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Yes, great to see this one start back up. Can't wait to find out what Megan's been up to.
"But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire."
"O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"
- William Butler Yeats
December 23, 1878
"Does everyone understand their bloody jobs?" Doyle's voice was raspy from a winter cold, and he paused to cough a ball of snot on the wooden floor. The small group nodded. "McDonnell, you have the letter written?"
"Aye. The usual clap-trap about oppression and ruin. I've also drafted my letter to the papers, condemning the violence, but begging understanding of our difficult situation. And the milk cart is in place."
Doyle nodded. He really didn't like McDonnell much. He was a working man, and willing to fight, but his mind twisted in ways Doyle couldn't follow. Too much like Isaac Cohen, I think. Didn't like him much either, at first.
"Bobby, Matthew, you know your positions?" The brothers Gilchrist nodded eagerly, like hounds on a leash before the hunt. They held their rifles lovingly.
"Megan?" Doyle looked over at McKeena. Her eyes flashed back at him.
"I stop the carriage. And I make sure it doesn't start again."
"Right, then. Everyone to their places." The team rose, the brothers ran out first into the chill morning. McDonnell gave the letter to Doyle with an ironic smile - “Do you want to read it first?” - and went to the milk cart. Sean and Megan were alone.
Doyle started to leave for his spot behind the crates when Megan stepped in front of him. "You trying to get me killed, Doyle?"
He looked down at her, expecting to see the almost omnipresent fury in her face. Instead, she was strangely subdued, and didn't meet his gaze for a long moment. "What do you mean, lass?"
She looked up. "Sean. First it's the ambush at Killarney, then the bombing in Cork, and now this. You keep putting me out in front. Do you want me dead?"
Doyle wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close. "Never, lass, never. But you're a distraction. The English still never suspect a woman. And I'll keep using you until they figure it out."
"Or until I'm dead?," she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
He picked her up, held her with outstretched arms, so they could see eye to eye. "I'll use you after you're dead, lass. The revolution needs martyrs, Isaac Cohen once told me. But if you do die, lass, most of me will die to."
"Put me down, now, Sean Doyle," she commanded, but he could hear the lightening of her mood in her voice. "We have work to do this day." Before he complied, he pulled her close for a kiss.
She whispered in his ear. "Sometimes, Doyle, you know the right thing to say."
* * *
The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Seventh Duke of Marlborourgh, Lord John Winston Spencer-Churchill, did not particularly enjoy carriage rides, especially disliked winter trips, and hated missing the holidays with his family. So his mood was, to be charitable, quite sour on the way down to the docks. Brigadier Whorley of the Black Watch had tried some small talk, but met nothing more than irritated grunts, so he had settled back to nap. On top of the carriage, two riflemen sat, lackadaisically looking for danger. They were in the heart of Dublin, after all. There had been no attacks here.
The Lord Lieutenant was reviewing his report to the Prime Minister. It had been a quiet year, the Army's plan to suppress the southern revolt was working. The Irish Revolutionary Army had faded into the hills and a desultory campaign of bombings and attacks on lonely police outposts had settled in like a mild fever. Perhaps the P.M. will have a few nice things to say about the situation at New Year's, he mused.
* * *
The carriage was rolling down a lane, made narrow by some clumsily placed crates. Megan McKeena could see the driver pull back the horse slightly to thread the obstructions. The two riflemen on top sat up slightly at the change. She said a small prayer and stepped out into the street to begin crossing the cobbles. The carriage was still some fifty feet off. She shuffled slowly, an old lady crippled by the cold, if anyone was watching. When the carriage had closed within thirty feet she slipped to the stones, landing hard on her rear.
* * *
The driver saw the old lady slip and fall. "Christ," he muttered, and sharply drew back on the reins. The horses whinnied in protest, rearing up. The riflemen were thrown about a bit, and the Lord Lieutenant's papers spilled across the seat in front of him. Brigadier Whorley snorted himself awake.
Churchill knocked on the side of the carriage. "What's that, then, Robertson?"
"Some lady fell down in the street, sir. We'll move as soon as she's up," the driver shouted back. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
* * *
Megan was frozen for a moment on the cobbles, still seeing of hooves of the horses rising over her head. Oh God, that was too close. Then she laughed to herself. Wouldn't that have been a glorious way to die for Ireland? She slowly stood up, brushing herself off.
