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The Cry of San Theodoros - Rebellion in Guyamura (Open)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Guyamura
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The Cry of San Theodoros - Rebellion in Guyamura (Open)

Postby Guyamura » Thu Jan 23, 2025 1:36 pm

(Open to diplomatic responses, news reports, general non-military reactions. For any response of a military nature, please reach out via Telegram and discuss it with me before posting. Also feel free to reach out with questions or ideas.)


The sun was climbing into the sky when Ramon Zarate approached the church in the town of San Theodoros. Outside the building, which was made of weathered yellow-white bricks, there was a line of portraits, each one centered in a wreath of flowers. The line stretched all the way from the doors of the church down to the end of the block, on both sides. The tall, wiry man strode into the church, shoving aside the doors with his calloused hands.

In the atrium, the deacon tried to block Ramon’s path. “These people are here to grieve,” he said in a harsh whisper. “You would taint their mourning with your politics?”

“I would tell them what they need to hear,” Ramon replied. “Out of my way.” He pushed the deacon to one side and strode into the nave, where the pews were packed full of people - men, women, children, all dressed in somber clothing. The priest was in the middle of the Mass, but he fell silent as Ramon marched up to the altar.

“Father Corbelán,” Ramon said to the priest. “Forgive my intrusion, but I must speak.”

The priest, Roman Corbelán, said nothing in reply, but merely nodded and gestured. Ramon Zarate turned and faced the crowd.

“Friends! Brothers! Sisters! You have gathered here today to mourn. Your hearts are filled with sadness. I am here to exhort you to turn that sadness into rage! Why are these men dead? Because José Sotillo decided that it was better to line his own pockets, instead of making sure the mine was safe! Because the inspector took a bribe and walked away without even going down into the mine! Because they consider you nothing more than stupid beasts, to do all the work and get nothing but the stick! I ask you, will you allow this to continue? Or will you join me, and free yourselves? Will you drive out the wicked and the greedy? Will you restore the honor of your ancestors who fought for freedom?”

The church was filled with anxious murmurs, quiet conversations, angry agreement. They were being swayed by Ramon’s message.

“Then I say this,” he continued. “Mourn your dead. Pay your respects. But when you walk out of this church, I will be waiting. Let every man who still dares to be a man, not a beaten animal, join me!”

* * *

When the funeral service ended, true to his word, Ramon Zarate was waiting outside the church. And not just by himself - there were two hundred men, who he had recruited along the way to San Theodoros, waiting with him, along with a truck full of weapons.

“Who will fight?” Ramon asked of the crowd who spilled out of the church. “Who will defend their rights? Who will defend their homes? Who will defend their honor?”

One of Ramon’s lieutenants shouted, “Down with the owners! Down with the landlords! Death to the corrupt!”

Enough men and women stepped forward that they ran out of guns to arm them. Ramon Zarate told them to be patient - there would be guns for everyone soon. They swept through the town like a tidal wave. The mayor called out the police, but they were smashed and scattered. The local garrison of the Guardia mustered, but they were nothing but a band of abusive drunks who only knew how to crack the skulls of strikers or frighten peasants off land desired by the rich. Against this sudden and unexpected uprising they were worthless. Those who did not throw off their uniforms and flee were swiftly defeated.

By the time the sun was at its zenith, the entire town had fallen.

* * *

Rumors of revolt in western Guyamura
By Ramon Feliz, independent reporter

DATELINE SAN LORENZO – News arrived in the capital this morning of a large revolt among the mine workers of the central-western State of Pucara. Just a few days ago there was a terrible incident at a zinc mine in Pucara. A collapse in an underground portion of the mine led to the deaths of more than two dozen miners. There was widespread anger at the mine’s owner, but also at the local government officials who had certified the mine as safe.

According to the reports, the revolting miners have seized the town of San Theodoros, which is located near the border with the State of Itacua. There have been reports of unrest among the farm workers of Itacua as well. If the farmers also rise up, the combined rebel forces could threaten two of Guyamura’s most economically valuable regions - the zinc and silver mines of Pucara and the coffee plantations of Itacua.

When asked for comment, Minister of the Interior Patricio Mendez said, “These reports of rebellion in the State of Pucara have been drastically exaggerated. There have been a few minor instances of civil disturbance, no doubt caused by anti-social forces exploiting this moment of grief for their own selfish, destructive ends. I have assured El Presidente that the situation is under control.”

El Presidente José Avellanos recently hosted a group of foreign business executives in the Presidential Palace in San Lorenzo, where he touted the benefits of investing in Guyamura. “Guyamura was once known for its instability, but that is a thing of the past,” he told his guests. “Today, Guyamura is open for business!”
Last edited by Guyamura on Thu Jan 23, 2025 5:40 pm, edited 4 times in total.

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Guyamura
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Postby Guyamura » Fri Jan 24, 2025 11:14 am

Life in the capital city went on normally. No one paid much attention to the rumors coming out of the State of Pucara. There was always talk of rebellion among the peasants, but usually it either came to nothing, or whatever fires broke out were quickly smothered by the police and the military. The government had promised that any disruption to the normal pace of business would be short.

But in a fancy cafe, two men shared a doubt that these confident proclamations reflected the truth. Miguel Montero and Francisco d’Anconia represented two of the most powerful families in Guyamura. The Montero clan owned huge hacienda estates in the State of San Mateo, where they raised cattle. The d’Anconia family owned some of the most productive copper mines in the State of Malca, and a few gold mines as well. Both families had extensive networks of patronage, and connections across the border in Mareyland. And both families had found themselves shut out of El Presidente’s inner circle.

“This was not one of your mines, I hope,” Miguel - Lieutenant Colonel Montero, to use his full rank - said wryly, as he gestured to the article by Ramon Feliz. It was buried in the back pages of a small-time newspaper - none of the big papers would risk the ire of the government by printing it.

“God, no,” Francisco said. “You think we got where we are by being stupid like that? Pocket the money for safety and you’ll be paying triple to fix the problem later. Besides,” he added, then paused to sip his coffee. “You show the workers you care, and they don’t complain as much.”

“Avellanos will move quickly to try and crush this,” Miguel said. “But I’m not so sure it will be an easy thing. I managed to get a look at the last report - this is no mob waving pickaxes. They’re well-armed, and they’re not acting dumb, either. Someone spent some time planning this, I think.”

“My business here in the capital is almost concluded,” Francisco said. “Tomorrow I will be on my way back to Viloma. My brother will want to know what the great Don Carlos thinks of the situation.”

Don Andres and Don Carlos. The patriarchs of the d’Anconia and Montero families. A powerful alliance, if it could be arranged.

“My brother has no love for Avellanos,” Miguel replied. “El Presidente has proven himself to be no friend to the Monteros. But the situation is still so uncertain. Maybe this little revolt will be crushed and forgotten in a month. Maybe it will grow into something more.” Miguel took a sip of his own coffee. “For now, Don Carlos will wait, and see what El Presidente does next.”

