[center][b]Warsaw, PUL - 1955[/b][/center]

Katarzyna was never one for grandstanding and speeches. They were necessary, in many nations - but they stunk of dictators and oligarchs; tools for whipping the people up into mindless, often violent frenzies. She preferred a lighter, more casual touch.

And so, every Monday, the Polish president sat down in a simple chair, relaxing in front of a spartan tea table, in an apartment not much bigger than those that nearly every person in Warsaw lived in. Cameras arrayed about her, artificial light shining down from above, she cleared her throat - and as the camera began rolling, offering a warm, comforting smile.

“Good evening, workers, comrades, and friends - whoever happens to be joining us tonight.” She said, shifting her stance forward as her palms, clasped together, came to rest in the center of her lap. “I hope you’ve all had a restful weekend - and for those who chose to work, let’s hope you didn’t get [i]too[\i] exhausted, eh?” She chuckled quietly, once again clearing her throat. “The month of January’s already nearly gone by, and we already have plenty to discuss! First and foremost...” She said, biting her lip. “You’ve all heard the news about Albert Einstein, I’m sure. His contributions to workers’ rights, his economic reforms in Germany - I hope you’ve heard of him, at least. In an effort to abide but what I think would be his wishes, I won’t bother you with a thirty minute speech, a sob story - instead, if you happen to be listening, I only have one thing to say: thank you for everything we’ve done. You’ll be remembered for decades to come, I’m sure.” She nodded, swinging one leg over the other. Outside, she could faintly hear the sound of children playing, but, quickly pushing the noise to the edge of her thoughts, continued as she idly poured herself a small glass of Spotykach, the sweet scent of vodka and blackcurrant wafting its way into her nostrils.

“Further away from home, I have a message for our Indonesian comrades in the PKI. We wish you well in your struggle, just like we do every last comrade worldwide. Whether you’re in Surabaya, Jakarta, Batam, or Pekanbaru - good luck, and know that the people of the People's Republic of United Workers/Popolrespubliko de Unuiĝintaj Laboristoj are with you! In fact, that’s the topic I’d like to focus on for today’s chat - the worldwide struggle of the working class. Our country might be one that truly works for its people, but it’s important to remember that most people still live under the pall of authoritarianism. Whether they be on the shores of the Americas or the coasts of spain, people everywhere are oppressed - and I want to make sure you all remember that. Our fight isn’t over until every man woman and child is well and truly free. We’re in this together, comrades!” She announced, briefly dipping her head in quiet remembrance of those the cause had lost. "Most importantly,  remember this - you aren't alone, no matter where you come from or what you believe in." 

Raising her glass to her lips, Katarzyna smiled as she took a sip. "Until next time, comrades - I'll talk to you soon."

Cameras off, Katarzyna let out a brief groan, leaning her head back with her eyes closed. She was no demagogue, at least - though she couldn't help but think she was delivering little more than platitudes, spewing non-committal words in an effort to avoid angering the enemies of the people too directly.

Soon, she told herself. Soon, she'd be able to make a real difference, she thought, downing the rest of her glass.

[hr]

[center][b]Surabaya, Indonesia - 1955[/b][/center]

Jerzy hated Indonesia. Not the people, of course, but the place - the series of islands that comprised it - they were a nightmare, far too hot and muggy for his liking. Even at its coldest, temperatures soared beyond Polish springs, and sometimes even summers - worse than the weather, though, was the strangling presence of Japanese soldiers on what seemed like every street corner, barking orders in everything from Japanese to butchered Javanese.

He rubbed his eyes as the box truck he was driving trundled along down the road ahead of him, lit by little more than the faint headlights of the vehicle itself. Not far ahead was a small, wooden guardpost, the road blocked by a boom barrier. Two men - Japanese soldiers, by the looks of it - stood just to the side of the street, their eyes pulled away from an idle game of cards by Jerzy's approach. Scratching his shaven chin, adjusting his dark blonde hair, Jerzy slowed to a stop a few meters ahead of the checkpoint, his gaze idly darting between the silenced pistol strapped to the inside of his door and the rapidly approaching guard, hands resting on his steering wheel. Taking advantage of the brief time he was offered before the soldier reached his window, he cleared his throat, silently mulling over the complicated ins and outs of putting on a Dutch accent while speaking Japanese.

Finally, the soldier reached his window, brusquely greeting him in Javanese - or perhaps it was more accurate to say the words came out sounding like a bored, half-hearted demand, the sound of someone who hated what they were doing and simply wanted some rest.

