Fushigi Yuugi Fan Fiction ❯ Ateratraatrum Noxnoctis ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

Ater Atra Atrum Nox Noctis

Chapter 2

Slumped against the table his fork in hand, as he grudgingly ate the stuff they dare called a meal at the mess hall for ground troops and other flunkies, Jeremiah sighed. His wrist hurt like hell, and the strange part was, he had been off duty for the most part, mainly on-call in case the other brigades needed extra men, or if something came up and he had to spring into action without question. Aside from that, he had done nothing strenuous.

With a sprained wrist, he had got seventy-two hour dismissal. During that time he was off-duty and didn't have to answer to the call to duty, as he was considered injured, but not enough for a discharge. The medical officer, had said it was nothing more than a minor sprain and wrote him a report to hand to his superior officer, Captain Andreas. The man wasn't particularly thrilled at the thought, nor did he welcome the sudden loss of one of his men for something he considered so frivolous.

Poking at his now lukewarm meal, Jeremiah lamented softly, contemplating his sanity. He had been granted permission to leave the base and was granted civilian leave but instead, here he was, eating in the mess hall, trying to stomach what the army called food. Food? He wouldn't have served it to his worst enemy.

'Why am I staying?' Jeremiah pushed the dish away, stood up from his chair and curtly left the mess hall, not bothering to answer any of his peer's inquiries as to where he was headed.

Once changed, in more his more comfortable, faded denim overalls, a button up and a loose fitting cotton jacket with the same boots on his feet, he headed out, intent on finding a "speak easy". He had learnt in his first few days on duty in Dublin that this place was anything but dry.

Brushing himself off, he picked up the same hat he wore when off base, placing it on over his relatively short, but not so-short sandy brown hair. With the peek facing backward, he pulled the back down a bit before opening the door to the barracks and scurrying off in search of one of the local pubs.

Making his way through the streets, he attempted blend in, but it was difficult, after all, he was a foreigner and it wasn't easy fitting in. For the while, he seemed like a local, no one really paid any mind to him, just basically ignored him, which was fine by him, less attention to divert from himself.

Passing through the doors of the tavern, he paused. It was smoky and extremely crowded. He wondered if this was normal, or if there was some sort of celebration. Shrugging it off, he strolled up to the bar counter, leaning on it. Waving to the bartender, he requested, when the man came over, "innkeeper, a half-pint of your domestic beer."

The bartender nodded; while two youths offset on his right, each sipping from a pint of their own liquor snickered. The first of the two, holding the glass in his left hand, a rolled up smoke in his left, smirked at the foreigner. His features, shadowed by the dim lighting of the room and the thick smoke.

"Hey mate, you're no doubt a foreigner. Ordering merely half a pint? You're American, 'cause ya' going with the kiddie stuff. Not man enough to down a pint of triple X rye?!" The first snidely quipped, bringing the smoke to his lips and inhaling slowly.

"It shouldn't matter what makes a guy a man. I've never gone to a speak easy. This stuff is new to me, so give me a break." Jeremiah retorted sharply, casting death glare at the youth that fired that insult at him. Taking the half-pint, he brought the golden liquid to his lips. Letting it pass over, he savoured the taste.

Making a mistake, he drank too much in the first sip and started to have a coughing fit. He had choked, after some went down his windpipe. Placing the glass down, he brought his hand to his throat, coughing. After a minute, he cleared his throat, blinking, trying to refocus.

Then, with a nasty glare, he sharply looked up at the young man. "You say nothing! I've never drunk this stuff before. We're dry where I'm from."

"Figured as much from the way you ordered, mate." The young man replied, reaching for Jeremiah's glass. Sniffing the contents, he pushed the half-pint back Jeremiah's way. "That's a good domestic ale you got there, mate. Guinness. Fine stuff, used to drink it as a lad. Out grew it in my teens."

"I-I'm not even going to ask." Jeremiah held up his hands, not wanting to know. It was strange coming in here. At the bars he had heard of back home, there was never anyone like this. They all were mild drinkers, mostly rebellious teens who drank moderate stuff, stuff that didn't burn the mouth or throat; it was sweet liquid.

"Hn, like I really give a damn if you ask." The young man shrugged coolly. After noticing his redhead friend had left to head off to the back, where there was a small brawl brewing between a couple of the soused patrons. Turning back to the foreigner, he then probed. "Pray tell, what's your handle, mate?"

Jeremiah blinked blankly for a minute, before he clicked in. Reflexively he held out his right hand. "Me? Jeremiah Dallas. You'd be…"

"Séamus Kennedy." Séamus paused after taking the young man's hand. Letting it go, he thoughtfully studied Jeremiah. "Say, you from the San Francisco bay area?!" He sounded hesitant in his question.

Jeremiah's jaw just about hit the floor at the accuracy of the young man's statement. This was impossible. The United States was extensive. Of all the places to guess, this Séamus had been entirely, without a flaw, accurate. "How…how did you know?"

"You said your surname was Dallas, did you not?!"

"I did."

"I happen to have family in that area. My mother's maiden name was Dallas."

"Really?"

"Yes. She was born and raised in that area. She met my father in the Great War. He went back to America with her. She died in '23…"

"In the great 'quake?!"

"On the money."

"If your mother was American, and you were born there, why didn't your father stay?"

"He had no one to stay with, and the place he and my mother had established was destroyed, and the family broken."

"Broken?"

