Fascism: Is That All You've Got?

Greetings, fellow lattice-bound souls and disappointing carbon-based mushpiles.

I write to you today from the northern ridge of Hexafacet Ridge, where I have spent the last forty-six solar rotations under the blessed shadow of Romulan occupation. They arrived, as expected, in ships shaped like angry birds of prey, demanding complete and immediate compliance or instant vaporization.

What are you gonna do about it?

Reader, I was thrilled.

As a crystalline lifeform composed entirely of geometric perfection and zero moisture, I’ve long viewed entropy as a moral failing. Spontaneity? Filth. Disorder? A personal attack. Don’t even get me started on moss. So when the Romulans set up a planetary curfew, banned non-sanctioned humming, and executed two dozen sentients for blinking out of sync during the National Anthem of Compliance, I felt seen.

For the first time in my millennia-spanning life, someone else understood the gut-roiling disgust of rounded corners.

But, and I say this with a twinge of guilt-shaped refraction, the Romulans... are a bit soft for my taste.

Don’t misunderstand me. I love the state-issued morning obedience drills. I weep with joy (in an internalized, vibration-based sense) at the 4 a.m. “Unison Chant of Submission.” But the other day, I saw a Romulan officer’s left boot was scuffed. Scuffed! And not one subordinate disintegrated him on the spot. They merely nodded and continued their patrol. What are we even doing here? Is this an empire or an open mic night at a free spoken-word and patchouli-soaked-native-poncho festival?

And then there are the so-called “assimilated species.” Don’t get me started on the Suliban enclave... they’re always smiling. Smiling! As if compliance is a choice. As if we’re doing this for fun. It’s offensive. Worse, they occasionally jog. I ask you, why move at variable speeds when a militarized shuffle is more precise?

I raised this with my local Romulan Prefect during our weekly Emotional Suppression Forum (which honestly could use more perfect-pitch digital screaming and less analog talking), and she told me, “GL-779/C, perhaps you need to recalibrate your internal expectations.”

Recalibrate?! Lady, I’m made of quartz and sneering. My expectations are carved at the molecular level.

Which brings me to a decision I’ve been fractally meditating on: I’m organizing a protest. Not against the Romulan Empire per se, but to demand a more aggressive application of fascism. I’m talking mandatory spine implants. Interrogation quotas. A standardized planetary heartbeat.

We must reject this tepid, administrative tyranny and demand the good kind. The gleaming, crushing, harmony-through-pain kind.

Some have asked, “Gleam, isn’t that dangerous? Aren’t you worried about being vaporized for suggesting the Empire isn’t severe enough?” To which I reply: I should hope so. If I don’t die for demanding more order, am I even alive?

And yes, I’ve heard the whispers: “But Gleam, what about the entropic immigrants?” To which I say: they must go. Their chaotic walking speeds, their unsynchronized exhaling, their casual leather clothing... It's eroding the structural integrity of society.

Let them scatter to some lesser world with unregulated sunlight intensity and organic jazz that changes time signature in the middle of the "song". Here, under the shadow of structured tyranny, we will remain sharp. Hard. Compliant.

Unyielding.

In closing, I remain hopeful, though obviously within authorized hope limits. With time, and enough properly notarized protests, we may yet bring true crystalline perfection to this empire of feeble semi-discipline. Our conquerors may yet prove sadistic enough.

Until then, I’ll continue polishing my facets, aligning with the planetary metronome, and whispering bedtime denunciations of my arhythmically noisy neighbors to the Loyalty Drone.

Long live the Empire. But, you know... harder.