A/N: First story! Just to clear up any confusions you may have, this is set before That Was Then, This Is Now. I set it in December 1968, because I wasn't too sure when the book took place. So you can assume that after this story, the book took place. I don't plan on drawing this out... maybe a few chapters. If anything in this is incorrect, please forgive me and feel free to correct. Sorry for any grammatical errors.

I don't own the Outsiders or That Was Then, This Is Now.

Dark Alleys and Somewhere Special - Part 1

December 17th, 1968

The boy's hair was plastered to his face, the rain pouring down on him. Although, he didn't give any sign of seeing the rain. He just kept running. His breath hitched as he turned his head and looked behind himself. More figures appeared behind him. The black .22 pistol in his hands slipped between his fingers from the wetness of them and it fell to the pavement behind him with a clatter. His urgent footsteps faltered. He almost went back to get his gun, but he caught the eyes of the figures chasing him, and kept running.

His older brother was always telling him he didn't think, and this was one of those times. He heard the footsteps behind him stop. They had stopped chasing him, and he'd almost thought he was free, but with a sick feeling he realized they were picking up his gun. He suddenly shivered, and it wasn't from the cold rain.

He lifted up his hands, but they weren't even above his head before the trigger was pulled and the shots were fired.

December 14th, 1968

"You're going to get yourself shot one day from your stupidity."

He looked up at his friend from where he was aiming up his shot with his pool cue. "Yeah," he said, tensing his muscles for the shot, "fat chance."

He let the pool cue slide between his middle and index fingers, and then there was the satisfying sound of the cue ball hitting the eight. Straight in the hole. He clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth and his gaze raked over his opponents. "I win."

The dark-haired boy in the dim light of the pool house shook his head and laughed. "Curtis, I just don't know how you do it."

Ponyboy stood up and rocked on his heels, leaning on the pool cue. "It's simple, Bryon," he said with a grin, "don't suck at playing pool."

The golden-haired boy standing with them let out a laugh as he dug into the pockets for the pool balls. "Curtis is right, Bryon," he said as he dug out a solid, "you sure ain't the hustler out of the three of us."

"Can it, Mark," Bryon grumbled with an additional half-eyeroll, setting down his pool cue. Ponyboy smiled to himself at his annoyance and looked around for a clock. When his eyes fell onto the one in the corner, they just about popped out of his head.

"Shoot, you guys," Ponyboy said, quickly finishing the rest of his Pepsi and setting the empty glass down on the table, "my brother's gonna kill me for coming home at this hour."

They had been in Charlie's pool hall, knocking back a few sodas and playing some pool for fun. They'd come with the intentions of hustling a game or two, getting some pocket money for running around town, but there wasn't anyone worth hustling around. So the three boys stood around and made small-talk, playing a few rounds of pool. Ponyboy had been enjoying himself so much that he'd forgotten to look at the clock.

"Why don't you just… skip the curfew?" Bryon said, cutting his eyes from Mark to Ponyboy. They were narrowed, almost like a cat's, straight at him. He knew Bryon wasn't that fond of him and he never could figure out why.

Ponyboy let out a half-hearted chuckle at the idea. "Yeah, right," he said almost sarcastically, "and the war in Vietnam will end. No way am I staying out all night." He shrugged his coat back on. Mark's strange-colored eyes, which were metallic gold, flashed up at him suddenly. "Need a ride?"

Ponyboy considered this idea. It was December, freezing cold outside, and he sure didn't want to walk home based on the rain-threatening gray clouds that had been hovering over Tulsa all day. He fumbled with his zipper and answered, "Sure, why not? You have a car?"

Mark's eyes were laughing at him. They crinkled around the edges and his lips curved slightly upward at his comment. "No, but has that ever stopped me?"

The three boys put up their pool cues and started to leave. Charlie, the owner of the bar, was slightly shaking his head at the group as they started walking out. "You boys are going to end up in serious trouble one of these days," he grunted as Mark opened the door.

Mark simply looked back at him and smiled. "No we ain't. I've got it covered."

Ponyboy thought Mark was a guy to marvel at. He was aloof and sly, and anything he said, people believed. He was kind of like how Soda was before the war. He radiated and people naturally loved him. Bryon, on the other hand, was the more reasonable of the two of them. He actually thought their ideas through. Mark and Bryon were two well-known cats around this area. People liked them both. They just went together. Ponyboy had no clue as to why Mark had recently taken a liking to him.

Mark pushed the bar door open and freezing air hit Ponyboy like a slap to the face. He hated December. He never liked it when he had cold hands.

They walked out into the parking lot, and Mark stopped all of a sudden, looking around. Ponyboy shoved his hands into his pockets and watched as his breath billowed in the cold night air. "What're we stopping for?"

Mark looked back at him and then squinted past him. "I'm looking for a car worth stealing."

Ponyboy suddenly felt slightly uneasy. He always knew Mark had troubles with stealing. Mark was on probation for stealing a few cars, and Ponyboy didn't think Darry would be in the mood to get a call about his kid brother getting booked for riding around in a stolen vehicle. He looked to see if Bryon was feeling unnerved as well, but Bryon was just staring ahead as if it were the most mundane thing in the world to be looking for a car to steal.

