Einherjar
José Alvarez
"Stand up, you little shit, don't make me come and get you!" bellowed the guard while holding a torch in his face, probably attached to one of those fingerprint-guns they had here.
"Eh, Miguel, whats the matter?" grunted José, shielded his eyes from the very bright torch and looked out the small crack which was the window to the outside world. "It isn't even morning."
"I won't tell you again; stand up, José, now!"
"Yeah yeah, I'm coming." The huge american man with mexican ancestors, tattooed with gang-, religious and otherwise beautiful symbols, built like a brickhouse, stood up and got into his jumpsuit.
"You too, DeSantos!" barked Miguel and to the other occupant of the small cell.
"Really?" asked the smaller man grunting. "Okay, fine..." He stood up from the small bed, two heads shorter than José and clothed himself in a matching orange jumpsuit. "What's going on, me amigo?"
"I don't know and I didn't ask." grumbled Miguel, opening the cell door. Lights came online, drove the night and the shadows away. José packed his small bible into his jumpsuit; DeSantos - his name was Juan - did the same and kissed the small cross at the end of a chain around his neck.
"They won't kill us." José assured the smaller man and himself. "We're here for a lifetime. We would have a trial, sí?"
"Wouldn't bet on it, but strange enough." answered Juan as they stepped out of the cell. Three other well-armed guards stood facing them, their weapons drawn and ready for everything. This was no joke.
"What is happening?" asked José again, but got no answer, only an unfriendly shove with a gun to the back. He could kill those guards with his bare fists, but he wasn't immune to bullets. It didn't feel like they were here to execute them, but it didn't feel good either. The lights turned black when they passed them, other inmates were shouting, mostly nonsense, sometimes death threats, others just their names.
But instead of going into the yard they were brought to the release section. Now José got a bit nervous. No trial, no explanation? Well, whoever it was that might await him on the other side of the release section might hold some answers.
But there weren't any answers. What awaited Juan and José were two armoured transports, one for each. Each transport was accompanied by six Valerian Marines. This was no execution. This had nothing to do with their sentence, this was official business. Official Empire business. No guards, no police, no SWAT. For whatever reason his and Juans names had appeared somewhere, attracted the attention of someone and that someone had drawn strings; ordered trained and expensive soldiers, no local police or SWAT, to bring two lowlives to where ever. This was huge.
"Ey, amigo!" he laughed at Juan. "We are not going to die here! This will be fun!"
The transport was huge enough to chain him to the back wall of the cab and for the six Marines to fit sitting in his direction on benches on both sides of the transport. Lights flickered as the transport started its grumbling engine, the guards closed the doors and someone hammered twice.
The transport started to move, the strong engine doing its best to tow the armoured compartment. They were moving over hills and highways judging by the sound of the tires on the ground. José did a lot of walking and a lot of driving during his active gang time, so he knew the sounds the different kinds of streets and surfaces create when tires roll over them.
Then the sounds changed. He heard plane engines, a heavy gate rattled open and then the silent humming of the runway surface as they drove over it. The transporter came to a slow, screeching halt. Someone jumped out of the cab, José heard his and Juans name, before someone banged on the door at the back. A Marine opened each side with levers, two others freed him and handed him over to the soldiers waiting outside.
Wherever he was, this was not his state. The stars were different, the air smelled fresh, and somehow, filled with rain, the airfield was wet as well. It hadn't even been two hours. He completely underestimated how fast those transports could travel.
Then he saw the jet. It was not a private, but sleek, two engines, a cockpit, and maybe ten seats. It was entirely black with the exception of the Valerian Empire crest emblazoned right beneath the cockpit windows.
"Hey, José!" Huan was laughing as he caught up, guarded by another group of Marines, orange jumpsuit contrasting against nearly pitch black camouflage armour. "You were right, this is fun!"
"Told ya." José shivered. These Marines were brutal. Not those American Marines they had a few years ago or even the European Groundforces before everything had fallen under the banner of the Valerian Empire. No, Señor, those men were killers. Even if he would manage to kill one or break free, they would not only outnumber him, but only one of them would suffice to overcome and kill him.
"DeSantos!" Juan grinned at the man who was shouting. "You go first."
"Where are you taking us?"
"To heaven, you snarky ass!" The Marine pointed to the stairs of the jet. "Up there! - Alvarez, you go directly after him. Don't try anything, we have orders to escort you, but that doesn't mean we can't shoot you."
