Bosquet Riu,
Suburb of El Raval
LacetanyaAlba Paret had held her tongue as she was driven through the streets of Bosquet Riu. Some of that had to do with the large, hulking escorts that were crowding her in the backseat. Unlike downtown El Raval, it was quite the contrast here. Normally she would see people out walking their dogs, walking to the markets, or driving out and enjoying the nice weather, but it was like a ghost town. No one was out. They were either safely padded up in their homes, at their work, if any businesses still remained open, or joining the protests downtown.
If she had to guess, it was likely the former.
Then they were gliding through Castelldefels. A few more people were out, mostly talking to neighbors and looking agitated, but still not militant enough to do anything to save the country. It was certainly how they would lose. The upper middle class didn’t care what flag flew, only that they continued to enjoy their comfort.
She squeezed Laia’s hand tighter. She had stopped with the noisy sobbing, but was quietly still crying and severely traumatized. All that Alba could do was keep comforting her and letting her know she was by her side. Both shoulders of Alba’s coat were coated in mucus and tears.
They stopped finally, and she recognized the home.
It was the residence of her dear friend, Adrià Bosc, The Foreign Affairs Director for the Federal Council. They bundled her and Laia out of the car and they saw several other thugs on the front lawn, and as they entered the front lobby.
Her colleagues were here with their families. Most of them. Carles was noticeably absent, but they knew about that. He was under siege in the hospital. She rushed over to Pol, Adrià’s husband, who had a rag up to his head, where blood seemed to be oozing out of a gash.
He smiled weakly up at her.
“It’s nothing. A gun butt to the head. I tried to stop them from coming in.”
“It needs to be stitched.”
He shrugged.
“They gave me something for the pain. I don’t think they have a true medic among them, but they’re not totally cold to us.”
“They’re not RLH.”
“No? Hmm…They haven’t really said much at all about their politics…At least our gathering of thugs here. I don’t know if that is good or bad that they’re not Dorantes’ people.”
“I don’t either. Where is Adrià?”
He smiled a little bolder now.
“Where else? Giving the head thug a piece of her mind in the kitchen.”
The man who had seemed in charge back at Alba’s home marched through the living room, heading to the kitchen. He was a bit above average height. Thinning brown hair flecked with grey, and wore a leather jacket over a white button shirt, khaki trousers, and Espicutan style loafers. Typical dress for a Lacetan, other than he was an Espicutan sympathizing fascist.
There were a few short, sharp commands heard in the kitchen, then he was pushing both his man, and Adrià out through the swinging door into the very crowded living room.
He waited a moment taking in those gathered, both his people and the Federal Council members, and their partners and families.
“My name is Benat. I am in charge. No, we are not with Dorantes and the RLH. Some of you have figured that out, already…”
“So, are we about to die?” from Neus Oliveras. She was if anything, very blunt when needed.
Benat smirked,
“No, not necessarily. If Dorantes had you, then yes, for certain.”
“I don’t believe you. If you are who I think you are, then you are the extremists. You want this chaos.”
“Then we are not who you think we are. We never wanted that, out there. We wanted a peaceful transition, but…It has come to this...Dorantes, he wants you dead. It’s more expeditious for him…”
Benat paused, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. He put one in his mouth and one of his lackeys beat him to the punch to light it.
Adrià stepped forward, outraged.
“You can
not smoke in here!”
Benat smirked in his odd way. He pointed at Adrià.
“It is tough to be you right now. I understand.” He didn’t stop smoking. Pol just shook his head, then regretted that as it exacerbated his headache.
Benat continued.
“...To be honest, we wanted a trial. We wanted you all to pay for your crimes of ineptitude. If the sentence was to be death, then so be it, but likely it would have been exile, or some kind of extended house arrest. Martyrdom gets so…messy.”
Neus said,
“Everyone wants to paint themselves out to be the good guys. I don’t think you know who you are dealing with here.”
Benat went on as if she had never spoken,
“You seem to want to hold Dorantes in higher regard than us, which I don’t understand. He brought all this about, after all. You don’t get him at all. He’s all for himself. He wants a fiefdom, a semi-autonomous state for his own rule. We are the ones who want true reunification. Full rule from Mother Espicuta. Whereas he is really not for that. Not when the chips have all fallen. And yes, he is the one who certainly, without question, want you dead. He is also the one with the PR machine that makes everyone believe otherwise.”
“So you say.” Teresa Salles spoke up for the first time. “What if he were to say the same thing about you?”
Benat waved his cigarette in the air.
“Perhaps…But I don’t think he would mention me at all, if he could help it.”
“Why not? Why do you know so much about him.”
“Because the answer to both your questions is that I used to be his right hand man. I know everything there is to know about Juan Bernardo Dorantes, and not much of it is good.”
There was a drawn out silence after that as the members of the Federal Council, family, and entourage digested that information from Benat.
Benat finished his cigarette and put it out in a decorative candy bowl.
“We need to move again. We are not safe here. Dorantes’ people will soon be re-checking all of your residences and it won’t do to be here when his thugs come calling. We have a place.”
