The Perfect Dictatorship

[Florentia]

The Perfect Dictatorship - 1

Chapter 1 : Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
LIBERTY

 

Scene 1,
Fangosa, capital city of Ocraly,
04/08/1984, 14h10,

An excruciating heat crushes the 31st regiment.

Brigadier Francesco Novola wipes the sweat from his brow. If only the operation could be carried out in the shade! Unfortunately, the orders specify that it must take place in the main square, just opposite the town hall, in order to scare the locals. The heat would be bearable if it wasn't accompanied by the smell of blood. Indeed, the wall chosen for the occasion - the back of a shoe shop - was covered in large, fresh stains. If you looked closely, you could see small pieces of flesh or brain stuck to the stone. On the first day, Francesco had almost thrown up but, on this fourth day of execution, execution in both senses of the word, he was veiling his sensibilities. However, his consumption of liquor had greatly increased.

While a few soldiers dragged the bodies to a lorry, Francesco and the rest of his colleagues opened the back doors of another truck, full of handcuffed revolutionaries. Francesco looks at the prisoners. Just a year and a half ago, these dangerous criminals were just civilians, like Francesco. As the revolutionaries emerged one by one from the lorry, it was interesting to see the reactions of each of them. Some remained calm, stoic, accepting their fate, either out of resignation or the certainty that the people's victory was, as Mark Karl said, inevitable.

Others say a brief prayer: this may seem surprising coming from a socialist but, after all, Ocraly is still a very religious country. Finally, there are those who argue and insult the army and the government. No matter how much the soldiers explain to them that they are only following orders, those of the government. It's not their fault that the government wants to execute the revolutionaries. "It's not our fault", the soldiers simply repeat, as if to convince themselves.

Then, suddenly, a prisoner knocks out the guard accompanying him and tries to escape. Francesco, almost by reflex, raises his rifle and shoots the revolutionary. The brigadier turns the body over and discovers that it is his sister, Aurora Novola. How could he not have recognised her? As he stared in horror at the delicate face covered in gravel and scars, Francesco thought back to the Princess stories he had read her, their long bike rides through the leafy vineyards, the pillow fights... How many pillows had they punctured? Probably too many. These memories, once so joyous, only increase the tragedy of the act tenfold. His throat tightens, the air begins to run out. He's suffocating. Air. He needs air.

"- Novola !"

Sergeant Mattni shouted, interrupting the Brigadier's state of shock. The latter stepped back, away from his dead sister as if she was cursed, while the corpse was lifted by two soldiers and tossed like a sack of potatoes into the trailer of a lorry. The revolutionaries, with their backs to the wall, now face the soldiers.

"- Readyyy ?", shouts the sergeant. Francesco's thoughts are foggy.

"- Aaiiim !", shouts the sergeant. The brigadier holds up his rifle and aims at the revolutionary in front of him, a young man in a leather jacket who is shaking like a leaf.

"- Fire !"

The sergeant's shout is quickly drowned out by the noise of the rifles. The bodies of the revolutionaries lie face down on the ground, except for the young man in the leather jacket. Francesco is still aiming at the young man but has not fired. His hands are tense, clutching the gun.

"- What the hell are you waiting for, Novola ?!"

Francesco doesn't answer.

"- Fire, God damn it !"

Silence.

" - FIIIIII-RRRRE.

- I've f*cking killed my sister !" replies Francesco, his face disfigured by a mixture of grief and hatred, before pointing his gun at himself.

He barely suffered.

 

Scene 2,
Fangosa, capital city of Ocraly,
29/03/2021, 16h54,

Tower of TVA1

The head office of TVA1, Ocraly's largest television channel, is located in a small skyscraper in the Fangosa CBD. TVA1 used to be state-owned but was privatised in 1990.
The office of Matteo Battistini, producer of the 8 o'clock news, is located on the highest floor of the tower. Battistini, his hands resting in his trouser pockets, gazes out through his bay window. Someone knocks on the door.

"- Come in".

Tommaso Sabbatini, a reporter, enters the office before closing the door behind him.

"- Sit down", Battistini orders, before showing the reporter an article in a small independent newspaper, denouncing the involvement of several members of the government, including the Prime Minister, in stories of bribes paid by several companies to ease restrictions on pesticides.

"- I assume there's some truth to this bribery story ?

- Don't assume too much, you could get into trouble. You know what you have to do."

Sabbatini nods before taking the newspaper and leaving the office. It's the same old routine: find something shocking to report, even if it means exaggerating; hammer home the scandal until people are numb enough to forget the government's blunders. Indeed, the owner of TVA1 is a good friend of the governing party Forza Acralià, and rendering services is what good friends do, right ?

The next day, in the evening...

"- Good evening, I'm Giovani Viteli, and welcome to the 8 o'clock news. The day before yesterday, a young woman from Bellarossa was raped and then killed by a Florentian immigrant."

The screen shows a photograph of a smiling young woman, next to which is displayed a photograph of a threatening young man.

"- The victim, named Andrea Gabrieli, had just left her boyfriend Alexandre Bacher, an immigrant from Florentia. Alexandre had already been arrested for possession of cannabis but had been released on probation. Shortly after their break-up, Alexandre harassed the victim for several days, before finally breaking into her home on 28 September to carry out his crime.
I pass the microphone to my colleague Tommaso Sabbatini, who is with the victim's parents".

The reporter is standing next to a grieving mother and a stoic, grief-stricken father.

"- Yes, Giovani, I'm here with the victim's parents, Antonio and Maria Gabrieli.

- Our daughter didn't deserve this! She was such a nice girl, she wouldn't have hurt anyone", exclaims the mother before breaking down in tears again. The father adds :

"- Those Florentians, they're all the same ! I told her you can't trust these savages. It's not surprising coming from a people who still practise slavery ! I hope he will pay.

- The entire 8 o'clock news team sympathises with your daughter's tragic fate, and we're sure that our viewers sympathise with your grief.

- Yes, Sabbatini, this is a tragic story that I'm sure will upset all Ocralians.", adds Battistini when he's back on screen. "The murdurer has been arrested and is currently waiting to be judged. We can only hope that this innocent girl will find justice after her horrible fate. Justice for Andrea !"

 

Scene 3,
Bellarossa, biggest city of Ocraly,
01/04/2021, 8h23,

Lucien Blanchart is waiting patiently for his school to open. The school is surrounded by high metal fences and the entrance is monitored by surveillance cameras. Since the 1990s, on the pretext of preventing possible communist bombings, the government has greatly increased security measures.

