Chapter Text
I reside in a space where glass and mirrors do not exist, and any trace of cables or cords has been eradicated to prevent anything from tightening around a neck. Corners have yielded to the softness of curves, and the furniture—heavy and anchored to the floor—has become immovable, while the lights remain protected and the outlets sealed under surveillance. Here, doors open outward, always anticipating emergencies, and the presence of pencils or rigid paper has been forbidden, eliminating any object capable of splintering or breaking apart. Even the curtains are designed to detach at the slightest pull, ensuring that nothing hangs, nothing loosens, and nothing breaks; a sterile and absolute environment where every detail has been coldly calculated to nullify the will to self-harm and forbid the possibility of suicide.
In the new Viltrum Empire, whose central headquarters now occupies what we once knew as planet Earth, motherhood is understood through a purely pragmatic and biological logic, stripped of any sentimentalism.
Once they seized the country and defeated all the heroes who opposed them, giving their last breath for our freedom, the few survivors were executed in public. A brief spectacle, but highly educational. It served to erase any doubt about who was in command now.
Days later, they put their new constitution into motion. An impeccably structured document that explained how everything would function from that moment onward. They would hold absolute control over essential resources: electricity, gas, water, communications.
Positions within the system were divided into the Regent or Emperor, the Elite Warriors, and the Explorer Soldiers. Each with clear functions and a perfectly defined utility.
After extinguishing the last flame of resistance and executing the remaining prisoners, what they called our new utility was finally established.
Some were assigned to servitude or technical labor. And a specific group of us were classified as suitable vessels for new lives of the Empire.
The official term is concubines.
The clothing is simple. It consists of a straight dress, with clean lines and no adornments, almost like a long sleeveless blouse in a white tone. On the left side of the chest lies the Viltrum emblem. Underneath, basic leggings are worn, in a single light gray tone, fitted to the body to facilitate movement. The footwear is also simple—short boots, without details.
They also wear a mask. It covers the forehead and descends to the nose, leaving the eyes fully exposed while concealing the upper half of the face. It is the same white tone as the rest of the uniform. I do not know with certainty what its exact purpose is… although I have heard rumors. They say it serves to prevent those who still resist from identifying us easily, especially since many of us were part of the rebellion before being captured.
I have heard that some of Earth's heroes were not executed. Some managed to escape, taking refuge on other planets, living under protection or in exile, waiting for the right moment to return and reclaim Earth.
I know Robot is still alive. We did not see him on the day of the executions, and I have heard rumors that Kate managed to escape from the preparation zone. I believe it is true—so far, I have not seen her among the other concubines.
Of others, however, their fate is certain—among them my comrades Rex Splode, Immortal, Eve… all of them fell in battle.
In this empire, the way we are identified is through a mark: a pattern similar to a tattoo. The process lasts no more than two minutes, but the pain is unbearable—it feels as if your skin burns from within. The mark is placed on the right arm, no more than four centimeters in height, yet covering the entire wrist.
Each pattern is unique; no other is the same. Within those marks, a tracking chip is embedded. Through it, they can locate us at any time and place. It also contains all our data: identity, age, affiliation, blood type, reproductive condition… everything they might need.
In addition, we wear a metallic anklet. It is a device that activates and releases electrical discharges strong enough to make three adult elephants faint. This anklet is worn by all Earthlings, regardless of their role within the empire.
As for who is allowed access to concubines, the hierarchy is clear.
The right to possess them is distributed among the Regent of the empire—who usually keeps more than one concubine at a time—the Generals, Elite Warriors, and finally only certain distinguished explorer soldiers.
While on Viltrum they do not force any mother to remain after giving birth and once the newborn has passed the breastfeeding stage and received the initial antibodies necessary for development, the biological role of the concubine is considered fulfilled, and they may leave if they so desire. They are returned to Earth… but under one condition.
They can never return.
They are permanently banned. Even if they repent, even if they wish to see their children again, they are not allowed to come back. To the Empire, we are not mothers. We are merely vessels. Those children do not belong to us. They never belonged to us.
They belong to the Empire.
Some, driven by courage—or perhaps by desperation—attempted to flee with their children back to Earth. But, unfortunately, I have never heard of a single case in which any of them succeeded.
They all end up executed, their heads displayed throughout the central plaza, as a warning to anyone who might think of trying.
Others, however, develop Stockholm syndrome, which leads concubines to form a genuine loyalty toward their general or warrior.
