A/N: This story is set around May 1989.
Murdoc is not having a very good day.

-oOo-

"Damn," he quietly swore to himself. His target had looked up, straight into his direction, and then made a run for it. Spotted.

Murdoc disassembled his rifle and packed it up. What had he been thinking? He'd been out of it for more than a year -- with the exception of that one exercise in humiliation -- what had made him think he could pick it up again just like that? He ran across the roof to the side of the building. He looked over the edge and dropped his bag in the dumpster below. He was about to climb over the edge to follow the bag down when he noticed the fire escape. That was better.

"Best to avoid broken bones for a while. I'm not Superman."

He ran down the stairs. Being Superman would certainly come in handy. He could fly off a building rather than doing the more metaphorical flying down the stairs. He would have caught up with his target before the man had reached the corner of the street. He could have used his laser eyes to set the guy or his clothes on fire, or burn a hole in his head. Or freeze him to death with a breathe of air. Imagine killing someone with your breath. Murdoc smirked: there were plenty of people with lethal breath.

He jumped to the ground from the last flight and retrieved his bag from the dumpster. He casually slung the bag over his shoulder and walked to the street. He should find his target again. He ran the possibilities of where to find him through his mind. Perhaps the man thought he was smart and he would try to leave town. That would only complicate matters a little bit. He would find him. He always did. He had a perfect record. Well, almost ...

It was safe to say he wasn't Superman. Yet, he had met his Kryptonite. Maybe he should pack it in. Quit. Lead a normal life with a nice, normal wife and a couple of nice, normal kids in a house with a nice picket fence. He shuddered. Well, surely there were more ways of normalcy than just one. Something bohemian would probably suit him better. Maybe he could become a chef and open up his own little restaurant: Aubergerie Murdoc.

He got to his truck, threw his bag on the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. Why had he gone back to this line of work? Why hadn't he started planning out a normal life while he was recovering from his last run in with Kryptonite? Because he had missed the hunt; that's why. Murdoc snorted. There were normal life jobs that involved hunting. Private Investigators hunted. Bounty hunters definitely hunted. And in both cases you were a lot less likely of having to deal with Kryptonite. Just a lot more likely of having to deal with pillocks. Although, being an assassin was no garantee of a pillock-free life, but usually you got paid for shooting them.

Maybe he should consider it though. New technologies were constantly developed. New and better technologies to hunt and trace people. One day, probably all people would get tagged with a chip in their ears, like cattle, and you could always follow them, where ever they went. That would pretty much take the fun out of the hunt. Worse yet: it would turn him into a prey. Murdoc didn't really see how that would be fun for him. It was much more fun to be the fox than the hare, except in a fox hunt.

Back to his own hunt and technology that was still in his favor. He pulled his bag from the backseat into the passenger seat and pulled a small box from it. A little blimp was moving towards the top of the screen. His target had decided to leave town, and take his own car. That wasn't very smart.

Murdoc closed his bag and put it on the floor. He turned the ignition of his truck and filed into traffic.

-oOo-

So, it wasn't exactly out of town. It was in a sleazy part of town, where no one would stay long if they had elsewhere to go. Lots of people didn't have elsewhere to go. Murdoc had parked his truck a couple of blocks away and taken out everything valuable. With any luck it would still be there when he got back in a couple of hours. He suspected it was more likely he had to walk back to civilization.

He passed an all night store and a couple of bums. Someone put a hand out to him and asked for some change. Or urged him to change his life. He didn't stop. His target had gone into a $20 a-night-hotel. It was time for a meet and greet.

There was a front desk, but there was no one behind it, save for a parakeet in a cage. He took the registration book and looked at the latest entry. Room 15. While he climbed the stairs he tried to think of a synonym for meet that would rhyme with a synonym for kill, shoot or stab.

He picked the lock of room 15. Taking cover behind the door frame he pushed the door open slowly. He heard some shuffling in the room. When he looked in he found it to be empty. The wind was blowing the curtains in. Twice. Twice in the same day he was given the slip by the same man.

Murdoc rushed over to the window and pounded the window sill in frustration. He saw a man sprinting down the alley. Murdoc made his resolve to hand in his resignation. First, he would catch this man and make him pay for the trouble he had put him through.

He threw his bag out into the alley and jumped out of the first story window after it. He stumbled forward when he landed. He quickly hid his bag behind a dumpster. He would come back for it later. He ran into the direction he had seen the man leave. At the corner he paused to look both ways. There was a running man to his right. Murdoc turned that way.

Why was this guy making it so hard on himself? Had he never heard of the expression: when people say you're dead, lie down? The man he was chasing looked around, saw him and picked up pace. He turned around a corner into another alley. Murdoc ran after him. He slowed down and stopped when he saw this alley had a dead end.