"Escort us? To where?" said José, asking the same question, the stupidity of it hitting him soon as the words left his mouth, but the only response was a groan and an annoyed look from the Marine who appeared to be the leader. They escorted both prisoners to the gangway, both still in shackles. It was rather difficult to take the stairs, but it was possible.
He heard Juan gasp and as he looked up, there stood another soldier, but unlike a Marine. The armour was leather, cloth, some kind of steel plate or carbon fiber or something which looked fragile but you somehow knew could block bullets or grenades. The most prominent feature was the face or rather, the lack of it. The helmet was round, black and the entire face was obscured by an also black visor that sucked up the light. Not even the bright lights at the jets ceiling mirrored in said visor.
What kind of Soldier is that?
Juan and José were shoved to the end of the jet into leather seats - a bit too big for Huan, a bit too small for José - and then freed of their shackles. Both looked rather surprised and then the huge Mexican-American man noticed the other three soldiers standing near the cockpit, silent and at ease. José didn't believe for one second that those soldiers were relaxing.
"Sign here." The same Marine from outside handed one of the unknown soldiers a tablet. Without a word he signed and nodded. The Marine looked at the prisoners. "Be nice to the lady, lads!"
Lady? José looked up and nearly jumped at the beautiful blonde that suddenly appeared next to him. "Sir? Can I take your orders before we depart?"
"Orders?"
"Yes, Sir. Drinks, something to eat, a cigarette, a cigar?"
"Are Marlboro still a thing?"
"Not as quite as popular as a few years ago, but they are, Sir."
"Hm. I'll take a box of them, a beer and something to eat with meat. And hot."
"Very well, Sir. And for you?" she asked Juan.
"The same with a whiskey or a rum."
"Yes, Sir. As soon as we have reached our crusing altitude, we'll prepare everything for you."
José grunted in answer and eyed the soldiers. They each had two huge pistols, one appeared to be a revolver. One knife on the left side of their upper body, shoulder height. Combat knives. The same short sword he had seen with the Valerian Marines and a few pouches around their belts. No visible Assault Rifle or anything with a larger caliber. But he would bet one of his ribs that the revolver would suffice in making huge holes.
"You guys mute or what?" Juan tried to make conversation by provoking them. Nice start, but wouldn't get them anywhere. Juan was one of those little people of Spanish heritage you let loose when you want something either horribly dead or a mob broken down. He was a fighter; one you can throw in a boxing ring with three guys the size of José and he comes out victorious. People like Juan don't mind being broken, battered down, shot, beaten, drowned. They lived for the kick, for the adrenaline. They come back every time until you shoot them in the head.
"Hey!" Juan launched from his seat, his body might look like he was out of shape and underfed, but José had learned that he packed a mean punch and he carried nearly no fat, only muscle. But Juan didn't make it three steps before one of those foreign soldiers made a move and Juan was flying back into the seat, bleeding out of his nose and looking quite shocked.
"Jesus..." José eyed the soldier closer, but he couldn't see a thing. The man had moved so fast nobody had seen the move and Juan was a very fast hard-hitter. He decided to wait. The blonde flight attendant was cute, he would get a hopefully decent meal and some hours of peace and freedom from his cell back in that high-security prison called Lonewood Correctional Facility. What a joke.
"Bastard..." Juan was wiping his nose with a handkerchief he found beside the seat. But he didn't attempt a second assault. Even a mad, down-for-a-fight, murdering, wife-drowning bastard such as Juan could see that it was useless to attack those soldiers.
Then the engines of the plane started to hum and screech, the gangway was brought in, the soldiers secured themselves with standing belts to the cabins walls and before they knew it, the jet with a mission from the Valerian Empire was screeching through the nightsky.
Yes, the meal was more than decent.
The plane landed hours later in a city he didn't recognise. Okay, he was jetlagged and got a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean with only a few hours of sleep in a too small chair, but his belly was full, the cigarettes good and the beer was the best he ever had. The city he saw was huge with an old television tower in the middle and a huge building towering even over the television tower.
"Is that what I think it is, amigo?" he asked no one specifically. It was the palace, the seat of power of the Valerian Empire. There sat the Grey Empress. This plane brought them to the Valerian Empire? What had they done that they got the attention of the most powerful woman on Earth?
