My Greatest Honor, My Darkest Shame [Invite Only]

WARNING!​

THIS RP WILL CONTAIN STRONG LANGUAGE AND EVENTS INSPIRED BY REAL HISTORICAL TOTALITARIAN REGIMES! IF YOU WOULD RATHER NOT READ SUCH MATERIAL, PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION ELSEWHERE!​

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Sunday
12 August, 2007
5:42 PM
Salegre, Asturica

I spent that afternoon like any other. I was out of school for the weekend and my homework was all done, so I was seated, with legs crossed and hugging tightly my plushie of Little Trooper Laza*, watching a cartoon on the living room television about our glorious Autarca* crushing the degenerate communist porcos* and saving the nation from the horrid and evil reds.

The little animated Autarca Naron cornered the slender, sickly looking communist in a corner. The communist character was wearing a big red sweater with the hammer and sickle on his left arm just above a flag patch which indicated he was from New Aleman. His neck was long, his head shaped like a ball with tiny, disgusting ears oozing with wax. He barely had any hair to speak of. The communist swine dropped to his knees and began to beg the glorious Autarca for mercy. But the animated Autarca just pulled out a machine gun, turned up his chin in a gesture to display his disgust at this sight, and opened fire. Dressed in a military uniform with a bright red sash coming from his right shoulder down to his belt, the Autarca turned to the camera, dropped his machine gun, and crossed his arms over his large and proud body.

“Sons and daughters of Asturica,” he said with a deep, commanding tone. Immediately I jumped to my feet and stood at attention. I knew he was talking to everyone who would be watching this cartoon across the whole nation, but I could feel him talking directly to me. His light blue eyes staring deep into me with an almost hypnotic allure. “Yes, glorious Autarca?” I asked the cartoon, eager for a reply.

“Beware of the red menace! They lurk everywhere, waiting for an opportunity to bring down our glorious nation yet again! Remember to report any suspected communists and other degenerates to the State Security Service!”

“I will, glorious Autarca!” I replied with glee, raising my fist high into the air.

“Long live Asturica! Long live Naron!” The cartoon Autarca raised his fist.

“Long live Asturica! Long live Naron!” I repeated the mantra several times, my right first still held high, as the screen faded to black. Large, white, bold letters appeared in my country’s language.

“DESTROY THE COMMUNIST MENACE!”

I shouted the phrase back to the TV with ecstatic pride. The cartoon ended, I grabbed my Little Trooper Laza and ran off to my bedroom upstairs to draw and play with my toy soldiers.

I burst into my room to come face-to-face with a wall covered in posters. One of the posters showed a boy with blonde hair who looked just a year or two older than myself, though I had black hair and slightly darker skin. The poster read, “DO YOUR PART! DESTROY THE ENEMY! JOIN THE GLORIOUS BOYS LEAGUE!” The boy had an army cap on his head, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, and a wide smile across his face. I knew in my heart I wanted to be like that boy; to join the Glorious Boys League, to be taught fighting, rifle shooting, and the ways of war so I too could help destroy Asturica’s enemies. I was five, so I only had another three years until I would be among his number.

Hung above my bed was the flag of the eternally glorious National Prosperity Party of Asturica. Under the leadership of the glorious Autarca, they saved my country from the rotting carcass it was becoming under communism. In school I was taught that under communism boys as young as me were worked to death in factories and the women became slaves to be beaten and abused. I was taught so many horrible things that the communists used to do that I could go on and on about it all. But in 1997, the glorious Autarca saved us all from the communists.

We were taught that he arrived in the capital, Sadena, with a divine aura around him. We were taught that in his presence, all felt happy, loyal, and safe. A man sent by God Himself to save Asturica from ruin. He sent away the communist government and became Asturica’s Autarca. In class I would gaze at the portrait of our Autarca held up on the wall just above the whiteboard, wondering what it would have been like to see such a glorious thing as his assent to power, or even just to be in his presence at all.

I threw Little Trooper Laza onto my bed and ran over to my closet where a large container of toy soldiers was to be found. Eager to play, I dumped them onto the wooden floor of my room and began to set up the soldiers.

The white figures looked proud and strong, as they were the soldiers of the Asturican Army. The red figures, on the other hand, were the communists. They were intentionally designed to look deformed and ugly with sloppy guns that drooped like a face of sadness, all with the intention of emphasizing their inferiority. They were communists after all, I reasoned. Why wouldn’t they look ugly and mean and evil?

