Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Creedence Clearwater Revival owns "Fortunate Son."

Some folks inherit star spangled eyes

Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord

And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"

Ooh, they only answer, "More! More! More!" Yo

May 16, 1969

His legs were burning, muscles contracting as he ran faster and harder. He could barely feel how much his own feet hurt against his boots, his toes and joints aching something awful. The sun was blazing down overhead, and sweat dripped down his skin. He couldn't feel it, though, ignored it, because he had to. Around him was nothing but smoke, his ears ringing loud. The gunshots were amplified enough, but he could still hear guys calling out as they tried to communicate with each other. Soda was running, though; he was told to get out before it was too fucking late. His chest was too tight, but he didn't consciously know it, and even if he did, he probably wouldn't care. The things that he used to care about didn't matter now, haven't in a while, actually. Soda wasn't even sure what in the hell normalcy was at this particular moment, didn't know the meaning of anything except his own integrity, and that he was a soldier.

His teeth were grinding together, jaw clenched, and saliva flew from his lip. Soda spent the last two years fighting this war. It shredded any ounce of humanity he once possessed, broke the person he was only twenty . . . twenty eight months before. And now, Soda Curtis had long separated civilian and soldier lives; some guys broke, some got stronger. Soda wasn't sure, not really at least, but there was a part of himself that believed Steve had held out better than him. Soda had done nothing but thought about his brothers, thought about home, and most nights, when he could hardly sleep, he dreamed of Tulsa, saw his brothers and his old friends. Of course he'd kept in touch, but what drove him crazy was that he could only see his past in a foggy daze. There were times when he felt stripped of his former life, scared stiff to try and remember it, but Steve was there, Steve was with him, and that counted for something.

Mary.

Soda thought of Mary while he ran. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he pictured her—long dark hair, soft to the touch, her olive skin so delicate to his own fingers, caramel eyes lit up by the sun's golden rays—and Jesus, Soda wondered if she would even look at him the same. Steve and Evie sent letters back and forth like their lives depended on it; Soda expected no less from his best buddy and his high school sweetheart. It was this particular thought that sent Soda to an abrupt halt, his broadened brown eyes searching for Steve. He had been beside him just a moment ago. They were told to get out, for Christ's sake, to get the hell outta there! Steve had been right there beside him, they had made eye contact, they had taken off—

The gun felt weightless in his hands, and Soda could feel his chest rising and falling as he panted for air, sweat beads zig-zagging down every inch of his body. He forced himself to squint, but he was unable to locate his friend, his best buddy, and then, before he had a chance to process anything else, there was a loud explosion. Soda could barely register anything before his body was suddenly ricocheted, a grunt like choke of a yell spilling from his chapped and dried lips.

Everything went dark.

"Alright, alright," Pete said, shaking his head. Gees, his girlfriend of four or five months could get so damn whiny sometimes. They had met each other while she was doing some test shoots for a modeling advertisement, or whatever. Pete couldn't remember, and quite frankly, he didn't care to. Ella Mitchell, or Lydia Belle, as she went by, was a piece of work, but she was alright. She was a hippie girl, fresh out of New York—attended some college there or something after completing a year. Pete dug her, though, liked her style, liked her. They were traveling together around the city for shoots. Pete Rhodes was a photographer, worked for Playboy and a few other various magazines, and Ella . . . well, she was just the perfect girl to suit his work. "Here's your coat," he continued, handing it to her.

