A/N: And so it begins. Yes, another story. It's okay, I hate me too. While I do have Crash Into Me and Peata Beag A Dhaidí this story will essentially take Beautiful Collisions' place in the lineup (epilogue goes up this Friday...let's not talk about it until then because I'll cry). So! While nothing could ever replace that, this will be a close second. Maybe. Hopefully. We'll see.

Enjoy!

"We're so lazy
We're soap-box heroes
And we've got so much to say…"
Cynical - Enter The Haggis

Tom Branson's life happened in flashes, or so it seemed that way as he, now twenty-three and university educated, found nothing he could look back and point to as being truly worthwhile. There were events, of course, things that happened to him and made him who he currently was, but nothing that truly set him apart from anyone else. After all, that was how life worked: you were born, raised on things like faith and love, and then catapulted into the world with these as your devices, never once being told it takes something far more tangible to get you through. But you learn, and in Tom's case, read, delving deep into books on philosophy and politics, your eyes feasting on things your poor mother wouldn't dare say aloud. Of course your friends, all growing up in the same working class neighborhood on the Southside of Dublin, know little of what you comment on. Their world is motivated differently, and without an education afforded to them, they hold onto things more blindly, and move much in the same way.

One thing in particular, one singular moment, something that Tom had seen, was something they all never spoke of, and were glad they had never experienced. It was what drove Tom to join the Dublin Brigade, seeking it out while his friends had been approached and coerced into listing. Having already lost so much, he was forced to acknowledge the possibility of losing even more. His family, smaller than most in his neighborhood, now just consisted of his mother and baby sister. Everyone else was one of many, and should they not return from Belfast, their mothers would sob and pray for their safekeeping, while at the same time swelling with pride that a boy, their own son, was fighting for a worthy cause. Then they'd move on, knowing the responsibility they still had to those children who hadn't yet been given the chance to be so courageous. Helen Branson promised Tom once, and it did not need repeating, that if he went to Belfast he was as good as dead to her. Tom knew his mother well enough to know that she would not shed a single tear over his absence. When his father passed, she had shed enough, and since then, refused to cry over the headstrong men in her life; her husband with his words and Tom with the same, but now also outfitted with an assault rifle.

There were secrets he kept, ones that were nonsensical and went beyond the way in which he was always so guarded. His best friend Aidan didn't even know his favorite color or what it was he studied at university. Like others, he knew the rumors of the girls and the drugs and the drinking. He knew, or thought he knew, about Tom's plans to leave Dublin, and he waited, only to find that every day, Tom showed up to school, and on Sundays, he sat in a dark wooden pew to receive communion at mass with his family. His mother Helen, and his sister Katherine, or Katie Grace, as everyone called her, knew him best, or at least used to. Lately, they swore up and down he was changed, but their feminine hearts held on, despite everything in the world that told them to just let it go. They had buried his father and they were sure they'd do the same for him. These things never ended in glory, and it was a sincere shame that Tom was a casualty of that way of thinking, a victim himself, now taking the role of perpetrator as if that were meant to correct all past trespasses. Or at least excuse the ones he'd now commit in the way those committed against him and his family never were.

The world Tom lived in was certainly one of chaos, but of change as well. The streets were half-beaten, with broken down fences becoming rusted as villages became more occupied with unity of the country, rather than unity of a people, and those closest to home. The lines existed and were clearly drawn, with mothers either warning their kids to stay away from boys like Tom, or hoping fully that their own children would grow up to be just like him. Most viewpoints were clear, in this neighborhood especially. Two men died that day in Derry, and with a fervor not seen since independence, the anger and the hatred was as strong as it had ever been, illustrated most poignantly by the rising number of boys, just like Tom, joining the Provisional Republican Army, and the women and children that surrounded them, supporting their decisions.

"Look at this feckin' arsehole! Where ya been Tommy?"

He was greeted much in the same way every time he approached his group of friends. All of them constantly talking about fighting, of going to Belfast to make a change, but finding no other pastime than to stand in circles, passing cigarettes back and forth between themselves as the quiet echo of city life moved around them.

"What's it to you?" Tom shot back, before walking to join them. He grabbed for his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pinched at the center of one to place the stick at his lips. Striking a match, he inhaled, setting fire to the paper, an ashy butt already appearing at the end. After holding the first puff in his mouth for a bit, he exhaled, blowing outward, knowing that the answer to his question would never come.

"Last Friday here," Tom commented. His eyes wandered up, careful not to reveal the curiosity he had for hearing what his friends had to say on the matter.

Of them, there had always been five. Tom and Aidan were the closest, of course, with the fact that their mothers grew up together solidifying that bond. There was also Ciaran, John, and Michael. All of them, tall and cocky and Catholic. They believed the things boys their age do, and went on to find faith in things they perhaps should have not. There was something that happened when you gave a boy a gun. He didn't suddenly become a man in the way you'd think and hope. His maturity would actually subside now with something to hide behind. There was no need for smooth talking or charisma or even manners. All of them, even Tom, believed they were a gift to their town, and they'd do their work tirelessly, just so as long as they never have to apologize for it.

