Summer, 1938

Savannah had spent some time talking to the Mexican Volunteers, and upon conferring with the others in her truck (which, despite being part of a column lead by Durruti, was a mix of Anarchists, Syndicalists, and Leninists), they all (well, except the Anarchists) agreed that they were good Communists but were weirdly devoted to Calles, or, as they called him, “The Maximum Boss”.

“I mean,” started Lyra, “we’re all devoted to our leaders. Durruti, Ramos, Caballero-“

“Caballero is weird.”

“He’s the Spanish Lenin! Shush!”

“No, Jose Diaz is our Lenin! Caballero is a liberal!”

“Caballero is just an authoritarian fuckup only good for making funny poses and quoting from What is to be done?!”

The truck devolved into an argument between all the tendencies for a few minutes before the driver instructed everyone to shut the fuck up so they could drive in peace. There was briefly silence.

“Anyways, Totalism is kind of creepy. The Italians are also weird about it, if you ask me, with Mussolini.”

Everyone murmured in agreement, except Arlo.

“I don’t know, they have some points, like-“

“Arlo, we were- we were told to wear a chest rig along with all our bandanas. Why the fuck are you wearing a dentist’s coat?!”

“Please! It’s a scientist’s coat! I am a proletarian scientist; a socialist scientist, if you will. And the pockets are large enough to carry all my ammo, don’t worry!”

Everyone gave him a look, and he sighed.

“Okay, okay, fine, I’ll take this off and put on my fucking, ammo rig. You’re all too uptight.”

They all looked forwards, down the road, in part in anticipation for what lay ahead, and in part to not look at Arlo as he struggled to remove his clothes. French aircraft from the Eagle Legion flew by, rocking their wings as they passed the motorized column, as trucks ahead of them and behind them occupied with singing La Internationale and A Las Barricadas and other songs of the revolution.

They flew on, to the enemy, and into the future.