8.25 am : the doors open. The students quietly make their way to their classrooms, including Lucien.

8.30 am : classes start. However, the chemistry teacher, before starting his lesson, takes the opportunity to make a short speech about Andrea Gabrielli. During the speech, some of the students cast accusing glances at Lucien. He doesn't understand why, but acts as if nothing has happened.

11:58am : lunch. Lucien, holding his tray, looks around for his girlfriend Claudia's table. Found it! She's chatting to two of her friends. As Lucien approaches, Claudia looks up. For the first time, Lucien sees fear in Claudia's eyes. One of the other two girls stands up and orders Lucien to go away :

"- Leave Claudia alone : she doesn't trust savages."

Edited March 29 by Florentia (see edit history)

[Florentia]

The Perfect Dictatorship - 2

Chapter 1 : Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
LIBERTY

 

Scene 4,
Commune of Bellarossa, birthplace of the revolution,
22/07/1984, 10h03,

Elio Pacetto peers through the beige blinds of the radio station. Bellarossa city centre, completely deserted, is pierced by several holes caused by artillery fire. A shell lands in the building next door, shaking the radio station. The black carpet of the studio is covered with thin pieces of white paint that have fallen from the ceiling as a result of the shaking. The journalist turns around. His team, on the other side of the glass, are waiting for his signal to start the transmission. The journalist looks feverishly at the report, once again, and his spine tingles, once again. He gives a thumbs-up in the direction of the recording room.

"- KKZZzss... on air ? I'm Elio Pacetto, journalist, and you're listening to Radio Libertà. Here's the latest news on the siege of Bellarossa by the monarchist forces. The People's Militia is holding out against the siege, but the Fifth Arrondissement's barricades are about to fall. The militia is already preparing to barricade Avenida Dino Gratti and Boulevardia Del Popolo but, according to the officers, this may not be enough. We don't have much hope, or even much time, before the Commune f-PAARrrh... falls".

The silence that follows is broken only by what seem to be sniffles, like a desperate attempt to hold back tears.

"- We haven't had any communication with the Commune of Nercolano for a week, or with the Communes of Galliano and Selva for 37 hours. We assume that they have surrendered. We assume that Bellarossa is the last Commune still standing. It is likely that the 6th arrondissement has also f-PAAAARRhhh... fallen because we have no more news from the Communal Assembly.

I...", the journalist's voice, distorted by despondency, is interrupted by a brief sob. "I think the revolution has failed." The sobs intensify. "I'd like to thank everyone I worked with. This revolutionary interlude was the most beautiful episode of my life. I experienced some of the most intense moments. I have met the most altruistic, the most devoted and the most honest people. I now know that the human race is capable of the best. This revolution may have been suppressed, but the fight goes on ! Capitalism, crumbling under its contradictions, is destined to collapse. Comrades, we have lost a battle, but the war against oppression has only just begun !

If the Commune ever had to fall, I promised a friend, Renato Sabatino, that I would stay until the end to sing Quando l'anarchia verrà. He died last month on the barricades of Bellarossa, during the June offensive and... We were close. Very, very close. Gianni, Marco, Cecilia, if you want to leave, go ahead. I'll be fine."

Silence.

"- We'll stay with you. To the end, even if it means dying.

- Even if it means dying," Elio repeats, his voice wavering and betraying his emotion and gratitude. The brief crackle of a vinyl record is followed by the first notes of Quando l'anarchia verrà. Caterina Valtelline's gentle voice is quickly accompanied by Elio's tenor timbre. The singer's mezzo-soprano serenity and the joyful rhythm of the accordion, combined with the journalist's desperate efforts to hold back his tears, only serve to underline the tragedy of the situation.

"- When anarchy will c-come,
The whole wurld will be transformed,
And government will b-be
A m-memory of shameful pa-ast.

The detested border will disappear,
As will p-priests and soldiers,
And the only thing that will remain in th-the wurld,
Is the ideal that d-drives us.

And then, in the hea-heart,
Thinking of the future,
It will cease,
The t-t-torment and the sufferi-ing.

An-and then, in th-the heart,
Thinki-i-ing of the fut-ture,
I-it will c-cease,
The torment an-and the suffer-PAARRHBRRKWZZSSsss..."

Radio Libertà suddenly emits nothing but a continuous crackling sound. After twenty long minutes, the radio silence finally came to an end. A strong, virile and authoritative voice thunders out :

"- I am General Ordo Preccion. The city of Bellarossa is being LIBERATED from the OPPRESSION. Do NOT RESIST the liberation. Anyone RESISTING the liberation will be SHOT. A CURFEW will be put in place until further notice. I repeat : Bellarossa is being LIBERATED. The DICTATORSHIP has been ABOLISHED. OPPRESSION is OVER. You are now FREE. The Communist Party of Ocralia is now BANNED. All individuals linked to the PCO will be tried for HIGH TREASON. We encourage all forms of COLLABORATION with LOYALIST forces. Any DENOUNCEMENT will be REWARDED. Remain CALM and do NOT RESIST. We are the LIBERATORS. You are now FREE. Any gathering of more than THREE PEOPLE in PUBLIC is now FORBIDDEN. Any WORKERS' UNION is henceforth FORBIDDEN. Any individual CRITICISING the FREE and DEMOCRATIC government of His Majesty the King and the Prime Minister will be immediately ARRESTED. These are TEMPORARY measures. The OPPRESSION is OVER. You are now FREE. Do NOT RESIST.

LONG LIVE DEMOCRACY. LONG LIVE OCRALY. LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY.”

 

Scene 5,
Bellarossa,
12/04/2021, 7h27,

"- Come on, Giorgio, finish your breakfast. You'll be late for school.
- But Mum ! I'm not hungry any more.

Giorgio's protest was met with a frown from his mother. Valentina had sworn to herself that she would frown less because it had already started to give her a few discreet wrinkles on her forehead. A mother of three, Valentina looks five years older than her older sister Dina, who is single and childless. Every time she looks at her reflection, she is more and more persuaded to buy one of those exorbitant creams that are supposed to plump up the skin cells thanks to the micro-cellular ultraphotonic effect of hyaluronic acid.

"- Do you think the little Cashari slave refuses to eat breakfast, Giorgio ?"

All Valentina got in response to her rhetorical question was an apathetic look of vague interest at the fly sucking the strawberry jam sparsely spread on the half-stale slice of bread.

