Chris
The plane journey had been long and frustrating. The passenger in the seat next to mine had been visibly relieved when we landed, so that he could escape from the ceaseless tapping of my foot.
As I stepped out the doors of the airport, strange and unfamiliar sights greeted me. The buildings were so different, and the roads were so much wider than the bricked terrace houses and narrow streets of my previous life in London.
And that was what it was now; a previous life, to be forgotten. I was here to find the Fishers, a quest which had filled the last two years of my life. It had taken me miles of travel to several countries to even discover where I could find them, and more than one gun pointed at my face.
As I hitched my ageing rucksack onto my shoulder I thought through my rather incomplete plan. I knew where I could find the Fishers, but the real question was would they accept me? Tales of their ferocity made the butterflies in my stomach stir slightly but I knew I would just have to tough it out, show them that I belonged here.
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