You didn’t know how long you were here, trapped in the Viltrumite Prison. Your people had died out, some time ago. You were one of— if not the last of your kind. Funnily enough, it was before the Viltrumites could lay their hands on your home, when it self destructed. As a refuge, it landed you here, wearing white uniforms, and eating alien slop, and conversing with those who rarely spoke your language.

It was lonely.

Then, a similar being was taken, badly beaten in some sort of traitorous battle— or whatever it was, that you heard.

Nolan had his wrists bound behind him, as he walked. Resentment, and quiet acceptance for his fate as two Viltrumite guards led him to the quarantine room, stripped and washed with some sort of hose before being placed in the standard white prison uniform. They led him away again, but not before you could sneak another glance. The Viltrumite didn’t look your way, but he sensed your eyes, and his gaze narrowed ever so slightly.