"- No, Giorgio, the little Cashari slave doesn't refuse breakfast because the little Cashari slave is very sad and very hungry and has no breakfast. You know, you're very lucky compared to the little Cashari slave, so you'd better eat your toast. Right, Giorgio ?"

The child's gaze shifts nonchalantly from the fly to his mother's face before concluding the debate with a firm "No".

"- Listen up, young boy, given the price of jam at the moment, you'd better finish that toast or you can forget about watching television for the rest of the week".

Finally, the child gave in, ate his breakfast and the mother returned to her serene smile. The smile was quickly broken by a brief glance at the clock : they were running late.

About ten minutes later, Giorgio and Valentina were running down the stairs. Normally, they would have used the lift, but it has been broken for three years and, despite the owner's empty promises, there are no repairs in sight. Yet the residents made a lot of noise, especially Mr Matteoti. The young man lives on the seventh floor, the penultimate floor, with his grandmother. The old Matteoti, suffering from terrible pain in her right hip, is unable to take the stairs. Even the young man's fiery determination was not enough to overcome the landlord's mortal inertia. If you look up, you can see the old Matteoti sunning herself on her balcony with her carnations, motionless as a snail in a pot of salt, and you wonder if she's been stuffed.

 

Scene 6,
Bellarossa,
12/04/2021, 18h19,

Gabriele, sitting up against his grey car, stares at the steelworks with a lost look in his eyes. He's been working there for twenty-six years. Twenty-six years forging red steel, twenty-six years working in this steel mill. And then nothing. Around midday today, the management announced that, following the purchase of the factory by some auroran multinational, the whole workforce would be made redundant and the production will be outsourced in another country, where labor is cheaper. Gabriele just wants to work. He would have accepted anything, even a pay cut, but not redundancy, and certainly not at the age of 47. All he knows how to do, all he's been doing for twenty-six years, is forging steel. After bidding farewell to his second home and his brothers at heart, Gabriele stayed behind in the factory car park to choose whether to go straight back to his flat to face reality, or to drown his despair and anger in alcohol at the nearest bar.

The wind blows through his brown coat and the unemployed man suddenly catches a chill. Gabriele takes refuge in his car and starts the engine, heading for the flat. He's already imagining his wife's reaction. Perhaps she would want to leave him? After all, they had married very young, too young, and the love had already evaporated. On the highway, as he saw a bend ahead, the out-of-work worker had an idea. What if, instead of turning, he simply drove into the wall? No more problems, no more responsibilities.

His gaze fell on a family photo hanging on the glove compartment. He grabs it and places it against his heart, repeating to convince himself to give up this dark idea that he has a loving family, a loving family, a loving family...

 

Scene 7,
Bellarossa,
12/04/2021, 19h06,

Valentina, leaning on her balcony, stares at the horizon without paying much attention. The setting sun is hidden by the many concrete rabbit holes known as social housing. Since the 1990s, social housing has been managed not by the state but by private landlords, which has doubled the rent in thirty years. Beyond the rabbit cages, you can see majestic factories whose tall black chimneys pierce the sky. The mother of the family shakes her cigarette above the void. The ash falls gracefully, slowly, until it lands on the ten-lane highway built alongside the building.

Claudia and Monica, the two teenagers, are in their bedrooms while Giorgio watches cartoons in the living room. In this episode, the hero comes face to face with Evil Red, a Machiavellian man who wants to nationalise all the cookies in the wurld so that he can be the only one to eat them.

On the dining table, Gabriele's dish is patiently waiting to be eaten. This morning's fly is savouring the now cold tomato sauce.

Edited September 12 by Florentia (see edit history)

[Florentia]

The Perfect Dictatorship - 3

Chapter 1 : Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
EQUALITY

 

Scene 8,
Bellarossa, Headquarter of the People’s Militia,
12/05/1984, 22h47

The heavy oak door to the Commune Headquarters creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with a mix of cigarette smoke and the bitter scent of fear. The room, once a grand office in the city's old administrative building, now served as the heart of the revolutionary efforts in Bellarossa. Maps of the city, the Rossi river and its surrounding areas were plastered on every wall, filled with hastily drawn battle plans, scribbled annotations, and dark red circles marking areas lost to the forces of Prime Minister Leondru Zuccarelli.

A dozen of revolutionary officers were standing around an oval table. Léon Mancini, the de facto leader of the revolution in Bellarossa, stood hunched over the table covered in maps and reports, his once-proud shoulders of glorious and beloved revolutionary officer now sagging under the weight of more than a year of relentless combat. His eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion and a lack of sleep, scanned the latest reports from the front lines. The news was grim : the city is being surrounded and it might be only a matter of weeks before it just falls apart. The monarchist forces had begun to push the remaining strongholds of the People's Militia inside of the city, while extensive efforts have been made to transform Bellarossa into a fortress.

Elio Pacetto, the radio journalist, stood nearby, nervously fidgeting with the microphone he carried. He had volunteered to record the meeting for posterity, for history, as the revolutionaries had insisted. But now, seeing the despair etched on the faces of the commanders, he wondered if there would be anyone left to listen to it.

“ - We can't hold out much longer, Léon," said Lucia Barducci, one of the officers of the People's Militia, her voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and fear. “We're running low on ammunition, food, and – more importantly – hope. The people are tired, Léon. They’re hungry. They’re losing faith. Léon, we… we just can’t keep up. Do you hear me ? It’s over. I’m telling you, it’s f#cking over. God damn it are your even listen-

- SHUT UP”, Léon interrupted, banging his fist on the table. “Just… stop, please”, he asked with a miserable look before rubbing his temple, his mind racing. The revolution had begun with such fervour, such righteous anger, fuelled by the injustices that had plagued Ocraly for generations, from the corrupt reigns of the oligarchic Luigi I and the feudalist Orphée I, to the psychotic totalitarian order of Di Campana. The people had risen up against the monarchy, against the capitalist reforms of Zuccarelli, against a system that had oppressed them for so long and that is about to get even worse. But now, with the revolution on the brink of collapse, Léon could not help but wonder if they had bitten off more than they could chew.

“- I know,” Léon replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, people listened. “But we can’t give up. If we fall, if Bellarossa falls, the rest of the country will follow. We are the last bastion of the revolution, the last hope for true equality in Ocraly. If we surrender now, everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve bled for, will have been for nothing.”

Lucia shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. “But how ? How can we continue to fight when we’re outnumbered and outgunned ? The people are losing their will to fight, Léon. They’re starting to see this as a lost cause. Because it IS a lost cause, look at the facts, open your f#cking eyes !”

