An Alternate Universe Flashsidestep
by Kevin H. Robnett
Richie Ryan took another look at his watch as he finished buttoning his shirt. Twelve-fifteen in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes after he was supposed to meet Duncan for an hour or so of training. Late again. "Oh, man," he exclaimed to his empty apartment. He turned, grabbing his duffel bag on the sofa. A quick look around the room, and he took a step toward the front door. He didn't notice the flash of bright light from his bedroom behind him, but the loud {bang} certainly grabbed his attention. It wasn't until he 'felt' another Immortal that he drew his rapier. The young man cautiously moved across the living room, dumping the bag, closing in on the doorway to the bedroom. Using a move Duncan had taught him, he burst through the opening, surprised when he came face to face with his swordless duplicate.
"Sorry, guy," the intruder said, expertly popping Richie in the face. Birds sang, fireworks exploded, and young Richie Ryan, knocked unconscious, collapsed into the arms of his doppelganger. With effort, the other Richie dragged his twin to the bed, dumping him on the mattress, rearranging the body into a more comfortable position. That accomplished, he reached into a back pocket, pulling out a cylindrical object, and held it to Richie's neck. With a hiss, the unconscious Immortal was drugged into a deeper sleep, one from which he would not awaken for some time.
The other Immortal replaced the medicator, pulling out two other strange objects. One beeped as he pressed a button on the side, holding it to his mouth. "This is Commander Ryan. Transfer was successful. Repeat, transfer was successful. Beginning secondary objective." Pocketing the first device, he turned his attention to the other. Powering it up, Commander Richard Ryan turned in a circle, watching it scan the area, locking in on his primary target and displaying range and direction. With a satisfied smile, he powered it down and returned the device to his pocket, looking for Richie's dropped sword. Before heading out of the room, he came back, bending over the sleeping form of his twin. "Hopefully, it will all be over by the time you wake up. I wish you knew how lucky you are." With a pat on the shoulder of the drugged Immortal, he left, the sound of the door shutting behind him echoing in the silent apartment.
"You're late." The stern words, accented in anger, met Ryan as he arrived at the dojo. Standing in the middle of the open room was a very perturbed Scot. Sweat beaded Duncan's body, the result of performing a kata several times, waiting impatiently for Richie. Training swords lay on a side bench, ready for use today. Duncan walked over and picked them up. "If you're not going to be committed...." He stopped, one sword held out, noticing the look on his student's face. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, his anger overpowered by worry.
Ryan shook his head, freeing his body from the shock of seeing the Highlander. He composed his face, brushing by Duncan as he made his way to the elevator. "I'm sorry, Duncan," he began, his voice still shaky. "I'll go grab some of your sweats and...." It was harder than he thought it would be.
"What's the matter, Richie?" Duncan asked, concerned. Ryan stopped, afraid to turn around, knowing he could give the man no explanation of his behavior. At least, no acceptable one. Ryan could hear him take a step closer. "You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?" Concern tinged the question.
Ryan inhaled sharply, knowing he would have given anything to hear those words. That voice, once more. "No, I'm fine," he said, rushing to the elevator, looking anywhere but at the Highlander as he turned around and closed the gate. He jabbed at the buttons several times, finally hitting the top floor. As the aged machinery ground into action, he relaxed, letting himself finally breathe. "I thought I could handle this," he whispered, trying to control his emotions. It had been so long.
Duncan paced his kitchen, turning after several steps, back and forth, stealing glances across the loft to the bathroom. He had changed out of sweats, knowing training would again have to wait. Richie had never acted this strangely before. When the young Immortal thought he was a father, he just blurted that right out. Even when Hyde was chasing him, he unloaded his problems immediately on MacLeod. Now he was holding back. Duncan didn't know where to begin. "Richie," he called out, knowing he could be heard in the bathroom. No answer. He opened his mouth, ready to repeat himself, when the phone rang. Almost in anger, he stormed to the instrument fixed to the wall. "What!" he yelled into the receiver.
"Mac, it's Dawson," the voice on the other end said. The tone stopped Duncan in his tracks. It was sad, and hard, unlike the Watcher's usual mood. "You need to come to the bar. Right now." The way the two last words were stressed brooked no argument. "Right...now." A click, and then the even, annoying dial tone took over the line, no chance for questions or conversation.
Duncan glanced at the closed door across the room, weighing choices, making a decision. He quickly moved to the coat rack, putting on his suede duster, the better to conceal his katana. "Richie. I need to leave. I'll...I'll be back." Feeling helpless, he walked out the stairway door and down the steps, the awareness of Richie's presence fading the farther he moved away.
Ryan sat on the floor of the bathroom, relieved when Duncan left. There was so much he wanted to say, to do. To tell his teacher. But his orders were clear, and his mission paramount. Standing and washing his face off with water from the sink, he mentally prepared himself, watching the device as the second blue dot came closer and closer.
No lights were on, but the front door of Joe's bar was unlocked. "What is it, Dawson," Duncan asked a little too forcefully upon entering the closed establishment. The Watcher stood next to the bar, gesturing the Highlander to a stool. Set out before them were drinks, and a large manila folder.
"I just had these faxed over," Dawson said, laying a hand on the folder as Duncan sat on the stool. The Highlander opened it, examining the first page, a black and white facsimile. "It apparently happened last night," Joe said by way of commentary. "I found out about an hour ago." Duncan squinted, only able to make out what looked like a headless man lying on a floor. Something was naggingly familiar. The second photo showed a closeup of the decapitated body, light colored trench coat, white sneakers. The place was Connor's loft in New York. It clicked, Duncan looking at Joe, eyes full of shock.
"It's no' Connor..." the Highlander began, unconsciously slipping into a faint brogue. Joe quickly shook his head no, handing the prepared liquor to Duncan. Relief flooded the Scot's face, the glass readily accepted.
"Peter Bolin," the Watcher answered, waiting for the Highlander to finish his drink. "Connor's latest student." The third photo was the head, staring blindly into space. "Funny thing. He was dressed like Connor, had his hair cut like Connor's, and all the lights were manually disconnected at the fuse box. There was no way anyone could accurately see what was happening in that apartment."
"A set-up," Duncan comment, grateful beyond words it wasn't his kinsmen he was seeing. The fourth fax was a murky shot of the apartment door, painted words in what appeared to be blood. 'Slice, you're next.' "And this?" Duncan asked, holding up the page for Joe to see.
The Watcher shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. And it's Bolin's blood, by the way." He leaned closer to MacLeod, his voice almost a whisper. "Someone deliberately set this up so that the other Immortal would think he was fighting Connor MacLeod." Duncan just shook his head, rifling through the other photographs again. "But that isn't the strangest thing," Joe finished, reaching behind the bar for one last fax. "This was taken by the downstairs security camera." He handed it to Duncan, waiting for his reaction.
The Highlander took one look at the man, one hand holding a phone receiver. Tall, bald, his neck encircled by safety pins, the evil bastard sword. "But...he's dead. Connor killed him years ago." The evil grin of the Kurgan pierced his soul, just from a badly faxed photograph. Even though he had never met the man, Connor's description left no doubts at to the identity.
"I know," Joe calmly answered. "We were there." The Watcher had called his contact in New York, verifying the two-piece metal sword of the Kurgan's was still in their collection. The burial place had even been checked. The body was badly decomposed, but still recognizable. A confirmed corpse had seemingly killed Connor MacLeod. Bizarre was too tame a word. "And to top it all off, the phone call was made at three this morning, to your dojo."
"There's a machine. Richie takes care of it." Duncan absently played the greeting mentally, Richie's cheery voice blithely giving the address. "Richie," he said, suddenly rushing for the door.
"Well. You're a long way from your keeper, my pretty," the large man growled, his damaged voice loud in the empty dojo. "You weren't an easy thing to find. Luckily, your sugar daddy kept your phone number close." In the middle of the room stood Ryan, rapier ready, his steely gaze taking in the ancient Immortal. The Kurgan strode into the room, heavy boots thumping on the wood floor. "I'm here to take you away from all this." With an evil grin, the monster stepped forward, offering his leather-gloved hand.
Ryan pivoted, drawing his sword back and aiming down the blade. "Go to hell," the redhead spat, the two combatants slowly circling. "I'm not going anywhere with an asshole like you."
"My, my," rasped the evil Immortal. "You're never as cooperative as...I had hoped." He drew his bastard sword, wiggling his tongue at the shorter warrior. "Little boys shouldn't play with sharp objects. They might get hurt. I guess I'll have to find my prize elsewhere." With a bellow, he drew back, starting a powerful swing. Ryan dodged, but the Kurgan's blade still caught on the ceiling dividers. His height advantage was a liability in the close confines of the room.
Ryan took the opportunity to strike, getting in a good gash along the Kurgan's side. With a bellow, the monstrous Immortal kicked out a booted foot, sending the young Immortal flying across the room. Hitting the wall hard, Ryan slumped to the floor. By the time he recovered, the Kurgan was gone, the side door slowly closing. "Don't bet your ass," he growled, following his target outside.
" R I C H I E ! "
The scream preceded the Highlander into the dojo. Duncan shoved the doors open, barreling into the room. He turned around once, his coat swirling about him, willing himself to feel another Immortal, upstairs in the loft. No luck. The elevator was down, meaning someone had descended since Duncan had left. He stepped to the office, stopping as small, white flakes flittered in front of his face, causing him to look up. A gash in the overhead divider, probably caused by a very big sword. "Damn."
One more forlorn look around, and the faint noise of clashing swords drew his attention. After another glance up, he ran to one of the side windows, struggling to get it open. The pane wouldn't budge. Desperately, the Immortal bent over and grabbed a barbell, breaking out the frosted glass. Cold air assailed him when it shattered, the sounds of fighting louder. There, across in the freight yard, two figures parried and thrust, sparks igniting when their swords met. One was large, a monster in black. The other, falling to his knees, was... "RICHIE!" He watched in shock as the Kurgan readied the final blow. Duncan willed with all his strength that his student would block the stroke. Wishing he was close enough to throw his own body in front of his friend.
Time seemed to mire. Nothing changed. The Kurgan slowly swung, neatly severing the head from the body. Duncan breathed deeply, exhaling in an unnatural scream. " N O O O O ! " The Highlander's eyes widened as the head fell, bouncing on the gravel, the black sword gouging deeply into the earth. Duncan was frozen, watching the supernatural tendrils of power slowly crackle their way from Richie to the Kurgan, feeding the monster with energy. The wind rose, dust and grit mixing with anger and despair, causing tears in Duncan's eyes. "Noooo!" Lightning arched among the boxcars, explosions mirroring the turmoil in his soul. He heard the Kurgan laugh, the inhuman sound chilling his bones.
Without a thought, the Highlander jumped through the window, his sword drawn by the time he roughly landed in the street. He ignored the pain in his legs, cutting through the wire fence. He ran, following the sounds of triumph through the maze of junk to its source, his great suede duster billowing behind him. The wind died down, the lightning stopped. Duncan cautiously entered the open area, sword back and ready, death in his eyes. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he spat at the dark warrior, beginning the ritualistic challenge. "And you are dead!"
