Forever Diehard

"It was him, it has to be."
The darkness obscured the uncomfortable expressions of the others. No-one challenged his assertion.
"How else they could they have known? We were fucking set up, and that cocksucker sold us out! I say we find him and fucking kill him!"
"Calm down, Typhon, we don't know that yet. Let's not jump to any conclusions." Oreus's monotone voice seemed devoid of all emotion.
"Of course it was fucking him, what the fuck's up with you lot? Where was he when they fucking sprung the fuck out of nowhere and shot the shit out of us? Where was he when we had to drag the mangled bodies of our comrades - our fucking friends, our brothers - out of there? Where the fuck is he now? Why hasn't he shown his face for three fucking days? Because he sold us the fuck out and he knows we know, that's fucking why!"
An unnoticed figure entered the room and leaned against the moist brickwork of the arched entrance.
"Oreus is right, Typhon. Chill out. You're gonna have an aneurysm or something. Yes, it's true, it seems increasingy likely that Cacus colluded with The Machae to fuck us over, and needless to say that bitch will get what's coming to him when our paths next cross, but it would be foolish to waste our remaining resources hunting him down. Now is a time to regroup and reevaluate our goals."
"But if we don't deal with him now, what kind of message does that send to the other militias? Every two-bit crew in London will come looking for a piece of us! I say we act now."
Python rose to his feet. His determined and defiant stance indicated he wanted his to be the last word on the matter. Erebus paid no attention to him and moved further into the room.
"No. The way we are perceived by the fucking monkeys that run around killing each other on these streets is of no interest to me. I'm sick of this shit. We fight amongst ourselves while The Administration laughs at us. We're like fucking dogs squabbling in the dirt over the scraps they drop from their opulent table. The Administration are our real enemy, they're the ones we should be going to war with."
Phobus leaned forward on his makeshift chair, bringing himself from the shadow and into the wedge of artificial light that sliced through the room from the window.
"Erebus, you know I agree with you. In the grand scheme of things, looking at the bigger picture, yes, these battles with the other militias are meaningless. But what's the alternative? We have have neither the military capability or the manpower to take on The Administration. How many of us are there now? One hundred? Even if we employed the most effective guerrilla tactics known to man it would be like a bear swatting away a gnat. We must defend what little we have carved out for ourselves. Why risk losing what we have fought so hard for?"
He leaned back into the blackness.
"If we could unite the militias," incredulous scoffs emanated from every corner of the room, "end these futile turf wars, then think how many we would be in number. We would be an army. The people are ready, the economic and social climate is ripe for revolution. You've heard the murmurings, seen the discontent and disgust in the eyes of the man on the street. The militias could be the spark that ignites this city of apathy and conformity into a blaze of violent uprising. You know in your hearts that this is possible. You know we can overthrow the oppressors that have taken so much from us."
Not awaiting a response, Erebus disappeared back into the tunnel he had emerged from. The group listened to his fading footsteps until the even intonation of Oreus broke the silence:
"He's gone fucking mental."