A silence fell over the room, the only sound being the distant rumble of artillery fire echoing through the night. The revolutionary officers knew that they were fighting a losing battle but none of them except Lucia wanted to admit it out loud.

Then, from the corner of the room, a voice broke through the silence. It was Renato Sabatino, a young idealist who had joined the revolution in its earliest days. His eyes burned with a fervour that had not yet been extinguished by the harsh realities of war.

“- We can’t give up,” Renato said, his voice filled with a determined passion. “We may be outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched, but we have something they don’t : the will of the people. The monarchy may have the weapons, but we have the hearts and minds of the people. We can rally them, inspire them to keep fighting, to keep resisting. We just need to remind them why we started this revolution in the first place.”

Everyone looked at the young man, a flicker of hope returning to their weary eyes. Elio gave him a thankful look for turning this grim interview into a hopeful message. Renato was right. The revolution had been born out of the people's desire for equality, for justice, for a better future. If they could reignite that spark, perhaps they could turn the tide.

“- Renato’s right,” Léon said, straightening up, a newfound determination in his voice. “We need to remind the people what we’re fighting for. We need to show them that the revolution isn’t over, that it’s not lost. We need to give them a reason to keep fighting, to keep believing.

- But how?” asked Lucia, her voice wavering. “How do we rally the people when they’re starving and terrified ?

- We do it with truth,” Léon replied. “We tell them the truth about what’s at stake. We tell them that if we fall, the monarchy will return with a vengeance. The oppression will be worse than ever before. But if we stand, if we fight, we have a chance to build a new Ocraly – an Ocraly where everyone is equal, where no one is above the law, where democracy isn’t corrupted by a gilded elite. L’anarchia verrà !

- L'anarchia verrà !”, repeated the other officers in a newfound hope.

Elio, who had been silently recording the conversation, looked up at Léon. “I can help with that,” he said, his voice steady. “We can use Radio Libertà to broadcast your message to the people. We can reach out to the other Communes, encourage them to keep fighting. We can remind everyone that the revolution isn’t just about Bellarossa : it’s about all of Ocraly.”

Léon nodded, a small smile playing on his lips for the first time in weeks.

“- Perfect," he said. “We’ll use the radio. We’ll use our voices. We’ll use the truth. We’ll remind the people that they’re not alone, that we’re all in this together. We’ll fight on the banks of the Rossi river. We’ll fight on the paved stones of the Black Square. We’ll show them that the fight for equality is worth every sacrifice, every drop of blood.”

Lucia and the other officers exchanged glances, the fire in their hearts rekindled by Léon’s words. The revolution might be on the brink of collapse, but as long as they had breath in their bodies, they would continue to fight for a better future. If their hearts beat as brightly as the drum in the distance, then there's still hope for humankind.

As the meeting came to an end, Léon looked out the window at the city below, the distant explosions lighting up the night sky like fireworks. He knew that the days ahead would be some of the darkest they had ever faced. But he also knew that, no matter what happened, the ideals of the revolution would live on. The struggle for liberty, for equality, for fraternity, would continue – if not today, then tomorrow, if not in Bellarossa, then in the hearts of the people across Ocraly.

The revolution was not over. It was just beginning.

Scene 9,
Bellarossa,
14/04/2021,

Valentina sat in the cold, sterile office, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair as if it could keep her from sinking into the floor. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, and the walls were adorned with somber paintings of peaceful landscapes - meant to be comforting, she supposed. Across the desk from her sat Mr. Caravelli, the mortician, a man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair and a deeply lined face. He had the kind of practiced gentleness and artificial compassion that comes from years of speaking with the bereaved, qualities necessary to make these poor souls spit big bucks.
“- I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Marconi,” he began, his voice soft but businesslike. “I understand this is a difficult time for you and your family.”

Valentina nodded, her throat tight. She hadn't slept last night and the weight of her grief was compounded by a gnawing sense of guilt. Gabriele had been laid off just hours before the accident. Had he been that desperate ? She quickly pushed the thought aside. She had to focus on the practicalities now, no matter how much it hurts…

‘’- Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I... I need to know how much it will cost. For the funeral.”

Mr. Caravelli nodded, flipping open a folder in front of him before handing a few documents to the widow. “Of course. We have several options, depending on your budget and preferences. A simple service – including a modest coffin, basic floral arrangements and transportation to the cemetery – would start at around 3 000.”

Valentina flinched, the number hitting her like a punch to the gut. She could feel the colour drain from her face as she did the math in her head – 3 000 might as well have been a million. Her husband's severance pay had been meager and will be barely enough to cover the rent and feed their three children for a few months. Maybe the sell of the wreck that was now their second car could provide a few hundred Ocralian liras, but not more. She could also sell her own car but, then, she would need to find a job near home.

“- Three thousand,” she repeated, more to herself than to him. “I... I don't know if I can afford that. I don't have much.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “He- Gabriele was just fired from his job. And... I’m a housewife. I don’t have- ” She stopped, unable to continue.
Mr. Caravelli looked at her with an expression of professional empathy. “I understand, Mrs. Marconi. We do have more economical options. A direct cremation, without a formal service, would be around 1,200 liras. It’s a very simple process, and you would still receive the ashes to keep or scatter as you see fit.”

Valentina’s hands trembled in her lap. Gabriele hadn’t wanted to be cremated – he had always talked about being buried, like his father. But she didn’t have the luxury of honouring that wish. Not with three children to care for, and no idea how she would make ends meet in the coming months. Maybe… maybe she could sell her small jewellery. Her wedding ring could provide even a thousand lira but her mother-in-law would kill her. Damn it…

“- Is... is there any way to make the funeral less expensive ?” she asked, her voice quivering with shame. “I just... I don't have that kind of money. I need to provide for my children.”

Mr. Caravelli paused, his eyes softening. “We can discuss a payment plan, Mrs. Marconi, if that would help. Or... if you’d like, I could speak with some local charities that sometimes assist families in difficult situations like yours.”

Valentina nodded, barely hearing his words. Her thoughts were spinning, stuck on the image of Gabriele alone in that car.

“- I’ll... I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice hollow. “But... can we keep it simple ? Just... just enough to say goodbye.

- Of course,” Mr. Caravelli replied softly. “We can arrange something dignified within your means. I’ll make sure of it”, assured the mortician.

Valentina nodded, feeling a small weight lift off her chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She stood to leave, gripping her worn purse tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, not just for the arrangements, but for the kindness in his voice, for treating her with dignity even when she felt like she had none left.