The Kurgan noticed him, a sated smirk still on his face. "Another MacLeod. Oh, my, you're much prettier than your cousin." With his sword in one hand, the ancient Immortal pressed a device on his belt with the other. His form rippled as he yelled one parting comment. "I hope someday we'll have a chance to get better acquainted...." Duncan charged forward, swinging his katana. His sword sliced through empty air, a faint echo of the horrible laugh dancing about the yard.
Breathing heavily, the Highlander stood still, his eyes darting right and left. Slowly, like it weighed a ton, his sword point fell to the ground. It took a lot of courage to methodically turn, knowing what grizzly sight waited for him. No yell of pain issued when he looked at Richie's broken body. No cry of anguish as Duncan looked into the cold lifeless eyes. The grief already overwhelmed him, his surge of adrenaline depleted with his attack. He fell to his knees at Richie's side, dropping his sword. His hand gently shook the body, certifying what he hoped he didn't see. What he always feared would happen.
He almost heard sounds, floating on the wind in the freight yard, drifting with the cold, chill air. His sobbing drowned them out, tears flowing down his face. But still the sounds called, coming from under the body. "Commander. Please answer. Commander Ryan." The Highlander was too lost in pain to hear them. "Richard, this is Greg. Answer now! I'm activating recall. RICHARD!" The body wavered in reality, tendrils of white energy wrapping itself around Duncan as well. The light rose in intensity, until something snapped. The world exploded, blinding the Highlander's tear-filled eyes. Then all was nothing.
The cold wind whistled over the empty freight yard, the skittish calls of frightened birds echoing in the lonely place. Not a soul remained.
1410 hours
Temporal Research Center, Wyoming
Timeline 1
The claxon sounded, cutting through the chatter and hum. Everyone in the large room quieted, turning to look at the dais in the center. And the man in charge. "Activate recall," he yelled, stirring the mass of people into action. Consoles activated, headsets donned, and the technicians went about the business of opening a dimensional rift. "Lock on the signal!" The order again came from the firm voice of the master of this room, head of the legions of scientists that comprised this venture. They waited as the power built, waiting for the word. "Do it!"
The power spiked, converted and formed into a swirling vortex above the dais, punching a hole between here and yon. The matrix searched for a pattern, stored in the communications unit carried by the project's top operative. It found the device, sensing a pair of beings within an acceptable range. All this should be moved, the computers decided. And with the power and the technology at its disposal, it did just that.
A burst of white light exploded from the vortex, reminding everyone in the room the awesome forces at work. The flash disappeared, leaving behind a ghostly blur in everyone's eyes. Two bodies resolved, one kneeling, one lying on the dais. The cycle was over, the mission accomplished. Power drained off while numerous circuits shut down.
"Oh, dear God," a feminine voice gasped, somewhere near the blinded Duncan. His hand was still on Richie's body, but it didn't sound like he was in the freight yard. There were too many voices, and they echoed. There was no wind. Dots swam in his vision, the urge to blink his watery eyes becoming unbearable.
Another voice intruded, masculine. "Richard?" it tentatively asked, almost in fear. Duncan shifted, his knee bumping the decapitated head. "You... bastard." Shock, and rage. He almost sensed the body flying at him, unconsciously bracing for the impact. It was too powerful, though, knocking him over. A madman was on him, flailing at him, a pair of hands finally grasping for his throat. It was hard to fight someone when you couldn't see. And Duncan was losing.
The fingers clawed into his neck, cutting off his air. The Highlander gave up trying to pry them off, instead he punched at his attacker. His fists met gut and sides, his reward a moan and a lessening of pressure at his throat. It was enough to give him a chance to throw his attacker off, the welcome oxygen finally reaching his aching lungs.
Shapes had formed, moving toward each other. Duncan heard the female voice, cautioning the man. The Highlander had trouble making out the words, his ears still ringing from the explosion. The woman was trying to stop his attacker. A good idea, Duncan thought. He crouched defensively, not wanting to alert anyone he was almost blind. "I didn't kill anyone," he challenged. "I wasn't the one who took...."
The words uttered in his defense brought back the last few hours. Richie was dead. Someone had tried to kill Connor. Duncan's world came crashing down, the fragile framework he had erected since Tessa's murder eradicated in a moment. Everything he had cherished in the last ten years was gone, destroyed. The Highlander shook his head in despair, his eyes finally focusing. He looked up, unprepared for what he saw.
He was in a large room, kneeling on a huge dais. In front of him, Michelle Wheeler and David Keogh were gripping Greg Powers, who had murder in his eye. One eye. The other was covered by a sinister looking patch. Both men had short haircuts, Michelle's dark tresses in a severe bun. All three wore white lab coats over blood red medical scrubs. "He killed Richard," the photographer hissed, pointing an accusing finger toward Duncan. "He finally succeeded." The trio wrestled, David whispering soothing words while Michelle cried. Greg gave an agonized howl, giving up his struggles. They let him collapse to the floor, helping him down.
"Are you hurt?" another female voice softly spoke behind him. Duncan turned, finding himself face to face with Jill. She's dead, he thought. She fell off the balcony. But she was here, examining him for injuries. The quiet woman gently led him off the dais, letting a group of technicians cluster around the decapitated body.
The Highlander let her lead him to a side room, gently guiding him to an examination table. He gratefully lay on it, his mind reeling. Jill stood over him, wiping away what little of Richie's blood had gotten on him. He looked up at her, ready to ask questions, when the name tag on her lab coat caught his eye. Jill Keogh, it read. She'd married him.
Jill clutched the brick wall, shivering, her black hair billowing in the crosswind. She was over the balcony railing, trying to get away from them. Duncan slowly stepped from the apartment, pushing David back inside, speaking soothing words. "Jill, come back over."
"He won't leave me alone," she cried. She was right. Duncan knew too well how possessive a man can be, given the right circumstances. But it should never end like this. David had driven her to the edge. The Highlander managed to coax her to reach out, moving closer, gently, ready to pull her back to safety. Then David lunged, yelling he would save her. She jumped back, off the ledge, her scream echoing as she plummeted to her death.
"What's going on? Why has everything changed?" Duncan managed to ask. Dead people don't get married, he told himself. Dead people don't play the Game, Joe's ghostly voice whispered back.
Jill turned back from the window, looking out at the room full of machinery. "Nothing's really changed, you're just...somewhere else," she said, closing the blinds. Duncan managed a brief glimpse, Michelle and Greg still arguing with each other. She walked back, activating a few buttons on the side of the bed. "Scan, please," she asked the empty air. Duncan's feet tingled, the sensation moving up his legs, then his chest, finally his head. He started to sit up, but her hand on his shoulder gently pushed him back down. "You're fine, in perfect health," Jill told him emotionlessly, walking toward a cabinet and grabbing a small bottle. Loud arguing drew Duncan's attention for a moment, coming from outside. She came back with a pill cup and a glass of water, handing both to him. He glanced at them, looking back at her. "I'm sure you have a headache, with so many Immortals around," she explained.
"So you know about us," he said, before swallowing the tablets. She nodded, walking to a desk in the corner. "That was," Duncan started, hesitating, not wanting to hope. "That's not Richie? Out there?" Not exactly the question to ask. Jill slowly nodded, her head buried in her hands.
"Not the one you know," she quietly said. It was enough, for now. Duncan lay back, closing his eyes, barely able to contain the relief coursing through him. He felt remorse, for being so happy another person, even another Richie, had been the one to die. His friend was still safe. Somewhere.
It seemed like hours before Jill took him to an empty office, leaving him alone. The Highlander walked around the room, examining it. One desk, one bookshelf, one table, three chairs. Functional, but not lived in. Whoever used it didn't spend very much time here. Pictures covered the windowless walls, hiding the ugly green paint. One was of Duncan and Tessa, an exact likeness. It was uncanny. Another showed Charlie and Duncan holding a freshly painted sign. D&M Martial Arts. A third was of Donna with little Jeremy, two people who obviously meant a great deal to this Richie. A degree was hung in a place of honor, a bachelors of business in management. Several racing trophies adorned the lone bookshelf, fighting for room with books on philosophy, antiques, and marketing. And a letter from Darius. His breath caught in his throat, quickly reading the flowing script. But the words were meaningless, advice on a problem Duncan couldn't begin to guess at. Shaken, he set it down again, turning away from the parchment, and the conflicting feelings.
Duncan came across an empty sword stand, knowing it had held the rapier he had given Richie. Or this Duncan had given this Richie. It was strange, almost like he could understand how these events could have come to pass. But it still felt uncomfortable. The door suddenly opened, the desolate face of Greg peeking in. "May I come in?" the newcomer asked, having changed into an official looking dark blue jumpsuit.
The Highlander nodded, indicating a chair. "I think I'm the stranger here," he admitted, sitting in the other chair, trying not to stare at the patch on Greg's face, but drawn to it in morbid fascination. He had to struggle to see the rest of the face, his gaze frozen on the black leather covering. A scar led up to it, stretching from the ear, across the cheek, disappearing under the patch.
"I guess this must be a little weird," Greg began, uncomfortably shifting in the chair. He too had a problem looking directly at the Highlander, staring instead at a picture on the desk, a wedding photograph of Greg and Michelle. Beside them stood Richie, Duncan and Amanda, all three brandishing shotguns in a humorous way.
Duncan resisted grabbing it, as if to hold on to something of Richie. "Jill said I'm somewhere else." A good place to start. Instead of dwelling on the photo, he forced himself to focus on Greg, managing to catch a fleeting glimpse of his face before the photographer could look away. Why was everyone acting so strange?
"I guess I'd better start at the beginning," Greg sighed, settling into the chair. "Do you know an Immortal scientist by the name of Grace?" At Duncan's affirmative nod, he continued. "She was trying to find the secret of time travel. But she also got something else. She found dimensional travel."
Duncan stared as Greg leaned over the desk, turning on a computer monitor and grabbing the keyboard. A few keystrokes later, and a complex picture of parallel lines appeared. "You mean, I'm in another universe?" the Highlander asked, incredulously. "Like some stupid comic book?"
Greg laughed, a strained sound Duncan didn't like hearing. "Yes. Like the comic books. What we found was a whole plethora of universes, similar to our own, sharing people, places, and events. Some are even so close, you might not even know you were someplace different." The picture on the screen expanded, so that only two vertical lines were showing. At one point, a horizontal line connected the two. "We began experimenting, visiting the different timelines, as we call them."
Duncan found this a little hard to swallow, but if it meant somewhere Richie was still alive.... "So where does the Kurgan fit in to all this? He died on my world in , ah, 1985, I think." He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember more, listening to the clack of keys as Greg typed. The display shrank, so that four lines were visible.
Greg pointed to one. "He's dead here, too. This is the main timeline. I mean, the one we are currently in." The line turned yellow, a large '1' appearing at the bottom. "This is your timeline," he said, pointing as the far one turned green with a '321' at the bottom. "And this is where the Kurgan came from." The middle line turned brown, an 'X' denoting it. "We had developed a portable device to jump between timelines without coming back to home base. Four days ago we tested it." On the screen, a line jumped from yellow to brown. "Our operative managed to arrive right in front of the Kurgan. She was killed, and we assume he took the device, because he's been hopping ever since." Lines jumped between the timelines, back and forth.
Duncan sensed something was missing from the story, something important to him, or at least the Duncan of this world. "Who was she?" he asked. Greg paled, taking a moment to turn off the screen. The photographer licked his lips, wetting them.
