The unseen mark *open*

[isaac]

Isaac found it interesting that he would find himself in a place called Midtown. It was perfect for someone who was stuck in the middle of something, though what that something was he wasn't exactly sure. All he knew was he had nowhere to belong, and he wasn't going to find somewhere any time soon. And for now, this was where he would belong: with other people who didn't belong, in a place that didn't belong. He didn't like it, but he didn't have any other choice.

It was maddening not to know things, he thought to himself as he walked across Maisy's Field toward the back fence, a short wooden job that looked as if it was meant to establish a boundary rather than to keep anything out or in, which in Midtown one might want to have done more than was realized at first. It was maddening not to know if the police were still looking for him, if his parents had forgotten about him or if their hearts still raged and hated him, if he had let enough time pass so that he could start a new life for himself.

All of those questions, he doubted. The murder of his brother had gotten little press outside of New Jersey, and the police force must have given up an active chase. Isaac knew that even if a photograph of him was circulated, they couldn't catch him. His parents hadn't cared enough about him to take anything recent, and even now at eighteen he couldn't look more different than he had that night about a year ago when he left his parents house. His face was tired and hard, and his eyes were cold. They were the eyes of a murderer, and Isaac imagined that perhaps his eyes were what Cain's looked like after he killed Abel in the fields.

He had grown to accept the fact that many people, especially a few of those he had come into contact with in Midtown, called him Cain. Isaac's Christian upbringing resulted in a keen knowledge of the religion, and as he leand on the low wooden fence and looked out to the rest of the open field, he began to wonder if Cain had repented only after God had cursed and marked him. Perhaps that was why Isaac never had repented or asked for forgiveness: there was no God coming from heaven to condemn him. The only people who condemned him were those he wished to hurt anyway. And he was not marked. No one would know what he had done unless he wished them to.

But wasn't he? It seemed almost as if an invisible mark had been placed on him, something that made him unable to find somewhere where he could live without fear of his past catching up to him or God showing his wrath at last and Isaac wondered if this might have been one of the worst punishments possible: he was an outcast among men and couldn't find a place where he belonged. This was the unseen mark: he was cursed as a vagabond for all his life.

After a moment of thought Isaac felt like praying. But what could he pray for? He had nothing to hope for, not anymore. No salvation, no forgiveness, nothing. He sighed heavily, and as he saw someone coming across the fields, his eyes steeled over again as he watched them. Were they coming toward him, or just going their own way? Unabashed at the aspect of staring, Cain watched their progress across the field.

[Mike D. Greaser]

Days like these made Mike so bloody happy. He loved these days. The days when everyone seemed to be in the way. The days where everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Where everyone seemed unconcerned that Mike wanted to get back to his warehouse. Basically, Mike loved these days because everyone acted like him. Everyone acted like the owned the world. And they couldn't act like that because that was how Mike acted. Mike couldn't stand people that acted like him. Oh, but he loved these people.

Bloody loved them. Loved 'em all!

Mike contained his anger all the way to Maisy's Field. He was in middle of the field when he couldn't hold it any longer. Letting out a frustrating scream, Mike kicked at some dirt. It wasn't normal for Mike to show his anger like this. He usually kept it inside and kept his cool, emotionless mask on. He rarely lost his temper. Usually, only in front of his newsies or Alice. But even then, he never got this angry.

Taking a deep breath, Mike calmed himself. His newsies needed to see a cool and collected leader. His newsies. Mike smiled every time he heard this. His newsies. They were his. They were willingly his. No force, no bribery. They were his. Maybe he should stop while he was ahead? Nah, what would be the fun in that?

Feeling in a much better mood, Mike started to walk across the field. This time, he actually had a small smile on his face. Maybe today would not be so bad after all. Maybe once he got back to the warehouse he would play some poker with his newsies. Maybe get in some trouble. Maybe he would go see Alice...

Mike felt his anger flare again. Just the thought of Alice made his face turn red. It wasn't her fault, not by any means, but what was happening to her. Mike didn't like to feel helpless. He hated that feeling. It made him feel weak and like a blasted fool. But he would not give up and neither would Alice. They were fighters.

Brushing this thought aside, Mike decided to try and have some fun tonight. Besides, tomorrow was when he would get down to business. Everything was happening tomorrow and it was stressful because it everything depended on the timing. Mike had yet to find a way to distract the newsies. He was thinking about Shadow. Maybe Shadow could just waltz in and give them a scare. Then Bella could run in and grab Kelly's bandanna and then make a run for it. Then Grace would be informed and would kill the Brooklyn boy and then leave the bandanna at the scene of the crime. Everything depended on timing.