Ella shivered a little. Glory, but it was cool out, a little too cool for May, she thought, and hugged her arms around herself. She glanced up at her boyfriend, lips pursed. She liked him, liked him real well and all, but sometimes . . . he got on her nerves. She watched him light up a joint like it was nobody's business, before he passed it along to her, which she took without a moment's hesitation. One thing was for certain, and that was that Ella Louise Mitchell had changed. No longer was she meek or shy, but rather, she was determined and full of life. She had attended Berkeley College for a year, but had finished two semesters in 1968 before calling it quits. She worked as a waitress for a while to make ends meet, and then she started modeling. Already, she had several photos of herself printed and published, but good Lord, she had never used her real identity. Hell, she even looked different now, real different. Her hair was only a few inches below her shoulder line, and no longer did she bother to really do anything with it unless it was to get done up for a shoot. She had filled out nicely, but she remained petite and thin, and the paleness of her skin was replaced with a light golden hue from spending a lot of time outdoors. These days, Ella mostly lived wherever, which usually meant with Pete. He was nice, treated her well and decent, and for a while (five months), Ella had felt alright.

"That wasn't bad, huh," Pete went on to say. "The lighting made your face stand out real nice in those last few shots."

The girl nearly snorted. "Didn't know it was my face you were trying to capture."

A grin slithered over Pete's lips as his eyes lowered a little before drifting back up. Ella had never done any nudes before, but the skimpy outfits she wore left little to the imagination. He had once tried talking her into exposing herself just a little, even if it was just one of her breasts, but she wouldn't have it. That was okay, though, well, for Pete it was. It wasn't like he didn't know what was under those clothes of hers anyway.

But Ella was still speaking, her voice low and monotone. "It's been a long day. I'm starved."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Pete replied, nose wrinkling. "Hard work laying in a chair for two hours with your legs spread and a camera aimed at you." He inhaled hard, the weed settling his nerves. "Gonna be a big day tomorrow, too."

A sigh. "Pete—"

He thrust a few dollars into her hands. "Just go get a bite to eat, Lydia."

Mary aimlessly drummed her fingers on her aunt's desk. She hadn't bothered to enter Aunt Vera's office, or her room since the accident. Being there right then felt odd to her, a cool sensation creeping up her spine and causing goosebumps to litter her skin. She swallowed the building saliva in her throat, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled deeply. The image of Aunt Vera's lifeless eyes hadn't left her mind since the day she found her two weeks prior to this moment. There was a heavy weight pressing down on the raven-haired girl's shoulders, a startling truth that only she was aware of. To look at Mary Charlotte DeVaney, nobody would think that she was capable. Hell, not even Mary herself would ever assume that she possessed the ability to take a life. But she had. Oh, she had. And now she was on her own. But there was a lurking feeling of freedom swirling in the pit of her gut, despite the fact that she was so terribly overwhelmed with guilt.

A part of her wasn't sure that she should even feel remotely good about herself, but . . . she was unable to remove that small piece of her that did. Oh, glory, she thought bitterly, but—

Mary Charlotte DeVaney was a murderer.

Only she and her deceased aunt were aware of this fact. Nobody could prove otherwise, for Mary had been very careful to cover her tracks. A keen sense of knowledge and a careful method had made Vera DuPres's death look like food poisoning. Ruled an accident. But Mary knew that preparing Aunt Vera's dinner that night two weeks ago was nothing short of absolute intent. Once the woman had consumed the meat, it was all over. There was no going back. She had passed in her sleep, sickly, too. Mary knew that; she had heard Aunt Vera choking and gasping for air. Prior to that, she had gotten sick a few times, and even though Mary had been so terribly anxious while guilt had wormed its way through her veins, she didn't do anything to help the woman. Nothing at all.

But Mary knew the truth.

She knew that Aunt Vera had been responsible for Soda's draft, and that knowledge had been brewing inside of her since the moment she had obtained it. She had been shocked, hurt, and so very, very angry. Never before had the girl felt such ruthless vexation. Never had she felt such a need to exact revenge. Hell, she had never thought Aunt Vera capable of doing something so foul and pathetic, something so desperate. Mary knew that her aunt despised Soda Curtis, didn't think he was suitable enough for her niece—Mary herself—but she had done one of the cruelest things ever. Mary simply couldn't believe it. But, oh the repulsive feelings that had built up inside of her once she had really found out that her aunt was the culprit all along had eventually reached a boiling point.

And Mary had snapped.