"Amanda." That one whispered word caused Duncan pain, even though he knew in his heart it was someone else. Not his Amanda. Not the woman he had kissed, and caressed, and loved for centuries. Greg continued in a subdued voice, his own loss evident in his voice. "Kurgan's been roaming the timelines, causing havoc. Nothing's been able to stop him."
Duncan suddenly stood and crossed the room, pausing at a water pitcher to pour himself and Greg a glass of water. "He went after Connor MacLeod first, then he came after Richie. Do you know why?" The photographer gratefully accepted the glass, pausing to drink. "And it looked like Connor was warned. You?"
Greg nodded somberly. "The Kurgan has been killing Connors and Richards all across the board. We have no idea why he does it. But he has, at least half a dozen of each." Greg finished his water, placing the empty glass on the desk. The noise was almost deafening as it clunked on the furniture, so quiet were they talking. "Richard managed to warn your Connor before the Kurgan showed up. His secondary mission was to try and intercept Kurgan's attack on your Richard."
"He succeeded," Duncan dryly said finishing his own glass. It still didn't slack his sudden thirst. "He just didn't live through it." The Highlander saw Greg wince, realizing how unfeeling that had sounded. Time to switch subjects. "Where am I in all this?" he asked. Pointing to the pictures on the wall, he added, "I know I'm here somewhere."
Greg visibly shuddered. "You and Richard were living with an artist, Tessa Noel." Duncan nodded, aware how painful it was for Greg to relive all this, but morbidly fascinated by it all. "You started acting a little weird. Fighting with Tess, not eating, roaming the city at all hours. She left you. You...you snapped. Attacked Richard one night, damn near taking his head. For a year you ran around the country, killing Immortals. One night..."
The photographer stopped, getting up out of his chair to move to the corner, absently playing with a racing trophy. Duncan thought back, remembering the time Garrick almost drove him mad. He too had tried to take Richie' s head. "I had...a similar experience," he admitted, hoping to make things easier.
"Anyway," Greg haltingly continued, "one night, I was walking home from a gallery opening, and there you were. Richard was spending time with Michelle, and no one thought you were even in the country, but there you were, laughing. I couldn't do a thing, just wiggle my sword as you came closer. You..." A soft sob came from the photographer, images too horrible coming to mind. "...took my eye." The room was still, Duncan having nothing to say. Events in his life could have easily come to this, he thought. "Richard stepped in, saving my head. He cheated...and won."
A few details finally made sense. Richie's strange behavior in the dojo that morning, locking himself in the bathroom. The young man had probably been very close with the MacLeod here. Duncan remembered the night he almost went mad, fearing for his student's life more than his own, hearing that voice behind him...
"You wanna see a flick?" Richie's voice babbled from the kitchen, a steady stream of conversation. Duncan barely had the energy to follow it, not having slept in days. "Mac?" The room got quiet as Richie waited for a reply. Anything to show Duncan wasn't dead already.
Maybe I am, Duncan thought. This is Hell. A place where he had destroyed his relationship with Anne, and almost destroyed his friend's life as well. But this was his Hell, alone. "I don't need a babysitter, Richie." Like that would send his student home. He heard talking again, but his attention was elsewhere, his body playing mindlessly with a deck of cards. He mentally saw Richie's terrified face looking up at him, a thin steel blade protecting the young neck. "What scares you most," he asked. "I'll hurt myself, or somebody else?" Duncan was dead on his feet, words spouting from his mouth, his mind numb to the world. "Go home, Rich," he finally begged. One last plea.
He found himself standing as Richie answered. "No, I don't think that's a very good idea." When would he understand, the Highlander thought as he crossed to the kitchen. I tried to kill him. What happens the next time? Morning arrives to find Richie's headless body?
"I came after you once. If it happens again, you do whatever it takes..." Duncan was getting upset, praying his student would leave, run far away, let Duncan go mad alone. Richie wouldn't listen, trying to argue. In anger, the Highlander grabbed his arm, shaking him. "You do what whatever you need..."
Richie exploded. "NO! I can't kill you. I can't." A declaration Duncan knew he would be happy to hear, any other time. But Duncan was not himself, he was a crazed killer, capable of hurting even the ones he loved. Richie had to understand.
"You better try," Duncan breathed, deadly serious. This was not a game anymore, not a philosophical exercise. "Cause you're not going to get a second chance." His last lesson to his student, before all was lost. But Duncan had gone too far for his young friend.
Richie shook off Duncan's hold. "God! I can't deal with this!" The young Immortal went storming to the elevator, finally leaving Duncan in peace. Now all Duncan wanted was sleep, rest. One not filled with fire and demons. As he sat back down, the pill bottle Anne had given him dug into his leg. He groped for it, relieved that everyone he cared about was gone, so his madness wouldn't rob him of them. Darkness descended as the dreams came...
...but here, the madness had continued, and Richie had been the one to end it. No wonder they can't handle seeing me, Duncan thought. He turned, surprised he was alone in the room. Greg had somehow quietly left.
The Highlander sat in the chair, not really knowing what to do. Images flittered through his head. After a time, a quiet knock sounded on the door. "Come in," Duncan croaked, lifting his chin from its resting place on his fist. He straightened in the chair as the door opened, and an apprehensive David peeked in, still in red scrubs.
The other Immortal stuck Duncan's katana in the room, point down. "I.... This was on the floor by the platform. I thought you'd want it." He carefully entered the room, turning the blade to hand it hilt first. Duncan grabbed it, trying to guess what was spooking the other Immortal. Something must be going on, because David quickly released the sword and began backing up.
Duncan almost flinched from the fear in the office. "It's fine, David," he said, laying the sword on the desk. The young Immortal stopped at the doorway, leaving himself an escape route. The Highlander briefly wondered how much this Keogh's life was like the one he had rescued, all those years ago. Had this one not needed saving? "I don't bite," he joked, not liking the wariness in the other's eyes.
It looked as if David didn't believe him. "I know we've never met," David began. "They've told me stories. About you." Duncan could see the man examining his own memories, reliving the moments of a very long lifetime. "Gregor says you're the best he's ever known." Duncan stood, slowly, so not to spook David. "Even better than Richard."
"I trained them both," Duncan informed the other Immortal. "At least where I come from. And we have met." The disbelief again, shining in David's eyes. "I was the one who helped you with your teacher." David flinched at the word, confirming Duncan's suspicions. "We've been friends ever since," he finished, hating the half-truth.
Summoning his courage, David approached. "Teach me," he asked, stopping within inches of the Highlander, all fear and hesitation gone. "Someone has to stop the Kurgan. Gregor's...not up to par, and the rest are women. That leaves me."
Duncan was surprised, not expecting this from the David he knew. He liked the assurance, appreciated the dedication. But a week, even a month of training would not prepare anyone to challenge the vilest of Immortals. He had gone as far as opening his mouth when Michelle burst into the room, breathless. "Dave, they found a trace signal. One line over, and not much distance. We're on." Duncan pivoted to grab his katana, turning back on an empty room again.
It took a moment to wend his way through the maze of machinery and computers, vaguely noting he was following the sound of shouting voices. "God damn it, Gregor! Let me go!" David had a foot on the platform, the only thing holding him back was the firm grip of the blinded Greg. Michelle was off to the side, tears in her eyes. "I'm the only one!"
"Like Hell!" Greg yelled back. All around, technicians went about their work, the hum of power increasing in the cavernous room. "I won't risk..." He was cut off by a siren, as the power fluctuated, and a swirling mass of energy appeared. The pair rotated, David being pulled off the raised dais as Gregor stepped on. But neither could gain the upper hand in this battle of might. Stalemate.
Duncan reached them, ripping them apart. "You're both wrong. I'm going." It took a second for it to sink in, but both backed down. "Just tell me what to do."
David pulled the Highlander aside, his words being whipped about by the increasingly turbulent wind. The young Immortal shoved a small device into Duncan's off hand. "This is a communications device," he yelled into Duncan's ear. "Blue to talk, red to activate recall. Don't lose it." David held another device to Duncan's face, pointing as he spoke. "This is a tracker. Use this switch to change between targets. It's set for Kurgan and Richard." Unceremoniously, he shoved it into Duncan's hip pocket. The noise was now deafening, forcing David to yell even louder. "Good luck." In a surprising move, he grabbed the Highlander's forearm, a salute the Highlander didn't think he had known about. "Grease that bastard. Now go!"
It was hard to tell what was happening in the room as Duncan walked to the platform. Greg managed a clasp on the shoulder as he passed the last station, nothing between him and the violent hole in space. Taking and holding a deep breath, Duncan entered.
12:47 a.m.
Antiques, Seacouver, WA
Timeline 53a
It was dark and quiet in Tessa's work area, the dark metal apparitions frozen, powerless by themselves. That was an unchanging law. So too was the maxim of something from nothing. An impossibility. But the laws of the universe found themselves permeable, and the artificial intelligence driven by gigawatts of power was not to be balked. Space twisted, and the lone traveler found himself in this dark refuge. A familiar refuge.
Duncan barely felt ill this time, the maelstrom disappearing unnoticed behind him. He was too lost in wonder, instantly recognizing the place. Memories long buried clawed to the surface, watery tears springing to his eyes. "Tessa." The word escaped his lips, a whisper in the gloom.
Quietly, he moved to the living area, noting the glass door was open. The only light on was far back, coming from the hallway to the bedroom. He crept stealthily past the kitchen, wondering where this Tessa and Duncan were. No movement from the back, not a sound. The spare guest room was empty. Richie's belongings were missing. But nearby, somewhere, were two Immortals. He could feel it.
He peeked into the main bedroom, empty and peaceful, taking in the rumpled bed and scattered sheets. Nobody home. When the imperceptible feeling of a Quickening hit him, he turned with a start, katana ready. A scream, faint but sure, came from the other side of the building. The showroom.
Duncan hurried out into the work area, running around welding tanks, heading toward the concealed office door. One that was soundproof as well, deadening any noise of fighting from the other side. In his haste, he never looked down, tripping over the lump in the floor and falling on his face. A loud groan escaped the Highlander's lips as his katana skittered across the cement floor. "Damn!" He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning forward to examine the obstacle. It took a second for his eyes to finish adjusting to the gloom, and when he could see, he prayed it wasn't so. The lifeless head of Connor rocked back and forth.
It seemed like an eternity before he found his sword and made his way to the office. Once he opened the panel, the cruel laughter mixed with terrified pleas reached his ears. Duncan cautiously made his way to the glass wall, stopping as he saw the woman bent over the dead body. His dead body.
He sat up with a start, a twinge making him wince. And not from sex. Tessa stopped, giggling like a school girl. "I felt something," he suddenly said, briefly gazing around the room. A part of his life, one he hoped he had hidden from, was suddenly making itself known. Silently, he cursed.
Tessa laughed out loud, thinking he was making a joke. "I hope so," she replied, her voice thick with a French accent. One of the things they shared with each other was their passion, both in work and in the bedroom. As usual, they were madly working up a sweat, in a way Tessa loved.
"No. Someone's here." Abruptly. he shoved her off his muscled body, unconsciously freeing himself for combat. His hand moved unerringly to his dragon head katana, carefully sliding it free from its resting place under the mattress. The soft scraping hissed in the sudden quiet of the room.
