The Revolution Came

Chapter 39: The Battle of Revilla

November 12th, 1942
Revilla

Boots struck the cobbled streets of Revilla in grim rhythm as armed fascists pushed forward, banners held high, their black uniforms stark against the cold morning mist. High-ranking officers of the National Fascist Front marched among them; bold, defiant. Splinter units of the National Veteranus Guard, swayed by rhetoric and loyalty to their commanders, had joined the march, abandoning their oaths in favor of something darker.

Ahead, at the heart of Republic Square, stood a firm line of resistance. Loyalist National Guardsmen and remaining Veteranus Guards stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles at the ready. General Neil Bernard and Commodore Mey Bracodo stood at the front, symbols of defiance, framed by the faded grandeur of the Assembly Hall.

"General Salamanca!" Bernard's voice rang through the chill air. "You have committed high treason against the Republic you swore to protect! Order your men to stand down. Disperse this march and surrender your badges while you still can."

Across the open square, General Salamanca stood unmoved, clad in a ceremonial officer's coat polished for war. His gloved hands rested on his belt, his face unreadable.

"You speak of treason," Salamanca replied, voice calm but carrying, "but it was the Republic that betrayed itself. Cowards in the Assembly let it rot from within. We march not in rebellion, but in rebirth."

A low murmur passed through the ranks of the fascists behind him. Some shifted uneasily; others raised their rifles in silent solidarity. Flags bearing the sigil of the Front, a coiled serpent around a broken sword, fluttered in the rising wind.

Mey drew his saber with a crisp motion. The blade flashed like lightning beneath the overcast sky.

"You would destroy the Republic for your ambition," he said. "There's still time, Salamanca. Do not let your name be cursed by history."

Salamanca smiled. Brief, bitter. "History remembers only the victors, Commodore. And we intend to seize our place in it."

From the east, thunder rolled faintly over the hills. The city held its breath. Overhead, hidden among rooftops and windows, loyalist snipers adjusted their aim.

And then, in that fragile silence, a shot rang out.

_________

Cody threw on his trench coat with swift, mechanical precision, the distant thunder of gunfire echoing faintly from the city center. The cold morning air seeped through the cracks in the windowpanes, but it was the weight of duty, not the chill, that stiffened his spine.

He stepped into the parlor. There, huddled near the hearth, were his wife and children. Jazmin looked up as he entered, eyes red but dry. She had known this day might come.

Cody crossed the room and knelt, pulling them all into a tight embrace. The children clung to him silently, too young to fully understand but old enough to feel the fear in the air.

"You all need to get out of here," he said urgently. "There's a coup. It's going to be bloody. Go east... stick to the back alleys. The loyalists still hold the district near the waterworks."

But Jazmin didn't move. Her grip tightened around his arm.

"No," she whispered. "Come with us."

Cody looked at her, really looked. Her face, always resolute, was now etched with a mix of terror and pleading.

"I have to go," he said.