The drive was looking down at her. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"Yes, thank you, I'm fine." She pulled her pistol out and placed it against the forehead of the left horse. "But you're not." She moved to pull the trigger, and paused, looking deeply into the soft placid brown eyes of the beast. So familiar, where have I seen such eyes before? The driver's shouting broke her reverie, she realized she was crying. Then she pulled the trigger. The left horse dropped in its traces.
The brothers Gilchrist, in windows on either side of the street, fired next, and both riflemen died. Megan shot the right horse without looking at those eyes, and, almost as an afterthought, shot the driver as he tried to dismount. He toppled off the carriage, tangled in the reins.
* * *
"Stay here, my lord!," shouted Brigadier Whorley as he threw his door open and climbed out, unholstering his pistol. He had barely made two steps when Sean Doyle came barreling out from behind some crates and drove his shoulder deep into the Brigadier's soft belly. The Brigadier folded over and dropped to the cobbles face first. Doyle ripped the door open and leveled his pistol at the Lord Lieutenant.
"My lord, if it please you," he smiled with cold courtesy, "I am Sean Doyle, and you are my prisoner." Before Churchill could protest, Doyle's free hand had a crushing grasp on his arm, and he was pulled from the carriage. Doyle dropped the letter in the carriage.
"Let's move, my lads!," Doyle sang out, and he pulled the stunned Churchill back into the building the team had first met in.
Megan curtsied to Churchill as he passed by. "One moment, my love," she said to Doyle. She walked over to Brigadier Whorley, gasping on the ground. She pulled his head back by his hair and stuck her pistol in his face. "You're the Black Watch, aren't you?" The Brigadier only wheezed in response. "Well, we're the Irish Revolutionary Army." She pulled the trigger.
Doyle heard the final shot and pistol-whipped Churchill. He and McDonnell bundled him into a blanket, and put him in the back of the milk cart. Then McDonnell gave the horse one smart whip, and the cart trundled off slowly down the lane. By the time Doyle turned around, Megan was there.
"We'd best be off, lass," he said. "I'll see you back at home." She smiled, kissed him quickly, and set off through the streets of Dublin, away from the gathering crowd.
* * *
January 5, 1879
Benjamin Disraeli was storming around the Cabinet room. "Well, what are we to do about this? These bastards, these ruffians, capture a peer, our Lord Lieutenant, and crow about it?" He turned toward the man from Scotland Yard. "Have your men found anything yet? What about the Irish Constabulary?"
The policeman started, in a weak voice, "Well, Prime Minister, these rebels haven't made any demands yet. The letter is just a boast, and this McDonnell has made statements condemning the violence. We don't know what they want yet. Soon enough, they'll tell us and then . . . ." A muffled cry from outside the room cut him off.
Disraeli flung the door open. His private secretary was sitting, pale and shaking, at his desk, pointing at an open box on his desk. "What is it, Witherspoon?," Disraeli asked. With no response forthcoming, the Prime Minister looked in the box, cursed loudly, and pulled out a severed hand. The room fell silent. He looked at the signet ring still on the hand, and sighed heavily. Then, in disgust, he tossed the hand to the policeman, who shrunk away. The hand landed on the wood floor with a thump.
"Don't bother looking," Disraeli said with barely controlled fury. "The ring is of Marlborourgh." He looked back into the box, extracted a note. He slowly placed his glasses on his nose, and read:
"Here is the first part of your dog. We'll be sending him back to his master piece by piece, unless Ireland is released."
Someone from the back of the room murmured sickly, "Dear God. What shall we do?"
"Do?" Disraeli took his glasses off, polished them absently with a cloth. "We shall retaliate."
Out of sight is out of mind:
Long have man and woman-kind
Heavy of will and light of mood,
Taken away our wheaten food,
Taken away our Altar stone;
Hail and rain and thunder alone,
And red hearts we turn to grey,
Are true till Time gutter away.
- William Butler Yeats
I must enquire."