And Sarah, she had to hold up on her end of the deal. If she denied being with him, Mike would choke her pretty, little neck until her face turned purple. She had better not let him down or someone was going to be hurt. And then there was the problem of that little brat from Manhattan. He was one of the best bloody birdies Mike had ever seen. And he was 7 or something. All Mike knew was he was young, small and slippery. But Mike would get him. He had sent Cain out on that mission. That brat knew too much for someone his age. Mike would show him. Timing, all timing.

Speaking of Cain, Mike wondered what he was up to. He was a new newsie and was a quite one at that. He sort of reminded Mike of August, but much more deadly. Or maybe Shadow. Or maybe Brynner. Mike smiled at all of the people he was naming off. His little group of newsies was growing bigger.

Mike saw someone in the distance and strained is eyes to see them. It was Cain. Speak of the devil. Mike smirked and sauntered his way over to Cain. "'Ello, Cain." Mike called. He loved to bother the quite ones.

[isaac]

Cain could see after a while that it was Mike Greaser who was coming across the field. He couldn't see it right away, either from the glare of the afternoon sun or perhaps it was the fact that for a while everything at a distance had been slightly out of focus lately and the thought had crossed his mind that he might need glasses but he would never have the inclination or the money to go get them. The fuzzy outline that was Mike looked angry...something that Cain had been taught by the more seasoned Midtown boys to avoid, so he kept his distance until Mike made his own way across the field and got to the fence where Cain stood.

Mike D. Greaser had taken Cain in when he first came to Midtown. He had called his little gang "newsies, even though Cain didn't plan on selling papers and probably never would, as he imagined many of the others felt. He couldn't see some of the boys in Midtown, such as Casper or August, going around the streets like those little kids he saw hawking headlines and running from person to person with innocent smiles, hoping for a penny in return for their labor. Still, if Mike wanted to call his gang by that title, Cain wasn't about to argue. Thus far, Mike had been fairly civil to Cain, and above all, he'd provided a place to stay, which was a bonus for Cain, who wouldn't know where to go otherwise.

"Ello, Cain," Mike called as he made his way over to the fence. Cain waited until Mike had come close enough to the fence before replying back, so he wouldn't have to yell. "Afternoon, Mike," he said back with a nod. He knew enough to at least be nice to Mike, considering how bad of a mood he had just seen him in, and he didn't want to set him off again. Cain straightened and leaned his hands against the wooden fence behind him, a cool expression on his face. "Somethin' you need?"

Mike was an aloof son of a gun, Cain knew. He usually didn't talk to his newsies unless he had something important to say to them, or else was yelling at them which could probably count as something being important. For an aloof son of a gun, Mike was also a cool son of a gun. He didn't get worked up for just anything. And the little display Cain had (barely) seen was probably an indication that something wasn't going Mike's way, and when that happened he usually turned to his newsies for some kind of help, no matter what that might be.

Cain had gathered almost immediately that Mike wanted his boys to do some very dirty work for him. Cain had learned that almost as soon as he knew that Mike had befriended a beautiful murderess on the run, and he could only assume that at some point she would help him. Cain wondered if eventually he would have to help Mike in that way someday as well. Was that the only reason that he had been accepted among their group, their knowledge that he was able to do something like kill his younger brother and laugh about it? Well, he thought, it was better than being ignored. "Do you have a cigarette?" Cain asked suddenly. He wasn't a smoker, but he had been planning to try for a while now.

[Mike D. Greaser]

"Afternoon, Mike,"

Respect, that is all one needed. That is what made a leader. Respect. That was one of the many things Mike had that Kelly didn't. Kelly's newsies didn't respect him and they never would, especially now that Mike was back. Mike was going to show them that Kelly wasn't anything special and definitely not worth respecting. There was a new leader in town. Kelly might have won the strike, but in Mike's eyes that was all Spot's doing. Jack sold out. And thank goodness for that. Mike now had leverage on Jack's newsies.

"Somethin' you need?"

Many things, Mike thought. But to him, Mike replied with an eyebrow raised, "Do I need a reason to talk to you?" Of course, Mike was joking, but only he knew that. His voice didn't betray the fact that he was joking and it wouldn't unless Mike wanted it to. Mike knew Cain well enough. Well enough to know that he was a murderer who kept to himself. But he wanted to know more. Did he have a sense of humor or was he just all around boring. Mike usually left the job of finding out about each of his newsies to his second, but today he felt like he wanted to do it.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Mike raised an eyebrow? Stressed, Mike thought. Mike would have liked to think that he was the reason for this guys stress. That maybe he was making him nervous or something. Shrugging, Mike pulled a cigarette out of his right pocket. Fingering it carefully, Mike looked at Cain. "You smoke much?"