* * *

José Avellanos, El Presidente, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in frustration. “I don’t care about the formalities,” he said into the phone. “I want this upstart little priest defrocked, you understand? Him and any other padre who decides to support this lawlessness!”

Presidente, it is not so simple,” the voice of came through from the other end of the line.

“What’s so complicated about it?” Avellanos demanded. “You’re El Cardenal, aren’t you? Put on those fancy robes and tell these peasants that their so-called ‘Father’ is an agent of Satan. Say that any who follow him will be excommunicated. Whatever you have to say to make his followers think twice about which side to choose.”

“But the Church is not supposed to be political -”

“Don’t feed me that line, Gustavo!” Avellanos snapped. “You do your part, or I’ll find someone else who knows how to take orders!”

“...Yes, Presidente.”

The President slammed the phone down and snarled. The Cardinal had been a useful man in the early years. But it seemed the fire had burned down to embers.

Long, manicured fingers dug into his shoulders, massaging the tension that had built up in his muscles. Avellanos closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying the tender ministrations of his wife Antonia. The woman was just as beautiful as the day he had first seen her on the fashion show runway, with dark skin and long black hair.

“I am surrounded by incompetent fools, mi amor,” he said. “General Barrios will have to be replaced. He’s failed to contain the rebels. I need someone active, who can get out there and chase these picaros down.”

“What about General Durando?” Antonia suggested. “He did well dealing with the Chapo when they attacked those mines last year.”

“Yes, Durando would be a good choice,” Avellanos reflected. “But I think I will send General Murillo, instead. This rebellion will require harsh measures to put down. It will make the squeamish men in the Congress upset. Better they be upset with Murillo - he has grown too self-assured and whispers of replacing me where he thinks I cannot hear him. Some blood on his hands will drag down his rising star.”

Antonia said nothing, merely nodding in agreement. Silence reigned for a few minutes as she continued to massage her husband’s shoulders, until there was a beep that signalled that someone was waiting to be admitted into the office.

“Thank you, mi amor.” Avellanos reached up to give one of Antonia’s hands a squeeze and a kiss. “I will see you at dinner.”

As Antonia withdrew, the Minister of Security entered. Juan Merlo was a stocky, ugly man with a pig nose and a messy mustache, but he was a very good secret policeman.

“What do you have for me?” Avellanos demanded.

In response, Merlo handed over a pair of dossiers. “Father Roman Corbelán. We were aware that he held sympathies for the miners but he kept his preaching within acceptable boundaries. No known associations with any radicals. Then there’s this other man, Zarate.”

“The man with the guns,” Avellanos said. “Who is he?”

“He appears to be using an assumed name,” Merlo explained. “We have no records of anyone named Ramon Zarate any earlier than two years ago, when someone using that name on a passport crossed over into Mareyland. He didn’t come back through any of the official crossings but it seems the guns came back with him. I’ve sent inquiries to Mareyland.”

“Step up efforts in neighboring states,” Avellanos ordered. “I want this contained. No more surprises, you understand?”

* * *

Cardinal excommunicates ‘corrupt’ priest as rebellion gains ground
By Ramon Feliz, independent reporter

DATELINE SAN LORENZO - Cardinal Gustavo Serrano, Archbishop of San Lorenzo and the highest-ranking authority of the Catholic Church in Guyamura, declared today that Father Roman Corbelán was hereby dismissed from the service of the Church and stripped of his clerical state. Cardinal Serrano said that this was in response to unspecified acts of “corruption” committed by Father Corbelán.

One cannot help but notice that Father Corbelán ministered to the miners of the State of Pucara from a church in the town of San Theodoros, where a rebellion against the government recently erupted.

While the government continues to insist that the situation in Pucara is under control, sources within the Ministry of Defense have confessed that in addition to San Theodoros, the rebel forces have pushed out and taken control of several nearby villages. The rebels may be close to threatening the San Tomé Mine, the largest silver mine in the entire country.

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Mareyland
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Right-wing Utopia

Postby Mareyland » Fri Jan 24, 2025 12:46 pm

San Lorenzo

James Dawson, Mareyland's ambassador to Guyamura, spent much of his time outside of the embassy enjoying the food, drink, and entertainments of the Federal Club. This exclusive club was a favorite gathering place for many of the foreign residents of the city, especially Mareylanders. Behind its gated entrance and within its walls, the only dark-skinned Guyamurans to be seen were the men and women who served the drinks and food. A few of the criollos, the Guyamurans who prided themselves on their "pure" Maldonian heritage, were among the Club's membership, but even they were looked askance at.

Dawson was waiting for his meal to arrive when a fat man, perspiring in his suit, sat down at the table.

"Dawson, what's this about a rebellion out in the mining districts?"

Dawson concealed his annoyance with a diplomatic smile. Wrigley Gibbons was an obnoxious oaf but he was also very well-connected back in Mareyland. It paid to cultivate such a man, even if it meant putting up with his utter lack of manners. Dawson blamed the man's upbringing - he was one of those "new money" types who had muscled their way up into the upper crust. They never got much of an education in the finer points of etiquette or proper behavior, since they were too busy accumulating as much wealth as they could and then displaying it in various gaudy ways. Meanwhile, Dawson's family were from good stock, going back to the colonial days, and he'd gotten the best education.

So it was with the condescending patience of a man supremely assured of his superior station that Dawson cleared his throat and asked, "What rebellion, Mister Gibbons?"

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't heard," Gibbons said with frustration. He turned and waved down a passing waitress. "Bring me a paloma, senorita, and quick about it, eh?" Before the woman could respond, Gibbons had smacked her playfully on the ass and turned his attention back to the ambassador. "It's been in the news - if you read past the front pages. Rebellion in Pucara, and it's spreading."

"Oh yes, the incident in San Theodoros," Dawson said. He was, frankly, annoyed that Gibbons seemed to be better-informed than him on this issue. He'd done little to investigate beyond the message that the Avellanos government had sent out, noting a "minor incident of civil disturbance" and promising that everything was under control. "I wouldn't worry about it. These sorts of spasms happen, from time to time."

"Oh, I think I'll worry," Gibbons insisted. "I had an interest in that mine."

"Oh, is that so?" Dawson said, one eyebrow raising slightly.

"Of course, I made the mistake of trusting the Gimmies to run the thing themselves," Gibbons continued. "Should have insisted on bringing in some of my people, some white men who know how to run a mine properly. But look, Dawson, this thing is starting to look like more than just a little spasm. I want assurances."

"Assurances of what, Mister Gibbons?"

"That these Gimmies will put everything back in order, and soon," Gibbons explained. "And assurances from you, Mister Ambassador, that the interests of Mareyland citizens are being looked after."

"Sir," Dawson snapped, testy.

"Sorry, sorry, bad form," Gibbons said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Look, I just want to make sure that this is being taken seriously. Did I mention that I have a luncheon with President Dewey scheduled for next month?"

No doubt some fundraiser where he'll be one of a dozen or more "men of means" angling for the President's ear, Dawson thought. But he just smiled and said, "I understand, Mister Gibbons. I'll make sure to raise the issue."

