Gene treatment as a process is long, strenuous, and painful. It involves using a large machine that functions like a tattoo gun. It punctures the membranes of cells with tiny oscillating needles, injecting tiny bits of proteins and such to the genes of the person under treatment. It would often take multiple sessions to make a single super soldier, around 5 to 10, depending on the individual. Jack was on his 7th session. Each session took about 8 hours just to cover the entire body. Well, most parts. With limited resources, the Ultra-Lords could only afford to apply the gene treatment to what they considered the most vital areas, mostly to the muscles. Their organs, such as the heart and lungs, had to be replaced entirely with new, vat-grown, genetically modified replacements to accommodate for their unnatural gain in muscle mass. Skin, on the other hand, was a bit harder to work with. It wasn’t considered ‘essential’ by the Ultra-Lords, so it didn’t get much treatment. Soldiers would find out all kinds of things about their skin, like if they were lucky enough to be born with skin that is stretchy enough not to tear open as they grew faster than it.

Jack remembered a story about one Ultra-Lord who grew too fast, so much so that you could see his skull peeking out from the corners of his eye sockets. Jack was lucky enough to only experience minor change, at least by the doctor's standards. He couldn’t fully close his eyes anymore, so he needed eye drops to keep them properly moist and a sleep mask at night for when he needed to go to bed.

This was something Jack often found himself doing during his treatment sessions, mentally reciting whatever factoids he could think of to try and distract himself from the pain. As the needles methodically worked their way across his body, leaving a stinging itch as they moved down. He hated when they had to go through the inside of his thigh, or the back of his calf, or even under his armpits and down his sides. It was agonizing, but he needed to do it. He needed to be strong, and this was the easiest way. He had found that there were two other ways to do things in life, other than ‘quick and easy’ and long and hard’. Quick but hard, and long but easy. Once you stop considering something as taking a long time as a difficulty factor, life suddenly seems less painful. For a time, at least. 

The hum of the needle’s motor slowed to a stop as the station’s doctor came to look down into his eyes on the operating table.

“That is treatment number 7. You did well. Come back next month, you know the drill.”

Jack just nodded, taking a moment to collect himself before making himself sit up. The blood rushed down from his head, making him feel lightheaded. After a while, he managed to stand back up, going to the shelf where he folded away his uniform. He slipped back into his underwear, socks, pants, shirt, and boots before heading out the door. Not bothering to say much else to the doctor. Jack’s muscles ached. He wanted to fall into bed, but he knew there would, of course, be more things to do today. Duty never ends, after all.

He couldn’t help but think back to his youth. Dabbling in nostalgia was nigh irresistible after everything that has happened in these last few weeks. Summers in New Europa were always so nice, as he recalled. Growing up, he didn’t have many friends. He went to school and got along with some people, but he was never sure if he was ever able to ever properly connect with them. They would always disappear eventually, whether they got separated between years, or they just moved on to different people. Besides, who really wanted to be friends with the kid whose dad was the neighborhood's local ‘crazy communist activist who happens to own a major tech company?

His only real friend back then was his twin sister, Lilian. For a good while, she was mostly just wheelchair bound. Lilian was always of the mischievous sort at heart, and she knew she could get away with most things just off of other people’s pity for her. Mobility was just her biggest issue, so who better to be her partner in crime than her own twin brother?

Jack remembered how she would make him climb up into the neighbor's peach tree in their backyard to steal whatever he could. Somehow, they only ever got caught once, but he figured Old Man Perkins just let them keep doing it out of goodwill, because Jack was never wicked enough to snatch more than a few at a time, even if Lillian pleaded he do more than that.

Jack found himself thinking about his sister long enough to remember their last and final meeting. He almost had a warmth on his sore face before the thought came into his head, he found a small smile he didn’t even know was forming, had faltered, faded, and died. That familiar sick gnarl began forming in his stomach again. He wished he had never had to say goodbye at all. Part of him wished it were him instead of her, that he was never such a leech to everyone around him. That’s why he is an Ultra-Lord now. Ultra-Lords don’t need anybody because they are strong. They don't listen to anybody, because they are strong. They never apologize because they are strong. He just has to be strong, that's all that matters. That’s all he needs to do.

He was just stumbling down the hallway to the Barracks. There was never much to do in the base, contrary to what you would expect of a military setup. He wasn’t really paying attention, which is probably how he accidentally shoulder-checked somebody else. It was a firm body he hit, still armored, too. He turned, glancing over the armored visage of a familiar comrade. Geta. There was silence for a moment as the two just stared at each other. Jack cleared his throat, deciding to make small talk.

