New Years Eve, 1996
Streetlights lit up a neon boulevard in a small town soon to be known as New Dublin. At the time the city was known for being a criminal hideout with a sketchy yet reputable red light district. It was here that a hard-nosed, half drunk man with his hood pulled to cover his face vanished into what seemed to be the only building on the street that wasn’t alight with low budget neon reminiscent of a neo-Tokyo setting. The alcohol, almost a requirement to build up the courage for the actions he had to take. Inside awaited a small army, a militia of sorts that through small acts of rebellion had built up a trained force with stolen military weaponry. As the man stepped through the doors everyone inside came to attention. His hood pulled back a younger mid-20’s Jack O’Connell stood before one of his many forces stationed all around the old Irish capitol. He could’ve sent the command to launch his revolution from any where in the country but it felt right to strike from his home. “Tonight,” he cried out, “we burn the banners of tyranny and take back our country from the hands of those who wish to grind us into submission. We will not fall, we will not fail, A-mach à luaithre tha teine!”
“A-mach à luaithre tha teine!” A thousand voices yelled back, a symphony so powerful it seemed to turn down the pounding music of the street above.
And as the clock struck midnight, a new rule swept the capitol like a storm, as rebels flew in from all directions. Had the government had any care at all they would’ve noticed the growing signs of the rebellion, but the lazy rule didn’t even bother defending itself. It was time to restore the way that had been lost so many years ago.
