Honor the Stars

***

The atmosphere was cold. The air reeked of vengeance, cold-blooded cruelty. Soft footsteps plodded down a station walkway and around through the galaxy surrounding them.

A voice rigid with strict instruction occasionally yelled out commands. This voice controlled every movement, every thought, every second of time passing by. It had not a physical presence, but a spiritual one. One that if tampered with, would be lethal.

Men in black strode across the station in uniform, every soldier in sync. Until there was but one.

The one out of sync, out of line. By a hair, his movements were not exact. The precise motion exhibited by the others surrounding him camouflaged him, making his slightly out-of-touch movements unnoticeable. Almost nonexistent. He was still clothed in black from head to toe, dressed in a uniform with a slight color variation that came from the job at hand. This slim alteration was not of concern to anyone, and it was certainly not acquired by choice.

He had a tank at his back, a gun cradled in his arms, black glasses shielding his eyes. It might have been by the pure illusion that any would even notice the one; perhaps he was not out of sync, and the others were walking to the beat of an incorrect rhythm.

But this was not so.

The one out of sync, the one out of line, was all the more curious about what was going on around him. Unlike the others, he was aware.

Aware of the consequences of breaking the line. Aware of the fact that he was the only one in this lineup of men who was aware. Yet he still kept his head forward, his feet plodding softly across the walkway, the movements of his strong body less than milliseconds off from the rest.

The rigid voice spoke again, this time piercing through the atmosphere. The men halted at once, all motion coming to a stop. The leader of the pack examined each one of the men until he got to the row with the one soldier. He paused for a moment and studied the row carefully. At a halt, one could not tell the difference between the men. All were in the same position, their limbs placed in the same places as the soldier standing beside them. It was impossible to weed out the one.

The men started to walk again in uniform, their feet silently striding forward, the atmosphere growing colder. There was a chill in the air, one set by the leader of the pack. It was one of obedience, of loyalty.

But then this raised the question, how did the one succeed?

Quite possibly, things were not as they seemed. The one out of line was suddenly undistinguishable before the rest. He simply blended in. He was an identical, wound-up toy before his master. Nothing but a puppet. Not one aspect differed from the rest.

That is, nothing but the bloodstain on his uniform.