A/N: This chapter is more about a battle of wits than a brawl. Hope you enjoy it just the same.

1990

"You an' yer bright ideas," grumbled Murphy.

"Look at it this way," said Connor cheerfully. "We'll have more money when we get t' Boston. An' more money means we kin buy more beer."

Growing up relatively poor had taught Connor and Murphy to be careful about their spending, which was why they were currently stowing away on a cargo ship bound for America rather than paying a high price for tickets on a passenger vessel. The twins were beginning to regret their frugal decision. It hadn't been a comfortable journey so far, to say the least. The twins slept in the dark, cold underbelly of the ship, using their sea bags and coats as bedding. This did little to disguise how hard the steel floor was. Every noise at night sounded like footsteps, which, if possible, intensified their fear of being discovered by a crew member; the twins were getting an hour of sleep between them at best. Murphy's temper was much shorter than usual now and the slight shadows normally present beneath his eyes had become darker and more pronounced.

Connor and Murphy been eating extremely light since leaving Ireland, just whatever scraps one of them could manage to steal from the galley late at night. Neither of them liked having to steal; it was, after all, breaking a commandment. They would definitely have to go to confession when they arrived in Boston to seek absolution for their sins. At this point, both were just grateful to be alive and not have any tendency toward seasickness; the trip was hellish enough without puking all the time.

"I reckon we'll be everyt'in' Lady Liberty was lookin' fer, Murph," said Connor, toying with the chain to the Saint Christopher medal their mother had given him on the docks.

"How d'ye figure?" Murphy asked dully, running a thumb over his own Saint Christopher medal.

"Well, we're tired, right?"

Murphy yawned in confirmation.

"An' poor," Connor went on. "An' hungry."

"Don' fuckin' remind me," said Murphy, massaging his stomach. "An' if we're down here much longer, I reckon we'll be sick as well. Get pneumonia or somet'in'."

"Murph, yer gonna worry yerself sick." said Connor easily. "Jus' relax, all right? There's worse places we could be."

"Like where?"

Connor bit his lip. "Can' really think o' any at the moment." He let out a sigh. "I'm fuckin' starvin', Murph. 'S there anyt'in' left t' eat?"

Murphy got up and headed for a crawl space in the hold where they had stashed their meager stash of food. After a minute or so, he returned to his and Connor's makeshift sleeping quarters. He sat across from his brother, holding a single orange. Murphy reached into his jeans for his pocketknife and flicked it open.

"What're ya doin'?" Connor demanded.

"Splittin' it, ya retard," Murphy snapped.

"No, yer givin' me the whole t'ing." Connor argued.

He and Murphy had been dividing all the provisions in half since the start of the trip: Twinkies, fruit, and even those miniature boxes of cereal. Connor didn't usually mind sharing with his twin (except when it came to female attention, of course), but the lack of food and sleep was taking its toll on his ordinarily good nature.

"Yer so fuckin' selfish, Conn," Murphy said as loud as he dared in the echoing underbelly of the ship.

"I'm sick o' sharin', Murph. Now hand it over."

Murphy stared at the blade of his knife, mulling over what to do. Normally, he would've suggested they arm-wrestle or box to settle the matter, but neither of them were in any condition to fight...at least not physically. Struck by a sudden inspiration, Murphy put away his knife. He dug through his sea bag, eventually retrieving a pen and battered pad of paper from it. With his tongue between his teeth, Murphy drew a row of short horizontal lines, then a long vertical line ending with a line extending a few centimeters downward.

"Now what're ye doin'?" asked Connor.

"How 'bout this, Conn? We play hangman and if ye win, ye kin have the whole orange; if ye lose, I get it all." Murphy suggested

"S'pose tha's fair," his twin conceded. "How many letters?"

"8."

"All right then...let's see...O?" guessed Connor.

"'Fraid not," said Murphy, drawing a head on the end of the hangman's rope.

"N?"

Murphy shook his head and added a torso to the picture.

"S?"

"Nope." The stick man gained an arm.

Frustrated, Connor wracked his brain for other letters common in English words. "I? A? T?"

Murphy scribbled away on the paper, then declared, "Sorry, Conn, ye lost."

"Shit! What was the word?"

Murphy tossed Connor the paper and bent his head to conceal his smirk. When he looked up, Connor was shoving the notepad back at him, fury blazing in his blue eyes and etched into every feature on his face.

"This is in fuckin' Russian," Connor said through gritted teeth.

Murphy shrugged. "Ye never said it had ta be in English." he replied calmly, starting to peel the orange.

"Ye fuckin' tricked me, ye little bastard!" Connor's face turned red. He stood up and began to pace the floor, ranting incoherently in a mixture of Gaelic and English.

Murphy watched Connor's temper tantrum with an expression of mild interest. He was too busy reveling in the joy of having outwitted his twin to pay any attention to what Connor was saying. Murphy bit into the orange; juice trickled down his chin.

'Victory really does taste sweet,' he thought.

THE END