"Good man," Gibbons said.

As if on cue, the waitress returned with his cocktail. "And about time! What, did that bartender forget how to make a simple drink?" Gibbons snatched the glass from the tray, sending drops of tequila and juice flying. Dawson dabbed at a tiny spot on his lapel with a napkin.

"Be seeing you, Dawson," Gibbons said. With a little salute, he got up from his seat and strode away, drink in hand, heading in the direction of another table. Dawson waited until he was a safe distance, then let out an annoyed sigh. But as much as he would have preferred not to speak with the odious Gibbons, his comments about the rebellion continued to rattle around in his head for the rest of the day.

When he returned to the embassy, Dawson sat down at his desk and began to compose an inquiry. If there was more to this rebellion than Avellanos had let on, then that information needed to be shared with Guyamura's norther neighbor.

TO THE GOVERNMENT OF GUYAMURA

I have heard concerning reports regarding unrest in the State of Pucara. I request that you provide a complete summary of the current situation as soon as possible, and keep my office informed of all developments. Additionally, I remind President Avellanos of the agreements his government signed with the Republic of Mareyland, particularly those covering the protection of the private property and investments of Mareyland citizens.

Cordially,
J. Dawson
Ambassador of the Republic of Mareyland to the Federal Republic of Guyamura
The Republic of Mareyland
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Minbatsu
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Postby Minbatsu » Fri Jan 24, 2025 12:48 pm

八大ニュースパ (Hachidai Newspaper)
Eruption of Anti-Owner violence in Guyamara

Recently, the nation known as Guyamara has had a set of massive anti ownership rioting. The supposed leader of the opposition. A disgraced cleric known as Father Corbélan has been tied to the rioting, but there has been no actual confirmation that Corbélan has led any rebellion.

The rebel sects are closing in on the San Tome mines, the largest silver mines in Guyamara, and are threatening it with capture.

We are not sure about the situation, but we are hoping that the state shall try and negotiate, instead of straight genocide. We have sent the Minbatsuan ambassador, Sato Ajima, to the nation to work out a potential Peacekeeping operation in the State of Pucara.
帝国は決して滅びない!


A Japanese inspired modern empire that is powerful and has good ramen.


ラジオ八代: Hachidai the recent centre of the World Armament Exhibition, as the Type 32 "Dragoon" tank revealed. /// Hachidai man imprisoned for stealing a V-27 Light Armored Vehicle.

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Guyamura
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Corporate Police State

Postby Guyamura » Sat Jan 25, 2025 10:31 pm

Juan Merlo, the Minister of Security, stood in front of the President’s desk while José Avellanos waved a sheaf of papers in his hand and shouted at him, “Why do I have to learn about the course of this rebellion from some no-name ‘independent journalist’?! I told you to contain this problem!”

“Yes, sir,” Merlo replied evenly. The short, pig-nosed man showed no emotional reaction to the President’s tirade. “I cannot put down this uprising overnight, Presidente. It takes time - time to move troops into position, to identify and remove the incapable officers, to gather supplies…”

“I am not expecting the impossible,” Avellanos said, his tone softening back to a more neutral formality. “But I am expecting it to be done, as quickly as possible. And I don’t want any more embarrassing stories in the papers. Find this Ramon Feliz and deal with him.”

“I have men working on it now,” Merlo told the President. “As for the rebels, I expect they will move west, towards the San Tomé Mine, and north, towards the copper mines in Malca. Federal troops will concentrate there, block their advance, and then push in and clear the rebel-held territory.”

“Good.” Avellanos sorted through the papers, discarding some and keeping two in his hands. “I have this message from Minbatsu - they are taking an interest in the situation and sending a new ambassador. They say they want to arrange a peacekeeping operation.”

“We do not need foreign troops,” Merlo protested.

“Ah, but think about it,” Avellanos insisted. “The rebels are the ones going against the law. So we let the foreigners come in, and they do the dirty work for us!”

“I do not like it, Presidente,” Merlo said firmly. He was one of the few men in the cabinet who could be so forthrightly negative. Both because he held one of the most critical positions in the government, and because he simply lacked the emotional intelligence to do anything but be his blunt, dispassionate self. “I think we should tell this ‘Minbatsu’ that we can solve our own problems.”

“Your concerns are noted,” Avellanos said. “Think of it as an added incentive. If you move fast enough, we will have this mess cleaned up before the foreigners can even think about showing up. Now go, handle this - shut this rebellion down so the Mareylanders can go back to filling our coffers.” He waved the other piece of paper. “I do not want to be bothered with another petty little missive from their ambassador.”

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE TO THE PRESS
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT


Citizens of Guyamura and governments of the world,

You may have heard news recently of civil unrest in our country. Allow me to clarify the situation:

There has been an incident in the State of Pucara. A group of renegades has attempted to overturn law and order. Rest assured that this act of banditry will soon be suppressed.

I am not blind or deaf. There are clearly issues which require the government’s attention in Pucara. I have ordered an investigation into the recent mining accident, as well as a review of the state bureaucracy and government. If there are public servants who have succumbed to the temptation of corruption, or business owners who have failed to abide by the law, they will be discovered and punished.

I know that there is much grief in the State of Pucara. In recognition of the passions which may drive men to rash action, I offer amnesty to those who lay down their arms and surrender.

Signed,
José Avellanos
President of the Federal Republic of Guyamura

Minbatsu wrote:We are not sure about the situation, but we are hoping that the state shall try and negotiate, instead of straight genocide. We have sent the Minbatsuan ambassador, Sato Ajima, to the nation to work out a potential Peacekeeping operation in the State of Pucara.

TO THE GOVERNMENT OF MINBATSU

Greetings,

On behalf of President José Avellanos, I welcome the arrival of your ambassador Sato Ajima to Guyamura. I look forward to discussing this proposal of a peacekeeping force with them when they arrive.

Signed,
Dolores Perez
Foreign Minister


* * *

The rebels now controlled a sizable portion of the eastern part of the State of Pucara. Much of this was empty scrubland, but besides the town of San Theodoros they had also marched into several villages. These were hardscrabble places, full of calloused peasants who either worked in the mines, or in the processing plants, or scraped out a meager living from the land.

Ramon Zarate and his rebels had left these people alone. Their ire was focused on those who held power over these villagers. The large mansions and country villas of the owners went up in flames. The destruction of their homes was symbolic, and emotional. But more importantly, the fires consumed the records - the land deeds, the debts, and the contracts which the rich used to keep the common folk in their bondage.

The mines that they seized were rendered unusable. Shafts were dynamited, equipment was destroyed, and more records were burned. This was not a movement to seize control of the means of production - it was a movement to destroy them altogether.

“The Lord made the Earth for us,” Father Roman Corbelán preached. “He made Man its steward and gave him dominion. But Man was infected by the greed of Satan, and he invented these fiendish machines to rape the Earth! The godless sinners forced you into the bowels of the world, to descend into Hell, to satisfy their lust for gold and jewels. No more!”