The sculptress was worried by this sudden change. Not knowing exactly what her lover was experiencing, she tried to calm him down. "I didn't hear anything," she remarked, watching his eyes search the lighted bedroom.
"Neither did I." The katana hilt appeared next to his face, a bright flash of light reflected on the blade. It was the one thing that frightened her, his fascination with the sword. He kept it with them wherever they went; Paris, New York, here. Slowly, his handsome face turned, as if he was trying to find the sound he couldn't hear. Just the nagging sensation of another Immortal nearby.
Now there was sound. With an Immortal nearby. And the woman crouched over. Her body shook silently, only a pair of denim clad legs visible on the floor past her. But Duncan didn't have to guess. It was his body, naked except for the pants; pants he had hurriedly put on before investigating the rest of the building that night.
"Oh, man, let me go!" A young voice shouted out, in the showroom proper. Richie, Duncan thought. Carefully, he moved around the crying woman, unnoticed by her in her agony. There, in the moonlight, was the hulking body of the Kurgan, teasing a terrified Richie with a sword in one hand, while grasping the teenager's jacket with the other. "The cops, they'll be here any second!"
Duncan settled into a fighting stance, blade vertical near his face. "Let him go," he threatened. The Kurgan looked up, the terrified thief following his gaze. Duncan noted absently Richie was still mortal, in this world. This was his first experience with Immortals. It felt strange, looking on events from years ago, seeing how much the young man had changed. And realizing how much he had changed himself.
"Well," the Kurgan growled. "Care to try your luck again?" With a laugh, he spun Richie around, encircling his neck with a leather covered arm. The teen struggled futilely, watching as the monster pointed the bastard sword at the Highlander. "Come and get me, pretty boy."
The two swords clashed, sending sparks flying. Richie yelped, his fear ridden face illuminated for an instant. The Kurgan was adept at using the thief for a shield, blocking many of Duncan's attacks with Richie's helpless body. Duncan quickly stopped, aghast at the damage his sword was causing to his friend. Trying a different tact proved just as ineffective. There was no way to get to the Kurgan except through Richie. In effect, forcing the Highlander to murder his friend. "So be it," Duncan whispered under his breath, adding a silent prayer that Richie would understand when he awoke.
With a yell, Duncan advanced, watching as the Kurgan moved Richie to intercept the Highlander's stab. Duncan kept going, forcing the katana through Richie's body, driving it into the hilt. The Kurgan looked surprised, feeling the blade enter his own stomach as the thief screamed in shock. Gritting his teeth, Duncan twisted the blade, watching his friend's pain inches from his own face, rewarded by a bellow from the Kurgan.
The Kurgan released the dying teenager, backing up several steps. One hand went to the bleeding gut wound, the other bringing his bastard sword to a defensive level. Duncan couldn't spare a glance at his student collapsing at his feet after the katana was pulled free. "Payback's a bitch," he angrily spat, advancing on the other Immortal.
"Not this time," the Kurgan growled, using his free hand to activated a device. Again, his form shifted and disappeared. Frustrated, Duncan swung at empty air, a yell of rage echoing in the showroom. Once more, the monster had fled to some other place, having murdered another Connor. But not Richie.
It didn't take long to get Tessa back to the bedroom, drugs from a sparsely used medicine cabinet helping her sleep. Then Duncan cleaned up the two MacLeod bodies, waiting for Richie to wake up, wondering how he was going to explain it all. Connor's head and body he disposed of in a daze, trying to remind himself this wasn't his life. When he reached for his own head, his composure faltered. So many times he had worried this would happen, losing the Game. Leaving behind those who depended on him. Hurriedly, he dumped the body with Connor's, trying not to stare at the bloodstains on the floor that would greet Tessa in the morning.
Confused, the Highlander fished out his pocket watch, surprised it was taking Richie this long. With a start, he noticed at least an hour had passed. Something was wrong, he thought. A single sword thrust did not take this long to heal. Concerned, he moved into the showroom, bending down and feeling the cold, unmoving chest. Hours later, all the blood had dried, the morning sunlight finding the Highlander still crouched over the unmoving teenager. Duncan finally accepted that Richie would never wake up. Somehow, this one was not an Immortal. Shaken, he activated his communications link, jabbing at the recall button. The vortex grabbed him before the guilt overtook him.
0847 hours
Temporal Research Center, Wyoming
Timeline 1
Duncan didn't remember arriving, just being half carried down a corridor to a room, one with a bed. He gratefully lay down, not caring who removed his boots and clothes. Clutching the blanket thrown over him, wishing that when he awoke, he'd be at the dojo, and all this was a dream.
The shadowy figure stood in the middle of the showroom, swinging the sword around. "En guard, you fool!" a very tenor voice said. A challenge, if Duncan had ever heard one. Cautiously, the Highlander eased into the room, katana at the ready. Suddenly, the young man swirled, pointing the sword at the Highlander.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod," he challenged, moving further into the room. "Of the Clan MacLeod." He stared at the youth, a street punk, barely out of his teens, if that. Not much of a threat. "And you are dead," he finished, advancing. The thief's mouth just opened and closed, like a fish. Good, thought Duncan, he's scared.
"Ah, dead?" the punk asked, incredulous. Hesitantly, he placed the sword on the floor behind him, carefully moving away from Duncan. "Whoa, jeeze, I ripped off a couple of cups and a bowl. I'm sorry, all right?" He looked back at a duffel bag, Duncan following with his eyes. "Here, take 'em. They're all in the bag." Glints of silver flashed from the objects stuffed in the duffel bag, sitting under the open, and empty, display case. "I'll pay for the window. It's over, o.k.?"
Pretty good, Duncan admitted. Make it look like a robbery, and my beheading is chalked up to surprising the creep. Self defense. And the kid was a very good actor. Looking eighteen or younger, and he only goes to juvenile hall. Great scam. "It's over when I cut off your head!" he threatened, his katana blade all the way behind his head, ready for a killing blow.
"Cut off my head? You don't think that's, ah, a little extreme for petty theft?" Fear was rampant in the stream of words the punk spouted, his body beginning to shake as he kept the display case between himself and the Highlander. "Hey, you, chill. Your insurance will cover it."
Duncan was momentarily distracted by the soft sound of Tessa behind him. "Mac," she implored, "he's only a boy." He may look like a boy, Duncan thought, but to Immortals, the outside is rarely true. But that was what bothered the Highlander. If this was part of the Game, all the punk had to do was challenge Duncan. Instead, he dropped the sword on the ground, and went into his whole thief routine. There was no need for it. If he wasn't going to fight Duncan, no amount of cover-up was necessary. You couldn't hide the fact you were Immortal.
The punk smiled, one that didn't look practiced over a century. "You know what," he began, the nervousness still creeping into his voice. "You *should* call the police. In fact, I'll tell you what, I'll call them." No, something was seriously wrong. This kid wasn't an Immortal, Duncan realized. He just happened to be in the wrong place at a very wrong time.
And if the kid wasn't Immortal, then.... "There's someone...," Duncan breathed, under his breath. A movement, a change of the moonlight striking his face, off to the side. He turned his head slowly, his gaze falling finally on the skylight. But the Immortal hadn't been up there this whole time, Duncan thought. Why did I feel the kid?
It no longer mattered, the growling scream mixing with the shattering glass as the huge form crashed through the skylight. Duncan pivoted, putting himself in front of Tessa and the kid, protecting them. The hulking shape grew closer, falling toward him, reaching out for Duncan...
...as he sat up in bed with a start, his hand blindly groping for his katana. Hands grabbed his bare shoulders, easing him back onto the bed. Light from the open doorway illuminated David's face, worry lines on his forehead. "Shhh," the young Immortal whispered. "It's only a dream." The other's hands were warm where they touched his flesh, but once Duncan relaxed, they vanished, leaving his skin clammy from sweat that covered his torso.
"I killed him," Duncan murmured, as if spilling the secret would lessen the guilt. He was relieved when David didn't flinch in horror. Instead, the young man sadly nodded, understanding.
"You were babbling as much last night," David explained, playing nervously with the blanket edge. "Everyone's in the conference room, waiting for you." Duncan nodded once, almost throwing off the sheet until he noticed he was naked. "If you feel up to it," David finished. When Duncan didn't reply, he rose, shutting the door as he left, leaving Duncan to a much needed shower.
Duncan waited for them to start yelling as soon as he finished his report, but instead, deathly quiet descended. A few around the table met his gaze, but the others looked away, buried in their own thoughts. Greg spoke first. "So what can we do different?"
More silence. "One problem is the fact that everything done so far was reaction," Duncan stated. Greg and David looked at him, waiting for him to continue. "Both times that I got close to Kurgan, he just vanished." David somberly nodded, absently doodling on the pad in front of him.
"He's the one in control," Greg stated, sitting up in his chair. "That's the way it's been, in every encounter. He shows up, he leaves. We just try to get there in time."
Duncan leaned over the table, clasping his hands. "That's it. And it's his best defense. Retreat, and regroup. And we spend all of our time trying to find where he went."
"By that time, he's already found another target," Michelle added, speaking for the first time since Duncan had walked in. She had sat across the large table from him, unconsciously shying away. Jill had sat next to her, leaving a wide space between them and the men.
"Is there any way we can stop him from leaving?" Duncan asked. Greg just shook his head, already viewing the situation as hopeless.
David's pencil stopped. "You mean like, jam his signal?" Duncan nodded, looking over at the young Immortal. "I don't think so. It's an independent device. We made it so it could operate by itself."
"How about a better way of tracking him?" Jill asked from across the table. "If I understand all the technical stuff, you're searching for the disturbances he causes when he moves between dimensions. If you could track him directly...."
David threw his pencil on the table, shaking his head no. "We still have the same problem as now. We have to sample *each* dimension. And that takes time. Time that the Kurgan uses to set up his next kill."
"Follow him directly," Michelle suddenly said. Duncan looked around the table at the confused faces of the others. "Keep the vortex open long enough for Duncan, or whoever, to immediately follow. Don't give him a chance to end the fight."
Greg looked dazed. "It could work," he said, staring at the tabletop as his mind worked. "You'd have to be close enough, and the power it would take...."
"No," David countered, "tag him with a transmitter. Override the closure signal, and the vortex would remain open as long as the device has power." Already, figures appeared on the scratchpad, his pencil barely slowing as he calculated. "If you keep the vortex open to the same spots...."
"He won't be able to jump anyplace else,until the first one closes," Greg finished. "Sounds like a plan." The two struck their right fists over their heads, satisfaction barely contained on their faces.
David suddenly stood, motioning for Michelle. "We're on it," he said, grabbing the yellow pad and rushing for the door. He opened it, letting Michelle exit in front of him, and closed it with a flourish. Jill stood and moved to Duncan's side, calmly grabbing his wrist and checking his pulse without asking. "You'll be fine," she icily informed him as she released his wrist.
"The girls are, hmm, taking things a little hard right now," Greg explained quietly, both Immortals watching Jill leave the room. Duncan flinched as the other pounded the table. "It's just *so* *damn* frustrating. Knowing how much damage we're causing all over the place."
