From the Tube, Not the Womb

Chapter 8: From the Tube, Not the Womb

R’s body, pushed to its limit, succumbs to the blood loss. His vision fades, his muscles loosen, and he slumps back in the seat His mind slips uncertain if it’s death or if he's simply trapped within a dream, a loop of his own making. One thing is certain: his past is clawing its way to the surface.

“Yes, I believe the fuckin’ alien that took care of us for the past hundred years, the same alien that made your existence and mine. We are made from tubes, not from a woman. Therefore, we are not human. Have you fuckin’ forgot?”

These words stab him like daggers, the words of Trevor echoes in his skull repeating, repeating, relentless. Over and over, as if time itself is bending, forcing him to relive it again.

A younger Trevor's voice, full of defiance. A boy who once looked up to him, who once saw him as something more than just a soldier a cadet who worshipped his silence, his strength, his fire, a cadet who brings sparks of himself when he was young, he remembers the thickness and smell of dust training in the rain washing over rows of bodies in motion. He remembers the heat and pain of the scorching sun, punishing skin, cracking lips. He remembers the snowfall, cold and merciless, blanketing the field.
Yet the drills never stopped.
He never stopped.

He remembers when he was nothing, a cadet, one among the hundreds, pushing, climbing, crawling and breaking.

He remembers the weight of his first gun, the roar of his first kill, the silence of his first promotion, the applause when he became Commander, how the soldiers rose to their feet in salute

But none of that pride quiets the voice echoing in his skull.

We are not human...

R’s vision warps. The endless loop of memories pulls him back to the training facility. A place where young men and women were forged in the most brutal way possible, where everything every lesson, every second was about survival and obedience.

He sees cadets, no older than children, dropping to the ground in perfect unison.

Training begins.

A whistle pierces the frozen air.

A line of cadets drops to the ground.

Training begins.

“Push-up position! Now!”

The voice is thunderous, commanding. The Commander in Command walks among them, his heavy boots crushing snow with every step, his coat trailing like a dark shadow. He stops in front of the line of cadets, falls to the ground and starts the push up with them.

“WHERE DOES A CHILD COME FROM?”

The cadets, faces buried in snow and mud, shout in unison: “FROM THE WOMB, SIR!”

“Can’t fuckin’ hear you!”

“FROM THE WOMB, SIR!”

He stops. A moment of silence, the tension thick in the air.

“WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?!”

“FROM THE TUBE, SIR!”

“LOUDER!”

“FROM THE TUBE, SIR!!”

Then he stands up towering his eyes like steel. Then he roars again:

“SO, ARE YOU A CHILD?”

“NO, SIR!”

“ARE YOU A MAN?”

“NO, SIR!”

“ARE YOU A HUMAN?”

“NO, SIR!”

The question comes with the force of a sledgehammer:

“THEN WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

The response is immediate, a unified roar from all of them, R’s voice among the many:

“I AM A SOLDIER, SIR!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I AM A SOLDIER, SIR!!”

The questions don’t stop, but the responses grow more automatic, more robotic with every command.

“WHERE IS YOUR MOTHER?!”

“WE HAVE NONE, SIR!”

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR FATHER?!”

“NON-EXISTENT, SIR!”

“WHO ARE YOUR PARENTS?!”

“THE SERVICE OF THE REGIONS, SIR!!”

“WHAT IS YOUR FIRST PRIORITY?!”

“TO PROTECT OUR REGION, SIR!!”

The voice of the Commander in Command continues to echo through the facility, through the very air itself. He moves among them, his presence a looming force of nature, boots crunching in the snow. His voice still echoes in R’s mind even now.

And in that moment, as R looks back from the void, he remembers the pride in the Commander’s smile. Like a proud father watching his children, watching them rise to the challenge.

But then, in the midst of it all, he sees Trevor his young, trembling face. R can still feel the weight of that gaze, the respect, the admiration. But now, as R looks at him, he sees something else: a deep, unspoken fear.

He remembers waking Trevor before anyone else, pushing him harder than the rest. Every morning, just the two of them. Trevor, exhausted, but always trying to keep up.

R remembers telling Trevor those words, the same words that would come back to haunt him: “Remember, you are a soldier first. Everything else doesn’t matter.”

Trevor’s face falls in that moment filled with disappointment. The realization that his idol, his role model, was fading from his life. But R had no choice. He had to become what he was. Everyone has a role to play in this fucked up world, he is just a mere guide to Trevor’s part but one thing first “Soldiers first”.

But now, as R’s fading consciousness loops back, he sees Trevor again, not as a cadet, but a soldier. Trevor is now a man twisted by hate and the burden of his words, he could feel grief, betrayal, hatred from Trevor’s voice when he spoke to him in the bar

The boy who had wanted to be like him now despises him with passion, his words still loops over his head then, everything stops.

The disaster.

R’s mind is a battlefield of its own. Blood seeps through his body, draining him, but the memories burn brighter than the pain. The snowstorm from that night the forgotten horror of Antarctica clings to his skin. Gunfire rings in his ears, sharp and staccato. Then, the voice: “Commander, we’re surrounded. What should we do?”

He hears the airstrike, the roar of cannons as they rain down on the ground, shaking the earth beneath him. He sees his squad, the RISJJ squad, the best the universe had to offer under his command. Iris, James, Jessica, Selina.

Each one of them sacrifices their life to protect him. The same squad he vowed to protect.

Iris’s voice still echoes: “I’m scared, Commander. I want to go home.”

James, always calm, whispers, “At least it isn’t the Mist.”

Jessica, with fire in her eyes: “Protect her with everything you’ve got.”

Selina, her voice steady even in death: “See you on the other side, Commander.”

He still sees their faces frozen in the cold of that forsaken night. Still hears their voices. Still sees their corpses, scattered in the snow, where they fall.

The betrayal... the moment everything falls apart. The night against the three commanders.

He sees their expressions, grim and laced with betrayal. Behind them, more than twenty soldiers raise their weapons, their fingers twitching, ready to strike. Among the three commanders, one hesitates (Commander I). R, don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this...

Then, the explosion. Bombs. Shrapnel. Chaos.

The shadows speak: “R, we need you. I need you.”

He jerks awake, his body aching, his breath ragged. The war is far from over. His eyes scan the dark, the cold whisper of the wind settling in.

This is far from the end.