In San Theodoros, Ramon Zarate held a meeting with Father Corbelán and his most trusted lieutenant, Eduardo Escovado, to discuss how to proceed. Both the priest and the lieutenant wanted the rebels to focus on the mines.

“We must march for the village of Charamokho,” Corbelán argued. “It sits next to the great San Tomé Mine - the biggest silver mine in the country. So much blood has been poured into that gaping maw into Hell. It must be sealed!”

“And then we go north, into Malca,” Escovado added. “Rally the miners of that state to join us, and the Chapo as well. When the army comes, they’ll have to dig us out of the hills and the mountains.”

These were persuasive arguments. But Ramon Zarate had received a messenger prior to the start of the meeting, who offered another path. The messenger was another priest, Father Arturo Vargas. He came from the State of Itacua, to the east. Pucara was full of mines, while Itacua was full of farms. It was the breadbasket of the country, but in recent years many productive haciendas had been turned over to foreigners for the growing of coffee.

“I come bearing a message from Emilio Fortuna,” Father Vargas explained. “He has heard of your success and wishes to form an alliance. He commands the loyalty of many peasants in Itacua. They chafe under the whips of the criollos and their foreign masters. If you march east, he will raise them in rebellion and join with your army. Then you will be powerful enough to challenge El Presidente directly.”

Ramon Zarate very much wanted to challenge President Avellanos. He had no great love for the peasants - they were useful to him, since without them he would have no army. But his ultimate goal was to kick Avellanos out of the Presidential Palace and seat himself on the throne. Destroying the San Tomé Mine would not accomplish this, nor would running into the hills. The man who had once been a colonel in the Federal Army by the name of Ricardo Ortega - before he had been forced to flee into exile or risk punishment for his corruption - decided that if Emilio Fortuna was offering to double the size of his army, he would gladly accept.

“We march for Itacua,” he told the others. “We will not hide in the mountains while Avellanos and his puppet-masters squeeze the people to grease their wheels. Let senor Fortuna issue his call to arms, and together we will march all the way to San Lorenzo and put El Presidente’s head on a spike!”

* * *

When the Federal Police arrived at the home of Ramon Feliz in San Lorenzo, they found it abandoned. The journalist, tipped off by his contacts in the government, had left the city hours ahead of the warrant issued for his arrest.

It had been time to leave anyway - Ramon had reached the limit of what he could learn from a distance. To tell the story of this rebellion, he needed to be there and see it for himself. So it was off to Itacua, and from there he would find a way to cross over into Pucara and reach the rebel-held territory. Then it was just a matter of earning their trust and figuring out a way to file his stories. Simple.
Last edited by Guyamura on Mon Jan 27, 2025 8:21 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Guyamura
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Corporate Police State

Postby Guyamura » Tue Jan 28, 2025 9:14 am

“Father Corbelán is gone.”

Ramon Zarate looked up from the map he was scrutinizing and stared quizzically at his lieutenant, Eduardo Escovado. “What?”

“Father Corbelán is gone,” Escovado repeated. “The damn fool said he was going off to destroy the San Tomé Mine. He kept talking about ‘sealing up the Hellmouth.’ I told you he was a liability, Ramon. Now he’s taken a fifth of our men off on this crusade!”

“Only a fifth, eh?” Zarate leaned back in his chair, one hand reaching up to stroke his chin pensively.

“‘Only’ a fifth? We need every man we can get!”

“You’re right, of course,” Zarate said. “Losing the manpower is regrettable. But if this Emilio Fortuna can deliver on his promise to whip up the peasants of Itacua, we will soon be able to replace those men, and then some. What interests me more is the strategic benefits of the padre’s crusade.”

Escovado did not say anything, clearly waiting for his commander to explain himself further. Zarate obliged him. “The government is surely mobilizing against us,” he said. “But we occupy something of a central position here - as we debated at the strategy conference, we could move east, west, or north. Or even south, into Remanzo, but there’s nothing of value there. So El Presidente and his lackeys must try and anticipate our move, and block us. Now what seems a more likely target: the coffee fields of Itacua, or the richest silver mine in the whole country?”

“You think they will concentrate on protecting the mine,” Escovado said. “And leave us free to march into Itacua and rendezvous with Fortuna.”

“Precisely.”

“But then you are allowing Father Corbelán and those who followed him to march to their deaths,” Escovado protested.

“It is…unfortunate,” Zarate agreed. “But, frankly, the good Father was starting to wear on my nerves with his preaching. Better he should go off and get himself martyred for our cause now.” Zarate’s tone made it clear he considered the matter closed. “Now, what of our preparations?”

“We are loading the last of the supplies,” Escovado reported. “We’ll be ready to move before the day is over.”

“Excellent. Father Vargas should have returned to Fortuna by now.: Zarate got up out of his chair and clasped his lieutenant on the shoulders. “Take heart, Eddie! Soon we will have an even more numerous army, on the very outskirts of the capital! The rest of the Avellanos presidency will be measured in days.”

* * *

General Juan Murillo arrived in Alta Gracia, the capital of the State of Pucara, along with the first of the battalions of Federal Army troops sent to stop the spread of Zarate’s revolution. What he found in the city disgusted him: the civilian and military officials were in a panic, more concerned with blaming each other than dealing with the crisis. The local units of the Guardia Nacional were worse than useless.

To prevent the Guardia from becoming too friendly with the people, it was standard policy to assign men to units stationed outside of their home states. This limited the risks of pre-existing relationships corrupting the men, but it also made them outsiders among the people. The Guardia units in Pucara were especially bad, since assignment to the states more remote from the capital was seen more as punishment than duty. The men and officers who weren’t sent here because their existing bad habits soon picked some up. After even his cursory initial inspection, General Murillo was hardly surprised that the rebels had broken the Guardia so easily.

He had immediately relieved the state’s garrison commander, General Barrios, and sent him off to Itacua to keep an eye on the bordering state. The Governor of Pucara, Pedro Gil, was happy to let Murillo take charge of the anti-rebel operation and promised him a free hand in the state. To make good on El Presidente’s promises of investigation, Murilla had ordered the immediate arrest of the mine owner and the safety inspector. Then it was down to the business of stopping and crushing the rebels.

“We have reports of a rebel force moving towards Charamokho,” one of his officers said. “It appears to be led by the renegade priest.”

“Their target is the San Tomé Mine, no doubt,” Murillo said. “I want our forces concentrated at Charamokho at once. All the federal troops and whatever scraps of the Guardia still worth anything. Set up a defensive line between the village and the mine.”

One of his subordinates was brave enough to enquire, “Why not meet them before they reach the village?”

Murillo gave the man a cold smile. “Because my orders from El Presidente are to root out all rebellious elements,” he explained. “So we will let them march through Charamokho, and we will see who flocks to the rebel standard and who remembers where their loyalties should lie. And once we’ve routed the rebel army, we’ll march back into Charamokho and punish all of those who made the wrong choice.”

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Weltkria
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Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Weltkria » Tue Jan 28, 2025 1:39 pm

Comrade.