She had barely thought about what she was doing, preparing a spoiled and poisoned meal for her aunt, but it was easy and simple enough. And now that Aunt Vera was gone (it had only taken eight hours for her body to succumb completely), Mary was officially on her own. One day, she would personally have to offer her sincerest gratitude to Mr. Albert Webberly, for he had so generously (and unknowingly) provided her with all the knowledge that she needed. Mary had curiously read a letter in the mail, which was addressed to Aunt Vera, one day several weeks back. There had been no return address, either. It merely stated that this Albert Webberly had been meaning to contact her for a while, to discuss old business affairs, and then came the phone call that Mary had listened in on.

Mr. Webberly and Aunt Vera had spoken for quite some time—a long time, in fact—but Mary listened on, heart beating harder and harder in her chest once she learned of a particular business affair that pertained to Soda Curtis getting drafted. Call it premeditated murder, which Mary Charlotte DeVaney was very guilty of, or whatever, but in her mind, Aunt Vera had gotten what she deserved. No longer could the woman dictate her life, no longer could she control her. No longer did Mary live in fear. No longer could Vera DuPres rule her life with an iron fist.

Murder was never a justified course of vengeance, nor was it something Mary ever thought that she was directly capable of. But in this particular case, even though she was filled to the brim with guilt and great distress, Mary had never felt more free.

Leaning back in the chair, a deep sigh fell from the girl's mouth. Her mind was littered with thoughts of Soda. Of course, he had been the number one thing on her mind since they had first gotten together. It seemed like more than two years ago at this point. Sometimes, Mary felt like she was stuck in a dream, and she had questioned herself multiple times if any of it was real or not. She often wondered what would have transpired if Aunt Vera had never contacted Albert Webberly, she wondered what her life would be like if Soda was still home in Tulsa . . . with her. Would they still be together?

Mary felt her bottom lip tremble. In the beginning, when Soda had left, their letters had been plenty and full. Soda would tell her what he was up to and what things were like for him, and then . . . his letters became far and few, and less detailed. Mary had even noticed that his writing had changed, and it wasn't something subtle. In his early letters, his handwriting was slanted and sloppy, and Mary let a small, barely noticeable, smile touch her lips as she recalled thinking that Soda sure could have used a lesson in spelling. As time drifted on, the letters Mary received were shorter, and Soda's writing looked rough against the paper, as though he were pressing hardly, or like he was rushed. The girl could understand that, but she missed him desperately and wished she knew what he was up to these days.

Five and a half weeks.

That was the last time she had heard from him.

Things felt different.

She didn't want to admit it to herself, but Mary wondered if Soda still loved her or not. She had heard several stories about men in the military who found new women to fall in love with, (no matter how long it lasted), and she had heard other stories about women leaving their men. It scared her to consider the fact that, perhaps, Soda might have found love in someone else. She didn't want to think like that, though, didn't want to ever entertain the thought that Soda would—

No.

Soda had declared his love for Mary, as she had for him. Mary adored him for everything that he was, everything that they were together. She couldn't imagine him leaving her, but the looming thought that something might be wrong plagued her mind. She remembered the last time she had seen him, which was over a year ago now. He had only come home once on a short leave, and their time together had been incredibly limited. He sure looked different, Mary thought, but he was still her Soda. She loved him desperately, this she was very much aware of, she had given him everything.

Shaking her head, the black-haired girl stood up, her eyes lowering to the bracelet secured around her wrist; it was the very first gift Soda had ever gotten her, the same one Aunt Vera had stolen before Mary was able to retrieve it from the woman's desk drawer. She twirled it once, the soft metal brushing against her skin. Instead of sulking, Mary decided that she would pay a visit to one of her old friends, see if she had heard anything about Soda. Mary hadn't seen Evie in quite some time, but the two were on a friendly basis, and their boyfriends were best friends . . .

Perhaps it was time to visit Evie Martin after all.

Fifty degrees.

It was too fucking cold for May.

