I remembered the flash-forward I had in chapter one, and decided to have Dally be interviewed. Hope you enjoy :) Yes, the flash-forward is actually in this chapter as regular text.

Can I just quote the whole song that I'm quoting? Damn. It reminds me a lot of the way Dally loves Johnny (like a brother, this fic isn't slash).

"If I know one thing that's true
It ain't what you say, it's what you do
And you don't say much, yeah, that's true
But I listen when you do
A thousand years go by
But love don't die..."

-from "Love Don't Die" by The Fray

Dallas wanted nothing more than to just turn around and go back to his old apartment. But he couldn't. His family, or what was left of it, had been evicted. The only home they could afford was a grimy, messy apartment in the middle of the worst part of New York.

"We're gonna get shot ta death here!" he muttered as he walked into his new home. His father gave him a dirty look. Dally knew that if he wasn't so hungover, Timothy Winston would tan his hide.

"Then shoot back," snapped Mr. Winston to his son. Dally knew he wouldn't be much help. He didn't get it- Dally needed to find a way to survive in the wild side, to fit in. Everyone there was in a gang, a greaser, or both. Dally didn't grease his hair, but he was a greaser, all right. He just had no chance of getting into a gang. He was too bossy to just fall back into the motions of a gang. He wanted to be the leader, not just another one of the people.

Shoot back... he thought. I can do that.

He took to wandering the streets, looking at the natives of that area. Gradually, he started using their slang and fitting in a bit. He shoplifted a heater from a gun and ammo store and got enough ammo to last him a lifetime. He started carrying his heater loaded. There was shootings in New York every day, and he wasn't about to die in one.

One day, when he was walking to the grocery store to lift some food, someone stopped him on the streets. They were a slightly short, skinny boy with a mop of red hair that was plastered down with hair grease.

"What gang are ya in?" he asked. "I ain't seen ya in shoot-outs or anythin'."

"I ain't in a gang. Yet," Dally said casually. "You in a gang?"

"Naw, just dropped outta school. Used ta not have time for a gang," said the boy. "My name's James Richner. Who're you?"

"Dallas Winston," Dally said. The gears were spinning in his brain. What if he and this boy could start a gang? Nobody was going to accept a nerdy-looking carrot-top like James into their gang. Dally could get into a gang easy, but he was a leader, not a follower. "Tell ya what, James. Wanna start a gang?"

OoOoOoO

Slowly, the gang started to recruit people. Most of them were recruited rather roughly- roughly, meaning they were tackled down in an alley and held at gunpoint- but still, they were willing fighters.

"What are we gonna call our gang?" asked Andy, one of the new recruits. "The Fucked-Up Squad? TFS?"

"The Devils," suggested another recruit.

"The... wait, what street is this?" Dallas asked his gang, squinting up at the street sign.

"Elm Street, can't ya read?" asked Ben, a recruit.

"Nah, never been ta school," Dally said, folding his arms. "Could never afford it. Anyway. The Elm Street Devils don't got a ring ta it. It makes me think of a burnin', fiery, hellish elm tree, and that ain't the toughest thing." His gang laughed.

"Search ya pockets," said the only black boy in the gang, Tom. "Maybe ya got somethin' in there that'd name the gang." Dallas and his gang turned out their pockets. They all had a wide assortment of possible gang names from that:

"The cancer sticks."

"The matches."

"The... bags of pot?"

"Get off them drugs," Dally said to the last boy. "We ain't gonna carry ya ta the hospital. I only got one thing in my pocket. As usual." He pulled his loaded heater out of his pocket.

"The Heaters!" piped up one of the boys. "We could be the Heaters!"

"Everyone all right with that?" asked Dallas, looking around. "All right, then. We're the Heaters!" His gang cheered, and he fired his heater into the air in triumph.

He had a gang. He had friends. He was getting a rep. He figured he didn't need anything more out of life.

"Follow me," said Dr. Smythe, waiting outside the building she and Dallas usually had therapy sessions in. He noticed she was dressed in much more expensive clothes than she usually wore. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his old jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket. The therapist and her patient walked to a second-hand-looking car in okay shape. "Get on in," she said when Dally stood there in the street.

"'kay, ma'am," he mumbled, getting into the car. That's how Dr. Smythe knew something was wrong. Dally was never that polite. She looked over at him as she started the car. His hair was sticking up all over as usual. He had a large bruise on his jaw. He looked nervous.

"Dallas, don't worry over this," Dr. Smythe said as they drove down the street toward the newspaper office building. "Just answer their questions, and you'll be fine." She sounded a bit too much like she was trying to convince herself. She didn't want her patient to go on the chair. Not at all. She had gotten a bit attached to him in a grandmotherly way.

