imagine, although it's not all bad, these memories are what have kept me together here on this mine planet that Viltrum uses to train its children.
And I have to tell you, if a third of what these guys told me is true, conditions are much better than they've ever been. After all, a 27% death rate is much better than a 45% one, right?
And let me tell you something, these guys are really something else, putting all their children on various planets less valuable to the empire and having them trained (read beaten) and fighting each other and not caring about the weaker ones who die is simply surreal if my memories tell me anything, Although I can't completely trust them either, how is it possible that a empire with extreme technology and several planets under his fingers, an empire that if it wants to conquer even more planets simply needs to send some decently trained individuals and would only have two ends of such actions: one more planet under their fingers or more space debris to be used, as a lie and just an animation?
Well, I need to go to sleep soon, more training tomorrow, and I'm not gonna lose a chance to become stronger go away just because I didn't agree with them.
The Viltrumite younglings slept in hollowed-out stone alcoves, each barely large enough to fit a single child. There were no blankets. No pillows. Only the smooth, cold rock worn down by someone. Believe m,e it is as bad as it sounds
---
The vibrations came first.
I felt them before I was fully awake—a deep, grinding hum resonating through the stone of my alcove, rattling my teeth. The older Viltrumites called it progress. The weak called it an omen. I called it annoying.
My eyes snapped open as the ground trembled—another quake from the deep mining drills. The ceiling groaned above me, dust sifting down like fine snow. I didn't flinch. The others did.
A whimper came from three alcoves down.
Pathetic.
I exhaled through my nose, uncurling from my sleeping position. My joints popped, the sound sharp in the near-darkness. The other younglings were stirring now, their restless movements echoing off the hollowed rock. Good. If I had to suffer the tremors, so did they.
Then my eyes found him.
Mikall slept like the dead.
Not the weak, gasping sleep of the others. Not the twitching half-rest of those still afraid of the dark. He slept like a warrior—motionless, breath steady, one arm draped over the edge of his alcove like he was ready to spring up and kill at any moment.
My fingers curled, nails biting into the stone.
Why does he get to sleep so well?
The question gnawed at me. We were the same age. Same training. Same bloodline. Yet while the rest of us woke at every shift in the earth, every distant scream of metal from the drills, Mikall slept like the planet itself cradled him.
I crawled toward him, my bare feet silent on the polished rock. The instructors said we weren't supposed to leave our alcoves at night. But the instructors weren't here. And rules had never stopped me before.
I stopped just inches from Mikall's face.
His breathing didn't change.
I leaned closer—studying the way his lashes didn't flicker, the way his pulse stayed slow. Was he dreaming? Viltrumites weren't supposed to dream. Dreams were for the weak.
—And Mikall's hand shot out, gripping my throat.
His eyes opened.
Emerald.
But empty.
Viltrumite.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. His grip wasn't tight enough to hurt—just enough to remind me he could. A warning. A test. My own hands stayed at my sides. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of struggling.
Then Mikall released me.
"You smell like blood," he said, voice rough with sleep.
I touched my nose. The scab from yesterday's training session had cracked open. I hadn't even noticed.
"You sleep too deep," I shot back.
Mikall sat up, the muscles in his shoulders shifting like coiled wire. "I was awake before you took your second step."
Liar.
But the way he said it—calm, certain—made something hot twist in my chest. Not anger. Not quite. Something sharper.
The warning horn blared, cutting through the tension.
I didn't jump. Neither did he.
Around us, the others scrambled up, their fear sour in the air. Another drill test. Another tremor. Another reminder that this world was being hollowed out from beneath us.
Mikall stood, stretching with the lazy grace of a predator. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in them. Not amusement. Not a challenge.
Recognition.
Then he turned away, and the moment shattered.
But I didn't forget.
---
First Light.
Time for the Blood Trial.
The training pit stank of ozone and old death.
