Grenn Centurions are designed and bred as commanders

I’m writing this down because to this day, I can’t believe it happened. Like in any Unicity, a large part of our population is Grenn. They live among us, because like most cities, we revolted, or our corporations got out of line, or any of the other various reasons the Coalition can find to send in their armies of bugs. And then they have to integrate and live among us. And it’s never easy. I lived in a nice city block. It had a few office buildings but mostly housing for families. And every day, as I watered my plants, this gigantic Grenn Centurion would walk by in their dress shirt, wearing their tie, little suitcase by their side. And every day that big white bug would greet me kindly.
“Good day ma’am,” they’d say, and I’d nod, not knowing what to think of them. I know they led armies into battle, commanded battalions to murder tens or hundreds of people. They’re a Centurion, it’s what they do. I tried not to hold it against this one. And I suppose I don’t anymore now. Not after all of this.
I’ve lived in that neighborhood for close to 28 years now. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Ours. We had a little community, with our barber shop, our grocery store. Kids played on the sidewalks and we tried not to judge. We surely didn’t judge the Centurion. Tried not to. I knew they worked in one of the administrative offices down the road, which explained the suitcase and the tie. And I thought nothing of it. Just another one of us going to work. But we all heard it, that day. My little headset blinked, it beeped. A warning broadcast. I saved it so you can read it.

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We are Grenn. We do not get to choose. But we do get to change.

The hole in the wall bar was tucked into a narrow alley, only a flickering neon sign betrayed its existence to passerbys. The inside was dimly lit, the air musky and thick with the smell of booze and sick. The Huarangi bartender was scrubbing murky, yellow Shil’Q puke from the bar. It had left a bite in the bar, the acidity having eaten away at it. The bartender cursed, so Jack chuckled to himself. He didn’t need the job, but not being active was worse. It would leave him alone with himself.
“Who’s a good boy?” he asked his Curate. It wagged its sack and curled up in a corner of the bar floor.
“When are you going to stop bringing that thing to work, Jack?” the bartender asked.
“When he dies, Loreng,” Jack replied bluntly.
Loreng made an apologetic gesture, “Alright man. Sorry. You’re the last person I want to start a fight with.”
“I know.”

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The Shil’Q are a bipedal mammalian species that walk and swing around using their arms rather than legs.

I love my wife. Every day I wake up next to her, her beautiful nostrils flaring at me. I roll out of our hang mat, get into the shower. I get my uniform out, I iron it. Every morning.  I like looking pristine before I get to work. I take in the glorious smells of the city, staring out the window with my cup of coffee in hand. My two children dart around me.
“Daddy, daddy! Bring us back something nice today!”
I always tell them I will try. I love my children. I’m paid well, the Coalition takes care of us. My wife comes down the spiral, ready to help me with their lunches. I love my wife. I love my children.
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