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Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Sat Sep 06, 2014 4:35 pm
by Colette
Aeraria, Trattoria, Mer Rep of Trattoria

Dr. Venkatish studied the glassy Trattorian cityscape through his two-story window. Both well complemented the glass floor beneath him and the crystal staircase which faced the window and spiraled in elegance towards the marble first floor. An appetizing scent of truffles and foie gras wafted from the kitchen—likely his gold-plated housekeeping android preparing an early dinner for him.

He had chosen to work from home today in his 115th-story apartment. Examining his Lancian Cartier watch every few seconds, Dr. Venkatish swiveled his ergonomic white office chair towards his desk. In a strange divergence from the usual Trattorian proclivity towards glass, the desk was of a Venetian marble design and curved away from him, littered with floating Appel holoscreens and iPads listing off the commodity price indices of the day. Dr. Venkatish earned a living as a trader for the Pernault Investment Group, a major Trattorian commodities trading house that profited from the fluctuations in price of various essential materials across the BrikVerse.

With not a moment to waste, Dr. Venkatish muted the classical music that permeated his apartment and joined the teleconference call at exactly 3:30 pm. A grid of faces lit his screen, breaking out in a discordant cacophony before everyone settled down.

“Trading today has proceeded at a mediocre level,” scolded the COO, a stout and gruff executive with a pale complexion and large glasses. “Dr. Lapointe lost our firm ₮2.6 billion Trattorian dollars in the Scythian Transparent Ore Exchange after a premature purchase of green-transparent holdings. Had she waited for Zupponn to release the report on the new GT finds in the Hiksos Star Empire and Kingdom of Hesse, our firm would have been able to exploit an opportunity to capture more of the GT market.”

“Might I share some positive revelations?” a senior legal consultant interjected. The COO acquiesced, relinquishing the floor to him.

“The Trattorian Legislature has recently passed the Valorian Annex Habitation Development Act to encourage land use in the conquered territory,” he continued. “Consequently, the Trattorian Realtors Association has been eagerly negotiating with the Special Administrator to collect several planets for new real estate projects.”

“Thusly,” a deputy president added, “our short-term investment strategy ought to reflect the increase in demand of glass.”

“That’s not all,” the legal consultant continued. “In light of the recent Battle of Shamshir III, Scythian reinforcements along the Immortal border have threatened the Britannian East India Trading Company’s access to its clear-transparent mines in neutral space. This factor will likely increase the volatility in the price of glass in the short-term when coupled with increased demand.”

The Chief Investment Officer concluded the matter. “Order our Chicago traders to sell all of our grain holdings with Assyrian Limagraine and 15% of our AMScythia antimatter derivatives. We’ll dump the funds into clear-transparent futures contracts with the Viérre glass corporation.”

As the executives bandied on the best futures sales strategy, an alert appeared on Dr. Venkatish’s iPhone. From his colleague Dr. Bellini, the message’s subject line screeched at him with several exclamation points and “URGENT” in capital letters.

Dr. Venkatish excused and muted himself from the video conference, citing urgent investment opportunities exploration. He then replied to Dr. Bellini’s message and received her subsequent voice call on speaker phone.

“Dr. Bellini, I sincerely presume that you bear important information.”

Dr. Venkatish and Dr. Bellini had been amiable acquaintances since they met in the Stanford School of Business, sharing promising investment opportunities with each other in weekly dinners. Dr. Bellini, as a foreign exchange trader, oftentimes possessed news useful to him in calculating international commodities trades.

“This is pressing. Check the clock” Dr. Bellini urged, her voice hurried.

Dr. Venkatish glanced at his watch, which indicated 3:42 pm.

“I understand, Dr. Bellini, but I was in the middle of a daily teleconference call. Can’t this wait until—”

“The Bank of Britannia sets the WM/Reuters forex benchmark rates in a sixty-second window over 4 pm. I got wind from an investment partner that the Scythian Parnassus Banking Corporation is exchanging one trillion Scythian credits into USA dollars. You set up your forex portfolio like I told you, right?”.

“Yes,” Dr. Venkatish replied. “I invested ₮50 million Trattorian dollars into Scythian credits, just as you advised.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Bellini lauded. “My source encouraged me to inform all of my colleagues to sell their Scythian credits in USA dollars at a rate five ten-thousandths less than the current one thirty seconds before 4 pm—banging the close, if you will. Thusly, we can force downward pressure on the credit during the rate-determining period—”

“Hold on,” Venkatish interrupted. “Isn’t that considered insider trading? I don’t want the Comptrollers knocking on my door.”

