- - September 21st - -

Private held a hand over his mouth, yawning softly. Uncle Nigel noticed and raised an eyebrow. "...You were out late last night."

Private winced, kneeling down next to the bed to tie his boot laces. "I- Is there something wrong with that?"

His uncle studied him critically for a few moments, then slowly broke out into a grin. "Nothing at all, m'boy." He gave a wracking cough, and Private reached over and handed him his handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. As his coughing began to die down, he smiled weakly and ruffled Private's hair. "You're a man now, lad. I've been waiting for you to break curfew for years. I'm so proud of you."

Private bit his lip, focusing on tying his other boot. "...I'm sorry I'm such a nancy-cat..."

Nigel sighed. "Oh, don't apologize. I might have liked a tougher nephew, but the truth is that you remind me of your mum."

Private sat down at the end of the bed, swinging his legs underneath him. "What was she like? You never talk about my parents."

"You never asked. Not in years, anyway." Nigel sat up a little straighter, the old bed creaking as he moved. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Well, I..." Private avoided his uncle's gaze. "There's a strike on at the factory today, and I... I guess I'm a little scared, is all." In reality, he was much more than a little scared, but his uncle didn't need to know that.

Nigel hummed, nodding slowly. "I see." He seemed to sense the gravity of the situation, but wasn't commenting on it. That was one of the things Private liked best about his uncle - he did worry from time to time, but he never let on. His calm and stiff upper lip were infectious. Somehow, Private already felt just a little bit better.

Nigel leaned back, smiling a little. He knew full well the effect he had on his nephew. "Well, your mum was always tender-hearted..."

Rico stumbled out of bed, reaching groggily for a pair of pants resting on the top of a haphazard pile of laundry. He never remembered his dreams, but he must have had one about the war, because the sound of explosions was still ringing in his ears. He smiled to himself, hopping around on one leg, trying to get the other one into the pants.

He knew that the coming day would probably be dangerous for him, but he didn't mind. In fact, he was excited. He was almost hoping that the strikers would recruit a bomber, though he couldn't imagine what for. Reasons didn't matter much to Rico; he simply enjoyed destruction for its own sake.

He hadn't realized that until he'd fought, though. The Rico who had left for France had been easily startled by loud noises, and Lieutenant Daniels had ribbed him for it. Looking back, he probably would have made fun of his old self, too. As the fighting dragged on, the booming sound of shells in the night had sung him to sleep - it had become a comfort, because it reminded him that he was still alive. New York City was noisy, sure, but the low hum of traffic could never replace the violence and raw power of a good explosion. Even the steel furnace stoves with their white-hot flames and sharp crackles and sparks couldn't quite measure up, though they did keep him entertained. He found himself once again wishing that the strikers would bring in a bomber and blow something up. Even better, maybe he could blow something up. Maybe even multiple somethings. The thought left him grinning widely, his fingers itching with anticipation. Oh, yes, he'd explode something today if it was the last thing he ever did.

Once he was dressed, he crouched down in the corner of his room, lifting the latch on a small, beat-up wooden chest. Inside lay a thick cylindrical bundle, tied with twine and wrapped in brown paper. Rico grinned, tenderly lifting the bundle out of the chest and placing it into a knapsack, which he then swung over his shoulder. For once, he was really looking forward to going to work.

Kowalski let out a quiet sigh, keeping his eyelids closed. Memories of last night were starting to filter back to him, but he didn't feel like getting up just yet.

When he finally did open his eyes, he was briefly surprised to see a small woman with a white-blonde bob leaning on his dresser, buttoning up her sweater. Then he remembered; her name was Eva, he'd met her last night. She was interested in science, they'd gotten to talking, and then... he was actually a bit fuzzy on what had happened after that, but he could infer.

Eva cast him an impassive glance, fastening the top button with thin fingers. "I should be going," she said simply, standing up straight.

Kowalski sat up in bed, noticing that he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, minus his lab coat and tie. He turned to Eva. "Ah... did we...?"

Eva regarded him as a researcher might regard her subject. "No."

Kowalski blinked. "...Oh. Then what did happen? If you'll pardon me asking."

Eva shrugged. "We got into bed, but didn't do anything. You were too tense, and I lost interest. It was nice in its own way, though." She started to head towards the door.

"Wait!" Kowalski bit his lip. "...Will I ever see you again?"

Eva blinked owlishly. "Not likely." She started to leave, then briefly turned back, a small smile on her face. "Unless you attend the Socialist party meetings."

With that, she slipped out the door, leaving Kowalski sitting in bed, somewhat dumbstruck. "The... Socialist party, you say?" he squeaked, even though Eva was already gone. He couldn't believe what he'd (almost) gotten himself into. This wasn't like him.

He sighed and slumped forward, holding his head in his hands. He'd just remembered what was to happen today, and even though Marlene had tried to prepare him for it yesterday, he still felt uneasy. Had his actions in bringing Eva home with him been fueled by some sort of 'carpe diem' sentiment? That seemed plausible. But then again, it was equally plausible that this had something to do with Doris. Was he trying to get his mind off of her, or was this instead a kind of personal revenge against her snubbing his affections? Or, more likely, was it some combination of all three?