"O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"
- William Butler Yeats
December 23, 1878
"Does everyone understand their bloody jobs?" Doyle's voice was raspy from a winter cold, and he paused to cough a ball of snot on the wooden floor. The small group nodded. "McDonnell, you have the letter written?"
"Aye. The usual clap-trap about oppression and ruin. I've also drafted my letter to the papers, condemning the violence, but begging understanding of our difficult situation. And the milk cart is in place."
Doyle nodded. He really didn't like McDonnell much. He was a working man, and willing to fight, but his mind twisted in ways Doyle couldn't follow. Too much like Isaac Cohen, I think. Didn't like him much either, at first.
"Bobby, Matthew, you know your positions?" The brothers Gilchrist nodded eagerly, like hounds on a leash before the hunt. They held their rifles lovingly.
"Megan?" Doyle looked over at McKeena. Her eyes flashed back at him.
"I stop the carriage. And I make sure it doesn't start again."
"Right, then. Everyone to their places." The team rose, the brothers ran out first into the chill morning. McDonnell gave the letter to Doyle with an ironic smile - “Do you want to read it first?” - and went to the milk cart. Sean and Megan were alone.
Doyle started to leave for his spot behind the crates when Megan stepped in front of him. "You trying to get me killed, Doyle?"
He looked down at her, expecting to see the almost omnipresent fury in her face. Instead, she was strangely subdued, and didn't meet his gaze for a long moment. "What do you mean, lass?"
She looked up. "Sean. First it's the ambush at Killarney, then the bombing in Cork, and now this. You keep putting me out in front. Do you want me dead?"
Doyle wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close. "Never, lass, never. But you're a distraction. The English still never suspect a woman. And I'll keep using you until they figure it out."
"Or until I'm dead?," she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
He picked her up, held her with outstretched arms, so they could see eye to eye. "I'll use you after you're dead, lass. The revolution needs martyrs, Isaac Cohen once told me. But if you do die, lass, most of me will die to."
"Put me down, now, Sean Doyle," she commanded, but he could hear the lightening of her mood in her voice. "We have work to do this day." Before he complied, he pulled her close for a kiss.
She whispered in his ear. "Sometimes, Doyle, you know the right thing to say."
* * *
The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Seventh Duke of Marlborourgh, Lord John Winston Spencer-Churchill, did not particularly enjoy carriage rides, especially disliked winter trips, and hated missing the holidays with his family. So his mood was, to be charitable, quite sour on the way down to the docks. Brigadier Whorley of the Black Watch had tried some small talk, but met nothing more than irritated grunts, so he had settled back to nap. On top of the carriage, two riflemen sat, lackadaisically looking for danger. They were in the heart of Dublin, after all. There had been no attacks here.
The Lord Lieutenant was reviewing his report to the Prime Minister. It had been a quiet year, the Army's plan to suppress the southern revolt was working. The Irish Revolutionary Army had faded into the hills and a desultory campaign of bombings and attacks on lonely police outposts had settled in like a mild fever. Perhaps the P.M. will have a few nice things to say about the situation at New Year's, he mused.
* * *
The carriage was rolling down a lane, made narrow by some clumsily placed crates. Megan McKeena could see the driver pull back the horse slightly to thread the obstructions. The two riflemen on top sat up slightly at the change. She said a small prayer and stepped out into the street to begin crossing the cobbles. The carriage was still some fifty feet off. She shuffled slowly, an old lady crippled by the cold, if anyone was watching. When the carriage had closed within thirty feet she slipped to the stones, landing hard on her rear.
* * *
The driver saw the old lady slip and fall. "Christ," he muttered, and sharply drew back on the reins. The horses whinnied in protest, rearing up. The riflemen were thrown about a bit, and the Lord Lieutenant's papers spilled across the seat in front of him. Brigadier Whorley snorted himself awake.
Churchill knocked on the side of the carriage. "What's that, then, Robertson?"
"Some lady fell down in the street, sir. We'll move as soon as she's up," the driver shouted back. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
* * *
Megan was frozen for a moment on the cobbles, still seeing of hooves of the horses rising over her head. Oh God, that was too close. Then she laughed to herself. Wouldn't that have been a glorious way to die for Ireland? She slowly stood up, brushing herself off.