Dr. Bellini replied with a cheer in her voice. “The forex markets are quite unregulated, by their nature. Anyway, we’ll split the profits, OK? Good luck with the remainder of your conference.”

“Wait—” Dr. Venkatish protested before a hang-up beep answered him.

As Dr. Venkatish unmuted himself on the conference call, he wondered to himself: from where, and how exactly, did Dr. Bellini obtain her tip? Although she mentioned an investment partner, he could not help but suspect some illicit involvement…
Since I never finish Brikfics, I reasoned: why not write a series of one-shots instead? At least a one-post-long story is guaranteed to finish. Although I’ll be writing many about Trattoria (since that’s what I know best), I’ll also write flavor pieces about other factions as well.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Sun Sep 07, 2014 10:43 pm
by Quantumsurfer
This is a great idea.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Mon Sep 08, 2014 10:35 pm
by Vami IV
Quantumsurfer wrote:This is a great idea.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Fri Sep 19, 2014 10:35 pm
by Vami IV

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Sun Nov 16, 2014 3:40 pm
by Colette
The Scythian Times
Does Violence Have a Place in the World of the Modern Minifig?
By: Jodi Sieffre AUG. 24, 2014

Scythian military police arriving on the scene of the Maiden Agnes Elementary School shooting in Arcology Tower #148 on Friday.
Alexis Wong/Gettit Images

PLANET SCYTHIA, Great Scythian Empire – In a press conference on Sunday, Chief of Military Police Nathan Wilmer of Arcology Tower #148 offered his condolences to the families of the victims of the Maiden Agnes shooting. His voice trembling, Mr. Wilmer decried the incident as an "unrepeatable, inexcusable tragedy".

“The Scythian Military Police will take all necessary measures to prevent such heinous and shameful atrocities in the future. What happened at Maiden Agnes can never be allowed to happen again. I give my sincere fellow feeling to all the parents, family, and acquaintances of those who lost their lives. And although I and the Military Police cannot bring back the deceased, we can strive to prevent others from experiencing the same tragedy in the future.”

But can we? With the Emperor in absentia and most Lords away on military tours of duty against the Immortal hordes, domestic policymaking has ground to a halt. Lord Hearcer Kronus, Commander-In-Chief of the Scythian Office of Naval Intelligence, and his assembled temporary ruling council of Lords have ignored all cries to introduce new gun-control regulations for consideration and enactment.

“The only real way to effect change in gun violence and mass shootings within Scythia is to legislate new restrictions on gun ownership, increased background checks, and better tracking and registration of laserarms and projectile weapons,” says Gaylord Garfield, a spokesperson for the Fathers Against Guns advocacy group based in the United Systems Alliance.

The shooter at Maiden Agnes, Newt Beasley, had served four years of his mandatory military service as a private in the Scythian Ground Army. He was dishonorably discharged earlier this G.R. for insubordination and assaulting his commanding officer.

“This man should not have been allowed within ten meters of a gun, let alone own one,” continues Mr. Garfield. “In addition to his criminal history, he was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and symptoms consistent with schizophrenia. I don’t know how our bloody background check system allowed him to slip through the cracks.”

Gun-rights advocates criticize the media attention given to the Maiden Agnes shooting.

“Not to discount the tragedy of what happened at Maiden Agnes Elementary,” disclaims Scythian General Murray Randell, “but the deaths of thirteen elementary-schoolers has received more recent attention than the sacrifice of millions of our young finest and brightest who daily give their lives in the service and protection of our great empire. The media cycle should recognize that the Immortal War has not faded in significance—to the contrary, it has only intensified, and it is now more than ever that we require the support of the Scythian people.”

In the context of the suicide bombings in Scythian arcologies and anti-peach shootings in the United Systems Alliance, many academics have called into question the assumption that minifigs crave or need violence.

“The modern minifig has progressed far beyond the primitive level of savage hunter-gatherers,” contests Dr. Liliana Varada of the Trattorian BrikFaden Institute for the Life Sciences. “We have constructed complex societal structures and engage in a civilized international framework that has ruled out violence as a means to resolving conflicts at any level. Violence and encouragement of such only disrupts modern BrikVersal society—much like religion and feudal economies, the time has arrived for the modern minifig to doff the puerile burden of war and violence.”

