the millennial generation has not changed even in space

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

like this

The thing about a military academy is it’s never quiet. If there aren’t drills going on at all hours or friendly scraps between cadets, someone’s up running laps or trying to hide contraband beneath their mattresses. At all hours of the night. It makes it hard for a man to investigate the grounds and plot.

When Char returns to his shared dorm [they are all supposed to be brothers and sisters in arms, watching each other’s backs and helping one another grow, but all he can think of are the ashes of his life] he isn’t surprised to find a light on from beneath the gap at the bottom of the door. His Illustrious Garma Zabi, for all his pomp and circumstance and nervous energy is a hard worker. Gold plated silver spoon and all.

So again, Char isn’t surprised, already has at least eight lies on the tip of his tongue for the inevitable curiosity when he pushes the door open and kicks his boots off-- but nothing but the faint sound of breathing cuts through the air. No cacophony of questions, no bright eyed sharing.

The Future Red Comet is instantly on alert, shoulders squared. Did they find out? Is this some sort of ambush? Char inches towards the bunks, senses no movement. No shift in the air.

Garma Zabi, the apple of Degwin Sodo Zabi’s eye, the universal kid brother, is flopped over his bed dead asleep. His data pad rests in his hand in a death grip, videos of cats falling down the stairs play over and over on a playlist. Tear tracks mark his cheeks.

It would be so easy to take him out now. Smother him with a pillow, cut off his air with a nearby sock. It would be so easy, a mercy. This is just pathetic.

This is the best the Zabi family, his mortal enemies, have to offer when it comes to the gene pool? For a moment, just a moment, Char's blood boils in his veins. [his father died for this? his mother withered away for this? his sister called to his retreating back, begging--] It would be sickeningly easy.

Char strides past the pathetic display of rich boy vibes and climbs up onto his own bunk instead. Settles, retrieves his own data pad instead. Smirks like the cat that got the canary.

Another day, another time. For now, Garma will slumber peacefully and dream of the battles he never wanted to be a part of, of the praise of his siblings and his father’s soft, warm hand resting gently on his cheek.

In the morning he’ll awaken to those sad animal shelter donation videos on a loop.