As she walked out of the funeral home, the late afternoon sun blinding her for a moment, Valentina knew the hardest part was yet to come. She had to return home, face her children, and find a way to explain why their father was gone. And she had to do it without falling apart. When she got in the car, she took a moment to breath before the storm. The scene of her husband driving into that wall was spinning her thoughts. Had he driven in that wall on purpose ? Was this his way of escaping a life he couldn’t bear any longer ? The guilt gnawed at her insides, but she pushed it down, knowing she had to keep going, for her children if nothing else. Yet, as she started the motor, she couldn’t ignore the feeling that the family they have built together wasn’t enough to discourage him from suicide.

“- What the actual hell, Gabriele ?!” she cried in a surge of rage, hitting the wheel with her forearm. “Did you even think about us ? We had such a loving family, a loving family, a loving family…”, Valentina repeated as flows of pristine liquid were dripping on her jeans.

Scene 10,
Bellarossa, Office of Social Services,
15/04/2021, 09h32

The morning sun struggled to break through the thick, gray clouds hanging over Bellarossa, casting a dull light on the tired, crumbling city. Valentina Marconi shuffled along the cracked pavement, the cold biting through her thin coat as she approached the Office of Social Services. Her eyes were puffy from a sleepless night, her mind a chaotic swirl of grief, anger, and despair. But above all, there was a desperate resolve – she had to find work. The small savings she had would not last long, and her children depended on her.

The building loomed ahead, a drab, concrete structure built after the chimerical revolution that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. As she stepped inside, a blast of warm, stale air greeted her, carrying with it the sounds of quiet murmurs and the occasional crying child. The waiting room was crowded, filled with people who, like her, had come seeking assistance, seeking hope, in the cold and inhumane halls of bureaucracy. Valentina hesitated at the threshold, the overwhelming shame of her situation pressing down on her like an anchor. But she forced herself to move forward, clutching her purse as if it was a lifeline.

She approached the reception desk, where a tired-looking woman in her forties was typing away at a computer. The woman glanced up, her expression bored and slightly irritated.

“- Name ?” she asked in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, not bothering to hide her impatience.

“- Valentina Marconi,” Valentina replied, her voice barely audible.
The receptionist typed for a moment, then looked back up. “Do you have an appointment ?”

“- No… I… I just…” Valentina trailed off, unsure of how to explain herself. She hadn’t had the energy or presence of mind to make an appointment. All she knew was that she needed help, and this was the only place she could think to come.

The receptionist sighed, clearly unimpressed. “If you don’t have an appointment, you’ll have to take a ticket and wait for your turn. Just like everyone else. It could be a while.”

Valentina nodded numbly and turned to find the waiting number distributor, only to find that it is empty. Hesitating, she returned to the receptionist and asked with an excessively polite tone.

“- I am sorry but I think there isn’t any ticket left.

- Fill in the form to get some.

- What is this form ?

- The A29-KD031-bis form, category 519E-32.

- Where do I ask for it?

- At the reception desk.

- And how do I get there ?

- Take a waiting ticket and stand at the end of the queue. Just like everyone else. It could be a while.”
Confused, Valentina stammered before being able to correctly formulate an answer.

“- I… I don’t get it. This is… that is absurd.

- Just wait and we’ll call you eventually.”
Eventually. The word resonated in her mind. Valentina turned back to find a seat. She sank into one of the plastic chairs, the hard surface digging into her back. Around her, the other people in the room seemed to be lost in their own wurlds, staring blankly at the floor or scrolling through their phones. The minutes dragged by, each one feeling like an hour. She kept glancing at the clock on the wall, its ticking growing louder in her mind.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her name was called. She stood up on unsteady legs and made her way to the small office where a social worker was waiting. The woman behind the desk was in her late thirties, with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun and a pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her expression was kinder than the receptionist’s, but there was a weariness in her eyes that spoke of a compassionate bleeding heart who heard too many stories of hardship.

“- Mrs. Marconi,” the social worker said, gesturing for her to sit down. “I’m Daniela Leclère. How can I assist you today ?”
Valentina sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “I… I need to find work. My husband… he passed away recently, and I… I have three children to care for. I’ve been a housewife for years, but now…” Her voice broke, and she looked down at her lap, ashamed of her tears.

Daniela nodded, her expression softening. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Marconi. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. Let’s see what we can do.”

She pulled out a file and began asking Valentina questions about her skills, her work experience, anything that might help in finding her a job. Valentina answered as best she could, but the truth was, she didn’t have much to offer. She had spent most of her adult life caring for her family, and her skills were the kind that didn’t translate easily to a résumé. Still, Daniela jotted down notes, nodding encouragingly as Valentina spoke.

“- It’s not going to be easy,” Daniela said finally, her tone gentle but honest. “The job market is tough right now, especially for someone without recent work experience. But I’ll do my best to help you find something. In the meantime, we can look into some emergency assistance to help with your immediate needs : food, rent, that sort of thing.”
Valentina nodded, a small glimmer of hope breaking through her despair. It wasn’t much, but it was something. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about her children going hungry, not yet.

“- Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I… I don’t know what I would do without your help.”
Daniela smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s what we’re here for, Mrs. Marconi. I’ll start by checking the local listings for any suitable positions, and I’ll contact some charities that might be able to provide additional support. We’ll get through this, one step at a time.”

As she left the office, a small part of Valentina felt lighter, as if a tiny piece of the burden she carried had been lifted. But she knew the road ahead would be long and difficult. There were no easy answers, no quick fixes. Just a day-by-day struggle to keep her family afloat, to somehow build a future from the shattered remains of her past.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, and a light drizzle began to fall. Valentina pulled her coat tighter around her as she walked back to her car. The city of Bellarossa, once a beacon of the failed revolution, now felt like a place of forbidden, unspoken, forgotten dreams, a city where hope had withered under the weight of years of hardship. But she couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

For her children, for the memory of Gabriele, for the life they had built together, she would keep fighting. Even if it meant facing a future that seemed as bleak as the stormy skies above.