Within Viltrum’s ruthless structure, the status of Pet transcends insult and becomes a functional caste designation; it is the label that distinguishes a common concubine from one who has managed to infiltrate the Empire’s utility, formally occupying the fifth rank of power. It is supposed to be the position we aspire to reach, because it means having more privileges: better clothing, more dignified treatment, and above all, the right to raise the children of the Viltrumite assigned to you.
They are granted a more optimized diet, rich in specific nutrients designed to strengthen our bodies and prevent them from collapsing under the strain of basic training. We are not expected to be warriors, but we are expected to maintain sufficient physical condition so as not to become a burden… and to be able to assist in the upbringing and initial training of our general’s children. They are granted the authority to raise, train, and guide the children of the Empire.
The clothing also changes. Unlike concubines, whose attire tends to be simpler, the Pet’s outfit is more structured and functional, designed both for mobility and to maintain a dignified appearance within the rank they hold.
The uniform consists of a white tunic, fitted at the upper portion, with a high collar that wraps around the neck and fastens at the side with discreet clasps. The fabric appears durable yet flexible, allowing easy movement during daily tasks. The sleeves are long and reinforced, designed to withstand constant wear without losing their shape.
From the waist down, the garment extends into a wide, pleated skirt that falls below the knees, allowing freedom of movement without becoming uncomfortable. Around the waist, a dark belt or sash is tied to one side, contrasting with the white of the uniform and visually marking the rank held within the system.
However, they are also the ones who witness the cruelest parts of their culture. I imagine how difficult it must be to watch a child you have raised grow, only to be thrown into a fight to the death just after learning how to walk. To be forced to watch, without being able to intervene, as they struggle to survive in those brutal trials.
Very few live long enough to see those children become adults.
Most die.
And many of those women, after witnessing so many losses, eventually lose their sanity.
Even so, they must remain there until they eventually die… or until their General grows tired of them and decides to replace them. In that case, they are sent back to Earth, stripped of everything that had been given to them during their service.
They return with nothing. As if they had never meant anything in the first place.
I have only ever known one woman of that rank: Debbie Grayson, the current and only Pet of the Regent of Viltrum.
I have not spoken much with her. She remains silent most of the time. Despite being the Pet with the most privileges and power among them all, and possessing the most beautiful and ostentatious chamber of all… she is always seen with an empty, distant gaze.
It is as if, when you try to speak to her, she simply disconnects.
These rules concerning concubines are not limited solely to Earth women, but also apply to men. Because Viltrumite society itself is not based on misogyny or racism. In reality, its structure responds to a supremacist ideology accompanied by a collection of mental disorders and cognitive distortions that, of course, they consider perfectly normal. Just as male Viltrumites have their concubines, female Viltrumites can also possess concubines and “pets.” That said, their method has certain structural differences, because even within authoritarian chaos there are hierarchies, protocols, and standards of reproductive efficiency.
Viltrumite women have the “advantage” of not depending on permanent partners to carry out a successful gestation. Unlike the concubine system, which is maintained for the purposes of development and optimal pregnancy control, reproduction for Viltrumite women does not involve prolonged cohabitation with the genetic donor.
For this reason, Viltrumite women have access to specialized imperial facilities known as Lineage Chambers.
These places are not social or recreational spaces. They are strictly regulated centers controlled by the Empire, where Viltrumite women can select compatible genetic candidates for reproductive purposes. Only those individuals who survive rigorous physical trials obtain the temporary right to mate.
Within these facilities, candidates are forced to face one another in constant combat. Viltrumite women personally select the individuals they deem suitable and make them fight; the victor earns the honor of procreating with his general.
The same rules apply rigorously to those selected: any attempt to escape, inappropriate behavior, or the production of offspring considered weak is punished without exception.
The life cycle of those who serve in the Lineage Facilities is usually short. Due to the constant fights, their bodies wear down quickly, and when their strength diminishes or their battles cease to be entertaining, the viltrumite women lose interest and the individuals are discarded.
However, there is one exception. A viltrumite woman may decide to formally claim an individual as her pet. This status grants them special privileges and relative protection, comparable to that received by female pets within the Empire, as well as certain ranks or functions under the direct authority of their owner.
Those concubines who have lost several children in their wombs are labeled as "Defective Supply" or "Low-Quality Material." A womb that does not produce viable soldiers is a resource that consumes oxygen unnecessarily; therefore, they are reassigned to another role.
The fate of these women depends strictly on their conduct record. Within the Viltrum penal system, "rebels" or those with a problematic history are executed. However, for those who have maintained an impeccable record, there exists an alternative that the Empire calls "clemency": the transfer from Concubine status to Perpetual Servitude.
