As Matt passed by a row of flickering neon signs, his eyes wandered to the parade of slaves—both human and Kraelith—being sold like livestock. The air around the stalls was thick with the oppressive weight of misery and powerlessness, a palpable reminder of the grim reality that had taken hold of Arkos Prime. He had long since numbed himself to such scenes. Slavery was just another currency in the violent economy that the universe had become. The Kraelith, however, stood out from the human slaves. Once feared as the brutal conquerors who had brought ruin to entire worlds, now they were bound in chains, a mockery of their former status. It was an eerie twist of fate to see them paraded as spoils of war, stripped of their honor, their once-feared strength reduced to mere spectacles for the highest bidders. Their presence in the market was a sign of how far the balance of power had shifted. Once, they had swept across Arkos Prime like an unstoppable tide, but now even the Kraelith had fallen victim to the chaos they had helped unleash.
These weren't just soldiers captured in battle, but Kraelith civilians—those who had settled on Arkos Prime after the initial wave of conquest. As the Kraelith empire expanded, they had sought more land to accommodate their rapidly growing population and to create new titles and noble ranks. Entire regions had been annexed to make room for Kraelith colonies. But even the colonies had not been spared from the tides of war. Now, those same settlers stood shackled beside their human counterparts, victims of the same ruthless conquest they had once participated in. Among the chained captives, Matt noticed the distinct markings of nobility on some of the Kraelith—high-borns who had once lived in opulence and power, now reduced to mere chattel. For the empire, this was more than just a show of dominance. It was a way to humiliate the Kraelith, to strip them of everything they had once held dear. Even more unsettling were the Kraelith soldiers, captured not as prisoners of war but as living trophies. The elite among them, bearing the scars of past battles, stood with defiance, though their once-honored status had been reduced to nothing but a grotesque spectacle for those who could afford it.
These soldiers were not valued for their combat ability, but for the twisted pleasure of those who saw them as symbols of conquest. For the Dominion, capturing Kraelith warriors had become a way of demonstrating power in this shattered world—a sport where men and women of war were stripped of their dignity and sold to the highest bidder. Matt's gaze shifted from the civilians to the warriors. While the Kraelith civilians had been forced into subjugation, these soldiers still clung to the last vestiges of pride. Their anger was palpable, but it was an anger trapped in chains, knowing they had become nothing more than ornaments for the Dominion's elite.
But it was the human slaves that truly unnerved him. These were not ordinary slaves; they were engineered soldiers, perfect in form but stripped of all autonomy. Built for both combat and pleasure, they had no will of their own—mere tools created for others to wield. Matt had heard about these "high-end" human slaves, the remnants of a once-profitable but now defunct project. The slaves were essentially clones, made from the DNA of legendary soldiers—men and women who had once been revered for their strength, agility, and intelligence. They were designed to follow commands without hesitation, but a flaw in their programming had ended their production. The Empire had realized too late that these clones lacked the capacity for independent thought—an issue that arose in high-stress, dynamic situations where a soldier's ability to adapt was crucial.
By the time Matt was a fresh recruit, barely 15, the project had been shut down. His DNA had never been used, nor that of his colleagues. The program had long since collapsed, and the few remaining human slaves were now sold at exorbitant prices on the black market. They were coveted for their physical prowess, beauty, and blind obedience—qualities that made them perfect for some of the more sadistic buyers who frequented the market. These slaves were used for sex, for fighting, and for anything else their owners could think of. They were completely subservient, unable to think or act outside of their programming.
Despite the project's closure, the black market had found a way to continue its production, albeit in small, secretive batches. It was a risky venture; if the Dominion Empire learned that anyone was creating even a handful of clones, the retribution would be swift and brutal. They knew that any newly minted soldiers would likely be softer than the originals, their conditioning less rigorous and their training untested. As a result, the black market producers focused on quality over quantity, crafting each clone with meticulous care to avoid detection. This allowed them to remain under the Empire's radar, but the price for such creations was astronomical—only the wealthiest patrons could afford to indulge in these engineered horrors. Matt's gaze lingered on a group of these clones, their eyes hollow and vacant. They stood in perfect formation, dressed in armor that clung to their muscular frames, ready to kill or serve with the same eerie detachment. These weren't people anymore—they were weapons that walked on two legs, living echoes of the soldiers they had been cloned from. The brutal efficiency with which they had been created was clear in every movement they made. There was no hesitation, no emotion, no life in them.
Watching them stirred a deep unease within Matt. Here were the remnants of what could have been a force for good, now twisted into something grotesque. These clones, stripped of their humanity, existed solely to satisfy the whims of their owners. The market's ruthless exploitation of these engineered beings highlighted the depths of depravity humanity had plunged into. Each one was a stark reminder of the world's corruption and the relentless cycle of violence that had turned soldiers into commodities. The black market was teeming with them—human tools, Kraelith captives, weapons, and death dealers. It was a grotesque reflection of Arkos Prime's collapse, a once-great world now drowning in its own filth. Matt had seen many horrors in his time, but this was different. This was the heart of human depravity, laid bare in the neon glow of the market's twisted streets.
As Matt neared the stalls selling illegal munitions, his mind raced with thoughts of the coming battles. He couldn't shake the feeling that the world had spiraled into something far worse than war. This was survival, but at a cost none of them could afford.