Snippet #1704021

'So that makes two more' thought Leonidas. And both of them women. He had finished his maintenance of the STG-44 and was re-assembling it with an expert and well-rehearsed ease. He had cleaned out the barrel and chamber with the pipe-cleaners, the firing mechanism and the bolt catch with the tooth-brush, and had even gone as far as removing each bullet from the magazine, polishing them to a sheen with a somewhat-clean hankerchief and then replacing them all. He clapped the magazine into place and drew back the bolt, completing his work. He then slowly and methodically packed up his cleaning utensils. The machine-gun, his prized posession and the oldest serviceable weapon in the metro (and possibly the world for all anyone knew) was back in it's place, slung over his shoulders. Throughout all of this Leonidas sang to himself. It was a jolly tune, uplifting in its own way, though the pomp of it (not to mention the lyrics) made it obvious that this was a propaganda song; though whether it had originated in the metro or not was unclear to all but the oldest who knew its words.

"Stand up, all victims of oppression. The tyrants fear your might. Don't cling so hard to your possessions, for you have nothing if you have no rights..."

So Leonidas continued, the song conjouring images of how all empires would be overthrown by the obvious greatness of the socialist movement. How the working man, united with his fellows would throw off the yoke of oppression and the capitalist, upper-class pigs.

"What a load of bollocks."

Leonidas laughed. A low, rumbling chuckle that seemed to come from the core of his very being. He glanced about himself, noting for the first time that both of the women were sitting on either side of him. The one between him and the large, sleeping man was small, with a very tomboyish sense about her. She was dressed in a manner that hardly surprised him. Practical but comfortable, with enough protection to give her a chance if something got too close for bullet-work down in the tunnels. He smiled a greeting, his face beneath the beard creasing pleasently, the skin around his eyes (real and fake) breaking into crow's feet and laughter-lines. He then turned his attention to the second woman, sitting several feet away. She was taller than the first, and seemed more muscular. She was long-legged, and not altogether un-attractive. He estimated her to be perhaps half his age, maybe thirty at a pinch. He smiled and nodded to her in turn, before again rummaging around in his rucksack. Shortly he drew out a bottle of vodka and a shot-glass. Pouring himself a drink, he set the bottle to one side and resigned himself to the wait.