"I ain't worryin'," Dally said. He was gripping onto the side of the car and looking like he might be sick. "Not at all."

"If that's the-"

"Way ya feel," finished Dally. "I know, I know." They pulled up in front of the news building. Dally ignored the car door and just jumped over it. He landed on both his feet on the sidewalk, and waited for his elderly therapist to catch up with him. She parked the car and locked the doors before following him. They walked into one of the small rooms used to interview people.

The room was painted completely beige. There was a table with a booth around it, kind of like in a diner. "Sit down, Dallas," said Dr. Smythe. Dally did. "Good luck," she said, before leaving him alone in the room. His fingers twitched nervously.

When he was considering falling asleep, since clearly the reporters were taking their own sweet time, the door slammed open. Dally turned toward the door and was immediately handcuffed. A reporter walked into the room, and the cycle began.

"You were originally from New York?" asked the reporter. Dally tried not to look at her cleavage. He bet the reason he was cuffed was so he wouldn't rape anyone. His stomach twisted.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"And you ran away from your home and ended up here?" she asked. Dally decided just to look at the ground. He tried desperately not to get turned on by the young, pretty reporter.

"What? I bet ya woulda ran away if ya father was beatin' ya and rapin' ya and-" Dally started. "Oh shit. Shit, shit. Can ya just pretend I never said that?" He wanted to bash his skull in. He told himself not to tell anyone but his friends about that. And as for the raping part, he had only told the Heaters and Johnnycake.

"If you wouldn't like that information in the public eye," said the reporter coolly.

"I wouldn't," Dally said, relieved that that wasn't going to go into the newspaper. He'd die of embarrassment before he could get a chance to off himself. "Uh, I did."

The reporter nodded. "Tell me about Johnny Cade," she said. Dally startled.

"Uh... me an' him was real good friends. He was real quiet, and I did all the talkin' a lot. He listened ta me, which a lot 'a people don't do. When he was upset or sad or got beat up, he'd come ta me, and I'd try ta cheer him up. When I lost it sometimes and started cryin' or gettin' real angry, he was there. Sometimes, we didn't even talk to each other. We'd just stand next ta each other, and we'd know that both of us ain't in a talkin' mood. He was like the little brother I never had," Dallas told the reporter.

"What was going through your mind during when you assaulted and raped Sherri?" asked the reporter.

"I don't even know. I was just real angry, so I took it out on her. It wasn't her fault," Dally added, remembering the way she asked him 'Why me?' when they last talked. "I wasn't thinking when I did that."

"But that doesn't answer my question," said the reporter.

"Do I look like I care?" Dally snapped.

Reporter upon reporter came in. Some asked him about his friends. He answered fairly truthfully, leaving out things like the rape, his being kicked out of the house, and the graveside fight with Darry. The reporters quoted his speech from Johnnycake's funeral back at him, and he told them that it wasn't pre-written. The reporters asked him about New York. For that, he kept his mouth shut. The reporters asked him about his therapy, and if he was getting any better.

"I been havin' nightmares an' I can't find any good in the world," Dally said then. "I doubt I'm gettin' any better."

But the one question the reporters always asked was: "What was going through your mind during when you assaulted and raped Sherri?" And Dally fell into the pattern of answering them with the same answer every time.

"Last one, Winston," said a cop, letting another reporter in the room. It was a sharply dressed woman who was undoubtedly living on the Socs' side. She carried a clipboard and even had her nails painted. Dally sneered at her. If she had sons, they'd probably jumped him once or twice. She asked all the usual questions. Dally answered them flatly. He couldn't wait to get out of there. All the questions was making him think of the night Johnny died, the night of the rape.

"Mr. Winston," said the reporter, her elaborately painted nails clicking against her clipboard. "I'd like you to describe what was going through your head during the... incident."

The cold metal of the handcuffs strained against Dally's clenched fists. He fought to keep his face emotionless, but if you looked close you could see the pain in his eyes. Pain and anger, bottled up, weighing heavy on his shoulders.

"Mr. Winston," repeated the reporter quietly. Dally's head swam as he tried to find the right words for what he was feeling.

"I just... I didn't know what the fuck I..." Dally stammered. Why now, of all the many times he'd answered this very question, did he choke up? He knew what he did. He knew it was horrible and wrong. He knew it was no one's fault but his own. But he just couldn't say what he was thinking aloud. "It wasn't her fault and I wasn't thinking," he finally remembered. He'd said that line so many times it was branded into his memory.

"But that doesn't answer my question" was what the reporter would say. Dally knew. That's what everyone said after he said his line.

Surprisingly, she didn't say that. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "Mr. Winston, how do you feel now?" The question make Dally freeze. None of the reporters had asked him that. He didn't disguise the truth at all, and said,

"I feel like shit."