This is Orbis. Here, the Roman nations are a superpower.
Ah, Bolivia... It's a land where the coca plant pops up in rows...and is protected by the state. It's a land that rises and falls faster than anyone can walk. It's a land where the lakes are as big as seas. It's a land where the bears and owls wear glasses. (Or, so their legendary face markings suggest.) It's a land where neither the llama nor the alpaca have been replaced by the four-wheel drive...or even the helicopter.
Up high, atop peaks, the guanaco and vicuna keep constant watch over the land. If only they had the sleuthing skills of a certain detective, who lives among the coca farmers of these lands...
Here, the white condor is a symbol of power and strong will. Many centuries after the fall of the Incan Empire, the white condor still inspires the state to protect its subjects.
The puma inspires the state, too. It's also a higher climber than the jaguar.
In the many vales, the locals raise bulls. They're especially common around the lake shores. Some of them look like tapirs.
Offshore, there are river dolphins...or, LAKE dolphins, rather. Once, in prehistoric times, the lake was bigger, and the dolphins were titanic...as were the caimans and piranhas. Many of these Bolivian lakes continue to serve as a refuge for living fossils. No one's found an ichthyosaur yet...but it's not impossible.
The lake surfaces are strewn with floating settlements. It's an inspiration that the Latinx have gotten from the native Uru. Some are homes. Others are businesses. Most, though, are homes. Many social exiles live out here, as a means of avoiding the excessive responsibilities of relationships with the relative crowds that live ashore, and beyond.
One such home is a villa. It's a bit of a misfit out here; most homeowners who live out here can't work, and hence can't afford such a high-quality establishment. As one might expect, the home has many admirers, but few residents. And the state, no doubt, would tax it out of existence, if it was more aware of the villa's existence.
In the old Roman Republic, wherever there were villas, there tended to be gladiator arenas. There's one here, too. Again, the state would probably tax this establishment out of existence, if they knew more about it.
A great wall surrounds the arena, of course. Atop it, there are many boxes. There's no central one; centralization is for ancient societies who've no respect for humanity. Or rather, that's how the homeowners of this place were raised. As for most of them, though, it seems that communism and anarchism have finally infested their souls. They hate money, and yet this place isn't cheap. They hate rank, and yet it takes more than a simple person to force two men to fight one another.
In tonight's fight, alas, there'll only be ONE man fighting. And legend has it that he's hardly fearsome. Or at least, that's certainly what a puma would think of him, if nothing else...
In the arena's amphitheaters, many local women and gay men take their seats. Many of them have worn togas to this event. Most of them, as you might expect, are half-Uru. Some of them are half-Incan. Their Latin halves tend to vary; Andalusians, Madrid Spanish, Lazians, Haute-Corse French, and Portuguese tend to be the most common. There are also a few half-Romanian Latinx here; more than a few are lycans.
Within one of the few vomitoriums, the portcullis opens. It rises, and vanishes. From its shadow, a sparsely leather-clad man emerges. He's armed with a staff. And he's more likely to need it than he is to win the following duel hand-to-hand.
Meet Sylvano Omoboni. He's a Latino Sherlock Holmes. This, of course, seems like a VERY unlikely place to find any Sherlock Holmes...Latino or otherwise. But in his defense, he doesn't do this all the time. We're about to find out why.
He's a lot more physically developed than one would expect a Sherlock to be. But then, this Sherlock has taken more chances. He's played more games. He has a stronger will...although this Sherlock, of course, is no more qualified to become the Incan king than...Tony Stark.
Across the arena, another portcullis rises. From out of its vomitorium, a leviathan slithers. It's hideous. It has horns. And it can charge and kick like a bull.
It's a minotaur. He's a champion among warriors. As he emerges, he raises his arms. He's rather muscular. Funny; most movie minotaurs have T Rex-shaped arms...
For him, the crowd cheers. Unclear as to why, but they love him. But then, he's certainly a social outcast. He smells like one, too. On one hand, Sylvano's a social outcast, too. On the other, he's been very sure, for a long time, that he couldn't get a crowd to love him if he was dressed as an actual matador.
Over the arena, a green flag flies. The fight has begun.
A long red fabric hangs from the front of Sylvano's...gladiator's kilt. He relieves it of it, raises it over his head, and waves it. It might be a red flag...but Sylvano's sure not signaling that half-bull to stop. He WISHES he were signaling it to stop.
For the fight, Tauro's brought a pair of spiked maces. Lord, save Sylvano... Or rather, that's what Sylvano would say...if he wasn't such a nihilist.
"No more man," Tauro growls, through fangs and a smoking muzzle. "Only bull!" With that, he leaps. Up there, he makes good hangtime, as he reaches his zenith.
Now, he's in a downward spiral. He's virtually rifling. And poor little Sylvano, there all alone on the ground, is the target; a mere rabbit, being hunted with a .45 Colt rifle. (They hunt elephants with that rifle, in case you didn't know.)