The jet landed, they were put into shackles again, but both got to keep their cigarettes. One can light them up with a small strip at the side of the box. No open flame, no matches, no gas or anything. Security comes first.
Both were put into another armoured transport, accompanied by the same horrifying soldiers and taken into the palace, through a small parking lot and then into tunnels and tunnels and floors and more tunnels.
José was good at memorising shit, but this? It was just one bland tunnel after the other. His orientation left him after a few dozen branches and turns and he had forgot to count his steps. No signs on the walls, no indicators of any kind besides the walls and some pipes, but even those looked all the same.
And then, suddenly, they took a turn and were brought somewhere he thought he would never see again. It was a lecture hall, outfitted with polished brown wood, relatively comfy chairs for students - or higher executives more likely - and a podium with a microphone stand in front of a huge display.
The lecture hall could probably hold one or two thousand people. A few of the seats were already filled and José noticed that they also wore prison clothes. One was an asian guy with a wild hairstyle, the other one looked like the most purebred caucasian and the last one he couldn't really identify, he was wearing a black jumpsuit and looked like he had jumped out of a 1980s metal concert. And there was also a woman, Vietnamese or Thai, José would guess. He had a lot to do with those gangs during his active time. Never could tell them apart, but they were all really dangerous, even to the Santos de Santa Muerte.
The strange soldiers positioned themselves left and right from the seats on the stairs. They only led up and down and there was nothing but a wall behind the seats at the top of them. They waited. New inmates came in every so often, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone. Everyone was accompanied by those soldiers, but not as many as had been with José and Juan. Twentyfive on each stairway, fifty in total as the last convicted arrived.
Juan sat on his left, two seats away and every other prisoner had arranged themselves too in order to to get as much personal space as possible. Besides the various versions of prisoner clothing they looked like someone had opened a catalogue of stereotypical criminals from around the world and ordered the worst available. Tattoos, piercings, bad behaviour, swearing, some even lit up cigarettes even though there was no ashtray. Not that he cared, José had lit up one as well. It was so frigging good!
An hour after their arrival the lights above the seats dimmed a bit - José counted a bit over forty inmates in the seats, maybe fifty - and two spotlights lit up the podium where a man stood. How... he hadn't been there a few seconds before!
A black, round thing which looked a bit like a WiFi router, came to life above their heads. It flickered, the number 101 appeared and got dark again. A counter?
"You should understand me now." the man said in perfect spanish. Nobody objected. "Good. The thing above us is a multilingual translator. It taps into your brainwaves and translates on-the-fly."
He cleared his throat and waved as a greeting. "Hi everyone. Some of you might know me, some of you don't and that is okay. My name is John Sullivan or technically, John Roland René Sullivan."
A bit of whispering emerged from the prisoners, uneasy shifting as well.
"Ah" continued the man with a weary smile "some of you have heard of me. Let me introduce myself to the rest and then I am going to tell you why you lot are here.
As said, the name is John Sullivan. For those unaware I am the Undying One." Now José blinked. That was indeed a name he had heard. This fucker had single-handedly ended the Ukraine War!
"Yes, José, this fucker ended it." The man looked right at him, his black and grey beard making him look like a mad prophet of some sorts. "And yes, I heard you. It is okay, I am indeed sometimes a mad fucker. - But back to me. As you are now aware, I am indeed the Undying One. Married, no children, counselor to the Grey Empress and jack-of-all-trades if you can believe it.
But enough about me, now to you folks. All of you are convicted felons. Sentenced to a long, weary death. For crimes you have comitted during your life. Hien Yên for example" he pointed at the Vietnamese woman "murdered her husband because he was a rapist, asshole, gambler and a general dumbass, right? Yeah, right.
But that is not the reason Hien Yên was given a life-sentence. No, she thought she would do that for other women as well. So she started a website and got other women to give her names and a price. It was a hit list. After... how many men? Sixteen? Yes, sixteen, thank you. After sixteen men she was caught and sentenced for a lifetime. And it was not just the murders, it was her way of doing it.
José here was a gang member in the former United States in Los Angeles. Drugs, murder, torture, blackmailing, human trafficking, smuggling just to name a few. He only got caught because he killed his family, his boss and a cop in a frenzy of... what was it, cocaine? No, it was Jacks, right?"
José nodded slowly. How did he know?! That wasn't even in his file.
