>You find yourself sitting in the middle of a dark concrete room, the only light source a single bulb hanging above the chair you're tied to.

>Wait, you're tied to a chair.

>You attempt to flex and move your arms and legs but nothing gives.

>You tilt your head this way and that, trying to better gauge your surroundings when the only exit, a rusting metal door, swings open with an eerie creak.

>A single man enters, dressed in a business suit sans jacket, his entire face and head shadowed out by inky blackness.

>You managed to look behind him and through the door, but seeing nothing but white.

>The door shuts instantly, as silent as the grave.

>Your attention returns to the faceless man, who is now standing off to your right, bringing a cigarette and lighter to where his mouth should be.

>In the brief flash of light from the zippo, the blackness concealing his face retreats enough for you to gatch sight of an eye patch.

>"Where do your loyalties lie, O'Connell?" asks the man, his distorted voice sounding distant.

"Wh-What?" you choke out, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is.

>Your eyes clench shut for a moment, your head throbbing as if you'd been beaten with a club.

>"Tell me what I want to know, or she dies."

"Huh? Who dies?" you coughh, blinking away the pain.

>You watch as he walks across the room towards the opposite wall.

>As he passes, you notice the chain of a pocket watch hanging from his side.

>"She dies."

>It's at this point you realize you aren't the only captive in the room.

>Kneeling with her back to the wall is what you believe to be a woman, a black bag over her head. If it weren't for the obvious womanly curves, you'd mistake her for a man in her military fatigues.

"Wait, what... "

>Smoke curling from the man's inked out nostrils, he reaches into his shoulder holster and retrieves a Colt 1911.

>He levels the .45 at the woman's bagged head, thumbing the hammer into position.

>"Where is she, O'Connell?"

"Who? What's going on?"

>"Stop feigning ignorance, last chance."

>He presses the barrel to the side of the woman's head, a gagged whimper escaping from under the bag.

"I don't know what's-"

>You're cut short by a lone gun shot, your vision going white before fading to utter blackness.

>As you float aimlessly amidst your conscious, the sound of a fiddle pierces the silence.

>It grows louder and louder, and as it does you begin to feel an invisible force pulling you backwards rapidly.

>Your eyes jolt open and you sit up right in your bed, blanket falling away as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

>You quickly scan the darkened room, finding yourself back in your bedroom inside of your apartment.

>You fall back onto your pillow, breathing a sigh of relief that the dream was over.

>Or was it a nightmare?

>Before you can begin to try and go over what you had seen, you're hit by a throbbing pain in the back of your head.

"Son of a bitch," you croak, throat dry.

>You reach to grab onto your head and find a few banages wrapped around it, the back of your noggin tender.

"Panni," you hoarsely call.

>You try swallowing what little spit you can muster, clearing your throat as you do so.

"Pan-"

>You stop midname, ears perking up at a familiar sound.

>A fiddle, the same that you recall hearing during the last moments of sleep.

>You roll off the bed and onto your feet, finding yourself still dressed in the same clothes you wore out to dinner and the bar.

>Dizzy and still disoriented from what ever caused your head wound, you stumble out of your bedroom and through the living room, taking care not to trip over the coffee table.

>You stop on the threshold of the kitchen, an odd sight meeting your eyes.

>There sits Panni, field jacket draped across the back of a chair and booted feet propped up on the kitchen table, a fiddle in her hands.

>She draws the bow across the strings, the sound causing you to cringe.

>"Eh, piece of shite," she mutters, tuning it a few notches.

>She draws the bow once more, this time a more elegant sound being the product.

>"That'll do," she sighs with a nod.

>Taking a few deep breaths, she begins to play the opening notes to what you believe is "Johnny Comes Marching Home."

>When she begins to sing, however, you realize how off you were.

>"When goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo~"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFUTHcjiZGo]

>You stand there, leaning against the wall as you listen to her both sing and play the same song your grandad would hum to put you to sleep when you were only seven years old.

>As she finishes playing, drawing out the final note, you swear to see a tear or two falling down the side of her face as she sets the instrument into her lap.

>She sits there for a moment, silent.

>You contemplate approaching her when she stirs, reaching across the table for the case.

>"Suppose I should check on that damn gimp," she grunts.

"Shit, shit, shit," you think, turning as fast as you can.

>You somehow manage to tiptoe sprint back to your bed without being noticed.

>Panni walks in not too long after, leaning on the door frame.

>"Oi, O'Connell, you still lazin about?"

"Yeah, I'm up," you grunt, feigning having just woken.

>"Bout time, ye've been out for nearly twenty-four hours."

"What? The fuck happened?" you demand, quickly rising to a sitting position.

>You grab your forehead, the sudden motion agrivating your headache.

>"Well, ye took all of five steps into the pub a'fore ye slipped on an ice cube and busted yer head on a table," she chuckles, her usual shit eating grin plastered across her face.

"Fuck... " you mutter, resting your head back on the pillow.

>"Yer copper friends patched ye up an' I brought ye home, right ta bed."

>She walks out of the room for a moment and returns shortly with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

"Thanks," you say, taking the pain meds and water. You gulp down two pills and the entire glass of refreshing liquid.

>"Ye best be gettin better soon, cause we need ta get groceries and more Guinness," she orders, folding her arms across her chest.

"Yeah, yeah, just gimme some time," you yawn, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

>A thought pertaining to the conversation prior to your accident pops into your head.

"What, uh... Did anything else get said about the whole girlfriend thing?"

>She flashes you a toothy grin, snickering.

"Oh God, Panni, what did you say?"

>"Oh, nothin'! Didn't have time to, what with yer slip. Though I didn't put a stop to the notion of things, either."

"Why?!" you groan, burying your face into your hands.

>"Look at it this way, mate, ye get to let everyone think yer bangin a hot piece of Irish ass an' I get all the benefits of bein yer girlfriend!"

"Such as...?"

>"Free food an' drinks, mostly," she nods.

"But you've been getting that already!" you protest.

>"Aye, but now ye have ta otherwise yer friends'll give ye shit fer it!"

>You raise an eyebrow as you consider her words, realizing just how right she was.

"You cheeky cunt..."

>"Aye, that's me!" she laughs. "So, mass in the mornin?"

>You nod, rubbing your face.

"I was also thinking a trip to the range, too. I've got about fourty rounds of .50 in my squadcar that I picked up on my lunchbreak yesterday."

>You grunt, standing and popping your neck and back.

>Her eyes light up slightly, her posture straightening.

>"Bout feckin time!" she cheers, clapping her hands. "This calls fer a drink!"

>She rockets out of the room and to the kitchen, the sound of a bottle of Guinness being opened, cap clattering to the floor.

>You walk over to your computer, plopping down in your aged chair as you turn on the screen and give the mouse a shake to wake the sleeping Dell.

>Logging into your email account, you're surprised to find two emails you weren't expecting for another day or so.

>One pertained to your application for a better paying job. You'd made it to the final round of interviews and they wanted to complete a final in-person interview before moving forward with a job offer.

>The other was from the local gun store you frequented, saying a package had arrived for you.

"Fuck yeah, go pick it up Monday."

>You begin to respond to both emails when your focus is interrupted by Panni yelling from the living room.

>"O'Connell, what's fer dinner? Oh, and we're out of beer again!"

"Fuckin hell, ya damn drunk, can't you go a day without alcohol?"

>You leave your computer for the time being, going to see to your overly needy rifle.