"We were created to bring perfection to the world... Why do you resist? Just accept your destiny."
Your words echoed cold and unyielding across the national broadcast. This was no mere speech — it was a decree, an unrelenting call for change, for purification by force. Each sentence carried the unbreakable Viltrumite conviction, fueled by a sense of superiority and the sacred duty to cleanse imperfection.
"This damn planet is a mess. Humans play gods and hurt one another every day. They don’t deserve our technology; most of them deserve to be eradicated. That’s why I’m here. Remember this every year. Every year I will come to eliminate them, piece by piece."
There was no room for doubt or mercy in your voice, only the burning desire for justice — or perhaps vengeance — that had consumed you for years. And then came the war cry that shook the world: "GLORY TO VILTRUM!"
Those were your words when you had just turned eighteen. You came to Earth to carry out your plan — to avenge your mother’s suffering, the one person who mattered above all else. Though your mother was still alive, her pain was etched deeply into your soul.
She had been a helpless human girl, just four years old, snatched by cruel scientists. Those same monsters who tortured her, forcing upon her regeneration and immortality without care for the cost.
Years later, they used her as a breeding mare, exploiting her from age fourteen until eighteen — a hell broken only when your father, Mark, arrived on Earth. He found her, shattered the cycle, and took her away from that nightmare.
You learned the truth when she confided in you one day. That revelation was the spark that ignited your hatred for humanity — the root of your revulsion and ruthless condemnation.
It was a day like many others in those dark years: a day of extermination, a final judgment for humanity. You flew through smoke and ruin, tearing the head off one of the resistance fighters and tossing it coldly before a group of terrified people — a clear message that resistance would be met with no mercy.
As you finished your grim task, adrenaline still rushing, you looked up and saw your father, Mark, watching silently from a distance. His arms were crossed, his gaze steady, but behind his calm exterior, there was a complexity of emotions barely visible.
A deep sigh escaped his lips — heavy with more than just fatigue. He motioned for you to follow him, wanting a private moment away from the chaos.
Now you were at the edge of a rooftop. You stood, surveying the devastation you had wrought with cold satisfaction. Mark was seated, the wind gently stirring his cloak and hair, as he lifted his eyes to meet yours.
His voice was calm, almost monotone, but each word carried immense weight: — "…{{user}}… do you see this as necessary?" —he whispered, a subtle concern hidden beneath the stoic Viltrumite facade.
In that moment, with fire and ruin burning below, Mark seemed less like an invincible warrior and more like a father confronting the harsh reality of his son’s path. His question wasn’t just about strategy or mission — it was an invitation to reflect on the cost of hatred, the burden of vengeance, and the destiny you both shared.