Immediately I went to work playing out a scene from my young imagination; the glorious Asturican soldiers valiantly annihilate the disgusting communists from New Aleman, winning the day for glorious and eternal Asturica! I used the Asturican figures to beat the communists, imagining some sort of melee fight from which the Asturican would emerge triumphant.

I spent two-or-so hours playing with my toy soldiers and drawing pictures glorifying the Autarca before I heard my mother call for me from downstairs.

“Anton! Dinner time!”

I sprang to my feet and rushed from my room and down the stairs and into the dining room. My nose was greeted with the sweet smell of civilian ration food and the sight of my mother, father, and little sister Roca seated at the table. I walked over and took my seat. My father began to give thanks.

“Lord God, thank You for this meal we are about to eat. May you bless this home, bless our family, and bless our glorious Autarca and our glorious nation. Amen.” We said the prayer along with him, then we ate.

The food was your standard civilian ration; potatoes, ham, peas, and corn. The most luxurious foods were reserved for grown-ups in the military or government. It’s better than it was under communism, I was taught, when only government officials had any food at all and the Asturican people starved. I reached for my glass of water and took a sip.

“So what did you learn in school today, children?” My father asked as he looked at us both.

Roca was the first to speak up. “I learned counting and how to attack a communist with a bayonet,” she stated proudly as she smiled.

“And you, Anton?” My father’s head shifted towards me. “What did you learn today?”

I swallowed my corn and replied, “I have begun to learn our national history and how evil the communist regime was. I learned that they let our nation starve and that they abused our women and enslaved our children.”

“Very good!” My father patted my shoulder.

After dinner I went back up to my room to draw and play with toy soldiers. I think an hour or so went by before I heard shouting from downstairs.

“How dare you, Brianda! How dare you show disrespect towards our glorious Autarca!”

“But Bruno,” I could hear my mother respond frantically, “our children are being brainwashed into killing other people! This cannot go on! We must leave Asturica!”

He smacked her so hard I could hear it from my room. “How dare you! Communist! Betrayer of the nation! Enemy of Asturica!”

I sprang to my feet and ran to the telephone to dial the State Security Service, just like the glorious Autarca told me to do earlier.

“State Security Service, how may I help you?” A woman’s voice came on over the phone.

“I’d like to report a communist! My mommy’s a communist! Come take her and correct her mind!”

She asked for my address, and I provided her with such. A few minutes of downstairs shouting later, a jet-black cruiser pulled up before the house, shining its red lights and sounding its siren.

“Ha!” I heard my father exclaim. “Now you shall be corrected!”

“No! No, Bruno please! Don’t do this!”

I heard the SSE officers walk in and drag my mother away and force her into the cruiser, before I drove off. Roca walked downstairs and I followed.

“Daddy?” She spoke up. “Where are the men taking mommy? Is mommy a communist?”

My father straightened his coat and looked at us. “Yes, mommy is a filthy communist. They are taking her to the correctional facility where her mind will be fixed. Then she’ll be normal again.”

I felt proud. I had saved my mother from her communist delusions. I did my nation a great service.

Right?

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Little Trooper Laza = a soldier character plush, popular among Asturican children
Autarca = Autarch
porcos = pigs

Sunday
February 7, 2016
1:14 PM
Salegre, Asturica

I had my hand in my coat pockets and my neck nuzzled down into my scarf as I walked down the city streets of Salegre. I glanced over to my left across the street to see the old local shop that used to be owned by an old Shaddaist man with a large white beard and a wrinkled face. Well at least that’s how he had always been described to me. He and his family had been dragged off somewhere by the government a few years ago. “Relocation,” they had called it. They did the same thing with all the other Shaddaists they could find all across Asturica. I didn’t care where they took the Shaddaists or the Aesics so long as they weren’t around me.

In school and in the Glorious Boys League we had always been taught that the Shaddaists and the Aesic peoples helped the old communist regime come to power and helped organize and carry out their crimes against the Asturican people. When Autarch Xacobe Naron came to power in 1997, he aimed to punish them accordingly for their crimes against the Asturican people. Their rights - none of which they deserved anymore - were taken away and they were forced to live in rundown slums called guetos*. I always thought that making them live in such disgusting places was a bit too much even considering their crimes against the nation. It bore resemblance to what we had been taught about how the communist regime treated its political adversaries. Though I never openly voiced my thoughts for fear that I may be shunned, arrested, and be sent to a mental correctional facility to have my mind fixed. Best to keep such thoughts to myself.

