When I was young, there were three sides to the galaxy; a triangle flying between the stars, snapping up each newly discovered planet and classifying it as one (and always one, as there was no overlap) of the three sides, without variation or pause. On one side, on the top side, were the rabbits. Fast, handsome, intelligent, and in charge of the galaxy. The rabbits had been brought up on a little primitive planet called Carrotus, and after a few thousand years, someone took pity on their then-pathetic little species and donated the secret of space travel. The rest you all learned in History 101 - rabbits took instantly to the stars, becoming the Galactic Rabbits, and applying their monarchical system to everyone, everywhere. Every known planet in the galaxy was marked with those little white signs displaying rabbits upon them, a constant reminder of the inescapable power they held and hold over everyone else.
On the second side, there were the turtles, my own race. Other than developing space travel without outside assistance, we turtles never did anything even remotely noteworthy, preferring to remain a slow, yet steady, species. Visiting rabbits from Carrotus would stare at us, and make jokes about our purple shells, which we dived into at the sight of danger. Rabbits always laughed at danger, and if they got killed, it didn't matter, because there were so many of them.
On the third side, of course, was the rest of the galaxy, each creature unique or generic in its own fashion, but never quite strong enough in my mind to make the triangle into a square or diamond. Sometimes, in the dead of the night, I wish some species had come out and made a name for itself, even rivaling the rabbits - a square may be pushed, and may topple over, but a triangle may neither fall nor sag, remaining always in a state of perpetual discomfort. If I were king, I'd have brought a new shape into the galaxy, a circle, in which everyone is present and everyone is equal. A round table, if you will.
When I was young, there were no thoughts of dissatisfaction - this was the way things were, and had always been, and always would be. At least, that's what I thought, until I picked up the July 2688 edition of "Which Scientist" and saw a turtle face smiling broadly up at me. "Brilliant Shellian scientist," read the headline, "discovers revolutionary new method of preserving meat indefinitely". From that day forward, I knew if that one took the chances given, turtles could be just as good, or better, than the domineering galactic rabbits. I redoubled my studies, determined to learn everything I could, as much as possible, to show those furry miracles.
At the age of 16, I was accepted into a very exclusive school for promising young minds. Besides me, there were some seven odd rabbits, a Desertian lizard, and a lisping penguin from the planet Nippius who always had to be kept cold. They were all surprised to see me in the school, and made "fun" of my being a turtle - especially two rabbits, one named Curly for his fur, and the other Athena for I don't know what. They would wait until no teachers were in sight, and then Curly would hold me against the wall while Athena used those powerful rabbit hind legs of hers to "test the density" of my shell. I briefly attempted taking a martial arts class at the local dojo, to help defend myself, but turtles are not made to be flexible, and there were certain references to copyright laws which I didn't quite understand at the time.
Bruised and angered, I finally graduated, along with the lizard, the penguin, and half the rabbits, not including Curly and Athena. Somehow, the two of them had finally been caught in the act the month before after sabotaging my life sized model of a nuclear reactor to make it blow bubbles in offensive patterns. In the jobless period that always follows graduation, I became room-mated with an elderly rat who liked to be called "Gramma", and was overly protective about practically everything. A few months later, she moved out, having found a job at some place called the "Intergalactic Repneck Bar", and telling me I could have anything she left behind. While in the midst of the ensuing raid, I found The Book.
On the outside, The Book looked innocent enough - a yellow, jacket-less affair with the words "Aesop's Fables" printed on the cover. I had heard of it before, after Athena's automated arm failed to reach some grapes growing up above, but had never actually read The Book until now. The contents changed my life forever.
There in the table of contents, bold as brass, was a marker reading "The Tortoise and the Hare". Intrigued, I flipped to the corresponding page, and read a tale of egotism and honesty, spite and self acceptance, speed and steadfastedness, bravado and brains. Every word was the truest of the true - this what was happening, in the galaxy right then, with rabbits proudly in charge and turtles plodding along behind, as it had been since the days of my youth and for however long before that. And all we had to do, as The Book said, was wait until the rabbits made one little mistake, take hold, and never ever let go.
Until that time, I began using my technical skill to gain little victories, small skirmishes which sometimes made the news, but were never enough to truly make me a noticed threat. "Shellian Terrorist," they called me, and my first victims were Curly and Athena, who had both dropped out of school after Athena was discovered to be pregnant, and were now living together in a small shack on Muckamo. Two Doofusguards busted in the door one day, and left three minutes later, job done. I'm not sure if anyone even noticed their demise.