Mikall stood at attention in the line of younglings, his bare feet pressed into the sand that had absorbed a lot of Viltrumite blood. The others fidgeted. He didn't.
Instructor Vargus, a mountain of scar tissue and contempt, dragged the chained beast into the center.
It was a parademon hound—genetically engineered by Viltrumite bio-scientists to be just strong enough to threaten a youngling, just weak enough to be killable. Its six eyes rolled wildly as it caught their scent.
"Today," Vargus growled, "you learn the first lesson."
He kicked the beast's hindquarters. The shock collar activated.
The parademon screamed and lunged.
The Parademon came at me first.
Perfect.
I grinned, feeling the familiar fire in my veins as I charged. My fists—still small, still human in a way that infuriated me—clenched until my nails bit into my palms. The Parademon's claws lashed out, faster than I expected, ripping through my shoulder. The pain came in waves: first the white-hot slice of its talons, then the sticky warmth of blood painting my arm. I barely flinched. Pain was just another weapon, and I refused to let it disarm me.
I lunged for its eyes—those sickly, glowing pits that pulsed with Apokolips' foul energy.
—And the world tilted.
The Parademon threw me like I weighed nothing.
My back hit the cavern wall with a crack that shuddered through my bones. For a heartbeat, I hung there, the rough stone biting into my skin, before sliding down in a heap.
Something broke.
Not the wall.
Me.
The Parademon loomed over me, its armored carapace glinting in the dim light. Drool—thick, acidic—dripped from its jagged maw, sizzling where it hit the ground. The stench of its breath hit me like a physical blow: burning oil and something worse, something that smelled like the pits of a dying world. I tried to push myself up. My left arm screamed in protest, the limb hanging useless at my side. A jagged edge of bone pressed against my skin from within.
The Parademon reared back, its wings flaring—
—And then Mikall was there.
One moment, I was staring into the creature's gaping mouth, counting the rows of needle-like teeth. The next, Mikall erupted into my vision like a storm given flesh. His fist sank into the Parademon's side with a crunch of chitin, his other hand already moving—not to strike, but to twist, his fingers finding the gaps in its armor like he'd studied its weaknesses for years.
The Parademon screeched, a sound that scraped against my skull. Mikall didn't pause. He flowed around its counterattack, his body a blur of controlled violence. Every movement was perfect—no wasted energy, no hesitation. The instructors would have praised him. It made me want to rip his throat out.
I hated him for it.
Hated how effortless he made it look.
Hated that he'd seen me like this—broken, bleeding, weak.
My right hand closed around a jagged rock. The pain in my arm was a distant thing now, drowned out by the roar in my ears. The Parademon was fixated on Mikall, its massive body twisting as it tried to crush him.
Not today.
I moved, driving the rock into the joint of the Parademon's knee. It howled, its leg buckling—just as Mikall's hands locked around its head.
One sharp twist.
The crack of its spine echoed through the cavern.
Silence.
Then Mikall's voice, flat as a blade: "You're slow."
I spat blood onto the dirt. "You're late."
He looked at me then—really looked. His gaze lingered on my ruined arm, on the way my breath came too fast. Something flickered in his eyes. Not concern. Never that. But... recognition. Like he saw something in me worth measuring.
The instructors would be here soon. To collect the corpse. To evaluate.
To judge.
I forced myself upright, my vision swimming. Mikall didn't offer a hand. Good. I wouldn't have taken it.
---
Silence.
Then—
"Pathetic."
Vargus's voice cut through the cavern like a blade through flesh. He loomed over us, his shadow swallowing the dim light. His armor—older than ours, scarred from battles fought before we were even spawned—creaked as he stepped forward.
"You interfered."
Mikall didn't flinch. He met Vargus's gaze head-on, his own blood still dripping from his split lip. "She would have died."
Vargus moved faster than the Parademon had. His backhand cracked across Mikall's face with enough force to snap a normal warrior's neck. Mikall's head whipped to the side—but his feet didn't move. Not an inch.