Steaming hot coffee was a bourgeoisie luxury. What was a "boiler", comrade? What was a "comfort", comrade? No! You, like the rest of the good little proletarians scattered across Weltkria, enjoyed your lukewarm coffee - there was too much work at the communal factory to drink it while hot, after all. The good little proletarian timidly went to here-and-fro, reciting his red book of quotes as he went from drab gray factory to drab gray apartment (now with dated furniture), showed up to his draft office, rifle in hand, and joined with thousands of other good little proletarians, rifles in hands, as they marched down Revolutionary Square.

Revolutionary Air Force on alert! The sword, shield, the flying monsters of the Weltkrian Proletariat, on alert! The lumbering bombers of WnK, on alert! The carriers? On alert! The Ardenian bourgeoisie, their Ostrenian banker puppets as well, would be met with the sword, steel and mettle of a million different little tiny proletarians, the worker meeting their ultimate archenemy on the fields of battle.

National Army on alert! The two-million different proletarians, many with substandard equipment, on alert! The men of Northern Command, on alert! The Ardenian menace would not be cowed by mere "posturing". No.

And as the tanks roared by, as Grunat looked down on his million different proletarians, all resting to do his bidding, as the planes screamed past, a tap. A mere tap. RIA director. Tough man, callused hands, looked like a old grandpa - except he waterboarded people in his basement. Kindly eyes.

A intelligence report. For the eyes of Grunat only.

One day later, a submarine. Karkenhol class. The Trojan Horse of the operation - deep inside, operators, green-eyed tough-men with weapons, gear and equipment. Suddenly went missing, the blip of Ardenian imaging satellites seeing it leave port. It crawled past the connection, past the Ardenian sonar array, past the tracking frigates and destroyers, past the hustle and bustle of Galen, and emerged one week later near Guyamura.

The situation was still developing, of course.

They had dropped their helmets, their uniforms, their equipment, for plainclothes and concealed weapons. Soft armor under shirts instead of a ichor-green plate-carrier, a touristy baseball cap - ironically, the Ardenian Snowbirds - instead of their helmets replete with NVGs, rifles replaced with cameras - have to look like a lost tourist, of course, and oh-so-useful forged identities from nations across the universe itself. Ardenia. Ostrenia. A weird, eccentric, more importantly - a foreign - tourgroup, led by a token brown man who spoke the native language.

Ordinarily, distasteful.

Playing to stereotypes was the point of intelligence, after all, and the ability to disguise themselves as privileged, if slightly dumb, tourists would serve to be immensely important.

Their facade would have to last until the carriers arrived.

Until then, pistols (with limited ammunition), tannerite, substandard equipment and civilian clothes were all that they would have.
REVOLUTIONARY INTELLIGENCE AGENCY - CELL 7 DIRECT ACTION - ACTIVE - SOMEWHERE IN PUCURA
In another life, he was a photographer.

Raise the viewfinder to your face. Compose. Shutter 5. Slow down. Aperture f/22. ISO 4800.

In this one, he was a operative.

Click.

Idiotic backpackers. Unprepared. Stupid. Who else would bumble straight into a warzone, camera in hand, with 12 other stupid photographers, to take pictures of exotic birds? Why, in their right mind, backpack across miles of inhospitable jungle, expertly avoiding military checkpoints? Why, in their right mind, would they avoid the very authorities meant to cater to them? They went past distant cities in buses, acting like dumb, bumbling tourists, slid money to corrupt soldiers, hiked past checkpoints, jumped cars, and acted like genuine idiots. 8,000 dollar lenses in open display of locals. 6,000 dollar cameras swung around like bats.

Ah, but there was this rare eagle! You see, getting a picture of this rare eagle ingesting a fish in a violent manner was worth the true trek of moving through miles of jungle, tracking this eagle that oh-so-concidentally turned up in rebel hotspots, and whoops!

Uh oh.

Every single news agency started broadcasting news about "missing hikers" in the midst of Guyamara. Reports were sent out. 'Grieving' families were sent out into the wide arms of the world, crying tears on a million different agencies on how the loss of their family members was a major burden to their lives.

It took a day for it to meld into the background of market news and money news. The 12 missing hikers forgotten about, moved on. Fundraisers for a split day, then forgotten.

All gone. Presumed dead with instability in the region.

In reality, the 'dead men' were clutching guns. They were moving. They were drawing a trail across Guyamara, hoping to rendezvous with the rebels before the day ended - and, one day, the missing hikers, the dead men, would emerge.

Dead! Right!

Maybe they would actually be dead before the day ended - their plan was basic - step one, find rebel, step two, get rebel to lead you to leader, step three, promise world to leader, step four, ?

But that was a problem for later. They had their objectives. They would meet them. And as burning hamlets started to appear on the distant horizon, the very lost tourists would soon find their objective.
I am a SAPPHIST Aerospace Company Advanced Naval Strike Missile. My mission is to destroy that Weltkrian Ship. I am a SAPPHIST Aerospace Company Advanced Naval Strike Missile. I am equipped with a large solid rocket booster and a 30 second supersonic sprint. My mission is to destroy that Weltkrian ship with a three ton high-explosive-anti-tank warhead.

Hard Sci-Fi nation. RPs MT, late PMT and early FT.
Insanity scale: Belka/10
Offsite Worldbuilding
Hard FT cylinder of death, doom, destruction and lollipops.
"It's PMT, but with a bottomless budget.
Nothing FT about physics." - Mayfly Men

User avatar
Guyamura
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 6
Founded: Sep 17, 2024
Corporate Police State

Postby Guyamura » Sat Feb 01, 2025 11:23 am

Two officers, a major and a captain, were lounging on folding chairs beneath the shade of a tarp, watching over the activity below. Two long lines of people, mostly men but a few women, were hunched over, digging two parallel trenches under the eyes and guns of Guardia soldiers. The officers’ casual conversation came to a sudden halt as they heard, and then saw, a vehicle approaching. It was a staff car, with the markings that told these officers that it was carrying General Juan Murillo himself. The car came to a stop but its engine continued to run, a low, menacing hum. The back door opened and General Juan Murillo stepped out, putting on a pair of mirrored sunglasses as he emerged into the blazing midday sun. His uniform was well-maintained but largely devoid of the salad of medals and ribbons that some of the more vain generals in the Federal Army adorned themselves.

General Murillo walked over to the shade, where the two officers were holding their salutes. He regarded the two of them, then the scene below, before finally returning the gesture and allowing them to drop their arms to their sides.

“Is this the last batch?” Murillo indicated the two lines of prisoners with a wave of his hand.

“Yes, General,” the major replied.

“Pathetic,” Murillo remarked. “This stupid priest thought he could overtake us with a few hundred men?”

Father Roman Corbelán’s “crusade” against the San Tomé Mine had ended in a hail of bombs and machine-gun fire on the outskirts of the town of Charamokho. The rebel troops had rolled through the town and right into the waiting kill boxes Murillo had established. The rebels who weren’t killed by the artillery stumbled like dazed animals into the sights of his troops. There were few prisoners - Murillo had already sent the ones identified or suspected of being leaders in the movement off to the capital, where they would be handled by the Security Ministry.