“That was…uh… a good shot you made back there, a while back.”

Talking about the moment made him uncomfortable, made the images flash back into his head, made him want to puke? No, he didn’t have to puke, not yet.

Regardless, Geta replied instantly.

“I didn’t shoot anybody.”

He then set off down the hallway and out of view. he walked fast, his fists balled at his sides. Jack just stood there for a while, already not believing the encounter had happened. It already felt like something he had dreamt or a distant memory. He silently went in the opposite direction of the dimly lit concrete hallway as well.

The hallways of the base were far too long in some places; some were about 20 feet long for no reason. It was honestly kinda inconvenient and really more annoying than anything. The way they echoed when you were walking down them almost made a ringing sound in some of the more narrow halls. It hurt Jack’s ears, especially after deployment. Just as Jack was about to turn down the end of the awkwardly long hallway, before he nearly bumped into yet another person, someone much smaller this time. He took a step back to eye a woman much smaller than him, wearing some kind of white naval uniform with magenta accents, the right-hand man of Super Ceazarr, Judge, in tow.

“Ah, Jack. I was hoping to bump into you. Have you met the representative for the Sindrian company?”

Judge signaled to the woman. She had golden blonde hair that was pulled into a neat bun, and soft brown eyes, with bags ever so slightly worn down under them. She pulled up a weary closed-lipped smile as she extended a hand.

“Anabeth Mills, head representative and negotiator of the Sindrian fuel company. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Roboter.”

Jack had scarcely ever heard anyone refer to him by his last name, probably for a good reason. His father was highly vocal about his disapproval of the Ultra-Lords. He timidly took Anabeth’s hand and shook it. She had a surprisingly firm grip.

“Please, just call me Jack.”

He said, the ‘please’ coming out as a bit too genuine, narrowly avoiding being a plea. Thankfully, Anabeth seemed to pay no mind, just nodding, her lips still curved quaintly upward. 

“Jack. Got it.”

Judge had piped in, stepping forth to speak over Anabeth.

“I am not sure if you have been informed yet, Jack, but Ceazar has made a proposal. He is inviting you to a dinner with some of our important accomplices.”

Jack just looked at him in confusion. Judge went on to explain before Jack could even retort in any way.

“Well, you were the one who made the assassination, no? And your father runs a rather large tech company, I suppose they see they could get something important out of you.”

Jack glanced around, finding the words. He just mumbled something.

“I’m just a soldier, sir…”

Jack could hear Judge sigh and shake his head. His voice came out surprisingly genuine.

“Listen, I don't make the choices here. If Ceazar asks you to go to dinner, you go to dinner with Ceazar.”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

Judge just slapped him on the shoulder and nodded. Quickly, he began hassling Anabeth past Jack. Jack couldn’t help but notice Judge looked a bit more jittery than usual. In fact, that was probably the first time he had ever spoken in a way that wasn’t heavily condescending. Should he be concerned? No… No, he was just moving up in the pecking order. That was it. This was good. Jack felt a spurt of pride spill over his mind, warm and oozing down his neck and across his nerves. He attempted to carry himself back to his barracks with more bravado.

He got to the door of the barracks, which was actually just a room for 4 bunks, since they didn’t have a large enough room to just fit all the Ultra-lords. Each super soldier was put into a group of 4 for their quarting. No, it was the fodder that got the one giant room, left to mingle with each other. Jack was told it reeked in there, they hardly ever washed the beds, and sickness would spread fast. provided that the conditions inside the super soldier barracks weren’t any better. The bed covers were so thin that they hardly provided any additional warmth in the cold bunker.

Jack pushed the button on the door console, making it slide open. Rarely were any of the other 4 bunks ever occupied during the day. His bunk was on the bottom left, a bit messy because he hadn’t been bothering to make it lately, but he was never spoken to over it. There were hardly ever any sort of room or bunk inspections here. Jack looked at his bed, finding a suitcase on it. His first thought was who could have left this, causing him to look down either side of the hallway he stood in. He saw nobody, leaving him with the option of opening the case. It was smooth black, with two little latches holding it shut. He cautiously laid his hands on it and undid the two latches. Slowly opening the case, he found a neatly folded suit within. It was a deep navy blue in color, a cream white undershirt, and with it was a golden pin in the shape of the Ultra-lords insignia. It had some other random shapes on it that made it look like some kind of high-ranking medal. He picked it up and found it was deceptively light, not actually made of gold but rather feeling more like light plastic, just wrapped in gold leaf. It wasn’t the tasteful gold wrapping either, it was more like the kind you would see on those hollow chocolate easter bunnies. Cheap and phoney looking, far to matte and yellow to even convince anyone of it being real gold. Then again, it wasn't like he had a choice in wearing this. He doubted he did.