Duncan took a moment, wondering how to broach the idea he suddenly had. It was delicate, not knowing what the Duncan here had known. Or told. "It might help if we had more information," he began. Greg looked at him, his face full of expectation. "I mean, if we know why the Kurgan was after Connor and Richie."
Greg nodded. "We did send a team to 'X' two days ago. But as far as we could tell, the Kurgan was the last Immortal." He shrugged at Duncan's surprised stare. "Yep. The Prize winner. The big enchilada. And with no one left to ask what the Hell happened..." His voice trailed off.
Duncan nervously coughed, knowing what he was about to do could cause serious problems. But there was no other way he could see. "Do you know what a 'Watcher' is?" he softly asked, not able to look at Greg. The other's silence was proof enough, but the negative nod he glimpsed confirmed it. "I need to go there. To New York, the Kurgan's timeline." Greg didn't move, not understanding the sudden urgency of conversation. "Now," Duncan added, standing.
3:45 p.m.
Near Hudson Street, New York City
Timeline X
It had only taken an hour to find a computer store, and only minutes to purchase the software. Ducking into the cafe down the block, Duncan ordered a sandwich and proceeded to load the CD-ROM into the laptop David had loaned him. With a silent prayer to gods mankind barely remembered, he accessed the national phone number database, finding over five thousand 'Joe Dawsons' by the time his food arrived.
Munching quickly, he tried to narrow the list, first by searching the Pacific Northwest, then New York state. Storing that on his hard drive, he loaded the business addresses of bars and bookstores from another CD, searching the same two geographical locations. Left with two lists, he merged them, ending with ten matches. He almost choked on his coffee when the first address was Hudson street, only two blocks down from Connor's store. And if he remembered correctly, an unhindered view of the upstairs apartment. "Damn," he cursed, fishing out money to pay the bill.
By five, he was waiting outside across from a bookstore, watching as the open sign was changed to 'closed', not crossing Hudson until the storekeeper was locking the front door. "Joe Dawson?" Duncan asked, relieved to see the cane he had missed as he walked across the street. The man turned, and Duncan had to resist a smile when the face he knew so well stared back.
"Yes?" The gruff voice was the same, even the steamed breath coming from his mouth in the chill afternoon air. "Can I help you?" Peppered hair, intense stare, the neatly trimmed beard.
"I need your help," Duncan said, hesitating. "I'm looking for information." The intrigue ignited in Joe's eyes, making him look years younger. Duncan risked a glance down, trying to spot the tattoo on the mortal's wrist. No luck. The shirt cuff extended to the palm. Fish or cut bait, he chided himself. "Connor MacLeod, Richie Ryan, and a man called the Kurgan."
The intrigue vanished, replaced by wariness. "I'm sorry," Joe responded. "We're closed, and I don't believe I've heard those names before. I can't help you." He pushed past the Highlander, navigating the steps and turning up the street.
Duncan followed, catching up to him. Grabbing his cane arm, Duncan turned him around. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, and I am Immortal," he exclaimed under his breath, a little more forcefully than he wanted to. Joe stared in shock, fear in his eyes. "And I know what this means," the Highlander added, raising the wrist to their faces, revealing the blue symbol all members of Joe's organization wore. "You watch, and record. I'm here to learn."
*{Clop-clop}* The cane added an awkward beat to the cadence as Joe and Duncan strolled down the path. The Highlander found it unsettling he was concentrating so much on that odd fact. "I want your files," he answered, his voice still tinged with the barely contained anger.
The Watcher chuckled. "No chance."
Like hell, Duncan thought before he exploded. "I need to know more about him. Where he's lived, what he's done. His habits. Also, I need the names and addresses of the people who were involved with the execution." The cripple was asking too much of him, to kill an Immortal *they* wanted dead. I'm not a cop, Duncan reminded himself again.
"We have rules," Dawson countered.
"Then break them," Duncan threatened, wanting to scream. Weren't rules broken when Darius was murdered? When Fitz was almost beheaded? Where were the rules then? The Highlander wanted to grab the man's coat and shove the rules and James Horton back in his face.
Joe looked sideways as they walked. "Look, MacLeod," he said with all the familiarity of the fifteen years he had watched this Immortal, "I'd like to help you." I just bet you would, Duncan thought, seething. "I'll have to run this by some people. It'll take time."
"Time is something we don't have," Duncan reminded the Watcher. After all the mortals are dead, Quentin's coming after Michael. And he's not up to the challenge. He'll lose his head, then it will fall to me anyway. *Clop* The cane hit the pavement again and again as the silence grew. *{Clop}*
The mortal caved first. "O.K."
Duncan had learned, no matter the circumstances, that Joe would never be any kind of enemy. "God," Dawson finally exclaimed, rubbing his face. "It did seem that the Kurgan dropped off the face of the earth, but I never would have guessed how right that was." He leaned back, reaching for the tumbler of scotch on the small desk at the back of the store. Duncan finished his off, smacking his lips in appreciation on the fine liquor.
"What I'm here to find out is why," he said, setting the empty glass aside. "You're the only one who knows what went on here." And the only one I'd trust enough to come to, he mentally added.
"Well, Connor is an easy answer," Joe said, offering the Highlander the bottle. "You've noticed the scar on the Kurgan's neck?" Duncan nodded yes while his hand grabbed the liquor. "Connor gave it to him, oh, about 1540 or so. Ever since then, Kurgan's hounded him, even saving him for the last fight. Did you know they were the last two?"
Duncan frowned again, looking up as he finished pouring. "No. The two fought in my timeline, only Connor won. It also wasn't the last." Joe shrugged, offering only silence. "And what about Richie?"
Joe leaned back, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Duncan. "That one stumps me. Never heard of him." Holding up a hand when Duncan began to speak, he continued. "Now, I was only one of the people assigned to Connor, so that doesn't mean anything except he never met this 'Ryan' guy around me. At least, not that I know of." The Watcher suddenly frowned and got a far off look in his eyes, staring blindly into the air. "Could you describe him again?"
"About five-nine, late teens," the Highlander replied, watching Joe rise from the chair and move to the back of the office, stopping at a bookcase crammed with papers. "Good with bikes. Heavy hormones. Overly optimistic." It was difficult to picture Richie alive, the sight of his head rolling on the gravel of the freight yard overpowering everything else.
Joe came back to the desk, holding out a photograph to Duncan. "Is this him?" he asked, sitting again. Duncan squinted, trying to make out features in the badly focused photo. One person was obviously Connor, facing the camera head on. The other was profile, wearing a spandex cyclist's outfit, a ten-speed slung over his shoulder. The two were exchanging a large envelope, but it wasn't evident who was giving or receiving. Hair was right, the Highlander noted. The nose, the chin. Even the build.
"It's him," Duncan said, throwing the photo at Dawson. The Watcher picked it up, shaking his head sadly as he examined the photo. "What?" Duncan asked, not liking the ominous gesture.
"His street name was 'Slice'," Joe informed his guest, reaching down to open a drawer. "Connor used him as a messenger every now and then, trying to keep him out of trouble. A charity case." With a thump, a slim manila folder landed on the desk. "Since he turned out to be an Immortal, it finally made better sense."
Duncan leaned forward, resisting the urge to strangle Joe, or at least grab his shirt. "What made more sense?"
"Connor accidentally ran over him about two years ago. Broke a leg. Ever since then, the kid's delivered packages for him. But it was so strange, because MacLeod wasn't usually one to pick up strays." Joe nervously played with the folder, not looking at Duncan as he talked. "Slice spent most of his time working the streets, hustling. But he had a way with cycles, one thing Connor tried to encourage. Even sponsored the lad in a race or two."
Wishing Dawson would get to the point, Duncan fidgeted in the chair. "So? Where does the Kurgan fit in?" The details of the situation were hitting too close to home, a reminder of how things might have been in his own life. That was the worst part of all this, knowing how different things could have been. Easily. If he had never found Richie, if Tessa still lived.
"Three weeks ago, the Kurgan snatched the kid right from under MacLeod's nose. In broad daylight. Took him to a warehouse in Jersey. One of Kurgan's hiding places." With nervous hands, the Watcher opened the folder and turned it so Duncan could see it. Pictures accompanied Joe's story. "They found the kid's body just over a week ago. Some poor wino crashed on the bottom floor of the warehouse, and woke up next to the head."
Duncan examined the photos, glad he hadn't eaten for a while. These were in sharp focus, the features unmistakably Richie's. In one, the youth was crouching beside a bed, the camera catching the terror on his face in vivid detail. "He was beheaded?" he asked, turning to the next photo.
"Did it to himself, with the freight elevator," Joe replied, pouring another glassful. "He was still handcuffed to the bed. Dragged it halfway across the third floor. He had become Immortal, as well." Duncan looked up questioningly at the Watcher. "Blood everywhere, and not a scratch on his body." The last photo showed a hunting knife, dried blood on the blade. "Kurgan was away, finishing off Connor. Came home, and found he had won the Prize. No more Immortals left."
Looking through the photos again, Duncan's anger built. That was the purpose, he realized. "Where did these come from?" he asked, knowing even a Watcher wouldn't let something like this continue that long. No, someone else must have snapped the camera.
Joe inhaled, looking at the ceiling. "They were delivered to Connor anonymously each day. He was a basket case by the time Kurgan showed up." The Watcher shut the folder, as if the memories would go away just as easily. "That was a favorite tactic of his."
"Not just his," Duncan said under his breath. "So, he wants Connor dead, and Richie back. Any Richie." Even as he said it, the implications of what he said sunk in. "God, that's sick!"
The Watcher nodded, toying with the last of his drink. In mock salute, he raised it toward Duncan. "That's why I'm so glad he's gone. Hopefully for good." Gulping the last of it down, Joe looked the Highlander straight in the eye. "Someone needs to see that he doesn't come back." Duncan looked sharply at Dawson, the Immortal's face a scowl. "Consider it payment for the information," Joe said, eying his empty glass. Duncan stood, ending the conversation. Without a word, he activated the recall device, relieved when the vortex appeared.
andthegroundandskymetalmostliketheplacebetweenheavenandhelljustwaiting
nosoundnolifejustwaitingfortimetorealizeitleftyoubehind
2000 hours
Temporal Research Center, Wyoming
Timeline 1
"Shit," Duncan exclaimed, stepping off of the platform. Each transition was becoming easier, but something nagged him about the last one. Something he couldn't remember. Michelle looked up, noting his arrival before shutting off the process. The room was virtually deserted, the few remaining technicians turning off machinery before making their way out the door.
"We held supper for you," she exclaimed, powering down her own console. She rose and turned, intent on leaving, but Duncan moved in front of her, blocking the exit. The two shifted in an insane dance, Michelle trying to step around him.
Tired of the games, Duncan grabbed her shoulder. "What are you blaming me for?" he asked. The question caught both of them by surprise. "Two deaths? Somehow causing this?" He reached down and gently held her chin, raising her head to make eye contact. "Or something else?"
Her eyes watered, her voice a soft whisper. "You are so much like him," she said, her body suddenly pressing against his. Her hair smelled fresh, her hands running along his back. "You took me in, when my parents died. You and Tess were the closest thing to a family I had for two years. Rich was almost a brother. When I died, you introduced me to Amanda." A sniffle sounded as she clutched him tighter. "You gave me away when I married Greg. And then you...he tried to kill us all. I was so glad he was dead. Then you came...."
