Trey ponders this a moment, continuing to gnaw on his lip. When he answers he dares to raise his eyes so that they are level with Mar's, ignoring the little thrill of fear that this action sends down his spine, "You're wrong," he says, "I am a Yeerk. Maybe not in body, but where it counts. What the Andalites and the humans did was wrong. It was meant as genocide, and maybe they would have succeeded if they had treated us as humans, but they put us aside. Made us different. Made us subhuman. They treated us like slugs."
Trey pauses, catching his breath, surprised at the energy in his voice. He has never been this passionate about anything before. His entire life he had been content to stay below the radar, avoiding trouble at all costs. It was his father, not yet cold in his grave, who spoke of rebellion and mass murders. Yet somehow, for the first time since his father's death, something had clicked into place. He no longer felt lost. In fact, out of his ranting an idea has formed. An idea that seemed so perfect, so insane, it was almost too good to be true.
"Our cause," he says in a slower, calmer, but no less intense voice, "is our freedom. The freedom of the nothlits to live life as they choose, not as slaves. The freedom of the grubs to do what our parents cannot. Return to the pools that should have spawned us."