The drive was looking down at her. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"Yes, thank you, I'm fine." She pulled her pistol out and placed it against the forehead of the left horse. "But you're not." She moved to pull the trigger, and paused, looking deeply into the soft placid brown eyes of the beast. So familiar, where have I seen such eyes before? The driver's shouting broke her reverie, she realized she was crying. Then she pulled the trigger. The left horse dropped in its traces.
The brothers Gilchrist, in windows on either side of the street, fired next, and both riflemen died. Megan shot the right horse without looking at those eyes, and, almost as an afterthought, shot the driver as he tried to dismount. He toppled off the carriage, tangled in the reins.
* * *
"Stay here, my lord!," shouted Brigadier Whorley as he threw his door open and climbed out, unholstering his pistol. He had barely made two steps when Sean Doyle came barreling out from behind some crates and drove his shoulder deep into the Brigadier's soft belly. The Brigadier folded over and dropped to the cobbles face first. Doyle ripped the door open and leveled his pistol at the Lord Lieutenant.
"My lord, if it please you," he smiled with cold courtesy, "I am Sean Doyle, and you are my prisoner." Before Churchill could protest, Doyle's free hand had a crushing grasp on his arm, and he was pulled from the carriage. Doyle dropped the letter in the carriage.
"Let's move, my lads!," Doyle sang out, and he pulled the stunned Churchill back into the building the team had first met in.
Megan curtsied to Churchill as he passed by. "One moment, my love," she said to Doyle. She walked over to Brigadier Whorley, gasping on the ground. She pulled his head back by his hair and stuck her pistol in his face. "You're the Black Watch, aren't you?" The Brigadier only wheezed in response. "Well, we're the Irish Revolutionary Army." She pulled the trigger.
Doyle heard the final shot and pistol-whipped Churchill. He and McDonnell bundled him into a blanket, and put him in the back of the milk cart. Then McDonnell gave the horse one smart whip, and the cart trundled off slowly down the lane. By the time Doyle turned around, Megan was there.
"We'd best be off, lass," he said. "I'll see you back at home." She smiled, kissed him quickly, and set off through the streets of Dublin, away from the gathering crowd.
* * *
January 5, 1879
Benjamin Disraeli was storming around the Cabinet room. "Well, what are we to do about this? These bastards, these ruffians, capture a peer, our Lord Lieutenant, and crow about it?" He turned toward the man from Scotland Yard. "Have your men found anything yet? What about the Irish Constabulary?"
The policeman started, in a weak voice, "Well, Prime Minister, these rebels haven't made any demands yet. The letter is just a boast, and this McDonnell has made statements condemning the violence. We don't know what they want yet. Soon enough, they'll tell us and then . . . ." A muffled cry from outside the room cut him off.
Disraeli flung the door open. His private secretary was sitting, pale and shaking, at his desk, pointing at an open box on his desk. "What is it, Witherspoon?," Disraeli asked. With no response forthcoming, the Prime Minister looked in the box, cursed loudly, and pulled out a severed hand. The room fell silent. He looked at the signet ring still on the hand, and sighed heavily. Then, in disgust, he tossed the hand to the policeman, who shrunk away. The hand landed on the wood floor with a thump.
"Don't bother looking," Disraeli said with barely controlled fury. "The ring is of Marlborourgh." He looked back into the box, extracted a note. He slowly placed his glasses on his nose, and read:
"Here is the first part of your dog. We'll be sending him back to his master piece by piece, unless Ireland is released."
Someone from the back of the room murmured sickly, "Dear God. What shall we do?"
"Do?" Disraeli took his glasses off, polished them absently with a cloth. "We shall retaliate."
Out of sight is out of mind:
Long have man and woman-kind
Heavy of will and light of mood,
Taken away our wheaten food,
Taken away our Altar stone;
Hail and rain and thunder alone,
And red hearts we turn to grey,
Are true till Time gutter away.
- William Butler Yeats
Only two or three more establishing posts before we get to game start, boys and girls.
Thanks.
V.
Thanks.
V.
It's like Pulp Fiction meets the Big Lebowski meets Michael Collins!
Good to see this isn't going to die. I was premature in thinking of a eulogy.