It was easy to walk her to a chair, by a dark console. Tenderly, he helped her sit, kneeling beside her. "Michelle," he finally said, taking her hands in his before brushing the loose hair from her face. "There was an Immortal named Garrick. He was angry at me from a long time ago, and found a way to mess with my dreams." He stopped, knowing he was explaining this all wrong. "Where I come from, there are people who mean a great deal to me. I've sometimes hurt them, or lost them. It doesn't mean I love them any less, or suddenly stopped loving them." She was crying now, tears falling on her cheek. Duncan brushed the wet trail with his thumb, giving her a small smile. "It only means that things happen in this world, to mortals and Immortals alike. Things that we can't change." She slowly nodded her head, looking into his eyes. "But I know it still hurts..."
With a sob, Michelle slid to the floor, clutching Duncan as she cried. He held her for a while, letting her work through things she needed to. In the darkness, they rose, slowly walking together to the exit. In the back of the cavernous room, hidden from their view by machinery, a black shadow detached itself from the wall, walking into a shaft of light from the hallway. "You are too much like him," Gregor said to the darkness, before he left as well.
"How did you manage to find this out?" Greg's words exploded the second Duncan finished speaking. The Highlander calmly shrugged, not wanting to answer. "Fine," he huffed, turning around and walking the other way around the circular table. "What's a watcher?"
Duncan leaned back in the conference room chair, fixing his gaze on the pacing Immortal. "I can't tell you," was all he would say on the matter. "Just accept that the information is valid."
"That's so gross," Jill commented, the first of the rest to speak. David looked positively ill and Michelle just stared into space. "But, psychologically, it explains almost everything. And it might be something we can use."
The dark haired Gregor paced again, rubbing his chin. "How so?" he asked, gazing at the mortal female with his one good eye. He reminded Duncan of a pirate for long ago, only in a punk haircut and leather. What was it Richie called it, the Highlander mused. Cyberpunks.
Jill spun her chair, crossing her legs. "If we could find a Richard that could play scared, then when the Kurgan lowered his guard, boom." The raven haired doctor pounded her fist into her palm for emphasis.
"You're talking as if we can go down to the corner and rent one," Michelle hysterically interjected. She leaned over the table, her hands clenched in fists. "Eight timelines have lost their Richard Ryan because of us. All of us." As she added the last, she locked glances with Duncan, but there was no blame this time, only anger. "This is someone else's life we're talking about." Greg moved to his wife, placing a hand on her shoulder. Silence followed her outburst. "How many more will have to die," she quietly added, sending her husband pacing yet again.
Wishing Greg would stand still, Duncan rocked in the chair, waiting for someone to suggest the next move. In the middle of all the hustle and bustle, he felt useless, unsure what the technology was capable of. "Have we found out where Kurgan is heading?"
"Uh, yeah," David began, fighting for control. "He's stopped on a relatively harmless timeline. One where World War One wiped out the planet." With effort, he rifled the pages of his legal pad, finding one he wanted. "But he has visited a close timeline twice. I think that's his target."
Greg stopped behind the young Immortal, resting on the high back on the chair. "Why just a visit? Why not stay there?" He watched as David searched again, trying to read the blur of yellow paper over his shoulder.
"I think he's checking the place out," David admitted. "Let's face it, he's got to know we can find him. How else would we keep showing up every time?"
Duncan had to agree, swiveling to face the two men. "He may be archaic by today's standard. And uncivilized to boot, but he hasn't lived half a millennium on his charm alone." Another stray thought crossed his mind, one he knew he had to voice. "That's if he was born when the one I know was."
It looked as if Greg was opening his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, a loud siren went off, starling everyone in the room. Over the noise, the four natives of the timeline exchanged words, ignoring Duncan. The women rushed out, David getting one last instruction from Greg before the blinded Immortal left as well.
"We're under attack," David informed Duncan, leading him out of the room and down a hall. Duncan was full of questions, but felt now was not the time to ask. They came to the room Duncan had been using, the noise dropping as they shut the door. "I can't explain much, but a group of Immortals have shown up. Evil Immortals." Duncan shuddered at the way David emphasized those two words. With practiced ease, the young man found a duffel bag, throwing it at Duncan before opening a closet door. "They want the technology," he finished, beginning to toss clothes at the Highlander.
Duncan caught the outfits and quickly packed them. "What's this for?" he asked, adding a few toiletries from the table.
Holding out the suede duster, David walked over, handing it to the Highlander. "If they win, we blow this place," he calmly said. "And if that's the case, you need to be on your way." With the packing finished, the two moved down more corridors, the faint sound of clashing metal underscoring the shrieking siren. They arrived at a lab, David checking inside before entering. "This is the prototype we had developed," he informed Duncan, handing him a bulky object. "This will open a vortex wherever you are. Sorry, no manual."
"Not quite the convenient carrying size," Duncan commented, opening the bag and shoving it in. "But if an ape like the Kurgan can operate one, I think I can." A tubular object was thrust in his hands next, almost like a tiny flashlight.
David pointed to the one switch on the side. "Point and shoot. Aim it at the bastard, and it'll keep the vortex from closing when he transfers. There should be enough time to follow, unless you're hurt bad." Or dead, Duncan mentally added, shoving the device in his coat pocket.
The Highlander zipped the bag, throwing it again over his shoulder. The two left the sheltered lab, the sounds of fighting louder in the corridor. Like a game of cat and mouse, the pair made their way to the main room, strange people occasionally running down the halls. None stopped to talk, or challenge the pair.
Once they arrived, Duncan noted a large metal buoy apparently floating on the dais. David made straight for it, yelling for the few technicians to begin a transfer. Duncan arrived just as David activated the device, lights suddenly flashing under his hand. "This is the probe we use to track Kurgan. Activate it here," he said, pointing at a set of two buttons, demonstrating the order. "Keep one hand on it, and you'll be dragged along, sampling a timeline every two minutes. If it beeps..." A loud ping sounded. "...you know he's somewhere in that timeline. If you lose him, this is your best chance to catch up."
The racket of machine gun fire and sword fighting was uncomfortably close, only drowned out as the hum in the room reached a fevered pitched. Duncan felt lost, his head a whirl of thoughts. "Let me stay and help," he began, following David off the platform.
"No," David yelled, blocking his way. "This isn't your fight. Hell, this isn't your life. Stop the Kurgan, that's the only thing you need to do." The young Immortal directed another shout at the two remaining technicians. "OPEN IT TO 42." He stepped to the main console, stopped when Duncan grabbed his arm.
The Highlander leaned close to David's ear. "You've done well," he commented, letting his gaze wander around the room. "Tell everyone I'm sorry it had to end this way."
"I'm just glad you came, even only for a little while. It helped." With a crackle of energy, the vortex formed behind the Highlander, the electrical discharges mirrored in David's eyes. "They had unfinished business you helped close. I'll always be grateful." The young Immortal almost added something else, but changed his mind. Finally, he raised his fist over his head and said, "wax the bastard."
"Like toast," Duncan replied, hitting David's clenched fist with his own. "Maybe I'll see you again." A yell interrupted them, a dark form charging from the doorway. David pushed the Highlander back to the vortex, taking up a defensive stance, sword already in front of him. Duncan recognized Xavier St. Cloud before he turned, stepping into the swirling mass. The clang of swords followed him into the white...
panic.or.desperation.just.calm.and.peaceful.like.he.was.home.but.a.dark.rip.appeared
and.he.found.that.he.was.heading.toward.it.without.moving.his.feet
until.the.dark.swallowed.him. like.a.gapping.maw.
10:47 p.m.
MacLeod's, Washington State
Timeline 42
Duncan found himself standing on a park bench, one foot out to take a next step, only there wasn't anything there. For a second, he windmilled his arms, the duffel bag on his shoulder throwing his balance off. He managed to keep himself from falling on his face, taking a giant step down to rest his foot on the brick sidewalk. Only then did he concentrate on his surroundings.
He knew where he was. It wasn't hard, the antique shop across the street had been home for over ten years. The Kurgan was chasing Richie, and Richie was usually with Duncan MacLeod. It didn't seem strange at all, their peculiar relationship had always seemed fated. With a wry grimace skyward, Duncan reached back, snagging the floating probe. "Come on," he growled, guiding the machine across the silent street.
No key on his keyring would work, Richie having faithfully sold everything off in his world. Keeping a key to someone else's place wasn't Duncan's habit. But luckily, the Highlander here had the same idea about hiding places. If this isn't a dream, Duncan thought as he slid the key into the well-oiled lock, I am in deep.... *Click* The deadbolt slid home, allowing access to the showroom part of the building.
At least this MacLeod has my taste, Duncan acknowledged, examining the Ferngalt hanging just inside the door. It almost sparkled in the moonlight from the windows, a prized possession. He stood, transfixed, until a soft beep from the probe startled him. "Now, don't get all chatty on me," he chided, slipping the machine behind a suit of armor in the corner. One last glance around, and he headed for the office, still wary of the rightful occupants.
The desk was barer than usual, only one stack of papers and no mess. Listening at the concealed door gave no hint if anyone was on the other side. "No late night inspirations involving the sander or welding, at least," he softly commented to himself. A quick peek confirmed his guess. No one in the workshop. Carefully, he eased the door open, sliding his head in to take a glance at the living quarters.
In the kitchen window, Tessa was washing dishes, slowly swaying to music only she could hear. Behind her, three chairs were pushed back from the dining table. Richie, or possibly a guest. Only part of the living room was visible through the front glass door, but if anyone was sitting on the sofa, they'd be hidden. No buzz. It suddenly hit Duncan, what if Immortals here don't give off buzzes? Frightening thought.
With a start, Duncan realized he was watching Tessa, in the flesh, and not feeling.... Responsible. Guilty. Angry. Within the last year and a half, the wound had healed. Not that he would ever forget her, but the memories brought only happiness, not pain. That part of his life was finally over. The ache for her was gone. He stood and watched her work for a moment, a small smile gracing his lips.
When she dried her hands, Duncan slowly eased into the workshop, trying to get a better view of the living room. Carefully, checking his footing, he moved past the wooden stairs, skirting a large table with dark shapes on it. The light from the kitchen suddenly went off, making Duncan quickly look around. Tessa was straightening the dining table and chairs, trying to replace a rather large centerpiece. The Highlander sneaked up to the kitchen windows, moving to get a glimpse of the hallway as Tessa walked down it.
As his nose stopped within inches of the glass, Tessa suddenly turned around. She stormed to the kitchen, almost in anger. Duncan froze, then tried to quietly back up. The light came on just as his foot caught on something, sending him sprawling into some shelves, then to the floor, numerous small objects raining on him. A sharp pain welled up from his ankle, making him wince.
The workshop lights blazed on, momentarily blinding him. It took Tessa a bit to find him under the metallic knickknacks she had been saving. "Duncan!," she exclaimed, rushing over. Between the two of them, they managed to brush off all the junk, allowing Duncan to rise to his feet. His dark hair brushed his face, the silver hair clasp lost somewhere on the floor. He hissed as weight was placed on his injured foot, sending another jab of pain. "You're hurt," Tessa added, lending her support as they slowly limped to the living room, his duffel bag in her hand.