He was told to go to the shuttle bay, an old pre-war subway system, once used to move around soldiers and ammunition. Well, it still was, just not as often now. Jack descended down the long staircase all on his own, fiddling with his suit. The collar and shoulders of it were just a tinge too tight, which made him fret that any sudden movements would rip the piece of old cloth to shreds. Each step he took echoed around him, the sound amplified by the surrounding walls of the staircase. Old posters of age-old propaganda rotted on the walls, their colors faded, mold growing from the tears of the plastered poster paper. The shuttlebay always reeked of musk and mildew. Catroaches weren’t an uncommon sight down in the dark stow. When Jack got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw a familiar face, one that didn’t immediately click. It was Anabeth, standing by an open shuttle door, one arm behind he back, her eyes looking down at a pocket watch that was chained to her hip. She glanced up from it to Jack, then back down to the watch, then up to him again in recognition. Another close-mouthed smile pursed across her lips. 

“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show up. You aren’t the punctual type, are you?” Jack shook his head as he adjusted the collar of his coat once more. “Not exactly,” he replied simply. 

Anabeth let out a soft laugh and nodded, removing her arm from behind her back, revealing a hat in her hand, the fancy kind that admirals would wear in dress uniform.  “I forgot to include this in the suitcase. Apologies.” Jack looked at the hat and took it. The fabric looked fine in the dark, hardly illuminated shuttle bay, but it felt ragged and rough like linen between his fingers. Wrapped around it was a faded red band, the paint flicking off, leaving only specks of it left. When he put it on his head, the fabric itched and scraped against his shaved scalp.

“You clean up well,” Anabeth commented, turning to the shuttle car door. Jack didn’t comment, unsure of how to respond to praise from the opposite sex. She was being incredibly nice, almost too nice. It tinged a feeling in him he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He didn’t like that.

 When they walked into the shuttle, Jack laid eyes upon a figure he had not been particularly looking forward to seeing. Ceazar sat in one of the seats, wrapped in red velvet robes, his legs spread shamelessly, taking up the seats adjacent to him. In one hand, he held a golden helmet, some kind of death mask carved into it. He was tenderly rubbing his thumb under one of the eye sockets. Jack rarely took time to admire it, but Ceazar was truly built more like an animal than a man. His skin was a perfect warm caramel tan, though it was still clear he held an aryan ancestry from how frigidly cold his blue eyes were, like sharpened spears of ice whose gaze pierced directly into the soul. That caramel skin was stretched frightfully taught over his bulging and twisting muscles. Around his neck, each individual vein was visible, in some spots like his shoulder, every single fiber of muscle was on display from under his skin. They retracted and stretched each time he moved; every single shift in posture he had ever made was perfectly calculated and had at least a few seconds of thought behind it beforehand. 

Jack squatted down in the seat before Ceazar. Anabeth sat next to him. He gave her a sidelong glance, noticing how she kept her thighs tight together and her hands firmly clasped in her lap. Jack was unsure how to seat himself now.  He thought I can’t look like I’m trying to copy Ceazar-- worse yet, upstage him… but I can’t sit too femininely like Anabeth is! He settled on just sitting at attention like he always does when Ceazar is present. As the shuttle began to move, Ceazar turned his head to Jack, the movement uncanily slow and calm, his eyes remained wide open. He raised his left hand. 

“At ease, boy.”

Jack just spread his legs further and slouched some. He took note of how Caesar didn’t pardon Anabeth, who still sat straight, he expression remaining neutral. Ceazar kept staring down Jack.  “I have an honor to grant you, Jack.” His voice came out in a deep cello. He pointed at the cadbury wrapped badge on Jack’s breast. “I have promoted you to my Rex Minor. If anyone asks you your rank, you will address yourself as such. Am I understood?” 

Jack nodded with no hesitation, “Understood.” Did he just make that title up? Jack thought. He knew ‘Rex’ meant emperor or king, but Jack was far from either of those, nor did he desire to be any nearer. ‘Minor emperor’ was that what Caesar was calling him now? 

