His hand is bloody when he places it on your shoulder. It’s heavy, warm, menacing. Nolan stares down at you, your father has never looked so serious.

“We’re leaving.”

Nolan’s voice is firm. He knows it is, probably too firm for his youngest son— only son now. Mark couldn’t get with the program and he’s crushed into a rock. But there’s still another kid to try out and make a proper Viltrumite. Even if this one fails, what’s seventeen more years? But Nolan still has hope for this one.