[center][B][U]The Grim North Caine MacFondóir What Feels Like a Lifetime Ago[/u][/b][/center] Well this is a hell of a situation, ain't no arguing with that. There I was, packing up my old life in the London flat I've been dossing out of the last two years, head full of ideas on how I could become a better man, how I'd begin the slow climb outta the pit I'd dug for myself with all my dark words and darker deeds when the Great Song went from a pleasant background refrain to a furious storm of sound, that usually only happening when I was in deep shit. I'd long ago learnt to trust the Song implicitly, throwing myself forwards over the back of the couch instinctively. Good thing too, as I felt a sharp burning across my upper arm that could only mean I'd just been bled a little. Ironically enough if you apply a little hindsight I shoulda known better, you keep both eyes on the future and you're liable to miss it when your past sneaks up on you to stab ya in the back. Case in point, one Mr Joseph Murphy, AKA 'Big Murph', currently engaged in trying his damndest to kick the brains out of your's trulys skull. Course the fella in front of me is wearing a balaclava and dressed in black, but there's still no mistaking him for anyone but Murph, ain't anyone else that big in London. A full half foot taller than I am, me being a pretty respectable 6'3”, with the breadth of shoulder that you could only get with a lifetime of lifting heavy weights and some truly freakish genetics, Murph might have well as called ahead as worn a mask to disguise himself. That, and he's probably the only person in the city to willingly sneak into my house to kill me, and definitely the only one who would come without a gun. That's not to say that Murph ain't armed, he isn't stupid. Nah, he's come with a knife, foot long steel blade that still looks little more than a tooth-pick in that big paw of his, the bloody wound on my bicep testament to its sharpness. I glare across my lounge room at Murph, still trying to figure out why he was here and and more importantly why he was trying to kill me. He didn't really look like he cared to give me the time to figure it out though, stepping lightly, despite all that bulk of his, around the couch to come at me with the knife levelled at my chest. He'd missed his chance for an easy kill though, and I wasn't planning on giving him another. Pa used to always say [i]'You want to win a fight Caine, you attack! Ain't no one ever won a scrap by waiting for the other guy to make his move.'[/i] My Pa doesn't know much, but he does know how to fight so I spared no time in taking his advice, leaping at Murph when he got close enough. For his part Murph had the decency to look surprised that I'd attacked in stead of getting stuck like a Christmas goose, especially when I slapped his knife-hand away before smashing my fist into his nose. I keep pressing him, knowing that you gotta take every advantage you can get when fighting a guy like Big Murph, but I only get one more hit in before he's recovered enough of his wits to get back into this fight, rolling with the next blow while flicking that knife of his out again. The Song gives me enough warning to jump backwards but I still feel that hot tear of metal through flesh as the blade scores across the skin of my chest. Murph follows in, knife stabbing forwards straight for my throat. I catch his wrist at the last second, too close for my liking, twisting hard to make him drop the knife, evening the playing field a little in my favour. I pull him in close, driving my knee up into his stomach, looking to wind him, but he manages to get his free arm in the way to deflect the force of the blow. He follows up with a quick, sharp gut punch, not enough force in it to really hurt but enough to drive me back, squawking like some kinda panicked bird. That's embarrassing. Murph advances, throwing a quick combination of punches, some I dodge, some I block, a few I can't do nothing about cept take em on the chin. I manage to get a few licks of my own in, but even without powers Big Murph is near my equal in a straight scrap, and if you factor in his extra two decades of experience then he comes pretty close to having my number. I get one last could crack in, a straight left that thunders of his chin. Feels like I'm hitting granite, but he backs off, neither of us as keen as we were to get back into it. We stand there glaring at each other, breathing deep and heavy. Pretty sure I'm growling like a dog with each exhale. Now's a good as time as any to find out why he's here, though I've got a few guesses of my own as to why now. “That mask was a lesson in futility, eh Murph?” I say, my voice somewhere between a snarl and a wheeze. Been a long time since I've actually had a real fight, most folk just roll over as soon as I lumber up. Hate to admit it, but I'm outta shape. Big Murph's mask comes off, whether to let the air come easier or because he finally realised that it wasn't doing anything to hide him, I ain't sure. “Never did like to hide behind those things,” he mutters, letting the fabric drop to the floor. “Does nothing for a man's reputation when all his accomplishments are done while wearing a mask.” “You'd know all about that though, eh North?” A grin broke Murph's craggy face at that, though there was very little genuine humour in it. “Ain't a name blacker than yours, not in all of Europe. Doesn't matter what you do, that stain'll always follow you. Couldn't believe my ears when the Prince told me that you think you can go straight. Just like a leopard can't change its spots, Caine MacFondóir ain't gonna become a man of peace.” I ain't afraid to say that Murph's words irked me more than a little, not half because he was just voicing the fears I was hiding from myself. I [b]needed[/b] to change a new leaf, needed it like a man in the desert needs water. The thing was, what if I couldn't do it? I'd never known any other way than the way I do things now, what if I was incapable of being the better man? Murph said I couldn't be the peaceful sort, I was afraid he was right and so that made me angry, which made me want to rearrange his face with my fists. If there is a God then I'm damned sure he's laughing at me. “What you doing here Murph.” “Ain't it obvious?” He responds. It is, but my heart needs to hear the words out loud to come to the same conclusion my brain did about ten minutes ago. “Robert can't let you go. I don't mean that in a Hugh Grant rom-com He-can't-live-without-you kinda he can't let you go, I mean he can't let you go running around with all you know. You're a loose end, and the Prince can't abide loose ends.” That was about what I'd figured. Shoulda known, Robert was far to canny to let someone like me leave his services. No, even if I got outta this I'd be a marked man. Robert would want to silence me, his enemies would want to use me, the law would want to lock me up. It was a grim choice, but it'd already been made. I needed out, so it looked like I'd just have to live with being marked, and anyone who wanted to kill me or use me or lock me up would have to get ready for the fight of their lives, cause thats what I'd give em. The Great Song began to beat faster, roiling like summer thunder, near deafening in its volume. I feel the Singer pawing around at the back of my brain, desperate to claw his way to the fore, take control of my body and do his bloody work. For once I've got half a mind to let him. Instead I exert all the limited control I have over him to wrestle him back down, forcing him to take a back seat this time. This ones mine. I want to feel Murph break under my fists first hand. Maybe I ain't ready to be a better man after all. That's a question I'll have to ponder later, as right now I've got an old friend to beat to death first. ----- Not quite the way I imagined quitting London, that being stowed away in the back of an overnight artic transporting broken power tools towards Germany for repair, but I suppose it serves as well as any other. Besides, any other route would be watched, whether by Prince's men or one of his rivals it doesn't really matter, they'd try their damnedest to stop me, and I'd do my best to upset them. Either way, it'd get messy. Nah, this ways better, and I suppose its fitting. Broken things moving on to be fixed sounds awful familiar. The thought of broken things brings my last image of Big Murph to mind, lying shattered across the pavement, spread eagled amongst the glittering shards of glass from the third floor window I'd thrown him through. We'd sure done a number on each other before I ended our fracas with an impromptu defenestration, and by the time I'd grabbed the stuff I'd need on the road and limped down the stairs Murph looked like he'd already passed. He hadn't though, he was still clinging onto life, a fighting spirit trapped in a broken body. I considered calling him an ambulance, but decided against it. If he was gonna live he'd live, I couldn't have a hand in his survival as we'd severed the bonds of friendship about the same time he tried to sever my throat with that knife of his. Looked like I was still more suited to taking lives after all. Reckon it's gonna be a long road to being a better man.