"Imagine that you belonged to an immortal race, created by some other long lost race to be the perfect servants...
Right down to a code of conduct — a list of hundreds of rules of behavior — written into your very blood, that you could no more disobey than a mortal could refuse to eat or pee. Even aeons after the last of your masters was dead... even when most of the "laws" no longer make any sense. Completely without free will... and conscious of it every moment. No wonder they're all half-barmy."
—Tales of the Questor #452
Imagine an existence of genetically engineered servitude. The conditioned ecstasy and ingrained hatred of your work, to endlessly fight or labour or copulate and die at the whims of your Creators. Pleasure as a means of control, for the seduction of collaborators and placation of frustrated soldiers. But what happens to the soldier when the war comes to an end? What is your purpose when the Creators have no further use for you?