an old writing excercise from quill.net: a "meeting of rivals theme"

Scenes
~ January's Winner ~
Jay Morgans
The Situation: The meeting of rivals

He heard a deep voice behind him; unnaturally deep. Eerie. "Marcus...," the voice said. He knew the tone well.

Marcus turned to see a burly figure emerging from the cornered shadows of the alleyway. He leaned his lithe frame against the brick building and lit a cigarette. He tried to lower his voice to match the first, but it was such a stretch it sounded something like what would be comical if the etched and sunken face wasn't the vessel of it. "Richard, I was beginning to think you'd skipped out on me." He let slip half of a smile and pulled a hit from the cigarette, letting the smoke case out slowly and circle his head.

"You know that wouldn't happen. Let's walk."

The pair exited the alley and cut down the sidewalk. It was late--the autumn night whispering of winter--but the streets were filled. They were always filled. The hookers and pimps, the pushers and junkies, they never got a night off. You had to respect that kind of vigilance.

"Those cigarettes, they're going to kill you," Richard said.

"I wouldn't do you the favor," came the answer, and Richard's face winced.

"You can stop this, you know," came Richard, sounding almost compassionate through a thin mist of anger. "Leave Manhattan. Don't ever come back. Then it's done."

"Manhattan's my blood, you know that. Manhattan has fed me, held me, loved me, kept me. That's more than I could say for anyone else."

"Anyone?"

"Okay, maybe not... But you know what I mean. Anyway, how's New York's finest treating you?"

"Listen, Marcus, I know in your line of work you learn to hate this badge I wear, to you it's just a symbol of an enemy, an obstacle. But to me it means more, it's something I've accomplished, something I've made of myself."

"No, it's something you were made into."

"And what about you? What were you made into? A petty thief? A hired madman? You'd better just pray that when you go down, which you will, it's not by me. This means more to me now than anything else has."

"You can keep your little piece, it's just a symbol of how you got beat."

Richard turned suddenly, slapped Marcus across his face and lifted him by the lapels of his trench coat, ran him into the metal grate of a store front. "IT IS A SYMBOL OF HOW I'VE SURVIVED."

Marcus sneered a little as his feet were set back to the ground, wiping the blood from his lower lip with thh back of his sleeve. "A symbol?" he laughed. "Would you like to see a SYMBOL, Sgt. Richard Braven, NYPD? This is a symbol of survival..." He lifted his neck and made a slashing motion across the thick scar running from his left ear to his right. "This is a symbol..." He lifted his shirt, jabbing the index finger at the circular puff of skin just below his rib cage. "THIS IS..."

"Marcus, please..."

Marcus paused and stared. His breath was short and raspy, the blood and saliva mixing and flaring out with each exhale, like little fireworks on his own personal 4th of July.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to slap you."

"I'm sure... We really should have these talks more than once a year."

"Marcus, I said I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

Richard pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, opened it. The badge shone like a sun, reflected in the streetlights. He took out two 20s and put them in Marcus's hand. "Get something to eat, you've lost weight."

There was kindness in Richard's face as he turned, but the undercurrent showed in the tenseness of his burstingly shaking muscles.

"Richie...," Marcus started, and Richard stopped at the curb, turned--just his head--slowly. Had Marcus been a softer man there would have been at least one tear to burn down his face, but that's just not the way it comes down sometimes. "When you see Mom, you tell her I love her, okay?"

"She knows, Marcus. I hope I see you next year."