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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Jus17173 on 2025-06-30 13:54:35+00:00.

When the Galorama—the aliens whose planet was closest to our own—made an attempt on my planet, Zeguoza, the Galactic Federation, of which we were a part along with thousands of other species, withdrew their support, claiming: “A war confounded on ancient hate and malice is not one the Federation wishes to be a part of.”

It is true that the Galorama have been our enemies since time immemorial. Sure, their spectra ships, fueled by psionic blasters, have riddled the pink skies of Zeguoza in the past. The elders of old, who shuffled on pallid green bowed legs, eyes half-blind from biting a huge chunk of time, did stare at the sky with faces twisted in hate, whiskers trembling under the visual proof of extinction the Galorama so avidly portrayed with their ships and plasma-charged cannons that rained death and destruction upon the planet's surface.

This was indeed a war fueled by ancient enmity. The elders of old knew it, my parents knew it, and I know it. Why did the Galorama attack Zeguoza? They say it was because of something we'd done to them long ago—too long ago for anyone alive to remember. I'm sure even the Galorama don't recall exactly why they attacked my planet repeatedly over time. And our efforts to stop their onslaught did seem to yield fruit when we became a part of the Galactic Federation, but it all appears to have been in vain. For they came once more in all their military might, and we, the natives of Zeguoza, could do nothing but watch as the enemy's ships clustered in orbit.

We had our defenses. Those of us who valued our safety did put up measures in case of war. But the Galorama were technologically superior. They had the means to bring down our core dome—a transparent barrier that meshed about planet Zeguoza from orbit, ensuring nothing sinister could make its way down through the atmosphere to meet the planet’s surface.

With their plasma cannons, they lit up the sky, firing repeatedly upon the core dome. Sparks lit the air. Mushroom clouds bloomed from the onslaught, staining the beautiful expanse that was once our peaceful sky. Night became day. Fire rained from above, and we below could do nothing but stare with bleak eyes, fists curled with nails digging into the palms of our pallid green hands. Tears welled in our eyes, our whiskers twitched repeatedly, betraying the battles that were raging within as opposed to without.

The transparent core barrier blinked a clear orange light, casting all of us beneath it in the same hue of dancing flames. The core dome was no longer transparent but a beacon of our impending doom. It could not withstand the plasma cannons that vomited torrents of pure pulse energy onto the dome. It blinked from orange and switched to red before collapsing. The four support dome sections—aligned from the distant north and south and along the equator—each exploded. Their capacitors became overcharged and incapable of keeping up with the assault.

We felt it then—the tremors upon the ground betraying the explosions of the support dome sections right before the red dome's light vanished and our skies were clear once more. Only now, they held not the visceral beauty that came with observing that which stretches without end, but the descending Galorama ships.

Sirens blared, urging all able-bodied Zeguoza to arms. The few plasma rifles were passed around, with many missing out on them and opting to use sharp objects such as blades that would be next to useless against Galorama armor.

So we gathered, singing our songs of old that the elders spoke into existence for moments such as these—for times when the darkness became tangible and the thought of light became an echo that would soon drift into rumor.

The skies flashed as the pulse cannons charged from the Galorama ships' underbellies. Those of us with plasma rifles fired up at the sky—for all the good it did. Some lamented, while others spoke of the Galactic Federation and their betrayal.

"Did they not promise us support in times of war, no matter the reason for said war?" one Zeguoza male asked while ejecting a plasma cartridge from his rifle and blowing into the segment holes to prevent backfire.

"The most the Galactic Federation did was put out a notice indicating that the collective alien body will not interfere with Zeguoza–Galorama matters. But they will claim they showed support by indicating that any other species part of the Galactic Federation is free to participate in the war at their own volition—which is not to be privy to Galactic Federation aid," a Zeguoza femalen answered.

That was it, then. We were doomed, for there was no species that was part of the Galactic Federation that would willingly join a war that offered no benefit to them. Our planet would finally be destroyed by the Galorama, and it would usher in the Zeguoza's end.

Those with plasma rifles found themselves lowering them, understanding the futility of it all. Eyes were fixed above, where the plasma cannons charged, static electricity dancing across the underbellies of the Galorama ships. The air was lit with the smell of ozone and, as if in acceptance of it all, many sighed and embraced for the last time—for indeed, it was the last time.

Then, just as the numerous ships spread out across the sky prepared to fire their pulse cannons at the planet's surface, there was a sound—one few were familiar with. For few were as intimate with the species of alien whose ships made said sound when they tore through the fabric of space, jumping light-years and hopping from galaxy to galaxy.

It was like a blue sun flaring into existence, spinning and warping above the planet. Those with technoscopes that could pierce cloud cover and reveal the bowels of space gave word of their arrival. Numerous ships—not a hundred but thousands—poured out of the blue space portal they had invented for space travel.

The ships were colored with various symbols set in a rectangle, large and flashing with luminous paint. They claimed the rectangles with colors, painted across the bulk of their iron ships, were something called “flags” for the regions they lived in, which were called “countries.”

The humans had arrived.

They descended on the Galorama's ships, which had lowered themselves into Zeguoza's lower atmosphere for better clinical bombardment. The Galorama were trapped. In their quest to maneuver the bulk of their ships so they could fire above—where their new enemy had appeared from—they were met with atomic missiles. These didn't rely on plasma charges. They were shot out of guns leveled and aimed at the hulls of the Galorama ships. On and on the human ships fired, and the missiles fell—first as a trickle, then pouring without cease.

The effect was instant. The human atomic missiles cut through the Galorama ships, shredding through the outer casing with spinning jagged tips before lodging into the bowels of the Galorama ships—where they then detonated, killing all who were within and practically turning entire Galorama ships into ash.

We watched with our whiskers twitching—not out of fear but out of awe. Shock. Piece by piece, the Galorama ships were rendered obsolete. Many Galorama opted to jump space from within the planet's atmosphere to escape the humans' deathly grasp, but this only resulted in a plasma overload that led to the Galorama ships imploding.

It was a one-sided battle. It ought to have been the case in relation to us, but the humans had rendered it otherwise.

When the dust settled and the smoke cleared—the last of the Galorama ships a ruin, sinking to the depths of Zeguoza's oceans—the humans descended with food and medicine. They tended to the wounded, helped with recovering those who'd been lost in the confusion of impending battle. They talked and they laughed, with their skins and eyes of different hues. They smiled and reassured, and some even played with our infants.

A Zeguoza femalen pointed at the stitching of a flag upon a human's garment. "It's the flag of New Zealand. It's where I'm from." The human answered with an infectious smile.

The Zeguoza pointed at the flags and memorized the words of the places the humans mentioned to have hailed from.

"France." "China." "Belgium." "Angola."

They said the names of the places they were from, and we made sure to remember each and every one.

"Why did you do this? Why did you save us?" I deemed it fit, after gathering my nerves, to ask this of a particular human who was shining a light into my eyes after she'd introduced herself as a doctor. She had a flag stitched to her white apparel. "America," it read—judging from the flag.

"Let's just say, us humans don't like bullies," was her only answer. And odd as it was, it was enough.