Have a stance on this issue? Leave a comment in the box below.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Sun Nov 16, 2014 8:36 pm
by Zupponn
Colette wrote:Aeraria, Trattoria, Mer Rep of Trattoria
“Trading today has proceeded at a mediocre level,” scolded the COO, a stout and gruff executive with a pale complexion and large glasses. “Dr. Lapointe lost our firm ₮2.6 billion Trattorian dollars in the Scythian Transparent Ore Exchange after a premature purchase of green-transparent holdings. Had she waited for Zupponn to release the report on the new GT finds in the Hiksos Star Empire and Kingdom of Hesse, our firm would have been able to exploit an opportunity to capture more of the GT market.”
Thanks for the cameo. I must have missed this before.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Sun Nov 16, 2014 9:45 pm
by Quantumsurfer
Hard hitting.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Thu Nov 20, 2014 7:17 pm
by Ben-Jammin
Colette wrote:Does Violence Have a Place in the World of the Modern Minifig?
I'm pretty sure that's why we're all here in the first place...

So yes.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Fri Feb 06, 2015 2:05 am
by Colette
Undisclosed location, Bavaria, Bavaria
February, G.R. 2015

Frau Müller lightly tapped against the wooden door, leaning her weight against it.

“Heinrich, could you please open the door?”.

Five seconds passed without reply. Frau Müller again politely knocked, repeating the action a third time with added force after another five seconds. She tried the handle, its rusty bumps pressing against her hand as she tried forcing it down without success.

”He must be drinking again,” Frau Müller thought to herself. Although he had always favored a glass of red wine every day, he had slid further into the habit recently.

“OK Heinrich, I know you’re drinking. You’re going to unlock this door and come out right this instant, or we’re having another argument,” she threatened with a tinge of anger in her voice. Resting on the door, Frau Müller heard nothing on the other side.

“Heinrich, listen, you’re going to stop drinking and unlock this door and explain everything to me,” she reiterated, concern speckling her tone. Beating the door with her fist, she turned her head towards the stairs.

“Adelheid, get the hammer and the first aid kit! Father must have passed out!”

Frau Müller returned her gaze to the whitewashed door, wondering what had happened on the other side.


Gottingen, Bavaria, Bavaria
November, G.R. 2014

Knock, knock, knock.

Herr Müller rolled in his bed away from the warmth of his wife. His hand fumbled on the wooden nightstand for his glasses, and then the switch for the lamp. The knocking continued while Herr Müller donned a night gown and shuffled towards the apartment’s door.

“Verdammt, I’m coming. Have some patience would you?” he stuttered in a groggy voice. He approached the apartment’s front door, a drape pulled over its small stained-glass window. He turned the golden handle and pulled it open. Two Bavarian soldiers stood at attention and saluted Herr Müller, their other hands gripping their rifles. Their Krupp stahlhelms and armor gleamed in the faint light of the early morning.

“Herr Müller, member of the Bavarian Reichstag,” one of the soldiers addressed. “Bavarian intelligence has received word of an imminent drone strike targeting you!”

“Why the rush?” answered Herr Müller. “After all, Bavarian anti-air guns and flak should take care of it. Even if it still survives they can launch Vengeance rockets.”

“You don’t understand the direness of your situation, Herr Müller,” interjected the other soldier. “It’s from the Trattorians! It’s a new wunderwaffe!”.

Herr Müller raised an eyebrow at the new information.

“We don’t have time to waste - frankly, we don’t know how much we have,” the second Bavarian soldier continued. “We must wake your family at once. Pack only what you need in one bag- we’ll try to retrieve your belongings later. Your life is paramount, however.”

One of the soldiers fired his gun into the air, rousing the Reichstagger’s wife and children in an instant. Briefed on the situation, Frau Müller retrieved one of her husband’s many suitcases and began packing extra clothes, legal papers, and a painted family portrait. Herr Müller herded his two daughters towards the soldiers.

“We’re just going on a vacation for a while, da?” he reassured them. “Remember when we would leave early in the morning because the redeye spaceflights are cheaper? It’s just like that.”

Herr Müller donned his blue suit in a minute- he had plenty of experience rushing his morning preparations for urgent Reichstag committee meetings. He felt the butt of a rifle gently tap his legs.

