text: [Themes: edutainment, drama]
  
  You sit at the kitchen table, the newspaper in your hands. You grab your cup of tea, raising it to your lips.
  
  "Good morning, Michael," Mary says, walking into the room.
  
  "Morning, Mary," you say. "How are you?"
  
  "Good enough," you say. "A shame about yesterday's march."
  
  Only yesterday, the Irish Volunteers canceled the upcoming march that was planned. It happened very suddenly, with little reason. You've no idea why, but the order came from Eoin MacNeil himself, so you know it's good.
  
  "A shame? More like a blessing," Mary says. "Everyone knew if you marched yesterday, there'd be some trouble or nothing. All I could pray for is that all that happens is a few scraps with the constables, maybe if I was lucky the worst of ye getting arrested."
  
  "That's traitor speak," you warn."Do you've no respect for the men fighting for your freedom?"
  
  "I've respect for the soldiers fighting for my freedom to make sure my children aren't forced to speak German, holding back the Huns! I've no respect for a bunch of overblown men dodging their duty to fight to pretend to be soldiers," Mary replies tersely, staring you dead in the eye.
  
  You shake your head, sighing, as you feel incredibly disappointed in how quickly your sister betrays her own blood.
  
  "No, you'd never let your children be forced to speak German. Forcing them to speak English, though that's fine. Let them forget their ancestor's tongue. At least if the Huns took over, we'd only be exchanging one conqueror for the other."
  
  "You're speaking English right now!" Mary snaps.
  
  "Labhróidh mé Gaeilge, ach an dtuigeann tú é? Aon focal? Focal simplí amháin?"
  
  "Michael, I can't understand you when you speak in that tongue, and you know it. Can't you speak the King's English?"
  
  "That's what I thought," you say bitterly.
  
  "I had only wanted you to be kept safe, Michael. Why don't you understand that? I want Ireland to be free, but I don't want to see men be sent to the slaughter by Butcher MacNeil!"
  
  "Eoin MacNeil is willing to die for the cause!"
  
  "Eoin MacNeil isn't going to die for the cause! It's idiots like Joseph with their hearts so full of ideals that they can't listen to their head who die for the cause, and I don't want to see that!"
  
  "To get what?" you ask.
  
  "Milk and eggs!" Mary says angrily, heading out of the room.
  
  "We live on a fucking farm with three hens and a cow!" you shout after her, before the door slams shut. "Bollocks."
  
  You slam your head against the table, trying to think. Mary was always a smart one. Perhaps she's right. It wouldn't be the first time she outsmarted her two brothers. Maybe this is a lost cause. You can't imagine letting Joseph get killed fighting, but then again, you can't imagine living under the heel of the British. You don't know. You don't want violence to happen. But if the British try to stop you marching, protesting, arguing, simply speaking for your rights, you'll have to. Ah, the sacrifices you make for Ireland.
  
  You take a deep breath, raising your head before blowing air through your teeth. You pause, seeing Joseph standing. He stands in front of you, his rifle resting in his hands, clad in his Volunteer uniform.
  
  "Joseph?" you ask quizzically.
  
  "What's going on?" you ask. "The march was yesterday, and even that was cancelled. Why do you even have your rifle at home? No one's marching."
  
  "The volunteers might not be, but I am. I'm serving the cause no matter what."
  
  "Joseph," you say slowly, standing. "What the hell are you talking about?"
  
  "I need to go. I don't have time to explain," he says.
  
  Joseph goes to push past you, before you pause, realizing what's going on.
  
  "You're going to try takeover," you say suddenly.
  
  "We're all going, Michael! The Irish Republican Brotherhood has chosen to strike, to force the boot off our throat and to free Ireland. MacNeil and the rest of the volunteers might not be willing to, but I am, and I'm not going to cower at a moment like this."
  
  "Joseph, it's suicide. I can't let you go get killed for them!"
  
  Joseph looks at you sternly, and you're certain he won't be talked down.
  
  > stop Joseph from leaving
  "I'm not going to let you leave, Joseph. You'll die there."
  
  "You're not able to stop me!" Joseph says, moving for the door.
  
  Immediately, you step in front of the door, blocking Michael's path. Snarling, he immediately begins sizing up to you. He's far stronger and bulkier, but you're taller, so that might help, you suppose. Of course, he's holding a rifle in his hands, so you're not entirely sure how this will go.
  
  "Michael, don't make me put fists on you. Because I will. I promise you, I don't want to, but I'll do whatever I have to for the good of Ireland."
  
  You stand firm, looking Michael dead in the eye, staring into his eyes. It's clear he's not going to back down.
  
  "I swear to fucking God above, Michael, I will shoot you where you stand if you don't let me past!" Joseph screams in your face.
  
  "Joseph, I love you, you know that, right?" you say sadly.
  
  "I know that, Michael, of course I do, but I al...!"
  
  With that, you swing your fist as hard as you can. Your fist connects with his jaw, as he smashes backwards, collapsing onto his ass with a pained grunt, his rifle flying out of his hands.
  
  You look frantically around, spotting an old iron pan left out from yesterday's cooking that could make a hefty club, and Joseph's rifle clattering along the ground. Of course, you could also take this to the ground, tackling Joseph to the ground.
  
  > go for the rifle
  You charge forward, diving down to the ground and wrapping your fingers around the rifle. However, Joseph is as fast, grabbing the rifle from you, almost ripping it from your hands. You tighten your grip on the rifle, as the two of you wrestle over it. Joseph tears himself to his feet, as the two of you struggle brutally over the rifle, smacking into the table.
  
  "Let go! Let fucking go!" Joseph yells.
  
  Joseph slams the rifle against you, smacking you against the floor. The rifle goes off with a bang, as you're slammed against the wall. You slowly skid down, leaving a large trail of blood going down the wall, groaning as blood begins to pour from the bullet whole in the center of your chest.
  
  "MICHAEL!" Joseph screams, tossing his rifle aside. "Michael, you stupid son of a bitch! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I swear to God, I didn't mean to. Don't worry, don't worry."
  
  You try to talk, but your entire chest is rapidly growing cold and numb, as the warm blood running down your chest feels ice cold. Your clothes are quickly soaked through with blood, your shirt sticking to your chest as it's stained crimson red. Joseph presses his hands against your chest in an attempt to stem the tide of blood pouring down your chest, but the blood just keeps gushing out. Your mouth opens and closes, as you try to tell Joseph it's not his fault, but no noise comes out.
  
  "Michael! I'm so sorry, please Michael, don't die, don't die," Joseph pleads, his voice growing fainter and fainter.
  
  That's the last things you hear, as the world grows dark.