"And?" Vargus's voice was a growl, low and lethal. "Weakness purges itself. That is the Viltrumite way."
Mikall spat a glob of blood onto the stone between them. "Dead warriors don't conquer worlds."
The air went taut.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The other younglings held their breath. Even the ever-present hum of the distant drills seemed to quiet.
Then Vargus laughed—a sound like grinding stone.
"Clever whelp." He turned to the rest of us, his single good eye glinting in the gloom. "This is why we chain the beasts. To teach you that mercy is death." His gaze swung back to Mikall, and the amusement vanished. "But today, you learned nothing."
The punishment came swift.
Vargus's fist slammed into Mikall's gut, lifting him off his feet. Mikall didn't cry out, even as the air left his lungs in a rush. The second blow came before he hit the ground—a crushing strike to the ribs that sent him skidding across the stone.
I watched, my broken arm hanging uselessly at my side.
Mikall pushed himself up, slow but steady. Blood streaked his chin, but his eyes were still sharp. Still alive.
Vargus didn't let him rise fully.
The next kick sent Mikall into the wall. Stone cracked. Dust rained down.
"You are not a hero," Vargus snarled. "You are a weapon. And weapons obey."
"Let's take you to a place where you can reflect, brat."
Mikall said nothing.
Vargus grabbed him by the throat and lifted. For a heartbeat, Mikall dangled there, his face impassive even as his veins bulged under the pressure. Then—crunch—Vargus slammed him into the ground hard enough to crack the stone.
"Take them to the pits" he ordered.
The instructors moved like ghosts, their grips vise-tight on my arms. They dragged me past the other younglings, past the stinking corpse of the Parademon, into the tunnels where the air smelled of damp and old blood.
Mikall walked beside me, his steps steady despite the way his body had to be screaming.
They threw us into adjacent cells.
The doors sealed.
Darkness swallowed us whole.
---
No food.
No water.
Three days in the Silent Cells—stone boxes barely large enough to sit in.
Mikall sat cross-legged in the dark, counting his breaths. The cells were soundproof, but he could feel the vibrations when Anissa pounded on her walls two cells down.
On the second day, the vibrations stopped.
On the third, the doors opened.
Anissa stumbled out, her lips cracked, her eyes wild.
She looked at Mikall.
Then she attacked.
Anissa's POV
Her teeth sank into Mikall's wrist before she even realized she'd moved.
Blood filled her mouth—hot, metallic, his.
Mikall didn't fight back.
Anissa released him, panting.
"Why?" Mikall asked.
Anissa licked her lips.
"Because I wanted to."
---
"You showed initiative," Vargus admitted, the words like broken glass forced through his teeth.
I watched from the shadows—close enough to see the way Mikall's jaw tightened when Vargus wrapped his wrist, the bandage pulling taut over my teeth marks. The old Viltrumite made sure it hurt. Mikall didn't flinch.
"But mercy is a disease."
Mikall said nothing. Just stared past Vargus's shoulder... at me.
I smiled.
That night, I didn't crawl.
I claimed.
Mikall's alcove was warmer than mine. The stone held his heat like it was afraid to let go. He didn't move when I slid in beside him, but his breathing changed—just enough that I knew he'd acknowledged me.
I pressed my forehead between his shoulder blades and felt it then: the slightest shift of muscle as he leaned back into me. Not surrender. Acknowledgement.
My fingers found his bandaged wrist. His pulse jumped under my touch.
Mine now.
For the first time, his hand twitched—not to push me away, but to catch mine. Just for a second. Just long enough to squeeze.
Then he let go.
The tremors came again.
The planet groaned beneath us, but Mikall's body was solid against mine. When I murmured "Mine now" into his skin, I felt the rumble in his chest before he spoke:
"You too."
Two words. That's all.
But when the next tremor hit, his arm curled back—just enough to pin me there.
Not caging.
Keeping.