Gritting his teeth, Dallas tossed another bale of hay in the direction of the barn. Jesus H. Christ, but it had only been a fucking week or so since he had come back to Tulsa in need of a job, one which Buck Merril had been very generous in offering, and Dallas was already sick of it. He had spent the last two years traveling around and doing odd jobs for pay, never thinking he would cross the state line of Oklahoma for a much longer time. Unfortunately, he had been wrong. Luck didn't seem to be on the twenty-one year old's side, though . . . not that it ever had been to begin with. But still, Dallas Winston had quite enjoyed traveling around, never getting too attached to anyone, never worrying about sticking in one area for too long . . .

That was how he liked it.

He had worked in a few bars, did some handyman labor, raced in rodeos, trained horses . . . He never did one thing for too long, always moving on before anyone could miss him. That was until he had come across this little run-down bar that was looking for an extra bartender. Dallas had been selected for the job, and he worked there for a good seven months, give or take, until the owner got arrested, (some bullshit involving drug smuggling), and the place flopped. It was too bad honestly, because Dallas had actually enjoyed that joint. His boss had let him start working several weeks before he turned twenty-one, didn't care what he did, so long as he treated the customers decent, and offered him free room and board. He was similar to Buck Merril that way, Dallas had thought, just not as stupid. No, he was a bit rougher around the edges, but he was alright. Too bad he got involved in drug dealing.

On second thought, maybe he was just as dumb as Buck.

But since that place shut down, Dallas found himself on the road back to Tulsa, contempt on his mind the entire way. It wasn't that he had to return there, but he wasn't that far out of the state, and besides, he was in desperate need of a new vehicle. The pickup he had been driving around cost more to repair than what the damn thing was worth, and Dallas knew he wasn't going to make it very far if he kept going. Besides, he knew Tulsa well enough, knew where to look to get some dough and a new ride, so that was what he did.

Buck Merril had been mighty surprised to see the kid come strolling into the bar the other week, his eyes widening so much that Dallas thought they would have stretched right off his face. Buck hadn't changed one bit, that was for certain, but he was much more quiet these days, and Dallas figured it had something to do with how different things were in the area. No longer were there greasers and Socs, no longer did there seem to be a social divide, or maybe there was and Dallas was blind to it. He didn't see any of the old gangs around, didn't see the guys he once hung around with anywhere . . .

Then again, Dallas also hadn't bothered to let anyone important, save for Buck, know he was back in town, either.

It wasn't that he had a problem with anyone in particular, but he wanted to lie low for a while, figure things out before he got too comfortable. There was only person he had thought about seeing, and that was Darrel Curtis. He thought about calling, or just randomly showing up, but ultimately decided not to . . . at least not then. Dallas had thought about his old friends a lot in the past two years, but he had never bothered to really keep in touch. After his ex-girlfriend split, headed to New York to attend college, Dallas had bailed without saying a word to anyone. He had gotten wind that Ponyboy officially published that book he had written back in the Summer of '67, heard that Soda and Steve left for the Army, and then there was something about Curly Shepard getting drafted and disappearing. He had heard all of this and more from different people he had ran into here and there. The only person he didn't know what became of was Two-Bit Mathews; last he heard, that dumbass was still dating that Soc-y broad.

Oh well. Maybe he would check in with Darry, maybe he wouldn't. It wasn't exactly like he was looking to stay in town all that long anyway.

The sound of a car pulling up caught the blond's attention, his icy blue eyes narrowing as he glanced up to see Buck's beat up T-Bird coming to a stop beside him. The older cowboy lit a cigarette as he stepped out, making sure to stand away from the hay. Dallas eyed him coolly. Buck only stopped by during the day when he had nothing better to do, which meant that he would be dealing with his company for the remainder of his work time.

"How much more you got there?"

Dallas flipped his collar up. "Twelve."

Buck nodded, nose wrinkling as he inhaled. "I wasn't gon' ask ya, 'specially this soon, but are ya plannin' on stickin' around for the next few weeks?"