Mark's golden eyes flashed under the dim streetlamp and he pointed ahead. "That one." He caught Ponyboy's eye and smiled, lifting up his hands a little. "Don't worry, man. I'll bring it back right after, I swear. The guy won't even know it was gone."

Mark must've had some sort of superpower. Ponyboy felt his worries being relieved just from that statement. Mark was so believable because he acted like he knew what he was doing.

The three loped over to the car. It was a '64 Chevy Impala, with a mint green paint job. It was an old model, but the owner of it must have loved it. It looked pristine. The polished metal fenders were glinting from the streetlamps, the taillights were so clean that he could see his reflection. Ponyboy would've killed to get a car like that. He had his driver's license, but the only car he could use was Darry's truck, and that thing ran as smooth as gravel in a meat grinder.

Mark skillfully jimmied the driver's side door open and then went underneath the steering wheel. Ponyboy marveled at how sure Mark seemed of his movements. He poked his head over from where he was stuck under the wheel and caught Ponyboy's eye. "Hey, Curtis," he asked, "wanna learn how to wire a car?"

Ponyboy heard Bryon snicker behind him. "He don't want to learn how to do that, Mark," Bryon said. Ponyboy felt slightly put out by Bryon's answering for him. He shot a quick icy glare back at Bryon and then turned back to Mark. "Sure, I guess."

Mark smiled and got out, motioning him over. Ponyboy bent down and stuck his head underneath the wheel and looked at all of the different wires. Mark started rattling off instructions and Ponyboy did his best to follow them.

"So, you see those two brown and white wires under there? Those are connected to the ignition switch. When you put a key in a car, it just turns that ignition switch. But if you connect the right wires, you can get the car to start without a key. Take those wires and connect them together."

Ponyboy squinted at the wire mess under the dash in the dim light. It took him a moment, but he found the two wires Mark was talking about. He grabbed them in his hands and then touched the two wires together. Something sparked and the car went into ignition.

"Yeah, like that," Mark said from where he was standing over him. "Now I want you to find that yellow wire. Spark that brown one and then feed the starter motor."

Ponyboy did as he was told, and as if by magic, the car rumbled to life. He smiled and slid out from underneath the dash, wiping his hands on his jeans. "That was easier than I thought it would be."

Mark shot him a slight grin and hopped into the driver's seat. "You wonder how I get around. That's how I get around." Then he stopped and offered up the driver's seat to him. "You want to drive?"

Ponyboy shook his head. Wiring a car to steal it was one thing, actually driving it would be another. Mark shrugged and sat back in the seat. Bryon went around and sat in the passenger's seat, while Ponyboy sat in the back. The car was truly a beaut for being a 1964 model.

Then the radio came on. The owner of the car must've been an older guy, because Moonlight Serenade by Glenn Miller was on the station it was set to. Ponyboy remembered how his father liked big band stuff, too. For a split second, he almost wanted to listen to it, but he knew it would bore the guys. Instead, he leaned forward and said, "Change the station, man."

Bryon adjusted the dial until it landed on a radio station that was playing The Animals. He adjusted the volume. Ponyboy knew that song all right. We've Gotta Get Out of This Place. He listened to the rough guitar in the background and the droning chorus. We've gotta get out of this place… if it's the last thing we ever do.

It made him think about Soda for a moment. Sodapop turned eighteen in 1966 and got his draft notice five days after. Ponyboy remembered the nights he used to sit in his bedroom, staring at all of his brother's belongings, wondering if he'd ever set foot in the house again. Luckily, it was now late 1968, and Sodapop came back in April, a changed man. Ponyboy didn't think Soda would ever be the same again. He'd gotten out of Vietnam, sure, but he would never be free from himself.

"Curtis, you're thinkin' so hard I can practically see the smoke coming off of your head." Mark's voice startled him back to the present. He shook his head and stared at the road in front of him. The scenery slowly changed from downtown to the East side. You could always tell when you were getting into the East side. The cracks in the pavement started showing, with little weeds budding out of them. There were more gates around the houses.

Mark wheeled the car around and pulled to a stop on the corner of his street. "Hope the curfew police take it easy on you, Curtis. See you tomorrow?"

Ponyboy knew that Mark was referencing 'the curfew police' as Darry. He nodded and slapped the top of the car hood. "Yeah. I'll see you."

Mark gave him a fake salute and drove off. As Ponyboy watched them disappear into the darkness of the street, he found himself hoping that they returned that car as soon as they left.

He turned on his heel and fished around his shirt pocket for a cigarette. When he found one, he lit it and took a long drag. He was drawing his steps out one by one, making the walk back to his house longer than it needed to be. The cigarette was providing some warmth in the cold nighttime air. He almost considered staying out at the lot, but then kicked himself. You're seventeen, he scolded himself, you can take a yell from Darry.

