El Kitano César

[La Llanura Libre]

César tapped nervously against his smartphone, guiding a virtual helicopter around various obstacles. The only light besides the artificial glare of the phone screen was the full moon, dominating the black night sky above and illuminating the remote country road with a pale film of light. To the north, one could make out the silhouettes of majestic hills. Towards the south, there was nothing but blackness, and César knew that the great expanses of La Llaruna Libre, the Free Plain, stretched out before him. He was truly in the middle of nowhere, and it intimidated him.

After an hour that felt like a day, César heard the distant roar of an engine. He slipped his phone into his pocket and jumped up, standing sheepishly at the side of the asphalt, a worn rucksack in one hand and the other in his pocket. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 4am; the agreed time for his meeting.

As the engine grew louder, he could gradually make out the shape of an SUV as it tore down the road. It was silver and looked expensive. That was a good sign. Police could not afford cars like these. César wrestled his bicycle torch out of his pocket, set it on a flashing mode and aimed it straight at the approaching vehicle.

The SUV gracefully stopped, the car door swung open, and a stylish young woman with a little leather handbag stepped out. César knew that the Kita Freedom Army loved recruits like her. A spoilt middle class fashionista did not look like a drug-trafficking thug. And these girls were spoilt indeed. Cannabis is a lucrative trade, and to their questionable credit, the KFA were generous with their subordinates.

“¿Quieres tomar un tentempié?” the woman asked casually. Do you want a snack?

“Un pastel de chocolate con un té, por favor.” César replied without hesitation. A chocolate cake with a tea, please.

“¿Qué?” she asked with a puzzled expression. What? César flinched. He wondered if she wasn’t from the KFA at all. Another possibility was that the code had changed. Still, he wouldn’t break his protocol and be forthright. He forced out a hollow laugh.

“Era una broma. No me importa si es un pastel delicioso o pan mohoso. Tengo mucha hambre.” It was a joke. I don’t care whether it’s a delicious cake or mouldy bread. I’m very hungry.

The woman’s face lit up and she laughed heartily.

“¡Yo hice una broma también!” she exclaimed happily. I made a joke as well.

One could see the wheels turning in César’s head as he processed this.

“¡Caramba! Por poco me lo trago.” he said eventually. Damn it. You had me there.

She zipped open her handbag and dug out a few ounces worth of cannabis in plastic bags. She passed them over to César and he took them without a word. The boy turned around and begun to make his way towards his battered bicycle, lying abandoned at the roadside. Now he would cycle back home, hand the drugs to his dealer, get paid some cash, celebrate with raw tuna and rice at La Seijina and go to bed in the morning with a good night’s work behind him. A satisfied smile spread over his grubby face.

That grin was abruptly killed when he heard the click of a 9mm Espachadín pistol as it was trained at his back. César sighed a rather pathetic, jittery sigh. This was the kind of situation his friends had always warned him about when they found out he was in el negocio verde, the green business. He put his hands into the air, and feeling the breeze brush against his wiry arms, wondered whether he would die here, somewhere in the dangerous wilderness of the Free Plains.

Suddenly, he plummeted towards the ground and his vision rapidly faded into oblivious darkness. Had he been shot? Where was the sound of the gunshot? As he slipped out of consciousness, he was comforted with the certainty that he had merely been butted in the head.

[La Llanura Libre]

César awoke with a start, thinking that a wave had hit him. However, the water did not taste salty and, managing to force open his eyes as water washed over him, he realized that he was simply being repeatedly buffeted with the contents of a plastic bucket.

“Oh, he’s awake.” he heard a deep, gruff voice mutter. César wondered why it was speaking in Nortekita.

“Sorry for earlier. I enjoyed our banter.” an unmistakably female voice piped in. Definitely the girl from earlier. Now, César was a reckless, lazy youth, but he was no idiot. It wasn’t long before he put two and two together.

“No hablo tu idioma.” César croaked in Librean tongue, putting on the poshest accent he could muster. I don’t speak your language.

There was laughter. César looked up and saw the young woman from before, standing beside a man with piercing, delicate green eyes. That was the only delicate thing about him; he was of gargantuan size. He towered imposingly over César, regarding him with a leering face. César only then realized he was sitting on an old wooden chair, in a small room with plain whitewashed room with a heavy metal door and a single blackened window.

“¡Tonterías! I could tell you’re Kita from a mile away. Ever seen a Librean we’ve cheekbones like yours?” the man said, laughing.

“No entiendo.” I don’t understand.

At this, the man laughed even harder and glanced repeatedly at the young woman as if confirming that the situation was hilarious, and indeed she managed an obligatory smile.

“You know what, Gala?” the man said, “If this guy really is a Librean, why don’t we just plant a bullet in his head, eh?”

He unshouldered an antiquated-looking Letonna-made MOC-19 rifle and levelled it against César’s head. Considering the circumstances for a moment, the adolescent spoke up in Norte-Kita with a trembling voice, staring as confidently into his presumed kidnapper’s eyes as he could.

“I don’t want to join the KFA. I’m happy with La Llanura Libre as it is.”

The man lowered the rifle. His expression hardened, but he seemed impressed. After a moment, his wide, rugged face broke into a grin again, and he extended a huge hand.

“Nice to meet you, boy. I’m Capitán Fadil of the Kita Freedom Army. You?”

“My name is César.” replied César. He tried to sound proud, but felt more like a defiant schoolboy standing before his principal. Nevertheless, he took the hand and shook it with decent strength.

“And your surname?” The young woman challenged him.

“Orlov.” César muttered quietly.

“There we have it!” Fadil boomed, now looking like an excited schoolboy himself. “Definitely Kita!”

“I don’t want to join the Kita Freedom Army.” César reiterated forcefully.

Fadil smiled happily again, delightfully watching irritation unfold on César’s face. He twirled the MOC-19 around as if it was a ballpoint pen and offered the butt to César.

Then, infuriatingly, he said “That’s alright. Just hold this for me quick.”

César thought about ignoring the request, but there was suddenly something very threatening in the Capitán’s green eyes which compelled him to grab the rifle without complaint. The moment he had accepted the weapon, the young woman named Gala circled around César, produced a red bandana, and tied it deftly around César’s head. César realized only then that she had changed from civilian clothes to a khaki military jacket.

“Welcome to the Kita Freedom Army,” Capitán Fadil begun, “you will give us an oath of allegiance in due time, and then you will have joined your kinsmen and kinswomen in the great struggle against Librean oppression until either the liberation of Northern Kitaland or, alternatively, your death. Before that, you will officially be a volunteer fighter of the KFA. Don’t try running away; we’re in the middle of the Mahara Desert here. You will either die of thirst or be shot dead by Librean military. Welcome to your new life!”

The Capitán might as well have read the whole piece from a piece of paper; it sounded like a recitation. César wondered bitterly how many reluctant ethnic Kitas they had conscripted into “service” in the exact same way. However, the boy did not have moments to think about what was a new era in his life before the metal door was opened, and he was shoved rudely into the wall of heat that was the Mahara desert at noon.