The rest of the train ride, for the most part, was mercifully uneventful. The hum of the engine and the clunk of the tracks numbed Jack’s senses. He couldn’t help but notice that Caesar’s gaze would regularly dart to Anabeth. Caesar’s eyes never shifted or drifted; they only darted, as if he was always scanning everything around him, taking the world in like a predatory cat in the bush.

“Anabeth, dear. I’ve a request,” he rang out in the cello of a voice. Anabeth blinked once and nodded, her lips pursing tighter ever so slightly. “Your hair, darling. It is done far too tightly.” Anabeth cleared her throat, choking on her words for a moment, almost as if about to retort. Instead, she said, “Would you like me to fix it then, sir?” A wave of satisfaction pulsed over Ceazar’s eyes as he put his chin on his fist. “Yes, and have one side of your bangs slightly more down than the other, just to where it slightly covers the left eye.” Anabeth gave a forced smile and began awkwardly fixing her hair to Ceazar’s request. She took an occasional breath outwards. When she got her hair how Ceazar liked it, Jack couldn’t help but notice how her left eye twitched slightly as he hair got into it. 

Ceazar gave a lion-like smile, smug and predatory. “There you go. What a tart you are now! Don’t you agree, Jack?” Jack felt on the spotlight suddenly. He felt a bit bad for Anabeth, sensing her discomfort, but he dared not disagree with Super Ceazar. 

“Much better. Quite stylish indeed.” Anabeth looked up at Jack with one wide brown eye visible.

 “You really think so, Jack?” Jack nodded in confirmation, forcing a grin across his features, he cheeks straining to reach his eyelids.

 “Of course! It’s what’s in style right now, the 9 o’clock bangs and all that.” Anabeth’s lips pursed more into a mimmic of a smile, at least as far as Jack saw it.

When it came to a stop at whatever station it was supposed to arrive at it let out a long groan that shook the entire cabin as it slowly came to a halt, finished off with a hiss as the brakes depressurized. The doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit platform outside. Caesar, of course, was the first to stand. He strode out the doors, not even turning back to see if Jack and Anabeth followed. They did, of course. Anabeth fidgeted with her hair one last time, suddenly self-conscious about it. Jack took the opportunity to fix his collar and take of his hat to scratch his scalp, he had a feeling he wouldn't have another chance soon.

At the end of the station was a pair of lavish-looking doors. Ceazar knocked on them; instead of the expected solid oak sound that Jack expected, there was a hollow, thin sound, as if the doors were made of pine board. Eventually, one of the doors creaked open, wide enough for them all to step in. Inside before them was a long hall decorated with old furniture and lavishments. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, some of its limbs snapped off or mended over. The wallpaper, designed in a pattern to invoke some kind of ancient Roman excellence, peeled away in some places, revealing the concrete and piping underneath. In the center of the dining hall was a near-absurdly long dining table, swarmed with various rich faces. Some plump and swollen with fat or plastic implants, others had faces that were impossibly sunken in from age. Jack’s eyes scanned over the grotesque audience before him. One man was impossibly fat, a living mass of ancient blubber kept alive through a mass of respiration and fluid pumping tubes. One woman resembled some sort of gargoyle with how much plastic surgery had been done to mutilate her face into a ‘younger’ appearance. 

The walrus of a man spoke, his voice gurgling out of his throat. He seemed upset. “You knocked on the wrong door, you were supposed to knock on the good Oak door that was the cheap Pine one!” Ceazar just nodded at him, ignoring the blob’s jeer. He began walking to the very end of the table, Jack and Anabeth in tow. Jack’s eyes remained glued to his feet. When he sat down in the rickety chair he was provided, he looked down to a plate surrounded by an obscene amount of silverware. He glanced over, seeing that Anabeth had chosen to sit directly next to him rather than across the table on Ceazar’s other side.

“Apologies, Mr. Bloodfeat, I am not exactly familiar with wood types. Trees, I tell you, who even pays attention to them these days?” Ceazar spoke with an unusual charisma and suavity. It roused a gaggle of laughs, varied in phoniness. He is putting up a front, Jack thought, not even a good one, but they are still biting at the bit.

“Still, I am more than pleased to be invited to your congregation tonight. With me I have brought two of my most trusted.” Ceazar said as he gestured to Jack and Anabeth.

“Anabeth is an ambassador of the Sindrian fuel company, Jack is my new Rex Minor.”

“Could Mr. Sindrian not come himself?” said a woman who appeared to be skin stretched over bone, wearing a turquoise dress so glossy it almost looked to be made of plastic.