It is easy to recognize them by their uniform. All servants of the Empire—regardless of whether they are men or women—dress exactly the same.
The main garment is a long robe in a pale white tone, made from a resistant, rigid material that maintains its shape even after hours of continuous work. It features an integrated hood that covers the head, and their hands remain covered with gloves.
The robe fits tightly to the torso and falls in clean lines down to the ankles, with an opening from the hip. Underneath, they wear grayish trousers made from the same fabric.
Under this regime, the woman loses any vestige of the privileges she once held as a concubine. She becomes another piece of the domestic machinery—a cleaner, cook, or laundress—working without any payment in exchange for basic survival. The rules are the same for her: returning to Earth is considered treason punishable by immediate death.
I walk along that same narrow path.
I am defective as well… or at least, that is what I have made them believe.
I have already had two miscarriages.
For them, this is a warning sign: a failure in the biological machinery of our bodies.
Although I find it ironic that they ignore—or choose not to see—that carrying one of theirs in the midst of the conditions they have forced us to live in is far more difficult than they believe.
It is not enough to have sex and ejaculate inside and that is it—you get pregnant.
From the day they seized Earth, they have exposed us to constant chronic stress. A forced indoctrination that keeps our bodies in a permanent state of alert, persistently raising cortisol levels.
That stress hormone suppresses ovulation, disrupts hormonal cycles, and causes irregular periods. Many of us no longer even know when we ovulate, because our bodies stopped following a normal rhythm long ago.
Without adequate levels of progesterone, the endometrium cannot prepare properly. It does not become strong enough to sustain the implantation of an embryo. In addition, the genetic load of a hybrid viltrumite fetus imposes a massive metabolic demand. The body needs to produce more energy, more nutrients, more cellular support than would normally be necessary. And when that same body is already weakened, sustaining that pregnancy becomes extremely difficult.
It is not our fault.
It is not our weakness.
These are biological failures caused by the very conditions they created.
They expect that eventually we will evolve, that we will adapt, that we will become a stronger species under their control.
And, in a certain sense… they have succeeded.
I cannot deny that there are things that changed since they arrived. Things that, if viewed from a certain distance, could be called improvements.
The air no longer burns the lungs as it once did. Cities stopped vomiting dark smoke into the sky. Factories that once operated without control now function under strict limits, supervised by systems they themselves installed. Pollution levels dropped. The waters—even those once considered dead—began to show signs of recovery. The forests returned as well.
Cutting-edge technology. Reinforced immune systems.
Human life expectancy increased.
That benefits them too.
A body that lives longer… can produce more.
Besides this deficiency in my usefulness, my conduct is also compromised. Two suicide attempts recorded in my file.
The first one was covered up. My General managed to redirect the blame toward the supply chain. He declared that the toxins detected inside my system matched an accidental contamination in plant-based foods stored incorrectly. A misclassified batch. A labeling error. Domestic negligence. She was hanged the following day.
The second attempt was more desperate.
I threw myself out the window, taking advantage of a lapse in surveillance. I did not die—since I am still here. But the impact caused a placental abruption.
The only thing I never attempted was escape. Not because I never thought about it. But because I am not stupid enough to try. I know I would not get far.
With my history of insubordination and the reports of "misconduct" piling up in the Empire’s records, the logical outcome would have been for my head to end up displayed in the central plaza, as a warning to anyone who dared to defy orders.
And yet… I am still alive.
And it is not because of luck.
It is because my General is obsessed with me.
My General is Markus Sebastian Grayson, heir in the line of succession of the Viltrumite Empire.
The bastard because of whom I find myself here. The man who will take the podium as future Emperor, the strongest fighter in all of Viltrum, and also the first place on my personal list of romantic disappointments.
My greatest disappointment. An interplanetary terrorist with an exceptional talent for ruining other people's lives. More than once, they have suggested that he replace me. That he find someone more obedient.
Stronger.
More useful.
But he always refuses.
He says I am useful to him… somehow.
He always finds something to say, some excuse to present to the others. Arguments that sound convincing enough to keep me by his side a little longer.
One more day.
But my time is running out.
Because no matter how good my position is, no matter the privileges I may enjoy that others do not, none of that matters if I do not give him an heir soon.
I am TN/Reader, now better known as C.VLT-998–M. GRAYSON–C01.
I am his concubine, aspiring to be a pet, according to the official records.
And this is my story.
The story of how I got here and how, someday, I will find my peace when there is nothing left to lose.