“I apologize for the rudeness undue to a man of your station,” one of the infantrymen interjected. “Nonetheless, intelligence has just detected the drone entering Bavarian airspace. We need to leave now.” He gently nudged the Reichstagger forward as he spoke.

“We will rendezvous with a freight shuttle on the roof operated by the Space Mafia,” added the other infantryman, herding the family towards the fire escape stairs. “Although we dislike relying on those crooks, their past operational success leaves us with little choice. Oh…” The rifleman looked back towards the Reichstagger’s family. “Accommodations won’t be what you’re used to. They’ll do, nonetheless.”

As Herr Müller climbed on to the roof, he was nearly blown away by trans-ore fumes blasting from the shuttle’s engines. Small rocks and debris flew out radially as the shuttle’s exhaust cleared its own landing zone. The bay door was already open as the group burst into a sprint. Herr Müller joined the infantrymen in carrying his daughters onto the shuttle, their steps loudly echoing on the shuttle’s metal ramp.

“Culo! We got the, uh, stagman and his little jerries?” a Sicilian voice issued from the cockpit.

“You’ve already fired up the shuttle, what the scheisse are we waiting for?” one of the Bavarian infantrymen responded.

The soldiers and civilians settled themselves on the shuttle’s cold, steel benches. As the ramp closed, a single incandescent bulb shined from the end of a string and swung as the shuttle wasted no time in lifting off. Each of the parents took one child and wrapped their arms around each, feeding them the same party line about the impromptu vacation. Herr Müller envied their naïvete, wishing that he could also deceive himself with the same lie.

Five minutes later he heard a faint explosion behind them. Scrambling to one of the shuttle’s tiny, thick windows, he saw massive flames shoot from the direction of their apartment complex and a white streak in the sky. He blinked, and the latter was gone.


Undisclosed location, Bavaria
December, G.R. 2014

Frau Müller swept the granite counter with a cleaning rag, leaving a soapy residue glistening on its mottled black surface. She sighed and straightened her back, taking a break from the work.

“If only that dummkopf would just resign,” she lamented to herself. “He doesn’t help the nation much by keeping that stupid Reichstag seat- if he wanted to risk all of our lives, he should have rejoined the military instead.”

She threw the rag down, flinging some cleaner droplets into the air.

“It’s so fucking easy! If it weren’t for that Brithulhu-verdammt position, we could have still been living in Gottingen in our old home, the children could have attended their old school, and I could have gone out with all my old friends instead of being locked up in this dungeon!” she ranted, abandoning her collected demeanor.

The chime of the doorbell sounded throughout the bunker, knocking Frau Müller back into her usual pretense. She retrieved the rag and set it on the table before heading up the stone steps, the latter carved into the mountain itself. Upon reaching the top, she uncovered the bullet-proof peephole in the inch-thick iron door and activated the intercom.

“What business do you have here?” she asked.

“Bavarian military, official business, code m8KPYEp6.”

Disengaging the many locks and security measures, Frau Müller accosted the visitor. He was a Teutonic Knight dressed in an ornate suit of Krupp armor, gleaming medals jangling against each other and the steel. He lifted his trans-green visor, made a curt bow, and extended his hand in greeting to the lady.

“I am Sir Eckehard of the Teutonic Knights, bearing important news from the frontlines of a grave nature. You ought summon Reichstagger Müller to receive it as well.”

Frau Müller turned and shouted his name into the bunker. It took two tries before she heard the uneven steps and bumping into walls that had come to characterize his approach.

“Scheiße, what the scheisse is going on?” he mumbled as he came into view at the bottom of the stairs. One arm leaned against the plain, whitewashed walls while his partly-buttoned shirt hung loosely from his chest.

“Heinrich! This is a Teutonic Knight bearing a message, do show some respect!” his wife chastised him.

“Oh, right, OK. I’ve forgotten what time of day it is,” he mumbled in response.

Sir Eckehard sighed and tried to ignore the sorry sight, focusing his attention on Frau Müller. His head bowed, he pulled a folded envelope from a utility pocket and presented it to her. The blue wax seal of the Bavarian army glared at her.

“I do apologize in advance,” the knight offered in a low whisper as Frau Müller took her time opening the envelope and flattening its contents.

Tears pooled in Frau Müller’s eyes and blurred her vision of the letter, although she fought not to let a single one fall. Herr Müller had by now progressed up the stairs and babbled incoherently, making motions towards the paper in his wife’s hands. She covered her eyes and handed him the letter, refusing to even glance at his pathetic appearance on top of what she had learned.

