text: [Themes: edutainment, historical, drama]
  
  "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
  
  A good quote, you think to yourself. It'd have had to be written by an Irishman, of course. The English would never speak of themselves being in the gutter with the common muck,, they'd claim to be of the stars themselves if they could. No, an Irishman would have to have written it, because only an Irishman would understand subjugation.
  
  You stand under a gray sky, a field of barley and oats surrounding you. Thanks to it being August, there's relatively little to do, so you're given time to think. Of course, without working to keep you going, the thinking usually goes downhill. Either your evenings end with you grabbing the bottle, or staring at those stars as dreams of freedom fill your mind.
  
  Eireann is truly in the gutter, you think to yourself. The British boot sits on her throat, keeping her down, like it has for hundreds of years. It will continue to, until the people can rise up and fix that problem. Of course, Britain weakens, its empire collapsing inwards. It's only a matter of time before you finish what the proud Fenians of old had started, what Wolfe Tone continued, and what your generation will finish: the fight for independence.
  
  "Michael! Michael, get in here!" a shrill voice screams from the farmhouse.
  
  You turn, sighing, as you work towards the farmhouse, your boots plodding through the mud. It's always something with that woman, you think to yourself. You reach the door, pushing it inwards as you walk into your cramped kitchen.
  
  "Ma, what's wrong?" you say, leaning in the doorway.
  
  Ma sits in the kitchen at the table, a newspaper in her hands. Joseph stands next to her, his tall, sturdy frame filling a long overcoat. Mary is staring around Joseph, a frail, timid creature in comparison to your burly brother, like a delicate flower growing next to a great Oak. Ma motions for you to see the paper, and you shrug, leaning in to see the pages.
  
  You lean over, looking at the crinkled paper. "BRITAIN AT WAR: GERMANY IGNORES FINAL ULTIMATUM" reads the title.
  
  "Jesus Christ," you say.
  
  You're struck in the face by Ma, who doesn't miss a beat in doing so. While the age has certainly taken much from the woman, it sure hasn't sapped her strength by how much it stings. Still, your mind is too focused on the looming war to even register the pain.
  
  "Michael, don't take the Lord's name in vain!" the old woman croaks.
  
  "We're at war, Ma, don't blame him. He's shocked," Mary says, rubbing your arm.
  
  "We're at war?" Joseph says indignantly. "When did Ireland declare war?! This is their doing, not ours!"
  
  "You can't be saying that, Joseph. It's our empire too!" Mary says.
  
  "Like bloody hell it is!" Joseph says, stepping back to avoid the incoming slap from Ma. "I'd sooner bow downs to the King of Holland than the King of England."
  
  "They gave us a parliament!"
  
  "They didn't give us a parliament! They promised us a parliament, which we haven't gotten! Now that'll be postponed because of the war, and when that's finished, we'll be feeling the British boot pressed against our throats yet again!
  
  There's a short silence, as you all think about the repercussions this new war will have.
  
  "Will you be signing up? They're recruiting," Mary says softly.
  
  Joseph lets out a barking laugh, shaking his head in disgust.
  
  "Are you joking? Unless the Kaiser's recruiting Irishmen to take out the crown, you can count me out!"
  
  Joseph spits on the ground, turning and heading out of the room. Ma immediately darts up as quick as a bullet, far faster than any old woman has a right to do, heading after him to give him another smack. You chuckle as the two rush out of the room. This leaves you and your sister standing alone around the table.
  
  "We're in dark times, Michael," Mary says to you. "I'm worried about Joseph. He's been hanging around too many hotheads, violent thugs and brutes the lot of them!"
  
  "Joseph's fine," you say dismissively. "How do you think he'd react when you asked him if he'd sign up?"
  
  "I suppose," she says. "But, Michael, you understand, right? Why we need to serve the Empire, to prove the Irish are a loyal, hard-working people."
  
  "To prove that to who?" you say, annoyed. "The British? They saw how loyal we are many a time, they just don't like what we're loyal to. We're Irish, Mary, not British. Don't forget it."
  
  Mary turns in a huff, moving out of the room. Thankfully, this leaves you alone to think, and you let out a quiet sigh of contentment, sitting down at the table. You grab the newspaper, flicking through it. Might as well read up while you're alone.
  
  [Author's Note: It is 1914. With fears of a war with Germany finally coming to pass, the British Empire has been plunged into war. While the Great War rages on, there is a resurgence of the Irish Independence movement, as the Irish people rise up to take advantage of the times to claim their freedom. You'll be taking the role of Michael McCarthy, a young man in such a troubled and turmoil-filled time. Take part in the 1916 Rising, the War of Independence and the Treaty War as brother is pitted against brother, friend against friend and father against son, as a country at war with itself is torn apart. Well, seeing as it's been 102 years since the 1916 Easter Rising, I'd say an Edutainment game is appropriate to tell the story of the Irish struggle for independence. For the purposes of narrative and to allow choice, your character is a fictional one and at certain points will replace roles done by other men in real life to facilitate the narrative and to allow for choice and interaction, so that you'll be able to see and play a role in key events throughout the period. Enjoy!]
  
