The Brood

The day had been long for the human boy that lay curled in the corner, his face and other parts of his body still burned from the tedious process that consumed time and his mental energy. The bright white tattoos that now decorated his olive skin nearly glowed in the dimly lit pin they were kept in. They was the group of children that varied from race to race, barely anyone repeating within the group, each had been branded with different symbols, each supposed to represent their new names, their slave names.

He could hear the Rakatans still in his head, the fear from everything that had happened before still shaking his core like a large seismic quake. His body wouldn't stop shaking, the spire of fear that had been placed in his heart wouldn't move as images of that person, the blade of fire that they held in their hands, and the tattoos marking them as well. The slave looked down at his hands, tears flowing down his face uncontrollably as he saw the stained appendages, the crimson red that reeked of iron of his adoptive mother whom he held close to his heart.

He could still hear her screams as she placed herself between him and the stranger, only to be cut down like an animal for the slaughter. He choked down sobs, small noises slipping from him as he took a deep breath, his face red from straining to hold back so much and his stomach like an angry sea. Every ounce of his remaining mental energy was focused on not drawing too much attention, not getting sick, and not wetting himself in fear. With heavy yet silent breaths he tried to calm himself, his eyes slowly closing as slumber took him deep into the reaches of whatever he was connected to.

Sleep was uneasy, the movement of the ship, the images of the day before slaughter, and the unyielding emotions that kept worming their way into him. His mind felt slow, the sound of the dreaded beasts waking him as they gathered the children up, food distributed to each as every one of them tore into it like wild animals. When the small human male went to gather his own food, only to be met with a fist to his stomach and a sea of laughter slipping through the children as a larger. He recognized the species, a Tarasin; one of the reptilian species that could change its scale color. The boy coughed, doubled over as his stomach was ready to expel what little it had in it but he kept it down. The Tarasin looked at him and gave him a laughing hiss as he began to eat the human's meal with little mercy.

He tried to keep his mind in check, his emotions stinging like the forming bruise on his stomach. Anger bled into his emotions as he felt a surge, it boiling up as he felt it steam off him like heat. He grit his teeth as he took a deep breath before letting out a withheld sigh, repeating the same thought in his head,

"I am Nero Glados, I am better than those who wish me ill will. I will not stoop to their level lest I be no better than them." These words were something his late mother told him to say as a precaution to keep his emotions in check. They were a bit wild and easily swayed, he never knew why but young Nero knew that bad things happened when he let others get the worst of him. With a heavy heart, he retreated to his corner, curling up in it as he quietly waited the day away while the other children made the best out of a bad situation.

They played games, talked, wrestled, and came to decide who was the strongest of them all before the topic of those with weapons of fire was brought up. As Nero listened he saw one thing become common between each story, days before what had happened everyone felt scared, angry, and helpless. Every one of the children apparently had a connection to something though each called it something different.

The Ashla, It, The Life Current, The Tide, The Sight, the Life Wind, The Great Pressence, and The Luminous Mist. Nero had always been told his connection had been to the Ashla, the good of what people flowed within. He remembered his late mother telling him of the feats of those who used the Ashla did, how they made great warriors with combat prowess unmatched. Each of the children began to try and demonstrate their abilities but had little luck within the pin. All of them seemed to lack a response for the Ashla, each time one tried but found their connection had been weakened. Nero became curious as he tried to use his own connection, the most he could do was lift some things, sometimes make people see or think things but they had to be as dumb as a bolder to work. He found a small piece of spare fabric in his pocket, fishing it out as he gulped and turned himself away from the others. He stared at the fabric and tried to will it to move.

The fabric wouldn't follow his command, lying lifeless in his hand like the fabric it was. He grew a little upset, his only unique quality in his quaint little village was his connection, his abilities but they now lay suppressed by something outside his knowledge. He huffed, his mind becoming committed to a new goal; the others excluded him, he was an outcast among the group but he didn't care too much as of now, he would make this fabric move, and when he did he would be able to beat the Tarasin for his food back. His mind was made as he kept reaching for his connection, seeking whatever he could find of the good he was taught, seeking the power of the Ashla to restore his connection to it. He wished to borrow what he knew was there yet just outside his reach, a slight renewed hope in his heart that glowed like his markings.

The mind of the child wasn't focused in the moment, his naivety keeping him safe from the horrors of the ship, the ever oozing darkness that festered like a mold that held a grip on almost everything on the ship. Nero trained while others played, each one forgetting the worries of the danger they were in.