“Your son died in a Trattorian drone strike targeting the Minister of Agriculture. Thanks to his heroism, the Minister still lives…” Sir Eckehard explained. He paused for a moment. “We...couldn’t recover a body for burial. It was completely incinerated in the blast.”

Frau Müller could not dam her misery any longer. Controlled rivulets trickled down her face as she took the knight’s hand for support. The gravity of the situation had begun to pierce even Herr Müller’s veil of inebriation.

“He died like a true Bavarian, in the service of his country,” Sir Eckehard consoled, taking Frau Müller’s shoulder. “It’s okay to grieve for him, but you should also feel proud of him. After all, there are far less honorable ways to end one’s life.”


Undisclosed location, Bavaria, Bavaria
February, G.R. 2015

Mein liebling, Adelheid, Luisa,

I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused all of you. I have failed as a husband, as a father, and as a Bavarian. While the destruction of our home and our close encounter with death cowed me, I realized in my few intermediate bouts of sobriety the sacrifices that all Bavarians face in this invasion of our homeland. Life and property are common gambles in a time like this, and I fell so easily to vice when daily soldiers face such hardships, including our own son.

I don’t know whether you love me anymore, liebling. I don’t know whether grief for our son or hatred of me motivated you to sleep in a separate bed. I don’t deserve it, in any case. Here I consume the resources of the Bavarian state, useless, while we grind away our young generation in the wheel of war.

My resolve had withered to become like a Trattorian’s, and thus I am your enemy. The target on my head has dragged all of you along to hide in this bunker, like a fearful nest of mice hiding from the hawk. A true Bavarian would have played the eagle, fighting back and devouring its lessers. I hope you accomplish many things when you are free of me and my cowardice, and may Bavaria win the war.


Herr Heinrich Müller

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Fri Feb 06, 2015 2:14 am
by Silverdream
Very Bavarian. I hope you continue with it, but if you don't, that's a pretty good place to end it.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Fri Feb 06, 2015 6:29 pm
by Vami IV
Teutonic Knights?
Fuck yes, sign me the fuck up.

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Wed Jul 08, 2015 12:28 pm
by Colette
He could feel the air beating against his sides, the wind snapping against the thin jacket that covered his torso. He glanced upwards - the grey Warthog dropship above from which he had jumped disintegrated in an explosion of fuel and flak - and downwards, the sandy coastline approaching ever closer. He could hear the jet engine whine of Falcon starfighters in the air, strafing the white and dark red dots on the ground that gained definition every second. The dots fired back green laser streaks that shot up past him while broken steel debris fell beside him.

”Don’t let them establish a beachhead! This is 45th territory, do not let it fall!” he could hear screamed through the radio. He pulled the ripcord on his vest, deploying a grey parachute. Flak immediately tore several small holes in it, but he judged that the device would suffice in its purpose.

He wanted to look cool, softly landing on his two feet, but it never worked that way in a real battle. He fell flat and hard on his ass and fumbled to untangle himself from the parachute cords. He struggled for a few seconds to gain his footing on the shifting beach sand and grabbed the rifle slung over his back.

He turned the dial on his radio. “George, do you read me? Did you survive the jump? How much of our squad made it?”

”I read you, Mitchell. I’ve located one other squaddie. We came under heavy anti-aircraft fire during insertion, so I don’t know how many others made it.” the reply came. ”I’ve made visual contact with you, I’m coming your way. Assyrians two o’clock from my position, we’ll come under fire by the time I get to you.”

Mitchell checked his rifle - the magazine was full and it was ready to shoot. Looking down, he noticed that his peach skin complemented his tan uniform and the beige beach rather nicely. He could see George and David coming over a sand dune when the lasers started streaking again. The bolts missed and hit the ground, exploding into large craters and heating some of the sand into frosted green glass. This wasn’t his first experience with Assyrian laser rifles, but this particular display was a frightening demonstration of their obliterative power.

David walked over to Mitchell, a rocket-propelled grenade slung over his shoulder. “We’ve been ordered to break through the Assyrian lines and try to take out some of their armor,” he said. “Hopefully this should ease some of the pressure on our air force and allow us to get some reinforcements.”