  > put down the paper and get back to the field (One Month Later...)
  The next month is one of turmoil and trouble. The war escalates, and it does as suspected in stopping home rule in its tracks, much to the frustration of the Irish people. That is, to the frustration of the hard-working Catholics. The rich, upper-class Protestants are more than happy to keep the power in the hands of the British who support the status quo that gets them richer and gets you poorer.
  
  You sit in the kitchen, the kettle on the burner as you wait for the water to boil so you can get a cup of tea. Ma comes in, a bag of groceries in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She pops the newspaper down on the table, and goes off to begin buttering bread. You lean over the newspaper, reading intently.
  
  "Don't slouch, you'll end up hobbled," Ma says, walking into the room.
  
  "I love you too, Ma. I'm doing fine, thanks for asking. Yourself?" you say dryly.
  
  "Don't be cheeky!" Ma chastises.
  
  "I made you a cup of tea," you say.
  
  Ma leans in, her tone immediately changing, kissing you on the lips for a brief peck before moving towards the tea bags. If nothing else, the woman appreciates a cup of tea.
  
  "Thank you, Michael," she says.
  
  You grab the newspaper, and begin reading. "John Redmond to address Irish volunteers" is the title. Reading on, you learn that John Redmond is assembling the Irish Volunteers today for a grand speech. It's actually happening fairly close by, so it'll be easy to head down to it.
  
  Joseph walks into the room, taking off his cap and leaning over you to read the newspaper.
  
  "Redmond's calling an assembly," you tell him. "We should go."
  
  "Give me a sec, I'm still reading," he says, before staying silent for a brief moment. "We should definitely go. The volunteers need numbers. We could fight for the independence of the country."
  
  "Let's do it, then," you say. "We'll head after tea."
  
  > head to the assembly
  When you arrive at the assemble, the speech has already started. A massive crowd of volunteers stands near the stage, listening to Redmond intently.
  
  "It is our responsibility, nay, our duty from God our Father himself, to protect a fellow proud Catholic nation like Belgium! If we join up with the British Army, we prove our loyalty, prove that we are to be trusted and show to Britain that the Irish people are strong, that the Irish people are proud, and that the Irish people are loyal! I ask you, sons of Eireann, to join up with the British Army if you're able, and if you're not, we abandon the name the Irish Volunteers. Instead, we are the National Volunteers! So, who's with me? What proud Irish men are willing to take up the cause?"
  
  While many cheers go up through the crowd, there are several boos. The majority of the people here seem to support Redmond's choice, but a small minority seems outraged. The outraged begin storming off, seemingly led by the Volunteers' leader Eoin MacNeill, although to your surprise the majority seem to be staying amongst England.
  
  "This is an outrage! Anyone loyal to the spirit of the Volunteers won't stand for this! We won't pay their blood toll!" MacNeill yells.
  
  You also notice that Redmond is directing many of the Irish Volunteers, or National Volunteers now, you suppose, towards a recruitment officer for the British Army, while the rest of the crowd digests this new information.
  
  Ireland is going through troubled times, and you need to do your part. The only question is, who are you loyal to?
  
  > join up with the British Army
  "Sign me up, then," you say, as the Recruiting Officer smiles, shaking your hand.
  
  "You're doing a great service for your empire and Eireann," the man smiles. "Together, we fight for Ireland against the vile Huns!"
  
  A hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back from him as you look at Joseph, who stares at you furiously.
  
  "You're joining up with them? With them, Michael!? How fucking dare you? You're a coward, a bloody coward!"
  
  Immediately, a few of the Volunteers signing up push him away from you, holding him back, but he doesn't break eye contact with you for even the briefest of moments.
  
  "Watch your tongue!" one of them warns, as Joseph holds up his hands.
  
  "I'm not trying to start a fight, get off me!" he says, as they let him go. "I'll speak my mind to my brother!"
  
  You stare at him, as he expression shifts into one of disappointment.
  
  "You can go to war all you want, but you're abandoning Ma, you're abandoning the cause, and you're abandoning me, all to die on some field in Brussels for the Empire that's put it's boot on our throat!"
  
  "I'm sorry, Joseph. I'm doing what I think is right."
  
  "You're a bastard!" Joseph spits. "A no good, country-hating bastard!"
  
  A few hands reach out to prevent him from making a move, but he knocks them away, swearing.
  
  "Get the bloody hell off me, I'm going! I've said my piece."
  
  You watch as your brother walks away, furious. You sigh in disappointment, before a gloved hand grasps your shoulder.
  
  "Don't worry, son," a Volunteer says. "We're doing what we need to. What we have to. We're serving Ireland. Don't let fools cloud your judgement."
  
  You nod slowly, hoping to make things right before you ship off.
  
  > A Few Days Later...
  You stand in front of your family, standing tall and proud in full ceremonial garb, with your cleaned and ironed clothes, polished black boots and shining silver buttons, your peaked hat sitting proudly atop your head. Ma looks scared to death, while Mary stares at you with a mixture of pride and tears in her eyes. Joseph's been pissed ever since you revealed your intention to serve the British Empire, and is sulking in the field, pretending to be busy working.
  