"And Lars up there" John pointed at a fellow a bit behind José who looked like a descendant of Thor "murdered twenty-two people out of spite. With a knife and a handgun. To cut him some slack, they had it coming." José saw Lars nodding. His beard was short and well groomed, his hair long, tidy and he had two braids at the side of his head. That was a nasty cabrón.
"And now" John clapped and a few holofields appeared at his side "to the reason why all of you bastards are here. - See, everyone of you has reached the end of the line. Everyone of you is a mean motherfucker or a mean mother. All of you have looked death in the eye before and shrugged. Now you are awaiting a slow, agonising slow death in some cell of a high security prison. You are basically walking corpses. Any objections to that? No? Good.
So, I am not doing you a favour. I am not in the business of doing favours. I was in the IT business as a software developer back in the day. And if you want to have something developed, you pay for it. And now I want something and you want something.
I understand none of you wants to rot in a cell, right?" A few shook their heads, but no one objected here either. "Aye, I thought so. So you want a bit more freedom, maybe see places, get paid and such things? Sorry, not gonna happen. You are dead, remember that. But I am here to offer you a reason to live your miserable life. A solution. From here on you have three options. But I am getting ahead of myself, let's start at the beginning.
I personally chose everyone of you because you are walking, talking and breathing corpses. You are dead to your family, your neighbours and the rest of society. You are a toll on our taxes. You will die miserable and alone, but I want you to consider giving more meaning to your inevitable death. I need people who can take a beating and ask for more. Like Juan or Ji-Ho. I need people who can stand in a hailstorm of bullets and still shoot back, even when they have been hit multiple times like José."
"For what?" asked a woman on the other side of the hall.
"For me and the Grey Empress of course." laughed the Undying One dry. "What were you thinking? - I offer you three paths. The first one leads back to your cell with a relatively safe life, my thanks, and a slow death. The other two options lead you down the path of an Einherjar."
"What?" Lars stood up. "An Einherjar? You know what that is?"
"Yes, the fallen who were taken by the Valkyries to the halls of Odin to wait for Ragnarok." John chuckled. "Really, Lars? You thought I would choose a name out of spite without knowing what it means?"
"People tend to name things from the Old Norse mythology because they think it is cool." He grunted. "I am personally offended by that."
"I tell you what." John came closer... no, he was hovering above the seats towards Lars to look him in the eye. "Take the position of an Einherjar and we can talk more about it. Over self-made mead if you like."
"What does that entail?"
"Ah, let me tell you." John chuckled and hovered back to the podium. "As Lars already had mention an Einherjar is basically a warrior that has fallen on the battlefield, was taken by death messengers into an afterlife to await Ragnarok, the end of worlds. And now we come to the two remaining paths.
The first path gives you into my hands. You are my shield, my knife in the dark, my fist. You are at my disposal. I honour you as I wish, I kill you myself as I wish and I use you as I wish. Here on Terra, on the moon, Mars or where ever I deem fit. You fight either alone or with others. You are my fingers, my scalpels. Reconnaissance, assassinations, support, whatever I need of you. And if it means that you get me my favourite cup from the cupboard, then you get the cup.
The second path" he continued giving nobody a chance to ask questions "is protection. Also as an Einherjar. But not to protect me. You protect the Grey Empress. With your life. With everything you've got. If you have to take a bullet, a knife or anything else to protect her, you do it. You are her shadow, her protective detail. Everything you see or hear is strictly private and classified. A black-site is a walk in the forest, so heavily classified is it."
One of the holofields lit up, got a bit bigger so everyone could see the contents. "Your service is compensated with the following terms: 100,000 Vals a year, 15 days of vacation, a full retirement-package and a care package for your families if you still have one. If not, you can specify a person of your choosing to recieve this. In numbers it is 2000 Valerian Exchange Tokens a month. It is a take-it-or-leave-it package. No negotiations. Your salary is fixed as well and will only change if you get promoted.
And" he paused for effect "no contact with your families. No word, no letter, no holo-message, not even smoke signs. You may support them with a part of your salary, but that would be organised by the Empire, not by you." He looked around and for a second José shivered and didn't know why. "Questions?"
The question hovered around the hall, a word with a lot of meaning to it. With a lot of room for variables. Distinctive paths one can choose. José smelled fear. It was not his. And it didn't came from Juan. The spanish guy smiled and was kinda nervous, his right foot was tapping on the floor. Probably ready to start or to attack, maybe both.