Edited August 27 by Florentia (see edit history)

[Florentia]

The Perfect Dictatorship - 4

Chapter 1 : Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
FRATERNITY

 

Scene 11,
Fangosa, Communal Assembly,
14/04/1984, 23h21

The town of Fangosa is shrouded in a heavy, oppressive mist, imbued with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burnt barricades. From the broken windows of the ruined apartments, you can still hear the sound of gunfire in the distance, echoing off the waves and sometimes reaching the harbour. The once magnificent capital - Fangosa was nicknamed little Cristina - is now a battlefield, a shadow of its former self, caught in the throes of a revolution on the verge of collapse. The Commune of Fangosa is now hanging on by a thread, a coalition of ideologies that barely survives each meeting, not to mention the onslaught of the monarchist army and navy that is closing in on all sides.

In the heart of the dying capital, stands the Di Paoli Palace, customary seat of the Ocralian government, named after the country's very first liberator. The building's once immaculate walls are blackened and riddled with bullet holes. The fourth of six Laimac-inspired columns collapsed under artillery fire, while the fresco on the pediment symbolizing the iconic Lumelli vines is barely recognizable. Barely a year ago, on the steps of the palace, Prime Minister Leondru Zuccarelli swore before God to defend liberty, equality and fraternity. Now, Zuccarelli waited patiently in Fasaìl for the army to surround the communes and the navy to bombard the capital. On this fateful evening, the atmosphere is heavy with despair, muted resentment and latent betrayal. Inside, the communal delegates are scattered around a large, rounded table of worn exotic wood. Various reports, memos and other sheets of paper are strewn about, sometimes twirling in the air following a mood swing by one of the delegates. Indeed, the current discussion was no longer one of rigorous strategy or constructed debate, but rather a cacophony of too many voices whose disagreements were falling faster than the shells over their heads.

Marta Vanneti, president of the Steel Workers' Union, leans against a broken window, her face turned outwards. The night wind rushes in, carrying with it the smell of the sea, but also of sulfur, smoke and burnt flesh. She takes a long puff on her cigarette - a rare commodity since the start of the revolution, obtainable only on the black market - then exhales long and slow, as if to empty herself of her frustration. Her eyes riveted on the horizon, she glimpses between the spectral silhouettes of ruined buildings the cruiser NSM Salvation, whose salvos regularly reach the city. Marta's thoughts wander between memories of the early days of the revolution, when everything seemed possible, and the present reality: Fangosa is nothing more than a battlefield, a besieged fortress on the verge of falling. The other delegates, their voices now worn by their long, heated debate, have calmed down.

“- Fangosa is going to fall any minute now,” she finally lets out, her voice breaking the oppressive peace. She hasn't turned around, but her words, clear as icy water, have the effect of a stab in the room. “And nobody here has the courage to admit it.”

Pietro Brando, General Secretary of the Communist Party of Ocraly (PCA), who had been Minister of Infrastructure during Salvatore Digolla's last term, grunted. His imposing, pudgy body sank further into his seat, his fingers drumming nervously on the scuffed surface of the table. His tenure at the Ministry of Infrastructure during the disastrous Fasaìl-Ocraly tunnel project had already given him gray hairs, but the revolution had worn him further down. The politician, now a caricature of himself, is exhausted by sleepless nights and endless internal quarrels. Yet, despite his advanced state of fatigue, he refuses to give in to what he sees as defeatism. As long as he is the head of the Fangosa Commune, defeatism will not be tolerated.

“- Don't lecture me, Marta,” he replies in a rough voice, betraying repressed anger. “Do you think I don't see the difficulty of the situation? But defeatism won't help. We still have control of the western factories and, as long as the Proletarian Brigades hold the Adriana I faubourg, we still have a chance.”

Marta bursts out laughing, a joyless laugh, bitter and sharp, hoarse from too much tobacco and the tragedy of needlessly shed blood. With an overly brusque gesture, she crushes her cigarette on the windowsill as if she was crushing Zuccarelli and his cronies.

“- Your brigades ? They're deserting one after the other. Those who remain loyal are either racketeering the unions or being massacred on the barricades. The order you claim to maintain no longer exists.” At last she turns, giving him a piercing, accusatory look. “People are starving, Pietro. And what they see are politicians killing each other over crumbs. We've failed. The Consiglio should never have trusted you. Do you even realise how many lives have been sacrificed on the altar of the PCA's ambitions ?”

An icy silence fell over the room. Marta's every word seemed to be a blade plunged into the heart of the fragile alliance between the PCA – a karlist-bozaanist party – and the Consiglio (Consiglio dei Sindacati dei Lavoratori, or Council of Workers' Trade Unions) – predominantly voltairinist. Pietro clenched his fists, his face tensing under Marta's frontal attack. His fat chin trembled with fury. The tension in the room was palpable, and seemed likely to erupt into violence at the slightest hint of spark. The other delegates remain frozen, fighting the urge to interfere in this verbal joust. The oh so precious alliance could shatter at any moment.

“- Leave aside the accusations, Marta,” growls Pietro, his eyes shining with anger. “Every revolution requires sacrifice. If you think the unions could have done better, then tell me, why didn't you lead the fight from the start ? Where were your anarchists when we overthrew Zuccarelli ?” He pointed an accusing finger in her direction, his voice rising in spite of himself. “It's easy to criticise when you hide behind your noble ideals while others are fighting and dying.”

Marta breathed in deeply, her chest heaving with dull rage. She walked over to her seat and, without sitting down, drummed her index finger on the table as if to support her argument.

“- Don't be mistaken, Pietro. It was the Consiglio that started the general strike, the PCA only jumped at the opportunity. My comrades shed their blood for this city, just like yours. But what's the point of dying if everything we're building collapses because of your insane orders ? You bozaanists are notorious for rotting revolutions from within.

Pietro leaps from his chair, almost toppling the table under the weight of his gesture. His angry face contorts into a grimace, and his fists clench so tightly that the skin on his hands turns white. The whole room holds its breath.

“- How dare you...” His voice trembles with rage. “You think it's my fault ? It's you, Marta, you and your two-bit anarchists, who refused to join forces when we still had the chance ! You sowed disunity, sabotaged our plans at every turn, and now you come and tell me I'm the one who betrayed the revolution ?”

Marta doesn't flinch. Her gaze remains fixed, piercing Pietro with calculated coldness.

“- And what would you have done, Pietro ? Overthrow Zuccarelli for what ? Install a regime of terror under the pretext of proletarian struggle and become another Arin Von Starinburg or Anatoly Bacharov ? You talk about necessary sacrifices, but all you see is power, never lives. That is your failure.

The silence that followed was unbearable. The other delegates exchanged nervous glances, caught in the crossfire. Marta and Pietro, key figures in the revolution, look ready to tear each other apart. The fragile unity between the two revolutionary factions is about to shatter into a million pieces. Then a third voice, gentle but authoritative, is heard from across the table. Silvia Loretta, leader of the Asuni Women's Brigades and renowned for her relentless diplomacy, slowly rose to her feet. Her frail figure contrasts with the power of her voice.

