illphated
Breadsticks of the Red Frontier
by illphated.com
In the twilight haze of the Martian dusk, the neon glow of the Olive Garden Breadstick Factory pulsed like a heartbeat in the dust-choked sky. Towering chrome smokestacks belched fragrant vapor trails that smelled faintly of garlic and nostalgia. Mars wasn’t colonized for minerals, or science, or even politics anymore. No—people came for the breadsticks.
After the Collapse of Earth’s agricultural grid, it was Olive Garden that seized the future. With wheat genetically modified to grow in the red soil and underground aquifers rerouted for yeast cultivation, the Mars Utopian Council approved construction of the first off-world carb refinery.
The Breadstick Factory was more than a symbol—it was the spine of Martian society.
Inside, conveyor belts hummed like choir lines, guided by synth-chefs with glowing eyes and stainless steel fingers. They molded the dough like artists, each twist a masterpiece. Workers in retrofitted vacuum aprons floated through airlock kitchens where temperatures were tightly controlled by algorithms written in ancient COBOL. Even the AI took pride in the recipe.
“Unlimited,” they promised—and they meant it. The breadsticks were free, because they had to be. Citizens were paid in “loaves per hour,” and there was no higher social status than Breadstick Distributor First Class.
From the gleaming towers of Olympus Mons Colony to the lower trenches of Valles Marineris, everyone knew the taste. It was tradition. It was peace. It was unity in vaporwave neon and chrome-plated architecture.
But behind the basil-scented utopia, rumors stirred. A rogue chef—known only as Carbonara—was modifying the dough protocol. He whispered of real cheese, not the protein-synth Parmesan shavings used for generations. He claimed it could give people memories… of Earth.
“I remember my grandma,” he said. “When I eat these breadsticks.”
Corporate didn’t like that.
They called it instability. Rebellion. Nostalgia was a virus, and Olive Garden had worked too hard sterilizing it out of the Martian dream. But word spread fast. And in the shadows of the factory’s violet glow, a new resistance was rising.
They didn’t carry weapons. They carried yeast.
And so began the second great Martian revolution—not with blood, but with butter.
—Unlimited. Until it’s not.
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