Bruno
GA Member
- Jul 1, 2018
- 2,917
The rain had not stopped for three days. It beat against the cracked windows of the derelict warehouse in Barreiro, a forgotten relic of days past. Now the cavernous building served as a refuge for ghosts, rusted machinery, and the birth of a movement that sought to shake the nation. Inside, the light of a single bulb swayed with the draft, casting long shadows across the makeshift table in the center of the room. The men and women gathered there were not many, barely even a dozen souls, but their presence filled the silence with something heavy, dangerous. Their faces were mostly hidden: scarves, hoodies, caps pulled low. They were factory workers, students, the unemployed, fragments of society with little in common except their anger.
At the head sat the man they only knew as Silva. Nobody was certain if that was his real name. He spoke with the authority of someone who had studied revolution his whole life. A son of dockworkers, some whispered, a veteran of foreign wars, others claimed. What mattered was the conviction in his eyes, dark and unyielding. Laid carefully in front of him was a folded red flag, its edges frayed with time but its color still bright, almost defiant. The emblem of hammer, sickle, and star glowed in the dim light, a relic smuggled from some forgotten attic.
“Comrades,” Silva began, his voice steady and cold, “this democracy they worship is nothing but a cage. The workers live in misery, our youth are slaves to capital, and the ruling class celebrates in their palaces. We are here tonight because we refuse to kneel. Because we choose to act.” The group leaned in. A woman named Rosa, her hands still stained with grease from the devices she had been assembling, placed a small metal box on the table. Inside, coiled wires and a detonator gleamed faintly. “The materials are ready,” she said. “Enough to send a message across Lisbon, across the whole of Portugal. We strike once, and they will know our name. We shall shake the foundations of this false society.” Silva’s gaze fell upon the crate at his feet. Within it lay canisters and explosives, their silent menace filling the room with a tense electricity. He closed his eyes briefly, as though invoking ghosts of the past.
“Our fathers ended fascism in seventy-four. But the revolution was stolen, strangled by cowards and traitors. Now it is our duty to finish what they began. By dawn, the bourgeoisie will tremble. By dawn, Portugal will hear the voice of Aurora Vermelha.” The rain hammered the roof like a drumroll. One by one, the figures rose, fists clenched, muttering oaths of loyalty to the cause. Outside, the streets of Barreiro lay silent, unaware that in its abandoned corners, history was preparing to bleed once again.
At the head sat the man they only knew as Silva. Nobody was certain if that was his real name. He spoke with the authority of someone who had studied revolution his whole life. A son of dockworkers, some whispered, a veteran of foreign wars, others claimed. What mattered was the conviction in his eyes, dark and unyielding. Laid carefully in front of him was a folded red flag, its edges frayed with time but its color still bright, almost defiant. The emblem of hammer, sickle, and star glowed in the dim light, a relic smuggled from some forgotten attic.
“Comrades,” Silva began, his voice steady and cold, “this democracy they worship is nothing but a cage. The workers live in misery, our youth are slaves to capital, and the ruling class celebrates in their palaces. We are here tonight because we refuse to kneel. Because we choose to act.” The group leaned in. A woman named Rosa, her hands still stained with grease from the devices she had been assembling, placed a small metal box on the table. Inside, coiled wires and a detonator gleamed faintly. “The materials are ready,” she said. “Enough to send a message across Lisbon, across the whole of Portugal. We strike once, and they will know our name. We shall shake the foundations of this false society.” Silva’s gaze fell upon the crate at his feet. Within it lay canisters and explosives, their silent menace filling the room with a tense electricity. He closed his eyes briefly, as though invoking ghosts of the past.
“Our fathers ended fascism in seventy-four. But the revolution was stolen, strangled by cowards and traitors. Now it is our duty to finish what they began. By dawn, the bourgeoisie will tremble. By dawn, Portugal will hear the voice of Aurora Vermelha.” The rain hammered the roof like a drumroll. One by one, the figures rose, fists clenched, muttering oaths of loyalty to the cause. Outside, the streets of Barreiro lay silent, unaware that in its abandoned corners, history was preparing to bleed once again.