Kowalski flopped back onto his pillow, staring dolefully up at the ceiling. Whenever his own actions strayed from the path of rational control that he strived to follow, nothing good came of it.

He didn't usually trust his intuition, but he had a feeling that today would not end well for him.

Marlene weaved through the maze of desks and stacks of copy that cluttered the offices of The New York Herald, heading towards the back of the room as quickly as she could. She wanted to head out to the factory, but she hadn't told her editor what she was up to yet, so she thought it would be a good idea to at least check in with him before she left.

Upon reaching his office, she knocked lightly on the door, then pulled it open and stepped inside. "I'm going out on a story, be back later."

Her editor, Antonio, raised an eyebrow, leaning over his desk with his hand outstretched. "Wait wait wait. You can't just tell me you are going out on a story without at least giving me a hint as to what it is."

"It's a secret, that's what it is," Marlene snapped, then realized that she'd sounded harsher than she'd meant to and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's going to be big, I promise. But you know why I can't say anything about it here."

Antonio frowned slightly. "...Listen, I know how upset you were when Henderson stole your story last month. But this is a cutthroat business, not just for you."

"No," Marlene muttered, tightening her grip on her new notepad, "it's just worse for me."

Antonio sighed, shaking his head. He really wasn't a bad guy - Marlene had dated him once, when she was young and naive. The dating part had gone well, but it had wreaked havoc on her professional life, so she'd vowed to never do it again. Antonio had understood, or at least pretended so for her sake. The truth was that she'd never really gotten over him, but for whatever reason, today the idea of dating Antonio seemed completely absurd. Had she somehow changed since the last time she'd seen him?

Antonio gave her a reluctant look. "...Fine, just go. I suppose I'll have to wait until you get back... but if this story isn't as big as you say-"

"That won't be a problem," Marlene assured him, a confident smile on her face. "It's going to be huge. You can trust me on that."

Without waiting for a reply, she closed the office door and started making her way back towards the front door, trying very hard to look like she wasn't bursting with excitement. She wasn't sure if there was something more than the story or the excitement of the strike that was drawing her, but she just couldn't wait to get back to the factory.

At precisely 0300 hours, Skipper awoke to the sound of bugles. He blinked his eyes open, slowly sitting up in bed, listening carefully. No… not bugles… trumpets. In particular, a trumpet, blatting out notes in an ungodly octave. His eyes narrowed, and he clenched his fists, a low growl escaping his throat. He could vaguely hear the rest of the band as he shot out of bed, pulling on a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of pants, then shoving his bare feet into his boots. It was early enough that no one would be awake to see him, and besides, he'd done this so many times by now that the neighbors wouldn't be surprised if he stepped out into the street in his underwear.

Grumbling curses under his breath, he tore out of his apartment, racing down the stairs and exiting the building. He then whipped back around, glaring briefly up at The Madagascar Club's gaudily-painted sign as if holding it partly responsible before pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The black and tan was never quite at full capacity at this hour, but it seemed particularly empty today; this was probably due in no small part to the fact that it was Tuesday. Still, those few customers who were still there hopped and jived with a frenetic energy as the band played a wild, roaring chart that seemed to be speeding up as it went along. Skipper, who was as familiar a face here as the owner himself, went mostly unnoticed as he stormed up to the low stage, gaze locked on the tall, thin, dark-skinned man in front playing a brassy trumpet. The man's fingers jerked up and down on the valves, and the sounds that came out of the bell were so rough and grating that Skipper thought his ears would bleed. He planted his feet shoulder-length apart and placed his hands on his hips, giving the trumpeter the fiercest glare his tired eyes could muster. "Julien!" he roared, trying desperately to be heard over the clamour. "Do you have any idea what time it is?!"

The band continued to play, but the trumpet player stopped, turning to the bassist with a wide grin. "Hey, Maurice," he crowed, "it's our stinky-fish neighbor!" He turned back towards Skipper, giving a little wave. "Hello, stinky-fish neighbor! What can we be doing for you?"

Skipper seethed, his hands clenching into fists. He'd left some mackerel sitting on the table a little too long once, and this idiot would not let him forget it. "Keep your music down!" he yelled up at him, his voice cracking a little. "You're waking up the whole damn town with that racket!"

Julien simply laughed, tossing his silver bangs. "Oh, you are being joking, yes?" He spread his hands. "This is New York - the city that never sleeps!"

Skipper grumbled through clenched teeth; it was hard to argue with that. "It's three in the morning," he shouted, exasperated. "Don't you ever get tired?!"

Julien laughed again, nonchalantly kicking away a tiny brown-skinned man with a saxophone who was not unintentionally getting a little too close to his feet. "Who can be getting tired when we are swinging so hard?" He bounded to the edge of the stage and grabbed Skipper by the shoulders. "You may party with us! Even though you smell like stinky fish." He tried and failed to pull him up onto the stage. "Come, neighbor, let the music flow through you!"