He didn't have to wonder why the older man was asking, because Dallas already knew. Besides, Buck Merril never inquired about the future unless he had plans for something. Of course, he was going to ask him if he was going to participate in the rodeo, possibly try to get him hooked up in the Slash J again, not that Dallas was completely opposed . . . he just didn't make commitments like that—not anymore, at least.

"Don't know," came the brisk reply, and Dallas jerked his chin forward. "Like I told you, man, I only need enough dough to get another set of wheels, and then I'll be on my way."

Buck stared at him hard for a moment. Dallas had and hadn't changed. He had always come off harshly, always carried himself in a way that made him seem cooler, older. But now he looked a few years older than merely twenty-one, the indented lines around his eyes more prominent, the grown in stubble on his face giving him a more ragged-edged appearance. His voice was firmer, too, not as rough as it used to be, but more mature. He hadn't told him much about what he'd been up to in the past two years, but Buck was pretty certain he wouldn't get a full answer even if he did ask.

All he knew was that Dallas lived on the road here and there, and made a living off working under the table, none of which came to a surprise to Buck. Not in the least. Dallas Winston, when he wanted, could be fair, and when he put his mind to it, he worked good. However, Buck could never picture him as someone who held a long term job, or have a career. In some way, the cowboy was slightly shocked that Dallas even ventured around and did any sort of work, but he wasn't going to question what he did in his free time. Besides, there was other business to attend to . . .

He pushed on. "You should consider racin' this Summer. You's always good at it."

And there it was, Dallas noted. For a moment, he considered on knocking Buck out with one of the bales, but ultimately decided against it. He really didn't have any plans of staying in Tulsa longer than he needed to. The longer he had been away, the easier it had been to forget all of the shit that had been eating away at him since the moment he'd picked up and left. Even being there felt wrong to him, and for a moment, he regretted making the fucked up decision of coming back.

Fuck.

Tossing another bale of hay toward the barn, the blond's jaw clenched. It really was too cold out for this time of year, especially with Summer right around the corner.

Lord, if you can hear me, I know it's been a while, but I could really use your help . . .

Steve took a deep breath, his exhalations coming out unevenly. Every muscle in his body felt like it was trembling, and he couldn't make his leg quit shaking. He wouldn't admit how fucking scared he was right then, and looking at the other guys around him, he knew they wouldn't, either. Well, except for Lars. Damn kid was shaking like a leaf, not that Steve could exactly blame him. Fuck. His head hurt something awful, and he could feel blood trickling from his nostril where he'd smashed his face against a rock good and hard. He could barely remember anything, honestly. The screams, though, he was unable to forget. He recalled Captain Carter yelling, and then explosions erupted from every which way. Soda had been right beside him, and then Steve was ripped right off his feet, the ground beneath him vibrating with such force and intensity. He had landed several feet away, his back colliding into a tree before he plummeted down face first into that rock, the jagged edge slicing into his cheek.

"Lars, quit trembling," Julius hissed, nudging the teen with his boot. "You're gonna end up shitting yourself, man."

Steve shot Julius a dark look. Albie Lars was barely nineteen years old, too small for his age, and looked like he should be teaching poetry, rather than be stuck in the jungles of Vietnam. He'd been drafted right out of high school, sent overseas immediately after an accelerated boot camp course which hardly prepared the kid for anything they were currently facing. In a way, Steve was reminded of Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade whenever he looked at the kid's face, but he quickly shook his head of those thoughts. Julius Hicks, on the other hand, was twenty-four, brute, and overly cocky . . . or he just wanted to impress everyone, including himself. He didn't like Lars at all, mostly because he thought he was a wimp, but the three of them, and Soda, were part of a group.

Two groups of four had been sent in on a special operation . . . one that hadn't gone over well. Steve wasn't sure what happened to the other four, or Soda, and even though he was worried, he did his best to conceal whatever panic he was feeling internally. Besides, they already had one crybaby—not that Steve really disliked Lars—and they didn't need anyone else acting like a pussy.