“- Enough !” His voice cuts through the air, imposing silence with a sharp, decisive blow. ‘We have no more time for these quarrels. Fangosa is falling, yes. But we haven't lost everything yet.”

All eyes turn to her. Silvia steps forward, her face serious, but her eyes sparkling with a determination that contrasts with the prevailing gloom.

“There's still time to save what can be saved. Pietro, Marta, if you really want to honour those who died for this cause, then stop fighting amongst yourselves.” She pauses, letting her words sink in. “We still have strength, and as long as there are fighters, there is hope. But that hope lies in our unity, not in our divisions.”

Marta and Pietro look at each other for a moment, the tension still palpable, but the electric atmosphere seems to be easing. Pietro, despite his wounded ego, finally nods, his face still tense. Pietro and Marta sit back down in their respective seats.

“- Very well,” he murmurs. “We need to refocus. If we lose Fangosa, we lose everything. So what do you suggest, Silvia ?”

Silvia crossed her arms, thinking for a moment, before answering.

“- We must concentrate all our forces in the Adriana I faubourg. It's our last bastion. If we lose here, Zuccarelli's loyalist troops will have a direct route to the heart of the city. We have to hold out until reinforcements from the surrounding communes arrive. The unions must mobilise all the remaining workers, and the Proletarian Brigades... they must fight to the last man.”

A heavy silence falls over the room as everyone understands the seriousness of the plan. It's a risky gamble, almost suicidal. But it's their only chance.

 

Scene 12,
Bellarossa,
20/04/2021, 20h14

The rain falls in heavy sheets against the windows of the Marconi apartment, each drop a reminder of the long night ahead. Valentina sits at the kitchen table, her fingers tracing the edge of the unopened letter from the undertaker, its bold red ink pressing the weight of looming disaster into her heart. She already knows what it contained : the bill for the funeral, which could have been lowered to 2000 liras, even though Mr Caravelli warned her that the ceremony will be barebones. The feeling of impending doom is suffocating, as if the walls are closing in on her, pushing her down under the pressure of responsibilities she never thought she'd bear alone. Rent is due in less than two weeks, and even with the emergency assistance, the money wouldn't stretch far enough. She has to choose between food for her children and keeping a roof over their heads.

Across from her, Claudia and Monica hunch over their textbooks, the soft glow of their desk lamps being a futile attempt to dispel the gloom that seems to cling to the room. The air is thick with tension and the quiet rustle of paper as they study, trying to focus, their faces lined with worry. They are old enough to sense the shifting tides in their family, old enough to understand that life as they know it is slipping through their fingers. In the small bedroom nearby, Giorgio sleeps soundly, his small chest rising and falling with peaceful, steady breaths. His innocence, his total unawareness of the storm that rages inside his mother’s chest, is a painful yet comforting contrast to the chaos Valentina feels.

She managed to hold it together for her children these past few days, plastering on a brave face and whispering words of comfort she barely believes. But the cracks in her façade are beginning to show, deep fissures that run through her resolve. Every night, after the children are asleep, she feels herself unravelling, her grief, anger, and fear crashing over her in relentless waves.

Her eyes drift back to the letter. She hadn't yet open it because part of her, the small part still clinging to some last vestige of hope, thinks that not opening it will delay the inevitable. But she knows better. The wurld doesn't pause just because you can’t face it.

“- Mom ?” Claudia’s voice breaks the silence, cutting through the dark thoughts swirling in Valentina’s mind. “Are we going to be okay ?”

Valentina blinks, snapping back to the present. Her daughter’s eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of fear and hope that only a child could have. Claudia, the eldest, had always been the most perceptive, always seeing more than Valentina wanted her to. Valentina forced a smile, though it feels brittle. She can’t let them see how close to the edge she is. She has to be strong for them.

“- Of course we are, tesoro,” she says softly, reaching across the table to brush a strand of hair behind Claudia’s ear. “Everything’s going to be fine. I promise.”

Claudia studies her face for a moment, her brow furrowed in quiet skepticism, but eventually, she nods and turns back to her homework. The weight of the wurld seems to press down on Valentina’s shoulders as she stands up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. She crosses the room to the window, needing a moment to breathe, to think. The rain slows to a drizzle, but the streets below are still wet and glistening under the dim streetlights. She watches as a couple walks by, huddled together under an umbrella. For a fleeting second, Valentina lets herself imagine that it is her and Gabriele walking home after one of their dates, before everything had fallen apart, before the accident, before the crushing weight of his absence had settled over her like a shroud. The guilt gnaws at her relentlessly, as it had every night since his death. Had she missed the signs ? Had he been crying out for help, and she hadn’t seen it ? She can't shake the feeling that somehow, it was her fault – that if she did something differently, maybe he wouldn’t have driven into that wall. Maybe he’d still be here.

A sudden knock at the door jolts her from her thoughts. Valentina freeze, her heart leaping into her throat. No one visits this late. Fear gnaws at the edges of her mind, the irrational thought that maybe it is someone coming to take her home, her children, everything. She hesitates for a moment before walking to the door, her hand trembling as she unlocks it. Standing in the dimly lit hallway is Luca, one of Gabriele’s old friends from the steelworks. His dark hairs are damp from the rain, and his face is etched with concern. There is something about his presence, solid and real, that makes Valentina feel both relieved and more vulnerable at once.

“- Luca,” Valentina breaths, stepping aside to let him in. “What are you doing here ?”

- I wanted to check on you. And the kids,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I know it’s late, but… I’ve been thinking. I couldn’t just sit at home anymore.”

Valentina nods and gestures for him to sit at the table. They haven’t spoken much since the funeral, though Luca has always been around. Gabriele trusted him, and that is enough for her. Now, as she looks at him, she realizes how much he reminds her of her husband – the rough edges, the tired eyes, the quiet strength.

“- I appreciate it. It’s been… tough,” she admits, sitting across from him. Her voice is barely above a whisper, the exhaustion evident in every syllable. “But we’re managing.”

Luca looks at her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Valentina… I’ve been talking to some of the guys from the mill. Some of us found work again. We’ve been trying to figure something out. We can’t bring Gabriele back, but we don’t want you and the kids to go through this alone. His sudden death has been a shock to all of us so we can’t even imagine for you. So, we’ve came up with something.”

