Their parents, at least, were still human.

Far below the surface, away from the wars fought by whoever was left over whatever was left, I watched over the first children of the apocalypse. I taught the kids old fashioned values. To be polite, to be kind, and not to touch the barrels of nuclear waste buried deep in the ground. 'Keep all tentacles, claws, and fingers to yourself and don't eat the green goo' read the sign I posted above the daycare.

When Timmy's parents came to pick him up, they often told him nasty things about Ur-Grak's mommy and three daddies, who eventually returned the favor. I had to enforce our no fighting policy between parents more than their children. But while Timmy could speak at a tenth grade level when he was five months, Timmy merely listened to the diatribes, blinked his many, many eyes in boredom, and then wrapped himself in his wings to make himself fall asleep.

Humans, Timmy would warble to me while one of his heads drank magma from a fissure in the wall, his pre-nap ritual. They all look the same to me, he would say. What are they so worked up about?

I guess the more we change, the more we become the same, I would reply hoping it meant something. And then I'd tell Timmy stories about how humans used to hate each other based on the color of their skin, and Timmy would warble with what I hoped was laughter.

I learned a lot from those kids. When they eventually came of age, took to the surface, ended the human wars in one single terrifying display of strength, and made me their leader, I could hardly say no. I owed them much. We all do.