With a slight newfound confidence, he came up to his gate and undid the lock. He made sure not to slam it, because it was metal and would've rattled. The porch light was on, which dampened his hopes of getting into his house without a hitch, but he would try anyway. He wanted to see if he could get off scot-free first, if he could make it into his room without Darry chewing his ear off.

He ambled up the steps and peered into the house. The lights were on, and—lucky him—Darry was wide awake, reading the paper. He didn't look worried, just slightly annoyed. Ponyboy dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out with his heel, then turned the doorknob.

Darry looked up at him. Ponyboy braced himself for the yell that was about to shatter his eardrums, but was surprised when all Darry did was sigh. Darry didn't get up, he just asked, "Where were you?"

Ponyboy, who was kind of floored at Darry's lack of anger, mumbled, "I was with a few friends and we lost track of time."

Darry folded up his newspaper and got up, pinching the bridge of his nose. Surprisingly, he didn't look mad. He just looked tired. "If you come in at this hour again, you're grounded. Actually, you are grounded for two days. I can't be sitting up waiting for you anymore. You could've at least called and said you'd be late." Darry moved toward the kitchen and thumbed back toward Soda's bedroom. "Go check up on Soda. He's been holed up in his room all night."

Ponyboy was quite surprised at Darry's calmness. He figured that Darry had taken enough of his crap and gave up. He was expecting a little more than a two-day restriction, but he didn't say anything about it. He just mumbled 'sorry' and went toward his room. He wasn't planning on checking up on Soda, but their rooms were right across from each other and he could see him through his open door, sitting at a desk, drawing something. They hadn't shared a room since Soda got back from Vietnam, because Darry and Ponyboy both figured he'd want to be alone for certain periods of time. Besides, Ponyboy hadn't had a nightmare since he was fifteen.

He stopped in front of Soda's door and knocked on the door slightly to make himself known. Sodapop's nerves were shot from the war, so any sudden appearance scared the hell out of him. Ponyboy and Darry always made a point to let themselves be known before they went into his room.

Sodapop looked up from his drawing and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Hi, Pone." he greeted. "I was wondering when you'd get home." He turned back to his desk and continued scrawling out something on his paper.

Ponyboy sat down on the edge of his bed and peered over at what Soda was drawing. "Hey, Soda. Anything new?" he asked, hopeful he'd get some sort of response. He didn't. Sodapop just shrugged and kept drawing. He had been a shell of himself since he got back. "Can I see your drawing?"

Sodapop's eyes whisked from his desk to Ponyboy, and then he mumbled something absently and picked up the piece of paper. He gingerly gave it to Ponyboy, who took it and studied what he had drawn. It wasn't a good drawing, but it was painfully easy to figure out what it was. It was an attempted picture of a Vietnamese girl on her knees in front of a dismembered man lying on the ground, bloodied and unrecognizable. There were flames all behind the scene, and mangled bodies in the distance. On the top of the page, Soda had written in his almost illegible handwriting, My Lai village. I was there.

A hard lump stuck in Ponyboy's throat. He'd known Sodapop was part of the C Company in South Vietnam, and that there was a war crime committed when he was with them, but he had never asked him exactly what the crime in question was. How he knew was that Soda had told him a while ago, when he first came home, that he'd done unforgivable things that he could never repent for. He stared at his dark-eyed brother, whom was once full of life, but now seemed to be shackled to Vietnam like a prisoner in a dungeon. He swallowed thickly and handed the paper back to Soda. Knowing that he had to deal with those thoughts was almost torture in itself.

"Want to talk about it?" Ponyboy offered, because sometimes Soda did want to talk about it. There were nights that Soda would pour all of his grievances and experiences to Pony and Darry, and all they could do was listen and try not to look horrified. Some of the officers Ponyboy had met at the station when Soda came back said that war veterans sometimes want to talk about their experiences to free their minds. But Soda didn't look like he wanted to free anything. His brown eyes were troubled as he slid the paper in one of his desk drawers and put up his pencil. "No," he said slowly, drawing the 'o' out, "I think I will just leave it on the page."

Ponyboy could conclude with that, despite wanting his brother to take a load off his chest. Maybe drawing it was taking a load off for him. He got up and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I think we should get some sleep," Ponyboy told him quietly. Soda nodded absently, but Ponyboy could tell his mind was elsewhere. Sighing, Ponyboy got up and switched the light off. "G'night, Soda."

Sodapop didn't answer. He sat in his desk chair, with his arms folded over his chest in the darkness, lost in thought. Ponyboy left his door ajar and sighed to himself. He wondered if Soda would ever be free from the jungle.

He crossed the hall, the hardwood floor cold on his feet, and went back into his own respective room. Tiredly, he pulled off his shirt and jeans and got into his bed. Sleepiness overcame him like a wave and he drifted off.

My Lai was a village in Vietnam. On March 16th, 1968, the frustrated men of Charlie Company went into the village and killed at least 300, if not 500, unarmed South Vietnamese civilians. Victims included men, women, the elderly, and children. Word of this war crime didn't come out to the public until November 1969, but Ponyboy was told by Sodapop about it before this story took place.