"Ah... Ambroos De Vries!" He said. "Good evening, sirs." He continued, greeting the soldier in his native language. At first glance, he looked a handful of years older than the kind gentleman loitering around the wooden post - a bit more, a bit less, but it was hard to tell at this hour. His greeting, however, seemed to draw the tiniest amount of relief out of the soldier, even if his tone still seemed perpetually angry.

"You speak Japanese, Mr. Ambroos? I don't know many Dutchmen that speak Japanese." He grunted. 'Ambroos chuckled genially, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile.

"Ah, well..." He laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "I started learning a long time ago - in school, yes? My father, he went on these business trips in Japan, so he thought I should learn."

Noticing that the soldier wasn't speaking, waiting for him to continue, Jerzy cleared his throat. "Financier. Investor. I never had the stomach for arithmetic, so I ended up interested in brewing, eh? Right now, I'm moving some, eh? Old friend of mine, he owns a liquor store, and-"

"Where is it being transported to?"

"Gendagan - not too far from here. Old friend of mine." The soldier nodded back at 'Ambroos', glancing sidelong at his comrade.

"I'll be taking a look at your cargo." She said, gesturing for 'Ambroos' to exit the car. He complied, of course - but only after surreptitiously grabbing the pistol strapped to the inside of his door, sticking into an inconspicuous spot in his pocket and leading the soldier toward the back of his truck, quietly cursing himself under his breath for his idiotic cover story. It was believable, sure - but he knew he should've been able to come up with something better. Now, the soldier was sticking his nose into his business - and he'd have to think of something better. Fast. Letting out a grunt, he tossed open the rear doors - and revealed piles of planks and lumber, stacked high to the compartment's roof. He stepped aside, allowing the soldier to draw closer for inspection - then lunged at him, tightly squeezing the unfortunate man's windpipe as he helplessly scrabbled at the agent's arm, fingernails digging into his skin. Before long, though, the soldier dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, leaving Ambroos alone with his fellow officer. 

He dropped to the ground, quietly crawling along in the muck beneath the truck, slowly moving toward the front of the vehicle. Down here, he couldn't see much - except for the impatient foot-tapping of the other Japanese soldier. Then, the man called put - and Jerzy swore under his breath. "Gakuto!" The young man barked, adjusting his rifle on its sling, hanging over his shoulder. "What's taking you so long? I don't want to stand out here in the mud all damn night!"

Come on! Go investigate, you useless bastard! Jerzy thought to himself, thumping his fist against the underside of the truck. If the soldier was too lazy to move himself, Jerzy'd have to make him.

Growling, the soldier began to move though not with any expediency. Jerzy briefly wondered if he'd ever seen a man that hated his job so much. The poor boy probably expected the chance to go out and serve his glorious Empire, killing in the name of its territorial expansion - and yet, here he was, on thankless garrison duty in endlessly muggy occupied Indonesia. Still, Jerzy thought, at least the idiot was moving, now alongside the truck. 

Leaping into action, Jerzy rolled out from beneath the truck, but before the soldier had a chance to turn around, his pistol was drawn. All it took was a squeeze of a trigger to end the boy's life, his corpse dropping to the wet ground with a pathetic thud.

Letting out a frustrated grunt, Jerzy brushed the mud from his face, hauling the soldier's limp body over to the rear before placing another bullet between the first man's head. He was still breathing, after all - that needed to change. Disposing of the bodies would be an altogether different issue, but out here, he had options - dholes fed in specific ways, and that was perhaps something he could take advantage of. First, though he had to get rid of their heads.

[hr]

Jerzy hated Indonesia. The Japanese soldiers were far too nosy for his taste, feeling the need to stick their faces into everyone's business like they owned the damned place. He did appreciate, however, how many locals shared his sentiment - judging by the enthusiasm with which the PKI guerillas were helping him unload his cargo, at least. Stack after stack of lumber was lifted and pulled aside, one after the other, until they finally reached the back.

A treasure trove of rifles, ammunition, and explosives awaited them, stacked high to the roof of the truck, each in an unmarked crate. The men and women excitedly discussed their bounty even as they began to unload it, a few briefly stopping to thank their comrade in arms - the guns were made in Poland, of course, but they were reproductions of local weapons, built to use the ammunition already available to the guerillas in spades.

It was the first of many shipments of arms, no doubt - the instruments with which they'd overthrow their oppressors. And as much as he wasn't the greatest fan of the tropics, Jerzy had to admit that, at the least, he felt like he was doing something that mattered. That was worth something, at least.