Father Corbelán was not among them - as much as El Presidente wanted the renegade priest alive, General Murillo could not pass this order on to the bullets and shrapnel. After the battle was over, his men had found the priest and dragged him before the general. Murillo had looked at the half dozen wounds in the man’s chest, leaking blood while he heaved desperate gasps for breath, and decided it was not worth the effort of saving him. A single shot from the general’s pistol had sent Father Corbelán to whatever afterlife was awaiting him.

Then it was just a matter of disposing of the rest.

“There is something that bothers me,” Murillo said to his adjutant, who had by now exited the car to join his superior officer beneath the shade.

“What is it, general?”

“The reports from San Theodoros indicated that there were far more rebels than we encountered here,” Murillo explained. “And there is no sign of the other leader, Zarate.”

“Perhaps they abandoned the cause on the march?”

“It is possible,” Murillo said. “But this Zarate does not sound like a fair-weather revolutionary. It is more likely that this was merely one portion of the rebel force. Which then begs the question…”

There was a shout from below. One of the soldiers was looking up at the officers under the shade on the hill, making a hand signal. The major and the captain looked to General Murillo, who nodded. The major shouted down to the soldier to proceed. The soldier turned to his fellows and barked a command. There was a staccato burst of gunfire, and dozens of bullet-riddled bodies fell into the open trenches.

“...where are the rest of them?”

* * *

General Barrios was in a foul mood.

He had accepted the assignment to the State of Pucara, even though it was one of the armpits of Guyamura, because it was supposed to be an easy assignment. He could delegate the mundane details of the job to his subordinates and spend his time in places that had proper amenities. All they had to do was keep the mines open. And then that idiot had let his mine collapse and everything had gone to hell. General Juan Murillo - that jumped-up bastard son of a farmer - had arrived with orders from El Presidente relieving him of his command. Which was fine with him - let someone else handle the problem. But instead of getting to go back to the capital and relax, Murillo had ordered him - ordered him! - to the State of Itacua.

“Keep an eye on things there, while I clean up your mess here,” Murillo had told him. “I trust you can manage that?”

“Bastard,” Barrios said aloud. No one responded, because he was alone in the back of his staff car. His driver, a dependable if somewhat simple man, was sitting up front behind a glass partition and knew his passenger well enough to keep his ears and mouth shut until the general had instructions for him.

They were rolling down the streets of Chorillos, which of the three major cities in the state was the closest to the border with Pucara. To avoid the further ire of El Presidente, General Barrios had made a show of activity. He had inspected Guardia units, local police, and the handful of Federal Army troops stationed in the state. Everything seemed to be in order, and his new subordinates reported no signs of disturbance among the peasant farmers who toiled on the haciendas.

That mixture of emotions - anger over the way these rebels had embarrassed him, frustration with the additional scrutiny he was now working under, and confidence that nothing of importance would happen under his watch - continued right up until the moment that the bomb planted on the underside of the staff car reached the end of its timer and detonated.

The explosion practically vaporized the general and his driver. The burning, blasted wreck of the car was flipped forward onto its roof. The street was filled with screams as bystanders were knocked down by the blast wave. Windows shattered. Then there was the sound of gunfire, echoing from seemingly every direction, as the rebels launched their assault.

* * *

“You were told to contain this situation.”

The voice of President José Avellanos was cold and flat. He was not standing and gesticulating in anger. Instead he was seated behind his desk, hands folded, staring at the Minister of Security with icy fury.

“From the beginning of this crisis, you have performed poorly. You allowed this Ramon Zarate to sneak back across the border from Mareyland with his guns, make his way all the way to Pucara, incite this rebellion…and now you are telling me your grand strategy has allowed the rebels to seize Chorillos? You are telling me now that there are rebels in two states?”

Presidente...”

“Shut your mouth,” Avellanos snapped. “On top of all this, now I have to see weeping families on the news, crying about their lost relatives? You could not keep a few tourists out of the warzone? How am I supposed to present Guyamura as stable, and safe, if you keep fucking up?”

Even he could understand that anything he said now would only infuriate El Presidente even more. But the Minister of Security could feel sweat starting to trickle down the back of his neck - and the President’s office had superb air-conditioning.

“There must be a change,” Avellanos said. “We need a new strategy.”

“I agree,” Merlo said, cautiously. “I propose…”

Avellanos held up a hand to stop him. “No, Juan. I think this change must begin at the top. You have been a good and loyal man, but there comes a time when every hound grows too long in the tooth.”

Juan Merlo had been so focused on the President that he hadn’t registered the entry of several more people into the room. Now, though, he turned to find his deputy - a mountain of a man named Francisco Muro, a towering, muscular figure - standing between him and the door, flanked by two soldiers of the Presidential Guard.

“Consider your resignation accepted, effective immediately,” came the voice of President Avellanos from behind him. “Thank you for your service, Juan. Senor Muro will take change of this matter.”

Merlo turned back to face the President. “Give me -”

Whatever Juan Merlo had been about to say, it was drowned out by the crack of Francisco Muro’s pistol. The ugly, pig-nosed face of the suddenly ex-Minister of Security twisted in surprise and pain and he clutched his chest, where a dark red spot was rapidly growing in size.

“I did not want him shot in my office, perro,” Avellanos growled. “Now he is going to stain my carpets.”

Francisco Muro shrugged. “Apologies, Presidente. My men will clean this up.”

“I want this rebellion crushed,” Avellanos told his new Minister of Security. “Do whatever is necessary. But bring me results - meaningful results.”

Si, Presidente.” Muro snapped his fingers and the two soldiers began to lift the lifeless body of Juan Merlo up off the floor. “I will handle it.”

* * *

Rebels capture Chorillos! Leaders issue demands for economic and social justice
By Ramon Feliz, independent journalist

DATELINE CHORILLOS - Rebel forces under the leadership of Ramon Zarate and Emilio Fortuna have launched a surprise attack across the border, from the State of Pucara into the neighboring State of Itacua, and captured the city of Chorillos. The third-largest city in the State of Itacua is now under rebel control, and their “liberated territory” now straddles two of the most economically vital states in Guyamura. During the assault on Chorillos, the rebels successfully assassinated General Barrios with a bomb planted on his car.

In an exclusive interview, Ramon Zarate, a former officer in the Federal Army who claims to have deserted rather than follow orders to oppress the people, says that he is fighting for the dignity of the common people of Guyamura.

“For too long, those at the top have enriched themselves by selling our country to foreign parasites,” Zarate told me. “We are blessed with many valuable resources. They should be enriching the people, not outsiders who spit on us.”

Zarate and Fortuna have released a list of demands:

1. José Avellanos and his entire government must resign immediately. If they refuse, then they will be removed from office by force.
2. Democratic reforms must be instituted to ensure that no future President can become a dictator.
3. Economic reforms must be instituted to block the foreign ownership of land, industry, or resources within Guyamura.
4. Additionally, the large estates must be reduced in size, with land given to the villages for their communal use.

