He remembered being drafted. He had received a notice within his digital mail, telling him he had been drafted. The day before, he had heard about the mobilization order on the news. He had felt cold and hollow when he heard the words, and his mothers had been crying -- maybe that's why he was so cold and hollow. His father didn't look at him, and his younger brothers and sisters were constantly hanging around him. His father only spoke to him as he was getting on the shuttle, and he told him that he was proud of him -- that he loved him. When his father left, he heard a man playing a tune. He was old and far away, unshaven and dirty, playing his sad little tune on a broken, rusty thing. He had been laughing under his breath as he played, and Melo had sworn he knew what was going to happen.

Boot camp had been bad, up until the point they found his spatial awareness was superior to others. It was probably because he had lived so much of his life in space, instead of on a planet like everyone else. His home, the station Mita, had given him a gift he thought back then. And when he was training to become a pilot, he was very good -- an ace of kinds. This made him happy and made him think he had a future. But on his first mission, he found out the most disturbing truth. Pilots had a much higher death rate in this war than infantry because, in space combat, the Naval Forces are the first line of defense. Out of the 12 planes in his unit, only 3 of them came back, a death rate of 75%... Lower than the average. That spatial awareness had felt like a curse since then, for if only he hadn't been a pilot.

27 years this war had been waging. 27 long years -- it was funny to think this war was so much older than him, 10 years his senior. There had been four different mobilization orders. The most recent one was called "desperate" by every elder he knew. Because now, instead of protecting their younger generation, they were sending it off to go and die. Maybe he should have broken his arm or wings if he had, then maybe he wouldn't have been drafted. But with his luck, they'd just fix it and send him off anyway. The Canna Confederacy, his home that he was supposed to love, wanted him to die for it. Was that his duty as a citizen? He wasn't even old enough to vote yet, but he was old enough to die? Couldn't even lose his virginity legally, but he was expected to lose his life?

The rough tap of a man to his right brought Melo from his thoughts. Looking up as his arms kept shaking, he would look into the face of Belo. His superior, commander, and wingman. "Get it together Melo, this is only your second mission. Might have been tough shit back in the academy, but we're not there anymore."

Did Belo think that Melo needed to hear that? He couldn't even keep himself still, for he knew the odds were this was his last mission. He would have simply nodded, watching as Belo went back to chatting with the rest of the squad. Melo was off by himself, sitting alone as he always did, holding a metallic square in his grasp. It was a religious symbol, at least that's what one of his grandmothers had told him. It had come from them. Their benefactors in this war; the Pandorians. Just as his thoughts turned to them, they came onto the floor. Coming off the elevator in silence, he saw a pair of their clone soldiers. They were both 7 feet tall and wore completely pitch black armor, save for the hands, which were colored white. He heard some of the older men call them "White Gloves" because of that.

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The White Gloves' armor was terrifying to look at. It changed depending on which sector of space it went to, mostly cosmetically. Those changes were based on the inherent fears of the species in those sectors of space, using their evolutionary pre-dispositions of fear as a power. Looking at that armor, seeing the splattered patterns of gray and white on it, caused him to feel disturbed. The long pieces of metal that appeared to be mandibles on their helms made him afraid, and the hollow white lights that were their eyes made him sick. The monstrosities of muscle beneath that armor were made clear even from a distance. It showed too from how they walked with heavy, heavy steps; for White Gloves did not walk, they stomped. The White Gloves weapons were the worst part, for it was surely made of bones and flesh that seemed to move every time you stopped looking, a pair of long, pitch black rifles that struck some kind of terror into him.

But the White Gloves were not the Pandorians, just their weapons. It was the man behind them, the much shorter, smaller man, that drew his attention. He was very attractive, too attractive despite the differences caused by the difference in beauty between species. He heard their faces were perfectly symmetrical, which is why even species that look like them can tell them apart. His hair was a weird blue color, yet it appeared perfectly natural, more natural than it should have. His skin was fair and beautiful, something that made Melo feel odd when he saw it. The Pandorians always wore something odd, nothing ever military issue when they were here. He wore a pair of black pants with fur around the bottom cuffs. A black, tight shirt, with a long black fur jacket, and at his hip was a black box and a black cylinder. The Pandorian was being led by their general staff, the commanders in charge of the station. They were talking about something he could not hear.

The Pandorians say they are the descendants of the Old Ones, and that Pandora is the mother of their species. He didn't know if that was true, but he did know that their power and dominion were greater than any other power in all of known space. Three galaxies were bent to their will, to their Empire that spawned the dark and cold confines of space. Their technology, that of the Gods at the least, technology that could win the war if they so decided to give it. And of their warriors, of their great power and divine strength... If even one Pandorian decided to fight for them in earnest, he had heard the war too would be over. But none had, for reasons they could never seem to understand. A few handouts were all the Pandorians gave and nothing more. But as the Pandorian walked past him, as their eyes met for just a moment, the one thing that came to the service was his desire to live -- a desire that became prayer. And as he did, he swore the Pandorian winked at him