Update soon; I'm trying to figure out whether I've written a technological anachronism (does anyone know if British battleships circa 1880 had turrets?). Also thinking about whether a scene with a severed head is funny, grotesque, or both.
V.
V.
Yes, battleships had turrets, but not all of then did. Generally these where called 'turet ships' or 'turret battleships' to seperate them from the more common armoured broad-side armed steam powered battleships. Turret ships usually had two large and bulky turrets housing two high calibur guns, often they had second guns of smaller calibur in armoured barbettes on the side of the ship
But...if they kill Churchill...the Allies will lose WW2, because everyones favorite morbidly depressed, cigar-chomping pug-dog-faced Brit politican won't be born! 
Or am I wrong, and this Churchill isn't that Churchill's father?
But as usual, great work. Kepp going if you can maintain the AAR, Crusader Chronicles and CK RPG.
Or am I wrong, and this Churchill isn't that Churchill's father?But as usual, great work. Kepp going if you can maintain the AAR, Crusader Chronicles and CK RPG.
Deaghaidh said:But...if they kill Churchill...the Allies will lose WW2, because everyones favorite morbidly depressed, cigar-chomping pug-dog-faced Brit politican won't be born!
But as usual, great work. Kepp going if you can maintain the AAR, Crusader Chronicles and CK RPG.
And Eutopia, and EU:M. That's why I take bit countries (and characters) in the forum RPGs. Orkneys, the Knights of St. John and Yuri Voshkod don't take more than 15 minutes each a day to keep up to date (unless something big is going on). As for the AAR, it's about an hour an update, but I have to be in the groove.
Regarding Churchill, he is Winnie's father, but he's a pretty old guy by the time he becomes Lord Lt. of Ireland; he's probably already spawned.
V.
Depends on what's being done with the head and why.
It could be funny...though I'm not sure how or why in this particular tale. However, I'm sure it will work however you do it.I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
- W. H. Auden
September 8, 1880
Joseph McDonnell, Megan McKeena, and Sean Doyle sat in the back room of the pub. The place stank of beer and smoke, and Megan fancied that she could smell the fear, too. Must be from McDonnell.
They had been on the run for a year now. The English had retaliated with overwhelming force. First the shelling of Cork and Londonderry, then the burning of Limerick and Sligo. Three English divisions were stationed around the island, and any flicker of support for the IRA led to massive reprisals.
Everytime we stick our heads up and kill one of the bastards, they kill a hundred Irishmen. The people hate us worse than them. Doyle and McDonnell were bickering, as usual, brains against cunning, and she listened with at most half a mind.
McDonnell's voice rose to a dangerous level. "God damn you, Sean Doyle, do I have to carve it into your face? We are losing! Half our men are dead, our support is down across the island. The English are killing us day by day, and you're too damn stupid to listen to my plan!"
Doyle started to rise out of his chair, his voice a deadly rumble. "Don't call me stupid, you half-hearted bastard. . . . " Megan grabbed Doyle's hand and tried to pull him back into his chair before he could damage the "face of the Revolution."
Her voice cut the air like a whip. "Damn it, Doyle, he's right! I've said it again and again - we can't win by killing every Englishman! This isn't about Sean Doyle's god-given right to murder, it's about Ireland's life." She took a deep breath, and spoke in a calmer voice. "This is about the future for Tara and little Isaac."
Doyle seemed torn over which one of them to beat first. His hands were twitching into fists, his breath short. "Fine. Just fucking fine!" He brought both fists down hard on the table, flipping it, sending beer flying. "Why don't you two, the girl and the schoolmaster, go save Ireland from murderers like me!" He turned and stormed out.
McDonnell let out a long sigh. "We can't let him go on like this. He's becoming a liability. Look, Megan, someone may need to take care of him."
McKeena flew across the room at McDonnell, a knife flashing out of her dress as she came. Moments later, he was on the ground, she was straddling his chest, and the knife was just touching the soft skin under his throat. "Listen to me very carefully, Joseph McDonnell." Her voice was flat and cold. "No one threatens Sean Doyle. No one. He is my love and my husband, and he is the only reason we've gotten as far as we have." She stood, leaving McDonnell in a puddle of beer. Her voice softened, turned almost wistful, and she twisted the knife in her hand. "We'll make him obsolete by bringing him peace, and I'll teach him to love a quiet plot of land somewhere green, by the sea. Now, what's your plan?"
