Sorellina e la Tempesta (Little Sister and the Storm)
Posted on Thu Jul 3rd, 2025 @ 5:10am by Petty Officer 2nd Class Sofia Cipriani
993 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Episode 16 - Silent Cries
Location: Sofia’s Quarters, USS Pioneer
Timeline: MD006 – 1142 hrs
Sunday evening aboard the Pioneer meant one thing: the weekly call home — but not to Mama. That came later, and required more careful curation.
This time was for Elana. Sister-time. No filters, no expectations, no need to pretend she wasn’t five seconds from emotional combustion. Just cucciola (little one) checking in with leonessa (little lioness).
When the comm finally connected, Elana’s face appeared, framed by her bookshelves and her usual pile of ungraded spelling tests. Hair in a topknot, jumper sleeves pushed up, that same look of tired-but-smug affection on her face.
“Ciao, cucciola. You’re late.”
Sofia flopped sideways onto her pillow. “You’re lucky I remembered at all. It’s been chaos this week.”
Elana squinted at the screen. “Mmhmm. And what’s with the face? That’s your ‘I haven’t slept in days and I’ve definitely been spiralling but don’t want to admit it’ face.”
“I do not have a face for that.”
“You do. I’ve seen it since you were five and tried to cut your own hair with kitchen scissors.”
Sofia groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
The opening five minutes were spent as always — updates on students, Mama’s latest unhinged food parcel, and the usual family commentary about whether or not Sofia looked pale (answer: yes, always, because “starships have no sun”). But Elana was sharp, and her sister’s restlessness wasn’t going unnoticed.
“Alright,” she said eventually, setting her mug down. “Out with it. You’ve been fidgeting like Luca before his first high school dance.”
Sofia hesitated, tugging at the sleeve of her jumper. “I think I’m… seeing someone.”
Elana blinked. “Scusa? Wait, what? Who? How? You haven’t even mentioned anyone—”
“I was going to,” Sofia said defensively. “It just… happened fast.”
Elana leaned forward. “Details, cucciola. Full report. Name, job, hair situation, criminal history.”
Sofia’s cheeks went red. “He’s a Marine. Gunnery Sergeant. His name’s Gaagii — they call him Raven.”
Elana narrowed her eyes. “A Marine?”
Sofia held up a hand. “Don’t. Start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m just... flagging the part where my baby sister — who still triple-checks the food setting on a replicator — is now getting involved with someone who probably sleeps with a weapon under his pillow.”
“He’s not like that.”
“They never are, until you find out they keep a bat’leth in their locker and drink bloodwine recreationally.”
“He plays the flute.”
That made Elana pause. “...Like, a real flute?”
“Yes. Also, he carries a medicine bag, talks about spirit guides, wears war paint into combat. He’s respectful, patient, and calm. He makes me feel like I’m not just someone people hand padds to.”
Elana exhaled slowly, the teasing dialling down. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Sofia.”
“I know,” she said, practically burying her face in her hands. “It’s a lot. It sounds like a terrible idea when I say it out loud.”
“Do you think it’s a terrible idea?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? He makes me feel... seen. And safe. And when I was a wreck the other night, he just held me. No weirdness. No judgment.”
Elana studied her carefully. “So this isn’t just a crush. You’re already feeling things.”
“Too many things.”
“And what does Mama think?”
“She doesn’t know. Are you kidding? She’d have a coronary. She already thinks Starfleet’s turning me into a war bride.”
“I mean…” Elana gave a pointed look.
“Leonessa!”
“I’m just saying, you know how she gets. She’d say he’s too old, too dangerous, and clearly taking advantage of your soft little heart.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Sofia admitted, voice softer now. “What if I’m just something easy and new? What if he’s being kind because I’m young and naïve and he’s seen it all before?”
“That’s a fair fear. And let’s be honest, you do fall fast.”
“Do not.”
“You wrote a poem about a cashier in university.”
“He had dimples!”
“Exactly.”
Sofia laughed despite herself, then sighed. “But this feels different. He’s not flashy. He’s just… steady. Like a mountain.”
“Or an immovable object,” Elana muttered. “Okay. Look. I’m not saying don’t see where this goes. But go in with your eyes open. You’re twenty. He’s fifteen years older and built like a walking cultural legacy. You’re allowed to feel things — but make sure he earns the ones you give.”
Sofia nodded slowly. “He said he’d help me carry it. The grief. He didn’t expect me to be okay. He just stayed.”
Elana’s face softened, genuinely now. “Then maybe he’s not like the others.”
“Don’t tell Mama?”
“Not unless I get to break the news dramatically over Christmas dinner.”
“Deal.”
“Also, if he breaks your heart, I will write a formal complaint to his CO and possibly egg his barracks.”
“You can’t throw eggs through subspace.”
“Watch me.”
Sofia laughed, more freely now, and felt the tension in her chest finally begin to ease.
For the next fifteen minutes, they spoke of lighter things — books, food, Elana’s disastrous attempt at yoga — but under it all was that steady hum of family, fierce and warm, with judgment offered only because it came from love.
When the call finally ended, Sofia stared at the dark screen for a moment longer, heart still thumping softly.
She didn’t have answers yet. But she didn’t feel quite so lost anymore either.
Petty Officer Second Class Sofia Cipriani
Yeoman, USS Pioneer
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