Someone raised a hand, a bald guy with scriptures alongside his head. José couldn't see him, but as the guy spoke, he could hear the slavic accent even throught the translater. "What's an Einherjar? It is not some kind of mythical figure, ay?"
"No." Sullivan smiled that weary smile again and pointed with one finger to the strange foreign soldiers. "That is an Einherjar."
Suddenly all of the soldiers stomped with one foot, threw one fist - the right one - at their chest and then everyone took off their helmet. They were people. Men and women alike. Some had shaved their head, others didn't. They all had the same hard expression on their faces.
"We have fifty here. If - and that is a huge if - you folks here all agree to become an Einherjar, we have one hundred. Two more of those gatherings and we have enough."
"How many do you need?" asked José slowly, carefully. "It sounds like you want to send us on suicide missions, cabrón."
"No, no, no no mi amigo!" laughed Sullivan, came on foot right to José. Now he got a bit nervous. He was 230cm / 7''2ft and John was smaller than him, but the Undying One was intimidating. Under the suit José could see the hints of muscles, the mad-prophet-looking beard was trimmed to look exactly like that and the blue eyes were looking right through him. "I need people I can send to do things our army can't do and our Secret Service isn't trained to do. Things that are so heavily classified that I would level entire planets to hide them and that not even a file would exist about them. - Say, José, how many people have you killed? Or, let me be more precise, how many people have you skinned and gutted for your clan to keep it in power?"
"Hm, you are the Undying One. I think you know."
"Humour us, would you?"
"Urgh. Can't remember them all, but I would say about six docena?" The translator apparently translated it correctly to dozens, because a few of the convicted mumbled something and shifted uneasy in their seats.
"Aye. And how many nightmares do you got from that?"
"One. Maybe two. They vanished over time."
"Good, good. I need people who can do horrible things in their line of duty and sleep without nightmares. And not only for me. If you want to protect the Grey Empress, I also assume that you are not only standing in front of her, at her side or looming over her, I also assume that you are diving into the shadows, identifying threats, working with the Secret Service and eliminating threats before they can even think about doing something to the Grey Empress, the Empire itself, or the people in it."
"I want to test them!" said the Vietnamese guy with a serious face, sprang up and stood motionless on the back of the seat. "I don't believe these fuckers are worth more than any of us, especially not a woman!"
John chuckled, winked at José and made a nod to a silver-haired woman. "Camille, would you be so kind? On the podium, please. And mind you, don't kill him. He still needs to make a choice."
The Vietnamese guy spat out, jumped from his seat and moved to the podium, getting rid of the upper half of his jumpsuit to give himself more freedom of movement. He secured the arms around his hips so they wouldn't get into his way. Camille was close behind him.
That guys arms were tattooed, his chest was tattooed. José didn't know much about those signs, but it looked like that guy was as dangerous as anyone of them here. Murderers, rapists, smugglers. They all had blood on their hands and José already had made his choice.
"I should bet on this." the guy laughed. "I bet you can't even piss straight."
"You wanna bet?" asked Camille, a silent, cold voice coming out of the thin line of her mouth. "Make a deal on the outcome of this?"
"You can bet your flat ass on that, babe."
Camille rolled with her eyes. "Okay, punk. I tell you what. If you lose, be it with yielding or dying, you get rid of your tattoos and that shitty misogynistic behaviour of yours. Are you kissing your mother with that mouth?"
He spat out again, his brown eyes spilling murder in her direction. "And if I win?"
"If you can land one single hit, I suck you off where you stand, right now in front of all of these people."
"Ha, deal!" laughed the guy and nodded. "Bring it on, bitch!"
John next to José sighed. "Okay, lets get this over with. - Begin!"
John Sullivan
Cường wouldn't stand the slightest chance. Camille was not the best of the Einherjar, but every Einherjar was better than any Valerian Marine. And most of the Valerian Marines were better than these people. Well, at least most of them. José was a walking tank and Lars could have been one of those crazy vikings of old or the ones who were attempting to get their own ships for settling right now. He chose them well.
Cường attacked with wild kicks and threw fists at her. But Camille was fast, even in her armour. She dodged every kick, punch, and other attempts to hit her. Her hair, braided and secured with small pins, she hit him once, twice and thrice as Cường backed off retreating from the fast opponent. He was already bleeding out of his nose, the red blood tainted his white undershirt.