McDonnell slowly drew himself up from the floor, brushed himself off. I'll just have to kill them both when I'm in charge. I'll show you and your dog a little green plot of land, whore. Your burial plot. He kept his rage hidden, sat back down, and started calmly. "We cannot beat the British at their own game, Megan. We'll win a few fights here and there, but we'll lose most. We need to hit them at home."
Megan snorted. "What, you think some bombs in London will make them go home? You're not that stupid, Joseph."
McDonnell shook his head and handed her some letters. "I've taken the liberty of drafting some letters in Doyle's name. They're for certain members of the Indian National Congress and the leaders of the Boer community in South Africa."
Megan read them over quickly. "All right then, Joseph McDonnell, you call on them for their support against the British when the 'event' occurs. You tell them that they'll know when it happens. What event? What's that damn plan?"
McDonnell smiled. "I've made some low-level contacts among the Welsh mining community. They can provide us with a substantial amount of gunpowder, and even some of the new 'dynamite' they're using." He leaned forward, his face intense. "I know that some bombings will never drive the English away. But one big bomb, in the heart of their Empire, might give us the breathing space we need." He had her attention now, and laid out the details of the plan. "But it will be risky. Whoever we end to London probably won't come back."
Megan chewed on her lower lip for a moment, green eyes distant. "Send Doyle. Brief him and send him. This is what he's always wanted to do."
McDonnell frowned. "I don't know, Megan. It may need someone more clever than Sean. And what about your little plot of land by the sea?"
Megan laughed, a pure and crazy sound. "When it comes to killing people, Sean Doyle is more clever than anyone. If he dies, then he died doing what he loved, and he's a martyr. But he won't die. God couldn't kill the Devil. What makes you think the English can?" She laughed again, turned, and left the room with a spring in her step.
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
- W. H. Auden
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
- W. H. Auden
September 8, 1880
Joseph McDonnell, Megan McKeena, and Sean Doyle sat in the back room of the pub. The place stank of beer and smoke, and Megan fancied that she could smell the fear, too. Must be from McDonnell.
They had been on the run for a year now. The English had retaliated with overwhelming force. First the shelling of Cork and Londonderry, then the burning of Limerick and Sligo. Three English divisions were stationed around the island, and any flicker of support for the IRA led to massive reprisals.
Everytime we stick our heads up and kill one of the bastards, they kill a hundred Irishmen. The people hate us worse than them. Doyle and McDonnell were bickering, as usual, brains against cunning, and she listened with at most half a mind.
McDonnell's voice rose to a dangerous level. "God damn you, Sean Doyle, do I have to carve it into your face? We are losing! Half our men are dead, our support is down across the island. The English are killing us day by day, and you're too damn stupid to listen to my plan!"
Doyle started to rise out of his chair, his voice a deadly rumble. "Don't call me stupid, you half-hearted bastard. . . . " Megan grabbed Doyle's hand and tried to pull him back into his chair before he could damage the "face of the Revolution."
Her voice cut the air like a whip. "Damn it, Doyle, he's right! I've said it again and again - we can't win by killing every Englishman! This isn't about Sean Doyle's god-given right to murder, it's about Ireland's life." She took a deep breath, and spoke in a calmer voice. "This is about the future for Tara and little Isaac."
Doyle seemed torn over which one of them to beat first. His hands were twitching into fists, his breath short. "Fine. Just fucking fine!" He brought both fists down hard on the table, flipping it, sending beer flying. "Why don't you two, the girl and the schoolmaster, go save Ireland from murderers like me!" He turned and stormed out.
McDonnell let out a long sigh. "We can't let him go on like this. He's becoming a liability. Look, Megan, someone may need to take care of him."
