Alright folks, this will be coming out in parts.
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My father Eamon had been IRA, during the troubles. He had met my mother Teagan defending a town from the INLA in the late 70s. She had, at the time, been only 16, while he had been 20. Her family had fed him and a few other fighters following a firefight. Her red hair, Da had said, was the brightest thing he'd seen, and her blue eyes "bore straight through his soul". That night she'd met him in secret and they made love for the first time.
They would later marry, and had me, their bouncing baby boy Ronan in the late 80s. My hair as black as Da's and my eyes a bright green. My mother had unfortunately developed a brain tumor when I was 8 and passed away shortly after it was discovered. Da was despondent for months afterward.
As a result of all of this, I grew up with a strong respect for and knowledge of firearms and Irish culture and history, as well as some knowledge of military and political workings. I also grew up valuing every day, knowing that it could be my last. I grew up listening to all kinds of music, and found myself especially enamoured with the gothic subgenres, and later the industrial genres in my teens. I wore business casual clothing and a deathhawk, and Nora, a girl I dated in high school had begun to get me wearing eyeliner. My father simply shook his head. He didn't care so long as I kept my grades up and stayed in shape. I hung around a few local clubs in my late teens and even DJed at one, briefly.
I ended up pursuing a career with the Defense forces, owing largely to my father's training, and worked my way into the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airm(Army Ranger Wing), where I quickly became an accomplished sniper and travelled around the world a bit on some peacekeeping missions and joint task forces.
It was in Afghanistan that I met one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. I'd sat down at a table at one of the many bases after an astoundingly tough night op. I was sore and exhausted, having spent hours laying stock still with my rifle in hand followed by another hour of constantly providing cover fire and dodging haphazard return fire, switching positions to keep those fuckers guessing. It had ended with an RPG hitting a half-broken floor below me and collapsing supports...and then the floor I was crouching on at the time. While I hadn't broken anything I had taken a single bullet graze to the side of my then-bald head and my uniform, as a result of the collapse, was absolutely caked in desert dust and abdobe and a little bit of blood on the shoulder. I wanted a dram and a hot meal and sleep. I had at least been able to secure a bowl of soup. A woman with Canadian uniform had walked in, sat down across from me, and pushed a flask of Jameson's in my direction.
"You look like hell." She'd told
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