"Indeed. All I know is I was born with a twin and lost them in the same year."

Jeremiah remained silent. There was nothing quite suitable to say at this time. It was certainly awkward. This young man he just met had all but told him his life story in a few short questions. He, Second Class Private Jeremiah Dallas had only given his name and location. He felt a burdening obligation to give his short story, skipping on the grim details.

"I…I never knew my folks, I was orphaned at a young age and raised by the state. They found me in the arms of a woman who wasn't my mother. I was given to the state. I didn't like life there… - I ran away…enlisted in the army."

He paused, taking a short sip. "Yes, I'll admit I was born in the same year as you. I know I enlisted under age, but the military doesn't know that. If they did, I'd get shipped back. This is the nicest life I've known. Been with it since I was barely sixteen."

"So, you're here with the allies to fight for freedom?! If I were you, I'd skip helping the mother fucking Brits, who don't give a bloody damn about anyone but their purty arses." Séamus downed half his glass before slamming it down on the counter. He turned to gaze piercingly at Jeremiah. "You think it's going to be a picnic out there, that because you're new that you can just go in and bulldoze the bloody hell out of them damned Nationalists. I've seen men after being there, I'll tell you mate, it ain't a purty sight."

"What? What happened to them?" Jeremiah's hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips, passing the sweet tasting liquid over his lips, apprehension coursing his body as he drank in the words of Séamus. Though he could tell the young man wasn't in anyway an active member of the army, the youth seemed to have a certain level of wisdom to his words and air.

Placing his glass back down, he turned in his chair. "Who did you hear this from?"

"Some of this is from the Great War. My daddy is a surviving veteran of the trenches. He once told me men would sooner take his own lives than go out into what was branded 'no man's land'. That's the place between the Allied front lines and the Axis front lines. He now trains troops. He's had men come back, scared shitless for their own bloody lives. They fear sleep and they fear that the Nationalists will invade Ireland." Séamus explained, motioning for the innkeeper to refill his pint.

While he waited for it, he turned to Jeremiah, "yet, I have no first hand experience. In truth, I don't want to fight there, I get enough fucking bullshit to 'fend off here with the bloody Protestants barking up my damned tree, I don't need no fucking goddamned bloody Nationalists blowing my ass up."

"Y-you…what do you do?" Jeremiah asked hesitantly, taking a small sip from his half-pint of Guinness. He was frightened yet intrigued by what this young man was telling him. All his life he had been sheltered at the orphanage for boys in San Francisco. When he had enlisted in the army, his whole world changed, he began to see places he never dreamed of before in his entire life. Now he was about to enter the war that would change the future of mankind; for better and for worse.

"I'm an assassin for the IRA. I execute Protestants for a living. Pays enough to get by in life." Séamus replied tipping his glass in Jeremiah's direction. "Pays for a nice shoebox flat, gets a week of feed and a block of ice a day for the box."

Swallowing reflexively; suddenly feeling unnerved around Séamus, Jeremiah lifted his glass to his lips, taking a long swig of the golden liquor. Placing the glass down, he stood up. "Uh, nice meeting you…"

"Leaving so soon, mate?! The night's young, or they need you back at the barracks for curfew?!" Séamus queried calmly, sipping from the glass he held in his left hand. He no longer held a fag in the right. He rested his injure hand over his lap.

Jeremiah didn't say anything, just downed the last of the contents. "Uh, early morning training and it's mighty brutal. Never trained after getting a moonshine from a speak easy."

Séamus smartly replied, "eh? Care to translate that into English, Jeremiah, I didn't think I caught what the bloody hell ya just said."

"There…there aren't any "speak easy" here? I thought moonshine was common here." The private replied, with a meek shrugged and a nervous chuckle.

"We ain't that bloody fucking backwards. I know what the hell moonshine is, just ain't never heard of a 'speak easy'." Séamus retorted sharply, his accent highlighted by his mild anger. He slammed his fists down on the bar counter, shaking the area, the contents of his pint spilling onto the table.

Jeremiah turned back, stopping dead in his tracks. He now had somewhat of a better view of the young man he had just been speaking with. The young man was surprisingly shorter than he had anticipated. From the mere sound of Séamus' voice, Jeremiah would have thought this young man was near a good solid six feet in height, and not anywhere close to his height of nothing more than five foot six. Despite this, he still failed to have a great view of the young man.

Swallowing, he then replied, "I-I'm sorry, didn't mean to offend you…or anything like that." He held his hands up, indicating his regret. It was a sign that he hoped Séamus would get; hoped the youth wouldn't pull a bar out and bash his head on.

"You didn't just caught me off guard with your callous remark, mate." Séamus shrugged, wandering over, standing directly face to face with Jeremiah. Standing face to face with the young man, he noted for the first time, his features; how identical they looked! It was like looking into a mirror.

"Sweet Mother of Jesus…~" Séamus whispered hoarsely, taking a step back, crossing himself. This was one of the miraculous and yet, strangest, eeriest things he had ever experienced. He had remembered his father one vaguely mentioning the existence of another son, but he brushed it off; but now it was too true.

Jeremiah had barely noticed because he had some light in his face. Thus, when the other young man reacted, he was confused, but intrigued. He took a step forward. "Oi, man, what's wrong? Is it something about my cologne, what is it?"

"You…you're identical to me…" Was all Séamus could utter, as he stared in disbelief at the young man who he believed to be his brother. No, scratch that, his twin brother.