User avatar
Guyamura
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 6
Founded: Sep 17, 2024
Corporate Police State

Postby Guyamura » Sat Feb 01, 2025 12:16 pm

Weltkria wrote:In reality, the 'dead men' were clutching guns. They were moving. They were drawing a trail across Guyamara, hoping to rendezvous with the rebels before the day ended - and, one day, the missing hikers, the dead men, would emerge.

Dead! Right!

Maybe they would actually be dead before the day ended - their plan was basic - step one, find rebel, step two, get rebel to lead you to leader, step three, promise world to leader, step four, ?

But that was a problem for later. They had their objectives. They would meet them. And as burning hamlets started to appear on the distant horizon, the very lost tourists would soon find their objective.

Ramon Zarate had left his most trusted subordinate, Eduardo Escovado, in command of the rebel forces in the State of Pucara while he focused on the campaign unfolding in the neighboring State of Itacua. There were none who envied Escovado's position - he was tasked not with advancing the rebellion west or north, as he himself as championed in strategy meetings with Zarate, but instead with keeping the government forces from rolling back the rebel gains. This was no easy task; the destruction of Father Corbelán's crusade against the San Tomé Mine had deprived Escovado of fighting men and women who he badly needed to hold the line. The government had superior firepower and, if they chose to concentrate, superior numbers.

In Escovado's favor, however, were a few key factors. One, the government clearly had no idea how many rebels there were, or even where they were massing, if the paltry garrison assigned to defend Chorillos was any indication. Escovado did all he could to deepen their confusion through deception. He had even rigged up a few pretty convincing fake artillery pieces, "hidden" under camouflage tarps, to make the army think twice about advancing brazenly against him. Two, the infrastructure of the state had been developed solely to facilitate the mining industry, so the transportation connections mostly ran from the mines and the refineries east. The roads that connected the mining towns and villages within the state were poor, so any column of vehicles would find it slow going. And three, General Murillo's policy of harsh reprisal and repression was driving more recruits to the rebel cause. The longer Escovado could delay the Federal Army, the more his ranks would swell - and there would doubtless be calls for some of the troops to be transferred to respond to the sudden rebel offensive in Itacua.

So the agents of the Revolutionary Intelligence Agency would find rebels digging fortifications and manning checkpoints along the roads that led from Charamokho, now more of a mass grave and pyre than a town, down to San Theodoros. These rebels were armed with a motley assortment of weapons - some foreign-made weapons smuggled in by Zarate, others captured from police or Guardia, or taken from a Federal Army reserve arsenal that had been overrun near San Theodoros. That arsenal had also provided the rebels with their small collection of heavy weapons. There was little in the way of "OpSec" among these fighters, who were only a short time removed from being miners or refinery workers or farmers. These inquisitive foreigners were obviously not police spies, and they were not wearing the uniform of the Federal Army or the much-detested Guardia, and so many rebels were quite free with whatever information they had. "Where is your leader?" might get them sent over to whoever was in charge of the men in the immediate vicinity, who in turn might send them down the road to the person giving them orders, and so on until eventually they were pointed towards the City Hall, where Eduardo Escovado had made his headquarters.

User avatar
Mareyland
Envoy
 
Posts: 242
Founded: May 26, 2021
Right-wing Utopia

Postby Mareyland » Mon Feb 03, 2025 7:41 pm

Guyamura wrote:Rebels capture Chorillos! Leaders issue demands for economic and social justice
By Ramon Feliz, independent journalist

DATELINE CHORILLOS - Rebel forces under the leadership of Ramon Zarate and Emilio Fortuna have launched a surprise attack across the border, from the State of Pucara into the neighboring State of Itacua, and captured the city of Chorillos. The third-largest city in the State of Itacua is now under rebel control, and their “liberated territory” now straddles two of the most economically vital states in Guyamura. During the assault on Chorillos, the rebels successfully assassinated General Barrios with a bomb planted on his car.

In an exclusive interview, Ramon Zarate, a former officer in the Federal Army who claims to have deserted rather than follow orders to oppress the people, says that he is fighting for the dignity of the common people of Guyamura.

“For too long, those at the top have enriched themselves by selling our country to foreign parasites,” Zarate told me. “We are blessed with many valuable resources. They should be enriching the people, not outsiders who spit on us.”

Zarate and Fortuna have released a list of demands:

1. José Avellanos and his entire government must resign immediately. If they refuse, then they will be removed from office by force.
2. Democratic reforms must be instituted to ensure that no future President can become a dictator.
3. Economic reforms must be instituted to block the foreign ownership of land, industry, or resources within Guyamura.
4. Additionally, the large estates must be reduced in size, with land given to the villages for their communal use.


Palmeras

"Disgraceful."

Alexandra Luthor crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the trash can in the corner of the room. The toss was high, and the paper bounced off the wall and fell to the floor rather than going into the can. Alexandra didn't care - she had stopped caring the second it left her hand. She did care about this rebellion, and what it meant for her. Not her, personally - if there was even the tiniest hint that these dirty peasants were anywhere close to the Palmyra Resort, she would be on her way back to Anneston. No, this threatened her in a way she felt even more keenly than a threat to her person - it was a threat to her investments.

The Luthor family were one of the wealthiest in Mareyland, and its premier bankers. Luthor money had funded great projects at home and all sorts of mines, plantations, railroads and other economically productive constructions abroad. While many of the other great families of Mareyland focused on the domination of a certain sector - the Waynes with oil, the DeShays with shipping, the Taggarts with railroads, the Cawthornes with cotton - the Luthors had dipped their fingers into many pies, and reaped the rewards. Alexandra, the sole living heir to the Luthor dynasty, had taken the family's fortunes to even greater heights, and key in her investment portfolio was Guyamura. There was Luthor money nearly everywhere, providing the capital for factories, railroads, mines, and plantations.

And now it was all under threat - these rebels weren't merely seeking to topple President Avellanos and destroy the stable, safe investing environment he had created, but they were clearly looking to grind their axes against foreign "intrusion" into their economy. Never mind that foreigners like her had practically built the Guyamuran economy!

Alexandra Luthor had no faith in José Avellanos or his government. So the question was: if the locals weren't going to take care of her, how could she take care of herself? And the answer she had begun to conjure meant ringing up the front desk of the hotel and asking to speak personally with the proprietor of the Palmyra Resort: Philip Wayne.

She met her requested visitor at the door to her luxurious suite, one of the nicest in the whole resort, wearing her bathing suit, a conservative one-piece in sleek dark blue. It was quite the deliberate choice, and a good one: despite his best efforts to maintain decorum, she saw Philip Wayne's eyes dart down to her well-outlined bust before snapping back to her face. She wasn't a young little thing anymore but she still had her looks, and Philip Wayne was still a young man, with all the weaknesses that entailed.

"Mister Wayne," she said. "So good of you to answer my call, and so quickly on such short notice."

