A/N: WSS is awesome! So is Action! Yay!

Disclaimer: I own nada but el plot-o and Noreen.

For WSS Action-lovers and Irish people. Because I can.

Noreen awoke on the floor of her small apartment in New York. She hated her habit of rolling out of bed at night. She checked the clock next to her bed. "Damn, why am I always waking up so early?" she was about to climb back into bed when she remembered that it was her job to open the store. She trudged past the twelve other beds to the closet and put on a green t-shirt and a blue skirt. She ruffled her hair and tied a green ribbon around it. She slid down the banister bare-footed and grabbed the keys off the counter. Slipping on her knee socks and sliding across the floor, she unlocked the door and turned over the Open/Closed sign, popping her feet into clogs. Next to the cash register was a picture of her dead grandfather, the only relative she ever had besides her sisters. He had opened the store, and quickly earned the fond nickname 'Doc', coined from kids whose problems he solved as kindly as a bartender, but not as alcoholically.

Business had been almost nonexistent lately, with about only one person coming in, but leaving when not seeing Doc. When Noreen and her twelve sisters had emigrated from Ireland to America to take over Doc's business, they had expected a land of such beauty and richness that the lakes would be made of honey and the streets paved with gold. The youngest children thought it was amazing, but Noreen and her two older sisters, Brigit and Alana, this was no paradise. The streets were dirty and crowded with gangs. They realized that they would have to work hard to make a living, and they were prepared for it. Brigit, the eldest, managed the store while Noreen worked in it. Alana went downtown on the subway to work at a kosher deli that paid good money. Mary, the fourth-oldest, managed the other eight little ones in the over-store apartment. Noreen was becoming used to picking up the latest issue of the Saturday Evening Post and reading the articles while she sat at the front desk all day and chewed gum or her lunch. This day, however, was different.

Just as soon as Noreen pulled out a comfortable stool, a group of boys came in and sat down or started playing pinball or darts. Noreen recognized them from their late-night prowls around the neighborhood. These were the Jets, the toughest street gang around—well, apparently they were still tied with the Sharks for that prize, even after they tried to reconcile their differences. Their leader, whose name Noreen didn't know, spoke.

"Hey, chickie. Where's Doc? We haven't seen him around lately."

"Doc died a few weeks ago." Noreen replied, her brogue inflecting her speech. Putting her magazine back in its rack, she continued. "I'm his granddaughter."

"Oh me stars and garters! She's a little leprechaun!" another Jet said, imitating Noreen's voice. The others laughed. Noreen blew a big bubble with her gum and rolled her eyes.

"So, you're his granddaughter?" the leader asked.

Noreen nodded. "One of thirteen."

"Dang! It's a regular country of them! Run away!" The 'leprechaun' Jet said.

"Shut your trap, A-Rab!" the leader said. "Do you know who we are?"

"You're the Jets, toughest street gang around. Though right now, you seem like the biggest jokers around."

"The only joker here is A-Rab. I'm Riff, and if you're willing, I have no problem getting serious."

"No thanks. I may be an immigrant, but I'm not an idiot. You gonna buy something or just stand there and heckle me?"

"Cream soda, sweetie." Riff said, tossing two bits onto the counter and whispered something to a guy who he called Ice. Noreen grabbed a bottle of soda and exchanged it for the quarter. "Say," Riff said after a gulp, "You got any Playboy magazines?"

"Nope." Noreen replied.

"Beer?"

"Nope."

"Boyfriend?"

"You got a girlfriend?"

"Uhhh..."

"Then yes."

"Name?"

"Noreen Kavanaugh."

"Queen-size bed?"

"Nice try. You wouldn't be able to fit one upstairs with thirteen other beds in there."

"Virginity?" Riff's face bore a mischievous look.

Noreen gave a long pause and looked downwards. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because."

"Don't want to talk about it."

"You sure?"

"Look, if you're done here, then why don't you get your sorry arses out!" Noreen yelled. Silence fell. There was a patter of two little feet on the stairs.

"Nory! Nory! Wus wong? I pwotect you!" three-year-old Kathleen said, waving a toy sword.

Noreen looked sweetly at her sister. "Kathy, why don't you go protect Mary from the bad pirates about to get her?" Kathleen nodded furiously, her newspaper sailor hat slipping down over her eyes. She ran up the stairs, her rag doll trailing behind her. Noreen turned to Riff, slipping a baseball bat out from under the counter and brandishing it with a vengeance. "Get. Out. Buggers."

"Okay, okay! Let's jet, Jets!" Riff replied, slowly backing out the door.

Noreen turned toward the wall as they left and began sobbing. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around.

"You okay?" a dark-haired Jet asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Why aren't you out there with Riff-raff or whatever and his cronies?" Noreen began to lift the baseball bat.

"Just can't stand to see a chick cryin'. You sure you okay?"

"I'll be right as rain if you leave."

"Alright. See you around." The Jet walked out of the store, taking a last look over his shoulder before he turned the corner.