Mitchell nodded, and then took a look at George. “Sorry Mitchell, I couldn’t find anyone else from our squad. Maybe their drop paths got diverted, but that fire was pretty heavy. I wouldn’t hope for too much.”

The three of them advanced, ducking under the laser fire. Every few seconds they would stop, aim, and exchange fire from their own rifles. It was true, the Assyrians had better tek, but the 45th Union had the advantage in numbers.

By now they could see several Assyrian riflemen taking cover in a trench they had shot into the earth. An Assyrian armored car rolled past, firing its cannons into the air.

“Mitchell, remember playing basketball on base?” George asked. Mitchell nodded, and George motioned towards the trench.

“You can’t be serious…” Mitchell muttered, “those are two totally different things.”

“You can do it,” George encouraged, snapping a grenade off his belt and handing it to Mitchell. “Slam dunk it,” he said with a smile.

Mitchell arched his arm back, pulled the pin, and threw it towards the Assyrians. Shielding his eyes, he could hear several screams and the screeching of metal. When he uncovered his eyes, he saw several dismembered Assyrian bodies and the burning armored car half-sunken into a hole in the sand.

“See, you can do it,” George patted Mitchell on the back. “Now we’ve bought David some time to set up and aim that RPG -”

“Spider ten o’clock!” David shouted, ducking. A spider tank rose out of the ocean, water falling over its clean, white armor. The front mandibles opened, exposing a rack of missiles.

George immediately jumped on Mitchell, shoving him aside. Mitchell closed his eyes, but even though his eyelids he could see a blinding flash and hear a deafening explosion.

When he opened his eyes again, he experienced that woozy feeling that usually followed waking up from a long nap, though only seconds had passed. He felt something hot and heavy on him, realizing an instant later that it was George’s burning body. Mitchell rolled his head toward his right when he saw a large puddle of blood next to his shoulder.

“No, no, no…” Mitchell muttered to himself as he came to realize what had happened. He imagined moving his right arm, pushing himself from the ground, and although he could feel it in his mind, nothing moved. He rolled over, pushing George’s body off of him, and found a gory stump on his right side. “Fucking shit, this isn’t happening,” he shouted.

He turned to George, shaking him with his remaining arm. “George, you with me?”. He clearly wasn’t - the back of George’s jacket and gear was burned off, revealing a pitted landscape of charred flesh and oozing pus. His eyes were closed and would not open despite Mitchell’s pleading provocations.

Mitchell turned over onto his back, immobilized and in pain. His brain couldn’t process what was happening - too much was happening at once. He could hear boots crunching against the sand. A soldier in armor and an orange jumpsuit leered over him, aiming a pistol over his face. Through the soldier’s tinted blue visor, Mitchell could see a crooked smile. He stared down the barrel until the Assyrian got a different idea and shoved the pistol against his forehead. It hurt and instigated the mother of all migraines, but Mitchell didn’t care. He didn’t have much time left for a migraine anyway.

“Dirty fucking peach,” the soldier jeered. “I can’t wait to feel your blood splash over -”

The Assyrian never got to finish his thought as he fell over, the side of his white helmet cracked and the visor painted with red. Mitchell heard someone heaving next to him and saw George, propped up on one arm and raising a pistol with the other. His face was pitted and scarred, blood running through its contours, and with only one eye barely opened.

“Listen,” George called to Mitchell, coughing badly. “Get med-vac.”

Mitchell lifted himself with his good arm and his legs, grabbing George by the latter’s upraised arm. George winced.

“Too late,” he muttered.

“I’m not leaving you behind here George. You’re the last member of my squad left. We’re getting out of here together,” Mitchell objected.

“I can’ have to,” George muttered before collapsing, his arm dangling limp.

Mitchell closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face. He let go of George, gazed at him one more time, and then ran back away from the coast.


Mitchell opened his eyes again, the calm white ambience of an Assyrian waiting room greeting him. The sick and elderly gathered around the dark red chairs, little children playing restlessly under the watchful eyes of their mothers. A receptionist in nurse scrubs filled out paperwork behind a glowing white desk, disinterested. The paint on his face irritated his peach skin, but it was enough to fool the Assyrian customs officials.

He could still feel his arm, though it wasn’t there. He had never gotten a prosthetic for it - never could afford one - and resolving that was his ostensible reason for being at an Assyrian hospital.

