Insurrection: A Trattorian Short

[Colette]

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.

Insurrection.

[IVhorseman]

iPads?

[Colette]

Yes, iPads. I don't know when, but somewhere along the line it became canon that Trattorians use Apple for all their computers.

[Colette]

Alright, second page, still haven't reached any action. Like most classic novels LOL:

Bright runway lights shined in the Faith’s hangar. It was a wide open space, filled with the unbearable wails of launching and landing fighters training for engagements with the Third Alliance and the Scythians. The black, dull tarmac was contrasted with the stainless steel floor, so shiny one could somewhat see his own reflection in it. For Ercole, it would be the closest thing to fresh air in the ship.

The newly-drafted communications officer had no expectation of what he read on the shattered iPad. The Allied Nations rated Trattoria as one of the most stable governments in the world-not even the most trained immortal agents would have been able to take control. But now the flag waving over the capital would be changed from its serene black and white, to a fiery red and black.

The enemy they once fought, would be their rulers. Their friends would now be their enemies. The Third Alliance had taken control.

Ercole remembered his school lectures, praising Trattoria and how great it was to live here. He remembered his wealthy father secured him this comfy desk job when it came time to serve the military. But of course, that wasn’t necessary-the politicians of Trattoria were guaranteed to be calm and reasonable, their policies considerably more conservative than almost every other nation in the brik-verse. Now, with the volatile and unpredictable Third Alliance-affiliated government in charge, Ercole doubted whether he’d even see tomorrow’s daylight. He wanted the nightmare to stop, rewind, pretend President Chutpone was still in charge as any other normal day in the empire. To be sitting at his new station, stealing away moments on Angry Birds when his supervisor wasn’t looking. He wished someone would try to save Trattoria from its downward spiral towards authoritarianism and dictatorship, towards ruin.

He looked up, past the force-field that separated the hangar from the eternal, lonely darkness of space. Into the vast expanse of stars and [dust] clouds, imagining the far-off battles between the grand navies of minifig-kind. A tiny twinkle in the distance flashed blue and disappeared, perhaps due to the neoteric and rumored Scythian Deity star-killer. He wondered what would happen if such power were unleashed on Trattoria.

An announcement interrupted Ercole’s thoughts and catapulted him back to reality.

“Attention all bridge-crew, this is your captain speaking. Day-shift workers are to report to the bridge immediately. All executive officers please convene in conference chamber 128. All gunners prepare to fire at moment’s notice. Thank you for serving with Trattoria Navy.”

Ercole darted towards the elevators anon, where a small mob had already formed. The blue-crystal elevators descended and ascended quickly as people shoved each other in. Clearly, something was wrong, but no one knew what, except Ercole. He silently debated whether to inform his comrades of the hideous truth.

When he arrived on the bridge, the commander was clenching the railing of the elevated command station, scanning her eyes through the crowd. She was surrounded by the Faith’s executive officers, all with grave countenances and discussing through whispers.

When her audience settled, the commander began.

“Men and women of Trattoria, I have something to tell you all. You may want to prepare yourselves for what you are about to hear.”