We were killers—the coldest, most ruthless, and most efficient killers on Earth.
We had once been ordinary people who fought for foolish reasons: religious superstition, selfish desire, money, and more. Then we underwent this evolution. Our creator had deliberately molded us into this form because he needed us to be his sword and shield. Beneath the hardened Power Armor, genetic pruning, drugs, and countless other factors drove our muscles into extreme growth according to our creator's design. Our bones were brutally cut, crushed, healed, over and over, before breaking through their genetic limits and growing again. Biochemical organs, cancerous in nature, were removed from Incubation Tanks and packed into our overcrowded chests and abdomens, developing alongside our ever-growing bodies. Our brains, too, became smarter and quicker through further development, targeted modification, and implanted knowledge. Some unnecessary emotions—weaknesses—had even been deleted.
Flexible neural probes burrowed into our spines, greedily reading neural signals from every part of our bodies and transmitting our every movement to the mechanisms that powered our Power Armor, driving the servos to move in sync with us. We moved many times faster than before. Our strength could easily twist steel bars. The world's most advanced weapons gave us the most efficient means of killing, while needless emotions such as cowardice and pity were cast aside. We existed for only one purpose: to sweep away the enemies blocking humanity's path to progress.
"What are you writing again, Malcolm? That long, stinking poem you wrote in Iraq?" The adjutant's voice roused the Legion Commander from his paper and pen. The roar of the Pegasus Assault Transport's engines and its passage through the atmosphere filtered through the thick alloy plating and ablative armor, becoming a low tremor. Malcolm looked up at his adjutant, then tucked the little notebook in his palm