Repression and Reaction

Roleplay Library Unsorted RP
,
1

OOC: It’s a little tough to do an in-depth RP when I haven’t really established my country, but I’m going to try a little one-man storyline while the forum hangs here in a veritable state of limbo. I’m sure everyone gets the general feel of my nation as of now.

Reynaldo Santa Marta sat in his chair, puffing a cigarette nervously as his last guest stepped into the room. A dozen friends and acquaintances were gathered in the small living room; only those who could be trusted completely were to be privy to this meeting.

“Alright, gentlemen. We’re all here.” He glanced over at the lone woman sitting in the corner, and corrected himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, that is. We all know why we have called for this meeting. Our country is under the perfect conditions for a war of liberation. Everyone in the Party is aware of this, but no one seems interested in action without the approval of our comrades in other countries.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“I have several contacts who can help equip us and gain us support from some of the unions and the intellectuals. With the appropriate training and weapons, we could begin guerrilla warfare within a month. The only question is: are we willing to surrender our lives to the movement?”

Santa Marta already knew the answer. The twelve people in the room were among the most loyal and revolutionary-minded members of the Communist Party, a party that had long existed only in the underground.

They all nodded. “Very well. We must discuss strategy before we engage the state directly. I feel that urban war is the best option in Platano, perhaps with small rural detachments to liberate farmers and establish a national front.”

One of the other finally spoke up. “The farmers are the backbone of this country. We should abandon the cities and wage protracted jungle war. We’ll surround the cities eventually.”

The twelve guests each voiced their opinions on the matter, and the discussion ran long into the night. By 2:00 in the morning, when the meeting had finally ended and the room was filled with smoke, the guests went their separate ways quietly. Any sign that a political meeting had taken place would lead the police directly to Santa Marta’s apartment. With that late-night conversation of November 30, the first revolutionary war of Isla Platano began. It would soon come to encompass every citizen of the Island, no matter their political beliefs.

That same night, the President of the Republic held a meeting with his cabinet. The secretaries and ministers sat around a long oak table and informed the President of the latest developments in the capital.

“A small church was recently closed, Your Excellency. The priest had been giving some…questionable sermons and had to be eliminated.”

“Banana exports are up six percent from last month, and coffee is up five.”

“The police broke up a protest today, Your Excellency. It appears a few dozen University students were encouraging nationalist sentiments on their campus.”

2

“Communist revolutionaries, eh?” Drapeau had a gleam in his eye.

“Yes. Fighting against…”

“Capitalist oppression.”

“Yes, that’s right sir.”

“We will support them. Tell Alan Kerk that, or I’ll veto everything that comes before me.”

“But, sir, this is completely out of line! The President isn’t supposed to-”

“Isn’t supposed to, but can. Tell the Prime Minister that.”

Dismissed, the aide walked back to the car. He hoped Alan Kerk would be receptive, or a constitutional crisis might be brewing. And Kelssek had had enough of crisis for one year.

3

The streets were busy on Sunday morning, as housewives shopped for groceries and soldiers spent the last hours of their leaves in the bustling business districts of Santa Chiquita. At a cafe a few streets from the Boardwalk, young middle-class students and businessmen talked over lively salsa music and sipped coffee contentedly.

The man walked toward the cafe quickly, avoiding policemen or nosy soldiers. He felt the outside of his briefcase and turned into the building, taking a seat at the bar. He ordered a coffee and quickly drank it down, then stood up and walked back into the street. He picked up speed as he glanced at his watch.

The man turned his head in time to see the glass blast out from the cafe as a deafening explosion rocked the street. The salsa music stopped as sirens began blaring and terrified shoppers ran in every direction. He looked around and stepped into an inconspicious apartment just as a truck filled with soldiers sped toward the wreckage.

Many miles away, four men trudged through the muddy jungle floor as a plane flew over the canopy of leaves. They wore simple green jackets and old military hats, and carried Springfield rifles and handguns. One held a small radio transmitter. The men stopped, silently staring into the distance. A small wooden house was visible through the morning mist, about two hundred yards away. Patches of empty land lay around it.

“This is the place.”

“Three miles north of the river…yeah.”

“Let’s move.”

The men carefully moved closer, until they could clearly see a pair of soldiers standing near the house. Not far away, a half-dozen or so farmers worked the coffee fields. This was the village of Mezquierno - their objective.

The men fanned out until they covered nearly a half-mile of forest in a crescent shape. One loaded his rifle quietly, pulled back the bolt, and took aim at one of the soldiers. With silence and precision, he squeezed the trigger and saw the soldier drop to the ground. The other swung a submahcinegun from his shoulder and scrambled for cover, but a second shot rang out and he, too, collapsed to the ground.