Skipper remained exactly where he was, brushing Julien off of him like an annoying insect. "I do not smell like fish," he stated firmly. "And I will never, ever 'party' with you!" He turned on his heel, grinding his teeth. "Well, this day's off to a great start," he muttered, heading back towards the exit. He'd been so caught up in being furious with Julien that he'd forgotten all about the strike. "Maybe I'll get lucky and get shot. Again."

"Eh, be waiting a moment!" Julien turned to the bassist. "Maurice, we have not played that new blues chart yet tonight."

Maurice looked thoughtful. "You mean the one by Warfield and Williams? 'Baby Won't You Please Come Home?'"

"Yes, that is the one." Julien hefted his trumpet, sending a glance towards Skipper. "We will be taking it, say, here..." He snapped his fingers a few times at a slow tempo. "And not too loud. Soulful, you know." He snapped his fingers again, this time turning to the band and counting on the downbeats.

Skipper snorted, turning and strolling out of the club as the band began to play. Julien's trumpet soared above the rest, this time low and smooth. Skipper didn't usually actively listen to the man's music, but this sounded different from anything he'd unwillingly heard him play before. It was laid-back and glum, a mellow blues tune that seemed to be tired with the world at large. He stopped just inside the door to his building, listening to the muted sounds through the wall.

After a few moments, he sighed, leaning back against the staircase railing, letting his eyelids close. Since he was up, he might as well prepare himself for the day ahead. Savio had dropped off a letter with instructions and reports for him in his mailbox sometime last night - damned if he knew how that snake had figured out where he lived. Then again, he was a Pinkerton.

Skipper had never been interested in the big-business, often political aspect of the steel industry - he was content just running his factory. True, he'd be more content out at sea, where everyone respected each other and men were fighting for freedom instead of a profit. He was secretly sappy in that way; he'd never quite let go of his old idealistic belief in truth, justice, and the American way. That was why war was so much easier than peace - this whole business complicated his ideals. He couldn't be sure if he was the good guy here.

Skipper stood still at the foot of the stairs and listened to the music until the song ended, the crooning of Julien's trumpet gradually dying away until there was only silence. He turned and trudged up the stairs, not waiting for the band to start back up again with a rowdy blast of jazz that would undoubtedly ruin the moment. He'd get dressed, reread Savio's letter, maybe do some pushups. It was far too late for him to go back on anything now, so he'd do what he'd been asked to do without any more uneasiness. Today, if only briefly, he was a soldier again.

Mason held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, surveying the picket line. This wasn't a remote town like Homestead where the Pinkertons would have to cross a river to get to them - and there would be Pinkertons today, he was sure of it - and even that strike hadn't gone very well at all for the AA. This was a sticky wicket, indeed, but this was all they could do. No one was going to give them the better conditions that they needed; not the bosses in Boston, and not Skipper, either. The men weren't about to go down without a fight - Mason only hoped that they could put up a good one.

Phil tapped him on the shoulder, signing that it was already two hours to opening time. Mason nodded, glancing about at the faces of the men surrounding him. Most of them looked fired up and ready for action, but there were a few that seemed anxious. He turned to Phil. "Did anybody perchance bring a guitar?"

Phil glanced around briefly before shrugging his shoulders. Admittedly, the line was far too long and thick with men for him to have been able to tell. Massed here before the factory gates, they looked something like an army - albeit a ragtag, common one, only just organized enough to keep everybody together. Still, there was something emboldening about standing there, in the midst of that crowd of raw humanity, tensely biding its time until it would be let loose to surge forward. Mason felt proud to be a part of it. He took a few deep breaths. "Alrighty then, we'll do it a capella." He cleared his throat, then began to sing, in a clear voice loud enough to be heard over the murmurings of the crowd. "In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold…"

The men around him began to turn and face him, one by one joining their voices with his. "...Greater than the might of armies magnified a thousandfold…"

Mason found himself smiling as the anthem spread down the line, until the whole group sang as one. "We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old, for the union makes us strong!"

The words seemed to become an outpouring of their spirit, a power in and of themselves. All those present knew in their hearts that there was not a soul in the entire city who had not heard them.

"Solidarity forever, solidarity forever. Solidarity forever, for the union makes us strong!"

Author's Note: *Ding* Roll credits!

Just kidding, it's not over yet. I thought for sure I was gonna actually get to the strike in this chapter, but I didn't end up going in that direction at all. It kinda ended up being rather mopey and introspective. (Also, sorry this took so long… I've been busy with summer school. My professor made me read the entirety of Baillie's De Monfort in one night.)

For those of you historically-minded, this strike is not very realistic, since it all happens WAY too quickly. It's for this story's purposes, though, so please don't yell at me. I know, I'm one of those people who's always at risk of taking too much artistic license.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the song, it's the last verse of "Solidarity Forever." It was written in 1915 as a union anthem, and it goes to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" (Glory, glory hallelujah). There are some pretty good versions of it on YouTube, if you're interested.