Work Text:
The whole barracks stunk of cheap beer and sweaty bodies, and was hotter than anything had any right to be in England, especially at the current time of year. This hastily formed ‘Worker’s Militia Of Britain’ should have really picked someplace with better airing and maybe even, heaven forbid, showers. But the men and woman who crammed themselves into just about every nick and cranny of the building had a thing for on the symbolism, the more the on the nose the better, so they’d picked a bank. Jackson Bentley had gotten used to heat back in Arabia and he’d never had a very strong sense of smell anyway so that didn’t bother him all that much, but Jesus Mary and Joseph the lack of foresight in the choice.
“So,” a stoat man, seemed to be the closest thing the rag tag forces had to a leader, spoke, “are yah for the freedom of the work’in people?”
Loosening his tie, Bentley felt the other man’s red rimmed eyes bore into him. He managed to force an easy smile to his lips as he responded, “brother, I am a working people.”
The room erupted in cheers, and the reporter thanked his luck that the bulk of the militiamen seemed to be at least mildly intoxicated. One of them shouted something, and in a matter of moments the rest joined in, reaping the phrase over and over. Bentley had to strain his ears to make it out through their thick accents.
Break the chains. It sounded familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t place from where he could have heard or read it.
The stoat man made his way through the crowd and threw a heavy arm around his guest. Bentley felt the man’s hot breath on his ear when he spoke, closeness a necessity to be heard over the chanting.
“’s a good thing you’re in the struggle, or we’d ‘ave to kill you.”
He laughed and Bentley wiped his brow, more from the heat of the place than stress. He'd figured the stakes of the question were something like that, and that figuring had informed his answer more than any actual opinions on freedom or workers or workers' freedom. He was pretty committed to the cause of staying alive, and he'd always found that significant as far as his need for causes went.
“And I don’t wan’ ta do that, yah seem a right lad.”