She blinks, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you mean ?”

Luca leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table. “We’re putting together a fund. For you, for the kids. It’s not much, but we want to help you get through the next few months. You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.”

The words hit Valentina like a wave, and for a moment, she can’t speak. Her first instinct is to protest, to say that she doesn’t need charity, that she can handle it on her own. But the truth is, she can’t. Not anymore. The weight of everything is crushing her, and this small act of fraternity feels like a lifeline.

“- I… I don’t know what to say,” she whispers, her voice trembling as tears wells up in her eyes.

“- You don’t have to say anything,” Luca replies softly. “Gabriele was like a brother to us. We take care of our own. And if you need anything – anything at all – you call me. Day or night.”

Valentina wipes at her eyes, trying to regain her composure. “Thank you, Luca. I don’t know what I would do without people like you.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of the rain against the windows filling the room. Valentina feels a strange sense of relief wash over her, a small crack of light in the overwhelming darkness. Maybe, just maybe, they will make it through.

 

Scene 13,
Bellarossa,
01/08/2021, 16h47

The summer sun bathes Bellarossa in a sweltering heat, the kind that makes the air shimmer and the pavement feel like a hotplate. Valentina Marconi, fresh off her shift at the reception of a car insurance company, trudges through the crowded streets with a modest grocery bag in hand. The bag, a lifeline of sustenance, contains essentials – bread, milk, and a few vegetables – barely enough to last the week. Her face is weary, lined with the fatigue of juggling work and the responsibilities of her children.

Today, however, the streets are more alive than usual. Two rival political demonstrations have erupted at the Zuccarelli plaza, creating a chaotic but vibrant atmosphere. On one side of the square, the Sovranità party has mobilized their supporters, their red and navy blue banners fluttering in the breeze. The leader, a robust man with a commanding presence, is on a makeshift stage. His voice booms through a megaphone, denouncing the failures of the current Forza Acralià (FA) government coalition and promising to restore national pride and job security. His rhetoric is sharp and uncompromising, aimed at appealing to the working-class citizens who feel left behind by FA’s neoliberal policies and the death of the PCA since the chimerical revolution of 1983-1984. Indeed, because of the influx of Florentian refugees, good wages or even jobs have become rarer, especially in Bellarossa because of its proximity to the border.

The other side of the square is dominated by the Alba Rossa party, whose supporters sport red flags with clenched fists and slogans demanding social justice, equality and death to “Sovranità’s fascism”. Their leader, a charismatic woman with a strong voice, addresses the crowd from a smaller stage, calling for systemic change and solidarity. The energy among the Alba Rossa supporters is palpable, their chants and cheers echoing through the plaza. They hold placards with messages about fair wages, equal opportunities and open borders for Florentian refugees, drawing in those who feel marginalized and exploited.

Their only common theme is their burning hatred of Forza Acralià, the liberal party created by Leondru Zuccarelli in 1983 and who rules over Ocraly since the chimerical revolution.

Valentina, caught in the middle, watches the spectacle with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. She feels the heat of the day and the intensity of the political fervour pressing in on her from all sides. Her life has been defined by personal struggle rather than political engagement, but the current situation forces her to confront the larger issues at play, especially with the elections being not too far, in a year and a half. As she makes her way across the plaza, a young woman from the Alba Rossa group notices her. The woman, with striking red hair and a face full of determination, steps forward, her voice rising above the din.

“- Hey! You look like someone who’s been through a lot. We’re fighting for people like you. Join us ! We’re pushing for fair wages and better living conditions for all !”

Valentina hesitates, her tired eyes reflecting the exhaustion of her daily life. Before she can respond, a burly man in a Sovranità pin on his jacket, his face set in a stern frown, pushes through the crowd and approaches her.

“- Don’t listen to them !” he shouts over the noise. “They’re just stirring up trouble. We’re the ones who will bring real jobs and security back to Ocraly. Stand with us if you want to secure a better future for your family !”

The man’s voice is authoritative, his argument appealing to Valentina’s immediate concerns about job stability and economic security. Yet, the Alba Rossa supporters, with their vibrant energy and promises of systemic change, offer a different kind of hope – a vision of a more equitable society that might address not just the symptoms of her struggles but their root causes. Valentina looks around at the scene, feeling the weight of her decisions. She’s seen firsthand the impact of economic instability and social inequity, and both parties seem to offer a path to improvement, albeit through very different means. Her mind races as she considers the implications of aligning with either side. A small group of Alba Rossa supporters, noticing her indecision, starts to gather around her. They hand her pamphlets and engage her in conversations about their vision for a fairer society. One of them, a middle-aged woman with a sympathetic expression, extends a hand.

“- It’s tough, I know. We’re here to fight for people like you. We want to make sure that everyone has a fair chance. Join us and let’s make sure your voice is heard !”

At the same time, the Sovranità crowd’s rhetoric grows more intense, their chants and slogans emphasizing the need to “protect rightful ocralian jobs” and “restore national pride.” Their leader’s speech becomes more fervent, promising concrete action and quick results, a stark contrast to the more gradual and idealistic promises of Alba Rossa. Valentina is torn. On the one hand, Sovranità’s promises of local job creation seem like a direct answer to her immediate financial needs. On the other, Alba Rossa’s calls for broader social reforms resonate with her sense of injustice and the struggles she and others face daily.

As she stands at the crossroads of these two fervent movements, Valentina feels a pang of frustration. She’s battled for her family’s survival, but the political solutions seem too distant, too abstract. Her gaze drifts to the insurance company’s building in the distance – a symbol of her daily grind and the modest progress she’s made. The noise of the demonstrations fades slightly as she thinks about her children and their future. Determined to remain independent and not be swept away by the political storm, Valentina steps back from both groups. She shakes her head with a firm resolve and begins walking away from the plaza. Her decision is not to align with either faction today, but rather to focus on her immediate needs and the well-being of her children.

As she makes her way back home, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the city. The plaza behind her continues to hum with political fervor, but Valentina’s mind is set on more personal matters. The choice of which political movement to support is one she might revisit later, but for now, her priority is her family and their day-to-day survival.

Yet, she can’t take out of her mind that the political fervour of Sovranità and Alba Rossa seem a bit frightening. She has always been taught to be wary of radicalism and empty populist promises. After all, isn’t it how every dictatorship starts ? Maybe that moderation is the wisest choice.

Maybe she’ll vote for Forza Acralià...

Edited September 18 by Florentia
I'm a moron. (see edit history)