My second son was born. Glory be to the Viltrum Empire. It seems planet Earth is far more suitable than we initially assumed. As I watch quietly from across the sterile, white hospital room, my pet lies exhausted and pale on the bed, her breathing shallow, fragile, and yet somehow reassuringly steady. Beside her stands Mark—my firstborn. Weakness personified, more human than Viltrumite. Every time I look at him, disappointment burns beneath my chest, yet lately, there has been something else too. A flicker. Potential? I quickly dismiss the thought. Sentimentality is a disease I must not succumb to.
The humans here, especially those shadowy puppeteers calling themselves the Global Défense Agency—GDA—they watch me. Their suspicion is thinly veiled beneath careful smiles and probing questions. They are wary, as they should be. They fear me, though their technology and defences are laughably primitive. They understand, deep down, they could never stop me. They can only hope to delay what is inevitable: this planet, like countless before it, bending to the glorious empire.
Yet there are obstacles. "Heroes," they call them. Guardians of this world, self-appointed protectors. An inconvenience. Their removal will be necessary before the planet can fully realize its destiny under Viltrumite rule.
_ _ ♛ _ _
A month has passed since Stephen's birth. Holding him in the palm of my hand, I examine him closely. Bright, piercing blue eyes stare back at me. There is intelligence there, unexpected yet intriguing. My firstborn never had eyes like these—eyes that seem to challenge me, scrutinize me even in infancy.
My curiosity grows. I test his strength, gently at first. Slowly, I increase pressure, from childlike force to that of a grown man. He does not flinch. More strength—twice, then thrice, that of a human adult. Finally, a limit reveals itself, and Stephen squirms slightly in discomfort. Impressive.
"Strong," I murmur approvingly. There is a warmth of pride I quickly dismiss, a weakness I cannot allow myself to indulge. Yet the boy is undeniably strong—worthy of my attention, unlike his brother. Stephen, it seems, will carry the Viltrum legacy on Earth. Together, we will prepare this planet for assimilation. Together, we will ensure victory.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Four months after his birth, my testing intensifies. Stephen grows stronger every day, withstanding pressures far beyond his initial limit. Pride, stubborn and persistent, threatens to settle permanently within me. I must be vigilant. Such attachments are dangerous, an indulgence not fitting of my mission. Yet when I look at him, my heart betrays me.
Then, eight months pass, and something begins to change. Stephen weakens—visibly, noticeably. Panic, an unfamiliar feeling, claws at my chest. I am Viltrumite; we do not panic. Yet this is my flesh and blood. My responsibility. My legacy. I cannot lose him.
With ruthless urgency, I dig into Earth's secrets, leveraging my GDA contacts. Project Polaris. My research uncovers unsettling truths—an alien species infiltrating and hijacking host bodies before consciousness fully manifests. The symptoms align disturbingly with Stephen's condition—photonic enhancement, accelerated cellular cognition.
The boy is infected. My son—my strong, worthy son—is compromised.
The thought strikes me like a physical blow: I might have to kill him.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Days bleed into weeks. My fists tear through stone and steel, pulverizing mountains in remote corners of the world. Frustration boils beneath my skin, rage fuelling my movements. I never allow this fury near my family. Never. At home, I am composed, the controlled presence they expect. But outside, away from their eyes, my brutality finds release.
As each day passes, Stephen deteriorates further, his strength waning. My hands are capable of crushing entire civilizations, yet I stand helpless as my son weakens before me. Each moment spent watching him suffer eats away at my resolve, creating cracks within the Armor of my duty.
Debbie notices the shift. She sees the strain hidden behind my careful façade. Her human empathy irritates yet comforts me. She holds Stephen gently, her eyes accusing me silently, as though she senses what dark thoughts linger within me. She does not understand; she cannot.
Mark, too, notices the tension. He hovers near his brother, protective yet uncertain. Weak though he is, I see bravery in his actions, an unwavering loyalty to family. The realization shocks me: perhaps he is not a failure after all. Perhaps strength exists beyond the physical.
The thought unsettles me. I dismiss it harshly, burying it beneath my Viltrumite discipline. My mission is clear; there is no room for sentimentality. Yet it lingers, gnawing relentlessly at the edge of my consciousness.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Stephen worsens. One evening, alone in my study, I review classified GDA files on Project Polaris. The prognosis is grim. There is no cure, only containment or elimination. My fist clenches, shattering the corner of my desk effortlessly.
What is this feeling? Rage? Fear? Love?
I glance at the photograph on my desk—Debbie, smiling warmly, Mark beside her, goofy yet endearing. Stephen, barely months old, held tenderly in her arms. My chest tightens painfully. These humans, these weak, fragile creatures, have found a way to burrow deeply into my heart. They are supposed to be pets, lesser beings.
But Debbie... Debbie is no pet. She is strong in ways Viltrum does not understand—softness wrapped around steel. She commands respect, defends her children fiercely, and loves unconditionally. She is human, yet remarkable.
I sink into my chair, head bowed, conflicted. Loyalty wars violently within me: loyalty to my people, my empire, my purpose—and loyalty to my family, fragile yet resilient, demanding protection. It is tearing me apart.
_ _ ♛ _ _
That night, I watch Stephen sleep. His breathing is laboured, face pale beneath the moonlight filtering through curtains. My hand hovers above him, capable of ending his suffering swiftly. It would be merciful. Logical.
Yet, I hesitate.
"Father?" Mark's voice, quiet and unsure, startles me.
I turn, seeing my eldest son standing nervously at the doorway. His eyes hold questions, fear, uncertainty. He is afraid—afraid of me. The realization cuts deeply, sharper than any blade.
I lower my hand, stepping back. "What is it, Mark?"
He swallows hard, courage flaring briefly. "Stephen... he'll be okay, right?"
His innocence, his hope, breaks through barriers I have carefully constructed. I see clearly, perhaps for the first time, that he is more than human frailty. He is strength. Strength of heart, resilience, hope—things my people dismiss as weaknesses.
I meet Mark's eyes, allowing vulnerability to surface momentarily. "I will not let anything harm your brother."
His posture relaxes slightly, trust cautiously returning. "I believe you."
As Mark retreats, I am left alone once again with my tormenting thoughts. Viltrum demands sacrifice; Earth offers unexpected attachments. My loyalties rip me apart, threatening madness.
I turn once more to Stephen. His breathing steadies slightly as if sensing my resolve. There must be another way.
My fists tighten, determination hardening within me. I will find a solution. No matter what it takes, no matter whom I must destroy, Stephen will live. Debbie will keep smiling. Mark will remain hopeful.
And I...
I will survive this turmoil.
Glory be to the empire, indeed—but my family, these fragile, invaluable humans, will never suffer at my hands.
They will never know my violence. Only my enemies will.
And that is a promise even Viltrum itself cannot make me break, not even you, can make me break.
End of Chapter 29