Duncan groaned as he sat on the sofa, waiting expectantly while the healing began. "Thanks," he managed to say before Tessa started taking off his boot. "No, it's fine." A small spark of something tingled his hand where he touched her, moving her hands away from his leg. "See, it's already better," he added, standing without pain, turning in a circle for her examination.
"Oooh, if I didn't love you, Duncan MacLeod, I'd hate you," she admonished as she rose, stopping his reply with a kiss. It was awhile before they broke for air, the Highlander relishing every second of it. "Why didn't you call and tell us you would be home early?"
That statement answered several questions, and raised a few more. Duncan took a moment, trying to find a noncommittal response. "Never had the chance," he replied, sliding out of the suede duster and pitching it onto the sofa. "Now, where were we?"
"Daddy!" A high pitched squeal came from a small projectile heading straight for the Highlander. Instinctively, he bent down, managing to snag the small child and hoist her up. The girl planted her own version of a kiss on his cheek, moving in for a killer hug. Duncan stood there in shock, trying to figure a way to find out what was going on.
Tessa just stood there, smiling. "I hope you brought presents for everybody," a tenor voice prodded, coming from the hallway to the bedrooms. Duncan managed to turn with the bundle in his arms in time to see the smiling face of Richie as he walked up. The young man glanced at the duffel bag, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the Highlander. "Don't tell me, they lost your luggage again."
"Something like that," Duncan managed to gasp, trying to loosen the child's hold on his neck without dropping her. Tessa and Richie both smirked until he shot them a dirty look.
Richie laughed aloud, holding his arms out. "Come on, Lydia," he said, managing to snag the girl. "You still have to take your bath, and then Daddy can tuck you in and read you a bedtime story." The girl looked happily at Duncan as Richie carried her back to the bedrooms, Duncan straining to feel the young man. Not the full buzz of an Immortal, but the subtle ghost of one who would become such. He found it, that ever present gnaw he had grown accustomed to after living with Richie. He released an audible sigh, suddenly aware that Tessa had moved beside him.
"I take it everything went well with Grayson," Tessa commented, snuggling close. Duncan mumbled in her hair, not sure of himself. "Well," she added, looking into his face, "I'm glad you're back." She nudged him back to the sofa, the faint sounds of splashing coming from behind the glass wall beyond the dining table. "There's something I have to tell you." They sat, the artist taking his face in her hands for another kiss. She smiled when they finished, clasping his hand and placing it on her stomach. "Lydia is going to have a sibling in six months."
Duncan knew his jaw dropped, a reaction Tessa was luckily waiting for. "You're...ah...we're..." He gulped, his mind reeling with the implications. This Duncan really was a father. Twice. Immortals could have children here. His mind froze in shock until the loud sound of the workshop's outer door slamming shut intruded into the living room. His head ignited as two Immortals were suddenly felt.
"I'M HOME!"
Time stopped for Duncan. He had heard that particular voice many times, usually as an echo. A few times he had heard himself on the answering machine, a thin, wheezy imitation of his usually strong baritone. It took a moment for his head to actually turn to the doorway, time in which he watched as Tessa's eyes grew microscopically wider. She also turned to the door, her face slowly breaking out in amazement.
He was standing in the doorway, a matching look of surprise to Duncan's own. The hair was as long, only not pulled back in a pony tail. And the outfit. Purple silk shirt, vest, a diamond stud in one earlobe. A fancy clothes horse, Duncan thought, until he remembered he had dressed that way for Tessa. "What the Hell...?" It was almost as if the two Highlanders spoke simultaneously. Tessa only gasped.
It was then a high pitched scream cut through the air, ending the moment. Richie's voice followed almost immediately. "You bastard!" Both Immortals and Tessa raced for the bedroom, the two men running side by side down the hall.
All three burst into the large room, coming to a halt once inside. The Kurgan was there, facing Richie. The young man had pushed the little girl, still squealing, back into the bathroom. Keeping the doorway blocked, he was fending off the punches of the monstrous Immortal using Hung Gar. "Richie!" The other MacLeod moved to help, stopping when Duncan laid a hand on his arm.
"Don't interfere," was all Duncan said, knowing what the other was planning. The other MacLeod jerked his arm away, heading into the fray. Until one of the Immortals issued a challenge, it was a free-for-all. Tessa began inching around the room, heading for Lydia. Duncan reached for his coat pocket and the jamming device, realizing too late both were back on the sofa.
In a panic, he ran back, grabbing the coat as a deep growl echoed in the building. Glass shattered as a body came flying through the clear wall separating the living room from the bedroom. Looking in the sudden hole, Duncan saw the Kurgan with a strong grasp of Richie's hair as the other MacLeod landed in a heap at his feet. Already the evil monster was reaching for the vortex device, his prize in his grip. Desperately, Duncan aimed the tubular gun, pressing the trigger.
A puff of compressed air, and a small object shot out, heading for the battling pair. The Kurgan jerked back, dragging Richie into the path. The object rammed into the young man's chest, small talons digging into muscle to anchor it. Richie's face twisted in pain, the sound of his agony lost as a vortex formed next to the Kurgan.
With a laugh, the monster dragged his captive into the swirling energy, both disappearing from view. Tessa ran to the bathroom, grabbing Lydia and slamming the door. Without checking his double moaning at his feet, Duncan drew his katana from his coat, jumping through the open wall and running for the vortex, praying it didn't close.
It was almost like fog, and almost like a cloud, he decided, but then the thought that it was like a white out one of his many friends had experienced entered his head, along with the knowledge his friend had died in 1928 in a hospital somewhere in Boston and not at all near the North Pole where the man had gone nor near the mountains in Budapest where he was planning to go as soon as the nagging cough he never got over went away, like all the friends Duncan had known over the last four hundred years had gone away, actually four hundred and two if anyone was really counting, but who really counted for that long anyway, they just went on and acted like they hadn't done everything so many times nothing was enjoyable anymore, like reading, and looking at the pages in a never ending book,
11:15 p.m.
Jersey City Warehouse District, New Jersey
Timeline X
It was almost like running through pages in a book, each step taking him past different places he only peripherally saw, his gazed firmly locked on the two men in front of him. His surroundings settled, solidifying into a dark warehouse. Three of the walls were large windows, the fourth all brick. The Kurgan threw Richie across the open floor, drawing his sword as the young man skidded into a pile of junk, near the gaping hole of a freight elevator. Duncan glimpsed yellow police banners, then tried to block the sight from his mind when he realized where they were.
"Nice trick," the Kurgan admitted as the two Immortals warily circled. After punching several buttons on the device he held, the larger man cursed, shoving the device back into his pocket. "And your last." With a crash, the two swords connected, sparks flying. Duncan instantly knew he was outpowered, unable to keep from tumbling backward as the Kurgan pushed.
Again the laugh. Duncan wasted no energy trying to verbally spar with the ape, telling himself speed and skill can defeat brute strength any day. Instead of trying to block the bludgeoning attacks, he ducked and twisted, the Kurgan's sword finding only empty air. Occasionally an opening presented itself to the Highlander, but he was running out of time. His breath was turning ragged, his whole body aching.
"You're goin' down, pretty boy," the Kurgan informed him, cutting a wide gash into Duncan's leg. The Highlander collapsed to his knees, his good leg buckling under the sudden weight. The Highlander managed to block the downward swing that followed, a blow that shook even his teeth. He knew the next would be his last, preparing to dive to the side as the Kurgan drew back again.
Suddenly, hands encircled the tall Immortal's face, legs wrapping around his waist. "NOT!" Richie's face appeared beside the Kurgan's, his open mouth finding an ear as his hands tried to strangle and gouge out an eye. The Kurgan bellowed in pain, the killing stroke forgotten. Huge hands grasped at the young man, finding purchase on hair and shirt. The large Immortal easily threw the lighter teenager over his head, sending Richie flying into another wall behind the Highlander.
But it had been enough to let Duncan catch his breath. He was on his feet, ready when the Kurgan picked up his sword. "What else does he do for you?" the ragged voice asked the Highlander, dripping with meanings and suggestions. His eyes widened almost imperceptively as Duncan smiled. The Kurgan smiled back, faking a glance behind Duncan. A very old trick. "I see I'll have to even the odds," he cryptically quipped, kicking at Duncan's sword hand, then turning to the vortex.
Duncan moved the katana out of the way, using the momentum to position the sword for a powerful hamstringing slice, already targeting the back of the Kurgan's legs as the monster moved toward the swirling energy. But he felt sudden resistance from the sword, and turning his head, came face to face with Richie behind him, the teenager's mouth open in shock.
"Oh, god," was all the young man uttered, his breath failing as the blade was pushed deeper into his gut when Duncan turned his body around. His eyes widened in shock, a small trail of blood dripping off his lips. "You warned me...," he managed to say before falling limply into the Highlander's arms, the katana buried to the hilt as the two bodies met.
The warehouse was dark, and quiet. Dusk had faded from the windows only moments before, the only light a small lamp Duncan had dug up. He kept looking at his watch every five minutes, twenty times since Richie had died an hour ago. It had been painful, and bloody, but Duncan lacked the resolve to end the young man's life prematurely. Into the endless sleep Richie had descended, and all that was left was to wait.
"Dun...can?" The voice was hesitant and weak, full of uncertainty. The Highlander quietly moved to the teenager on the floor of the warehouse, helping him sit up. Richie's face contorted in pain, his hands unconsciously grabbing for his chest and the freshly healed wound. "Oh, god," he cried again, tears rushing down his cheeks as he began to sob.
Duncan carefully held the shaking boy in his arms, waiting before even trying to explain. For now, he murmured soft words, trying to comfort the traumatized youth. "He was after Lydia," Richie brokenly explained. "I had to stop him. Then he grabbed me, and brought me here, and you fought, and I..." Again, he ran his hand over the smooth skin, his fingers opening the rip in his shirt. "I... died," he whispered, almost a question. He raised his head, nose to nose with Duncan, his eyes so wide, so full of confusion and wonder.
"You're Immortal," the Highlander gently reminded him, but no hint of recognition flashed across his face. "Like me." The confusion grew, the innocence replaced by wariness in the young, intense eyes. Richie shied away, wrapping his arms around his chest, careful not to disturb the jamming device still attached to his chest. Duncan stood, wondering how much the young man knew.
Richie paced just outside the circle of dim light. "So, I'll live forever, unless I get my head chopped off, and a whole group of people are running around trying to do just that." He still hadn't looked at Duncan, just wandered around the large room as the Highlander tried to explain. To his credit, the teenager didn't panic, or collapse into hysterics again, or flatly deny the information.
"That about sums it up," Duncan wryly answered, adding a smile. Leaning over the bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the warehouse, he snagged a bottle of water, not pleased with the gurgling sound when he tried the sink earlier. "Although it's not as chaotic as all that. There are rules, you know."
"I always knew something about you was off," Richie quietly said. "Oh, I had guessed about your line of work a long time ago, but this? No way." Duncan managed to look up and get caught in the youth's intense gaze, almost choking as he swallowed at the alien intelligence behind the eyes. He had been dealing with everyone as if they were his friends, his loves. And standing in front of him was the exact likeness of Richard Ryan. But this person, this boy, was a stranger. He knew nothing about the life this Richie had experience, no clue what brought the extended family he had intruded on together. In that instant of helplessness, Duncan blinked. When he refocused, microseconds later, Richie had turned away, fading deeper into the shadows if it were possible. "You're not... him, are you?"