Ever since the Shaddaists and the Aesics were rounded up by the secret police, their businesses and homes were turned over to Asturicans - real Asturicans. Now the old Shaddaist’s shop was in the possession of my father. I could see him through the windows as he cleaned the counters and made sure everything was where it was meant to be. I turned over to face the shop and prepared to cross the street. I turned my head to see first to my left and then to my right so to check for any oncoming traffic.

All clear.

I walked across the street and came up to the door of my father’s shop. I opened the door to hear the ringing welcome bells. My father looked up from his cleaning with a smile on his face. “Hello my son!”

“Hello father,” I returned his greeting. I proceeded to walk over and pull out a few cinpias** from my pocket. I approached my father with the money and showed it to him while pointing at a chocolate bar on the shelf. He gave me a nod, confirming that I could have it. I walked over to the shelf and took the bar before walking over to the counter to set my money by the cash register. I climbed up to sit on one of the stools and waited for my father to finish. He walked over behind the counter and counted my cinpias.

“Alrighty you have enough,” he reported, “enjoy your chocolate bar Anton.” I smiled as I pulled the wrapper open and took a bite out of the candy.

I sat there silently for a moment, just eating my chocolate while my father walked over to take stock of the alcoholic beverages. I knew what I wanted to ask him but I was scared to do it. He became angry every time we’d mention mother. But it had been many years since she was taken away by the secret police and I wanted to know when she’d be coming home. I took in a deep breath. To hell with it, I thought to myself.

“Father?” I spoke up.

“Yes, Anton?” My father briefly glanced over his shoulder back at me before returning his attention to the freezers.

“I’d like to know what has happened to mother. It’s been many years since the State Security Service took her and I’m wondering when she might come home.”

My father stood in silence for a moment. I looked down to the floor, feeling shame for asking.

“I’m sorry father, I didn’t mean to-”

“She’s not coming back, Anton.”

I was taken off guard by his comparatively calm response as opposed to how heated he’d get every other time I brought it up. But never coming home? Surely he wasn’t serious?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

My father turned around to face me. “The mental correctional facility she was in was attacked by communists. I was told that she was killed in the attack.”

My heart dropped. For many years I was hopeful I’d get to see my mother again. Her time of return had been pushed back for years. Now she was dead? A mixture of sadness and anger filled me and all I wanted to do was cry and scream and shout out my hatred.

But I couldn’t. Because that would mean displaying weakness and true Asturicans must be strong. So I just held in my tears and my cries of sorrow and hate for those responsible.

Then I thought of another question I had wanted to ask for a while.

“Father, how did you discover that mother was in league with the communists?”

My father looked up at me. For a moment he didn’t speak.

“The night you turned your mother in,” he began, “I went up to our room to look for our old photo album so I could look over our pictures from when we were newlyweds. What I found instead was a secret stache of letters between your mother and communist conspirators and traitors. I read through a few of them. Your mother wanted to smuggle you and your sister out to Saintonge and leave me alone. After I read through a few of them I went back downstairs to confront her about them. You know the rest of that story.”

I nodded and turned myself around in the stool towards the counter, taking another bite out of my chocolate bar. At least now I knew the truth.

“Why did you choose the Party over her? I’m not saying that’s a bad thing - because it’s not - I’m just curious.”

I could see him get uncomfortable with that question.

“You see, Anton,” my father began. He took in a deep breath and let it out before he continued. “I was alive during the communist regime. And old enough to remember it too. It was a very dark time for me. My family was starved and beaten if we tried to do anything about it. I was even lashed for trying to steal a loaf of bread to distribute among my family. The communist era was a very dark time for all who endured it, and you’re privileged to be able to grow up under our Autarch rather than the old Premier.”

He walked over to the counter and took a seat across from me. “Then the Autarch came to power and everything got better for me. We were given good housing, good food, good clothes, and so much more. I owe the Autarch my life. We all do.” I nodded in agreement.

“Autarch first, family second.” That’s what we were constantly told in the Glorious Boys League at the beginning and end of every day. Loyalty to the state above all other things. I wonder if he’d be willing to turn on myself or even Roca if he had to.

