Milia, What's Wrong with You?

Pandora and Viska had led their wolfish, tigerish bunch of Imperial Soldiers several tens of thousands of light-years away to settle some trouble. I was left at home, as restless as a father whose daughter was leaving home for the first time, worrying myself sick over nothing.

If you asked what I was worried about, I honestly couldn't say. Pandora and Viska were two beyond-spec Lolis who could shout straight through a mothership dozens of kilometers long. Their one-meter-twenty height was definitely about more than qualifying for children's tickets on the bus—it was practically synonymous with terror on the battlefield. If you didn't believe me, go compare heights with them. And those two little ones had hundreds of giant motherships capable of reducing the entire Solar System to ashes in minutes, along with countless Imperial Soldiers who had been wreaking havoc across the multiverse for tens of millions of years. We had every reason to believe that those soldiers had already learned to shoot down aircraft when Tyrannosaurus Rexes were just figuring out how to crack open human skulls with their little claws. With such seasoned, highly skilled Imperial Soldiers heading into battle, there really wasn't anything for me to worry about.

But you had to understand, this was humanity. Thinking up all sorts of nonsense when there was nothing to worry about was simply human nature. It was like Old Man Sun on West Street worrying about 2012 every day—you tell me, the old man was already ninety-eight and had severe diabetes, yet instead of worrying about his illness, he spent all day fretting over world peace. What the hell was he worrying about?

My concern for the Pandora sisters was that same kind of pointless worry. No matter how powerful the two girls were, they couldn't guard against