[isaac]

"Do I need a reason to talk to you?"

Cain shrugged. "No," he said. "But I'm fairly sure it's not like you to talk without a reason..." One of the reason Cain had respect for Mike was that he was one of those people who wasn't wasteful with words. Cain disliked people who used too many words when one would do, as if it would make them sound smarter when really it seemed that the smartest people could get their point across without going into a huge tirade about it. If you had something to say, it was like money; if you had it you should hide it away, keep it safe, not wave it around for everyone to see because once people saw you had it and you couldn't keep it to yourself, they started taking advantage of you and started getting things out of you that you normally wouldn't have given them. To Cain, it took a smart man to keep his mouth shut.

"You smoke much?"

"No," Cain said, taking the cigarette and pulling a stolen lighter from his pocket. "But I'm thinking of starting." There was no particular reason why smoking suddenly appealed to him, other than the fact that it was just something to do with his time. He didn't know of any way it could hurt him, even though he coughed a lot when he inhaled the smoke, but he would try to keep that under control. After all, if he took up the habit, it would only get easier from there on out. He took a drag, and nearly spasmed while trying to not cough. He blew out the smoke. Not so bad. He addressed Mike again. "So...what's all this I been hearing? Something with the boys over in Manhattan?"

((Kinda short...sorry...))

[Mike D. Greaser]

"No. But I'm fairly sure it's not like you to talk without a reason..."

Mike raised his eyebrows and didn't try to hide his surprise. Good answer kid, Mike thought. "Well, I do actually have a reason to talk to you." A very special reason. Mike needed Cain to kill someone. A huge reason. Mike wasn't to fond of having to ask this, but he knew it had to be done, and he wasn't about to back down now. He would not be weak. Mike would kill this person himself, but he knew that would be risky. Cain could do it, and Mike was positive that Cain would do it.

But Mike wanted to know was how loyal Cain was. Mike knew Cain killed to kill, that was how he got his name. He grew up killing. Mike wasn't worried that Cain would say no, he was just worried that Cain might also say yes to the wrong person. Cain was one of Mike's boys that hung around in the shadows. Not many people talked to him and not many people wanted to. Mike didn't know enough about Cain to trust him with this huge of task.

Cain's lust for killing was there, but was his loyalty?

"No, But I'm thinking of starting."

Mike chuckled. Mike wasn't much of a smoker either, only when he was stressed. But to be a newsie in Midtown you had to at least try a smoke. It was like an initiation into Midtown. Mike almost snorted when he thought of Jinks wrapped up in all of this. How was she going to manage?

"So...what's all this I been hearing? Something with the boys over in Manhattan?"

Wow, this kid was behind. He obviously didn't pay attention when he loomed in the shadows. Rubbing his chin, Mike choose how to word this. "Yeah." Mike chuckled and then explained what was going on. "Make sense?" He inquired.

(I honestly have no blasted idea what is going on. I think my time lines are all screwed up. And I think I jacked up Cain's character..... Darnit)

[isaac]

"Well, I do actually have a reason to talk to you."

Cain was surprised. It was rare for Mike to address many of his boys directly; usually they kept to themselves until they were called upon as a group. A lot of the time Mike was elsewhere in New York, and the Midtown boys didn't have much time to even see their leader face-to-face. Cain figured that if Mike had a reason to be talking to him, when Cain had barely spoken to anyone for a long while, it must have been something significant. "Well I 'spose you best tell me then. No need to waste your time and mine." Cain knew that he had all the time in the world to waste; he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. But he knew Mike was busy and his plans unfathomable, especially to Cain, who was only misinformed because he was uninterested. Mike didn't have all the time in the world; the Englishman had made that very clear.

Cain had a mandatory respect for Mike. At only eighteen or so, Mike had been able to gain the respect and the loyalty of some of the deadliest character New York had to offer, including Cain himself. Cain recognized Mike as his boss and his leader, figuring that this would only make things easier for him in the long run. Mike had something about him that made you listen, no matter who you were. And Mike was choosing to use this ability for some reason...and Cain had the feeling he was about to become involved.

"Yeah." Mike chuckled and then explained what was going on. "Make sense?"

"Hardly," Cain said with a shrug, taking another experimental drag on his cigarette. "But I'm not supposed to make sense of anything, am I?" That was someone else's job. Cain didn't do any of the thinking, he let others do that and then did as he was told. It was how he survived around here: staying out of other people's way.