Sexis' mom's name was Stronges Trum.

Yeah, I have no comments. The name itself sounds like a rejected superhero who lost her gym membership and her contract with Marvel.

She was a trainer—and she looked like one.

Abs so sharp they could slice onions, shoulders like she bench-pressed her emotions and pregnant elephants, and that same scowl every PT teacher wears when they see you breathing too happily.

She said she'd train us to fight Malthus and his army.

I asked how long it'd take and she said:

"Five years exact."

"How can you be exact?" I asked.

She smirked like she'd bench-pressed math itself. "Because I know my skills."

"Then why not four years?"

Her smile died. "Because I know your skills."

Damn. That's a good one.

"Fine. We're ready," I said, trying to sound strong but mostly sounding like a student volunteering for suicide in a amateur's magician's trick.

The prisoners echoed me. They were also ready. As ready as a

"Alright then. You shall all spend the night here," she said. "Training starts tomorrow. Sleep on the floor. You will face hell from tomorrow. This will be your last painless sleep. Don't expect pity or love from me. I am a monster. I didn't even love my own son."

Excuse me—what in the Greek tragedy is this parenting style?

"Only strength matters. Become strong and earn my love. My son was the strongest alien, and only then did I love him. When he lost, I unloved him again. He is a loser. He is shit, like all of you."

Jesus Christ, lady. Therapy exists.

"It's all fun and games," she continued, "but when death strikes, all the comedy goes to the drain. No jokes. Talk only about training. Especially to me. Speak nonsense, and I'll destroy your ass. Understood?"

I see.

So should I leave right now?

This woman radiated 'protein powder and unresolved trauma.' How did she even find a partner? I bet when she was making love, she whispered, "Come before I do, and I'll break it."

But fine. I wanted to get stronger. So I swallowed my jokes like expired medicine and experienced porn stars.

"Yes, sir!" I shouted.

The prisoners did the same.

"Now go to sleep." Stronges said and…

"What?!" I exclaimed like a silicon boobs woman who got hit with a needle on her chest.

Her eyes glared like red-hot kettlebells of rage.

But I stood my ground. "We haven't eaten in ages! We're starving! You expect us to train on empty stomachs? We need food. We won't be able to live!"

The prisoners nodded like malnourished pigeons.

"Yes, sir! We're hungry!" Sexis joined in and damn, this man calls his mom 'sir' while demanding food. Now this is what I call mommy issues.

All of us stared at our trainer like she was a foreigner in India and I hope she won't erupt in curses.

But the next second, I heaved a sigh of relief as her gaze softened.

"Right. You all need food. Fine. Today, you'll eat. But from tomorrow, you hunt your own food. That's part of the training."

We smiled in relief. Food first, death later.

But then she just stood there.

No movement. No nothing.

Uh, hello? Lady, go fetch the snacks. We're dying out here.

"Um… where's the food?" I asked.

Her eyes glimmered like a villain about to monologue.

"Be patient. I'm doing it."

Doing it? That's not how people usually phrase "getting food."

Now I wasn't sure I should eat the food she would give.

She saw the looks of confusion on our faces and rolled her big red eyes.

She was wearing that white martial arts uniform with a black belt—the kind that makes you look peaceful but could end families.

She raised both of her hands and clapped twice.

No one had any idea what would happen but Sexis was calm. Of course he knew what was going to happen. He trained here after all.

We all waited. Then came a rumbling noise—mechanical, metallic, like the sound of an old man standing up.

We all looked around to find the source and then, our eyes went behind Stronges.

And as soon we saw what was going on, our brows shot up.

The things I thought were kids, weren't kids at all.

They were covered with a black cloak but now they weren't and we finally saw what they were.

They were small robots!

The dwarf version of robots.

Like Roombas who joined the military.

They had wheels instead of legs and they had small hands.

Their eyes were yellow and square shaped just like their heads.

As soon as she clapped, the army of midget machinery rolled forward in a perfect line, clicking and whirring like they were auditioning for Transformers: Kindergarten Edition.

They opened the door by pressing some kind of button with their short hands and went inside.

They were in hundreds and they had made a line outside the room.

The first robot went inside and came back with a plate.

I squinted my eyes and when I figured what was on the plate, my eyes sparkled.

It was food.

Each robot carried a plate sealed with lamination, like it was precious treasure.

They kept rolling back and forth serving every prisoner.

Me, Erect, and Sexis were at the back, so we got our plates last.

I wanted to snatch someone else's plate, but Stronges' death stare said: Do it, and I'll make your skeleton do squats.

Fifteen minutes later, our plates finally arrived.

All of us snapped the lamination from the plate and ate whatever was inside.

Something white. Something black. Something brown. Like the ingredients of racial harmony.

I went for the brown first—it looked the most suspicious.

And holy mother of leg day—it was delicious.

It tasted familiar.

Like a distant memory from my Earth days.

I took another bite, and my brain short-circuited.

"Da fuck…?" I muttered.

I looked at the plate again, my eyes widening.

"There's CHOCOLATE in this world!?"

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