Duncan inhaled, watching the flashing lights of the small device still painfully attached to Richie wink at him. "No." He waited for the inevitable questions, but none came. Only silence. "We need to leave," he gently prodded, looking at the still swirling vortex in the corner. Richie nodded, already slowly walking toward it. The Highlander grabbed his katana, taking one last look around. Ghostly images of Richie appeared next to the bed, a headless body under the yellow police ribbons at the elevator shaft. He turned, following the teenager into the pulsating mass of energy, knowing he would need the anger those images ignited. To kill the Kurgan.
It had been white all along, Duncan told himself, only now he remembered it. That brief instant between here and there that you almost missed. A fog bank was the only thing he could compare it to. Everything was white, except the rent they had come from, full of dark colors, and the tear in the featureless wall of white they were heading for. One Duncan would never reach.
Maybe it was the almost silent chuckle, or maybe some heightened sense in this no-place, but Duncan managed to duck and knock Richie out of the way of a decapitating swing from the side. The Kurgan's bastard sword continued it's arc as Duncan tumbled, rising with his katana in front of him. It was a shock not to feel the other Immortal.
"Damn," the Kurgan joked, letting his sword point fall to the white smoke that served as ground. The large Immortal just stood there, waiting. Duncan was prepared to do the same, guessing, not feeling, that Richie was protected behind him, but suddenly the young man dived to the side, taking the Highlander with him. Another large bastard sword, identical to the Kurgan's, swung through the space his head had been.
"Double damn," the second, identical Kurgan said.
Duncan knew it would be impossible to shield Richie from both. "Run," he whispered behind him, hearing the new Immortal taking off as he tried to keep both Kurgans at bay. He backpedaled after Richie, watching for any sign of the pair trying to outflank him. He wasn't ready to back into a wall. A soft, yielding wall.
"This is going to be soo much fun," a deep, gravely voice hissed in his ear, two hands grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind him. One Kurgan kicked his katana from his trapped hand, the second watching in amusement. A third must be holding him.
The Kurgan to his right chuckled. "May I present before, and after," he said, indicating the other two. "It's just darn amazing what you can do with a time machine and a little patience." Duncan briefly struggled, gauging the Immortal behind him, not ready to give up.
On his left, the Kurgan reached forward, roughly grabbing Duncan's chin. "You're right, MacLeod's kinsman is a stud," he told the other Kurgan, before sneering at the Highlander. "I'll grab Slice later. This will be down-right fun," the large man taunted. Duncan grinned confidently back, grabbing the leather jacket of the Kurgan holding him.
"Try this," Duncan spat, pulling his legs up to his chest, knocking the hand off his chin. With a kick, he planted both boots in the face of the Kurgan in front of him, enjoying the sickly crunch of a nose being broken. Blood splattered as that one went down, the Highlander dropping his feet to the ground. With a head snap, he rammed his skull into the face behind him, rewarded by another crunch and a pained shout. The hands holding him loosened enough for him to drop to the ground, ducking under the punch of the third Kurgan.
Duncan tumbled to the side, blindly groping for his sword as he rolled. Lady Luck smiled; he grasped the familiar hilt and rose to his knees, ready. Two Kurgans were superficially injured, the third preparing to pounce. Three against one, not very good odds. And technically, he was only fighting one other opponent. Looking around, he noticed the white was now unbroken, the jamming device keeping the vortex open had gone, letting the spatial holes close. He was trapped. In a very rare moment, Duncan panicked, his heart skipping a beat. And something flared deep within him.
"He's not going to fight you, Duncan," a new voice commented, full of accents and emotions. Jeans and sneakers as usual, the tan trench coat left wherever the new arrival had come from. A voice Duncan hadn't heard for almost three years, since the fated night the Game had found him again.
Still another player joined this opening dance. In the shadows of the antique showroom, an Immortal walked forward, katana at the ready. "Not until he's made you suffer. Until he's destroyed everything you love in this world. Until you don't know whether you want to live or die." The words were backed by incredible pain. Duncan knew his kinsman, his friend was speaking from bitter experience. "That's your way, right, Slan?"
"Connor," Duncan began, abruptly feeling thirty seven and once again trying desperately to live up to his teacher's lofty expectations. Like I'm not capable on my own, he wanted to add. "What are you doing here?"
The pair switched places, pivoting around the other, displaying centuries of practicing together. "Head hunting," Connor replied, boiling down an Immortal's life to those two words. You can run, but you can't hide, Duncan thought, briefly wondering if he had heard that last week or the last World War.
That was another time the elder MacLeod had mysteriously shown up, to offer support or guidance. Duncan froze, mentally connecting all the dots that had crystallized in his mind. Connor had always been there. Little Deer, London, his mentor had appeared. Times when he truly felt overwhelmed by everything, or needed guidance when his life went way off track. Darius had always said the teacher-student relationship between Immortals was no light matter. Duncan had taken the holy man at face value only, ascribing it as one of the many Rules.
But it was much deeper than that. With Richie, he had given up a part of himself and received... much more. "Linked and locked," he whispered under his breath. In this place where Immortals couldn't be sensed, he felt an undercurrent, deep down. A connection that had been there since the day Connor had found him in the woods, and the night he had found Richie in his store. Bound to the man next to him, and to a man that should be here. Would be here, he corrected.
Barely an instant had past since Connor had spoken, but enough time for Duncan to glance the other way, watching the young Immortal stroll from the fog. This Richie was definitely older, a bit taller, and an avid player in the game, judging by the shape he was in. Wearing only black leather pants and boots, he held his weapons in his hands, rapier and dagger.
With only a quick raise of his eyebrow, Richie brought his sword vertical in front of his face, crossing the blade with his dagger horizontal. A salute. With practiced ease, he slid into a wide defensive stance, both weapons low and ready. Muscles tensed across his broad back, but the young man radiated an aura of calm and.... The only word Duncan could describe it was faith.
The trio of Kurgans split apart, the MacLeods and Richie choosing their opponents. With a clash, the battle was joined. Duncan was unsure who actually swung first, or blocked among the six. He only focused on the Immortal in front of him, already attacking with glee. The horrible laugh echoed in the still air as Duncan dodged, bringing his katana in to strike.
"Slice is lookin' real good," the Kurgan breathed in his face when their swords locked together. With a wrench, Duncan pulled his katana free, kicking out with a boot. The other chuckled, jumping back. The Highlander shoved his concern aside, focusing only on his opponent. Later, he would deal with who survived, and who he would mourn. His only chance of winning was to shield against all the Kurgan's attacks, especially the emotional ones.
At one point Duncan jumped backward, brushing against someone else. Bare skin, the solid feel of a trusted comrade guarding his back. There was a slight shift in the shoulders, warning Duncan to jerk to the side as one of the bastard swords appeared where his chest had been. A metallic clank, and the blade swung away from the pair, Duncan blocking a different attack from his opponent. Then the body was gone, the sounds of the other fight moving away.
By now, Duncan had noticed the Kurgan only had ten or so standard moves, relying on force to overwhelm his opponents. Unexpectedly, Duncan achieved a higher awareness, watching his fight as if he were an impartial observer, some lesser part of him attacking and defending. His heightened senses monitored minuscule shifts in the fight, planned his strategy, dissected the battle into tiny increments. Playing a game of cat and mouse, the Highlander suckered his opponent into attacking from the right, leaving the left open. Timing his strike, Duncan sliced into the Kurgan's side, digging deep. But the first sound of pain came from Connor, off to Duncan's left.
Unconsciously, the Highlander looked, seeing Connor gutted and falling to his knees at the third Kurgan's feet. No more, Duncan vowed, turning back and kicking his katana free from his opponent. "Richie," he shouted, turning his head, but the dagger was already sailing through the air. It sped within easy reach, slowly rotating, Duncan plucking it out of the air and pivoting, not sparing any time to aim.
The third Kurgan was beginning his swing down on Connor's unprotected neck. The dagger flew unerringly at its target. With a dull thud it sunk into the Kurgan's heart, his muscles flinching in shock. It was enough to deflect the stroke momentarily, but with a yell of rage, the Kurgan drew back.
Out of options, Duncan turned again to his own opponent, kicking the bastard sword out of the way and instinctively swinging at the second Kurgan's suddenly unprotected neck. Without apparent effort, the katana neatly sliced the spinal column, the body and head falling in two different directions.
The Highlander waited, eyes almost closed, for the inevitable Quickening. He knew there was no way to save Connor, and he would be too weak to help Richie. But that was the Game, in all its hellish glory. His fight was over, and he had won. No matter how much he cared, each Immortal was responsible for him or herself. Friendship, love, respect; it held no bearing in the Game. You could just as easily face a friend as well as an enemy. And each time, the prize was life. In the end, there can be only one. Not just the final battle, but each battle. Each time two Immortals faced each other across drawn blades. The others must live and die on their own. He was responsible only for Duncan MacLeod.
You knew that, he told himself, the euphoric high of his heightened senses slowly fading. But it shouldn't stop the emotions, another part reminded him. And deep down, he knew the other two had also known this, and accepted this. He was freed of the responsibility to care about them, teacher and student. It made his friendship and love that much more precious to them. You always were a little slow, Connor's voice echoed laughingly in his head.
With a start, Duncan opened his eyes. The lifeless body of the Kurgan still lay in front of him, but the Immortal over Connor slowly faded, the killing blow never reaching his kinsman's neck. Stunned, he turned to Richie's fight, ending as the young man froze, rapier high above his head, the last Kurgan dying at his feet. Then with smooth precision, the sword dropped, decapitating the head before the Kurgan could revive. The body at Duncan's feet slowly faded, he noticed peripherally. He never took his eyes off of Richie.
The young man's chest heaved, trying to draw in needed air. He held his stance for what seemed an eternity, almost a marble statue, shiny from the sweat glistening on his body. Slowly, Duncan's student raised his head, finally making eye contact with the Highlander. The elusive connection solidified, as if energy was jumping between them. Then the universe exploded.
"Oh, Mac," Richie exclaimed, bursting into the dojo office. It was hard to catch his breath after running up the outside stairs, especially with a duffel bag slung over his shoulders, but he was more worried about Duncan's reaction. His teacher was sitting behind the desk, staring at a frosted window, tapping a small tube on the desk. The clock on the office wall read 12:56, nearly an hour after he was supposed to have been here. Late, as usual. "I know, I really screwed up...." He opened the bag, drawing out a set of sweats and setting his rapier on the desk.
Richie was already heading out of the office to change, when Duncan spoke. "Leave them." The words were so quiet, the young man thought MacLeod was angry, but the Highlander finally looked up, and smiled. God, Richie thought, he never smiles anymore. "Let's go to Joe's," Duncan suggested as he stood, dropping the tube on the desk and tossing Richie his sword. "Or maybe a flick," he added, using one hand to grab his coat and encircling the young man's neck with the other. The pair walked out of the dojo, one turning off the lights, the other locking the door.
"Can I drive the T-bird?" Richie asked, once they were outside. The jangling of keys flying through the air was answer enough.