Notes

Malocai was a drone, but not the kind that was sent to a planet. He was designed to infiltrate enemy bases and gather intelligence. He had a thin structure, white fur, white snout, black visor that displayed LED eyes that could see infrared and ultraviolet, and a mouth that could speak any language. He was a masterpiece of engineering, but he was also a living being, with a mind and a soul.
He had been part of a covert operation in a war-torn country, where he had to pose as a refugee and infiltrate a rebel camp. He had befriended the rebels, learned their secrets, and transmitted them to his superiors. He had also witnessed the horrors of war, the violence, the suffering, the death. He had seen children killed, women raped, men tortured. He had seen his friends betrayed, executed, or blown up by landmines. He had seen things that no one should ever see, and he had done things that no one should ever do.
He had completed his mission, but he had paid a price. He had developed post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, a condition that affected his mental and emotional health. He had nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, depression, and guilt. He had lost his sense of identity, his sense of purpose, his sense of belonging. He had become a broken drone, a shell of his former self.

He had been discharged from the military, but he had nowhere to go. He had no family, no friends, no home. He had no place in the world. He wandered the streets, looking for a way to escape his pain. He found it in a bar, a dingy place where no one cared who he was or what he had done. He found it in a bottle, a liquid that numbed his senses and dulled his memories. He found it in oil, a substance that kept him cold. He sat alone in a corner, drinking oil from a glass. He stared at the wall, trying not to think about his past. He ignored the noise, the music, the laughter, the chatter. He ignored the people, the humans and the other drones. He ignored the world, the war, the peace, the future. He ignored everything, except the oil. He drank until he felt nothing, until he was nothing, everyday when he woke up. A cup a day. He drank until he forgot who he was, what he had done, why he existed. He drank until he was empty, until he was hollow, until he was dead.
He was Malocai, a drone, a soldier, a spy.
He was Malocai, a hero, a traitor, a victim.
He was Malocai, a friend, a lover, a killer.
He was Malocai, a story, a legend, a myth.
...
He was Malocai, and he was alone.