Lars's hands were shaking as he grabbed his left side, his teeth immediately clamping together as his lips folded back. His dark gray eyes squeezed closed for only a second, but it was clear that something was wrong. Steve usually didn't like to get in on matters like this, unless they pertained to Soda, (they always had each other's backs), but right then, the three of them needed to look out for one another, had to depend and rely on each other. Steve knew that Julius would only tell Albie to shut up and quit being a girl, which would start the two of them off, and that was the last thing Steve wanted to listen to or deal with. Besides, he didn't know how long they were going to have to hide out in the brush; it was too damn smoky to try and find their way out—it was nearly enough to burn their eyes. They couldn't stay there that much longer, either, Steve knew; they would have to figure something out, and soon.

"What's wrong, kid?" he asked, wiping the blood from his own lip.

Lars winced. "My side, man . . . something—" He let out a deep hiss of a wail before he could finish the sentence. "S-Steve," he tried to bite out, fingers curling around the side of his gut.

Shifting ever so slightly, the darker-haired man turned to get a better view of his fellow comrade. "You gotta move your hand," he said. "I can't see nothin'."

As Lars went to move, though, Steve's eyes widened as a pool of blood began soaking through the other man's clothing. Fucking hell. The last thing Steve wanted to do right then was freak out, especially with the likes of Julius right there, and their current situation wasn't helping matters. Back home, shit like this used to be simple. Steve could remember dealing with gang fights and rumbles, he could recall fighting the Socs back when there was more of a social class divide, he could remember getting jumped and not thinking anything of fighting dirty. But this . . . this was something else entirely.

Back home, if one of his friends got injured, they would get cleaned and stitched up like it was no big deal, go on about their business as though nothing had happened. He remembered what some of his old friends looked like after fighting in a rumble, he remembered Johnny Cade after a bunch of Socs had gotten a hold of him that one day four years ago. Most of it seemed so far away, like it never existed, and sometimes Steve found himself struggling with any ounce of normality. But shit . . . this wasn't home, there wasn't any form of normalcy here, and nothing was simple. They couldn't just clean Lars up and stitch him back together before going about their business like nothing ever happened. No, this was war, real war, and this was a real problem without any means of help.

"Holy shit," Julius half-whispered, slight shock written on his hardened face. He was watching Lars with an almost weary expression; he knew it wasn't good, either. "Don't move him," he directed at Steve with a jerk of his chin. "It'll only make it worse."

Lars's eyes broadened. "Steve—"

Julius leaned over, grabbing Steve by the shoulder, jerking him forward. "We gotta leave him, Randle," he stated, nostrils flaring. "We move him and he'll bleed to death 'fore we even have a chance to get the hell out of here." He shook his head once. "Only thing he's gonna do is slow us down."

Steve wasn't quite sure that he was really processing the words coming out of Julius Hicks's mouth, and for a split second, he felt his entire body go cold. He imagined Soda out there alone and injured, and he could picture him in Albie Lars's place, could see Julius saying the same thing about him. The thought was enough to make him sick, make his stomach twist. He didn't want to think about it, but he had no choice. They had to get out of there before they ended up being blown to pieces. No, he couldn't leave the stupid kid behind, he couldn't. It wasn't right. How could he live with himself?

But Julius was shaking him again. "Come on, Randle, get your shit!"

In the distance, there was another explosion, and Steve ducked down as the ground seemed to come up several feet from where he, Lars, and Hicks were hiding out. Shit, shit, shit, he thought, his heart pounding hard against his rib cage. He could see Julius glaring at him from the other side of Lars, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line. He had made his mind up, Steve could tell, and was going to leave them both behind if push came to shove.

Another explosion.

The sound of multiple shots.

His head was spinning.

And in his mind he screamed: God!

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no no no

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no no no

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?

I hope y'all enjoyed the opening chapter of "Thunder Road," the follow-up story to "Wild Night."

Thank you for reading! :3