They worked diligently on cleaning their new weapons. Three AK-47s and an RPD with a broken bipod. Slumped in the shade, taking their time. Their words were carefully chosen, and delivered with a surly seriousness. They chanted and sang songs of revolution. Of revenge. Of chaos.
The sun had set and they had assembled their arsenal. They stood, and faced eachother. Chins up, shoulders straight. In unison, they raised their right arm and closed a fist. With a firm extension, their fists collided. It fueled them. It empowered them. Their time was up.
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