He didn’t care anymore, and he certainly couldn’t afford an Assyrian-quality robotic arm. He had nothing left. His wife had filed for a divorce after he came back from the war several G.R.’s ago, abusive and constantly drowning his sorrows and savings in rum. She took his son with her, that bitch.

What was worse, he had nothing left to give to the 45th Union. He was a broken minifig, longing for combat but unable to. He couldn’t operate a rifle with only one arm, and the alcohol had taken its toll on his nervous control. His remaining arm shook so much that he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a pistol. He was useless, a ward of the state living off of welfare. He wanted to serve his nation, he wanted to serve justice for peaches, he wanted to serve his own personal revenge, but he was powerless.

He had only one thing left to give to his country, and that was himself. OASIS couldn’t put him on the frontlines, but they found another use for him.

Reluctantly, he opened his jacket. A tangle of wires fell out and dangled from the explosives bolted onto the vest.

People screamed. Mitchell screamed.


Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Wed Jul 08, 2015 6:58 pm
by Silverdream

Re: Colette's Brikfiction One-Shots

Posted: Fri Feb 03, 2017 5:47 pm
by Colette
Symmetric Exchange

Minifigs clad in black and red coats shuffled around the darkened room, the only illumination coming from the massive screens at the front of the room. Loopy and squiggly diagrams and long decimal numbers covered these slabs of light, as the faceless black-clad scientists and engineers inspected analog dials and meters built into their rusted steel desks. Pipes lined the naked walls, hissing and reverberating with the power that coursed through them.

Hushed German hung in the air, as Akkadians, Trionians, and Bavarians conversed about the upcoming experiment and its final preparations. If any had misgivings about it, they kept it to themselves.

“Are we almost ready here?” a sharp voice rang through the otherwise quiet control chamber.

A figure, dressed in the traditional blue Bavarian state alchemist’s jacket, descended the gradual stairs through the center. A short cape fluttered behind her along with her long dark brown hair, and the gold buttons on her jacket glimmered with their rank. Trailing her a lumbering Teutonic knight shoved a disheveled, white-labcoated prisoner onward, and a Bavarian mystic covered from head to toe in stained and frayed dark blue rags crept in silence.

“Well?” Bavarian State Alchemist Lorenz asked as she got to the bottom area in front of the screens, crossing her arms and gloved hands across her chest. She delivered a piercing glance at a nearby Trionian through her thick, rimless glasses, a product of years of intensive doctoral study.

“Ja, we were just preparing the RT particle beam. The experiment should be set to go in a few minutes my lady,” the Trionian replied, trembling somewhat. Mage Lorenz nodded in acknowledgment.

“This is but a mockery of science!” the prisoner protested, an act rewarded with a shove into the steel ground from his Teutonic captor. The man’s labcoat, though shredded at the ends and pockmarked with holes, and his pale skin, though bruised, betrayed him as a Trattorian.

“You’ll never be achieve what you want! It’s impossible according to the laws of physics!” he continued, thrashing around despite the handcuffs on his back. The Teutonic knight slapped the back of his head with a solid Krupp steel gauntlet, stunning him into silence.

Mage Lorenz smirked.

“The laws of physics apply here as much as the laws of your stupid little country,” she remarked, snapping her fingers. In an instant, the Trattorian prisoner began writhing, wormlike, on the floor in pain. He gritted his teeth and foamed at the mouth as he held back the screams rising in his throat.

“I just transmuted some of the carbon in your body into diamond shards,” Lorenz explained. “I could only imagine how much it hurts.”

“You...bastard,” the prisoner muttered.

“I would best recommend you keep your mouth shut until I need it again if you’d like to avoid further unpleasantness,” she warned, before turning her attention to the nearby Trionian once again.

“We are powering up the beam and accelerating it to relativistic velocities as we speak, my lady. They will be ready in three minutes.” he answered preemptively.

“Excellent work.”

Mage Lorenz settled onto the floor cross-legged, closing her eyes and resting her arms in her lap. “Bernhard, could you be a dear and come over here and do your thing?” she beckoned.

The Bavarian mystic hobbled over to the seated alchemist, and knelt as he retrieved a box from within his layers of decrepit robes. Sliding it open, he picked a few acupuncture needles with the delicate touch of a surgeon and examined the back of Lorenz’s neck. Running his hand over the targeted skin, he could feel her life force pulsating just underneath before puncturing the appropriate sites with the needles. A few of the Akkadian and Trionian scientists glanced at the anagogic ritual.