"An invitation from you is always a priority, Miss Luthor," Philip replied. He was doing a good job of keeping his cool - Alexandra knew that he had been sent down here to tend the family's hotel as a sort of trial run of responsibility, before he was permitted to get his hands on anything truly important. To suddenly be meeting with the Alexandra Luthor, privately and one-on-one, surely was making sweat run down his back. "What can I do for you? I hope there's nothing wrong with your rooms, or anything else about your stay at Palmyra?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Alexandra assured him with a laugh. "No, I'm afraid this is less about what you can do for me here, mister Wayne, and more about what you can do for me back in Mareyland."

"I'm...afraid I don't quite understand, miss Luthor."

"Come inside," she beckoned. "And shut the door. This conversation requires privacy."

When he had done as she asked, Alexandra gestured for Philip Wayne to follow her into the kitchen/dining room area of the suite, and sit down in one of the chairs at the table. She sat across from him and asked, "You've been following this rebellion?"

"Yes," Philip answered. "It's certainly not some minor disturbance, like they said at first."

"No, it's not," Alexandra agreed. "It's growing into a real problem - one that threatens my investments in this country, and your family's as well. I want to propose a solution. Your family's biggest investments are in the State of Tabacal." It wasn't a question - Alexandra had done her research. "I have invested quite a considerable sum into projects in Malca. The Taggarts basically built all of the railroads in the northern states, and the ones that run across the border into Mareyland. And your family is well-connected with the locals."

"You mean the Monteros and the d'Anconias?" Philip nodded. "Yes, we're on speaking terms, I guess."

"Well then, mister Wayne, I would like you to deliver a proposal to your father. I think we should start considering ways to...encourage the Monteros and the d'Anconias to start thinking about independence for northern Guyamura."

"What?"

"Why should all of our work get flushed away with the rest of the country?" Alexandra asked. "Let them fight for the right to sit in the Presidential Palace and rule over the scraps. If we can break away Malca, San Mateo, and Tabacal, that's practically two-thirds of their economy. The government in Leesburg gets a nice buffer state, the Monteros and d'Anconias get to be big fish in an even smaller pond, and we keep our investments out of the grasp of the leeches." Alexandra leaned back, satisfied she had made an unimpeachable argument.

To her annoyance, Philip was not immediately swayed. "It's a risky play," he said. "And Avellanos has been good to my family so far..."

"What good is that if he gets himself overthrown?" Alexandra's cool demeanor seemed to shatter, and suddenly she was leaning forward, glaring daggers at the surprised Philip. "Or worse, what if he decides to negotiate with these rebels" - she spat out the word - "and takes away some of your precious investments to make them put down the guns? Wouldn't you rather deal with people you could trust to keep things nice and stable? Who you could more effectively control? Besides, I thought you'd be happy to support some 'local self-determination.' I thought the Wayne family cared about democracy, and treating workers nicely, and all that." Alexandra's tone made it clear how little she thought of such things.

"That's just good business," Philip insisted. "You work a man to the bone for scraps and he'll do the bare minimum to get through the day. You treat him well, you make him friendly, and he puts in more effort."

"Spoken like a true parrot," Alexandra scoffed. "How many times has your father said that exact sentence?"

"It's true," Philip protested.

"You can believe that, if you really want," Alexandra said with a shrug. "I didn't ask you here to have a debate. I want you to go back to your father and bring him my proposal. No telegrams, no phone calls, in person. Can you do that?"

Philip looked like he was about to say something that might earn him another helping of verbal abuse, but instead he just nodded. "Sure. I'll pass it along."

"Good boy," Alexandra cooed. Then she made a shooing motion with her hand, like she was brushing a gnat away from her face. "So get going."
The Republic of Mareyland
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User avatar
Weltkria
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 416
Founded: Dec 02, 2022
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Weltkria » Tue Feb 04, 2025 1:09 pm

On the move again.

It felt naked operating without a plate-carrier and a helmet. It felt like being out in the open, the only thing protecting your various gizzards from the outside world and the embrace of a bullet being some kevlar fabric worn under a polo. Even the Guardia - a name that struck him as familiar - and their brutalized incompetence were now a credible threat.

Everything was a threat. Without the carriers here, without the pathfinder groups wading onto the sea, without the planes, they were like everyone else.

Standard militants.

Not the vanguard of the revolution with green glaring eyes. A bunch of disorganized tourists with polos.


"Murten, it's too damn early. If they get word that the big scary communists are on their way, we could see a Mareylander intervention into the area, and that'd be no good. Listen, I don't think those those apartheid-irrational fucks that even the Ardenians would disavow are a credible threat... but, as of right now?"

"A intervention from a half-competent, organized military would be a disaster. We need to bide our time. We can't afford to go too kinetic too early, we can't afford the Mareylanders buzzing around in Helicopters - listen, they probably couldn't, and that's a big probably, could hold a candle to Bauren and her regiment of aviators...""

"But still, we need to slow down. We need to bide our time."

The tropical heat didn't play well to the foreign men. Their strange mannerisms developed from years under oppression, their breathable polos, all were foreign to the once-oppressed proletariat of Guyamara.

They had gotten off a rickshaw twenty-minutes ago, paying a local some currency to drive them there. A quick ride on the tuk-tuk, past the impromptu, poorly-armed rebel checkpoints, past the glaring men with machine guns, straight to their objective. He had lost count of the sheer amount of ticks and mosquitos he had swatted off - his last shower was a month ago - lost count of the amount of miles passed, lost count of the amount of blisters popped.

"Schiess..."

It was humid. It had hit him ever since he got off the plane to this place a couple weeks back, the second he went off the plane.

"McCoy, it's too damn hot here."

March on. There it was, city hall, the twelve 'tourists' marching past bewildered locals and miltia alike as "Daniel Jones" of the "Federal Kingdom of Ardenia" knocked on the door, ripping a Weltkrian blood chit out of his very light sweater. As the door swung open, as the men watched...

"Comrade."

"We are friends."

"We are Weltkrian."


"So, Guyamura."

"We bide our time and wait, yes? Evert?"

"Ideal, comrades. With time, I can bring in assets... carriers, pathfinders, all that our pet revolutionaries will need to win against Mareyland. Until then comrades, we wait. We stab in the shadows, using Dietrich's people as our tool and symphony."

"How do we supply our cell, comrade? How do we supply the rebels?"

"We'll need to get them to capture a beach - any beach. Anything with shoreline access. Dietrich's submarines can do the rest."
I am a SAPPHIST Aerospace Company Advanced Naval Strike Missile. My mission is to destroy that Weltkrian Ship. I am a SAPPHIST Aerospace Company Advanced Naval Strike Missile. I am equipped with a large solid rocket booster and a 30 second supersonic sprint. My mission is to destroy that Weltkrian ship with a three ton high-explosive-anti-tank warhead.

Hard Sci-Fi nation. RPs MT, late PMT and early FT.
Insanity scale: Belka/10
Offsite Worldbuilding
Hard FT cylinder of death, doom, destruction and lollipops.
"It's PMT, but with a bottomless budget.
Nothing FT about physics." - Mayfly Men


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