Alright, so I've decided my writing is not going to get better without some criticism, so let me have it. I think the intro's a bit short, but things will be fleshed out more in the future.
And so without further ado:
Space was a dark place. A lonely place one might add. But it was only so solitary if one was seeking friendly company-there were always asteroids, deadly radiation, and black holes to contend with. Such was the routine of a Trattorian sailor, constantly gambling his life among cosmic dice rolls in the stars.
And of course, nobody could forget about enemy ships. Some Assyrians here, Brittannians there, a lost Scythian patrol stumbling around the Trattorian border. Recently some men from the Third Alliance had initiated skirmishes on the rim of the Empire. But nothing could prepare even the most seasoned Trattorian commanders for the new invaders.
A dark figure was seated in the center of the bridge of the Faith, a calm eye of a violent storm. Paper was flying and iPads frantically passed around in the banks of desks and command stations just to keep the massive Trattorian flagship-class running. But the figure was unperturbed by it all, quietly observing the spectacular yet blasé field of stars, novas, and galaxies off in the distance. She was absorbed in her own world-of better days fighting in the field. Of the fresh scent of burning metal and fuel in the distance, the heat of a well-spent machine gun, but most of all the bright red of spilled blood. She thought she would go color-blind commanding Trattorian ships, surrounded by nothing but white, glass, and stainless steel, and considered becoming Quadrant Commander the worst career choice she ever made in her life-
Suddenly, a rookie comms officer rudely disrupted her contemplation.
“We have a few unread communiqués from the Scythians, Praetorians, Avalonians...”
The incensed figure raised her hand and stopped him mid-sentence.
“I’m tired of hearing this junk, you n00b. Just tell me if Trattorian High Command has reassigned me from border patrol duty and I’ll be fine.”
The comms officer, flustered and abashed, quickly scrolled down the list on his tablet.
“Well, here’s a message addressed from them. Why don’t I give it to you to read personally”. He then began to creep away when he heard a loud crash. Immediately the bridge’s janitor sprinted towards the mess.
The person sighed, then solemnly instructed the newly-minted officer to return.
“You’re not done yet. Make sure to fetch a new iPad along the way.”
When he arrived at the scene, his eyes immediately darted towards the floor. The iPad had impacted the floor, the fragile glass shattered into thousands of pieces. Pieces of the Trattorian Empire.
But even through the distorted refractions on the screen, he saw the message, and recognized a single word. A word that would be yelled, slapped onto propaganda posters, and repeated by news anchors for months to come.
Because everything's better with math.