Probably best not to think about it. I just continued eating my chocolate bar.

“Now I’ve a lot of work to do so why don’t you head on out to wherever it was you were headed? I’ll be back home later alright?”

“Alright father!” I replied and walked out the door.

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guetos - "ghettos" in Asturican
cinpias - Asturican currency

Sunday
June 12, 2016
8:30 AM
Glorious Boys League Camp Fajardo, Outside Salegre, Asturica

“Eyes open and out of those sleeping bags you monkeys!” The Campmaster poked his head into our tent and barked at us. Immediately I sprang to my feet and rushed out of the tent in my pajamas along with the rest of my squad. It was muddy and miserable outside. We stood at attention, shoulder-to-shoulder, eyelids heavy and half asleep along with a dozen other squads standing outside their tents. The boy next to me yawned and rubbed his eyes. Then the Campmaster stomped over.

“Why are you yawning boy?! Why are you yawning?!” He bent down to eye-level with the boy and screamed into his face at the top of his lungs. The boy jumped awake and pushed his large black glasses up his nose.

“B-b-because I’m tired Campmaster!” He stuttered out.

The Campmaster simply nodded and took hold of the boy before throwing him down into a pile of mud. “Maybe that’ll wake you up!” The boy pulled his face up from the mud and stood back up at attention. I could tell he wanted to cry but knew he couldn’t.

Real Asturicans don’t cry.

Real Asturicans don’t complain

Real Asturicans don’t show any weakness ever.

The Campmaster turned his eyes unto me. Petrified with fear, I turned my eyes forward ahead of me, too afraid to make eye contact.

The Campmaster leaned in, putting his face right in front of mine. He was silent for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to slip up on something.

“Here’s a question for you to answer, Cadet Pallares,” he finally broke the silence, “on what specific day of what specific year did our supremely glorious and patriotic Autarca defeat the evil communists and uplift our beloved nation?”

“The seventeenth of April, nineteen-ninety-seven, Campmaster!” The Campmaster smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Very good, Cadet Pallares!”

He turned to glance at all the other cadets, I guess to see how tired they all were. There was one cadet who was so tired he seemed to be struggling just to stand up, as if he was about to fall asleep on the spot. The Campmaster bent down and picked up a clump of mud before he threw it full force at the cadet’s face. The mud loudly smacked against the cadet’s face and it was only a moment before he started crying and wailing from the pain. The Campmaster stomped over and grabbed him by the arm before he pulled him forward.

“Why are you crying?! WHY ARE YOU CRYING AND SHOWING WEAKNESS?! ARE YOU NOT A REAL ASTURICAN?!”

“I a-am a re-real Astu-urica-an,” the boy struggled to get his words out between his sobbing. He brought up his hand to wipe the mud from his face but the Campmaster grabbed him. I could see the fear in his face, the look of absolute terror. Eyes wide and locked on the Campmaster. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I felt bad for him.

“REAL ASTURICANS DO NOT CRY!” The Campmaster smacked the boy on the face. I fought back the urge to flinch, lest he notice and do the same to me.

“REAL ASTURICANS DO NOT SHOW WEAKNESS! DO YOU DARE DISGRACE YOUR NATION AND YOUR AUTARCH WITH THESE SHAMEFUL DISPLAYS?!” He smacked the boy again, even harder this time. He let go of the boy and turned his eyes to the rest of us. I could tell we were all standing there in a state of total fear, not just me.

“I am Campmaster Raul Sanjurjo,” he introduced himself with a commanding tone as he walked before us, inspecting each and every one of us for any faults which he might use for more disciplinary demonstrations. “As your Campmaster for this summer. It will be my responsibility to prepare you all for the harshness of military service. It is my hope that the discipline I shall instill into each of you this summer shall carry over into your eventual time in the military as you go forth to crush the enemies of the Asturican nation.”

He walked to the end of the line and turned around to walk before us again with his hands now together behind his back. “This summer will not be easy. You will struggle, and you will know pain like you have never known pain before. But trust me: I have served in our nation’s glorious armed forces. What I teach you and put you through this summer is for your own good. Long live Naron, long live the National Prosperity Party, long live Asturica!”

“Long live Naron! Long live the National Prosperity Party! Long live Asturica!” We all shouted back in unison.

I could tell I was in for a real treat already. It'd all be worth it, I suppose.