  "Stay safe. I'll send packages every week. Hot cross buns, your favorite. Stay safe, OK?" Ma says, tears in her eye. "Are you sure you wouldn't stay for a cup of tea?"
  
  "The Huns won't be stopping for tea. Best I not," you smile, as your mother hugs you tightly.
  
  She offers you a leather bound bonk, dusty and old, but a staple of the household. You take it in your hands lovingly, holding onto it tightly.
  
  "The family Bible?" you ask.
  
  "Of course. We'll get another one until you return to us, which you will, I've no doubt in my mind. Keep it on you at all times, and pray every night. God will protect you
  
  "Keep it on you on all times. God will protect you," she says.
  
  "I will," you nod.
  
  "I love you, Michael."
  
  "I love you, Ma," you reply, kissing her briefly on the lips, before you turn to Mary. "Keep good care of her. And make sure Joseph doesn't die off on some wild hunt for freedom, yeah?"
  
  "Don't worry, I will, Michael," Mary says, moving in and hugging you tightly. "I love you."
  
  "Yeah, I love you too," you say, squeezing her back. "Don't go chasing boys the moment I step away, got it? Joseph will still kick the ass of anyone who tries anything improper with her."
  
  "Damn right," Joseph says, striding out from the fields of wheat. He has a confused, emotional look in his eyes, and he lets out a loud sigh of disappointment as he nears you.
  
  You turn to walk out the door, before Morgan appears in the stairwell.
  
  "I'm glad I get to see you before I ship out," you smile.
  
  "Just come here, you bleeding traitor," he sighs, grabbing you and hugging you tightly, his massive, muscular arms squishing you in his grip. "Make sure you force those German prods out of Belgium. Make Ireland proud."
  
  "I will, Joseph," you say, hugging him back.
  
  "Just stay safe out there, OK? Don't go charging a machine gun to save any Brits, OK? If push comes to shove, offer the Huns a bit of Ma's tea. You'll poison the entire trench."
  
  You smile and nod, squeezing him tightly. You both release as you escape his tight grip, stepping backwards to admire your loving family.
  
  "I love you Joseph. I'll see you all soon."
  
  "Of course you will," Joseph says.
  
  Unable to say another word at the risk of getting caught up, you tip your cap, turning and heading off. Now, it's time to fight the Great War.
  
  > A Year Later...
  Soldier life is surprisingly boring. It's far from the rogue adventure you thought it would be. You hear the constant horror stories, of course. Horse-mounted calvary charges being cut down by machine gun fire in horrific massacres. Gas attacks releasing waves of poisonous chemicals, burning out lungs and brutally choking the life out of everyone there. Endless, hellish days of artillery raining down, sniper fire every moment striking down anyone they see, the worst nightmares come to life.
  
  After far too much training, you're finally sent out to fight. Unfortunately, there's a lot of patrolling and not a lot of actual combat. It's probably fortunate that you're kept out of war, kept safe, mostly left with patrolling and guarding trenches where miraculously, you aren't attacked once. The food is shit, the weather's awful, there's constant fear of diseases, and although you're safe, the role is just incredibly boring. Still, after about a year of boring work, you find yourself shipped to Turkey. It's not the Huns you were expecting, but the Ottomans are as important a part of the Central Powers as the Huns. You suppose in a way you're still protecting Belgium by hitting Germany's allies, although it feels more and more like you're just a pawn being used to battle the wars of an Empire rather than a real soldier fighting for a country's freedom.
  
  You find yourself walking along a muddy trench, a rifle in your hands as you creep forward. The trenches are filled with cold water and mud, enough of which has seeped into your boots that sepsis is a serious issue. The sound of machine gun fire and artillery shells is booming, as you move into the forward trench. Machine guns crackle around you, as you keep your head low. You've never even seen an enemy soldier, but according to your sergeant, you're to prepare for a charge soon enough.
  
  > survey the battle
  You peer your head over the edge of the trench, staring out into the horrors of war. Barbed wire covers the muddy ground between the two trenches, covered in the scars of artillery strikes. Gas covers the battlefield, slowly spreading out like a yellow tide. There's the corpses from
  
  "It's a fucking massacre," you say, staring at the horrors of war.
  
  "What's there?" Private Macready, a Donegal man you've befriended, asks.
  
  "It's a kill zone," you say. "A fucking kill zone."
  
  "We shouldn't be here, man, we shouldn't fucking be here," Private Douglas, a Galway farmhand who, at his age, must've lied to get here. "We're going to get wiped out."
  
  "Don't worry, we'll survive," you say firmly. "This war will be over by Christm...!"
  
  In the Ottoman Trench, a sniper takes aim. He spots a pale face peering out from the trench, and takes fire, killing the man. As the head snaps back, he closes his eyes shut, saying a silent prayer for the soul he didn't want to take, but had to for his Empire.
  
  "War is hell," the sniper whispered.