Disclaimer: Dude, don't own 'em. At all. There is much cursing and implied boy love (the actual boy love comes later DUN DUN DUN) so if you don't like it, shuffle off.

A/N: Just a brief author's note to say "Yo," "Review plzkthnx," and other stuff I can't remember. This is my first posted fic EVER (OMG) so yeah. Bit apprehensive. Anyway, the point of view jumps around a bit, I know it's confusing but that's just the way it works. Ha. Ahem Okay I'm done. Enjoy.

Truth, Pride, Heart

Jack Kelly lounged casually in his seat, watching with mild interest as his English teacher swept a new student to the front of the room.

The kid stood (or rather, fidgeted) awkwardly as Mrs. Bracket attempted to hush the talkative class. He was a thin, gawky-looking teen with long, lanky limbs and too many layers of clothing for the day's weather. A black KISS T-shirt peeked out from under his wrinkled button-up shirt, and he was wearing a heavy pair of jeans despite the intense heat of the September afternoon. Clutching his notebook in his left hand and repeatedly readjusting his backpack strap with the other, he looked absolutely mortified that this ancient woman was keeping up there for so long. When they weren't focused intently on the floor, his deep, dark brown eyes darted around the room as though he was looking for a quick exit, and every so often he'd run a hand through his chestnutty hair out of nervous habit. He didn't seem to stand still for more than a few seconds at a time.

Mrs. Bracket was having one hell of a time getting the class to shut up. She finally accepted that they wouldn't get any quieter than a dull roar and introduced the boy, though half the class wasn't listening.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen!" Still the same amount of noise. She continued anyway, placing a gnarled (and clearly unwelcome) hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Ian Welsh. He and his family just moved from Iowa. I'm sure you will do your best to make sure Ian feels right at home here in New Jersey."

Ian looked as though he was going to make a break for the door.

Mrs. Becket gestured toward the rows of desks in which Jack was currently sitting, and Ian quickly shuffled to the empty seat directly in front of Jack. Dropping into the chair as though he wanted to disappear, he took out his pen and opened his notebook (which was covered in band stickers and song lyrics), and prepared to jot down the notes that Mrs. Bracket was currently scribbling on the chalkboard.

Jack smiled to himself. This kid could be ... interesting, perhaps even worth associating with. He twisted his neck to determine if any of his friends felt the same way.

He first met eyes with Anthony Higgins, who seemed to be busy opening and closing a silver cigarette lighter. However, he certainly had been paying attention and shared Jack's sentiments, grinning as he glanced his way. He also flashed a large, mahogany cigar out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket (worn in this heat only so that he might intimidate) and gave Jack a mischievous nod.

Jack then turned to the boy directly behind him, Joseph Caruso. He was chewing casually on his ballpoint pen as Jack raised an eyebrow in reference to Ian. A lock of his slightly curly, dark brown hair fell across his forehead, and Joe shook it out of his face as he smiled at Jack, understanding his intentions perfectly.

A turn in the other direction gave him Alex Johnson, who was leaning forward on the desk, propped up on his elbows with his feet curled up underneath him. He grinned and wiggled his brows, his right eye blue and bright with amusement, the other, as usual, covered by his eye patch.

The decision seemed to be unanimous: They would go after this Ian kid ... that is, if he met their standards and didn't turn out to be some sort of whack job.

Jack scooted his desk forward, closer to Ian's. "Hey," he whispered. Ian barely turned his head in acknowledgement. "Hey, what's your name, kid?"

Ian turned his head a bit more and frowned -- this guy was asking for the same information that had just humiliated him in front of the class. However, he answered anyway ... he was a bit of a push-over. "Ian. Ian Welsh."

The guys snickered and Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I got that much, Ian. I meant your real name," he paused and fixed Ian with a pregnant stare, "what your friends call you."

Ah-ha. So that's what he's up to, thought Ian. They were all members of the Underground and Jack wanted to know if he was, too. Luckily knew the appropriate response to Jack's question and turned all the way around to face him. "My real name is known only by those that carry the Banner. My brothers, not my friends." He couldn't help but feel a little proud of the fact that he was in the Underground at that moment. It made him feel ... at home, as though for that brief moment, he wasn't in a strange, new city anymore.

The three behind Jack shared a few impressed looks with each other. Jack, however,

continued to interrogate; it wasn't as though he didn't trust Ian, but there was a difference between knowing the answer and being a true member. He could think of a few times when he'd gone into the city and met guys claiming to be members. They'd know the correct retort but then when it came right down to proving themselves, they'd turn out to be frauds, disgracing the very principles the Underground was based on. So to Jack (and really, to everyone else) it was hardly worth knowing this new kid if he was only screwing around with them about carrying the Banner.

"And do you carry the Banner, Ian?"