"Got you."

"Not yet."

The man jumped from behind a dumpster and tried to hit Murdoc over the head with something. Murdoc's quick reflexes did not fail him. He turned and kicked the man in the stomach. The man folded and went down when he received a chop to the neck. Murdoc circled the man.

"You want to turn this into a fight?" He smiled wickedly. "Fine by me. You're only postponing the inevitable." He took a few steps away from the man. "C'mon, give it your best."

The man scrambled to his feet and stood, facing Murdoc. Suddenly he had a knife in his hand. Murdoc was a little surprised he hadn't seen where he'd gotten it from. His distraction lasted only a short moment as the man wasted no time for Murdoc to get used to the situation and came storming straight at him, knife pointed forward. Murdoc jumped aside, grabbed the man's arm and used the man's own momentum to throw him against a wall. He twisted his arm behind his back and grabbed his neck. He pushed the man against the wall.

"You want to play games?" He whispered in his ear. "Do you think I like to play games in this merry month of May?" The man didn't respond. "Do I have to twist your arm to get an answer?"

The man cried out in pain as Murdoc twisted his arm further. "No!"

"You're wrong. I like to play games, just not right now."

Murdoc twisted his arm to the point of nearly breaking it. The man dropped his knife and Murdoc quickly picked it up. He stabbed the man in the side of his abdomen, then in the side of his neck. He let go of the man as he started to slip down the wall.

The man fell to his back. He gurgled and spasmed. Murdoc planted the knife in his heart. A little blood squirted out and hit him in the eye.

"Damn." He should be more careful. Particularly in this day and age. It was high time he quit.

He took of his gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket. He took a handkerchief from his other pocket and cleaned the blood from his face. Definitely time for him to quit this line of work. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and started walking towards the street, meanwhile composing a letter of resignation.

"Dear members of the board of HIT. After working for your organization for twenty wonderful years I feel it is time for my retirement. I'd like to explore what other options there are in the world while I am still young and healthy enough to enjoy them. I have given you my best years, but lately I feel I'm running out of creativity."

That was it. Murdoc smiled to himself. He had let this man give him the slip twice because that was new for him. He needed the excitement of the hunt, but also new thrills. After all, how many different ways were there to kill someone by fire? Or by water for that matter, he wondered as he jumped a puddle. He tried to remember who he had killed by fire, and just how many of those kills were unique. Unique in any way other than it was a new person each time. Not all were original. He had lost his touch as an artiste long ago. Not even the reasons why he killed them were unique. Who had he killed for their greed? Who for his hunger? Who in power? Too many to remember. He had done it all.

All except for disabling his Kryptonite. Maybe that was for the best. It was his Kryptonite that made him Superman. There cannot be light without darkness. Good without evil. Superman without Kryptonite.

His bag was still lying behind the dumpster. He slung it over his shoulder and went into the main street to find a bar where he could clean himself up.

-oOo-

"Do you have a restroom?"

The bartender looked at him. Murdoc stayed in the shadows so only part of his face was visible.

"Restroom is for paying customers only."

"Naturally. I'll have a beer." Murdoc came closer and threw some money on the counter.

"Restroom's in the back." The bartender nodded in the general direction of the back as he took the money and replaced it with a bottle of beer.

"Thank you." Murdoc managed a smile.

In the restroom he put his bag underneath the sink and hung his jacket on the edge of one of the divider walls between the toilets. No doors, how ... picturesque was the only word that sprang to mind. He had even lost his creativity describing the world around him. He probably shouldn't become a writer in his new life.

He turned on the water and washed his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. A new life. A new life would require a new face. He turned his head a little to the right to get a good look at the scars. He'd been steadily building up on them for the past decade. Burns from the times he tried to touch Kryptonite.

He took some paper towels and dried his face and hands. He folded up his jacket and stuffed it in his bag. He picked it up and left the restroom. He saw a pay phone at the end of the little hallway. He found some change in his pocket and smirked.

Murdoc picked up the receiver, inserted the coins and dialed a number.

"Phoenix Foundation. How may I help you?" A friendly woman's voice spoke in his ear.

"I'd like to talk to MacGyver." Who better to tell first about his retirement than his nemesis?

"And who shall I say is calling?"

"An old friend."

"One moment please."

"I'll hold." Murdoc studied the graffiti on the wall while he waited.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Mr MacGyver is abroad at the moment and won't be back in until Monday. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No, thank you. I'll call back later." He hung up. Perhaps it was better if MacGyver didn't know yet. After all, he was just another Superman that needed his Kryptonite. Murdoc picked up his bag. Now, what could possibly be MacGyver's Kryptonite?

-oOo-

A/N: This is the first in a series of Murdoc-centered fics I'm planning on doing. Good idea, bad idea? Let me know.