[h1]Dublin, Ireland[/h1]

It was a late afternoon lull. The lunch crowd had long since departed from the bar leaving an interim peace between the mid-day crowd and the dinner crowd. Without the noise of chatter the tavern retained a sort of private air. Outside across the quay road the Liffey River slowly flowed through the heart of Dublin town, chunks of ice drifted languidly in the dark waters. The mid-day traffic slowly wound its way down the narrow city streets as foot-traffic plod along the narrow-sidewalks. Across the river the stout turn-of-the-century townhouses and offices stood with their subdued greens, salmon reds, whites, and grays. It was a dreary day, and the sun came filtered through heavy clouds overhead.

In a corner of the bar a handful of young men sat at a table leaning over plates of food and half-drunk glasses of Guinness. It was a warm meal in a warm setting that was a welcome division from the chill December air just outside the door and misted windows. Large flat-screen TVs hanging over the bar played the pre-recorded snippets from the last football games, commentary provided through the benefit of closed captions. Likewise was the news.

“Folk're sayin' the Russians are trying to make a NATO.” a young man pointed out with a scraggily head of hair. He was looking up at one of the news TVs, which despite the choice of topic was in the middle of discussing the elections in the United States, “I thought the buggers had something like that of their own.” he added as he shoveled a fork-full of Shepard's pie into his mouth. He chewed contemplatively around the beef and carrots as he watched the silent footage roll of Donald Trump with a banner loudly denoting his most recent aggravating statements.

“Who the fuck really cares Brian.” a lunch companion quickly responded. He combed his meaty fingers through his thin, short cropped hair as he took a hit on his stout, “Let Putin be Putin, it's probably not the most ridiculous thing the Russian are doing.”

Brian Raleigh wasn't much of a man as he was still a boy. Though late into his twenties his soft round face betrayed a lingering appearance of youth. His head of netted curled over hair was as well doing him little favors as it fell and dropped across his wide brow. Many had made the joking quips that there was negro in his blood from the weight and prominence of an unconquerable fro. Perhaps it was true, perhaps it wasn't. But whether or not he was black on the inside did not matter, for his skin was as pasty and white as any Irish born lad.

His companion, Robin Kilroy was the far opposite of him. The same age as he, maturity had hit him with a hammer. He bore a chin sharply chiseled and carved like stone, no soft boyish edges in it. And to top it off the man could grow a beard by command, even as they sat at the table the beginnings of a day-old beard was as prominent as a badge in his features as it shrouded chin and lips in thick, coarse twisting hairs. His eyes were a sour storm of a brown and green kaleidescope.

“Just sayin', why try t' make something they already 'ave.” Brian again mused, “T'is not like the Federation is lackin'.”

“Don't think too hard about it,” Robin continued to caution, “you might not go crazy.”

“They're just trying to get on the news.” a third dinner mused, “Before Trump eats it'all”

Robin shrugged indifferently, “Fine by me.” he admitted.

“On the news, what are we gon' do about ours?” Brian asked, looking at the third. Christy Sheamell. A man so Irish his hair was on fire with it. “I mean, P.I.R.A made the news, but it's just because some intercepted a gun shipment.

Christy Shaemell, also sometimes referred to as Christy of Donegal was a large young man with a light of sharp intelligence in his eyes. He looked up at the TVs with a distant detatched look as he ate, seemingly in other places. But it was the other traits in his face that won him other titles.

The remains of bruises and healed over scars that covered his face suggested a life of pugilism. He was a fist-fighter through and through and was sometimes referred to as Dublin's “King of the Travellers” for his heroic bouts against the traveler clans in and around Dublin in their fringe, underground fighting rings. It was a feat he somehow exercised without having had his brain smashed to jelly against the inside of his skull like those gypsies.

“It's hard to get guns when we have no money, it's hard to get money when all you do is shitpost about Ireland on Twitter.” Christy reminded Brian, looking down at the boyish man with a dissenting look. The others at the table chuckled warmly at the banter. Brian's face flushed red with embarrassment.

“We may not have that issue for long.” a heavy-set man spoke up with a tense quivering voice. The others looked over at him with curious expressions on their faces. “I managed to find a guy...” he choked, pushing his glasses higher up his nose.

“Do tell Twiggy.” bid Christy. Twiggy being the pet name of the awkward Seamus McFinnigan.

Seamus was a heavy set porpoise of a human. A youth behind computers and on the couch watching TV had not done well to bless him with muscle mass. And a diet of chips wasn't much better. “I was, ah- digging around and I found a name.” he said nervously, “Some guy, does a lot of investment in things like this. He claims to be the funder for fire temples in Kurdish Iraq, financial supporter of Uyghur and Tibetain culture. I don't know where he gets that money, but I sent him a message to see if he can help.”

The table starred at him silently. “So, have you got a response?” asked Robin.

“Well, no... Not yet.” Twiggy responded.

“Then how do we know if he's real?” Robin inquired deeper, “For God's sake, you could be colluding with the British and not know it!”

“I- I know!” Twiggy professed nervoudly, “But, it looked like our best lead and I th-” Seamus was cut short when the phone in his chest pocket began to sing the lyrics to Sinead O'Connors' This Is A Rebel Song. The rest of the table cackle.

“Nice ring-tone.” Brian commented.

“Shut up.” Seamus grumbled, his head a bright red as he pulled the smart-phone out of his pocket. Swiping a meaty finger across the screen he unlocked it and looked down at the text there-in. His expression immediately dropped from anger to astonishment. The Pope could have walked into the room and he wouldn't have noticed.

“Excuse me.” he mumbled sitting up.

“What is it?” Brian asked as Seamus squeezed past him.

“Was it something I said?” he asked, shouting.

“Leave it,” Christy ordered, “We'll hear what happened later.”