"Is that all you got, puny punk?" she taunted him. John saw through his monitor in his HUD that Cường was getting angry, his pulse was rising higher than it would be if he was only fighting. Good, angry people made mistakes.
"You made your choice." he said to José. The huge bald Mexican-American man leaned back, the seat was protesting, and the man nodded. "Good. Protection or my fist?"
"What do you say, Mighty One?"
"I would see you in protecting the Empress, to be honest. You are strong, intelligent, brutal. If you can't protect her, who can except me?"
"Can I be... uh, frank?"
"Oh, please, I encourage it."
"What do you get out of this? What is your angle?"
"Well, that is easy. My mind is divided by thousands of things at the same time. It is straining, sometimes headache-inducing and it would be a huge release for me to get things up and running so I can stop thinking about how we can protect the Grey Empress."
"Any privileges besides those you already showed?"
"What were you thinking?"
"Company? Cars? Drinks? Apartment? Luxuries?"
John smirked. "As said, you have vacation. If you want to buy an apartment, go ahead. We have some requirements for that as well, but I can only talk about it when you have sworn your oath and the contract stands."
"I got you, Boss." José nodded slowly and John was satisfied. This man was no more trustworthy in this state than a poisonous rainbow frog or a scorpion, but at least he was polite enough to ask. And that was a dangerous combination as well: polite and brutal. Had a bit of some Hannibal Lecter vibes, to be honest.
As John moved down the stairs, he felt the attack before Sarah even could show him attack patterns, angles, defensive strategies. The three guys and the one woman in the front row catapulted out of their seats and used the distraction of Camille versus Cường.
Was it because they thought they had a chance? Was it something they wanted to prove? Or was it just a test to see if he can be beaten or even touched? What were they thinking as he hovered to Lars a few minutes ago? Wasn't that prove enough?
John didn't take his chances. He swatted at them with enough force to slap an elephant unconscious. But not directly, he missed their noses by a few carefully calculated centimeters, but the force was strong enough to rattle their brains in their skulls, make their noses bleed and bring them to the ground. Grunting was the result and an end to the attacks.
"Nice try." John took a step away from them. "Come to your senses and sit down again. The next time you try this I might not be inclined to give such generous courtesy again." He wasn't angry, he was just surprised they hadn't tried it earlier.
"Punk." said Camille with a frosty voice and as John laid his eyes onto the podium, the Vietnamese underground gang leader Cường was laying down on his side, bleeding from mouth, nose, and ears, coughing up blood. His analysis showed no internal fractures or bleedings, which was good, so he didn't need healing from the Undying One.
"Thank you, Camille. I assume he didn't even scratch you?"
"No, Sir."
"Good. Take your place again and helmets, please."
Camille resumed her place at the stairs again and everyone put on their helmets. John made a small jump and was back on the podium again, next to Cường. "Stand up. Now." Cường did. "Good. You satisfied? You want to go back or forward?"
The smaller man rose slowly, stumbled, shook his head to clear it and looked up to John. "Forward."
"Forward...?"
"Forward, Sir."
"Good. Stay here, you don't need your seat." Cường stood beside John, dripping blood from his nose until the annoyed Undying One gave him some handkerchiefs out of one of his pockets. "My dear walking deads, you have seen what an Einherjar can do to one of the most dangerous people on the planet of Terra. So now it is time to choose.
If you want to go back to your cells, just stay seated.
If you want to be my fist, my knife, my fingers, go to the stairs on my right, your left.
And if you want to protect the Grey Empress and the Empire, go to the stairs on my left, your right." He shot a glance to José who already stood on the stairs for protecting the Empress. Good.
People rose, clothes rustled, shoes shuffled as men and women chose their sides. Cường got to the right side of the lecture hall. A knife, good. Lars was also on the side of the knives. The sides were uneven, more convicted wanted to have a shot as one of Johns disposable fingers, but fifteen bad mothers and motherfuckers had chosen to protect the Empress. Nobody wanted to go back into their cells.
This was good. John imagined some of them wanted to see the Empress right upfront and probably kill her. Wouldn't be the first attempt. But oh boy, they didn't know about the implants and the psychological conditioning they were going through in the next months. And then four to six years of training.
"Okay!" John clapped one time and looked very pleased. "Love it. Lets get started!"
1Cường (KYUNG), means "strong" or "powerful"
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