The Terrorist from Tartarus

I’m part of a terrorist cell. We live, with many others, in a colony below ground. As we return to our base, descending in a rectangular concrete stairwell, I see we are being followed. I grab a machine gun from a rack on the wall, and fire at the man following us. He wears a blue uniform, a long, blue, woollen trench coat. We retreat into one of the levels, and he follows us. There’s a firefight. I aim at his unprotected head, and fire bursts in full automatic mode. He retaliates in the same way. His bullets are like a rain of needles, they don’t hurt me, but give me a tingling sensation, like pins and needles all over. 
My head shots win. He lays down on the floor. I’m out of ammo. I beat him unconscious with my gun. I pick up a plastic toy cutlass from the floor, and behead him. His head is now made of cake, and looks like the old Turks Head sign. 
We re-arm and head straight back up. We are followed by a well meaning, but dim, volunteer. I wait for him near the surface. I explain the dangers and offer him a gun. He’s disguised as a tin mine manager, he jokes how out of place he will look living next door to us. I tell him that moving is the first thing he will do. We can’t be associated with him. 
He’s worried about the gun. I exchange it for a machine gun hidden in a device the size of a credit card. The trigger is a tiny roll of paper, and it only fires a single burst. 
I leave the idiot and follow my colleagues into the city. It is beautiful. Great architecture and fashion, beautiful Asian women shopping. We meet at a low table in a shopping mall. Our representatives in the surface want someone to join their committee to represent us. Typically, they first considered one of their own, already blessed to live in the paradise on the surface. I think A should be given the position, as he has fought hard for the cause. I tell the committee that I recognise no one as having control over me, either above or below ground. They are shocked, but change the subject. 
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