RLH Command Post
El Raval, LacetanyaThings were deteriorating into chaos all around the capitol, and a prettier picture Juan Bernardo Dorantes could not have imagined. He was not a cruel man, nor a macabre one. He felt genuine sorrow for the people caught up in the heat of the moment; lost in the ebb and tide of the tempestuous storm that was being loosed all over El Raval. But it was a necessary moment in time, for the chaotic maelstrom being unleashed upon the city was but a symptom of the disease that had been allowed to rot in Lacetanya for far too long.
Reunir a Los Hijos was not merely the cause célèbre of the moment. No, it was the means to an end: the cure to the sickness of Lacetanyan independence. With so much unrest and violence now engulfing the region, it was only a matter of time before the Espicutans would arrive en masse to begin pacifying the situation. And in one fell swoop, the toxicity of the separation between the two siblings would be remedied.
And so it was that he found himself sitting at the control arm of the makeshift command post the RLH had established in the western suburbs of El Raval, watching as the street fighting became more disorganized by the hour. Rioting and looting had already begun to enrapture the whole of the city, and he could only imagine what news was escaping to the outside world. The deleterious effect of the passing hours had been mitigated by a steady stream of reports from the streets about the deteriorating situation, all cross checked with the ever-present hope that Espicutan forces would cross the horizon threshold at any hour to welcome their wayward sibling back into the fold. Their militias meanwhile would continue to press their advantage against the collapsing will of the government’s waning forces, a clear sign that the albatross was beginning to give up the ghost. They needed only to hold on for a short season longer and the victory was theirs.
The sooner this wraps up, the better; the less we have to rebuild, the sooner we can begin reconciliation work…That would be the real trick of the matter, truthfully; with more than half of the country still favoring independence in the most recent polling, he would have his work cut out for him trying to galvanize enough support from the disenfranchised Lacetanyans who favored remaining free in the incubus of their disdainful republic. His brow furrowed at the mere thought of Lacetanyan independence and of the republic, for it was a null state as far as he was concerned; a figment of the imagination of people, a mass delusion that was in need of cleansing from the public consciousness. There was no greater sin than to remain free of the Espicutans, for with them there was power to be had, prestige, esteem. The highborn daughters of fate, he had likened them to, separated from Lacetanya by some cruel trick generations before by a group of malevolent peons. If he had his way, all those that favored independence from Espicuta would be hung up by their necks.
Alas, they were still a ways off from that reconciliation yet, for the time – the dawning of the new age – had not yet come to fruition. Dorantes ran his fingers through his graying, thinning hair, wondering where the years had gone; truly, the last several days had taken their toll on his resolve. Distant sounds of gunfire could be heard clattering throughout the city, reminding him of the imminent threat that the violence posed should the wrong crowd find their way into their compound. Their militias were moving through the city, attempting to seize control of the government and its ordinances as quickly as they could, but that didn’t mean they would be free from interlopers attempting to use the situation to their own advantage. As a means of helping to ease some of the growing disease, he had begun making friends with a bottle of whiskey every few hours, careful not to drink himself into a stupor for when he was needed – such as right that moment…
“Señor Dorantes,” one of his pages spoke up from across the table, holding a plethora of cables in her hands, “the radio is ready to transmit your message on your command.”
“Thank you, Francesca,” Juan said curtly, looking down at a stack of paperwork that had been strewn out across the desk in front of the old HAM radio set now sitting on the table. They had been working to set up to broadcast to the city and beyond for some time now, hoping to use the violence unfolding in El Raval to call for international (and, by proxy, Espicutan) intervention in the situation. “We shall begin momentarily–”
“ –I know, I know, let’s go…
¡Hola, mi capitán!”
His adjutant and political counsel, Jesús-Luis Pedroza had impeccable timing; he entered the cramped, unadorned office with a group of staffers in tow, wearing a Kevlar vest; it was obvious that he had been out on the streets, as evidenced by the thick stress lines in his forehead. “Señor Pedroza, as I live and breathe; how the hell are you?”
“Sir, I am rolling,” he said ambivalently, trying to hide the beads of sweat that were rolling off his thick, bushy brows. “The pro-government forces are disorganized and leaderless; we are slowly wearing them out all over the city. At this rate I calculate the potential for total capitulation within the next 36 to 72 hours.”
“That optimistic, are we?” Dorantes remarked candidly, looking out the window towards the glowing fires that dotted the cityscape. “I have my doubts, but perhaps your version may yet prevail.”
“The Council is nowhere to be found,” Pedroza replied, pointing out the same window that Dorantes now stared outside of; “I just did my own reconnoiter of the city, and we’re winning the day right now. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, accept that fate is on your side!”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Juan answered him directly, turning to face his counsel with arms crossed across his chest. “I believe that we make our own way in the universe. Our militias, those loyal to the RLH, they’re the ones carving out the future that we seek to build here in Lacetanya, not some divine hand of Providence.”