Ciaran nodded, pulling his cigarette away from his lips. His eyes narrowed as a smirk appeared across his face. "What'd you have in mind?"

Tom shrugged. "I asked you first."

Aidan sized up the situation, finding the idea he had that morning to be one of use in the present. Dramatically, he turned around and launched himself up onto a nearby wooden crate, causing the mud on his boots to shake off and fall down onto the ground beneath the slats. "I've got an idea," he began. "But you pricks will probably bow out. None of you know how to have any feckin' fun anymore."

Tom shook his head, knowing he need not reply for the conversation to continue. This was confirmed as John pushed at Aidan's shoulder, sending him stumbling backward. "Try me!"

"It's a game I heard Nolan and his buddies used to play. Actually," Aidan pointed with his cigarette, "it's a game they picked up at UCD."

"What are you keeping from us Tommy?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know what he's talking about."

Ignoring Tom, Aidan continued. "Forty nicker—"

"Feck no!" Michael called out. He was the most timid of the bunch, but still, a spitfire in his own right. Modesty and contentedness did not flourish here. Such things were reserved for more wealthy neighborhoods where affluence lead to an indifference to the cause, and for some, an overall relocation to the United States or Canada.

Ciaran raised a steady hand as if to still the conversation. "Let him finish!"

"Forty nicker in. If we're going out tonight we might as well go out with a bang, yah?"

Tom sighed. "Get to the point, Aidan."

"Fine," he said, now jumping down from crate upon which he was previously standing. The muddied sidewalk his feet rested on would act as his soapbox now, though they all knew Aidan needed little platform to speak his mind. "Tonight, Cleary's. Forty quid in, winner takes all."

"For what?" Michael asked, showing the growing impatience of the entire group.

"Whichever one of you poor bastards brings the ugliest girl."

"Sóinseáil for an ugly girl? Piss off!" Ciaran yelled causing Tom to drop his head back and laugh.

Aidan stepped in to him. "When's the last time you've had a lay, Connolly? I'd think you wouldn't be so picky."

"Feck. That." John stated in a syncopated manner, making his tone very clear. "We have to lay her too? Ciaran's right man, no way."

Aidan stepped further into the circle and began staring at his friends, letting his eyes cast upon them, moving up and down in disgust. "Okay, so fuck the lay bit! But it's not pocket change. That'd be 200 nicker. Last time I checked, none of this money is heading our way," he stated honestly, referring to the money they had acquired for the cause, and immediately sent North.

Through all of this, Tom was silent. The cigarette he demanded tainted oxygen from was dwindling down. Already he was close to the end, and though he hated to admit it, he wanted another, if anything so that his mouth could remain trained on things other than the truth. Tired, and watching as the spring sky threatened to already fade into a deep purple-orange, Tom threw down his cigarette and crushed the butt with the heel of his boot. "I'm in."

"What?" Aidan asked. But quickly he was smiling at his best friend. He clapped a hand to his back, causing Tom to pull his own lips into a tight smile. "Fuck yeah you are! That's the Tommy I know. What about the rest of you? You're a sorry lot if you're not up for the challenge."

John nodded. "Eh, whatever."

"Yeah?" Aidan asked, his eyes brightening with each concede to his plan.

"Fine," Ciaran sighed. "But I'm only doing it because I swear to Christ this is going to be a wash."

"Me too," Michael agreed, now lighting another cigarette. He blew out and held the stick down at his side.

"Great!" Aidan said, clapping another hand to Michael's back, using the leverage he had on both Michael and Tom to pull both friends in. "Cleary's then. 8 o'clock tonight. And I swear to god if any of you sorry bastards pull out, our friendship is over, ya hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom let out, now moving out of Aidan's grasp as he began walking back for the street.

"Where are you going now?" John asked.

"I have a few errands to run."

"Errands? Jesus Christ, Tommy. What the fuck are they teaching you at that school? You need a girl."

"I don't need shit, Aidan. And hey, go see your mam before you come out tonight. She was asking for you when I saw her near the market this morning."

Aidan sighed. "You need to get out of this town, Tommy - see the big picture. It's making you small-minded."

Tom laughed, thinking how of the five of them, it was all kinds of ironic for him to be the one accused of having a small mind. Perhaps it was how he was representing himself. For as much as they all shared the same views, Tom did so in a different way, and to do anything but follow the pack was to disobey the call of your country. Maybe this was why he was quick to accept Aidan's offer, finding the idea to be as dull and utterly insensitive as it was, but never daring to say so. Aidan was right; he did need to get out of Dublin, but for reasons and truths even Tom wasn't ready to acknowledge.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!

x. Elle