Mage Lorenz cleared her mind, concentrating on the points of pain from the needles. The experiments required her utmost concentration - more than she could herself muster, without the aid of medications and supernatural acupuncture. Her thoughts, even self-assisted by various clairvoyant and cerebral magic, could barely handle the volume and velocity of information they were about to take in.

She focused on the abstract layout of the Akkadian Lepton Isospin Collider Experiment, trying to push her perception beyond the walls of the control room and into the particle acceleration tunnels outside. Her mental eyes pushed these barriers aside, and she envisioned the section of ring adjacent to the room. Her magical sight ran into the red-painted metal pipes, facing a little resistance from the radiation-armored material and superconducting magnets before gently falling through it. At last she could see the beams of RT particles zipping through the piping section - ungodly close to the speed of light itself, but not quite. Calming down further, she slowed down her perception of time until at last she could discern the particles.

The ALICE particle accelerator formed a ring large enough to be seen from orbit, and was the third largest particle accelerator in the Nehellenium Galaxy, and the biggest outside Trattoria. The sweating backs and eventual corpses of many Silvarian slaves had dug the patterns of a massive transmutation circle into the thing to make this all possible. Several of the Akkadian physicists had objected to this injection of magic into a hallowed scientific institution, but they simply didn’t acknowledge the possibilities. In the end, all that mattered were the results, and science could only deliver so much.

At last the two parallel RT beams moved closer and closer until finally they intersected, showering the sector with an exotic bouquet of particles. Now was the time for Lorenz to apply her traditional physics training, as she reached out and sniffed out the beauty baryons and their charge opposites from the particle debris.

It was all very dreamlike and hard to describe - like mentally reaching out and tapping some of the particles, imagining them as billiard balls bouncing around. She flicked a W boson at a slightly different angle, coaxed a pion to decay out instead of a kaon with subtle suggestions. Quantum mechanics always allowed for different possibilities with different probabilities, but her magic allowed her to wheedle specific ones out. She knew it was all just an analogy in her head to allow her to comprehend what she was doing, but it didn’t matter. It evidently accomplished something, and allowed her to push the envelopes of magic and alchemy further than they ever had been.

At last she snapped out of it, jerking her head backwards as the mystic caught it from hitting the floor. Mage Lorenz gasped - even after having performed the experiment several times, she still never had gotten used to suddenly transitioning back to realtime. She clutched her head for several minutes, willing the scorching migraine to go away. The delicate and draining operation of high-energy subatomic alchemy always did this to her.

At long last, she finally glanced at the screen above. It had some numbers and graphs on it, meaningless to her, but she could already tell they shocked her unfortunate Trattorian guest.

“Well,” she began, “what do you see, little man?”

The Trattorian scientist mumbled.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” she teased.

“That’s impossible. Your apparatus malfunctioned, or lied,” he complained.

Mage Lorenz walked over, yanking the prisoner by his chin. “Stop messing around, and tell me what you see,” she grumbled, breathing onto his face.

The Trattorian physicist considered spitting on her for a moment before deciding to comply. “I see a breaking of charge-parity violation, resulting in symmetry-preserving properties for the decay of beauty baryons. The loop and tree decay paths occurred with more equal relative frequencies than expected under current physics models. With 5.2 standard deviations of confidence.”

He glared at her. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Of course,” she replied, “Was that so hard, now?”. She snapped her fingers once again, causing the scientist to fall over and squirm one last time.

“Arrrgggghhh! You bastard, I did everything you asked of me, you promised my freedom! You don’t understand the forces you’re messing with here, baryogenesis is why we all exist! Misused, what you're doing here could destroy the galaxy, the entire BrikVerse!” the physicist screamed with his dying, ragged breaths. Trans-clear shards began to protrude from within his body at unusual, uncomfortable angles, their razor tips coated in blood.

Mage Lorenz smiled at the sight. "Good."

“My lady, wouldn't we still need his expertise to continue with the project?”. It was the Trionian again.

“No,” Lorenz replied. “We now know it is possible in principle. We need no longer the theoretics of it - we need only focus on its execution and realization.”

“Understood, my lady,” the Trionian researcher replied, returning to his station.

Mage Lorenz smiled. It was possible, it was really possible. It was within her reach now, if only she could refine and perfect the technique they had demonstrated today, the ultimate alchemical superweapon that could allow Bavaria to win any war and reclaim its rightful place in the BrikVerse.