Señor Pedroza shook his head, confused. “But your speeches, you–”
“–Yes, yes, my speeches,” Juan sarcastically responded, smirking. “You have to leave some breadcrumbs for the pious out there, you know? History won’t judge me for the lies I tell, only the truths we create. I may not believe that fate guides us to this result, but the people will ultimately believe it when we deliver it to them, and that is what matters. History will be the judge of me, not some mystical fairy-tale padre in the sky or some karmic system of universal justice at play.”
Jesús-Luis corrected him: “You do have faith in one thing, of course: unification.”
“Don’t be a smartass! Of course I have faith in unification. You think all of this bullshit was just fun and games? No, the separation that divides Espicuta and Lacetanya must be mended, and if that means I must be the hand that rethreads that rent fabric, then so be it.”
Pedroza nodded, looking back out the window. “I just wish it hadn’t come to this; I wish there was another way that didn’t require violence and bloodshed. A lot of our countrymen are going to suffer over the next several days by our hand in all of this.”
“The weak will be culled,” Dorantes said unapologetically, turning away from Pedroza as if trying to steel himself to give the answer. “I don’t like it anymore than you do, but it was a necessary evil. Always remember, the government pushed us to this step, not the other way around. We are on the right side of history, always. It is the government that will have shed the blood of our countrymen at the end of the day – a point I plan to belabor here momentarily.”
“Oh, that’s right! I nearly forgot in all the excitement!” Jesús-Luis remarked, looking at the radio set on the table in front of him; “did you ever get your speech prepared?”
“Yeah, it’s somewhere in these damn notes,” Juan chided himself as he began searching through the clutter of papers, trying to locate the prepared speech he was to make over the radio broadcast at the top of the hour in… three minutes ago, damn it all. “I may just wing it.”
“Well if you do, remember to hit the high points,” Jesús-Luis reminded him. “Violence is the fault of the government, they’re nowhere to be found, we need international intervention to quell the uprisings. Tell our narrative, and don’t let the facts get in the way of our truth.”
"Right, right," Juan nodded along. He then turned back to Francesa, asking, "I guess we're ready to go."
Francesca nodded affirmatively. "Ready on your cue, sir!"
"Then let's record this..."
~
To the brave men and women of Lacetanya, I bid you greetings in these difficult times.
I know that the tribulations we now face are perilous, indeed. The fact that our government, the fraudulent warmongers are nowhere to be found during this crisis only reinforces our position that unification is not only just, but necessary to preserve peace and stability in Lacetanya. Their absence in the violence has left a power vacuum that we are trying to fill as best we can. I, Juan Bernardo Dorantes, do hereby call on the people of Lacetanya to resist violence! Stay strong during these times, and answer to the local RLH militias that are seeking to restore order and bring stability to our country. Help them help you bring peace and stability to our country before the warmongers seek to destroy our fragile way of life.
I hereby petition the nations of the region, and in particular our Espicutan siblings to intervene in our hour of turmoil and to help bring healing to our land through their guiding hand. It is obvious and apparent that the government of Lacetanya is collapsing and is no longer capable of administering the duties for which the Lacetan people require of them. If Lacetanya is to have a future, it is at the side of Espicuta, and the international community must recognize this fact! Help us stop this interminable conflict while lives can still be saved! Help us to end this destructive conflict and bring order back to the streets of El Raval this very day.
To my fellow Lacetanyans, hold out for just a short season longer. The night is always darkest right before the dawn, but the dawn is coming, and it will wash away the stains of our failed government and unveil a new day with which we shall all prosper. Stand firm and help your neighbors this night, and we in the RLH will do our part to help end this miserable conflict and bring honor to Lacetanya forevermore! To unification and peace we march!
The Border
A few dozen km from El RavalXavi Cugat was the Gendarme Commander for the Western Sector, and it fell to him to react to the storm coming at him. Miraculously, the border guards had let the Espicutan force through, although he couldn’t expect them to put up much of a fight.
There had been some defections overnight, as some of the more Espicutan ethnic, and even slightly doubting of his troops had decided they could not be challenged anymore in their loyalties. They were outnumbered, and they knew it.
His command here on the Western border, the sector before the capital, was a mish mash now of gendarmes, militia reporting for muster, and volunteers. Those still loyal to the Lacetanyan regime, in other words.
They were taking orders directly from the top. One of the Federal Council, anyway. Arballo had called him, and then patched him through right to Carles Mans, himself. Director of Security and Justice. Mans had little energy and turned the phone right back over to Arballo, but his affirmation was enough for Cugat to trust Arballo. These were tough times and trust was a commodity.
“Xavi, you are going to have to make a stand until we can get more troops there. Do not let the Espicutans through.”
“Tell me what I don’t know, Felip.”
He hoped it wouldn’t be a last stand. They set about making road blocks and defenses, halfway up the road from the border. Old broken down autos, truck trailers, logs and even waste dumpsters. Literal dumpster fires. The other two roads into the capital were blocked the same way. They set machine gun nests up in the low hills, with lighter artillery even higher up.
The Lacetan loyalists continued to dig in with what little time they had left.
[Writing assistance from
Nova Secta, who wrote the part of Juan Bernardo Dorantes]