Previously on Rio de la Plata, Ángel Bastardo’s Uruguay lost to Germany and Ruslan Chepiga arrived pitchside....
Part I
December 2022
The boy pretending to be Hugo Ojeda fell first, a shot fired from one of the stands behind the Uruguayan dugout hitting him in the legs. Bastardo retreated, as more bodies fell around him in all different directions; their falls painting Bastardo's black blazer red as he ran for the dugout. Covering fire and momentarily relief was provided by an Edinson Cavani volley from a semi-automatic weapon, smuggled in by Bastardo's backroom staff. The 153 capped Striker’s screams for Uruguay silenced by the advancing FBI. Their recognisable attire now standing out in a rapidly emptying stadium.
The dugout had become a hollow shell of broken bodies and plastic, the desperate fire from Bastardo's guns was inaccurate and increasingly sparse. Bastardo tucked himself amongst the broken chairs for one final reload, but before he could send off his last round…a deafening high pitch tone followed the brightest of lights: a flash bomb. The silence that followed confirmed the end for Bastardo's defence. He could not see past the whiteness; the only sense remaining was the feel of their boots trampling over his lifeless body. His grip of the pistol loosened. Then all of the light faded into darkness.
Some moments later, Ángel Bastardo woke in an interrogation room. The walls were a worn pale grey, with a steel door at the end and an accompanying one-way mirror for whoever lurked behind. The aches in his bones were reminiscent of the first time he met Ruslan Chepiga in the Russian Winter. Think about the Devil and he shall appear…the steel door unbolting from the outside and rotated inwards, revealing Russia’s dark artist: Chepiga.
His attire remained immaculate. He had walked across that skirmish of gunfire without getting a single splash of blood or dirt on his suit. Bastardo on the other hand was a walking corpse, the blood of fallen comrades painted across him. Reminders of the fallen.
Bastardo could not hold back his distaste for the once-ally-turned-ultimate-betrayer:
“Hijo de puta” Bastardo said defiantly. But in truth, even forcing those words out hurt. His rib cage stopping his usual deep breathing, a 46-year-old body shutting down.
“Now now Ángel. You were warned about coming here. Your actions forced my hand” Ruslan replied. Bastardo always suspected the threats leading up to the World Cup tournament were Ruslan’s. They were phone calls with automated messages, often simple statements of ‘STAY AWAY’ or ‘AVOID QATAR’. The phone location could never be re-traced, despite Bastardo’s caporegime doing their best to investigate.
“And now what? You kill me?”. The relief of a quick short end was now somewhat appealing to Bastardo.
“You wanted that last time, remember...in the jungle?” Ruslan’s words were softly spoken, only growing slightly more audible as he approached Bastardo. “Comrade, you will not die. All this is a game to me…a bit like chess. I see the board, and it’s all equal; each side has 16 pieces: one King and Queen, two bishops, two knights, two rooks and eight pawns”. Ruslan moved closer to the fallen heap that was once Ángel Bastardo, kneeling beside him…he continued: “I like the equilibrium Comrade. It’s predictable and safe...everybody knows their place in the game”.
Bastardo’s chest rallied for another question: “And I am your pawn now?”
“Ha. You overlook my admiration for you Comrade. Truly, you do. You’re not a pawn, far from it: you’re the Queen. You make the moves they can all do, and the ones they can’t, you upset the order of things. Too powerful to be left uncontrolled. If left, you’d no doubt rule again like what happened in Africa or what you’re starting to do in your adopted country, Uruguay.
So, we take you out of the game for a bit. Maybe, for a long time whilst you sit in an American jail. Perhaps we never play chess again, and you remain with the Americans for good. It’s all about finding the balance Comrade. Making sure I, Ruslan Chepiga, and my party profit from this game”
Ruslan smiled and placed an arm on Bastardo, his ice cold touch startling the fever that now raged within Bastardo: “Comrade, your men are dead. In and outside of the stadium, we took care of them. Your manboy too, Hugo…was it? He fell, I made sure of it out there on the pitch. Your legacy is dead Comrade”.
Ruslan picked himself up effortlessly and headed to the door. Bastardo accepted his fate, with the smile it deserved…shuffling to face his judge, jury and executioner. He spoke to the Russian one last time…summoning the final bit of strength he had left to air his words:
“I’m not scared of the fall Ruslan; I’ve hit the ground before”.
Ruslan Chepiga ignored the words and disappeared with the door slamming shut. In truth, the fall did worry him…but Bastardo had sensed betrayal long before this World Cup. He thought of Hugo Ojeda, the boy who will need to grow up fast in order to become a man. The man who would be responsible for Operation Isabella; who will need to lead and ensure that Bastardo doesn’t fade from memory.
That man was alive. Somewhere.
Notes from the Editor - Firstly, thanks to FMEadster…who has allowed me to use his character of Ruslan Chepiga in this way. This story arc has been in development and foreshadowed in my writing for around 18 real-life months, which I had planned as my FM20 conclusion. But the narrative of the in-game 2022 World Cup accelerated this particular scene; Bastardo was always going to have his immediate future dictated by one of Russia’s greatest Superior Agents. This is it.
We’ll explore more on the reasoning and act of betrayal within my next part of “The Fall”. An insight into the mind of Ruslan Chepiga, which will be written by Chris Eadie himself. After that, we’ll have more on Operation Isabella in Part III, which will move our story forward.
I hope you enjoy the escapism of these posts, as much as I had fun putting them together.
FM Grasshopper