"So, you want to hear a story of Old Blue, do you?" the old Vixari asked the young child who had asked him. "Then I will give you one. But you must promise that afterwards you will all listen to Karta Rend and go to bed."

The children laughed and faked moans, and the old Vixari chuckled.

"Very well. Let us begin at the best place, which is not quite the beginning. For it is the story of a human man on Earth, for that is the real name of Old Blue, and the beginning of a man's life on Earth is not very exciting."

"Instead, we shall begin at this man's age of twenty-one years, which is somewhat younger than the equivalent age here. This man's name was Greg Greene, and he was in the Army of a large country on that planet."

"He's got the same name as you!" the children chorused.

Greg the Vixari chuckled. "So he does. Anyway, he was there at the beginning of the End, when the Drakosh coalition attacked a perceived threat on the small, innocuous planet Earth. He was sent to fight alongside men of all nations against this attack, though they had no real hope of victory."

***

:"GRENADE!" came the call for what seemed the billionth time that day, an innocent-seeming, brightly colored ball, until it exploded like a minature nuke. Still, we fought on, using what of the enemy's weapons we could figure how to work and our own dwindling supply of munitions.

The battle lines were quickly drawn across the world, and just as quickly dissolved and re-formed by drops by both sides, nukes, large conventional bombings. These Drakosh are ugly mothers, big, strong, and hard to kill.

As I loaded up my MP5 for another charge into no-man's-land, I looked around at the dead, partially dissolved by enemy plasma, and the dying, burning to death from the inside out, and the living, burning out more and more every day. War is a horrible thing, and you should never let anyone tell you different.

Servicemen and Civilian alike were pressed into combat by circumstance, for the aliens killed without distinction. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, any and every weapon was pressed into service, and the American right to bear arms proved it's worth as the well-equipped but poorly trained citizens blasted swaths through the enemy, though at great and foolish cost.

One thing's for sure, I thought as I hefted my weapons again, I don't intend to let some crustacean have this planet.

Then came the order to charge, and I ran into the thick of the searing heat, not knowing whether I would live or die.

Not particularly caring, so long as I took some of them with me.

Maybe the Japanese have it right. Expect to die, and you will live through anything.

***

some months later, I am in an underground bunker, standing with a rifle against the wall, listening to fools plan ineffective strikes.

"That will never work." I speak out, and they all look at me. "The Drakosh don't use oil for fuel, or do none of you know that? They use plasma, idiots." I said, then walked over to the map on the table.

"We want to hit the power plants that have been converted to produce plasma cores." I said, taking the man's bright red pencil and marking, nuclear, gas, solar, and coal plants of the right size. "Hit these and we will cripple them for a short time." I said.

"Hit this, and we can fight back." I told them, tapping the Drakosh spaceport.

They did not listen to me.

Hundreds died in an assault that did nothing.

But not me.

Arrogant fools.

***

Near the end of Earth's life, the resistances reclaimed our planet-- for a time. The Drakosh made several disciplinary forays to Earth, and I was caught in one.

"Jimmy! One on you!"

"Augh!"

"Jimmy? MEDIC!"

"Get your head right, Greene! They've got us outnumbered!"

"GRENADE!"

Through the pain and shock, I saw and felt no more. Maybe it was because, so close to freedom, I had a glimmer of a wish to live.

***

"And soon after, a great shadow came across the planet: A Drakosh Planet Buster, a rare and fearsome artifact. You see, the Drakosh had decided to destroy Earth entirely, rather than deal with the continued and senseless attacks of the Human inhabitants. And so they would have, if the Humans had not gotten wind of their efforts." Greg the Vixari said.

"The humans built great space stations, and moved as many of their people as possible to them. And these new homes they still defended to their last breath, until a scant two thousand remained. These, seeing no other option, surrendered, and it was decreed that they be scattered among the known stars, so as to never trouble another race again." he finished.

"So, how did we come to all be here, on this planet?" one of the children, the one who had asked for the story, said.

"That is a long story, my boy, and for another night. Now, you must all listen to Karta Rend and go to bed, like you promised." the old Vixari told them, and they went, some with protests, many with yawns and droopy eyes.

When they were done, Karta Rend, a beautiful female Vixari and Greg's mate, came in and sat down next to him. "Telling the young ones stories of your exploits again, Greg Greene?" she asked.

"They ought to know of the origins of their people. And who else is left to teach them?" Greg Greene said.

"Origins indeed. I only wish we could originate something of our own." she said.

"Is that an invitation to this decrepit old fox?" Greg asked, chuckling.

"Only if you want it to be." she slyly intimated.