Ian frowned again. Members weren't usually so cold when greeting one another, but he could only assume that things were different here in New Jersey and that's just how it was. He hesitated for a moment, suddenly remembering warnings about city kids who falsely went around acting like they were in the Underground. You didn't reveal your name or any information about the Underground to them, and you certainly didn't show them the Banner. Although, Jack seemed downright suspicious of him, which Ian took as a good sign (ironic as it was). So, with only the slightest bit of caution and a whole lot of resignation, Ian spun to face the chalkboard and lowered the collar of his button up shirt to reveal the back of his tanned neck. Just at the base was the Banner, inked in plain black letters, reading "Truth, Pride, Heart."

Jack let out a loud, awed whistle, causing Mrs. Bracket to pause briefly. "Jack, do you have something you'd like to say?" she asked, hardly taking her attention away from her task. Ian quickly pulled his collar back up as Jack answered.

"Just that I can't wait to hear your beautiful voice start to teach, Mrs. Bracket," he said smoothly. She shook her head, muttering to herself, and continued her slow scrawl across the board. Jack grinned smugly and went back to interrogating Ian. "So, Ian, how do you like Jersey, huh? Being right across the river from the city and everything ... bet it's a lot different from Idaho."

Ian frowned slightly. "Iowa," he corrected.

Jack chuckled, leaning back in his seat and looking at his friends, as if to say Can you believe this kid? before continuing with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Yeah, pardon me, Iowa."

Ian scowled. He hated being patronized. "Yeah. It's different," he said moodily.

"Like how? You live on a farm or something?" asked the kid sitting to Jack's left. Boy, did he have a strong accent. He glanced around as though checking for eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice as he leaned in, looking very serious. "Say, you uh ... you ever milk a cow?"

They laughed. Ian was getting even more pissed off.

"Yeah, actually, I have."

The boy with the eye patch on the other side of Jack spoke up. "Was it like in Field of Dreams? With whispering cornfields and shit like that?"

The one with the heavy accent chimed in again. "If you milk it, they will come," he said, imitating the mysterious voice from the film.

That really broke them up. The kid with the patch had to clamp his hand over his mouth to contain the howl of laughter threatening to escape. Jack chortled loudly, though he tried to stifle it, and the quiet boy behind him nearly choked on his pen (which he hadn't stopped chewing since Ian arrived) as he abruptly began laughing.

Ian frowned again and turned around. What a bunch of dicks. He certainly wasn't enjoying this laughter at his expense, and although so far no one else in the room had even thrown a glance his way, he didn't feel like being targeted for being the new kid. He understood that this was why they were cracking jokes and ragging on him, but it irked him nonetheless. This was a big damned school, he had to be able to find some better people to hang around with - maybe even more Underground members. If the three in the back were members, too (not just Jack), that already made twice as many as he had known in Iowa, so there had to be others around. However, the more he thought about it, he realized that if there were, they probably ran with these asses and were bound to be just as irritating.

That was unfortunate.

Thus far, there hadn't been much about his day that was fortunate. He had arrived late (walking to school in this town wasn't an option unless he had a death wish) only to be taken on a hasty and extremely unhelpful tour of the building. He had forgotten half the school rules and the entire floor plan as soon as he was dropped off at his first period classroom, which ended up being his least favorite subject - Math. It had been a riot watching the fresh-out-of-college teacher trying to get through her lesson, though, especially with some of the kids she had to deal with.

Second period had been gym class, which was ... well ... gym. And that was never very fun. Sure, Ian was spry and wiry and could run well if necessary (and by necessary, he meant for money or to save his own life), but any activity involving bodily contact or balls of any kind was lost on him. Seeing as today's game was a rather enthusiastic game of team handball where tackling and/or checking was encouraged, Ian made up a rather lame excuse to sit out and spent the period scribbling the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody" on his binder while watching from the sidelines. He suddenly remembered that one of Jack's friends had been there - the quiet one that was sitting behind him, gnawing on his pen. At the moment Ian half hoped his pen would explode and he'd get a mouth full of ink, but during gym, he didn't seem so bad: He had been sprawled out on the grass, loose curls catching the slight breeze, looking too distracted to even think about participating in physical education.

Now he was sitting two seats behind Ian, chuckling quietly with the rest of them. Probably about him, too. Their continued whispering was unsettling, but Ian supposed that there was nothing he could do about it. He was the new kid, he was from one of the less commonly talked about states, and he carried the Banner - he probably gave them a lot to talk about. He did his best to ignore their conversation and pay attention to the English lesson, which happened to be on Emily Dickinson. Vomit. Ian couldn't stand poetry, but attempted to make it through the notes anyway.

About fifty minutes later (it felt like fifty years) when the bell rang signaling the change of classes, Ian gathered up his things to leave. He wasn't too keen on going through the This-Is-The-New-Kid-Please-Try-To-Make-Him-Feel-Welcome-But-Only-Make-Him-More-Uncomfortable routine again, so he took his time. Jack and his gang pushed past him through the aisle between the desks, Jack saying, "See ya around, Ian," and the boy with the patch ruffling his hair as he passed. The other two chuckled as they brushed by.

Ian sighed and moved on to his next class.