Anabeth almost spoke, just getting out one syllable before Ceazar answered in her stead. “He is a busy man, especially with the merger we are planning. He could not attend.”

Jack thought it was just a partnership; Ceazar never mentioned anything about an outright Merger. At least not around him.

“I don’t see what he sees in you.” piped up a wrinkled man wearing a black military uniform with silver pins and buttons. “I haven’t heard a thing of you, Ceazar. Your insurgency fails to impress me.”

Jack could recognize this man as the leader of the Schwarze Motten insurgency group, Heinrich Kettle. They were neutral to the Ultra-Lords as far as he knew.

“Is that so, mister Kettle? Is that why you came today, to jeer at me?” Ceazar responded, leaning back in his chair, picking up a glass of wine as a servant filled it, but he never took a sip.

“I was hoping more to test you. We have all heard many legends and tales of you and your insurgents, but we’ve little idea of your origins.”

Everyone at the table leaned forward a bit in anticipation, as if expecting something from Ceazar. Jack found himself leaning a quarter of an inch closer. Ceazar sighed and tilted his eyes up in thought, then began speaking just as they began bringing food out.

“My Origins… well, if you insist.” Caesar pretended to give an earnest recollection of his story before speaking. “My father was a great and powerful leader, a dictator in Colombia before North and South America merged. And my mother… was a lowly brothel worker.”

Ceazar let his words simmer, gauging the reactions of all those who heard. Jack held mild curiosity. He looked over at Anabeth her just flashed a small crack of a smile, her attention on Ceazar with her one available eye.

“I am told that when I was born, she came right up to the doors of his home with me cradled against her chest and pounded on them, demanding he take accountability. Then his guards shot her. Even if I was too young to be conscious then, the image of her dead face as she turned to shield me from gunfire has been burned into my retinas.”

The woman in the turquoise dress suddenly wailed, her face contorting in sorrow as she tilted her head to the ceiling.

“Oh, Ceazar! Oh, that is such a tragic and harrowing story! Oh, you poor thing! I invest 30% of my stock into your war efforts-”

“I’m not done yet.” Ceazar said, shooting her a frosty glare. She immediately went quiet, her performance of sorrow falling away.

“What is her problem?” Jack whispered into Anabeth’s ear, havint to lean over a bit.

“That’s Mary Shingler, she used to be a famous actor, musician, clothing and perfume brand… the list goes on.”

Jack glanced at Mary who’s face had fallen dormant. He cringed a bit.

Ceazar continued with his story “My father, seeing me cradled in her arms, crying in her pooling blood, decided to take me in, figuring he needed a son-”

“Pardon, but which Colombian dictator exactly was your father?” Bloodfeast gurgled. Ceazar glared at the interruption.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. May I continue?”

Bloodfeast just looked at him from the depths of his blubberous eyebrows and cheeks, giving a jiggling nod. 

“As I was saying, he needed a son, and there I was. He raised me well, my father did. He gave me the best private education in every field a man should know. When I turned 12 he gave me my first gun and knife, then sent me out into the wilderness to catch my own dinner for the night. I shot, killed, and cooked a jungle boar.”

Ceazar picked up his fork and knife and began sawing into the rare steak before him, the juices gushing out with each movement of his cutting hand.

“I remember my first shot at the boar didn’t hit its vitals, but crippled its front leg. So I came up with my knife and began trying to cut a major artery, but it kept struggling, and I kept missing… it died from bleeding out, never understanding I tried to give it mercy. I think that is what differentiates humans from animals. Humans know when it’s time to lie down and die, how to give up when a bigger, stronger creature has them in its teeth.”

Everyone watched in grim fascination as Ceazar cut a piece of meat away and took it into his mouth, chewing it loudly and swallowing. He let out a satisfied sigh as it slid down his gullet.

“I learnt one other lesson that day, though. I learnt that the lion does not kill swiftly because it sees it as mercy. No, I learnt the lion kills swiftly because that is the surest victory.”

The room went silent for a beat before Heinrich Kettle spoke with skepticism, “I didn’t know they had lions in Colombia.”

Ceazar snapped his head to Heinrich, his gaze locked on the old man for a long moment before a smile spread across his face. “There weren’t. Not until I was born!”

The table burst into laughter, people began clinking wine glasses and murmuring, before falling into silence again as they began eating. Then the silence faded as the first bites of food were swallowed, and then politics and finances began to be discussed. And at the end of the table Ceazar sat, swirling his wine glass but never drinking from it, not even touching his steak again.