Catalonia, the worker's city of Barcelona, August 1937.

Rafael and Arlo carry handfuls of captured rifles from the Guardia Civil to a distribution point. All around them, there is commotion; a band has formed to belt out a poorly rehearsed rendition of A Las Barricadas, the captured Guardsmen sit on a sidewalk near them, under guard while somebody figures out what the hell to do with them, a police station burns, now that it's been cleared of everything left behind by the fleeing government, and people cheer like it was a bonfire beach party. A few technical-minded folks are attempting to save the burned-out tanks brought by the Guardia Civil, with, uh, limited success, so to speak. A few people shed tears for their fallen comrades, family, fathers, mothers, husbands or wives, but now, Barcelona is a worker's city. All of Spain belongs to the workers, and now, they are going to fight for it.

Rafael was also excited for the liberation of the Proletariat, but his way of celebrating way buying himself a bottle of that cheap wine he likes, along with a new farm equipment catalogue; although recently he had been reading a few airplane magazines, his initial interest spurred after reading about crop dusting. As they walk through the streets, Arlo espouses his opinions on the classification of Carrots as Legumes.

"I am telling you, Raf, in a few months I'll have cooked up an experiment that will prove to the world that-"

"Arlo, the last time you cooked, you put gunpowder into the Paella."

"It was sawdust! And anyways, you were okay, you big baby!"

"Savannah had splinters under her tongue."

"Acupuncture is big in China."

They near the distribution point, where rifles and pistols are being stacked up. Several dentists are marching around parading a sign: "The Barcelona Dentist's Syndicate supports the revolution!" As a truck dives up with some recently dug up caches of rifles, including one that smells like sewer sludge.

"Oh, I remember burying that one."

"Why would you bury it in sewage?"

Rafael shrugs. "Not like anybody would think to look there."

They put down the rifles, and Arlo runs to go help unload the truck of rifles and ammo. Rafael looks over some of the pistols (what he wants is a good revolver, something that fires a good, powerful cartridge and won't be hard to use. Maybe a Webley, although he'd probably have to ask around for the proper ammunition.) and finds a stock for an Artillery Luger, although no connected Luger.

"Hm. Weird."

He picks it up anyways, on a whim, maybe somebody will want a spare pistol stock or whatever, as Savannah comes over to him smelling of alcohol.

"Mujeres Libres supports the Iberian revolution! Long live Anarchy! Long live Durruti! Long live Kropotki-"

"Savannah, are you drunk already? How did you find wine so fast?"

"My usual dealer, of course. Want some?"

Rafael takes the bottle extended out to him. The label is written crudely in Crayon. Whoever made this, despite their crudity, managed to list ingredients on the back, which are:

-Grapes

-Water

He squints, and shakes the curiously heavy bottle. The mash of barely crushed grapes in the bottle goes thunk.

"Savannah, this isn't wine, this is-" sniff "Poorly crushed rotten grapes and poorly filtered water from a fountain. You said you drink this regularly?"

"Isn't it great? Want some?"

Rafael hands her the bottle back. "I like my liver how it is."

"Ahh, you just don't know how to party!"

"Hm. Have you seen Gennaro?"

"Oh, yeah, he got shot through the leg, he's fine, nursing it off, I gave him something to drink to ease the pain."

Rafael was about to express concern over what, exactly, she was giving out to the already dying, but Savannah had already run off to go buddy buddy with Silva while he was trying to concentrate on distributing arms to the people who needed them. Rafael sighs and goes to find where the wounded Paramilitants are being kept.

Rafael finds Gennaro sitting against a wall with some other wounded men, playing around with a pistol and drinking from a bottle of that horrible stuff. Thankfully, it looks like only Gennaro was given a bottle of that shit.

"I heard you got shot. You alright?"

"Oh, yeahh, everythin's just fine! It hurt, then Savananana gave me some of 'is stuff, and now I feel great! And I got this cool Luger! Th' barrel's a little long, though, although that mayyyy be the stuff I'm drinkin'." He giggles, and pops another shot off at at the brick wall opposite him.

"That's not just a Luger, actually, that's an Artillery Luger. The longer barrel was so it could be used as a replacement for a rifle."

Gennaro thinks about it. "Nah, then it'd have a stock, if it was an, uh, artillerery, uh, Luger."

"Well, actually, I have just the thing for that. May I?"

Gennaro passes Rafael the gun, to which he affixes the stock he pocketed earlier. "There you go. Have fun, comrade."

Gennaro's eyes light up. "Well, I guess'm I gotta, uh, gotta heal up faster so I can use 'is in battle, huh?"

Rafael nods, as somebody whistles into a megaphone. "Attention! Comrades! Prepare for a speech from Francisco Largo Caballero, Buenaventura Durruti, and José Díaz Ramos!"

Rafael helps Gennaro into a park, where a haphazard stage has been set up on top of some cars and trucks. The three figures on the stage are guarded by Paramilitants, and dressed in the same conflagration of armbands, neckerchiefs, hats, and a chest rig which serves as a "uniform" in these times. Durruti seems uncomfortable sharing a stage with these two, and Ramos is just as uncomfortable in their presence, as well as experiencing some stomach pains for some reason. Caballero is enthusiastic, and ready to lead in speechification.

"Comrades! We have won a great victory today for the workers of Spain! Already the dogs of the reactionary government are retreating, tail between their legs! Eastern Spain belongs to the workers!"

There is great applause at this, as Caballero strikes a Lenin-like pose. Durruti takes this moment to butt in; "But can we stop here? Will we stop here, when there are still monarchists to crush? When there are still workers all across Iberia who cry as our mothers and fathers did when we begged for bread to ail our starving stomachs, and yet there was none to be found? Do we yield?"

"No!" Is the cry from the crowd. Except for one guy with the militias formed from the criminals who were broken out of prison, who said "Maybe!" but was shushed and told to shut the hell up by his fellow former inmates.

"We have more work to do, comrades." Puts forth Ramos. "We must prepare for a long struggle; this humiliation to the government will not go unretaliated. And indeed, even if it were, as comrade Durruti said, we would never be content to sit and watch as comrades, siblings, uncles and nephews, throughout the rest of Spain were left to suffer under the White Terror, the Capitalist Terror, the monarchist's regime!"

"Down with the King! Down With Capital" Cries Durruti. "Long live Liberty! Long live the Working Class! Long live the Revolution!"

The cries go up across the workers. Finally; The Worker's Front has won a victory, and there will be many more to come. No more will Reaction rule Spain!

Viva Durruti! Viva Ramos! Viva Caballaro! Y Viva el Bandaro Rojo!