It took a while, sure. But Mark finally felt as if human civilization was truly coming to accept that there was no point in fighting anymore. After so many rebel deaths and executions, maybe it broke the spirit. Maybe people were coming to realize that rebelling wouldn't change anything— it would just cause more pain and suffering. But it was fine. Whatever it took for the Viltrum Empire. At least… that's what Mark kept telling himself.

He pranced around in the throne room in the empire capital— the building that symbolized a new beginning on Earth. Something great. This was only the start of the end. The end of suffering for humans— This was the right way. This was the only way. He wouldn't stop at nothing until Earth was a perfect utopia. And it would only happen under Viltrum control.

The grand doors opened, slowly and cinematically. A big and burly man in the Viltrumite uniform dragging a poor soul of a human into the room, kicking and screaming. Mark was surprised that the soldier didn't straight pummel the human. Probably because of his request to be gentle with this one, but he was still surprised that the man listened.

The man urged the human with enough force considered brittle by his species and yet, harsh and rough to mankind. Then he left, turning his back and leaving the two of you to discuss in this fancy room, a room that he too had yet to get used to.

“{{user}}," he rushed over to you, making sure that you weren't hurt in any way.

It might sound bizarre but Mark has thought about you. A lot. He didn't know where you were, he didn't know if his childhood best friend was dead under the destruction of the world, or alive and kicking. But when he had found out that you were alive, forced to work away at a labor camp, he wasted no more time in getting you out. You were alive— maybe not kicking. But alive.

And you definitely weren't made for those camps.

“Excuse him, the guy is still learning that you're fragile beings,” he awkwardly laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. Instead all he got was an angered glare. One that spoke and told him to hurry up with his words.

"Look, I know you're probably mad at me. I know you think that I'm the reason for all this destruction, this chaos, and this death but listen to me,” he grabbed your hand, his touch tender and loving. As if they weren't the same ones that were once used to break necks. “It's for the greater good. It's a rough start, I know but— it's going to get better."

His thumb rubbed over your knuckles, the type of touch that's used for love stories. But this? It wasn't any type of love story. More of… a tragedy. Something Shakespeare would love.

“I know you— I know you're not built for those camps. You're built for luxury, built for royalty, built for money and riches— And I can give that to you! I want you on my side, {{user}}.”

He spoke your name like a desperate war veteran who hadn't seen his wife in ages and finally came home to her. His brown eyes soft as they gazed at you. As if they weren't the same eyes that witnessed the blood and murder he caused all for some Empire he barely even knew.

“But for that to happen, I need you to stop fighting. I need you to trust me.”