McKeena flew across the room at McDonnell, a knife flashing out of her dress as she came. Moments later, he was on the ground, she was straddling his chest, and the knife was just touching the soft skin under his throat. "Listen to me very carefully, Joseph McDonnell." Her voice was flat and cold. "No one threatens Sean Doyle. No one. He is my love and my husband, and he is the only reason we've gotten as far as we have." She stood, leaving McDonnell in a puddle of beer. Her voice softened, turned almost wistful, and she twisted the knife in her hand. "We'll make him obsolete by bringing him peace, and I'll teach him to love a quiet plot of land somewhere green, by the sea. Now, what's your plan?"
McDonnell slowly drew himself up from the floor, brushed himself off. I'll just have to kill them both when I'm in charge. I'll show you and your dog a little green plot of land, whore. Your burial plot. He kept his rage hidden, sat back down, and started calmly. "We cannot beat the British at their own game, Megan. We'll win a few fights here and there, but we'll lose most. We need to hit them at home."
Megan snorted. "What, you think some bombs in London will make them go home? You're not that stupid, Joseph."
McDonnell shook his head and handed her some letters. "I've taken the liberty of drafting some letters in Doyle's name. They're for certain members of the Indian National Congress and the leaders of the Boer community in South Africa."
Megan read them over quickly. "All right then, Joseph McDonnell, you call on them for their support against the British when the 'event' occurs. You tell them that they'll know when it happens. What event? What's that damn plan?"
McDonnell smiled. "I've made some low-level contacts among the Welsh mining community. They can provide us with a substantial amount of gunpowder, and even some of the new 'dynamite' they're using." He leaned forward, his face intense. "I know that some bombings will never drive the English away. But one big bomb, in the heart of their Empire, might give us the breathing space we need." He had her attention now, and laid out the details of the plan. "But it will be risky. Whoever we end to London probably won't come back."
Megan chewed on her lower lip for a moment, green eyes distant. "Send Doyle. Brief him and send him. This is what he's always wanted to do."
McDonnell frowned. "I don't know, Megan. It may need someone more clever than Sean. And what about your little plot of land by the sea?"
Megan laughed, a pure and crazy sound. "When it comes to killing people, Sean Doyle is more clever than anyone. If he dies, then he died doing what he loved, and he's a martyr. But he won't die. God couldn't kill the Devil. What makes you think the English can?" She laughed again, turned, and left the room with a spring in her step.
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
- W. H. Auden
I've decided to skip over several scenes to actually get to the gameplay. I may restore some of them later as "Director's Cuts," specifically the Battle for Cork. We shall see.
As ever, thanks for reading and criticism is always welcome.
V.
As ever, thanks for reading and criticism is always welcome.
V.
No! I veto that! At least tell us what happens with Da Bomb, and the Battle of Cork. Those sound real interesting.
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down...
That Megan is becoming more and more like Doyle every day. Even McConnell is starting to sound like him. He's infectious, evil Doyle is.
I'd vote to do whatever feels best for your writing. If the bridge to the gameplay is proving difficult right now, I would read the Director's cut when it appeared, but I can wait for it now just as well. Just as long as you keep at it since this is a great one to read.
That Megan is becoming more and more like Doyle every day. Even McConnell is starting to sound like him. He's infectious, evil Doyle is.
I'd vote to do whatever feels best for your writing. If the bridge to the gameplay is proving difficult right now, I would read the Director's cut when it appeared, but I can wait for it now just as well. Just as long as you keep at it since this is a great one to read.
Well, at least he's the cool kind of infectious evil, like Skorzeny or Darth Vader, instead of a whiny annoying evil.
coz1 said:
The real difference between Doyle and McDonnell is that McDonnell hides his dark side much better. He's the speaker, the intellectual, the political side of the triad, while Doyle is the pure violence element. As for McKeena and Doyle, Megan is a strong, willful woman in a age that generally despises such creatures. She's trying to fight as an equal in a man's world, and the only real role-model she has for that is Doyle. I've tried to show that she has a tender, nurturing side, but that she has mostly smothered it to keep in the fight. Also, being around Doyle (and in love with him) has largely desensitized her to violence.
Also, I think most groups tend to succumb to the personality of the strongest members and thereby start to resemble those people. I can cite to the current U.S. Presidential administration and, just for balance, to the former one as well (and for the wits out there, I am refering, of course, to VP Cheney and First Lady Clinton when I speak about the strongest personalities.)
V.
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